Post by Deleted on Aug 11, 2014 20:16:16 GMT -5
“That’s a stupid, stupid reason for me to do this.”
A group of wait staff, dressed in all-black uniforms of slacks and polo shirts stood nervously next to the order station as a veritable feast was laid out in front of them. Two 8oz steaks, a full lobster dressed to the nines, three plates of mashed potatoes with enough butter to last the entire restaurant a week, a slice of cake, an entire drum of chocolate ice cream and one plate heaped with nothing but bacon. There was also a rotisserie chicken, still in the package straight from the local Walmart, as requested. Two of the employees, one male and one female, were trying to reassure that his new charge was well justified, despite his complains.
“That’s how it goes, Chuck. You’re the new guy, you have to do this. It’s like…hazing. But without the violence…” The waitress chimed in, but was cut off by the third employee.
“…IF you don’t fuck this up, that is. You’re also the youngest, that’s two stupid, stupid reasons. Stop complaining, if you want to keep this job, take this food out to the customer. Easy peasy.”
The young martyr sighed, his hands fidgeting in front of him. “I can’t carry this much food alone!” He continued to grasp at straws to get out of his assignment.
His older co-workers slid a two tiered tray on wheels in front of them with triumphant grins on their faces, as if on cue. With one last defeated sigh and whimper, the new waiter loaded up his cart and pushed it towards the two swinging doors that led into the dining room. With one last mournful look behind him at the senior employees, Chuck pushed through the doors. The silence of the dining room was absolutely…
Deafening.
The room was full of people who should be enjoying their food, but could only stare at each other or their plates with a nervous kind of fear, their expressions like someone who was being stalked by a feral dog; if you run away it will surely attack, but attempting to fight off the animal was another sure way of being mauled. Chuck pushed the cart past tables of terrified patrons, one squeaky wheel cutting through the tense silence. Onwards he pushed, as quiet as he could be, until he reached the biggest table in the center of the room. While it could seat at least a dozen or more, only two men occupied it.
Whitey ford and Michael John Windsor.
The two men sat, eerily motionless and staring at one another just like everyone else in the room. Chuck said nothing, afraid his voice would quiver and give away his terror, and simply began to place plate after plate in front of Whitey Ford. MJW had refused to order; this was all Ford’s meal. Navigating between half full wine bottles that littered the tablecloth, Chuck soon had emptied his cart and stood quaking, knowing that he had one more obligatory part of his job to do. Trying to look at Whitey, but definitely not in his eyes, Chuck spoke his verbatim wait staff garbage.
“Can I…can I get you anything else, sir?”
No sooner had the words escaped his mouth did MJW burst up from the table, slamming his palms down with such force that bacon and mashed potatoes flew up from their plates. “HOW ABOUT A WAITRESS WITH TITS, YOU SNIVELING WASTE OF OXYGEN!??” Chuck bolted, but not back towards the kitchen area…no, Chuck ran straight out the front door and didn’t stop running until he was well out of sight. Both Whitey and Windsor broke out into raucous laughter.
“Nice! This is a good game. They’re always watching me, waiting for me to explode. Nobody ever expects the Brit to fly off the handle.” Whitey said as his laughter trailed off and his lifted one of the half empty bottles of wine to his lips.
Windsor had a glass instead of a bottle, and took a sip. He was obviously the more sophisticated of the pair, even though he did like to have his fun from time to time. “Yeah, that was fun. The fact all these monkeys around here are too afraid to eat is even better. You have this state on lockdown, my boy.”
Whitey took a mock bow while still sitting at the table, as Windsor continued. “Now what about Showtime?”
Ford scoffed as he dug around under the plates until he found a spoon, loading up a chunk of mashed potatoes. “We can’t afford to go to the movies, Windsor. We’re filthy rich and even we can’t afford popcorn and soda there.” Barely paying attention to his manager, Whitey flung the mashed potato chunk into the crowd somewhere. The splat of it hitting an elderly man in the shoulder was heard, but no other sound. Ford grinned from ear to ear, a true bully in his natural environment. But as he saw the steely glare of MJW drill into him from across the table, Whitey only gave him a raised eyebrow. “What, did you schedule us for some gay theater or opera act? Listen, Mike, just because I’m an alcoholic and roll around with sweaty men, including Eira, for a profession doesn’t mean I’m gay. It worries me that this is the second time we’ve had this talk.” Ford goes about loading up another potato projectile.
