Post by Allen Guiliano on Dec 14, 2009 17:14:14 GMT -5
The scene opens with a wide shot of the grand front entrance at the Guiliano Hotel and Casino. The throngs of people file out of the doors and await their vehicles as the valets rush to match tags on key rings with the tags that wait inside the crowds means of transportation. Familiar faces from the WCF pepper the sidewalk outside the establishment and beautiful women in so called “cocktail dresses” stand arm in arm with some of the federation’s elite. Zach Davis and Shannan Lerch share praises and handshakes as more and more superstars continue to exit the building, Shannan eventually being whisked away into an awaiting limousine by none other than her suitor Jay Price. The people continue to pour out of the glass double doors and erupt into a resounding applause as the newly inducted members of the WCF Hall of Fame make their way outside onto the awaiting Las Vegas strip. Each is greeted with warm smiles and pats on the back as they are led to their respective vehicles by Guiliano Hotel and Casino personnel.
The moments continue to pass and the crowd outside the casino begins to dwindle as the night draws to a close, but one face has continued to remain hidden from the public eye at such a prestigious event. The press and media continue to aim their cameras toward the building, awaiting the exit of the #1 Contender to the World Title and the owner of the very place where the event was held. Somehow, the young entrepreneur has been able to remain hidden from view since accepting the award and delivering his final comments for “Match of the Year”. Perhaps the star-studded lineup at the event allowed the World Championship Federation headliner to remain out of view for an extended period of time without panic, but it is now clearly evident that the masses of press figures waiting outside are growing impatient at the absence of the Italian.
The buzz amongst the reporters and cameramen alike begins to grow louder with each passing moment as the conversation begins to grow with and speculation starts to be created. The tile entrance way outside the Guiliano is now empty as only security guards, concierges, and valet parking attendants stand at attention in front of the door that is adorned with a script “G” in the penmanship of its proprietor. The shutters of cameras remain silent as media members begin to move to different parts of the street in order to search the never ending grid of windows for a sign of the elusive Allen Guiliano.
Time continues to pass as members of the media continue to wait as if their yearning for a shot of Guiliano before One dictates the future of the careers. After nearly 45 minutes has elapsed since the closing the Hall of Fame ceremony, cameramen begin to break down their equipment and load it into the trucks that bear the logo of their station or news outlet. Reports flip the cover of their steno pads over the rest of the pages and slip their writing utensils behind their ear as they head to their cars and wrestling bloggers that are waiting inside the lobby breathe heavy sighs as they finally close the lid on their laptops. The mood inside and out of the casino began to dwindle and began to resemble that of the joy in Mudville after Might Casey’s final at bat as the horde of media began to disassemble into the Vegas evening. One by one broadcast trucks and news vans began to leave the premises of the Guiliano until there was none left and the usual patrons of the city were the only pedestrians left visible. Once the taillights of the final van disappeared in the distance, a chirp and then a voice came over the radio of one of the valets.
Radio – Where is he?
Valet – Where is who?
Radio – Don’t be an idiot. Where is Mr. Guiliano? Surely you spotted him when he exited the building. Now which direction did he go?
Valet – Umm…he never came outside. I figured the two of you were with him inside and he was waiting for all the paparazzi to leave before going about his business.
Radio – God dammit! Not again!
The valet shrugs as he hangs the radio back on his belt loop and continues to stand at attention at the podium that rests in front of him, flashing smiles at the passing patrons as they walk by, offering his services. The camera quickly fades and reopens inside the building where our two valet managers from the earlier search party, Stan and Mitch, can be found. The latter stands with a look of astonishment on his face as he jaw hits the floor at the realization of what has just happened. As he continues to wear the stunned look, Stan cocks his head to the side and makes his way over to his coworker and quickly taps him on the shoulder, attempting to snap him back to the situation at hand.
Stan – Mitch….Hey Mitch….MITCH!
Mitch – What?
Stan – Well, what did you find out buddy? The valets know which direction he bolted in?
Mitch – They said he never came out…
Stan – What do you mean he never came out? We watched him get up out of his seat, climb the stairs, walk across the stage, accept this award, give the speech, walk over to the other side of the stage, back down the opposite stairs, and back to his seat. Then, once everyone started to leave, we watched him walk out the door of the ballroom and out the front entrance.
Mitch – You are missing ONE very important detail there Stanley. We watched him exit the ballroom, but did we actually see him walk outside the doors?
Stan – Well…no…but where else could he have possibly gone? He was in line with the entire group of people, walking beside Madd Dogg, talking about their days in the XGWO and I assumed he just kept walking outside. I mean, there were stanchions up and everything. Surely someone didn’t just let him waltz under the barriers without radioing us and saying “Hey, the boss is one the move!”
Mitch – Stranger things have happened. The man has disappeared before and told us not to worry about him, but I figured all of that was over after he showed back up for this here shindig and got everything in order again with Constantin.
Stan – I refuse to believe it. There are too many eyes and ears on this property watching that man, especially after last week, for him to just vanish into thin air again. And that doesn’t take into account the extra security that we called in just for this event and the extra precautions that were taken to keep him visible at all times.
Mitch – Stan, the guy is an ex Mafioso. If there is anyone in this place that can dodge surveillance it’s him. Besides, every guy in here is working for HIM, and they take orders from HIM, and they will do whatever HE says. Just because we have orders to watch him and make sure he doesn’t make another exodus, doesn’t mean that everyone else is on the same page. Hell, for all we know, he slipped one of the security guards 200 bucks and made his way back up to his offer, got his coat, and slipped out the back entrance to an awaiting vehicle.
