Post by Holden Ross on May 4, 2019 19:23:36 GMT -5
Announcer: Next up on the main stage….she younger than that old Fury but not as pretty….Christine!
*”Unskinny Bop* by Poison rattles through the shitty sound system consisting of mostly blown out home stereo speakers as well as a handful of car stereo six-by-nines and subs. An obviously strung out woman slinks down the makeshift stage and begins her routine. The pole flexes and wiggle at the ceiling with each rotation by the ninety pound waif; this “club” has obviously seen better days. A handful of patrons take in “Christine” as she strips down to a g-string while several other women attempt to drum up business in the form of a “private” dance. In one of the shady corners a pair of heels protrude from under a table and occasionally the top of her head is visible in the patrons lap. Truly, a classy establishment. It should come as no surprise that when the door opened and the newest patron strolled in that it is none other than Holden.
He crosses the room, takes a kiss on the cheek from one of the girls, and continues through a curtain leading to a hall which proceeds to the dressing rooms, office, and a stairwell to the basement. Holden passes an open door to a dressing room where a fresh faced Puerto Rican girl applies mascara. He passes the office and proceeds down the stairs to the basement. Stacks of toilet papers and paper towels line the narrow hall leading to a steel door that has been painted black. The flaking paint reveals it at one time indeed, was painted red. He knocks twice and after a moments pause, a small panel slides open behind a mesh if metal and a set of eyes fill the void before the panel slides shut again. Unseen bolts are thrown on the other side of the door and it swings open.
A stocky Mexican man, about 25, holds the door open with a loaded AK propped against the wall next to the stool he sits on in the small foyer when he's not holding open the door. Holden passes and greets him with a fist bump and passes through a beaded curtain into a small office furnished with a desk, a couch, a couple folding chairs, a filing cabinet, and a large safe that is nearly as tall as Holden and just as wide. Holden's tiny cousin, Wes, is talking on his cell when Holden enters but breaks off the conversation and waddles over to him.*
What's up, Big Cat? Everything cool?
*Wes nods.*
Wes: Everything is goin smoothly. This ain’t no big time production facility but they are trimmin ten pounds a day….that’s pretty fuckin good, if ya ask me…
*Wes waddles over to the safe and spins the dial a few times before turning the handle, unlocking the door, before giving it a tug. It swings open slowly and Wes enters, pushing a hidden button that is nearly head level for him, and the back of the “safe” pops open, revealing a hidden room. Holden follows the little man into the room, closing the door to the safe behind him with an audible sealing “pop.” They have entered into a room about ninety by sixty, with two rows of three tables, with two people at each table. In front of every person is a pile of dried marijuana and these people are trimming it before they pack it for distribution.
Holden purchased the strip club nearly six months ago and has since dumped a ton of money into fixing the place up; maybe not the “club” part of the building but, rather, the hidden trim room and accompanying air filtration system. Cannabis is still illegal in these parts and on the black market it is quite lucrative. He looks over the workers as they remain hunched over their place at the tables, a stick of bud in one hand and scissors in the other, clipping the tips off of the leaves protruding from the nugs. The trimmers are mostly all in their mid-twenties, each dressed differently in accordance to whatever clique they seem to be emulating. A few hipsters, a couple of white guys who are HUGE into rap and dress and act accordingly (you know the type), and a few stereotypical hippies complete with wither “Sublime” or, the ultimate, a “Grateful Dead” t-shirt.*
How much we gonna clear again?
*Wes scratches his chin while he thinks it through.*
Wes: Two-fifty….each….or there about. That’s after we pay these guys and the rest of the overhead. Not too shabby, eh?
*Holden nods.*
Not too shabby at all.
*Wes watches the trimmers for a minute before looking but at Holden, a little uneasy.*
Wes: I know it’s not my business and if ya don’t wanna talk about it just say so, but, have you heard from her at all?
*He knew the “her” Wes was talking about was Tessa. She lit out just after his suspension, saying even though she liked “crazy” men that Holden's servitude towards Seromine was too much. They argued. She threw a half full bottle of beer and shattered the plate glass window of her condo. He even left voluntarily after the police were called to prevent her from going to jail. Holden answers with a silent shake of the head.*
Wes: Yer better off wit-out her anyway….ya know? You got chicks line up round the block waiting to bed ya! Not counting the skanks that work here…. Cheer up!
