Post by Kevin on Dec 22, 2012 13:37:34 GMT -6
KERSMASH went the bench, torn free of the bolts holding it to the floor and hurled into a bank of lockers. The rampage through the lockerroom had upended everything not bolted down already, and it ended... Well, it had just ended with something that had been. The big man stood in the center of the hurricane-force destruction, chest heaving. Sweat poured down his brow, and his throat was raw and shredded from his roars of absolute, pure hatred and anger.
Donovan Torment knew much, MUCH better than to be in the same time zone as Omar Wise when he was angry and couldn't take his rage out on someone directly. Once the final crash and smash finished echoing through the room, Donovan crept to the door and slowly opened it, peeking inside. He wasn't sure if he should even come in yet, bu-
"I'm gonna kill 'er.", Omar rumbled. He didn't even bother looking at Donovan. He knew the man was there. Torment never went too far from his meal ticket. "I'm gon' march over to Collins' office, I'm gonna drag his ass out from between her legs, an' I'm gon' tear her arms out her torso. See who gon' hold a belt with no arms."
The even, steely tone in Omar's voice was even worse than when he was raging and screaming. Donovan knew from experience that allowing Omar free reign when he was like this was tantamount to manslaughter. "No, Omar. Don't go to Collins' office." Donovan stepped into the room fully, closing the door behind him. He even threw the deadbolt in the room's door.
"Look, I like being in California, Omar. I like us having steady work. And while Collins might have screwed you over, we JUST made friends with someone who is intent on getting rid of Jonny." Donovan slowly crept up towards Omar, reaching out to pat Omar on the shoulder. "Remember Daisuke? He wants to take Collins out of the picture. And whoever ends up replacing him, I'm gonna end up getting to be an Executive Consultant."
Omar pursed his lips, and grabbed the right shoulder-strap of his singlet. He pulled that one down, then the other. While that might have meant bad, bad things in a match, right now it meant naked time. "How does that help me, fool?"
Donovan clasped his hands together, fingertips steepling. "Jon Collins, as the boss, handed Fiona Apple a title belt by putting her up against a loser." And even as Omar whirled on Donovan, the manager put a placating hand out. "I mean Gunner, of course. You did fantastically in the match, but she knew she just had to pin Gunner and she'd win herself a big title belt."
Omar nodded a bit, turning back to his gymbag. It was on the floor, on its side, right where Omar had thrown it. The singlet was tugged down, and Omar stripped to the bare essentials, reaching out for his bag and the street clothes inside.
"Listen, trust me, Omar. You looked like a killer, and Fiona looked like a fluke. We're going to come out of this okay. You're still in the tournament, you were big business tonight, and I hear that they wanna put you up against that Justin Brooks guy on the next show." Donovan grinned brightly.
Omar snickered softly. "Black power, huh?" The big man tugged his trackpants up his legs, then glanced to Donovan. "Whatchu think? He gonna be a hard fight?"
Donovan shrugged a bit. "He's a good fighter. You got it handled."
*~*~*
Donovan Torment stands before the San Diego-based fed's banner in his obnoxiously red jacket. With a battered New York Yankees baseball cap plunked on his head and his chin already at three days of stubble(Natch. Donny wouldn't allow himself to be recorded sans stubble. Made him look manly.), Donovan was ready for action. His face looked oddly... puffy, and that hat was pulled down low. He was hiding something. He gritted his teeth as he squeezed a fancy red cane between both hands.
"As much as it PAINS me to admit it, you deserve congratulations, Fiona. You did manage to triumph in our big match. You fought the law, and you won. Five points to Gryffindor, or whatever childish references you're going to make next."
Seriously, girl needed to stop being so obsessed with a subpar fantasy series. Donovan was a connoisseur of fine fantastical art, and he could spit geekrhymes with the best of 'em. Don't even front if you don't want to tango nerdstyle. Donovan extended one hand upward, head ducking a bit to keep that ball cap low.
"But there are a few... pieces of business I want to handle in regards to our match.”
Nothing big. Just the lawsuits and such he was about to drop.
