Post by Deleted on Apr 19, 2016 9:34:02 GMT -5
So yeah. Here I am. WCF. Never saw this coming. If you had asked me 9 years and about 50 pounds ago, I would've probably laughed at the notion of being on the roster of an international wrestling promotion. But many calculated risks later, and here I was, sitting in front of a WCF executive who's trying to sign me to a contract after putting on one hell of a show.
I guess before I get into that, I should introduce myself. I was born James William Chevalier II. To the family, I'm J.W., to my girlfriend, I'm *Oh James*, like an ode to Bond. James Bond. I have a few other names, depending on what game and platform I'm playing on, but in wrestling, I'm "The Game". Like that muscle-headed schmuck that runs that other wrestling promotion (or tries to, not sure), but for a totally different reason. I also happen to be a professional gamer. Hell, my full-time work outside of wrestling is the assistant manager of an independent gaming store called "Natural 20", located in Downtown Portland, Maine. I guess after this, I probably won't be working there much longer, though...
So yeah, the executive. His name is... I forgot what his name is. To be fair, he came right at me right after my match, and Sammy did me no favors on my skull this particular evening. Sammy is better known as "Rockin" Sam Donnigan, who made it to the Big Stage a few times, fought some bloody matches during the Hardcore Era, but made little else of his career due to some gruesome injuries sustained in a snowmobile accident back in '05. But tonight was his last show, and he was hanging it up after spending the better part of 25 years in the ring. I was the guy he was passing the torch to. Much to his surprise as it was mine.
Sammy was also my trainer in the early days, when I was tipping the scales at about 250 pounds, and not in a flattering way. I looked like chewed up bubble gum. I disgust myself sometimes seeing pictures of me about 7 or 8 years ago when I was at my fattest. People started commenting on my weight in a negative light, and I didn't like it, so I went across the street from Nat 20, to find it was a wrestling academy, and not a regular gym. I signed up anyways. Wrestling was always kind of intriguing, so it was win-win for me. At the very least, I could beat the shit out of the next person who made fun of my weight.
I dropped mad crazy weight in three months. 25 pounds to start, then the rest of it kind of went away after the first year was done. Those bastards wanted me gone, and fast. They did everything to discourage me, but somehow I punched through. After a year, Sammy signed me up for the New England Regional Wrestling Association. Got my ass handed to me for several months, before I got a win. Then another, and another. By this time, I was at my current size, where I tip the scales at a massive 178 pounds. Needless to say, nobody liked losing to me, but I'm fast and I hit not only hard, but where it hurts the most.
Fast forward to now, seven and a half years later, and here I was. Getting my ass handed to me for the better part of the match against Sammy. Sure, I'd get some offense in to stem the tide, but always taking a beating. Always getting the shoulder up at 2. Always the underdog who survives to fight another day. Then it was go time. As he picks me up, he says in my ear...
Sammy: Here's your fuckin' shot kid. Don't blow it. Irish whip into the ropes. Catch me camping.
I grunt some sort of affirmation to what he says, before he chucks me into the ropes. As I rebound, there he is bent over, waiting to send me into the lights. Instead, I roll over his shoulder, while grabbing his head and bringing the base of his skull flush with my own shoulder, hitting that devastating neckbreaker he taught me years before. I lay there for a little bit, as the referee starts counting us both out. We both stumble to our feet, as he says...
Sammy: Low kick, then to the turnbuckles. Going for the Rock Down, but you reverse it. I figure a Red Flashing Villain or a 1-Up is in store for me. Dealer's choice.
Me: I'll pound at your head. You drop me, then its time for a 1-Up. Wanna do that move we've been working on?
Sammy: You think you can pull it off? We've only been working on it for a few weeks. And we've been in here for at least 15 minutes.
Me: We need something big for this to be believable. I think its time to break out Game Over.
Sammy: Yeah, that would be pretty big. Fuck it. Worst you do is kill both of us. I've had a fun life...
I try to contain my laugh through gritted teeth, as he grabs me while we get to our feet, and he whips me really hard into the turnbuckles. I stumble out, as he boots me in the midsection. He sets me up for the Rock Down, which is a powerbomb setup for a facebuster, and lifts me up into the air. I immediately start pounding away at his face, then make a gouging motion, to which he drops me to my feet. I kick him in the midsection, so his head can be reached thanks to his 6'4" making it a difficult grab, before I turn around, run up the turnbuckles, and let myself sail over his body while I hold onto his head. Gravity does the rest of the job, as we slam into the middle of the ring. The crowd has always popped loud for that move, and tonight was no different.
The adrenaline started to surge within me, as I leaped to my feet and found the turnbuckle I just ran up, and pulled myself effortlessly to the top of the turnbuckle. It felt like an eternity waiting for Sammy to find his feet, but he finally stumbles up, turns around, before I leaped from the turnbuckle in a shooting star motion. As my head came around, I started to regret this move, until I felt my stomach hit him in the meat of his shoulders. I had the God given sense to pull my arms in, as my left arm found its way around the head of Sammy, before we both dropped to the mat.
