Post by Kevin on Dec 9, 2012 11:38:59 GMT -6
"Welcome to your shiny new future, ladies and gentlemen.", Donovan said with a bright, sardonic grin. With his NYPW baseball cap still sitting proudly on his head, Mister Torment looks like the shill that he most definitely is.
But wait, what's this? Donovan reaches up, snagging the brim of the hat. A flick of the wrist sends the hat spinning off-frame, leaving Donovan bareheaded. Not a good look for him.
Oh! OOHHHHH, HE'S GOT ANOTHER HAT! Giving a brief chuckle at the new logo, Donovan slips the new baseball cap on. This one... It's an Exodus Pro logo.
"Exodus Pro, you're set for the next big star. The ink has dried, the contractual obligations have been fulfilled, and now Omar Wise is the hottest talent contracted to E-Pro." Donovan finishes his statement with a big ol' grin. But... it faded, real quick.
"So, how do you repay him? How, I ask?" Donovan's face loses its humor. He goes all serious, hands going to his hips.
"You put a warrior, a stallion, a MONSTER in a match with a teenybopper and a burnout. That's nice. That's great." Donovan says, his face cold and irritated. "You put Jason Voorhees in with the teenagers. You put the lion in with the bunny rabbits."
Donovan gives a long-suffering sigh, shrugging helplessly as he does. "Well. So be it. Let's talk about these bunny rabbits, ladies and gentlemen. Two folks who can't be bothered to try to hype up their own debuts in a brand new company."
Tsk tsk tsk. Donovan shoves his hands into the pockets of that red jacket, shaking his head and glancing down. Slowly, Donovan turns and began to pace to camera-right. His shoulders slump in annoyed dejection, as Mister Torment mulls over the failures and weaknesses of the people assigned to his beloved charge.
"Well. That's fine. Understandable, even. I mean, if I were a depressed little sad sack like Gunner Stahl, and I saw my name come up against a machine like Omar Wise, I'd end up hiding for the entire show under a table somewhere to spare myself the beating!" Donovan leans forward, bringing a hand up to cup his mouth. This way, the brilliant wrestling supergenius can hide his mouf from everyone except the camera-lens, and grins devilishly. "Or I wouldn't even show up. Just stay at home, sittin' on my couch, and eatin' potato chips.”
Donovan leans back to an upright stance, spreading his hands helplessly to his sides. "Welp, Gunner, it's all good. I know your dilemma." Donovan turns and holds his hands up to the side, palms upwards as if gesturing to an invisible statue... Or an invisible Omar. He looks into the spot indicated, grinning absently. "On one side of the ring, you've got... Omar. Power. Barbaric determination. No fear of you, your history, your track record or your skill. No willingness to buckle under the possible slings and arrows of your big match."
Donovan turned, and gestures... weakly. Dismissively. "On the other, some lame joke about female empowerment, grrl power, the might of the fairer sex proving that they can hang with the men, blah blah blah. The little girls in the audience will cheer, right up until the bitter end. But more importantly. Friggin' Omar, right on the other side."
"So, Gunner, Omar's gonna beat your ass back into Mighty Ducks 2. You won't be playing for Team Iceland, Team Exodus, or Team Anything. He's gonna ball up those hammers and beat the ugly out of your face. And do you want to know why?" Donovan grinned, lifting one finger to hold up up before him.
"There's one reason. One reason that Omar is gonna walk into the RIMAC arena and beat the holy crap out of you, break your bones, bruise your flesh and batter your organs." Donovan gave a yellowtoothed grin, reaching up to grab the bill of his ballcap and adjust it.
"He's no Chris Brown." Ooohhhhhh goes the audience.
"Omar has no particular desire to destroy a woman as his first act in Exodus Pro. Don't get me wrong, he's definitely gonna induct Fiona into the Slapaho tribe, but he's not gonna beat her face until her eyes swell shut, put her in the ring corner for the Avalanche and then smash her into the center of the ring with the Shock and Awe. He's gonna toss her around and get her out of the way..." Donovan brings a hand out. Fingers splay, and Donny extends his palm to hold it flat. His other hand comes on around only to stab his finger into the center of the palm.
