Post by Jahani al-Reb on Aug 19, 2014 14:30:00 GMT -5
It's midnight in Philadelphia. The Wachovia Center is still a hive of activity as WCF crew break down the ring and load equipment into waiting trailers; all an efficient routine, unvarying. Hank Brown walks out into the parking structure and leans against his car with a heavy sigh. He pulls a flask from his jacket and takes a quick drink, then replaces it and fumbles for his keys. The keys drop to the ground with a truncated jingle; he stoops to pick them up, then hesitates, listening. Footsteps. Coming his way. What now?
Two gleaming Italian loafers come into view, attached -- as Hank's gaze is drawn upward -- to lean legs clad in a perfectly tailored silk-wool blend; a matching coat and vest over a black shirt and white silk tie. Hank's eyes are at last drawn to a reflective pair of Aviator sunglasses resting on a deeply tanned face.
Hank Brown: Oh, Jesus! You scared the shit outta me.
The other man simply raises an eyebrow.
Hank Brown: You're the new guy, aren't you? That.. um... al-Reb, right?
Jahani al-Reb: I am.
Instinct takes over, and Hank tenses, prepared to draw back as al-Reb reaches out a hand. Then, still cautious, he clasps it; the two shake and Jahani releases his grip. Hank almost flinches again when al-Reb's hand goes into his coat pocket -- only to withdraw a shiny chrome and black cylinder: an e-hookah, or vaporizer. Jahani hits it. The scent of blueberry colors the warm night air.
Jahani al-Reb: Relax, Hank. I am not going to harm you. In fact... I've come to grant you an interview.
The intrepid reporter glances at his watch.
Hank Brown: Now? It's pretty late...
Jahani al-Reb: I'll make it worth your time.
Right on cue, a towncar pulls up, boasting dark-tinted windows and obscured license plates. The driver opens the back door and waits while Hank and al-Reb get in.
Fifteen minutes later, the car pulls up in front of a solitary nightclub in a not-entirely-reputable part of town, occupying that no-man's land between the industrial and business areas and the spawling centers of commerce. Their only neighbors are a liquor store and a gas station, both half a block away. It's a two-storey structure that might once have been a warehouse; now a Mecca of neon light and promised debauchery. A sign over the doors proclaims the establishment to be called "HABOOB" -- the two O's flesh-colored and emphasized by tassels that spin around every 45 seconds. Behind the word itself is an image of something like a funnel cloud, only the brownish color of desert sand.
Hank Brown: What is this place?
Doormen hurry forward to usher them along a short length of red carpet and through the plain steel doors. Inside, the club is a chaotic whirl of loud music, pulsating colored lights, and almost naked flesh. The walls are covered in purple velour, the floor is a black and white checkerboard. Waitresses in tiny skirts and bikini tops weave nimbly between tables, to deliver drinks while they deftly avoid grabbing hands.
Hank stops to stare, but Jahani propels him across the club and up a flight of stairs. Another woman -- this one fully clothed -- guides them past a series of doors to one at the end; of all the VIP rooms, this one is farthest removed from the noise of the music and the rauccous catcalls below. It follows the basic decorative theme, with purple velour walls and lurid, red plushy chairs arrayed in a semi-circle. A bottle of scotch and two glasses are already set out on a low table.
Jahani gestures at Hank to sit, while he pours a couple of generous shots and passes one to his guest. Then he drops casually into a chair and leans back, one arm propped on the rest. Hank notices, for the first time, a gold and onyx pinkie ring. The Baghdadi Mack lifts his glass in a toast.
Jahani al-Reb: In honor of my first WCF television appearance. I think it went well.
Glasses clink. Hank takes a gulp, still suspicious of the new guy. The ones he knows are unpredictable enough, and this one... his reporter's instincts are rarely wrong. But, on the other hand, this is some damn good scotch. It becomes evident, after a very long, awkward silence, that al-Reb is waiting for Hank to comment.
Hank Brown: Yeah. It was... you know, for not having an actual match, I think you still made an impact. I mean, you essentially challenged the entire WCF roster.
Jahani al-Reb: Not "essentially," Hank. In fact. All that remains is to see who has the temerity to step up first.
Hank Brown: Well, that's a hit-or-miss kind of thing. A lot of guys have come here, proposed an open challenge, and walked away disappointed -- or worse.
Jahani al-Reb: I... am not a "lot of guys," Mr. Brown. I am the Baghdadi Mack -- and I'm going to redefine what you know as wrestling.
Jahani smirks. Hank finishes his drink, sensing that things could go pear-shaped any moment.
Hank Brown: Ok, I'll bite. How do you plan on doing that? I mean, you're not going to get -- for example -- Steve Orbit, to drop everything he's got going on just to prove something to you. Who are you? What have you done? That's what these guys are going to want to know before they take you seriously.
The Middle Eastern man considers this for a moment, as he refills Hank's glass.
