Post by Gerard Angelo on Oct 8, 2018 22:56:47 GMT -5
Gerard Angelo should have been a happy man.
Things were starting to look up for him (as if things weren’t already fantastic for somebody who was handsome, suave, and a multi-millionaire actor. Rich people problems, am I right?). His dream movie was green lighted. He was on a winning streak in Pure Class. The New York Yankees were on their way back to the Bronx tied a game a piece with the Boston Red Sox. It should’ve been a good time in life for the Hollywood Hero.
Yet there was one thing Gerry was totally baffled by. Gerard had been employed by PCW for over six months, and he’s yet to have a title shot. Which was fine, Angelo would rather earn his opportunities then be handed them. Though deep down he felt slighted. Men who weren’t even on the roster as long as Gerard had been granted opportunities. Men who had a win loss record worse then the Cleveland Browns were wrestling for championships.
That was fine, though. Gerard would walk into Deadly Intentions and earn his opportunity.
If you want something to happen, make it happen.
Gerard ran his hands through his wet hair and pushed it back before he turned off the water in the shower. He slide the glass door of the shower open and stepped out, steam rising off his chiseled frame. Gerry grabbed one of the plush hotel towels off the sink, drying himself with it.
Gerard tosses the now wet towel over the door of the shower as he grabbed a thick, white, robe, and slipped it on. He tied the belt snuggly around his waist, opening the door of the bathroom and entering his massive hotel suite located in the Upper East Side. Gerry had flown back into New York for two reasons. First one was business. Gerard was making his rounds on the television talk shows and drive time sports radio promoting Deadly Intentions. He was slated to appear on the Today Show Monday morning in fact. Two, he had gotten a pair of tickets to Game Three of the ALDS between the Yankees and Red Sox. Behind home plate no less. One of the more pressing issues he was having was who should he bring to the game. Normally, he would just bring Sean but it was one of those times where his sibling was annoying him with his laziness and constant partying. Gerard was just going to bring some good looking, up and coming, actress or model. Gerry was sure they would be all for the publicity it would bring to them, and it gave him someone that was easier on the eyes then his younger brother. Plus, if he played his cards right, he wouldn’t be doing much sleeping Monday night.
Gerry turned on the wall mounted flat screen as plopped down on the King sized bed in the suite. He rolled over and grabbed his iPhone to look through his contacts for one of the lucky young women he was bringing with him to Yankee Stadium. He left the television on the news channel.
“….NYPD pulled a body out of the harbor today. Police are speculating it was a mob execution…”
Gerard looked up at the television and shook his head. The world was going to hell in a hand basket. Gerard tossed his phone down on the bed, he could’t anyone he wanted to bring at the moment. Maybe he would give Jimmy a call in a minute, see if he knew anyone in NYC. The Hollywood Hero grabs a lighter and a pack of Parliament menthols off the night stand, along with a crystal ashtray. Angelo always pays extra to make sure he can smoke in his rooms. He pulls a cancer stick out of the pack, slipping the filter between his lips befriend lighting it up. Gerry leans back as he takes a drag off the cigarette, letting blue-grey smoke pour out of his nostrils and between his lips as he ashes it in the heavy crystal. Gerard let out a satisfied sigh from his bad habit. He really needed to stop smoking, but he couldn’t help himself.
Gerard snatches his phone off bed and dials up his manager. The phone rings a few times before going to voice mail. Gerry shrugs as he sends Jimmy a text. It was odd for Jimmy not to answer his phone for Gerard. Maybe he finally broke down and bought himself an escort. Gerry has a nice laugh as he sends Jimmy another text. The Man Without Peer hops off the bed and tosses his phone down, before walking over to the bar to fix himself a drink. This was a huge week for Gerard Angelo. This was a huge Pay Per View.
Gerard had a chance to prove that he deserved to be in the same conversation as men like Grimm, Seromine, and Kyle Shane. He had a chance to vault himself to the forefront of the conversation in Pure Class Wrestling. Catapult himself into the main event. He could earn himself an opportunity at the World Championship.
All he had to do was win the Deadly Rumble. Easier said then done right?
Gerard found some pineapple juice in the fridge along with some lemon-lime seltzer. He took those out and looked for the selection of alcohol provided to him by the lovely five star hotel. He grabbed a bottle of Captain Morgan and looked at his ingredients.
“What do we call this?” Gerry asked himself, “A Fizzy Pirate?”
Gerard laughed at his own joke as he mixed up his cocktail, flicking the ash of his cigarette into the kitchen sink. Speaking of kitchen sink, who knew what the PCW brass where gonna throw at the roster in this match. Anyone who is anyone could walk out from Gorilla during this match. Gerard had being hearing rumors from stage hands and the ring crew that some old pyscho clown Sicko was suppose to show up. The only other person Gerard knew for sure was the new guy David Hunter was gonna be in this match. From what he knew of the history of this match, it was highly likely men who already wrestled the same night would wind up in the match. Guys like Justin Michaels and Grimm could win up in the Rumble. Sermon and his entire group of zealots could wind up in this match to help the false prophet win another Deadly Rumble.
