Third Time's the Charm

[Jay Omega]

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"Have I ever told you the definition of insanity?"
-Vaas
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March 9th, 2015. 1203 hrs.

~Corey Black shrugged offhandedly, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Besides, if I only wanted Omega, I only would have asked Omega. Being in Pantheon has always been synonymous with being the best, and the four of you are the best in your divisions. One by one, I'm sure that each of you--" Corey cut off as Omega raised his hand, waving it about wildly. "I gotta potty!" Jay said in a sing-song voice, "I gotta potty, I gotta pee, I have to tinkle, tee hee hee!" Black frowned at the interruption, and narrowed his eyes at The Omega Man. "Why didn't you go before the meeting?" He asked, which drew a snort from Jay. "Well obviously because I didn't have to go then. But the two litres of cranberry cocktail I drank seems to have run right through me." Omega said, and indicated the empty bottle on the table before him. Corey sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Go. But make it fast; I don't want to be here all day."

  Omega stood up and casually walked out of the room. Once he had gone, Jayson Price lifted his head from his hand, and turned in Black's direction. "I swear, he's more of a child than Fly was. Why'd you want him again?" He asked, drawing a snort from Chelsea Armstrong, sitting across the table from him. "Look who's talking," she began, but Corey cut her off with an upraised hand, "Save it for Thirteen, you two." He said, looking at Chelsea, then turned to face Jayson. "And I chose him because he wins almost, if not as much as Fly did. Everyone in this room deserves to be here. You don't all have to like each other, but you do have to learn to work together." Black swept his gaze across the room's occupants, ending on the Scarecrow; seated at the far end of the table, separate from everyone else. "Everybody's going to have to make some adjustments now that we're all under the same banner, but all that really means is that we all have someone to watch our backs, while we handle our own business."

  The Omega Man re-entered the room and took his seat once more, then pulled a GoPro Hero 4 Black camera from his cargo pocket and placed it on the table at arm's length, angled to face down the table to where Corey Black impatiently stood beside a projector screen. "Anybody mind if I do some filming? Some topics might become relephant to this Triple Treat match of mine, inspiring me to cut a promotification. Never know when inspiration will strike." Jay said as he fiddled with the camera; setting it up just right. "Threat" corrected the Scarecrow from the end of the table, "It's a Triple Threat match." Omega smiled broadly as he turned to face the Murder Machine, "Nuh-uh," he retorted, "I get to face Beckman; yay! I get to face Cairo; awesome! And I get to become the Whickiff World Champion? Bangarang! If that isn't a Triple Treat, I don't know what is!" Scarecrow took a moment to consider this, and found the logic to be sound, if odd.

  Jay cast a searching look around the room, "Don't worry," he said reassuringly, "I'll edit out anything secret-like, or salacious 'n' stuff. No objections? Nice. Although, 'Crow, you're gonna have to scooch in closer if you want to get in the shot; you're just a tad out of frame, seeing as how you're directly behind the camera." The Scarecrow didn't move, other than to shake his head. "I'm fine where I am." He said gruffly. Omega shrugged, and turned his attention back to making tiny readjustments to the camera's positioning. At the head of the table, Corey grew increasingly irritated, his foot tapping impatiently. "Some time today would be nice." Black growled blackly; his patience beginning to wear a little thin. "Okay, okay; I got it! It's poyfikt!"~

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"We must always be careful never to make more enemies than we could handle if they were all to attack at once."
-Rise of the Morningstar
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*Welcome back, True Believers! Our scene fades in on a wide angle view of a snack-laden mahogany conference table with a projector set up a few feet straight ahead. Beyond that, standing just to the right of the large projector screen that's flanked by purple banners bearing the Pantheon logo, is an agitated-looking Corey Black. He wears dark jeans and a black T-shirt depicting himself in his ring gear, with the addition of a crown and a fur-lined purple cape; elbow raised and ready to strike. Boxing the image in is the phrase "King Of All Wrestlers". It's hard to tell which Corey is angrier. To the left of the screen, in comfortable-looking, padded leather chairs, sits the trio formerly known as the Pack, having been revealed as the most recent incarnation of Pantheon: Earth's Mightiest Wrestling Stable.*

