Post by Peter Quinn on Mar 1, 2014 23:35:01 GMT -5
I could smell the ink from where I was, it was so fresh. My name was on that line, as legible as my shaky hand could manage, and at once everything was official. I was now an active member of the WCF roster. I've worked many jobs over the years, but this is nothing like I've ever done. I'm not even a wrestler, but merely an innocent writer looking for cheap thrills. I had decided earlier that were I to take up this lucrative position, that I would just learn everything along the way. This now seemed like the worst way to go about it, bordering on the retarded. But I couldn't change my plans now, what was done was done. Mr. Lerch smiled and extended his hand, possibly for a shake, possibly for some other action, I could not tell either way. I've heard rumors about this man, rumors pertaining to his choice in sexuality, as well as his penchant for diabolical power trips that would make Donald Trump proud. And I had just signed myself like a whore to this man. I was no longer bordering on retarded, I had crossed the Retarded Event Horizon.
Seth: Well? You ready to seal the deal?
Seal the deal? There were so many ways to interpret that one sentence that it nearly gave me a headache. I've never been the most squeaky clean man in the world, indeed I've done my fair share of sexually questionable acts, as well as questionably sexual acts, but this was too much. I quickly got my hand out of my pocket and grasped his, shaking it praying to God it was what he wanted. A smile spread across his face. I knew I had made the right choice.
Seth: Man of few words?
Peter: I don't have much to say most of the time.
That was probably the only true thing I told him that day. I had managed to get by on telling him nothing but total lies. I had made up some obscure wrestling federation in the Australia, and also some vague thing involving a kangaroo. I told him I had done well in this federation, winning many titles. He bought every word. I can assume he thought I was joking about the kangaroo. In reality I have never wrestled in any capacity, even that of a bar room brawl. This confirms my suspicions that I am a terrific liar. What other parts of my life have I lied to people about without realizing it? I can only imagine.
Seth: Well, in this business, if you can't talk a good game, nobody will take you that seriously.
Peter: Oh well.
Do I care about success? A little bit. I just have a bit more spare time than I usually do, and I intend to fill it anyway I can. If all goes well, then I'll have many more accomplishments to my name. Now I must scurry out, I need to find someone willing to train me.
My name is Peter Quinn. I am a 22-year old male born in Seattle, Washington. Ever since I can remember, I have always wanted to be a writer. I think it started back in middle school when I began reading books way beyond my comfort level. I just took anything my library had and devoured it page by page, word by word. By the time I finished Eighth Grade, I had read all three books in the Lord of the Rings series (plus The Hobbit,) a good bit of The Chronicles of Narnia, and even some of the few Stephen King selections they had on hand. Going into high school I found myself learning to love English class while the others grew to loathe it. I found a rush in staying up at night cranking out an essay due the next day unlike anything I had ever experienced before. The thrill of time winding down was exhilarating. Sure, they were never the best I could have made them, but they were still better then the absolute garbage I saw come out of my colleagues hands. That's how I've always done things since then, down to the wire. It's the only way I can function as a person.
I went to college majoring in journalism. I figured it would pay more then the average writing job would,meaning I'd have a good and steady paycheck, but most importantly to me...I'd just be able to write. And for a while after I graduated, this worked out pretty well. I was able to experience things I probably would have never been able to have done otherwise, and I got paid good money for it. I never really knew what to do with all my leftover money, but i was still nice to have. Then...I ran out of stories to cover. Good ones, I mean. They still got me to do the odd gossip piece, but that writing tends to suck out your soul after a while. I'd try and put my own spin on things whenever I could, keep things interesting for me, but even that got tiresome after about a month. I was at a crossroads, not knowing which way to turn.
That changed one day, when I took my daily commute to Starbucks for my morning brew. I sat down to enjoy it the way it was meant to be enjoyed, slow and steady. While I sipped the coffee down, I saw a man, I don't even know who he was, and I don't think I ever will. From where I was sitting, I could see he was obviously not in the proper state of mind, thrashing around in the middle of the road. I almost felt like going to help him with whatever he was afflicted with, then decided against it. But I did get up from my seat to go outside and get a better look at the utter train wreck I was seeing. I couldn't hear most of what he was saying, but somewhere in his ramblings the words "Wrestling Championship Federation" made it's way to my ears. And that's when the revelation hit me: whatever organization this man was a part of, there must be some sort of good story there. Why else would this poor soul be compelled to act the way he was. I immediately made a note to join this organization, hoping to at least get some juicy things to write about. This is the first of my recollections, hopefully there'll be many more to follow.
