Post by Mr. Showtime on May 9, 2016 21:59:11 GMT -5
8 a.m.
The front door swung open letting in the cool morning breeze. Standing in the entryway, slightly out of breath, stood “Mr. Showtime” Michael Wryght. He had a thin film of sweat glistening off of his skin, and a slight shortness of breath. He’d been out for a morning run for over two hours and now it was time for work. He had hoped to spend the night in his hometown of Brick, New Jersey, but business needed to take precedence.
He had decided to stay in South Carolina rather than go home so he could make sure things were running smoothly. He walked into the PCW Presidential office, and decided that there was just too much to get done to stop for a shower now. He wiped down his arms and face and sat behind his deck.
He shuffled through some papers, signed a few things into action. This was the boring part of the job. Make sure the staff was paid. Make sure that ticket sales were on their way up. Make sure that tomorrow there would still be a Pure Class Wrestling. The first time he took this job it was about the glamour. It was about how far could Showtime ascend above the other “workers” in the locker room. This go around he didn’t care about any of that. It was about the wrestling and the fans.
Selflessness was not something that came easy for Showtime. Years ago it would be an impossibility. There was actually a time when Showtime bounced a good friend out of this company just because he wouldn’t allow for a title shot. It seemed so petty when he thought back to that moment, but it didn’t hit that far from home.
In front of him was a board that plotted out the remainder of the Icemann Invitational Tournament. His eyes were locked onto the Last Chance Battle Royal. He may have been one of the only people in the building that knew that Murdoc was an entrant. He was certainly the only one in the ring that knew. Showtime figured that Murdoc would be there at the end. The thing he didn’t figure was that he’d be on the recipient end of a fireball. It was clearly an illegal move something that Showtime had the power and the right to overturn the match, but how would that look?
Showtime would come off as the same petty asshole that he once was. It took everything in his power to not objectify the position that he was currently holding. Hardest of all was that he wanted to win that tournament. It was the only thing he hadn’t accomplished, and a year from now it might be impossible for him to participate. If all went as planned he’s be holding an entirely different presidency.
He shook the cobwebs out and got back to signing the important papers accumulating on his desk. Murdoc wasn’t his problem, and there was enough to worry about without obsessing on the decisions he’d already made. He worked the next hour before the rest of the PCW staff came in. Once they arrived he delegated tasks and made sure the cogs in the clock were well oiled.
12 p.m.
Showtime hated running late. It was something he did on purpose when the occasion called for it. He would say he is causally late, or wanted the biggest greeting he could get. It was horseshit of course, and the men he was meeting we’re to be trifled with. He stood in the doorway of Halls Chophouse and ran his hand across his hair. He wanted it to be perfect. He tightened his red Windsor knot and spotted the four men he had come to see.
Sitting at a five top were the two state senators of South Carolina, Lindsey Graham and Tim Scott, along with two of the seven representatives, Mick Mulvaney and Tom Rice. All four of these men were hard Republicans. Generally not the type of company Showtime would keep. He considered himself an independent and in a liberal state like New Jersey he was, but in the conservative south he was only kidding himself.
The four men rose when he approached and the all greeted him with smiles and hearty handshakes. Minus Senator Graham who looked at his watch and held up three fingers. The three minutes he’d been late.
“My apologies gentleman,” said Showtime with his patented half smile. “I’d been waiting outside for the last ten minutes and generally don’t know when to enter a room without my entrance music.”
All five men gave a hearty laugh. Showtime hated himself for pandering, but this is Washington folk he was meeting with. They were the only ones even close to as bad as the hacks in Hollywood. He had his work cut out for him. All five men began to banter back and fourth. When the waitress came they all ordered meat and scotches. Showtime didn’t like to drink the night before a match, but this wouldn’t be the first time.
He knew it was coming and the moment that he saw Senator Graham, Showtime knew he’s ask the question, “So you’re really running for President?”
“I’m afraid so,” Showtime replied with a shrug. He hated that question more than anything in the world. Why would Showtime spend this much time and money to run his campaign if he wasn’t really running. And it always came from the people elected to run the country, idiots.
“But why?” asked Congressman Rice.
“You see Tom, can I call you Tom?” Showtime asked, and received the nod. “Well you see Tom, I’m sick and tired of all of the unpartisan bullshit. I’m sure that you guys know it better than most. Democrats won’t work with Republicans and Republicans refuse to work with the Democrats. It’s a vicious cycle. As long as there are two parties that hate each other nothing will ever get done, and when it does it’s done wrong. Just look at the Affordable Care Act.”
“You mean Obamacare,” sneered Congressman Mulvaney.
