Post by Justin on Feb 4, 2021 1:04:21 GMT -5
After.
The Navigator.
Scott Steel and the Aurochs, both dressed exactly the same as before, are folded uncomfortably into the third row bench seat. The two of them are engaging in what some might describe as the world’s least intense staring contest. Having been chided on previous trips to not horse around in the back seat, the two ayatollahs of adrenaline are sitting mute. Scott Steel for whatever reason has still not removed his mask. Neither has the Aurochs, but as he is a masked wrestler this makes a lot more sense than the noncognito Scott Steel.
“For the last time, Scott.” Eric Dane interrupts the silence. “Powerbombing the poor schmuck would have been in poor taste. At that point, it’s just piling on for piling on’s sake.”
Steel who had been engaging in what some had called stoicism suddenly comes alive, eyes all raw animal frenzy and the Navigator begins to gently vibrate. Dane, seeing this, raises a single eyebrow at the Mountain, before turning back around. The Navigator stops any excess beyond regulation resonance.
“Also, and I can’t stress this enough, because I said so.”
The Boss, as is his wont, sits comfortably by himself in the passenger’s side of the middle row. Across the vehicle, belted into place lovingly, is the North American Double Crown title belt. Dane gives an obsessive glance over at the belt before staring into the back seat. Even though there is no horseshit going on, Dane is on high alert regarding his vehicle and having two men who are perpetually endowed (allegedly) by ‘supplements.’
Dane’s two masked henchmen sit almost domesticated in the back, one cowed, the other probably going to explode out of the navigator at the first possible opportunity. Steel seems to consider saying something but thinks better of it and instead returns to baseline normal, which is to say staring at the back of the seat in front of him.
“Besides,” Eric adds, “Adrien Cochrane doesn’t rate a real beating. He’s no doubt running back to wherever-the-fuck he came from with his tail tucked firmly between his legs. I’m sure that I wish him well in all of his future endeavors, probably.”
The Only Star rolls his eyes as he turns back to face front.
The interactive display console in front of him glows to life, its screen reading Incoming Call: Gus Arnold. Dane scrunches his brows and wrinkles his nose. Gus never calls just to shoot the shit anymore, ever since Eric had started working for the Canadian promoter they’d had something of a falling out.
That’s a story that’s mostly already been told.
Eric taps the green Accept prompt on his screen. Gus’s face, grizzled and drizzled with the kind of annoyance that would put a lesser man on nitroglycerin, greets his champion with a certain amount of disgust clearly written in his glare.
“What?” Eric blurts.
“You really don’t get it, do you?” Gus asks.
Dane shrugs, feigning ignorance.
“I told you I’d fire you.”
“And I told you that you ain’t got the sack.”
A moment passes, Gus appears to be swallowing a heaping helping of either pride or rage. Either way it’s sure to come with a hot side of bile creeping up his esophagus and creeping into the back of his throat.
“Maybe I’ve got more respect for that title belt than you do. Maybe I don’t trust you to run off back to Chicago with that belt if I did fire you.” Gus pauses, grinding teeth and choosing his next words carefully. “Maybe, just maybe I’ve got worse in mind for you than letting you out of a contract that you’ve barely honored since the day you signed it.”
Dane considers this.
“Yeah. And maybe you got a little dick. But we’ll never know, because like I already said, Gussy, you ain’t got the sack!”
He cackles, ever amused by poking the bear.
“I’ll tell you what, big shot,” It’s Gus’s turn to smirk. “You’ve got a big match coming up on the 16th. You and your boys against a few of the people that you’ve pissed off on your way to the top. And guess what, since you can’t seem to grasp the concept of consequences I’ve decided to add a stipulation onto your match.”
Dane’s eyes narrow.
Gus continues, “Should any member of the opposing team pin any member of the Syndicate, then that person will get a one-on-one Double Crown title shot for their efforts!”
“Ha!” Dane erupts. “Those three idiots couldn’t work together if you wrapped ‘em in duct tape and wired all four of their combined brain cells together! I could give a fuck about your little stipulation, Gussy, there’s a million ways around that bush league bullshit.”
“I wasn’t finished,” Gus deadpanned. “If you or any of your little band of hooligans should find yourselves disqualified, counted out, or otherwise unable to continue the match legally then all of your opponents will get an opportunity to face you for the belt in a Four Way Dance!”
The Champ’s face goes pale.
The NPW kingpin smiles.
“Yeah, I thought you’d like that. Toodles!”
