Post by Notorious B.O.B. on Feb 23, 2014 16:15:39 GMT
“She’s a lucky woman, Mr. Pooler; a lucky, lucky woman.”
The voice still rang fresh in his ears whenever he looked at it. He couldn’t stop thinking about it, about the decision he’d made. It was hard to believe how far he’d come in less than twenty-four hours. It all started, he guessed, earlier that day … or yesterday considering the current time; right around the time he was fitting Gib with a steel chair earring; or it might have been afterwards, backstage in the locker room.
“Now that,” Kane started, “is what I call a good ending.”
The fact was that the match hadn’t exactly gone according to plan. Sure, Shinigami, and by extension the Empire, had walked away with the win, it had been tainted by interference. Famularo had stuck his nose into Spike’s business for the last time; the pair was on a collision course for Danger Zone the following weekend. Gib thought he’d get the best of himself and Kane with a little sneak attack. Well, his interference cost Ortega and Laszlo the match, but may have very well saved them too.
“Good stuff man, good stuff.” Pooler added, taking a long swig from a bottle of water he’d snagged just through the curtain.
“Hey, now that that’s over with,” he began, though quickly cut off by Spike.
“Guy, are we going to sit here and play twenty questions again?” Kane was wiping at his brow with a towel. “We just put on a hell of a show against two posers and you want to, what, chat more about Lance Ryan?” he asked, shaking his head.
“Well, it’s just …” Pooler stammered.
“It’s just nothing bud.” Spike said, cutting him off at the pass. “Lance Ryan is gone, the Empire is still standing and you,” he motioned towards Pooler, “with what’s on your plate for the Pay-Per-View, and I’d get my head wrapped around that instead of Ryan.”
The matter, as far as Kane was considered, was closed.
The matter wasn’t closed for Pooler though. All night long he continued to think about it, about everything. He’d come to the conclusion that he could do one of two things: he could continue letting himself get eaten up on the inside; or he could do the right thing.
But it wasn’t that easy … when in life is anything that easy?
He paced around his hotel room, glancing over to the bed where he’d tossed his cell phone earlier. There’d been no missed calls, no messages, no contact of any kind from Holli since before he’d left for Nevada.
He unlocked his phone; his thumb raised, pausing as it hovered over the screen that he’d left his phone on for days. All he had to do was lower that thumb and make the call. Each time, though, he would simply drop the phone back to the bed and continue his pacing.
He was sure that he’d nearly worn a trench in the carpet by midnight when he’d decided to go walk around a little bit, get some fresh air and, hopefully, come to a damn decision.
The streets were far from empty; this was Las Vegas after all. The bright lights, the noise, the bustle of the people; it all somehow helped him clear his mind. As he passed the Palms he decided, on a whim, to head in and play a single slot machine; nothing fancy, no high roller club here, just a simply slot machine.
The place was alive and packed to the gills with men and women of all ages. He didn’t even notice the smile that spread across his face as he made his way over to the nearest bank of machines. He longed for the classic slots that he’d grown up seeing in the movies instead of the digital ones that now occupied ninety percent of the casinos. It took a few minutes to find an empty machine, but as he sat down in front of it and dug into his pocket, pulling out his debit card and sliding it into the reader. He took a deep breath and pulled the handle.
The LCD screen came to life; the digital reels spinning round and round. His eyes tried to track their progress, but lost them after a moment. He pinched them shut, trying to ‘reset’ before peaking and seeing the first reel slowing to a crawl. It was soon followed by the second, and then by the third.
He waited for bells, for whistles, maybe some lights and confetti; all he got was the sound of people pulling the handles around him. He clicked his tongue, rising to his feet, and turned away from the machine.
“Just one pull, kid?”
Pooler stopped and turned, noticing the gentleman who’d been seated next to him. He must have been pushing seventy, but still looked like he could kick some ass if needed. He had a Palms swipe card on a lanyard around his neck and seemed to have been there for some time.
“Nobody walks into a casino and pulls that handle just once.”
Pooler shrugged and smiled, “I guess that’s me then, a ‘nobody’.
The man smiled and slapped his polyester clad leg. “Ha, well then Mr. Nobody, why don’t you give it one more shot,” he asked, “on me” he added, standing and swiping his card through the reader at Pooler’s machine.
