Post by Kevin on Dec 28, 2012 14:47:23 GMT -6
[donovan torment is on your teevee.]
[Or at least, on your Youtube account.]
[In all his painfully bright rosy glory. A "BEST IN THE WORLD" baseball cap sits on his greasy mop of hair, and a smug grin sits on his greasy face.]
Donovan Torment:
"Oh, well done, Justin. WELL DONE! In one fell swoop, you did your best to invalidate your opponent and make your sure-to-happen victory absolutely meaningless. I thought it was supposed to be my job to be over-the-top arrogant and belittle our opponent."
[Huh. How about that. Heeling.]
"But you're right. Who could possibly care about Omar Wise anymore? He's just some chump who lost to a girl, right? And you won your match in such decisive fashion."
[Donovan smirks, clapping his hands in an incredibly sarcastic gesture.]
"I mean, you sure looked like you're better than Omar Wise when you were squirming and screaming, arm being wrenched out of the socket, only avoiding a submission loss thanks to Jayden Powers."
[Donovan reaches off camera and brings out a black-and-white image of Johnny Cannon's cross armbreaker on ol' Jay Bee. A glossy 20x30 image, already signed by one Johnny Cannon. "To Donovan - Kisses. Johnny"]
"Look at that dominance. Stunning. How do you keep the UFC away with moves like that? Or even better, how about just before that?"
[Donovan reaches off camera once more, putting the first print down and picking up a second one. The cameraman for this shot should have gotten a HUGE bonus, because the framing was perfect. Justin Brooks taking a gorgeous, beautiful, picture-perfect roundhouse kick directly to the side of the head. His eyes were captured rolling up into his head, his jaw going slack, his body already collapsing.]
"Phew. Amazing. You've got your guard in exactly the right spot, you're taking the kick with the strongest part of your head, you are totally about to reverse it on him, right? "
[Pause.]
"Right?"
[Smirk. Donovan sent that glossy picture spinning out of frame with a flick of the wrist.]
"And then when you took those boys out with a suicide dive, and Cannon went under the ring to avoid taking the pinfall... Why, that's almost exactly what happened in Omar's three-way. One lucky move knocked the man who should have won out of contention, leaving the opportunist to get a quick win. It's almost as if anybody can win or lose at any moment in one of those things and not even be involved. "
[Huh. Odd.]
"But that's not important. Omar lost, and looked like a monster. You won, and looked like a chump for half the match. So, good job there, champ. You deserve to trumpet that lackluster win to the rooftops."
[Donovan leaned in, grinning brightly.]
"But I just have one little eensy-weensy problem there, Mister Firefighter. In trumpeting your victory and Omar's loss... You said how much better than Omar you are."
[Donovan brings a hand up, wagging a finger disapprovingly.]
"Tsk tsk tsk, who's been a bad puppy? Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Justin. Let's not blow things out of proportion. In fact, let's take a few steps back in time. Last week, when you fought Johnny Rocket and Angel of Death..."
[Donovan pauses, smirks and chuckles a little bit.]
"My mistake. Powers and Cannon. I was thinking of my history lesson a little too much. Back in the day. Hudson River Wrestling. I remember watching, when I was working the upstate New York region. Back in the World Wrestling Alliance, when you managed to ascend to the heights of regional champion."
[Donovan reaches out past the camera, grabbing another picture. Make that a wad of pictures.]
"For all your talk of how good you are, and how much better than Omar you are, you seem to be forgetting who discovered Omar. A man who you traded wins and losses with quite a few times."
[Donovan lifts a picture up. It's a promotional picture of a bald Black man with a pushbroom moustache, a glittering golden championship belt around his waist.]
"Former World Wrestling Alliance World Champ. Former DEFIANCE Wrestling World Champ. Two-in-a-row winner of Summer Games. Boston Bancroft. The guy who trained Omar just eight short months ago."
[Donovan wiggled the picture.]
"Remember him? Remember those days, Justin? Back when you were one of the top names in the World Wrestling Alliance, challenging for the World Title on a fairly regular basis?"
[Donovan tossed the picture of Big Bad Boston to the side, and held up another pic.]
"When you were facing true legends all the time. Victor Mandrake.
"David Paige. Ryan Blasier. Eric Dane. Et cetera. And lost. And lost again. And then on to DEFIANCE, after the WWA and Hudson River shut their doors. When you were fighting smack-dab in the middle of the card against fellas like Jimmy Kort."
"I remember watching as your star lost its luster, loss after loss tarnishing that promise, staining your potential almost beyond repair. But it ended up okay, right?"
