Post by King Richius on Aug 25, 2016 17:30:54 GMT -5
Horizon RP - Legacy
featuring Frank Lynn
I’m gonna knock you out!
Cambridge, MA : April 16, 2016 : LPW Spring Bash
El Tigre Blanco flies off the top rope and executes a beautiful frog splash, adding in a 90 degree rotation in mid air so that he comes down perfectly on his opponent. He is a blur of white and black as he flies through the air as gracefully as a falcon swooping down to kill a rabbit. He gets the pin, celebrates for the appreciative Legacy Pro Wrestling fans, and makes his way backstage.
Abraham Templeton, a 50ish black man who looks like Ving Rhames and sounds like Morgan Freeman, is waiting for him. El Tigre Blanco goes over to Abraham while working on the zippers of his white with black tiger stripes full body suit. What looked good in the ring looked silly outside of it and the man inside the suit can’t wait to get changed. The mask in particular sucks ass. It obscures his peripheral vision and makes it hard to breath. Only an idiot would wrestle in a mask.
Or a man with something to hide from his trainer who would not approve of his top fighter spending his off time moonlighting as a professional wrestler in clear violation of his MMA contract.
Good match tonight Frank.
Thanks Abe. I’ve learned a lot these past nine months.
Lila Sleater thinks so. She called. She wants you to have a try out match at Black Hole Sun.
As El Tigre Blanco?
No, as Frank Lynn. You have more name recognition as a top ranked MMA fighter.
Good. I hate that f*cking mask.
Good luck Frank. We’re going to miss you here.
I’m going to miss Legacy too. I couldn’t have done this without you. Let me get changed and we can go celebrate. I’m going to the big show!
Frank practically skips back to the locker room and Abraham can’t help but be happy for him. It is not often you get to see a dream come true right in front your face so this is a moment he will always remember.
———
Boston, MA : July 13, 2016 : the night of Exodus
The three men move quietly approaching the house from the back. They are wearing matching all black outfits: boots, jeans, turtlenecks, gloves, and ski masks pulled down hiding all but their eyes and mouths.
There are security system signs in the windows but a quick check shows them to be false advertising meant to deter common thieves. These men are professionals getting paid a lot of money to do a job. They see through the ruse and get on with it.
One man goes around the side of the house to the garage. In less than 10 seconds he has the door open just enough that he can slide in unnoticed by anyone inside or any nosy neighbors. The other two men need only 5 seconds to pick the locks on the sliding glass doors that lead to the backyard. All three men make their way quietly towards the living room. They didn’t have to be that quiet because the five people in the living room were making quite a bit of noise watching WFWF Exodus on TV.
Once all three men are in position, the leader, known only by his working name the Mechanic, makes a quick series of hand gestures so each man knows who to target first. He chooses Rebecca O’Brien for himself since she was the primary, the big payday. The contract called for her immediate completion. Any collateral damage was acceptable and that was enough to seal the others fates.
On the Mechanic’s next signal, they pull the triggers. Their silenced revolvers make three simultaneous thwip sounds. All three people on the couch are dead instantly from head shots. The blonde woman drops her drink and looks on in shock. She has no time to scream as the Mechanic puts a bullet right between her eyes. The old man dives to the floor avoiding a kill shot but taking two bullets, one in the back and one in the leg. The three killers move in closer. The old man tries to crawl away. One of the gunmen takes his time to say Sorry old man, wrong place, wrong time before putting a bullet in the back of his head.
The Mechanic signals for his associates to check the rest of the house and clean up any evidence of their presence. While they go about their business, the Mechanic pulls out his cellphone, takes a picture of each victim, and makes a call.
It’s done.
100% certain. The redhead won’t be bothering you anymore.
Four others. Two male friends, the boyfriends’ mother, and some old man. That’s going to cost you an extra $5K per. I’m sending photos to confirm. I expect payment in full within 24 hours.
The boyfriend? He’s not here.
Where? Turn on the WFWF wrestling show. He’s getting his ass kicked right now.
The one who just went through the electrical equipment. Want me to hang around a few days and take care of him too?
You’re the boss. He’s lucky he didn’t share in his girlfriends’ curiosity. You know how to reach me if you change your mind.
His two associates are ready to leave. They had checked. No other people in the house, not even a pet. No signs that any neighbors heard a thing. The Mechanic turns off the television and lights, nods to his associates, and they quickly exit the house the same way they entered, disappearing into the night.
The two associates, local pros subcontracted by the Mechanic, would join the death toll later that night. Their bodies would never be found. The Mechanic was a true professional not in the business of leaving any loose ends.
———
Cambridge, MA : August 22, 2016
Every cloud has a silver lining. That’s what some glass is half full f*cking moron would tell Frank. Then they would back up their eternal optimism by pointing out how fat Frank’s bank account had suddenly become. Only a moron would think money cures all problems. The only problem money cures is debt.
Frank got insurance and inheritance money from his mother and from Paulie, who had no family of his own so he had named Frank as his beneficiary. Additional money came in from the rushed sales of his mother’s house, Paulie’s house, Paulie’s gym, and an antique automobile collection Frank had no idea Paulie owned. Even after taxes, it had added up very fast and Frank was now a multi-millionaire.
Old acquaintances he had long forgotten came out of the woodwork like vultures picking at a carcass, each one pitching an investment opportunity that Frank had no interest in. He had come very close to giving it all away when a call came from someone he would listen to, a man who wasn’t just looking to take advantage of Frank and his current situation.
