Post by King on Jul 28, 2023 22:38:12 GMT
Twelve rather unsavory looking characters - ten men, two women in the count- stand in a line inside Stephen Terrella and Portia's office inside of the Black Sands. Stephen is positioned in front of them, arms folded across his chest as he looks the lot up and down without a word. Portia sits cross-legged on the desk behind him, slapping her flip-flop against the bottom of her foot as she clutches a glass of red wine in her hand. As Terrella's eyes drift to the end of the line, he finally says, "This isn't a fuckin' job interview."
"I don't give a rats ass who you are, what skills you got... or any of the shit you've done. I picked you out because you look like you can handle yourselves, and you got attitudes. I can appreciate that shit. That's the type of motherfuckers I want."
He thrusts his arm out, pointing to the back of the building. "There are three ways in and out of this place, and one stays locked. I want two people at the other two doors at all fucking times, working three shifts. No one comes in the back door unless Portia or I fucking say so. I already got a doorman out front and during open hours he'll tell if someone doesn't belong."
"To be real fucking clear, you got to stop someone, I don't give a damn how you do it as long as they're stopped. You get jammed up, I'll take care of it. I ain't here to fuckin' babysit your ass though. I ain't here to be your fuckin' friend. I don't care what you do on or off my dime so long as you protect this fucking club. Pay is thirty an hour. Ain't no fucking benefits, but drinks and some extras are free. If this works out, could be some other fucking opportunities for you too. Any questions?"
A burly man with a long beard speaks up, asking, "You got a gang problem or something, man?"
"No," Stephen tells him. "I got a potential fucking bird problem, but all you got to worry about is making sure only certain people come into this club."
The man laughs, telling Stephen: "Shit, for thirty an hour, no problem."
Terrella nods. "Al'right, if no one wants out, get with Mikey out front. I need people to start tomorrow but he'll sort that shit out with you. That's it."
The line starts to converge into a crowd as they make their way out of the office, chatting among themselves. Terrella moves for the door, closing it behind the last person to leave the office. CLICK goes the lock on the door with the flip of Terrella's wrist. After polishing off the last of her wine, Portia asks "Do you think they can stop him if you're not here?"
"Honestly," he says, turning back to face her, "I have no fucking idea. I ain't even sure he comes. Could be too fucking obvious. I can't be worried about this place while gettin' ready for Harper though." Stephen starts traveling the length of the room to return to his desk.
Portia hops down off the desk as Stephen crashes down in the chair. She comes up behind the chair and places her hands on Stephen's shoulders, trying to rub them. "You're tense. Why don't you let me loosen you up? We have two hours before the delivery comes." She kisses the top of his head...
---------------------
Hours later, the sun makes it's retreat beneath the cover of the Nevada skyline, having baked the dust and sand below on a sweltering mid-summer day. A delivery truck has long since sped off into the distance. Stephen Terrella rests on a sturdy, wooden delivery crate in back of the Black Sands; leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he cracks his knuckles. Portia stands close on his right, her left hand resting on the base of his neck; scantily clad in a very short black and white floral printed summer dress.
"Dean, you have something we want," Portia says rather casually. "Which I'm sure doesn't come as any type of shock to you."
"You've worn that World Championship around your waist three separate times now, after all. You know as well as -or maybe better than- anyone else how the moment you fasten those snaps you become a target. Everyone lines up to take their shot. Everyone wants their name on that graphic. Everyone wants the fame, the money, the perks, the prestige... everything that comes with being able to call yourself the World Heavyweight Champion."
"Twenty-one," Portia says with a malicious smile, realizing how closely that number will be forever tied to Stephen Terrella's career after he dished out twenty-one chair shots to Matthew Knox earlier this year. "That's the number of men that have ever actually done it... have tasted what its like to call themselves a World Champion. And I'd be lying if, selfishly, Stephen and I didn't wish that number was one less for reasons. But what you're looking at right here, " Portia lifts her hand off of Stephen's back, turning it palm up and motioning to him with her hand, "is the man that is about to become number twenty-two."
Waving her finger at the camera as if she wanted someone to hold on, Portia rhetorically asks: "Do you know why we want it though, Dean?"
"The fame, the money, the perks, the prestige... we'll happily take them, don't get me wrong. It's about so much more than that though, Dean. This is about taking something Matthew", she spits the name from her lips with venom, "has eyes for. This is about jumping the line and taking that opportunity from him; because once we have it, unless he wins Heir to the Throne or something else guaranteeing him a shot, he is never getting one! Just like his house, those dreams of his are going to go up in smoke." Portia flashes a cruel smile.
