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Post by Vinny Falcone on Mar 14, 2011 12:21:32 GMT -5
You two RP here.
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Post by Ezekiel Tyson on Mar 19, 2011 11:14:29 GMT -5
*The Tysons, Ezekiel and Solomon are backstage in their locker room talking about this coming Worldwide and about how each of them has been put in a TV or North American championship tournament, Solomon has to deal with P.T Merciless while ezekiel has Trip Master but they are also in the tag team gauntlet with The British Union, The Hornets, The Suffering, The Bulldogs, The Dipper Brothers and The Thrill Killers for a chance to face The Klu Klux Klowns for the Tag Team Titles*
Solomon: Do you think we can do it?
Ezekiel: Do what?
Solomon: Defeat everyone we have to at Worldwide, I mean I've got the TV title tournament match against P.T Merciless, you've got the North American title tournament match against Trip Master and then we've got the Tag Team Gauntlet against all those other teams, it's a lot to do in one night.
Ezekiel: We can do it! We just need to persevere, how do think I won the World title, how do you think we are going to win at Worldwide, with perseverence. You understand don't you.
Solomon: Yeah I understand perfectly.
Ezekiel: Thta's a good brother and don't worry about your match against P.T Merciless I'll be at ringside the whole time but that means you have to be ringside all the time for my match against Trip Master.
Solomon: You got a deal, bro.
Ezekiel: And with the Tag Team Gauntlet it will be a breeze apart from maybe The Sufferng but that's only because they happen to beat us when we had an off night.
Solomon: Yeah, we could have beaten them had it not been for the fact that we were having an off night.
Ezekiel: So don't worry about it, like I said it will be a walk in the park.
*Scene fades to black*
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Post by ptmerciless1 on Mar 25, 2011 13:33:39 GMT -5
The Planner
The man leaned on the table with both elbows and cradled his cup of Swiss tea in both hands, holding it in front of his unshaven face. Pete Medland's nerves were jittery these days, and it wasn't the six cups or so of tea he consumed each morning now that was to blame. Not entirely, anyway.
His cousin had mentioned on a few occasions that he wasn't exactly himself lately, that he'd become harder, darker, somehow. The man who was known around the world as P.T. Merciless didn't dispute the fact; he simply didn't agree that it was a problem. He'd been reckless in the past. Now, he was focused.
He was a man who'd met with many great successes, however brief they seemed to be. Looking back, his ventures time and again led to failure, friction, and national embarrassment.
UCW. CWE. CWA.
All were great accomplishments. Yet none ended well. Why?
The question had been burning in him for months now. His plans, however perfectly measured out and executed, always carried enough force to thrust him headlong into a brick wall. His whole life in Cleveland and Columbus was testament to that. For all his scamming, trying, manipulating and climbing, all he really had to show for his efforts today was a lot of enemies and a shitty reputation. Again, he wonders, what went wrong?
Every morning seems the same now. He gets up, throws on his plaid flannel shirt (he never realized how comfortable peasant clothing could be), runs a brush through his hair, scratches his balls, and heads downtown in his new home of Boston, where he visits the local franchise of his restaurant chain, Pete's Grille and Pizza. This had become his habit whenever he's home. This is where he was sitting right now.
"Uuhh..." He groaned the groan of the worldweary as he stretched his arms out and used the back of his chair to crack his back. He'd been sleeping sporadically for weeks. Well, for months. Ever since Belle, his wife, had comitted suicide in a Columbus jail cell.
His romance with the journalist Wendy Taylor seemed to have evaporated. After two months of a wonderful relationship---one based on not just sex and paganistic excess like his one with Belle, but actual conversation, humor, understanding and mutual respect---Wendy had stopped seeing him. Her reasons were unclear, but P.T. judged it had a lot to do with his alcoholism, his depression, and the few snippets he'd finally let her in on about his diabolical past. The framing of Coco Savage (or the attempted framing---again, a failure) when he was trying to take control of the CWE. Things like that. He hadn't been stupid enough to tell her about his habit of hiring hitmen and ordering executions, of course. But the framing was enough, anyway. Wendy was gone.
"Are you all right today, Mr. Merciless?" The waitress held a tray in her hand and placed a clean ashtray in front of him. He owned this restaurant, and he'd kept the smoking section cordoned off after purchasing the place from the new owner. The city of Boston said you couldn't smoke. P.T. said, fuck that.
"I'm all right, Esmerelda," he said, always somewhat charmed by this girl. She was a helluva waitress, and he found it cute that someone as young as twenty-five would be named Esmerelda. Usually, that was a granny name, and even then, a rare one.
"Hangin' in there, dollface, hangin' in there," P.T. said. He smiled tiredly and it wasn't lost on him how he couldn't be a happier man. He was, after all, a millionaire, famous (or infamous), and had no problem getting laid even when he hadn't showered in three days. Esmerelda had already taken him around the world herself.
"You need to cheer up, honey," she said in a bit of a sultry voice, and P.T. smiled as she scuttled off to wait on the real customers. P.T. ran a hand over his face and started thumbing through the mail he'd brought here with him this morning. Thumbing through his mail had become something he'd started doing here each day at Pete's Grille.
"Bill, bill, lawsuit, bill..." Same old horseshit. Then, a note popped up. It was in Esmerelda's writing, which was distinctive. She'd obviously made no attempt to alter it, either.
MEET WITH MENACE IN ROXBURY. 7 PM.
P.T. sat back and his heart jumped a bit. Not at receiving a message from his new business associate, Sexton "Menace" Ritter, but at the fact that said message had been written by his own waitress in his own restaurant. Was Menace an idiot? No, he wasn't, but maybe his balls were a little too large. P.T.'s head shot up and he regarded Esmerelda as she waited the tables not far off from his little private corner overlooking Boston Harbor. When she saw him, she lifted her skirt so only he could see the soft flesh of her ass. The anarchy symbol there was unmistakable, done in a very unique style. It was the symbol of the organization called MENACE.
P.T. shook his head and raised his eyebrows as Esmerelda winked at him and strutted away, her long legs and high heels making him tingle a bit as an aftershock. Menace had delivered his message and made his point to P.T. He had people all over, and he was one crafty man. P.T.'s new business relationship was going to pay off, big time. He was sure Menace intended to drive that home as well. He did. P.T. could see it all now. GWA. UWA. Maybe even the return of CWA. The achievement, finally, of his wrestling empire, built on the backs of the unwitting and non-visioned. It almost gave him a hard-on.
P.T. smiled now, and a little of the old light seemed to wash over him. The old confidence was coming back.
"Hey, sweetheart," he called over to Esmerelda as she bent over a table not far away to wipe it down, "How 'bout a little ginny-gin-gin? I've had enough caffeine to keep a sperm whale awake."
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