Stan – You don’t think he…
Mitch – That would be too…
Stan – Too easy? And make sense? And be readily available to him?
Mitch – Mmhmm….
Stan – Well…shit.
Just at the two realized what has happened, a pit boss makes his way into view and asks Stan if he has seen Mr. Guiliano. Both managers give a deep sigh before starting to explain the situation.
Stan – I hope you have some time because this is going to take awhile to explain. You see, it all started last week when…
Stan’s voice becomes every so slowly inaudible as the audio on the camera starts to fade out, as the pit boss begins to shake his head and raise a brow as he intently listens to the explanation that the two men begin to offer. The story that they will weave will undoubtedly be a stretch from the truth and facts will be skewed to make them seem like members of the innocent party, but nonetheless, the most important man in Vegas, to the WCF, and to One has gone missing once again on their watch. The scene slowly starts to fade to black with the three men standing there, perplexed by the situation at hand.
The scene reopens in the parking lot of the same venue in which the scene closed from only days before the final Slam event of 2009. The same “Office” sign with its faded black lettering and worn wooden plank. Inside the small building a middle aged man sits behind a counter, fixated on a small television that sits on a desk in front of him. The picture is fuzzy and the rabbit ears that extend out of the back of the small screen have been replaced with straightened coat hangers. The camera quickly pans through the office before leaving a small door in the side of the man’s post and back outside to a row of red doors that are bear small gold numbers. Although there are only 25-30 rooms in the entire joint, the door nearest to the so called office starts at 100. The lens slowly pans over each door as the number continue to increase in sequence: 101, 102, 103… and so on before reaching 110.
Just as the camera gets ready to reveal the room inside, the crimson door is slung open and nearly torn from its hinges as a young, scantly clad woman reveals herself and flashes a smile. She is young, but clearly not beautiful as her skin has clearly been affected by the piercing of numerous hypodermic needles and countless amounts of foreign substances that has passed through her veins. Her eyes are bloodshot and the room smells of cheap liquor, stale cigarettes, and is, of course, filled with the scent of sex. The camera almost haphazardly scans the room, looking for signs of Guiliano. The young women saunters over to the bed and slowly sits down, running a hand down her body and teasingly between her legs before leaning back and exposing her slender, yet clearly unfit frame. As she does, the camera catches a glimpse of a small round table next to the inoperable air conditioner that is fixed under a small window. On it sits an opened pack of cigarettes, containing three, maybe four more slender tobacco rolls, a roll of $20 bills in a rubber band, a few condoms strewn about, and handful of coins whose total is irrelevant. As the attention is turned back towards the now nearly naked female, the door to the bathroom opens and a rough looking man steps out with only a towel wrapped around his waist. His long black hair hangs down over his eyes before he snaps his head back and it now flows down over his neck and nearly reaches his shoulders. He gives an awkward look into the lens before pointing in the direction of the camera and speaking to the less than pure female now sprawled across the sheets.
Man – Who’s this?
Woman – I thought this was your friend that you said was coming over to join us. Kind of kinky that he brought a camera to film us don’t you think?
The female now flashes a seductive smirk toward the obviously uninvited guest and begins to slip a strap of her bra down her shoulder before she is interrupted.
Man – I have no idea who this son of a bitch is or why you would let him come into our room with a camera, but he needs to leave right now if he wants to continue breathing…
The bulky man begins to charge at the camera as it quickly retreats back through the door and it is violently slammed shut as the number 110 becomes visible once again. Cautiously, the camera pans over to the next door, 111, which is slightly cracked open and illuminated faintly by a single bulb that resides in a lamp next to the bedpost and the light of the television screen that splashes color across the room as it changes from scene to scene. The door opens slowly as the camera makes its way inside and pans around, revealing a much cleaner and healthier environment than the previous one. The door slowly opens further, revealing a table much like the one in the other room; only this one has a suit jacket and red tie draped over it along with a belt that hangs over the back of the chair that is pushed under the edge of the table.
Inside the room is none other than the man that the entire Sin City is looking for, the owner the Guiliano, the #1 Contender to the WCF’s World crown, and the job security that Mitch and Stan need to further their careers in Vegas, Mr. Allen Guiliano, the Ace of Hardcore, better known in the wrestling world as Slickie T. The Sicilian is lying comfortable on the bed, the white linen sheets draped over his legs, resting just above his naval as he sits shirtless, his toned abs supporting a bag of microwave popcorn and a class of clear liquid. The environment seems strange for such a lavish living and wealthy man, but to the surprise of the camera, there Guiliano lies, in the flesh, in a cheap motel room, watching Sportscenter reruns on a snowy TV screen less than a week before the most important match of his entire career. Guiliano’s feet hang over the edge of the bed as the motel mattress is unable to contain his six foot, two inch frame and the pillow that his propped up behind his back doesn’t resemble much more than a balled up shirt in a burlap sack.
As Guiliano reaches his hand back into the open popcorn back and pulls out a handful of the buttery morsels, he glances over at the open door and flashes a million dollar smile as if the living quarters that he currently resides in is a luxury that he has never experienced. Noticing the camera, he quickly picks up the glass from his thigh and takes a long drink, letting out an “ahhhh” of refreshment as he sets it down on the end table beside him next to a bottle of Bombay gin. He then turns to his right, away from the camera, and swiftly plucks a CoolWear Inc. shirt from the shag carpet and pulls it over his head before turning down the volume on the television with the remote that rests at his left side and begins to speak.