*Alex Richards busily pecks away at his laptop; stabbing at each key with his forefingers. The image on his black T-shirt is inscrutable thanks to the conference table cutting our view off, but it has something to do with what looks to be a series of broken glass tubes. Immediately beside Alex sits Chelsea Armstrong. Garbed in a manner more subdued than usual - in faded jeans and a baggy, plain, black hoodie - Chelsea's attention is mostly on Black, though she shoots the occasional glare across the table at Jayson Price. Who is slumped over in his seat, pretending not to notice her. I think he's pretending, anyway; it's hard to tell since his eyes are hidden behind those dark sunglasses of his. And of course back across the table, on Armstrong's other flank, sits The Omega Man, in his ring gear as usual, though without his mask.*

Corey: Can we finally begin? It's already quarter after twelve and I--

Price: Oh my God, it's only noon? Why are you people here?

Corey: Because I knew you wouldn't show up otherwise.

Price: ... Fair enough.

*Corey picks up the remote for the projector and turns the machine on, lighting up the screen with the golden, triangular "Future, Dynasty, Elements" Pantheon logo.*

Corey: Now, we don't usually make a habit of having these meetings. I just wanted to touch base with everyone as we get ready for Thirteen. I know it's going to be hard to top last year's edition - those lucky bastards who saw it live are still the only ones who have seen it, damn government - but the card Price put together just might do it.

Price: Damn right.

Corey: Shut up.

*Black clicks the remote for emphasis, changing the picture on the screen to an exterior shot of the Dethfort; Corey's home away from places that aren't his home. The castle might look a little small, but that's because we're seeing it from a distance, as well as projected on a screen within the screen of the video. I assure you, not only is the castle quite large, but it is almost certainly not compensating for anything, either. Probably.*

Corey: Our first official order of Pantheon business is housing.

*Black clicks the remote again, showing us a picture of the glass, steel, and concrete pillars that comprise downtown Philadelphia; the image centered on Price Tower outshining all the others.*

Corey: As I'm sure you're aware, Pantheon members tend to have homes that reflect on our personalities, and personal greatness.

*Another click of the remote, and we get a picturesque aerial shot of Omega's lush tropical island; the gold-veined, white marble walls of the Fortress of Ball-itude a prominent feature, if half-hidden by verdant foliage.*

Corey: They also tend to suit our personal needs and desires.

*Click again, and we're shown a thirteen storey apartment block from the nineteen thirties. It's a classic art nouveau structure, intermixed modern glass and steel. The plaza appears from most angles as a normal condominium, but something about the image seems... wrong. If you stare intently, you can almost get the feeling thats it's staring back.*

Corey: Which brings us to Chelsea and Alex. You two each need a base of operations, as befitting members of Earth's Mightiest Wrestling Stable. You don't want your daughter to grow up in hotel suites, do you? And you, Richards, you live in your van, for fuck's sake!

*Alex Richards looks up from his laptop screen with a wounded expression.*

Alex: What's wrong with my van?

*In response, Black clicks the remote again, bringing up a picture of Richards' van, letting the rusting chrome and peeling paint speak for themselves.*

Alex: Yeah, and? It's always been good enough for me.

*Corey facepalms, then glares at Alex.*

Corey: No. Just... no. I don't care if it's "good enough" for you. You're Pantheon now; "good enough" isn't good enough! The Pantheon brand encompasses all that is the best, both in the ring and outside of it.

Alex: But living in my van has all sorts of advantages! I never need a hotel room, I never need a ride home, I don't have to pack if I decide to move, the list goes on.

*Black holds up a hand to stop the list from going on.*

Corey: I anticipated something like this. Not this exactly, but I figured you wouldn't want to give up your van. So I took the liberty of having Jade pick out some potential upgrades for you.

*Corey clicks the remote, changing the picture projected to a shot of a large, angular, black SUV, looming impressively over a small group of people interestedly checking it out.*

Corey: Keep in mind, this is just a base model. You'll be able to have it customized, just don't go overboard. We don't want to break the bank on this.

Jay: Hey, no worries; I has many monies. Turn that bitch into the Land Stranger; I'll cover the cost.

Price: Awesome; does that mean I can get my donation back?

Corey: No, we'll just put it toward Chelsea's new place.

Price: Fuck Chelsea.

Chelsea: No thanks.

Price: You'd love it.

Corey: Enough!