The man settled back down on his stool as Bob turned back to his machine. He eyed the screen and the handle for a moment. “Dammit, kid … this isn’t a hard decision. I already paid for your turn, now pull the damn handle.”
Pooler smiled as he reached out, “But I get a twenty-five percent cut if you hit the jackpot” the man added as Pooler wrapped his hand around the large red ball at the end of the handle and pulled down.
The digital reels began to spin again, around and around. Bob watched them slowly stop, winning him,
“Nothing?”
He wasn’t sure who was more surprised, him or the old guy. “Hmmph,” the man grunted, “well, if you aren’t willing to strike out, you can never win big, kid” he said, turning back to his own machine and pulling down on the handle.
Pooler turned and walked away, a decision now made up in his mind. He didn’t go back to the hotel. He, instead, made a detour uptown to a different building where he hoped to hit the jackpot.
“Here we go …” he mumbled to himself as he crossed the threshold. “Time to go big, or go home.”
A still frame picture of the Cruiserweight champion greets the viewers. The feed goes live as the unmoving Pooler blinks and smiles, dropping the small remote that’d been in his hand. His left hand plays with the handle of a large coffee mug; his fingers toying with the bottom of the handle, tracing its seamless integration into the rest of the mug.
”I could really use a sense of justification here. Someone, anyone really, step up and disprove my claims; someone make me a liar and show me reason why what I have to say isn’t the most God-damn valid thing in this company right now.”
He pauses for a moment, lifting a large mug up to his mouth and taking a slurping sip before lowering it back to the table, a smile on his face. ”This sport, a game to most of you, would be so much easier if all it took was a little bravado and a handful of lies each week. Stepping in front of a camera and spouting off about how you were the best there was in that ring and nothing your opponent said, or did, would change the coming outcome” he says, ending with a cursory sneer. ”But it’s exactly guys like this, with this mentality that have all but devalued this sport.”
His eyes shift downward, watching the spirals of steam drifting off the surface of the coffee and lazily rise into the air. ”If I played by their rules, then my job would be a whole hell of a lot easier. I’d be sitting before you this morning with a laundry list of why retaining my title would be easier than anyone expects. What’s standing in my way, eh? A has-been owner who should have left the suit on and left the wrestling to the professionals; a slow-talking, mask wearing former champion with the relevance of a Kanye West video; and a walking example of Peter Pan syndrome who refuses to grow up and accept that his once great division has fallen into disrepair under his watch.” Smiling, ”But we all know I don’t play by the rules.”
Reaching out and taking hold of the mug, he gently shakes it in a circular motion, swirling the liquid. ”I don’t need to boast or brag, the Cruiserweight title around my waist says more than I ever could. It says that of all the men in this company below two hundred and thirty-pounds, I’m the best.” He sets down the mug, looking back up into the lens. ”Note, not ‘one-of’ … THE best. Maybe it was just a fact of being in the right place at the right time, signing to IWF when I did. I entered at the most ideal time, giving Angel an opportunity to right the ship that was sinking faster than the Titanic.
We all know the path that I walked to get to this point, but where do we go from here? That’s the question of the hour, ladies and gentlemen. This division has seen better days. Men like Brad Kane and Alex Jones have gone the way of the dodo. What’s that left us with?” Pooler slides the mug to the left, his gesticulations become more agitated.
Drilling his right fist into the table top and leaving it there, his skin of his knuckles pulled tight, and white against the bone. ”It’s left us with no other recourse than to have a man like Gjenrei pulling the reigns and driving the horses right into the ground. Who would have been able to call it though? He was impressive against Jones, impressive enough to catch the eye of Angel, but over time the shine began to wear off. With Verona’s attention on Spike, Creed’s dominance in the Man-of-Steel division and the rest of the group being nothing but wrestling jokes, Gjenrei was holding court as King of the Island of Misfit Toys” he says with a sneer.