Well look who found me before anyone else, my good friends over at the World Championship Federation. Dozens, if not a hundred Guiliano Hotel and Casino employees are running around the city of Las Vegas like chickens with their heads cut off trying to find me and a lowly cameraman is the one that stumbles across me first. Sure, I will go back and let everyone know I’m alright in the coming days, but nothing beats an anonymous day of relaxation. You think that guy at the counter knew who I was? He didn’t know, didn’t care, and didn’t care to know. As long as I had the cash to pay him for a few nights stay, he was content watching free HBO on his eight inch screen and playing solitare on a computer.
It feels good to get out here away from it all and really experience some peace and quiet. Sure, the neighbors behind me get a little feisty every now and then, but what do you expect at a place called Motel Joe? The bustling city of Vegas is no place for a man like me at this current juncture. I have a World Title match coming up and the last thing I need is to be worrying about is what amount of money is in the cages, who should be comped, and when the new nightclub will be opening. Don’t see it as me taking time off; see it as me taking a page out of Torture’s book. The man has had everything taken from him, is at the lowest possible be he could be in terms of confidence, and is losing the very stable that he has tried to build for the last six months in order to preserve the strap that resides around his waist.
Sure, that little speech he gave at Slam was quite moving and it made me think about what I am REALLY getting into when I finally walk down that ramp and step into the ring at One, but it also got me thinking about where I will be should I emerge victorious. I would have a one on one win, no stipulations, no gimmicks, no special referees, no disqualifications, just a mano y mano victory against possibly the greatest wrestler to ever lace up the boots in the WCF. Am I scared? No. Am I confident? Of course. But I am also realistic. No matter who emerges from one with their hand raised in the air at the end of the night, it will be the greatest match that the wrestling world has or ever will see. Two superpowers are going head to head for one night and one night only on the WCF’s biggest stage at the Los Angeles Coliseum and the ultimate prize is on the line. This will not be about skill, talent, luck, heart, or any of those other clichés that people like to use to describe this type of encounter. This will be simply be about survival. We have both had matches that have defined our careers in the past and have both held World Championships in respective federations, hell I’m sure that both of us have even been broken in half, nearly bled to death, and been taken to the hospital trying to win or defend a title in the past. It’s the line of work that we have chosen and the kind of career that we chose. It is what the fans come to see and it what the world is yearning to experience. Yes, I said experience, because when Torture and Slickie T finally meet up on December 20, it won’t be about witnesses the melee, it won’t be about simply seeing the combat, it will be about EXPERIENCING the entire match, the emotional swings, about feeling the glory of victory and agony of defeat. And at the end of the night, when the dust has finally settled, each person who will have experienced it, will rise to their feet and give an applause that has never been heard before. This isn’t just another match for the WCF World Title. This is One! This is what it is all about! This is what every single wrestler on the roster wishes he or she could be a part of! It isn’t about the undercard matches and all the titles that have a possibility of changing hands. This is about the main event. A main event that simply reads “Slickie T vs. Torture” and nothing more. Why would it say anything more? That’s all you need to know is three simple words. Slickie T. Versus. Torture.
A confident smirk forms over the lips of the outstretched Guiliano. The smirk soon turns into a full fledged smile and then into a laugh. It is a laugh not of joy, not of good fortune, but that of a man that has almost gone insane with anxiety, stress, and knowing a future occurrence. The Italian closes his eyes for an instant and takes a deep breath before swallowing another mouthful of gin and continuing his piece.
There are cronies out there looking for me once again, wondering how I possibly escaped them for a second time, but the answer is quite easy. I own the damn place. I know every inch, every nook and cranny, every entrance, and every exit, every slot match, every table game, every roulette wheel, every damn inch of my building. How they simply lost sight of me is their own problem and how they will locate me is another. Actually, they don’t even have to find me, they just have to sit back and wait for me to return. It’s that easy. Do they really think that I would simply disappear the week before One? Surely not. Just up and vanish after an event in which I was honored with a WCF yearly award? No no. I will be back. I just needed to get away from them and experience the kind of peace and quiet that Torture has gotten to experience over the last few months while I have been running the gauntlet against all that Seth has to offer. To tell you the truth…it feels good. It feels damn good.
Of all that things that Seth threw at me in months past, perhaps none of them caught me by surprise as much as the hosting of the 2009 WCF Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony at my very own establishment. It was quite thoughtful of him, but then again I knew something was up when it was brought to my attention. Now, I realize that I was not supposed to be the center of attention for the those festivities, but I did figure I would be able to bask in a little glory in my own city, in my own building, and surrounded by my own people, but that was simply not the case. I watched as 12 Hall of Famers gave their piece and then experienced the presentation of the awards and before I knew what had happened, I sat there with a stunned look on my face and realized that I was the recipient of zero awards. Sure, I got to accept an award, but that award wasn’t for me, that award was for a match as I whole and I just happened to be the one that came out on top. I accepted an award on behalf of many others, simply because it would have been ridiculous for all of them to come up and state their thoughts. When it was all said and done, when the night was over, when the doors had finally closed on the ceremony, I was left on the outside looking in. Perhaps it was the greatest of Seth’s ploys to through me off my game. Host a ceremony at my place of business and then have me simply watch and smile as others claimed award and prestige that I was nominated for. I watched as names such as Torture, Jay Price, and Logan were called and then raised an award that two of the three that I just mentioned could have easily accepted on behalf of the War match. Maybe it was an unintentional tactic by Mr. Lerch, but it sure got my attention. Maybe it was meant to demoralize me before the One or maybe it was meant to try and make me think that even though I am the man facing Torture for the World Title that I am not he one who deserves to be the #1 Contender, or perhaps it was to make me realize that I am simply thought of as second best by the rest of my peers in the WCF and that winning War and defeating Logan, Jack of Blades, Dake Ken, Mikami, Johnny Reb, Hector Rodriguez and a host of others simply isn’t enough and that there is perhaps a name that is missing from that list.