That call led him to here, the Legacy Gym. He goes inside and wanders around aimlessly, looking at all the young and hungry boxers, MMA fighters, and pro wrestlers giving 110% in their training so they could get to the top. Frank frowns as he knows they are all in for a rude awakening. Opportunity isn’t the only thing that knocks and when the other sh*t knocks many of these people will break. Frank had come close to breaking, standing on the edge of the abyss and liking what he saw. If not for Doctor Claw wanting breakfast, he might have plunged headlong into the abyss. Good thing the cat was always hungry or he might still take the plunge.
Frank enters Abraham Templeton’s office and apathetically flops on the couch sitting along the far wall instead of sitting in one of the plush leather chairs in front of Abe’s desk. Abraham gets up from behind the desk, scoots a chair over to the couch, and sits by Frank.
You know how sorry I am for your loss.
LossES, plural. Damn near too many to count.
I can’t imagine what you are going through and honestly don’t want to.
I wouldn’t wish it on you. As wrong as it sounds, death is harder on the living than the dead.
The dead might say differently but that is something we won’t know until it is our time.
Yeah. Live each day wondering when is your expiration date and how will it end.
I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry.
Everybody’s sorry. Everybody dies too. I’ll get over it. I don’t have a choice.
Frank sits up swinging his legs off the couch so that he is facing Abraham, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a small piece of paper.
You sure this is what you want to do?
Yep. If I don't do this I’ll do something stupid with it. I owe you. Time to pay it back.
You don’t owe me anything but I won’t say no. LPW needs this. You weren’t the only wrestler we lost to a bigger company recently. LPW is hurting right now.
Not anymore.
Frank gives the paper to Abraham. Abraham whistles as he reads the number aloud.
One million dollars.
Use it however you want. Whatever is best for LPW.
I will Frank. It’s going to pay for server upgrades so we can live stream our shows and to bring in some new talent from Canada, Mexico, and Japan that will bolster our roster. Welcome back to Legacy partner.
Abraham extends his hand and Frank shakes it, sealing the deal that makes him minority owner of the Legacy Pro Wrestling promotion. In better times, the handshake would have been accompanied by smiles and a celebratory toast but today it is a somber affair that starts and ends with the two second long handshake.
Don’t worry, I will be a silent partner. I still have my WFWF sh*t to worry about.
I really appreciate this Frank. I’ll make sure you don’t regret investing in LPW.
Abraham walks over to his desk where he puts Frank’s check in a drawer and locks it.
Frank gets up and paces around Abe’s office, looking at the many pictures on the walls of past and present LPW wrestlers. A few he recognizes as they had moved on to success in bigger promotions. Most he did not recognize as their careers had peaked in the small indy promotion and they were now working regular jobs. He wonders if that will be his fate? Despite his modest success in the WFWF, if he left now would anybody remember his name in six months?
You were over the moon to get the call from WFWF. Now you don’t sound so happy to be there.
I’m not. It isn’t working out according to plan.
Really?
Yes, really. If I had stayed in MMA I would be probably a champion right now. If I had stayed in Legacy I would definitely be a champion right now. But in the WFWF I’m just a curtain jerker. I had a shot but got f*cked over by Lila Sleater and Joshua Dean and Drakz. Let’s make it a No DQ match halfway through. It’s okay for Dean to distract the ref and keep him from counting Mike’s pin. It’s just fine if Drakz tries to kill me…twice! The Thunderbirds should be WFWF tag team champions, not those two arrogant jerks.
That was one match, your only loss so far. You’ll get another title match and you’ll win.
Will I? Mike’s out indefinitely with his injury. Kinda hard to win a the tag team title with no tag team partner. Hell, we took the champs to the limit and they probably still don’t know our names. I doubt we would have gotten a rematch even if Mike didn’t get hurt. Lila was so full of sh*t. “Form a tag team. The line is short and the champs are so dysfunctional it will be easy to beat them.” Dumb bitch.
Frank pauses to look at more of the pictures trying his damnedest to put names to the faces. The harder he tries the more frustrated he gets, afraid that this will be his fate. Had Paulie been right all along? Should he have stayed in MMA where his success was virtually assured? Was the jump to the WFWF too big a risk?
Have I crashed into the glass ceiling already? Opponents like Toboggan, Richardson, Brooks, and Jenkins aren’t exactly high profile. Beating them isn’t doing anything to improve my standing in the WFWF.
The top of the WFWF is a circle jerk consisting of Drakz, Dean, Ahriman, Crowe, Brennan, Stone, and Demon. Below them is another circle jerk of established stars like Dex, Cam Nitta, Joe Bishop, and the Future. And then there are the rest of us, a circle of the jerked on.
Abraham is struck by how different Frank is now compared to six months ago. The Frank Lynn he knew was a strong and defiant fighter ready to take on the world. This Frank Lynn standing in front of him is an angry, defeated man on the verge of giving up.
He wanted Frank to succeed in the WFWF because he liked Frank and knew he had the skill to be very good. He needed Frank to succeed because he was the first LPW wrestler to make it to the WFWF. If Frank failed less than six months into his career there might not be a second LPW wrestler in the WFWF and the LPW would always be seen as a second rate indy promotion. He needed the old Frank back.
It can’t be that bad. What about the Golden Opportunity Championship? What about SuperBrawl? It’s the biggest show in all of professional wrestling. Surely you can make your mark there.
The Golden Opportunity Championship? You mean the new Miss Congeniality title of the WFWF? Joe Bishop is right when he calls the GO title a tool that either Lila Sleater or Trace Demon will use to place their personal favorites in prominent positions. The only good thing about being in this championship scramble is that I get that inbred hillbilly f*ck Leeroy Jenkins one-on-one so I can get a little payback. I’m going to hurt that boy, gonna’ hurt him real bad.
