Post by Kevin on Jan 25, 2013 14:35:17 GMT -6
Donovan Torment couldn't have been more nervous if he was a pasty white guy with a scruffy beard and the palest complexion ever, about to walk up to some drug dealers in rundown Baltimore. Which was what he was doing. Thankfully for everything in the world, Donovan was being accompanied by two people who were totally badass looking. Omar Wise, the six foot five wall of muscle and anger. Omar looked intimidating, even in a heavy winter jacket. The canvas Carhardtt had been Omar's best friend in Albany. And it had come back, complete with the special pockets.
Kalifornia had gone more for the slightly-dated Matrix look. Sunglasses, long black leather jacket, black pants beneath the jacket. The Japanese woman had been sent along with them for protection, and to handle a little of Boston's business. Their only stipulation was to use this trip to let Kalifornia meet someone in Washington, and it brought with it Kalifornia's steady hand... And rattan sticks.
But still, Donovan felt like a lamb being led to slaughter. Omar had wanted to leave him in the car, but Donovan had insisted. Now, he regretted it.
The bitter cold whipped through the streets of Baltimore, and Donovan hugged his plush, heavy coat tighter around himself. His boots crunched in the snow, and he huddled down deeper into the jacket and his warm, plush scarf. Through his thin leather gloves, Donovan fingered the tazer in the pocket of his heavy winter jacket, not liking the looks of the three-man setup on the streetcorner. Omar wasn't fazed by the cold. He wasn't fazed by much, except that golden right hand of one A. Brooks.
"Yo, whatchu want, man?" asked the kid who approached. Omar paid the little moneyman no mind and went straight up to the man on the stoop, lookin' very much like the boss. Kalifornia followed him, blowing by. Donovan gave the kid a weak smile and touched the brim of his ballcap. Good thing Donovan had a battered old Ravens hat somewhere in there...
"Lookin' for Big Truth. I know this is one of his corners.", Omar rumbled. Donovan swallowed, real hard. This seemed like a poor way to go about things. They'd obviously take offense to this route.
“He own dis corner. He got the good product. Got them yellow-tops, Aggro, ... Whatever you need, dude.” The kid with the sideways hat kept his hands in the pockets of his crappy secondhand store jacket. He hadn't been doing this long, and hadn't splurged. The man on the stoop paid Omar no nevermind, and kept tapping away on his smartphone.
“I don't need no buzz, man. I need to talk to Big Truth. He a friend of mine.”, Omar flatly stated, cutting the kid's sales pitch off. The kid narrowed his eyes, sticking out his chin manfully.
“If he yo' friend, call him. I don't know no Big Truth.”, the kid spat. His eyes gleamed with anger, daring Omar to continue. Omar pursed his lips and made a big fist, turning to look fully at the kid. With his attention distracted from the stoop-man, the stoop-man made a meaningful gesture.
“We can do this th' easy way, or we can do this th' hard way. I get what I need either way.”, Omar growled, eyes boring down on the kid's face.
"Omar, listen, wha-", Donovan began. Omar just reached back, palming Donovan's mouth, silencing him in an instant. Donovan shut up. But it was a split second too late for Omar. The muscle of the crew, formerly dozing against the wall, suddenly was in Omar's business, brought his hand out of the big pocket of his own winter jacket, his gleaming pistol pressing right against Omar's chest!
"Walk away.", the muscle growled. Omar cast a baleful, baleful glance on this fellow. They shared a look.
"You take that shot, you'd better do it perfect.", Omar warned the muscle. The guy was a bald Black man with a scraggly moustache, and he looked like most of his meals came out of a bottle. Or syringe. He obligingly gave Omar the stinkeye right back. Donovan just tried not to pee.
"Tell Big Truth that Omar Wise is looking for him. He'll know what you mean. And he'll reward you for being the go-between...", Kalifornia said with a disinterested tone. It was so obvious, it shouldn't have even had to be said. The man sitting on the stoop plucked the toothpick from his lips, and sent it spinning away after a finger-flick. The thing ended up bouncing off Donovan's shoe and vanishing somewhere into the street.
“Aight. You get one chance t' leave without a new hole in you, big man. I'm gonna make the call. He tell me it's bad news, my friend here pulls the trigger.", the man on the stoop said. But he obligingly pulled a cell phone from his pocket and made a quick call. "Hey. Business.", he said into the phone, then hung up. The boss flipped the cell phone around, pulled the battery cover off and the battery out. A deft switch of the SIM cards, and he put it all back together.
"Yo. Omar Wise. That a good name to be talkin' about?", he asked. And the answer he got back obviously surprised him. "Yeah. He wants to- Yeah. I'll bring him in."
The boss-of-the-corner looked up, and gave a loveless smile. "Looks like it's your lucky day, Big Mac. You get ta see Truth."
~~~
Donovan Torment, sitting in the weight room of a gym. He was in sweats, and looked... tired. But smug. The window behind him showed the nighttime skyline of Baltimore. He had a little bit of jetlag showin' through those thickly plastic-rimmed glasses.
