Post by Aaron Pearle on Aug 25, 2013 16:31:31 GMT -5
Team Pearle Goes On the Road
Reading, Pennsylvania is known for two things really: its railroad having a space on the classic Monopoly board and being the corporate headquarters for the biggest wrestling promotion on Earth. Whether it was known as the Wrestling Championship Federation or Eric Price Pro Wrestling, millions of fans have made the pilgrimage to tour the fed’s home office. Four such individuals have come here today; though they are more than mere tourists.
“Hey, pal, this ain’t no public beach! Put yer shirt back on!”
Aaron Pearle ignored the demand from the greying gentleman behind the security desk. Instead he continued to stare down a newly hung photo than hanged in EPPW’s lobby. The subject was male and roguishly handsome, with dark, aristocratic features.
“Morrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrientes,” Pearle growled, his tongue rolling the “Rs” far longer than necessary, “So you’re back, huh?”
“You hear me, Tarzan?” the guard asked gain hotly.
Rebecca Winters, Aaron’s personal image consultant, tugged on his elbow, “Um, Aaron, we need to get moving,”
Pearle took his attention off EPPW’s prodigal son for just a moment; casting a quick glance to the blonde in the pencil micro skirt that had attached himself to him, “Alright, baby. Take care of the rent-a- cop for me, ‘kay? And as for you-“ he addressed the poster once again. Taking two fingers, he pointed them to his eyes, and then at The Bull’s own dreamy peepers. Then back to him. Then at the picture. Repeating the gesture while backing away from the display, he would finally turn on his heel and stalk towards the bank of elevators in the lobby.
“Hey! Hey!” the guard rose from his chair and lumbered after the escaping Lustrous One. His pursuit was halted by Rebecca, who blocked him with her slim frame.
“Do you know who that is?” she demanded to know.
He did, in fact. Being able to identify EPPW talent up close and in person was part of his job description. But that didn’t mean he wanted to see the guy’s belly button, “Lady, he have a dress code here at the corporate office that everyone is expected to follow.”
“Or really?” was Rebecca’s icy retort, “So, do you make Gravedigger wipe off his greasepaint when he stops by? Does Oblivion have to remove his mask?”
“Uh, Oblivion doesn’t really come around here much-“
But the leggy blonde would not relent, “No, you don’t because the mask and make up are part of their wrestling personas,” Rebecca was told never to use the word gimmick when talking about a wrestler unless you were running them down. Nor was she supposed to use the terms “face”, “heel”, or “kayfabe” (whatever that was), “Just like Aaron exposing his wondrous pecs and abs in part of his persona.”
“Excuse us,” Jody Dunbar and Lonnie Doyle, the two other members of Team Pearle, at last made their way into the conversation. Jody continued doing the talking, “We all have appointments upstairs. Even him,” she nodded at the pacing Pearle, “Can we please just get checked in an go?”
The guard stewed for a moment, and then replied, “Yeah. You’ll need badges, though. Which is another reason why your pal there needs to WEAR A SHIRT.”
“We’ll figure something out,” Jody assured him, holding out her hand for the IDs.
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Team Pearle came to Reading with three objectives, three separate missions:
1. Lonnie Doyle was to gather intelligence on the three wrestlers Aaron was facing Sunday at Revenge
2. Jody Dunbar had a meeting with Seth Lerch to discuss the conditions of the match.
3. Aaron Pearle, with his faithful media consultant at his side, was to tape an extensive sit down interview with Freddy Whoa.
All of these tasks served the group’s ultimate goal of making Aaron’s first pay per view a success. The stakes could not be higher. A title shot of his choosing was the prize. If he lost, the Lustrous One would be open for ridicule. After all the talk, to come up short in a contest where the odds seemed so much in his favor, well, his critics would have a field day. These encounters could very well determine the outcome of the match, and perhaps even Aaron’s career.
So let’s see how they all did then.
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Lonnie Doyle handed the tech geek a stack of blank DVDs, “I need every Tek match, every Havok match, every John Barber match, every four way match, and every elimination match you got put on these disks. I’ll wait.”
The lanky septuagenarian then found himself a chair in the EPPW Archives, made himself comfortable, and took a nap.
