Post by Stuart Slane on Jun 12, 2016 14:35:47 GMT -5
June 5, 2016
Reading, Pennsylvania
The Santander Arena First Aid Station
During WCF’s Slam Broadcast
There are worse ways to wake up from intracranial injury than a large pair of breasts inches from your face, Stuart Slane decided.
Not exposed breasts, mind you. This isn’t that kind of promo. These pillowy, pendulous pectoral protrusions were concealed under a lilac colored blouse with a sweetheart neckline and a slate grey single button blazer. Despite the obfuscation Stuart recognized them within moments.
“Lisl?” he asked, curious as to why she was here, or where ‘here’ even was.
Lisl Anne, Vice President of Digital Media Content for the Wrestling Championship Federation (and Resurfacing Stuart Slane Supporting Character Number Ten) smiled down at the bed-ridden wrestler, “How are you feeling, Stuart?”
“Head hurts,” he replied as he attempted to prop himself up by his elbows. A restraining hand from Lisl kept him in place.
“Easy, Stuart. You got cracked on the head pretty bad. The doctors had to stitch you up.”
Slane began to protest; Chambers’s belt shot hadn’t busted him open, then he remembered, “I was ambushed backstage.”
“Yes. Then hung upside down from a hook with an apple stuffed in your mouth,” she filled in the blanks for the big man as a doctor approached the pair.
“Brent Alpine,” Slane said the name of his presumed attacker.
“That seems likely, though no one witnessed what happened, and as of right now no one is claiming responsibility,” the former adult entertainer smiled kindly, “Did you see who cold cocked you?”
Stuart shook his head, an action that would lead him to wince. The doctor started in with his diagnosis.
“Mister Slane, it is highly likely you are suffering from a concussion. We’re going to need to go through the protocol. Do you feel up to it?”
“I’m fine,” he muttered, feeling the back of his scalp to count the number of staples there.
“This is mandatory, sir. I’m sorry,” the doctor looked over at Lisl, clearly in hopes for some support from the WCF executive.
“He’s right, Stuart. You need to go through the test. It’s the rule, and I know how you feel about those,” she told him.
Reluctantly, Slane agreed. He allowed himself to have his eyes checked and answered the doctor’s questions about his condition, and was halfway through the Balance Error Scoring System checklist when they were interrupted for the first time.
“Let me in. I am Stuart Slane’s licensed valet! I have every right to see him!” the high-pitched shrieks of Circe Cicero almost caused Stu to stumble as he attempted to stand on his right leg with his arms perpendicular to his torso. The intern glared towards the far end of the makeshift clinic.
“Someone shut her up,” he glowered.
Stuart knew the folly of that directive, and intervened, “No, no. Let her in. We’ll get no peace otherwise.”
“Miss Cicero is your valet?” Lisl asked, smiling slightly.
“She’s more of a sponsor,” Slane evaded. One he felt warranted observation, given the events of the evening.
Soon Circe was alongside the trio. She was dressed casually: a dappled off the shoulder romper with bell sleeves, “How’s your head?” she asked Stuart bluntly.
“The doctor is checking for a concussion now,” Lisl answered for him, an act that resulted in a stink-eye from the younger woman.
“You know who’s behind this,” Circe stated the seemingly obvious after turning her attention back to Slane, who was now walking the length of the station heel to toe, “You know who used this hateful susophobic imagery to make his point: that monster Percy Macro. He did it earlier in the night to Steve Orbit, and then you. I told you he must be stopped at all costs.”
“I will certainly be addressing the matter when I can,” was Stu’s response.
“Which won’t be anytime soon,” the doctor adjudged, “I liked to transfer you to Reading Hospital for observation, Mister Slane.”
“No.”
“Mister Slane, you have displayed concussion like symptoms from your injuries. This will be, at minimum, your third one as part of WCF. The last one occurred less than three months ago. It would be for the best if you stayed somewhere that you could be monitored in case your condition worsened.”