The crowd went batshit crazy, as both of us laid there in the corner of the ring. After a few moments, Sammy says...
Sammy: You can roll over and pin me anytime, now...
I nonchalantly rolled over and put an arm over him, as the referee counted to three. Once that hand hit the mat for the third time, the crowd went ape-shit nuts this time, as the perennial underdog had unseated the New England Regional Heavyweight Champion in his Retirement Match, and preventing the title from going into an Elimination Tournament to determine who the new champ was going to be. Many were cheering for me to pull it off, but somewhere in the back of every mind, there was no way this scrawny punk was going to win!
This was my big moment, and I figured this was it. Best part about the whole moment was that I did it in front of my Dad, who never thought I'd ever pull it off. Take that, you grouchy bastard! I was SOOOOOOO getting laid tonight! The referee handed me the belt, and I raised it over my head, taking it from one turnbuckle to the next, letting everyone in the building and local access cable who the new champion was, as the eyes of the world looked upon me...
After all the fanfare, the interview with Merv Gundy, and the backstage party complete with champagne and cake, everyone finally cleared the hell out of the locker room at about 1 in the morning. The 'Rents had long ago departed, and Susan was ready for our little "1 on 1" party back at our newly acquired 1 bedroom apartment. I had finally showered and had put on my pants, when a knock at the door put me on alert. Probably a janitor telling me to get the hell out of the gym, already. I just shout out...
Me: Yo!
The door opens, but instead of a guy in a green uniform, a guy in a black pinstriped suit carrying a leather briefcase walks in. Balding and with glasses, he still managed to cut himself an air of importance despite these physical shortcomings. Intrigued from the word go, I ask...
Me: Who are you? The Mob?
Guy: Mob? Like Mafia? I'm not Italian enough...
This guy wasn't Mob. He didn't have any of the many distinctive New England accents that pepper this particular part of the world. No Downeaster like my own, nor a New York, or Boston accent. He didn't even have a flat Vermont or the shrilly New Hampshire, or a rolling Rhode Island accent, either. He just sounded like he wasn't from around here. So I ask...
Me: You here for an autograph or something?
Guy: Depending on where you sign it. I represent interests in the World Championship Federation. My name is...
Maybe I took too many blows to the head tonight. Or maybe this was Sammy's idea of a practical joke. Or maybe my father put this guy up to this. But I cut this guy off, as I say...
Me: WCF? Yeah, right!!! Quit yankin' my chain, guy! Who put you up to this?
Guy: Actually, Mr. Lerch was very adamant that I speak to you on his behalf. I even have tickets for you to fly out of Portland in the next few days so you can arrange your affairs for said meeting.
I was about to say something smartass before he pulled out two tickets for me, along with some paperwork from his briefcase. He then says...
Guy: I'm sure your agent will want to look this over before making any agreement, but this is our initial contract offer for employment as a performer at World Championship Federation. Word of advice if you want your best chances is to let Seth get about two or three drinks in. Any more than that, and he becomes hard to deal with, if not outright incoherent.
Me: So he really is a lush? That's not an act that everyone plays at him being?
Guy: Between you and me, its a wonder the WCF is still going. Guy has been known to hemorrhage money every so often. But yes, if that is all, please look through this with your agent and get back to us. We expect to see you in Pennsylvania in a few days.
The guy then just closes his briefcase and walks back out. For a few more moments, I still felt like my chain was getting yanked, but these papers seemed to be the real deal. Right down to all the legal mumbo jumbo you see whenever you get sent to court for parking and traffic violations. Even those weird symbols that denote legal references.
I shrug my shoulders and continue getting dressed. I figure one thing at a time. Get ready for some 1 on 1 with Susan, before I drop this bombshell on her and everyone else in my life...
Yes. This was waiting for me when I got home from toe gym. Thank GOD I only lived a few blocks from the Portland Aud. It would have REALLY sucked if the show was even in Nashua, or Bristol, or worse, all the way the hell in Montpelier or anywhere but Portland. Between the shots to the head and the champagne, I don't think I could have endured that long of a trip. But when she came out looking like THIS, I knew I was with the right girl. Especially when she squealed with delight at the gold-plated belt over my shoulder.
I made her squeal with more delight as the wee hours of morning turned to dawn. Where I found the energy, I haven't a clue. I guess she just brings out the best in me when I need and/or want to. We made love for a few hours, before we fell asleep as the sun came up.
Several hours later, I awake expecting to hear signs of life within the apartment. Instead, I see Susan shuffling through the papers that I received by the WCF recruiter at the desk inside of our room. I arise in bed, and she looks over, and says...