Or at least he tried to. The fact was, the former wrestler’s mind was racing. So much was happening so fast. He knew Pearle had talent; that was why he agreed to stop running his own promotion and become his trainer. But for him to have a chance of winning the title shot of his choice after only a handful of matches in the company? That was unexpected. It wasn’t until four years into Lonnie’s own career that he wrestled for a championship, and if your checked the Apter mags from that period you’d know “Stretch” Doyle was no tomato can.
Four years: nearly a quarter of his career, before he even sniffed a title. Wrestlers these days, they had no idea what it meant to pay dues. Now it seemed like all that mattered in the sport was getting your name out there through the Internet, which fortunately Pearle was good at.
He was a student of the game too, the old man had to admit. Aaron might complain about it, but he would watch every second of footage given him, scouting his opposition, looking for flaws to exploit. He cared about wrestling as much as he did the trappings that went with it, and would do just about anything to excel.
That’s what made the kid an ideal pupil. Lonnie Doyle could over look Aaron’s loud mouth and runaway libido (which, he knew, was often focused on his granddaughter Jody) if he was the one getting his hand raised at the end of his matches. If Doyle never was “The Man” at any point during his career, he was willing to settle at being “The Man who Made the Man”.
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“Here I am!” Aaron Pearle shouted to the tour group as they exited the EPPW/WCF “Hall of Championships” exhibit. He approached, his badge (like it was needed! Everyone knew the Lustrous One!) dangling from his long necklace, with his arms outstretched, as if to gather up each and every one of them in a manly embrace.
No one seemed interested.
“This is who we’re meeting?” a fan said to the tour’s guide with considerable derision, “I paid $1500 to have lunch with an EPPW wrestler, and it turns out to be Aaron Friggin’ Pearle?!”
The young man’s statement stopped Pearle dead. He scowled, and folded his arms across his bare chest, “What are you marks going on about?” he demanded to know.
The intern escorting this group of Very Important Super Fans did her best to keep things civil, “No, no, I assure, the secret EPPW talent you’re scheduled to meet is not, um, him.”
“Oh, yeah?” Aaron rounded on the girl, “Who is it? I doubt whoever you got is as hot right now as me.”
The tour group leader squirmed in her penny loafers, “I’m not at liberty to say… it’s a surprise.”
“You mean disappointment,” Rebecca Winters corrected. She had finally caught up with Aaron, who had gone off course from their scheduled rendezvous with Whoa’s producers when he had spotted the group. Pearle immediately snaked an arm around her, pulling her close enough so that their hips bumped.
“You know that’s true, baby. They’re probably headed to the commissary to split nachos with El Taco de Genial.”
The intern cleared her throat, “Er, it is at this time I would like to remind everyone that the cost of the EPPW Experience is unconditionally nonrefundable.”
There were muted groans from the crowd. The only two individuals happy were Aaron and Rebecca.
“See? Serendipity is more than just Rebecca’s old stage name,” he gave the peroxide blonde’s thigh a squeeze, “You guys are lucky to have run into me! Come on, who wants a picture? I’ll even cut the price in half, since you lovely lambs have been fleeced once already today.”
An uncomfortable looking Rebecca eased away from her client, “Twenty five dollars,” she gave the figure, “Cash only.”
A few of the fans agreed to those terms, handing over the money for a digital photo of them standing with Pearle. Anyone who got too close for an unauthorized pic found their shot obscured by a surprisingly aggressive (and limber!) Miss Winters.
Meanwhile, Aaron played to the group.
“So,” he asked, grabbing one scrawny rube and putting him in a mock side headlock for the camera, “Which belt do you think I should go after?”
“You got to win at Revenge first,” the grumpiest of the group pointed out.
“Oh, I’ll win, don’t you worry,” Aaron balled his fist and stuck it mere centimeters away from another fan’s face, his own mien assuming the stereotypical wrestler’s snarl as he waited for the shot to be taken.
“The odds are against it. You’re facing three other guys, and the match is no DQ.”
“Are you high? Two of those dudes I’ve beaten, and the third is Tek. I got this in the bag.”
