Post by Kevin on Jan 21, 2013 10:39:13 GMT -6
The investment organization was headquartered in a huge building downtown. It was big enough that it needed(Or rather, the executives demanded) a private gym. Not that any of them used it. Not until the man who had recently brought his chain of successful nightclubs(San Diego, Los Angeles, New York, Detroit and Miami) into the organization had reason to use the private gym. But then, the one lone Black man in a whole company full of older white guys tended to leave you just the teensiest bit left out.
So, the selfcreated investment portfolio of Mister Boston Bancroft consisted of Starmakers Limited, the Club Midnight franchise, the small New York Pro Wrestling company, and a small group of car washes in New Mexico. Not bad at all for a former professional wrestler. Being a former professional wrestler, Boston had to struggle more to keep the motivation to stay in shape. He hadn't let himself go too far. He still looked damn fine in an UnderArmor. But here was a good excuse. Being the other half of Omar Wise's training regiment.
Omar had athletic tape wrapped around his fists, but no gloves needed. His Hammers didn't care about the heavy, sand-reinforced canvas. He dutifully hammered away on the heavy bag, the former World Champion throwin' his shoulder against the other side to brace it in place.
"Kliff Ulysses. Fiona Rourke. Abby Park. Johnny Cannon. We're gonna burn their faces into your brain, man." Boston's voice only jumped a little as Omar went pounding away on that heavy bag. "But the most important one is Ulysses."
Omar brought that fist back hard, and went hammering on the bag. "Nope. There's Collins." Omar pistoned that fist through, smashing it into the bag. "This internet video fool." He hammered the bag again, showing off a bit of the frustration that had built up. Someone who would say something from the shadows meant Omar couldn't get his mitts on. "Th' creepshow stalkin' th' kid's probably with him." Omar's fist pumped again, hammering into an invisible person(visible bag)'s stomach. "Ulysses, th' punkass mouthy pile o' trash who thinks he's better than me..." A nasty, mean rabbit punch to the jaw, rocking the whole bag madly. "Rourke, who-"
"No. You're not fighting Rourke or Collins or Park or Frost or this invader or anyone else. You are fighting Ulysses and only Ulysses. Anybody else shows up to brawl, Donovan hits 'em with thirty thousand volts, Zortalk hits the ring and we flood the arena with security guards.", Boston coached, still struggling to keep the bag from rockin' and rollin' all over SoCal.
"...We?", Omar questioned, hands going to his hips. He let the bag go still, his breath coming hard. The Hammers were cruel mistress twins. Devilish wenches.
"...Figure of speech?" Boston offered. Omar frowned, and Boston just gave an impish little grin.
"Invested in E-Pro, huh?" Omar wasn't surprised, frankly.
"Not enough to have any say. One of many. But still, I like where it's going. Frost seems to have a good head on his shoulders, an' I love to support independent wrestling. Needless to say, it's in my best interests to keep E-Pro running. And yours, too." Boston stepped away from the heavy bag, and flicked his hands. "C'mon, big man. Walk and talk."
Omar obligingly fell into step behind Boston, heading for the rubberized track. Boston was a big fan of jogging, said it was good for everything a wrestler needed. "Mine too? I got no money in E-Pro."
"You got a stake. You're part of this company, whether they like it or not. Episode one, main event. You, man." Boston glanced over to Omar, where the Assault Breacher Vehicle resolutely ran. "You're not in this to run Exodus Pro into the ground. What good is a King... With no Kingdom?"
Omar's eyes went down. The man had a point. Cheap Wal-Mart sneakers pounded the rubber track. Thank god for the high quality of the on-sale gymshorts Omar had managed to find at the same time. The San Diego Walmart usually had the best things vanish quickly. Omar had been lucky for a change to catch this deal. "Gotta make that money..."
"Exactly. Killing Collins... Well, we can always get Donovan to goad him into "one more fight" with you if you REALLY want. Fiona will come, maybe at March of War. And the mystery guys'll probably pick the perfect moment to show up and ruin your day. But as for right now, you've really got to focus on Kliff." Boston and Omar rounded a corner, the two men taking a moment to really get their breath back. Boston was getting older, and Omar was a lumbering avalanche, not a stampeding gazelle. He wouldn't have been doing this running shit if he weren't being personally trained by a former World Champion.
"Ulysses...", Omar growled.
"Capable but unfocused. Talented but wasting it. Spreading himself too thin, hateful but revenge-driven. Or something, I'm not sure what he wants to eat Collins' face for. But he's gonna be distracted from you. You gotta use that.", Boston said, trailing off as he moved off the path, slowing to a stop by a water fountain outpost along the course. Omar used the break as an excuse to catch his wind. He would say, his stamina was increasing. He'd never be a track star, but he could muster some momentum for that avalanche... Even moreso since he began to train with Boston.
"The man's two twenty-two. You literally have two hundred pounds on him. You have the intensity. You have the power. You have the knowledge, and the ruthlessness. This dude grabs you, you break his fingers.” Boston turned to face Omar, his fist clenching tightly before his chest. “You are fighting for the position of Baddest Motherfucker on the Block here. Forget sportsmanship, forget nobility.”
