Post by King on Nov 25, 2023 10:59:48 GMT
Stephen Terrella watches as he loses another round to the gambling machine inside of Harry Reid International Airport. Grumbling under his breath, he feels the soft touch of Portia's hand on his shoulder. She leans over to kiss the top of his head before asking: "Can we go now?"
"Yeah, I'm fucking done with this shit." Terrella says, slowly and stiffly getting up from his seat. "Let's go."
As Terrella gathers their belongings, a man and a young boy -presumably father and son- approach.
"My son, Joey, here," the father says, placing a reassuring arm around his boy, "recognized the two of you from television. He loves wrestling, especially the IWF. If it wouldn't be too much to ask, if we could get a picture with the two of you, it'd mean a lot."
Portia inspects the boy, her nose wrinkling as if she caught wind of a carton of rotten eggs. "Um, no. I don't take pictures with children."
"I just thought–'' The man stammered, feeling Terrella's eyes on him.
"What the fuck did you think?" Terrella's voice is short, laden with anger. "We don't do pictures at the arena, and we damn sure don't do pictures in the fucking airport."
"You don't have to be a jerk about it," the father says, an ill-advised attempt to stand up for his son. "Come on, Joey." The man begins to usher the boy away.
Having already been rubbed wrong by the intrusion, Terrella becomes more aggressive. "Yeah, walk away, bitch. Keep fucking walking. Teach that kid of yours how not to be a fucking man!"
Fearing where this may be headed, Portia intervenes by putting a hand on Terrella's chest. "Okay, let's go, babe. This is the airport."
The man turns on a dime, irate with Terrella. "What'd you say to me?!"
"You heard me," Terrella barks.
"Babe," Portia pleads, "airport."
The scene has drawn some curious onlookers, complete with filming cell phones by this point.
"Forget it, man," the father says. "That picture would've been worth about as much as a piece of toilet paper when Tyson and Charlie beat you again on Sunday!"
Portia's head whips around, her eyes shooting daggers through the father. She can feel Stephen pressing against her though, while carefully trying not to bowl her over. Thrust into the role of voice of reason, she turns back to Stephen. "Babe, airport! You see all these people with cameras? You can't get into a fight here."
Terrella looks around, noticing the bystanders filming. He shakes his head before turning to throw his water bottle at the floor in another moment of rage. "FUCK!!!"
Portia looks over her shoulder to see the man walking away with his son now. She takes Terrella by the arm, trying to escape the prying eyes of the cameras. "Don't worry about it. Come on, we need to go, babe."
*********************
Stephen Terrella stands just behind Portia, arms folded across his chest, peering at the floor as the camera begins to roll. Portia takes center stage in the shot.
"Bravo, Tyson," Portia says, mockingly slow-clapping for one Tyson Everest. "Somehow, some way, at Odyssey, you earned yourself a singles victory over my man. We didn't see that coming. That match was supposed to be a walk in the park. Stephen was going to put you down, and then put you out– the way we thought he took your partner out already."
"By the way, the little bit with the sling? Very clever, Charlie," she says in a deriding manner. "That was something else we didn't see coming. The way you carry yourselves, we thought you were above that."
"Ever since you've come back though, you've defied the odds and succeeded in making our lives a living hell. I won't pretend I don't know your names now. We hear them everywhere. The people chant for you in the arenas. They're plastered all over X. We can't even walk through an airport anymore without being reminded of you. You're two cockroaches that, no matter how hard we've tried, we can't seem to get rid of. You just won't go away!"
Portia's eyes narrow, her expression darkening. “I just hope you know who you’re messing with.”
Stephen rubs at his jaw as he stares down at the floor, his eyes disengaged from the camera as he speaks. "Ain't often someone backs me into a fucking corner."
"I'm walking in on Sunday with a partner that I don't know if I can fully trust. I'm fighting one guy that just outsmarted me, and another that just–" He hesitates, struggling to say the words out loud. "That just– he fucking pinned me. The past few weeks have been a few of the worst weeks of my life. I can't buy a fucking win, can't catch a fucking break… and I got no reason to believe that shit is going to change except," he pauses, looking up at the camera, "the two of you challenged me to a fight in my world."
"You best believe I'm going to take every ounce of that frustration -this anger- out on both of your asses."
Portia turns sideways, in towards Stephen, placing a hand on his chest. "Tyson, Charlie… for weeks you've been crying about how we do business- but that is your fault. If you hadn’t stuck your nose in our business, we wouldn’t have reacted that way. The same way that, on Sunday, everything that is going to happen to you is going to be your fault as well."
"We are, after all, the same people that hung a beaten and bloodied man upside down over the ring."
"We are the very same people that caved in a man's skull with a steel chair."
"So what do you suppose we might have planned for the two of you?"
"That's the thing about defying the odds– as exciting as it is, you can only defy the odds for so long. Eventually your luck just runs out. Sunday, your time is up."
