Post by Kevin on Nov 26, 2012 18:34:10 GMT -6
"Hi, Jon Collins?"
"Jonathan Collins. Who am I speaking to?"
"I'm the legal counsel for your next top talent.”
“Oh really?”
“Indeed, sir. I speak for a talented young by the name of Omar Wise, and I think he'd be a strong addition to a certain “Exodus Pro” that is currently in the talent-acquisition phase of wrestling company life.”
"I’m always looking for new members for my company. Send me a tape, I'd love to watch it."
"One should have gotten to your office by Fed-Ex earlier this morning. If you like the video, just give me a call by the cell phone included in the Fed-Ex box."
"You just think of everything, don't you?"
"I knew what you were going to want... Because I know you need to see this man’s skill to believe it.”
"Well, thank you for this piece of information, Mr... Torment, was it?"
"Thank YOU, Mr. Collins. Omar's a hell of a talent. Let me know what you think."
[Click.]
And just like that, Jonathan Collins ended up flying out to upstate New York. New York Pro Wrestling was running a show in Albany, and the admittedly intriguing Omar Wise would be on the card, facing a man in a bright orange-and-black mask-and-jorts-and-teeshirt-combo who went by the name of "Dump Truck".
Jonathan's rental car rolled up to the armory, and he stepped out, not sure about any aspect of this whole trip. The fellow skulking behind the run-down, dumpy building stubbed his cigarette out on the wall of the building, leaving a greasy stain. The stain matched his greasy, stringy, curly locks of shiny black hair, which the man had shoved under a cheap NYPW hat.
Of course that hat's typeface was supposed to look like the same typeface that they make NYPD and NYFD hats in. It was the gimmick.
“Donovan Torment.”, the man with three days of stubble weakly managed, before giving a lung-rattling, wet-and-phlegmmy cough. He turned his head a bit, but Collins could smell the pneumonia-molecules zipping around in the air. This was an unhealthy place to be.
“Let's go see this Omar Wise, hm?”, Jonathan offered, neatly slipping around Donovan and into the building. Donovan scrambled to make it over along with Jonathan, as the bit of cardboard that Torment had shoved into the doorjamb was now sitting in a puddle of rainwater. His smoke break would turn into a night-long break!
Jonathan had a good seat. The sacrificial lamb was a chunky dude in a traffic-cone-orange mask named Dump Truck. He had a good two-eighty or so on him, but most of it was in a beer gut. Dump Truck had no legs and his biceps were more flab than fab. Dump Truck definitely wasn't the dude on display, even if he had come out to “Life in the Fast Lane” by the Eagles.
Which was a pretty cool song.
Dump Truck paced in the ring, trying to psyche himself up as he stomped back and forth. He was a big, strong, tough guy. He could definitely get the upper hand, here. He was a two-time Big Apple Champion, he could-
ATTENCHUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUN
The lights immediately shut off, and Jonathan smiled in appreciation. The audio/lighting crews were working in a good tandem. As the remixed, remixed version of “Never Scared” played, the lightcrews got a pair of purple spotlights on the entryway.
“OMAR COMIN’! RUN, Y’ALL, OMAR COMIN’!
Good visual, too. A literal wall of muscle and human stomped out from the back, and even Jonathan sucked in a bit of breath at the sheer SIZE of the man. He wasn't just tall, but he was broad! The purple lighting and the cut of his spandex ringpants made this guy look like an absolute monster.
He was big. He was intimidating. He was in fairly good ringshape, massive muscles bulging all over his body. And Jonathan Collins, businessman and wrestler, could tell that he was money. People would pay to see this man fight. They'd pay to see him lose. They'd even pay to see him win, if he did it right.
“HE IS THE ABRAMS TANK, OMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR WIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISE!”
Collins winced. That nickname was kinda generic, for a dude this huge, this distinctive. He had no freakin' neck, but Collins would bite his tongue before calling him fat. As the rap song blasted, the floor shook with the bass. Or... Were people stomping along in time with it? Omar seemed to be keeping step with it.
Interesting.
Collins brought a thumb to his chin and gave it a thoughtful stroke, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the guardrail. This guy was definitely valuable. If he wasn't a worthless fat sloppy piece of garbage, he could definitely deserve getting a contract. Jonathan's lean brought him within firing distance, though. Omar stopped as he drew parallel with Jonathan, and leaned his head slightly toward Collins.
“Watch this.”, he flatly stated.
Dump Truck beckoned Omar on, and the big man nodded once, before a deep step launched him forward, Wise accelerating to previously unthinkable speeds! Jonathan's grimace of concentration turned into a smirk as he watched, the expression taking hold absentmindedly. There was just something fun about watching a huge guy go running in to kick some ass.
And Omar didn't disappoint. Dump Truck caught up to Omar just as the big man had risen to his feet. Dump Truck was going for a double axehandle, but Wise shot a punch into Dump Truck's stomach, and it wasn't some sort of half-assed, fake, weak slap. Omar threw his shoulder into it, and made it its own move. Not just a transition.
Dump Truck looked like he had been shot.
Omar rose to his feet, Dump Truck weakly collapsing to one knee. He coughed, trying to force air into his lungs, but to no avail. Omar couldn't let Dumpie get his wind back, either. Omar grabbed the Dumper by his mask and hauled him to his feet. By the pained expression and shaking of Dump Truck's hands as he shot up to his feet, the grab was also a gouge. Rake? Something.