The screen goes blank.
The Navigator.
Scott Steel and the Aurochs, both dressed exactly the same as before, are folded uncomfortably into the third row bench seat. The two of them are engaging in what some might describe as the world’s least intense staring contest. Having been chided on previous trips to not horse around in the back seat, the two ayatollahs of adrenaline are sitting mute. Scott Steel for whatever reason has still not removed his mask. Neither has the Aurochs, but as he is a masked wrestler this makes a lot more sense than the noncognito Scott Steel.
“For the last time, Scott.” Eric Dane interrupts the silence. “Powerbombing the poor schmuck would have been in poor taste. At that point, it’s just piling on for piling on’s sake.”
Steel who had been engaging in what some had called stoicism suddenly comes alive, eyes all raw animal frenzy and the Navigator begins to gently vibrate. Dane, seeing this, raises a single eyebrow at the Mountain, before turning back around. The Navigator stops any excess beyond regulation resonance.
“Also, and I can’t stress this enough, because I said so.”
The Boss, as is his wont, sits comfortably by himself in the passenger’s side of the middle row. Across the vehicle, belted into place lovingly, is the North American Double Crown title belt. Dane gives an obsessive glance over at the belt before staring into the back seat. Even though there is no horseshit going on, Dane is on high alert regarding his vehicle and having two men who are perpetually endowed (allegedly) by ‘supplements.’
Dane’s two masked henchmen sit almost domesticated in the back, one cowed, the other probably going to explode out of the navigator at the first possible opportunity. Steel seems to consider saying something but thinks better of it and instead returns to baseline normal, which is to say staring at the back of the seat in front of him.
“Besides,” Eric adds, “Adrien Cochrane doesn’t rate a real beating. He’s no doubt running back to wherever-the-fuck he came from with his tail tucked firmly between his legs. I’m sure that I wish him well in all of his future endeavors, probably.”
The Only Star rolls his eyes as he turns back to face front.
The interactive display console in front of him glows to life, its screen reading Incoming Call: Gus Arnold. Dane scrunches his brows and wrinkles his nose. Gus never calls just to shoot the shit anymore, ever since Eric had started working for the Canadian promoter they’d had something of a falling out.
That’s a story that’s mostly already been told.
Eric taps the green Accept prompt on his screen. Gus’s face, grizzled and drizzled with the kind of annoyance that would put a lesser man on nitroglycerin, greets his champion with a certain amount of disgust clearly written in his glare.
“What?” Eric blurts.
“You really don’t get it, do you?” Gus asks.
Dane shrugs, feigning ignorance.
“I told you I’d fire you.”
“And I told you that you ain’t got the sack.”
A moment passes, Gus appears to be swallowing a heaping helping of either pride or rage. Either way it’s sure to come with a hot side of bile creeping up his esophagus and creeping into the back of his throat.
“Maybe I’ve got more respect for that title belt than you do. Maybe I don’t trust you to run off back to Chicago with that belt if I did fire you.” Gus pauses, grinding teeth and choosing his next words carefully. “Maybe, just maybe I’ve got worse in mind for you than letting you out of a contract that you’ve barely honored since the day you signed it.”
Dane considers this.
“Yeah. And maybe you got a little dick. But we’ll never know, because like I already said, Gussy, you ain’t got the sack!”
He cackles, ever amused by poking the bear.
“I’ll tell you what, big shot,” It’s Gus’s turn to smirk. “You’ve got a big match coming up on the 16th. You and your boys against a few of the people that you’ve pissed off on your way to the top. And guess what, since you can’t seem to grasp the concept of consequences I’ve decided to add a stipulation onto your match.”
Dane’s eyes narrow.
Gus continues, “Should any member of the opposing team pin any member of the Syndicate, then that person will get a one-on-one Double Crown title shot for their efforts!”
“Ha!” Dane erupts. “Those three idiots couldn’t work together if you wrapped ‘em in duct tape and wired all four of their combined brain cells together! I could give a fuck about your little stipulation, Gussy, there’s a million ways around that bush league bullshit.”
“I wasn’t finished,” Gus deadpanned. “If you or any of your little band of hooligans should find yourselves disqualified, counted out, or otherwise unable to continue the match legally then all of your opponents will get an opportunity to face you for the belt in a Four Way Dance!”
The Champ’s face goes pale.
The NPW kingpin smiles.
“Yeah, I thought you’d like that. Toodles!”
The screen goes blank.