Stephen levels his menacing stare on the camera. His breathing is heavy, but rhythmic. His voice stern as he adds, "Survival of the Fittest, anything goes… I'm going to put your asses in the dirt. And this time, you're going to fucking stay there."
<Fade out.>
"Yeah, I'm fucking done with this shit." Terrella says, slowly and stiffly getting up from his seat. "Let's go."
As Terrella gathers their belongings, a man and a young boy -presumably father and son- approach.
"My son, Joey, here," the father says, placing a reassuring arm around his boy, "recognized the two of you from television. He loves wrestling, especially the IWF. If it wouldn't be too much to ask, if we could get a picture with the two of you, it'd mean a lot."
Portia inspects the boy, her nose wrinkling as if she caught wind of a carton of rotten eggs. "Um, no. I don't take pictures with children."
"I just thought–'' The man stammered, feeling Terrella's eyes on him.
"What the fuck did you think?" Terrella's voice is short, laden with anger. "We don't do pictures at the arena, and we damn sure don't do pictures in the fucking airport."
"You don't have to be a jerk about it," the father says, an ill-advised attempt to stand up for his son. "Come on, Joey." The man begins to usher the boy away.
Having already been rubbed wrong by the intrusion, Terrella becomes more aggressive. "Yeah, walk away, bitch. Keep fucking walking. Teach that kid of yours how not to be a fucking man!"
Fearing where this may be headed, Portia intervenes by putting a hand on Terrella's chest. "Okay, let's go, babe. This is the airport."
The man turns on a dime, irate with Terrella. "What'd you say to me?!"
"You heard me," Terrella barks.
"Babe," Portia pleads, "airport."
The scene has drawn some curious onlookers, complete with filming cell phones by this point.
"Forget it, man," the father says. "That picture would've been worth about as much as a piece of toilet paper when Tyson and Charlie beat you again on Sunday!"
Portia's head whips around, her eyes shooting daggers through the father. She can feel Stephen pressing against her though, while carefully trying not to bowl her over. Thrust into the role of voice of reason, she turns back to Stephen. "Babe, airport! You see all these people with cameras? You can't get into a fight here."
Terrella looks around, noticing the bystanders filming. He shakes his head before turning to throw his water bottle at the floor in another moment of rage. "FUCK!!!"
Portia looks over her shoulder to see the man walking away with his son now. She takes Terrella by the arm, trying to escape the prying eyes of the cameras. "Don't worry about it. Come on, we need to go, babe."
*********************
Stephen Terrella stands just behind Portia, arms folded across his chest, peering at the floor as the camera begins to roll. Portia takes center stage in the shot.
"Bravo, Tyson," Portia says, mockingly slow-clapping for one Tyson Everest. "Somehow, some way, at Odyssey, you earned yourself a singles victory over my man. We didn't see that coming. That match was supposed to be a walk in the park. Stephen was going to put you down, and then put you out– the way we thought he took your partner out already."
"By the way, the little bit with the sling? Very clever, Charlie," she says in a deriding manner. "That was something else we didn't see coming. The way you carry yourselves, we thought you were above that."
"Ever since you've come back though, you've defied the odds and succeeded in making our lives a living hell. I won't pretend I don't know your names now. We hear them everywhere. The people chant for you in the arenas. They're plastered all over X. We can't even walk through an airport anymore without being reminded of you. You're two cockroaches that, no matter how hard we've tried, we can't seem to get rid of. You just won't go away!"
Portia's eyes narrow, her expression darkening. “I just hope you know who you’re messing with.”
Stephen rubs at his jaw as he stares down at the floor, his eyes disengaged from the camera as he speaks. "Ain't often someone backs me into a fucking corner."
"I'm walking in on Sunday with a partner that I don't know if I can fully trust. I'm fighting one guy that just outsmarted me, and another that just–" He hesitates, struggling to say the words out loud. "That just– he fucking pinned me. The past few weeks have been a few of the worst weeks of my life. I can't buy a fucking win, can't catch a fucking break… and I got no reason to believe that shit is going to change except," he pauses, looking up at the camera, "the two of you challenged me to a fight in my world."
"You best believe I'm going to take every ounce of that frustration -this anger- out on both of your asses."
Portia turns sideways, in towards Stephen, placing a hand on his chest. "Tyson, Charlie… for weeks you've been crying about how we do business- but that is your fault. If you hadn’t stuck your nose in our business, we wouldn’t have reacted that way. The same way that, on Sunday, everything that is going to happen to you is going to be your fault as well."
"We are, after all, the same people that hung a beaten and bloodied man upside down over the ring."
"We are the very same people that caved in a man's skull with a steel chair."
"So what do you suppose we might have planned for the two of you?"
"That's the thing about defying the odds– as exciting as it is, you can only defy the odds for so long. Eventually your luck just runs out. Sunday, your time is up."
Stephen levels his menacing stare on the camera. His breathing is heavy, but rhythmic. His voice stern as he adds, "Survival of the Fittest, anything goes… I'm going to put your asses in the dirt. And this time, you're going to fucking stay there."
<Fade out.>
Well howdy there pardner.