Post by Kevin on Jan 6, 2013 1:33:20 GMT -6
"Good god, man!", Donovan cried as he patted Omar on the back. The sweatdrenched ABV grinned, sitting down on the wooden bench. He snatched up his towel, draped it around his neck and began to soak up some of the copious sweat. "You really took it to Brooks! That Rack and that Shock n' Awe..."
As Omar wiped off his face, he took a moment to wipe off his eyes. So he could glare up at Donovan with a baleful look. "Who. Is. Zortalk.", Omar rumbled threateningly. He left no room for humor or playtime. Donovan gave a nervous smile, glancing around the room.
"Whaddaya mean? He's my new client. Just another wrestler lookin' ta have the best representation in the world!", Donovan offered nervously. The weasel in the red coat backed up, giving Omar a little room. Omar didn't storm up and after Donovan, to his credit. He continued to sit, towelling his face off.
"I assume you want me to work with him?", Omar asked quietly.
"Weeeeell-", Donovan began.
"I said I'd be involved with that Daisuke fool. I hate groups. I hate teams. I hate being peoples' tag team partners and I don't want people depending on me. I want the only guy in the ring that I don't get to punch to be the referee." Omar shook his head firmly, wiping his hands off on the towel.
"Look. In this little... organization of ours? Daisuke and Kliff are both people you may just have to fight. Kliff, definitely. And Daisuke will probably be chasin' that belt too!" Donovan clasped his hands before his chest. "And boy, wouldn't it be a feather in their cap to take down the Monster of Exodus Pro. Boy, wouldn't it be nice to have someone on your side who is operating on a different level than that?"
Omar rubbed the towel over his chest, mutely patting the dampness from his chest. After a few long moments, he shook his head. "I don't like it. I don't trust him. And what, are you replacin' me?"
Donovan shook his head wildly, waving his hands in a most placating gesture. "Of course not! You are a star, Omar. A star. This rinky-dink fed is just the beginning. Either we'll make it a global powerhouse, or it'll be the first step to YOU becoming a global powerhouse!"
“So, what's to happen with our little team-up when I gotta fight Daisuke? Kliff? Zortalk?” Omar clenched his fist before his face, his other hand bringing the towel up to wipe down his forearm.
“You... do what you do best, Omar. I wouldn't ask anything else of you. This is a contact sport, after all. But your next match isn't against any of those guys. You've got Alex Brooks, and this is your chance to really make a splash.” Donovan grinned in delight, rubbing his hands together happily.
“Alex Brooks? The skinny little white boy? I always wanted to be the Boogeyman...” Omar began to pack up his immediate possessions, digging out his street clothes. He needed to get to his apartment and get a shower. After that... Well, riding high on the sweet mix of adrenaline and victory, the night would indeed prove to be young.
~~~
"When I was a little kid, my Gram-Gram told me stories about all kinds of heroes. Brave men, who refused to accept defeat in the face of overwhelming odds. Strong men, who held tough when everything looked bleakest. They were nice stories for a kid to hear."
[Omar Wise sat in a fancy, elegant armchair in a room lined with windows, looking out into beautiful San Diego. The room was up high, looking out over the water, nothing on eye level between it and the Pacific. The angle of the view was serene. Good for trying to settle the internal demons.]
"Made you think the world wasn't so horrible. Wasn't so fulla selfish, horrible, cruel people. Made ya think that maybe, just maybe, a good person could have good things happen to 'em."
[Omar clasped his hands before his chest. He was dressed quite sharply, too. Buttonup shirt, white with thin black pinstripes. A vest, gray checkerboard. A soft gray flatcap, all cabbie style. Omar looked pretty good. The California life was treating him well.]
"But... This isn't Storyland, Alex. This is real life. And in real life, there are still heroes, and there are still villains."
[Omar stood up from his chair, flipping the hat off his head by the brim. His bald head gleamed in the light streaming into the room. The angle caught it perfectly.]