Susan: You must've done something right last night. Did you read this contract?
Me: I was expecting to wake up and that not exist. Thought maybe I was dreaming. I mean, you were dressed kind of like your character on World of Warcraft when I came in. That was real, yeah?
Susan: How hard did Sammy hit you last night? Because I'm going to hit him just as hard if he hurt you in some permanent way...
Me: He probably wants to hurt me, right now. I hit Game Over last night.
Susan: Dammit! I'm so bummed I went to work last night! Denny's really sucks sometimes! Especially at the end of the shift, when the drunks start rolling in! But I missed you using Game Over last night!
Me: I'll use it again, more than likely. Seth will probably want me to use the move in the WCF.
Susan: Provided you don't kill anybody with the move. Including yourself. You see that a lot of wrestling places don't even allow for shooting star presses to be used anymore...
Me WCF will probably encourage it. These guys always seem to want to kill each other in the ring. And it doesn't even have to be at a Pay Per View event.
Susan: Oh God! Especially those XIII events. The unsanctioned ones that Corey Black has with the Funhouse matches that has ended more than a few careers?
Me: House of Horrors or some shit like that. Yeah, those guys must really hate each other. It'll be like the beginning of my wrestling career all over again! You remember those days?
Susan: How could I forget? I just moved to town to go to USM and there you were at Natural 20. Just started training, and you had this huge bruise on the side of your face! I honestly thought you were in some sort of Fight Club or something.
Me: Even worse than that, it was pro wrestling. And you do not talk about pro wrestling! Or its secrets!
Susan: So you taking this offer seriously? Even though I don't agree wholeheartedly with the product overall, it is a lot of money. Enough so I could come with you, if that says anything.
Me: Travel? Enough to bring you along? Hmm... We could go from city to city, gaming on the side to make extra scratch. We totally kick ass at Super Smash Bros, and EVERYONE will want a piece of us if we did this. Anything about creative direction in the contract?
Susan: They do like your gaming gimmick you got going on. They don't seem to want to change anything, other than the fact that you work for them instead of the regional promotion. But for the money they're offering...
Me: I made rent last night and some change. Not like we're starving to death...
Susan: But this could also be a chance for you to stick it to your Dad some more. I know how much you like doing that. God knows I like it whenever you are successful despite his negativity.
Me: Leave my Old Man alone. He had a rough life...
Susan: Which he brought on himself!
Me: He didn't ask to get drafted to go to Vietnam.
Susan: I'm also certain he didn't ask to go to prison for drunkenly punching another drunk guy to death, either.
Ugh... My father... Its ironic that he's a total fuck-up in his life, so he takes it out on me and my siblings whenever we don't live up to his expectations. He went to prison shortly after I was born, and got out when I was 8. Of course when he saw me, he thought little of me. Thought I needed football and not video games in my life. Yet I made gaming my passion and profession, and I'm just one step away from being store manager. Yet when I do get into a sport, he calls pro wrestling fake. Nothing fake about gravity, but good luck telling him that. He's just a disagreeable ass whom I try to ignore as much as possible, if it wasn't for Mom.
She's always been supportive of whatever I wished to do with my life. Her only negative comments came when I was a total fatass about being a fatass. At least she was nice about it, telling me that too many more peanut butter and gummi worm sandwiches would probably lead to Type 2 diabetes. She's right, but I still love those peanut butter and gummi worm sandwiches! But at least I'm not threatening to be as big around as I am tall.
I change the subject, as I digressed a bit, and say...
Me: I'm going to talk to Sam about this contract. He's been in the Big Show, so maybe he could help me out with this. Might have him fly in and help me negotiate this contract, as well.
Susan: So you're going down to Pennsylvania?
Me: At the very least, even if it is to say no in person. But this plan does have lots of appeal. Travel with my favorite girl, kicking ass and taking names at whatever game pleasures us.
Susan: I think it would be awesome. Travel while you got the chance! Don't forget to take me with you. I'd love to hand in my apron at Denny's and tell that bitch of a boss where to stuff it!
Me: You just might get that chance. We'll see...
Sammy: It's a legit contract, I'll give you that much. Good job, kid. Never knew you had it in you.
Sammy had looked over the contract, and after several nods of the head passed it over to me and said these words. Expecting more, I guess, I asked...
Me: So this is a good and standard contract?
Sammy: Are you nuts? I wish I had that contract when I was starting out! Travel and lodging covered? 25K signing bonus? 10K just to fly down and meet Lerch? Either this company is loaded beyond belief, or there's something fishy going on in this fed.
Me: Fishy as in how?
Sammy: WCF has a pretty high turnover rate, so for them to offer this contract, they must be desperate to get anybody through those doors. But I've also seen the product, and most of those guys are animals. Their World Champion, Joey Flash, seems like a real piece of garbage. Each previous World Champion before him has been no better. Except Beckman. He seemed like a fun guy, even though he hung out with some scummy guys.