*Black clicks the remote again, bringing up a picture of a massive pickup truck with an extended cab; the bed large enough to fit an actual king-sized bed. Richards' expression becomes interested, and he turns his attention back to his laptop for a moment.*

Alex: Oh, I like that one. Gimme a sec... Yeah, Ford Eff-Seven Fifty, six doors... That's roomy... Still, my van...

Jay: Dude, you could call it the "Strange Rover", and it would be a travelling epicenter of mass confusion! Besides, think of the size of the beer fridge you could fit in that thing!

Alex: Sold! Now to hit Kijiji, and do the same to my van!

Corey: Hmph. That was actually easier than I thought it would be. Well then, moving on to Armstrong's abode--

Scarecrow(offscreen): It should be known as the Stronghold.

*Almost everyone's attention shifts to the Scarecrow, seated beyond the camera, and expresses various levels of approval; even Price raises an eyebrow appreciatively.*

Corey: That's not bad. I figure you'll probably want some sort of permanency, right Chelsea? Chelsea?

Chelsea: Hmm? What? Sorry, I... I'm a little distracted. This whole thing with ICE and Seth...

*Black tosses his head and crosses his arms over his chest again.*

Corey: Don't worry about Lerch; he'll be taken care of Friday night.

Jay: And don't worry about your boy toy Beckman, either. I can't promise I won't rough him up, but I'll definitely discourage him from going along with Lerchy-Poo's hare-brained scheme to try an' take us out.

*Chelsea shakes her azure tresses, and wipes her hands over her face.*

Chelsea: Thanks, but that's not it. I just... I have a lot on my mind at the moment; can we maybe not do this right now?

Price: What's wrong? Lady troubles? Is it "that time"? Stuff your emotions back up your vagina--

Corey: I swear to Christ, I will Burning Hammer you out the fucking window! Have it out at Thirteen, and talk shit on your own time! This isn't about you, this is about Pantheon, and everyone here is Pantheon. Deal with it! Chelsea, if you don't want to discuss this right now, that's fine; we can come back to it after Thirteen.

Scarecrow(offscreen): Let me know what you decide, Chelsea, and I'll get a construction crew working on it last week. The Stronghold will be ready by the time you make the decision.

Corey: That's handy. Now then, the next order of business is--

*Corey clicks the remote again, then cuts off as he finds the screen projecting a still image of Kate Winslet from the topless scene in Titanic. Black rounds on Jayson furiously.*

Corey: Dammit, Price!

Price: Hey, don't look at me! I didn't do it!

*The Omega Man tries unsuccessfully to hide a snicker fit behind his hand, which draws Corey's attention.*

Jay: Heh heh, I'm sorry. I got a text from Jeff Purse; he said you had a thing for her.

Corey: Note to self: Smack Jeff Purse.

Alex: Whoa! Uh-uh! Fuck that!

*Everyone looks at Alex, confused by his apparent defense of Purse, in spite of the man's need of a good smack. Richards looks up to find everybody looking at him, and gestures toward the laptop.*

Alex: Trying to sell my van, and some guy just offered my five hundred bucks if I'd paint "Free Candy" on the side. Not happening. I'd rather give my baby a Viking funeral in one last epic adventure!

*Black nods approvingly.*

Corey: I approve of this idea. I approve of Viking anything.

Jay: Really? Anything? What about Viking zombies?

Corey: Approved. That's a badass army right there.

Jay: Viking STDs?

Corey: Caught from banging Viking women. Approved.

Jay: Viking gardening?

Corey: Uses vanquished enemies for fertilizer. Approved.

*Omega nods to himself, seemingly satisfied.*

Jay: Thus, my choice to grow a badass Viking beard has been reaffirmed.

Corey: Keep working on that. Doc Henry has a better chance of winning the Television Championship Sunday night.

Jay: Harsh, dude. You're my chin pube inspiration; I only started growing this thing because I wanted a mouth mane as magnificent as yours!

*Corey seems to be at a loss as for how to respond to this. The sentiment is mildly flattering, but the words are... well, you heard them; would you be flattered by that? Well that's because you're weird. At this point, a disembodied female voice breaks in over the tumult; piped into the room through a hidden PA system.*

Jade(offscreen): Mister Black? The, uh, "house warming gift" has been secured in the holding cells. We'll be ready to begin the, um, "festivities" as soon as the group arrives.