Frank forms a fist with his right hand and smacks it into his left palm repeatedly as if it was a voodoo doll of Leeroy Jenkins and the harder he hit it, the more damage he would do to Jenkins. He finally stops and turns back to Abraham, his eyes flaring with anger.
And what about SuperBrawl? I don’t even have a match yet. There won’t be a tag title match. That’s a dead end. All the major players are getting their matches lined up and I am not in the picture. I better beat Jenkins or there may not be room on the card for me to even jerk the motherf*cking curtain.
Just keep winning Frank. Things will get better. The fans will demand better match-ups for you.
Frank stops in front of a picture that brings back fond memories. The picture is of El Tigre Blanco and La Pantera Negra. They had a short but memorable run as a mixed tag team in LPW. He chuckled out loud as he wondered what the fans would have thought if they found out that LPW’s top two luchadors were both from right here in Boston? Hell, they probably would have turned on him as wrestling fans are incredibly fickle.
Frank doesn’t realize it but he has been squeezing his hands into fists so tight that his knuckles are turning white and his fingernails are digging into his palms.
The fans?!? Ha! That’s a good one. WFWF management sent me a nasty memo that my merch isn’t selling well. It seems that I am losing popularity ever since Dean implied I called anybody with a southern accent a dumbass. I never mentioned his accent or where he is from but dammit if Dean didn’t sabotage me with every WFWF fan south of the Mason-Dixon line and east of the Mississippi. The murders didn’t help either as some fans are associating me with them in a negative way even though the police cleared me. My stock is falling, not rising.
Suddenly, Frank punches the picture breaking the glass and cutting his hand. He looks apologetically at Abe as blood drips onto the carpet. The cut doesn’t look bad but it manages to bleed a lot. Abe wraps his handkerchief around Frank’s hand.
Don’t worry about it Frank. The blood stains will add character to my office. Why don’t you sit down and relax?
In other words, please stop breaking sh*t and bleeding all over my office? Okay. I am sorry Abe. I couldn’t help myself. Everything has been so royally f*cked lately.
Frank goes back to the couch and sits down, clenching and unclenching his cut hand into a fist. Every time he clenches his hand, the blood flows soaking the handkerchief until it can’t absorb anymore. Frank’s blood drips down onto the couch and carpet adding even more character to Abraham’s office.
So why stay in the WFWF? You can always come back to LPW. You can go back to MMA. Or just take a break and get your head straight. Use some of your money to spend a month relaxing on a private beach sipping margaritas and reading self help books or sappy romance novels or whatever floats your boat.
NO! Life may be trying to f*ck me in the ass but I won’t let it. The WFWF is my dream. It is all I have right now. I will make it work. Try as hard as they want, nobody in the WFWF is going to hold me down. Nobody!
Abraham wishes that was old confident Frank speaking but he knows it is the lunatic ramblings of the new defeated Frank. Frank isn’t thinking clearly, twisting events around to fit into his defeatist world view and further fuel his anger. Abe realizes now is not the time to talk sense to Frank, particularly if he wants to avoid becoming a target for one of Frank’s sudden violent outbursts. The best Abe can do is try to settle him down before he punches another picture or worse.
I understand that you are in the middle of a rough patch. You can get through this. I’m here if you want to talk but first you have to relax, take a few deep breaths, count backwards from 10, meditate on your belly button, whatever trick you use to stay calm.
Thanks, but I’m talked out. I just want to hit something. I NEED to hit something.
Frank emphasizes the point by slamming his bloody fist into his palm with a loud *slap*. The handkerchief flies off and the blood flows again. Portions of Abe’s office are starting to resemble a slaughterhouse which is a little bit too much character for Abe’s tastes. Time for a different approach.
You are in the right place for that. Why don’t you get a trainer to bandage your hand, then work one of the heavy bags? Maybe get in a sparring match with one of the other wrestlers?
Abe mentally adds And work yourself until you are so exhausted you don’t have the energy to be angry.
That sounds good. Just what the doctor ordered.
Frank leaves Abe’s office to take out his frustrations on whatever or whoever is in front of him. Abe wonders what it will take to help his friend recover from all the bad sh*t he was dealing with. Certainly time was one aspect but Frank had been hit by so much so quickly that time alone might not be enough. Abe also wonders if Frank will accept that help when offered.
Abe felt bad for Leeroy Jenkins. It was Jenkins’ extreme bad luck to be the man who hit Frank with a chair and along with Danté Brooks beat him down after their tag match was over. That was more than enough to push Frank right over the edge in their next match. Frank is a ticking time bomb that will explode in Salt Lake City laying waste to Jenkins.
———
Salt Lake City, UT : Horizon
As per usual, Frank is in the studio a few days before Horizon to record his promo. Frank stands in front of a green screen while the camera man makes some final adjustments.
Ready whenever you are Frank.
Thanks Ricky.
My name still isn’t Ricky.
Whatever. Let’s get this over with. Game face on and let the bullsh*t commence.
And on that note the camera man who isn’t named Ricky starts recording and gives Frank the signal to start.
By now everyone knows that things have not been going well for me lately. First, there was the loss in the tag title match at Exodus. Next, there were the murders of my mother and friends that very same night - the less said about that the better. Then, at Defiance, Mike Jette destroys his knee ending the Thunderbirds quest for the tag titles. Don’t even get me started on how the match ended. Let’s just say that a win by DQ is hardly a win at all and that I am getting a little tired of taking chair shots to the head.
There is a saying that sh*t rolls downhill. Right now I feel like I am at the bottom of that hill watching my picnic get buried. Nobody likes a sh*t sandwich, not even the ants. I’m no different which means I’m not exactly the life of the party right now.