Omar could see the exact thing Boston meant in his expression. The little helping-up of Alex Brooks. What, was Omar going soft? The big bad enforcer was becoming a bitch, huh? Omar set his jaw, and gave Boston a firm nod. “Hell yeah.”
Boston reached out, clapping Omar on the shoulder. “Come on. His specific moves need counters. I figured 'em all out. It's funny, though.” Boston turned, and began to set off walking again. Omar amiably followed, hands still resting on his hips.
“What? He rip you off or something?” Omar didn't do much research. He was a reactive sort, naturally. Not a planner. He saw the value in it, though.
“No. His finishers are literally the least of your worries. Dude won't be able to do one without getting a hernia, the other'll be easy for you to power out of. He gets you in a front facelock, pop him in the rocks. C'mon, I got a dossier.” The smirk on Boston's lips told Omar the truth. Kalifornia had made a dossier, Boston paid her to do it. The sports therapist instinctually knew about how this shit was done.
Omar was happy to follow Boston. A strategy in a fight was always helpful, and if he knew what Ulysses was gonna do before he'd do it... Well. The Humanoid Typhoon would know who the hell he was fighting at the end of the day. That's for damn sure.
~~~~
"Well. Well well well. Kliff Ulysses finally comes around to face a real challenge." Donovan had his hands spread wide when the camera turned on and faded in from the black, and brought them together into a very evil genius-style drywashing. He rubbed his hands together for a few long moments, considering his plots, eyes cast down and to the side. Considering the scheme. Myeeeeesss...
"Let's see. What was it, week one? Was it a real match... Oh, nope, it was a joke against Itsumo Ichi. Where the kid lay down for you. And then week two was a hair's breadth away from loss against Alex Brooks..." A surprisingly capable Alex Brooks. Giving Kliff Ulysses AND Omar Brooks a run for their money? Not that Donovan would admit such a thing... "And week three, a countout victory against Justin Brooks. Meanwhile... Omar Wise rampages through the roster like a hot wind out of Hell."
Donovan Torment gives a sickly grin, clasping both hands around the head of his cane. "Well. Donovan Torment presenting Omar Wise against Kliff Ulysses. An interesting match-up. And, before I go any further, Kliff..."
Donovan leans in, a sparkly grin on his crooked, jagged, yellowed teeth. "I don't know if you're the stalker. Or the five on one guy. But I do know that if you are, Omar's got some questions for you. He's gonna enhance the shit out of your interrogation." He's talkin' about the Torture Rack, goldurnit.
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, really. And if you happen to NOT be these two Youtube Sensations, then you just have to worry about being splattered across the canvas. We'll deal with the Internet later. But don't worry, boys. You 'Tubers decide that you're ready to show up, Omar'll step up to the challenge. And just in case that's not enough, I'll have a jolt ready for ya." Donovan sure loved his tazer. Every manager's best friend.
"But to save on confusion... I'ma gonna talk about Kliff. Kliffy. Kliffy baby. Klifford. I know you're gonna say you're smarter than Omar. I know you're gonna say that. And you may or may not be right... Personally gonna lean towards may not. Omar's surprisingly canny, and he's got a lot of street smarts. But you may or may not be smarter than Omar." Donovan reached a hand up, tapping his own temple. "You're not smarter than me, buddy. I promise. I've got a master plan the likes of which you wouldn't believe. And where Omar goes, I go. So even if he was as dumb as your bassist, I could still take care of the thinking for him."
"While we're on the direct comparison step, let's go down the rest of the laundry list for a moment. You're weaker than Omar, you're not as good a striker, you're not gonna bully him like you did Alex and he's definitely gonna be there. Since Omar convincingly beat your so-called White Whale into the mat, all I can guess that gives you an edge is your little mixed martial arts skill. All them holds. Your little ODST thingy."
Donovan shrugs a bit. "Sure. You might be able to get them matchstick arms around Omar's neck and shoulder. Let's just assume that's possible, for shits and gigs. Despite the man's neck being thicker than your thigh, and his arm being big enough to wreck the suspension in your band's 1989 Econoline Minivan. Let's assume you get the hold on. Omar's first instinct is to grab your dominant thumb, which he'll know from fighting you for a few minutes, and to snap that sucker like a chickenbone. Because you're not fighting Justin Brooks anymore. You're not fighting Alex Brooks. You're not even fighting Mel Brooks. You're fighting a bigger, meaner, nastier bastard than you can even remember. He doesn't care what's right, what's moral, what's the Good Thing to Do."
Donovan's beam could light up the nightmares of an orphanage's Halloween evening. "Omar wants to hurt you. Omar would LOVE to do something to you that'd ruin your music career. Omar wants to make his name in Exodus Pro off of your blood and screams. So you lose out on physicality. Omar's a fully trained wrestler and knows his shit. So you aren't really intimidating the man with your skill, which is massively outweighed by the fundamental handicap you'll need to compete with him. You're not smarter than the average of Omar and my brain. And you don't have the ruthlessness edge. What, uh... What exactly DO you have to inflate your odds?"