"And then he's gonna do all that to you. He's gonna use you as his punching bag, and make an example of your no-hope keister. So, when you see Omar coming, do me a favor, Gunner." Donovan gives a cheeky grin, bringing his hands up to clap them to his cheeks. A very punchable expression. “A boon, just for me. I'll owe you one down the road if you just do me this solid, Gunner.”
"Just... Take your beating like a man."
~~~
Between his final match for New York Pro, bodyguarding for a no-talent rapper on his big Rap Award Ceremony, a few nights of bouncing, Omar had a nice big pile of payola. And it was sitting on his kitchen table. Well, kitchen table was a relative term. It was a cheap card-table, with a dented steel folding chair beside it. He only had one chair, for himself. The big man didn't invest in... infrastructure, let's say. His apartment was meager, to say the least.
Why have extra chairs? He didn't have visitors. He didn't want visitors. One table, one plate, one cup, one set of fork-knife-spoon. He only even came in here to eat his meals, cooked on the cheap, secondhand stove he had gotten.
"Three thousand, five hundred and sixty-seven.", Omar rumbled, having put the cash into piles of two hundred. And one pile of a hundred-sixty-seven. As he laid the last bill onto the piles of money, Omar gave a firm nod and grabbed ahold of the manila envelope he had set aside just for this. He had to store the cash for the evening. Tomorrow's main business was going over to the Western Union office in the grocery store. Then, moving preparations.
Barkley leapt onto the table with the amazing skill and grace that only a master B-Baller could muster, making the entire card table shake and rumble with the movement. If the animal were any bigger, Omar may have worried about the table tipping over, but it weren't no thang. Barkley was dainty, and surefooted as all hell. Too bad he didn't look it. The patchwork coat on the skinny little cat was an absolute mess. Splashes of brown and black marred the overall white coat of the feline. Barkley looked like a doofus, and often acted like it. Case in point, Barkley ignored the piles of cash to pad on over to the big man, obviously looking for attention.
Omar had very few weaknesses. But one was his pound-kitty. It hadn't been his idea to adopt the cat, but it was definitely the one thing he had done with his life so far that he didn't regret even slightly. He reached out with a hand the size of a frying pan, and put it on the kitty's head. Rub-a-dub-dub.
"Meow", Barkley chirped. Loud mo'fucka. Omar could respect the kitty having a mouth on him. That kind of thing could often make you money, if you did it right. The big man kept patting, fingertips itching gingerly at the area just behind the animal's ears. The kitty closed his eyes in delight, nuzzling into Omar's enormous hand. Omar had used that hand to fire many big guns. He had used it to beat more than one person into a coma. And he was using it to pet his cat.
It sure would ruin his badass mystique for someone to know about his cat. And he was gonna have to transport Barkley all the way across to California. Risky, and worrisome. But doable. There were lots of companies who specialized in this shit. But if something happened to Barkley... Well, Omar might have to break some knees.
The kitty sat down, tail lashing as Omar itched the one-year-old behind his ears. Barkley closed his eyes in delight, and gracefully knocked over one of the piles of cash with that tail. Thing was a lethal weapon, often knocking shit over. That was why Omar securely attached his cheap flatscreen to the wall.
"Damnit, Barkley. That's Gram-Gram's money.", Omar rumbled. But he couldn't get mad at the little kitty. It didn't know any better. All it wanted was to keep the big man company. It always wanted to keep the big man company, even when he didn't particularly want the company. That kind of devotion... “If there were any people out there like you, Barkley, people might not suck so bad.”
