Post by Press1269 on Mar 11, 2020 14:12:27 GMT
3/12/2020 [OFF CAMERA]
MUNIN'S HOME
633 12th STREET, SANTA MONICA, CALIFORNIA
Organ music cued through the headphones resting over Youth’s ears as he stood with his eyes closed on the front step of Munin’s Santa Monica home. He brought a white headband with a blue flower at its center to his forehead with both hands and ran his fingers along it’s length until coming to the back of his skull, pulling it tight.
With his hair pulled back by the Karate Kid inspired rag, his hand slips down his tie-dyed sleeveless shirt and plunges into his frayed jean shorts pocket. He fished around for a second before pulling forth a fat joint and bringing it to his lips, the lighter in his other hand striking to light it up.
He took in a deep drag as Kid Rock plunged into ‘Devil Without A Cause’ on the album of the same title, and his eyes opened just before he walked off the step onto a skateboard that was on the sidewalk directly under him.
Youth’s head rocked along with the music as he pushed with his lead leg to give the skateboard more momentum. He zoomed down 12th street like a bat out of hell, passing by the nice homes of the upper middle class until reaching the curb where the road intersects Montana Avenue. He leaned to his right side, swinging the skateboard around so that it followed the sidewalk onto Montana heading towards the beach.
As he passed by Kreation Organic Kafe several of the patrons threw their hands up at the now familiar sight, and he acknowledged them with a tip of his imaginary hat and a boyish grin. It only took about ten minutes before he could see the ocean on the horizon, and he gave the board a few more pushes to increase his speed.
A car coming down 4th Street is forced to pull up short and honk its horn as he zipped across the four-lane avenue and he gave an apologetic wave as he zoomed past. In minutes he’s across Ocean Avenue and sliding right through a walkway through Palisades Park that leads him to Pacific Coast Highway. This forced him to perform a kick flip over the guard rail, onto the pavement, and then across where he cut through North Beach Playground.
Kids watched as he passed and jumped up and down as he performed a grind off the slide before landing with a wobble at the bottom to continue on out of the park. The sand and sea are right in front of him now, a narrow path going down to a cement path known as Ocean Front Walk.
He wheeled around so that he’s on the path and two blondes in bikinis have to move to either side so that he can pass. He winked at the two women as he skated by, and they cat call him as he goes. He looked over his shoulder with a grin at the same time a loud siren went off in front of him.
Youth turned his attention back to the front in surprise to find a Santa Monica police cruiser parked directly in his path. He slid his foot back to the tail and pushed down, applying some brake in a best effort to get stopped before plowing into the vehicle. He slowed down enough so that just when he’s about to reach it he hopped off and stomped on the end to send the board flipping into the air where he caught it.
The officer, a Latin-American man with dark hair and mustache, exited the vehicle and gave the ridiculously dressed wrestler a incredulous once over.
The music was still in his ears, the song having been on auto playback, and he started reciting the words in the officer’s direction.
“Motherfuckers want to claim they're down
But when I was broke and down I never seen 'em around
All the shit we talked, all the shit we dreamed
I did it without you, I got a brand new team
No triple beams, it seems like a movie
Bought two cribs, drop-top, and jacuzzi
No more floozies, only high-class hoes
A couple when it rains and a few when it snows
A brand new nose to go along with my habit
And a garden hose made out of twenty-four karat”
The officer crossed his arms over his chest and started shaking his head just as Youth finally came to a stop, a lopsided grin on his face as he took a puff off what little joint he had left.
“What the fuck do you know about pimps and hos you little shit?” The officer asked, looking unimpressed.
“C’mon, Enrique! I know all about the hos.” He said while looking back over his shoulder and winking at the two blondes who had stopped to witness the action. They giggled and waved back as Youth turned his cocky grin back towards Enrique.
The officer shook his head and pointed at the remnant embers still in his hand.
“How many times are we going to go through this? You can’t ride your skateboard on this stretch of beach, and you can’t be just smoking up in the middle of the day in public! Christ!”
Enrique made the sign of the cross before placing his hands on his hips.
Youth, on the other hand, looked mockingly innocent while thrusting his hand into his pocket to fish out a wad of cash to hold up at his side.
