Post by Deep Figure Value on Jun 8, 2006 21:58:15 GMT -5
A Serious Approach
An unseasonable chill has struck the northeastern side of the country. At a point in the year during which the common pedestrian has traded his coat and pants for shorts and a t-shirt, the general public appears fighting the 50 degree weather and the surge of rainfall that has continued fluctuatingly for the past month. Outside the Concord Statehouse, pedestrians and passerby breeze by one another dressed and equipped more appropriately for January than June. Following suit, two men walking side by side, beneath one large, black umbrella, make their way down the steps of the statehouse. The taller of the two, dressed rather awkwardly for his current location, sporting a form-fitting Red Sox championship t-shirt, straight legged, navy denim jeans, and a pair of black workboots, appears to be making longer strides, as if trying to distance himself from the shorter man, blending in with the area's passerby, dressed appropriately in proper business attire, carrying in one hand the umbrella, in his other a black leather briefcase. Struggling to keep up, he slips in a puddle nearing the bottom of the slick, granite steps, the contents of his briefcase falling askew as it pops open upon impact with the ground. The taller, Jason Vieira, stops in his tracks, steps ahead of his fallen companion, Chris Avalon. As he collects his belongings, Avalon looks up at Vieira, standing amid the rain, giving an expression of almost embarassed pity.
An unseasonable chill has struck the northeastern side of the country. At a point in the year during which the common pedestrian has traded his coat and pants for shorts and a t-shirt, the general public appears fighting the 50 degree weather and the surge of rainfall that has continued fluctuatingly for the past month. Outside the Concord Statehouse, pedestrians and passerby breeze by one another dressed and equipped more appropriately for January than June. Following suit, two men walking side by side, beneath one large, black umbrella, make their way down the steps of the statehouse. The taller of the two, dressed rather awkwardly for his current location, sporting a form-fitting Red Sox championship t-shirt, straight legged, navy denim jeans, and a pair of black workboots, appears to be making longer strides, as if trying to distance himself from the shorter man, blending in with the area's passerby, dressed appropriately in proper business attire, carrying in one hand the umbrella, in his other a black leather briefcase. Struggling to keep up, he slips in a puddle nearing the bottom of the slick, granite steps, the contents of his briefcase falling askew as it pops open upon impact with the ground. The taller, Jason Vieira, stops in his tracks, steps ahead of his fallen companion, Chris Avalon. As he collects his belongings, Avalon looks up at Vieira, standing amid the rain, giving an expression of almost embarassed pity.
Chris Avalon: You know Jay, I hope you intend on putting forth a bit more of a serious attitude toward your career than you did in there. Here I am, coming out of my way to finalize your release and working terms, and you show up in a god damned Sox shirt! And to top it all off, you can't even give the judge in there the courtesy of anything beyond a grunt response?!
Jason Vieira: Hmph...
Having finally gathered his records from the ground and securing them in his briefcase, Avalon brushes himself off, catching up to Vieira, who has turned a corner, heading down the concrete sidewalk. Avalon, continuing to shield the two of them from the falling rain despite Vieira's blatant ignorance, continues on.
Avalon: Alright, alright, fine. We're done with the courts. You didn't enjoy it, but it's overwith. Now let's talk Scars and Stripes. On top of the company wide rumble, which would be getting optimistic at this point in our career, you've also got Wayne McGurk to handle. He's tough, but I think with a good strategy you could really give him a...
At the sound of McGurk's name, Vieira stops in his tracks, cutting Avalon off. His voice is deep and gruff, with a tinge of a New England accent.
Vieira: Right, right, Wayne McGurk - the badass biker with an age complex. Tough...right.
Avalon: Dammit, Jay, now that's just what I'm...
Instantly, without warning, Vieira smacks the briefcase out of Avalon's hand. Grabbing him by the lapel of his black blazer, Vieira lifts Avalon inches off the ground, slamming his back into the brick-work styled granite wall that runs adjacent to the sidewalk. Despite his history in the ring, the wrestler turned agent struggles against Vieira's obvious height and weight advantage, cringing in pain from the initial impact of the wall.
Vieira: Is this serious enough?! I've had my name on the list for five minutes, and I've already got this McGurk punk running his mouth about how he's going to take me down because of the bad hand life dealt him - poor old Wayne ain't who he used to be! The guy stacks his own cards against himself, and to pay for it, he gets welcomed back with open arms and a million dollar figure. I step foot in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I get seven years for my inconvenient choice of attire!
Vieira backs away with no regard to Avalon, leaving him to drop straight down to the ground. As Avalon begins, once more, to collect the fallen items into his briefcase, he's met with Vieira's boot slamming the briefcase shut, just narrowly missing slamming his hand shut. Looking even more forbearing than before as his looks down on his fallen companion, Vieira kicks aside the briefcase, walking toward Avalon til he's once more back against the wall.
Vieira: While we're on the subject of "strategy", here's what we're going to do: I'm going to get in my truck, drive to New York city, and finally give Wayne McGurk something to be morose about. You're going to get on your cell phone, arrange your fancy transportation, and watch from the sidelines. No image, no strings attached, no judges.
Avalon: Listen, Jay, I'm not sure you know exactly wha...
Vieira: And stop calling me "Jay". You're not my manager, you never have been, and you never will be. I've dealt with you this far, and this is where it ends. I didn't hand in my resignation after what happened on Code Red because you assured me things would get better. I'm getting ****canned by the guys in the locker room who won't even look me in the eye because you decided it'd be a good idea to play the "guilty as charged" card. And despite the fact that you've got more enthusiasm in me than I've got in life right now, you've got the gall to go and say that a win in the rumble is being "optimistic"?! It's not my fault you can't handle the rest of the roster, but if you think I'm ever going to let a situation like that sideline me to the point where I'm talking sweet for judges and dressing like a chump to make good for two hacks like Drakz and Kyzer, then clearly I'm not the guy you thought I was. Maybe it was seven years of dwelling on my own innocence, but I know who I am, and I know what I can handle. I can handle going up against the entire roster - my chances are as good as the next guy. I can handle McGurk - I'll give him something to hold against me. And I can handle things from here on - without you watching my every move.
Leaving Avalon beaten against the wall, Vieira makes his way several feet down the sidewalk before entering a parallel parked black Toyota Tacoma. As the engine comes to life with a loud rumble, Vieira speeds off, leaving a beaten, frightened, soaked to the bone Chris Avalon stranded behind.
OOC: A bit rushed, but I think I managed to cover Wayne, the rumble, and flesh out the character a bit more, as well as drop Avalon from the scene....for the time being.
I dont know good luck 