[Donovan tossed the picture away, stepping forward and tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket.]
"You went to the UWL, found the main event, and started winning again, right? Against... Uh... Well, to be honest, I only follow regional indy feds that I live near. So I don't know what heatless, never-were slackjaws you were fighting."
[Donovan steps up real, real close to the camera, putting an arm around it like a friend confiding a secret.]
"I know you ran away from the big leagues because you couldn't hang, Justin. There's no shame in trying to find somewhere slummy enough that you can actually succeed there, rather than compete with world-renowned talent and five-star wrestlers."
[Donovan steps back, adjusting his jacket and clearing his throat.]
"You say that you're better than Omar Wise because of... what? A few victories over overpushed, undertalented people who aren't even fit to lace up Boston Bancroft's boots? A tournament win involving a lot of names that never drew a dime? A lucky win over a zombie pin-up boy? A interfederational title you held at least four years ago?"
[Donovan closes his eyes, clasping his hands before his chest. His lips move soundlessly for a few moments, as he holds those hands close.]
"Justin, I appreciate that you think you're the man. But... I just want you to do me one favor. Just... One little thing, there, Big Bad Brooks."
[Donovan opens his eyes, pointing at the camera with both index fingers.]
"After Omar breaks your spirit... Shatters your bones... Destroys your legacy and uses you as the new benchmark for how badly he can beat someone. When Omar Wise makes an example of you and shows what will happen when someone deliberately antagonizes a piece of military hardware, I want you to take a piece of paper."
[Donovan brings a hand up, motioning as if writing on an invisible notebook.]
"Write down that line. "I'm just plain better than you." Write it in big letters, small, whatever appeals to you. Crumple that piece of paper up, and try to swallow it in one go. With a broken jaw, you may want to blend it into a smoothie."
[Donovan's yellowtoothed grin spoke volumes.]
"Because if you don't eat your words voluntarily, Omar and I are gonna make you eat them one inch at a time."
[Freezeframe with Donovan's chuckling, rosacea-stricken, stubbly face filling the screen.]
~~~
"So... What is this all about?", asked the grumpy man, obviously unsettled at the classy digs he found himself in. The monolithic wrestler wasn't used to wearing a suit. The suit(Gray with black pinstripes) looked good on his hugely muscular form. The tie was a little awkward, but Omar's neck was the size of most peoples' thigh. Ties weren't suited for those whose head went into their shoulders without the situation narrowing any.
The businessperson, a gorgeous, leggy Asian woman, just flicked her eyes up to Omar, then back down to her papers. She reached up, drawing a long decorative chopstick from her hair. Scratch that, a pen cunningly disguised as a hair chopstick.
"This is about your future, Omar." She chose her words carefully, each word handled with enough delicacy to properly handle blown glass a micron thick. "This is about certain people protecting their investments."
Omar fidgeted in his seat. He had been sent here by Donovan, told to keep his mouth shut and just let the people here tell him what was up. But he didn't have to like it.
The boardroom was... big. Quite nicely furnished, although it was totally lost on Omar. He just clasped his hands together, wishing he had the forethought to bring something to entertain himself with. A tennis ball, to work on his gripstrength. SOMETHING.
The doorknob clicked as the other side turned, and the door swung open. Omar sucked in a breath as one of the few people he actually respected walked into the room. Former World Champ, world-class professional wrestler turned nightclub mogul, Boston Bancroft. His hair had grown out some, his moustache had grown a goatee, and a little bit of age had set into his face.
But then, he wasn't an active wrestler at the moment.
"Omar. Good to see you," stated the Spoiler. Boston grinned warmly, walking around the table to offer a hand to the Assault Breacher Vehicle. Omar had popped to his feet, offering his hand obligingly. Boston took the hand in his own, shaking it in a manful grip. Not strong enough to try and show Omar up, but definitely the hold of an equal.
"Thank you, Mr. Bancroft," Omar awkwardly replied. Boston shook his head, gesturing to the seat Omar had just risen from.
"Please, call me Boston. Sit, Omar. We have some business to discuss." Boston casually slipped his suit jacket off, hanging it over the back of his own seat. The Asian woman(Who had remained seated) began to slide paper after paper in front of Boston.
"Thank you, Kali.", Boston absently mused. He began to look the paperwork over, as Omar sat back down and clasped his hands together. "So... You didn't lose in the first show, but you didn't win. A shame, but that's acceptable."
Omar blinked, a touch confused. Boston had trained him and then let Donovan basically run Omar's career ever since. What was with the sudden interest?