“No.”
At this point there was another commotion in the hall.
“Stand back. World Champion coming through. I’m evoking executive privilege.”
Stuart turned to look curiously toward the source of the noise, “Jeff?”
It was indeed Jeff Purse. The young man, still in his ring gear and looking very much in need of medical attention himself, entered the clinic. Behind him came his wife and manager, Kari Kendall, who held the WCF Title belt. He, her, Circe, and Lisl exchanged bemused and awkward greetings.
“Stu,” Purse smiled at his protégé. The pair exchanged the classic jock handclasp, “You look good. The way people were talking I expected to see you at death’s door.”
“I’m fine,” Stuart’s eyes glanced over to the belt Kari cradled, “You did it. Congratulations.”
Jeff smiled broadly, “Yeah. It wasn’t easy, and that pud-knocker Seth couldn’t help but stick his nose into things, but I’m the champ. Looks like you and I got a date for Blast, man.”
Stuart, who had made it to the final round of the WCF Classic the previous week watched as Jeff accepted the belt from his wife and draped it over his shoulder, “Be prepared. I will be,” he vowed in a genial tone.
“I know you will,” Purse looked past Stuart to the doctor, who was clearly frustrated with the continued interruptions, “Right, Doc?”
“Actually, Mister Purse, we were discussing keeping Mister Slane overnight at Reading Hospital for observation,” the physician explained.
“You said he should be monitored in case his condition worsened,” Lisl attempted to inveigle a way for Stu to get out of his impending hospital trip, “What if he was released into the custody of someone who watch him?”
The doctor was reluctant to agree with the suggestion, but he did so, “Yes, I suppose that would be acceptable, if Mister Slane was willing to sign a waiver releasing WCF from any liability.
“That’s fine,” Stuart said as he eased his big frame back onto the first aid station’s cot.
“Then it’s settled; you can come home with us,” Jeff said.
Stuart studied the younger man closely, and then shook his head, “No, thank you, Jeff. I appreciate the offer, but you shouldn’t have to be looking after me on this night. You just won the biggest prize in our sport. Enjoy the moment.”
“The celebration can wait, Stu. Besides, who do I got to celebrate with besides Kare and Patrick? Polar’s gone. Steve’s recovering from the same kind of beatdown you got.”
“Your millions of fans?” Slane offered.
“Stuart’s right,” Circe interjected, moving to hover protectively by him, “The Purses are clearly unsuitable monitors given the circumstances. Why, Jeffrey looks ready to keel over himself. I will volunteer to be his caregiver for the evening.”
“You? No. You’re completely nuts. You’re the reason Stu’s in this situation in the first place, ‘Sow Reaper’,” Jeff countered gravely.
“Who?” Circe affected ignorance when her nom de guerre was brought up.
Purse scoffed, “See? Cuckoo. No way can you be trusted.”
“Stuart has trusted me with information he deemed you unworthy of knowing,” the President of PETS shot back furiously.
“It is not that I consider them unworthy,” Stuart lectured the woman who was one of the few aware of the existence of Camp Slane in Mexico, “I just do not want them burdened with the knowledge. They have enough in their lives to worry about.”
“Stu, what’s going on? You aren’t building more bomb shelters, are you?” Jeff asked, thinking back to their earlier conversation where Slane admitted to embezzling funds from the Boy Scouts to prepare for doomsday.
“That’s apparently none of your business, Mister Purse,” Circe sneered gleefully.
“Look, lady, my husband has been very patient with you, but I swear if you don’t cut the crap I’m going to yank out your hair by the roots,” Kari said in defense of her man.
“This is why I wanted everyone to stay outside,” the doctor complained aloud to no one in particular.
“I’ll take Stuart,” Lisl finally said, “I need to stay up anyway,” The few hours after Slam was when WCF’s social media presence was highest, and when the company’s message needed the most coordination.
