Post by George Duke on Feb 3, 2007 15:58:24 GMT -6
The Diner At the Plaza is a clean family place during the day, but at night it turns seedy and sleezy. It's not a difficult guess that George Duke prefers to go up to the Snider Ave. diner at night. He sits at a table near the bar, having just polished off a good meal. He taps the ash off his cigar into a hidden ashtray (city law prohibits smoking, but just as the first prohibition, many establishments have ways around it). Duke shakes his head as he puts down his newspaper. He looks into the camera with a sadistic gleam in his eye, but with a bright smile on his face. His gravel-laced voice spits out his words.
"Brock Hoyle's got a lot of balls showing his face around here. Me an' Brock go back a long way, don't we? Hehe. If I recall correctly, I'm the one who kicked his ass straight outta GCW. How is the knee, anyway? Brock, old friend - you're not going to stick around here without meeting ol' George Duke sometime soon, I assure you that! You just wait - wait and see. In the shadows? From the crowd? Hell, don't forget - I know where you live, haha! Maybe your lovely lady-friend would like to hear from me instead? Let's just wait and see, Brock. Wait and see..."
George stubs out his cigar as a waitress comes by and sprays some air freshener. A few cops come in through the door. Duke picks up right where he left off.
"Of course, this week my opponent is in a very undesirable spot. I'm pissed at a headliner - and I'm on the midcard. Looks like I'm going to have to be extra loud to make them hear me, right? Ha! If the referees are going to have their hands full this week, believe me. Now, on top of that - I found out that not only does my opponent this week have a sh*t attitude - he's also f*cking stupid! Kansas City must be just thrilled to have a young man like you representing them. I mean - Harley Race? No, no - The Madman has it cornered, right? Hahaha!"
George's smile drops and his face becomes painfully serious. His dissatisfaction with his opponent is quite clear.
"Madman - you're name must be accurate, because you just stepped into a world of misery. I'm pissed off at Hoyle, I'm building a reputation and now - I'm pissed off at you! I don't like white trash - nothing is worse. It seems Kansas is a breeding ground for it. Now, aside from being bigger and more experienced than you are, my location gives me an advantage. Since you're from Kansas, I'm naturally smarter than you. That's just the way it is, so it's not like you could change it. Same with my second reason. I'm from South Philadelphia. We're raised from the time we are born to settle our differences with our fists. I'm a helluva a fighter - I was born with the spirit to do so. The technical abilities I have I earned - and then again, it's no contest. I was a trainer for ten years, I know what I'm doing, kiddo. I was gonna come into that arena and beat you silly - a good old fashioned ass kicking. But then you came on and started running your little mealy mouth. Now I'm going to have to beat you bloody. I promise you that you'll leave plenty of your DNA at ringside. If this is a risk you don't want to take - I suggest you stay home. I wouldn't think less of you, nor would anyone else. You're putting your career on the line now, kid. Blood and broken necks are in your future. I promise you that."
George spits onto his empty plate to drive his point home. As the cruiser outside pulls away, he re-lite his cigar and goes back to his Philadelphia Inquierer. The camera pulls out as a waitress approaches the table, and George allows himself a beer.
"Brock Hoyle's got a lot of balls showing his face around here. Me an' Brock go back a long way, don't we? Hehe. If I recall correctly, I'm the one who kicked his ass straight outta GCW. How is the knee, anyway? Brock, old friend - you're not going to stick around here without meeting ol' George Duke sometime soon, I assure you that! You just wait - wait and see. In the shadows? From the crowd? Hell, don't forget - I know where you live, haha! Maybe your lovely lady-friend would like to hear from me instead? Let's just wait and see, Brock. Wait and see..."
George stubs out his cigar as a waitress comes by and sprays some air freshener. A few cops come in through the door. Duke picks up right where he left off.
"Of course, this week my opponent is in a very undesirable spot. I'm pissed at a headliner - and I'm on the midcard. Looks like I'm going to have to be extra loud to make them hear me, right? Ha! If the referees are going to have their hands full this week, believe me. Now, on top of that - I found out that not only does my opponent this week have a sh*t attitude - he's also f*cking stupid! Kansas City must be just thrilled to have a young man like you representing them. I mean - Harley Race? No, no - The Madman has it cornered, right? Hahaha!"
George's smile drops and his face becomes painfully serious. His dissatisfaction with his opponent is quite clear.
"Madman - you're name must be accurate, because you just stepped into a world of misery. I'm pissed off at Hoyle, I'm building a reputation and now - I'm pissed off at you! I don't like white trash - nothing is worse. It seems Kansas is a breeding ground for it. Now, aside from being bigger and more experienced than you are, my location gives me an advantage. Since you're from Kansas, I'm naturally smarter than you. That's just the way it is, so it's not like you could change it. Same with my second reason. I'm from South Philadelphia. We're raised from the time we are born to settle our differences with our fists. I'm a helluva a fighter - I was born with the spirit to do so. The technical abilities I have I earned - and then again, it's no contest. I was a trainer for ten years, I know what I'm doing, kiddo. I was gonna come into that arena and beat you silly - a good old fashioned ass kicking. But then you came on and started running your little mealy mouth. Now I'm going to have to beat you bloody. I promise you that you'll leave plenty of your DNA at ringside. If this is a risk you don't want to take - I suggest you stay home. I wouldn't think less of you, nor would anyone else. You're putting your career on the line now, kid. Blood and broken necks are in your future. I promise you that."
George spits onto his empty plate to drive his point home. As the cruiser outside pulls away, he re-lite his cigar and goes back to his Philadelphia Inquierer. The camera pulls out as a waitress approaches the table, and George allows himself a beer.
