Post by Mr. Showtime on Feb 29, 2016 18:44:03 GMT -5
Biting off more than you can chew is an interesting expression. First you see one or multiple things that you want for various reasons. In an instant you’ve figuratively shoved everything into your mouth at once, experiencing the euphoria of all you wanted and more, attacking your taste buds as it melds together. In far too many cases getting everything you want backfires. As your mouth is overfull your saliva begins to dry up and your throat closes. Panic engulfs you. You can’t swallow what you so wholeheartedly wanted and breathing becomes a greater issue. Your jaw locks and all of your desires begin to smother you in the most ironically oppressive sense.
This is where “Mr. Showtime” Michael Wryght found himself. In a state between swimming and drowning. He intently listened to his cell phone as a producer from Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation droned on. His voice was annoying and nasally with an inflection that was way too excited for a casual phone call.
“This is a once in a lifetime opportunity Mikey. Can I call you Mikey?” rambled on the producer.
“No you may not,” growled Showtime, as he sipped from the rocks glass resting in his hand. He’d avoided booze for the last year or so, but the weight of his responsibilities was just too heavy at this point. Leave it to some vintage scotch to take the edge off. “I also don’t see how this opportunity is any different from all of the others consistently coming my way.”
“Come on Mikey, you’re a hot commodity right now. You’ve already headlined Hollywood and this one would surround the secrecy of The Black Hand. A storyline that you and your friends created for Pure Class Wrestling. Think of all of the free press you’ll get. No other Presidential candidate will get this kind of coverage. We can be flexible in moving shoots across the country so you can campaign. Since the Black Hand is everywhere, am I right? It’s win/win. Let these other candidates battle it out for their party’s nominations, because you don’t have to worry about it.”
“In all honesty I really just have too much on my plate at the moment.”
“Bubby, baby, don’t worry about the time we can clearly work around your schedule. I guarantee that we will get all of the best to work on this project with you. Writers. Director. Co-Stars. All A-list talent to surround you. You really did a great thing by announcing so early. An action I though detrimental to your cause, but what a putz I was. You look like a saint as every other person airs out the other’s dirty laundry. BEAUTIFUL, JUST BEAUTIFUL,” the producer erupted.
Showtime poured the rest of the bottle of Glenmorangie 18-year single malt scotch into his glass and produced a fresh bottle from his drawer. Showtime knew how this worked. This guy would not leave him alone until Showtime accepted. Wryght contemplated just hanging up but the producer would continuously call back, claiming he thought the call just dropped.
“Let me think about it,” Showtime stated more than asked.
“Mikey, don’t toy with my heart here,” pleaded the producer. “Remember we have to have all of your scenes shot before you really start your presidential campaigning. We do not have that much time at our disposal. Let me tell you what, you ponder your existence on this mortal coil and I will start greasing the wheels. You’ll have a script in your possession by end of next week. I promise you some creative control, the idea being yours and all, so we can all make a shit ton of money. Once you climb aboard you’ll have to jet out here to have a celebratory dinner. I don’t take no for an answer. You’re beautiful, stay that way,” and with that he hung up the phone.
Showtime’s head spun from the producers fast talk mixed with the scotch, but he didn’t care. There was no chance in hell he’d take the gig. Showtime figured the Black Hand would never want a movie made of them. They needed some light shone on them, but not a feature film. That was too much spotlight for their liking. As the tide began to rise above his head, he knew that some things would need to be sacrificed. Though Pure Class Wrestling wouldn’t be one of them.
He already made the stink to take the helm and he would do the job well. Regardless of what affiliation he claimed he was always a showman. Giving the fans their money’s worth was the cherry on top of everything he did. That’s was the main reason he couldn’t sit idly by while the fat cats let PCW run itself into the ground. Someone needed to step up.
He ripped the foil off the fresh bottle with his teeth and poured another healthy glass. The dangerous part of scotch is as the number of glasses increased the smoother the taste got. He couldn’t help but smile at his performance from the last Trauma. A calculated game plan will win more times than not against a fighter that flies by the seat of his pants. It was something Showtime once tried to teach young Kaard. He was immature and couldn’t see that Wryght was looking out for his best interests. Grounding any high flyer will ruin them nine out of ten times.
Though Showtime’s smile began to fade as he realized that he wouldn’t be fighting this sort of competitor this week. Showtime was only one week removed from losing to Mentis and Rhodes somehow was able to steal a win over Phinehas. The thought of giving him three straight wins against Black Hand members was cringe worthy. The two have had their differences, but as whiskeyed up as he was it caused a bit of a rage in his belly. Mentis was a top notch competitor, but someone that could not be allowed to make the Hand look foolish.
Showtime’s phone began to vibrate and he was hesitant to see what that producer had sent him this time, but to his surprise the message came from elsewhere. It buzzed numerous time in succession.