Omar just shoved Dump Truck back... Brought his head waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay back, and Dump Truck's masked mush was the unwilling recipient of an absolutely BRUTAL headbutt! The two sounded like hollow melons being rocked together! Or half-coconuts! Or something!
Dump Truck sat down hard, eyes bulging and glassy.
The fans in the audience, for the most part smarks, cheered and whooped. Knowing what Omar was capable of, one guy even tried to start up a chant.
“RACK! RACK! RACK!”, the guy shouted. His friends picked up on it quickly and added their voices to the chorus, turning it into a true thing. Then the rest of the audience started doing it because herd mentality why not.
“RACK! RACK! RACK!”, they chanted. Omar looked around, hands on his hips.
“YOU ALL WANNA SEE THE TORTURE RACK?”, he bellowed. Dude had bass. That could make for good voiceovers for video packages. Jon kept seeing positives to a signing like this.
“YEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!”, the crowd screamed.
“TOO BAD.”, Omar rumbled, before shooting a knee into the insensate Dump Truck's face. The Dumper hit his back, and lay sprawled out.
Omar turned, getting some speed once more. It was like a boulder precariously perched at the tip of a cliff. If he could get going, it would do some serious damage. But it couldn't get going often. But as he watched, another thing occurred to Jonathan. The way the ringropes bulged and gave as Omar hit 'em, not only did he need to get a talented hoss away from this shitbag indy because of the money to be made, but Collins needed to get Omar out of here quickly to avoid him getting injured on those things.
Omar came running back. LEAPT into the air. And came crashing down onto Dump Truck's chest! Big guy or no, Dump Truck was no match for a four hundred pounder's ass across his lungs. So, with Omar sitting casually and crushing the man to death, the so-called Abrams demanded a microphone from the ref.
The ref didn't want to get it.
Omar grabbed the ref's shirt, and hauled him close, growling out a statement. And then, Omar shoved the ref off, sending the man sprawling. While the zebra-striped man's first instinct was a DQ, one look at Omar's face told the ref that'd be a bad decision.
So, the ref got Omar his mike.
“You people...”-, Omar began, before getting cut off with raucous boos. A smark audience knows what was coming when the first words of a statement were “YOU PEOPLE”.
“YOU PEOPLE SHUT THE HELL UP, I AM TALKING”, Omar roared as he powered to his feet. He stomped over to the ringropes, a beefy finger hauling off to jab directly at a baseball-hat-wearing guy in an Affliction shirt. The tattooed ‘bro laughed, but Omar wasn’t amused.
“IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII HAVE THE MICROPHONE! I HAVE THE POWER! AND YOU FOOLS SHUT UP WHILE I AM TALKING!”, Omar howled, his eyes going wide as he damn near overloaded the mike. The audience clammed up. All except one dude in the back going “FREEBIRD!”, so nobody paid attention to him.
“This sad sack, Dump Truck? He ain’t worth the trouble,” Omar snarled, a finger snapping out to point at the chunky dude in the mask. Dumperoo was, to his credit, trying to roll to his hands and knees. He wouldn’t give up the fight just yet.
“For the pas’ six months, I have told you people how much I hate you. How you’re all selfish, greedy and stupid. Haven’t I?” Omar gave a biiiig grin at that. The Abrams Tank had done so, and they let him know that with BOOS... Oh, criminy, the boos.
One guy even came up with a chant.
“Die Omar Die!”, he screamed. And the people around him got it almost instantly.
”DIE OMAR DIE!
DIE OMAR DIE!
DIE OMAR DIE!”
It may have been a bit of an overreaction, but Omar nodded sagely, his expression very... considering. Thoughtful. He didn’t let his hate dribble through his mask of calm.
“Well, I have finally decided that I hate you people so much, I’m getting the hell out of here. Next week will be my last appearance with this company. Hopefully, you will all die in my absence.”, Omar rumbled. The crowd paused for a moment...
“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYY!”, they cheered! Oh, frabjous day, callooh callay! Omar shook his head mournfully, and glanced over to where Dump Truck had gotten shakily to his knees. The masked fatso managed to force a single foot down, but Omar planted his heel and LAUNCHED off.
The huge man rushed across the ring, but the Dump Truck got to his feet in a rush! “HELL YEAH!”, Dump Truck shouted as he fired off rights and lefts! WHAM WHACK POW, the blows landed on Omar’s grill! The Abrams wasn’t expecting that, and Dump Truck pressed his advantage, shoving Omar back with both hands. Dump leapt, going for his BIG MAN spinning heel kick!
“RRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”, the crowd screamed! Omar took those furious fists hard, with a step back... And another... And another! Omar was knocked back to lean on the ring-ropes... And Dump Truck rushed in, both hands balling up together to make a double axe handle smash! WHACK, AND THERE GOES OMAR!
The big Tank hit the mats at ringside with a meaty flop, and Dump Truck stomped around in the ring, pumping his arms. The crowd, fully behind him at this point, got ready and as he began to backwards-walk around the ring, went “BEEP-BEEP-BEEP” like a reverse warning! Wrestling fans: Pavlov’s dogs.
Omar leaned on the ring apron as Dump Truck turned to face him... And Omar lashed out, snatching both of the Dumper’s ankles! Omar yanked, and the Dump Truck went down onto his back on the mat. Hard. And then, Omar YANKED again, hauling Dump out of the ring! Even as Dump Truck landed on his feet... Omar hit him. Hard.
Collins would later swear that the sound of the fist hitting jawbone sounded like metal-on-flesh. Even though he knew that was just the sound that a video editor should later add to this when making it part of a highlight reel.