*On the heels of this announcement from the Pantheon assistant, Alex Richards' eyes light up, and he sniffs at the air a few times. His head turns back and forth, and a low, gurgling rumble emanates from his direction.*

Alex: I smell Almond Soo Guy. And Shrimp Lo Mein. Is there a Chinese restaurant nearby?

*Price crosses his arms over his chest, and puts on a petulant face, while Black just starts laughing.*

Price(barely audible): Messing around with a man's KFC. It's not fucking right, I tell you! I don't even like Chinese food all that much!

Alex: I'll take that as a yes! Be right back; I've got to get me some Mu Shu Pork!

*Richards closes his laptop, stands up, and trundles past Corey, walking in front of the projector as he does so, and exits the room. Black watches him go with an expression that clearly reads "what the fuck".*

Corey: Uh, okay. Still kind of mid-meeting here, but whatever. I'm not stopping.

Jay: Not cool, man! Brother Strange would wait for you.

Corey: I'm touched. I also don't care. I'm not going to sit here and wait for however long it takes him to get back.

Jay: That's mean! You're mean! I can't believe I named my pet dinosaur after you!

Price: You have a dinosaur?

Jay: Yeah, and I named him Little Corey.

Corey: Because he's a vicious beast that shouldn't be fucked with?

*Omega shakes his head silently. If you could deliver non-verbal expressions in deadpan, that's exactly how it would look.*

Jay: No, because he's tiny and he doesn't take powerbombs very well.

Corey: That's it; I'm done!

*Black throws the remote at Jay's face, and stalks out of the room. Omega rubs at his forehead, then shrugs his shoulders.*

Jay: So, um... meeting adjourned, I guess? That makes me sad; I didn't even get to take charge of the meeting, and lead everyone in a rousing verse of "Kumbaya".

Price: Thank God.

Jay: I was really hoping I could have at least turned things toward this title match you gave me at Thirteen, Priiicccee.

Price: Did you just hiss at me? What the fuck?

Jay: Sorry, old habits. You're not the first Jayson Price I've met. The other one was kind of an ass.

Price: Whatever. I'm kind of an ass, too.

Chelsea: "Kind of"?

*Jay turns his attention to Armstrong, laying a hand on her forearm.*

Jay: Hey now. Same team, Blue Lady. What happens in the ring happens in the ring; here we're all team mates. Even you, Scaredy Crow. And unlike the Vapor Kings or the Poondock Saints, we're a strong team, comprised of the most fantastic singles competitors to ever set foot in a WCF ring. We have no Zombie McMorrises to lose titles for us. We have no Kaz Mazys weighing us down. Every single one of us can and will throw down like a fuckin' boss when the time is appropriate. When the time is appropriate, Chels. By all means, get yourself worked up, put yourself in the right frame of mind for Friday night. But once Friday rolls around, let that be the end of it. It's bad enough Cairo's trying to undermine our confidence in each other by implying that 'Crow's feeding inside information to the Saints - no worries, 'Crow, I know you're solid - and Seth is setting your man after us; we don't need to tear ourselves apart from the inside too.

*Chelsea smiles weakly and pats at Jay's hand, then pushes herself up to her feet.*

Chelsea: I know, Jay. I'm sorry. I'll be all right, I just... ugh. I need some time to myself right now. I'm going to go sit in the chopper until we're ready to go.

Price: And now that the meeting is over, I'm going back to sleep.

*Jayson pulls a silver flask from beneath the table, takes a looooong drink from it, then folds his arms over each other on the table and slumps forward to bury his face in the crook of his elbow. Meanwhile, Armstrong walks around the table toward the room's exit. She pauses for a moment with a baleful glare at the back of Price's head; her fists clenching as she contemplates, then thinks better of, an attack. With a disgusted noise, Chelsea turns and resumes her walk.*

Jay: Well, looks like it's just you and me left, Scare...

