Post by Malaki Toala on Nov 24, 2013 2:54:47 GMT
The Gulf Sun radiates down on the bizarrely isolated Rugby Seven’s arena, a crowd of overly enthusiastic Westerners, bemused locals and a splattering of wealthy tourists litter the arena. By the side of the player’s tunnel a portly (That’s fat to you and I) gentleman stands watching the action, a glass of champagne in his hand and a smile on his face. Well, for a little while at least, that is until the half sober figure of Joey Leroux begins to stumble out from the crowd.
Brett Turner: Oh great, here comes that shit eating little insect…
Joey staggers towards Brent the loosest, floosiest, skankiest woman humanly purchasable with a huge smile on face. Brett realise his in ear shot and flings his arms out disingenuously. Oh yeah, I can do big words.
Brett Turner: My best friend!
The pair embrace and almost simultaneously grimace in digust before withdrawing and smiling the fakest smiles imaginable as they continue the façade.
Joey Leroux: Brett! I haven’t seen you in… oh… 4 months? How have you been, I heard you got your prostate removed. I’m not surprised, it must have been all clenched out after my boy Jerry KOed that fella of yours in the 5th round.
Brett laughs, although it’s about as real as the smile he wears to hide his complete contempt for Joey.
Brett Turner: Oh, ever the joker, Joey. If you recall the match was cancelled due to a drive-by shooting outside.
He was correct, although technically it was a misfiring exhaust. The fact there was no body didn’t seem to concern anybody or question why Brett pulled his fighter out of the place so fast.
Joey Leroux: Ah, semantics old boy.
Brett Turner: So what brings you to Dubai?
Joey Leroux: My flight to LA got cancelled so I thought, hey, what the heck, why not enjoy the sights a little.
He lied. He was actually barred from boarding his transfer flight due to, what could only be described, as being about as sober as an Irishman whose taps actually emit Guiness. That and the fact that the pilot was a little perturbed, so to speak, at being instructed on how to fly a plane.
Brett Turner: How unfortunate.
How unfortunate for Brett, perhaps. And the residents of Dubai.
Joey Leroux: Hey, perhaps it was meant to be. I heard the Dubai Rugby Sevens is awash with talent, you know me I never pass up an opportunity to expand my cliental.
Brett Turner: I thought they all left you after the… unpleasantness.
The unpleasantness in this case was Joey being unable to pay 5 heavyweight boxers their cut of the revenue because he blew it all on bets against them. This particular unpleasantness took around 5 months to recover from and involved two minor surgeries. It almost was upgraded to an inconvenience when they were unable to locate his spine.
Joey Leroux: I had to let them spread their wings, I got a respectable fee for them.
Meaning a 6-figure lawsuit for aggravated assault, although arguable justifiable assault was perhaps more accurate.
Joey Leroux: Enough to find a bigger, better client.
Brett Turner: Good luck, pal, but I already got here before you.
Joey cocks an eyebrow, a little curious, as he always is about Brett’s clients.
Joey Leroux: Indulge me.
Brett lifts up a chubby finger and points out to the turf where two teams are clashing on the field of battle. One of the Welsh player collects the ball from his team mate and begins to make strides into the Samoan half of the pitch.
Joey Leroux: I don’t follow?
Brett remains silent, smiling about as smugly as you can without consuming yourself in your own self-love. Nodding he directs Joey towards the oncoming figure of a huge Samoan whop barges his way through the Welsh players attempting to protect the runner, he eyes fixed on the man with the ball. The welshmen’s eyes open wide as he attempts to turn and pass but before he can do the beast is upon him, almost snapping him in two as the ball he clutched so desperately goes flying out of his hands as Joey’s mouth hits the floor as he pushes his… ahem, company off of his arm before rushing forward to grip the railings.
Joey Leroux: Holy crap, you signed him?