"Oh. Oh. Justin Brooks. I know him." Boston looked up, sliding the frames of his glasses down his nose. Studying Omar's face with his naked eyes, Boston carefully inspected Omar for any twitches. "I know him well. Hell of a talent. What do you think?"
"I think he's a mouthy punk.", Omar rumbled, unable to stop the words even as he thought they could have been better thought out. The awkward silence that followed sent a creepy chill up Omar's spine.
He knew about Brooks' relationship with Boston. The two were set to be a stable in DEFIANCE Wrestling, right up until Ronnie Long nearly killed Brooks with a scoop shovel. After, Boston set Justin up with the best rehabilitative care money could buy. And then there was business relationship that Niccolo Burbank and Boston had had, up until the two had amicably parted ways.
Boston took a moment before giving a barking laugh. "Hah! Good. I can see that. I think I have a slightly higher opinion of him than you do, but I like that fire. Do you think you have the match in the bag?"
Omar shrugged weakly.
"Hm. Not the answer I was looking for. Well, that's what I'm here to address. You need someone working as your personal trainer. So, let me introduce you to your new best friend." Boston gestured to the pretty Asian woman to his right. "Omar, this is Kalifornia. Kalifornia, Omar Wise."
Kalifornia smiled sweetly, offering her hand to Omar. "I don't intend to be a bitch about your diet or nag you about anything, Omar. Boston believes you have a lot of potential and I just want to help you fulfill your potential."
Omar grudgingly reached out and gave her hand a limp, quick shake. "I didn't need a physical trainer when I was in New York..."
"You weren't facing the caliber of opponents you're facing now. And you weren't being booked as the top name in a company that was drastically expanding its presence. You've been in the main event of BOTH shows so far. And they have shown no sign of changing their mind about that." Boston smirked, tapping a piece of paper in his hand.
"And here's one of the reasons why. Preorders." Boston spun the paper around, sliding it across the table. "Preorders for your "With these two hands" tee-shirts. California has a LOT of smarks in it. And you're poised to perfectly get them on your side. Workrate, ass-kicking ability, and presence mean a lot. On top of that, you're not an immobile slug. You could very easily be a big merch mover."
Omar took the piece of paper in his hands. So what, a couplea internet nerds were into his... Wait. That... "That many people? How much money's that gonna be?" But the question was silly. The total sum of money was highlighted a few inches down the page. Including the section with what was directly Omar's cut. Omar's eyes bulged a little bit.
"So. Y'know. We need to manage your image carefully. And you need to send a serious message. I'd personally prefer if you didn't grind Justin's bones to make your bread, but it's no sweat off my back either way." Boston smirked as he pulled another piece of paper out of his pile. "Kalifornia's gonna take you to a gym we've got you a membership to, and she's gonna run you through your paces. But I've got one more thing to bring up..."
Boston slid the paper across to Omar. Omar glanced it over, then looked up at Bancroft. "...A contract?"
"I've heard you need as much extra cash as you can get. Want to work as a bouncer here at Club Midnight? On nights where you don't have to work for E-Pro, of course." Boston's grin never faded any. Omar thought for a moment.
"I can always use more money. And the chance to break more fools' faces is always good. But let me get past Brooks first." Omar slid the paper back to Boston, who simply nodded and slid the sheet into his pile. Kalifornia gave a gorgeous, sparkly-toothed grin.
"Well then. Let's go see what you can do, Assault Breacher Vehicle." Kalifornia stood, shouldering her leather purse. Omar couldn't help but feel his stomach do a flip-flop. A pretty woman, so obviously messing with him? He was instantly put on guard. But then again, he was also intrigued. Could these folks really help make him a better fighter?
What was Boston's REAL game?
~~~
Omar Wise got his chance to stand in front of an E-Pro banner, in front of the cameras. He could say whatever he wanted, act however he liked. Talk in any way he wished. So...
Why was Omar just standing there, at a loss for words, glaring at the camera.
Donovan Torment: (Offscreen)
Hey, you need a hand?
Omar shook his head, but looked up to Donovan. He pointed, and gestured Donovan over to the camera, before taking a few big strides up to the camera. A hand snapped out, and Omar grabbed a poor soul.
Holding the cameraman off the ground by his throat, Omar stomped back in front of the camera. The cameraman's eyes bulged, his hands clawed at his throat and his feet kicked frantically. So, Omar obligingly dropped him.
Omar Wise:
What's your name, fool?