I could sit on my couch in my underwear watching Oprah and Dr. Phil while drinking gallons of alcohol and eating massive piles of junk food until I become a fat lazy f*ck who needs a forklift to get in and out of bed. Sure, I could wallow in self-pity and I doubt anybody would blame me. But I won’t. That’s not me.
I am a wrestler! It is what I do! I love being a wrestler so for better or worse, through good times and bad, this is where you will find me ’til the day I die. No matter what happens, I will keep wrestling, winning matches, and I will become a champion in the WFWF.
That is why I am officially joining the hunt for the Golden Opportunity Championship.
That name is too damn long so from now on I’m just going to say GOC. I 100% agree with Joe Bishop that the GOC is just a tool for either Trace Demon or Lila Sleater to put their chosen ones into favorable positions while screwing over the rest of us. Somebody was seriously f*cking stoned when they came up with the vague and ambiguous rules of the GOC. Maybe the WFWF should extend their drug testing to non-wrestlers. Come on Lila, piss in a cup for us you manipulating bitch.
Even though I recognize the GOC for what it really is, I still see this tournament as a chance to do something special. There will only be one FIRST EVER GOC and that achievement can never be matched. I like the sounds of that. Being the first ever at something looks great on a résumé so I’ll go through the dog and pony show for the sake of making history.
Fearless Frank Lynn, First Ever Golden Opportunity Champion!
Not even that douchebag Drakz, the man with too many nicknames, will be able to use that one.
And who is standing between me and history? None other than that chair swinging good ole boy LeeRoy Jenkins. You haven’t been here very long but you’ve already made a bunch of mistakes.
Your first mistake was getting into a match with the Thunderbirds. Mike Jette and I were well on our way to ruining your WFWF debut and cementing our claim to the tag titles. Then Mike got injured. No disrespect to my Thunderbird partner but I didn’t need him to win that match. I was more than enough to beat you and Danté “Stickboy” Brooks in a handicap match.
Then you made your second mistake. You assumed the match was over when Mike went down. You turned your back to me. You NEVER turn your back on an opponent. You gave me the opening and I took it. If you want to get pissed at someone for you getting hit from behind, go look in the mirror.
I showed that I was clearly the superior wrestler as I manhandled both you and Brooks, beating you like piñatas and twisting you up like pretzels. So you made your third and biggest mistake. You hit me with a steel chair. Then you and Stickboy tried to beat me down. Another mistake. You should not have let the ref and security pull you off of me. You didn’t finish the job. I’m still standing, pissed as hell and ready to rip you a new one at Horizon.
I want you to think about something after you finish a long night of sweet lovemaking with your kissing cousin Daisy, who by the way is faking it every time, and then hop in the General Lee to drive cross country to the show. Your very short WFWF career has been a litany of mistakes that you are only making worse by stepping into the ring with me a second time. I hate leftovers and that is all you are to me; moldy leftovers of a meal I didn’t like the first time around. You are going straight into the garbage disposal this time.
It makes me wonder why are you doing this? Maybe I didn’t dig deep enough when I researched you last time. So I checked again and it hit me. You are a moonshiner! Jesus man, prohibition ended over 80 years ago. It’s the 21st century buddy. Anybody can get all the alcohol they want legally from a store. Why are you still making your illegal undrinkable should be used as paint remover piss water moonshine?
I think deep down you know it is a dead end and you came to the WFWF so someone like me could beat some sense into your thick skull. Each time I hit you I want you to think: Lincoln Technical Institute! Education Connection! DeVry Institute! University of Phoenix online! So many options you could have chosen instead of coming to the WFWF to get your ass kicked. Just another mistake you made. If you really want someone to beat some sense into you, then I’m your huckleberry.
Rest assured, I will be beating you. I can’t promise that will increase your common sense quotient, but regardless I will be beating you. Even if there was nothing at stake in this match, I would be beating you. Hell, I don’t even need a match. I would happily meet you on the street to beat you every day of the week and twice on Sunday. My head is still ringing from that chair shot. I owe you. I will be getting my payback at Horizon.
I’m going to enjoy both getting my revenge on you and taking my first step into the WFWF history books as I become the First Ever Golden Opportunity Champion.
Thunderbirds are go!
Realizing he just used the wrong catchphrase, Frank suddenly snaps and kicks one of the studio lights which crashes to the floor and explodes in a shower of sparks.
Goddamnit! I made it all the way to the last f*cking line before f*cking it up. Son of a bitch! You know what? F*ck it! I am not doing this all over again. Edit it out, keep it in, I don’t give a sh*t but I am not doing this again!
The old catchphrase is officially crap and now its crapped on my promo. I had a new one ready to go and I’m still going to use it. You! Behind the camera, not named Ricky. Press play on that stereo.
Frank is turning multiple shades of red and the camera man thinks smoke might come out of his ears next. He presses play and thanks God that the song is cued up to the right spot. LL Cool J plays loudly in the small studio. Frank sings along to the chorus while shadow boxing with the camera.
Mama said knock you out!
I'm gonna knock you out!
Oh forget it, this sucks ass. Just cut everything from “Thunderbirds are go!” to the end.
The camera man struggles to find the stop button but is too slow. Frank punches the camera breaking the lens and sending the camera and the camera man toppling backwards. The camera is still rolling giving a shot of the studio ceiling with a blindingly bright light in the center. Frank steps into view blocking the light, his head darkened by shadow and surrounded by a halo of light. He looks down into the camera menacingly.
I’m. Gonna. Knock. You. Out!
———
featuring Frank Lynn
I’m gonna knock you out!