Dump Truck took a hard right. And a lip-splitting left. And a nose-crushing right! A left hook spun Dump Truck on his heel, and he dropped like a string-cut-puppet. Second thought, nah. Not like that. Imagine shoving a two-year-old over onto his face. That kind of helpless, gawky, totally-confused fall that only the unconscious and the barely mobile can take.
Dump Truck was down, and Omar just put one foot on the meatpile that once was the Highway Star. He scooped the microphone up that he had laid on the ring apron.
“AS... I WAS SAYIN’.”, Omar boomed, in between breaths.
“BBBBBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”, the crowd roared. One guy threw a handful of popcorn, showering Omar in the kernels.
That was a mistake. Omar boiled across the distance between ‘em, getting right in the man’s face. When confronted with the four-hundred-pound Abrams, the popcorn thrower quailed. Omar didn’t crack a smile, he just kept glaring the man down, down, all the way to his seat.
“I HATE YOU PEOPLE BECAUSE YOU’RE COWARDS.”, Omar growled, barely moving his lips. He turned, stalking down the ringside area until he found a chunky woman in a tee-shirt for the handsome young high-flyin’ cowboy here in New York Pro Wrestling, Dungaree Hitchens IV.
“I HATE YOU PEOPLE BECAUSE YOU’RE UGLY, INSIDE AND OUT.”, he hissed, lip curled in disgust as he looked her up and down. The woman’s face crumpled, and she turned to her boyfriend, a balding shrimp of a man with a scalped broom pasted to his upper lip. The man, who bore a striking resemblance to Joe Pesci(But uglier), clenched both fists.
“I HATE YOU PEOPLE BECAUSE NONE OF YOU CAN STOP ME.”, Omar boomed. He blew right by the little man, putting one hand on the shrimp’s forehead and shoving him back into his seat.
“I AM GONNA FULFILL MY CONTRACTUAL OBLIGATION TO THE DISGUSTING, LOW PEOPLE OF THE STATE OF NEW YORK. ALL YOU PARASITES, ALL YOU SLIMESUCKAS... AND THEN I’M GONE.”, Omar drawled, dragging out the “o” in that last word. He gave a sappy grin afterwards, letting the mike sag down by his side.
As Omar began to walk back up towards the Dump Truck... And the ring ramp, Omar got to walk right up to the Dumper, on his knees. Dump Truck was pulling himself up using the apron, and was shaking his head wildly, trying to get the Psyche Up! bonus. If only the crowd would join up with hi-
BOKK went the big forehead of Mister Omar Wise against the Dump Truck Mask. Dump Truck hit the ground, absolutely KAYOed. Someone had shut the lights off in the Dump Truck Think Factory, and sent all the shifts home. Omar just gave a big, booming laugh as he strode on by, all cocky and proud.
The Abrams Tank didn’t even slow as he went up the ramp, blowing past Jonathan Collins with nary a second glance. Didn’t want to tip the hand, eh? Omar threatened to backhand some poor sap standing in front of his seat, then headed through the curtains. The match was long since thrown out.
“So, Mister Collins. Were you impressed?”, slimed the sneaky, slithery voice of that sneaky snake Torment. He was sitting next to Jonathan C, and tossed a kernel of popcorn into his mouth, grinning.
“I was impressed enough to want to make an offer or two. Not impressed enough to throw my entire bankroll at.”, Collins maintained, glancing around. The house audience was awfully riled up. His voice, face, hair... Everything had antagonized them. While the change in scenery might cause a stumble, the bare charisma was worth some money.
“Well, it just so happens that Mister Wise is going to the West Coast with or without Exodus backing him. The only question is... Are you willing to offer more than Domination Pro, in Seattle?” Donovan Torment gave a sly grin, leaning back in his seat. Namedropping the “Listen, why don’t you come backstage and meet Omar? He’s really a prick in real life.”
Jonathan and Donovan slipped from the crowd and headed backstage. Giving the place the ol’ once-over, Collins was disgusted. A moldy, shitty old armory that the New York National Guard obviously barely used. And the locker room was garbage, old rusted Great Depression-era junk more rust than steel.
Unsurprisingly, Omar sat alone in the locker room. His bench was empty except for the duffel bag sitting at his side. Omar sat in a towel, both feet in a plastic tub full of cloudy water. He was unwrapping the sportstape from around his wrists.
Collins didn’t wait for Torment to introduce them. Even as the manager was saying “Omar, I’d like to introduce you to-”, Jonathan stepped in, giving a bland, businesslike smile.
“Knuckles sore?”, Jonathan queried. He knew the plight of the striker, and those had been some dynamite hands Omar laid on that Dump Truck guy.
“Nah. Been abusin’ em since I was a kid. They’re hard as rocks, now.”, Omar rumbled, looking up to Jonathan as he ripped the last bit of sports tape off of his wrists. He rose to his feet, and offered a hand to Jonathan. Face didn’t betray any thoughts, though. No smile... No grimace. Omar just stared Jonathan down.
“Jonathan Collins. Exodus Pro.”, the suited man offered, extending a hand. Omar took it, shaking the hand politely. A paycheck was a paycheck. In wrestling, you shook hands often. “What would you think of coming to San Diego and making some money with me?”
Omar thought about it for a moment. San Diego was a little... shiny for his liking, but the possibility of good money appealed to him. “You do health insurance?”
Jonathan was momentarily taken aback. “Uhr...”
“Th’ rest of yo’ roster would need it if I came to Cali.”, Omar steadily stated, watching Jonathan evenly. It took Jonathan a moment to realize that it was a braggadocio moment, not an employment request.