Jahani al-Reb: An excellent question, Hank. One that everyone in the WCF should be asking. "Who's your Baghdadi?" Haha. A little joke of mine. As to what I've done, well... While it is true that I have not yet been afforded the opportunity to step into a WCF ring, I have paid my dues. I've been toiling in "the Farm" for the last three months -- and do you know what they do to you there? It's terrible, Hank. It makes the Hussein regime look like a trip to Eurodisney.
Hank Brown: That's disturbing. All right, then... what is it you hope to achieve here in the World Championship Federation?
Jahani al-Reb: Simple, my Western friend; I intend to dominate. To create history anew for the WCF. The sooner I get a match, the sooner I'm on my way to winning a belt. The Internet Title, the Television Title.. Perhaps the United States Title, one day soon. Wouldn't that be a delightful irony?
Jahani smirks. Hank gives him a nervous half-smile in return. Before either of them can say anything else, the door opens, and a pair of dancers saunter in. Without a word, they go to Hank and begin a series of gyrations and contortions that would drive the most pious priest to lust; and Hank is no priest.
Jahani al-Reb: You, Mr. Brown, are well placed within the organization. You have access to all the right people. You can obtain information... expedite certain matters...
With a great effort of will, Hank peers at al-Reb between the two semi-nude women wriggling on his lap, and focuses on what the other is saying.
Hank Brown: I think you overestimate --
Jahani al-Reb: Nonsense, Hank. I am no stranger to the ways of business. With the right incentive, you'd be surprised just how motivated you could be.
Hank's reluctance is obvious as he shoos the dancers away and stands up. Indignantly, he knocks back the rest of his scotch, hands the empty glass to his host, and looks the other man right in the eye.
Hank Brown: Let's get one thing straight -- I don't take bribes, Mr. al-Reb. You're not the first to try, and you won't be the last. Thanks for the drink.
And without any further word, Brown turns on his heel and stalks out. Jahani al-Reb stares after him for a moment, lower jaw jutting slightly as he chews on this turn of events. Then, a wicked smile playing at his lips, he dials a number on his smartphone.
Hank, meanwhile, weaves his drunken way through the tables scattered in apparent chaos throughout the establishment. The strobing effect of colored lights isn't helping. A bass tattoo throbs in his head in time to the overloud music, and it belatedly occurs to him that al-Reb hadn't touched his own glass of scotch, not in all the time they had been talking.
At about that moment, two very large, very muscular men block Hank's path. He suddenly realizes that this is what it feels like to be in one of those hardboiled detective novels; to emphasize this point, a tattered paperback copy of Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency falls out of the pocket of his blazer as Hank is hoisted by his lapels.
General commotion follows as the scene fades out with the sound of fist hitting flesh.
Two gleaming Italian loafers come into view, attached -- as Hank's gaze is drawn upward -- to lean legs clad in a perfectly tailored silk-wool blend; a matching coat and vest over a black shirt and white silk tie. Hank's eyes are at last drawn to a reflective pair of Aviator sunglasses resting on a deeply tanned face.
Hank Brown: Oh, Jesus! You scared the shit outta me.
The other man simply raises an eyebrow.
Hank Brown: You're the new guy, aren't you? That.. um... al-Reb, right?
Jahani al-Reb: I am.
Instinct takes over, and Hank tenses, prepared to draw back as al-Reb reaches out a hand. Then, still cautious, he clasps it; the two shake and Jahani releases his grip. Hank almost flinches again when al-Reb's hand goes into his coat pocket -- only to withdraw a shiny chrome and black cylinder: an e-hookah, or vaporizer. Jahani hits it. The scent of blueberry colors the warm night air.
Jahani al-Reb: Relax, Hank. I am not going to harm you. In fact... I've come to grant you an interview.
The intrepid reporter glances at his watch.
Hank Brown: Now? It's pretty late...
Jahani al-Reb: I'll make it worth your time.
Right on cue, a towncar pulls up, boasting dark-tinted windows and obscured license plates. The driver opens the back door and waits while Hank and al-Reb get in.
Fifteen minutes later, the car pulls up in front of a solitary nightclub in a not-entirely-reputable part of town, occupying that no-man's land between the industrial and business areas and the spawling centers of commerce. Their only neighbors are a liquor store and a gas station, both half a block away. It's a two-storey structure that might once have been a warehouse; now a Mecca of neon light and promised debauchery. A sign over the doors proclaims the establishment to be called "HABOOB" -- the two O's flesh-colored and emphasized by tassels that spin around every 45 seconds. Behind the word itself is an image of something like a funnel cloud, only the brownish color of desert sand.
Hank Brown: What is this place?
Doormen hurry forward to usher them along a short length of red carpet and through the plain steel doors. Inside, the club is a chaotic whirl of loud music, pulsating colored lights, and almost naked flesh. The walls are covered in purple velour, the floor is a black and white checkerboard. Waitresses in tiny skirts and bikini tops weave nimbly between tables, to deliver drinks while they deftly avoid grabbing hands.