This entire time Seth and the Team of Torture were trying to wear me down physically in order to give the advantage, but I was the one that was winning the mental game and that was the one that seemed most important. However, after tonight, perhaps my mental state has taken a hit, but I also came to realize that no matter how unintentional this latest tactic by Seth may seem to be, it is the one that is going to take me to an entirely new level and allow me to take that title that you have owned for so long. This latest series of events and seeing the final voting tallies has made me realize that the respect that I thought that I had earned in the past is simply nonexistent. You see Tort, when I first came into this fed, no one knew my name and no one cared to know my name. It was only after I picked up a few convincing victories did I start to get some attention and my will to earn respect was the single thing that allowed me to literally tear through the ranks of the WCF upon my arrival. Once I finally got to the top by defeating Dake Ken and then winning War, I took that respect for granted and was simply trying to save myself for the ultimate showdown between you and I. Now I have something much more valuable to gain other than your World Championship belt, I have to re-earn the respect of my fellow competitors. To prove to them once and for all that I deserve my shot at the World Title, that I am worthy of being THE best wrestler in the WCF, and that I will become the best wrestling to ever step between the ropes of a World Championship Federation ring. Torture, you have the honor of being called “the best ever” here in the WCF and before tonight I was content with simply having my name beside yours, but now I am focused on surpassing you and not only gaining the respect of the rest of the roster, but gaining respect from the one and only Torture. A victory at One may not be enough to garner that kind of respect from a competitor such as yourself, but it would be a giant step in the right direction and once I raise that World Title over my head for the first time at One, never again will it be in your rightful possession. You have simply OWNED that belt and it has had your named etched on its faceplate for so long that I’m sure you think it is permanent, but after One, when you “Allen Guiliano” carved in that piece of precious metal, it will all become very clear. I have been slowly apart your empire here in the WCF piece my piece and at One, I will remove that final brick and the great and mighty Torture will fall. And you will fall with such force and such violence that I’m not sure you will be able to get back to your feet once again. With that said, Torture, I hate who you are, I hate what you are about, and I loathe that you have been the center of attention for this federation for so long, but God dammit do I respect you. After One, I’m sure the feeling will be mutual. Forza mi familia, forza mi, and forza Italia…mi amore!
After completing his statement, Guiliano simply raises a hand and points toward the wide open door. The glow of the moon shows the camera the way out of the room and it humble accepts the wishes of the Italian as the door is pulled shut. It is apparent that although the furnishings inside the room are drab and bear, the fire inside the man that occupies it is now overflowing. His words resounded with such a tone that any doubt that may have existed about his journey outside of the city has now been dispelled and although some may question the tactics, the focus, energy, and determination will be questioned no longer. The scene slowly fades to black once more as the lens is directed at the concrete path that turns to bear ground before reaching the gravel parking lot of the motel.
Once more our duo of Stan and Mitch become visible as the black fades out and shows the two men walking side by side down a hallway out eventually outside a grey metal door to the back lot of the Guiliano. Mitch reaches into his pocket and tosses a set of keys over the top of a black SUV as both men open their doors and happen to close them at exactly the same time. They both glance at each other and shrug, reaching into their jacket pockets and pulling out a pair of black sunglasses, slipping them over their obviously worried eyes and letting them slide back behind their ears. Stan takes a deep breath and placing the key in the ignition, slowing turning it forward and resting both hands on the wheel as the engine turns over and panels glow as he flips on the headlights.
Stan – Well, here we go again. Let’s hope we have better luck this time than last time or at least I hope we don’t run into any sorority girls at a restaurant than know who we are. Oh and anything but burgers this time alright? Last week kind of left a bad taste in my mouth.
Mitch – Agreed, but let’s get going, we don’t have time to waste. The gas pedal is on your right…
Stan glares over at his counterpart as he shifts the vehicle into gear and makes his way down the through the streets of Las Vegas as both men scan the streets, keeping an eye out for the man that the WCF has just recently found. Stan maneuvers the vehicle around the city and down its main streets before proceeding to the same highway in which they started their preliminary search a week before.
Stan – Should I keep going in the same direction as we did before or should I try elsewhere? Not sure that waitress was telling us the truth.
Mitch – Do whatever you want man, you are the one driving. I’m just here as an extra set of eyes. Frankly I’m getting a little tired of this bullshit, but hey we have to do what we have to do. If you want my professional opinion, I saw go where she said. Even if it is the wrong way, its not like we have much of a lead.
Stan – Fair enough. I will keep going that way and take every day side road that we come across and see where it goes. Not like we are going to get lost and if we do, the GPS system is in the backseat.
The SUV continues to speed down the highway as Stan keeps it between the lines of the roadway and keeps his eye out for any hidden roads. Both men glance at each other and chuckle as they come across the diner where their unfortunate series of events took place last time and wave as they speed by. Mitch even rolls down his window and throws his middle finger up at the place as they pass. They share a chuckle and continue on, blasting the radio not knowing how far or how long they will be involved in his manhunt that could turn road trip.
The WCF camera appears once again as the driver reaches the end of the road that leads to Motel Joe, an off the beaten path kind of trail that is barely visible from the main highway. The driver stops his car at the end of the trail where it comes to a “T” with the main road. Just as he is about to pull back onto the freeway, a black SUV approaches with a man with his arm extended out the window is giving the bird in the direction of the loan building in the area, a small burger joint just off the right side of the road. The voice of the cameraman becomes audible just for a moment as the SUV passes and the WCF employee proceeds into his lane.