“That confident, are you?”, Jonathan queried.
“I’m not a wrestler. I’m no athlete. I’ve been a bully and a fighter since I can remember. I hurt people. That’s what happens. You may not want to have me on your show,” Omar blustered. He could see Donovan Torment slashing his hand desperately across his throat, but Omar gave zero fucks. “I could end up breakin’ things, and hurtin’ people.” Omar didn’t need to raise his voice much, it was just loud enough to shoot through the room like a dart.
Jonathan Collins arched an eyebrow thoughtfully. “I know a few people who might be willing to step up to that challenge. But in my company, the job is more... Fight person, win match, get paid. Nobody needs to go home in a coffin.”
Omar pursed his lips, one big hand working into the palm of the other. “I can respect that. But this bein’ a contact sport... I’ve got this problem, see. I never really know my own strength.”
Jonathan Collins knew Omar’s type. He knew that the cruel and the inhumane were often drawn to these... physical sports. There was a surprisingly high number of names he could remember along those lines from meeting in one locker room or another. “This is a professional fighting business. A little rough stuff is expected.”
“Good. Talk over the money details with the freak.”, Omar rumbled, jerking a thumb at Torment. Collins glanced to Donovan, who managed a weary-looking smile. This little scene had sent him on a bit of an emotional rollercoaster, and he most assuredly hadn’t been wanting that. Collins gave Omar a sage nod, but before he turned, he had one last thing to say.
“If you carry yourself like a professional in this business, we can definitely make some money. Just keep that in mind, Omar.” Collins sauntered off, Torment shaking Collins’ hand frantically and whining pleasantries about how happy they were going to be to work with Exodus Pro.
Omar just curled his lip as he pulled his feet out of the Epsom Salt soaks. Wise family knowledge: If you soak your feet in a warm salt bath after a competition, your feet will have better health. Less stank, too.
The big man leaned down, beginning to industriously wipe his feet down with a clean, dry washcloth. California, huh. San Diego, at that. Sunny beaches and palm trees. There... were worse places to be. At least it’d be nicer weather.
Omar cast a quick glance around the locker room, lips pursed in decisive disgust. Anywhere was better than this shithole. Omar opened his duffel bag, and began to get dressed. Time to go.
~~~
“We got... like... six girls. A maskwearin’ Japanese fruit. A comic book hero, a Jesus freak, a white boy thug, and wrestlin’ octopuses.”
Omar sighed heavily, all drawn out and annoyed, but was cut off by the interjection of Donovan Torment, in his finest red satin jacket and an OMAR’S GOING TO KILL YOU tee-shirt.
“The plural of octopus is octopi, and one’s a squid.”
Omar considered this point for a moment, before turning and roaring “SHUT UP” at Torment.
Omar took a moment to recenter himself, before pressing on.
“I get the feelin’ that I ain’t supposed to be here. This place, this Exodus Pro should be for the pretty boys and the little girls who all wanna play pretend-fighter. Not someone like me.”
Omar turned to his left, and walked over to where two promotional stand-ups stood. The Universal Wrestling League’s extremely lucrative cardboard standups, one of miss Fiona Rourke, one of Mister Magnus Gunner.
“You got these two. My opponents in this first-round tournament... thing. A little girl who likes Harry Potter an’ a sad white boy who likes t’ hurt people.”
Omar reached out, grabbing the Fiona standup by the waist. He lifted her, moved her aside and placed her just outside of the cameraframe, then stepped up, to glare at the unshaven, stubbly visage of Magnus Gunner and his sulking glare.
“Harry Potter girl aside, I could have a nice fight with a chump-ass sucka like you, Magnus Gunner. You’re a big dude who can take a punch. That’s good. I’d hate for the Exodus Pro to just see me stomping a little white girl’s ribcage into dust and think I’m some sort of bully.”
Omar reached out, dusting off Magnus’ left shoulder, eyes locked on the cardboard image’s eyes.
“No, I want a big, tough dude t’ face. That way, I can beat your stupid-looking teeth down your whiny throat, an’ feel like I ain’t pushin’ around someone weak and stupid. No, I’ll be pushin’ around someone who should be able to hang tough with me. And then, when I knock you out with a big right hand...”
Omar gave a crooked, humorless grin as he reached out, grabbing the cardboard cutout by the throat. He lifted the Gunner standup off the ground, and tossed it aside.
“Poor little white boy. So much t’ be depressed and sad about. Your broken collarbone, your broken arm, dislocated shoulder, broken back...”
Omar turned to glare that camera down.
“An’ when Gunner’s done, then I’m still gonna have t’ put down Fiona Rourke. Forget yo’ books an’ movies an’ shit. This is real, Fiona. I like to punch people in the face as hard as I can, an’ I like t’ smash people aroun’ th’ ring.”
Omar grinned toothily, big hands coming up to work together, dry-washing in anticipation.
“I’m gon’ throw you aroun’ like a rag doll. An’ then I’m gon’ pin Gunner with you on’ top. An’ my road t’ the top’ll begin with your limp bodies.”
Omar brought those big, big mitts up before his face, the camera getting a good look at those thick, sausagelike fingers before he clenched his fists, knuckles popping out with a criminal intent.
“I know you’re gonna say you fought men like me before. Both of you will. But you haven’t. You’ve fought big guys. You’ve fought mean guys. But you’ve never fought Omar Wise. But you’re gonna.”
Omar lowered his hands, the camera having zoomed in and the man having moved a bit forward. Now, his face filled the screen.
