Thirty Years of Terror (PWE Voltage - RP 1)
Jul 12, 2019 16:00:04 GMT -5
Steele, Cramshaw, and 1 more like this
Post by RS on Jul 12, 2019 16:00:04 GMT -5
THIRTY YEARS OF TERROR
Rock Stone stood in his manager’s office – a stuffy, tiny room above a pizza joint in South Philadelphia. The walls were covered in dusty photographs and showbills, recalling his manager’s glory days gone by. These relics resided on every free inch of the dark wood paneling, but the room was dominated by dozens of large cardboard boxes. Cigar smoke hung in the air, occasionally lit by brilliant beams of light that blazed through the holes in the ratty old blinds. A wheezing speaker played a Lightning Hopkins cassette at a reasonable volume.
Rock Stone cracked his neck gruffly as he snatched a domestic beer from an aged fridge. He had trained all day. He had worked his way to the top of a small Pittsburgh promotion, but it had folded a few months ago. He appeared in a few high school gyms, but had been fairly inactive for a month. He returned to active training in the past week and his aging body was b*tching about it. He looked forward to his new manager’s ambitious ideas, but worried about his decisions being made by someone else.
Duke Rogers had wrestled decades ago, but made a better living as a promotor. He ran a few relatively successful projects in the Tri-State area and remained a pseudo-reputable figure in the Philadelphia area after he was bought out. He was ready for a new career as “Manager To The Stars”, and relished his latest ambitious project.
Duke was so confident in the concept, that he’d already commissioned every imaginable type of merchandise. He wore a contemplative face, as if he were just putting the concept together for the first time.
DR:
“They first let you in the ring in ’92, ’93? That’s 26, 27 years ago. It don’t have the same shine as “30” – and, furthermore, it’s too specific. We can ride thirty for a couple years, easy.”
Rock Stone delicately maneuvered his hulking mass through the crowded room and looked quizzically at his manager.
DR:
“You see, we can start it now and run it for another three or four years and it’ll still be true. Right? Thirty years. T-shirts, the whole bit.”
Rock imagined the cargo of cardboard boxes and frowned at the thought of the crowded van. He stroked the ends of his mustache, suddenly relishing the idea of the boxes emptying at every stop.
RS:
“As long as I don’t have to sit at the table. You peddle the merch, I don’t even wanna do polaroids anymore.”
DR:
“You got it, Rock. Especially after that New England loop…”
Rock had a drink of his beer and shook his head.
RS:
“Those crumbs kept gettin’ too jolly with me. They wanted to shake hands and were laughin’ an’ sh*t. They practically begged me to put ‘em on their ass.”
DR:
“Well, those Boston guys went to the cops – and now we can’t go to Massachusetts at all. I mean – Worcester, Boston, AND Springfield are off the map for us. Good markets, Rock. Big beer drinkers - coulda moved a lotta these bottle openers…”
Duke slapped the side of one of the boxes and shook his head.
DR:
“Well, it’s the promoter’s fault, right?”
Rock nodded and growled about it.
RS:
“That weasel pissed me off the whole run, from the first night on. What kinda moron sends me out to take pictures after my match? Like I’m gonna break a guy’s neck and then kiss a baby ten minutes later? Never in my entire life have I done that. With my blood pumpin’ like that? I should be two beers deep ten minutes after a fight, not chatttin’ up the yokels.”
Duke eyed up a variation of a standard appearance contract he had recently prepared.
DR:
“It’s been noted, my boy. Any publicity is to be done prior to the bout. Promotional activities will be subject to discretion. No polaroids , no signing 8 x 10 glossies. If they want the signed 8 x 10’s, we’ll have them in the van. You won’t have to sit there with the sharpie while some fat bag drools on the table...”
Duke flashed a smile like Indian Corn.
DR:
“ I’ll take care of it, Rock. You just leave it to me.”
Rock sat on a stool and tried to avoid knocking anything off the crowded walls with his huge frame. He fidgeted a bit on the stool and peaked under one of the cardboard flaps to reveal fifty custom-printed beach towels.
RS:
“Hell, do we really have 4 or 5 years of dates lined up?”
DR:
“This tour is indefinite.”
Duke leaned across the table to scrape the ash from the end of his cigar into an old Wawa coffee cup.
DR:
“It’s every place we go for the next coupla years. Every match, every photo op, every bum you knock out on the street. Every stop we make is part of the tour, until we’re too far away from 30 or we run outta shirts.”
