Post by Kevin on Jan 31, 2013 22:29:12 GMT -6
"Things just got a lot more complicated.", Boston said flatly. His hands rested on the tabletop, amongst the clutter. A crumpled can of Red Bull lay next to a half-empty cup from a Starbucks. Pictures littered the table, mixed in together with manila folders, printouts of meticulously taken and further highlighted notes, a powered-on tablet computer on the Exodus Pro rosterpage, a structural diagram of the RIMAC... The room had the air conditioning going, a minifridge stocked with cold water and sugary energy drinks, a pot of coffee sitting in the Mr. Coffee. They were poring over every single And they needed the preparation.
The pictures showed many faces. Kliff Ulysses, Abby Park, Johnny Cannon and Fiona Rourke. Daisuke Iwakuma, Itsumo Ichi, Audrey Lloris, Gouken Haroshi. Kanna Haroshi. Magnus Gunner. Steve Lenton and Kevin Brody. Jon Collins. Rufus Frost. Stewart Gadlin. The amount of sheer information on display was staggering.
Donovan Torment nodded, scooping up the dossier for the Last Son of Britain. He flipped it open, casually leafing through the associated info. "Dang, man...", he quietly muttered. "This is a lot of preptime... How many freakin' finishers do we have to devise counters to? Fiona's dumb facekick, Park's jumping kick, Cannon's roundhouse..."
"I know, right?” Boston muttered, looking over the vast expanse of the table. He scooped up the folio on Fiona Rourke, opening the cover. The glossy promo photo was discarded back onto the table, and Boston began to scan through the collected data on Fiona. It wasn't his first read, either. “Somehow... You have to explain all this to Omar.", the big man mumbled, distracted with thinking and plotting.
"...Wait! What?", Donovan cried, eyes suddenly wise as he whirled on Boston. He had expected the former wrestler to be Omar's mentor! Y'know, like he already was! What was Donovan doing being the teacher? "Why me?"
"What, you think I'm gonna be there to tell him what to do in the ring?", Boston cracked, eyes flicking up from the dossier. He looked over the rims of his expensive steel-rimmed glasses, eyebrow arching.
"Well, actually, yes. But that's beside the point. I'll read it, sure. I'll plan everything, of course. But Omar looks up to you! You're a multiple time former World Champ, you're successful outside of the ring, you're a total badass... I'm just some schlub who found a lucky star and shined it up real nice!" Donovan was selling himself a little short, laying it on a little thick... But it was what he was good at. “Listen, just do what you did to prepare for winning Summer Games. Either of 'em. Better yet, both of 'em!”
Boston smirked as he turned, sticking his hands into his pockets as he sauntered down the length of the boardroom's table. The Fiona dossier ended up tossed casually atop the promo-pic of the leader of the Legion, Daisuke Iwakuma. “Listen, a good chunk of going into one of these situations isn't even your plans. No plan perfectly survives contact with the enemy.” He had long since doffed his jacket, undone his tie, unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt, rolled up his sleeves... The veteran 'rassler sighed a bit. “The best plan I can recommend is to get Omar into the right mentality. He's got to be ready for anything. Between his four possible opponents, the amount of people who may run in to achieve their own ends... and of course, the unknowns on the roster who might want to make an impact.”
The 6'6” investor spun on his heel, shooting a look down to Donovan. “What if that Jay Encina decides that he wants to be the most important guy on the roster. After the dust settles from Omar beating up Abby Park and then Kliff Ulysses, he's gonna be tired. Encina runs down, and then there's a Roarin' Elbow.”
Donovan doesn't want to hear THAT at all. He intended to be ready for such eventualities, and the thought... “I taze the big lug and Omar and I beat feet outta there?” That sounded like such a flimsy answer, and Donovan knew it. Boston did too.
“And if he brings Alex Brooks? Brooks hit the button once. Maybe he could do it again.” Boston sat down in one of the big, comfortably-padded wheeled chairs. He scooted up forward a bit, set his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers. “Or if it's Jafreese Frazier who runs out. Or Summer. Or Jay Thunder and Kai. We can't possibly prepare for every eventuality. No, Omar's got to be in this mentally. He's got to be able to react to unexpected eventualities. And so do you. If we can't adapt to the circumstances, we're dead in the water.”
Donovan weakly fell into his chair, one hand coming up to clamp down on the familiar battered New York Yankees baseball cap that was his favorite hat. He had other favorite teams now, but this hat had been his for multiple decades now. It was his behind-the-scenes hat. “Then we're screwed.”
“No, we-”
#Woo-Hah
#Got you all in check
#I got that head nod shit
#Make you break your neck
Donovan dug for his pocket, as Boston just slowly turned to stare at the smaller, whiter, fatter man. That was not an acceptable ringtone for a New York Jew to have. But Donovan paid Boston no heed, and the Beardy-man just opened his phone, setting it to the loudspeaker mode. That was a very specific ringtone, for a very specific person.
“Hi, Omar. What can I do for you?”, Donovan asked curiously. Omar usually took the first three days after a show totally off, this was the very next day. Boston just crossed his arms over his chest, watching the smartphone.
“I need you to get with Boston and get everything that Kalifornia has on the entire roster.” Omar left no room for argument with that tone.
“Th-.... The whole roster?”, Donovan asked in confusion.
“Err'body. This is the big night. Everybody's gonna wanna make a statement. I wanna know what to expect those I'll probably fight... And I wanna know what the deal is with all the new guys. Just in case. I'm goin' to the gym.”
