Post by Nick Hunter on Mar 18, 2018 20:42:32 GMT
"Alright, real talk time."
Nick cracks his neck, leaning back against a weight machine as he looks to the ceiling. He idly tosses a towel up, catching it, and looks back down with a grin on his face.
"My boy Nate's been talking some trash at y'all for weeks, and I'm gettin' a little envious. Pretty sure I'm about due to give some of the motherfuckers who think they run this place a bit of the business, ya know? God knows I ain't lettin' that hooker do all our talking here. So, uh, question is: which one of y'all wants to step up and get your ass roasted first?"
Nick pauses, cupping a hand to his ear. He frowns, switching ears, and after another second of silence shakes his head, tutting his tongue and crossing his arms.
"No volunteers? Aight, that's disappointing, but I ain't surprised. Y'all got trigger fingers that go to Twitter fingers with the quickness, so I ain't shocked none of y'all are ready to get lit up like a Christmas display in some rich white couple's yard. Guess we're just gonna have to call on the class and see where we go. Let's start with...hmm..."
Nick mimes running down a list with his finger, stopping and triumphantly tapping the air.
"Alright! Let's go with Devlin Raine. The biggest of the big mouths this year. You wanna put your career on the line, homeboy? You wanna talk some big shit, say your career's over if you can't win? That's on you, man. I don't give a fuck if you wanna play some martyr shit. You put this evil on yourself, ain't nobody else do this to you. You get in my way or my boy's way, I'ma truck you like it ain't nothing."
He shrugs, stepping forward, and rolls his shoulders, frame full of energy.
"I got no love lost for any of y'all, and whatever stupid shit you wanna say, that goes on your ass. Andrew Jacobsen gonna talk about how he got screwed? Bitch, I get screwed on the weekly, you don't see me walkin' out on Sacrifice and throwing a fit. Your ass is plastered all over the posters and me and Nate gotta fight to get a match every other month. Don't talk to me about opportunities, you Superman-actin' whitebread legacy motherfucker. They give your ass a second chance every year and a half. You part of the problem, not part of the solution. So sit your ass down. It's time for new blood, and your ass ain't it. Go kiss babies and shake hands, I'ma go make some history."
Nick cracks his knuckles this time, nodding to himself and shadowboxing a little.
"Speaking of entitled white boys who can't let go, how the fuck you doin', Spike? No, really. How the FUCK you doin'? Feelin' good? Feelin' so good you let Nighthawk bait your ass into putting your title on the line? Man, it's just raining white boys doing stupid shit, isn't it? Don't worry, Spike, I ain't comin' for your ass like some people are. I'm just here to make sure the Saints come marchin' into Night of the Immortals swingin' for your boy Angel. Like, make no mistake: just like Dev, you get in my way or my boy's way, I'm rollin' you like a blunt. I just ain't makin' it my life's goal to whoop that ass, y'feel me?"
He sighs, shaking his head, and checks his pulse, smirking to himself.
"Ain't even breakin' a sweat running down y'all. Call that a preview. I'ma give one more of y'all the time of day right now, and that lucky motherfucker is the one and only Mike Laszlo. Mikey, you feelin' good, ain't you? Final five spot on lock, got that momentum rollin' for you, everything's coming up you, ain't it? Damn shame that all that momentum and all that smack talk you got pent up ain't gonna be for shit when it comes down to the wire. Your ass flies just as easy as anyone else, Mike, and when the Saints get our hands on you, boy, we gonna beat that ass so hard you see Jesus himself sayin' 'stop, he's already dead!' You talk shit, you gonna get hit, and your ass talked enough shit to fertilize the entire Midwest. Believe."
Nick winks at the camera, blowing a kiss and grinning.
"Aight, I gotta get back to training. Throwin' twenty-eight asses over the top rope's gonna take it out of any man, even with backup, so I gotta be my best if the Saints are gonna do what we do and make ourselves a miracle. Hold onto your asses. it's gonna be a wild ride."
Nick cracks his neck, leaning back against a weight machine as he looks to the ceiling. He idly tosses a towel up, catching it, and looks back down with a grin on his face.
"My boy Nate's been talking some trash at y'all for weeks, and I'm gettin' a little envious. Pretty sure I'm about due to give some of the motherfuckers who think they run this place a bit of the business, ya know? God knows I ain't lettin' that hooker do all our talking here. So, uh, question is: which one of y'all wants to step up and get your ass roasted first?"
Nick pauses, cupping a hand to his ear. He frowns, switching ears, and after another second of silence shakes his head, tutting his tongue and crossing his arms.
"No volunteers? Aight, that's disappointing, but I ain't surprised. Y'all got trigger fingers that go to Twitter fingers with the quickness, so I ain't shocked none of y'all are ready to get lit up like a Christmas display in some rich white couple's yard. Guess we're just gonna have to call on the class and see where we go. Let's start with...hmm..."
Nick mimes running down a list with his finger, stopping and triumphantly tapping the air.
"Alright! Let's go with Devlin Raine. The biggest of the big mouths this year. You wanna put your career on the line, homeboy? You wanna talk some big shit, say your career's over if you can't win? That's on you, man. I don't give a fuck if you wanna play some martyr shit. You put this evil on yourself, ain't nobody else do this to you. You get in my way or my boy's way, I'ma truck you like it ain't nothing."