Cameraman: (Coughing and sputtering)
Hunter, Mister Wi-
Omar Wise:
SHUT UP! Your name is Justin, now! What I say, you do! What I tell you is God's truth!
The poor cameraman nodded like a bobblehead going through an earthquake.
Omar Wise:
Say it. SAY WHAT YOU SAID TO ME, BROOKS!
Faux Justin Brooks:
I... I don't-
Omar grabbed the front of the poor scrawny white nerd-boy's shirt, balling up both fists in the fabric. He lifted Faux Justin off the ground, holding the intern in the air by his own polo.
Omar Wise:
You're gonna do what to me? You're gonna take everything I got an' you're gonna still be standin' afterward?! HUH?!
Faux Justin Brooks:
Oh god, I'm not going to-
Omar Wise:
SHUT UP! You spittin' into the face of a hurricane, son! You actin' like a damn fool, boy!
Faux Brooks:
I don't-... I never!
Omar Wise:
I was tryin' to SPARE all you poor fools!
Omar gave the kid a violent shake, making the college student's arms and legs flop around bonelessly.
Omar Wise:
I was tryin' to be the "athletic competitor". A wrestler who actually treats this shit like BUSINESS. A guy who doesn't go out to the ring TRYING to end careers and break necks! I WAS TRYIN', JUSTIN! I WANTED TO BE THE NICE GUY, AND NOT LEAVE RUINED CAREERS IN MY WAKE!
Faux Brooks just gave little helpless sobs and cries of pain as he gets shaken and thrown about.
Omar Wise:
AND YOU GONNA MAKE FUN OF ME FOR DOIN' IT?! HUH?! YOU GONNA CALL MY TWO HANDS NONSENSE BECAUSE I WAS TRYIN' TA BE SOMEONE I'M NOT?! WELL, THEN IT'S SIMPLE!
Omar reared back and bodily HURLED the kid off-camera, sending the screaming intern into the inky black void of Nowhere, USA. He turned, stomping up to the camera. Without a cameraman, the view from the hardcam was a little... askew.
Omar Wise:
NOW YOU GET TO SEE WHAT I'M LIKE WHEN I'M JUST BEIN' ME, JUSTIN! YOU GET TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU FACE A MAN WHO HAD EVERYTHIN' IN HIS LIFE TORN AWAY FROM HIM TIME, AND TIME AGAIN! YOU GET TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU FACE A MAN WHO HAS BEEN KICKED IN THE TEETH BY LIFE EVERY DAY STOPS HOLDIN' BACK! YOU GET TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU FACE A MAN WHO GOT PLUCKED OFF THE STREETS, GIVEN A GUN, AND TOLD T' KILL!
Omar clamped his lips shut, eyes twitching in rage and hate and pain and fury. A muscle along his jawline twitched. The sweat-dampened man glared into the camera. DEEP into the camera.
Omar Wise:
You can only kick a dog so many times before it goes for the throat. Life can only kick Omar Wise so many times before I break a fool in half. Fiona got her lucky break in, but that's the end of it. That's the end of me fightin' to entertain anyone. That's the end of me fightin' fair and not tryin' to break bones, tear muscle, and beat eyes shut.
Omar thumped a big, sausagelike finger into the camera.
Omar Wise:
Boy, I've gotten beaten harder than you can even imagine. There ain't NOTHIN' you can do that I ain't already seen. I've been hurt in my body. I've been hurt in my soul. I've been hurt in my head. An' when little Omar who just took this load of horseshit grows up into the Assault Breacher Vehicle...
Omar shook his head mournfully.
Omar Wise:
I stop takin' shit. I start hurtin' people to keep them from hurtin' me. And you can run your MOUTH about how much better than me you are. But I'm gonna do somethin YOU never did.
Omar stepped back, hands motioning around his waist for an invisible belt.
Omar Wise:
I'm gonna win a World Title. I'm gonna make it mean somethin'. It's gonna be the Omar Wise is the Scariest Motherfucker In The World title. An' I'm gonna earn it by breakin' you in half.
Omar brought his right hand up, squeezing the fingers shut. A loud, rifle-like pop came from one knuckle.
Omar Wise:
You mushmouthed mo'fucka. With these two hands, I'm gonna do somethin' HORRIBLE to you. Somethin' TURR'BLE. Donovan said it in a really pretty way a few minutes ago.
Donovan poked his head into frame from the right, grinning. Thumbs-up!
Omar Wise:
Those that sow th' wind... Shall reap the whirlwind. Let's see how much better than me you'll be after that whirlwind hits.