Cameraman – What in the hell does that idiot think he is doing? Honestly, what did that restaurant ever do to him? Some people…Ah shit…is this thing still on?!
The screen suddenly goes black.
The moments continue to pass and the crowd outside the casino begins to dwindle as the night draws to a close, but one face has continued to remain hidden from the public eye at such a prestigious event. The press and media continue to aim their cameras toward the building, awaiting the exit of the #1 Contender to the World Title and the owner of the very place where the event was held. Somehow, the young entrepreneur has been able to remain hidden from view since accepting the award and delivering his final comments for “Match of the Year”. Perhaps the star-studded lineup at the event allowed the World Championship Federation headliner to remain out of view for an extended period of time without panic, but it is now clearly evident that the masses of press figures waiting outside are growing impatient at the absence of the Italian.
The buzz amongst the reporters and cameramen alike begins to grow louder with each passing moment as the conversation begins to grow with and speculation starts to be created. The tile entrance way outside the Guiliano is now empty as only security guards, concierges, and valet parking attendants stand at attention in front of the door that is adorned with a script “G” in the penmanship of its proprietor. The shutters of cameras remain silent as media members begin to move to different parts of the street in order to search the never ending grid of windows for a sign of the elusive Allen Guiliano.
Time continues to pass as members of the media continue to wait as if their yearning for a shot of Guiliano before One dictates the future of the careers. After nearly 45 minutes has elapsed since the closing the Hall of Fame ceremony, cameramen begin to break down their equipment and load it into the trucks that bear the logo of their station or news outlet. Reports flip the cover of their steno pads over the rest of the pages and slip their writing utensils behind their ear as they head to their cars and wrestling bloggers that are waiting inside the lobby breathe heavy sighs as they finally close the lid on their laptops. The mood inside and out of the casino began to dwindle and began to resemble that of the joy in Mudville after Might Casey’s final at bat as the horde of media began to disassemble into the Vegas evening. One by one broadcast trucks and news vans began to leave the premises of the Guiliano until there was none left and the usual patrons of the city were the only pedestrians left visible. Once the taillights of the final van disappeared in the distance, a chirp and then a voice came over the radio of one of the valets.
Radio – Where is he?
Valet – Where is who?
Radio – Don’t be an idiot. Where is Mr. Guiliano? Surely you spotted him when he exited the building. Now which direction did he go?
Valet – Umm…he never came outside. I figured the two of you were with him inside and he was waiting for all the paparazzi to leave before going about his business.
Radio – God dammit! Not again!
The valet shrugs as he hangs the radio back on his belt loop and continues to stand at attention at the podium that rests in front of him, flashing smiles at the passing patrons as they walk by, offering his services. The camera quickly fades and reopens inside the building where our two valet managers from the earlier search party, Stan and Mitch, can be found. The latter stands with a look of astonishment on his face as he jaw hits the floor at the realization of what has just happened. As he continues to wear the stunned look, Stan cocks his head to the side and makes his way over to his coworker and quickly taps him on the shoulder, attempting to snap him back to the situation at hand.
Stan – Mitch….Hey Mitch….MITCH!
Mitch – What?
Stan – Well, what did you find out buddy? The valets know which direction he bolted in?
Mitch – They said he never came out…
Stan – What do you mean he never came out? We watched him get up out of his seat, climb the stairs, walk across the stage, accept this award, give the speech, walk over to the other side of the stage, back down the opposite stairs, and back to his seat. Then, once everyone started to leave, we watched him walk out the door of the ballroom and out the front entrance.
Mitch – You are missing ONE very important detail there Stanley. We watched him exit the ballroom, but did we actually see him walk outside the doors?
Stan – Well…no…but where else could he have possibly gone? He was in line with the entire group of people, walking beside Madd Dogg, talking about their days in the XGWO and I assumed he just kept walking outside. I mean, there were stanchions up and everything. Surely someone didn’t just let him waltz under the barriers without radioing us and saying “Hey, the boss is one the move!”
Mitch – Stranger things have happened. The man has disappeared before and told us not to worry about him, but I figured all of that was over after he showed back up for this here shindig and got everything in order again with Constantin.
Stan – I refuse to believe it. There are too many eyes and ears on this property watching that man, especially after last week, for him to just vanish into thin air again. And that doesn’t take into account the extra security that we called in just for this event and the extra precautions that were taken to keep him visible at all times.
Mitch – Stan, the guy is an ex Mafioso. If there is anyone in this place that can dodge surveillance it’s him. Besides, every guy in here is working for HIM, and they take orders from HIM, and they will do whatever HE says. Just because we have orders to watch him and make sure he doesn’t make another exodus, doesn’t mean that everyone else is on the same page. Hell, for all we know, he slipped one of the security guards 200 bucks and made his way back up to his offer, got his coat, and slipped out the back entrance to an awaiting vehicle.
Stan – You don’t think he…
Mitch – That would be too…
Stan – Too easy? And make sense? And be readily available to him?
Mitch – Mmhmm….
Stan – Well…shit.
Just at the two realized what has happened, a pit boss makes his way into view and asks Stan if he has seen Mr. Guiliano. Both managers give a deep sigh before starting to explain the situation.
