Post by Justin on Oct 10, 2020 10:30:19 GMT -5
New Orleans, Louisiana.
Café du Monde, to be specific.
For two decades now, Eric Dane has made it his morning custom to have Café au Lait and a plate of fresh beignets at the same somewhat secluded table around the back of the open air café. That is, when he's home in the Big Easy and when the tourists aren't out in droves. Today is one of those days. His pastries, covered in powdered sugar, and a half-consumed steaming cup of hot coffee and chicory sit on an iron table in front of him as he peruses the morning edition of the Times-Picayune.
It's a mild but balmy morning. Hurricane Delta is terrorizing Baton Rouge and it's always possible that the outer rings of the storm can whip into town without warning, or worse than that the storm surge can bring the Gulf of Mexico flooding into the city with a vengeance. The Only Star is oblivious, taking a sip from his drink as somebody starts up yet another rousing brass rendition of "As the Saints Go Marching In" right outside of the courtyard.
An incoming text buzzes Dane's phone sitting atop the iron table. He grabs the device and taps his way into his inbox, reading a long message from somewhere. A Cheshire's smile grows on the face of the Uncrowned Champion of Northern Pro Wrestling as he sets the phone back on the table and looks up, presumably at the camera that had been recording this whole time.
"Well then," he starts. "It's official now."
Eric snags the last of his beignets and gobbles it up.
"The draw is done, the matches are set. Somehow Gus Arnold thinks that drawing this shit out for two months and bringin' in a bunch of shitheads from out of town to pop the buyrates is gonna makeup for the giant shit that he took on his own top two titles by letting Dickless Alex Turner anywhere near either of them. Spoiler alert, Gus, it's not. The only thing that's going to put any prestige back into Northern Pro Wrestling is the day that Eric Dane is crowned the North American Double Crown Champion and all of these other assholes crawl back under whatever multi-colored rock that they came from in the first place."
He chuckles before taking another sip to wash down the pastry and vitriol.
"But first..."
The smile widens across his face.
"Maverick. You and I have business. You'd better fucking well hope your partner can beat mine before I tear your arm off, because there's no way in hell I let you catch me slipping ever again."
Several seconds pass as The Only Star lets that last bit linger in the open air.
"I'll see you on the twenty-eighth, kid."
Café du Monde, to be specific.
For two decades now, Eric Dane has made it his morning custom to have Café au Lait and a plate of fresh beignets at the same somewhat secluded table around the back of the open air café. That is, when he's home in the Big Easy and when the tourists aren't out in droves. Today is one of those days. His pastries, covered in powdered sugar, and a half-consumed steaming cup of hot coffee and chicory sit on an iron table in front of him as he peruses the morning edition of the Times-Picayune.
It's a mild but balmy morning. Hurricane Delta is terrorizing Baton Rouge and it's always possible that the outer rings of the storm can whip into town without warning, or worse than that the storm surge can bring the Gulf of Mexico flooding into the city with a vengeance. The Only Star is oblivious, taking a sip from his drink as somebody starts up yet another rousing brass rendition of "As the Saints Go Marching In" right outside of the courtyard.
An incoming text buzzes Dane's phone sitting atop the iron table. He grabs the device and taps his way into his inbox, reading a long message from somewhere. A Cheshire's smile grows on the face of the Uncrowned Champion of Northern Pro Wrestling as he sets the phone back on the table and looks up, presumably at the camera that had been recording this whole time.
"Well then," he starts. "It's official now."
Eric snags the last of his beignets and gobbles it up.
"The draw is done, the matches are set. Somehow Gus Arnold thinks that drawing this shit out for two months and bringin' in a bunch of shitheads from out of town to pop the buyrates is gonna makeup for the giant shit that he took on his own top two titles by letting Dickless Alex Turner anywhere near either of them. Spoiler alert, Gus, it's not. The only thing that's going to put any prestige back into Northern Pro Wrestling is the day that Eric Dane is crowned the North American Double Crown Champion and all of these other assholes crawl back under whatever multi-colored rock that they came from in the first place."
He chuckles before taking another sip to wash down the pastry and vitriol.
"But first..."
The smile widens across his face.
"Maverick. You and I have business. You'd better fucking well hope your partner can beat mine before I tear your arm off, because there's no way in hell I let you catch me slipping ever again."
Several seconds pass as The Only Star lets that last bit linger in the open air.
"I'll see you on the twenty-eighth, kid."