Omar just put a big hand over the camera's lens an-Static.
[Or at least, on your Youtube account.]
[In all his painfully bright rosy glory. A "BEST IN THE WORLD" baseball cap sits on his greasy mop of hair, and a smug grin sits on his greasy face.]
Donovan Torment:
"Oh, well done, Justin. WELL DONE! In one fell swoop, you did your best to invalidate your opponent and make your sure-to-happen victory absolutely meaningless. I thought it was supposed to be my job to be over-the-top arrogant and belittle our opponent."
[Huh. How about that. Heeling.]
"But you're right. Who could possibly care about Omar Wise anymore? He's just some chump who lost to a girl, right? And you won your match in such decisive fashion."
[Donovan smirks, clapping his hands in an incredibly sarcastic gesture.]
"I mean, you sure looked like you're better than Omar Wise when you were squirming and screaming, arm being wrenched out of the socket, only avoiding a submission loss thanks to Jayden Powers."
[Donovan reaches off camera and brings out a black-and-white image of Johnny Cannon's cross armbreaker on ol' Jay Bee. A glossy 20x30 image, already signed by one Johnny Cannon. "To Donovan - Kisses. Johnny"]
"Look at that dominance. Stunning. How do you keep the UFC away with moves like that? Or even better, how about just before that?"
[Donovan reaches off camera once more, putting the first print down and picking up a second one. The cameraman for this shot should have gotten a HUGE bonus, because the framing was perfect. Justin Brooks taking a gorgeous, beautiful, picture-perfect roundhouse kick directly to the side of the head. His eyes were captured rolling up into his head, his jaw going slack, his body already collapsing.]
"Phew. Amazing. You've got your guard in exactly the right spot, you're taking the kick with the strongest part of your head, you are totally about to reverse it on him, right? "
[Pause.]
"Right?"
[Smirk. Donovan sent that glossy picture spinning out of frame with a flick of the wrist.]
"And then when you took those boys out with a suicide dive, and Cannon went under the ring to avoid taking the pinfall... Why, that's almost exactly what happened in Omar's three-way. One lucky move knocked the man who should have won out of contention, leaving the opportunist to get a quick win. It's almost as if anybody can win or lose at any moment in one of those things and not even be involved. "
[Huh. Odd.]
"But that's not important. Omar lost, and looked like a monster. You won, and looked like a chump for half the match. So, good job there, champ. You deserve to trumpet that lackluster win to the rooftops."
[Donovan leaned in, grinning brightly.]
"But I just have one little eensy-weensy problem there, Mister Firefighter. In trumpeting your victory and Omar's loss... You said how much better than Omar you are."
[Donovan brings a hand up, wagging a finger disapprovingly.]
"Tsk tsk tsk, who's been a bad puppy? Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Justin. Let's not blow things out of proportion. In fact, let's take a few steps back in time. Last week, when you fought Johnny Rocket and Angel of Death..."
[Donovan pauses, smirks and chuckles a little bit.]
"My mistake. Powers and Cannon. I was thinking of my history lesson a little too much. Back in the day. Hudson River Wrestling. I remember watching, when I was working the upstate New York region. Back in the World Wrestling Alliance, when you managed to ascend to the heights of regional champion."
[Donovan reaches out past the camera, grabbing another picture. Make that a wad of pictures.]
"For all your talk of how good you are, and how much better than Omar you are, you seem to be forgetting who discovered Omar. A man who you traded wins and losses with quite a few times."
[Donovan lifts a picture up. It's a promotional picture of a bald Black man with a pushbroom moustache, a glittering golden championship belt around his waist.]
"Former World Wrestling Alliance World Champ. Former DEFIANCE Wrestling World Champ. Two-in-a-row winner of Summer Games. Boston Bancroft. The guy who trained Omar just eight short months ago."
[Donovan wiggled the picture.]
"Remember him? Remember those days, Justin? Back when you were one of the top names in the World Wrestling Alliance, challenging for the World Title on a fairly regular basis?"
[Donovan tossed the picture of Big Bad Boston to the side, and held up another pic.]
"When you were facing true legends all the time. Victor Mandrake.
"David Paige. Ryan Blasier. Eric Dane. Et cetera. And lost. And lost again. And then on to DEFIANCE, after the WWA and Hudson River shut their doors. When you were fighting smack-dab in the middle of the card against fellas like Jimmy Kort."
"I remember watching as your star lost its luster, loss after loss tarnishing that promise, staining your potential almost beyond repair. But it ended up okay, right?"