The fan was unimpressed, “Tek’s a two time tag team champion and a former People’s Champion. He’s pinned tougher competition than you. And sure you beat Havok and John Barber, but those wins weren’t clean.”
Aaron stopped posing. He rose to his full height and marched up to confront the naysayer, “Clean?! Clean!? You mark. What does ‘clean’ have to do with anything? A win is a win,” he raised his finger and pointed it directly between the man’s eyes, “Do you know the only time a win isn’t a win? When it’s a loss! And I am not losing here in EPPW. Never ever ever.”
All of the group, including the guide, had their phones out now, eager to record the confrontation for posterity and possible uploading.
Pearle retracted his finger and jutted out his thumb, using it to gesture at the door to the exhibit behind him, “Do you think any of those clowns are good enough to wear those belts? NO. Why would you even want them to? None of them, not Havok, not John Barber, and not Tek, are championship material.”
“As I already said-“
“Don’t give me any noise about Tek being a former champ. I don’t care. He might have held a belt or two in WCF, but we’re part of Eric Price Pro Wrestling now. Even more, we’re in The Pearle Paradigm. Things have changed for the better. The time of wrestlers like Tek wearing gold is over. He knows it too. Why do you think he keeps beating up fans? He’s frustrated. The dude should have stayed locked up and worked on his retirement speech instead of becoming a fugitive. If he makes it past the police cordon Sunday I’m going to eliminate him first, just to show everyone that it’s a new era, and all the WCF hasbeens need to seek employment elsewhere.”
“Tell them about Havok, baby,” Rebecca egged her client on.
Aaron rolled his eyes, “Oh, yeah, Havok! He’s another guy who should have accepted the state’s hospitality. As if we needed further proof that he’s nuts, he broke out of an insane asylum to face me! Does he expect a different outcome from the last time we fought? Of course he does, what am I saying? Havok might be good at beating up civilians, but in a real ring with a real wrestler he is out of his league.”
“You sure about that?” another in the group asked, “The match is no disqualification. That could play to Havok’s strengths.”
Aaron smiled and gave the questioner a conspiratorial wink, “You sure about THAT?”
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Indeed. Is anyone truly sure what’s going on in the match? I mean, it was originally listed as a New Blood Elimination Battle Royale, where multiple title shots would be awarded based on how each wrestler placed. Then that changed to a No Disqualification Four Way Match with three new comers and one cagey veteran participating. A title shot of the winner’s choice was now the prize. Then, I think, it became an Elimination Match again. It’s anarchy at EPPW. That’s why Jody Dunbar is meeting with Seth Lerch right now, trying to sort out the details, and perhaps get a significant one changed in her client’s favor.
Jody Dunbar (sitting on the opposite side of Seth’s desk): Mister Lerch, it is an honor to meet you.
Seth Lerch (also sitting, really slouching, because he is still feeling the effects of his match the previous Sunday at Slam where Morientes beat the stuffing out of him. Ok, not really feeling, because he is hopped up on pain pills and muscle relaxants): Mrghf.
Jody (nodding sympathetically): Yes, well, I know you’re a busy man, but I wanted to speak with you about my client’s match at Revenge. We’re getting conflicting reports, you see about the nature of the match itself. In order for Team Pearle to be properly prepared for the contest, we feel it best that we know exactly what the rules are going in.
Seth (head snapping up, causing the sunglasses he is wearing to sit askew on his nose): Rules? No rules. It’s a No DQ match.
Jody: Yes, I know, sir. But please, if you’ll allow me to do a little armchair booking, don’t you think a contest like this, with everyone you have involved, that the no disqualification stipulation is overkill? I mean, think about it: you have four unique wrestlers, each one with their own forte. Havok is a powerhouse, a monster. Tek has a high-flying moveset. John Barber is a classic technical wrestler. And Aaron specializes in a high impact, strong style. With all that, with everything these four bring to the table, making such an important match No DQ seems like a waste of all their talents.