Cambridge, MA : April 16, 2016 : LPW Spring Bash
El Tigre Blanco flies off the top rope and executes a beautiful frog splash, adding in a 90 degree rotation in mid air so that he comes down perfectly on his opponent. He is a blur of white and black as he flies through the air as gracefully as a falcon swooping down to kill a rabbit. He gets the pin, celebrates for the appreciative Legacy Pro Wrestling fans, and makes his way backstage.
Abraham Templeton, a 50ish black man who looks like Ving Rhames and sounds like Morgan Freeman, is waiting for him. El Tigre Blanco goes over to Abraham while working on the zippers of his white with black tiger stripes full body suit. What looked good in the ring looked silly outside of it and the man inside the suit can’t wait to get changed. The mask in particular sucks ass. It obscures his peripheral vision and makes it hard to breath. Only an idiot would wrestle in a mask.
Or a man with something to hide from his trainer who would not approve of his top fighter spending his off time moonlighting as a professional wrestler in clear violation of his MMA contract.
Good match tonight Frank.
Thanks Abe. I’ve learned a lot these past nine months.
Lila Sleater thinks so. She called. She wants you to have a try out match at Black Hole Sun.
As El Tigre Blanco?
No, as Frank Lynn. You have more name recognition as a top ranked MMA fighter.
Good. I hate that f*cking mask.
Good luck Frank. We’re going to miss you here.
I’m going to miss Legacy too. I couldn’t have done this without you. Let me get changed and we can go celebrate. I’m going to the big show!
Frank practically skips back to the locker room and Abraham can’t help but be happy for him. It is not often you get to see a dream come true right in front your face so this is a moment he will always remember.
———
Boston, MA : July 13, 2016 : the night of Exodus
The three men move quietly approaching the house from the back. They are wearing matching all black outfits: boots, jeans, turtlenecks, gloves, and ski masks pulled down hiding all but their eyes and mouths.
There are security system signs in the windows but a quick check shows them to be false advertising meant to deter common thieves. These men are professionals getting paid a lot of money to do a job. They see through the ruse and get on with it.
One man goes around the side of the house to the garage. In less than 10 seconds he has the door open just enough that he can slide in unnoticed by anyone inside or any nosy neighbors. The other two men need only 5 seconds to pick the locks on the sliding glass doors that lead to the backyard. All three men make their way quietly towards the living room. They didn’t have to be that quiet because the five people in the living room were making quite a bit of noise watching WFWF Exodus on TV.
Once all three men are in position, the leader, known only by his working name the Mechanic, makes a quick series of hand gestures so each man knows who to target first. He chooses Rebecca O’Brien for himself since she was the primary, the big payday. The contract called for her immediate completion. Any collateral damage was acceptable and that was enough to seal the others fates.
On the Mechanic’s next signal, they pull the triggers. Their silenced revolvers make three simultaneous thwip sounds. All three people on the couch are dead instantly from head shots. The blonde woman drops her drink and looks on in shock. She has no time to scream as the Mechanic puts a bullet right between her eyes. The old man dives to the floor avoiding a kill shot but taking two bullets, one in the back and one in the leg. The three killers move in closer. The old man tries to crawl away. One of the gunmen takes his time to say Sorry old man, wrong place, wrong time before putting a bullet in the back of his head.
The Mechanic signals for his associates to check the rest of the house and clean up any evidence of their presence. While they go about their business, the Mechanic pulls out his cellphone, takes a picture of each victim, and makes a call.
It’s done.
100% certain. The redhead won’t be bothering you anymore.
Four others. Two male friends, the boyfriends’ mother, and some old man. That’s going to cost you an extra $5K per. I’m sending photos to confirm. I expect payment in full within 24 hours.
The boyfriend? He’s not here.
Where? Turn on the WFWF wrestling show. He’s getting his ass kicked right now.
The one who just went through the electrical equipment. Want me to hang around a few days and take care of him too?
You’re the boss. He’s lucky he didn’t share in his girlfriends’ curiosity. You know how to reach me if you change your mind.
His two associates are ready to leave. They had checked. No other people in the house, not even a pet. No signs that any neighbors heard a thing. The Mechanic turns off the television and lights, nods to his associates, and they quickly exit the house the same way they entered, disappearing into the night.
The two associates, local pros subcontracted by the Mechanic, would join the death toll later that night. Their bodies would never be found. The Mechanic was a true professional not in the business of leaving any loose ends.
———
Cambridge, MA : August 22, 2016
Every cloud has a silver lining. That’s what some glass is half full f*cking moron would tell Frank. Then they would back up their eternal optimism by pointing out how fat Frank’s bank account had suddenly become. Only a moron would think money cures all problems. The only problem money cures is debt.
Frank got insurance and inheritance money from his mother and from Paulie, who had no family of his own so he had named Frank as his beneficiary. Additional money came in from the rushed sales of his mother’s house, Paulie’s house, Paulie’s gym, and an antique automobile collection Frank had no idea Paulie owned. Even after taxes, it had added up very fast and Frank was now a multi-millionaire.
Old acquaintances he had long forgotten came out of the woodwork like vultures picking at a carcass, each one pitching an investment opportunity that Frank had no interest in. He had come very close to giving it all away when a call came from someone he would listen to, a man who wasn’t just looking to take advantage of Frank and his current situation.
That call led him to here, the Legacy Gym. He goes inside and wanders around aimlessly, looking at all the young and hungry boxers, MMA fighters, and pro wrestlers giving 110% in their training so they could get to the top. Frank frowns as he knows they are all in for a rude awakening. Opportunity isn’t the only thing that knocks and when the other sh*t knocks many of these people will break. Frank had come close to breaking, standing on the edge of the abyss and liking what he saw. If not for Doctor Claw wanting breakfast, he might have plunged headlong into the abyss. Good thing the cat was always hungry or he might still take the plunge.