He pulls his fist off the surface of the table, pointing into the camera, ”Gjenrei, we’ve been down this road, what, three times now?” he asks with a shrug. ”In all this time we’ve both brought our best, and each time you’ve been found wanting. Each time you’ve tried in vain to prove that you’re the man who should be leading this division. Each time you’ve failed to live up to the promise that you once showed. Each match you’ve brought a little less, fought a little less, cared a little less; stop me if you’ve already realized this.” He smiles, dragging his tongue across his canine teeth, ”Stop me if you disagree, or better yet … do something about it. Pull that musty mask up; tell the people that I’m wrong. Give them reason after reason why I’m talking out of my ass; or you can keep your mouth shut and go stand in the corner while I go collect MY title. It’ll be nice to only need to contend with one undeserving competitor, rather than two.”
Pooler drops his finger, lowering his fist gently back to the table and smiling wider. ”That’d be you, ‘berto. You and I both know that you want nothing to do with this title. It represents nothing to you but the opportunity to be a thorn in Angel’s side. The fact that you’ve even bothered inserting yourself into this match proves to us all what a hypocrite you’ve become.
All of this,” he says, opening his arms and looking from hand to hand, ”is your fault. You allowed this to happen. This pathetic game of one-upmanship you’ve been involved in has brought you to this stage. You just don’t know how to choose your battles; first Spike, now Angel … who’s next, Verona?
I’ll tell you who’s next, the whole damn locker room; this deal you’ve made with the devil is going to come back to bite you, Roberto. Everything you sought to build is going to come crashing down around your ears.” Spittle flies from his mouth, ”You upped the ante; not Spike, not Angel, certainly not Simon … you. When all is said and done, you’re the one who made this bed, and you’re the one who invited … her to join you in it; you’ll burn for this, but I’ll be damned if you set the rest of us ablaze for your mistakes.
Find another way to settle your petty squabbles, one that doesn’t involve us. You were the one who approached Angel about joining you in this business venture; you’re the one who put him in charge of a whole division; so you shouldn’t be surprised that he’s willing to fight to the death to protect his investment” he derides, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ”You never gave him the tools he’d need to succeed, instead relying on walking gimmicks and the dregs of the company that wouldn’t have succeeded regardless.
Until I came.
You thought I’d be just another of the jokes, just another misfit for Angel to deal with.” He laughs, ”That was a decision that blew up your face, eh?” Pooler bites at his bottom lip for a moment, ”I’m the one thing that this division needed, Roberto; I’m the only man who could have taken the Cruiserweights out of the basement you put them in and shown them capable of competing with your precious Imperial and Man-of-Steel divisions.
Go through my matches, ‘berto … I’ve faced your heroes time and time again. Nero, Ortega, du Lac, Laszlo, even Jacobson fell; you continue to set them against me, and by extension my division, and have failed.
I’m stronger than you could possibly fathom; in ability and integrity.
Keep sending your sheep, Verona … I’m still hungry.”
He stops, composing himself for a moment. Smoothing back his hair with one hand, he takes hold of his mug with the other; noting that it’s grown cold to the touch. Nonetheless, he raises it and takes a sip; the smallest of grins on his face. ”Angel, your words … the backhanded compliments if you will … they’re touching” he confesses. ”but while you’ve been obsessed with your white whale, I’ve been thinking. What’s next for me, for this title? Where do we go from here, Angel?
It would be out of character for me to say that I’d be using it as a stepping stone towards something bigger, because, while we both know that while the men holding the other three titles are simply placeholders, my eyes are on no prize other than the one around my waist.”
The smile on his face now isn’t the cold, sneering one he’s been wearing lately. Instead, this one is warm and genuine. ”You were the foundation upon which this division was built. Along the way you were given inferior materials, but still continued to build as best you could.
Now, imagine what you can build with me; imagine it.
I’ve shown that I’m no flash in the pan, no fluke. Verona couldn’t break me, but maybe you just need to see it with your own eyes, feel it with your own hands.”
Pooler folds his hands on the table once more, interlocking his fingers. ”Test my will; test my resolve; test me, Angel” he coos. ”I would expect no less from you. It may be a surprise to Verona, Gjenrei as well … but you shouldn’t be surprised by the hell I unleash in that ring this weekend.
I don’t hold back; you’ll never receive anything less than my all. Gjenrei’s name is already etched in stone, Verona’s as well; but your name, Angel … I look most forward to yours being listed on my ledger. I’m bound and determined to cement myself as the greatest Cruiserweight, the greatest champion, the greatest in IWF.” His smile loses the warmth, growing more sinister, ”Sunday night, everyone will see …
who’s afraid of the Big Bad Wolf.”
