Hit me on my celly.
Mar 26, 2021 19:08:19 GMT -5
Mongo the Destroyer, SWAT Team, and 2 more like this
Post by Justin on Mar 26, 2021 19:08:19 GMT -5
“Oh, we’re sending messages now, are we?”
The former NPW Champion harrumphs, amused.
“Let’s talk about messages then.”
The Only Star sits comfortably at 45,000 feet, relaxing in one of two lounge-sized chairs in the cabin of the rented Gulfstream G650 that would ferry him and Scott Steel across the Atlantic to Jerusalem of all places for a wrestling show. Scott, dressed in white-washed jeans and a tight-fitting cutoff t-shirt with an ‘87 Thunderbird emblazoned across the front is a vision of discomfort as he’s folded himself down into a smaller seat than his contemporary. The Mountain has an annoyed air about himself as he stares out the oversized port window at the clouds, oblivious to any of the business at hand.
Allegedly.
“Like this one,” he holds up his phone, shaking it dismissively. “From BB Gunn.”
Another couple of taps and he brandishes the phone again.
“Or this one from Jonnie Valentine.”
Eric chuckles.
“Yanno, he’s been on me to sign a wrestlers contract over at SWAT for weeks now but I’ve been brushing him off. I’m supposed to be a manager over there, am I right? And don’t even get me started on Armand, he offered me a cool half-mil for the belt, Gussy, he was gonna rename it the KGB Canadian Championship and have me take a piss on it live on pay-per-view.”
Shrug.
“There’s more.”
He taps away at the phone again.
“Here’s one from four-time Superbowl champion and current AWF muckety-muck Terry Bradshaw! Fuck’s sake, Gussy, that’s one more text from Bradshaw than I got in the two times I already worked for him!”
More tapping, more brandishing, more of that same fuckin’ smirk on The Only Star’s face that had made him the chief thorn in the side of Gus Arnold in the first place.
“Dude. The Ref from DW even sent me an invite to something called a Discord server. Can you believe that? It’s almost like I’ve got my pick of where to go. It’s almost like Northern Pro ain’t the only show in town, Big Shoots.”
Eric cocks his head, a mockingly quizzical look falling across his face as he chews on the last bit for a moment.
“You and I both know that my contract is up. Has been for weeks. It was up when I came to work on the 16th. It was up, and you wouldn’t speak to me all night. I know who you did speak to though. I know you had your boys on standby that night, Gus, I guess maybe you thought I wasn’t gonna do business. Maybe you thought I was gonna slap you around like the sniveling putz that you are after it was all said and done. And maybe I should have.”
The Only Star shrugs, indifferent.
“Maybe I still will. But not on that night. Nah, on that night I did my job just like every other night. I gave your boy the best match of his career and he left the ring that night a made man because of me, not you.”
Now he winks.
“And all I had to do was show up. Imagine that.”
Thumbs up.
Middle finger.
“Since then you haven’t called, no texts…”
A chuckle accompanies the curt nodding of Eric Dane’s head.
“Not even a Facebook message, Gus. Are we even friends on Facebook? Is that still a thing? Doesn’t matter. What matters is this. If you think that weeks of silence followed by offering to pay me to cripple a guy in time to get out of that awful fucking place you call a country before the last flight back to civilization takes off is the way to send a message to me then you must not know me as well as you think you do.”
His phone chirps, interrupting the rant. A smile creeps back across his face.
“Lookee-Loo, Gus, there’s one from ol’ Caffrey himself!”
Eric scoffs.
“Like I’d ever go to work for that scum fuck.”
He makes another exaggerated shrug.
“Long story short, Gus, I’m getting a lot of messages lately.”
“Maybe you wanna hit me on my celly, do a little clarification.”
“Maybe you wanna, I dunno, reach out.”
“Or maybe you don’t, and I’ve already got my answer.”
The former NPW Champion harrumphs, amused.
“Let’s talk about messages then.”
The Only Star sits comfortably at 45,000 feet, relaxing in one of two lounge-sized chairs in the cabin of the rented Gulfstream G650 that would ferry him and Scott Steel across the Atlantic to Jerusalem of all places for a wrestling show. Scott, dressed in white-washed jeans and a tight-fitting cutoff t-shirt with an ‘87 Thunderbird emblazoned across the front is a vision of discomfort as he’s folded himself down into a smaller seat than his contemporary. The Mountain has an annoyed air about himself as he stares out the oversized port window at the clouds, oblivious to any of the business at hand.
Allegedly.
“Like this one,” he holds up his phone, shaking it dismissively. “From BB Gunn.”
Another couple of taps and he brandishes the phone again.
“Or this one from Jonnie Valentine.”
Eric chuckles.
“Yanno, he’s been on me to sign a wrestlers contract over at SWAT for weeks now but I’ve been brushing him off. I’m supposed to be a manager over there, am I right? And don’t even get me started on Armand, he offered me a cool half-mil for the belt, Gussy, he was gonna rename it the KGB Canadian Championship and have me take a piss on it live on pay-per-view.”
Shrug.
“There’s more.”
He taps away at the phone again.
“Here’s one from four-time Superbowl champion and current AWF muckety-muck Terry Bradshaw! Fuck’s sake, Gussy, that’s one more text from Bradshaw than I got in the two times I already worked for him!”
More tapping, more brandishing, more of that same fuckin’ smirk on The Only Star’s face that had made him the chief thorn in the side of Gus Arnold in the first place.
“Dude. The Ref from DW even sent me an invite to something called a Discord server. Can you believe that? It’s almost like I’ve got my pick of where to go. It’s almost like Northern Pro ain’t the only show in town, Big Shoots.”
Eric cocks his head, a mockingly quizzical look falling across his face as he chews on the last bit for a moment.
“You and I both know that my contract is up. Has been for weeks. It was up when I came to work on the 16th. It was up, and you wouldn’t speak to me all night. I know who you did speak to though. I know you had your boys on standby that night, Gus, I guess maybe you thought I wasn’t gonna do business. Maybe you thought I was gonna slap you around like the sniveling putz that you are after it was all said and done. And maybe I should have.”
The Only Star shrugs, indifferent.
“Maybe I still will. But not on that night. Nah, on that night I did my job just like every other night. I gave your boy the best match of his career and he left the ring that night a made man because of me, not you.”
Now he winks.
“And all I had to do was show up. Imagine that.”
Thumbs up.
Middle finger.
“Since then you haven’t called, no texts…”
A chuckle accompanies the curt nodding of Eric Dane’s head.
“Not even a Facebook message, Gus. Are we even friends on Facebook? Is that still a thing? Doesn’t matter. What matters is this. If you think that weeks of silence followed by offering to pay me to cripple a guy in time to get out of that awful fucking place you call a country before the last flight back to civilization takes off is the way to send a message to me then you must not know me as well as you think you do.”
His phone chirps, interrupting the rant. A smile creeps back across his face.
“Lookee-Loo, Gus, there’s one from ol’ Caffrey himself!”
Eric scoffs.
“Like I’d ever go to work for that scum fuck.”
He makes another exaggerated shrug.
“Long story short, Gus, I’m getting a lot of messages lately.”
“Maybe you wanna hit me on my celly, do a little clarification.”
“Maybe you wanna, I dunno, reach out.”
“Or maybe you don’t, and I’ve already got my answer.”