Gerard takes a few deep drafts of his drink, walking back over to the bed. The actor grabs the remote and flips the channel from the news, to ESPN, which is showing clips of the UFC mayhem from Saturday. He takes another sip of the libation as he checks his phone. Multi social media alerts and texts from random people, but none from Jimmy. Gerry thought it was weird, but just assumed his manager was busy.
He wasn’t worried about people he knew though, he was worried about the returning stars that could throw a wrench in his entire plan. Dominator could possibly make his return. That would be a massive problem. Men like Whitey Ford or Sadistic could show up. It could literally be the wildest night in the history of PCW and ruin even the best laid plans. Gerard Angelo would have to be ready for legitimately everything.
Gerry finished his cancer stick and twisted it out in the ashtray, placing it back on the table with his empty cocktail glass. The man who once wrestled six matches in a single evening turns his head and stares out the large glass doors that lead to his room’s balcony, looking out over the sun starting to peak over the New York skyline. Maybe he needed to get some sleep. At least two hours. He had a long day tomorrow. He would find that special lady to take to the game in the morning.
He would figure out how to win the Deadly Rumble in the morning as well.
======
Vladimir Semenov had two reputations in the city of New York.
One was the truth.
The other was a lie.
It depended on who you asked which one was which.
To some, Vladimir was the epitome of the American Dream. He owned several very successful restaurants and steaks house through out Manhattan. He worked as a butcher from the time he was fifteen, until he saved up enough money to open his first steak house, The Butcher’s Best. He was also a devoted husband and father, as well as being a positive influence in the community.
To others, Vladimir Semenov was the cruel and merciless crime boss, The Butcher. He ran a powerful faction of the Russian Mafia, the biggest and most powerful on the East Coast. He was being investigated for several murders and kidnappings, as well as money laundering and narcotics. No proof has been discovered at this point.
He had traveled to the United States from Moscow as a boy to escape the oppressive regime of the Soviet Union. He grew up in a poor neighborhood in the city, his parents barely making ends meet to feed him and his six siblings.
Semenov grew up with an abusive alcoholic father who beat him, his mother, and all of his siblings. The first person Vladimir killed was his father.
Semenov had only been twelve years old the night his father went into one of his typical vodka fueled rages. He had laid quite a beating on Vladimir, but quickly grew bored as Vlad learned to just go to his happy place and ignore his father as best as he could, not giving him the satisfaction. He left Vlad in ahead on the bedroom floor he shared with his four brothers, and turned his rage to Vlad’s mother. After brutally.beating the poor woman who had bared his children (Vlad would say later in confidence to a confidant that this was the worst beating he ever saw his dad dish out on her), he broke a beer bottle and held the shards of glass to the woman’s throat, screaming at her he would kill her. Vlad stood in a trance, as he had gotten up after hearing his mother plead for mercy.
Vlad didn’t know what came over him as he entered his small childhood kitchen and retrieved a large knife from a drawer. He walked back to where his father was holding his mother by her hair, pressing broken glass into her neck. Vlad felt a perverse pleasure as the steel of the knife slipped into his father’s back through his rib cage. Vladimir’s namesake turned around to look at his eldest son in the eye before he calmly drew the razor edge of cutting utensil across elder man’s throat. Vladimir smiled mirthlessly as he watched his progenitor clutch he throat, trying to keep his crimson lifeblood inside his body as it flowed out between his fingers as they hopelessly clutches at his throat.
These were always thoughts that danced through Semenov’s mind whenever he gave an order for an enemy to be taken care of. It had been a long time since Vladimir had gotten his own hands dirty. Even longer since that night he had ended his father’s reign of terror over his family. Now he had good lieutenants like Pytor to take care of his business.
Vladimir sat back in his private booth at his restaurant, The Butcher’s Best, staring at his second in command, Pytor, as he ate a piece of prime rib. The knife slicing through the red meat is what reminded him of his first set of business being taken care of.
But he had more pressing matters. The police had found Igor’s body in the harbor and hauled it out. Vladimir didn’t want the body to be traced back to himself, and in turn, his new “friend”, the future Senator Angelo, from the great state of New York.
“So, Pytor,” Semenov began, “Why was the NYPD able to pull Igor’s body from the harbor? I thought I told you to properly dispose of it..”
Pytor looked up with a mouth full of perfectly rare prime rib, looking into the cold face of The Butcher. He fought the urge to shudder.
“I did not think he would float out that far before he sunk or something ate him.” Pytor said after swallowing the beef in his mouth. “I figured a shark would have eaten what the sea birds didn’t.”
“Pytor, I do not pay you to make mistakes,” Vladimir said, his cold gaze never leaving Pytor, causing him to break eye contact with his boss. “Now if they manage to link Igor to this organization, we are going to have a problem on our hands.”
Pytor swallows hard, knowing from first hand experience that those that cause a problem for The Butcher usually wind up buried in the Pine Barrens.