Frank enters Abraham Templeton’s office and apathetically flops on the couch sitting along the far wall instead of sitting in one of the plush leather chairs in front of Abe’s desk. Abraham gets up from behind the desk, scoots a chair over to the couch, and sits by Frank.
You know how sorry I am for your loss.
LossES, plural. Damn near too many to count.
I can’t imagine what you are going through and honestly don’t want to.
I wouldn’t wish it on you. As wrong as it sounds, death is harder on the living than the dead.
The dead might say differently but that is something we won’t know until it is our time.
Yeah. Live each day wondering when is your expiration date and how will it end.
I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry.
Everybody’s sorry. Everybody dies too. I’ll get over it. I don’t have a choice.
Frank sits up swinging his legs off the couch so that he is facing Abraham, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a small piece of paper.
You sure this is what you want to do?
Yep. If I don't do this I’ll do something stupid with it. I owe you. Time to pay it back.
You don’t owe me anything but I won’t say no. LPW needs this. You weren’t the only wrestler we lost to a bigger company recently. LPW is hurting right now.
Not anymore.
Frank gives the paper to Abraham. Abraham whistles as he reads the number aloud.
One million dollars.
Use it however you want. Whatever is best for LPW.
I will Frank. It’s going to pay for server upgrades so we can live stream our shows and to bring in some new talent from Canada, Mexico, and Japan that will bolster our roster. Welcome back to Legacy partner.
Abraham extends his hand and Frank shakes it, sealing the deal that makes him minority owner of the Legacy Pro Wrestling promotion. In better times, the handshake would have been accompanied by smiles and a celebratory toast but today it is a somber affair that starts and ends with the two second long handshake.
Don’t worry, I will be a silent partner. I still have my WFWF sh*t to worry about.
I really appreciate this Frank. I’ll make sure you don’t regret investing in LPW.
Abraham walks over to his desk where he puts Frank’s check in a drawer and locks it.
Frank gets up and paces around Abe’s office, looking at the many pictures on the walls of past and present LPW wrestlers. A few he recognizes as they had moved on to success in bigger promotions. Most he did not recognize as their careers had peaked in the small indy promotion and they were now working regular jobs. He wonders if that will be his fate? Despite his modest success in the WFWF, if he left now would anybody remember his name in six months?
You were over the moon to get the call from WFWF. Now you don’t sound so happy to be there.
I’m not. It isn’t working out according to plan.
Really?
Yes, really. If I had stayed in MMA I would be probably a champion right now. If I had stayed in Legacy I would definitely be a champion right now. But in the WFWF I’m just a curtain jerker. I had a shot but got f*cked over by Lila Sleater and Joshua Dean and Drakz. Let’s make it a No DQ match halfway through. It’s okay for Dean to distract the ref and keep him from counting Mike’s pin. It’s just fine if Drakz tries to kill me…twice! The Thunderbirds should be WFWF tag team champions, not those two arrogant jerks.
That was one match, your only loss so far. You’ll get another title match and you’ll win.
Will I? Mike’s out indefinitely with his injury. Kinda hard to win a the tag team title with no tag team partner. Hell, we took the champs to the limit and they probably still don’t know our names. I doubt we would have gotten a rematch even if Mike didn’t get hurt. Lila was so full of sh*t. “Form a tag team. The line is short and the champs are so dysfunctional it will be easy to beat them.” Dumb bitch.
Frank pauses to look at more of the pictures trying his damnedest to put names to the faces. The harder he tries the more frustrated he gets, afraid that this will be his fate. Had Paulie been right all along? Should he have stayed in MMA where his success was virtually assured? Was the jump to the WFWF too big a risk?
Have I crashed into the glass ceiling already? Opponents like Toboggan, Richardson, Brooks, and Jenkins aren’t exactly high profile. Beating them isn’t doing anything to improve my standing in the WFWF.
The top of the WFWF is a circle jerk consisting of Drakz, Dean, Ahriman, Crowe, Brennan, Stone, and Demon. Below them is another circle jerk of established stars like Dex, Cam Nitta, Joe Bishop, and the Future. And then there are the rest of us, a circle of the jerked on.
Abraham is struck by how different Frank is now compared to six months ago. The Frank Lynn he knew was a strong and defiant fighter ready to take on the world. This Frank Lynn standing in front of him is an angry, defeated man on the verge of giving up.
He wanted Frank to succeed in the WFWF because he liked Frank and knew he had the skill to be very good. He needed Frank to succeed because he was the first LPW wrestler to make it to the WFWF. If Frank failed less than six months into his career there might not be a second LPW wrestler in the WFWF and the LPW would always be seen as a second rate indy promotion. He needed the old Frank back.
It can’t be that bad. What about the Golden Opportunity Championship? What about SuperBrawl? It’s the biggest show in all of professional wrestling. Surely you can make your mark there.
The Golden Opportunity Championship? You mean the new Miss Congeniality title of the WFWF? Joe Bishop is right when he calls the GO title a tool that either Lila Sleater or Trace Demon will use to place their personal favorites in prominent positions. The only good thing about being in this championship scramble is that I get that inbred hillbilly f*ck Leeroy Jenkins one-on-one so I can get a little payback. I’m going to hurt that boy, gonna’ hurt him real bad.
Frank forms a fist with his right hand and smacks it into his left palm repeatedly as if it was a voodoo doll of Leeroy Jenkins and the harder he hit it, the more damage he would do to Jenkins. He finally stops and turns back to Abraham, his eyes flaring with anger.