“And it won’t be pretty.”
"Jonathan Collins. Who am I speaking to?"
"I'm the legal counsel for your next top talent.”
“Oh really?”
“Indeed, sir. I speak for a talented young by the name of Omar Wise, and I think he'd be a strong addition to a certain “Exodus Pro” that is currently in the talent-acquisition phase of wrestling company life.”
"I’m always looking for new members for my company. Send me a tape, I'd love to watch it."
"One should have gotten to your office by Fed-Ex earlier this morning. If you like the video, just give me a call by the cell phone included in the Fed-Ex box."
"You just think of everything, don't you?"
"I knew what you were going to want... Because I know you need to see this man’s skill to believe it.”
"Well, thank you for this piece of information, Mr... Torment, was it?"
"Thank YOU, Mr. Collins. Omar's a hell of a talent. Let me know what you think."
[Click.]
And just like that, Jonathan Collins ended up flying out to upstate New York. New York Pro Wrestling was running a show in Albany, and the admittedly intriguing Omar Wise would be on the card, facing a man in a bright orange-and-black mask-and-jorts-and-teeshirt-combo who went by the name of "Dump Truck".
Jonathan's rental car rolled up to the armory, and he stepped out, not sure about any aspect of this whole trip. The fellow skulking behind the run-down, dumpy building stubbed his cigarette out on the wall of the building, leaving a greasy stain. The stain matched his greasy, stringy, curly locks of shiny black hair, which the man had shoved under a cheap NYPW hat.
Of course that hat's typeface was supposed to look like the same typeface that they make NYPD and NYFD hats in. It was the gimmick.
“Donovan Torment.”, the man with three days of stubble weakly managed, before giving a lung-rattling, wet-and-phlegmmy cough. He turned his head a bit, but Collins could smell the pneumonia-molecules zipping around in the air. This was an unhealthy place to be.
“Let's go see this Omar Wise, hm?”, Jonathan offered, neatly slipping around Donovan and into the building. Donovan scrambled to make it over along with Jonathan, as the bit of cardboard that Torment had shoved into the doorjamb was now sitting in a puddle of rainwater. His smoke break would turn into a night-long break!
Jonathan had a good seat. The sacrificial lamb was a chunky dude in a traffic-cone-orange mask named Dump Truck. He had a good two-eighty or so on him, but most of it was in a beer gut. Dump Truck had no legs and his biceps were more flab than fab. Dump Truck definitely wasn't the dude on display, even if he had come out to “Life in the Fast Lane” by the Eagles.
Which was a pretty cool song.
Dump Truck paced in the ring, trying to psyche himself up as he stomped back and forth. He was a big, strong, tough guy. He could definitely get the upper hand, here. He was a two-time Big Apple Champion, he could-
ATTENCHUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUN
The lights immediately shut off, and Jonathan smiled in appreciation. The audio/lighting crews were working in a good tandem. As the remixed, remixed version of “Never Scared” played, the lightcrews got a pair of purple spotlights on the entryway.
“OMAR COMIN’! RUN, Y’ALL, OMAR COMIN’!
Good visual, too. A literal wall of muscle and human stomped out from the back, and even Jonathan sucked in a bit of breath at the sheer SIZE of the man. He wasn't just tall, but he was broad! The purple lighting and the cut of his spandex ringpants made this guy look like an absolute monster.
He was big. He was intimidating. He was in fairly good ringshape, massive muscles bulging all over his body. And Jonathan Collins, businessman and wrestler, could tell that he was money. People would pay to see this man fight. They'd pay to see him lose. They'd even pay to see him win, if he did it right.
“HE IS THE ABRAMS TANK, OMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR WIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISE!”
Collins winced. That nickname was kinda generic, for a dude this huge, this distinctive. He had no freakin' neck, but Collins would bite his tongue before calling him fat. As the rap song blasted, the floor shook with the bass. Or... Were people stomping along in time with it? Omar seemed to be keeping step with it.
Interesting.
Collins brought a thumb to his chin and gave it a thoughtful stroke, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the guardrail. This guy was definitely valuable. If he wasn't a worthless fat sloppy piece of garbage, he could definitely deserve getting a contract. Jonathan's lean brought him within firing distance, though. Omar stopped as he drew parallel with Jonathan, and leaned his head slightly toward Collins.
“Watch this.”, he flatly stated.
Dump Truck beckoned Omar on, and the big man nodded once, before a deep step launched him forward, Wise accelerating to previously unthinkable speeds! Jonathan's grimace of concentration turned into a smirk as he watched, the expression taking hold absentmindedly. There was just something fun about watching a huge guy go running in to kick some ass.
And Omar didn't disappoint. Dump Truck caught up to Omar just as the big man had risen to his feet. Dump Truck was going for a double axehandle, but Wise shot a punch into Dump Truck's stomach, and it wasn't some sort of half-assed, fake, weak slap. Omar threw his shoulder into it, and made it its own move. Not just a transition.
Dump Truck looked like he had been shot.
Omar rose to his feet, Dump Truck weakly collapsing to one knee. He coughed, trying to force air into his lungs, but to no avail. Omar couldn't let Dumpie get his wind back, either. Omar grabbed the Dumper by his mask and hauled him to his feet. By the pained expression and shaking of Dump Truck's hands as he shot up to his feet, the grab was also a gouge. Rake? Something.
Omar just shoved Dump Truck back... Brought his head waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay back, and Dump Truck's masked mush was the unwilling recipient of an absolutely BRUTAL headbutt! The two sounded like hollow melons being rocked together! Or half-coconuts! Or something!