Time to get down to business. Omar reached out with a big hand, grabbing a rubber band and stretching it out around his five fingers. "Two hundred for Gram-Gram...", he muttered, grabbing the fallen pile and sliding it back together. The pile was stuck into the band, and into his fingers' grasp. "Two hundred for me.", he muttered, leaving the next one alone. "One...", he mumbled, scooping up the next pile of two hundred. "Two...", he mumbled as he grabbed the next one. The wad of four hundo got stuck into his rubber band hand, making the wad now six hundred.
Gram-Gram had put up with a lot since Omar's parents died. She had raised him, put up with his shit, and even bailed him out a few times. She worked herself half to death to provide for the man, and his growing boy's appetite. She had sacrificed everything for someone that she hadn't even chosen to have. He was forced on her, having nowhere else to go, and she felt too guilty to send the boy out on the streets.
But after her accident, someone had to support the woman the way she had supported him. She had bad hips, no health insurance... She had bills. Lots of 'em. Medical, rent, et cetera.
Someone had to support her. And with Gramps dead, that had fallen to Omar.
The money was doled out, waaaaaaaaaaaay in Gram-Gram's favor.
Omar's kitchen was sparse for a reason. He cut costs down to the bone, to make sure that every spare dollar went to someone who truly needed it. She was living nicely, and Donovan had even managed to get a proviso in his contract with Exodus Pro. Omar might not be eligible for health insurance thanks to his profession, but E-Pro(And the casino chain tied to it) was gonna be coverin' Gram-Gram's health insurance. Donovan might not know all the deets about Gram-Gram, but he did right by her.
This locked Omar in, though. Like it or not, Omar was gonna be working for E-Pro until he found something much better. He couldn't afford to pay for this kind of health insurance on a bouncer's wages. And he sure wasn't gonna be getting signed by a world-spanning wrestling company as some no-name joke with a stupid Army nickname. Unless he could win a few big titles and tournaments, this'd probably be the tops. He'd have to make his name in E-Pro... And he'd have to do his best to help turn E-Pro into a for-realsies success.
So, California it was.
"You gonna meet a girl-kitty on the beach, Barkley? We'll get you some fresh clothes and you'll be fending the pussy off with a pointy stick, man." Omar reached down, and patted the top of Barkley's head, stroking that hand down the feline's neck and back. The kitty had snuck onto his lap when he wasn't looking, and lay there, purring.
Little manipulative bastard.
~*~*~
SUPER Fuckwrench II still lay where he had been planted by the Shock and Awe, his body giving little spasming twitches every few moments. His tag partner, the man formerly known as Giggles the Clown, lay where he had collapsed after a brutal barrage from the Hammers. Wet Fart the Clown's nose was busted, and red, red kroovy had been released from a busted eyebrow, dying his white pancake makeup a horrifying red in great streaks away from his forehead.
Omar Wise stood over the two, panting and sweaty. It hadn't been a hard fight by any means. But Omar had been throwing these jive turkeys around like they were nothing. It made a man work up a sweat. And now, Omar held the microphone in his hand. That stick could very easily be a pipe bomb, if Omar just were a little better at talking.
“These two... It's gonna be just like this when I'm in Cali.”, Omar growled. The crowd instantly began to fling boos at the biggun. Omar paid them no nevermind.
“A clown. A joke. Jus' like that little chicky who been too scared to talk shit on Omar. Who I'm gon' hit with th' Hammers and put down like she never even mattered.” Omar glanced down to Wet Fart the Clown, and sauntered on over, one foot coming up to plant on Wet Fart's sternum. If there had still been a ref, he'd dive in right now.
The crowd gave a count, though. “ONE! TWO! THREE!”, and Wet Fart the Clown was done. “Fiona Apple or whoever th' hell you are, I'd try t' keep Gunner between you an' me. I don't get no joy outta beatin' a little girl within an inch o' her life. But if I gotta, t' make my money, t' make my mark... I'll do it. You go ahead an' say how you gonna surprise me, how you gonna bring skill an' surprisin' ability to catch me by surprise...”
