Post by Spartan on Jul 31, 2019 4:13:41 GMT -5
Jerry Eisenhower is sitting on a steel chair in the middle of his beat up and beat down wrestling ring. As typically is the case, a cigar hangs from his lips. The cigar smoke lingering around can not hide the scowl that crosses his face as Tristan John Cross - Spartan - walks through the gym and to the edge of the ring.
“Ya late, son.” growls Eisenhower as his spits phlegm brought up from the depths of his lungs, on to the canvas next to his feet.
Cross makes a face of disgust.
“Sorry, sir.” musters Cross.
“Ain’t got no time for any fake arse sorry’s son. If ya had any damn respect ya woulda been here on time.”
“I didn’t mean to be late.”
“Bullshit!” yells Eisenhower, his mouth opening wide enough for his cigar to fall onto the canvas. He ignores it and continues talking. “If ya didn’t fuckin’ mean ta be late, son. Ya wouldn’t na been late. But, ya late and late is fuckin late, son.”
“Sorry, sir.” says Cross clearly taken aback by the rustic anger coursing through Jerry Eisenhower right now. Sure, Tristan know that he was grumpy most of the time, but he had never seen him angry like this - so angry that the veins were bulging on his forehead.
“Told ya, ain’t got no time for fuckin’ sorry. Do’s and do not’s are all I fuckin care about, son. And do not be late again - Alex was never late. Neither should you be.”
Tristan Cross goes to open his mouth and was about to say sorry, but he stopped himself before any noise exited his verbal orifice. “Yes, sir.” he mutters.
“Good, now ya clean that fuckin ring up,son.”
Eisenhower reaches down from his seated position and picks his cigar up. He dusts it off and shove it back between his teeth, before spitting more phlegm onto the mat from the opposite side of his mouth. He stands and exits the ring on the opposite to where is Spartan is standing, not giving a backward glance. When he reaches his office he open the doors, walks in, and turns back to stare at his protege, and then closes the door with an emphatic slam.
Cross pulls himself up into the ring, and then looks down at canvas - it appears that Eisenhower has been using the mat as his own personal spittoon for some time, the mat has a substantial covering of dried and crusted phlegm on it. “Old bastard.”
Spartan sits on the steel chair in the middle the wrestling ring.
“Four men. Two teams. Going into battle. There will be winners and there will be losers. It’s the spirit of competition. The way of the warrior. My opponents - Canadian Coalition, Rick Rage and Mercer Quinn. My partner, Dean Wolf.”
Hmmm. Not. Clever.
“The Tag Team Champions against the current and the former Hardcore champions. It’s an interesting concept, especially when you consider that I forced into a team with the man who I defeated for the Hardcore Belt. But, let me tell the powers that be something from the bottom of my heart - put me in the ring, on a team with anyone. I fight. I will wage war. I will not bow to anyone’s mind games. Let that be said. Dean Wolf, we have been opponents in the past, but take my word as a man - I will do my utmost to make sure we win.”
Enemy of my enemy and so on…
“Rick. Mercer. Colour my impressed, when I saw you did when you stepped into the ring against Kandi Washington’s goons at Alpha Showdown, I thought we had a lock to repeat the previous Metal, but then pulled out and showed the world a great rope-a-dope. And it saw you walk out with Tag Team gold. I have to commend that. And deservedly so, as you two have been the backbone and the cornerstone of the tag team and now you are the leaders of the division. It’s an honour.”
“But..”
“Those achievements, that experience, it doesn’t mean that I will stand idly by. I know I lack tag team experience, and I genuinely can’t speak for my partner’s tag team wrestling experience. But what I can speak for is the fact that in the battles I faced with Dean Wolf is that I have learned enough and seen enough to over the previous week’s to know we can beat you.”
“And…”
“When I step into that ring with the two champions from Canada. I will come at the pair of you. I have no intention of falling for the same tricks you laid on the House of Sweetness. You might pin me because I failed. But I will have come at you with everyone I have to give off. Like a Warrior.”
Really don’t know what I am getting into here.
“The great variable of tag team wrestling is the outside man, we never really know how they come to the party. This is your great advantage isn’t it, boys? See, you two have years of working together - me and Dean - we’ve got nothing but fighting each other for the Hardcore Title. And this is our game - if you were witness to One Big Brawl and Alpha Showdown - and I am sure you were. You know that we are two competitors that will not quit. And this is our advantage. Neither one of us will allow the other to lose - such is our nature.”
“It's a battle of wills.”
Spartan stretches and cracks his knuckles.
“When I was unsuccessful fighting on the Frontline to win this title the first time, I didn’t make excuses - and when you lost at Metal - you made no excuses. I respect that. You just made sure you won the next time you stepped into the ring. And I will not make excuses about anything that happens inside that ring or outside.”