"So, Cliff. Something's been bugging me, and I did a little poking around. I knew I had heard that Humanoid Typhoon thing around somewhere before. And guess what I found. I found that the big cool super-smart, super-scary man who embodies all that lurks in the shadows of the scariest part of the human psyche..."
Donovan reached up, tugging nervously at the sweatband he wore in place of his usual baseball cap.
"Was stealin' nicknames from some old Japanimation series! Should I start calling Omar the Abyss General, the Impaling King, the One Winged Angel, the King of All Monsters? I mean, a LITTLE originality would be ni-... Wait a second."
Donovan blinked, and dug his iPhone out, writing down a quick note. For those talented at lip-reading, he was mumbling "Check copyright on Godzilla". For those untalented at it, just read the preceding text and pretend, god damn it.
"Anyway. Mister Scary Humanoid Typhoon who apparently has a gun for both arms and is obsessed with Love and Peace. You don't call, you don't write... Where's the love? Are you THAT intimidated by Omar Wise? When Omar said that Alex should just vanish, not even show up, and go back to Vegas, he wasn't talking to you..."
Donovan grinned, both hands coming down to rest on the bench as he watched the camera. He shook his head definitively. "Never you, Kliff. You are to be Omar's big moment of triumph and celebration. You're the sacrifice at the top of the ziggurat, man. Omar's big ascension can't happen without splitting your chest open and setting your heart on fire for the glory of the Sun God..."
The Manager of Kings scoots forward, hands going to his knees. "So. Kliff. Nothing's changed since last we talked. I'm gonna reiterate some facts. You're smaller, weaker, outmatched and outclassed. Omar's better and I'm stronger. It's an unbeatable team, and unlike the last time you got a teamup like this, I'm not sending Andre off to bust you up with a rock."
Donovan's grin would have been blinding if he brushed his teeth more. As it was, it was... Uh. Teeth. "No, Fezzik and Vizzini stay together. We work like nobody else can, me helping Omar when I see things he doesn't, Omar using all those gifts given to him by God himself to kick your teeth down your throat, you smug shit."
Donovan narrowed his eyes, adjusting his specs. "Listen here, Kliff. Your carrying on last week was unacceptable. Antagonizing Jon Collins, trying to provoke a match with a retired never-was. Hogging important screentime with your can't-carry-a-tune-in-a-bucket behind."
Donovan jabs a finger and twists that hand, curving his finger upward. "You are not the most important person in Exodus Pro. Neither are these stalkers, whoever they are. Neither is Daisuke, neither is Fiona Rourke. The person in E-Pro who matters the most is the man who makes the biggest splash. The biggest impact. The biggest deal."
The look on Donovan's face... Such blinding, condescending smug satisfaction. "And if you don't see how perfectly Omar has gotten everything to fall right into place, then you're stupid. First show, Omar passes up the inferior title belt to let the little girl get her little toy. And then I start wailing and gnashing my teeth about the obvious bias by the boss-man who is getting his dinky dunked by Exodus Pro's new biggest girlpower seatfiller."
Donovan cups a hand around his mouth in secret, muffling the sound so only the camera could hear. And then he hisses in a whisper. "Omar and I didn't really care about most of it, but the fact that Collins' ref had an awfully fast three count annoyed me slightly. And Rourke's trampy cousin or aunt or whatever she is laying her filthy hands on me. That was unacceptable. Nobody touches me. Nobody lays their stinking hands on me, not some sleazebag girl who had no right to be out there, NOBODY!"
Donovan stared for a moment after his girlish scream. Donny cleared his throat loudly, realizing that he had gotten sidetracked and straightened up. "Anyway. Then Omar got to fight Justin Brooks, the former hottest young talent in wrestling. And to be honest, there's only ever one Black guy at the top of the charts in pro wrestling. Comes from being a sport watched primarily by honkies."
"But he killed Brooks dead. Oh, man. Roach Motel central. And in doing that, Omar did what you never could, huh, Kliff? Thereby positioning himself as the baddest man on the block, while you and A. Brooks have a match that should not have been anywhere near as close as it was. Let's talk timing." Donovan smirked devilishly, laying his hands out in front of him.
"You, Kliff Ulysses, are, were, or pretend to be a big threat who can kill everything in the world. You should be up here." Donovan lifted his hand up, to just over his head.
"Brooks was, at that time, a total unknown rookie who should have gotten squished flat. He was down here." Donovan's hand remains at lap-height. "But then he brought it. He almost beat you! He sucked a good amount of your freakin' credibility away, putting him... like... Here!" Pec-height. Man titty height. And Kliff lowered dramatically.
"Then, next show, guy who is here, Alex..." Donovan shakes his right hand, signalling the hand by his man-titty. "And the still monstrous Omar Wise..." Donovan puts his hand back up about where Kliff's level was. "Fight. And Alex gets in a lucky shot, sure, looks good..." He lifts that right hand up, probably to... chin-height? And Omar lowers from above the head to the hairline. "And Omar loses a little bit of the spark from that punch to the chin, but hey, even Ali went down from time to time. But that leaves me poised in just the right place to matter."