“Absolutely, Omar. Work that cardio, you've got two big matches coming up.”, Donovan said, giving Boston a significant look. Boston just grinned, and brought a hand up to stroke his moustache.
“No doubt. I'll call later.” Click. Boston leaned forward, smacking Donovan across the bicep. Donovan winced, recoiling from Boston's terrifying violence.
“He's got the right mentality. We prep him right, he keeps from getting hurt between now and the show, I think we've got a real good chance.”, Boston said with much satisfaction. He grabbed up the tablet, tapping on a picture. Abby Park expanded to fill the screen, and Boston began to scroll through her bio.
“Still. Can you talk to him, try to get him into the superstar mindset?”, Donovan nervously asked. He had the Cannonical bio open to the page on his favorite moves.
“Of course. With us motivating him... I think we've got all these confused children under control.”
~*~*~
An Assault Breacher Vehicle towered over the camera, pounding away on a heavy bag. It wasn't really punching practice. Those rocksolid knuckles didn't need any further coaching on where to hit, how to aim, or anything like it. He was just working the cardio, making sure he'd have the drive to go the distance.
“You know, outta all th' chumps in this last bit of the tournament, th' only one I got any respect for whatsoever is Abby Park.”
WHAM WHAM WHAM went a series of stiff, tough right hands.
“I can see the tremble in Jonny Cannon's hand when he talks about me. He knows that fightin' me is his best chance for th' David-an'-Goliath moment that could really be his big first moment. Little scrappy guys like him always think they got a dynamite hit that'll take a guy my size down like a demo charge.”
“But you, Abby... You are absolutely stone-cold when you talk about me. Fiona... Well, we'll get to her. And Kliff doesn't talk about me, because he got his teeth punched down his throat las' time he talked about me. Abby Park... You really gonna bring everything you got to the fight, ain't ya?”
Omar shuffle-stepped back, snapping out a reflexive blow like a morningstar crashing through the air. The bag was rocked. Seriously rocked.
“That's why I hope you do beat Cannon down. I been tired of that boy thinkin' he's above his station, an' I know that not even gettin' to me, much less gettin' to the finals would absolutely destroy his confidence.”
“But don't get it twisted.” Omar's hammers began to batter the bag once more. Whap-whap-whap “I've got no special love for you, Abby.” The rights sent the bag swinging one way, the lefts sent it back the other. “Especially since I got one problem with you.” The edge of his voice was angry.
“You been sayin' something stupid, Abby. You gonna... plow through me?” Omar took a moment to haul an arm back, before SMASHING it into the bag, right around cheek-height! CRASH! “You know who the last guy was to say he'd walk through me?” A vicious, hurtful stomach shot! WHAMMO! “Kliff Ulysses! And I smeared that fool across the canvas.”
Omar peppered the bag with light, distracting lefts before an overhand right HAMMERED the bag and sent it rocking!
“Before that. Justin Brooks. I slammed him so hard on the canvas, I broke his spirit, much less his bones. The only sucka around here showing me my propers...” Omar paused for a moment, a smile flickering across his unseen face. Just for a moment. Hey, felt good to be treated like the monster you were.
“Only boy who had the proper fear of God in 'im... Well, he got a good right hand. That's about as nice a thing I can say about any of these sad fools lacin' up the boots around here. I think Cannon's got a streak of the screamer in 'im. Fiona's tryin' not t' let you see her broken insides. But you, Abby... You've just got the overheated engine in yer head. Like me.”
Omar began to punch once again, hammering big rights and lefts, snapping back and forth. His fists were blurs of motion, slashing through the air with ease. “But don't forget what you're walkin' into. If you get to me, Abby. If.”
Fists came crashing into the bag. Wham wham wham! “You are, if you eat some big meals this week, a hundred twenty pounds. And I am an overly violent man who has a foot of height on you. Over two hundred and fifty pounds of meat, bone, and anger on you. And I don't see you as somethin' weak.” WHAM went a left cross, then WHAM went a right stomach-punch!
“I see you as an opponent, kid. Just somethin' t' fight. You're in m' damn way. And I'm not taking it easy on you for any reason. You're gettin' th' Hammers. You're gettin' th' Shock an' Awe. The corner splash. Enhanced Interrogation.” A nasty grab of the bag, and Omar brought his big right hand into the bag once! Twice! Three times!
“Whatever it takes.”, Omar finally stopped, panting as he did so. Each word came out through a breath of air. He opened his hand, letting go of the bag. The bag settled out, chains clanking, canvas crying out in pain.
“Whatever it takes to put you down, Abby Park. I'll break ya bones if I have to. I'll definitely leave you with bruises. And when it's all over... I'll have done what I do best.” The big man finally turned to face the camera, fists clenching and showing themselves to the camera.
“Beat my opponent to a pulp with these two hands.”
~*~*~
In 2013, Omar Wise was an Assault Breacher Vehicle.
But in 1990, he was a seven-year-old with big plans. He was gonna be a football player, and be a big star, despite currently being a pipsqueak. His dad was a successful plumber, renowned throughout Baltimore as the best solo operation goin'. And his mother was the most popular teller at her bank.
Things were going quite well for the Wise family. His father could afford to take his mother out fairly regularly, Omar didn't want for anything. He got toys to play with, they watched football every sunday, Omar was doing well in school... All that good happy stuff.
One hot August evening, the Wise family went out for dinner. Omar's favorite, pizza. After socking away a good half 'za by himself, Omar was full and happy. The nighttime air was sticky and humid, and the sun had just set shortly before, leaving streaks of red and pink around the western half of the sky. Omar was all full of energy, and was running around the sidewalk, waving his arms and envisioning a scene from his favorite cartoon. Imagination ran strong with the boy back then.