“First of all, MISS Mandy Summers, let me explain something. And I'll go slow, so I don't confuse your weak little brain. I am a legally contracted manager in the state of California. I manage a professional wrestler. I am not only allowed to be at ringside for EACH AND EVERY ONE OF MY CHARGE'S MATCHES..."
Pause for effect.
"But it's my JOB to be there. You, on the other hand, are not contractually allowed to manage. You're DEFINITELY not supposed to be running out to the ring, interfering, OR SOCKING ME IN THE EYE!"
Donovan tore off his ballcap and sent it spinning off to camera right like a Frisbee, a finger coming up to jab at the black eye she gave him.
"You hit me. YOU HIT ME! AND so... So, I'm going to make you pay for it. You will pay dearly, you tarty little bimbo. You assaulted me, Amanda. And I could have you arrested for it. I could have you imprisoned for it! I COULD HAVE YOU EXECUTED FOR IT!”
Donovan was working himself up into a froth, and was gonna pop a vessel. As his face reddened, he recognised this fact, and paused, taking a long, slow breath. He let it out, and his voice dropped back down to a more... even level.
“But I'm kinder than that. I'd rather not rob Fiona of her little cousin. She'd complain, next time Omar got a shot at pounding her stupid face down her throat. No, instead..."
Donovan grinned devilishly, fangs bared in a most leonine expression. It was unsuited for such a weaselly face, and looked totally unnatural. But it was a good look for a guy like him. It worked with his nasty demeanor.
"I'm going to OWN you, Mandy. I'm going to sue you. I won't stoop to filing a criminal suit and pressing charges. This will be a civil suit. And for the pain and suffering you inflicted on me, the damage you instilled in me, the permanent vision damage I have suffered... I think a song to the tune of $750,000 sounds reasonable. And my attorney agrees."
Ooh, have mercy. That was mansion-type money. That was bankrupt-a-still-young-wrestling-company-money.
"Moreover? I have applied for and already gotten a restraining order against you. One hundred feet is the magic number, Amanda. Come within a hundred feet of me and you will be trespassing, you will be breaking the law, and I WILL have you arrested! And that most assuredly applies to any and EVERY wrestling event that I happen to attend to work with Mister Omar Wise."
No more run-ins. No more interference. No more having anything to do with any match Omar Wise may wrestle, including any future rematches.
"So just keep that one in mind, Summers. That'll be an important thing to remember. Remember, Omar's gonna stick around for a while, which means that Fiona will have to step into his line of fire if she really wants that E-Pro World Title.”
Donovan chuckled, the chuckle having nothing but dark, nasty, black humor to it.
“Person two: Jon Collins. Your contract with Omar Wise is ironclad. Even if we wanted to leave this company over the reprehensible way this past show went, Omar would be in breach of contract almost immediately. If he broke his non-compete clause, he'd be liable for thousands of dollars. So we're stuck here."
Not that it was a bad place to be. Not yet, at least.
“And the way that this last show's main event was structured was some of the most unprofessional bullshit I have EVER seen. Your girlfriend, the woman you're boinking, gets put into a match for a title without having to prove herself to be at all worthy? A biased referee allows everything under the sun, as long as it is helpful for your little chickadee to win? And as for Magnus Gunner... Well, we'll get to him.”
Donovan gritted his teeth, clenching his fist tightly around the neck of that cane.
"First of all, your carrying on with Fiona Rourke is disgusting. You are an executive, not a fratboy. Therefore, if you do not wish to have a seriously nasty lawsuit pending, you will cease and desist from any improper fraternization with any of your talent during the day-to-day operations of Exodus Pro. You will cease and desist from any improper fraternization with any of your title holders during any point, and you will most definitely not be televising your little games of grabass with your ONLY HANDPICKED TITLE HOLDER."
Damn skippy. You didn't see billionaire CEOs trying to get wrestlers on their roster stripping down to their underwear and making them crawl around on their hands and knees, barking like...
Oh. Right.
Well, anyway, Donovan's eyebrows wormed together, his forehead furrowing in irritation. There would be no more of this favoritism. Not on the teevee, at least.