“My name is not Allen Anderson.”
“The way I see it, real men can make mistakes, but bitches make excuses.”
“Bitches makes excuses.”
Spartan taps his foot.
“It’s a fact I will not be making any excuses if you can take advantage of my mistakes for three seconds. You win. I lose.”
“That’s IF!”
“Not when.”
“Of course, it only takes those same three seconds for Wolf or Me to put one of you down; one hesitation and you’re done in the blink of an eye.”
“One mistake and you will experience the revolution.”
Spartan stands and walk to the ropes.
“Rick Rage - I’ve heard stories that you’ve wrestle bears with your bare hands. That’s a fantastic effort of strength and bravery. Now, Rick, while I may not be a great brown bear, I can assure that you if you turn your back on me inside that ring I will maul you the same way a bear would if you turned your back in the wild.”
“And Mercer Quinn - you’re quick as lightning, and it’s very very frightening, galileo, galileo.”
Oh what am I thinking.
“Quinn - sorry about that. You are the lightning of the team, while Rick is the thunder. I can handle the thunder. That’s my game. The lightning, you never know when or where it’s going to strike, it buzzes everywhere around you. But - I will be ready. And I’m sure Wolf will be ready for wherever you may strike and I will take the energy of that lightning strike and turn it against you to take victory.”
Spartan steps over the top rope and walks off. He stops after a few steps and turns back.
“Remember boys, three seconds is all it takes.”
“Just three seconds.”
“Just.”
“Three.”
“Seconds.”
“You know I won a title at Alpha Showdown, right Jerry?” says Cross as he walks into the office of Jerry Eisenhower and crosses the aged crusted carpet to the one chair that sits opposite Eisenhower. He sits down and looks at his mentor curiously. Jerry has his nose buried in his computer that appears to be as old as an abacus. He has a pair of glasses resting on the end of his nose and curiously typing something, with the index finger of his right hand - one letter at a time.
“Don’t care.” the old man retorts without even looking up from his task.
The flash of rage crosses the face of the man known as Spartan. He quietly takes several deep breaths before speaking. “What do you mean you don’t care? I busted my arse to put it on the line to win that belt.” he says with the flashes of anger rising through his tone. Eisenhower looks up at Cross, before turning his attention to the computer once more and punching what sounds like the ‘enter key’ rather loudly. He returns his attention to the man sitting across from him and removes his glasses before placing them on the desk. He stares at Spartan for several seconds.
“What!?” yells Cross, slamming his fist on the old wooden desk with a forceful thud; unable to suppress the anger at having his championship achievement seemingly dismissed.
“Calm the fuckin’ farm, son.” spits Eisenhower back.
“What!?” fires back Cross places his palms down on the desk and rising to his feet.
“Siddown, NOW!” says Eisenhower with force. The tone and method of delivery shocks Cross to sit down as he was not aware the seemingly phlegmatic Eisenhower was capable of such fire.
Both men stare at each other unblinkingly for several seconds.
“Listen, son” Eisenhower speaks. “Ya won a belt. Good on ya.”
“Thanks.”
“I said, listen, son.” Eisenhower bites back.
Tristan goes to speak, but Jerry raises his hand to silence him before anything can be said.
:”Listen. It means shut ya damn trap and let me fuckin talk, son.” Eisenhower snarls.
Spartans just nods.
Eisenhower continues, “I get it. Ya won a belt - it’s fuckin great thing, son. But, lemme tell ya. I been around the bush long enough to see plenty o’ cats win sumpthin’ early on. Lot’s of em. But ya know what - they lose a couple and cause they’re fuckin soft in heart or weak in the fuckin head - they flame out. They fuck off - can’t handle losin’ like a pack o’ bitches. Ya hear what I’m sayin’, son?”
Spartan nods.
“Good. Don’t be one of those bitches. Someone is gonna beat ya for that piece of fuckin’ leather ya rightfully proud of. Might be next week, might be tomorrow, if ya good enough it might even be next fuckin’ year. But don’t been one of those bitches that runs to mummy they lose their favourite fuckin’ toy. Ya get that, son?”
“I hear you, Sir.” Cross murmurs back.
“Don’t just fuckin’ hear ya. Listen and learn. Shit’s gonna get real now - it’s not like the old days, son. Everythin’ is on tape, Facepage, redtube, Youbook, fuckin pornhub or whatever. Everyone gonna know what ya do soon - and there won't be no fuckin surprises for anyone soon.”
Cross nods again.
“Woulda stop bobbin’ ya head, son. Ya look like one of those stupid fuckin dolls ya put on ya dashboard.”
Cross stops nodding.
“See - titles come and go, but ya gotta make a career without ‘em. That Road Dawg cat, he’s a man ya can emulate - I heard stories he ain’t one shit since Y2K was a thing, but he still kept going. Be like him. Don’t be like one of those bitches that runs when they lose, son. Ya clean the ring?”
