Post by Justin on Oct 24, 2020 11:49:44 GMT -5
“Understand something.”
The Crescent City Fight Club in New Orleans is a home away from home for several up-and-comers in the Southern independent wrestling circuit. The second floor apartments are a free space where wrestlers from Texas to Alabama to South Carolina and back around through Kentucky and all points in between can have a free place to stay for a night, or a week, or however long their loop might be. The bottom floor of the complex holds the actual dojo, a state of the art complex where said wrestlers can workout in the ring, put in some cardio on a series of treadmills and ellipticals, watch film on a floor-to-ceiling projector screen, or any number of things that aspiring wrestlers or traveling performers might need to do.
“None of this is about you. Either of you.”
The building’s proprietor as well as the founder of and brains behind the CCFC is Angus Skaaland. Angus has been involved in the wrestling business in some form or fashion for near on two decades now. Initially he’d trained as a wrestler under the strict tutelage of one former Canadian Commonwealth Champion, Eric Dane. It didn’t take long for either of them to realize that Angus wasn’t cut out for taking bumps, but he did have a hell of a mouth on him. Long story short, Skaaland and Dane had become best friends and business partners over the years and now that Dane was coming into the twilight of his career, Angus made sure that the man who broke him in always had a place and a job.
“This is about me, get it?”
As such, the largest of the apartments on the second floor has become the home of The Only Star, and Angus has retained Eric as the lead trainer for the dojo as time permits. That is to say, when Dane is in town, he crashes upstairs and when he’s not lost in his feels or distracted by something he’s probably single-handedly the best trainer available in the business.
“Everything you see, everything that the NPW has become, this whole Lethal Lottery nonsense and the Double Crown title that it represents, it’s all about Eric Dane. Not you, Mav. And not your idiot partner Danarys Targaryan. Or Daniel Day Lewis…”
“Dimebag Darrel?”
“No, wait… Darkwing Duck!”
“Whatever, doesn’t fucking matter.”
“Not here. Not now. Not ever.”
At present, the lead instructor is giving a promo class to a smattering of intermediate level students. Today’s subject matter, of course, is Northern Pro Wrestling’s Lethal Lottery tournament to crown a new Double Crown Champion. The Only Star holds the main ring in the academy as his stage, and the students look on from a few folding chairs at ringside.
“I know you think you’re hot shit, Mav. You’re a kid, but you’ve done it all. You’re a flip, flop, and fly fuckboy, but you’ve wrestled with and beaten the best that places like AWF has to offer…”
Eric rolls his eyes knowing full well what kind of shit show AWF runs.
“Good for you.”
The Adversary gives a golf clap.
“Write all that shit down and drop it off at the office, I’m sure Gus’ll have somebody type it up and throw it on a website somewhere. I can promise you this much, that’s the last time anybody’s gonna give a shit about any of it.”
He begins pacing, never missing a beat.
“And go ahead, tell the world about that time you snapped my arm.”
Eric deadpans.
“No, seriously, I’ll wait.”
Crickets chirp. This was obviously added in post-production.
“All finished? Good. You beat a broken down Eric Dane, spiraling out of control and wasting time in an outlaw mud show bullshit promotion like AWF, trying his best to be a team player and tow the line instead of doing what I’ve been doing since well before you were even born.”
He smiles, those pearly whites gleam behind thin, stretched lips.
“Winning. Matches. Titles. Everything.”
“But I’ll give credit where it’s due. You beat me. You embarrassed me. You run me out of a company that I didn’t even like. I guess I should be thanking you, am I right? But I’m not. The fact of the matter is that you, Mav, are the singular blemish on my record in the XHF. You understand what that means, right?”
Nobody who’s anybody believes that he does, but whatever.
“It means that you are a flaw that has to be rewritten.”
“A zit that needs to pop.”
“You’re an error that is going to be corrected, Maverick.”
More pacing, the two-time Hall of Famer is getting heated.
“You started calling yourself the Legend Killer after you broke my arm. That’s cute and all, hilarious if I’m being honest. I was doing that gimmick in 2001 after I ended the careers of men bigger, badder, scarier, and better prepared than you will ever beat. It’s a cute nickname, made me a fuckload of money on merch, but you didn’t kill me Mav, you only slowed me down.”
“The next time I see you, kid, all debts are paid.”
A knowing eyebrow raises and a familiar smirk curls onto his lips.
“Come the 28th I’m gonna send you back home to…”
“Where do you work again?”
“Just kidding, I don’t give a fuck.”
The Only Star lets that one hang in the air. A moment passes and the gathered students begin hooting and hollering. Some of them had never seen a two-minute promo done properly before and they are happy to show their adulation. Angus Skaaland joins Eric in the ring and claps him on the back.
“And that,” Angus says, “is how it’s done. Any questions?”
A hand shoots up, Angus nods and the kid speaks up.
“What about his partner, Don Juan de la Nooch?”
Everybody gets a good chuckle at that. Eric shrugs.