Slane considered the offer. In truth, the big man was still uncomfortable around his former flame, for reasons she was wholly unaware of and he was too embarrassed to talk about. For all the grief she brought, Stuart found himself at ease around Circe. However, there was no denying Lisl was far more competent than the swine obsessed Miss Cicero, and then there was the possibility Jeff had put forward when they had gone over the list of suspects that could be behind the conspiracy to paint him as the one responsible for the very group that harried him months ago, the Hue World Order; that Circe Cicero was as good a candidate as anyone. After mulling the two options available Stuart made his decision.
“I will take advantage of Miss Anne’s largesse,” he said in a tone that made it clear the discussion was over.
“I’m sure it won’t be the first time,” Circe muttered to herself as she stalked off.
Lisl cocked an eyebrow at the comment, before telling those that remained, “Let me go make arrangements with the Tower.”
“The Tower?” Stuart asked.
“Yes. We’ll be at my office in the WCF Tower. I told you I’m going to be working,” she explained before producing her phone and going off to make some pertinent texts to her employees.
The information buoyed Slane’s spirits, as it opened a possibility to him he thought would be much harder to achieve: the chance to gather evidence on two of the other individuals that could be behind his recent public relations misadventure, “Splendid.”
Once Lisl was out of earshot, Jeff leaned over and gave Stuart a light punch in the arm, “Dude, two women arguing over the right to take you home. I’m impressed.”
“I assure you it’s nothing like that, in either case,” Slane attempted to correct any misconceptions the new World Champion had.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jeff continued to grin widely, “You dog.”
“This conversation is making me uncomfortable,” Stuart confessed, his eyes looking to Kari for support. She obliged by giving her husband’s bicep a rap with her knuckles.
“Stop being an ass, Jeff! Not every man spends his single years constantly on the make.”
Purse gave his wife a hurtful look that quickly turned playful. He took the World Championship Title from his shoulder and stroked the plate that now bore his name, “How lucky are you for getting to come home with me?” he asked the belt before planting a smooch on it.
Reading, Pennsylvania
The Santander Arena First Aid Station
During WCF’s Slam Broadcast
There are worse ways to wake up from intracranial injury than a large pair of breasts inches from your face, Stuart Slane decided.
Not exposed breasts, mind you. This isn’t that kind of promo. These pillowy, pendulous pectoral protrusions were concealed under a lilac colored blouse with a sweetheart neckline and a slate grey single button blazer. Despite the obfuscation Stuart recognized them within moments.
“Lisl?” he asked, curious as to why she was here, or where ‘here’ even was.
Lisl Anne, Vice President of Digital Media Content for the Wrestling Championship Federation (and Resurfacing Stuart Slane Supporting Character Number Ten) smiled down at the bed-ridden wrestler, “How are you feeling, Stuart?”
“Head hurts,” he replied as he attempted to prop himself up by his elbows. A restraining hand from Lisl kept him in place.
“Easy, Stuart. You got cracked on the head pretty bad. The doctors had to stitch you up.”
Slane began to protest; Chambers’s belt shot hadn’t busted him open, then he remembered, “I was ambushed backstage.”
“Yes. Then hung upside down from a hook with an apple stuffed in your mouth,” she filled in the blanks for the big man as a doctor approached the pair.
“Brent Alpine,” Slane said the name of his presumed attacker.
“That seems likely, though no one witnessed what happened, and as of right now no one is claiming responsibility,” the former adult entertainer smiled kindly, “Did you see who cold cocked you?”
Stuart shook his head, an action that would lead him to wince. The doctor started in with his diagnosis.
“Mister Slane, it is highly likely you are suffering from a concussion. We’re going to need to go through the protocol. Do you feel up to it?”
“I’m fine,” he muttered, feeling the back of his scalp to count the number of staples there.
“This is mandatory, sir. I’m sorry,” the doctor looked over at Lisl, clearly in hopes for some support from the WCF executive.