"Maybe as many times as it takes you to get tired of accepting my donations to the 'broke ass police officer fund'."
Enrique shook his head once more, a look of consternation on his face as he reached up and yanked the wad out of Youth’s hand and placed it in his pocket. The Innovator of Flight continued to beam his smile in Enrique’s direction as he hopped up to sit on the hood of the cruiser and then offered what was left of the joint.
Enrique sighed heavily as he took the tweezer sized roll between thumb and forefinger and took a puff before crumbling what was left to drift out to the sand. He exhaled a stream of smoke and leaned against his door looking up at the idiot who was watching the blondes as they departed.
“God damn, Enrique. Why didn’t I come to the West Coast sooner?”
Enrique followed his stare to the women whose rears bobbed up and down in their departure, nothing but a string offering any cover.
He couldn’t help but nod with Youth’s assessment before offering, “I wish they all could be California Girls isn't just a hit single, eh?”
It takes Youth a moment to snap out of the mesmerizing situation, but eventually he casts his gaze back at the officer with raised eyebrows.
“What about that other thing? Did you get me the file?”
Enrique, who hadn’t been concerned with anyone seeing him take a wad of cash from a civilian or the fact that he took a puff of marijuana out in public, suddenly becomes pensive at the mention of a ‘file’.
“Easy dude, easy…I could get in a lot of trouble for sharing this with you.”
He reached through the open window of his cruiser door and produced a file, still looking shiftily from side to side.
Youth took the document and slipped it under his shirt, making sure it was secured in the waste band of his jean shorts before offering a nod of thanks.
“What possible interest would you have in this guy anyways?” Enrique asked earnestly, before adding, “I mean, he owns an ice cream shop. Not exactly the most obvious front for anything nefarious.”
“I got my reasons. Besides, you should know better than anyone that looks can be deceiving. Sometimes innocent is the best cover for nefarious.”
Enrique shrugged while patting his pocket that the money had went into. “Listen, we can keep doing this every day, or you could just try being a decent citizen.”
Youth slipped down the hood of the car to stand in front of the officer with a truly pained expression.
“Enrique…I’ve seen what they pay you. This ‘IS’ my way of being a decent citizen.”
Enrique rolled his eyes before yanking his door open and getting back behind the wheel. Youth stepped away from the cruiser as the engine fired up and Enrique offered a nod before pulling off, leaving him standing in the pathway alone.
Press sat on the edge of his bed in his boxers with his arms draped over his knees feeling groggy from just waking up. That was more than enough reason for when he heard the cheerful voice lobbed in his direction, he literally had an internal shudder.
“What’s up big guy? Interested in pancakes?”
He looked up to see Richard standing in the doorway, a chef’s apron tied off around his waist and what seemed like a genuine perkiness in his attitude.
Press rolled his eyes at first, but then the thought of the question crept into his stomach and he found himself replying, “Uh...yeah.”
Richard seemed to get some real satisfaction out of the answer, and quickly trailed down the hallway whistling a tune.
Press got to his feet and tossed on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt to follow, but when he saw that Youth’s door was open and the room abandoned, he called down the hall after Richard.
“Where’s the kid?”
The answer was muted but grew louder with every heavy footfall that brought him closer to the main room.
“He got up early this morning and headed out on that skateboard of his. Seems like he’s creating his own Santa Monica rituals, as are you. Do you always sleep in this late?”
Press grumbled as he joined Richard in the kitchen, stepping over to the coffee pot and filling a cup marked ‘Press’, but someone had crossed that out and in magic marker written, ‘Asshole’. He viewed the side of the cup with a curled lip, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort as long as it kept his coffee hot.
He sat at the breakfast table sipping his coffee and couldn’t help but notice the absence of anyone else but Richard whistling in the kitchen.
“Hey, Rich…where’s everyone else?”
Richard looked through the opening that separated the kitchen from the dining room.
“Munin’s at a business meeting, and Krahe…heh...I don’t know if he ever came home last night.”
Press took another sip, ruminating over the answer before looking over the rim and asking, “Is that normal for him to take sabbaticals?"
“Well,” Richard began, trying to figure out the best way to frame his answer. “His after hour activities can keep him gone for days, sometimes weeks. Though, more recently he’s seemed to be sticking closer to home. I guess one could construe this as odd.”
