I Crown or Prelude to Origins: A Chris Parsons Story
Jan 18, 2019 21:04:37 GMT -5
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Mongo the Destroyer, Dave D-Flipz, and 1 more like this
Post by Deleted on Jan 18, 2019 21:04:37 GMT -5
Even in the soft light of this intimate and exclusive little restaurant, murmurs rose just a tad when he was walked into the main dining room by the hostess. He had expected that.
He simply nodded when she said that she’d need to confirm with his other party. Watching her hips as they swayed back and forth, her pace gave her intention away. There was no way this was the other party, he didn’t belong here.
Left alone at he entrance to the dining room proper, people tried not to stare; most failing in some measure. They looked at him as though the lace on the table-linens tarnished in his presence. He had expected that too.
It made sense. He was nearly six and a half feet tall, around two hundred and fifty pounds. Even when slid into the finest tailored black Egyptian cotton money could buy, he still cut an imposing figure. Then, there was the eye.
A modest amount of hair product had darkened his brown hair, though tying it back didn’t help draw any attention away from it, but a proper appearance was pretty much demanded in a place like this.
His, soon to be, host wanted him uncomfortable, after all it was good for negotiations. Surrounded by onlookers and snobs, he would be forced to face his deformation. His host would force him face to face with a fact of his life; No matter what he tried, ‘it’ would always be there. It was a part of him now.
Covering his left eye and breaking up a scar that ran the better part of the left side of his face; most women sat slack jawed in awe of the two conflicting sides of him, the playboy on the right and the warrior on the left.
Men, having grown up on action movies and adrenaline sat stunned as well. How did he get the scar? Each of them were dying to know. The ten year old inside of each of them conjuring up epic war stories or tangled tales of a big heist gone bad. The truth was a mixture of the two, a tale for another day.
The hostess soon disappeared through the field of white topped and silver adorned tables and around a corner, where a private table sat with a lone occupant.
Even in a place such as this, surrounded by fine things and finely dressed people, she stood out.
Choosing a simple yet elegant black number, she was ready to meet with her client for the first time in years.
By trade, Britney Pierce was an agent. Not just any agent, she was the mastermind behind Chris Parsons’ fabled contract with Gate City Wrestling, RSW’s precursor.
A massive money deal with almost complete creative freedom and a clause that stated no one could make more than him, it was everything a talent could hope for.
Through a stroke of luck, Riot Star Wrestling’s founder Rob Riot’s unfortunate wording that he would “carry over any existing GCW contracts” meant she hadn’t been needed since Gate City’s closure almost five years ago.
“Miss Pierce, your guest has arrived. Though, if I may say so, he isn’t what I was expecting.”
Tabling her mobile and brushing a curl from her eye in a sweeping motion, Britney’s green eyes scanned the hostess as a serpent might it’s prey.
“That doesn’t surprise me. You’re generic, basic, you’ll probably never do anything other than this. In a creative writing piece, you wouldn’t even have a name. Just bring him to me.”
Slack jawed didn’t quite describe the poor young lady’s expression. She had just been dressed down by a woman who looked to be holding that meeting with a shady character in a bad spy movie that never leads anywhere good, and she had no reply.
Picking for phone back up, Britney sighs as though to question if she’d have to do everything herself, “That means you can go now.”
Blushing more than a little, the poor hostess turns on her heels and rushes back across the dining room.
Suddenly the large man with the eyepatch didn’t seem so threatening, “I’m sorry about your wait Mr. Parsons, Miss Pierce is waiting.”
Walking him across the room, Parsons could feel their eyes crawling over him. It used to get him excited, people were dying to be half of what he’d been before the injury.
Now? They wondered what mob boss he worked for. Things had been different to say the least.
Stepping around the corner, she was everything he remembered. A ten on a bad day, Britney currently made the dining room full of rich wives, gold-digging girlfriends and high priced call calls look common.
Only glancing up from her phone slightly, the disdain in her voice was palpable, “You know I don’t like to be kept waiting. I could’ve left.” She was annoyed, men didn’t keep her waiting.
Chuckling, Parsons sits allowing himself a sly smile as he responds. “You could’ve, true enough. But you didn’t sugartits, so what is it they’re sending me to?”
He’d started this game of poker with a big bluff, and it had paid off in spades. Britney had waited a full fifteen minutes for him to bother showing up.