Omar took a moment to pant and try to catch his breath. The big man had been seriously hurling these jackasses around like the nothings they were, and throwing a two hundred pound sack of crap was no easy feat, even for one as burly as Omar.
“But you're jus' a special attraction. Jus' like me. Freaks who'll get bodies in that door t' watch. Little tiny white girl versus big scary black man. An' I'm gonna hurt ya, I'm gonna beat ya, an' if I have to, I'm gonna end ya. This match is gonna be about me showin' everybody else what they're in for. And with the number of girls that Collins hired, this match is gonna be me settin' th' standard for how bad I'll kick a girl's ass.”
BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
“Maggie. You chump. I'd talk shit on you, but I don't even know what to say. Who th' hell is Magnus Gunner?” Omar took a moment to turn, walking away from Wet Fart the Clown. SUPER Fuckwrench II was still laid flat out.
“Some sad little white boy. He hates hisself an' shit.” Omar got more street when he was winded, when his dander was up, and when he had adrenaline thudding through his veins like lines of red-hot fire running through his body. “WELL, I HATE YOU TOO, MAGGIE! AN' I'M CALLIN' YOU OUT, YOU CHUMP! YOU CHICKEN! YOU SUCKA, BUSTA, TURKEY, FOOL!”
Omar could use curse words, but why bother? New Yorkers might even cheer an f-bomb.
“I heard you like t' hurt people when you get down on yo'self, sucka! Well, lace up those boots, boy. Put on your big boy trunks and come to Cali ready t' find salvation. I'm gonna deliver it, whether you like it or not. I'm gonna show you what happens when you find a MEANER, BIGGER, BADDER, MADDER man ready t' be the bully who throws you around and breaks his foot off in your ass, Maggie.” Omar gave a big, big grin. Absolutely humorless, totally evil and ready to enjoy the pain he intended to dole out. “Ya know, Yo' momma called me up, y'know. Maggie, she said...”
Omar turned, his face contorting into a look of hopeful, beseeching innocense. “Please, Omar Wise! Help my boy! Get him a therapist! Don't break his arms off his weak stump of a torso! Don't break his back in sixteen places until his spinal jelly runs like water! Tell him that people love him and want him to succeed!”
Omar gave a sage nod, looking down at the microphone.
“I promise your moms that I'd help you, Gunner. I promised her that I'd find you the best headshrinker there was to fix what ails ya.” He brought one big hand up, fist clenching and shaking with intent.
“So I called my friend Doctor Right Hand. He said that he'd be happy t' fix yo' brain. All I gotta do is rattle your head like a maraca. All I gotta do is pound you senseless with the ol' Doctor. ALL I gotta DO, GUNNER, IS CRACK YOUR SKULL WITH MY FISTS AND LET ALL THE STUPID OUT!” Omar gave a brilliant grin as the crowd realized what Omar intended to do. And they booed.
“So I'm gonna make you from Gunner-the-Sad into Gunner-the-Vegetable. I'm gonna bounce your brain off the inside of your skull until you smell colors and see sounds. And then I'm gonna pin you after the Shock and Awe, and there'll be nothin' left but something t' pour into a straightjacket. And your bill will be in the mail, fool.”
Omar turned back to face the crowd, finally snapping back to New York Pro, and the fact that he wasn't at an E-Pro show. “So goodbye, New York. I beat your heroes, I beat your villains, I beat your pathetic chumps.” Omar glanced down at Wet Fart the Clown and SUPER Fuckwrench II. “I even beat these sad fools. And now I'm movin' on. But if you want to see what happens next...”
Omar pointed. He pointed to the back, he pointed West, he pointed to California. “Tune on in. Watch what happens when two unprepared deer go in with a Grizzly bear. Watch what happens when the Assault Breacher Vehicle is sent to soften up the armored fortress. I'm gon' blow down the walls... An' I'm gonna leave the wreckage of Gunner and Fiona as the only thing t' bear witness.”