The voice still rang fresh in his ears whenever he looked at it. He couldn’t stop thinking about it, about the decision he’d made. It was hard to believe how far he’d come in less than twenty-four hours. It all started, he guessed, earlier that day … or yesterday considering the current time; right around the time he was fitting Gib with a steel chair earring; or it might have been afterwards, backstage in the locker room.
“Now that,” Kane started, “is what I call a good ending.”
The fact was that the match hadn’t exactly gone according to plan. Sure, Shinigami, and by extension the Empire, had walked away with the win, it had been tainted by interference. Famularo had stuck his nose into Spike’s business for the last time; the pair was on a collision course for Danger Zone the following weekend. Gib thought he’d get the best of himself and Kane with a little sneak attack. Well, his interference cost Ortega and Laszlo the match, but may have very well saved them too.
“Good stuff man, good stuff.” Pooler added, taking a long swig from a bottle of water he’d snagged just through the curtain.
“Hey, now that that’s over with,” he began, though quickly cut off by Spike.
“Guy, are we going to sit here and play twenty questions again?” Kane was wiping at his brow with a towel. “We just put on a hell of a show against two posers and you want to, what, chat more about Lance Ryan?” he asked, shaking his head.
“Well, it’s just …” Pooler stammered.
“It’s just nothing bud.” Spike said, cutting him off at the pass. “Lance Ryan is gone, the Empire is still standing and you,” he motioned towards Pooler, “with what’s on your plate for the Pay-Per-View, and I’d get my head wrapped around that instead of Ryan.”
The matter, as far as Kane was considered, was closed.
The matter wasn’t closed for Pooler though. All night long he continued to think about it, about everything. He’d come to the conclusion that he could do one of two things: he could continue letting himself get eaten up on the inside; or he could do the right thing.
But it wasn’t that easy … when in life is anything that easy?
He paced around his hotel room, glancing over to the bed where he’d tossed his cell phone earlier. There’d been no missed calls, no messages, no contact of any kind from Holli since before he’d left for Nevada.
He unlocked his phone; his thumb raised, pausing as it hovered over the screen that he’d left his phone on for days. All he had to do was lower that thumb and make the call. Each time, though, he would simply drop the phone back to the bed and continue his pacing.
He was sure that he’d nearly worn a trench in the carpet by midnight when he’d decided to go walk around a little bit, get some fresh air and, hopefully, come to a damn decision.
The streets were far from empty; this was Las Vegas after all. The bright lights, the noise, the bustle of the people; it all somehow helped him clear his mind. As he passed the Palms he decided, on a whim, to head in and play a single slot machine; nothing fancy, no high roller club here, just a simply slot machine.
The place was alive and packed to the gills with men and women of all ages. He didn’t even notice the smile that spread across his face as he made his way over to the nearest bank of machines. He longed for the classic slots that he’d grown up seeing in the movies instead of the digital ones that now occupied ninety percent of the casinos. It took a few minutes to find an empty machine, but as he sat down in front of it and dug into his pocket, pulling out his debit card and sliding it into the reader. He took a deep breath and pulled the handle.
The LCD screen came to life; the digital reels spinning round and round. His eyes tried to track their progress, but lost them after a moment. He pinched them shut, trying to ‘reset’ before peaking and seeing the first reel slowing to a crawl. It was soon followed by the second, and then by the third.
He waited for bells, for whistles, maybe some lights and confetti; all he got was the sound of people pulling the handles around him. He clicked his tongue, rising to his feet, and turned away from the machine.
“Just one pull, kid?”
Pooler stopped and turned, noticing the gentleman who’d been seated next to him. He must have been pushing seventy, but still looked like he could kick some ass if needed. He had a Palms swipe card on a lanyard around his neck and seemed to have been there for some time.
“Nobody walks into a casino and pulls that handle just once.”
Pooler shrugged and smiled, “I guess that’s me then, a ‘nobody’.
The man smiled and slapped his polyester clad leg. “Ha, well then Mr. Nobody, why don’t you give it one more shot,” he asked, “on me” he added, standing and swiping his card through the reader at Pooler’s machine.
The man settled back down on his stool as Bob turned back to his machine. He eyed the screen and the handle for a moment. “Dammit, kid … this isn’t a hard decision. I already paid for your turn, now pull the damn handle.”