Me: Funny you say this. When I let family know I started working with you almost 8 years ago, they said the same thing. Yet here we are, at Denny's, eating a Lumberjack Slam together. Yeah, you're a real animal, you are...
Sammy: I'm a showman. People see me, and expect me to play at being what they initially see. But deep down inside, I'm a softie.
Me: My first three months of training prove you are anything other than a softie.
Sammy: You're still holding that against me? I had to make sure you weren't soft in the ring. Or the head, for that matter. That's just business, kid. So you gonna sign the contract?
Me: If you think its a good deal, I'll sign it. But what do I do about the title?
Sammy: That does kind of hurt the feelings, don't it? I pass the torch, and you get snapped up by the big leagues. I guess we'll have ourselves a tournament after all. Maybe you did take one too many blows to the head and you had to drop the title. That'll fly with some of the more ignorant fans, but you might get some blowback for this move. New England wrestling fans want loyalty. But I can't blame you for wanting bigger and better things in life. And Regional Champion barely pays the bills, never mind any of the other necessities in life.
Me: I'll need an agent to come along, if you're willing to help me out.
Sammy: I'll have to pass on that one, kid. I still got kids to train and an organization to fix now that you're bouncing. Hell of a bind you put us all in. WCF must've been scouting you for quite some time, though. We should have seen this coming.
Me: Tell me to not go, and I won't. You got me here, and I owe you that much.
Sammy: As much as I want you to stay, I can't do that. But if it were me, I'd be gone in a heartbeat. Take the money and run. God knows you need it, and it would probably drive your Old Man crazy to see you all successful at this childish endeavor. That would be worth its weight in gold.
Me: So who do I get for an agent? Do you have an agent?
Sammy: God no! I fired that leech years ago! Honestly don't even know if he's alive anymore. Why don't you bring your girlfriend? How does she feel about it?
Me: She wants me to take the money and run, just as long as I bring her along and we play games in our free time.
Sammy: I always did like her. She keeps it simple. Wish I landed a dame like her, but such is life I guess. I have a different type of children instead. All chomping at the bit to step foot in the wrestling ring.
Me: So it's settled. Guess I'm going to Pennsylvania to sign a contract.
Sammy: Guess I'll pick up breakfast, unless you want to. You can afford to now, and God knows when we'll have breakfast again.
I nod, as I reach into my back pocket to pull out a Super Mario Bros. wallet and pull out a few bills for the tab. I swallow the rest of my coffee, as he does the same. As we stand up, he offers his hand out, and I shake it. He then pulls me in and gives me a bro hug, saying...
Sammy: Be careful out there, kid. Keep your ass safe and don't make me look bad...
He lets me go, pats me on the shoulder again, before donning his fedora and overcoat and departs Denny's. I throw my windbreaker on and leave out the other side of the restaurant, where I find my 1987 Plymouth Reliant continuing to collect rust in the cold and snowy Southern Maine climate. As I got into the car, I felt a pang of guilt hit me. Or was it excitement? I didn't know what to feel. I was leaving everything I knew behind me, and quite unexpectedly. I shake the feeling long enough to crank the old car over, as the belts initially squeal before settling down. I pull out of Denny's and hit 95 on my way back towards Downtown.
Both of us were dressed for the occasion, or we thought we were. I was dressed in the suit I wore to prom, minus the bow tie because I couldn't find it. It was a powder blue tux with a top hat that I wore in conjunction with my buddy Mark, who wore an orange tux in contrast. She was dressed in her Princess Peach dress she usually reserved for the more formal occasions at the Comic Cons we find ourselves attending on occasion. In hindsight, we didn't exactly think our attire all the way through, but at least I can laugh about it now.
Seth Lerch and the rest of the WCF had a laugh about it, at least. They proved to not be the stuffed suits that everyone makes them out to be. Alas, I was told to keep that piece of business to myself, lest they lose their credibility. True to what that guy said, about three drinks in, and Seth was compliant to some of my wishes. Nay, he seemed thrilled at my ideas, such as going to Comic Cons and gaming shops to promote the WCF and push the character. But by the fifth drink, he seemed to have trouble balancing his head on his shoulders. How he conducts business on a day to day basis this way is beyond me, but who am I to judge?
I signed the contract with lawyers present, before they shuffled me off to a press conference to announce my signing. I'm just glad they let me change out of the tux before I addressed the media. Sure was a big change from the media that I was used to, which consisted of local access cable and Merv Gundy manning the microphone. Now there was multiple channels and reporters to appease, which I don't know if I'll ever get used to that.
I even got myself a debut, at Aftermath, of all places. It was in Toronto, which was quite the treat. I heard there was some excellent venues there for the lady and I to make our plays at gaming. And there was also the business of the 8 man tag match. Talk about a clusterfuck of a match, but with any luck, I can make an impact and showcase what I have to offer to the company overall.