Crackstatic. The microphone rolled to a stop in the ring, as Omar lifted both of his massive arms up and out, holding them to either side. He clenched his fists, grinning brightly. California bound, fool. California bound.
But wait, what's this? Donovan reaches up, snagging the brim of the hat. A flick of the wrist sends the hat spinning off-frame, leaving Donovan bareheaded. Not a good look for him.
Oh! OOHHHHH, HE'S GOT ANOTHER HAT! Giving a brief chuckle at the new logo, Donovan slips the new baseball cap on. This one... It's an Exodus Pro logo.
"Exodus Pro, you're set for the next big star. The ink has dried, the contractual obligations have been fulfilled, and now Omar Wise is the hottest talent contracted to E-Pro." Donovan finishes his statement with a big ol' grin. But... it faded, real quick.
"So, how do you repay him? How, I ask?" Donovan's face loses its humor. He goes all serious, hands going to his hips.
"You put a warrior, a stallion, a MONSTER in a match with a teenybopper and a burnout. That's nice. That's great." Donovan says, his face cold and irritated. "You put Jason Voorhees in with the teenagers. You put the lion in with the bunny rabbits."
Donovan gives a long-suffering sigh, shrugging helplessly as he does. "Well. So be it. Let's talk about these bunny rabbits, ladies and gentlemen. Two folks who can't be bothered to try to hype up their own debuts in a brand new company."
Tsk tsk tsk. Donovan shoves his hands into the pockets of that red jacket, shaking his head and glancing down. Slowly, Donovan turns and began to pace to camera-right. His shoulders slump in annoyed dejection, as Mister Torment mulls over the failures and weaknesses of the people assigned to his beloved charge.
"Well. That's fine. Understandable, even. I mean, if I were a depressed little sad sack like Gunner Stahl, and I saw my name come up against a machine like Omar Wise, I'd end up hiding for the entire show under a table somewhere to spare myself the beating!" Donovan leans forward, bringing a hand up to cup his mouth. This way, the brilliant wrestling supergenius can hide his mouf from everyone except the camera-lens, and grins devilishly. "Or I wouldn't even show up. Just stay at home, sittin' on my couch, and eatin' potato chips.”
Donovan leans back to an upright stance, spreading his hands helplessly to his sides. "Welp, Gunner, it's all good. I know your dilemma." Donovan turns and holds his hands up to the side, palms upwards as if gesturing to an invisible statue... Or an invisible Omar. He looks into the spot indicated, grinning absently. "On one side of the ring, you've got... Omar. Power. Barbaric determination. No fear of you, your history, your track record or your skill. No willingness to buckle under the possible slings and arrows of your big match."
Donovan turned, and gestures... weakly. Dismissively. "On the other, some lame joke about female empowerment, grrl power, the might of the fairer sex proving that they can hang with the men, blah blah blah. The little girls in the audience will cheer, right up until the bitter end. But more importantly. Friggin' Omar, right on the other side."
"So, Gunner, Omar's gonna beat your ass back into Mighty Ducks 2. You won't be playing for Team Iceland, Team Exodus, or Team Anything. He's gonna ball up those hammers and beat the ugly out of your face. And do you want to know why?" Donovan grinned, lifting one finger to hold up up before him.
"There's one reason. One reason that Omar is gonna walk into the RIMAC arena and beat the holy crap out of you, break your bones, bruise your flesh and batter your organs." Donovan gave a yellowtoothed grin, reaching up to grab the bill of his ballcap and adjust it.
"He's no Chris Brown." Ooohhhhhh goes the audience.
"Omar has no particular desire to destroy a woman as his first act in Exodus Pro. Don't get me wrong, he's definitely gonna induct Fiona into the Slapaho tribe, but he's not gonna beat her face until her eyes swell shut, put her in the ring corner for the Avalanche and then smash her into the center of the ring with the Shock and Awe. He's gonna toss her around and get her out of the way..." Donovan brings a hand out. Fingers splay, and Donny extends his palm to hold it flat. His other hand comes on around only to stab his finger into the center of the palm.