[Donovan tossed the picture away, stepping forward and tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket.]
"You went to the UWL, found the main event, and started winning again, right? Against... Uh... Well, to be honest, I only follow regional indy feds that I live near. So I don't know what heatless, never-were slackjaws you were fighting."
[Donovan steps up real, real close to the camera, putting an arm around it like a friend confiding a secret.]
"I know you ran away from the big leagues because you couldn't hang, Justin. There's no shame in trying to find somewhere slummy enough that you can actually succeed there, rather than compete with world-renowned talent and five-star wrestlers."
[Donovan steps back, adjusting his jacket and clearing his throat.]
"You say that you're better than Omar Wise because of... what? A few victories over overpushed, undertalented people who aren't even fit to lace up Boston Bancroft's boots? A tournament win involving a lot of names that never drew a dime? A lucky win over a zombie pin-up boy? A interfederational title you held at least four years ago?"
[Donovan closes his eyes, clasping his hands before his chest. His lips move soundlessly for a few moments, as he holds those hands close.]
"Justin, I appreciate that you think you're the man. But... I just want you to do me one favor. Just... One little thing, there, Big Bad Brooks."
[Donovan opens his eyes, pointing at the camera with both index fingers.]
"After Omar breaks your spirit... Shatters your bones... Destroys your legacy and uses you as the new benchmark for how badly he can beat someone. When Omar Wise makes an example of you and shows what will happen when someone deliberately antagonizes a piece of military hardware, I want you to take a piece of paper."
[Donovan brings a hand up, motioning as if writing on an invisible notebook.]
"Write down that line. "I'm just plain better than you." Write it in big letters, small, whatever appeals to you. Crumple that piece of paper up, and try to swallow it in one go. With a broken jaw, you may want to blend it into a smoothie."
[Donovan's yellowtoothed grin spoke volumes.]
"Because if you don't eat your words voluntarily, Omar and I are gonna make you eat them one inch at a time."
[Freezeframe with Donovan's chuckling, rosacea-stricken, stubbly face filling the screen.]
~~~
"So... What is this all about?", asked the grumpy man, obviously unsettled at the classy digs he found himself in. The monolithic wrestler wasn't used to wearing a suit. The suit(Gray with black pinstripes) looked good on his hugely muscular form. The tie was a little awkward, but Omar's neck was the size of most peoples' thigh. Ties weren't suited for those whose head went into their shoulders without the situation narrowing any.
The businessperson, a gorgeous, leggy Asian woman, just flicked her eyes up to Omar, then back down to her papers. She reached up, drawing a long decorative chopstick from her hair. Scratch that, a pen cunningly disguised as a hair chopstick.
"This is about your future, Omar." She chose her words carefully, each word handled with enough delicacy to properly handle blown glass a micron thick. "This is about certain people protecting their investments."
Omar fidgeted in his seat. He had been sent here by Donovan, told to keep his mouth shut and just let the people here tell him what was up. But he didn't have to like it.
The boardroom was... big. Quite nicely furnished, although it was totally lost on Omar. He just clasped his hands together, wishing he had the forethought to bring something to entertain himself with. A tennis ball, to work on his gripstrength. SOMETHING.
The doorknob clicked as the other side turned, and the door swung open. Omar sucked in a breath as one of the few people he actually respected walked into the room. Former World Champ, world-class professional wrestler turned nightclub mogul, Boston Bancroft. His hair had grown out some, his moustache had grown a goatee, and a little bit of age had set into his face.
But then, he wasn't an active wrestler at the moment.
"Omar. Good to see you," stated the Spoiler. Boston grinned warmly, walking around the table to offer a hand to the Assault Breacher Vehicle. Omar had popped to his feet, offering his hand obligingly. Boston took the hand in his own, shaking it in a manful grip. Not strong enough to try and show Omar up, but definitely the hold of an equal.
"Thank you, Mr. Bancroft," Omar awkwardly replied. Boston shook his head, gesturing to the seat Omar had just risen from.
"Please, call me Boston. Sit, Omar. We have some business to discuss." Boston casually slipped his suit jacket off, hanging it over the back of his own seat. The Asian woman(Who had remained seated) began to slide paper after paper in front of Boston.
"Thank you, Kali.", Boston absently mused. He began to look the paperwork over, as Omar sat back down and clasped his hands together. "So... You didn't lose in the first show, but you didn't win. A shame, but that's acceptable."
Omar blinked, a touch confused. Boston had trained him and then let Donovan basically run Omar's career ever since. What was with the sudden interest?
