The Doors of Perception
Mar 3, 2021 17:07:27 GMT -5
Mongo the Destroyer, Eron Hunter, and 1 more like this
Post by Justin on Mar 3, 2021 17:07:27 GMT -5
New Orleans is beautiful in the morning. That is, when it’s not raining, and the tourists haven’t already flooded everything with their stupid pastel polo shirts and their stupid flip-flops in the city and their less than desirable children trying to steal everything they can get their hands on in any of the hundreds of shops lining the streets for a few miles in every direction.
That is to say, on a sunny day in a pandemic.
You know, just like today.
Café du Monde is a Louisiana tradition, hell it’s a landmark. Each location is packed daily, even in the down season and handicapped by social distancing there isn’t an empty seat on the concourse. Right now today in the French Market the line wraps around the building and runs two blocks down Decatur Street.
This is where Blake Samuels finds The Only Star.
Well, first it’s where he finds The Mountain. Scott Steel is dressed in a pair of beat up old Lee Jeans and a leather vest finished off with a pair of black leather shit-kickers and the kind of vibrating gravitas that could transcend the four dimensions as we’ve come to know and understand them. His half of the Imperial Crown Tag Team Championships is wrapped securely around his middle.
Scott stands guard over two brass posts and a velvet rope.
Blake: I’m here to see him.
NPW’s most versatile journalist jabs a finger at the North American Double-Crown Champion, sitting there drinking his coffee and chicory and reading this morning’s Times-Picayune. Steel, his vibrational frequency now tuned specifically into the intrepid inquisitor, only snorts and laughs. It’s very off-putting and Samuels takes this particular moment to notice the near perfect circle of “social distance” surrounding Steel and the NPW Champion.
Dane: Oh, simmer down, Scott! We’re expecting Mr. Samuels, let him through!
With a giant hand Scott reaches down and unlatches the velvet rope, takes a step back, and gestures toward the iron chair sitting across a matching iron table from Eric Dane, who has a supersized version of his usual smile plastered across his face. Samuels takes a seat and quickly orders a regular coffee from one of the roving waitresses whose job it is to fill such orders.
Blake: Really? A velvet rope?
Dane: This thing we do, Scott and Jesse and myself, Lord Dominicus, even Timeless and Joey Mack, it’s all about perception Mr. Samuels.
Blake reaches into his coat pocket a bit too fast for The Mountain; Scott clamps a monsterous paw on the interviewers’ shoulder and puts a stop to that immediately.
Blake: Ah! Jeez! Can you get your guy under control?
Dane nods at Steel, the monolith backs off and Samuels produces a small recorder from his breast pocket. The Only Star shrugs.
Dane: Sorry about that, you never can be too careful in this business though, Blake. Security has to be tight or weird shit is bound to happen. Please, let’s continue.
Blake eyeballs the bodyguard, but not aggressively. That would be silly. He takes a moment before clearing his throat and pressing a button on the side of his recording device.
Blake: Okay then. You mentioned perception-
Dane: [interrupting] Ah, yes! Perception! That is to say, the difference between what someone would have you believe and what has actually come to pass. Case in point, the Little Lord Dominicus and his claim to be the real, rightful, and onlyest singles champ that matters in the entirety of Canada.
Blake: It’s not as if he doesn’t have a legitimate claim.
Dane: Does he, now? Tell me something, Blake, who’s he beaten?
Blake: Well he’s been in FIRESIDE-
Dane: Let me stop you right there, Blake. I work for Northern Pro Wrestling, just like you do. This interview is about Northern Pro Wrestling, the company that I’m the Champion of. I don’t give one quarter of one fuck about FIRESIDE. Not my circus, not my monkeys, get it? What’s he done in NPW since October?
Blake: He gave you a run for your money in the Lethal Rumble.
Dane: And lost. How’d he do in the Cruiserweight Classic? You know, that entire month of events where his division was on display?
Blake: He, ah-
Dane: [interrupting again] He lost. Again.
Blake: He pinned Jesse Jamester.
Eric nods, takes a sip from his cup, and considers that.
