Post by fdcm on Apr 2, 2007 23:31:59 GMT -6
Justin McCreery's head was killing him.
Like he didn't have enough on his plate. A whole new territory? What in hellfire? Nevermind the fact that this opened a nightmarish anthill of contractual b.s. as to who was working where, but it had never even occured to Mr. Capaci that his staff would now be running TWO promotions until the new company was fully staffed and operational. More good news for the overworked and underpaid...
And that was exactly why he didn't need to hear THIS come over the speaker on his desk.
Secretary: Mr. McCreery? There's a Mr....Diamond Cutter Man, here to see you?
He sighs wearily and massages his forehead. Not this clown.
McCreery: Christ...send him in, I guess.
Immediately, the doors to McCreery's office burst open and in step two of the now familiar Flying Diamond Cutter Girls. Behind them, they are dropping a veritable cloud of what appear to be rose petals. Walking behind them on the petals in his bare feet, dressed in what can only be described as a pure white "pimp suit", complete with fur coat and a fedora with a giant plume coming out the top of it, is FDCM. As always, he is clutching the UWL title under one arm. With his other hand, he pulls off his mirrored shades and gives McCreery a death glare.
FDCM: Just what in the burning blue hell is going on around here!?
McCreery: All kinds of things, I'm afraid, so I'm gonna need you to go ahead and be more specific.
FDCM: Sure. Refresher course!
FDCM starts to make his way closer to McCreery's desk, throwing an angry look at his attendants. After a moment they catch the hint and throw down more petals, giving him a path to walk on up to McCreery.
FDCM: A week ago, everything is cool. I'm sitting in my awesome dressing room, minding my own business. You're even coming by to MAKE SURE I'm satisfied. Then two days later, Capaci sends a hired thug to interfere in my match and try to destroy my Flying Diamonds!? I say again...WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?
McCreery: FDCM, I have no idea. It's got nothing to do with me. Totally over my head. If Mr. Capaci decided he was fed up with you, I guess he was fed up. He didn't appreciate you coming in the way you did, and I guess he decided to put you in your place.
FDCM is silent, for a change. He's giving McCreery the iciest stare imaginable, but he's silent. His mouth is an almost impercievably thin line as he ponders the younger man's words.
FDCM: Put me...in my...place? Put me...in my f**king...place. Quentin McQueery, need I remind you that I am the World...Heavyweight...Champion? The One True Champion? The REAL Heavyweight Champion!? "My place" is on top of the d**n world, you pipsqueak! It's on red carpets, it's hot-dogging with Hollywood's finest, it's eating Filet Mingon and sleeping in cashmere sheets and playing poker with Donald Trump, while bottomfeeders like you shine my shoes and tell me how good I look in my new Ray-Bans, you fungus! It isn't lying in the middle of the ring in front of thousands of people holding my d**n family jewels!
Despite the "champ's" temper tantrum, McCreery remains uncharacteristically cool. His boss has prepared him for this kind of reaction.
McCreery: So...do something about it.
FDCM: I beg your f**king pardon, pondscum?
McCreery: You said it yourself last week, "champ." My boss wants one thing, and one thing only...to be sure you're keeping up your end of the deal. Pulling your weight. He gave you a fat contract with all that guaranteed money, and every fringe benefit you've asked for. You think he'd give all that up without ensuring that you're going to give him the bang for every last one of his bucks?
So if you're so fed up with the way you've been treated, so indignant, and so angry...do something about it. Show up. Be the man who won the World Heavyweight Title from Mr. Capaci himself. Once he sees that man in his ranks...he'll be more than satisfied.
For his part, FDCM is at this point a pleasant shade of pinkish-red, and looks very much like his head is about to detonate all over McCreery's freshly vacuumed corner office.
FDCM: How...dare...you? You and your boss are going to talk to ME about pulling MY weight!? Where was this attitude a month ago, when "Mister" Capaci was DYING to see FDCM come to POW? When a representative of YOUR company got on his KNEES and BEGGED me to bring my aura of excellence to this pissant little promotion? Every demand, every whim, and every dollar sign I demanded out of your self-satisfied, sanctimonious ASSHOLE of a boss, he gave and gave willingly. Why? Because he knows I'm the best! I'm the one man who could beat him, and because of that, he knows I'M the man to put his company on the map. I'M the one who will make him rich, a household name as a businessman and promoter!
