Post by Press1269 on Jan 29, 2016 20:59:02 GMT
As soon as they got back to the Redwood, Press bailed out of the Pontiac, threw their hotel door open, and let fly a string of curse words that spackled the plain four walls. Youth just shook his head, and slipped out of the car, making his way for the vending machines. The big man needed some time to himself, that much was obvious, and he didn’t really want to be around him while he was so volatile.
Press was always crotchety, a bit of a pessimist, but that usually served him well considering what they dealt with on the regular. Despite that fact, however, he wasn’t usually prone to getting really angry. He bottled a lot of things up, and feigned hostility as a smoke screen for what was really going on inside, the same way Youth often used comedy. We all had masks, wore them well, not willing or wanting to trust people. With all that they had seen, been through, and done, they would have been a psychologist’s wet dream. Guilt, anger, disappointment, depression, anxiety. They were as much apart of the job as anything.
You couldn’t save everyone, that was just a fact, and even though they had accepted it, the guilt at times could be unbearable. What Press was experiencing now, however, was rage. Rage at the hands of Fate.
Fate was an entity created long before humanity, and almost always unreadable and unpredictable. There were a few seers, oracles, who were connected to its ebb and flow, but even then, it was a slippery slope. Sometimes she was known as Destiny, other times he was known as Karma. Neither female or male, nor corporeal, Fate was a spirit. It had a name in almost every known religion and belief system. In Buddhism it was known as ‘Nirvana’, in Islam as ‘Qadar’, in Hindu as ‘Kismet’, and even in Christianity as the ‘Holy Spirit’.
The thing about Fate that confused most people, is that they saw it as a belief rather than a metaphysical real thing. That belief, or disbelief, often argued in favor or against the idea. It was assumed that if there was a destiny/fate, then it was predetermined, and certain. This wasn’t the case. The most prominent thing about human beings was free will, the ability to choose for one’s self what they believed, didn’t believe, or both. Fate couldn’t interfere with that, a much debated point amongst theologians, and yet, what it could do is intervene long enough to bring you to that person, place, or thing that you are supposed to meet. What you did from there, how you reacted, was up to you. Nowhere on the planet was this more evident than in the arena of love, but that would be a topic for another time.
Youth pushed his change into the slot, and punched the button indicating A&W Root Beer. The machine made a mechanical sound, and then shot the can to the tray at the bottom where he scooped it up, popping the top on his way back to their room. He sipped the fizzy goodness, and appreciated the distraction of a specially blended mixture of burning sweet. He knew that Fate was all around them, but really hated it when she was so obvious. It had been no mistake that out of all the places, all the people, all the circumstances, that the two of them had met Lady Munin. A woman who obviously had some connection to their life outside of the ring, and the mission that they had taken up.
But what was it? That was anybody’s guess at this point, especially since Munin wasn’t even aware that she was a player on a much larger chess board. She knew people, though, people with abilities and gifts, that much had been proven at the dojo. Jin struck him as the type to be a generational, hunters who inherited their senses through bloodline. There was no telling as to how long their family had been at it, but the sigils on the doorway were from an ancient script, and wouldn’t be known by just anyone.
He arrived at the still open hotel room door, and paused to peer in through the portal. Press sat at the table, quietly, but vigorously cleaning the barrels of his shot gun. Youth stepped inside, pulling the door closed as he went, and positioned himself in the chair across from his partner.
They both sat in silence for a long while until finally Press looked up from his work, and asked, “Do you think she’s setting us up?”
Youth shrugged in response, but then leaned forward onto his elbow. “I don’t know man,” He responded casually. “I think in order to set us up she’d have to know what’s going on, and I don’t get that vibe from her. She might know a few people on the hunt, but she’s oblivious to it. I think the bigger question is, is she oblivious because she just doesn’t know, or because subconsciously she does.”
Press grunted in acquiescence, and leaned back in his seat. “You heard what the old bat said; ‘She’s seen things that are buried, and should remain so’. If she understood anything about Fate, she’d have known we weren’t exactly in the driver’s seat right now. Just like fucking hunters to think they know everything there is to know about everything.”
Youth regarded Press with an accusing glance. “That’s the pot calling the kettle black! We could have learned a lot more about our Lady if you hadn’t been so head strong. I’m sure that Jin won’t share our conversation with Munin, and that leaves us to figure out what to say if she asks.”
Press shook his head. “I don’t think she cares enough to ask.” He replied dejectedly.
Youth chuckled a bit, which brought a dangerous glare from Press. The younger man threw his hands out at his sides, and continued through his chuckles. “It’s just funny, is all. You act like you know her already, and we just met.”
The big man took the chiding comment, rolled it around in his head, and then let out a heavy sigh. It was true. He could make haphazard judgments all he wanted, but the truth was that neither one of them had a clue what Munin was all about. She was a damn fine fighter, a world champion, seemed well off in the finance department, and had a strong work ethic when it came to the business. But anyone with google could have devised that, and maybe what really irked Press the most was the fact that he wanted to know more.
Youth sat across the table and observed the range of emotions being conveyed on the big man’s face as he worked through his thoughts. He shook his head before chuckling again, and said, “I know what would make you feel better.”