Stan – I hope you have some time because this is going to take awhile to explain. You see, it all started last week when…
Stan’s voice becomes every so slowly inaudible as the audio on the camera starts to fade out, as the pit boss begins to shake his head and raise a brow as he intently listens to the explanation that the two men begin to offer. The story that they will weave will undoubtedly be a stretch from the truth and facts will be skewed to make them seem like members of the innocent party, but nonetheless, the most important man in Vegas, to the WCF, and to One has gone missing once again on their watch. The scene slowly starts to fade to black with the three men standing there, perplexed by the situation at hand.
***Motel Joe***
[/b][/i][/center]The scene reopens in the parking lot of the same venue in which the scene closed from only days before the final Slam event of 2009. The same “Office” sign with its faded black lettering and worn wooden plank. Inside the small building a middle aged man sits behind a counter, fixated on a small television that sits on a desk in front of him. The picture is fuzzy and the rabbit ears that extend out of the back of the small screen have been replaced with straightened coat hangers. The camera quickly pans through the office before leaving a small door in the side of the man’s post and back outside to a row of red doors that are bear small gold numbers. Although there are only 25-30 rooms in the entire joint, the door nearest to the so called office starts at 100. The lens slowly pans over each door as the number continue to increase in sequence: 101, 102, 103… and so on before reaching 110.
Just as the camera gets ready to reveal the room inside, the crimson door is slung open and nearly torn from its hinges as a young, scantly clad woman reveals herself and flashes a smile. She is young, but clearly not beautiful as her skin has clearly been affected by the piercing of numerous hypodermic needles and countless amounts of foreign substances that has passed through her veins. Her eyes are bloodshot and the room smells of cheap liquor, stale cigarettes, and is, of course, filled with the scent of sex. The camera almost haphazardly scans the room, looking for signs of Guiliano. The young women saunters over to the bed and slowly sits down, running a hand down her body and teasingly between her legs before leaning back and exposing her slender, yet clearly unfit frame. As she does, the camera catches a glimpse of a small round table next to the inoperable air conditioner that is fixed under a small window. On it sits an opened pack of cigarettes, containing three, maybe four more slender tobacco rolls, a roll of $20 bills in a rubber band, a few condoms strewn about, and handful of coins whose total is irrelevant. As the attention is turned back towards the now nearly naked female, the door to the bathroom opens and a rough looking man steps out with only a towel wrapped around his waist. His long black hair hangs down over his eyes before he snaps his head back and it now flows down over his neck and nearly reaches his shoulders. He gives an awkward look into the lens before pointing in the direction of the camera and speaking to the less than pure female now sprawled across the sheets.
Man – Who’s this?
Woman – I thought this was your friend that you said was coming over to join us. Kind of kinky that he brought a camera to film us don’t you think?
The female now flashes a seductive smirk toward the obviously uninvited guest and begins to slip a strap of her bra down her shoulder before she is interrupted.
Man – I have no idea who this son of a bitch is or why you would let him come into our room with a camera, but he needs to leave right now if he wants to continue breathing…
The bulky man begins to charge at the camera as it quickly retreats back through the door and it is violently slammed shut as the number 110 becomes visible once again. Cautiously, the camera pans over to the next door, 111, which is slightly cracked open and illuminated faintly by a single bulb that resides in a lamp next to the bedpost and the light of the television screen that splashes color across the room as it changes from scene to scene. The door opens slowly as the camera makes its way inside and pans around, revealing a much cleaner and healthier environment than the previous one. The door slowly opens further, revealing a table much like the one in the other room; only this one has a suit jacket and red tie draped over it along with a belt that hangs over the back of the chair that is pushed under the edge of the table.
Inside the room is none other than the man that the entire Sin City is looking for, the owner the Guiliano, the #1 Contender to the WCF’s World crown, and the job security that Mitch and Stan need to further their careers in Vegas, Mr. Allen Guiliano, the Ace of Hardcore, better known in the wrestling world as Slickie T. The Sicilian is lying comfortable on the bed, the white linen sheets draped over his legs, resting just above his naval as he sits shirtless, his toned abs supporting a bag of microwave popcorn and a class of clear liquid. The environment seems strange for such a lavish living and wealthy man, but to the surprise of the camera, there Guiliano lies, in the flesh, in a cheap motel room, watching Sportscenter reruns on a snowy TV screen less than a week before the most important match of his entire career. Guiliano’s feet hang over the edge of the bed as the motel mattress is unable to contain his six foot, two inch frame and the pillow that his propped up behind his back doesn’t resemble much more than a balled up shirt in a burlap sack.
As Guiliano reaches his hand back into the open popcorn back and pulls out a handful of the buttery morsels, he glances over at the open door and flashes a million dollar smile as if the living quarters that he currently resides in is a luxury that he has never experienced. Noticing the camera, he quickly picks up the glass from his thigh and takes a long drink, letting out an “ahhhh” of refreshment as he sets it down on the end table beside him next to a bottle of Bombay gin. He then turns to his right, away from the camera, and swiftly plucks a CoolWear Inc. shirt from the shag carpet and pulls it over his head before turning down the volume on the television with the remote that rests at his left side and begins to speak.
Well look who found me before anyone else, my good friends over at the World Championship Federation. Dozens, if not a hundred Guiliano Hotel and Casino employees are running around the city of Las Vegas like chickens with their heads cut off trying to find me and a lowly cameraman is the one that stumbles across me first. Sure, I will go back and let everyone know I’m alright in the coming days, but nothing beats an anonymous day of relaxation. You think that guy at the counter knew who I was? He didn’t know, didn’t care, and didn’t care to know. As long as I had the cash to pay him for a few nights stay, he was content watching free HBO on his eight inch screen and playing solitare on a computer.