Do you honestly think anyone gave half a shit about this place before the FDC Man graced it with his presence? You think people are buying tickets and DVDs so they can watch Shawn Stevens, that perpetrating pseudo-champion, beat up on a bunch of nobodies, has-beens, never-weres and never-will-bes? No. Hell no. They're tuning in because they know that now they can FINALLY see the REAL champion in a Power On Wrestling ring! And you want to talk about me not living up to expectations?
Well I tell you what I'll do. Capaci wants a show? I'll give it to him. I'll go out there Thursday night, and I'll kick the ever-loving bajeezus out of his little prick of the moment, this Danny Danielson. This guy that couldn't even go toe-to-toe with the fake champion, Shawn Stevens...how can he expect to hang with a man who wears REAL gold? Time-tested gold. Battle-worn gold.
That Danielson's a lucky man. Back in the main event, one-on-one with yours truly, as his reward for what? Losing his title shot? Developing a taste for Tito Capaci's nether regions? Hell, I don't even wanna know. But by hook or by crook, he's back on top of the card. Lucky cat, he is. That is, of course, if your definition of "lucky" is "about to get his ass absolutely smoked yet again", this time by the One True Champ, the Epitome of Awesome, the man every single sucker in that locker room wishes he could be...the REAL world champion, Flying...Diamond...Cutter...MAN!
FDCM is now whipping himself into a veritable frenzy. He throws his hat down in a fit of passion, speaking louder and faster, staring wildly at McCreery as if it's Danielson himself sitting in that chair.
FDCM: The fact is, you can bring all the family heritage you want, all the family colors, all the family pride...but it will pale in comparison to the sheer blinding light of my greatness. The AURA that can only come from being a champion in the truest sense of the word. You see, I've been everywhere. Seen it all. Done it all. Fought 'em all! And I've seen a million billion little turds just like Danielson float up to the surface of the cesspool that is this business. "Oh, this guy's a real blue chipper," they say. "He's different. He's special. This business is in his blood. It's in his heart. It's in his soul." Well I say...f**k that. You wanna talk about souls? You wanna talk about spirit? There's only one religion in our industry, Danielson, and that's quite simply...VICTORY, or DEFEAT. Heaven, or Hell. Greatness...or obscurity. And when you talk about greatness, what's the image that comes to mind?
FDCM gravely holds out his championship belt.
FDCM: This...right here. When you get to wear this, it's our business's way of saying "Champ...you're something truly special. You're the king of the mountain, the star of the show, the One True Champion." And in the religion of winners, and losers...this little trinket...makes you a GOD.
You may be a man, Danielson. You may even be a great man. I don't know, because I don't know you. But I know one thing.
By this point, FDCM has leaned all the way over McCreery's desk and is staring him dead in the eye, close enough for the poor intern to count the beads of sweat dripping down his forehead.
FDCM: You...are not...a god.
Literally shaking with vigor, FDCM backs away. More calmly now, he stoops over to pick up his hat, readjusting it with a slight jaunt atop his head. He slings the championship belt back over his shoulder as he turns to leave, his FDC Girls obediently opening the office doors for him.
FDCM: Think Danielson can go toe to toe with an immortal, McQueery? Because I don't think he's got a snowball's chance in hell.
Covered in sweat himself and clearly alarmed, just now getting past the surefire belief that FDCM was about to leap over the table and Diamond Cutter him to the ground himself, McCreery stammers out an attempt at bravado.
McCreery: Who the hell do you think you are!? Y-you can't act this way! You can't talk to me like that! You think Mr. Capaci is going to take this defiance lying down!?
With a smirk, FDCM turns back to McCreery one final time as he pushes his sunglasses back up over the bridge of his nose.
FDCM: What are you gonna do about it? I'm the champ!
Without another word, FDCM follows his girls out McCreery's front door, still walking daintily on his personal path of rose petals, arms outstretched as if he's absorbing the personal admiration and worship of a million imaginary followers.