*Wes turns on his heel and heads back to keeping an eye on the trimigrants. After finishing business at the club, the “Gentle Men's Club” is on the Southern edge of town, and is as bad as it sounds. Fortunately, the county and city inspectors give it a quick glance before resigning its operating permit every year, and the police aren’t usually called here so it’s not really on their radar. He drives to a nearby trailer park, “Green Gardens,” and it is about what you would picture…..something out of “My Name is Earl.” He parks in the concrete slab of a driveway next to a weathered double-wide and kills the engine. It’s one of three double-wide's in this park of twenty. High roller status.
The wooden steps squeak their displeasure as he climbs them and steps onto the small, elevated porch/patio combo, complete with fake grass matting. The lock sticks a little but gives like an old whore to the key and the door swings inward on oddly silent hinges. The room has a haze to it, and a mix of smells….weed and Nag Champa incense. He shuts the door behind him and walks into the small kitchen and dining room combo and opens the lime green fridge. He removes a sub sandwich, wrapped in foil, and a beer and heads for the couch. Using the remote he turns on the television and flips through the channels, stopping on old “Bugs Bunny” cartoons and cracks open the beer.*
Saturday night….P.C.W. Arena.
*The scene opens on Holden standing on the stage at the top of the entrance ramp, between the ramp and curtain leading to the back. He is wearing a pair of jeans and a baggy Oakland Raiders jersey, number twenty-four, Marshawn Lynch's jersey. His hair is pulled back into a pony tail and his mask hangs around his neck, obscuring his throat. His eyes are red rimmed, blood shot, and half open. His voice is hoarse, as if he has been ill or smoking a lot.*
I’ve never been afraid of clowns. Or spiders. Or the thing under the bed. I was never afraid of the boogeyman or what’s under the surface of the water, in the unseen darkness of the endless depths of the sea. What I grew up afraid of was being homeless. Getting shot by a stray bullet. Or finding out my Father truly didn’t want me.
*He begins walking down the ramp towards the ring, speaking to the camera as it backs down the ramp in front of him.*
Sicko, the stereotypical sadistic clown, and the Juggernaut, Dominator are my opponents this week and my partner is none other than David Hunter. All of us Underground royalty as each of us have claimed the throne at one time or another. This war, this week, isn’t for the crown but, rather, for the right to claim victory on the battlefield.
*The shot switches to one of a cameraman already in the ring as Holden climbs the ring steps. He enters the ring and climbs the nearest turnbuckle to take a seat on the top with his feet resting on the middle ropes.*
It’s not that big of a stretch to assume I am considered the weakest link in this match. After all, a grown ass man driving a piece of shit ice cream truck and dressed to impress Rob Zombie called ME a meathead and has already written me off. Go for it. Everyone always has, does, and always will. You may be the current King but I am still the monster roaming the hillside. I am the wolf who continuously picks off a sheep here and there while you are unable to stop it. I don’t need to pin you, big man, I just need to make sure David does. I don’t need the glory and validation of the pin. I just want to make you and Dom bleed.
The last time I faced Dom, it was for the Underground Championship and he was the reigning King. I was green and it was maybe my third or fourth match. But I gave him one of the toughest fights he had ever had for that throne. He came out victorious as everyone expected. But, I wasn’t squashed and tossed aside as expected. And while he seems to be back to the machine-like coldness, destroying anything in front of him, I will prove this time as I did last time, every machine has a weak point. Every machine breaks down. Alls it takes is a wrench in the works to bring the biggest machine to a grinding halt. I will not be overlooked. I'll show you how big of a bastard I can be and just how fearless truly am.
*He slips off the top rope and climbs between the ropes. The camera moves closer and gets him as he walks down the ring steps. He looks up from the floor, at the camera, and gives the same smirk his Father used to give years before in his own promo's.*
We are just warming up! We don’t want to end P.C.W.! That's just stupid….we want to change it….forever….like a scar changes the face of a beautiful model. And be sure we aren’t the only ones….