“He’s right, Stuart. You need to go through the test. It’s the rule, and I know how you feel about those,” she told him.
Reluctantly, Slane agreed. He allowed himself to have his eyes checked and answered the doctor’s questions about his condition, and was halfway through the Balance Error Scoring System checklist when they were interrupted for the first time.
“Let me in. I am Stuart Slane’s licensed valet! I have every right to see him!” the high-pitched shrieks of Circe Cicero almost caused Stu to stumble as he attempted to stand on his right leg with his arms perpendicular to his torso. The intern glared towards the far end of the makeshift clinic.
“Someone shut her up,” he glowered.
Stuart knew the folly of that directive, and intervened, “No, no. Let her in. We’ll get no peace otherwise.”
“Miss Cicero is your valet?” Lisl asked, smiling slightly.
“She’s more of a sponsor,” Slane evaded. One he felt warranted observation, given the events of the evening.
Soon Circe was alongside the trio. She was dressed casually: a dappled off the shoulder romper with bell sleeves, “How’s your head?” she asked Stuart bluntly.
“The doctor is checking for a concussion now,” Lisl answered for him, an act that resulted in a stink-eye from the younger woman.
“You know who’s behind this,” Circe stated the seemingly obvious after turning her attention back to Slane, who was now walking the length of the station heel to toe, “You know who used this hateful susophobic imagery to make his point: that monster Percy Macro. He did it earlier in the night to Steve Orbit, and then you. I told you he must be stopped at all costs.”
“I will certainly be addressing the matter when I can,” was Stu’s response.
“Which won’t be anytime soon,” the doctor adjudged, “I liked to transfer you to Reading Hospital for observation, Mister Slane.”
“No.”
“Mister Slane, you have displayed concussion like symptoms from your injuries. This will be, at minimum, your third one as part of WCF. The last one occurred less than three months ago. It would be for the best if you stayed somewhere that you could be monitored in case your condition worsened.”
“No.”
At this point there was another commotion in the hall.
“Stand back. World Champion coming through. I’m evoking executive privilege.”
Stuart turned to look curiously toward the source of the noise, “Jeff?”
It was indeed Jeff Purse. The young man, still in his ring gear and looking very much in need of medical attention himself, entered the clinic. Behind him came his wife and manager, Kari Kendall, who held the WCF Title belt. He, her, Circe, and Lisl exchanged bemused and awkward greetings.
“Stu,” Purse smiled at his protégé. The pair exchanged the classic jock handclasp, “You look good. The way people were talking I expected to see you at death’s door.”
“I’m fine,” Stuart’s eyes glanced over to the belt Kari cradled, “You did it. Congratulations.”
Jeff smiled broadly, “Yeah. It wasn’t easy, and that pud-knocker Seth couldn’t help but stick his nose into things, but I’m the champ. Looks like you and I got a date for Blast, man.”
Stuart, who had made it to the final round of the WCF Classic the previous week watched as Jeff accepted the belt from his wife and draped it over his shoulder, “Be prepared. I will be,” he vowed in a genial tone.
“I know you will,” Purse looked past Stuart to the doctor, who was clearly frustrated with the continued interruptions, “Right, Doc?”
“Actually, Mister Purse, we were discussing keeping Mister Slane overnight at Reading Hospital for observation,” the physician explained.
“You said he should be monitored in case his condition worsened,” Lisl attempted to inveigle a way for Stu to get out of his impending hospital trip, “What if he was released into the custody of someone who watch him?”
The doctor was reluctant to agree with the suggestion, but he did so, “Yes, I suppose that would be acceptable, if Mister Slane was willing to sign a waiver releasing WCF from any liability.
“That’s fine,” Stuart said as he eased his big frame back onto the first aid station’s cot.
“Then it’s settled; you can come home with us,” Jeff said.