Dump Truck sat down hard, eyes bulging and glassy.
The fans in the audience, for the most part smarks, cheered and whooped. Knowing what Omar was capable of, one guy even tried to start up a chant.
“RACK! RACK! RACK!”, the guy shouted. His friends picked up on it quickly and added their voices to the chorus, turning it into a true thing. Then the rest of the audience started doing it because herd mentality why not.
“RACK! RACK! RACK!”, they chanted. Omar looked around, hands on his hips.
“YOU ALL WANNA SEE THE TORTURE RACK?”, he bellowed. Dude had bass. That could make for good voiceovers for video packages. Jon kept seeing positives to a signing like this.
“YEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!”, the crowd screamed.
“TOO BAD.”, Omar rumbled, before shooting a knee into the insensate Dump Truck's face. The Dumper hit his back, and lay sprawled out.
Omar turned, getting some speed once more. It was like a boulder precariously perched at the tip of a cliff. If he could get going, it would do some serious damage. But it couldn't get going often. But as he watched, another thing occurred to Jonathan. The way the ringropes bulged and gave as Omar hit 'em, not only did he need to get a talented hoss away from this shitbag indy because of the money to be made, but Collins needed to get Omar out of here quickly to avoid him getting injured on those things.
Omar came running back. LEAPT into the air. And came crashing down onto Dump Truck's chest! Big guy or no, Dump Truck was no match for a four hundred pounder's ass across his lungs. So, with Omar sitting casually and crushing the man to death, the so-called Abrams demanded a microphone from the ref.
The ref didn't want to get it.
Omar grabbed the ref's shirt, and hauled him close, growling out a statement. And then, Omar shoved the ref off, sending the man sprawling. While the zebra-striped man's first instinct was a DQ, one look at Omar's face told the ref that'd be a bad decision.
So, the ref got Omar his mike.
“You people...”-, Omar began, before getting cut off with raucous boos. A smark audience knows what was coming when the first words of a statement were “YOU PEOPLE”.
“YOU PEOPLE SHUT THE HELL UP, I AM TALKING”, Omar roared as he powered to his feet. He stomped over to the ringropes, a beefy finger hauling off to jab directly at a baseball-hat-wearing guy in an Affliction shirt. The tattooed ‘bro laughed, but Omar wasn’t amused.
“IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII HAVE THE MICROPHONE! I HAVE THE POWER! AND YOU FOOLS SHUT UP WHILE I AM TALKING!”, Omar howled, his eyes going wide as he damn near overloaded the mike. The audience clammed up. All except one dude in the back going “FREEBIRD!”, so nobody paid attention to him.
“This sad sack, Dump Truck? He ain’t worth the trouble,” Omar snarled, a finger snapping out to point at the chunky dude in the mask. Dumperoo was, to his credit, trying to roll to his hands and knees. He wouldn’t give up the fight just yet.
“For the pas’ six months, I have told you people how much I hate you. How you’re all selfish, greedy and stupid. Haven’t I?” Omar gave a biiiig grin at that. The Abrams Tank had done so, and they let him know that with BOOS... Oh, criminy, the boos.
One guy even came up with a chant.
“Die Omar Die!”, he screamed. And the people around him got it almost instantly.
”DIE OMAR DIE!
DIE OMAR DIE!
DIE OMAR DIE!”
It may have been a bit of an overreaction, but Omar nodded sagely, his expression very... considering. Thoughtful. He didn’t let his hate dribble through his mask of calm.
“Well, I have finally decided that I hate you people so much, I’m getting the hell out of here. Next week will be my last appearance with this company. Hopefully, you will all die in my absence.”, Omar rumbled. The crowd paused for a moment...
“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYY!”, they cheered! Oh, frabjous day, callooh callay! Omar shook his head mournfully, and glanced over to where Dump Truck had gotten shakily to his knees. The masked fatso managed to force a single foot down, but Omar planted his heel and LAUNCHED off.
The huge man rushed across the ring, but the Dump Truck got to his feet in a rush! “HELL YEAH!”, Dump Truck shouted as he fired off rights and lefts! WHAM WHACK POW, the blows landed on Omar’s grill! The Abrams wasn’t expecting that, and Dump Truck pressed his advantage, shoving Omar back with both hands. Dump leapt, going for his BIG MAN spinning heel kick!
“RRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”, the crowd screamed! Omar took those furious fists hard, with a step back... And another... And another! Omar was knocked back to lean on the ring-ropes... And Dump Truck rushed in, both hands balling up together to make a double axe handle smash! WHACK, AND THERE GOES OMAR!
The big Tank hit the mats at ringside with a meaty flop, and Dump Truck stomped around in the ring, pumping his arms. The crowd, fully behind him at this point, got ready and as he began to backwards-walk around the ring, went “BEEP-BEEP-BEEP” like a reverse warning! Wrestling fans: Pavlov’s dogs.
Omar leaned on the ring apron as Dump Truck turned to face him... And Omar lashed out, snatching both of the Dumper’s ankles! Omar yanked, and the Dump Truck went down onto his back on the mat. Hard. And then, Omar YANKED again, hauling Dump out of the ring! Even as Dump Truck landed on his feet... Omar hit him. Hard.
Collins would later swear that the sound of the fist hitting jawbone sounded like metal-on-flesh. Even though he knew that was just the sound that a video editor should later add to this when making it part of a highlight reel.