*As he casually strolls up the ramp, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, he whistles “Peter and the Wolf” quietly to himself.*
*”Unskinny Bop* by Poison rattles through the shitty sound system consisting of mostly blown out home stereo speakers as well as a handful of car stereo six-by-nines and subs. An obviously strung out woman slinks down the makeshift stage and begins her routine. The pole flexes and wiggle at the ceiling with each rotation by the ninety pound waif; this “club” has obviously seen better days. A handful of patrons take in “Christine” as she strips down to a g-string while several other women attempt to drum up business in the form of a “private” dance. In one of the shady corners a pair of heels protrude from under a table and occasionally the top of her head is visible in the patrons lap. Truly, a classy establishment. It should come as no surprise that when the door opened and the newest patron strolled in that it is none other than Holden.
He crosses the room, takes a kiss on the cheek from one of the girls, and continues through a curtain leading to a hall which proceeds to the dressing rooms, office, and a stairwell to the basement. Holden passes an open door to a dressing room where a fresh faced Puerto Rican girl applies mascara. He passes the office and proceeds down the stairs to the basement. Stacks of toilet papers and paper towels line the narrow hall leading to a steel door that has been painted black. The flaking paint reveals it at one time indeed, was painted red. He knocks twice and after a moments pause, a small panel slides open behind a mesh if metal and a set of eyes fill the void before the panel slides shut again. Unseen bolts are thrown on the other side of the door and it swings open.
A stocky Mexican man, about 25, holds the door open with a loaded AK propped against the wall next to the stool he sits on in the small foyer when he's not holding open the door. Holden passes and greets him with a fist bump and passes through a beaded curtain into a small office furnished with a desk, a couch, a couple folding chairs, a filing cabinet, and a large safe that is nearly as tall as Holden and just as wide. Holden's tiny cousin, Wes, is talking on his cell when Holden enters but breaks off the conversation and waddles over to him.*
What's up, Big Cat? Everything cool?
*Wes nods.*
Wes: Everything is goin smoothly. This ain’t no big time production facility but they are trimmin ten pounds a day….that’s pretty fuckin good, if ya ask me…
*Wes waddles over to the safe and spins the dial a few times before turning the handle, unlocking the door, before giving it a tug. It swings open slowly and Wes enters, pushing a hidden button that is nearly head level for him, and the back of the “safe” pops open, revealing a hidden room. Holden follows the little man into the room, closing the door to the safe behind him with an audible sealing “pop.” They have entered into a room about ninety by sixty, with two rows of three tables, with two people at each table. In front of every person is a pile of dried marijuana and these people are trimming it before they pack it for distribution.
Holden purchased the strip club nearly six months ago and has since dumped a ton of money into fixing the place up; maybe not the “club” part of the building but, rather, the hidden trim room and accompanying air filtration system. Cannabis is still illegal in these parts and on the black market it is quite lucrative. He looks over the workers as they remain hunched over their place at the tables, a stick of bud in one hand and scissors in the other, clipping the tips off of the leaves protruding from the nugs. The trimmers are mostly all in their mid-twenties, each dressed differently in accordance to whatever clique they seem to be emulating. A few hipsters, a couple of white guys who are HUGE into rap and dress and act accordingly (you know the type), and a few stereotypical hippies complete with wither “Sublime” or, the ultimate, a “Grateful Dead” t-shirt.*
How much we gonna clear again?
*Wes scratches his chin while he thinks it through.*
Wes: Two-fifty….each….or there about. That’s after we pay these guys and the rest of the overhead. Not too shabby, eh?
*Holden nods.*
Not too shabby at all.
*Wes watches the trimmers for a minute before looking but at Holden, a little uneasy.*
Wes: I know it’s not my business and if ya don’t wanna talk about it just say so, but, have you heard from her at all?
*He knew the “her” Wes was talking about was Tessa. She lit out just after his suspension, saying even though she liked “crazy” men that Holden's servitude towards Seromine was too much. They argued. She threw a half full bottle of beer and shattered the plate glass window of her condo. He even left voluntarily after the police were called to prevent her from going to jail. Holden answers with a silent shake of the head.*
Wes: Yer better off wit-out her anyway….ya know? You got chicks line up round the block waiting to bed ya! Not counting the skanks that work here…. Cheer up!