Press perked up a little, realizing how little he knew of some of the people he and his partner were now living with.
“After hour activities? Sounds ominous. What exactly did he do before wrestling?”
Richard had turned back to the stove and was flipping a flap jack with the pan while speaking over his shoulder.
“I think that may be a question best suited for him to explain. I…uh…reserve the right not to comment.”
Press made a mental note to do just that the next time he could catch The Catalyst alone, and by Richard’s tone, he was sure it would be an interesting story. He understood better than most the need for secrecy. He was a little surprised that the other housemates hadn’t commented on his and Youth’s midnight jaunts around the city, so maybe it was just as well to leave it alone.
Instead, he shifted to Richard, putting his elbows on the table and framing the mug with his mitten like hands.
“And what about you, Richard. I hear tell you used to be a choir director. How in the world did you get dragged into this band of misfits?”
Richard rounded the corner with a neat stack of flapjacks on a plate, and in the crux of his arm was a container of butter and bottle of syrup. He sat the plate in front of the big man and produced a knife and fork which he sat on either side of the plate. Setting the sides down he searched for the right words for a suitable explanation.
“You see…” He began, wringing his hands while Press dressed up his breakfast with butter. “Krahe found me in a really dark place and showed me the error of my ways. I’m eternally grateful for the second chance, but in doing so, I realized I couldn’t return to my past life, so I decided to assist Krahe in his.”
“So, what? You’re his follower?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. It’s not too far a cry from being a Choir director. I just spread the gospel of Krahe.”
Richard offered the big man a smile, but Press was staring at him as if he had three heads and he fidgeted under the scrutiny.
“Uh…maybe I’m not telling it right.”
“It sounds like he’s a cult leader.”
“No, I wouldn’t call it a cult. That is, unless I’m a cult of one.” Richard nervously laughed, bobbing back and forth with his hands up in jest.
Press leveled him with a grim gaze and he sheepishly sank into the seat beside the big man. “In many ways, Krahe is a flawed man, but he’s also good.” Richard pauses for a moment, and then adds. “Or at least he’s capable of good, and that’s what I latch onto. I need that stability in my life lest I fall victim to my own hubris once again. Do you understand?”
He did. Press and Youth acted as that to each other, and both men had Munin to anchor them at times. Certainly, she had them, though she was unaware of the real reasons that had attracted the trio together. Perhaps unaware was the wrong word. It was more of a willful dismissal of any cosmic interference, which provided a more ‘human’ explanation to how they came together.
When Press looked up from his thoughts, he found Richard staring across at him as if he had been listening in on his private dialogue. The big man shifted in his seat, and upon seeing his discomfort former choir director looked out the window leading to the back deck.
“It looks like it’s going to be another beautiful Santa Monica day.”
Press followed his gaze out to the sunshine filtering through the backyard and responded, “Yeah, Richard. This place is already starting to feel like home.”
The two men enjoyed the rest of their morning in silence, having already poked at the borders of lives that they weren’t yet willing to share. Press knew that he would never be able to be fully honest about the affairs of The BombTrax outside of a wrestling ring, but this set up would provide the opportunity to unwind in a comfortable environment. After all, he didn’t spill the beans about being a Redeemer because he didn’t trust them. He did it…because if they knew it would get them all killed.
With his hair pulled back by the Karate Kid inspired rag, his hand slips down his tie-dyed sleeveless shirt and plunges into his frayed jean shorts pocket. He fished around for a second before pulling forth a fat joint and bringing it to his lips, the lighter in his other hand striking to light it up.
He took in a deep drag as Kid Rock plunged into ‘Devil Without A Cause’ on the album of the same title, and his eyes opened just before he walked off the step onto a skateboard that was on the sidewalk directly under him.
You knew that I was coming cause you heard my name
But you don’t know my game and never felt my pain
Can’t read my brain but you read my lips
And got scared when you heard that I was coming with hits
Youth’s head rocked along with the music as he pushed with his lead leg to give the skateboard more momentum. He zoomed down 12th street like a bat out of hell, passing by the nice homes of the upper middle class until reaching the curb where the road intersects Montana Avenue. He leaned to his right side, swinging the skateboard around so that it followed the sidewalk onto Montana heading towards the beach.