She hadn’t planned on leaving, he could tell by the mostly full bottle of champagne that would easily pay a family’s rent. Sitting on ice on a lace dressed side table, the tab for such an extravagant item would be a small price to pay for such a victory.
“In an effort to become part of the global wrestling community and to help bring in new talent, Armand Von Krauss has affiliated RSW with the XHF Network, as a minority shareholder…you probably should know this.”
If the hole she stared into his lone eye wasn’t enough, the sarcasm and annoyance that dripped from her every word should have told him to tread lightly going forward.
Any other man would re-evaluate the situation. Any other man would think “maybe I can get her into bed still”. Any other man would probably start to back pedal right about now, but that was too easy. It was time to double down. “So, they’re sending me to what exactly?”
Asking for a second time, he didn’t care that he’d made her wait. His tone implied that he knew next to nothing about the network show he’d apparently be appearing on.
Despite owning twenty percent of Riot Star Wrestling (Mid RP cheap plug for www.RSW-wrestling.com! Yeah!), Parsons had mostly stayed out of the day to day running of the company these days.
Sighing, she tucked her phone into a small handbag that she perpetually carried on her person at all times.
Finely crafted and made of high quality leather, it never looked out of place. He swore it was a portal to another dimension, whatever she needed, was in the bag.
Cocking his head left to favour his good side, a gleam returns to his eye. A flame that had been missing for quite some time.
Giving the traditional ‘T’ hand signal Parsons stands up from the table, “Time out.”
Freezing in place ala Zack Morris, Parsons smirks; “It still works…” rubbing his hands together, Parsons can’t help but smile. “…this will make things…interesting.”
Having spent every moment since his escape from the clutches of RSW’s Majority Shareholder and current CEO embroiled in the attempt to bring down the corrupt and depraved Armand Von Krauss. He’d been different.
Not better or worse; different. More serious, he told himself that the times had demanded it. Sure flashes of the old comedic Parsons were there, but by and large he’d kept it serious for over a year now…the times had demanded it.
The truth was, he’d been broken. His heart wasn’t in it, his mind was constantly elsewhere. Following the trauma that caused his blinding and the events that led him into the better part of a year spent being tortured only to heal to be tortured anew, laughter had been something that wouldn’t come easy.
Despite always being on the move to avoid Von Krauss’ goons, he’d enjoyed his relatively new partnership with the kid. A compliment that he’d ensure Marcus Anderson would never actually get to hear.
Two steps puts him beside his agent and his smile only grows, slithering across his face to become a full toothy grin.
Waving his hand before the stoic and motionless Britney, he’d convinced himself before that in order to be taken seriously, he had to be serious. Now?
Now he found himself reminded of how Bob Dylan once famously sang “The times they are a-changing.”
Serious was over rated.
“Good evening ladies and gentlemen, RSW’s…” Raising his hand to cover the side of his face, Parsons speaks lowly and out of the side of his mouth, “…yes, that RSW. The one with all the degenerates.” Before straightening up slightly to finish his original thought, “…answer to Deadpool here to tell you all I’m cuming…”
Looking straight into the eye of the beholder, Parsons lets his pause cast his innuendo for him.
“…to Supremacy. That’s right, the guy who can do anything is coming to the XHF Network. I guess I’m entered in a match for something called the ‘X Crown’.”
Rubbing his chin, this wasn’t the man who’d spent twenty eighteen wallowing in his own self pity, this was it. The return of ‘Wrestling’s Viagra(Patent Pending)’.
“Now I can’t say I know exactly what that is, but what I can say is…me likes it, me wants it…I’m gonna figure the rest out.”
Walking around Britney, he snatches the champagne glass from her delicate hands, yet she still hadn’t moved even a muscle.
“But first, you need to understand the motivation behind the man you see before you. Brace yourself, it’s origin story time! Parsons style. Stay tuned.”
Rounding back to his seat at the time, Parsons sits and sips the champagne. “Time in.”
Britney moves, suddenly startled that her drink has vanished, “How…how did you…” But she wouldn’t finish her question before he chimes back in.
“Look Brit, we’ve been over this before…I can do anything. Now, I could sit here and I could say I was sorry for not calling you back that one time in Vegas, and you could forgive me.” Pausing he’d need to distract her for a while, let her get a few drinks in. The game had renewed. “But we both know that ain’t us sugartits. I don’t trust you, you don’t trust me. Unfortunately we make each other lots of money so look…I’ll be the one to extend an olive branch.”
