Post by Deleted on Oct 2, 2015 11:11:29 GMT -6
It's a hot one here today in Chicago. What do people call this city? The windy city? Well it's not windy at all and I really wish it was, because it's gotta be at least 89 degrees outside and the only nearby water is that dirty lake. Nobody wants to swim in that, and I can't blame them. If this was California, or even North Carolina, I'd be at the beach, wondering around shirtless. I do it to see who looks at me and when they do, I mildly flirt with them. They usually have no chance with me, but to know that they want me is what gets my rocks off. I am the one they desire, the one they lust after; the one they can never have.
What I am doing here today is signing the papers making my career here official. Otherwise I'd be making an 180 degree turn and heading back to the West Coast. As I get a great view of mainland Chicago, I am reminded as to why I hate this city. It's bland. It's a carbon copy of every other big city in every-state, and compared to New York City, Chicago has zilch amount of things going for it.
“Oh my god, we are such big fans!”
I turn around and see three woman, each in their mid-twenties, smiling with delight as they see me. As usual, I play it cool, when in reality I am calculating my chances of nailing each of them. The blondie, who says her name is Rebecca, I could probably get the easiest. She is wearing one of those light-blue recycling shirts; obviously she will do anything if you say you agree with her apparent politics. Idiot.
The ugly-duckling of the group has short, brown hair. I think her name is Zoey. The name Zoey is so black and white. If she isn't hot, she's really not hot; but if she's hot, then she is heavenly. In this case, she is really ugly. No boobs, face is lackluster, fucked up teeth. Just seeing this dumb, ugly broad makes me fucking hate her.
I mean, if I wanted to rail Zoey I could, in a heartbeat. But in her case, I'd rather take cyanide. It will allow me to forget that someone this ugly has ever crossed my path. How dare she talk to me! Does she know who I fucking am? She is rambling about how she loves the arts and this town, I am nodding and smiling like I care, when obviously I couldn't give two shits. Also, why do ugly girls always ramble on and on? To cover up a rough exterior?
“So why are you here in Chicago, Matt?” Zoey asks.
“To sign a contract.”
The third girl, a hot, well-built, Hispanic girl, her name is something non-English, so I don't ask any further. But anyways, she asks: “To film a new movie?”
I'd love to film a movie with you. I would be the director, producer, and lead actor. One night in El Vagina.
“No,” I tell her, smiling, “Well, I am about to begin my career as a pro wrestler.”
“Really? That's awesome!”
I smile.
Zoey asks, “Can we take a photo with you?”
For you Zoey, no. Never. But for the rest of them
“Sure! It will be hard to squeeze four people in a photo, but we can try.”
So we take the photo and Zoey puts her arm around my neck. Hopefully the STD she contracted when she did her science teacher in the mobile home won't contract with my skin. With a girl like her, only a very desperate guy will want her. Probably one who has scared off the rest with his mark on his three inch dick.
I wanted to get the other two girls numbers, but with the added addition, probably self-invited, it'd be a hopeless endeavor. At the bar, she'd go on and on about how cool it is to drink with a celeb, and my dick won't get excited by midnight. Oh well.
Cars fly by, the streets are packed, the sun is still out to my dismay, and I am looking at a giant. No, it's not my dick, which is quite massive coming in at about 9 inches, it's actually the NEW Headquarters. To think, in a city with so many skyscrapers, many of which are completely unnecessary, there is one that stands alone. One that is worthy to be in existence, one which shall host my future.
Currently I am sitting on a green couch waiting to get the nod that Jesse is free to speak with me. I appreciate the opportunity that I am about to be given, but can he hurry up a little bit? I hate wasting time, especially for things which should be done quickly, like this.
There is someone sitting across from me, I have made eye contact with them twice, said hello, and kept it at that. But slightly, he has looked at me. He breaks the ice by asking, straight forward, “Aren't you Mattio?”
I nod. “Yes, yes I am.”
I notice there is something quite familiar about him. He's bald, has a darker complexion, though still technically white; and most telling of all is his choice of beverage, a Coca-Cola. It is a popular drink, I know, but I also know that given those physical qualities and the drink, and the fact that this is the NEW Headquarters, that it could only be one man.
“Matt McMattio.” I say, smiling, though it's genuine this time. He is a good man. “How long has it been since I seen you? Fifteen, sixteen years?”
“Something like that.”
“Aren't you retired?”