No sell-out, I ain't no ho, fuck the radio, comin' from the R-O-M-E-O
Watch me throw like a fist of rage
Self-made and paid and sold off twelve gauges
Up that ass for the nine-eight, nine-eight
Never fake, shake, straight from the Great Lakes
Seven years on wax comin' correct
Flat-out, you diss me punk, that's when I pull the strap out
As he passed by Kreation Organic Kafe several of the patrons threw their hands up at the now familiar sight, and he acknowledged them with a tip of his imaginary hat and a boyish grin. It only took about ten minutes before he could see the ocean on the horizon, and he gave the board a few more pushes to increase his speed.
A car coming down 4th Street is forced to pull up short and honk its horn as he zipped across the four-lane avenue and he gave an apologetic wave as he zoomed past. In minutes he’s across Ocean Avenue and sliding right through a walkway through Palisades Park that leads him to Pacific Coast Highway. This forced him to perform a kick flip over the guard rail, onto the pavement, and then across where he cut through North Beach Playground.
Kids watched as he passed and jumped up and down as he performed a grind off the slide before landing with a wobble at the bottom to continue on out of the park. The sand and sea are right in front of him now, a narrow path going down to a cement path known as Ocean Front Walk.
He wheeled around so that he’s on the path and two blondes in bikinis have to move to either side so that he can pass. He winked at the two women as he skated by, and they cat call him as he goes. He looked over his shoulder with a grin at the same time a loud siren went off in front of him.
Youth turned his attention back to the front in surprise to find a Santa Monica police cruiser parked directly in his path. He slid his foot back to the tail and pushed down, applying some brake in a best effort to get stopped before plowing into the vehicle. He slowed down enough so that just when he’s about to reach it he hopped off and stomped on the end to send the board flipping into the air where he caught it.
The officer, a Latin-American man with dark hair and mustache, exited the vehicle and gave the ridiculously dressed wrestler a incredulous once over.
The music was still in his ears, the song having been on auto playback, and he started reciting the words in the officer’s direction.
“Motherfuckers want to claim they're down
But when I was broke and down I never seen 'em around
All the shit we talked, all the shit we dreamed
I did it without you, I got a brand new team
No triple beams, it seems like a movie
Bought two cribs, drop-top, and jacuzzi
No more floozies, only high-class hoes
A couple when it rains and a few when it snows
A brand new nose to go along with my habit
And a garden hose made out of twenty-four karat”
The officer crossed his arms over his chest and started shaking his head just as Youth finally came to a stop, a lopsided grin on his face as he took a puff off what little joint he had left.
“What the fuck do you know about pimps and hos you little shit?” The officer asked, looking unimpressed.
“C’mon, Enrique! I know all about the hos.” He said while looking back over his shoulder and winking at the two blondes who had stopped to witness the action. They giggled and waved back as Youth turned his cocky grin back towards Enrique.
The officer shook his head and pointed at the remnant embers still in his hand.
“How many times are we going to go through this? You can’t ride your skateboard on this stretch of beach, and you can’t be just smoking up in the middle of the day in public! Christ!”
Enrique made the sign of the cross before placing his hands on his hips.
Youth, on the other hand, looked mockingly innocent while thrusting his hand into his pocket to fish out a wad of cash to hold up at his side.
"Maybe as many times as it takes you to get tired of accepting my donations to the 'broke ass police officer fund'."
Enrique shook his head once more, a look of consternation on his face as he reached up and yanked the wad out of Youth’s hand and placed it in his pocket. The Innovator of Flight continued to beam his smile in Enrique’s direction as he hopped up to sit on the hood of the cruiser and then offered what was left of the joint.
Enrique sighed heavily as he took the tweezer sized roll between thumb and forefinger and took a puff before crumbling what was left to drift out to the sand. He exhaled a stream of smoke and leaned against his door looking up at the idiot who was watching the blondes as they departed.
“God damn, Enrique. Why didn’t I come to the West Coast sooner?”
Enrique followed his stare to the women whose rears bobbed up and down in their departure, nothing but a string offering any cover.