Mister Wise(First name Roland) had his hands in the pockets of his windbreaker, arm linked with his wife. Missus Wise(First name Sheila) had her hands on Roland's bicep, left arm snaked around Roland's elbow. The two just let Omar run. The kid was full of sugar from the Cokes he had drunk, so they'd let him burn a little energy off. The sidewalks were pretty empty at the moment, and accumulated clutter from a sanitation strike left the air a little... fragrant. They just kept more to the area by the fronts of the buildings, rather than close to the edge of the road.
“I wanna eat pizza every night!” Omar shouted. Mister Wise just chuckled, shaking his head. What kid didn't? As Omar zoomed across the sidewalk, making propeller noises with his mouth, Roland stroked his moustache with his free hand.
“You eat a diet like that, you'll never be a football player, boy!” Omar made a face, jumping with both feet onto a soda can laying in the gutter. He didn't want to eat his vegetables. Never did. Especially the ones Omar's mother cooked. Canned stuff, primarily, boiled on the stovetop. Not very imaginative, and just a bit mushy.
Little Omar hopped back up onto the sidewalk, looking up at his dad. “I'm gonna be a famous athlete someday, Dad! I'll eat ALL THE VEGGIES!” The little kid clenched both his fists, and struck a brave, chest-puffed-out pose. Mister Wise laughed, reaching forward and ruffling Omar's hair. Missus Wise stroked her darling baby's cheek. The kid turned, readying to go dashing down the sidewalk...
The car rolling slowly down the road was far enough beyond Omar's attentions that he never even noticed it. The small group of men standing on the streetcorner opposite from them, though... Roland had noticed them. And as the car driving up the road slowed down, Roland immediately copped to what was happening. One hand went for Omar, shoving him to the ground. His shove went off before the shout even did, and DEFINITELY before the gunshots did. He had lived in the city for his whole life. He
pop pop pop pop pop pop
The sounds were sharper than Omar had expected from the cartoons, movies and TV shows he had watched, but they also were kinda... odd. Dull. It was weird enough that he had absolutely no idea what he was hearing.
The car rolling down the road had all the windows roll down, and people leaned out. The men on the corner went for their own sidearms, and a furious shooting battle ensued. Omar never figured out who shot what, but the end result was of the car screeching away, pretty much everybody on the corner dead or running.
Omar got up from where he had fallen, and spun around, looking for his parents. And it didn't occur to him that these crumpled figures on the ground were Mom and Dad.
But after a few moments, his panicking, desperate brain finally figured out what was what. Dad was down, blood gushing from both his temples. The mess that was his face was wracked with pain, and he didn't move. Mom, on the other hand, was still writhing on the ground in pain. Omar fell to his knees beside her, and she reached desperately for the boy. Frothy blood bubbled from her chest, soaking her shirt.
Omar crawled to his mother's side, hands gripping her reaching, groping hand in his. He sniffled, but oddly, no tears would come. As his mother croaked and writhed, hit at least twice, she made sad little choking, gasping noises. Omar later would learn that she had collapsed a lung off a bullet.
The little boy leaned close, whispering “Please don't die, momma...”, and she heard him. Her pretty face, already wracked with pain, contorted in emotional anguish. She swallowed back a great lungful of blood, and managed to force enough wind through her vocal chords to say one more thing.
“D-...Don't be a victim, Omar.”, she managed to hiss, the effort taking a lot out of her. She winced, recoiling from the pain running through her body... And then her face seemed to calm down a little bit. She visibly unknotted a little bit, settling out.
And then she went still.
Omar didn't scream all overdramatically. He didn't rise up to his feet with lightning flashing overhead. He didn't vow to become vengeance OR the night. He didn't declare that criminals were a superstitious, cowardly lot. The little boy just knelt there in a pool of his mother's and father's blood, and gave great, chest-seizing heaves of pain, great noiseless, waterless sobs. His hands came up to his face, wiping at his eyes, and then he grabbed his mom's hand again, shaking it.
No matter how hard he squeezed and shook that hand, it didn't give Omar a reassuring squeeze back. And Omar could feel something deep inside, something important and sacred... Just... snap. Right in half. And he could feel all that pain, all that sorrow, getting locked away inside that great gulf that the snap had opened up. He forced it all down, and he shoved a wall up on the other side of it. Omar would never be a victim again.
He'd never let this happen to him again. He'd make sure anybody who tried to make him a victim... He'd make sure they got it first.
Omar just crouched there for some length of time, holding his momma's hand. He had no idea how long it was. Some men eventually showed up. Omar later figured out that they were the EMTs, and they took his parents to the hospital. Some stuff happened, but Omar can't remember any of it. Selective memory, just being generally numb... Regardless. Omar's first memory after that that was clear at all was riding in the car with his Gram-Gram.
"Now, you've got to be a big boy, Omar.", she hectored, voice stern and rough. Missus Wise was not playing around, not with anyone and not ever.
"Yessum," Omar mumbled. "Never gonna be a victim.", he finished. Gram-Gram had complimented him on his first words in a while, and they drove on. Omar remembered that moment very clearly. Especially nowadays.
~*~*~
Donovan Torment brings in the frame on his own grinning face. Airbrushed onto a tee-shirt, which he was wearing under his open red jacket. “Like it?”, Donovan sneered, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket.