Donovan pauses for a moment, licking his lips and stroking his stubble. "You're distracted, Kliffertina. Collins got you down. You got an obsession, and every moment you're in the ring with Omar, you're gonna be thinkin' about getting your hands on Jon. Bringing your deepest, most hidden desires to bear on the man. Ooh, the thought of getting to wrap those hands around his throat is already making your nipples hard, isn't it?"
"Too bad all Omar wants is devastation and destruction. A carpetbombing campaign against all those who would dare fight Omar. Anyone who is capable of facing this Superbeast, this Alpha Predator gets crushed. Anyone who wants to claim his domain as their property gets trodden upon. And you, Mister Ulysses, seem to think that the position of Top Dog in Exodus Pro is up for grabs."
"It's not."
"And Omar's gonna prove it by running you through with your own hubris. While you've been all concerned with making Collins sweat you and trying to send little messages, Starmakers Limited has sent all the messages it needs to. The man that you fear, that man that EVERYONE fears is named Omar Wise. Every man, woman and jobber on that roster trembles at being put on the card against Omar, because they know he's gonna flatten them more than a neighborhood after cluster bombing. You?"
Pfft.
"Pbbt. They'll expect to have airplane trouble or Finger Poke of Doom'd. Nobody in the back is trembling at the idea of being put down with your silly DDT thing. But I guarantee every wrestler in the back has an awful mental image of what it's gonna be like to be held on Omar's shoulder, helpless, breathless, racked with pain from the turnbuckle smash, inches from being laid out with a powerslam."
Donovan takes in a breath, eyes fluttering shut for a few moments, enjoying that mental image. Kliff being Shock n' Awe'd. Ooh baby, that had some serious weight to it. That was a good one.
"So, y'know, Kliffy. Write a song about how you're feeling right now. Work out a little bit. Do whatever it takes to pass the time between now and the RIMAC. Because this whole myth you're trying to build, this whole lie of being the biggest and the scariest and the worst monster in the house... It all comes crashing down when Omar breaks you like the Hollywood paper tiger we're gonna expose you to be."
~~~
Stuck in the neverending Los Angeles traffic, Boston flipped his radio on, searching out the very specific morning show he had to listen to. Kalifornia sat in the passenger seat, watching a Ulysses match on her Nexus 7. She had headphones on... Best not to disturb her. She was doing important work. Had to analyze the enemy.
-”ming up, we'll have professional wrestler Omar Wise on the Morning Zoo Crew. And, if I can take a moment to gush, Omar has been making some serious waves in pro wrestling with the help of his manager, Donovan Torment.”
“Manager? Is that like his manservant? His Tonto?”
“I hope he at least knows how to iron a suit.”
Yep, that was the correct morning show. Drumming his fingertips on the steering wheel, Boston gave a heavy sigh. This traffic looked like it would take forever. At least he had given himself plenty of time before this meeting, to purposefully be able to listen to Omar's interview. Kalifornia unplugged an earbud, pausing the video.
“You think he's going soft?”, she asked. The South Korean woman had been a student of Boston's before Omar had. Though she had only occasional dabbles into the ring anymore, she had been his prized pupil... Until Omar had shown up. She wasn't quite convinced she wasn't jealous, but this was business. For now.
“Nah. He comes from a world where respect is only earned through violence. Some rationality breaking into the chaos might make him stumble, but it changes nothing. Omar's set to tear through everyone in his way. Kliff, Cannon, Park.” And as Boston listed that last name, another already set on the tip of his tongue, the commercial for a diamond store ended.
“And we're back with our special guest for today. Welcome to the show, Omar! You-”
“That's MISTER Wise! Look at the size of this guy, he'll tear you in half, Marconi!”
“You're right about that, Snizz. Mister Wise! Welcome.”
Boston chuckled softly. The kid had the superstar presence down, that much was for sure. Whenever he entered a room, Omar had everybody looking at him.
”Uh. Nice to be here, I think.”
“He sounds so convinced. Hey, to anybody just tuning in out there, or confused still, this is Marconi and The Snizz, the KKLZ Morning Zoo. Our guest, Omar “I'm your Baby Daddy” Wise, the darkest and most terrifying man I have ever seen in person. Tell me, Omar. What's it like being the most dominant, grueling monster in all of Exodus Pro Wrestling?”
“It feels like I'm finally getting treated the way I deserve to be.”
“Oh my god, Snizz. I think I just pooped a little. Good green acres, everybody. For those who have never seen the Exodus Pro show, Omar Wise is this huge, scary dude who could very easily be a football linebacker. Instead, he's chosen to use his power and monstrous size to break things and hurt people.”
“Yeah, Marconi. This man put on a heck of a match with Justin Brooks a show back, and then his match with Alex Brooks-”
“No relation.”
“Of course, right, no relation. But this match... Man. I had goosebumps.”