"And then he's gonna do all that to you. He's gonna use you as his punching bag, and make an example of your no-hope keister. So, when you see Omar coming, do me a favor, Gunner." Donovan gives a cheeky grin, bringing his hands up to clap them to his cheeks. A very punchable expression. “A boon, just for me. I'll owe you one down the road if you just do me this solid, Gunner.”
"Just... Take your beating like a man."
~~~
Between his final match for New York Pro, bodyguarding for a no-talent rapper on his big Rap Award Ceremony, a few nights of bouncing, Omar had a nice big pile of payola. And it was sitting on his kitchen table. Well, kitchen table was a relative term. It was a cheap card-table, with a dented steel folding chair beside it. He only had one chair, for himself. The big man didn't invest in... infrastructure, let's say. His apartment was meager, to say the least.
Why have extra chairs? He didn't have visitors. He didn't want visitors. One table, one plate, one cup, one set of fork-knife-spoon. He only even came in here to eat his meals, cooked on the cheap, secondhand stove he had gotten.
"Three thousand, five hundred and sixty-seven.", Omar rumbled, having put the cash into piles of two hundred. And one pile of a hundred-sixty-seven. As he laid the last bill onto the piles of money, Omar gave a firm nod and grabbed ahold of the manila envelope he had set aside just for this. He had to store the cash for the evening. Tomorrow's main business was going over to the Western Union office in the grocery store. Then, moving preparations.
Barkley leapt onto the table with the amazing skill and grace that only a master B-Baller could muster, making the entire card table shake and rumble with the movement. If the animal were any bigger, Omar may have worried about the table tipping over, but it weren't no thang. Barkley was dainty, and surefooted as all hell. Too bad he didn't look it. The patchwork coat on the skinny little cat was an absolute mess. Splashes of brown and black marred the overall white coat of the feline. Barkley looked like a doofus, and often acted like it. Case in point, Barkley ignored the piles of cash to pad on over to the big man, obviously looking for attention.
Omar had very few weaknesses. But one was his pound-kitty. It hadn't been his idea to adopt the cat, but it was definitely the one thing he had done with his life so far that he didn't regret even slightly. He reached out with a hand the size of a frying pan, and put it on the kitty's head. Rub-a-dub-dub.
"Meow", Barkley chirped. Loud mo'fucka. Omar could respect the kitty having a mouth on him. That kind of thing could often make you money, if you did it right. The big man kept patting, fingertips itching gingerly at the area just behind the animal's ears. The kitty closed his eyes in delight, nuzzling into Omar's enormous hand. Omar had used that hand to fire many big guns. He had used it to beat more than one person into a coma. And he was using it to pet his cat.
It sure would ruin his badass mystique for someone to know about his cat. And he was gonna have to transport Barkley all the way across to California. Risky, and worrisome. But doable. There were lots of companies who specialized in this shit. But if something happened to Barkley... Well, Omar might have to break some knees.
The kitty sat down, tail lashing as Omar itched the one-year-old behind his ears. Barkley closed his eyes in delight, and gracefully knocked over one of the piles of cash with that tail. Thing was a lethal weapon, often knocking shit over. That was why Omar securely attached his cheap flatscreen to the wall.
"Damnit, Barkley. That's Gram-Gram's money.", Omar rumbled. But he couldn't get mad at the little kitty. It didn't know any better. All it wanted was to keep the big man company. It always wanted to keep the big man company, even when he didn't particularly want the company. That kind of devotion... “If there were any people out there like you, Barkley, people might not suck so bad.”
Time to get down to business. Omar reached out with a big hand, grabbing a rubber band and stretching it out around his five fingers. "Two hundred for Gram-Gram...", he muttered, grabbing the fallen pile and sliding it back together. The pile was stuck into the band, and into his fingers' grasp. "Two hundred for me.", he muttered, leaving the next one alone. "One...", he mumbled, scooping up the next pile of two hundred. "Two...", he mumbled as he grabbed the next one. The wad of four hundo got stuck into his rubber band hand, making the wad now six hundred.