He couldn’t help but nod with Youth’s assessment before offering, “I wish they all could be California Girls isn't just a hit single, eh?”
It takes Youth a moment to snap out of the mesmerizing situation, but eventually he casts his gaze back at the officer with raised eyebrows.
“What about that other thing? Did you get me the file?”
Enrique, who hadn’t been concerned with anyone seeing him take a wad of cash from a civilian or the fact that he took a puff of marijuana out in public, suddenly becomes pensive at the mention of a ‘file’.
“Easy dude, easy…I could get in a lot of trouble for sharing this with you.”
He reached through the open window of his cruiser door and produced a file, still looking shiftily from side to side.
Youth took the document and slipped it under his shirt, making sure it was secured in the waste band of his jean shorts before offering a nod of thanks.
“What possible interest would you have in this guy anyways?” Enrique asked earnestly, before adding, “I mean, he owns an ice cream shop. Not exactly the most obvious front for anything nefarious.”
“I got my reasons. Besides, you should know better than anyone that looks can be deceiving. Sometimes innocent is the best cover for nefarious.”
Enrique shrugged while patting his pocket that the money had went into. “Listen, we can keep doing this every day, or you could just try being a decent citizen.”
Youth slipped down the hood of the car to stand in front of the officer with a truly pained expression.
“Enrique…I’ve seen what they pay you. This ‘IS’ my way of being a decent citizen.”
Enrique rolled his eyes before yanking his door open and getting back behind the wheel. Youth stepped away from the cruiser as the engine fired up and Enrique offered a nod before pulling off, leaving him standing in the pathway alone.
*****ELSEWHERE****
Press sat on the edge of his bed in his boxers with his arms draped over his knees feeling groggy from just waking up. That was more than enough reason for when he heard the cheerful voice lobbed in his direction, he literally had an internal shudder.
“What’s up big guy? Interested in pancakes?”
He looked up to see Richard standing in the doorway, a chef’s apron tied off around his waist and what seemed like a genuine perkiness in his attitude.
Press rolled his eyes at first, but then the thought of the question crept into his stomach and he found himself replying, “Uh...yeah.”
Richard seemed to get some real satisfaction out of the answer, and quickly trailed down the hallway whistling a tune.
Press got to his feet and tossed on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt to follow, but when he saw that Youth’s door was open and the room abandoned, he called down the hall after Richard.
“Where’s the kid?”
The answer was muted but grew louder with every heavy footfall that brought him closer to the main room.
“He got up early this morning and headed out on that skateboard of his. Seems like he’s creating his own Santa Monica rituals, as are you. Do you always sleep in this late?”
Press grumbled as he joined Richard in the kitchen, stepping over to the coffee pot and filling a cup marked ‘Press’, but someone had crossed that out and in magic marker written, ‘Asshole’. He viewed the side of the cup with a curled lip, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort as long as it kept his coffee hot.
He sat at the breakfast table sipping his coffee and couldn’t help but notice the absence of anyone else but Richard whistling in the kitchen.
“Hey, Rich…where’s everyone else?”
Richard looked through the opening that separated the kitchen from the dining room.
“Munin’s at a business meeting, and Krahe…heh...I don’t know if he ever came home last night.”
Press took another sip, ruminating over the answer before looking over the rim and asking, “Is that normal for him to take sabbaticals?"
“Well,” Richard began, trying to figure out the best way to frame his answer. “His after hour activities can keep him gone for days, sometimes weeks. Though, more recently he’s seemed to be sticking closer to home. I guess one could construe this as odd.”
Press perked up a little, realizing how little he knew of some of the people he and his partner were now living with.
“After hour activities? Sounds ominous. What exactly did he do before wrestling?”
Richard had turned back to the stove and was flipping a flap jack with the pan while speaking over his shoulder.
“I think that may be a question best suited for him to explain. I…uh…reserve the right not to comment.”
Press made a mental note to do just that the next time he could catch The Catalyst alone, and by Richard’s tone, he was sure it would be an interesting story. He understood better than most the need for secrecy. He was a little surprised that the other housemates hadn’t commented on his and Youth’s midnight jaunts around the city, so maybe it was just as well to leave it alone.