Donovan gives a barking laugh. "Ha! All we've got to do is lay Kliff Ulysses out, bring that obsidian knife down..." Donovan slams his hand down into his other hand's palm with a loud impact. "And we've got it! Ulysses down. Moves on to have a quick loss to Fiona Rourke on his way to ignominy and irrelevance. Right where you belong, rockstar. Go back to playing that six-string, because you ain't cut out for the ring, Kliffortina.”
“Omar crushes Ulysses. Park or Cannon, whoever, Omar crushes them. And then Omar gets to beat Fiona Rourke half to death and take that World Championship from her cooling fingers on iPayPerView, where the world can see his Ascension.” Donovan extends a hand toward the camera, fingers spread as he blissfully grins.
“Don't be mad, Kliff. I'm sorry if this brutal laying out of fact and future undeniable prophecy bothers you. I didn't mean all them mean, nasty words about your musical skill. I'm sure you guys'll break through any day now and become the new biggest thing ever. Tell you what... How about if I call your manager and set you guys up to record the new World Champion theme for Omar for E-Pro TV 5?” Donovan's grin broke through, turning sarcastic and overwhelming. And that was when the screen freezeframed, staying on Donovan's scruffy face n' that awful jagged yellow mouthful of teeth.
~*~*~
Before Omar had gone cornerhopping, he had stopped off at the hospital while Kalifornia went to the hotel to, and I quote, “handle business”. And while the hospital put Omar on edge, the trip in was relatively painless. The staff was friendly, Gram-Gram had, of course, put him on the guest list and said he could come in at any time, so they welcomed him gladly. He was given clear directions and everything worked out.
It made Omar uneasy.
The sight of his wizened old gramma laying in the hospital bed set him at ease, though. Just like always, Omar broke into a big, honest smile as he entered the room, Gram-Gram sitting up and opening her arms to the man. “Omar! My darling, it's so nice to see you!”
The two shared a tender embrace, and Omar felt a lump rising in his throat. The sound of it, he had been expecting her to be in a body cast, face a mess of bruises and contusions... But instead, she looked fine! “It's nice to see you too, Gram-Gram. What happened?” Omar sat down in the chair beside her bed, letting go of the tight embrace.
“Oh, a drunk driver nearly missed me. I jumped out of the way, and gave myself a nasty bruise on my hip. I'm alright now, but they were worried that I may have broken my hip.” Given the little old lady's age... It was definitely a possibility. She had tried to hold out for as long as she could, but her hair was that short, curly little-old-lady 'do. She was nothing but a bag of bones these days, no body fat left on her frame. The fact that she had jumped out of the way at all was a testament to her grit, though.
“I'm glad you're okay, Gram-Gram. I was worried about you.”, Omar said. Gram-Gram just chuckled softly, and patted her grandson on the hand. She glanced to the doorway, where Donovan Torment still stood, baseball cap held between his hands. He hadn't wanted to intrude...
“Please, Donovan. Come in, sit!”, Gram-Gram said, gesturing to another chair at the foot of her bed. He bobbed his head and came rushing over, sitting in the chair primly. “I'm glad you two came. I wanted to hear how my boy is doing out in California! Been winning your fights? And have you met a nice girl, yet? I want to hold a great-grandchild before I go, you know...”
Omar's cheeks flushed, and he was a bit... embarrassed. Donovan smiled winningly, and leaned in. “Well, Omar has become a big, big deal in California. My phone is ringing off the hook for promotional appearances and autograph signings, and he just needs to beat three people and he's a World Champion.”
“Ooh! World Champion. What a title, boy. You think you've got it handled?”, Gram-Gram asked, adjusting her thick-lensed glasses with the hand Omar wasn't holding. Omar ducked his head, nodding and mumbling a “Yes'm.”
“Well. You make sure none of these California turkeys take advantage of you. You put up with a lot in this world and it's time for my beautiful grandson to be appreciated the way I think that people should. You got given these gifts by God, your size n' strength n' speed. You use 'em, and you make sure everybody sees you do so!”, Gram-Gram thundered, wagging one skinny finger in the air at both Omar AND Donovan. Omar smiled, nodding agreeably.
“Yes ma'am.”, Omar agreed.
“We're not gonna let these people take advantage of Omar, Mrs. Wise.”, Donovan chimed in. “Omar's the Kingpin of this place, and after he beats up this rock star-”
“Rock star? He's fighting a musician?”, Gram-Gram questioned.
“Kliff Ulysses got a little band thing goin' on. Also likes to play in wrestling.”, Omar rumbled.
“Oh, you HAVE to send that boy packin', sweetie! No musician can stand up to someone as big and strong as my Omar! Especially one with such a stupid name!”, Gram-Gram said, her smile at seeing her baby grandson betraying her happiness. “Did I ever tell you about the time I dated Ray Charles? Now HE was a musician. All handsy, though. Only one thing on his mind...”
Donovan winced at the revelation. Thinking of Omar's Gram-Gram as a sexual entity made his dick want to crawl back inside him and never come out. “Kliff Ulysses is no Ray Charles. Ulysses would need to make a hit song first, maybe exhibit some lasting power. All he is is an attention addict.”