Brett Turn: Well, he hasn’t technically signed yet… but I thought he’d make a pretty penny in the MMA circles…
Joey suddenly gets a rather familiar cocksure grin before turning and looking at Brett, although he resembles Smeagol more than a crafty villain. Suddenly, the ball drops, but before Brett can wobble over to him, Joey hops the rails.
Brett Turner: Hey… Joey, where are you going? You better not even be thinking of…
Joey Leroux: You snooze you lose!
Joey sprints away as Brett begins pounding on the rails and screaming. Suddenly, a pair of rather bony fingers, attached to a particularly skinny woman taps him on the shoulder.
Hooker: You’re going to honour his payment, right?
Brett Turner: What does he owe you?
Hooker: $12,000.
Brett turns as bright red as the Welsh shirts, and the blood pouring out of the unfortunate fellow left laying at Malaki’s feet. Turning he screams after Joey, a vein bulging in his neck.
Brett Turner: I hate you, Joey Leroux!
A camera begins to flick and standing before us is the imposing figure of Malaki Toala, once again towering above Joey Leroux, who, somewhat bizarrely, although anything is possible, is stood clutching what appear to be a doll, dressed in a smart suit which is oddly similar to Joey’s. Raising the doll to his ear he turns to the camera.
What’s that Joey?
Your client Malaki Toala, the Samoan Batting Ram, first ever IWF Gladiator and all around behemoth won just like you said he would?
Oh, Joey, I don’t think I can repeat that. Telling everybody to kiss your ass isn’t very gentlemanly…
Joey looks up at Malaki who stares down at Joey, slightly confused, mostly worried.
What?
Is that… is that a Joey Leroux action figure?
No, it’s a Ken doll. The action figure isn’t off the production line yet.
You’re a grown man.
Correction, I am a rich grown man.
All thanks to the next big thing in professional wrestling of course, I never doubted you big guy.
Joey smiles before tossing the doll off camera.
Last week, we did exactly what we set out to do, and that was to win the Gladiator’s Season One, and despite the fact that 90% of the competition was about as useful as a paper condom, we earned that rather lucrative little contract and boy, do we ever plan to use it.
Well, not yet, so you can put the crucifix away, Spike.
No, we’re going to sit on this title shot, we’re going to let anticipation build so that when we finally cash this in, we get the hottest bout in the sport, rather than a “rookie” beating some old tattooed Jesus wannabe. There’s no money in that. Instead, we’re going to improve my client’s standing, raise his profile and when the iron is hot, we’ll strike and make a killing.
Malaki looks down at Joey.
Oh, and do the whole win the belt schtick.
We can’t forget that.
So, with that in mind, I had to ask myself, just what exactly would IWF prepare for my client’s first challenge as a official member of the roster and I have to say, they pleasantly surprised me. I mean, not because I have any worries about the selection of opponents presented, but the potential to really make an impact by exploiting their brand power is…
Irresistible.
Well, one of them anyway, I’m not entirely sure what Kristoff Liam Bates has to offer other than incredibly boring monologues and dreary insults.
My client wins a highly prestigious tournament, going unbeaten the entire way, and the best he can conjure up are some frankly laughable gay jokes, some sort of X-Box commercial and jibes about his intelligence. Oh and some immigration nonsense where he pretends to be some sort of spirit medium and predict the future.
Remind me again where it says that he needs to be heterosexual and booksmart to beat the daylights out of you in both the natural and spirit realm? Because if it’s in his contract I sure as hell didn’t see it and seen as he allegedly can’t read, nor did he. Answer that one smart ass after my client shoves his biggest asset down your throat.
And I am talking about his foot before you get too excited.
I can read, I have a degree…
Hey, hey! Remember, me talkie, you standlookingintimidatingandawesinspiring…ie.
Malaki shakes his head.
Where was I? See what happens when you throw me off my game big guy? It’s a good job I jotted down these bullet points or we’d be screwed.
Joey raises a rather tattered list up and squints a little before looking back at the camera.
Oh yes, Master Bates. Ha, see what I did there, I called you a wanker. Oh sometimes I kill myself.