Boston clasped his hands behind his head, smirking. The radio Djs were doing a good enough job of talking Omar up, and the kid was playing the stoic, confident master role to a T. Perfect.
“Good answer.”
“Right?”
“So, your next match is with... Ulysses S. Grant?”
“No, Snizz. Kliff Ulysses. Formerly of a wrestling company called the Universal Wrestling League, this guy is the real deal. Tough, strong, smart as heck...”
“That's right, Kliff. This guy was the terror of Knoxville. Omar, do you sweat this Kliff guy?”
“I don't sweat anyone. Ulysses is gonna be a great test of my skill. Great chance to prove myself. And a great chance to do what Jon Collins can't. Break my foot off in Kliff Ulysses' a-”
“Hey, we're live on the radio, here. So, Collins is your boss, right? He has this thing going on with Ulysses, right?”
“Dang, I wish I could have Omar come into my life and solve my problems for me. Hey, my apartment neighbor listens to Gregorian chants at three in the morning. Think you could solve that for me?”
”For the right price.”
“Ooh! I got chills, Marconi! Mister Wise, do you think there's any chance that you DON'T end up winning everything forever, from here on out?"
"If I lose focus. If someone gets lucky. If I get too wrapped up in breakin' a fool in half, rather than tryin' to beat 'em. If these Youtube Stalkers show up and cost me a match. I can still lose at any time. Thing is... Even if I lose, th' person I'm fightin' is gonna know they were in a war."
"Hearing you say that, I'm terrified. When you played the Kingpin in Daredevil, how was Ben Affleck?"
"Marconi, that was Michael Clarke Duncan, god rest his soul. He was taller than Omar."
"Oh, right. So, what's on your menu, Omar? What happens after Kliff?"
"Win or lose, I go on to try for the Exodus Pro title. If I lose, I get to settle it with Fiona Rourke. If I win, I get to run through Johnny Cannon or Abby Park."
"For those listeners unsure, yes, those were two women mentioned in there. The owners of Exodus Pro really don't see a problem with potentially putting a brick lighthouse like Omar in the ring with girls. So, Omar, after you grind their bones to bake your bread, what kind of yeast do you use?"
"Snizz, he's not a cannibal. I hope. But Mister Wise, do you have any reservations about fighting girls?"
"If they can handle themselves an' wanna be in the ring, I ain't gonna stop 'em. They just gotta know what it is they're walkin' into."
"Okay, final question before we take our first radio break and then get your manager in here to help us field some phone calls. Kliff Ulysses. What do you think?"
"That's a good question, Marconi! C'mon, Omar. Lay it all out for me. What do you think about this guy?"
"I think his mouth writes checks his body can't cash. He thinks he's the baddest man around, but I didn't crawl out of a nightmare t' be forgotten. Kliff is trying to look bad by intimidating the boss and tryin' to get him to fight him. Well, I already intimidated the boss, and I've been provin' that I'm the baddest fighter around just by bein' me. When Kliff steps up to me, I'm gonna lay that boy out. I got them big Hammers ready for him, and I've been waitin' eagerly to mess up his rockstar look."
"Well, if I were Kliff Ulysses, I would have just peed a little. Okay, we've got to pay some bills and rattle off some commercials, but we're gonna be right back with more from Omar Wise!”
“I think Omar's getting it.”, Boston mused. Kalifornia couldn't help but agree.
~~~
Omar powerslid around the corner, expertly twisting his steering wheel to take advantage of the road and the turn. Blue sparks flashed around the wheels of his powerful steed, and his red hat fluttered in the breeze. Nothing could stop him. He was on a whole other level! The worries and fears of the world were beneath gods such as him, so far ahead of all the others! He was blowing the pack away, leaving them in the dust. Just like his matches, this was his chance to really shine and show his domi-
A red shell flew out of nowhere, and knocked Omar's little Mario-man into the air. “Shit.”
Tea zoomed by as the green dinosaur, and was in first place effortlessly. “You gotta learn how to do this shit right, man. Come on!”
Once Mario quit hopping around on the screen, Omar jammed the accelerator and sped after Tea. “I'm comin' for you, girl.”
The monster was serious, and his kart came zooming after Tea's little avatar. Only two other racers separated Omar and Tea, and the big man quickly managed to fly past 'em, leaving the mushroom guy and monkey in the dust. With Tea's lead quickly evaporating, the girl hit an item block. Omar stuck too closely to her tail and missed it, but he wasn't really going for those anyway.
As Tea zipped around a corner, she squawked at Omar and swatted the big man on the arm. “I thought you never played video games! When did you become a ringer?”
Omar just gave a deep, rumbling chuckle, just barely managing to get past Tea's guy-on-the-screen. He was bound for the finish, a-
#FUNKY COLD MEDINA
And then guitar music.
#FUNKY COLD MEDINA
Omar sighed exasperatedly at his cell phone going off. He took his thumb off the accelerator button, and Tea shot through the finish line! Number 1! Omar would have been annoyed by losing the race, except the girl had won. That was good for her. But the list of people who could have called wasn't big. Omar didn't give his number out to anyone. Boston, Donovan, his grandmother and his uncle.