So its either time to fly with mighty wings, or get busy crashing and burning. The Game has Started, and it is time to get to playing.
I guess before I get into that, I should introduce myself. I was born James William Chevalier II. To the family, I'm J.W., to my girlfriend, I'm *Oh James*, like an ode to Bond. James Bond. I have a few other names, depending on what game and platform I'm playing on, but in wrestling, I'm "The Game". Like that muscle-headed schmuck that runs that other wrestling promotion (or tries to, not sure), but for a totally different reason. I also happen to be a professional gamer. Hell, my full-time work outside of wrestling is the assistant manager of an independent gaming store called "Natural 20", located in Downtown Portland, Maine. I guess after this, I probably won't be working there much longer, though...
So yeah, the executive. His name is... I forgot what his name is. To be fair, he came right at me right after my match, and Sammy did me no favors on my skull this particular evening. Sammy is better known as "Rockin" Sam Donnigan, who made it to the Big Stage a few times, fought some bloody matches during the Hardcore Era, but made little else of his career due to some gruesome injuries sustained in a snowmobile accident back in '05. But tonight was his last show, and he was hanging it up after spending the better part of 25 years in the ring. I was the guy he was passing the torch to. Much to his surprise as it was mine.
Sammy was also my trainer in the early days, when I was tipping the scales at about 250 pounds, and not in a flattering way. I looked like chewed up bubble gum. I disgust myself sometimes seeing pictures of me about 7 or 8 years ago when I was at my fattest. People started commenting on my weight in a negative light, and I didn't like it, so I went across the street from Nat 20, to find it was a wrestling academy, and not a regular gym. I signed up anyways. Wrestling was always kind of intriguing, so it was win-win for me. At the very least, I could beat the shit out of the next person who made fun of my weight.
I dropped mad crazy weight in three months. 25 pounds to start, then the rest of it kind of went away after the first year was done. Those bastards wanted me gone, and fast. They did everything to discourage me, but somehow I punched through. After a year, Sammy signed me up for the New England Regional Wrestling Association. Got my ass handed to me for several months, before I got a win. Then another, and another. By this time, I was at my current size, where I tip the scales at a massive 178 pounds. Needless to say, nobody liked losing to me, but I'm fast and I hit not only hard, but where it hurts the most.
Fast forward to now, seven and a half years later, and here I was. Getting my ass handed to me for the better part of the match against Sammy. Sure, I'd get some offense in to stem the tide, but always taking a beating. Always getting the shoulder up at 2. Always the underdog who survives to fight another day. Then it was go time. As he picks me up, he says in my ear...
Sammy: Here's your fuckin' shot kid. Don't blow it. Irish whip into the ropes. Catch me camping.
I grunt some sort of affirmation to what he says, before he chucks me into the ropes. As I rebound, there he is bent over, waiting to send me into the lights. Instead, I roll over his shoulder, while grabbing his head and bringing the base of his skull flush with my own shoulder, hitting that devastating neckbreaker he taught me years before. I lay there for a little bit, as the referee starts counting us both out. We both stumble to our feet, as he says...
Sammy: Low kick, then to the turnbuckles. Going for the Rock Down, but you reverse it. I figure a Red Flashing Villain or a 1-Up is in store for me. Dealer's choice.
Me: I'll pound at your head. You drop me, then its time for a 1-Up. Wanna do that move we've been working on?
Sammy: You think you can pull it off? We've only been working on it for a few weeks. And we've been in here for at least 15 minutes.
Me: We need something big for this to be believable. I think its time to break out Game Over.
Sammy: Yeah, that would be pretty big. Fuck it. Worst you do is kill both of us. I've had a fun life...
I try to contain my laugh through gritted teeth, as he grabs me while we get to our feet, and he whips me really hard into the turnbuckles. I stumble out, as he boots me in the midsection. He sets me up for the Rock Down, which is a powerbomb setup for a facebuster, and lifts me up into the air. I immediately start pounding away at his face, then make a gouging motion, to which he drops me to my feet. I kick him in the midsection, so his head can be reached thanks to his 6'4" making it a difficult grab, before I turn around, run up the turnbuckles, and let myself sail over his body while I hold onto his head. Gravity does the rest of the job, as we slam into the middle of the ring. The crowd has always popped loud for that move, and tonight was no different.
The adrenaline started to surge within me, as I leaped to my feet and found the turnbuckle I just ran up, and pulled myself effortlessly to the top of the turnbuckle. It felt like an eternity waiting for Sammy to find his feet, but he finally stumbles up, turns around, before I leaped from the turnbuckle in a shooting star motion. As my head came around, I started to regret this move, until I felt my stomach hit him in the meat of his shoulders. I had the God given sense to pull my arms in, as my left arm found its way around the head of Sammy, before we both dropped to the mat.