And what about SuperBrawl? I don’t even have a match yet. There won’t be a tag title match. That’s a dead end. All the major players are getting their matches lined up and I am not in the picture. I better beat Jenkins or there may not be room on the card for me to even jerk the motherf*cking curtain.
Just keep winning Frank. Things will get better. The fans will demand better match-ups for you.
Frank stops in front of a picture that brings back fond memories. The picture is of El Tigre Blanco and La Pantera Negra. They had a short but memorable run as a mixed tag team in LPW. He chuckled out loud as he wondered what the fans would have thought if they found out that LPW’s top two luchadors were both from right here in Boston? Hell, they probably would have turned on him as wrestling fans are incredibly fickle.
Frank doesn’t realize it but he has been squeezing his hands into fists so tight that his knuckles are turning white and his fingernails are digging into his palms.
The fans?!? Ha! That’s a good one. WFWF management sent me a nasty memo that my merch isn’t selling well. It seems that I am losing popularity ever since Dean implied I called anybody with a southern accent a dumbass. I never mentioned his accent or where he is from but dammit if Dean didn’t sabotage me with every WFWF fan south of the Mason-Dixon line and east of the Mississippi. The murders didn’t help either as some fans are associating me with them in a negative way even though the police cleared me. My stock is falling, not rising.
Suddenly, Frank punches the picture breaking the glass and cutting his hand. He looks apologetically at Abe as blood drips onto the carpet. The cut doesn’t look bad but it manages to bleed a lot. Abe wraps his handkerchief around Frank’s hand.
Don’t worry about it Frank. The blood stains will add character to my office. Why don’t you sit down and relax?
In other words, please stop breaking sh*t and bleeding all over my office? Okay. I am sorry Abe. I couldn’t help myself. Everything has been so royally f*cked lately.
Frank goes back to the couch and sits down, clenching and unclenching his cut hand into a fist. Every time he clenches his hand, the blood flows soaking the handkerchief until it can’t absorb anymore. Frank’s blood drips down onto the couch and carpet adding even more character to Abraham’s office.
So why stay in the WFWF? You can always come back to LPW. You can go back to MMA. Or just take a break and get your head straight. Use some of your money to spend a month relaxing on a private beach sipping margaritas and reading self help books or sappy romance novels or whatever floats your boat.
NO! Life may be trying to f*ck me in the ass but I won’t let it. The WFWF is my dream. It is all I have right now. I will make it work. Try as hard as they want, nobody in the WFWF is going to hold me down. Nobody!
Abraham wishes that was old confident Frank speaking but he knows it is the lunatic ramblings of the new defeated Frank. Frank isn’t thinking clearly, twisting events around to fit into his defeatist world view and further fuel his anger. Abe realizes now is not the time to talk sense to Frank, particularly if he wants to avoid becoming a target for one of Frank’s sudden violent outbursts. The best Abe can do is try to settle him down before he punches another picture or worse.
I understand that you are in the middle of a rough patch. You can get through this. I’m here if you want to talk but first you have to relax, take a few deep breaths, count backwards from 10, meditate on your belly button, whatever trick you use to stay calm.
Thanks, but I’m talked out. I just want to hit something. I NEED to hit something.
Frank emphasizes the point by slamming his bloody fist into his palm with a loud *slap*. The handkerchief flies off and the blood flows again. Portions of Abe’s office are starting to resemble a slaughterhouse which is a little bit too much character for Abe’s tastes. Time for a different approach.
You are in the right place for that. Why don’t you get a trainer to bandage your hand, then work one of the heavy bags? Maybe get in a sparring match with one of the other wrestlers?
Abe mentally adds And work yourself until you are so exhausted you don’t have the energy to be angry.
That sounds good. Just what the doctor ordered.
Frank leaves Abe’s office to take out his frustrations on whatever or whoever is in front of him. Abe wonders what it will take to help his friend recover from all the bad sh*t he was dealing with. Certainly time was one aspect but Frank had been hit by so much so quickly that time alone might not be enough. Abe also wonders if Frank will accept that help when offered.
Abe felt bad for Leeroy Jenkins. It was Jenkins’ extreme bad luck to be the man who hit Frank with a chair and along with Danté Brooks beat him down after their tag match was over. That was more than enough to push Frank right over the edge in their next match. Frank is a ticking time bomb that will explode in Salt Lake City laying waste to Jenkins.
———
Salt Lake City, UT : Horizon
As per usual, Frank is in the studio a few days before Horizon to record his promo. Frank stands in front of a green screen while the camera man makes some final adjustments.
Ready whenever you are Frank.
Thanks Ricky.
My name still isn’t Ricky.
Whatever. Let’s get this over with. Game face on and let the bullsh*t commence.
And on that note the camera man who isn’t named Ricky starts recording and gives Frank the signal to start.
By now everyone knows that things have not been going well for me lately. First, there was the loss in the tag title match at Exodus. Next, there were the murders of my mother and friends that very same night - the less said about that the better. Then, at Defiance, Mike Jette destroys his knee ending the Thunderbirds quest for the tag titles. Don’t even get me started on how the match ended. Let’s just say that a win by DQ is hardly a win at all and that I am getting a little tired of taking chair shots to the head.
There is a saying that sh*t rolls downhill. Right now I feel like I am at the bottom of that hill watching my picnic get buried. Nobody likes a sh*t sandwich, not even the ants. I’m no different which means I’m not exactly the life of the party right now.