Press looked over and raised an eyebrow expectantly. Youth stood, throwing his partner his hoodie, and continued. “Let’s go get the third member of the BombTrax.” Press smiled, despite himself, and nodded in agreement.
The two men had to drive all the way to Gilroy, California in order to find a Walmart, and they spent as little time as possible picking up their supplies. A 24 pack of 20oz. water, two cases of Bud Light, a couple of snack items, and one black steel folding chair. When they got back in the car, instead of heading back to the Redwood, they took the roads that would dump them out at the Greedy Pupil’s Moving Carnival.
When they arrived they took the steel chair along for their walk through the carnival. The Pandemonium Theatre had finally been completed, and posters hung from every attraction advertising for Bad Behavior VIII. Youth led the way through the maze of food vendors, fortune tellers, circus acts, and game stations. The booths were littered between different rides in a random pattern, a media tool used to throw the consumer off balance by assaulting the different senses to obtain impulse purchases. It appeared to be working, as every avenue they turned down was filled with milling restless people, and they all had a stuffed animal tucked under their arm or a food tray in their hands.
The two men finally came to the vendor they had come to see, and Youth went over and leaned against a tent pole, while Press spoke to the man behind the counter. It was an airbrush booth, specializing in t-shirts and personalized front plates for cars. It was an easy twenty dollars for someone with a practiced hand, and the vendor had several examples of his work hanging from his booth. Press nodded at the dragons, Disney characters, and I ‘heart’ Mom t-shirts, before setting the steel chair on the counter.
The vendor looked to the chair, up at Press, and then back at the chair before asking, “Can I help you?”
Press leaned in and whispered something into the man’s ear, and placed a fifty dollar bill on the counter. The vendor took the money, and then nodded with a cheerful smile. The big man knocked on the booth with his fist in a sign of goodbye, and turned back to the waiting Youth. He was staring off in the opposite direction, so Press followed his gaze until he spotted Amanda Kennedy, followed by a cameraman, heading right for them.
Press groaned, and turned as if to make off in the opposite direction, but Youth caught him by the arm, and gave him a stern expression. Press sighed heavily, and turned back to face the reporter who was almost upon them with a dejected glare.
She didn’t seem to notice as she made ready her microphone, checked her hair in a compact mirror, and then tucked it into her pocket before leveling the sound device in their faces. “Amanda Kennedy here, EW Faithful, and I’m here with The BombTrax, who appear to be enjoying the sights and sounds of the carnival before their huge tornado tag match with the True 10’s and #DGAF! Gentleman, we heard from you earlier in the week, but would you like to elaborate on your game plan going into Bad Behavior?"
Press snorted, and started to make a comment, but Youth slapped him on the back, and stepped forward to speak. “It’s simple, honey, we’re going to do what we do best, and that’s kick some ass. If these wannabe’s know what’s good for them, then they’ll just stroll on down to the ring and lay down. At least that way, no one has to make any trips to the hospital, and they can live to play ‘wrassler’ another day.
"
Amanda Kennedy regarded Youth with an incredulous expression, and in a snarky voice replied. “Those are mighty big words considering neither one of you has even had a match yet. Matter of fact, the only exposure you’ve had in a live show was a villainous sneak attack on Deus and DPI, who might I add, had just had the match of their lives for the EW Championship. Some could speculate that those are the actions of cowards.”
Press snorted again, this time using his size to forcibly knock his partner aside so that he was the one to answer. He got an inch from the reporter’s face, who recoiled, yet kept her microphone hand steady. “You know, after viewing such a villainous, vile, horrific, violent act, some could speculate if they used the word coward to describe The BombTrax, that they could share the same fate.” He smirked, and leaned back away from Kennedy, who breathed in a sigh of relief. He regarded the camera with baleful eyes, and crossed his arms over his chest. “But, lucky for you, we’re not here to threaten reporters, the announce team, the staff. Nah, we’re not here to threaten anyone. I spelled it out for you at Beyond Evolution, we spelled it out for our opponents earlier this week, and fuck…if I need to spell it out one more time then so be it.”
Press motioned with his hand for everyone to follow him as he began to walk through the carnival, and they did, uncertain where they were headed. He came to a stop at an intersection of games, and cut to the right, which took them behind the tents into an alley where crates were set up as dice tables, and a small area had been cleared for work out equipment, including a heavy punching bag filled with sand.
The big man stepped over to the sand bag, and rested his hand on the post suspending it off the ground. He turned back to Kennedy and the camera, and smirked. “You see, Mrs. Kennedy, this little prop here is important to exemplify my thoughts about our opponents this Wednesday.” He gave the bag a little shove, causing it to sway back and forth in a spin before coming back to rest. “Like this sand bag, they’ve sat there all damn week mute and unmoving, not even a peep about our upcoming tag match. I figure their strategy will be to wait till the last minute, maybe even right before they are about to step out to the ring. Having had all week to analyze our comments and promos, they’ll no doubt try to pick apart every facet of what we’ve been saying in an attempt to appear intelligent and well informed. Patrick Kay and Johnny Raike will do their best to be cute and funny, feigning anger where there’s only petulance, while Cecily Bell will ramble on like a drunken toddler, and Spot Crack will do….” Press pauses for a moment, and then rolls his eyes. “Well, he’ll do whatever it is he does.”