This one won't be tamed.
Like he didn't have enough on his plate. A whole new territory? What in hellfire? Nevermind the fact that this opened a nightmarish anthill of contractual b.s. as to who was working where, but it had never even occured to Mr. Capaci that his staff would now be running TWO promotions until the new company was fully staffed and operational. More good news for the overworked and underpaid...
And that was exactly why he didn't need to hear THIS come over the speaker on his desk.
Secretary: Mr. McCreery? There's a Mr....Diamond Cutter Man, here to see you?
He sighs wearily and massages his forehead. Not this clown.
McCreery: Christ...send him in, I guess.
Immediately, the doors to McCreery's office burst open and in step two of the now familiar Flying Diamond Cutter Girls. Behind them, they are dropping a veritable cloud of what appear to be rose petals. Walking behind them on the petals in his bare feet, dressed in what can only be described as a pure white "pimp suit", complete with fur coat and a fedora with a giant plume coming out the top of it, is FDCM. As always, he is clutching the UWL title under one arm. With his other hand, he pulls off his mirrored shades and gives McCreery a death glare.
FDCM: Just what in the burning blue hell is going on around here!?
McCreery: All kinds of things, I'm afraid, so I'm gonna need you to go ahead and be more specific.
FDCM: Sure. Refresher course!
FDCM starts to make his way closer to McCreery's desk, throwing an angry look at his attendants. After a moment they catch the hint and throw down more petals, giving him a path to walk on up to McCreery.
FDCM: A week ago, everything is cool. I'm sitting in my awesome dressing room, minding my own business. You're even coming by to MAKE SURE I'm satisfied. Then two days later, Capaci sends a hired thug to interfere in my match and try to destroy my Flying Diamonds!? I say again...WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?
McCreery: FDCM, I have no idea. It's got nothing to do with me. Totally over my head. If Mr. Capaci decided he was fed up with you, I guess he was fed up. He didn't appreciate you coming in the way you did, and I guess he decided to put you in your place.
FDCM is silent, for a change. He's giving McCreery the iciest stare imaginable, but he's silent. His mouth is an almost impercievably thin line as he ponders the younger man's words.
FDCM: Put me...in my...place? Put me...in my f**king...place. Quentin McQueery, need I remind you that I am the World...Heavyweight...Champion? The One True Champion? The REAL Heavyweight Champion!? "My place" is on top of the d**n world, you pipsqueak! It's on red carpets, it's hot-dogging with Hollywood's finest, it's eating Filet Mingon and sleeping in cashmere sheets and playing poker with Donald Trump, while bottomfeeders like you shine my shoes and tell me how good I look in my new Ray-Bans, you fungus! It isn't lying in the middle of the ring in front of thousands of people holding my d**n family jewels!
Despite the "champ's" temper tantrum, McCreery remains uncharacteristically cool. His boss has prepared him for this kind of reaction.
McCreery: So...do something about it.
FDCM: I beg your f**king pardon, pondscum?
McCreery: You said it yourself last week, "champ." My boss wants one thing, and one thing only...to be sure you're keeping up your end of the deal. Pulling your weight. He gave you a fat contract with all that guaranteed money, and every fringe benefit you've asked for. You think he'd give all that up without ensuring that you're going to give him the bang for every last one of his bucks?
So if you're so fed up with the way you've been treated, so indignant, and so angry...do something about it. Show up. Be the man who won the World Heavyweight Title from Mr. Capaci himself. Once he sees that man in his ranks...he'll be more than satisfied.
For his part, FDCM is at this point a pleasant shade of pinkish-red, and looks very much like his head is about to detonate all over McCreery's freshly vacuumed corner office.
FDCM: How...dare...you? You and your boss are going to talk to ME about pulling MY weight!? Where was this attitude a month ago, when "Mister" Capaci was DYING to see FDCM come to POW? When a representative of YOUR company got on his KNEES and BEGGED me to bring my aura of excellence to this pissant little promotion? Every demand, every whim, and every dollar sign I demanded out of your self-satisfied, sanctimonious ASSHOLE of a boss, he gave and gave willingly. Why? Because he knows I'm the best! I'm the one man who could beat him, and because of that, he knows I'M the man to put his company on the map. I'M the one who will make him rich, a household name as a businessman and promoter!