Pooler smiled as he reached out, “But I get a twenty-five percent cut if you hit the jackpot” the man added as Pooler wrapped his hand around the large red ball at the end of the handle and pulled down.
The digital reels began to spin again, around and around. Bob watched them slowly stop, winning him,
“Nothing?”
He wasn’t sure who was more surprised, him or the old guy. “Hmmph,” the man grunted, “well, if you aren’t willing to strike out, you can never win big, kid” he said, turning back to his own machine and pulling down on the handle.
Pooler turned and walked away, a decision now made up in his mind. He didn’t go back to the hotel. He, instead, made a detour uptown to a different building where he hoped to hit the jackpot.
“Here we go …” he mumbled to himself as he crossed the threshold. “Time to go big, or go home.”
~~ ‘It never troubles the wolf, how many the sheep may be’ ~~
Virgil
Virgil
A still frame picture of the Cruiserweight champion greets the viewers. The feed goes live as the unmoving Pooler blinks and smiles, dropping the small remote that’d been in his hand. His left hand plays with the handle of a large coffee mug; his fingers toying with the bottom of the handle, tracing its seamless integration into the rest of the mug.
”I could really use a sense of justification here. Someone, anyone really, step up and disprove my claims; someone make me a liar and show me reason why what I have to say isn’t the most God-damn valid thing in this company right now.”
He pauses for a moment, lifting a large mug up to his mouth and taking a slurping sip before lowering it back to the table, a smile on his face. ”This sport, a game to most of you, would be so much easier if all it took was a little bravado and a handful of lies each week. Stepping in front of a camera and spouting off about how you were the best there was in that ring and nothing your opponent said, or did, would change the coming outcome” he says, ending with a cursory sneer. ”But it’s exactly guys like this, with this mentality that have all but devalued this sport.”
His eyes shift downward, watching the spirals of steam drifting off the surface of the coffee and lazily rise into the air. ”If I played by their rules, then my job would be a whole hell of a lot easier. I’d be sitting before you this morning with a laundry list of why retaining my title would be easier than anyone expects. What’s standing in my way, eh? A has-been owner who should have left the suit on and left the wrestling to the professionals; a slow-talking, mask wearing former champion with the relevance of a Kanye West video; and a walking example of Peter Pan syndrome who refuses to grow up and accept that his once great division has fallen into disrepair under his watch.” Smiling, ”But we all know I don’t play by the rules.”
Reaching out and taking hold of the mug, he gently shakes it in a circular motion, swirling the liquid. ”I don’t need to boast or brag, the Cruiserweight title around my waist says more than I ever could. It says that of all the men in this company below two hundred and thirty-pounds, I’m the best.” He sets down the mug, looking back up into the lens. ”Note, not ‘one-of’ … THE best. Maybe it was just a fact of being in the right place at the right time, signing to IWF when I did. I entered at the most ideal time, giving Angel an opportunity to right the ship that was sinking faster than the Titanic.
We all know the path that I walked to get to this point, but where do we go from here? That’s the question of the hour, ladies and gentlemen. This division has seen better days. Men like Brad Kane and Alex Jones have gone the way of the dodo. What’s that left us with?” Pooler slides the mug to the left, his gesticulations become more agitated.
Drilling his right fist into the table top and leaving it there, his skin of his knuckles pulled tight, and white against the bone. ”It’s left us with no other recourse than to have a man like Gjenrei pulling the reigns and driving the horses right into the ground. Who would have been able to call it though? He was impressive against Jones, impressive enough to catch the eye of Angel, but over time the shine began to wear off. With Verona’s attention on Spike, Creed’s dominance in the Man-of-Steel division and the rest of the group being nothing but wrestling jokes, Gjenrei was holding court as King of the Island of Misfit Toys” he says with a sneer.
He pulls his fist off the surface of the table, pointing into the camera, ”Gjenrei, we’ve been down this road, what, three times now?” he asks with a shrug. ”In all this time we’ve both brought our best, and each time you’ve been found wanting. Each time you’ve tried in vain to prove that you’re the man who should be leading this division. Each time you’ve failed to live up to the promise that you once showed. Each match you’ve brought a little less, fought a little less, cared a little less; stop me if you’ve already realized this.” He smiles, dragging his tongue across his canine teeth, ”Stop me if you disagree, or better yet … do something about it. Pull that musty mask up; tell the people that I’m wrong. Give them reason after reason why I’m talking out of my ass; or you can keep your mouth shut and go stand in the corner while I go collect MY title. It’ll be nice to only need to contend with one undeserving competitor, rather than two.”