Good
Luck
Beat
NCM
Avenge
Me
From
Phinehas
Showtime was in complete shock. Not because Phinehas Grimm was wishing him luck in a match, but for a much more startling reason.
“Egad! Phinehas knows how to text message? Not very well, but still. Now I can’t lose…”
Be careful what you wish for…
This is where “Mr. Showtime” Michael Wryght found himself. In a state between swimming and drowning. He intently listened to his cell phone as a producer from Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation droned on. His voice was annoying and nasally with an inflection that was way too excited for a casual phone call.
“This is a once in a lifetime opportunity Mikey. Can I call you Mikey?” rambled on the producer.
“No you may not,” growled Showtime, as he sipped from the rocks glass resting in his hand. He’d avoided booze for the last year or so, but the weight of his responsibilities was just too heavy at this point. Leave it to some vintage scotch to take the edge off. “I also don’t see how this opportunity is any different from all of the others consistently coming my way.”
“Come on Mikey, you’re a hot commodity right now. You’ve already headlined Hollywood and this one would surround the secrecy of The Black Hand. A storyline that you and your friends created for Pure Class Wrestling. Think of all of the free press you’ll get. No other Presidential candidate will get this kind of coverage. We can be flexible in moving shoots across the country so you can campaign. Since the Black Hand is everywhere, am I right? It’s win/win. Let these other candidates battle it out for their party’s nominations, because you don’t have to worry about it.”
“In all honesty I really just have too much on my plate at the moment.”
“Bubby, baby, don’t worry about the time we can clearly work around your schedule. I guarantee that we will get all of the best to work on this project with you. Writers. Director. Co-Stars. All A-list talent to surround you. You really did a great thing by announcing so early. An action I though detrimental to your cause, but what a putz I was. You look like a saint as every other person airs out the other’s dirty laundry. BEAUTIFUL, JUST BEAUTIFUL,” the producer erupted.
Showtime poured the rest of the bottle of Glenmorangie 18-year single malt scotch into his glass and produced a fresh bottle from his drawer. Showtime knew how this worked. This guy would not leave him alone until Showtime accepted. Wryght contemplated just hanging up but the producer would continuously call back, claiming he thought the call just dropped.
“Let me think about it,” Showtime stated more than asked.
“Mikey, don’t toy with my heart here,” pleaded the producer. “Remember we have to have all of your scenes shot before you really start your presidential campaigning. We do not have that much time at our disposal. Let me tell you what, you ponder your existence on this mortal coil and I will start greasing the wheels. You’ll have a script in your possession by end of next week. I promise you some creative control, the idea being yours and all, so we can all make a shit ton of money. Once you climb aboard you’ll have to jet out here to have a celebratory dinner. I don’t take no for an answer. You’re beautiful, stay that way,” and with that he hung up the phone.
Showtime’s head spun from the producers fast talk mixed with the scotch, but he didn’t care. There was no chance in hell he’d take the gig. Showtime figured the Black Hand would never want a movie made of them. They needed some light shone on them, but not a feature film. That was too much spotlight for their liking. As the tide began to rise above his head, he knew that some things would need to be sacrificed. Though Pure Class Wrestling wouldn’t be one of them.
He already made the stink to take the helm and he would do the job well. Regardless of what affiliation he claimed he was always a showman. Giving the fans their money’s worth was the cherry on top of everything he did. That’s was the main reason he couldn’t sit idly by while the fat cats let PCW run itself into the ground. Someone needed to step up.
He ripped the foil off the fresh bottle with his teeth and poured another healthy glass. The dangerous part of scotch is as the number of glasses increased the smoother the taste got. He couldn’t help but smile at his performance from the last Trauma. A calculated game plan will win more times than not against a fighter that flies by the seat of his pants. It was something Showtime once tried to teach young Kaard. He was immature and couldn’t see that Wryght was looking out for his best interests. Grounding any high flyer will ruin them nine out of ten times.
Though Showtime’s smile began to fade as he realized that he wouldn’t be fighting this sort of competitor this week. Showtime was only one week removed from losing to Mentis and Rhodes somehow was able to steal a win over Phinehas. The thought of giving him three straight wins against Black Hand members was cringe worthy. The two have had their differences, but as whiskeyed up as he was it caused a bit of a rage in his belly. Mentis was a top notch competitor, but someone that could not be allowed to make the Hand look foolish.
Showtime’s phone began to vibrate and he was hesitant to see what that producer had sent him this time, but to his surprise the message came from elsewhere. It buzzed numerous time in succession.
Good
Luck
Beat
NCM
Avenge
Me
From
Phinehas
Showtime was in complete shock. Not because Phinehas Grimm was wishing him luck in a match, but for a much more startling reason.
“Egad! Phinehas knows how to text message? Not very well, but still. Now I can’t lose…”