Dump Truck took a hard right. And a lip-splitting left. And a nose-crushing right! A left hook spun Dump Truck on his heel, and he dropped like a string-cut-puppet. Second thought, nah. Not like that. Imagine shoving a two-year-old over onto his face. That kind of helpless, gawky, totally-confused fall that only the unconscious and the barely mobile can take.
Dump Truck was down, and Omar just put one foot on the meatpile that once was the Highway Star. He scooped the microphone up that he had laid on the ring apron.
“AS... I WAS SAYIN’.”, Omar boomed, in between breaths.
“BBBBBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”, the crowd roared. One guy threw a handful of popcorn, showering Omar in the kernels.
That was a mistake. Omar boiled across the distance between ‘em, getting right in the man’s face. When confronted with the four-hundred-pound Abrams, the popcorn thrower quailed. Omar didn’t crack a smile, he just kept glaring the man down, down, all the way to his seat.
“I HATE YOU PEOPLE BECAUSE YOU’RE COWARDS.”, Omar growled, barely moving his lips. He turned, stalking down the ringside area until he found a chunky woman in a tee-shirt for the handsome young high-flyin’ cowboy here in New York Pro Wrestling, Dungaree Hitchens IV.
“I HATE YOU PEOPLE BECAUSE YOU’RE UGLY, INSIDE AND OUT.”, he hissed, lip curled in disgust as he looked her up and down. The woman’s face crumpled, and she turned to her boyfriend, a balding shrimp of a man with a scalped broom pasted to his upper lip. The man, who bore a striking resemblance to Joe Pesci(But uglier), clenched both fists.
“I HATE YOU PEOPLE BECAUSE NONE OF YOU CAN STOP ME.”, Omar boomed. He blew right by the little man, putting one hand on the shrimp’s forehead and shoving him back into his seat.
“I AM GONNA FULFILL MY CONTRACTUAL OBLIGATION TO THE DISGUSTING, LOW PEOPLE OF THE STATE OF NEW YORK. ALL YOU PARASITES, ALL YOU SLIMESUCKAS... AND THEN I’M GONE.”, Omar drawled, dragging out the “o” in that last word. He gave a sappy grin afterwards, letting the mike sag down by his side.
As Omar began to walk back up towards the Dump Truck... And the ring ramp, Omar got to walk right up to the Dumper, on his knees. Dump Truck was pulling himself up using the apron, and was shaking his head wildly, trying to get the Psyche Up! bonus. If only the crowd would join up with hi-
BOKK went the big forehead of Mister Omar Wise against the Dump Truck Mask. Dump Truck hit the ground, absolutely KAYOed. Someone had shut the lights off in the Dump Truck Think Factory, and sent all the shifts home. Omar just gave a big, booming laugh as he strode on by, all cocky and proud.
The Abrams Tank didn’t even slow as he went up the ramp, blowing past Jonathan Collins with nary a second glance. Didn’t want to tip the hand, eh? Omar threatened to backhand some poor sap standing in front of his seat, then headed through the curtains. The match was long since thrown out.
“So, Mister Collins. Were you impressed?”, slimed the sneaky, slithery voice of that sneaky snake Torment. He was sitting next to Jonathan C, and tossed a kernel of popcorn into his mouth, grinning.
“I was impressed enough to want to make an offer or two. Not impressed enough to throw my entire bankroll at.”, Collins maintained, glancing around. The house audience was awfully riled up. His voice, face, hair... Everything had antagonized them. While the change in scenery might cause a stumble, the bare charisma was worth some money.
“Well, it just so happens that Mister Wise is going to the West Coast with or without Exodus backing him. The only question is... Are you willing to offer more than Domination Pro, in Seattle?” Donovan Torment gave a sly grin, leaning back in his seat. Namedropping the “Listen, why don’t you come backstage and meet Omar? He’s really a prick in real life.”
Jonathan and Donovan slipped from the crowd and headed backstage. Giving the place the ol’ once-over, Collins was disgusted. A moldy, shitty old armory that the New York National Guard obviously barely used. And the locker room was garbage, old rusted Great Depression-era junk more rust than steel.
Unsurprisingly, Omar sat alone in the locker room. His bench was empty except for the duffel bag sitting at his side. Omar sat in a towel, both feet in a plastic tub full of cloudy water. He was unwrapping the sportstape from around his wrists.
Collins didn’t wait for Torment to introduce them. Even as the manager was saying “Omar, I’d like to introduce you to-”, Jonathan stepped in, giving a bland, businesslike smile.
“Knuckles sore?”, Jonathan queried. He knew the plight of the striker, and those had been some dynamite hands Omar laid on that Dump Truck guy.
“Nah. Been abusin’ em since I was a kid. They’re hard as rocks, now.”, Omar rumbled, looking up to Jonathan as he ripped the last bit of sports tape off of his wrists. He rose to his feet, and offered a hand to Jonathan. Face didn’t betray any thoughts, though. No smile... No grimace. Omar just stared Jonathan down.
“Jonathan Collins. Exodus Pro.”, the suited man offered, extending a hand. Omar took it, shaking the hand politely. A paycheck was a paycheck. In wrestling, you shook hands often. “What would you think of coming to San Diego and making some money with me?”
Omar thought about it for a moment. San Diego was a little... shiny for his liking, but the possibility of good money appealed to him. “You do health insurance?”
Jonathan was momentarily taken aback. “Uhr...”
“Th’ rest of yo’ roster would need it if I came to Cali.”, Omar steadily stated, watching Jonathan evenly. It took Jonathan a moment to realize that it was a braggadocio moment, not an employment request.