“That guy’s fake news. Next question.”
And just like that, class continues.
The Crescent City Fight Club in New Orleans is a home away from home for several up-and-comers in the Southern independent wrestling circuit. The second floor apartments are a free space where wrestlers from Texas to Alabama to South Carolina and back around through Kentucky and all points in between can have a free place to stay for a night, or a week, or however long their loop might be. The bottom floor of the complex holds the actual dojo, a state of the art complex where said wrestlers can workout in the ring, put in some cardio on a series of treadmills and ellipticals, watch film on a floor-to-ceiling projector screen, or any number of things that aspiring wrestlers or traveling performers might need to do.
“None of this is about you. Either of you.”
The building’s proprietor as well as the founder of and brains behind the CCFC is Angus Skaaland. Angus has been involved in the wrestling business in some form or fashion for near on two decades now. Initially he’d trained as a wrestler under the strict tutelage of one former Canadian Commonwealth Champion, Eric Dane. It didn’t take long for either of them to realize that Angus wasn’t cut out for taking bumps, but he did have a hell of a mouth on him. Long story short, Skaaland and Dane had become best friends and business partners over the years and now that Dane was coming into the twilight of his career, Angus made sure that the man who broke him in always had a place and a job.
“This is about me, get it?”
As such, the largest of the apartments on the second floor has become the home of The Only Star, and Angus has retained Eric as the lead trainer for the dojo as time permits. That is to say, when Dane is in town, he crashes upstairs and when he’s not lost in his feels or distracted by something he’s probably single-handedly the best trainer available in the business.
“Everything you see, everything that the NPW has become, this whole Lethal Lottery nonsense and the Double Crown title that it represents, it’s all about Eric Dane. Not you, Mav. And not your idiot partner Danarys Targaryan. Or Daniel Day Lewis…”
“Dimebag Darrel?”
“No, wait… Darkwing Duck!”
“Whatever, doesn’t fucking matter.”
“Not here. Not now. Not ever.”
At present, the lead instructor is giving a promo class to a smattering of intermediate level students. Today’s subject matter, of course, is Northern Pro Wrestling’s Lethal Lottery tournament to crown a new Double Crown Champion. The Only Star holds the main ring in the academy as his stage, and the students look on from a few folding chairs at ringside.
“I know you think you’re hot shit, Mav. You’re a kid, but you’ve done it all. You’re a flip, flop, and fly fuckboy, but you’ve wrestled with and beaten the best that places like AWF has to offer…”
Eric rolls his eyes knowing full well what kind of shit show AWF runs.
“Good for you.”
The Adversary gives a golf clap.
“Write all that shit down and drop it off at the office, I’m sure Gus’ll have somebody type it up and throw it on a website somewhere. I can promise you this much, that’s the last time anybody’s gonna give a shit about any of it.”
He begins pacing, never missing a beat.
“And go ahead, tell the world about that time you snapped my arm.”
Eric deadpans.
“No, seriously, I’ll wait.”
Crickets chirp. This was obviously added in post-production.
“All finished? Good. You beat a broken down Eric Dane, spiraling out of control and wasting time in an outlaw mud show bullshit promotion like AWF, trying his best to be a team player and tow the line instead of doing what I’ve been doing since well before you were even born.”
He smiles, those pearly whites gleam behind thin, stretched lips.
“Winning. Matches. Titles. Everything.”
“But I’ll give credit where it’s due. You beat me. You embarrassed me. You run me out of a company that I didn’t even like. I guess I should be thanking you, am I right? But I’m not. The fact of the matter is that you, Mav, are the singular blemish on my record in the XHF. You understand what that means, right?”
Nobody who’s anybody believes that he does, but whatever.
“It means that you are a flaw that has to be rewritten.”
“A zit that needs to pop.”
“You’re an error that is going to be corrected, Maverick.”
More pacing, the two-time Hall of Famer is getting heated.
“You started calling yourself the Legend Killer after you broke my arm. That’s cute and all, hilarious if I’m being honest. I was doing that gimmick in 2001 after I ended the careers of men bigger, badder, scarier, and better prepared than you will ever beat. It’s a cute nickname, made me a fuckload of money on merch, but you didn’t kill me Mav, you only slowed me down.”
“The next time I see you, kid, all debts are paid.”
A knowing eyebrow raises and a familiar smirk curls onto his lips.
“Come the 28th I’m gonna send you back home to…”
“Where do you work again?”
“Just kidding, I don’t give a fuck.”
The Only Star lets that one hang in the air. A moment passes and the gathered students begin hooting and hollering. Some of them had never seen a two-minute promo done properly before and they are happy to show their adulation. Angus Skaaland joins Eric in the ring and claps him on the back.
“And that,” Angus says, “is how it’s done. Any questions?”
A hand shoots up, Angus nods and the kid speaks up.
“What about his partner, Don Juan de la Nooch?”
Everybody gets a good chuckle at that. Eric shrugs.
“That guy’s fake news. Next question.”
And just like that, class continues.
