Post by Deleted on Jun 2, 2014 15:42:46 GMT -5
Do I do it for the money?
MJW scoffed at his own thought. Fuck all, that’s not it. I was born filthy rich. The former Pure Class Wrestling talent glanced out the window of his limousine at the barren desert before him. The landscape was spotted with an occasional cactus or bush here or there, but other than the vegetation the view was incredibly boring.
Do I do it for my sanity?
Absolutely not, that ridiculous notion passed through Windsors head in about half of a second. MJW had began managing Whitey Ford, seeing his potential after the rest of the AWAssholes disbanded. Talent, however, doesn’t necessarily include a safe working environment. Since MJW had been employed as Whitey’s manger, he had not only enlisted the help of the recently estranged Mr. Showtime, with legal matters and such…but he had dealt with numerous illegal activities. Rampant drug use, domestic violence, tax evasion…
And jaywalking.
Yet here he sat, driving to another obscure location that Ford had decided to rent, if not for a moment of immaturity mixed with violence, but to pretend that his monetary value was limitless.
Without me investing his money, that daft cunt would be broke and starving by now! MJW thought, as the limosouine took an awkward right hand turn out of the blue But just after the treeline was a house; it must have been previously white, but the paint was cracked and the boards rotted. The limo pulled up slowly, and came to a halt.
Is this really fucking worth it?
A few moments later, the limo’s door flew open and MJW stepped out, dressed in his usual expensive suit. While MJW was the same age as Whitey Ford, he appeared much older but only by his demeanor. MJW was an athlete and a predator, and it showed a he approached the house his ride had stopped in front of. It was a plain looking house, with no other colors besides white and black. But there was a strong smell of coffee, and the sound of laughter could be heard coming from inside. For a moment, MJW stopped. The hot desert sun beat down on his face and made his clothing choice of an expensive suit seem foolish. Despite this fleeting moment of discomfort, Windsor decided that enough was enough. Putting all of his power into his right leg, he kicked the door right in line of the doorhandle with enough force to splinter the doorframe as it flew open.
The smell of coffee grew stronger and the laughter had quickly subsided. MJW stood in the doorway, unmoving, waiting for any cry out or question to what had happened. He wasn’t even EXACTLY sure that this was the house Whitey Ford had purchased. But seeing as he had already kicked in the door…Might as well find out for sure. The brit slowly stepped into the house. The staircase was directly in front of him, with two doorways to his left and right. The sound of movement to his left sent him in that direction, and he peeked his head around the corner out of instinct…
…and a half-empty coffee can collided with the wall just past his face! MJW recoiled out of instinct, but he had gotten a glimpse of a ridiculous man wearing a pink sombrero cowering behind an imposing looking mexican in a dirty white T-shirt. “It’s me.” MJW said in a dry and unimpressed tone.
“Why didn’t you knock!?! Scared the living bejeezus out of me!” Whitey stood up from behind Veigns and patted his bodyguard on the back as a ‘good job,’ for being a human shield. Ford adjusted his pink sombrero and smiled a toothy grin. He wore no shirt, had tattered ripped jean shorts, and his eyes were bloodshot. In this day and age, it was obvious that he had been smoking a lot of weed.
“Because I’m done knocking, waiting, asking questions, and babysitting you! You’re going to run out of money at some point, Whitey, you can’t just run off and buy a house here and there, then leave them to rot! You’d still be paying taxes on a dozen different homes if I didn’t already sell them for you to recoup some of your bloody losses!” As he scolded his client, his eyes fell upon the scenery inside the house. Coffee grounds were literally EVERYWHERE, and there were dozens upon dozens of empty coffee cans piled up in the corner. On a table nearby, there was a stack of pastel colored construction paper and a package of Crayola markers. “And what the fuck is going on here?!?”
Ford looked hurt; his eyes averted to the floor, and he picked up a full can of coffee grounds from a separate corner. With the silent demeanor of a child who’s been reprimanded, Ford peeled off the security seal plastic from the container, popped the plastic lid off…and dumped the grounds unceremoniously to the floor. “I’m one step ahead of you, but if you want to know why and how, you have to apologize.”
MJW sighed, years of experience telling him that it’s best just to comply and save the headache than to argue with a stoned Whitey Ford. But as he opened his mouth to give a short apology, he was cut off. Apparantly Ford’s attention span was shorter than usual.
“THREE SHOWS!” Whitey exclaimed, spiking the now empty coffee can off the floor. Johnny Veigns retrieved it to toss it in with the rest of them, piled up in the corner. “This makes the third show that me, the World Champion, the best in the whole fucking PCW, is NOT main eventing! I should start the show, I should host the mid-show intermission, and I should end the show. The ‘W’ in PCW stands for Whitey, for fucks sake!”