“Hello?”
“Omar? It's Uncle Bobby. Your grandmother is in the hospital.”
“What?”
So, the selfcreated investment portfolio of Mister Boston Bancroft consisted of Starmakers Limited, the Club Midnight franchise, the small New York Pro Wrestling company, and a small group of car washes in New Mexico. Not bad at all for a former professional wrestler. Being a former professional wrestler, Boston had to struggle more to keep the motivation to stay in shape. He hadn't let himself go too far. He still looked damn fine in an UnderArmor. But here was a good excuse. Being the other half of Omar Wise's training regiment.
Omar had athletic tape wrapped around his fists, but no gloves needed. His Hammers didn't care about the heavy, sand-reinforced canvas. He dutifully hammered away on the heavy bag, the former World Champion throwin' his shoulder against the other side to brace it in place.
"Kliff Ulysses. Fiona Rourke. Abby Park. Johnny Cannon. We're gonna burn their faces into your brain, man." Boston's voice only jumped a little as Omar went pounding away on that heavy bag. "But the most important one is Ulysses."
Omar brought that fist back hard, and went hammering on the bag. "Nope. There's Collins." Omar pistoned that fist through, smashing it into the bag. "This internet video fool." He hammered the bag again, showing off a bit of the frustration that had built up. Someone who would say something from the shadows meant Omar couldn't get his mitts on. "Th' creepshow stalkin' th' kid's probably with him." Omar's fist pumped again, hammering into an invisible person(visible bag)'s stomach. "Ulysses, th' punkass mouthy pile o' trash who thinks he's better than me..." A nasty, mean rabbit punch to the jaw, rocking the whole bag madly. "Rourke, who-"
"No. You're not fighting Rourke or Collins or Park or Frost or this invader or anyone else. You are fighting Ulysses and only Ulysses. Anybody else shows up to brawl, Donovan hits 'em with thirty thousand volts, Zortalk hits the ring and we flood the arena with security guards.", Boston coached, still struggling to keep the bag from rockin' and rollin' all over SoCal.
"...We?", Omar questioned, hands going to his hips. He let the bag go still, his breath coming hard. The Hammers were cruel mistress twins. Devilish wenches.
"...Figure of speech?" Boston offered. Omar frowned, and Boston just gave an impish little grin.
"Invested in E-Pro, huh?" Omar wasn't surprised, frankly.
"Not enough to have any say. One of many. But still, I like where it's going. Frost seems to have a good head on his shoulders, an' I love to support independent wrestling. Needless to say, it's in my best interests to keep E-Pro running. And yours, too." Boston stepped away from the heavy bag, and flicked his hands. "C'mon, big man. Walk and talk."
Omar obligingly fell into step behind Boston, heading for the rubberized track. Boston was a big fan of jogging, said it was good for everything a wrestler needed. "Mine too? I got no money in E-Pro."
"You got a stake. You're part of this company, whether they like it or not. Episode one, main event. You, man." Boston glanced over to Omar, where the Assault Breacher Vehicle resolutely ran. "You're not in this to run Exodus Pro into the ground. What good is a King... With no Kingdom?"
Omar's eyes went down. The man had a point. Cheap Wal-Mart sneakers pounded the rubber track. Thank god for the high quality of the on-sale gymshorts Omar had managed to find at the same time. The San Diego Walmart usually had the best things vanish quickly. Omar had been lucky for a change to catch this deal. "Gotta make that money..."
"Exactly. Killing Collins... Well, we can always get Donovan to goad him into "one more fight" with you if you REALLY want. Fiona will come, maybe at March of War. And the mystery guys'll probably pick the perfect moment to show up and ruin your day. But as for right now, you've really got to focus on Kliff." Boston and Omar rounded a corner, the two men taking a moment to really get their breath back. Boston was getting older, and Omar was a lumbering avalanche, not a stampeding gazelle. He wouldn't have been doing this running shit if he weren't being personally trained by a former World Champion.
"Ulysses...", Omar growled.
"Capable but unfocused. Talented but wasting it. Spreading himself too thin, hateful but revenge-driven. Or something, I'm not sure what he wants to eat Collins' face for. But he's gonna be distracted from you. You gotta use that.", Boston said, trailing off as he moved off the path, slowing to a stop by a water fountain outpost along the course. Omar used the break as an excuse to catch his wind. He would say, his stamina was increasing. He'd never be a track star, but he could muster some momentum for that avalanche... Even moreso since he began to train with Boston.
"The man's two twenty-two. You literally have two hundred pounds on him. You have the intensity. You have the power. You have the knowledge, and the ruthlessness. This dude grabs you, you break his fingers.” Boston turned to face Omar, his fist clenching tightly before his chest. “You are fighting for the position of Baddest Motherfucker on the Block here. Forget sportsmanship, forget nobility.”