Rock laughed, but was less than jolly. He had never been involved with a territory or promotion for too long. If he was especially grumpy somewhere, he wouldn’t last a year. For all his years in the business, he had never been involved with a long-term commitment of this kind.
RS:
“Well, where do we start? The Pittsburgh thing dried up, and we never heard back about the Australian tour.”
Duke leaned back and spit into a nearby wastebasket.
DR:
“I have a radio interview lined up. Nothing wild, an AM sports show in Jersey. Yer gonna hit a spot show in Vineland, and then some Outlaw thing up in Albany. We’ll make an “unofficial” tour-stop at a bowling alley near Niagra Falls, where a collection needs to be made.”
Rock rolled his eyes.
RS:
“Didn’t realize there would be more thumb-breaking for this tour.”
DR:
“Work where we can find it, Rock. Anything in your line, right? Besides, we’ll be out of the state the same night. We’ve moving back up to better things.”
RS:
“Better than a spot show in Vineland? I can hardly wait.”
Duke offered a phlegmy cackle and produced some papers from the pile.
DR:
“Well, I’ve gotten the paperwork from the PWE thing.”
RS:
“The Chicago bout?”
DR:
“Well, yes and no. The show’s been moved to Ottawa. They might not even hit the states. We’ll see.”
RS:
“This has a shot at bein’ solid. I hope I don’t get anchored to the bottom of the card. I’ve been through Canada dozens of times. I made my impact in a lot of towns, but I’m not exactly a national hero. Did you tell them about all the sh*t I’ve done stateside? Did you tell ‘em about that wild Knoxville run in ’08?”
Duke smiled and tapped the paperwork with wagging finger.
DR:
“It’s a tournament for the title, Rock. One of the advantages of getting in on the ground floor. You waltz in early and get yourself a crack at the Gold before a bunch of other losers show up and crowd the line. This is a helluva shot early in the tour. Imagine the business we’ll do with that strap around your waist.”
Rock gazed into the ether. He was beginning to get energized about this tour. He cracked his knuckles and nodded.
RS:
“I’ll make it count. I’ll make a splash…”
DR:
“I want you to show ‘em what you can do – but don’t show ‘em everything. You wanna break some sh*t, maybe slug the referee? It might get you a headline or two, but save that for another time. The biggest splash you could make right now is to win.”
RS:
“You know I’ll do whatever it takes. Who’s up? Some canuck?”
Duke flashed a warning.
DR:
“Well, he’s a bit of a nut.”
Rock wasn’t worried. He’d seen it all in his time.
RS:
“A Wildman? A Butcher?”
DR:
“Naw, not like that. This guy’s some kinda religious nut. Not yer Sunday social type, neither. Grew up in a cave or somethin’ like that. I’ve got a few calls out, we’ll know more about ‘im soon – but I imagine, with his background, he may be a bit unorthodox – and not in a way yer used to!”
Rock stood up and began to pace in the small space available, becoming increasingly agitated as he spoke.
RS:
“Used to? Duke, you know better than anyone – that’s why you got involved. You know I’ll fight my way through a brick wall if that’s what’s on the marquee. Big guys, tall guys, ninjas, beasts, midgets – I’ve put em all in the hospital and I loved it. This O’Brady sounds like an Irish cop – an’ we can add whatever he is to the laundry list a’ guys thatta been PUT DOWN by Rock Stone.
You know Rock Stone is ready for anything – an’ that not everything is ready for Rock Stone!”
Rock bashed an axehandle into a filing cabinet with a nasty noise, leaving a large dent. He pointed an angry finger in Duke’s face.
RS:
“You fedex those papers back over there and warn the office. You tell Cramshaw to get his lawyers on alert. Put it out there that he’s already being negligent – he’s sending one of his new stars out there to be killed. Tell ‘em to balance his books, ‘cause he might be payin’ fer a funeral!”
Duke laughed out loud, chewing on his cigar.
DR:
“That’s the spirit, Rock! The Thirty Years of Terror Tour is gonna shoot outta this shoebox like a godd*mned rocket!”
Duke sloppily rolled his chair a few feet and flung open the door.
DR:
“Get yer sh*t together, pal. We’re loadin’ up the van tomorrow and headin’ out. Get some grub. Get some sleep. See in the mornin’, killer.”
Rock took his time on the walk home. He eyed up every stranger, moved aggressively through traffic, clenched his fist whenever someone walked by. Rock Stone was vibrating, and he couldn’t start this tour fast enough.