"There's bad men out there, Alex. Men who are cruel and nasty and hurt people and break things. They're around every corner. They're in every village. There's a bad man sitting in a diner right now, eating a sandwich.”
[Omar pointed absently out the window. He was pointing out the bad man. When he said right now, that finger jabbed meaningfully.]
"That bad man is going unpunished."
[Omar let his arm drop to the side.]
"Do you know what they call heroes in the real world, Alex? Do you know what the other term is for a man who has become a true hero, but isn't in a movie or some shit?"
[Well? Do you? Omar stared coldly into the camera, waiting to see if Alex knew what the alternate name was.]
"Dead men."
[Rimshot.]
"Heroes who aren't on TV, aren't in a movie... They end up pissing off the wrong person. They end up getting shot in the head."
[Omar walked back over to his chair, putting a foot up onto the leather recliner. One arm settled across Omar's thigh, fist clenching.]
"The nail that sticks out gets hammered down. The man that stands up to the robber gets stabbed. The hero... becomes the victim."
[That brings us... And Omar, to his point. He pointed with his right hand to the camera, to emphasize the next four words.]
"And that's you, Alex. You're gonna try to be the hero. You're gonna try to be the MAN, right? Stand up to the big mean bully, punch him in the mouth, and have the crowd lift you on their shoulders like it's a movie from the 80s? If you just show a little guys and determination, everything'll work out? You've got the right heart for the job... But so far as I see it, there are three options for you this upcoming show."
[Omar lifted his hand up beside his face, fingers clenched shut. His pinky lifted.]
"Option one. You find the darkest, deepest corner you can find on the night. You hide in it, and pretend you aren't in the house. When your music plays, you make the smart choice. Stay hidden. And when you lose by countout, you win your health."
[Omar slowly, sadly shook his head, and let his gaze remain downward.]
"But you won't do option one."
[So, Omar lifted his right hand's ring finger.]
"Option two. You don't even show up to the RIMAC. Go back to Las Vegas, drown yourself in loose women and poker chips, and try to forget all about that bad dream named Omar waitin' for you in San Diego. Keep your life, become a big name in Vegas, and never get in my way again. Like a smart man."
[Omar hadn't brought his eyes back up to the camera, and just shook his head mournfully.] l
"But you won't do option two, either."
[And the moneymaker. The middle finger lifted, making three, three, ah ah ah, three fingers lifted!]
"Option three. You come to the RIMAC. You step in the ring against me. You fight the Omar Wise who broke J-Swag. The Omar who broke Justin Brooks on the cold, hard ground. The Omar who gets to break you."
[Omar brought both of his hands up, clenching his fists together in the air. He mimed breaking an invisible length. Maybe a ruler, or an arm, or even a tree branch! So was the way of Mime.]
"As fast as you're gonna try to be... As quick as you intend to make sure you are... It just takes one lucky strike. One lucky hit, and you get dazed from the Hammers, and I grab you."
[His foot-on-the-chair had come down, letting Omar have a fully balanced stance.]
"The nails that stick out get pounded down, Alex. The man who stands up to be brave gets shot down. The lumps in the mashed potatoes get pounded out. The fuckups in a piece a' wood get sanded out. I could go on. And on. I've seen this world. I've heard enough of life to see what's really going on. I don't believe in Cinderella Stories. Underdog Disney flicks ain't real.”
[Omar clenched one big, big fist. His other hand came up, wrapping around his wrist as he cracked those knuckles.]
“Heart won't get you back on your feet when you've got a broken jaw and a concussion. When I've hyperextended tendons and bones in your side, you can't think straight...”
[Omar gave a big, toothy grin.]
“The ref'll have no choice but to tear me offa you by force. Like pullin' a dog away from a bloody steak. Your Winner... Omar Wise.”