"Oh. Oh. Justin Brooks. I know him." Boston looked up, sliding the frames of his glasses down his nose. Studying Omar's face with his naked eyes, Boston carefully inspected Omar for any twitches. "I know him well. Hell of a talent. What do you think?"
"I think he's a mouthy punk.", Omar rumbled, unable to stop the words even as he thought they could have been better thought out. The awkward silence that followed sent a creepy chill up Omar's spine.
He knew about Brooks' relationship with Boston. The two were set to be a stable in DEFIANCE Wrestling, right up until Ronnie Long nearly killed Brooks with a scoop shovel. After, Boston set Justin up with the best rehabilitative care money could buy. And then there was business relationship that Niccolo Burbank and Boston had had, up until the two had amicably parted ways.
Boston took a moment before giving a barking laugh. "Hah! Good. I can see that. I think I have a slightly higher opinion of him than you do, but I like that fire. Do you think you have the match in the bag?"
Omar shrugged weakly.
"Hm. Not the answer I was looking for. Well, that's what I'm here to address. You need someone working as your personal trainer. So, let me introduce you to your new best friend." Boston gestured to the pretty Asian woman to his right. "Omar, this is Kalifornia. Kalifornia, Omar Wise."
Kalifornia smiled sweetly, offering her hand to Omar. "I don't intend to be a bitch about your diet or nag you about anything, Omar. Boston believes you have a lot of potential and I just want to help you fulfill your potential."
Omar grudgingly reached out and gave her hand a limp, quick shake. "I didn't need a physical trainer when I was in New York..."
"You weren't facing the caliber of opponents you're facing now. And you weren't being booked as the top name in a company that was drastically expanding its presence. You've been in the main event of BOTH shows so far. And they have shown no sign of changing their mind about that." Boston smirked, tapping a piece of paper in his hand.
"And here's one of the reasons why. Preorders." Boston spun the paper around, sliding it across the table. "Preorders for your "With these two hands" tee-shirts. California has a LOT of smarks in it. And you're poised to perfectly get them on your side. Workrate, ass-kicking ability, and presence mean a lot. On top of that, you're not an immobile slug. You could very easily be a big merch mover."
Omar took the piece of paper in his hands. So what, a couplea internet nerds were into his... Wait. That... "That many people? How much money's that gonna be?" But the question was silly. The total sum of money was highlighted a few inches down the page. Including the section with what was directly Omar's cut. Omar's eyes bulged a little bit.
"So. Y'know. We need to manage your image carefully. And you need to send a serious message. I'd personally prefer if you didn't grind Justin's bones to make your bread, but it's no sweat off my back either way." Boston smirked as he pulled another piece of paper out of his pile. "Kalifornia's gonna take you to a gym we've got you a membership to, and she's gonna run you through your paces. But I've got one more thing to bring up..."
Boston slid the paper across to Omar. Omar glanced it over, then looked up at Bancroft. "...A contract?"
"I've heard you need as much extra cash as you can get. Want to work as a bouncer here at Club Midnight? On nights where you don't have to work for E-Pro, of course." Boston's grin never faded any. Omar thought for a moment.
"I can always use more money. And the chance to break more fools' faces is always good. But let me get past Brooks first." Omar slid the paper back to Boston, who simply nodded and slid the sheet into his pile. Kalifornia gave a gorgeous, sparkly-toothed grin.
"Well then. Let's go see what you can do, Assault Breacher Vehicle." Kalifornia stood, shouldering her leather purse. Omar couldn't help but feel his stomach do a flip-flop. A pretty woman, so obviously messing with him? He was instantly put on guard. But then again, he was also intrigued. Could these folks really help make him a better fighter?
What was Boston's REAL game?
~~~
Omar Wise got his chance to stand in front of an E-Pro banner, in front of the cameras. He could say whatever he wanted, act however he liked. Talk in any way he wished. So...
Why was Omar just standing there, at a loss for words, glaring at the camera.
Donovan Torment: (Offscreen)
Hey, you need a hand?
Omar shook his head, but looked up to Donovan. He pointed, and gestured Donovan over to the camera, before taking a few big strides up to the camera. A hand snapped out, and Omar grabbed a poor soul.
Holding the cameraman off the ground by his throat, Omar stomped back in front of the camera. The cameraman's eyes bulged, his hands clawed at his throat and his feet kicked frantically. So, Omar obligingly dropped him.
Omar Wise:
What's your name, fool?