Instead, he shifted to Richard, putting his elbows on the table and framing the mug with his mitten like hands.
“And what about you, Richard. I hear tell you used to be a choir director. How in the world did you get dragged into this band of misfits?”
Richard rounded the corner with a neat stack of flapjacks on a plate, and in the crux of his arm was a container of butter and bottle of syrup. He sat the plate in front of the big man and produced a knife and fork which he sat on either side of the plate. Setting the sides down he searched for the right words for a suitable explanation.
“You see…” He began, wringing his hands while Press dressed up his breakfast with butter. “Krahe found me in a really dark place and showed me the error of my ways. I’m eternally grateful for the second chance, but in doing so, I realized I couldn’t return to my past life, so I decided to assist Krahe in his.”
“So, what? You’re his follower?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. It’s not too far a cry from being a Choir director. I just spread the gospel of Krahe.”
Richard offered the big man a smile, but Press was staring at him as if he had three heads and he fidgeted under the scrutiny.
“Uh…maybe I’m not telling it right.”
“It sounds like he’s a cult leader.”
“No, I wouldn’t call it a cult. That is, unless I’m a cult of one.” Richard nervously laughed, bobbing back and forth with his hands up in jest.
Press leveled him with a grim gaze and he sheepishly sank into the seat beside the big man. “In many ways, Krahe is a flawed man, but he’s also good.” Richard pauses for a moment, and then adds. “Or at least he’s capable of good, and that’s what I latch onto. I need that stability in my life lest I fall victim to my own hubris once again. Do you understand?”
He did. Press and Youth acted as that to each other, and both men had Munin to anchor them at times. Certainly, she had them, though she was unaware of the real reasons that had attracted the trio together. Perhaps unaware was the wrong word. It was more of a willful dismissal of any cosmic interference, which provided a more ‘human’ explanation to how they came together.
When Press looked up from his thoughts, he found Richard staring across at him as if he had been listening in on his private dialogue. The big man shifted in his seat, and upon seeing his discomfort former choir director looked out the window leading to the back deck.
“It looks like it’s going to be another beautiful Santa Monica day.”
Press followed his gaze out to the sunshine filtering through the backyard and responded, “Yeah, Richard. This place is already starting to feel like home.”
The two men enjoyed the rest of their morning in silence, having already poked at the borders of lives that they weren’t yet willing to share. Press knew that he would never be able to be fully honest about the affairs of The BombTrax outside of a wrestling ring, but this set up would provide the opportunity to unwind in a comfortable environment. After all, he didn’t spill the beans about being a Redeemer because he didn’t trust them. He did it…because if they knew it would get them all killed.
3/13/2020 [ON CAMERA]
MUNIN'S HOME
633 12th STREET, SANTA MONICA, CALIFORNIA
633 12th STREET, SANTA MONICA, CALIFORNIA
The scene opens to a shot of Munin’s backyard where there is a set of comfortable looking patio furniture sitting on a red brick deck. Finding shade under the umbrella affixed to the table sit The BombTrax, enjoying some leisure time outside. The camera moves in closer to frame them in while they take a sip from the lemonades sitting in front of them.
Youth, wearing nothing but his jean shorts, sticks his bare legs out from under the umbrella to take in some sun while crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back smiling.
“Man, this is the life right here. Sun, lemonade, and the perfect weather. Not too hot, not too cold. Just right.”
He offers a refreshed sigh, looking over to Press who shrugs in agreement while still slurping on his lemonade. He turns back to the camera, his smile slowly fading.
“Too bad the same can’t be said about IPW. I mean, everywhere we go in this company we get the cold shoulder. David Gideon Smith all but snubbed us in the canteen, and all we were trying to do was be friendly. After calling his first match I genuinely though he’d be different than all the rest, but his actions seem to translate to the same old crap. The guy believes his own hype.”
Youth leans forwards, wrapping his knuckles right on the lens of the camera.
“Hello? McFly? McFlyyyy?”
He leans back, a rueful smirk on his face.
“Just because Brianna Rissi took to Twitter after you signed up with the company to fluff your ego doesn’t mean you’re special. It just means you’ll have a hell of a time getting her slobber off your…”
“No need to be crass.” The big man says, cutting him off, and Youth pouts for a moment before continuing.
