Post by Deleted on Apr 4, 2021 20:22:30 GMT -5
What was once a lavish, 23-million-dollar mansion is now a property that is being foreclosed on. The once adorned walls of antique paintings of his French ancestors and one-of-a-kind sculptures are now barren, stripped of their individuality and stuffed in cardboard boxes or wrapped in beach towels. The carpet that was once a bright maroon color is now faded due to a lack of consistent vacuuming and preservation. The wallpaper with complex and psychedelic patterns is ripped, tattered and torn, clinging to life as the old, yellowed paste keeping it up crumbles like ashes.
What was once an impressive and majestically front yard is a dump; riddled with pieces of broken furniture, empty fish tanks and wheelbarrows full of dirt and debris. The statue of Napoleon Bonaparte that greets any of the passerby’s in the very front of the property is yellowed under the constant baking from the sun. The metal gate that encloses the property with a fleur de lis next to a NB at the front of it now has a FOR SALE sign eclipsing it. All while the birds sing their song, happily and full of glee.
The price of fame took its toll on Napoleon Weisgarber, the accomplished boxer and WFWF alum, spending every dime he earned from taking bumps on hosting expensive wine tasting parties from all over the world, one-of-a-kind paintings of France’s greatest leaders and priceless artifacts handed down from one Weisgarber to another.
Now, he is flat broke, forced to liquidate his prized possessions in order pay off his debt. And keep a roof over his head until he finds somewhere else to call home. At his side is a cumbersome laptop, his finger repeatedly clicking on the Refresh icon, hoping that someone, anyone will post a bid on an authentic autographed WFWF Survival of the Fittest 2020 poster, listed at $500 starting price.
The watercolor effect of the poster nearly hides the faint signature, signed in black sharpie but it’s indeed signed.
Hand signed by Napoleon Weisgarber and unfortunately, no one is buying. Or even interested as the view counter remains stagnant in the single digits since last week.
Sanford, Napoleon’s lifelong friend and butler emerges with another box of antiques in his hands from the gentleman’s area. He goes to open his mouth until the older man frowns at the sight that beholds him; the accomplished boxer, slumped over in a plastic chair as the faint humming of Xpress Home Loans’ hold jingle buzzes in the distance.
“Sir?”
Napoleon turns his whole body like Batman, keeping the phone by his ear.
Sanford makes a motion with the cardboard box which causes Napoleon’s thigh muscles to flex as he sits up from his plastic chair and follows his loyal friend to the gentlemen’s area while still on hold.
The gentleman’s area is the most furnished room in the entire house. The dark oak bartop was recently cleaned with an orange-scented polish which immediately makes Napoleon’s nostrils tingle and flare up. The vintage pool table in the middle of the room glistens under the soft light that hovers above with all fifteen pool balls assorted to spell out NW in the center of the velvet mat.
The TV behind the bar is playing on repeat the sportscast from last night with little to audio emerging from the set.
Sanford rests the box on the wooden corner of the pool table. Napoleon adjusts his neck to the opposite side, his neck tilted to the right for the past hour and a half as the monotonous jingle continues to repeat in his ear.
“I found these upstairs. Did you want me to auction these as well, sir?”
The light above the pool table illuminates the contents inside; old, vintage and surely collectible Napoleon Weisgarber from his original WFWF run.
The most significant one being a framed picture of Napoleon with King Kraig himself, backstage in the 2008-era of the WFWF.
Something takes over Napoleon, something that compels him to pick up the picture as the veins in his biceps pulsate with blood. Taken aback, Napoleon struggles to find the words.
eye….i……eye…..i…….
“Sir?”
The white brows of Sanford burrow into his spectacles as the old man's eyes widen.
The boxer takes a deep breath.
use yer werds, napoleon
The former Gold Glover closes his eyes as his lips quiver.
“Use. Your. Words.”
He takes a breath of relief and glances over at his loyal servant, who has the look of a proud father beaming at him.
“I….thought I told you to get rid of all this? After Survival, I want nothing to do with the WFWF!”
“You did, sir but I knew you would regret it one day,” the memories smack Napoleon across the face like a cheap shot before a street fight, “However, with our situation only growing dire by the minute,” the old butler pauses, “I figured these possessions will allow us more time to find a resolution.”
Napoleon's brow cocks upwards like the one they call Boulder Johnson. Sanford simply nods his head before Napoleon turns his attention to the memorabilia. “I...I can’t sell this stuff!”
Underneath the goldmine, Napoleon unravels the most poignant piece yet. One that causes him to feel a sharp ping in his chest.
A picture of Napoleon with a face that is now a distant memory.
“I haven’t thought about Kraig in….years. I haven’t thought about that time of my career in a long time for that matter.”
Sanford stands idly with his hands in his side, “I'm sure there are older fans of the federation that will all clamor to obtain a piece of your storied career, sir.”
“I don’t know about that, San. Most of the people that watched it back then are either dead or prefer EEW to the WFWF anymore.” The irony as a commercial for Tuesday Night Tango plays on the television. “And I'm just a forgotten relic of that era. To these newer fans, I'm a joke. The comedy relief.”
Vivid flashbacks suddenly play in Napoleon’s head like b-roll footage from Survival of the Fittest and Throwdown. Not his best moments.
“You have won several titles, sir. That, in itself is an impressive feat.”
“I used to be great, you know? I was named after Napoleon Bonaparte! I was named after greatness because I was destined to be great!”
Sanford nods.
Suddenly, the front window of The Weisgarber Mansion is shattered!
Napoleon drops his phone on the floor and the two men head to the noise. Sounds of crunching glass are heard as three men; all donning black hoodies, black joggers with their faces painted ghostly white with pitch black circles around their eyes.
They looked like a couple of magic ninjas.
"Who are you?? Who sent you??"
The three clowns start laughing maniacally, like a bunch of psychopaths!
"San, stand back. Mère said....KNOCK YOU OUT!"
The accomplished Gold Glover boxer charges towards the freek show and using his years of training, he hooks, jabs and clobbers the three hooded men with little to no ease. Sanford punches the palm of his hand as he watches his apprentice clean house.
Napoleon then grabs one of the mimes and slams him through the antique table in the living room. He scoops the other one by his hoodie and throws him through the wall by the staircase!
Sanford goes to stop Napoleon but it is too late and the damage has already been done.
The house already in shambles was worse for wear. And Sanford isn't happy.
Napoleon pants heavily as the three hooded men all moan and groan in pain but that's what happens to anyone who messes with The Don from the Hexagon.
"Sir, you destroyed the whole house! How are we supposed to sell it when it's in worse condition than it was before?"
"Sorry.....San.......I......had.....to......stop......them"
Napoleon marches over to one of the three hooded clowns and searches their unconscious bodies for anything, any indication of who sent them to vandalize and steal from royalty.
But finds nothing.
"Wait a minute! San! I know this logo!"
Sanford walks over to Napoleon and look.
It's a picture of court jester with a pink and blue color scheme. It has a big chain with INSANE on it, also in pink and blue.
"They must be from the carnival of carnage or something, San but I have seen this logo before."
"You have, sir?"
Napoleon bolts, jogging upstairs as his heavy footsteps echo through the house. The boxer comes down in a huff with a crumbled poster in his hands. He hands it over to Sanford who adjusts his spectacles.
It's a cheaply made indy poster which flaunts Napoleon as the biggest name on the card. Also on the card?
"Twiztid Insane. These guys are fans of his. They all paint their faces like he does."
"Why would he have his fans come after you, sir?"
"I don't know but there is a big show coming up. If we want to make some cash to keep this place from going under, it only makes sense that I make my return to the WFWF. For real, this time."