He was ahead on points right now. He’d need to keep it that way.
“Let me tell you how it all began…”
To be continued...
He simply nodded when she said that she’d need to confirm with his other party. Watching her hips as they swayed back and forth, her pace gave her intention away. There was no way this was the other party, he didn’t belong here.
Left alone at he entrance to the dining room proper, people tried not to stare; most failing in some measure. They looked at him as though the lace on the table-linens tarnished in his presence. He had expected that too.
It made sense. He was nearly six and a half feet tall, around two hundred and fifty pounds. Even when slid into the finest tailored black Egyptian cotton money could buy, he still cut an imposing figure. Then, there was the eye.
A modest amount of hair product had darkened his brown hair, though tying it back didn’t help draw any attention away from it, but a proper appearance was pretty much demanded in a place like this.
His, soon to be, host wanted him uncomfortable, after all it was good for negotiations. Surrounded by onlookers and snobs, he would be forced to face his deformation. His host would force him face to face with a fact of his life; No matter what he tried, ‘it’ would always be there. It was a part of him now.
Covering his left eye and breaking up a scar that ran the better part of the left side of his face; most women sat slack jawed in awe of the two conflicting sides of him, the playboy on the right and the warrior on the left.
Men, having grown up on action movies and adrenaline sat stunned as well. How did he get the scar? Each of them were dying to know. The ten year old inside of each of them conjuring up epic war stories or tangled tales of a big heist gone bad. The truth was a mixture of the two, a tale for another day.
The hostess soon disappeared through the field of white topped and silver adorned tables and around a corner, where a private table sat with a lone occupant.
Even in a place such as this, surrounded by fine things and finely dressed people, she stood out.
Choosing a simple yet elegant black number, she was ready to meet with her client for the first time in years.
By trade, Britney Pierce was an agent. Not just any agent, she was the mastermind behind Chris Parsons’ fabled contract with Gate City Wrestling, RSW’s precursor.
A massive money deal with almost complete creative freedom and a clause that stated no one could make more than him, it was everything a talent could hope for.
Through a stroke of luck, Riot Star Wrestling’s founder Rob Riot’s unfortunate wording that he would “carry over any existing GCW contracts” meant she hadn’t been needed since Gate City’s closure almost five years ago.
“Miss Pierce, your guest has arrived. Though, if I may say so, he isn’t what I was expecting.”
Tabling her mobile and brushing a curl from her eye in a sweeping motion, Britney’s green eyes scanned the hostess as a serpent might it’s prey.
“That doesn’t surprise me. You’re generic, basic, you’ll probably never do anything other than this. In a creative writing piece, you wouldn’t even have a name. Just bring him to me.”
Slack jawed didn’t quite describe the poor young lady’s expression. She had just been dressed down by a woman who looked to be holding that meeting with a shady character in a bad spy movie that never leads anywhere good, and she had no reply.
Picking for phone back up, Britney sighs as though to question if she’d have to do everything herself, “That means you can go now.”
Blushing more than a little, the poor hostess turns on her heels and rushes back across the dining room.
Suddenly the large man with the eyepatch didn’t seem so threatening, “I’m sorry about your wait Mr. Parsons, Miss Pierce is waiting.”
Walking him across the room, Parsons could feel their eyes crawling over him. It used to get him excited, people were dying to be half of what he’d been before the injury.
Now? They wondered what mob boss he worked for. Things had been different to say the least.
Stepping around the corner, she was everything he remembered. A ten on a bad day, Britney currently made the dining room full of rich wives, gold-digging girlfriends and high priced call calls look common.
Only glancing up from her phone slightly, the disdain in her voice was palpable, “You know I don’t like to be kept waiting. I could’ve left.” She was annoyed, men didn’t keep her waiting.
Chuckling, Parsons sits allowing himself a sly smile as he responds. “You could’ve, true enough. But you didn’t sugartits, so what is it they’re sending me to?”
He’d started this game of poker with a big bluff, and it had paid off in spades. Britney had waited a full fifteen minutes for him to bother showing up.
She hadn’t planned on leaving, he could tell by the mostly full bottle of champagne that would easily pay a family’s rent. Sitting on ice on a lace dressed side table, the tab for such an extravagant item would be a small price to pay for such a victory.