“Well, if that's the case then you make sure that Omar gives him all the attention he needs. I want him KNOWING that he fought a Wise, and I want that boy to be absolutely sure that he isn't good enough to fight my baby.” She jabbed a finger at Donovan. “And make sure that Omar becomes that World Champion you were talking about.”
“Omar, baby.”, she said, looking straight up to Omar's face. “As long as you're happy doin' what you're doin', I support you one hundred percent. You beat any fool who shows his face in your ring, and you beat him GOOD. No justice like street justice, an' you're the best there is at providin' it!”
Omar nodded firmly, squeezing Gram-Gram's hand gingerly. “I'll beat 'em, Gram-Gram. And I'm gonna do it startin' with this Ulysses sucker.”
“Good boy.”
~*~*~
Donovan was still sitting on that bench he had taped his promo on, wearing the same sweatsuit he had been wearing then. After his(relatively unimpressive) workout, Donovan had taken a sauna bath, and now was just watching the lights blink in the skyline view out the hotel window. Something was bugging him, and he was having trouble figuring out exactly what it was.
Something about... Baltimore. Something...
Oh. Oh.
The last time Donovan had been in Baltimore, he had been managing “Lethal” Clark Quicksilver. The kid had it all. The look, the killer instinct, the athleticism. He had even been an Olympian, although he hadn't won any medals.
They were doing amazing stuff. Clark was the kind of guy that all the ladies wanted to be with, all the men wanted, and Clark could get them to boo him the very instant he felt like he wanted a boo. Half the time, Donovan had been learning from Clark, despite having fifteen years of experience to Clark's one. Man, this kid was great.
They went to the Maryland territory, and Clark was making big waves. He was bound for a shot at their top title. And then some schmuck, Donovan remembered the name Pace...
He purposely snapped Clark's ankle with a kneedrop when Clark was on his hands and knees. Clark wasn't able to walk for six months, and would never wrestle again. His athletic career was toast, and Donovan had been powerless to stop it. And that wasn't the first time that Donovan had a client who had an accident or a fateful booker-screwjob cost him his career. One guy who slept with his boss's daughter ended up blackballed, then there was Quicksilver, and a tag team who had been in a car accident...
Freakin' fickle Fate. Stealing the talent from good young wrestlers and turning them into victims. Donovan was sick of it. This time, his client had the talent and skill and momentum. And Donovan would be damned, damned if he'd let the world screw someone over.
Omar was too good. And he had promised Miz Wise. He was gonna guide Omar to greatness. Donovan made a clenched fist, shaking it before his chest. He wouldn't let them screw Omar, use Omar as a stepping stone, or use Omar as a lesson to the boys in the back. This would be Omar's time, come hell or high Tazing.
Donovan would have to make sure his bag of Fuji powder was full, his tazer was charged, his metal cane was all in good repair, no loose screws or joints, and his bullhorn had a full battery. He would need to get as much attention on Omar as he could. And he would need to be there to make Omar a big deal. Zortalk too, but the Space Pharoah had to also ensure the universe didn't fall prey to Nub-Shiggurath, the dark goast of the haunted woodland, and all her psychotropic young. Or something.
He'd back Zortalk up, but Omar... First Kliff. That was their mantra. And that'd be their mantra right up until the pinfall. Nobody else mattered. Not the stalkers, not Fiona, not Park, not Cannon. Just Kliff. And Kliff would have nowhere to run with Omar's full attention on him.
Just as soon as they got out of this frozen, godforsaken hellhole called Baltimore. Donovan hated it here.
~*~*
“Last show, I had a weird sit'iation. I didn't smear Alex Brooks across the mat.”
Omar was shadowboxing, keeping a good guard up, snapping jabs and rights out. Pap-pap-pap.
“Well, I DID smash 'im. But I put him up in the corner. Let him go out like a man. 'S cuz the man showed me respect. I think he's a dumb sucka who shouldn't have gotten in the ring with me, but he showed me m' proper respect.”
Omar snapped a glance to the camera, guard coming up a halfsecond later to get between him and an imaginary person. Maybe Kliff.
“Fiona said the right things, but in the wrong way. I don't need someone t' be terrified of me... But you bes' be showin' me my proper respect. I am not goin' out to that ring for a friendly wrestlin' competition. I don't care about your little thing with Collins, or if you're the Youtube Video Guy.”
“I care that you are between me an' something I want. That title belt at the end of this road. And I can't go around you, got no reason to stop at you, and have decided to go right through you. I am gonna run through you like you wouldn't believe. I'm gonna beat your body senseless and I'm gonna drop you on your head.”
Omar let his guard down, fists clenching as he straightened. He brought those hammers up, holding them before his chest, knuckles aimed at the camera. “With these hands, I'm gonna bust you up, Kliff. And I'm not plannin' on spendin' half the night runnin' myself ragged trying to get Jon Collins t' take me to th' prom.”
“I'm gonna go to Exodus Pro, I'm gonna warm up, put your ass out on the mat and then I'm movin' on to Cannon or Park. After the beating I'm gonna give you, Fiona'll finish the job. And then I just gotta beat the one person I really, really want t' slap around.”