"And as far as Magnus Gunner goes, that man came out to the ring smelling like a distillery. He was obviously unready to compete, and the match should have been restructured on the spot to not include a man incapable of actual athletic competition. As such, I DEMAND that Magnus Gunner be fired from E-Pro immediately, if not sooner! If that doesn't happen, then I will be forced to sue both him and you for endangering my talent, my life, and showing himself to be a POOR, poor example for the children of San Diego to look up to!"
Because Omar was that much better? Donovan gave a snarky grin at that one. It was pretty friggin' obvious that he was being purposefully obtuse.
"Now, the last person that I think needs to pay is your referee, Jonny. Mister Brian Lowery was so obviously under instructions to make Fiona Rourke win that match, it hurts. The match should have become a one-on-one match the moment that Magnus stumbled to the ring. Amanda Summers should have been intercepted by E-Pro security and ejected from the arena, and Fiona should have been disqualified for ordering her blood relative to lay hands on a person with every legal right to be in the ring! MOREOVER, Fiona should have been disqualified for putting my client through a table! And finally, that obvious fast count? If you're going to screw someone, Collins, buy them a nice dinner first. I DEMAND that Brian Lowery be fined for his obvious bias, and be barred from refereeing any of Omar Wise's future matches."
Donovan took a deep, satisfied breath. There were the big few hammers. Like Omar's fists, those were the big blows.
"Now, with all this established, I could have filed an injunction against naming Fiona Rourke the E-Pro International Champion. Any athletic commission would agree that the match ended on absolutely false pretenses, but... I'm gonna be kind. It's the Christmas season, after all. Take your paper championship, Fiona. But remember, being a champion has some downsides."
Donny gave a big, sarcastic, toothy grin. It almost growled when he bared it, like some sort of tiger.
"You've now painted a big target on your back, being the only titleholder around here, who just happens to be banging the boss. What will all the female wrestlers think? I wonder if any of them might... take liberties in a match with you, and try to injure you for sleeping your way to the top."
The Cult Classic might just want to make her mark offa Fiona. Or Juniper Bug. Lots of people.
"I wonder if any of the male wrestlers will try to end your career and net themselves a title shot against a bird with a broken wing? And you've got to remember one little thing, Fiona."
Donovan held up a single finger. One thing.
"There's a LOT of people upset with Jon Collins. Including Kliff Ulysses. Including Daisuke Iwakuma. Two of the three others in your block. That spells bad news, Fiona. You've now placed yourself squarely in the position of the person everyone wants to hurt, everyone wants to beat, and everyone wants to dethrone. Merry Christmas, Fiona. I hope you enjoy the present you were handed by your boy-toy."
Merry Goddamned Christmas.
“That's all the legal business out of the way. And I'm gonna give you a pass from a tonguelashing from my rapier wit, Justin. Omar's gonna handle you personally for the time being. So I'm gonna let him at it when he musters everything up. Catch you on the flipside.”
CUT.
Dass a wrap.
~*~
“Omar Wise, the Assault Breacher Vehicle verse' Big Bad Brooks.”
Someone had rigged up an old-style Fight Poster. Omar and Brooks' pictures facing one another, fists clenched in fightin' poses. Yellow paper, artificial fading, real classy. Below were big name-banners for the other marquee matches. Fiona vs Cannon, Ulysses-Brooks... The rest. The focus was on Brooks vs Wise.
“Almos' like sayin' two big buck boys, you know? Like sayin' that E-Pro is different from everywhere else because it's got two of them natural tribal athlete boys fightin' rather than two fat guys from the South. Gotta thank Mister Collins for that idea.”
Omar's voice didn't sound amused. But then, there was very little to amuse the big man. He hated this time of year. Hated how it made him feel. He always ended up feeling... different. Isolated. Most holidays didn't exactly fill him with sunshine and rainbows. This one especially so.
So, Omar always got bitter. Snarled a little more. His mood turned just a little sharper and more bristly.
“Well. Bad luck a' the draw, I guess. Two young guys, hungry t' be the top dog. You've had some success, beat some top guys... But we're on a brand. New. Day.”