“Well, you did just walk out on your match with Murdoc. Maybe they don’t think you’ll perform?” MJW inquired.
“I walked out because, just like THIS week, I’m being partnered with someone who hates me! I beat Loki’s ass a few weeks ago, now they want me to partner with him? I embarassed Eira at the PPV, and they wanted me to team with her fucking HUSBAND…fuckbuddy…submissive bitch, whatever he really is to her. Why would I show up for that fucking match? He was going to clobber me the second I got into the ring, and I was on his team!”
“Maybe if you didn’t order your henchman to clobber Eira before the match started, he would have played nice for the ten minutes it would have taken you to win.” MJw responded dryly.
“Actually,” Whitey smirked. “that was Johnny’s own idea. Nice guy, that Mr. Veigns. Regardless, I came out here to Arizona to buy some weed off of crooked cops. The crooked cops in New England were getting boring. Upon arriving in good ol’ A-Z, I discovered a Folgers coffee truck, unattended, at a local McDonalds. Having already rented this place and in need of something constructive to do, I borrowed the truck and its cargo, brought it back here, and I am currently making…” Whitey paused.
The pause continued, and MJW just shook his head, irritated.
“…donation bins! If I don’t start main eventing, I’m gonna decorate all these cans up really nice and put them out in every store I can think of. Because I’ll quit PCW if I don’t get what I deserve!”
MJW rolled his eyes. “Whitey…even though I scolded you about spending too much money, you’re still a millionaire from what happened with the AWA. You’re not going to need people’s spare change to survive if you quit PCW..which, you won’t be doing.”
Whitey smiled back. “They aren’t for me, buddy, they’re for PCW itself! The company will go dead, flat broke if I don’t start headlining every show!” Whitey pulled up a chair near the table with construction paper, and dusted it off for MJW to sit down. “Here, you start writing out what the donation jars will say. I would, but you know I can’t write anything without putting the F word in there somehow.”
Giving a resigned sigh, MJW sat down to humor his client. Even with all of his gusto, he knew that his job as manager to the World Champion was too lucrative to just give up on, even with all the annoyances. And sometimes, playing along with Whitey Ford was the easiest and safest route to go.
MJW scoffed at his own thought. Fuck all, that’s not it. I was born filthy rich. The former Pure Class Wrestling talent glanced out the window of his limousine at the barren desert before him. The landscape was spotted with an occasional cactus or bush here or there, but other than the vegetation the view was incredibly boring.
Do I do it for my sanity?
Absolutely not, that ridiculous notion passed through Windsors head in about half of a second. MJW had began managing Whitey Ford, seeing his potential after the rest of the AWAssholes disbanded. Talent, however, doesn’t necessarily include a safe working environment. Since MJW had been employed as Whitey’s manger, he had not only enlisted the help of the recently estranged Mr. Showtime, with legal matters and such…but he had dealt with numerous illegal activities. Rampant drug use, domestic violence, tax evasion…
And jaywalking.
Yet here he sat, driving to another obscure location that Ford had decided to rent, if not for a moment of immaturity mixed with violence, but to pretend that his monetary value was limitless.
Without me investing his money, that daft cunt would be broke and starving by now! MJW thought, as the limosouine took an awkward right hand turn out of the blue But just after the treeline was a house; it must have been previously white, but the paint was cracked and the boards rotted. The limo pulled up slowly, and came to a halt.
Is this really fucking worth it?
A few moments later, the limo’s door flew open and MJW stepped out, dressed in his usual expensive suit. While MJW was the same age as Whitey Ford, he appeared much older but only by his demeanor. MJW was an athlete and a predator, and it showed a he approached the house his ride had stopped in front of. It was a plain looking house, with no other colors besides white and black. But there was a strong smell of coffee, and the sound of laughter could be heard coming from inside. For a moment, MJW stopped. The hot desert sun beat down on his face and made his clothing choice of an expensive suit seem foolish. Despite this fleeting moment of discomfort, Windsor decided that enough was enough. Putting all of his power into his right leg, he kicked the door right in line of the doorhandle with enough force to splinter the doorframe as it flew open.