“So, we've got a lot of people to talk about. That's why I'm going to waste this chunk of my precious time talking about someone not even in the matches. No, there's a bigger menace here.” Donovan wagged his tongue, teeth glimmering with a slimy sheen.
“The top onscreen executive of Exodus Pro sees nothing wrong with promising a contracted Exodus Pro wrestler the World Heavyweight Championship. And messily making out with her like some sort of lovestruck schoolboy, before spanking her posterior on our televised product.” Donovan's face had turned serious. Deadly serious.
“This is unacceptable behavior in modern-day society in a business setting. You were not on the clock, Jon Collins. But you were on the product carrying on like something out of Rocky Horror Picture Show. I'm sorry, Jon.” Donovan straightened, working a kink out of his neck with a sudden jerk. His eyes narrowed, and he slipped those hands from his pockets, finger jabbing at the camera.
“You gave up the right to shove your tongue down your top babyface's throat on teevee the moment you signed your contract with this company. It's classless. It's hypocritical. It's disgusting. And most of all, it shows a clear conflict of interest.”
Donovan turns, walking to his right slowly. The white wall behind him gave way to a... what else. Whiteboard. Marker was written on the whiteboard behind him.
CONFLICT OF INTEREST:
noun
The circumstance of a business executive whose personal interests might benefit from his or her official actions or influence.
“Sure, it's a bit chopped down for precision, but that's a solid definition, don't you think?” Donovan reached out with a red marker, scrawling a line under the words “personal interests”. “Personal interests. Like... If your girlfriend and the nearly adoptive mother of your child was randomly given a chance at the greater pay and prestige of being a titleholder? Or a double titleholder?”
Donovan re-capped his red marker with a great flourish, nodding firmly. “Jon. Your mind may be a little hazy from the lovestruck nature of your situation, but let me give you a theoretical situation.” Donovan turned, waving a hand out to an imaginary sky.
“Imagine that you were some schlub managing a hot young talent. Let's call this fella... Bomar Bise. You're gonna be doing okay with yourself, right? But then, your boss, a devastatingly handsome dude named Donovan Torment is shoving his tongue down the throat of some girl who keeps having the dice come up lucky for her. You might start to suspect that your boss, this stunning stallion of a man named Donovan, may be leaning on certain someones to help that crapshoot come up with seven every time.”
Donovan leans back, doing his best approximation of the internet memeface of Obama doin' the Not Bad. “Look. Jon. I'm no heartless monster. I'm even willing to live with your little bias. Just keep it outside of the RIMAC. Have some semblance of professionalism, Collins. Act like the highly paid executive you are being paid to be, at least while we're on television.”
Donovan felt as if he had made his point. Turning to the right, the manager of Kings continued to walk, thinking. A little Kilroy face was revealed in the bottom-right corner of the whiteboard. If you don't know who Kilroy was, too bad.
“There's something else, Jon. You seem to be a magnet for trouble, chief.”
Donovan snapped to attention, wagging a long finger at the camera. “You've got all sorts of spooks and boojums creeping out of your past, with stated intentions of taking you down. Daisuke's all bent out of shape and gearing up for war. What are the rest of us talent on the roster supposed to think when one man now commands a force of at least...”
The ballcapp'd manager turned, making a big show of counting on his fingers. One for Gouken. A moment of consideration, and two for Kanna. Three for Gunner. Four for Kameron Chase. Five for Daisuke Iwakuma. Six for Kliff Ulysses. “Way too many for any other group to really contend with! I can't live as part of your little conflagration of oily rags and sparklers. Is there any force more volatile and prone to selfdestruction than egotistical wrestlers all having to sit in one room and behave?”
Donovan gave the camera a serious look. “Look in my face and tell me you don't think that ten minutes of Steve Lenton, Jay Encina, Kevin Brody, Silver Squid, Jafreese Frazier, Daniel Prophet and Omar Wise in the same room won't end in property damage, regardless of anything you or I could possibly do.”
Look in that stubbly, zitty face.
“These problems of yours are dangerous to the company, and you're handcuffed. They're not gonna go away, and if you aren't willing to DEAL with this situation, it's gonna cost Exodus Pro bodies. And lots of 'em. Security, crew trapped in the middle, wrestlers that Iwakuma decides to cripple...” 'Cuz nobody in E-Pro had done that at all ever before.
“So you have a few options to keep Exodus staff of all colors and shapes from getting hurt. You could... Y'know. Resign! Take your silly problems to your sensei or mentor or Gandalf or whatever. Have him suss out your slapfight with Daisuke and we'll just put on the best wrestling show in the world.” That was certainly an option. Donovan took a moment to think, before offering another option. “Or. Y'know. Resign your administrative job for a wrestling contract. Get a group of wrestlers together as a tag team and go wreck face. Yay, go team Collins and all that!”
Donovan shrugged uncomfortably. Coming up with face ideas made his stomach churn. The idea of a GO TEAM VENTURE moment made him want to hurl. “Or challenge Daisuke to a one-on-one match. Whatever works.”
Donovan licked his lips, hands spreading and coming outward calmingly. “Executives need to not have entire stables of people trying to ruin everything he works for. But you certainly could meet the challenge head-on as a wrestler. That's what you were born to do, Mister Saint of Violence. Crash that ring, wreck bodies, and leave people laying.”
“So lace 'em them boots. Or quit and go on a vision quest across the Australian outback to come back having mastered the Quickening. I don't care what. But this Legion stuff can't continue.” Donovan closed his right hand into a fist, index left extended. Right hand fell away, to stuff into his pocket once more. “And if you do not quit creepily groping your little girltoy on the product, and do not deal with Legion soon, I'm going to bring a legal demand for a vote of no confidence to Rufus Frost. Get more companywise votes of no confidence than votes of confidence and you're out on your ass anyway. So settle your shit.”