“I'll think about Johnny an' Abby when it matters. But for right now... It's me an' you, Kliff. And the one question I'm gonna have to ask you when we get together in that ring... Do you really think you're bad enough to beat me down?”
Omar looked at the camera. Long, hard. Ungh, baby.
“Because I know I'm bad enough to beat you down, boy.”
Kalifornia had gone more for the slightly-dated Matrix look. Sunglasses, long black leather jacket, black pants beneath the jacket. The Japanese woman had been sent along with them for protection, and to handle a little of Boston's business. Their only stipulation was to use this trip to let Kalifornia meet someone in Washington, and it brought with it Kalifornia's steady hand... And rattan sticks.
But still, Donovan felt like a lamb being led to slaughter. Omar had wanted to leave him in the car, but Donovan had insisted. Now, he regretted it.
The bitter cold whipped through the streets of Baltimore, and Donovan hugged his plush, heavy coat tighter around himself. His boots crunched in the snow, and he huddled down deeper into the jacket and his warm, plush scarf. Through his thin leather gloves, Donovan fingered the tazer in the pocket of his heavy winter jacket, not liking the looks of the three-man setup on the streetcorner. Omar wasn't fazed by the cold. He wasn't fazed by much, except that golden right hand of one A. Brooks.
"Yo, whatchu want, man?" asked the kid who approached. Omar paid the little moneyman no mind and went straight up to the man on the stoop, lookin' very much like the boss. Kalifornia followed him, blowing by. Donovan gave the kid a weak smile and touched the brim of his ballcap. Good thing Donovan had a battered old Ravens hat somewhere in there...
"Lookin' for Big Truth. I know this is one of his corners.", Omar rumbled. Donovan swallowed, real hard. This seemed like a poor way to go about things. They'd obviously take offense to this route.
“He own dis corner. He got the good product. Got them yellow-tops, Aggro, ... Whatever you need, dude.” The kid with the sideways hat kept his hands in the pockets of his crappy secondhand store jacket. He hadn't been doing this long, and hadn't splurged. The man on the stoop paid Omar no nevermind, and kept tapping away on his smartphone.
“I don't need no buzz, man. I need to talk to Big Truth. He a friend of mine.”, Omar flatly stated, cutting the kid's sales pitch off. The kid narrowed his eyes, sticking out his chin manfully.
“If he yo' friend, call him. I don't know no Big Truth.”, the kid spat. His eyes gleamed with anger, daring Omar to continue. Omar pursed his lips and made a big fist, turning to look fully at the kid. With his attention distracted from the stoop-man, the stoop-man made a meaningful gesture.
“We can do this th' easy way, or we can do this th' hard way. I get what I need either way.”, Omar growled, eyes boring down on the kid's face.
"Omar, listen, wha-", Donovan began. Omar just reached back, palming Donovan's mouth, silencing him in an instant. Donovan shut up. But it was a split second too late for Omar. The muscle of the crew, formerly dozing against the wall, suddenly was in Omar's business, brought his hand out of the big pocket of his own winter jacket, his gleaming pistol pressing right against Omar's chest!
"Walk away.", the muscle growled. Omar cast a baleful, baleful glance on this fellow. They shared a look.
"You take that shot, you'd better do it perfect.", Omar warned the muscle. The guy was a bald Black man with a scraggly moustache, and he looked like most of his meals came out of a bottle. Or syringe. He obligingly gave Omar the stinkeye right back. Donovan just tried not to pee.
"Tell Big Truth that Omar Wise is looking for him. He'll know what you mean. And he'll reward you for being the go-between...", Kalifornia said with a disinterested tone. It was so obvious, it shouldn't have even had to be said. The man sitting on the stoop plucked the toothpick from his lips, and sent it spinning away after a finger-flick. The thing ended up bouncing off Donovan's shoe and vanishing somewhere into the street.
“Aight. You get one chance t' leave without a new hole in you, big man. I'm gonna make the call. He tell me it's bad news, my friend here pulls the trigger.", the man on the stoop said. But he obligingly pulled a cell phone from his pocket and made a quick call. "Hey. Business.", he said into the phone, then hung up. The boss flipped the cell phone around, pulled the battery cover off and the battery out. A deft switch of the SIM cards, and he put it all back together.
"Yo. Omar Wise. That a good name to be talkin' about?", he asked. And the answer he got back obviously surprised him. "Yeah. He wants to- Yeah. I'll bring him in."
The boss-of-the-corner looked up, and gave a loveless smile. "Looks like it's your lucky day, Big Mac. You get ta see Truth."
~~~
Donovan Torment, sitting in the weight room of a gym. He was in sweats, and looked... tired. But smug. The window behind him showed the nighttime skyline of Baltimore. He had a little bit of jetlag showin' through those thickly plastic-rimmed glasses.
"So, Cliff. Something's been bugging me, and I did a little poking around. I knew I had heard that Humanoid Typhoon thing around somewhere before. And guess what I found. I found that the big cool super-smart, super-scary man who embodies all that lurks in the shadows of the scariest part of the human psyche..."
Donovan reached up, tugging nervously at the sweatband he wore in place of his usual baseball cap.