~~~
“Top notch work against Justin, Omar. You really showed that potential I saw in you.”, Boston stated, flipping through promotional pictures and papers. He glanced to the visibly-uncomfortable Omar, and flipped a picture down onto the table, where it revolved once, then went still. Omar standing resolutely like a mountain, Jay Bee held over his head.
“Thank you, Mr. Bancroft.”, Omar hazarded. He looked down at the picture. It... DID look good. He'd give the photographer credit.
“How do you think the match went? Were you worried?”, Boston finally asked, laying his papers down in the order he wanted them. Stack of photoes, dossier on Alex, rundown of the fight against Justin...
“Honestly? Yeah.” Omar swallowed, glancing down at the photo. “Brooks has been in big matches before, he's fought dudes scarier than me. His rep carries, man.”
“Good. Let me share a secret with you, Omar.” Boston put both hands down on the table and leaned forward, looking over the lenses of his glasses to look Omar square in the eye. “Every big match isn't just a chance for you to win. It's a chance for you to lose. It's an opportunity for a freak injury. It's a chance for someone to snap, go crazy, and try to make their legacy off of your screams.”
Kalifornia, the leggy Asian sitting quietly beside Boston, typing on her little netbook, glanced up. “Like Bronson.”
Boston grimaced, glancing to Kali with a bit of malice in his eyes. He did NOT like being reminded of that man. She just smiled cutely and shrugged. He let out a sigh of exasperation. “Like Bronson.”
Omar was lost. He had heard that name mentioned a time or two, but he hadn't watched much mainstream wrestling recently, just what he could watch in person. But he didn't really feel like admitting to his ignorance. Kalifornia caught the puzzled look on his face.
“Bronson Box was Boston's great nemesis in DEFIANCE. He won his first world title by taking it literally out of Boston's hands, and they had some major battles. Bronson even kidnapped Boston's son, Jeremy. Very dramatic. Dude's a bagful of nuts.” Kalifornia turned her netbook around, showing the grizzled, moustachio'd face of Mister Boxer McAllister. “If he showed up in Exodus Pro, you'd probably fall into the same role Boston did. The only man who could contain him.”
Boston waved a hand dismissively. Forget that. “Doesn't matter. Always be afraid. Use it like a weapon against your enemies. More important is Alex Brooks. You'd think that this'd be a win handed to you on a silver platter. And you'd be wrong. I know guys like Alex. They're the ones that don't quit. They're the ones that surprise you. After ten solid minutes of having the hell beaten out of them, they're the ones who get the lucky roll-up.”
Kalifornia slid a piece of paper across the table to Omar. A detailed dossier on Alex. His favorite moves, his usual ways of reversing momentum, his biggest victories, things Omar should know. “We're going to prepare to fight someone who really, REALLY doesn't want to be caught. Strengthtraining is going to drop to a minimum. We're going to focus on speed, endurance, quickness. You've already got the muscle to snap him like a Popsicle stick. Now you're gonna get the dexterity to catch him.”
Omar nodded, trying to read the paper as quick as he could. He had never taken much joy out of reading, so it wasn't as fast as it could be. “You really think I got a hope of catchin' this boy?”
“When you can snatch the fly from the air with your hand...”, Kalifornia began. Boston gave a derisive snort, and hid his eyes behind one hand. Kalifornia gave a mock-offended look to the former World Champ and smacked him on the shoulder with both hands. Omar didn't quite know what to make of their playfulness, so he essentially just sat on his hands. Once the two had finished fooling around, Kalifornia powered off her computer, slipped it into her messenger bag, and stood.
“C'mon, big man. We're gonna get to work. You want to be the top dog in Exodus Pro, it's gonna be through the sweat of your brow.” Kali shouldered her bag's strap and Omar rose to his feet. Boston stood, reaching across the table to smack Omar firmly on the shoulder.
“You can do it, big man. All you gotta do is beat Alex, beat Kliff, and beat whoever the other side musters and you're a champion. And nothing feels as sweet as gold. We'll get you there, if you listen to us and you bust your ass.”