He laughs a bit, I feel a bit uncomfortable. I haven't spoken to him in over a decade, ever since my Dad and Mom split up, he is my Mom's nephew, and I spent most of my time at my Dad's. So I have had no contact with him and I haven't exactly been catching up with his career. All I know is that four years ago he left NEW; has he returned? I wish I knew.
“I was.” He says. “I am thinking about returning. That itch needs to be scratched; get what I am saying?”
I do get what he is saying; but he is a man whose hard to understand. He sold his social network for a hundred-billion dollars, so he has no reason for wanting to go back to work. He also converted to Mormonism sometime before his departure from the company. And as for his time in NEW, it was rather luckluster. He never really stood out. And being four years older, I doubt his run, if he is sincere in returning, will be much better; in short, I doubt that it will produce better fruits.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Hollywood?”
“Is that what everyone calls me?”
“Well, everyone on your Mom's side of the family.”
Him speaking of my mother makes me regret not seeing her in over six years. She, along with my older sister, moved to Pittsburgh, while me and my father stayed in San Fran. I miss her.
“Well, as to your question, I am about to sign a contract and wrestle for this company.”
He looks shocked. “You, a wrestler? It doesn't seem right. Won't this interrupt your filming schedule?”
“Not really.” I tell him.
A black door opens, out pops a large man with large arms and spiked, black hair. As he speaks, his native tongue – clearly British – is shown. Having done acting school, I worked on developing a rather legitimate and accurate British accent. Might as well put it to good use.
“Come in now.” He tells me.
I get up and walk to the door, I end up standing in front of this large man from the British Isles, in his native tone I tell him: “Thank ye, good sir!” And I pretend to tip my imaginary hat to him. I hear growls.
He stares at me weirdly, like I struck a nerve, but I end up ignoring it and walking in. The view in Jesse's office is incredible. His room itself is pretty nice, a flat-screen TV, pictures of all the famous moments in his company's history, a few personal photos of him with the wife and with him wearing the NEW Champion Belt.
Jesse puts out his arm and shakes mine. “I am Jesse Styles, owner of New Edge Wrestling.”
As we shake, I notice how firm his grip is. But our eyes meet, “I am Mattio, Oscar winning actor, Grammy winning singer, professional badass.”
We both sit down. I am sitting in a black pull-out chair, and him a simple black office chair, he is silent for a moment before finally asking, “What do you hope to accomplish with this company in the last few months of it's existence?”
“Well, I want to win the world champion, want to make the record books.”
“I assume you want to further the Mattio name-brand?”
Honesty or pseudo-humbleness? Should I tell him the full truth, or tell him what he wants to hear? I lick my lips for a moment and tell him, straight forwardly, “A winner is more coveted then a loser. A winner hardly has to worry about his money.”
“Are you working on any new films?”
“Well there's one that I will begin to film in a few days. But don't worry, it will won't interfere with my career here.”
“I wouldn't give two shits if it did.”
I stare at him now, no smiles, simply stares. “You are very apathetic.”
“I just don't care what you do.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
“I am best you have.”
Jesse simply laughs, “Yeah right.”
I get up and stand close to him, “You see this?” I point to my crotch area. “A solid nine-incher. Enough for her enjoyment, enough for my domination. This is not the dick of a loser, this is a dick of a world champion; a dick of someone whose going to win a damn world title!”
I sit back down, and Jesse squints and then says, “So you want a world title shot?”
“Damn right I do.”
“Well,” He says, “I will see if you're ready for one. At the upcoming Justice, I have this battle royale going on, the winner will get a world title shot at a date of my choosing. You interested?”
“Are you kidding? Of course I am interested!” I reply.
“There is a catch however.”
“Okay. What is it?”
He gets up, turns around, and stares out of his window, looking at that Chicago skyline. As he does so, I am imagining myself having that title around me. In public, people would no longer just think of me as an amazing actor, but an accomplished pro wrestler. A face of a dying company, a face of a dying sport.
“The catch is simply that you're not going up against the weaklings, you're going to be going against some of NEW's top talent. This is your first match – do you think you can handle it?”
Is this guy fucking nuts? “Of course I can handle it!”
He turns arounds, nods, and hands me two papers. “Sign these.”
I do as I am told and sign them. Much to my own shock, Jesse begins to laugh.
His laughter ends with him telling me, “I was kidding a bit a few moments ago… I do care very much that you're in this company. You're one of the biggest names in Hollywood and you sign with my company, my fucking company? Well, of course I will be interested. You just have to focus on the wrestling, your acting has to remain distant; but, I can market the hell out of you, have parties and tell people that I have thee Mattio here. Do you know how fucking awesome that will be?”