Pooler drops his finger, lowering his fist gently back to the table and smiling wider. ”That’d be you, ‘berto. You and I both know that you want nothing to do with this title. It represents nothing to you but the opportunity to be a thorn in Angel’s side. The fact that you’ve even bothered inserting yourself into this match proves to us all what a hypocrite you’ve become.
All of this,” he says, opening his arms and looking from hand to hand, ”is your fault. You allowed this to happen. This pathetic game of one-upmanship you’ve been involved in has brought you to this stage. You just don’t know how to choose your battles; first Spike, now Angel … who’s next, Verona?
I’ll tell you who’s next, the whole damn locker room; this deal you’ve made with the devil is going to come back to bite you, Roberto. Everything you sought to build is going to come crashing down around your ears.” Spittle flies from his mouth, ”You upped the ante; not Spike, not Angel, certainly not Simon … you. When all is said and done, you’re the one who made this bed, and you’re the one who invited … her to join you in it; you’ll burn for this, but I’ll be damned if you set the rest of us ablaze for your mistakes.
Find another way to settle your petty squabbles, one that doesn’t involve us. You were the one who approached Angel about joining you in this business venture; you’re the one who put him in charge of a whole division; so you shouldn’t be surprised that he’s willing to fight to the death to protect his investment” he derides, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ”You never gave him the tools he’d need to succeed, instead relying on walking gimmicks and the dregs of the company that wouldn’t have succeeded regardless.
Until I came.
You thought I’d be just another of the jokes, just another misfit for Angel to deal with.” He laughs, ”That was a decision that blew up your face, eh?” Pooler bites at his bottom lip for a moment, ”I’m the one thing that this division needed, Roberto; I’m the only man who could have taken the Cruiserweights out of the basement you put them in and shown them capable of competing with your precious Imperial and Man-of-Steel divisions.
Go through my matches, ‘berto … I’ve faced your heroes time and time again. Nero, Ortega, du Lac, Laszlo, even Jacobson fell; you continue to set them against me, and by extension my division, and have failed.
I’m stronger than you could possibly fathom; in ability and integrity.
Keep sending your sheep, Verona … I’m still hungry.”
He stops, composing himself for a moment. Smoothing back his hair with one hand, he takes hold of his mug with the other; noting that it’s grown cold to the touch. Nonetheless, he raises it and takes a sip; the smallest of grins on his face. ”Angel, your words … the backhanded compliments if you will … they’re touching” he confesses. ”but while you’ve been obsessed with your white whale, I’ve been thinking. What’s next for me, for this title? Where do we go from here, Angel?
It would be out of character for me to say that I’d be using it as a stepping stone towards something bigger, because, while we both know that while the men holding the other three titles are simply placeholders, my eyes are on no prize other than the one around my waist.”
The smile on his face now isn’t the cold, sneering one he’s been wearing lately. Instead, this one is warm and genuine. ”You were the foundation upon which this division was built. Along the way you were given inferior materials, but still continued to build as best you could.
Now, imagine what you can build with me; imagine it.
I’ve shown that I’m no flash in the pan, no fluke. Verona couldn’t break me, but maybe you just need to see it with your own eyes, feel it with your own hands.”
Pooler folds his hands on the table once more, interlocking his fingers. ”Test my will; test my resolve; test me, Angel” he coos. ”I would expect no less from you. It may be a surprise to Verona, Gjenrei as well … but you shouldn’t be surprised by the hell I unleash in that ring this weekend.
I don’t hold back; you’ll never receive anything less than my all. Gjenrei’s name is already etched in stone, Verona’s as well; but your name, Angel … I look most forward to yours being listed on my ledger. I’m bound and determined to cement myself as the greatest Cruiserweight, the greatest champion, the greatest in IWF.” His smile loses the warmth, growing more sinister, ”Sunday night, everyone will see …
who’s afraid of the Big Bad Wolf.”
Well howdy there pardner.