Omar could see the exact thing Boston meant in his expression. The little helping-up of Alex Brooks. What, was Omar going soft? The big bad enforcer was becoming a bitch, huh? Omar set his jaw, and gave Boston a firm nod. “Hell yeah.”
Boston reached out, clapping Omar on the shoulder. “Come on. His specific moves need counters. I figured 'em all out. It's funny, though.” Boston turned, and began to set off walking again. Omar amiably followed, hands still resting on his hips.
“What? He rip you off or something?” Omar didn't do much research. He was a reactive sort, naturally. Not a planner. He saw the value in it, though.
“No. His finishers are literally the least of your worries. Dude won't be able to do one without getting a hernia, the other'll be easy for you to power out of. He gets you in a front facelock, pop him in the rocks. C'mon, I got a dossier.” The smirk on Boston's lips told Omar the truth. Kalifornia had made a dossier, Boston paid her to do it. The sports therapist instinctually knew about how this shit was done.
Omar was happy to follow Boston. A strategy in a fight was always helpful, and if he knew what Ulysses was gonna do before he'd do it... Well. The Humanoid Typhoon would know who the hell he was fighting at the end of the day. That's for damn sure.
~~~~
"Well. Well well well. Kliff Ulysses finally comes around to face a real challenge." Donovan had his hands spread wide when the camera turned on and faded in from the black, and brought them together into a very evil genius-style drywashing. He rubbed his hands together for a few long moments, considering his plots, eyes cast down and to the side. Considering the scheme. Myeeeeesss...
"Let's see. What was it, week one? Was it a real match... Oh, nope, it was a joke against Itsumo Ichi. Where the kid lay down for you. And then week two was a hair's breadth away from loss against Alex Brooks..." A surprisingly capable Alex Brooks. Giving Kliff Ulysses AND Omar Brooks a run for their money? Not that Donovan would admit such a thing... "And week three, a countout victory against Justin Brooks. Meanwhile... Omar Wise rampages through the roster like a hot wind out of Hell."
Donovan Torment gives a sickly grin, clasping both hands around the head of his cane. "Well. Donovan Torment presenting Omar Wise against Kliff Ulysses. An interesting match-up. And, before I go any further, Kliff..."
Donovan leans in, a sparkly grin on his crooked, jagged, yellowed teeth. "I don't know if you're the stalker. Or the five on one guy. But I do know that if you are, Omar's got some questions for you. He's gonna enhance the shit out of your interrogation." He's talkin' about the Torture Rack, goldurnit.
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, really. And if you happen to NOT be these two Youtube Sensations, then you just have to worry about being splattered across the canvas. We'll deal with the Internet later. But don't worry, boys. You 'Tubers decide that you're ready to show up, Omar'll step up to the challenge. And just in case that's not enough, I'll have a jolt ready for ya." Donovan sure loved his tazer. Every manager's best friend.
"But to save on confusion... I'ma gonna talk about Kliff. Kliffy. Kliffy baby. Klifford. I know you're gonna say you're smarter than Omar. I know you're gonna say that. And you may or may not be right... Personally gonna lean towards may not. Omar's surprisingly canny, and he's got a lot of street smarts. But you may or may not be smarter than Omar." Donovan reached a hand up, tapping his own temple. "You're not smarter than me, buddy. I promise. I've got a master plan the likes of which you wouldn't believe. And where Omar goes, I go. So even if he was as dumb as your bassist, I could still take care of the thinking for him."
"While we're on the direct comparison step, let's go down the rest of the laundry list for a moment. You're weaker than Omar, you're not as good a striker, you're not gonna bully him like you did Alex and he's definitely gonna be there. Since Omar convincingly beat your so-called White Whale into the mat, all I can guess that gives you an edge is your little mixed martial arts skill. All them holds. Your little ODST thingy."
Donovan shrugs a bit. "Sure. You might be able to get them matchstick arms around Omar's neck and shoulder. Let's just assume that's possible, for shits and gigs. Despite the man's neck being thicker than your thigh, and his arm being big enough to wreck the suspension in your band's 1989 Econoline Minivan. Let's assume you get the hold on. Omar's first instinct is to grab your dominant thumb, which he'll know from fighting you for a few minutes, and to snap that sucker like a chickenbone. Because you're not fighting Justin Brooks anymore. You're not fighting Alex Brooks. You're not even fighting Mel Brooks. You're fighting a bigger, meaner, nastier bastard than you can even remember. He doesn't care what's right, what's moral, what's the Good Thing to Do."
Donovan's beam could light up the nightmares of an orphanage's Halloween evening. "Omar wants to hurt you. Omar would LOVE to do something to you that'd ruin your music career. Omar wants to make his name in Exodus Pro off of your blood and screams. So you lose out on physicality. Omar's a fully trained wrestler and knows his shit. So you aren't really intimidating the man with your skill, which is massively outweighed by the fundamental handicap you'll need to compete with him. You're not smarter than the average of Omar and my brain. And you don't have the ruthlessness edge. What, uh... What exactly DO you have to inflate your odds?"