I smile.
“But, since you're famous and you've picked my company, I will help you out a little bit. I think you need some protection; someone to look out for you, on the streets, and in the ring. I think you need a bodyguard.”
This idea sounds stupid, I would tell him I don't need one, but I see him signaling that tall British dude into the room. As he arrives I get a bigger picture on his sheer stature. He has to be at least seven feet tall, and his hands are something out of a B-movie, you know one of those terrible horror ones? Well he's the prototype I bet.
“Mattio, meet Dave. He will protect you in all walks of life.”
I put my hand out, expecting a hand shake, but that hand shake never comes as he simply stares. I look back at Jesse, flip the black hair that is covering my right eye, and tell him, “What about protecting him? Any guidance?”
Jesse laughs and Dave growls.
Dave and I are walking the streets of Chicago together. This feels so awkward, he has yet to say a word to me. Why didn't I speak out? Why did I allow Jesse to give me this man to watch over me? I am Mattio, the charasmatic actor, singer, wrestler extraordinaire! Not some lackey.
“What do you want to do?” I ask.
“You should be training for the match.” He answers, finally.
“Know any good training facilities?”
“Not really… Just look around you. Fight someone.”
I quickly respond. “But that's assult.”
“Not if you make it their fault, and aren't you a famous actor? Famous people get away with all sorts of things that us normal people don't. I mean, I heard a rumor that one of your opponents, that Shane Sparkx fellow, actually threw his full bottle of wine on some poor woman after she didn't know who he was. Of course, that might not be true; but given Shane's fame, it wouldn't shock me that he got away with it if he did it. So I suggest you just pick some schmoe, get up in their face, make a big scene, fall on the ground and then get up and begin to beat them up. Just watch me.”
Dave, or as I will probably call him, the Big Man, walks up to an equally tall fellow and then begins to shout at him.
“I am trying to enjoy my day sir! How dare you bother me. Don't you dare touch me.”
Dave is on the ground, the guy is trying to run. But the Big Man, or BM, gets up and chases after him, eventually he grabs him, turns him around and grabs him by the neck and delivers a chokeslam, sending the man on the pavement at full speed.
The police come and arrest the man on the ground for “harassing” the BM. He walks back to me, “See, just like that. Let's walk to the other side of town before we try anymore. Don't want to leave a trail, you know?”
As we walk, I ask the question that some reason just popped up. “So whom exactly am I facing?”
What I am doing here today is signing the papers making my career here official. Otherwise I'd be making an 180 degree turn and heading back to the West Coast. As I get a great view of mainland Chicago, I am reminded as to why I hate this city. It's bland. It's a carbon copy of every other big city in every-state, and compared to New York City, Chicago has zilch amount of things going for it.
“Oh my god, we are such big fans!”
I turn around and see three woman, each in their mid-twenties, smiling with delight as they see me. As usual, I play it cool, when in reality I am calculating my chances of nailing each of them. The blondie, who says her name is Rebecca, I could probably get the easiest. She is wearing one of those light-blue recycling shirts; obviously she will do anything if you say you agree with her apparent politics. Idiot.
The ugly-duckling of the group has short, brown hair. I think her name is Zoey. The name Zoey is so black and white. If she isn't hot, she's really not hot; but if she's hot, then she is heavenly. In this case, she is really ugly. No boobs, face is lackluster, fucked up teeth. Just seeing this dumb, ugly broad makes me fucking hate her.
I mean, if I wanted to rail Zoey I could, in a heartbeat. But in her case, I'd rather take cyanide. It will allow me to forget that someone this ugly has ever crossed my path. How dare she talk to me! Does she know who I fucking am? She is rambling about how she loves the arts and this town, I am nodding and smiling like I care, when obviously I couldn't give two shits. Also, why do ugly girls always ramble on and on? To cover up a rough exterior?
“So why are you here in Chicago, Matt?” Zoey asks.
“To sign a contract.”
The third girl, a hot, well-built, Hispanic girl, her name is something non-English, so I don't ask any further. But anyways, she asks: “To film a new movie?”
I'd love to film a movie with you. I would be the director, producer, and lead actor. One night in El Vagina.
“No,” I tell her, smiling, “Well, I am about to begin my career as a pro wrestler.”
“Really? That's awesome!”
I smile.
Zoey asks, “Can we take a photo with you?”