“So what would you like me to do?” asked Pytor. Vladimir smiles.
“Relax, Pytor. You have been loyal to me for years. I trust that you will do the right thing.”
Pytor nods and stands up, leaving half of the prime rib uneaten. He gives a another nod to his boss and turns and quickly exits the busy restaurant.
The Butcher smiles to himself and holds up two fingers together. A teen waiter quickly hurries over with a bottle of red wine, filling Vlad’s empty glass half way before stopping perfectly. Just as Mister Semenov likes. He lifted the glass and swirled it, before taking a small sip of the wine. He allowed himself a soft smile as his tongue enjoyed the notes of cherry and tobacco in the wine.
Pytor was a good solider. He will solve this particular problem. If not, Vladimir will just find someone else to do his job.
=============
James Rothenberg, better known as Jimmy, held his chubby face in his sweaty hands as he sat at the poker table in the hot, stuffy basement he had been for hours. Jimmy had just lost another hand of Texas Hold’em. He rubbed his face as he brought his hands down, looking around the room. The single light over the poker table illuminated the smokey room as the members of the Yakuza puffed away non chanlantly on cigarettes, cigars, weed, and much more nefarious products.
Contrrary to popular belief, Jimmy wasn’t bad with money. He was actually very good at making money through various means. His problem was he liked to gamble, and Jimmy was a piss poor gambler as he found out. It had started with betting on football and basketball. And he quickly found himself in debt. That’s when he got a tip on a horse and was told to bet the farm on it. Being that Jimmy didn’t have the proverbial farm, he had borrowed money through said tip from the Yakuza.
Needless to say Jimmy wound up in terrible debt to them and it slowly spiraled until Jimmy owed them more then he ever earned in his life time. He had begged to be in this poker game to try and break even. He told himself that if he won he would never bet on anything ever again, not even himself. Yet, as if it was a self fulfilling prophecy, Jimmy lost again.
And they wanted their money now. And if Jimmy didn’t pay up, the Yakuza was going to start taking their payment in body parts. The Yakuza who was dealing leaned into the darkness as if the shadows were whispering to him. He nodded and turned to Jimmy with a slight smirk.
“Mister Rothenberg,” the dealer said in perfect english, which surprised Jimmy for some reason, “We’ve been told we must collect from you tonight. Do you have everything you owe us.”
Jimmy swallows and forces a smile, tapping his sweaty fingers together nervously.
“Well, you see, I don’t have the money per say. I would need another week.”
He manages a weak smile at the dealer who frowns.
“A pit.” He mentions with his hand and Jimmy feels two sets of rough, strong, hand grip him and slam his face into the poker table, scattering cards and chips. A hand grips his worst and extends his arm, pressing his hand flat to the table. He sees another hand come into view, holding a hunting knife. The knife comes down, pressing the cold steel blade against the top knuckle of Jimmy’s middle finger.
“Now, Mister Rothenberg,” The dealer ask as he leans over the able, pressing his palms flat against the table as he leers down at Jimmy, “Are you sure you don’t have our money?”
“Please! Please…” Jimmy looks up with pleading eyes, “Please I just need a week…”
“Not good enough.” The dealer makes another hand motion and the hand wielding the knife starts to press down. Jimmy howls out as the knife slides down, messily removing the tip of his digit from the rest of his body. The Hollywood agent screams out.
“Alright! Alright! Stop please,” James begs them, “I can get your money tonight. I can. Please. Just need to make a phone call!”
The dealer looks down at Jimmy skeptically but nods.
“Fine Mister Rothenberg. You have one hour to get our money, or we start removing important body parts.”
Jimmy nods at the dealer and the dealer makes another hand motion. They release Jimmy and he falls to the floor, clutching his bleeding hands to his chest as he whimpers. The Yakuza laugh as they exit the room so Jimmy can make his phone call. Rothenberg groans and reaches into his slacks pocket with his still intact hand, pulling his iPhone out.
=============
Anthony Angelo sat in the office of his upstate New York home, nursing a glass of ten year old scotch while watching the news as they covered the story of the dead body that was pulled out of the water that was murdered in a mob style execution. He knew in his bones that this had something to do with Vladimir and the sloppy murder of his political adversary. Tony was fighting back flying into a rage and calling Vladimir to scream at the man.
But Tony knew that would not be beneficial to their partnership, especially when he still needed Semenov’s contact in Moscow. He took a sip from his scotch. Tony didn’t get where he was in life by letting his emotions control him. In a few weeks he would be able to smooth this over, no harm no foul.
The head of the Angelo family turned off the television, deciding to head to bed. Maybe he could catch his new wife before she passed out from all her self medication and have some fun. Lewd thoughts were dancing through the billionaires head as his phone rang. It wasn’t his private phone, but it was his real phone. Tony pulled it out of his pocket and smiles, pleasantly surprised by the caller ID. Tony answered his iPhone with a smirk.
“Why hello Jimmy,” Tony said, still smiling, “What can I do for you, son?”
End.