Donovan pauses for a moment, licking his lips and stroking his stubble. "You're distracted, Kliffertina. Collins got you down. You got an obsession, and every moment you're in the ring with Omar, you're gonna be thinkin' about getting your hands on Jon. Bringing your deepest, most hidden desires to bear on the man. Ooh, the thought of getting to wrap those hands around his throat is already making your nipples hard, isn't it?"
"Too bad all Omar wants is devastation and destruction. A carpetbombing campaign against all those who would dare fight Omar. Anyone who is capable of facing this Superbeast, this Alpha Predator gets crushed. Anyone who wants to claim his domain as their property gets trodden upon. And you, Mister Ulysses, seem to think that the position of Top Dog in Exodus Pro is up for grabs."
"It's not."
"And Omar's gonna prove it by running you through with your own hubris. While you've been all concerned with making Collins sweat you and trying to send little messages, Starmakers Limited has sent all the messages it needs to. The man that you fear, that man that EVERYONE fears is named Omar Wise. Every man, woman and jobber on that roster trembles at being put on the card against Omar, because they know he's gonna flatten them more than a neighborhood after cluster bombing. You?"
Pfft.
"Pbbt. They'll expect to have airplane trouble or Finger Poke of Doom'd. Nobody in the back is trembling at the idea of being put down with your silly DDT thing. But I guarantee every wrestler in the back has an awful mental image of what it's gonna be like to be held on Omar's shoulder, helpless, breathless, racked with pain from the turnbuckle smash, inches from being laid out with a powerslam."
Donovan takes in a breath, eyes fluttering shut for a few moments, enjoying that mental image. Kliff being Shock n' Awe'd. Ooh baby, that had some serious weight to it. That was a good one.
"So, y'know, Kliffy. Write a song about how you're feeling right now. Work out a little bit. Do whatever it takes to pass the time between now and the RIMAC. Because this whole myth you're trying to build, this whole lie of being the biggest and the scariest and the worst monster in the house... It all comes crashing down when Omar breaks you like the Hollywood paper tiger we're gonna expose you to be."
~~~
Stuck in the neverending Los Angeles traffic, Boston flipped his radio on, searching out the very specific morning show he had to listen to. Kalifornia sat in the passenger seat, watching a Ulysses match on her Nexus 7. She had headphones on... Best not to disturb her. She was doing important work. Had to analyze the enemy.
-”ming up, we'll have professional wrestler Omar Wise on the Morning Zoo Crew. And, if I can take a moment to gush, Omar has been making some serious waves in pro wrestling with the help of his manager, Donovan Torment.”
“Manager? Is that like his manservant? His Tonto?”
“I hope he at least knows how to iron a suit.”
Yep, that was the correct morning show. Drumming his fingertips on the steering wheel, Boston gave a heavy sigh. This traffic looked like it would take forever. At least he had given himself plenty of time before this meeting, to purposefully be able to listen to Omar's interview. Kalifornia unplugged an earbud, pausing the video.
“You think he's going soft?”, she asked. The South Korean woman had been a student of Boston's before Omar had. Though she had only occasional dabbles into the ring anymore, she had been his prized pupil... Until Omar had shown up. She wasn't quite convinced she wasn't jealous, but this was business. For now.
“Nah. He comes from a world where respect is only earned through violence. Some rationality breaking into the chaos might make him stumble, but it changes nothing. Omar's set to tear through everyone in his way. Kliff, Cannon, Park.” And as Boston listed that last name, another already set on the tip of his tongue, the commercial for a diamond store ended.
“And we're back with our special guest for today. Welcome to the show, Omar! You-”
“That's MISTER Wise! Look at the size of this guy, he'll tear you in half, Marconi!”
“You're right about that, Snizz. Mister Wise! Welcome.”
Boston chuckled softly. The kid had the superstar presence down, that much was for sure. Whenever he entered a room, Omar had everybody looking at him.
”Uh. Nice to be here, I think.”
“He sounds so convinced. Hey, to anybody just tuning in out there, or confused still, this is Marconi and The Snizz, the KKLZ Morning Zoo. Our guest, Omar “I'm your Baby Daddy” Wise, the darkest and most terrifying man I have ever seen in person. Tell me, Omar. What's it like being the most dominant, grueling monster in all of Exodus Pro Wrestling?”
“It feels like I'm finally getting treated the way I deserve to be.”
“Oh my god, Snizz. I think I just pooped a little. Good green acres, everybody. For those who have never seen the Exodus Pro show, Omar Wise is this huge, scary dude who could very easily be a football linebacker. Instead, he's chosen to use his power and monstrous size to break things and hurt people.”
“Yeah, Marconi. This man put on a heck of a match with Justin Brooks a show back, and then his match with Alex Brooks-”
“No relation.”
“Of course, right, no relation. But this match... Man. I had goosebumps.”
Boston clasped his hands behind his head, smirking. The radio Djs were doing a good enough job of talking Omar up, and the kid was playing the stoic, confident master role to a T. Perfect.
“Good answer.”
“Right?”
“So, your next match is with... Ulysses S. Grant?”
