We're fine. Everything is "fine."
Jan 22, 2021 0:30:43 GMT -5
SWAT Team, Oh-Oh, and 4 more like this
Post by Justin on Jan 22, 2021 0:30:43 GMT -5
Mississauga, Ontario.
The Powerade Centre.
Thirty(ish) minutes after the main event to CWC Night Three.
Backstage, specifically the Syndicate’s private dressing area.
Scott Steel paces the room, eyes darting back and forth frantically in some kind of sick anticipation of violence. He’s so ready he’s trembling and the vascularity across the corded muscles of his chest is downright gross. Jesse Jamester has taken up residence across the room on a bench near an open closet-sized locker. The lizard mask is gone from his face, but the Halliburton case is as close to him as one man could be to an armored briefcase.
Eric Dane sits square backed against a locker, a squad of trainers and physicians buzzing around him like flies trying to run a battery of concussion protocol tests on him after the R2 Driver that he’d eaten only a half an hour or so ago. Somebody caught wind of Dane complaining about seeing stars and blacking out momentarily and now he can’t lose the medical brigade to save his life.
“Mr. Dane,” the technician trying to blast a stream of light into Dane’s pupils blurts. “If you’d just let us do our jobs-”
Eric cuts him off.
“I told you I was fine.”
The door to Dane and friends’ on the job domicile implodes inward and in walks Gus Arnold with a scowl on his face and a squad of Security Goons looking for a reason to break out the zipties. Through all the luck in the ‘verse Scott Steel is a well enough trained dog that he doesn’t attack without being given a signal from his master.
That doesn’t stop him from salivating, chomping at the bit even.
Gus speaks, not to his Champion, but to his training staff.
“If Mr. Dane says he’s fine, he’s fine. Surely he’s not the type to jeopardize his Championship by wrestling at anything less than 100%, am I right? You all are dismissed.”
The techs scatter, Dane mockingly winks at one as he takes a glance back over his shoulder on the way out of the room. Gus takes a seat directly in front of Dane and his goons loom large over the two of them. Scott and Jesse hold positions, each man ready to get stupid should the need arise or the command be given.
“And speaking of fines, I believe ten thousand ought to cover that little display of yours this evening. You’re not gonna have your goons put hands on one of my referees and get away without consequences!”
Tension fills the room,
Scott Steel is poised to unleash the kind of raw potato fury on Gus’s men that only he could think up in that thick skull of his. Jamester, more the tactician, has already figured out his preferred plan of attack along with two backup plans and an escape route. The man got his job in the Syndicate for a reason, and it ain’t because his mask sells a truckload of merch.
Dane stares at the NPW Kingpin, no doubt weighing odds against consequences. A noticeably tearse moment passes before Dane cracks one of his bullshit condescending smiles.
“Come now, Gussy,” Dane says, “We’re fine. Everything is fine. We’re happy like huckleberries in here! Jess…”
Jamester’s eyes meet Dane’s. An imperceptible cue is passed. The Canadian Nightmare reaches down to the case at his side, flips a few numbers until the proper combination pops the case open. He grabs one banded stack of hundreds and flips it in the direction of Gus and his goons. One of them, the one closest to Gus, bends at the waist and retrieves the money, never taking his eyes off of Jamester.
“As a matter of fact,” Eric continues, “Show him just exactly how fine we are, Mr. Jamester.”
Jesse grabs five more equally sized stacks and tosses them at Gus’s feet with a chuckle. Steel can’t help himself but to bellow out a deafening belly laugh of his own.
“What’s this?” Gus asks.
“What’s it look like? That’s fifty large. Call it a down payment.”
Gus frowns.
“Eric, listen to me now and listen well. If you so much as-”
The Only Star interrupts with impunity.
“If I do so much as what?”
“Anything. If you set one foot inside of this building during the Cruiserweight Cup finale show I will personally strip that title from you and fire you so fast your head’ll spin!”
Dane guffaws.
“You ain’t got the sack.”
It’s Gus’s turn to chuckle.
“Try me and find out.”
Without another word Gus Arnold stands, kicking Dane’s $50,000 back at Jamester as he does. He turns and is flanked by his very serious business security detail as he exits just the way that he entered. Dane’s eyes flare, his entire face having gone red as Gus has just called his bluff.