He shrugs, stepping forward, and rolls his shoulders, frame full of energy.
"I got no love lost for any of y'all, and whatever stupid shit you wanna say, that goes on your ass. Andrew Jacobsen gonna talk about how he got screwed? Bitch, I get screwed on the weekly, you don't see me walkin' out on Sacrifice and throwing a fit. Your ass is plastered all over the posters and me and Nate gotta fight to get a match every other month. Don't talk to me about opportunities, you Superman-actin' whitebread legacy motherfucker. They give your ass a second chance every year and a half. You part of the problem, not part of the solution. So sit your ass down. It's time for new blood, and your ass ain't it. Go kiss babies and shake hands, I'ma go make some history."
Nick cracks his knuckles this time, nodding to himself and shadowboxing a little.
"Speaking of entitled white boys who can't let go, how the fuck you doin', Spike? No, really. How the FUCK you doin'? Feelin' good? Feelin' so good you let Nighthawk bait your ass into putting your title on the line? Man, it's just raining white boys doing stupid shit, isn't it? Don't worry, Spike, I ain't comin' for your ass like some people are. I'm just here to make sure the Saints come marchin' into Night of the Immortals swingin' for your boy Angel. Like, make no mistake: just like Dev, you get in my way or my boy's way, I'm rollin' you like a blunt. I just ain't makin' it my life's goal to whoop that ass, y'feel me?"
He sighs, shaking his head, and checks his pulse, smirking to himself.
"Ain't even breakin' a sweat running down y'all. Call that a preview. I'ma give one more of y'all the time of day right now, and that lucky motherfucker is the one and only Mike Laszlo. Mikey, you feelin' good, ain't you? Final five spot on lock, got that momentum rollin' for you, everything's coming up you, ain't it? Damn shame that all that momentum and all that smack talk you got pent up ain't gonna be for shit when it comes down to the wire. Your ass flies just as easy as anyone else, Mike, and when the Saints get our hands on you, boy, we gonna beat that ass so hard you see Jesus himself sayin' 'stop, he's already dead!' You talk shit, you gonna get hit, and your ass talked enough shit to fertilize the entire Midwest. Believe."
Nick winks at the camera, blowing a kiss and grinning.
"Aight, I gotta get back to training. Throwin' twenty-eight asses over the top rope's gonna take it out of any man, even with backup, so I gotta be my best if the Saints are gonna do what we do and make ourselves a miracle. Hold onto your asses. it's gonna be a wild ride."
Nick slumped against the wall of the hotel room. Nate was out, so Nick didn't have to feel self-conscious about laying around with his shirt off. He reached into his pocket, dialing a number, and took a deep breath, rubbing his temples. "Hello?"
"Mama." Nick grinned, all of his stress seemingly melting away. "How you been?"
"Been wondering if your fingers broke, boy." Nick chuckled at his mother's words, shaking his head as she continued. "Don't you laugh at me. You can call more than once a month, you know. You ain't got the "out of minutes" excuse anymore, Nick. You can spare some time for your mother."
"Yes, Mama." Nick nodded, still unable to wipe the grin from his face. "Just callin' to say I miss you, I miss the girls...how's Dad doing?" His expression faltered for a moment as he mentions his father, but his voice didn't waver in kind.
His mother replied with a weariness in her voice. "You know. Always runnin' a sale on someone, always tryin' to promise the world and deliver just enough to keep people happy. Same ol', same ol'."
Nick chuckled again, shaking his head. "So no change there, good to know. Zoe been trying to run that evil on y'all? Nate's moms been in touch?"
"First of all, don't you talk ill of Zoe Harris like that. She's a lovely young woman, and I don't know where this animosity of yours comes from." Nick hung his head, shaking it and sighing as his mother continued. "And second of all, yes, Mrs. Harris has been in touch. Her son at least can spare a call now and again." Nick groaned at that rebuke. "Don't you pretend that isn't the truth now, boy."
"Aight, Mama, I'll call more often." Nick lowered the phone, muttering to himself. "Jesus fucking Christ, get on my ass more?"
"NICHOLAS DESHAUN HUNTER!" The bellow seemed to fill the room, and Nick's eyes went wide as his mother shouted at him. "What have I told you about using that kind of language with me? I understand that the hooligans you're involved with are used to that kind of talk, but you WILL keep to a higher standard when speaking to me! Now is that clear?"
Nick hung his head, practically mumbling into the speaker. "Yes, Mama. I'm sorry, Mama." He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's been stressful out here. I convinced Nate to get out here with me, and we've had two matches in three months. I just...I'm afraid, Mama. I'm afraid I talked us in over our heads."
Nick's mother chuckled to herself, sighing. "I understand being under stress, especially when it comes to situations caused by a Hunter man's big mouth. But if there's any two young men that can engineer themselves a favorable situation out of nothing, it's you and Nate. You two have been like twins ever since you met. You know each other better than anyone else on the planet." Nick bit his lower lip, nodding. "You calm down now, child. Things are gonna be alright. You hear me?"
"Alright, Mama. I hear you." Nick sighed, walking over and sitting on the bed. He paused, allowing himself a grin.
"So...you ready for your boy to be World Champion?"
Well howdy there pardner.