Stephen spits a mouthful of tobacco juice out onto the dirt. "But don't think I'm looking past you, Harper. I ain't."
"Dean Harper," Rising up, Stephen puts his hand on the air on his right side with the mention of the name, then moves it to the left before saying, "versus Stephen Terrella, one-on-one. Belt or not, doesn't fucking matter. Truth is, this is a fight I've wanted for a long fucking time. "
He pauses, leaving another dark brown tobacco stain on the Earth below. "Hell, you'd think it'd have happened twenty fucking times by now as long as we've been in this company together."
"We both know there is a reason people in that office try to keep guys like us apart though," Stephen says with a smirk. "There is a fifty/fifty chance one of us bleeds the other out in that ring to win if we have to. Me and you, we're killers, Harper. Both willing to go to any length we got to get what we want. Shit, look how you treated your old man. That's why it ain't no fucking coincidence that the only times we've squared up is when a situation, bracket or a lottery ball has made it happen."
"Portia had to work damn hard to change that."
His eyes wander toward Portia on his right, his fingers gliding down her long, flowing blonde hair as she looks at him with a soft smile. "And she did."
Refocusing on the camera, Stephen's voice carries a strong sense of seriousness to it, minus the usual snarling base in it. "Now here we fucking are. Anyone can look across that ring and see that physically you shouldn't have a chance in hell against me. You got the body of a fucking kid, Harper. Different guy, same size, I'd pound thirty beers the night before, wake up and walk into this match without a second fucking thought. Yeah that statement is going to piss some fucking people off, but ask me if I give a damn."
Rubbing at his chin, Terrella pauses his speech briefly.
"You got your fucking back against the wall in this one though, Harper, and I know that makes you dangerous. When I look across that ring, I'm going to know the type of sick, twisted shit playing in your mind because it's the same thing that goes through my head out there. Fuck the other guy, right? Doesn't matter if he's got friends and family watchin'. This is a combat fucking sport and we play for blood... It's like looking in a fucking mirror that way. And I know you'll do your fucking damnedest to break a few bones of mine.. spill my blood... split my skull wide the fuck open."
Once more saliva and tobacco juice fall from Terrella's lips, landing three inches from the previous spot. He flashes a twisted grin. "Only thing is I got the exact same gameplan. Your head on my fucking wall is every bit the fucking trophy the World Title is going to be to me too, Harper."
"And I got the heaviest hands in this fucking business to help me get it. Guy your size, one well-placed kidney punch that's all it fucking takes to rupture a kidney. Even if I don't pop it like a fucking balloon though, you're going to be gasping for breath and feeling like you're going to puke. That'll slow you. From there, its just time until I break you... and those ribs already got to be a little soft after that spear two weeks ago. But I know you'll try to fight. That's the fun part. Thing is blow-by-blow, I'm going to snuff out that light in your eyes. Cuz' know matter how hard the mind wants, there always comes a point the body ain't willing. I want to see where your point is, Harper... and I got sixty to find out what breaks you."
He quickly spits more tobacco juice from his protruding lower lip. "That's a long-ass time."
"Look how many people have tried and failed, Dean," Portia says with a cruel, biting laugh. "You came back for JC, tried to be a friend and a tag team partner to him, and where did that leave him? I haven't seen him around in awhile. As annoying as he is, maybe he was smart enough to get out before the weight of you drug him down."
"The Pack was maybe the closest thing you ever had to a family, and what you'd do Dean, hmm? You turned your back on them without a second thought to run into the arms of a father who couldn't possibly love you the way he loves Wraith. How could he? Look at how you've failed him over-and-over."
"I also know from talking with her that Brooklyn has never forgiven you for that Dean. And how could she? Look at what you destroyed. You threw them away."
"Of course I don't expect you'll give much thought to what I say," she offers with with a dismissive wave of her hand. But Portia's eyes narrow with a hint of malicious intent, her tongue loading up. "Do you think Maxine would be proud of the man you've become in recent years, though?"
"I mean, rumor is your own husband is even considering leaving you. That's got to tell you something, right?"
Portia leans into Terrella, hanging on him as she laughs. "Personally and professionally, everything you touch turns to shit eventually, Dean. So maybe... just maybe... my man will be doing you a favor when he relieves you of the burden once he takes that belt from you and puts you out of your misery for good."