Donovan leaned into the camera.
“Or I'm going to settle it for you.”
The pictures showed many faces. Kliff Ulysses, Abby Park, Johnny Cannon and Fiona Rourke. Daisuke Iwakuma, Itsumo Ichi, Audrey Lloris, Gouken Haroshi. Kanna Haroshi. Magnus Gunner. Steve Lenton and Kevin Brody. Jon Collins. Rufus Frost. Stewart Gadlin. The amount of sheer information on display was staggering.
Donovan Torment nodded, scooping up the dossier for the Last Son of Britain. He flipped it open, casually leafing through the associated info. "Dang, man...", he quietly muttered. "This is a lot of preptime... How many freakin' finishers do we have to devise counters to? Fiona's dumb facekick, Park's jumping kick, Cannon's roundhouse..."
"I know, right?” Boston muttered, looking over the vast expanse of the table. He scooped up the folio on Fiona Rourke, opening the cover. The glossy promo photo was discarded back onto the table, and Boston began to scan through the collected data on Fiona. It wasn't his first read, either. “Somehow... You have to explain all this to Omar.", the big man mumbled, distracted with thinking and plotting.
"...Wait! What?", Donovan cried, eyes suddenly wise as he whirled on Boston. He had expected the former wrestler to be Omar's mentor! Y'know, like he already was! What was Donovan doing being the teacher? "Why me?"
"What, you think I'm gonna be there to tell him what to do in the ring?", Boston cracked, eyes flicking up from the dossier. He looked over the rims of his expensive steel-rimmed glasses, eyebrow arching.
"Well, actually, yes. But that's beside the point. I'll read it, sure. I'll plan everything, of course. But Omar looks up to you! You're a multiple time former World Champ, you're successful outside of the ring, you're a total badass... I'm just some schlub who found a lucky star and shined it up real nice!" Donovan was selling himself a little short, laying it on a little thick... But it was what he was good at. “Listen, just do what you did to prepare for winning Summer Games. Either of 'em. Better yet, both of 'em!”
Boston smirked as he turned, sticking his hands into his pockets as he sauntered down the length of the boardroom's table. The Fiona dossier ended up tossed casually atop the promo-pic of the leader of the Legion, Daisuke Iwakuma. “Listen, a good chunk of going into one of these situations isn't even your plans. No plan perfectly survives contact with the enemy.” He had long since doffed his jacket, undone his tie, unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt, rolled up his sleeves... The veteran 'rassler sighed a bit. “The best plan I can recommend is to get Omar into the right mentality. He's got to be ready for anything. Between his four possible opponents, the amount of people who may run in to achieve their own ends... and of course, the unknowns on the roster who might want to make an impact.”
The 6'6” investor spun on his heel, shooting a look down to Donovan. “What if that Jay Encina decides that he wants to be the most important guy on the roster. After the dust settles from Omar beating up Abby Park and then Kliff Ulysses, he's gonna be tired. Encina runs down, and then there's a Roarin' Elbow.”
Donovan doesn't want to hear THAT at all. He intended to be ready for such eventualities, and the thought... “I taze the big lug and Omar and I beat feet outta there?” That sounded like such a flimsy answer, and Donovan knew it. Boston did too.
“And if he brings Alex Brooks? Brooks hit the button once. Maybe he could do it again.” Boston sat down in one of the big, comfortably-padded wheeled chairs. He scooted up forward a bit, set his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers. “Or if it's Jafreese Frazier who runs out. Or Summer. Or Jay Thunder and Kai. We can't possibly prepare for every eventuality. No, Omar's got to be in this mentally. He's got to be able to react to unexpected eventualities. And so do you. If we can't adapt to the circumstances, we're dead in the water.”
Donovan weakly fell into his chair, one hand coming up to clamp down on the familiar battered New York Yankees baseball cap that was his favorite hat. He had other favorite teams now, but this hat had been his for multiple decades now. It was his behind-the-scenes hat. “Then we're screwed.”
“No, we-”
#Woo-Hah
#Got you all in check
#I got that head nod shit
#Make you break your neck
Donovan dug for his pocket, as Boston just slowly turned to stare at the smaller, whiter, fatter man. That was not an acceptable ringtone for a New York Jew to have. But Donovan paid Boston no heed, and the Beardy-man just opened his phone, setting it to the loudspeaker mode. That was a very specific ringtone, for a very specific person.
“Hi, Omar. What can I do for you?”, Donovan asked curiously. Omar usually took the first three days after a show totally off, this was the very next day. Boston just crossed his arms over his chest, watching the smartphone.
“I need you to get with Boston and get everything that Kalifornia has on the entire roster.” Omar left no room for argument with that tone.
“Th-.... The whole roster?”, Donovan asked in confusion.
“Err'body. This is the big night. Everybody's gonna wanna make a statement. I wanna know what to expect those I'll probably fight... And I wanna know what the deal is with all the new guys. Just in case. I'm goin' to the gym.”
“Absolutely, Omar. Work that cardio, you've got two big matches coming up.”, Donovan said, giving Boston a significant look. Boston just grinned, and brought a hand up to stroke his moustache.
“No doubt. I'll call later.” Click. Boston leaned forward, smacking Donovan across the bicep. Donovan winced, recoiling from Boston's terrifying violence.