“Call it what you will, but if both sides would have worked on it together it wouldn’t have been broken from the start. The problem is bridging the gap so that one side doesn’t look like losers while the other looks like champions. Hell Mitt Romney worked on universal healthcare in Massachusetts and he was a Republican nominee. There is room for compromise, but a mediator is needed.”
Senator Graham eyeballed Showtime and said, “Well Mr. Wryght, I happen to have been in office for over thirteen years, longer than anyone at this table. So are you saying that I should turn my back on my party?”
“Absolutely not, actually the exact opposite. Do you really think that Donald Trump represents the best interests of the Republican Party? He is a known Clinton supporter for heavens sake. Personally I think he is the death of your party and if he runs that means that the Democrats will take the office for at least twelve years straight, if not sixteen. If that’s the case you might as well pull a chair up next to the Whig Party.”
This comment got some head nods, and when Showtime looked at his watch he knew that his time was up. “It’s up to you gentleman. You can support a candidate that will bring the death of your party win or lose. He will just show that you care more about beating the Democrats than the American people, or you can support a candidate that isn’t pushing a leftist agenda. A man that is only looking out for collaboration and what is best for his fellow Americans.
2 a.m.
Showtime had spent the evening campaigning his ass off. A large town hall of enraged South Carolinians. He kept his cool though and was able to keep them at bay. When he left some of them actually clapped. He knew that taking this serious would not be easy.
He found himself now in the doorway of the gym in his building. He needed to get in at least a sliver of a workout before trying to get six hours of sleep. Kaard and NCM weren’t far from his mind. Both men were champions and both were serious contenders. Sure he’d beaten both men and both had been able to pin him back. It would be Pure Class Wrestling’s three top reigning champions putting it all on the line. Sure no titles were on the line and at Living a Legacy they would be facing other men trying to steal their titles and glory, but this was different. It was an old fashion pissing match. None had anything to prove to the other, but the bragging rights would be sweet.
Showtime hated both men equally. Not because of some deep seeded grudge he had or even something tangible. It was simple. They were too good. There was a respect that veterans in the business develop for the others and it is times like this that respect turned into detest. Almost like an animalistic defense mechanism. It was just a little something for competitors to use to give them the slightest of all edges.
Showtime felt it in the base of his throat, vile sitting uncomfortably unable to be swallowed. He looked back at the weights in the gym, thinking about that shower and bed that was beckoning. He gave them a sneer and turned back to continue is workout.
“Who needs six hours of sleep when you can have four,” said Showtime to no one. This match may not mean anything on paper, but all three men knew what was on the line.
The front door swung open letting in the cool morning breeze. Standing in the entryway, slightly out of breath, stood “Mr. Showtime” Michael Wryght. He had a thin film of sweat glistening off of his skin, and a slight shortness of breath. He’d been out for a morning run for over two hours and now it was time for work. He had hoped to spend the night in his hometown of Brick, New Jersey, but business needed to take precedence.
He had decided to stay in South Carolina rather than go home so he could make sure things were running smoothly. He walked into the PCW Presidential office, and decided that there was just too much to get done to stop for a shower now. He wiped down his arms and face and sat behind his deck.
He shuffled through some papers, signed a few things into action. This was the boring part of the job. Make sure the staff was paid. Make sure that ticket sales were on their way up. Make sure that tomorrow there would still be a Pure Class Wrestling. The first time he took this job it was about the glamour. It was about how far could Showtime ascend above the other “workers” in the locker room. This go around he didn’t care about any of that. It was about the wrestling and the fans.
Selflessness was not something that came easy for Showtime. Years ago it would be an impossibility. There was actually a time when Showtime bounced a good friend out of this company just because he wouldn’t allow for a title shot. It seemed so petty when he thought back to that moment, but it didn’t hit that far from home.
In front of him was a board that plotted out the remainder of the Icemann Invitational Tournament. His eyes were locked onto the Last Chance Battle Royal. He may have been one of the only people in the building that knew that Murdoc was an entrant. He was certainly the only one in the ring that knew. Showtime figured that Murdoc would be there at the end. The thing he didn’t figure was that he’d be on the recipient end of a fireball. It was clearly an illegal move something that Showtime had the power and the right to overturn the match, but how would that look?
Showtime would come off as the same petty asshole that he once was. It took everything in his power to not objectify the position that he was currently holding. Hardest of all was that he wanted to win that tournament. It was the only thing he hadn’t accomplished, and a year from now it might be impossible for him to participate. If all went as planned he’s be holding an entirely different presidency.
He shook the cobwebs out and got back to signing the important papers accumulating on his desk. Murdoc wasn’t his problem, and there was enough to worry about without obsessing on the decisions he’d already made. He worked the next hour before the rest of the PCW staff came in. Once they arrived he delegated tasks and made sure the cogs in the clock were well oiled.
12 p.m.