It feels good to get out here away from it all and really experience some peace and quiet. Sure, the neighbors behind me get a little feisty every now and then, but what do you expect at a place called Motel Joe? The bustling city of Vegas is no place for a man like me at this current juncture. I have a World Title match coming up and the last thing I need is to be worrying about is what amount of money is in the cages, who should be comped, and when the new nightclub will be opening. Don’t see it as me taking time off; see it as me taking a page out of Torture’s book. The man has had everything taken from him, is at the lowest possible be he could be in terms of confidence, and is losing the very stable that he has tried to build for the last six months in order to preserve the strap that resides around his waist.
Sure, that little speech he gave at Slam was quite moving and it made me think about what I am REALLY getting into when I finally walk down that ramp and step into the ring at One, but it also got me thinking about where I will be should I emerge victorious. I would have a one on one win, no stipulations, no gimmicks, no special referees, no disqualifications, just a mano y mano victory against possibly the greatest wrestler to ever lace up the boots in the WCF. Am I scared? No. Am I confident? Of course. But I am also realistic. No matter who emerges from one with their hand raised in the air at the end of the night, it will be the greatest match that the wrestling world has or ever will see. Two superpowers are going head to head for one night and one night only on the WCF’s biggest stage at the Los Angeles Coliseum and the ultimate prize is on the line. This will not be about skill, talent, luck, heart, or any of those other clichés that people like to use to describe this type of encounter. This will be simply be about survival. We have both had matches that have defined our careers in the past and have both held World Championships in respective federations, hell I’m sure that both of us have even been broken in half, nearly bled to death, and been taken to the hospital trying to win or defend a title in the past. It’s the line of work that we have chosen and the kind of career that we chose. It is what the fans come to see and it what the world is yearning to experience. Yes, I said experience, because when Torture and Slickie T finally meet up on December 20, it won’t be about witnesses the melee, it won’t be about simply seeing the combat, it will be about EXPERIENCING the entire match, the emotional swings, about feeling the glory of victory and agony of defeat. And at the end of the night, when the dust has finally settled, each person who will have experienced it, will rise to their feet and give an applause that has never been heard before. This isn’t just another match for the WCF World Title. This is One! This is what it is all about! This is what every single wrestler on the roster wishes he or she could be a part of! It isn’t about the undercard matches and all the titles that have a possibility of changing hands. This is about the main event. A main event that simply reads “Slickie T vs. Torture” and nothing more. Why would it say anything more? That’s all you need to know is three simple words. Slickie T. Versus. Torture.
A confident smirk forms over the lips of the outstretched Guiliano. The smirk soon turns into a full fledged smile and then into a laugh. It is a laugh not of joy, not of good fortune, but that of a man that has almost gone insane with anxiety, stress, and knowing a future occurrence. The Italian closes his eyes for an instant and takes a deep breath before swallowing another mouthful of gin and continuing his piece.
There are cronies out there looking for me once again, wondering how I possibly escaped them for a second time, but the answer is quite easy. I own the damn place. I know every inch, every nook and cranny, every entrance, and every exit, every slot match, every table game, every roulette wheel, every damn inch of my building. How they simply lost sight of me is their own problem and how they will locate me is another. Actually, they don’t even have to find me, they just have to sit back and wait for me to return. It’s that easy. Do they really think that I would simply disappear the week before One? Surely not. Just up and vanish after an event in which I was honored with a WCF yearly award? No no. I will be back. I just needed to get away from them and experience the kind of peace and quiet that Torture has gotten to experience over the last few months while I have been running the gauntlet against all that Seth has to offer. To tell you the truth…it feels good. It feels damn good.
Of all that things that Seth threw at me in months past, perhaps none of them caught me by surprise as much as the hosting of the 2009 WCF Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony at my very own establishment. It was quite thoughtful of him, but then again I knew something was up when it was brought to my attention. Now, I realize that I was not supposed to be the center of attention for the those festivities, but I did figure I would be able to bask in a little glory in my own city, in my own building, and surrounded by my own people, but that was simply not the case. I watched as 12 Hall of Famers gave their piece and then experienced the presentation of the awards and before I knew what had happened, I sat there with a stunned look on my face and realized that I was the recipient of zero awards. Sure, I got to accept an award, but that award wasn’t for me, that award was for a match as I whole and I just happened to be the one that came out on top. I accepted an award on behalf of many others, simply because it would have been ridiculous for all of them to come up and state their thoughts. When it was all said and done, when the night was over, when the doors had finally closed on the ceremony, I was left on the outside looking in. Perhaps it was the greatest of Seth’s ploys to through me off my game. Host a ceremony at my place of business and then have me simply watch and smile as others claimed award and prestige that I was nominated for. I watched as names such as Torture, Jay Price, and Logan were called and then raised an award that two of the three that I just mentioned could have easily accepted on behalf of the War match. Maybe it was an unintentional tactic by Mr. Lerch, but it sure got my attention. Maybe it was meant to demoralize me before the One or maybe it was meant to try and make me think that even though I am the man facing Torture for the World Title that I am not he one who deserves to be the #1 Contender, or perhaps it was to make me realize that I am simply thought of as second best by the rest of my peers in the WCF and that winning War and defeating Logan, Jack of Blades, Dake Ken, Mikami, Johnny Reb, Hector Rodriguez and a host of others simply isn’t enough and that there is perhaps a name that is missing from that list.