The cameraman panned over to where Omar Wise stood in front of the Exodus Pro banner. In the studio set up for E-Pro promotional tapings, Omar had come for a day's work. And he looked pretty good. Black windbreaker, tight over his massively broad shoulders. Black trackpants. Omar had been taking advantage of some of the minor perks of the company affiliation. The gym at the UCSD was pretty amazing.
“You saw what I did to the girl and the sad white boy. Threw 'em around like a couple of children.” Omar stuffed both hands into his pockets, watching the camera carefully. “There was nothin' they could do about it. Nobody was gonna beat me. If I ain't mistaken...”
Incline of Omar's head, eyes squinting a bit. “You looked like you were gonna tap out at one point.” A small grin at that. “Against some dumbass teasucker and a skeleton? Come on, man.”
Omar brought one hand up, brushing his thumb across his stubbly chin. He was liking the new beard he was growing. New place, new line of success... New look. Almost a new, or at least revitalized Omar.
“So, that was the best that you got last week when you won against a chump and a stain. You got yo' ass kicked, but managed t' stay yourself the entire match and win. Good job, man. Looked... okay.”
Omar brought his hands up, running them along the zipper of his windbreaker.
“I, on th' other hand... was trying to be someone I ain't. I was tryin' not t' kill the poor girl. I didn't want e'rrybody in this place thinkin' I was the devil from the first show when I tore myself out a girl's wing. Or tore her in half with th' Rack.”
Omar gave a soft sigh, shaking his head. “So I tried t' throw her away. Knock her dizzy. Keep her from getting' into the REAL men's fight. An' my soft-touch approach didn't work in th' end. I fell through a table, got the wind knocked out of me.” Omar brought that hand up to stroke his lips.
“Well. I don't gotta feel bad about beatin' your ass up one side of the ring and down the other, do I? You a big, strong guy. I can bloody your forehead, knock them big eyes shut, and split your lips... And people'll just say we had a war.” Omar snickered helplessly, breaking into a long, drawn-out chuckle.
“We the main event, too. They'll give us however much time we want. I can avalanche you in all four ringcorners, drop you on your head, slam you on your back, throw you around, beat you right in front of those people you love so much at ringside, drag your carcass back in and plant you with a Shock and Awe. I can take my own sweet time with it, too. No rush, no worryin' about a third person... No muss. No fuss.”
“Twenty minutes. Thirty. Fourty five. An hour, even. I GET PAID to whoop your ass. I don't need to worry about relyin' on anyone else, breakin' up someone else's pinfall... Nothin'.”
“I don't need to worry about anything except breakin' my foot off in your ass.” Omar gave a merry grin, bringing up both hands to clench 'em firmly. “All I gotta do is bring you a late Christmas present. These two hands. With these two hands, I'm gonna beat you like a drum, man. I'm gonna knock you around and bruise every inch of your body. I got a lot of anger I wanna work out by kickin' someone's teeth in.”
Omar levelled a wide finger at the camera. “And you're gonna be the first in the spree of victims. I'm pavin' my way to that title in bodies. If Fiona hadn't had a table t' put me through, by accident......”
Omar snapped his gaze away, gritting his teeth, clenching his jaw. “Next time I get that little girl in the ring, I'm gonna tear her apart like a roaster chicken. It's gonna be barbaric.”
Eyes snaked back to the camera. “You've beaten some big names, man. The past is the past. All that matters is right now, I'm bigger than you. Stronger than you. Meaner than you. I've got more hate to draw on than you. I've got more to gain than you. And I'm gonna be throwin' everything I've got at you. Like a hurricane of strikes and headbutts, all bearin' down on you like a runaway truck.”
“I hope you get all confident, Justin. I hope you come in sayin' how monsters are made to be beaten, how a man like me, a bully and a cruel fiend is just someone bein' set up to be taken' down. Because there's nothin' as sweet as gettin' to make a man choke on those words.” Omar grinned, and brought his two big hands up once more.
