Anything But Tomatoes.

["The Asshole" Whitey Ford]

When people think of Whitey Ford, a plethora of unsavory images might come to mind. Blatan tdrug abuse, embarrassing drunk blunders, run ins with the cops, attacking innocent civilians for menial slights against his oddly calibrated moral system, all of these are fair game. So mere hours before Trauma starts to air and Ford steps back into the ring--against the reigning PCW World Champion, no less--the thought of him calmly enjoying a meal at Applebee's is a little strange. Very strange to Michael John Windsor, Whitey's manager and oldest friend that still associates with him. Windsor took in the scene, watching as his client stared contently out the window with his elbows on the table, fingers interlaced in front of his face. He's even DRESSED decent, MJW thought to himself, noting Whitey's usually dirty and knotted blonde hair was tied back in a neat ponytail and instead of a t-shirt with big, loud swear words on the front he had on a black dress shirt. Does he even know what he's going up against tonight? Has he done ANY research about Dan Fierce? Windsors stomach knotted a little bit as he adjusted his tie. Windsor was a former competitor himself, and touted his success as Whitey's manager due to his ability to hold his own in a fight. But breaking bad news to the former PCW World Champion was enough to make any man nervous.



"Just one today, sir?" Windsor had stopped just short of the hostess stand as he entered the restaurant, taken aback by the almost serene image of Whitey, staring out the window, not giving a fuck. The homely girl at the stand must have already asked him the question and he didn't hear it, judging by the stressed tone in her voice. Cunt. Deciding to hold his tongue, Windsor doesn't grace the woman with a response and makes his way to join his colleague at the table. Slapping a dossier down on the table in front of Ford gets his attention.



"Windsor. You always look so unhappy. Is that just a british thing?" Whitey motioned to the seat across from him. "Go ahead, take a seat. I didn't order you anything, but you're a big boy. Need a menu?"



MJW just shook his head sternly at the thought of food, but took a seat in the booth across, as he was bid. He slides the dossier closer to Ford with an index finger. "Hours before the show starts, mate, and I can't help but think how regular top notch, world class athletes would be preparing. Some of them do yoga, others get in a pre-game workout. Or cocaine. Or meditation, or a handy from a two dollar whore behind the fucking arena. But sitting at this boring, bland, over-Americanized restaurant and looking out the FUCKING WINDOW, like you don't have a care in the world? I can't believe it.



Whitey had gone back to casually watching the cars drive by, but shot the folder a glance. "What's this?" The tone of his voice told the story perfectly; Whitey Ford didn't give a shit if MJW didn't like his behavior.



"It's a file on Dan Fierce. You know, the championship wrestler you're slated to fight in...oh, I dunno. 4 hours?" Whitey locked eyes with MJW now, showing a hint of irritation. Slowly he shrugged his shoulders, and Windsor snatched the file off the table and opened it himself.



"What?! What the fuck do you want from me, MJ?" Whitey flashed an unapologetic smile. "You know I don't like to fucking read things. I don't even know what the burger I ordered is called, I just pointed at the damn picture and said NO TOMATOES."



"You need to be ready! The world is watching. You really intend to beat Dan Fierce without cheating, while also not studying at list his moveset?"



"Jesus, Mike, this isn't WWE2k17. Movesets can change, and so can I. I'm the best at what I do."



"Do you want people to take you seriously, mate? The game has changed, and you need to start--"



"Start WHAT?!?" Ford raised his voice to a yell, snapping across the table for a quick moment before regaining his computer. "Start...what? Since I've been back, even though I've only had one God damn match, I've made ripples. I've gotten Seromine's attention already. I held my own against Eira without 'cheating,' and I really hate people calling it that. And apparently I've pissed of my ol' buddy Mikey Wryght, because I told him I wanted to take some of the shitbags down a notch or two and bring prestige, class...god forbid, honor back to PCW, and what does he do? He puts me against Don Fierce, who doesn't seem like a bad guy at all from what I've heard about him."



Windsor, finally completely fed up with his colleagues lackadaisical approach to his next match, buried his face in his hands. "Dan Fierce, Whitey. Dan, not Don. You don't even know his bloody name and you think he's a...a what, a GOOD guy?" Tapping the dossier with his index finger once more, MJW leans in close and drops his tone an octave, to really cement how serious the news was about to be. Here goes nothing. "In here is a list of his favorite moves, fighting styles, even his god damned entrance music. Also...a bit of information that might make you think twice about not preparing for this fight. He's NOT a good person, Whitey."



"Oh...oh, ok." Ford leans in close as well, now looking to be interested in the information. "So you're...you're saying that DAN Fierce..." Whitey puts plenty of emphasis on 'Dan,' to show he was now paying attention. "...is one of the BAD guys? The ones that I promised to beat the shit out of upon my return?"



MJW nods solemnly, a smirk growing over his features, glad to have finally gotten through to his client. A waitress approaches the table, and sets a plain looking burger and fries plate in front of Whitey. "Sir, would you like a menu?" She asked politely, but Whitey answered instead of Windsor.