Gram-Gram had put up with a lot since Omar's parents died. She had raised him, put up with his shit, and even bailed him out a few times. She worked herself half to death to provide for the man, and his growing boy's appetite. She had sacrificed everything for someone that she hadn't even chosen to have. He was forced on her, having nowhere else to go, and she felt too guilty to send the boy out on the streets.
But after her accident, someone had to support the woman the way she had supported him. She had bad hips, no health insurance... She had bills. Lots of 'em. Medical, rent, et cetera.
Someone had to support her. And with Gramps dead, that had fallen to Omar.
The money was doled out, waaaaaaaaaaaay in Gram-Gram's favor.
Omar's kitchen was sparse for a reason. He cut costs down to the bone, to make sure that every spare dollar went to someone who truly needed it. She was living nicely, and Donovan had even managed to get a proviso in his contract with Exodus Pro. Omar might not be eligible for health insurance thanks to his profession, but E-Pro(And the casino chain tied to it) was gonna be coverin' Gram-Gram's health insurance. Donovan might not know all the deets about Gram-Gram, but he did right by her.
This locked Omar in, though. Like it or not, Omar was gonna be working for E-Pro until he found something much better. He couldn't afford to pay for this kind of health insurance on a bouncer's wages. And he sure wasn't gonna be getting signed by a world-spanning wrestling company as some no-name joke with a stupid Army nickname. Unless he could win a few big titles and tournaments, this'd probably be the tops. He'd have to make his name in E-Pro... And he'd have to do his best to help turn E-Pro into a for-realsies success.
So, California it was.
"You gonna meet a girl-kitty on the beach, Barkley? We'll get you some fresh clothes and you'll be fending the pussy off with a pointy stick, man." Omar reached down, and patted the top of Barkley's head, stroking that hand down the feline's neck and back. The kitty had snuck onto his lap when he wasn't looking, and lay there, purring.
Little manipulative bastard.
~*~*~
SUPER Fuckwrench II still lay where he had been planted by the Shock and Awe, his body giving little spasming twitches every few moments. His tag partner, the man formerly known as Giggles the Clown, lay where he had collapsed after a brutal barrage from the Hammers. Wet Fart the Clown's nose was busted, and red, red kroovy had been released from a busted eyebrow, dying his white pancake makeup a horrifying red in great streaks away from his forehead.
Omar Wise stood over the two, panting and sweaty. It hadn't been a hard fight by any means. But Omar had been throwing these jive turkeys around like they were nothing. It made a man work up a sweat. And now, Omar held the microphone in his hand. That stick could very easily be a pipe bomb, if Omar just were a little better at talking.
“These two... It's gonna be just like this when I'm in Cali.”, Omar growled. The crowd instantly began to fling boos at the biggun. Omar paid them no nevermind.
“A clown. A joke. Jus' like that little chicky who been too scared to talk shit on Omar. Who I'm gon' hit with th' Hammers and put down like she never even mattered.” Omar glanced down to Wet Fart the Clown, and sauntered on over, one foot coming up to plant on Wet Fart's sternum. If there had still been a ref, he'd dive in right now.
The crowd gave a count, though. “ONE! TWO! THREE!”, and Wet Fart the Clown was done. “Fiona Apple or whoever th' hell you are, I'd try t' keep Gunner between you an' me. I don't get no joy outta beatin' a little girl within an inch o' her life. But if I gotta, t' make my money, t' make my mark... I'll do it. You go ahead an' say how you gonna surprise me, how you gonna bring skill an' surprisin' ability to catch me by surprise...”
Omar took a moment to pant and try to catch his breath. The big man had been seriously hurling these jackasses around like the nothings they were, and throwing a two hundred pound sack of crap was no easy feat, even for one as burly as Omar.