“Fine! But what about that six-man tag? They say that we’re the troublemakers, but fact is that was all Astrid Samson’s fault. Her, and those two goofs she had as partners. I mean, we were all ready to have a fair and level contest…”
Press interrupts again, but only with a low chuckle this time. Youth rolls his eyes at the forced pause and continues.
“But she and her partners decide to jumpstart things on the ramp and got the match thrown out. I’m sorry, but if I were a conspiracy theorist, which…” He leans in with a wide grin. “I am! I’d say that these three realized they had absolutely no fucking chance of picking up a clean victory in that contest, so they intentionally jumped us on the outside of the ring to prevent the whole thing from ever happening.”
He falls back in his seat, shrugging confidently.
“But that’s just me. We’re not even done, either! The Unholy Alliance denied you fans the opportunity for a Chaos Main Event. For the Television Title no less! And what did you do? You booed us out of the building for trying to step in and give you a little action. Is this the thanks we get? Is this how it’s going to be here in Santa Monica? No acknowledgment for our contributions. No respect. At this point, I feel like IPW’s punching bag!”
“Whoa, dude!” Press exclaims, suddenly sitting forward wide eyed and shaking his head. “You don’t want to get sued for gimmick infringement from Joshua’s pudding pop, now would you? That’s her line, and I think you should let her keep it considering we’re taking everything else from her.”
Youth looks truly chastised as he puts his hands up to pump the brakes, nodding in agreement.
“You’re certainly right, sir. Sorry, Astrid. My bad!”
Wink.
“But that finally brings us to the subject at hand; Scott Wilson and Jason Dave.”
He shakes his head, clearly a little miffed.
“You two guys obviously took the Astrid approach when you barged into the General Manager’s office and wined like a bunch of ninety-pound schoolgirls about how we keep getting the better of the IPW faithful. You said that our IPW Tag Team Championships aren’t valid, and everyone keeps on saying we didn’t earn them, well…Why the hell is everyone so hot to try and take them from us then?”
"I'll tell you why," Interjects the big man having finally abandoned his lemonade. "Because they are the only titles in this company that ARE legit anymore."
He smirks at the comment, knowing that Oliver Black would probably spit venom at the statement.
"Oliver Black, longest reigning Television Champion in IPW history, but I have to ask...who did you face? Jason Dave gave you a run for your money, but ultimately that's been the only real challenge? Chris Crippler? This latest farce with Brianna Rissi? Come on dude, you've been coasting for months now and given the talent pool you had to work with it's no surprise."
He makes the statement as if it's a given.
"But now there are new soldiers on the horizon and Castle Black is on the verge of coming under siege. Especially considering the only other title holder round these parts hasn't been seen or heard from since we dropped him on his head, but I've wasted enough breath on him in the past few weeks. I'm more interested in the guy who claims that he's the best over all wrestler in 2019. I'd love to see how you'd fare against a Cross Recoba, a Willie Pete, or a Zachariah Krahe. I already know what we could do to you if we were so inclined. Hell, I'll even throw out some of the brand new arrivals like Shyla Clemmens or DGS. Your days are numbered kid, cause IPW is going through what's known as a terraform."
"That's a big word, bro. You'll probably need to explain it to the common."
Press shrugged, and leaned forward to do just that.
"See, we said we were here to destroy this place, and that hasn't changed. But there is more than one way to get the job done, and it doesn't necessarily warrant a total destruction as much as it does an overhaul. Taking something that was one thing, and molding it into something else. Since our arrival new faces have sprouted, some the typical IPW types, and others...well...a bit more our style."
"He means good."
Wink.
"So now we have what I like to call Post BombTrax talent versus shit talent.
"Those are the ones here before we arrived."
Another wink.
And one by one, slowly but surely, the jokes that helped build this comedy store are about to be culled out for something that could constitute as real entertainment."
Youth stretches while talking at the same time, the words coming out in a bit of a shudder. "Yeah, that's why this tag match is so perfect. Scott Wilson and Jason Dave represent everything about the old IPW we hate."
"Which is why the new and improved IPW crew..."
"That's us!" Youth chimed in with exuberance.
"Are going to make an example out of you two lads."