Dane: Yeah. He pinned my help. With help. The only reason Lord Dominicus rates a shot at the NPW Championship is because somehow Gus Arnold has it in his head that he can control Eric Dane and the Syndicate with match stipulations. Spoiler Alert: He can’t. I have done and I will continue to do both whatever the fuck that I want to do, and whatever it is at any given time that I think is best for Northern Pro Wrestling. That is what the true Champion of a company is supposed to do, not hold onto his belt for just shy of six fucking months before making his first defense against an English as a Second Language Spaceman from the Future who’s most recent claim to success is losing to Scott Steel and Jesse Jamester!
Eric smiles.
Dane: Are you starting to see it yet, Mr. Samuels?
Blake raises his eyebrows, skeptical.
Blake: See what?
Dane: Hierarchy. Perception. It doesn’t matter what I say, or what Dominicus says, or even what Gus Arnold says. What matters is the title history, the win/loss column, and the size of the envelope at the end of the night! Everything else is bullshit semantics and posturing, and those are the things that the Littlest Lord seems to excel at.
Blake: I see. Well, that just about does it for me. Any last words for Lord Dominicus before we wrap this up for the day?
The Champ smirks.
Dane: I’ve got Hall of Fame rings from two organisations that were just as big and just as prestigious as the XHF is or ever was. I’ve won titles across the globe and I’ve main evented in front of millions of people. Yeah, maybe I’m older now that I was then. And yeah, maybe those accolades don’t hold as much water now as they did ten years ago. Especially in todays “What have you done for me lately?” culture. My point is I’ve put in my fair share of work since 1994 and the last thing I need in this life or in my career is the validation of some masked prick that’s stealing somebody else’s gimmick because he’s too daft to come up with his own.
Scott Steel gets a kick out of that last bit, chuckling at decibels that could be described as sound pollution.
Dane: All I need from Little Lord Dominicus is to show up, just like a thousand men before him, and give me the best performance of his lifetime, just like a thousand men before him. After that, we’ll know without a shadow of a doubt who the REAL Champion of Northern Pro is. Perception will remain as reality, and maybe then we can lay off all of this chirping and go about the business of being the Flagship of the XHF Network.
Blake Samuels was impressed. He sat his now empty cup of coffee down on the table and retrieved his recorder, turning it off.
Blake: I gotta say this, Eric. No matter what, you never do disappoint.
The Champ’s smirk softens to an easy smile.
Dane: This is what I do, kid, and I’ll do it until they throw me out or until somebody finally has enough of my shit and kills me right in the middle of the ring.
That is to say, on a sunny day in a pandemic.
You know, just like today.
Café du Monde is a Louisiana tradition, hell it’s a landmark. Each location is packed daily, even in the down season and handicapped by social distancing there isn’t an empty seat on the concourse. Right now today in the French Market the line wraps around the building and runs two blocks down Decatur Street.
This is where Blake Samuels finds The Only Star.
Well, first it’s where he finds The Mountain. Scott Steel is dressed in a pair of beat up old Lee Jeans and a leather vest finished off with a pair of black leather shit-kickers and the kind of vibrating gravitas that could transcend the four dimensions as we’ve come to know and understand them. His half of the Imperial Crown Tag Team Championships is wrapped securely around his middle.
Scott stands guard over two brass posts and a velvet rope.
Blake: I’m here to see him.
NPW’s most versatile journalist jabs a finger at the North American Double-Crown Champion, sitting there drinking his coffee and chicory and reading this morning’s Times-Picayune. Steel, his vibrational frequency now tuned specifically into the intrepid inquisitor, only snorts and laughs. It’s very off-putting and Samuels takes this particular moment to notice the near perfect circle of “social distance” surrounding Steel and the NPW Champion.
Dane: Oh, simmer down, Scott! We’re expecting Mr. Samuels, let him through!
With a giant hand Scott reaches down and unlatches the velvet rope, takes a step back, and gestures toward the iron chair sitting across a matching iron table from Eric Dane, who has a supersized version of his usual smile plastered across his face. Samuels takes a seat and quickly orders a regular coffee from one of the roving waitresses whose job it is to fill such orders.
Blake: Really? A velvet rope?
Dane: This thing we do, Scott and Jesse and myself, Lord Dominicus, even Timeless and Joey Mack, it’s all about perception Mr. Samuels.