Hank stops to stare, but Jahani propels him across the club and up a flight of stairs. Another woman -- this one fully clothed -- guides them past a series of doors to one at the end; of all the VIP rooms, this one is farthest removed from the noise of the music and the rauccous catcalls below. It follows the basic decorative theme, with purple velour walls and lurid, red plushy chairs arrayed in a semi-circle. A bottle of scotch and two glasses are already set out on a low table.
Jahani gestures at Hank to sit, while he pours a couple of generous shots and passes one to his guest. Then he drops casually into a chair and leans back, one arm propped on the rest. Hank notices, for the first time, a gold and onyx pinkie ring. The Baghdadi Mack lifts his glass in a toast.
Jahani al-Reb: In honor of my first WCF television appearance. I think it went well.
Glasses clink. Hank takes a gulp, still suspicious of the new guy. The ones he knows are unpredictable enough, and this one... his reporter's instincts are rarely wrong. But, on the other hand, this is some damn good scotch. It becomes evident, after a very long, awkward silence, that al-Reb is waiting for Hank to comment.
Hank Brown: Yeah. It was... you know, for not having an actual match, I think you still made an impact. I mean, you essentially challenged the entire WCF roster.
Jahani al-Reb: Not "essentially," Hank. In fact. All that remains is to see who has the temerity to step up first.
Hank Brown: Well, that's a hit-or-miss kind of thing. A lot of guys have come here, proposed an open challenge, and walked away disappointed -- or worse.
Jahani al-Reb: I... am not a "lot of guys," Mr. Brown. I am the Baghdadi Mack -- and I'm going to redefine what you know as wrestling.
Jahani smirks. Hank finishes his drink, sensing that things could go pear-shaped any moment.
Hank Brown: Ok, I'll bite. How do you plan on doing that? I mean, you're not going to get -- for example -- Steve Orbit, to drop everything he's got going on just to prove something to you. Who are you? What have you done? That's what these guys are going to want to know before they take you seriously.
The Middle Eastern man considers this for a moment, as he refills Hank's glass.
Jahani al-Reb: An excellent question, Hank. One that everyone in the WCF should be asking. "Who's your Baghdadi?" Haha. A little joke of mine. As to what I've done, well... While it is true that I have not yet been afforded the opportunity to step into a WCF ring, I have paid my dues. I've been toiling in "the Farm" for the last three months -- and do you know what they do to you there? It's terrible, Hank. It makes the Hussein regime look like a trip to Eurodisney.
Hank Brown: That's disturbing. All right, then... what is it you hope to achieve here in the World Championship Federation?
Jahani al-Reb: Simple, my Western friend; I intend to dominate. To create history anew for the WCF. The sooner I get a match, the sooner I'm on my way to winning a belt. The Internet Title, the Television Title.. Perhaps the United States Title, one day soon. Wouldn't that be a delightful irony?
Jahani smirks. Hank gives him a nervous half-smile in return. Before either of them can say anything else, the door opens, and a pair of dancers saunter in. Without a word, they go to Hank and begin a series of gyrations and contortions that would drive the most pious priest to lust; and Hank is no priest.
Jahani al-Reb: You, Mr. Brown, are well placed within the organization. You have access to all the right people. You can obtain information... expedite certain matters...
With a great effort of will, Hank peers at al-Reb between the two semi-nude women wriggling on his lap, and focuses on what the other is saying.
Hank Brown: I think you overestimate --
Jahani al-Reb: Nonsense, Hank. I am no stranger to the ways of business. With the right incentive, you'd be surprised just how motivated you could be.
Hank's reluctance is obvious as he shoos the dancers away and stands up. Indignantly, he knocks back the rest of his scotch, hands the empty glass to his host, and looks the other man right in the eye.
Hank Brown: Let's get one thing straight -- I don't take bribes, Mr. al-Reb. You're not the first to try, and you won't be the last. Thanks for the drink.
And without any further word, Brown turns on his heel and stalks out. Jahani al-Reb stares after him for a moment, lower jaw jutting slightly as he chews on this turn of events. Then, a wicked smile playing at his lips, he dials a number on his smartphone.
Hank, meanwhile, weaves his drunken way through the tables scattered in apparent chaos throughout the establishment. The strobing effect of colored lights isn't helping. A bass tattoo throbs in his head in time to the overloud music, and it belatedly occurs to him that al-Reb hadn't touched his own glass of scotch, not in all the time they had been talking.
At about that moment, two very large, very muscular men block Hank's path. He suddenly realizes that this is what it feels like to be in one of those hardboiled detective novels; to emphasize this point, a tattered paperback copy of Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency falls out of the pocket of his blazer as Hank is hoisted by his lapels.
General commotion follows as the scene fades out with the sound of fist hitting flesh.