*Omega turns his head toward the camera, trailing off presumably because the Scarecrow is no longer in the room. We can only presume, because the camera is facing the other way.*

Jay: Yeah, he's totally gone. Must've done some time shifty translocation, or something. Well shit. I guess I could use this time to say a few more words to Natty ICE and Bobby C., but what's the point? It's pretty much a foregone conclusion at this point that The Omega Man is gonna be your new Whickiff World Champion once Friday rolls around. Though I think I should revise my earlier assessment about Beckman being the one to walk out of Philly empty-handed. The more I think about it, the more certain I am that he's going to be hitting that ring with a burning rage in his gut. After all, yeah, he lost the World title, but we all know he didn't lose it. So we can't say for certain that Bob-a-loo would be our current World Champion if it had been a singles match. But based on what I've observed, Cairo can't beat Beckman in a one on one setting. Which means the best that Bobby can hope for in this match, is to pin the weakest link, and hope he can walk out with either of the two titles up for grabs.

*Jay turns the camera to face him head on, putting the Philadelphia skyline at his back, under a clear blue sky.*

Jay: Oooh, sorry, Bob-a Ganoosh, but it turns out that you're the weakest link in this match up. I know, I said Beckster was gonna be the first one gone, but I just think he wants the win more than you do, Gahdfajha. The ICE Man is looking to get some revenge on you for your dastardly thievery; taking the easy way out in order to cheat a man out of his hard earned title by pinning Zombie McMorris. There's only one easy way out of this match for you, Bobby; getting pinned. And probably first. Of course you seem to be a fan of taking the easy way out, so I guess that means you're going to be heading back to Poon Guinea with the same number of singles titles as your protégé slash anchor. That number rhymes with "beer-o", for those of you playing the home game. And if I have my way, after I win this Whickiff World title, guys like Cairo will be banished to the back of the line.

*Jay leans back in his chair, turning slightly to the left to bring his feet up, which he places on the table. He clasps his hands together behind his head, and appears to be the very picture of relaxed nonchalance.*

Jay: Don't get me wrong; I'm a fighting champion. Anyone, any time, any place. But having said that, I'm a man of the future. A visionary, if you will. And I envision a future in which the Whickiff World Championship is defended against fresh stars who have earned their stripes, not has-beens who spend nine krekkin' years trying to capture the belt. I'm not interested in defending the title against the names of the past. I'll put this belt on the line against people who have the potential to be the future of the company. Because I am the present of the Wrestling Championship Federation. I am the here, and my time is now. You've had your fifteen minutes of fame, Cairo; now it's time for you to head on back to the tag title scene, where you and Kazward can continue pretending to be the most badass team around, until Pantheon comes for those belts, too. And we will come for them.

*Omega turns his head away from the camera, looking out over the site of his next huge-mongous match.*

Jay: It's good to be me. For a shitload of reasons, but right now? It's good to be me, because I enjoy a unique position in this match. I have the luxury of pointing out that I'm stepping into the ring with two of the biggest names in the business, two of the most badass brawlers to ever wear the Whickiff World strap around their waists. So even if I somehow lose, Hell, even if I get stomped the fuck out, eliminated first, and have to walk from Philly with nothing... well, that's no skin off my ass. In that scenario, I would have been defeated by two formidable World Champion caliber opponents. I'd still have the TEA Cup to win, earning another shot at whomever, and you can be damned sure that I'd have a fire under my ass at that point. But what about when I win this match? What happens when these mountains of shit-talk get inverted, and The Omega Man "lucks" his way into a "fluke" win? Some "unthick jobber" beats the shit out of both the Bobfajha and Drunky McHobobeard?

*Jay turns his head toward the camera, an expression of mock horror on his face that fades into a condescending half smile.*

Jay: Oh no! If I'm so damn worthless, and I whoop both of you... well how does that make you look? Not very good, guys. Not very good. But at least one of you can have my Hardcore Championship as a consolation prize. And Beckman... or Cairo... whichever one of you that winds up with this Hardcore title that neither of you will have earned, keep in mind that I'll want to get it back at some point. I don't know when, but hopefully, when I do decide to reclaim this belt, the champion at the time is worthy of facing me. I'd hate to have to scrap with another Disrespectful Vaginal Squirt. But, I don't book the matches, so I can't say for sure. the only thing I can say for sure, is that you're looking at your new World Heavyweight Champion, right here. Spend the next week livin' it up, guys. Because after this weekend, neither one of you is going to have much to celebrate. Unless you consider having your ass kicked by me to be a good time, in which case you're gonna have a blast. See you at the party, guys.

*The Omega Man drops his feet to the floor, leans forward, and reaches for the camera. The scene fades to black.*