Post by Press1269 on Feb 20, 2020 15:53:45 GMT
The BombTrax's trademark white 1966 Pontiac Tempest rolls up to the back section of the arena, and as soon as the engine is cut, Press and Flaming Youth exit the vehicle. They start making their way towards the service entrance reserved for talent, travel bags over their shoulders, when they hear their names being called from someone behind them.
MAN: BOMBTRAX! MR. PRESS! A word please...
Press and Youth stop to look back, and the camera catches a portly middle aged gentleman in a plaid yellow shirt, a brown jacket with patches on the elbows, running to catch up with the duo. The BombTrax exchange uneasy glances as the man finally reaches them, revealing a plain brown satchel slung over his shoulder. He seems to be perspiring heavily from the short jog, but none-the-less he wipes his palm on his shirt, and extends it to the two men. Youth takes it and shakes it vehemently, a boyish grin on his face as the portly man jostles all around. When he finally releases him, the man has to try and steady himself before Press shakes his hand, and curtly nods towards the building.
PRESS: Wish we had more time, pal, but the show's about to start, and we need to get inside. If you plan on sticking around, we'd be more than willing to sign any autographs and take pictures.
The man's eyes shoot up in question, and he shakes his head to indicate 'no'.
MAN: I'm not a fan, Mr. Press. I'm Luis Mendoza with the Louisiana State Gaming Commission.
PRESS: OK....
Press exchanges another look with Youth, this one more expectant than curious.
MENDOZA: Yes, I'm here to discuss what happened at WICKED#13, with a Mr. John Champa. My office has it recorded that you powerbombed him off the roof into an ambulance?
PRESS: Was that us?
YOUTH: Pretty sure it was.
PRESS: Ok, then yeah. What about it? Here to give me a medal?
Mendoza's face screws up into a scowl, and he stuffs his hand into his satchel until finding what he wants. When it emerges, he has a file in his grasp, and he flips it open to share with the two men.
MENDOZA: I'm afraid a medal is out of the question, Mr. Press. I have a fine here from the gaming commission for ten thousand dollars. I'm not sure what it is about you PAW people, but we've issued more fee's and fine's on your organization than all of the other wrestling franchises in the state of Louisiana combined. The state of Louisiana does not condone hanging, won-ton violence, the use of illegal weapons or paraphernalia, or the tossing of another human being off of a roof with a thirty five foot drop. Not to mention the damage to property when Mr. Champa landed on the ambulance. That's state property Mr. Press, and we just can't have it.
Press shook his head, and stuffed his hands in his pockets, making him look like a big, reluctant, kid. He even kicked the dirt in front of him for emphasis, and then looked at Mr. Mendoza with mock innocence.
PRESS: Aw, shucks, Mr. Mendoza. We was just having a little fun. Is it really necessary to fine us all that money.
MENDOZA: I'm afraid it is, Mr. Press.
Press nodded, and shrugged his shoulders.
PRESS: Alright, does your office accept personal checks?
MENDOZA: As long as they aren't prone to bounce, yes.
Press nodded as Youth searched his travel bag for the check book. When he finds it, he hands it over to Press, who flips the front flap open, and begins to fill out a check. When he's done, he tears along the perphiated edge, and hands the check over to Mr. Mendoza with a genuine smile.
PRESS: Alright, Mr. Mendoza, there you are. Now if you'll excuse me, we have a shot to get to.
With that the two men turn to make their way towards the door once more, while Mendoza looks over their check in satisfaction. He was used to there being a lot more fuss when asking for that high a settlement, but was more than willing to not look a gift horse in the mouth. Just as he's about to stuff the check into his satchel, he notices that there's something off. He quickly jogs behind the men, calling for them to catch up. By the time he reaches them, they are already at the door, Youth holding it open for his partner to enter. They turn in the doorway, as Mendoza holds his hands out for them to 'stop'.
MENDOZA: Wait...you guys....hold up! Mr. Press, you wrote me a check for twenty thousand, but the fine is only ten.
Press gave the smaller man a wicked grin as he leaned forward, and spoke with a dark edge to his voice.
PRESS: No, Mr. Mendoza, there's no mistake. We figured we might as well get it over with, and pay you for the fine you're going to give us tonight as well.
Without another word, Press disappeared inside the doorway, and Youth made to follow him, a grin on his face.
YOUTH: Think of it this way, Louie, it'll save you the trip of having to come back out here in two weeks.
With a wink, he disappears as well, the door closing shot and leaving Luis Mendoza, Louisiana State Gaming Commission agent, standing dumbstruck by his lonesome. He looks over to the camera with a look mingled with surprise and disappointment.