*Wes turns on his heel and heads back to keeping an eye on the trimigrants. After finishing business at the club, the “Gentle Men's Club” is on the Southern edge of town, and is as bad as it sounds. Fortunately, the county and city inspectors give it a quick glance before resigning its operating permit every year, and the police aren’t usually called here so it’s not really on their radar. He drives to a nearby trailer park, “Green Gardens,” and it is about what you would picture…..something out of “My Name is Earl.” He parks in the concrete slab of a driveway next to a weathered double-wide and kills the engine. It’s one of three double-wide's in this park of twenty. High roller status.
The wooden steps squeak their displeasure as he climbs them and steps onto the small, elevated porch/patio combo, complete with fake grass matting. The lock sticks a little but gives like an old whore to the key and the door swings inward on oddly silent hinges. The room has a haze to it, and a mix of smells….weed and Nag Champa incense. He shuts the door behind him and walks into the small kitchen and dining room combo and opens the lime green fridge. He removes a sub sandwich, wrapped in foil, and a beer and heads for the couch. Using the remote he turns on the television and flips through the channels, stopping on old “Bugs Bunny” cartoons and cracks open the beer.*
Saturday night….P.C.W. Arena.
*The scene opens on Holden standing on the stage at the top of the entrance ramp, between the ramp and curtain leading to the back. He is wearing a pair of jeans and a baggy Oakland Raiders jersey, number twenty-four, Marshawn Lynch's jersey. His hair is pulled back into a pony tail and his mask hangs around his neck, obscuring his throat. His eyes are red rimmed, blood shot, and half open. His voice is hoarse, as if he has been ill or smoking a lot.*
I’ve never been afraid of clowns. Or spiders. Or the thing under the bed. I was never afraid of the boogeyman or what’s under the surface of the water, in the unseen darkness of the endless depths of the sea. What I grew up afraid of was being homeless. Getting shot by a stray bullet. Or finding out my Father truly didn’t want me.
*He begins walking down the ramp towards the ring, speaking to the camera as it backs down the ramp in front of him.*
Sicko, the stereotypical sadistic clown, and the Juggernaut, Dominator are my opponents this week and my partner is none other than David Hunter. All of us Underground royalty as each of us have claimed the throne at one time or another. This war, this week, isn’t for the crown but, rather, for the right to claim victory on the battlefield.
*The shot switches to one of a cameraman already in the ring as Holden climbs the ring steps. He enters the ring and climbs the nearest turnbuckle to take a seat on the top with his feet resting on the middle ropes.*
It’s not that big of a stretch to assume I am considered the weakest link in this match. After all, a grown ass man driving a piece of shit ice cream truck and dressed to impress Rob Zombie called ME a meathead and has already written me off. Go for it. Everyone always has, does, and always will. You may be the current King but I am still the monster roaming the hillside. I am the wolf who continuously picks off a sheep here and there while you are unable to stop it. I don’t need to pin you, big man, I just need to make sure David does. I don’t need the glory and validation of the pin. I just want to make you and Dom bleed.
The last time I faced Dom, it was for the Underground Championship and he was the reigning King. I was green and it was maybe my third or fourth match. But I gave him one of the toughest fights he had ever had for that throne. He came out victorious as everyone expected. But, I wasn’t squashed and tossed aside as expected. And while he seems to be back to the machine-like coldness, destroying anything in front of him, I will prove this time as I did last time, every machine has a weak point. Every machine breaks down. Alls it takes is a wrench in the works to bring the biggest machine to a grinding halt. I will not be overlooked. I'll show you how big of a bastard I can be and just how fearless truly am.
*He slips off the top rope and climbs between the ropes. The camera moves closer and gets him as he walks down the ring steps. He looks up from the floor, at the camera, and gives the same smirk his Father used to give years before in his own promo's.*
We are just warming up! We don’t want to end P.C.W.! That's just stupid….we want to change it….forever….like a scar changes the face of a beautiful model. And be sure we aren’t the only ones….
*As he casually strolls up the ramp, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, he whistles “Peter and the Wolf” quietly to himself.*