Do you honestly think anyone gave half a shit about this place before the FDC Man graced it with his presence? You think people are buying tickets and DVDs so they can watch Shawn Stevens, that perpetrating pseudo-champion, beat up on a bunch of nobodies, has-beens, never-weres and never-will-bes? No. Hell no. They're tuning in because they know that now they can FINALLY see the REAL champion in a Power On Wrestling ring! And you want to talk about me not living up to expectations?
Well I tell you what I'll do. Capaci wants a show? I'll give it to him. I'll go out there Thursday night, and I'll kick the ever-loving bajeezus out of his little prick of the moment, this Danny Danielson. This guy that couldn't even go toe-to-toe with the fake champion, Shawn Stevens...how can he expect to hang with a man who wears REAL gold? Time-tested gold. Battle-worn gold.
That Danielson's a lucky man. Back in the main event, one-on-one with yours truly, as his reward for what? Losing his title shot? Developing a taste for Tito Capaci's nether regions? Hell, I don't even wanna know. But by hook or by crook, he's back on top of the card. Lucky cat, he is. That is, of course, if your definition of "lucky" is "about to get his ass absolutely smoked yet again", this time by the One True Champ, the Epitome of Awesome, the man every single sucker in that locker room wishes he could be...the REAL world champion, Flying...Diamond...Cutter...MAN!
FDCM is now whipping himself into a veritable frenzy. He throws his hat down in a fit of passion, speaking louder and faster, staring wildly at McCreery as if it's Danielson himself sitting in that chair.
FDCM: The fact is, you can bring all the family heritage you want, all the family colors, all the family pride...but it will pale in comparison to the sheer blinding light of my greatness. The AURA that can only come from being a champion in the truest sense of the word. You see, I've been everywhere. Seen it all. Done it all. Fought 'em all! And I've seen a million billion little turds just like Danielson float up to the surface of the cesspool that is this business. "Oh, this guy's a real blue chipper," they say. "He's different. He's special. This business is in his blood. It's in his heart. It's in his soul." Well I say...f**k that. You wanna talk about souls? You wanna talk about spirit? There's only one religion in our industry, Danielson, and that's quite simply...VICTORY, or DEFEAT. Heaven, or Hell. Greatness...or obscurity. And when you talk about greatness, what's the image that comes to mind?
FDCM gravely holds out his championship belt.
FDCM: This...right here. When you get to wear this, it's our business's way of saying "Champ...you're something truly special. You're the king of the mountain, the star of the show, the One True Champion." And in the religion of winners, and losers...this little trinket...makes you a GOD.
You may be a man, Danielson. You may even be a great man. I don't know, because I don't know you. But I know one thing.
By this point, FDCM has leaned all the way over McCreery's desk and is staring him dead in the eye, close enough for the poor intern to count the beads of sweat dripping down his forehead.
FDCM: You...are not...a god.
Literally shaking with vigor, FDCM backs away. More calmly now, he stoops over to pick up his hat, readjusting it with a slight jaunt atop his head. He slings the championship belt back over his shoulder as he turns to leave, his FDC Girls obediently opening the office doors for him.
FDCM: Think Danielson can go toe to toe with an immortal, McQueery? Because I don't think he's got a snowball's chance in hell.
Covered in sweat himself and clearly alarmed, just now getting past the surefire belief that FDCM was about to leap over the table and Diamond Cutter him to the ground himself, McCreery stammers out an attempt at bravado.
McCreery: Who the hell do you think you are!? Y-you can't act this way! You can't talk to me like that! You think Mr. Capaci is going to take this defiance lying down!?
With a smirk, FDCM turns back to McCreery one final time as he pushes his sunglasses back up over the bridge of his nose.
FDCM: What are you gonna do about it? I'm the champ!
Without another word, FDCM follows his girls out McCreery's front door, still walking daintily on his personal path of rose petals, arms outstretched as if he's absorbing the personal admiration and worship of a million imaginary followers.
This one won't be tamed.