About a day after signing my contract I was informed my first match would be March 2nd. I would be going up against 7 other new signees in what was referred to as a battle royal. I can only assume we will be battling to the death in hopes of winning the favor of both the boss (Mr. Lerch, as I have come to know him) as well as the older, more experienced and inevitably more hostile wrestlers in the locker room. It also appears that the people who work are not really people as much as they are exaggerated Quentin Tarantino characters. The current head honcho (or World Champion as he is described in the business) appears to be a street pimp. Many others serve as other, even more unscrupulous folk. To make matters even scarier, these are the professionals in this environment, not me. I'm honestly a little terrified.
I wish I could put down more thoughts, but I must head to the gym at once to get fit. This will be a long assignment, I just know it.
Seth: Well? You ready to seal the deal?
Seal the deal? There were so many ways to interpret that one sentence that it nearly gave me a headache. I've never been the most squeaky clean man in the world, indeed I've done my fair share of sexually questionable acts, as well as questionably sexual acts, but this was too much. I quickly got my hand out of my pocket and grasped his, shaking it praying to God it was what he wanted. A smile spread across his face. I knew I had made the right choice.
Seth: Man of few words?
Peter: I don't have much to say most of the time.
That was probably the only true thing I told him that day. I had managed to get by on telling him nothing but total lies. I had made up some obscure wrestling federation in the Australia, and also some vague thing involving a kangaroo. I told him I had done well in this federation, winning many titles. He bought every word. I can assume he thought I was joking about the kangaroo. In reality I have never wrestled in any capacity, even that of a bar room brawl. This confirms my suspicions that I am a terrific liar. What other parts of my life have I lied to people about without realizing it? I can only imagine.
Seth: Well, in this business, if you can't talk a good game, nobody will take you that seriously.
Peter: Oh well.
Do I care about success? A little bit. I just have a bit more spare time than I usually do, and I intend to fill it anyway I can. If all goes well, then I'll have many more accomplishments to my name. Now I must scurry out, I need to find someone willing to train me.
My name is Peter Quinn. I am a 22-year old male born in Seattle, Washington. Ever since I can remember, I have always wanted to be a writer. I think it started back in middle school when I began reading books way beyond my comfort level. I just took anything my library had and devoured it page by page, word by word. By the time I finished Eighth Grade, I had read all three books in the Lord of the Rings series (plus The Hobbit,) a good bit of The Chronicles of Narnia, and even some of the few Stephen King selections they had on hand. Going into high school I found myself learning to love English class while the others grew to loathe it. I found a rush in staying up at night cranking out an essay due the next day unlike anything I had ever experienced before. The thrill of time winding down was exhilarating. Sure, they were never the best I could have made them, but they were still better then the absolute garbage I saw come out of my colleagues hands. That's how I've always done things since then, down to the wire. It's the only way I can function as a person.
I went to college majoring in journalism. I figured it would pay more then the average writing job would,meaning I'd have a good and steady paycheck, but most importantly to me...I'd just be able to write. And for a while after I graduated, this worked out pretty well. I was able to experience things I probably would have never been able to have done otherwise, and I got paid good money for it. I never really knew what to do with all my leftover money, but i was still nice to have. Then...I ran out of stories to cover. Good ones, I mean. They still got me to do the odd gossip piece, but that writing tends to suck out your soul after a while. I'd try and put my own spin on things whenever I could, keep things interesting for me, but even that got tiresome after about a month. I was at a crossroads, not knowing which way to turn.
That changed one day, when I took my daily commute to Starbucks for my morning brew. I sat down to enjoy it the way it was meant to be enjoyed, slow and steady. While I sipped the coffee down, I saw a man, I don't even know who he was, and I don't think I ever will. From where I was sitting, I could see he was obviously not in the proper state of mind, thrashing around in the middle of the road. I almost felt like going to help him with whatever he was afflicted with, then decided against it. But I did get up from my seat to go outside and get a better look at the utter train wreck I was seeing. I couldn't hear most of what he was saying, but somewhere in his ramblings the words "Wrestling Championship Federation" made it's way to my ears. And that's when the revelation hit me: whatever organization this man was a part of, there must be some sort of good story there. Why else would this poor soul be compelled to act the way he was. I immediately made a note to join this organization, hoping to at least get some juicy things to write about. This is the first of my recollections, hopefully there'll be many more to follow.
About a day after signing my contract I was informed my first match would be March 2nd. I would be going up against 7 other new signees in what was referred to as a battle royal. I can only assume we will be battling to the death in hopes of winning the favor of both the boss (Mr. Lerch, as I have come to know him) as well as the older, more experienced and inevitably more hostile wrestlers in the locker room. It also appears that the people who work are not really people as much as they are exaggerated Quentin Tarantino characters. The current head honcho (or World Champion as he is described in the business) appears to be a street pimp. Many others serve as other, even more unscrupulous folk. To make matters even scarier, these are the professionals in this environment, not me. I'm honestly a little terrified.
I wish I could put down more thoughts, but I must head to the gym at once to get fit. This will be a long assignment, I just know it.