Cross nods.
“Good, go warm up - I’ll fuckin’ be out soon.”
“Ya late, son.” growls Eisenhower as his spits phlegm brought up from the depths of his lungs, on to the canvas next to his feet.
Cross makes a face of disgust.
“Sorry, sir.” musters Cross.
“Ain’t got no time for any fake arse sorry’s son. If ya had any damn respect ya woulda been here on time.”
“I didn’t mean to be late.”
“Bullshit!” yells Eisenhower, his mouth opening wide enough for his cigar to fall onto the canvas. He ignores it and continues talking. “If ya didn’t fuckin’ mean ta be late, son. Ya wouldn’t na been late. But, ya late and late is fuckin late, son.”
“Sorry, sir.” says Cross clearly taken aback by the rustic anger coursing through Jerry Eisenhower right now. Sure, Tristan know that he was grumpy most of the time, but he had never seen him angry like this - so angry that the veins were bulging on his forehead.
“Told ya, ain’t got no time for fuckin’ sorry. Do’s and do not’s are all I fuckin care about, son. And do not be late again - Alex was never late. Neither should you be.”
Tristan Cross goes to open his mouth and was about to say sorry, but he stopped himself before any noise exited his verbal orifice. “Yes, sir.” he mutters.
“Good, now ya clean that fuckin ring up,son.”
Eisenhower reaches down from his seated position and picks his cigar up. He dusts it off and shove it back between his teeth, before spitting more phlegm onto the mat from the opposite side of his mouth. He stands and exits the ring on the opposite to where is Spartan is standing, not giving a backward glance. When he reaches his office he open the doors, walks in, and turns back to stare at his protege, and then closes the door with an emphatic slam.
Cross pulls himself up into the ring, and then looks down at canvas - it appears that Eisenhower has been using the mat as his own personal spittoon for some time, the mat has a substantial covering of dried and crusted phlegm on it. “Old bastard.”
Spartan sits on the steel chair in the middle the wrestling ring.
“Four men. Two teams. Going into battle. There will be winners and there will be losers. It’s the spirit of competition. The way of the warrior. My opponents - Canadian Coalition, Rick Rage and Mercer Quinn. My partner, Dean Wolf.”
Hmmm. Not. Clever.
“The Tag Team Champions against the current and the former Hardcore champions. It’s an interesting concept, especially when you consider that I forced into a team with the man who I defeated for the Hardcore Belt. But, let me tell the powers that be something from the bottom of my heart - put me in the ring, on a team with anyone. I fight. I will wage war. I will not bow to anyone’s mind games. Let that be said. Dean Wolf, we have been opponents in the past, but take my word as a man - I will do my utmost to make sure we win.”
Enemy of my enemy and so on…
“Rick. Mercer. Colour my impressed, when I saw you did when you stepped into the ring against Kandi Washington’s goons at Alpha Showdown, I thought we had a lock to repeat the previous Metal, but then pulled out and showed the world a great rope-a-dope. And it saw you walk out with Tag Team gold. I have to commend that. And deservedly so, as you two have been the backbone and the cornerstone of the tag team and now you are the leaders of the division. It’s an honour.”
“But..”
“Those achievements, that experience, it doesn’t mean that I will stand idly by. I know I lack tag team experience, and I genuinely can’t speak for my partner’s tag team wrestling experience. But what I can speak for is the fact that in the battles I faced with Dean Wolf is that I have learned enough and seen enough to over the previous week’s to know we can beat you.”
“And…”
“When I step into that ring with the two champions from Canada. I will come at the pair of you. I have no intention of falling for the same tricks you laid on the House of Sweetness. You might pin me because I failed. But I will have come at you with everyone I have to give off. Like a Warrior.”
Really don’t know what I am getting into here.
“The great variable of tag team wrestling is the outside man, we never really know how they come to the party. This is your great advantage isn’t it, boys? See, you two have years of working together - me and Dean - we’ve got nothing but fighting each other for the Hardcore Title. And this is our game - if you were witness to One Big Brawl and Alpha Showdown - and I am sure you were. You know that we are two competitors that will not quit. And this is our advantage. Neither one of us will allow the other to lose - such is our nature.”
“It's a battle of wills.”
Spartan stretches and cracks his knuckles.
“When I was unsuccessful fighting on the Frontline to win this title the first time, I didn’t make excuses - and when you lost at Metal - you made no excuses. I respect that. You just made sure you won the next time you stepped into the ring. And I will not make excuses about anything that happens inside that ring or outside.”
“My name is not Allen Anderson.”
“The way I see it, real men can make mistakes, but bitches make excuses.”
“Bitches makes excuses.”
Spartan taps his foot.