“In an effort to become part of the global wrestling community and to help bring in new talent, Armand Von Krauss has affiliated RSW with the XHF Network, as a minority shareholder…you probably should know this.”
If the hole she stared into his lone eye wasn’t enough, the sarcasm and annoyance that dripped from her every word should have told him to tread lightly going forward.
Any other man would re-evaluate the situation. Any other man would think “maybe I can get her into bed still”. Any other man would probably start to back pedal right about now, but that was too easy. It was time to double down. “So, they’re sending me to what exactly?”
Asking for a second time, he didn’t care that he’d made her wait. His tone implied that he knew next to nothing about the network show he’d apparently be appearing on.
Despite owning twenty percent of Riot Star Wrestling (Mid RP cheap plug for www.RSW-wrestling.com! Yeah!), Parsons had mostly stayed out of the day to day running of the company these days.
Sighing, she tucked her phone into a small handbag that she perpetually carried on her person at all times.
Finely crafted and made of high quality leather, it never looked out of place. He swore it was a portal to another dimension, whatever she needed, was in the bag.
Cocking his head left to favour his good side, a gleam returns to his eye. A flame that had been missing for quite some time.
Giving the traditional ‘T’ hand signal Parsons stands up from the table, “Time out.”
Freezing in place ala Zack Morris, Parsons smirks; “It still works…” rubbing his hands together, Parsons can’t help but smile. “…this will make things…interesting.”
Having spent every moment since his escape from the clutches of RSW’s Majority Shareholder and current CEO embroiled in the attempt to bring down the corrupt and depraved Armand Von Krauss. He’d been different.
Not better or worse; different. More serious, he told himself that the times had demanded it. Sure flashes of the old comedic Parsons were there, but by and large he’d kept it serious for over a year now…the times had demanded it.
The truth was, he’d been broken. His heart wasn’t in it, his mind was constantly elsewhere. Following the trauma that caused his blinding and the events that led him into the better part of a year spent being tortured only to heal to be tortured anew, laughter had been something that wouldn’t come easy.
Despite always being on the move to avoid Von Krauss’ goons, he’d enjoyed his relatively new partnership with the kid. A compliment that he’d ensure Marcus Anderson would never actually get to hear.
Two steps puts him beside his agent and his smile only grows, slithering across his face to become a full toothy grin.
Waving his hand before the stoic and motionless Britney, he’d convinced himself before that in order to be taken seriously, he had to be serious. Now?
Now he found himself reminded of how Bob Dylan once famously sang “The times they are a-changing.”
Serious was over rated.
“Good evening ladies and gentlemen, RSW’s…” Raising his hand to cover the side of his face, Parsons speaks lowly and out of the side of his mouth, “…yes, that RSW. The one with all the degenerates.” Before straightening up slightly to finish his original thought, “…answer to Deadpool here to tell you all I’m cuming…”
Looking straight into the eye of the beholder, Parsons lets his pause cast his innuendo for him.
“…to Supremacy. That’s right, the guy who can do anything is coming to the XHF Network. I guess I’m entered in a match for something called the ‘X Crown’.”
Rubbing his chin, this wasn’t the man who’d spent twenty eighteen wallowing in his own self pity, this was it. The return of ‘Wrestling’s Viagra(Patent Pending)’.
“Now I can’t say I know exactly what that is, but what I can say is…me likes it, me wants it…I’m gonna figure the rest out.”
Walking around Britney, he snatches the champagne glass from her delicate hands, yet she still hadn’t moved even a muscle.
“But first, you need to understand the motivation behind the man you see before you. Brace yourself, it’s origin story time! Parsons style. Stay tuned.”
Rounding back to his seat at the time, Parsons sits and sips the champagne. “Time in.”
Britney moves, suddenly startled that her drink has vanished, “How…how did you…” But she wouldn’t finish her question before he chimes back in.
“Look Brit, we’ve been over this before…I can do anything. Now, I could sit here and I could say I was sorry for not calling you back that one time in Vegas, and you could forgive me.” Pausing he’d need to distract her for a while, let her get a few drinks in. The game had renewed. “But we both know that ain’t us sugartits. I don’t trust you, you don’t trust me. Unfortunately we make each other lots of money so look…I’ll be the one to extend an olive branch.”
He was ahead on points right now. He’d need to keep it that way.
“Let me tell you how it all began…”
To be continued...
: Where is he!?
: Sorry sir, do you need a table? We're about to close, it it might be best fo--
*