Post by Maelstrom on Apr 12, 2016 3:20:16 GMT
Hutchinson, Kansas. A makeshift office comprised of little more than cubicle dividers, a folding table, a huge vinyl IWF banner stretched along the back wall, and inexplicably a living potted fern sits amid the organized chaos that is the setup for Sacrifice. Roadies squawk into headsets, coordinating the dance of forklifts and pallets trucks that zip around the tunnels carrying scaffolding, framework, barriers and everything else that gets set up and torn down every week in a new city for thousands of new screaming fans.
Seated at the official side of the desk in this little oasis is a young university-age male administrative assistant to Gibford Famularo, obviously uneasy about the eyes on him. Those eyes glint from under the cabbie cap pulled low over the brow of the Human Hellstorm, who is unimpressed at the presence of the youngster and the man beside him, who appears to be both listening and coiled to restrain his friend.
Maelstrom: ...and so I says 'ta myself, I says: 'Mr. Famularo? He's a standup guy, I says. Power wrestler like me, we're a brotherhood, I says. He'll wanna see me personal, I says!' An' instead...
He nods in gesture with his leathery scarred head to the young man, who is clearly not being paid enough to be in eating distance of the hulking ogre in front of him and his bearded biker friend.
Maelstrom: ...comes time he sends for me 'ta sign the contract an' he sends - no offense, kid - a goddamn minion.
The man beside him, the bearded biker Steve Kryzinski, seizes the moment and reaches across the table for the contract. He slides on a pair of reading glasses and begins the examination.
Steve: ...huh. You know, Victor, it looks like Famularo forwarded the changes we asked for. They're not all here, but...
The Human Hellstorm reaches into the pocket of his black golf shirt and produces his own reading glasses. For the first time, the walking slab of rough concrete appears to be a human being. He gently but brusquely snatches the contract out of Steve's hands.
Maelstrom: Hey, I can live with this. The rest we can jus' go ahead an' do ourselves. Don't think they'll mind too much.
Steve: They might.
Maelstrom: We'll cut 'em in. Let 'em wet their beaks too, y'know?
Steve: Vic, I don't think that'll be the problem.
Maelstrom: Anythin' else, they can tell me 'ta my face.
The Brute from Buffalo grins at the assistant across the counter with his slightly too-white, too-perfect teeth, as he slashes his pen over the signature block with a practiced flourish. It would occur that a man who manages to bridge the gap between getting struck in the face and public speaking would get dental implants. It manages to make him look both extremely personable and inexplicably unsettling, like a two-bit hood in a dark alley that may just want to sell you a timeshare.
Maelstrom: Ain't that right, big shoes? Tell yer boss that he can tell his boss that they landed the Maelstrom.
Assistant: He'll be glad to hear it. Welcome to the IWF, Mr. Sharpe.
The Human Hellstorm grins a little, nodding a little. He sucks his teeth.
Maelstrom: 'Preciate it. But my doctor and my banker call me Mr. Sharpe. Friends call me Victor. No offense, but professional courtesy here - you oughta call me Maelstrom.
Assistant: (sighs) Welcome to the IWF, Maelstrom.
Maelstrom: See? Thanks. No need for anyone 'ta get bent over it, y'know? It's a'right. College-schooled guy workin' with a bunch a' animals like us. How could'ja know?
Steve slowly rises out of his chair, fully aware of Maelstrom's body language as he offers his big meaty gnarled paw for a handshape. The assistant gingerly shakes his hand and is slowly but irresistibly pulled in. The Human Hellstorm speaks in a low, up-close tone.
Maelstrom: Tell Famularo that son of a bitch owes me a handshake.
Seated at the official side of the desk in this little oasis is a young university-age male administrative assistant to Gibford Famularo, obviously uneasy about the eyes on him. Those eyes glint from under the cabbie cap pulled low over the brow of the Human Hellstorm, who is unimpressed at the presence of the youngster and the man beside him, who appears to be both listening and coiled to restrain his friend.
Maelstrom: ...and so I says 'ta myself, I says: 'Mr. Famularo? He's a standup guy, I says. Power wrestler like me, we're a brotherhood, I says. He'll wanna see me personal, I says!' An' instead...
He nods in gesture with his leathery scarred head to the young man, who is clearly not being paid enough to be in eating distance of the hulking ogre in front of him and his bearded biker friend.
Maelstrom: ...comes time he sends for me 'ta sign the contract an' he sends - no offense, kid - a goddamn minion.
The man beside him, the bearded biker Steve Kryzinski, seizes the moment and reaches across the table for the contract. He slides on a pair of reading glasses and begins the examination.
Steve: ...huh. You know, Victor, it looks like Famularo forwarded the changes we asked for. They're not all here, but...
The Human Hellstorm reaches into the pocket of his black golf shirt and produces his own reading glasses. For the first time, the walking slab of rough concrete appears to be a human being. He gently but brusquely snatches the contract out of Steve's hands.
Maelstrom: Hey, I can live with this. The rest we can jus' go ahead an' do ourselves. Don't think they'll mind too much.
Steve: They might.
Maelstrom: We'll cut 'em in. Let 'em wet their beaks too, y'know?
Steve: Vic, I don't think that'll be the problem.
Maelstrom: Anythin' else, they can tell me 'ta my face.
The Brute from Buffalo grins at the assistant across the counter with his slightly too-white, too-perfect teeth, as he slashes his pen over the signature block with a practiced flourish. It would occur that a man who manages to bridge the gap between getting struck in the face and public speaking would get dental implants. It manages to make him look both extremely personable and inexplicably unsettling, like a two-bit hood in a dark alley that may just want to sell you a timeshare.
Maelstrom: Ain't that right, big shoes? Tell yer boss that he can tell his boss that they landed the Maelstrom.
Assistant: He'll be glad to hear it. Welcome to the IWF, Mr. Sharpe.
The Human Hellstorm grins a little, nodding a little. He sucks his teeth.
Maelstrom: 'Preciate it. But my doctor and my banker call me Mr. Sharpe. Friends call me Victor. No offense, but professional courtesy here - you oughta call me Maelstrom.
Assistant: (sighs) Welcome to the IWF, Maelstrom.
Maelstrom: See? Thanks. No need for anyone 'ta get bent over it, y'know? It's a'right. College-schooled guy workin' with a bunch a' animals like us. How could'ja know?
Steve slowly rises out of his chair, fully aware of Maelstrom's body language as he offers his big meaty gnarled paw for a handshape. The assistant gingerly shakes his hand and is slowly but irresistibly pulled in. The Human Hellstorm speaks in a low, up-close tone.
Maelstrom: Tell Famularo that son of a bitch owes me a handshake.