“Thank you, Mister Bancroft. This is my time, an' I intend to make the most of it.”
As Omar wiped off his face, he took a moment to wipe off his eyes. So he could glare up at Donovan with a baleful look. "Who. Is. Zortalk.", Omar rumbled threateningly. He left no room for humor or playtime. Donovan gave a nervous smile, glancing around the room.
"Whaddaya mean? He's my new client. Just another wrestler lookin' ta have the best representation in the world!", Donovan offered nervously. The weasel in the red coat backed up, giving Omar a little room. Omar didn't storm up and after Donovan, to his credit. He continued to sit, towelling his face off.
"I assume you want me to work with him?", Omar asked quietly.
"Weeeeell-", Donovan began.
"I said I'd be involved with that Daisuke fool. I hate groups. I hate teams. I hate being peoples' tag team partners and I don't want people depending on me. I want the only guy in the ring that I don't get to punch to be the referee." Omar shook his head firmly, wiping his hands off on the towel.
"Look. In this little... organization of ours? Daisuke and Kliff are both people you may just have to fight. Kliff, definitely. And Daisuke will probably be chasin' that belt too!" Donovan clasped his hands before his chest. "And boy, wouldn't it be a feather in their cap to take down the Monster of Exodus Pro. Boy, wouldn't it be nice to have someone on your side who is operating on a different level than that?"
Omar rubbed the towel over his chest, mutely patting the dampness from his chest. After a few long moments, he shook his head. "I don't like it. I don't trust him. And what, are you replacin' me?"
Donovan shook his head wildly, waving his hands in a most placating gesture. "Of course not! You are a star, Omar. A star. This rinky-dink fed is just the beginning. Either we'll make it a global powerhouse, or it'll be the first step to YOU becoming a global powerhouse!"
“So, what's to happen with our little team-up when I gotta fight Daisuke? Kliff? Zortalk?” Omar clenched his fist before his face, his other hand bringing the towel up to wipe down his forearm.
“You... do what you do best, Omar. I wouldn't ask anything else of you. This is a contact sport, after all. But your next match isn't against any of those guys. You've got Alex Brooks, and this is your chance to really make a splash.” Donovan grinned in delight, rubbing his hands together happily.
“Alex Brooks? The skinny little white boy? I always wanted to be the Boogeyman...” Omar began to pack up his immediate possessions, digging out his street clothes. He needed to get to his apartment and get a shower. After that... Well, riding high on the sweet mix of adrenaline and victory, the night would indeed prove to be young.
~~~
"When I was a little kid, my Gram-Gram told me stories about all kinds of heroes. Brave men, who refused to accept defeat in the face of overwhelming odds. Strong men, who held tough when everything looked bleakest. They were nice stories for a kid to hear."
[Omar Wise sat in a fancy, elegant armchair in a room lined with windows, looking out into beautiful San Diego. The room was up high, looking out over the water, nothing on eye level between it and the Pacific. The angle of the view was serene. Good for trying to settle the internal demons.]
"Made you think the world wasn't so horrible. Wasn't so fulla selfish, horrible, cruel people. Made ya think that maybe, just maybe, a good person could have good things happen to 'em."
[Omar clasped his hands before his chest. He was dressed quite sharply, too. Buttonup shirt, white with thin black pinstripes. A vest, gray checkerboard. A soft gray flatcap, all cabbie style. Omar looked pretty good. The California life was treating him well.]
"But... This isn't Storyland, Alex. This is real life. And in real life, there are still heroes, and there are still villains."
[Omar stood up from his chair, flipping the hat off his head by the brim. His bald head gleamed in the light streaming into the room. The angle caught it perfectly.]
"There's bad men out there, Alex. Men who are cruel and nasty and hurt people and break things. They're around every corner. They're in every village. There's a bad man sitting in a diner right now, eating a sandwich.”