"No, thank you. We need to talk business. This is fine." He answered, never taking his eyes off Windsor. Ford slides the plate to one side of him, and folds his hands on the table as he leans back into the booth. The waitress saunters off, leaving the two of them alone once more. "Tell me what you found out, and I'll eat after. Sorry I didn't take this seriously, I thought...y'know, he sounded like a regular ol' competitor."



Windsor's smile broadened and he pulled a single piece of paper from the tan folder. Clearing his throat, he began to read. "Well, first off, he's a black belt in Savate, so there's that. That's the obvious one. I know you like to stand in front and throw fists with the best of them, but Mr. Fierce is on another level. Take it to the air or to the ground, but if you DO try and get technical with him don't let him get hold of you. He's also fluent in jiu jitsu and has a good base in greco roman, so honestly I think you'd be better off using that retarded speed and ring awareness of yours to keep him off his game."



"...most people only have retard strength. What a nice compliment."



Ignoring the dimwitted comment, Windsor continues. "Also...he likes to get into people's heads. Not in the way that you and I can do, oh no. He gets...touchy feely. One of his favorite things to do is execute a knife edge chop, but then...well, gropes his opponents chest."



"So, that's kind of funny. Not gonna lie, that's good intel, I'd be thrown off my game if I didn't see a nipple pinch coming." Whitey slides the plate of food back in front of him, obviously becoming bored with the conversation already. "Remember when I used to be funny, in, uh...USCW? AWA too, for a bit? Those were good times. You really didn't like me back then but man, could I get people to laugh!" He picked at a fry, before realizing his folly; no ketchup. As Ford went about garnishing his plate, MJW stopped him by grabbing his arm roughly.



"You don't get it, mate! You're not listening. Gropes, not pinches. Not in a playful way that some twat in high school would joke with his buddies." Ford wrenched his arm free of Windsors grasp, giving him a confused look.



"What are you saying, Mike?"



"I'm saying...Jesus, man, he's...he's..." MJW spits out the final word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. "...GAY."



In MJW's mind, all of the air had been sucked out of the room at once, as if the calm before an impending explosion. Whitey only stared blankly at him from across the table. This is it...he's going to snap and kill everyone. Whitey hates fags. I KNOW he does. Poor guy...why isn't he saying anything? Is he in shock? It takes a few more long, drawn out moments for Whitey to give any kind of response...but when he does, it is very much like an explosion.



Just not the one that MJW was preparing to endure.



It starts with Whitey placing his hands on the table, looking unsure of what emotion he should use. He starts to speak, but the words get caught in his throat. Whitey licks his lips, stress starting to boil over, furrowing his brow. Whitey holds a finger up to stop MJW from talking, but still doesn't speak himself. Instead, he bursts out...into laughter. It starts as a chuckle, then quickly escalates into a raucous, barking laugh. "Are you fucking getting me, MJ? Is...is THAT what you wanted to tell me?"



"You've gone insane, mate. Just take a minute to process this and we'll figure out how to--"



"Process WHAT? There's nothing to process. He's gay? I don't give a fuck if he's gay. That has absolutley no bearing on our match. You do realize that we fight women in PCW too, right? I love bitches. I'm pretty sure I've copped a feel on Eira more than a couple times, y'know. And I wasn't even trying to play mind games, I just wanted a handful of dirty pillow." Whitey takes the dossier from MJW and tosses it carelessly into a neighboring booth. "You need to chill the fuck out, MJ, you made me wait to eat so you could tell me this dude is going to grab my boobies."



MJW is utterly and completely speechless, and can only watch as Whitey grabs the burger from his plate and readies it in front of mouth. "Tell you what, MJ, I'm a little worried about you. People have been gay for a long, long time, and only now are we noticing. Look at all the flamboyant people in OUR field alone. Rick Rude. Jeff Hardy. Dolph Ziggler. Rick Flair--"



"None of those wrestlers are gay I don't think."



"That's not my point, my point is that they very well could be and they're still flamboyant, and still left their mark on the industry. I think what you should do is..." Whitey takes the first bite out of his burger, not bothering to finishing chewing before finishing his sentence. "...don't sweat the small stuff." Whitey continues to chew, appearing to be done with the conversation all together. But then...his face sours, grimacing into a look of absolute disgust. He slams the burger down on his plate and spits out the partially chewed food down next to it.



"Mother...fucker. This has a giant fucking tomato on it. I said...clear as day, before you showed up...I want THIS burger, I fucking pointed at the picture, and I said in a loud and clear voice NO FUCKING TOMATOES." Whitey stood up hastily, starting to unbutton his shirt. "Where is that fucking bitch hog of a waitress?" Windsor was about to contradict Whitey, and point out the absolute hippocracy of the whole situation, but he kept his mouth shut and could only watch as Whitey stormed off towards the kitchen. "I said NO FUCKING TOMATOES! WHAT KIND OF WORLD DO WE LIVE IN WHERE THAT GROSS FRUIT VEGETABLE HYBRID FUCKING...SHIT! IS PUT ON FUCKING HAMBURGERS!"



With a sigh, Windsor merely stood up from the booth, brushed himself off, and walked towards the door. He could here the banging and thudding of bodies as well as pots, pans, and other random kitchen objects. Unable to process any of what just happened, he simply leaves, letting Whitey work himself up before the match in his own, strange way. "Pre match workout, I suppose." Windsor muttered to himself.[/b]