Blake reaches into his coat pocket a bit too fast for The Mountain; Scott clamps a monsterous paw on the interviewers’ shoulder and puts a stop to that immediately.
Blake: Ah! Jeez! Can you get your guy under control?
Dane nods at Steel, the monolith backs off and Samuels produces a small recorder from his breast pocket. The Only Star shrugs.
Dane: Sorry about that, you never can be too careful in this business though, Blake. Security has to be tight or weird shit is bound to happen. Please, let’s continue.
Blake eyeballs the bodyguard, but not aggressively. That would be silly. He takes a moment before clearing his throat and pressing a button on the side of his recording device.
Blake: Okay then. You mentioned perception-
Dane: [interrupting] Ah, yes! Perception! That is to say, the difference between what someone would have you believe and what has actually come to pass. Case in point, the Little Lord Dominicus and his claim to be the real, rightful, and onlyest singles champ that matters in the entirety of Canada.
Blake: It’s not as if he doesn’t have a legitimate claim.
Dane: Does he, now? Tell me something, Blake, who’s he beaten?
Blake: Well he’s been in FIRESIDE-
Dane: Let me stop you right there, Blake. I work for Northern Pro Wrestling, just like you do. This interview is about Northern Pro Wrestling, the company that I’m the Champion of. I don’t give one quarter of one fuck about FIRESIDE. Not my circus, not my monkeys, get it? What’s he done in NPW since October?
Blake: He gave you a run for your money in the Lethal Rumble.
Dane: And lost. How’d he do in the Cruiserweight Classic? You know, that entire month of events where his division was on display?
Blake: He, ah-
Dane: [interrupting again] He lost. Again.
Blake: He pinned Jesse Jamester.
Eric nods, takes a sip from his cup, and considers that.
Dane: Yeah. He pinned my help. With help. The only reason Lord Dominicus rates a shot at the NPW Championship is because somehow Gus Arnold has it in his head that he can control Eric Dane and the Syndicate with match stipulations. Spoiler Alert: He can’t. I have done and I will continue to do both whatever the fuck that I want to do, and whatever it is at any given time that I think is best for Northern Pro Wrestling. That is what the true Champion of a company is supposed to do, not hold onto his belt for just shy of six fucking months before making his first defense against an English as a Second Language Spaceman from the Future who’s most recent claim to success is losing to Scott Steel and Jesse Jamester!
Eric smiles.
Dane: Are you starting to see it yet, Mr. Samuels?
Blake raises his eyebrows, skeptical.
Blake: See what?
Dane: Hierarchy. Perception. It doesn’t matter what I say, or what Dominicus says, or even what Gus Arnold says. What matters is the title history, the win/loss column, and the size of the envelope at the end of the night! Everything else is bullshit semantics and posturing, and those are the things that the Littlest Lord seems to excel at.
Blake: I see. Well, that just about does it for me. Any last words for Lord Dominicus before we wrap this up for the day?
The Champ smirks.
Dane: I’ve got Hall of Fame rings from two organisations that were just as big and just as prestigious as the XHF is or ever was. I’ve won titles across the globe and I’ve main evented in front of millions of people. Yeah, maybe I’m older now that I was then. And yeah, maybe those accolades don’t hold as much water now as they did ten years ago. Especially in todays “What have you done for me lately?” culture. My point is I’ve put in my fair share of work since 1994 and the last thing I need in this life or in my career is the validation of some masked prick that’s stealing somebody else’s gimmick because he’s too daft to come up with his own.
Scott Steel gets a kick out of that last bit, chuckling at decibels that could be described as sound pollution.
Dane: All I need from Little Lord Dominicus is to show up, just like a thousand men before him, and give me the best performance of his lifetime, just like a thousand men before him. After that, we’ll know without a shadow of a doubt who the REAL Champion of Northern Pro is. Perception will remain as reality, and maybe then we can lay off all of this chirping and go about the business of being the Flagship of the XHF Network.
Blake Samuels was impressed. He sat his now empty cup of coffee down on the table and retrieved his recorder, turning it off.
Blake: I gotta say this, Eric. No matter what, you never do disappoint.
The Champ’s smirk softens to an easy smile.
Dane: This is what I do, kid, and I’ll do it until they throw me out or until somebody finally has enough of my shit and kills me right in the middle of the ring.
