Post by Jubei on Sept 11, 2018 22:45:32 GMT
Part I: Deposed
It was a long weekend in the offices of Vincent Pryde. Another week of No Call/No Shows. A roster that once boasted thirty talented stars stood decimated by one effect or another. They had shows before arenas packed full of diehard fans. They came to expect a certain level of competition from New Blood Wrestling that no other company could provide. That right mixture of train-wreck gore you cannot look away from and the uncommon talent seen on the best of indie circuits. However, those level of athletes had long since flown his sanguine coop for better weather. An alphabet soup of companies whose t-shirts looked all the same to Pryde while he toiled clutching those last vestiges of power over ten people he had yet to pay that month. A knock at his open door welcomed a familiar face: A man of average height but years of neglect caked on his face. It was Ralph Grosse - whom they hailed in the ring as "the Human Vomit" for his skills of reguritation and willingness to live a cockroach lifestyle - looking inside but hoping not to find anyone. Instead, he came face-to-face with his boss.
"Are you," he said, stalling for words, "are you okay? You look like my face."
Vincent smirked. "If only your brand of humor.... What can I do for you, Ralph?"
"Well sir, the boys and I--"
"You've got new contracts? Whatever they are I'll double them!"
Ralph backed towards the wall. Pryde gave to a serpent's chase cornering him with nowhere to go. He blocked the exit with an outstretched arm. Ralph sighed knowing there would be no other way of this trap.
"Look, boss, we ain't leaving."
"Damn right you're not," he said with a poke to Ralph's chest. "Now what's this all about?"
"I was looking for--"
"Looking for what? A person kick while he's down? Another victim of this corporate bullshit everyone ignores because these failures only fall one man." He shook Ralph whom took it without flinching. "And now all I can do is kick a bum in the ass. That's my legacy...."
"Mr. Pryde," the derelict said showing a proud, robin-like breast, "you were awesome boss. But maybe it's time for a change."
"Change is an expensive word, Ralph."
Suddenly, an idea came to mind. He needed money for it to work, but if he could muster the funds, perhaps New Blood Wrestling could have its heart jumped like a broke-ass El Camino. No scrupulous mind would bankroll something on the scale of the original show - all except that name on a gilded business card. He dismissed the bum before plunging both hands into his desk. He looked and looked but that golden ticket eluded his grasp. That frantic search pulled every drawer flinging random things to the winds. Ralph leaned on a nearby wall, hands deep in his pockets, watching the madness unfold.
"Whatcha looking for?"
"A card. A business card," he said sounding breathless. "It has golden border around it."
"The one from the Masuda Corporation?"
Pryde stopped in his tracks. "Did you see it?"
"Yeah, boss, its on your wall. You wrote 'riceball' on it for some reason."
Everything started coming back to him: a man in wheelchair, a dozen or more secret service looking guys - all packing heat - in slick , armani-grade suits, and a night spent around a bottle of imported sake. They left a card and then vanished from sight. It seemed like a dream then, but now at his his most depsoerate hour, Vincent was willing to bet all his chips on it.
"Hand it to me," he said with a hand waiting.
"Here. Just promise you'll get us out of this mess."
Ralph pulled its from the tack board and dropped its glossy weight into his boss's hand.
"Can I ask ya something?"
"Be quick. Then make like a goddamn tree."
"So uh, boss... you got any food?"
It was a long weekend in the offices of Vincent Pryde. Another week of No Call/No Shows. A roster that once boasted thirty talented stars stood decimated by one effect or another. They had shows before arenas packed full of diehard fans. They came to expect a certain level of competition from New Blood Wrestling that no other company could provide. That right mixture of train-wreck gore you cannot look away from and the uncommon talent seen on the best of indie circuits. However, those level of athletes had long since flown his sanguine coop for better weather. An alphabet soup of companies whose t-shirts looked all the same to Pryde while he toiled clutching those last vestiges of power over ten people he had yet to pay that month. A knock at his open door welcomed a familiar face: A man of average height but years of neglect caked on his face. It was Ralph Grosse - whom they hailed in the ring as "the Human Vomit" for his skills of reguritation and willingness to live a cockroach lifestyle - looking inside but hoping not to find anyone. Instead, he came face-to-face with his boss.
"Are you," he said, stalling for words, "are you okay? You look like my face."
Vincent smirked. "If only your brand of humor.... What can I do for you, Ralph?"
"Well sir, the boys and I--"
"You've got new contracts? Whatever they are I'll double them!"
Ralph backed towards the wall. Pryde gave to a serpent's chase cornering him with nowhere to go. He blocked the exit with an outstretched arm. Ralph sighed knowing there would be no other way of this trap.
"Look, boss, we ain't leaving."
"Damn right you're not," he said with a poke to Ralph's chest. "Now what's this all about?"
"I was looking for--"
"Looking for what? A person kick while he's down? Another victim of this corporate bullshit everyone ignores because these failures only fall one man." He shook Ralph whom took it without flinching. "And now all I can do is kick a bum in the ass. That's my legacy...."
"Mr. Pryde," the derelict said showing a proud, robin-like breast, "you were awesome boss. But maybe it's time for a change."
"Change is an expensive word, Ralph."
Suddenly, an idea came to mind. He needed money for it to work, but if he could muster the funds, perhaps New Blood Wrestling could have its heart jumped like a broke-ass El Camino. No scrupulous mind would bankroll something on the scale of the original show - all except that name on a gilded business card. He dismissed the bum before plunging both hands into his desk. He looked and looked but that golden ticket eluded his grasp. That frantic search pulled every drawer flinging random things to the winds. Ralph leaned on a nearby wall, hands deep in his pockets, watching the madness unfold.
"Whatcha looking for?"
"A card. A business card," he said sounding breathless. "It has golden border around it."
"The one from the Masuda Corporation?"
Pryde stopped in his tracks. "Did you see it?"
"Yeah, boss, its on your wall. You wrote 'riceball' on it for some reason."
Everything started coming back to him: a man in wheelchair, a dozen or more secret service looking guys - all packing heat - in slick , armani-grade suits, and a night spent around a bottle of imported sake. They left a card and then vanished from sight. It seemed like a dream then, but now at his his most depsoerate hour, Vincent was willing to bet all his chips on it.
"Hand it to me," he said with a hand waiting.
"Here. Just promise you'll get us out of this mess."
Ralph pulled its from the tack board and dropped its glossy weight into his boss's hand.
"Can I ask ya something?"
"Be quick. Then make like a goddamn tree."
"So uh, boss... you got any food?"