Post by Justin on Feb 18, 2021 15:37:03 GMT -5
Backstage.
Deep, deep backstage.
The Syndicate's dressing room to be precise.
Scott Steel is nowhere to be found, presumably The Mountain is in the other room showering but who the fuck knows with that guy, right? Across the room, Jesse Jamester sits with his back to the door. His head is down, covered in a towel, and the lizard mask sits limply on the floor beside him. The Canadian Nightmare is stewing somewhere between rage and embarrassment, fully aware of what his loss in the ring is going to cost Eric Dane.
The Champion, himself the avatar of rage and discontent, paces back and forth like a madman. Dane is still in his gear, sans the heavy duty adamantium knee brace that he'd sloughed off immediately upon coming back from the match only moments ago. He'd made the choice in the moment to skip the post-match media scrum and bring his beaten unit directly back to get showers, dressed, and the fuck out of Mississauga.
“...slapstick fucking piss-break motherfuckers…”
“I take full responsibility, this was on me.”
Speaking from under the towel, Jesse Jamester lifts his head. You could see this wasn’t a part of the game plan for the Syndicate, just by the look on his face. A shade of red on the only visible parts of his cheeks, where the beard didn’t cover, as Jesse pulled the towel back, his long hair soaked and hanging on his shoulders.
“They pulled a fast one on me tonight. I’m not putting that blame anywhere but here,” thumbing towards himself, Jesse began to stand up.
The Only Star stops pacing just in front of his hired hitman. A tense moment unfolds as the Champion comes eye to eye with Jamester before reaching up and laying a reassuring hand on Jesse’s shoulder.
“Nah,” Eric says. “It’s on all of us.”
“I will make this right, you can bet on it.”
The best description of what happened next, was the first double ultra kool-aid man in history as the Aurochs and Scott Steel busted whole cloth through the wrong side of the locker room, dust and insulation exploding outwards in meteoric radii.
Having come through the bathroom, water preceded them on the floor. Eric Dane and Jesse Jamester both looked on, neither entirely surprised, Jamester pulled a thumb indicating which side of the room the door was one. Neither galoot seemed particularly aware of why this was an important detail.
“We ride together, we die together.”
Eric flashes a smile.
“Win, lose, or draw, we do it as a goddamned team.”
Jesse nods. “And what about Dominicus?”
A pained, annoyed smile came to Dane’s face.
“The Littlest Lord has been begging for some attention for weeks now, ever since that business with the corgis. Reckon it’s high time I give the little twerp what he wants.”
Jesse bellows a light laugh.
“The squeaky wheel gets the grease, eh?”
The Champ nods.
“Abso-fucking-lutely.”
Deep, deep backstage.
The Syndicate's dressing room to be precise.
Scott Steel is nowhere to be found, presumably The Mountain is in the other room showering but who the fuck knows with that guy, right? Across the room, Jesse Jamester sits with his back to the door. His head is down, covered in a towel, and the lizard mask sits limply on the floor beside him. The Canadian Nightmare is stewing somewhere between rage and embarrassment, fully aware of what his loss in the ring is going to cost Eric Dane.
The Champion, himself the avatar of rage and discontent, paces back and forth like a madman. Dane is still in his gear, sans the heavy duty adamantium knee brace that he'd sloughed off immediately upon coming back from the match only moments ago. He'd made the choice in the moment to skip the post-match media scrum and bring his beaten unit directly back to get showers, dressed, and the fuck out of Mississauga.
“...slapstick fucking piss-break motherfuckers…”
“I take full responsibility, this was on me.”
Speaking from under the towel, Jesse Jamester lifts his head. You could see this wasn’t a part of the game plan for the Syndicate, just by the look on his face. A shade of red on the only visible parts of his cheeks, where the beard didn’t cover, as Jesse pulled the towel back, his long hair soaked and hanging on his shoulders.
“They pulled a fast one on me tonight. I’m not putting that blame anywhere but here,” thumbing towards himself, Jesse began to stand up.
The Only Star stops pacing just in front of his hired hitman. A tense moment unfolds as the Champion comes eye to eye with Jamester before reaching up and laying a reassuring hand on Jesse’s shoulder.
“Nah,” Eric says. “It’s on all of us.”
“I will make this right, you can bet on it.”
The best description of what happened next, was the first double ultra kool-aid man in history as the Aurochs and Scott Steel busted whole cloth through the wrong side of the locker room, dust and insulation exploding outwards in meteoric radii.
Having come through the bathroom, water preceded them on the floor. Eric Dane and Jesse Jamester both looked on, neither entirely surprised, Jamester pulled a thumb indicating which side of the room the door was one. Neither galoot seemed particularly aware of why this was an important detail.
“We ride together, we die together.”
Eric flashes a smile.
“Win, lose, or draw, we do it as a goddamned team.”
Jesse nods. “And what about Dominicus?”
A pained, annoyed smile came to Dane’s face.
“The Littlest Lord has been begging for some attention for weeks now, ever since that business with the corgis. Reckon it’s high time I give the little twerp what he wants.”
Jesse bellows a light laugh.
“The squeaky wheel gets the grease, eh?”
The Champ nods.
“Abso-fucking-lutely.”