Cameraman: (Coughing and sputtering)
Hunter, Mister Wi-
Omar Wise:
SHUT UP! Your name is Justin, now! What I say, you do! What I tell you is God's truth!
The poor cameraman nodded like a bobblehead going through an earthquake.
Omar Wise:
Say it. SAY WHAT YOU SAID TO ME, BROOKS!
Faux Justin Brooks:
I... I don't-
Omar grabbed the front of the poor scrawny white nerd-boy's shirt, balling up both fists in the fabric. He lifted Faux Justin off the ground, holding the intern in the air by his own polo.
Omar Wise:
You're gonna do what to me? You're gonna take everything I got an' you're gonna still be standin' afterward?! HUH?!
Faux Justin Brooks:
Oh god, I'm not going to-
Omar Wise:
SHUT UP! You spittin' into the face of a hurricane, son! You actin' like a damn fool, boy!
Faux Brooks:
I don't-... I never!
Omar Wise:
I was tryin' to SPARE all you poor fools!
Omar gave the kid a violent shake, making the college student's arms and legs flop around bonelessly.
Omar Wise:
I was tryin' to be the "athletic competitor". A wrestler who actually treats this shit like BUSINESS. A guy who doesn't go out to the ring TRYING to end careers and break necks! I WAS TRYIN', JUSTIN! I WANTED TO BE THE NICE GUY, AND NOT LEAVE RUINED CAREERS IN MY WAKE!
Faux Brooks just gave little helpless sobs and cries of pain as he gets shaken and thrown about.
Omar Wise:
AND YOU GONNA MAKE FUN OF ME FOR DOIN' IT?! HUH?! YOU GONNA CALL MY TWO HANDS NONSENSE BECAUSE I WAS TRYIN' TA BE SOMEONE I'M NOT?! WELL, THEN IT'S SIMPLE!
Omar reared back and bodily HURLED the kid off-camera, sending the screaming intern into the inky black void of Nowhere, USA. He turned, stomping up to the camera. Without a cameraman, the view from the hardcam was a little... askew.
Omar Wise:
NOW YOU GET TO SEE WHAT I'M LIKE WHEN I'M JUST BEIN' ME, JUSTIN! YOU GET TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU FACE A MAN WHO HAD EVERYTHIN' IN HIS LIFE TORN AWAY FROM HIM TIME, AND TIME AGAIN! YOU GET TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU FACE A MAN WHO HAS BEEN KICKED IN THE TEETH BY LIFE EVERY DAY STOPS HOLDIN' BACK! YOU GET TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU FACE A MAN WHO GOT PLUCKED OFF THE STREETS, GIVEN A GUN, AND TOLD T' KILL!
Omar clamped his lips shut, eyes twitching in rage and hate and pain and fury. A muscle along his jawline twitched. The sweat-dampened man glared into the camera. DEEP into the camera.
Omar Wise:
You can only kick a dog so many times before it goes for the throat. Life can only kick Omar Wise so many times before I break a fool in half. Fiona got her lucky break in, but that's the end of it. That's the end of me fightin' to entertain anyone. That's the end of me fightin' fair and not tryin' to break bones, tear muscle, and beat eyes shut.
Omar thumped a big, sausagelike finger into the camera.
Omar Wise:
Boy, I've gotten beaten harder than you can even imagine. There ain't NOTHIN' you can do that I ain't already seen. I've been hurt in my body. I've been hurt in my soul. I've been hurt in my head. An' when little Omar who just took this load of horseshit grows up into the Assault Breacher Vehicle...
Omar shook his head mournfully.
Omar Wise:
I stop takin' shit. I start hurtin' people to keep them from hurtin' me. And you can run your MOUTH about how much better than me you are. But I'm gonna do somethin YOU never did.
Omar stepped back, hands motioning around his waist for an invisible belt.
Omar Wise:
I'm gonna win a World Title. I'm gonna make it mean somethin'. It's gonna be the Omar Wise is the Scariest Motherfucker In The World title. An' I'm gonna earn it by breakin' you in half.
Omar brought his right hand up, squeezing the fingers shut. A loud, rifle-like pop came from one knuckle.
Omar Wise:
You mushmouthed mo'fucka. With these two hands, I'm gonna do somethin' HORRIBLE to you. Somethin' TURR'BLE. Donovan said it in a really pretty way a few minutes ago.
Donovan poked his head into frame from the right, grinning. Thumbs-up!
Omar Wise:
Those that sow th' wind... Shall reap the whirlwind. Let's see how much better than me you'll be after that whirlwind hits.
Omar just put a big hand over the camera's lens an-Static.