For you Zoey, no. Never. But for the rest of them
“Sure! It will be hard to squeeze four people in a photo, but we can try.”
So we take the photo and Zoey puts her arm around my neck. Hopefully the STD she contracted when she did her science teacher in the mobile home won't contract with my skin. With a girl like her, only a very desperate guy will want her. Probably one who has scared off the rest with his mark on his three inch dick.
I wanted to get the other two girls numbers, but with the added addition, probably self-invited, it'd be a hopeless endeavor. At the bar, she'd go on and on about how cool it is to drink with a celeb, and my dick won't get excited by midnight. Oh well.
Cars fly by, the streets are packed, the sun is still out to my dismay, and I am looking at a giant. No, it's not my dick, which is quite massive coming in at about 9 inches, it's actually the NEW Headquarters. To think, in a city with so many skyscrapers, many of which are completely unnecessary, there is one that stands alone. One that is worthy to be in existence, one which shall host my future.
Currently I am sitting on a green couch waiting to get the nod that Jesse is free to speak with me. I appreciate the opportunity that I am about to be given, but can he hurry up a little bit? I hate wasting time, especially for things which should be done quickly, like this.
There is someone sitting across from me, I have made eye contact with them twice, said hello, and kept it at that. But slightly, he has looked at me. He breaks the ice by asking, straight forward, “Aren't you Mattio?”
I nod. “Yes, yes I am.”
I notice there is something quite familiar about him. He's bald, has a darker complexion, though still technically white; and most telling of all is his choice of beverage, a Coca-Cola. It is a popular drink, I know, but I also know that given those physical qualities and the drink, and the fact that this is the NEW Headquarters, that it could only be one man.
“Matt McMattio.” I say, smiling, though it's genuine this time. He is a good man. “How long has it been since I seen you? Fifteen, sixteen years?”
“Something like that.”
“Aren't you retired?”
He laughs a bit, I feel a bit uncomfortable. I haven't spoken to him in over a decade, ever since my Dad and Mom split up, he is my Mom's nephew, and I spent most of my time at my Dad's. So I have had no contact with him and I haven't exactly been catching up with his career. All I know is that four years ago he left NEW; has he returned? I wish I knew.
“I was.” He says. “I am thinking about returning. That itch needs to be scratched; get what I am saying?”
I do get what he is saying; but he is a man whose hard to understand. He sold his social network for a hundred-billion dollars, so he has no reason for wanting to go back to work. He also converted to Mormonism sometime before his departure from the company. And as for his time in NEW, it was rather luckluster. He never really stood out. And being four years older, I doubt his run, if he is sincere in returning, will be much better; in short, I doubt that it will produce better fruits.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Hollywood?”
“Is that what everyone calls me?”
“Well, everyone on your Mom's side of the family.”
Him speaking of my mother makes me regret not seeing her in over six years. She, along with my older sister, moved to Pittsburgh, while me and my father stayed in San Fran. I miss her.
“Well, as to your question, I am about to sign a contract and wrestle for this company.”
He looks shocked. “You, a wrestler? It doesn't seem right. Won't this interrupt your filming schedule?”
“Not really.” I tell him.
A black door opens, out pops a large man with large arms and spiked, black hair. As he speaks, his native tongue – clearly British – is shown. Having done acting school, I worked on developing a rather legitimate and accurate British accent. Might as well put it to good use.
“Come in now.” He tells me.
I get up and walk to the door, I end up standing in front of this large man from the British Isles, in his native tone I tell him: “Thank ye, good sir!” And I pretend to tip my imaginary hat to him. I hear growls.
He stares at me weirdly, like I struck a nerve, but I end up ignoring it and walking in. The view in Jesse's office is incredible. His room itself is pretty nice, a flat-screen TV, pictures of all the famous moments in his company's history, a few personal photos of him with the wife and with him wearing the NEW Champion Belt.
Jesse puts out his arm and shakes mine. “I am Jesse Styles, owner of New Edge Wrestling.”
As we shake, I notice how firm his grip is. But our eyes meet, “I am Mattio, Oscar winning actor, Grammy winning singer, professional badass.”
We both sit down. I am sitting in a black pull-out chair, and him a simple black office chair, he is silent for a moment before finally asking, “What do you hope to accomplish with this company in the last few months of it's existence?”
“Well, I want to win the world champion, want to make the record books.”
“I assume you want to further the Mattio name-brand?”