The smell of coffee grew stronger and the laughter had quickly subsided. MJW stood in the doorway, unmoving, waiting for any cry out or question to what had happened. He wasn’t even EXACTLY sure that this was the house Whitey Ford had purchased. But seeing as he had already kicked in the door…Might as well find out for sure. The brit slowly stepped into the house. The staircase was directly in front of him, with two doorways to his left and right. The sound of movement to his left sent him in that direction, and he peeked his head around the corner out of instinct…
…and a half-empty coffee can collided with the wall just past his face! MJW recoiled out of instinct, but he had gotten a glimpse of a ridiculous man wearing a pink sombrero cowering behind an imposing looking mexican in a dirty white T-shirt. “It’s me.” MJW said in a dry and unimpressed tone.
“Why didn’t you knock!?! Scared the living bejeezus out of me!” Whitey stood up from behind Veigns and patted his bodyguard on the back as a ‘good job,’ for being a human shield. Ford adjusted his pink sombrero and smiled a toothy grin. He wore no shirt, had tattered ripped jean shorts, and his eyes were bloodshot. In this day and age, it was obvious that he had been smoking a lot of weed.
“Because I’m done knocking, waiting, asking questions, and babysitting you! You’re going to run out of money at some point, Whitey, you can’t just run off and buy a house here and there, then leave them to rot! You’d still be paying taxes on a dozen different homes if I didn’t already sell them for you to recoup some of your bloody losses!” As he scolded his client, his eyes fell upon the scenery inside the house. Coffee grounds were literally EVERYWHERE, and there were dozens upon dozens of empty coffee cans piled up in the corner. On a table nearby, there was a stack of pastel colored construction paper and a package of Crayola markers. “And what the fuck is going on here?!?”
Ford looked hurt; his eyes averted to the floor, and he picked up a full can of coffee grounds from a separate corner. With the silent demeanor of a child who’s been reprimanded, Ford peeled off the security seal plastic from the container, popped the plastic lid off…and dumped the grounds unceremoniously to the floor. “I’m one step ahead of you, but if you want to know why and how, you have to apologize.”
MJW sighed, years of experience telling him that it’s best just to comply and save the headache than to argue with a stoned Whitey Ford. But as he opened his mouth to give a short apology, he was cut off. Apparantly Ford’s attention span was shorter than usual.
“THREE SHOWS!” Whitey exclaimed, spiking the now empty coffee can off the floor. Johnny Veigns retrieved it to toss it in with the rest of them, piled up in the corner. “This makes the third show that me, the World Champion, the best in the whole fucking PCW, is NOT main eventing! I should start the show, I should host the mid-show intermission, and I should end the show. The ‘W’ in PCW stands for Whitey, for fucks sake!”
“Well, you did just walk out on your match with Murdoc. Maybe they don’t think you’ll perform?” MJW inquired.
“I walked out because, just like THIS week, I’m being partnered with someone who hates me! I beat Loki’s ass a few weeks ago, now they want me to partner with him? I embarassed Eira at the PPV, and they wanted me to team with her fucking HUSBAND…fuckbuddy…submissive bitch, whatever he really is to her. Why would I show up for that fucking match? He was going to clobber me the second I got into the ring, and I was on his team!”
“Maybe if you didn’t order your henchman to clobber Eira before the match started, he would have played nice for the ten minutes it would have taken you to win.” MJw responded dryly.
“Actually,” Whitey smirked. “that was Johnny’s own idea. Nice guy, that Mr. Veigns. Regardless, I came out here to Arizona to buy some weed off of crooked cops. The crooked cops in New England were getting boring. Upon arriving in good ol’ A-Z, I discovered a Folgers coffee truck, unattended, at a local McDonalds. Having already rented this place and in need of something constructive to do, I borrowed the truck and its cargo, brought it back here, and I am currently making…” Whitey paused.
The pause continued, and MJW just shook his head, irritated.
“…donation bins! If I don’t start main eventing, I’m gonna decorate all these cans up really nice and put them out in every store I can think of. Because I’ll quit PCW if I don’t get what I deserve!”
MJW rolled his eyes. “Whitey…even though I scolded you about spending too much money, you’re still a millionaire from what happened with the AWA. You’re not going to need people’s spare change to survive if you quit PCW..which, you won’t be doing.”
Whitey smiled back. “They aren’t for me, buddy, they’re for PCW itself! The company will go dead, flat broke if I don’t start headlining every show!” Whitey pulled up a chair near the table with construction paper, and dusted it off for MJW to sit down. “Here, you start writing out what the donation jars will say. I would, but you know I can’t write anything without putting the F word in there somehow.”
Giving a resigned sigh, MJW sat down to humor his client. Even with all of his gusto, he knew that his job as manager to the World Champion was too lucrative to just give up on, even with all the annoyances. And sometimes, playing along with Whitey Ford was the easiest and safest route to go.