“With these two hands, Justin. With these two hands, I'm gonna beat you senseless and leave you in a puddle of your own blood. I'm gonna hit you like we've hated one another for the last three years, I stole your girlfriend and you burned my cat. I'm gonna hit you with everything I got. Because it makes me smile when you hurt, Justin. And so I'm gonna break you, you poor fool.”
“With these two hands.”
Donovan Torment knew much, MUCH better than to be in the same time zone as Omar Wise when he was angry and couldn't take his rage out on someone directly. Once the final crash and smash finished echoing through the room, Donovan crept to the door and slowly opened it, peeking inside. He wasn't sure if he should even come in yet, bu-
"I'm gonna kill 'er.", Omar rumbled. He didn't even bother looking at Donovan. He knew the man was there. Torment never went too far from his meal ticket. "I'm gon' march over to Collins' office, I'm gonna drag his ass out from between her legs, an' I'm gon' tear her arms out her torso. See who gon' hold a belt with no arms."
The even, steely tone in Omar's voice was even worse than when he was raging and screaming. Donovan knew from experience that allowing Omar free reign when he was like this was tantamount to manslaughter. "No, Omar. Don't go to Collins' office." Donovan stepped into the room fully, closing the door behind him. He even threw the deadbolt in the room's door.
"Look, I like being in California, Omar. I like us having steady work. And while Collins might have screwed you over, we JUST made friends with someone who is intent on getting rid of Jonny." Donovan slowly crept up towards Omar, reaching out to pat Omar on the shoulder. "Remember Daisuke? He wants to take Collins out of the picture. And whoever ends up replacing him, I'm gonna end up getting to be an Executive Consultant."
Omar pursed his lips, and grabbed the right shoulder-strap of his singlet. He pulled that one down, then the other. While that might have meant bad, bad things in a match, right now it meant naked time. "How does that help me, fool?"
Donovan clasped his hands together, fingertips steepling. "Jon Collins, as the boss, handed Fiona Apple a title belt by putting her up against a loser." And even as Omar whirled on Donovan, the manager put a placating hand out. "I mean Gunner, of course. You did fantastically in the match, but she knew she just had to pin Gunner and she'd win herself a big title belt."
Omar nodded a bit, turning back to his gymbag. It was on the floor, on its side, right where Omar had thrown it. The singlet was tugged down, and Omar stripped to the bare essentials, reaching out for his bag and the street clothes inside.
"Listen, trust me, Omar. You looked like a killer, and Fiona looked like a fluke. We're going to come out of this okay. You're still in the tournament, you were big business tonight, and I hear that they wanna put you up against that Justin Brooks guy on the next show." Donovan grinned brightly.
Omar snickered softly. "Black power, huh?" The big man tugged his trackpants up his legs, then glanced to Donovan. "Whatchu think? He gonna be a hard fight?"
Donovan shrugged a bit. "He's a good fighter. You got it handled."
*~*~*
Donovan Torment stands before the San Diego-based fed's banner in his obnoxiously red jacket. With a battered New York Yankees baseball cap plunked on his head and his chin already at three days of stubble(Natch. Donny wouldn't allow himself to be recorded sans stubble. Made him look manly.), Donovan was ready for action. His face looked oddly... puffy, and that hat was pulled down low. He was hiding something. He gritted his teeth as he squeezed a fancy red cane between both hands.
"As much as it PAINS me to admit it, you deserve congratulations, Fiona. You did manage to triumph in our big match. You fought the law, and you won. Five points to Gryffindor, or whatever childish references you're going to make next."
Seriously, girl needed to stop being so obsessed with a subpar fantasy series. Donovan was a connoisseur of fine fantastical art, and he could spit geekrhymes with the best of 'em. Don't even front if you don't want to tango nerdstyle. Donovan extended one hand upward, head ducking a bit to keep that ball cap low.
"But there are a few... pieces of business I want to handle in regards to our match.”
Nothing big. Just the lawsuits and such he was about to drop.
“First of all, MISS Mandy Summers, let me explain something. And I'll go slow, so I don't confuse your weak little brain. I am a legally contracted manager in the state of California. I manage a professional wrestler. I am not only allowed to be at ringside for EACH AND EVERY ONE OF MY CHARGE'S MATCHES..."