Honesty or pseudo-humbleness? Should I tell him the full truth, or tell him what he wants to hear? I lick my lips for a moment and tell him, straight forwardly, “A winner is more coveted then a loser. A winner hardly has to worry about his money.”
“Are you working on any new films?”
“Well there's one that I will begin to film in a few days. But don't worry, it will won't interfere with my career here.”
“I wouldn't give two shits if it did.”
I stare at him now, no smiles, simply stares. “You are very apathetic.”
“I just don't care what you do.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
“I am best you have.”
Jesse simply laughs, “Yeah right.”
I get up and stand close to him, “You see this?” I point to my crotch area. “A solid nine-incher. Enough for her enjoyment, enough for my domination. This is not the dick of a loser, this is a dick of a world champion; a dick of someone whose going to win a damn world title!”
I sit back down, and Jesse squints and then says, “So you want a world title shot?”
“Damn right I do.”
“Well,” He says, “I will see if you're ready for one. At the upcoming Justice, I have this battle royale going on, the winner will get a world title shot at a date of my choosing. You interested?”
“Are you kidding? Of course I am interested!” I reply.
“There is a catch however.”
“Okay. What is it?”
He gets up, turns around, and stares out of his window, looking at that Chicago skyline. As he does so, I am imagining myself having that title around me. In public, people would no longer just think of me as an amazing actor, but an accomplished pro wrestler. A face of a dying company, a face of a dying sport.
“The catch is simply that you're not going up against the weaklings, you're going to be going against some of NEW's top talent. This is your first match – do you think you can handle it?”
Is this guy fucking nuts? “Of course I can handle it!”
He turns arounds, nods, and hands me two papers. “Sign these.”
I do as I am told and sign them. Much to my own shock, Jesse begins to laugh.
His laughter ends with him telling me, “I was kidding a bit a few moments ago… I do care very much that you're in this company. You're one of the biggest names in Hollywood and you sign with my company, my fucking company? Well, of course I will be interested. You just have to focus on the wrestling, your acting has to remain distant; but, I can market the hell out of you, have parties and tell people that I have thee Mattio here. Do you know how fucking awesome that will be?”
I smile.
“But, since you're famous and you've picked my company, I will help you out a little bit. I think you need some protection; someone to look out for you, on the streets, and in the ring. I think you need a bodyguard.”
This idea sounds stupid, I would tell him I don't need one, but I see him signaling that tall British dude into the room. As he arrives I get a bigger picture on his sheer stature. He has to be at least seven feet tall, and his hands are something out of a B-movie, you know one of those terrible horror ones? Well he's the prototype I bet.
“Mattio, meet Dave. He will protect you in all walks of life.”
I put my hand out, expecting a hand shake, but that hand shake never comes as he simply stares. I look back at Jesse, flip the black hair that is covering my right eye, and tell him, “What about protecting him? Any guidance?”
Jesse laughs and Dave growls.
Dave and I are walking the streets of Chicago together. This feels so awkward, he has yet to say a word to me. Why didn't I speak out? Why did I allow Jesse to give me this man to watch over me? I am Mattio, the charasmatic actor, singer, wrestler extraordinaire! Not some lackey.
“What do you want to do?” I ask.
“You should be training for the match.” He answers, finally.
“Know any good training facilities?”
“Not really… Just look around you. Fight someone.”
I quickly respond. “But that's assult.”
“Not if you make it their fault, and aren't you a famous actor? Famous people get away with all sorts of things that us normal people don't. I mean, I heard a rumor that one of your opponents, that Shane Sparkx fellow, actually threw his full bottle of wine on some poor woman after she didn't know who he was. Of course, that might not be true; but given Shane's fame, it wouldn't shock me that he got away with it if he did it. So I suggest you just pick some schmoe, get up in their face, make a big scene, fall on the ground and then get up and begin to beat them up. Just watch me.”
Dave, or as I will probably call him, the Big Man, walks up to an equally tall fellow and then begins to shout at him.
“I am trying to enjoy my day sir! How dare you bother me. Don't you dare touch me.”
Dave is on the ground, the guy is trying to run. But the Big Man, or BM, gets up and chases after him, eventually he grabs him, turns him around and grabs him by the neck and delivers a chokeslam, sending the man on the pavement at full speed.
The police come and arrest the man on the ground for “harassing” the BM. He walks back to me, “See, just like that. Let's walk to the other side of town before we try anymore. Don't want to leave a trail, you know?”
As we walk, I ask the question that some reason just popped up. “So whom exactly am I facing?”