“That confident, are you?”, Jonathan queried.
“I’m not a wrestler. I’m no athlete. I’ve been a bully and a fighter since I can remember. I hurt people. That’s what happens. You may not want to have me on your show,” Omar blustered. He could see Donovan Torment slashing his hand desperately across his throat, but Omar gave zero fucks. “I could end up breakin’ things, and hurtin’ people.” Omar didn’t need to raise his voice much, it was just loud enough to shoot through the room like a dart.
Jonathan Collins arched an eyebrow thoughtfully. “I know a few people who might be willing to step up to that challenge. But in my company, the job is more... Fight person, win match, get paid. Nobody needs to go home in a coffin.”
Omar pursed his lips, one big hand working into the palm of the other. “I can respect that. But this bein’ a contact sport... I’ve got this problem, see. I never really know my own strength.”
Jonathan Collins knew Omar’s type. He knew that the cruel and the inhumane were often drawn to these... physical sports. There was a surprisingly high number of names he could remember along those lines from meeting in one locker room or another. “This is a professional fighting business. A little rough stuff is expected.”
“Good. Talk over the money details with the freak.”, Omar rumbled, jerking a thumb at Torment. Collins glanced to Donovan, who managed a weary-looking smile. This little scene had sent him on a bit of an emotional rollercoaster, and he most assuredly hadn’t been wanting that. Collins gave Omar a sage nod, but before he turned, he had one last thing to say.
“If you carry yourself like a professional in this business, we can definitely make some money. Just keep that in mind, Omar.” Collins sauntered off, Torment shaking Collins’ hand frantically and whining pleasantries about how happy they were going to be to work with Exodus Pro.
Omar just curled his lip as he pulled his feet out of the Epsom Salt soaks. Wise family knowledge: If you soak your feet in a warm salt bath after a competition, your feet will have better health. Less stank, too.
The big man leaned down, beginning to industriously wipe his feet down with a clean, dry washcloth. California, huh. San Diego, at that. Sunny beaches and palm trees. There... were worse places to be. At least it’d be nicer weather.
Omar cast a quick glance around the locker room, lips pursed in decisive disgust. Anywhere was better than this shithole. Omar opened his duffel bag, and began to get dressed. Time to go.
~~~
“We got... like... six girls. A maskwearin’ Japanese fruit. A comic book hero, a Jesus freak, a white boy thug, and wrestlin’ octopuses.”
Omar sighed heavily, all drawn out and annoyed, but was cut off by the interjection of Donovan Torment, in his finest red satin jacket and an OMAR’S GOING TO KILL YOU tee-shirt.
“The plural of octopus is octopi, and one’s a squid.”
Omar considered this point for a moment, before turning and roaring “SHUT UP” at Torment.
Omar took a moment to recenter himself, before pressing on.
“I get the feelin’ that I ain’t supposed to be here. This place, this Exodus Pro should be for the pretty boys and the little girls who all wanna play pretend-fighter. Not someone like me.”
Omar turned to his left, and walked over to where two promotional stand-ups stood. The Universal Wrestling League’s extremely lucrative cardboard standups, one of miss Fiona Rourke, one of Mister Magnus Gunner.
“You got these two. My opponents in this first-round tournament... thing. A little girl who likes Harry Potter an’ a sad white boy who likes t’ hurt people.”
Omar reached out, grabbing the Fiona standup by the waist. He lifted her, moved her aside and placed her just outside of the cameraframe, then stepped up, to glare at the unshaven, stubbly visage of Magnus Gunner and his sulking glare.
“Harry Potter girl aside, I could have a nice fight with a chump-ass sucka like you, Magnus Gunner. You’re a big dude who can take a punch. That’s good. I’d hate for the Exodus Pro to just see me stomping a little white girl’s ribcage into dust and think I’m some sort of bully.”
Omar reached out, dusting off Magnus’ left shoulder, eyes locked on the cardboard image’s eyes.
“No, I want a big, tough dude t’ face. That way, I can beat your stupid-looking teeth down your whiny throat, an’ feel like I ain’t pushin’ around someone weak and stupid. No, I’ll be pushin’ around someone who should be able to hang tough with me. And then, when I knock you out with a big right hand...”
Omar gave a crooked, humorless grin as he reached out, grabbing the cardboard cutout by the throat. He lifted the Gunner standup off the ground, and tossed it aside.
“Poor little white boy. So much t’ be depressed and sad about. Your broken collarbone, your broken arm, dislocated shoulder, broken back...”
Omar turned to glare that camera down.
“An’ when Gunner’s done, then I’m still gonna have t’ put down Fiona Rourke. Forget yo’ books an’ movies an’ shit. This is real, Fiona. I like to punch people in the face as hard as I can, an’ I like t’ smash people aroun’ th’ ring.”
Omar grinned toothily, big hands coming up to work together, dry-washing in anticipation.
“I’m gon’ throw you aroun’ like a rag doll. An’ then I’m gon’ pin Gunner with you on’ top. An’ my road t’ the top’ll begin with your limp bodies.”
Omar brought those big, big mitts up before his face, the camera getting a good look at those thick, sausagelike fingers before he clenched his fists, knuckles popping out with a criminal intent.
“I know you’re gonna say you fought men like me before. Both of you will. But you haven’t. You’ve fought big guys. You’ve fought mean guys. But you’ve never fought Omar Wise. But you’re gonna.”
Omar lowered his hands, the camera having zoomed in and the man having moved a bit forward. Now, his face filled the screen.
“And it won’t be pretty.”