“He's got the right mentality. We prep him right, he keeps from getting hurt between now and the show, I think we've got a real good chance.”, Boston said with much satisfaction. He grabbed up the tablet, tapping on a picture. Abby Park expanded to fill the screen, and Boston began to scroll through her bio.
“Still. Can you talk to him, try to get him into the superstar mindset?”, Donovan nervously asked. He had the Cannonical bio open to the page on his favorite moves.
“Of course. With us motivating him... I think we've got all these confused children under control.”
~*~*~
An Assault Breacher Vehicle towered over the camera, pounding away on a heavy bag. It wasn't really punching practice. Those rocksolid knuckles didn't need any further coaching on where to hit, how to aim, or anything like it. He was just working the cardio, making sure he'd have the drive to go the distance.
“You know, outta all th' chumps in this last bit of the tournament, th' only one I got any respect for whatsoever is Abby Park.”
WHAM WHAM WHAM went a series of stiff, tough right hands.
“I can see the tremble in Jonny Cannon's hand when he talks about me. He knows that fightin' me is his best chance for th' David-an'-Goliath moment that could really be his big first moment. Little scrappy guys like him always think they got a dynamite hit that'll take a guy my size down like a demo charge.”
“But you, Abby... You are absolutely stone-cold when you talk about me. Fiona... Well, we'll get to her. And Kliff doesn't talk about me, because he got his teeth punched down his throat las' time he talked about me. Abby Park... You really gonna bring everything you got to the fight, ain't ya?”
Omar shuffle-stepped back, snapping out a reflexive blow like a morningstar crashing through the air. The bag was rocked. Seriously rocked.
“That's why I hope you do beat Cannon down. I been tired of that boy thinkin' he's above his station, an' I know that not even gettin' to me, much less gettin' to the finals would absolutely destroy his confidence.”
“But don't get it twisted.” Omar's hammers began to batter the bag once more. Whap-whap-whap “I've got no special love for you, Abby.” The rights sent the bag swinging one way, the lefts sent it back the other. “Especially since I got one problem with you.” The edge of his voice was angry.
“You been sayin' something stupid, Abby. You gonna... plow through me?” Omar took a moment to haul an arm back, before SMASHING it into the bag, right around cheek-height! CRASH! “You know who the last guy was to say he'd walk through me?” A vicious, hurtful stomach shot! WHAMMO! “Kliff Ulysses! And I smeared that fool across the canvas.”
Omar peppered the bag with light, distracting lefts before an overhand right HAMMERED the bag and sent it rocking!
“Before that. Justin Brooks. I slammed him so hard on the canvas, I broke his spirit, much less his bones. The only sucka around here showing me my propers...” Omar paused for a moment, a smile flickering across his unseen face. Just for a moment. Hey, felt good to be treated like the monster you were.
“Only boy who had the proper fear of God in 'im... Well, he got a good right hand. That's about as nice a thing I can say about any of these sad fools lacin' up the boots around here. I think Cannon's got a streak of the screamer in 'im. Fiona's tryin' not t' let you see her broken insides. But you, Abby... You've just got the overheated engine in yer head. Like me.”
Omar began to punch once again, hammering big rights and lefts, snapping back and forth. His fists were blurs of motion, slashing through the air with ease. “But don't forget what you're walkin' into. If you get to me, Abby. If.”
Fists came crashing into the bag. Wham wham wham! “You are, if you eat some big meals this week, a hundred twenty pounds. And I am an overly violent man who has a foot of height on you. Over two hundred and fifty pounds of meat, bone, and anger on you. And I don't see you as somethin' weak.” WHAM went a left cross, then WHAM went a right stomach-punch!
“I see you as an opponent, kid. Just somethin' t' fight. You're in m' damn way. And I'm not taking it easy on you for any reason. You're gettin' th' Hammers. You're gettin' th' Shock an' Awe. The corner splash. Enhanced Interrogation.” A nasty grab of the bag, and Omar brought his big right hand into the bag once! Twice! Three times!
“Whatever it takes.”, Omar finally stopped, panting as he did so. Each word came out through a breath of air. He opened his hand, letting go of the bag. The bag settled out, chains clanking, canvas crying out in pain.
“Whatever it takes to put you down, Abby Park. I'll break ya bones if I have to. I'll definitely leave you with bruises. And when it's all over... I'll have done what I do best.” The big man finally turned to face the camera, fists clenching and showing themselves to the camera.
“Beat my opponent to a pulp with these two hands.”
~*~*~
In 2013, Omar Wise was an Assault Breacher Vehicle.
But in 1990, he was a seven-year-old with big plans. He was gonna be a football player, and be a big star, despite currently being a pipsqueak. His dad was a successful plumber, renowned throughout Baltimore as the best solo operation goin'. And his mother was the most popular teller at her bank.
Things were going quite well for the Wise family. His father could afford to take his mother out fairly regularly, Omar didn't want for anything. He got toys to play with, they watched football every sunday, Omar was doing well in school... All that good happy stuff.
One hot August evening, the Wise family went out for dinner. Omar's favorite, pizza. After socking away a good half 'za by himself, Omar was full and happy. The nighttime air was sticky and humid, and the sun had just set shortly before, leaving streaks of red and pink around the western half of the sky. Omar was all full of energy, and was running around the sidewalk, waving his arms and envisioning a scene from his favorite cartoon. Imagination ran strong with the boy back then.