This entire time Seth and the Team of Torture were trying to wear me down physically in order to give the advantage, but I was the one that was winning the mental game and that was the one that seemed most important. However, after tonight, perhaps my mental state has taken a hit, but I also came to realize that no matter how unintentional this latest tactic by Seth may seem to be, it is the one that is going to take me to an entirely new level and allow me to take that title that you have owned for so long. This latest series of events and seeing the final voting tallies has made me realize that the respect that I thought that I had earned in the past is simply nonexistent. You see Tort, when I first came into this fed, no one knew my name and no one cared to know my name. It was only after I picked up a few convincing victories did I start to get some attention and my will to earn respect was the single thing that allowed me to literally tear through the ranks of the WCF upon my arrival. Once I finally got to the top by defeating Dake Ken and then winning War, I took that respect for granted and was simply trying to save myself for the ultimate showdown between you and I. Now I have something much more valuable to gain other than your World Championship belt, I have to re-earn the respect of my fellow competitors. To prove to them once and for all that I deserve my shot at the World Title, that I am worthy of being THE best wrestler in the WCF, and that I will become the best wrestling to ever step between the ropes of a World Championship Federation ring. Torture, you have the honor of being called “the best ever” here in the WCF and before tonight I was content with simply having my name beside yours, but now I am focused on surpassing you and not only gaining the respect of the rest of the roster, but gaining respect from the one and only Torture. A victory at One may not be enough to garner that kind of respect from a competitor such as yourself, but it would be a giant step in the right direction and once I raise that World Title over my head for the first time at One, never again will it be in your rightful possession. You have simply OWNED that belt and it has had your named etched on its faceplate for so long that I’m sure you think it is permanent, but after One, when you “Allen Guiliano” carved in that piece of precious metal, it will all become very clear. I have been slowly apart your empire here in the WCF piece my piece and at One, I will remove that final brick and the great and mighty Torture will fall. And you will fall with such force and such violence that I’m not sure you will be able to get back to your feet once again. With that said, Torture, I hate who you are, I hate what you are about, and I loathe that you have been the center of attention for this federation for so long, but God dammit do I respect you. After One, I’m sure the feeling will be mutual. Forza mi familia, forza mi, and forza Italia…mi amore!
After completing his statement, Guiliano simply raises a hand and points toward the wide open door. The glow of the moon shows the camera the way out of the room and it humble accepts the wishes of the Italian as the door is pulled shut. It is apparent that although the furnishings inside the room are drab and bear, the fire inside the man that occupies it is now overflowing. His words resounded with such a tone that any doubt that may have existed about his journey outside of the city has now been dispelled and although some may question the tactics, the focus, energy, and determination will be questioned no longer. The scene slowly fades to black once more as the lens is directed at the concrete path that turns to bear ground before reaching the gravel parking lot of the motel.
***Vegas Strip***
[/b][/i][/center]Once more our duo of Stan and Mitch become visible as the black fades out and shows the two men walking side by side down a hallway out eventually outside a grey metal door to the back lot of the Guiliano. Mitch reaches into his pocket and tosses a set of keys over the top of a black SUV as both men open their doors and happen to close them at exactly the same time. They both glance at each other and shrug, reaching into their jacket pockets and pulling out a pair of black sunglasses, slipping them over their obviously worried eyes and letting them slide back behind their ears. Stan takes a deep breath and placing the key in the ignition, slowing turning it forward and resting both hands on the wheel as the engine turns over and panels glow as he flips on the headlights.
Stan – Well, here we go again. Let’s hope we have better luck this time than last time or at least I hope we don’t run into any sorority girls at a restaurant than know who we are. Oh and anything but burgers this time alright? Last week kind of left a bad taste in my mouth.
Mitch – Agreed, but let’s get going, we don’t have time to waste. The gas pedal is on your right…
Stan glares over at his counterpart as he shifts the vehicle into gear and makes his way down the through the streets of Las Vegas as both men scan the streets, keeping an eye out for the man that the WCF has just recently found. Stan maneuvers the vehicle around the city and down its main streets before proceeding to the same highway in which they started their preliminary search a week before.
Stan – Should I keep going in the same direction as we did before or should I try elsewhere? Not sure that waitress was telling us the truth.
Mitch – Do whatever you want man, you are the one driving. I’m just here as an extra set of eyes. Frankly I’m getting a little tired of this bullshit, but hey we have to do what we have to do. If you want my professional opinion, I saw go where she said. Even if it is the wrong way, its not like we have much of a lead.
Stan – Fair enough. I will keep going that way and take every day side road that we come across and see where it goes. Not like we are going to get lost and if we do, the GPS system is in the backseat.
The SUV continues to speed down the highway as Stan keeps it between the lines of the roadway and keeps his eye out for any hidden roads. Both men glance at each other and chuckle as they come across the diner where their unfortunate series of events took place last time and wave as they speed by. Mitch even rolls down his window and throws his middle finger up at the place as they pass. They share a chuckle and continue on, blasting the radio not knowing how far or how long they will be involved in his manhunt that could turn road trip.
The WCF camera appears once again as the driver reaches the end of the road that leads to Motel Joe, an off the beaten path kind of trail that is barely visible from the main highway. The driver stops his car at the end of the trail where it comes to a “T” with the main road. Just as he is about to pull back onto the freeway, a black SUV approaches with a man with his arm extended out the window is giving the bird in the direction of the loan building in the area, a small burger joint just off the right side of the road. The voice of the cameraman becomes audible just for a moment as the SUV passes and the WCF employee proceeds into his lane.
Cameraman – What in the hell does that idiot think he is doing? Honestly, what did that restaurant ever do to him? Some people…Ah shit…is this thing still on?!
The screen suddenly goes black.