"I don't give a rats ass who you are, what skills you got... or any of the shit you've done. I picked you out because you look like you can handle yourselves, and you got attitudes. I can appreciate that shit. That's the type of motherfuckers I want."
He thrusts his arm out, pointing to the back of the building. "There are three ways in and out of this place, and one stays locked. I want two people at the other two doors at all fucking times, working three shifts. No one comes in the back door unless Portia or I fucking say so. I already got a doorman out front and during open hours he'll tell if someone doesn't belong."
"To be real fucking clear, you got to stop someone, I don't give a damn how you do it as long as they're stopped. You get jammed up, I'll take care of it. I ain't here to fuckin' babysit your ass though. I ain't here to be your fuckin' friend. I don't care what you do on or off my dime so long as you protect this fucking club. Pay is thirty an hour. Ain't no fucking benefits, but drinks and some extras are free. If this works out, could be some other fucking opportunities for you too. Any questions?"
A burly man with a long beard speaks up, asking, "You got a gang problem or something, man?"
"No," Stephen tells him. "I got a potential fucking bird problem, but all you got to worry about is making sure only certain people come into this club."
The man laughs, telling Stephen: "Shit, for thirty an hour, no problem."
Terrella nods. "Al'right, if no one wants out, get with Mikey out front. I need people to start tomorrow but he'll sort that shit out with you. That's it."
The line starts to converge into a crowd as they make their way out of the office, chatting among themselves. Terrella moves for the door, closing it behind the last person to leave the office. CLICK goes the lock on the door with the flip of Terrella's wrist. After polishing off the last of her wine, Portia asks "Do you think they can stop him if you're not here?"
"Honestly," he says, turning back to face her, "I have no fucking idea. I ain't even sure he comes. Could be too fucking obvious. I can't be worried about this place while gettin' ready for Harper though." Stephen starts traveling the length of the room to return to his desk.
Portia hops down off the desk as Stephen crashes down in the chair. She comes up behind the chair and places her hands on Stephen's shoulders, trying to rub them. "You're tense. Why don't you let me loosen you up? We have two hours before the delivery comes." She kisses the top of his head...
---------------------
Hours later, the sun makes it's retreat beneath the cover of the Nevada skyline, having baked the dust and sand below on a sweltering mid-summer day. A delivery truck has long since sped off into the distance. Stephen Terrella rests on a sturdy, wooden delivery crate in back of the Black Sands; leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he cracks his knuckles. Portia stands close on his right, her left hand resting on the base of his neck; scantily clad in a very short black and white floral printed summer dress.
"Dean, you have something we want," Portia says rather casually. "Which I'm sure doesn't come as any type of shock to you."
"You've worn that World Championship around your waist three separate times now, after all. You know as well as -or maybe better than- anyone else how the moment you fasten those snaps you become a target. Everyone lines up to take their shot. Everyone wants their name on that graphic. Everyone wants the fame, the money, the perks, the prestige... everything that comes with being able to call yourself the World Heavyweight Champion."
"Twenty-one," Portia says with a malicious smile, realizing how closely that number will be forever tied to Stephen Terrella's career after he dished out twenty-one chair shots to Matthew Knox earlier this year. "That's the number of men that have ever actually done it... have tasted what its like to call themselves a World Champion. And I'd be lying if, selfishly, Stephen and I didn't wish that number was one less for reasons. But what you're looking at right here, " Portia lifts her hand off of Stephen's back, turning it palm up and motioning to him with her hand, "is the man that is about to become number twenty-two."
Waving her finger at the camera as if she wanted someone to hold on, Portia rhetorically asks: "Do you know why we want it though, Dean?"
"The fame, the money, the perks, the prestige... we'll happily take them, don't get me wrong. It's about so much more than that though, Dean. This is about taking something Matthew", she spits the name from her lips with venom, "has eyes for. This is about jumping the line and taking that opportunity from him; because once we have it, unless he wins Heir to the Throne or something else guaranteeing him a shot, he is never getting one! Just like his house, those dreams of his are going to go up in smoke." Portia flashes a cruel smile.
Stephen spits a mouthful of tobacco juice out onto the dirt. "But don't think I'm looking past you, Harper. I ain't."
"Dean Harper," Rising up, Stephen puts his hand on the air on his right side with the mention of the name, then moves it to the left before saying, "versus Stephen Terrella, one-on-one. Belt or not, doesn't fucking matter. Truth is, this is a fight I've wanted for a long fucking time. "
He pauses, leaving another dark brown tobacco stain on the Earth below. "Hell, you'd think it'd have happened twenty fucking times by now as long as we've been in this company together."