[Omar pointed absently out the window. He was pointing out the bad man. When he said right now, that finger jabbed meaningfully.]
"That bad man is going unpunished."
[Omar let his arm drop to the side.]
"Do you know what they call heroes in the real world, Alex? Do you know what the other term is for a man who has become a true hero, but isn't in a movie or some shit?"
[Well? Do you? Omar stared coldly into the camera, waiting to see if Alex knew what the alternate name was.]
"Dead men."
[Rimshot.]
"Heroes who aren't on TV, aren't in a movie... They end up pissing off the wrong person. They end up getting shot in the head."
[Omar walked back over to his chair, putting a foot up onto the leather recliner. One arm settled across Omar's thigh, fist clenching.]
"The nail that sticks out gets hammered down. The man that stands up to the robber gets stabbed. The hero... becomes the victim."
[That brings us... And Omar, to his point. He pointed with his right hand to the camera, to emphasize the next four words.]
"And that's you, Alex. You're gonna try to be the hero. You're gonna try to be the MAN, right? Stand up to the big mean bully, punch him in the mouth, and have the crowd lift you on their shoulders like it's a movie from the 80s? If you just show a little guys and determination, everything'll work out? You've got the right heart for the job... But so far as I see it, there are three options for you this upcoming show."
[Omar lifted his hand up beside his face, fingers clenched shut. His pinky lifted.]
"Option one. You find the darkest, deepest corner you can find on the night. You hide in it, and pretend you aren't in the house. When your music plays, you make the smart choice. Stay hidden. And when you lose by countout, you win your health."
[Omar slowly, sadly shook his head, and let his gaze remain downward.]
"But you won't do option one."
[So, Omar lifted his right hand's ring finger.]
"Option two. You don't even show up to the RIMAC. Go back to Las Vegas, drown yourself in loose women and poker chips, and try to forget all about that bad dream named Omar waitin' for you in San Diego. Keep your life, become a big name in Vegas, and never get in my way again. Like a smart man."
[Omar hadn't brought his eyes back up to the camera, and just shook his head mournfully.] l
"But you won't do option two, either."
[And the moneymaker. The middle finger lifted, making three, three, ah ah ah, three fingers lifted!]
"Option three. You come to the RIMAC. You step in the ring against me. You fight the Omar Wise who broke J-Swag. The Omar who broke Justin Brooks on the cold, hard ground. The Omar who gets to break you."
[Omar brought both of his hands up, clenching his fists together in the air. He mimed breaking an invisible length. Maybe a ruler, or an arm, or even a tree branch! So was the way of Mime.]
"As fast as you're gonna try to be... As quick as you intend to make sure you are... It just takes one lucky strike. One lucky hit, and you get dazed from the Hammers, and I grab you."
[His foot-on-the-chair had come down, letting Omar have a fully balanced stance.]
"The nails that stick out get pounded down, Alex. The man who stands up to be brave gets shot down. The lumps in the mashed potatoes get pounded out. The fuckups in a piece a' wood get sanded out. I could go on. And on. I've seen this world. I've heard enough of life to see what's really going on. I don't believe in Cinderella Stories. Underdog Disney flicks ain't real.”
[Omar clenched one big, big fist. His other hand came up, wrapping around his wrist as he cracked those knuckles.]
“Heart won't get you back on your feet when you've got a broken jaw and a concussion. When I've hyperextended tendons and bones in your side, you can't think straight...”
[Omar gave a big, toothy grin.]
“The ref'll have no choice but to tear me offa you by force. Like pullin' a dog away from a bloody steak. Your Winner... Omar Wise.”
~~~
“Top notch work against Justin, Omar. You really showed that potential I saw in you.”, Boston stated, flipping through promotional pictures and papers. He glanced to the visibly-uncomfortable Omar, and flipped a picture down onto the table, where it revolved once, then went still. Omar standing resolutely like a mountain, Jay Bee held over his head.