"Was stealin' nicknames from some old Japanimation series! Should I start calling Omar the Abyss General, the Impaling King, the One Winged Angel, the King of All Monsters? I mean, a LITTLE originality would be ni-... Wait a second."
Donovan blinked, and dug his iPhone out, writing down a quick note. For those talented at lip-reading, he was mumbling "Check copyright on Godzilla". For those untalented at it, just read the preceding text and pretend, god damn it.
"Anyway. Mister Scary Humanoid Typhoon who apparently has a gun for both arms and is obsessed with Love and Peace. You don't call, you don't write... Where's the love? Are you THAT intimidated by Omar Wise? When Omar said that Alex should just vanish, not even show up, and go back to Vegas, he wasn't talking to you..."
Donovan grinned, both hands coming down to rest on the bench as he watched the camera. He shook his head definitively. "Never you, Kliff. You are to be Omar's big moment of triumph and celebration. You're the sacrifice at the top of the ziggurat, man. Omar's big ascension can't happen without splitting your chest open and setting your heart on fire for the glory of the Sun God..."
The Manager of Kings scoots forward, hands going to his knees. "So. Kliff. Nothing's changed since last we talked. I'm gonna reiterate some facts. You're smaller, weaker, outmatched and outclassed. Omar's better and I'm stronger. It's an unbeatable team, and unlike the last time you got a teamup like this, I'm not sending Andre off to bust you up with a rock."
Donovan's grin would have been blinding if he brushed his teeth more. As it was, it was... Uh. Teeth. "No, Fezzik and Vizzini stay together. We work like nobody else can, me helping Omar when I see things he doesn't, Omar using all those gifts given to him by God himself to kick your teeth down your throat, you smug shit."
Donovan narrowed his eyes, adjusting his specs. "Listen here, Kliff. Your carrying on last week was unacceptable. Antagonizing Jon Collins, trying to provoke a match with a retired never-was. Hogging important screentime with your can't-carry-a-tune-in-a-bucket behind."
Donovan jabs a finger and twists that hand, curving his finger upward. "You are not the most important person in Exodus Pro. Neither are these stalkers, whoever they are. Neither is Daisuke, neither is Fiona Rourke. The person in E-Pro who matters the most is the man who makes the biggest splash. The biggest impact. The biggest deal."
The look on Donovan's face... Such blinding, condescending smug satisfaction. "And if you don't see how perfectly Omar has gotten everything to fall right into place, then you're stupid. First show, Omar passes up the inferior title belt to let the little girl get her little toy. And then I start wailing and gnashing my teeth about the obvious bias by the boss-man who is getting his dinky dunked by Exodus Pro's new biggest girlpower seatfiller."
Donovan cups a hand around his mouth in secret, muffling the sound so only the camera could hear. And then he hisses in a whisper. "Omar and I didn't really care about most of it, but the fact that Collins' ref had an awfully fast three count annoyed me slightly. And Rourke's trampy cousin or aunt or whatever she is laying her filthy hands on me. That was unacceptable. Nobody touches me. Nobody lays their stinking hands on me, not some sleazebag girl who had no right to be out there, NOBODY!"
Donovan stared for a moment after his girlish scream. Donny cleared his throat loudly, realizing that he had gotten sidetracked and straightened up. "Anyway. Then Omar got to fight Justin Brooks, the former hottest young talent in wrestling. And to be honest, there's only ever one Black guy at the top of the charts in pro wrestling. Comes from being a sport watched primarily by honkies."
"But he killed Brooks dead. Oh, man. Roach Motel central. And in doing that, Omar did what you never could, huh, Kliff? Thereby positioning himself as the baddest man on the block, while you and A. Brooks have a match that should not have been anywhere near as close as it was. Let's talk timing." Donovan smirked devilishly, laying his hands out in front of him.
"You, Kliff Ulysses, are, were, or pretend to be a big threat who can kill everything in the world. You should be up here." Donovan lifted his hand up, to just over his head.
"Brooks was, at that time, a total unknown rookie who should have gotten squished flat. He was down here." Donovan's hand remains at lap-height. "But then he brought it. He almost beat you! He sucked a good amount of your freakin' credibility away, putting him... like... Here!" Pec-height. Man titty height. And Kliff lowered dramatically.
"Then, next show, guy who is here, Alex..." Donovan shakes his right hand, signalling the hand by his man-titty. "And the still monstrous Omar Wise..." Donovan puts his hand back up about where Kliff's level was. "Fight. And Alex gets in a lucky shot, sure, looks good..." He lifts that right hand up, probably to... chin-height? And Omar lowers from above the head to the hairline. "And Omar loses a little bit of the spark from that punch to the chin, but hey, even Ali went down from time to time. But that leaves me poised in just the right place to matter."
Donovan gives a barking laugh. "Ha! All we've got to do is lay Kliff Ulysses out, bring that obsidian knife down..." Donovan slams his hand down into his other hand's palm with a loud impact. "And we've got it! Ulysses down. Moves on to have a quick loss to Fiona Rourke on his way to ignominy and irrelevance. Right where you belong, rockstar. Go back to playing that six-string, because you ain't cut out for the ring, Kliffortina.”