We all wish you would Joey. Thankfully, Malaki’s glare is enough to get us back on track.
Ok, ok. Anyway, from the very brief notes I took after watch your length diatribes what I can gather is that a) You have absolutely nothing of merit to say b) You may or may not be “out there” and c) Well, I got to c but then ran out of ink but I am sure it would have been as irrelevant as the other crap you came out with.
Seriously Bates, I was expecting so much more from a man that likes to use big words.
Like a pie chart or something more interesting, perhaps even a nice cross stich, pretty much anything but the rather bizarre and smug inane ramblings you managed to conjure up. Although, I’ll give you credit, it wasn’t predictable at the very least, you certainly caught me by surprise.
But not in a good way.
Look, I know you would rather get back to your bizarre man crush with Lance and you don’t want to hear about how my client is going to snap you in two so, I’ll leave it at this. You’re a terrible comedian, please don’t start a career in stand up. No, I’m being serious, don’t. It would be a travesty to see you anywhere near a television after you inevitably fail to be remotely relevant back inside a wrestling ring.
Now Lance Ryan on the other hand, you’re somebody I can work with. Metaphorically speaking of course, I don’t double date professionally.
What better way to announce my clients arrival on the scene, than choking out an icon for the second week running! Although I have to say the fact Eddie Black made you his bitch with little to no effort does kind of put a dampener on things, but there’s still money in this.
NCW’s first ever champion, against the man who will be IWF’s greatest world champion.
Has a marketable ring to it and I guess after you antics last week people will be eager to pay to watch you get your head kicked in by a giant. Good luck raising him on a crucifix considering by the sounds of it you doubt that you even have the ability to lift him by yourself.
It’s quite sad to see the great Lance Ryan reduced to begging Bates for a double team effort to get the job done. But it’s ok, we’re going to market this bout on your name value alone which, for the time being, still has some glamor attached to it. Albeit based entirely on past efforts, which is fine by me because it’s clear you haven’t shaken the old ring rust off yet…
And that is going to prove to be very, very costly for you this week.
Trust me, if you can’t even beat Eddie Black, you don’t have a hope in hell of putting Malaki away and that’s just the God’s honest truth. I would never lie.
My mother taught me otherwise.
Although one thing troubles me, and it’s the fact that, for some reason, you seem to be more concerned with Bates this week. In fact, you both seem to want to enter an endless circle jerk over one another that frankly a little creepy and bordering on dual-stalking. The polaroid’s didn’t help by the way.
And trust me, stalking your stalker doesn’t work. It gets you arrested.
I mean I guess it’s cute that you spent so much time saying how quickly my client will fall, but then immediately begged Batesy to help you double team him, despite him not being a threat. And by cute I mean pretty pathetic and contradictory to your whole superiority thing you had going on. You really need to work on that “champ”.
You, and Bates, have fallen into the trap I expect and wanted you to fall in. Underestimating the potential of Malaki and seeing him as the green rookie giant from the vanilla factory and planning your own little private bout amongst you. I figured your egos couldn’t comprehend my client being a relevant part of this match.
And that’s good.
Because once you’ve done your little “two on one” beat down, you can just go ahead and soften one another up ready for when my client has fully recovered. You’re really not rocket scientists, are you? But then I guess this isn’t a debate, it’s a wrestling match and whilst I am aware you both have more pedigree than my client, it won’t count for a jot when you’re stuck in a ring with him.
Past accomplishments, form, size, weight, favourites meals…
None of it counts when that bell rings.
This weekend you will help raise my client’s profile and in doing so earn a place in history as the first two victims of a man who will dominate this company. I guess that’s something for you to cling to when you’re “getting this done” and putting your next match up where it “deserves to be” on the card, huh?
You’re going to need something console yourselves with when you see us riding off into the sunset leaving you back in the stone age where you belong.
I’m not sure there is going to be a meteorite to save your blushes this time.
Well howdy there pardner.