“Thank you, Mr. Bancroft.”, Omar hazarded. He looked down at the picture. It... DID look good. He'd give the photographer credit.
“How do you think the match went? Were you worried?”, Boston finally asked, laying his papers down in the order he wanted them. Stack of photoes, dossier on Alex, rundown of the fight against Justin...
“Honestly? Yeah.” Omar swallowed, glancing down at the photo. “Brooks has been in big matches before, he's fought dudes scarier than me. His rep carries, man.”
“Good. Let me share a secret with you, Omar.” Boston put both hands down on the table and leaned forward, looking over the lenses of his glasses to look Omar square in the eye. “Every big match isn't just a chance for you to win. It's a chance for you to lose. It's an opportunity for a freak injury. It's a chance for someone to snap, go crazy, and try to make their legacy off of your screams.”
Kalifornia, the leggy Asian sitting quietly beside Boston, typing on her little netbook, glanced up. “Like Bronson.”
Boston grimaced, glancing to Kali with a bit of malice in his eyes. He did NOT like being reminded of that man. She just smiled cutely and shrugged. He let out a sigh of exasperation. “Like Bronson.”
Omar was lost. He had heard that name mentioned a time or two, but he hadn't watched much mainstream wrestling recently, just what he could watch in person. But he didn't really feel like admitting to his ignorance. Kalifornia caught the puzzled look on his face.
“Bronson Box was Boston's great nemesis in DEFIANCE. He won his first world title by taking it literally out of Boston's hands, and they had some major battles. Bronson even kidnapped Boston's son, Jeremy. Very dramatic. Dude's a bagful of nuts.” Kalifornia turned her netbook around, showing the grizzled, moustachio'd face of Mister Boxer McAllister. “If he showed up in Exodus Pro, you'd probably fall into the same role Boston did. The only man who could contain him.”
Boston waved a hand dismissively. Forget that. “Doesn't matter. Always be afraid. Use it like a weapon against your enemies. More important is Alex Brooks. You'd think that this'd be a win handed to you on a silver platter. And you'd be wrong. I know guys like Alex. They're the ones that don't quit. They're the ones that surprise you. After ten solid minutes of having the hell beaten out of them, they're the ones who get the lucky roll-up.”
Kalifornia slid a piece of paper across the table to Omar. A detailed dossier on Alex. His favorite moves, his usual ways of reversing momentum, his biggest victories, things Omar should know. “We're going to prepare to fight someone who really, REALLY doesn't want to be caught. Strengthtraining is going to drop to a minimum. We're going to focus on speed, endurance, quickness. You've already got the muscle to snap him like a Popsicle stick. Now you're gonna get the dexterity to catch him.”
Omar nodded, trying to read the paper as quick as he could. He had never taken much joy out of reading, so it wasn't as fast as it could be. “You really think I got a hope of catchin' this boy?”
“When you can snatch the fly from the air with your hand...”, Kalifornia began. Boston gave a derisive snort, and hid his eyes behind one hand. Kalifornia gave a mock-offended look to the former World Champ and smacked him on the shoulder with both hands. Omar didn't quite know what to make of their playfulness, so he essentially just sat on his hands. Once the two had finished fooling around, Kalifornia powered off her computer, slipped it into her messenger bag, and stood.
“C'mon, big man. We're gonna get to work. You want to be the top dog in Exodus Pro, it's gonna be through the sweat of your brow.” Kali shouldered her bag's strap and Omar rose to his feet. Boston stood, reaching across the table to smack Omar firmly on the shoulder.
“You can do it, big man. All you gotta do is beat Alex, beat Kliff, and beat whoever the other side musters and you're a champion. And nothing feels as sweet as gold. We'll get you there, if you listen to us and you bust your ass.”
“Thank you, Mister Bancroft. This is my time, an' I intend to make the most of it.”