“Cause, let’s face it, that’s the nature of things when you’re dealing with talent-less hacks with delusions of grandeur. Johnny Raike is the only one who’s broke the silence around here, and basically he spat out a bunch of nonsense about how hardcore and ultraviolent he is, and how blah, blah, blah. The only thing that I could decipher out of that shit spewing promo that made any fucking sense is when he called for Team #DGAF to team with him and Kay. Finally, someone around here gets it! He used the one brain cell in his skull that’s not dedicated to getting high and chasing ass to come up with a plan of reason. Because these fucker’s know that they got no shot, and the only thing they could do is band together to try and survive the situation. What’s better, is his main beef with us seemed to be the fact that we didn’t have any darling gems for him and his partner last we spoke. He says that we think we’re so great, tooting our own horn without being proven, while spouting on and on about how phenomenal he is, and how he’s apart of some stable that no one gives a damn about.
"Kay probably couldn’t be reached for comment because he’s too busy trying to resurrect some shitty failed promotion on Twitter. I can only imagine it's some 'hardcore-ultraviolent' calamity where Johnny Raike and Patrick Kay can run around like standard bearers in the Special Olympics, and then afterwards retire to the back and go fuck themselves.”
“Well, boys, this Wednesday I’m going to finally fulfill a lifelong dream of Johnny Raike’s. I’m going to take Patrick Kay, and shove him right up your ass.” Press rears back, and punches the sandbag, sending it forward to sway back and forth. “Like the punching bag here, Amanda, sometimes the only way to get these fucktard’s motivated is by giving them a little nudge, and it’s a guarantee that’s all that anyone ever feels when dealing with Johnny Raike and Patrick Kay.”
Press flashes a wicked grin, and crosses his arms over his chest. "Oh, and one more thing. If you have to go around spouting to everyone that will listen about how fucking hardcore you are, then you ain't. That simple."
Youth snickers, stepping forward into the limelight, and takes the microphone right out of Kennedy’s hand. She wrinkles her nose at the move, but steps to the side to give the flyer some room.
“Cecily Bell. Jesus, it sounds like a fucking generic brand of frozen yogurt you’d find at Save-A-Lot. Cecily Bell. Sounds like an over the counter drug for menopause. Cecily Bell. Sounds like an Italian phone company. Cecily Bell. Sounds like a cheap ring tone for your phone. Cecily Bell. Sounds like a technical term for ringworm. Cecily Bell. Sounds like a term used for castrating a bull. Cecily Bell. Sounds like a sex act involving Karo Syrup and otter teeth. Cecily Bell…..”
“Dude! That’s enough.” Press remarked, shaking his head.
Youth stood there, mock pain etched on his face. “But….But I got more!” The expression melted into a grin, and he shrugged for the camera. “You know, you’re probably right. Team #DGAF doesn’t need any more reasons to seek assisted suicide. The only good thing about having Spot Crack around is that he’s so riddled with drugs his blood system will probably be immune to whatever venereal diseases Cecily could pass on while tagging together. If I were you two, I would seriously consider ole’ Johnny Raike’s offer to team up. After all, it won’t be the first time Cecily’s been in the middle of a bunch of dudes, but at least this time you won’t have to be on your knees.”
Youth tossed the microphone back to Amanda Kennedy with a wink, and just as she was about to ask another question, the airbrush vendor came into view sheepishly, tapping Press on the shoulder. The big man turned from the camera, and noticed the completed work in the vendor’s hands. He took the steel chair from him, and turned back to Amanda Kennedy who regarded him anxiously. Youth just snickered, and threw his hands out at his sides.
“Don’t worry, Amanda, that’s just our manager. The third member of The BombTrax, if you will. You see, we noticed that everyone around here seems to have someone watching their backs, and decided that we didn’t want to feel left out. I mean, Patrick Kay and Johnny Raike have their good buddy Alex Blake, and even Blake has Dick behind him.” Youth pauses for comedic effect, complete with trademark grin. Press guffaws in the background. “Deus has Alex Cross, Spot Crack has Cecily Bell, Huckabee has Candy, Candy has Munin, Munin has us. Hell, it’s just one big jamboree in these parts. So we called up a good buddy of ours, told him the situation, and you know what? He’s never failed us. So with no further ado, allow me to introduce you to one of our best friends, Steeeeeeeeelllll Chaiirrrrrrr!”
Press turned the chair over in his hands so that the seat was visible to the camera, and the words ‘Press Pass’ were painted across it in red. He gave his best used car salesman like grin, and leaned towards the microphone. “And trust me EW, with this Pass, I can go anywhere I damn well please.”
The two men burst into laughter, turning from the reporter, and walk away. Amanda stood there, unsure what to think about these two. Half the time she was afraid they were going to take her head off, and the other she thought she was witnessing something straight out of a frat house. Either way, one thing was for certain, this Bad Behavior would be one hell of an event.