“Omar crushes Ulysses. Park or Cannon, whoever, Omar crushes them. And then Omar gets to beat Fiona Rourke half to death and take that World Championship from her cooling fingers on iPayPerView, where the world can see his Ascension.” Donovan extends a hand toward the camera, fingers spread as he blissfully grins.
“Don't be mad, Kliff. I'm sorry if this brutal laying out of fact and future undeniable prophecy bothers you. I didn't mean all them mean, nasty words about your musical skill. I'm sure you guys'll break through any day now and become the new biggest thing ever. Tell you what... How about if I call your manager and set you guys up to record the new World Champion theme for Omar for E-Pro TV 5?” Donovan's grin broke through, turning sarcastic and overwhelming. And that was when the screen freezeframed, staying on Donovan's scruffy face n' that awful jagged yellow mouthful of teeth.
~*~*~
Before Omar had gone cornerhopping, he had stopped off at the hospital while Kalifornia went to the hotel to, and I quote, “handle business”. And while the hospital put Omar on edge, the trip in was relatively painless. The staff was friendly, Gram-Gram had, of course, put him on the guest list and said he could come in at any time, so they welcomed him gladly. He was given clear directions and everything worked out.
It made Omar uneasy.
The sight of his wizened old gramma laying in the hospital bed set him at ease, though. Just like always, Omar broke into a big, honest smile as he entered the room, Gram-Gram sitting up and opening her arms to the man. “Omar! My darling, it's so nice to see you!”
The two shared a tender embrace, and Omar felt a lump rising in his throat. The sound of it, he had been expecting her to be in a body cast, face a mess of bruises and contusions... But instead, she looked fine! “It's nice to see you too, Gram-Gram. What happened?” Omar sat down in the chair beside her bed, letting go of the tight embrace.
“Oh, a drunk driver nearly missed me. I jumped out of the way, and gave myself a nasty bruise on my hip. I'm alright now, but they were worried that I may have broken my hip.” Given the little old lady's age... It was definitely a possibility. She had tried to hold out for as long as she could, but her hair was that short, curly little-old-lady 'do. She was nothing but a bag of bones these days, no body fat left on her frame. The fact that she had jumped out of the way at all was a testament to her grit, though.
“I'm glad you're okay, Gram-Gram. I was worried about you.”, Omar said. Gram-Gram just chuckled softly, and patted her grandson on the hand. She glanced to the doorway, where Donovan Torment still stood, baseball cap held between his hands. He hadn't wanted to intrude...
“Please, Donovan. Come in, sit!”, Gram-Gram said, gesturing to another chair at the foot of her bed. He bobbed his head and came rushing over, sitting in the chair primly. “I'm glad you two came. I wanted to hear how my boy is doing out in California! Been winning your fights? And have you met a nice girl, yet? I want to hold a great-grandchild before I go, you know...”
Omar's cheeks flushed, and he was a bit... embarrassed. Donovan smiled winningly, and leaned in. “Well, Omar has become a big, big deal in California. My phone is ringing off the hook for promotional appearances and autograph signings, and he just needs to beat three people and he's a World Champion.”
“Ooh! World Champion. What a title, boy. You think you've got it handled?”, Gram-Gram asked, adjusting her thick-lensed glasses with the hand Omar wasn't holding. Omar ducked his head, nodding and mumbling a “Yes'm.”
“Well. You make sure none of these California turkeys take advantage of you. You put up with a lot in this world and it's time for my beautiful grandson to be appreciated the way I think that people should. You got given these gifts by God, your size n' strength n' speed. You use 'em, and you make sure everybody sees you do so!”, Gram-Gram thundered, wagging one skinny finger in the air at both Omar AND Donovan. Omar smiled, nodding agreeably.
“Yes ma'am.”, Omar agreed.
“We're not gonna let these people take advantage of Omar, Mrs. Wise.”, Donovan chimed in. “Omar's the Kingpin of this place, and after he beats up this rock star-”
“Rock star? He's fighting a musician?”, Gram-Gram questioned.
“Kliff Ulysses got a little band thing goin' on. Also likes to play in wrestling.”, Omar rumbled.
“Oh, you HAVE to send that boy packin', sweetie! No musician can stand up to someone as big and strong as my Omar! Especially one with such a stupid name!”, Gram-Gram said, her smile at seeing her baby grandson betraying her happiness. “Did I ever tell you about the time I dated Ray Charles? Now HE was a musician. All handsy, though. Only one thing on his mind...”
Donovan winced at the revelation. Thinking of Omar's Gram-Gram as a sexual entity made his dick want to crawl back inside him and never come out. “Kliff Ulysses is no Ray Charles. Ulysses would need to make a hit song first, maybe exhibit some lasting power. All he is is an attention addict.”
“Well, if that's the case then you make sure that Omar gives him all the attention he needs. I want him KNOWING that he fought a Wise, and I want that boy to be absolutely sure that he isn't good enough to fight my baby.” She jabbed a finger at Donovan. “And make sure that Omar becomes that World Champion you were talking about.”