“No, Snizz. Kliff Ulysses. Formerly of a wrestling company called the Universal Wrestling League, this guy is the real deal. Tough, strong, smart as heck...”
“That's right, Kliff. This guy was the terror of Knoxville. Omar, do you sweat this Kliff guy?”
“I don't sweat anyone. Ulysses is gonna be a great test of my skill. Great chance to prove myself. And a great chance to do what Jon Collins can't. Break my foot off in Kliff Ulysses' a-”
“Hey, we're live on the radio, here. So, Collins is your boss, right? He has this thing going on with Ulysses, right?”
“Dang, I wish I could have Omar come into my life and solve my problems for me. Hey, my apartment neighbor listens to Gregorian chants at three in the morning. Think you could solve that for me?”
”For the right price.”
“Ooh! I got chills, Marconi! Mister Wise, do you think there's any chance that you DON'T end up winning everything forever, from here on out?"
"If I lose focus. If someone gets lucky. If I get too wrapped up in breakin' a fool in half, rather than tryin' to beat 'em. If these Youtube Stalkers show up and cost me a match. I can still lose at any time. Thing is... Even if I lose, th' person I'm fightin' is gonna know they were in a war."
"Hearing you say that, I'm terrified. When you played the Kingpin in Daredevil, how was Ben Affleck?"
"Marconi, that was Michael Clarke Duncan, god rest his soul. He was taller than Omar."
"Oh, right. So, what's on your menu, Omar? What happens after Kliff?"
"Win or lose, I go on to try for the Exodus Pro title. If I lose, I get to settle it with Fiona Rourke. If I win, I get to run through Johnny Cannon or Abby Park."
"For those listeners unsure, yes, those were two women mentioned in there. The owners of Exodus Pro really don't see a problem with potentially putting a brick lighthouse like Omar in the ring with girls. So, Omar, after you grind their bones to bake your bread, what kind of yeast do you use?"
"Snizz, he's not a cannibal. I hope. But Mister Wise, do you have any reservations about fighting girls?"
"If they can handle themselves an' wanna be in the ring, I ain't gonna stop 'em. They just gotta know what it is they're walkin' into."
"Okay, final question before we take our first radio break and then get your manager in here to help us field some phone calls. Kliff Ulysses. What do you think?"
"That's a good question, Marconi! C'mon, Omar. Lay it all out for me. What do you think about this guy?"
"I think his mouth writes checks his body can't cash. He thinks he's the baddest man around, but I didn't crawl out of a nightmare t' be forgotten. Kliff is trying to look bad by intimidating the boss and tryin' to get him to fight him. Well, I already intimidated the boss, and I've been provin' that I'm the baddest fighter around just by bein' me. When Kliff steps up to me, I'm gonna lay that boy out. I got them big Hammers ready for him, and I've been waitin' eagerly to mess up his rockstar look."
"Well, if I were Kliff Ulysses, I would have just peed a little. Okay, we've got to pay some bills and rattle off some commercials, but we're gonna be right back with more from Omar Wise!”
“I think Omar's getting it.”, Boston mused. Kalifornia couldn't help but agree.
~~~
Omar powerslid around the corner, expertly twisting his steering wheel to take advantage of the road and the turn. Blue sparks flashed around the wheels of his powerful steed, and his red hat fluttered in the breeze. Nothing could stop him. He was on a whole other level! The worries and fears of the world were beneath gods such as him, so far ahead of all the others! He was blowing the pack away, leaving them in the dust. Just like his matches, this was his chance to really shine and show his domi-
A red shell flew out of nowhere, and knocked Omar's little Mario-man into the air. “Shit.”
Tea zoomed by as the green dinosaur, and was in first place effortlessly. “You gotta learn how to do this shit right, man. Come on!”
Once Mario quit hopping around on the screen, Omar jammed the accelerator and sped after Tea. “I'm comin' for you, girl.”
The monster was serious, and his kart came zooming after Tea's little avatar. Only two other racers separated Omar and Tea, and the big man quickly managed to fly past 'em, leaving the mushroom guy and monkey in the dust. With Tea's lead quickly evaporating, the girl hit an item block. Omar stuck too closely to her tail and missed it, but he wasn't really going for those anyway.
As Tea zipped around a corner, she squawked at Omar and swatted the big man on the arm. “I thought you never played video games! When did you become a ringer?”
Omar just gave a deep, rumbling chuckle, just barely managing to get past Tea's guy-on-the-screen. He was bound for the finish, a-
#FUNKY COLD MEDINA
And then guitar music.
#FUNKY COLD MEDINA
Omar sighed exasperatedly at his cell phone going off. He took his thumb off the accelerator button, and Tea shot through the finish line! Number 1! Omar would have been annoyed by losing the race, except the girl had won. That was good for her. But the list of people who could have called wasn't big. Omar didn't give his number out to anyone. Boston, Donovan, his grandmother and his uncle.
“Hello?”
“Omar? It's Uncle Bobby. Your grandmother is in the hospital.”
“What?”