Showtime hated running late. It was something he did on purpose when the occasion called for it. He would say he is causally late, or wanted the biggest greeting he could get. It was horseshit of course, and the men he was meeting we’re to be trifled with. He stood in the doorway of Halls Chophouse and ran his hand across his hair. He wanted it to be perfect. He tightened his red Windsor knot and spotted the four men he had come to see.
Sitting at a five top were the two state senators of South Carolina, Lindsey Graham and Tim Scott, along with two of the seven representatives, Mick Mulvaney and Tom Rice. All four of these men were hard Republicans. Generally not the type of company Showtime would keep. He considered himself an independent and in a liberal state like New Jersey he was, but in the conservative south he was only kidding himself.
The four men rose when he approached and the all greeted him with smiles and hearty handshakes. Minus Senator Graham who looked at his watch and held up three fingers. The three minutes he’d been late.
“My apologies gentleman,” said Showtime with his patented half smile. “I’d been waiting outside for the last ten minutes and generally don’t know when to enter a room without my entrance music.”
All five men gave a hearty laugh. Showtime hated himself for pandering, but this is Washington folk he was meeting with. They were the only ones even close to as bad as the hacks in Hollywood. He had his work cut out for him. All five men began to banter back and fourth. When the waitress came they all ordered meat and scotches. Showtime didn’t like to drink the night before a match, but this wouldn’t be the first time.
He knew it was coming and the moment that he saw Senator Graham, Showtime knew he’s ask the question, “So you’re really running for President?”
“I’m afraid so,” Showtime replied with a shrug. He hated that question more than anything in the world. Why would Showtime spend this much time and money to run his campaign if he wasn’t really running. And it always came from the people elected to run the country, idiots.
“But why?” asked Congressman Rice.
“You see Tom, can I call you Tom?” Showtime asked, and received the nod. “Well you see Tom, I’m sick and tired of all of the unpartisan bullshit. I’m sure that you guys know it better than most. Democrats won’t work with Republicans and Republicans refuse to work with the Democrats. It’s a vicious cycle. As long as there are two parties that hate each other nothing will ever get done, and when it does it’s done wrong. Just look at the Affordable Care Act.”
“You mean Obamacare,” sneered Congressman Mulvaney.
“Call it what you will, but if both sides would have worked on it together it wouldn’t have been broken from the start. The problem is bridging the gap so that one side doesn’t look like losers while the other looks like champions. Hell Mitt Romney worked on universal healthcare in Massachusetts and he was a Republican nominee. There is room for compromise, but a mediator is needed.”
Senator Graham eyeballed Showtime and said, “Well Mr. Wryght, I happen to have been in office for over thirteen years, longer than anyone at this table. So are you saying that I should turn my back on my party?”
“Absolutely not, actually the exact opposite. Do you really think that Donald Trump represents the best interests of the Republican Party? He is a known Clinton supporter for heavens sake. Personally I think he is the death of your party and if he runs that means that the Democrats will take the office for at least twelve years straight, if not sixteen. If that’s the case you might as well pull a chair up next to the Whig Party.”
This comment got some head nods, and when Showtime looked at his watch he knew that his time was up. “It’s up to you gentleman. You can support a candidate that will bring the death of your party win or lose. He will just show that you care more about beating the Democrats than the American people, or you can support a candidate that isn’t pushing a leftist agenda. A man that is only looking out for collaboration and what is best for his fellow Americans.
2 a.m.
Showtime had spent the evening campaigning his ass off. A large town hall of enraged South Carolinians. He kept his cool though and was able to keep them at bay. When he left some of them actually clapped. He knew that taking this serious would not be easy.
He found himself now in the doorway of the gym in his building. He needed to get in at least a sliver of a workout before trying to get six hours of sleep. Kaard and NCM weren’t far from his mind. Both men were champions and both were serious contenders. Sure he’d beaten both men and both had been able to pin him back. It would be Pure Class Wrestling’s three top reigning champions putting it all on the line. Sure no titles were on the line and at Living a Legacy they would be facing other men trying to steal their titles and glory, but this was different. It was an old fashion pissing match. None had anything to prove to the other, but the bragging rights would be sweet.
Showtime hated both men equally. Not because of some deep seeded grudge he had or even something tangible. It was simple. They were too good. There was a respect that veterans in the business develop for the others and it is times like this that respect turned into detest. Almost like an animalistic defense mechanism. It was just a little something for competitors to use to give them the slightest of all edges.
Showtime felt it in the base of his throat, vile sitting uncomfortably unable to be swallowed. He looked back at the weights in the gym, thinking about that shower and bed that was beckoning. He gave them a sneer and turned back to continue is workout.
“Who needs six hours of sleep when you can have four,” said Showtime to no one. This match may not mean anything on paper, but all three men knew what was on the line.