Stuart studied the younger man closely, and then shook his head, “No, thank you, Jeff. I appreciate the offer, but you shouldn’t have to be looking after me on this night. You just won the biggest prize in our sport. Enjoy the moment.”
“The celebration can wait, Stu. Besides, who do I got to celebrate with besides Kare and Patrick? Polar’s gone. Steve’s recovering from the same kind of beatdown you got.”
“Your millions of fans?” Slane offered.
“Stuart’s right,” Circe interjected, moving to hover protectively by him, “The Purses are clearly unsuitable monitors given the circumstances. Why, Jeffrey looks ready to keel over himself. I will volunteer to be his caregiver for the evening.”
“You? No. You’re completely nuts. You’re the reason Stu’s in this situation in the first place, ‘Sow Reaper’,” Jeff countered gravely.
“Who?” Circe affected ignorance when her nom de guerre was brought up.
Purse scoffed, “See? Cuckoo. No way can you be trusted.”
“Stuart has trusted me with information he deemed you unworthy of knowing,” the President of PETS shot back furiously.
“It is not that I consider them unworthy,” Stuart lectured the woman who was one of the few aware of the existence of Camp Slane in Mexico, “I just do not want them burdened with the knowledge. They have enough in their lives to worry about.”
“Stu, what’s going on? You aren’t building more bomb shelters, are you?” Jeff asked, thinking back to their earlier conversation where Slane admitted to embezzling funds from the Boy Scouts to prepare for doomsday.
“That’s apparently none of your business, Mister Purse,” Circe sneered gleefully.
“Look, lady, my husband has been very patient with you, but I swear if you don’t cut the crap I’m going to yank out your hair by the roots,” Kari said in defense of her man.
“This is why I wanted everyone to stay outside,” the doctor complained aloud to no one in particular.
“I’ll take Stuart,” Lisl finally said, “I need to stay up anyway,” The few hours after Slam was when WCF’s social media presence was highest, and when the company’s message needed the most coordination.
Slane considered the offer. In truth, the big man was still uncomfortable around his former flame, for reasons she was wholly unaware of and he was too embarrassed to talk about. For all the grief she brought, Stuart found himself at ease around Circe. However, there was no denying Lisl was far more competent than the swine obsessed Miss Cicero, and then there was the possibility Jeff had put forward when they had gone over the list of suspects that could be behind the conspiracy to paint him as the one responsible for the very group that harried him months ago, the Hue World Order; that Circe Cicero was as good a candidate as anyone. After mulling the two options available Stuart made his decision.
“I will take advantage of Miss Anne’s largesse,” he said in a tone that made it clear the discussion was over.
“I’m sure it won’t be the first time,” Circe muttered to herself as she stalked off.
Lisl cocked an eyebrow at the comment, before telling those that remained, “Let me go make arrangements with the Tower.”
“The Tower?” Stuart asked.
“Yes. We’ll be at my office in the WCF Tower. I told you I’m going to be working,” she explained before producing her phone and going off to make some pertinent texts to her employees.
The information buoyed Slane’s spirits, as it opened a possibility to him he thought would be much harder to achieve: the chance to gather evidence on two of the other individuals that could be behind his recent public relations misadventure, “Splendid.”
Once Lisl was out of earshot, Jeff leaned over and gave Stuart a light punch in the arm, “Dude, two women arguing over the right to take you home. I’m impressed.”
“I assure you it’s nothing like that, in either case,” Slane attempted to correct any misconceptions the new World Champion had.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jeff continued to grin widely, “You dog.”
“This conversation is making me uncomfortable,” Stuart confessed, his eyes looking to Kari for support. She obliged by giving her husband’s bicep a rap with her knuckles.
“Stop being an ass, Jeff! Not every man spends his single years constantly on the make.”
Purse gave his wife a hurtful look that quickly turned playful. He took the World Championship Title from his shoulder and stroked the plate that now bore his name, “How lucky are you for getting to come home with me?” he asked the belt before planting a smooch on it.