MENDOZA: Are they all that crazy?
It's the only thought he's left with, before the camera moves to inside the building.
MAN: BOMBTRAX! MR. PRESS! A word please...
Press and Youth stop to look back, and the camera catches a portly middle aged gentleman in a plaid yellow shirt, a brown jacket with patches on the elbows, running to catch up with the duo. The BombTrax exchange uneasy glances as the man finally reaches them, revealing a plain brown satchel slung over his shoulder. He seems to be perspiring heavily from the short jog, but none-the-less he wipes his palm on his shirt, and extends it to the two men. Youth takes it and shakes it vehemently, a boyish grin on his face as the portly man jostles all around. When he finally releases him, the man has to try and steady himself before Press shakes his hand, and curtly nods towards the building.
PRESS: Wish we had more time, pal, but the show's about to start, and we need to get inside. If you plan on sticking around, we'd be more than willing to sign any autographs and take pictures.
The man's eyes shoot up in question, and he shakes his head to indicate 'no'.
MAN: I'm not a fan, Mr. Press. I'm Luis Mendoza with the Louisiana State Gaming Commission.
PRESS: OK....
Press exchanges another look with Youth, this one more expectant than curious.
MENDOZA: Yes, I'm here to discuss what happened at WICKED#13, with a Mr. John Champa. My office has it recorded that you powerbombed him off the roof into an ambulance?
PRESS: Was that us?
YOUTH: Pretty sure it was.
PRESS: Ok, then yeah. What about it? Here to give me a medal?
Mendoza's face screws up into a scowl, and he stuffs his hand into his satchel until finding what he wants. When it emerges, he has a file in his grasp, and he flips it open to share with the two men.
MENDOZA: I'm afraid a medal is out of the question, Mr. Press. I have a fine here from the gaming commission for ten thousand dollars. I'm not sure what it is about you PAW people, but we've issued more fee's and fine's on your organization than all of the other wrestling franchises in the state of Louisiana combined. The state of Louisiana does not condone hanging, won-ton violence, the use of illegal weapons or paraphernalia, or the tossing of another human being off of a roof with a thirty five foot drop. Not to mention the damage to property when Mr. Champa landed on the ambulance. That's state property Mr. Press, and we just can't have it.
Press shook his head, and stuffed his hands in his pockets, making him look like a big, reluctant, kid. He even kicked the dirt in front of him for emphasis, and then looked at Mr. Mendoza with mock innocence.
PRESS: Aw, shucks, Mr. Mendoza. We was just having a little fun. Is it really necessary to fine us all that money.
MENDOZA: I'm afraid it is, Mr. Press.
Press nodded, and shrugged his shoulders.
PRESS: Alright, does your office accept personal checks?
MENDOZA: As long as they aren't prone to bounce, yes.
Press nodded as Youth searched his travel bag for the check book. When he finds it, he hands it over to Press, who flips the front flap open, and begins to fill out a check. When he's done, he tears along the perphiated edge, and hands the check over to Mr. Mendoza with a genuine smile.
PRESS: Alright, Mr. Mendoza, there you are. Now if you'll excuse me, we have a shot to get to.
With that the two men turn to make their way towards the door once more, while Mendoza looks over their check in satisfaction. He was used to there being a lot more fuss when asking for that high a settlement, but was more than willing to not look a gift horse in the mouth. Just as he's about to stuff the check into his satchel, he notices that there's something off. He quickly jogs behind the men, calling for them to catch up. By the time he reaches them, they are already at the door, Youth holding it open for his partner to enter. They turn in the doorway, as Mendoza holds his hands out for them to 'stop'.
MENDOZA: Wait...you guys....hold up! Mr. Press, you wrote me a check for twenty thousand, but the fine is only ten.
Press gave the smaller man a wicked grin as he leaned forward, and spoke with a dark edge to his voice.
PRESS: No, Mr. Mendoza, there's no mistake. We figured we might as well get it over with, and pay you for the fine you're going to give us tonight as well.
Without another word, Press disappeared inside the doorway, and Youth made to follow him, a grin on his face.
YOUTH: Think of it this way, Louie, it'll save you the trip of having to come back out here in two weeks.
With a wink, he disappears as well, the door closing shot and leaving Luis Mendoza, Louisiana State Gaming Commission agent, standing dumbstruck by his lonesome. He looks over to the camera with a look mingled with surprise and disappointment.
MENDOZA: Are they all that crazy?
It's the only thought he's left with, before the camera moves to inside the building.