The crowd went batshit crazy, as both of us laid there in the corner of the ring. After a few moments, Sammy says...
Sammy: You can roll over and pin me anytime, now...
I nonchalantly rolled over and put an arm over him, as the referee counted to three. Once that hand hit the mat for the third time, the crowd went ape-shit nuts this time, as the perennial underdog had unseated the New England Regional Heavyweight Champion in his Retirement Match, and preventing the title from going into an Elimination Tournament to determine who the new champ was going to be. Many were cheering for me to pull it off, but somewhere in the back of every mind, there was no way this scrawny punk was going to win!
This was my big moment, and I figured this was it. Best part about the whole moment was that I did it in front of my Dad, who never thought I'd ever pull it off. Take that, you grouchy bastard! I was SOOOOOOO getting laid tonight! The referee handed me the belt, and I raised it over my head, taking it from one turnbuckle to the next, letting everyone in the building and local access cable who the new champion was, as the eyes of the world looked upon me...
After all the fanfare, the interview with Merv Gundy, and the backstage party complete with champagne and cake, everyone finally cleared the hell out of the locker room at about 1 in the morning. The 'Rents had long ago departed, and Susan was ready for our little "1 on 1" party back at our newly acquired 1 bedroom apartment. I had finally showered and had put on my pants, when a knock at the door put me on alert. Probably a janitor telling me to get the hell out of the gym, already. I just shout out...
Me: Yo!
The door opens, but instead of a guy in a green uniform, a guy in a black pinstriped suit carrying a leather briefcase walks in. Balding and with glasses, he still managed to cut himself an air of importance despite these physical shortcomings. Intrigued from the word go, I ask...
Me: Who are you? The Mob?
Guy: Mob? Like Mafia? I'm not Italian enough...
This guy wasn't Mob. He didn't have any of the many distinctive New England accents that pepper this particular part of the world. No Downeaster like my own, nor a New York, or Boston accent. He didn't even have a flat Vermont or the shrilly New Hampshire, or a rolling Rhode Island accent, either. He just sounded like he wasn't from around here. So I ask...
Me: You here for an autograph or something?
Guy: Depending on where you sign it. I represent interests in the World Championship Federation. My name is...
Maybe I took too many blows to the head tonight. Or maybe this was Sammy's idea of a practical joke. Or maybe my father put this guy up to this. But I cut this guy off, as I say...
Me: WCF? Yeah, right!!! Quit yankin' my chain, guy! Who put you up to this?
Guy: Actually, Mr. Lerch was very adamant that I speak to you on his behalf. I even have tickets for you to fly out of Portland in the next few days so you can arrange your affairs for said meeting.
I was about to say something smartass before he pulled out two tickets for me, along with some paperwork from his briefcase. He then says...
Guy: I'm sure your agent will want to look this over before making any agreement, but this is our initial contract offer for employment as a performer at World Championship Federation. Word of advice if you want your best chances is to let Seth get about two or three drinks in. Any more than that, and he becomes hard to deal with, if not outright incoherent.
Me: So he really is a lush? That's not an act that everyone plays at him being?
Guy: Between you and me, its a wonder the WCF is still going. Guy has been known to hemorrhage money every so often. But yes, if that is all, please look through this with your agent and get back to us. We expect to see you in Pennsylvania in a few days.
The guy then just closes his briefcase and walks back out. For a few more moments, I still felt like my chain was getting yanked, but these papers seemed to be the real deal. Right down to all the legal mumbo jumbo you see whenever you get sent to court for parking and traffic violations. Even those weird symbols that denote legal references.
I shrug my shoulders and continue getting dressed. I figure one thing at a time. Get ready for some 1 on 1 with Susan, before I drop this bombshell on her and everyone else in my life...
Yes. This was waiting for me when I got home from toe gym. Thank GOD I only lived a few blocks from the Portland Aud. It would have REALLY sucked if the show was even in Nashua, or Bristol, or worse, all the way the hell in Montpelier or anywhere but Portland. Between the shots to the head and the champagne, I don't think I could have endured that long of a trip. But when she came out looking like THIS, I knew I was with the right girl. Especially when she squealed with delight at the gold-plated belt over my shoulder.
I made her squeal with more delight as the wee hours of morning turned to dawn. Where I found the energy, I haven't a clue. I guess she just brings out the best in me when I need and/or want to. We made love for a few hours, before we fell asleep as the sun came up.
Several hours later, I awake expecting to hear signs of life within the apartment. Instead, I see Susan shuffling through the papers that I received by the WCF recruiter at the desk inside of our room. I arise in bed, and she looks over, and says...
Susan: You must've done something right last night. Did you read this contract?
Me: I was expecting to wake up and that not exist. Thought maybe I was dreaming. I mean, you were dressed kind of like your character on World of Warcraft when I came in. That was real, yeah?