"We both know there is a reason people in that office try to keep guys like us apart though," Stephen says with a smirk. "There is a fifty/fifty chance one of us bleeds the other out in that ring to win if we have to. Me and you, we're killers, Harper. Both willing to go to any length we got to get what we want. Shit, look how you treated your old man. That's why it ain't no fucking coincidence that the only times we've squared up is when a situation, bracket or a lottery ball has made it happen."
"Portia had to work damn hard to change that."
His eyes wander toward Portia on his right, his fingers gliding down her long, flowing blonde hair as she looks at him with a soft smile. "And she did."
Refocusing on the camera, Stephen's voice carries a strong sense of seriousness to it, minus the usual snarling base in it. "Now here we fucking are. Anyone can look across that ring and see that physically you shouldn't have a chance in hell against me. You got the body of a fucking kid, Harper. Different guy, same size, I'd pound thirty beers the night before, wake up and walk into this match without a second fucking thought. Yeah that statement is going to piss some fucking people off, but ask me if I give a damn."
Rubbing at his chin, Terrella pauses his speech briefly.
"You got your fucking back against the wall in this one though, Harper, and I know that makes you dangerous. When I look across that ring, I'm going to know the type of sick, twisted shit playing in your mind because it's the same thing that goes through my head out there. Fuck the other guy, right? Doesn't matter if he's got friends and family watchin'. This is a combat fucking sport and we play for blood... It's like looking in a fucking mirror that way. And I know you'll do your fucking damnedest to break a few bones of mine.. spill my blood... split my skull wide the fuck open."
Once more saliva and tobacco juice fall from Terrella's lips, landing three inches from the previous spot. He flashes a twisted grin. "Only thing is I got the exact same gameplan. Your head on my fucking wall is every bit the fucking trophy the World Title is going to be to me too, Harper."
"And I got the heaviest hands in this fucking business to help me get it. Guy your size, one well-placed kidney punch that's all it fucking takes to rupture a kidney. Even if I don't pop it like a fucking balloon though, you're going to be gasping for breath and feeling like you're going to puke. That'll slow you. From there, its just time until I break you... and those ribs already got to be a little soft after that spear two weeks ago. But I know you'll try to fight. That's the fun part. Thing is blow-by-blow, I'm going to snuff out that light in your eyes. Cuz' know matter how hard the mind wants, there always comes a point the body ain't willing. I want to see where your point is, Harper... and I got sixty to find out what breaks you."
He quickly spits more tobacco juice from his protruding lower lip. "That's a long-ass time."
"You know I can, too. Shit, you got to know I will. Look at the history Harper. You're a fucking choker. Three times you've won that belt, and only once you've kept it. You're just the guy always chasing the dream, same way before now you're always chasing someone's love... someone's approval... only to piss everything away EVERY. SINGLE. FUCKING. TIME. That's what you do, Harper! That's your flaw, and no one can fucking fix it for you."
"Look how many people have tried and failed, Dean," Portia says with a cruel, biting laugh. "You came back for JC, tried to be a friend and a tag team partner to him, and where did that leave him? I haven't seen him around in awhile. As annoying as he is, maybe he was smart enough to get out before the weight of you drug him down."
"The Pack was maybe the closest thing you ever had to a family, and what you'd do Dean, hmm? You turned your back on them without a second thought to run into the arms of a father who couldn't possibly love you the way he loves Wraith. How could he? Look at how you've failed him over-and-over."
"I also know from talking with her that Brooklyn has never forgiven you for that Dean. And how could she? Look at what you destroyed. You threw them away."
"Of course I don't expect you'll give much thought to what I say," she offers with with a dismissive wave of her hand. But Portia's eyes narrow with a hint of malicious intent, her tongue loading up. "Do you think Maxine would be proud of the man you've become in recent years, though?"
"I mean, rumor is your own husband is even considering leaving you. That's got to tell you something, right?"
Portia leans into Terrella, hanging on him as she laughs. "Personally and professionally, everything you touch turns to shit eventually, Dean. So maybe... just maybe... my man will be doing you a favor when he relieves you of the burden once he takes that belt from you and puts you out of your misery for good."
With one final spit of tobacco, Terrella concludes. "I'm just striking while the fucking iron is hot."
<End Footage>
Well howdy there pardner.