Mister Wise(First name Roland) had his hands in the pockets of his windbreaker, arm linked with his wife. Missus Wise(First name Sheila) had her hands on Roland's bicep, left arm snaked around Roland's elbow. The two just let Omar run. The kid was full of sugar from the Cokes he had drunk, so they'd let him burn a little energy off. The sidewalks were pretty empty at the moment, and accumulated clutter from a sanitation strike left the air a little... fragrant. They just kept more to the area by the fronts of the buildings, rather than close to the edge of the road.
“I wanna eat pizza every night!” Omar shouted. Mister Wise just chuckled, shaking his head. What kid didn't? As Omar zoomed across the sidewalk, making propeller noises with his mouth, Roland stroked his moustache with his free hand.
“You eat a diet like that, you'll never be a football player, boy!” Omar made a face, jumping with both feet onto a soda can laying in the gutter. He didn't want to eat his vegetables. Never did. Especially the ones Omar's mother cooked. Canned stuff, primarily, boiled on the stovetop. Not very imaginative, and just a bit mushy.
Little Omar hopped back up onto the sidewalk, looking up at his dad. “I'm gonna be a famous athlete someday, Dad! I'll eat ALL THE VEGGIES!” The little kid clenched both his fists, and struck a brave, chest-puffed-out pose. Mister Wise laughed, reaching forward and ruffling Omar's hair. Missus Wise stroked her darling baby's cheek. The kid turned, readying to go dashing down the sidewalk...
The car rolling slowly down the road was far enough beyond Omar's attentions that he never even noticed it. The small group of men standing on the streetcorner opposite from them, though... Roland had noticed them. And as the car driving up the road slowed down, Roland immediately copped to what was happening. One hand went for Omar, shoving him to the ground. His shove went off before the shout even did, and DEFINITELY before the gunshots did. He had lived in the city for his whole life. He
pop pop pop pop pop pop
The sounds were sharper than Omar had expected from the cartoons, movies and TV shows he had watched, but they also were kinda... odd. Dull. It was weird enough that he had absolutely no idea what he was hearing.
The car rolling down the road had all the windows roll down, and people leaned out. The men on the corner went for their own sidearms, and a furious shooting battle ensued. Omar never figured out who shot what, but the end result was of the car screeching away, pretty much everybody on the corner dead or running.
Omar got up from where he had fallen, and spun around, looking for his parents. And it didn't occur to him that these crumpled figures on the ground were Mom and Dad.
But after a few moments, his panicking, desperate brain finally figured out what was what. Dad was down, blood gushing from both his temples. The mess that was his face was wracked with pain, and he didn't move. Mom, on the other hand, was still writhing on the ground in pain. Omar fell to his knees beside her, and she reached desperately for the boy. Frothy blood bubbled from her chest, soaking her shirt.
Omar crawled to his mother's side, hands gripping her reaching, groping hand in his. He sniffled, but oddly, no tears would come. As his mother croaked and writhed, hit at least twice, she made sad little choking, gasping noises. Omar later would learn that she had collapsed a lung off a bullet.
The little boy leaned close, whispering “Please don't die, momma...”, and she heard him. Her pretty face, already wracked with pain, contorted in emotional anguish. She swallowed back a great lungful of blood, and managed to force enough wind through her vocal chords to say one more thing.
“D-...Don't be a victim, Omar.”, she managed to hiss, the effort taking a lot out of her. She winced, recoiling from the pain running through her body... And then her face seemed to calm down a little bit. She visibly unknotted a little bit, settling out.
And then she went still.
Omar didn't scream all overdramatically. He didn't rise up to his feet with lightning flashing overhead. He didn't vow to become vengeance OR the night. He didn't declare that criminals were a superstitious, cowardly lot. The little boy just knelt there in a pool of his mother's and father's blood, and gave great, chest-seizing heaves of pain, great noiseless, waterless sobs. His hands came up to his face, wiping at his eyes, and then he grabbed his mom's hand again, shaking it.
No matter how hard he squeezed and shook that hand, it didn't give Omar a reassuring squeeze back. And Omar could feel something deep inside, something important and sacred... Just... snap. Right in half. And he could feel all that pain, all that sorrow, getting locked away inside that great gulf that the snap had opened up. He forced it all down, and he shoved a wall up on the other side of it. Omar would never be a victim again.
He'd never let this happen to him again. He'd make sure anybody who tried to make him a victim... He'd make sure they got it first.
Omar just crouched there for some length of time, holding his momma's hand. He had no idea how long it was. Some men eventually showed up. Omar later figured out that they were the EMTs, and they took his parents to the hospital. Some stuff happened, but Omar can't remember any of it. Selective memory, just being generally numb... Regardless. Omar's first memory after that that was clear at all was riding in the car with his Gram-Gram.
"Now, you've got to be a big boy, Omar.", she hectored, voice stern and rough. Missus Wise was not playing around, not with anyone and not ever.
"Yessum," Omar mumbled. "Never gonna be a victim.", he finished. Gram-Gram had complimented him on his first words in a while, and they drove on. Omar remembered that moment very clearly. Especially nowadays.
~*~*~
Donovan Torment brings in the frame on his own grinning face. Airbrushed onto a tee-shirt, which he was wearing under his open red jacket. “Like it?”, Donovan sneered, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket.
“So, we've got a lot of people to talk about. That's why I'm going to waste this chunk of my precious time talking about someone not even in the matches. No, there's a bigger menace here.” Donovan wagged his tongue, teeth glimmering with a slimy sheen.
“The top onscreen executive of Exodus Pro sees nothing wrong with promising a contracted Exodus Pro wrestler the World Heavyweight Championship. And messily making out with her like some sort of lovestruck schoolboy, before spanking her posterior on our televised product.” Donovan's face had turned serious. Deadly serious.