“It’s a fact I will not be making any excuses if you can take advantage of my mistakes for three seconds. You win. I lose.”
“That’s IF!”
“Not when.”
“Of course, it only takes those same three seconds for Wolf or Me to put one of you down; one hesitation and you’re done in the blink of an eye.”
“One mistake and you will experience the revolution.”
Spartan stands and walk to the ropes.
“Rick Rage - I’ve heard stories that you’ve wrestle bears with your bare hands. That’s a fantastic effort of strength and bravery. Now, Rick, while I may not be a great brown bear, I can assure that you if you turn your back on me inside that ring I will maul you the same way a bear would if you turned your back in the wild.”
“And Mercer Quinn - you’re quick as lightning, and it’s very very frightening, galileo, galileo.”
Oh what am I thinking.
“Quinn - sorry about that. You are the lightning of the team, while Rick is the thunder. I can handle the thunder. That’s my game. The lightning, you never know when or where it’s going to strike, it buzzes everywhere around you. But - I will be ready. And I’m sure Wolf will be ready for wherever you may strike and I will take the energy of that lightning strike and turn it against you to take victory.”
Spartan steps over the top rope and walks off. He stops after a few steps and turns back.
“Remember boys, three seconds is all it takes.”
“Just three seconds.”
“Just.”
“Three.”
“Seconds.”
“You know I won a title at Alpha Showdown, right Jerry?” says Cross as he walks into the office of Jerry Eisenhower and crosses the aged crusted carpet to the one chair that sits opposite Eisenhower. He sits down and looks at his mentor curiously. Jerry has his nose buried in his computer that appears to be as old as an abacus. He has a pair of glasses resting on the end of his nose and curiously typing something, with the index finger of his right hand - one letter at a time.
“Don’t care.” the old man retorts without even looking up from his task.
The flash of rage crosses the face of the man known as Spartan. He quietly takes several deep breaths before speaking. “What do you mean you don’t care? I busted my arse to put it on the line to win that belt.” he says with the flashes of anger rising through his tone. Eisenhower looks up at Cross, before turning his attention to the computer once more and punching what sounds like the ‘enter key’ rather loudly. He returns his attention to the man sitting across from him and removes his glasses before placing them on the desk. He stares at Spartan for several seconds.
“What!?” yells Cross, slamming his fist on the old wooden desk with a forceful thud; unable to suppress the anger at having his championship achievement seemingly dismissed.
“Calm the fuckin’ farm, son.” spits Eisenhower back.
“What!?” fires back Cross places his palms down on the desk and rising to his feet.
“Siddown, NOW!” says Eisenhower with force. The tone and method of delivery shocks Cross to sit down as he was not aware the seemingly phlegmatic Eisenhower was capable of such fire.
Both men stare at each other unblinkingly for several seconds.
“Listen, son” Eisenhower speaks. “Ya won a belt. Good on ya.”
“Thanks.”
“I said, listen, son.” Eisenhower bites back.
Tristan goes to speak, but Jerry raises his hand to silence him before anything can be said.
:”Listen. It means shut ya damn trap and let me fuckin talk, son.” Eisenhower snarls.
Spartans just nods.
Eisenhower continues, “I get it. Ya won a belt - it’s fuckin great thing, son. But, lemme tell ya. I been around the bush long enough to see plenty o’ cats win sumpthin’ early on. Lot’s of em. But ya know what - they lose a couple and cause they’re fuckin soft in heart or weak in the fuckin head - they flame out. They fuck off - can’t handle losin’ like a pack o’ bitches. Ya hear what I’m sayin’, son?”
Spartan nods.
“Good. Don’t be one of those bitches. Someone is gonna beat ya for that piece of fuckin’ leather ya rightfully proud of. Might be next week, might be tomorrow, if ya good enough it might even be next fuckin’ year. But don’t been one of those bitches that runs to mummy they lose their favourite fuckin’ toy. Ya get that, son?”
“I hear you, Sir.” Cross murmurs back.
“Don’t just fuckin’ hear ya. Listen and learn. Shit’s gonna get real now - it’s not like the old days, son. Everythin’ is on tape, Facepage, redtube, Youbook, fuckin pornhub or whatever. Everyone gonna know what ya do soon - and there won't be no fuckin surprises for anyone soon.”
Cross nods again.
“Woulda stop bobbin’ ya head, son. Ya look like one of those stupid fuckin dolls ya put on ya dashboard.”
Cross stops nodding.
“See - titles come and go, but ya gotta make a career without ‘em. That Road Dawg cat, he’s a man ya can emulate - I heard stories he ain’t one shit since Y2K was a thing, but he still kept going. Be like him. Don’t be like one of those bitches that runs when they lose, son. Ya clean the ring?”
Cross nods.
“Good, go warm up - I’ll fuckin’ be out soon.”