I could sit on my couch in my underwear watching Oprah and Dr. Phil while drinking gallons of alcohol and eating massive piles of junk food until I become a fat lazy f*ck who needs a forklift to get in and out of bed. Sure, I could wallow in self-pity and I doubt anybody would blame me. But I won’t. That’s not me.
I am a wrestler! It is what I do! I love being a wrestler so for better or worse, through good times and bad, this is where you will find me ’til the day I die. No matter what happens, I will keep wrestling, winning matches, and I will become a champion in the WFWF.
That is why I am officially joining the hunt for the Golden Opportunity Championship.
That name is too damn long so from now on I’m just going to say GOC. I 100% agree with Joe Bishop that the GOC is just a tool for either Trace Demon or Lila Sleater to put their chosen ones into favorable positions while screwing over the rest of us. Somebody was seriously f*cking stoned when they came up with the vague and ambiguous rules of the GOC. Maybe the WFWF should extend their drug testing to non-wrestlers. Come on Lila, piss in a cup for us you manipulating bitch.
Even though I recognize the GOC for what it really is, I still see this tournament as a chance to do something special. There will only be one FIRST EVER GOC and that achievement can never be matched. I like the sounds of that. Being the first ever at something looks great on a résumé so I’ll go through the dog and pony show for the sake of making history.
Fearless Frank Lynn, First Ever Golden Opportunity Champion!
Not even that douchebag Drakz, the man with too many nicknames, will be able to use that one.
And who is standing between me and history? None other than that chair swinging good ole boy LeeRoy Jenkins. You haven’t been here very long but you’ve already made a bunch of mistakes.
Your first mistake was getting into a match with the Thunderbirds. Mike Jette and I were well on our way to ruining your WFWF debut and cementing our claim to the tag titles. Then Mike got injured. No disrespect to my Thunderbird partner but I didn’t need him to win that match. I was more than enough to beat you and Danté “Stickboy” Brooks in a handicap match.
Then you made your second mistake. You assumed the match was over when Mike went down. You turned your back to me. You NEVER turn your back on an opponent. You gave me the opening and I took it. If you want to get pissed at someone for you getting hit from behind, go look in the mirror.
I showed that I was clearly the superior wrestler as I manhandled both you and Brooks, beating you like piñatas and twisting you up like pretzels. So you made your third and biggest mistake. You hit me with a steel chair. Then you and Stickboy tried to beat me down. Another mistake. You should not have let the ref and security pull you off of me. You didn’t finish the job. I’m still standing, pissed as hell and ready to rip you a new one at Horizon.
I want you to think about something after you finish a long night of sweet lovemaking with your kissing cousin Daisy, who by the way is faking it every time, and then hop in the General Lee to drive cross country to the show. Your very short WFWF career has been a litany of mistakes that you are only making worse by stepping into the ring with me a second time. I hate leftovers and that is all you are to me; moldy leftovers of a meal I didn’t like the first time around. You are going straight into the garbage disposal this time.
It makes me wonder why are you doing this? Maybe I didn’t dig deep enough when I researched you last time. So I checked again and it hit me. You are a moonshiner! Jesus man, prohibition ended over 80 years ago. It’s the 21st century buddy. Anybody can get all the alcohol they want legally from a store. Why are you still making your illegal undrinkable should be used as paint remover piss water moonshine?
I think deep down you know it is a dead end and you came to the WFWF so someone like me could beat some sense into your thick skull. Each time I hit you I want you to think: Lincoln Technical Institute! Education Connection! DeVry Institute! University of Phoenix online! So many options you could have chosen instead of coming to the WFWF to get your ass kicked. Just another mistake you made. If you really want someone to beat some sense into you, then I’m your huckleberry.
Rest assured, I will be beating you. I can’t promise that will increase your common sense quotient, but regardless I will be beating you. Even if there was nothing at stake in this match, I would be beating you. Hell, I don’t even need a match. I would happily meet you on the street to beat you every day of the week and twice on Sunday. My head is still ringing from that chair shot. I owe you. I will be getting my payback at Horizon.
I’m going to enjoy both getting my revenge on you and taking my first step into the WFWF history books as I become the First Ever Golden Opportunity Champion.
Thunderbirds are go!
Realizing he just used the wrong catchphrase, Frank suddenly snaps and kicks one of the studio lights which crashes to the floor and explodes in a shower of sparks.
Goddamnit! I made it all the way to the last f*cking line before f*cking it up. Son of a bitch! You know what? F*ck it! I am not doing this all over again. Edit it out, keep it in, I don’t give a sh*t but I am not doing this again!
The old catchphrase is officially crap and now its crapped on my promo. I had a new one ready to go and I’m still going to use it. You! Behind the camera, not named Ricky. Press play on that stereo.
Frank is turning multiple shades of red and the camera man thinks smoke might come out of his ears next. He presses play and thanks God that the song is cued up to the right spot. LL Cool J plays loudly in the small studio. Frank sings along to the chorus while shadow boxing with the camera.
Mama said knock you out!
I'm gonna knock you out!
Oh forget it, this sucks ass. Just cut everything from “Thunderbirds are go!” to the end.
The camera man struggles to find the stop button but is too slow. Frank punches the camera breaking the lens and sending the camera and the camera man toppling backwards. The camera is still rolling giving a shot of the studio ceiling with a blindingly bright light in the center. Frank steps into view blocking the light, his head darkened by shadow and surrounded by a halo of light. He looks down into the camera menacingly.
I’m. Gonna. Knock. You. Out!
———
Notes:
Part 2 of my 4 part Superbrawl arc. For those of you wondering if I would be introducing new supporting characters in this arc, meet Abraham Templeton.
With this RP I was going for “angry” Frank but the end result is more “whiny” Frank. *sigh*
I dont know good luck 