Susan: How hard did Sammy hit you last night? Because I'm going to hit him just as hard if he hurt you in some permanent way...
Me: He probably wants to hurt me, right now. I hit Game Over last night.
Susan: Dammit! I'm so bummed I went to work last night! Denny's really sucks sometimes! Especially at the end of the shift, when the drunks start rolling in! But I missed you using Game Over last night!
Me: I'll use it again, more than likely. Seth will probably want me to use the move in the WCF.
Susan: Provided you don't kill anybody with the move. Including yourself. You see that a lot of wrestling places don't even allow for shooting star presses to be used anymore...
Me WCF will probably encourage it. These guys always seem to want to kill each other in the ring. And it doesn't even have to be at a Pay Per View event.
Susan: Oh God! Especially those XIII events. The unsanctioned ones that Corey Black has with the Funhouse matches that has ended more than a few careers?
Me: House of Horrors or some shit like that. Yeah, those guys must really hate each other. It'll be like the beginning of my wrestling career all over again! You remember those days?
Susan: How could I forget? I just moved to town to go to USM and there you were at Natural 20. Just started training, and you had this huge bruise on the side of your face! I honestly thought you were in some sort of Fight Club or something.
Me: Even worse than that, it was pro wrestling. And you do not talk about pro wrestling! Or its secrets!
Susan: So you taking this offer seriously? Even though I don't agree wholeheartedly with the product overall, it is a lot of money. Enough so I could come with you, if that says anything.
Me: Travel? Enough to bring you along? Hmm... We could go from city to city, gaming on the side to make extra scratch. We totally kick ass at Super Smash Bros, and EVERYONE will want a piece of us if we did this. Anything about creative direction in the contract?
Susan: They do like your gaming gimmick you got going on. They don't seem to want to change anything, other than the fact that you work for them instead of the regional promotion. But for the money they're offering...
Me: I made rent last night and some change. Not like we're starving to death...
Susan: But this could also be a chance for you to stick it to your Dad some more. I know how much you like doing that. God knows I like it whenever you are successful despite his negativity.
Me: Leave my Old Man alone. He had a rough life...
Susan: Which he brought on himself!
Me: He didn't ask to get drafted to go to Vietnam.
Susan: I'm also certain he didn't ask to go to prison for drunkenly punching another drunk guy to death, either.
Ugh... My father... Its ironic that he's a total fuck-up in his life, so he takes it out on me and my siblings whenever we don't live up to his expectations. He went to prison shortly after I was born, and got out when I was 8. Of course when he saw me, he thought little of me. Thought I needed football and not video games in my life. Yet I made gaming my passion and profession, and I'm just one step away from being store manager. Yet when I do get into a sport, he calls pro wrestling fake. Nothing fake about gravity, but good luck telling him that. He's just a disagreeable ass whom I try to ignore as much as possible, if it wasn't for Mom.
She's always been supportive of whatever I wished to do with my life. Her only negative comments came when I was a total fatass about being a fatass. At least she was nice about it, telling me that too many more peanut butter and gummi worm sandwiches would probably lead to Type 2 diabetes. She's right, but I still love those peanut butter and gummi worm sandwiches! But at least I'm not threatening to be as big around as I am tall.
I change the subject, as I digressed a bit, and say...
Me: I'm going to talk to Sam about this contract. He's been in the Big Show, so maybe he could help me out with this. Might have him fly in and help me negotiate this contract, as well.
Susan: So you're going down to Pennsylvania?
Me: At the very least, even if it is to say no in person. But this plan does have lots of appeal. Travel with my favorite girl, kicking ass and taking names at whatever game pleasures us.
Susan: I think it would be awesome. Travel while you got the chance! Don't forget to take me with you. I'd love to hand in my apron at Denny's and tell that bitch of a boss where to stuff it!
Me: You just might get that chance. We'll see...
Sammy: It's a legit contract, I'll give you that much. Good job, kid. Never knew you had it in you.
Sammy had looked over the contract, and after several nods of the head passed it over to me and said these words. Expecting more, I guess, I asked...
Me: So this is a good and standard contract?
Sammy: Are you nuts? I wish I had that contract when I was starting out! Travel and lodging covered? 25K signing bonus? 10K just to fly down and meet Lerch? Either this company is loaded beyond belief, or there's something fishy going on in this fed.
Me: Fishy as in how?
Sammy: WCF has a pretty high turnover rate, so for them to offer this contract, they must be desperate to get anybody through those doors. But I've also seen the product, and most of those guys are animals. Their World Champion, Joey Flash, seems like a real piece of garbage. Each previous World Champion before him has been no better. Except Beckman. He seemed like a fun guy, even though he hung out with some scummy guys.
Me: Funny you say this. When I let family know I started working with you almost 8 years ago, they said the same thing. Yet here we are, at Denny's, eating a Lumberjack Slam together. Yeah, you're a real animal, you are...