Pause for effect.
"But it's my JOB to be there. You, on the other hand, are not contractually allowed to manage. You're DEFINITELY not supposed to be running out to the ring, interfering, OR SOCKING ME IN THE EYE!"
Donovan tore off his ballcap and sent it spinning off to camera right like a Frisbee, a finger coming up to jab at the black eye she gave him.
"You hit me. YOU HIT ME! AND so... So, I'm going to make you pay for it. You will pay dearly, you tarty little bimbo. You assaulted me, Amanda. And I could have you arrested for it. I could have you imprisoned for it! I COULD HAVE YOU EXECUTED FOR IT!”
Donovan was working himself up into a froth, and was gonna pop a vessel. As his face reddened, he recognised this fact, and paused, taking a long, slow breath. He let it out, and his voice dropped back down to a more... even level.
“But I'm kinder than that. I'd rather not rob Fiona of her little cousin. She'd complain, next time Omar got a shot at pounding her stupid face down her throat. No, instead..."
Donovan grinned devilishly, fangs bared in a most leonine expression. It was unsuited for such a weaselly face, and looked totally unnatural. But it was a good look for a guy like him. It worked with his nasty demeanor.
"I'm going to OWN you, Mandy. I'm going to sue you. I won't stoop to filing a criminal suit and pressing charges. This will be a civil suit. And for the pain and suffering you inflicted on me, the damage you instilled in me, the permanent vision damage I have suffered... I think a song to the tune of $750,000 sounds reasonable. And my attorney agrees."
Ooh, have mercy. That was mansion-type money. That was bankrupt-a-still-young-wrestling-company-money.
"Moreover? I have applied for and already gotten a restraining order against you. One hundred feet is the magic number, Amanda. Come within a hundred feet of me and you will be trespassing, you will be breaking the law, and I WILL have you arrested! And that most assuredly applies to any and EVERY wrestling event that I happen to attend to work with Mister Omar Wise."
No more run-ins. No more interference. No more having anything to do with any match Omar Wise may wrestle, including any future rematches.
"So just keep that one in mind, Summers. That'll be an important thing to remember. Remember, Omar's gonna stick around for a while, which means that Fiona will have to step into his line of fire if she really wants that E-Pro World Title.”
Donovan chuckled, the chuckle having nothing but dark, nasty, black humor to it.
“Person two: Jon Collins. Your contract with Omar Wise is ironclad. Even if we wanted to leave this company over the reprehensible way this past show went, Omar would be in breach of contract almost immediately. If he broke his non-compete clause, he'd be liable for thousands of dollars. So we're stuck here."
Not that it was a bad place to be. Not yet, at least.
“And the way that this last show's main event was structured was some of the most unprofessional bullshit I have EVER seen. Your girlfriend, the woman you're boinking, gets put into a match for a title without having to prove herself to be at all worthy? A biased referee allows everything under the sun, as long as it is helpful for your little chickadee to win? And as for Magnus Gunner... Well, we'll get to him.”
Donovan gritted his teeth, clenching his fist tightly around the neck of that cane.
"First of all, your carrying on with Fiona Rourke is disgusting. You are an executive, not a fratboy. Therefore, if you do not wish to have a seriously nasty lawsuit pending, you will cease and desist from any improper fraternization with any of your talent during the day-to-day operations of Exodus Pro. You will cease and desist from any improper fraternization with any of your title holders during any point, and you will most definitely not be televising your little games of grabass with your ONLY HANDPICKED TITLE HOLDER."
Damn skippy. You didn't see billionaire CEOs trying to get wrestlers on their roster stripping down to their underwear and making them crawl around on their hands and knees, barking like...
Oh. Right.
Well, anyway, Donovan's eyebrows wormed together, his forehead furrowing in irritation. There would be no more of this favoritism. Not on the teevee, at least.
"And as far as Magnus Gunner goes, that man came out to the ring smelling like a distillery. He was obviously unready to compete, and the match should have been restructured on the spot to not include a man incapable of actual athletic competition. As such, I DEMAND that Magnus Gunner be fired from E-Pro immediately, if not sooner! If that doesn't happen, then I will be forced to sue both him and you for endangering my talent, my life, and showing himself to be a POOR, poor example for the children of San Diego to look up to!"