“Omar, baby.”, she said, looking straight up to Omar's face. “As long as you're happy doin' what you're doin', I support you one hundred percent. You beat any fool who shows his face in your ring, and you beat him GOOD. No justice like street justice, an' you're the best there is at providin' it!”
Omar nodded firmly, squeezing Gram-Gram's hand gingerly. “I'll beat 'em, Gram-Gram. And I'm gonna do it startin' with this Ulysses sucker.”
“Good boy.”
~*~*~
Donovan was still sitting on that bench he had taped his promo on, wearing the same sweatsuit he had been wearing then. After his(relatively unimpressive) workout, Donovan had taken a sauna bath, and now was just watching the lights blink in the skyline view out the hotel window. Something was bugging him, and he was having trouble figuring out exactly what it was.
Something about... Baltimore. Something...
Oh. Oh.
The last time Donovan had been in Baltimore, he had been managing “Lethal” Clark Quicksilver. The kid had it all. The look, the killer instinct, the athleticism. He had even been an Olympian, although he hadn't won any medals.
They were doing amazing stuff. Clark was the kind of guy that all the ladies wanted to be with, all the men wanted, and Clark could get them to boo him the very instant he felt like he wanted a boo. Half the time, Donovan had been learning from Clark, despite having fifteen years of experience to Clark's one. Man, this kid was great.
They went to the Maryland territory, and Clark was making big waves. He was bound for a shot at their top title. And then some schmuck, Donovan remembered the name Pace...
He purposely snapped Clark's ankle with a kneedrop when Clark was on his hands and knees. Clark wasn't able to walk for six months, and would never wrestle again. His athletic career was toast, and Donovan had been powerless to stop it. And that wasn't the first time that Donovan had a client who had an accident or a fateful booker-screwjob cost him his career. One guy who slept with his boss's daughter ended up blackballed, then there was Quicksilver, and a tag team who had been in a car accident...
Freakin' fickle Fate. Stealing the talent from good young wrestlers and turning them into victims. Donovan was sick of it. This time, his client had the talent and skill and momentum. And Donovan would be damned, damned if he'd let the world screw someone over.
Omar was too good. And he had promised Miz Wise. He was gonna guide Omar to greatness. Donovan made a clenched fist, shaking it before his chest. He wouldn't let them screw Omar, use Omar as a stepping stone, or use Omar as a lesson to the boys in the back. This would be Omar's time, come hell or high Tazing.
Donovan would have to make sure his bag of Fuji powder was full, his tazer was charged, his metal cane was all in good repair, no loose screws or joints, and his bullhorn had a full battery. He would need to get as much attention on Omar as he could. And he would need to be there to make Omar a big deal. Zortalk too, but the Space Pharoah had to also ensure the universe didn't fall prey to Nub-Shiggurath, the dark goast of the haunted woodland, and all her psychotropic young. Or something.
He'd back Zortalk up, but Omar... First Kliff. That was their mantra. And that'd be their mantra right up until the pinfall. Nobody else mattered. Not the stalkers, not Fiona, not Park, not Cannon. Just Kliff. And Kliff would have nowhere to run with Omar's full attention on him.
Just as soon as they got out of this frozen, godforsaken hellhole called Baltimore. Donovan hated it here.
~*~*
“Last show, I had a weird sit'iation. I didn't smear Alex Brooks across the mat.”
Omar was shadowboxing, keeping a good guard up, snapping jabs and rights out. Pap-pap-pap.
“Well, I DID smash 'im. But I put him up in the corner. Let him go out like a man. 'S cuz the man showed me respect. I think he's a dumb sucka who shouldn't have gotten in the ring with me, but he showed me m' proper respect.”
Omar snapped a glance to the camera, guard coming up a halfsecond later to get between him and an imaginary person. Maybe Kliff.
“Fiona said the right things, but in the wrong way. I don't need someone t' be terrified of me... But you bes' be showin' me my proper respect. I am not goin' out to that ring for a friendly wrestlin' competition. I don't care about your little thing with Collins, or if you're the Youtube Video Guy.”
“I care that you are between me an' something I want. That title belt at the end of this road. And I can't go around you, got no reason to stop at you, and have decided to go right through you. I am gonna run through you like you wouldn't believe. I'm gonna beat your body senseless and I'm gonna drop you on your head.”
Omar let his guard down, fists clenching as he straightened. He brought those hammers up, holding them before his chest, knuckles aimed at the camera. “With these hands, I'm gonna bust you up, Kliff. And I'm not plannin' on spendin' half the night runnin' myself ragged trying to get Jon Collins t' take me to th' prom.”
“I'm gonna go to Exodus Pro, I'm gonna warm up, put your ass out on the mat and then I'm movin' on to Cannon or Park. After the beating I'm gonna give you, Fiona'll finish the job. And then I just gotta beat the one person I really, really want t' slap around.”
“I'll think about Johnny an' Abby when it matters. But for right now... It's me an' you, Kliff. And the one question I'm gonna have to ask you when we get together in that ring... Do you really think you're bad enough to beat me down?”
Omar looked at the camera. Long, hard. Ungh, baby.
“Because I know I'm bad enough to beat you down, boy.”