“This is unacceptable behavior in modern-day society in a business setting. You were not on the clock, Jon Collins. But you were on the product carrying on like something out of Rocky Horror Picture Show. I'm sorry, Jon.” Donovan straightened, working a kink out of his neck with a sudden jerk. His eyes narrowed, and he slipped those hands from his pockets, finger jabbing at the camera.
“You gave up the right to shove your tongue down your top babyface's throat on teevee the moment you signed your contract with this company. It's classless. It's hypocritical. It's disgusting. And most of all, it shows a clear conflict of interest.”
Donovan turns, walking to his right slowly. The white wall behind him gave way to a... what else. Whiteboard. Marker was written on the whiteboard behind him.
CONFLICT OF INTEREST:
noun
The circumstance of a business executive whose personal interests might benefit from his or her official actions or influence.
“Sure, it's a bit chopped down for precision, but that's a solid definition, don't you think?” Donovan reached out with a red marker, scrawling a line under the words “personal interests”. “Personal interests. Like... If your girlfriend and the nearly adoptive mother of your child was randomly given a chance at the greater pay and prestige of being a titleholder? Or a double titleholder?”
Donovan re-capped his red marker with a great flourish, nodding firmly. “Jon. Your mind may be a little hazy from the lovestruck nature of your situation, but let me give you a theoretical situation.” Donovan turned, waving a hand out to an imaginary sky.
“Imagine that you were some schlub managing a hot young talent. Let's call this fella... Bomar Bise. You're gonna be doing okay with yourself, right? But then, your boss, a devastatingly handsome dude named Donovan Torment is shoving his tongue down the throat of some girl who keeps having the dice come up lucky for her. You might start to suspect that your boss, this stunning stallion of a man named Donovan, may be leaning on certain someones to help that crapshoot come up with seven every time.”
Donovan leans back, doing his best approximation of the internet memeface of Obama doin' the Not Bad. “Look. Jon. I'm no heartless monster. I'm even willing to live with your little bias. Just keep it outside of the RIMAC. Have some semblance of professionalism, Collins. Act like the highly paid executive you are being paid to be, at least while we're on television.”
Donovan felt as if he had made his point. Turning to the right, the manager of Kings continued to walk, thinking. A little Kilroy face was revealed in the bottom-right corner of the whiteboard. If you don't know who Kilroy was, too bad.
“There's something else, Jon. You seem to be a magnet for trouble, chief.”
Donovan snapped to attention, wagging a long finger at the camera. “You've got all sorts of spooks and boojums creeping out of your past, with stated intentions of taking you down. Daisuke's all bent out of shape and gearing up for war. What are the rest of us talent on the roster supposed to think when one man now commands a force of at least...”
The ballcapp'd manager turned, making a big show of counting on his fingers. One for Gouken. A moment of consideration, and two for Kanna. Three for Gunner. Four for Kameron Chase. Five for Daisuke Iwakuma. Six for Kliff Ulysses. “Way too many for any other group to really contend with! I can't live as part of your little conflagration of oily rags and sparklers. Is there any force more volatile and prone to selfdestruction than egotistical wrestlers all having to sit in one room and behave?”
Donovan gave the camera a serious look. “Look in my face and tell me you don't think that ten minutes of Steve Lenton, Jay Encina, Kevin Brody, Silver Squid, Jafreese Frazier, Daniel Prophet and Omar Wise in the same room won't end in property damage, regardless of anything you or I could possibly do.”
Look in that stubbly, zitty face.
“These problems of yours are dangerous to the company, and you're handcuffed. They're not gonna go away, and if you aren't willing to DEAL with this situation, it's gonna cost Exodus Pro bodies. And lots of 'em. Security, crew trapped in the middle, wrestlers that Iwakuma decides to cripple...” 'Cuz nobody in E-Pro had done that at all ever before.
“So you have a few options to keep Exodus staff of all colors and shapes from getting hurt. You could... Y'know. Resign! Take your silly problems to your sensei or mentor or Gandalf or whatever. Have him suss out your slapfight with Daisuke and we'll just put on the best wrestling show in the world.” That was certainly an option. Donovan took a moment to think, before offering another option. “Or. Y'know. Resign your administrative job for a wrestling contract. Get a group of wrestlers together as a tag team and go wreck face. Yay, go team Collins and all that!”
Donovan shrugged uncomfortably. Coming up with face ideas made his stomach churn. The idea of a GO TEAM VENTURE moment made him want to hurl. “Or challenge Daisuke to a one-on-one match. Whatever works.”
Donovan licked his lips, hands spreading and coming outward calmingly. “Executives need to not have entire stables of people trying to ruin everything he works for. But you certainly could meet the challenge head-on as a wrestler. That's what you were born to do, Mister Saint of Violence. Crash that ring, wreck bodies, and leave people laying.”
“So lace 'em them boots. Or quit and go on a vision quest across the Australian outback to come back having mastered the Quickening. I don't care what. But this Legion stuff can't continue.” Donovan closed his right hand into a fist, index left extended. Right hand fell away, to stuff into his pocket once more. “And if you do not quit creepily groping your little girltoy on the product, and do not deal with Legion soon, I'm going to bring a legal demand for a vote of no confidence to Rufus Frost. Get more companywise votes of no confidence than votes of confidence and you're out on your ass anyway. So settle your shit.”
Donovan leaned into the camera.
“Or I'm going to settle it for you.”