Because Omar was that much better? Donovan gave a snarky grin at that one. It was pretty friggin' obvious that he was being purposefully obtuse.
"Now, the last person that I think needs to pay is your referee, Jonny. Mister Brian Lowery was so obviously under instructions to make Fiona Rourke win that match, it hurts. The match should have become a one-on-one match the moment that Magnus stumbled to the ring. Amanda Summers should have been intercepted by E-Pro security and ejected from the arena, and Fiona should have been disqualified for ordering her blood relative to lay hands on a person with every legal right to be in the ring! MOREOVER, Fiona should have been disqualified for putting my client through a table! And finally, that obvious fast count? If you're going to screw someone, Collins, buy them a nice dinner first. I DEMAND that Brian Lowery be fined for his obvious bias, and be barred from refereeing any of Omar Wise's future matches."
Donovan took a deep, satisfied breath. There were the big few hammers. Like Omar's fists, those were the big blows.
"Now, with all this established, I could have filed an injunction against naming Fiona Rourke the E-Pro International Champion. Any athletic commission would agree that the match ended on absolutely false pretenses, but... I'm gonna be kind. It's the Christmas season, after all. Take your paper championship, Fiona. But remember, being a champion has some downsides."
Donny gave a big, sarcastic, toothy grin. It almost growled when he bared it, like some sort of tiger.
"You've now painted a big target on your back, being the only titleholder around here, who just happens to be banging the boss. What will all the female wrestlers think? I wonder if any of them might... take liberties in a match with you, and try to injure you for sleeping your way to the top."
The Cult Classic might just want to make her mark offa Fiona. Or Juniper Bug. Lots of people.
"I wonder if any of the male wrestlers will try to end your career and net themselves a title shot against a bird with a broken wing? And you've got to remember one little thing, Fiona."
Donovan held up a single finger. One thing.
"There's a LOT of people upset with Jon Collins. Including Kliff Ulysses. Including Daisuke Iwakuma. Two of the three others in your block. That spells bad news, Fiona. You've now placed yourself squarely in the position of the person everyone wants to hurt, everyone wants to beat, and everyone wants to dethrone. Merry Christmas, Fiona. I hope you enjoy the present you were handed by your boy-toy."
Merry Goddamned Christmas.
“That's all the legal business out of the way. And I'm gonna give you a pass from a tonguelashing from my rapier wit, Justin. Omar's gonna handle you personally for the time being. So I'm gonna let him at it when he musters everything up. Catch you on the flipside.”
CUT.
Dass a wrap.
~*~
“Omar Wise, the Assault Breacher Vehicle verse' Big Bad Brooks.”
Someone had rigged up an old-style Fight Poster. Omar and Brooks' pictures facing one another, fists clenched in fightin' poses. Yellow paper, artificial fading, real classy. Below were big name-banners for the other marquee matches. Fiona vs Cannon, Ulysses-Brooks... The rest. The focus was on Brooks vs Wise.
“Almos' like sayin' two big buck boys, you know? Like sayin' that E-Pro is different from everywhere else because it's got two of them natural tribal athlete boys fightin' rather than two fat guys from the South. Gotta thank Mister Collins for that idea.”
Omar's voice didn't sound amused. But then, there was very little to amuse the big man. He hated this time of year. Hated how it made him feel. He always ended up feeling... different. Isolated. Most holidays didn't exactly fill him with sunshine and rainbows. This one especially so.
So, Omar always got bitter. Snarled a little more. His mood turned just a little sharper and more bristly.
“Well. Bad luck a' the draw, I guess. Two young guys, hungry t' be the top dog. You've had some success, beat some top guys... But we're on a brand. New. Day.”
The cameraman panned over to where Omar Wise stood in front of the Exodus Pro banner. In the studio set up for E-Pro promotional tapings, Omar had come for a day's work. And he looked pretty good. Black windbreaker, tight over his massively broad shoulders. Black trackpants. Omar had been taking advantage of some of the minor perks of the company affiliation. The gym at the UCSD was pretty amazing.