“But you're jus' a special attraction. Jus' like me. Freaks who'll get bodies in that door t' watch. Little tiny white girl versus big scary black man. An' I'm gonna hurt ya, I'm gonna beat ya, an' if I have to, I'm gonna end ya. This match is gonna be about me showin' everybody else what they're in for. And with the number of girls that Collins hired, this match is gonna be me settin' th' standard for how bad I'll kick a girl's ass.”
BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
“Maggie. You chump. I'd talk shit on you, but I don't even know what to say. Who th' hell is Magnus Gunner?” Omar took a moment to turn, walking away from Wet Fart the Clown. SUPER Fuckwrench II was still laid flat out.
“Some sad little white boy. He hates hisself an' shit.” Omar got more street when he was winded, when his dander was up, and when he had adrenaline thudding through his veins like lines of red-hot fire running through his body. “WELL, I HATE YOU TOO, MAGGIE! AN' I'M CALLIN' YOU OUT, YOU CHUMP! YOU CHICKEN! YOU SUCKA, BUSTA, TURKEY, FOOL!”
Omar could use curse words, but why bother? New Yorkers might even cheer an f-bomb.
“I heard you like t' hurt people when you get down on yo'self, sucka! Well, lace up those boots, boy. Put on your big boy trunks and come to Cali ready t' find salvation. I'm gonna deliver it, whether you like it or not. I'm gonna show you what happens when you find a MEANER, BIGGER, BADDER, MADDER man ready t' be the bully who throws you around and breaks his foot off in your ass, Maggie.” Omar gave a big, big grin. Absolutely humorless, totally evil and ready to enjoy the pain he intended to dole out. “Ya know, Yo' momma called me up, y'know. Maggie, she said...”
Omar turned, his face contorting into a look of hopeful, beseeching innocense. “Please, Omar Wise! Help my boy! Get him a therapist! Don't break his arms off his weak stump of a torso! Don't break his back in sixteen places until his spinal jelly runs like water! Tell him that people love him and want him to succeed!”
Omar gave a sage nod, looking down at the microphone.
“I promise your moms that I'd help you, Gunner. I promised her that I'd find you the best headshrinker there was to fix what ails ya.” He brought one big hand up, fist clenching and shaking with intent.
“So I called my friend Doctor Right Hand. He said that he'd be happy t' fix yo' brain. All I gotta do is rattle your head like a maraca. All I gotta do is pound you senseless with the ol' Doctor. ALL I gotta DO, GUNNER, IS CRACK YOUR SKULL WITH MY FISTS AND LET ALL THE STUPID OUT!” Omar gave a brilliant grin as the crowd realized what Omar intended to do. And they booed.
“So I'm gonna make you from Gunner-the-Sad into Gunner-the-Vegetable. I'm gonna bounce your brain off the inside of your skull until you smell colors and see sounds. And then I'm gonna pin you after the Shock and Awe, and there'll be nothin' left but something t' pour into a straightjacket. And your bill will be in the mail, fool.”
Omar turned back to face the crowd, finally snapping back to New York Pro, and the fact that he wasn't at an E-Pro show. “So goodbye, New York. I beat your heroes, I beat your villains, I beat your pathetic chumps.” Omar glanced down at Wet Fart the Clown and SUPER Fuckwrench II. “I even beat these sad fools. And now I'm movin' on. But if you want to see what happens next...”
Omar pointed. He pointed to the back, he pointed West, he pointed to California. “Tune on in. Watch what happens when two unprepared deer go in with a Grizzly bear. Watch what happens when the Assault Breacher Vehicle is sent to soften up the armored fortress. I'm gon' blow down the walls... An' I'm gonna leave the wreckage of Gunner and Fiona as the only thing t' bear witness.”
Crackstatic. The microphone rolled to a stop in the ring, as Omar lifted both of his massive arms up and out, holding them to either side. He clenched his fists, grinning brightly. California bound, fool. California bound.