Sammy: I'm a showman. People see me, and expect me to play at being what they initially see. But deep down inside, I'm a softie.
Me: My first three months of training prove you are anything other than a softie.
Sammy: You're still holding that against me? I had to make sure you weren't soft in the ring. Or the head, for that matter. That's just business, kid. So you gonna sign the contract?
Me: If you think its a good deal, I'll sign it. But what do I do about the title?
Sammy: That does kind of hurt the feelings, don't it? I pass the torch, and you get snapped up by the big leagues. I guess we'll have ourselves a tournament after all. Maybe you did take one too many blows to the head and you had to drop the title. That'll fly with some of the more ignorant fans, but you might get some blowback for this move. New England wrestling fans want loyalty. But I can't blame you for wanting bigger and better things in life. And Regional Champion barely pays the bills, never mind any of the other necessities in life.
Me: I'll need an agent to come along, if you're willing to help me out.
Sammy: I'll have to pass on that one, kid. I still got kids to train and an organization to fix now that you're bouncing. Hell of a bind you put us all in. WCF must've been scouting you for quite some time, though. We should have seen this coming.
Me: Tell me to not go, and I won't. You got me here, and I owe you that much.
Sammy: As much as I want you to stay, I can't do that. But if it were me, I'd be gone in a heartbeat. Take the money and run. God knows you need it, and it would probably drive your Old Man crazy to see you all successful at this childish endeavor. That would be worth its weight in gold.
Me: So who do I get for an agent? Do you have an agent?
Sammy: God no! I fired that leech years ago! Honestly don't even know if he's alive anymore. Why don't you bring your girlfriend? How does she feel about it?
Me: She wants me to take the money and run, just as long as I bring her along and we play games in our free time.
Sammy: I always did like her. She keeps it simple. Wish I landed a dame like her, but such is life I guess. I have a different type of children instead. All chomping at the bit to step foot in the wrestling ring.
Me: So it's settled. Guess I'm going to Pennsylvania to sign a contract.
Sammy: Guess I'll pick up breakfast, unless you want to. You can afford to now, and God knows when we'll have breakfast again.
I nod, as I reach into my back pocket to pull out a Super Mario Bros. wallet and pull out a few bills for the tab. I swallow the rest of my coffee, as he does the same. As we stand up, he offers his hand out, and I shake it. He then pulls me in and gives me a bro hug, saying...
Sammy: Be careful out there, kid. Keep your ass safe and don't make me look bad...
He lets me go, pats me on the shoulder again, before donning his fedora and overcoat and departs Denny's. I throw my windbreaker on and leave out the other side of the restaurant, where I find my 1987 Plymouth Reliant continuing to collect rust in the cold and snowy Southern Maine climate. As I got into the car, I felt a pang of guilt hit me. Or was it excitement? I didn't know what to feel. I was leaving everything I knew behind me, and quite unexpectedly. I shake the feeling long enough to crank the old car over, as the belts initially squeal before settling down. I pull out of Denny's and hit 95 on my way back towards Downtown.
Both of us were dressed for the occasion, or we thought we were. I was dressed in the suit I wore to prom, minus the bow tie because I couldn't find it. It was a powder blue tux with a top hat that I wore in conjunction with my buddy Mark, who wore an orange tux in contrast. She was dressed in her Princess Peach dress she usually reserved for the more formal occasions at the Comic Cons we find ourselves attending on occasion. In hindsight, we didn't exactly think our attire all the way through, but at least I can laugh about it now.
Seth Lerch and the rest of the WCF had a laugh about it, at least. They proved to not be the stuffed suits that everyone makes them out to be. Alas, I was told to keep that piece of business to myself, lest they lose their credibility. True to what that guy said, about three drinks in, and Seth was compliant to some of my wishes. Nay, he seemed thrilled at my ideas, such as going to Comic Cons and gaming shops to promote the WCF and push the character. But by the fifth drink, he seemed to have trouble balancing his head on his shoulders. How he conducts business on a day to day basis this way is beyond me, but who am I to judge?
I signed the contract with lawyers present, before they shuffled me off to a press conference to announce my signing. I'm just glad they let me change out of the tux before I addressed the media. Sure was a big change from the media that I was used to, which consisted of local access cable and Merv Gundy manning the microphone. Now there was multiple channels and reporters to appease, which I don't know if I'll ever get used to that.
I even got myself a debut, at Aftermath, of all places. It was in Toronto, which was quite the treat. I heard there was some excellent venues there for the lady and I to make our plays at gaming. And there was also the business of the 8 man tag match. Talk about a clusterfuck of a match, but with any luck, I can make an impact and showcase what I have to offer to the company overall.
So its either time to fly with mighty wings, or get busy crashing and burning. The Game has Started, and it is time to get to playing.