“You saw what I did to the girl and the sad white boy. Threw 'em around like a couple of children.” Omar stuffed both hands into his pockets, watching the camera carefully. “There was nothin' they could do about it. Nobody was gonna beat me. If I ain't mistaken...”
Incline of Omar's head, eyes squinting a bit. “You looked like you were gonna tap out at one point.” A small grin at that. “Against some dumbass teasucker and a skeleton? Come on, man.”
Omar brought one hand up, brushing his thumb across his stubbly chin. He was liking the new beard he was growing. New place, new line of success... New look. Almost a new, or at least revitalized Omar.
“So, that was the best that you got last week when you won against a chump and a stain. You got yo' ass kicked, but managed t' stay yourself the entire match and win. Good job, man. Looked... okay.”
Omar brought his hands up, running them along the zipper of his windbreaker.
“I, on th' other hand... was trying to be someone I ain't. I was tryin' not t' kill the poor girl. I didn't want e'rrybody in this place thinkin' I was the devil from the first show when I tore myself out a girl's wing. Or tore her in half with th' Rack.”
Omar gave a soft sigh, shaking his head. “So I tried t' throw her away. Knock her dizzy. Keep her from getting' into the REAL men's fight. An' my soft-touch approach didn't work in th' end. I fell through a table, got the wind knocked out of me.” Omar brought that hand up to stroke his lips.
“Well. I don't gotta feel bad about beatin' your ass up one side of the ring and down the other, do I? You a big, strong guy. I can bloody your forehead, knock them big eyes shut, and split your lips... And people'll just say we had a war.” Omar snickered helplessly, breaking into a long, drawn-out chuckle.
“We the main event, too. They'll give us however much time we want. I can avalanche you in all four ringcorners, drop you on your head, slam you on your back, throw you around, beat you right in front of those people you love so much at ringside, drag your carcass back in and plant you with a Shock and Awe. I can take my own sweet time with it, too. No rush, no worryin' about a third person... No muss. No fuss.”
“Twenty minutes. Thirty. Fourty five. An hour, even. I GET PAID to whoop your ass. I don't need to worry about relyin' on anyone else, breakin' up someone else's pinfall... Nothin'.”
“I don't need to worry about anything except breakin' my foot off in your ass.” Omar gave a merry grin, bringing up both hands to clench 'em firmly. “All I gotta do is bring you a late Christmas present. These two hands. With these two hands, I'm gonna beat you like a drum, man. I'm gonna knock you around and bruise every inch of your body. I got a lot of anger I wanna work out by kickin' someone's teeth in.”
Omar levelled a wide finger at the camera. “And you're gonna be the first in the spree of victims. I'm pavin' my way to that title in bodies. If Fiona hadn't had a table t' put me through, by accident......”
Omar snapped his gaze away, gritting his teeth, clenching his jaw. “Next time I get that little girl in the ring, I'm gonna tear her apart like a roaster chicken. It's gonna be barbaric.”
Eyes snaked back to the camera. “You've beaten some big names, man. The past is the past. All that matters is right now, I'm bigger than you. Stronger than you. Meaner than you. I've got more hate to draw on than you. I've got more to gain than you. And I'm gonna be throwin' everything I've got at you. Like a hurricane of strikes and headbutts, all bearin' down on you like a runaway truck.”
“I hope you get all confident, Justin. I hope you come in sayin' how monsters are made to be beaten, how a man like me, a bully and a cruel fiend is just someone bein' set up to be taken' down. Because there's nothin' as sweet as gettin' to make a man choke on those words.” Omar grinned, and brought his two big hands up once more.
“With these two hands, Justin. With these two hands, I'm gonna beat you senseless and leave you in a puddle of your own blood. I'm gonna hit you like we've hated one another for the last three years, I stole your girlfriend and you burned my cat. I'm gonna hit you with everything I got. Because it makes me smile when you hurt, Justin. And so I'm gonna break you, you poor fool.”
“With these two hands.”