Just then a blue Mercedes-AMG GT pulled into the driveway, pulling up beside the garage all the way up to the picket white fence. A flash of dark hair can be seen exiting the car just as the gate leading to the backyard swings open. Munin pauses before entering, staring at the shirtless BombTrax sitting in her lawn furniture looking like two bums while a cameraman points his apparatus right at her.
The Boys raise an arm of greeting in her direction, and Youth yells out to her. "HEY NIN! Just cutting a promo...come say hi!"
The Lady of Wrestling takes a step back in response, letting the gate swing closed, and the sound of the garage door opening signals that she will not be joining us for this piece of IPW entertainment.
Youth shrugs and sips on his lemonade while Press leans forward to continue this thing.
"As I was saying...You don't always have to burn something down in order to achieve results. All you have to do is cull out the pieces of the environment that are no longer suitable, and the environment that's left will become a new ecosystem. An ecosystem where all of you Pre BombTrax pieces of garbage will have no place, no oxygen to breathe, no fucking life."
Just then another car pulls into the driveway, this time a black 1998 Lincoln Town Car. Zachariah Krahe's large frame comes into view over the fence, and he walks around to the back of the vehicle and pops the trunk. The second it comes open a loud muffled cry can be heard escaping the rear of the car, and after a few sounds of impacted flesh, the trunk closes and Zachariah looks past the fence to find that he's on camera.
He offers a sheepish grin and an awkward wave before adding, "They'll be fine."
He then promptly hits the garage door opener and disappears around the side of the house.
Press and Youth stare in the direction of the car for a few seconds longer before turning to one another, where Press says, "We really need to inquire about his profession before wrestling."
Youth nods slowly before turning back to the camera.
"As you can see, it's a busy time here at the crib. Lots of comings and goings, and I figure in a few months when we're looking back, the same will be said of IPW."
Youth casts his hand out, dramatically letting it sweep across the camera view.
"Here lies the IPW of old; With the moldy pussy farts like Brianna Rissi, the stale emo kids like Oliver Black, the whiny bitches like Astrid Samson, the shitty nick name guys like Scott Wilson, and the broke down superheroes like Jason Dave."
He makes another dramatic sweep, this time in the opposite direction.
"And here is the beacon of light that is now IPW; With The BombTrax as it's foundation, Zachariah Krahe acting as the Catalyst for change, and Lady Munin standing atop the mountain."
He pauses and looks at the camera, almost perplexed.
"And to think...the next step in this evolution is kicking the shit out of you two bozos."
"It's almost worth talking further about," says the big man, but he gives the empty glass on the table a sidelong glance. "But I'm out of lemonade."
"Hey!" Cries Youth. "I'm the glib one here. You're the serious one. So say something serious!"
Press sighs, giving the empty glass one last longing look before turning his attention back to the camera.
"Listen, it's real simple. You two asked for it, and now you got it. I mean, goddamn, it's really something special if you think about it. We've been traipsing all over this company's roster for three months now hunting people down to pummel, and you two just willingly threw yourselves into the meat grinder. And make no mistake Jason, Scott, all jokes aside, we take you two very seriously. If nothing else, you'll serve as just one more example of what happens when you step into the ring with us. Even if you were to get us in trouble...and that's a real big 'IF' my friends...we'd still win cause we'd outsmart you. I'm bigger, he's quicker, and together we're flat out more dangerous than any other entity in this business. So come Chaos, we're going to do exactly what we do best, and that's dropping you two pricks on your heads one more tim---"
"HEY!"
The interruption came from inside the house, and within minutes Munin comes barreling out the sliding glass door to glare at the two men. Her nostrils flare as she holds up a coffee mug in their direction, and her eyes narrow to slits.
"Who crossed my name out on this mug and wrote in 'Twat Waffle'?!"
The BombTrax looked at each other in shock like two kids that have just been called to the principles office, and then back to Munin who stands fuming on the back steps.
Youth looks a little tense when he turns back to the camera and says out the side of his mouth, "Promo's over, dude. Run for your life."
With that, the scene promptly fades to black.
TO BE CONTINUED IN 'DEVIL IS IN THE DETAILS (PART 7)' - ON A CD BOARD NEAR YOU SOON!