*While Jody pleads her client’s case Seth removes a pair of prescription bottles from his pocket. With some fumbling he opens one, and then the other, and shakes out a pill from each. He pours himself some suspiciously scented orange juice from its pitcher into a glass, but winds up splashing much of it on his desktop. Grabbing several papers, he mops up the mess and drops the wad of pulp into an open drawer. Finally, after tossing the capsules in his mouth and chasing it down with his morning “Cuban Screw”, he gives the young woman an answer.*
Seth: The match stays like it is. No rules, better chance of blood. Fans love blood. Fucking fans…..
*The Bravado member slumps back in his seat; chin tucked into his chest. He says nothing for several moments. He begins to loudly snore. Jody finally stands up and exits*
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“All I’m saying,” Aaron Pearle summarized as he put another of the tour in a full nelson that looks more intimate than pain inducing, “Is that don’t be too sure the match you think is going to happen will. ‘Card Subject to Change’, remember?”
He leaned his head down and rested it against the shoulder of the young woman he was posing with, “Mmmm. You got some heft to you, darling. Powerful. It’s all I can do to keep you in my grip. Ever think about taking up wrestling?”
The slightly chubby lass giggled and squirmed, “Maybe.”
“Ahem,” one of the others in the group interrupted, “And if it doesn’t, and you’re stuck having to wrestle a match where you can’t cheat to win?”
Aaron released the last picture seeker with a smile before answering the other fan’s question, “I’m going to win. Stips don’t matter when you have talent. Havok’s a psycho, but I can outfight him. Tek’s a spot monkey, but no one performs better on the spot than me. And John Barber, he can brag about how I didn’t ‘end’ him last week and how he lasted longer than Tyler Walker did when facing me. I mean, that’s all he has right now. That and the fact he ranked higher on Ana Valentine’s Hottie List than me, which we all know is because of politics. The Lustrous One is pure sex appeal. So, yeah, he can talk about match times and try to get in my head that way, but it’s not going to work.
“I’m the better man than those three guys, and they all know it. There’s no shame in that. I’m Grade AAAA. Aaron Pearle has come to dominate EPPW, using all of the weapons at his disposal. Havok, Barber, and Tek, or as I like to call them, ‘The Sick, The Hick, and The Dick’ -aheheheheheheheheh- they got some skills, but that’s not enough. They’ll find that out Sunday, at MSG, when I eliminate them all and become Number One Contender to whatever title suits my fancy.”
Rebecca Winters had been on the phone during most of Pearle’s soliloquy, becoming more and more animated. She took the phone away from her ear and called to her client.
“Baby, we might have a problem.”
Aaron’s broad grin lessened slightly, “Then solve it, baby. That’s what you get paid for.”
“I know… but,” she scurried over and whispered to him, “It’s Freddy Whoa’s producer on the phone. He’s saying we’re going to have to cancel the sitdown.”
Pearle stopped smiling. He took the cell from Rebecca and began talking in it, “Who is this? Ok, you’re not Freddy? Then get Freddy.”
There was a pause.
“Freddy? Yeah, this is Aaron Pearle. What’s this I hear about my interview being cancelled? Not cancelled?” he gave Rebecca a quick glare, “Shortened? Why is it being shortened?”
There was a long pause. Aaron Pearle’s face reddened to a dark maroon.
“So EPPW thinks, no, so YOU think getting to the bottom of this Pat Boone thing is more important than interviewing the man who after Sunday COULD BE the next Number One Contender for the World Title? Really? Dude, that’s…. well that’s what it sounds like to me! You got to track down some born again bubblegum musician…. The hell with that! Pat Boone sucks! Any Williams can sing rings around Pat Boone, and he’s been dead for three years!*
Aaron shifted the phone to his other ear. He began pacing, “I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. You need to make good on your promises, man. We drove all the way down here for a real interview. If this was going to be a five minute quickie, we could have Skyped that shit. Freddy. Freddy. You are letting me down, man. That’s…. what? Dude, do you know how lame you sound right now? Your excuses are weak. No. No! This is so cornball, brother!”
Rebecca, who was watching her client with growing concern, actually gasped. Aaron heard the noise and turned his attention to her.
“What?” he asked, “What did I do?”
NEXT TIME: What he did.
*Incidentally, this is one of those times that the heel is right in wrestling. Pat Boone is terrible.