Or did he?
Time will tell.
The Powerade Centre.
Thirty(ish) minutes after the main event to CWC Night Three.
Backstage, specifically the Syndicate’s private dressing area.
Scott Steel paces the room, eyes darting back and forth frantically in some kind of sick anticipation of violence. He’s so ready he’s trembling and the vascularity across the corded muscles of his chest is downright gross. Jesse Jamester has taken up residence across the room on a bench near an open closet-sized locker. The lizard mask is gone from his face, but the Halliburton case is as close to him as one man could be to an armored briefcase.
Eric Dane sits square backed against a locker, a squad of trainers and physicians buzzing around him like flies trying to run a battery of concussion protocol tests on him after the R2 Driver that he’d eaten only a half an hour or so ago. Somebody caught wind of Dane complaining about seeing stars and blacking out momentarily and now he can’t lose the medical brigade to save his life.
“Mr. Dane,” the technician trying to blast a stream of light into Dane’s pupils blurts. “If you’d just let us do our jobs-”
Eric cuts him off.
“I told you I was fine.”
The door to Dane and friends’ on the job domicile implodes inward and in walks Gus Arnold with a scowl on his face and a squad of Security Goons looking for a reason to break out the zipties. Through all the luck in the ‘verse Scott Steel is a well enough trained dog that he doesn’t attack without being given a signal from his master.
That doesn’t stop him from salivating, chomping at the bit even.
Gus speaks, not to his Champion, but to his training staff.
“If Mr. Dane says he’s fine, he’s fine. Surely he’s not the type to jeopardize his Championship by wrestling at anything less than 100%, am I right? You all are dismissed.”
The techs scatter, Dane mockingly winks at one as he takes a glance back over his shoulder on the way out of the room. Gus takes a seat directly in front of Dane and his goons loom large over the two of them. Scott and Jesse hold positions, each man ready to get stupid should the need arise or the command be given.
“And speaking of fines, I believe ten thousand ought to cover that little display of yours this evening. You’re not gonna have your goons put hands on one of my referees and get away without consequences!”
Tension fills the room,
Scott Steel is poised to unleash the kind of raw potato fury on Gus’s men that only he could think up in that thick skull of his. Jamester, more the tactician, has already figured out his preferred plan of attack along with two backup plans and an escape route. The man got his job in the Syndicate for a reason, and it ain’t because his mask sells a truckload of merch.
Dane stares at the NPW Kingpin, no doubt weighing odds against consequences. A noticeably tearse moment passes before Dane cracks one of his bullshit condescending smiles.
“Come now, Gussy,” Dane says, “We’re fine. Everything is fine. We’re happy like huckleberries in here! Jess…”
Jamester’s eyes meet Dane’s. An imperceptible cue is passed. The Canadian Nightmare reaches down to the case at his side, flips a few numbers until the proper combination pops the case open. He grabs one banded stack of hundreds and flips it in the direction of Gus and his goons. One of them, the one closest to Gus, bends at the waist and retrieves the money, never taking his eyes off of Jamester.
“As a matter of fact,” Eric continues, “Show him just exactly how fine we are, Mr. Jamester.”
Jesse grabs five more equally sized stacks and tosses them at Gus’s feet with a chuckle. Steel can’t help himself but to bellow out a deafening belly laugh of his own.
“What’s this?” Gus asks.
“What’s it look like? That’s fifty large. Call it a down payment.”
Gus frowns.
“Eric, listen to me now and listen well. If you so much as-”
The Only Star interrupts with impunity.
“If I do so much as what?”
“Anything. If you set one foot inside of this building during the Cruiserweight Cup finale show I will personally strip that title from you and fire you so fast your head’ll spin!”
Dane guffaws.
“You ain’t got the sack.”
It’s Gus’s turn to chuckle.
“Try me and find out.”
Without another word Gus Arnold stands, kicking Dane’s $50,000 back at Jamester as he does. He turns and is flanked by his very serious business security detail as he exits just the way that he entered. Dane’s eyes flare, his entire face having gone red as Gus has just called his bluff.
Or did he?
Time will tell.