Windsor has had enough of his question being dodged, and readily slaps the spoon from his clients hand in mid-fling. The potato splats back into the World Champions face. “You know I mean Michael Wryght, stop playing stupid.” MJW exclaimed.
With a groan, like a child being questioned about homework, Whitey found a napkin and cleaned off his face. “What do you MEAN, what am I going to do about Showtime? I’m going to beat him up and get paid to do it, that’s what I’m going to do about Showtime.”
“He’s had your back countless times, mate.”
“And I’ve had his. We’re in the business of wrestling, these things happen.”
“Even through the whole Marshall’s Law debacle.”
“Big fucking deal.”
“His legal team convinced the jury that you didn’t commit the crime of FUCK-ING MUR-DER!” MJW practically screamed at Ford, not caring that he practically shared with the world that he believed Whitey Ford was a killer. A couple in their late twenties slowly stood up from their chairs and began to inch towards the exit. “You two cunts sit the fuck down!” MJW’s ire was turned on them for a moment, but only briefly as Whitey chimed in.
“I didn’t kill anybody, you asshole!”
“Mate, the only way anybody would believe that you’re not capable of killing someone is if it were spoken as, ‘Whitey Ford killed someone with kindness.”
Ford sat silent for a moment, his teeth grinding in anger. With one very calm, calculated movement, his arm cleared off the entire table of all food and drink. Not a single soul in the restaurant dared to breathe…or laugh, as Whitey stuck out his tongue at his manager just after throwing the tantrum. MJW looked on in disbelief as Whitey reached into his pants pocket only to pull out an inch long vial, dumping out the remaining cocaine he had for the evening right there on the dining table. “You know why I don’t care what happens in my match with Showtime, Windsor? Watch this.”
With a sudden jerk forward, Whitey smashed his forehead into the table and began dragging his nose around the table, snorting up whatever cocaine he could get up his nostrils. When he lifted his head up he was finally met with noise from those in ‘attendance;’ a gasp of shock and awe as his head was busted open, coke lining the edge of his nose and his hair shooting wildly out of his head, here and there. “I am Whitey Ford. I was born in Leeds, Maine. I’m the PCW World Champion, and I just scared the shit out of these honest, decent, God-fearing folk and I don’t give a fuck. Just because I take a fuckload of powder to the face doesn’t make me forget who…I…am. He couldn’t handle whatever Grimm gave him and to me, that makes him weak. I don’t associate myself with the weak.”
Windsor was resigned now, but not yet defeated; he sat with his arms crossed, looking off across the room as Whitey continued his tirade. The World Champions voice continued to rise. “You’re the one who’s always telling me to focus. Stay focused, keep my eye on the prize and do what I do best; win. But when you find out that I used Showtime for his money, for his lawyers, for a fucking stepping stone to get where I am today, you suddenly have a moral obligation to try and make me feel like I’m doing something wrong? Fuck you, Windsor. I’m Whitey Ford, and I do whatever it takes to stay ahead in this game!”
Windsor shrugged his shoulders, and stood up then. For a moment he said nothing, only adjusted his shirts collar. But when he finally spoke, it was with a cold, calculated voice. “You’re right, mate. Showtime is nothing compared to what we’ve…YOU’VE accomplished. I know you have no allegiances to him, and you’re a heartless bastard who’d turn his back on his own mother if it would save his tail.” Windsor pushed in his chair and turned his back to Ford as he walked away. “Fuck Michael Wryght, I say. But it makes me wonder how long it’ll take you to decide that you don’t need my help either.”
Whitey Ford watched his manager exit the restaurant, a stunned expression on his coke-covered and still bleeding face. Only a short moment passed before he stood up himself, throwing a billfold on the table before heading towards the back exit, through the kitchen. “Finish your fucking meals in peace, you assholes.” Ford reached the back door and kicked it open, crying out one last thing before he stepped out into the night. “And if the cops ask where the cocaine residue came from, tell them it was Chucks!”
A group of wait staff, dressed in all-black uniforms of slacks and polo shirts stood nervously next to the order station as a veritable feast was laid out in front of them. Two 8oz steaks, a full lobster dressed to the nines, three plates of mashed potatoes with enough butter to last the entire restaurant a week, a slice of cake, an entire drum of chocolate ice cream and one plate heaped with nothing but bacon. There was also a rotisserie chicken, still in the package straight from the local Walmart, as requested. Two of the employees, one male and one female, were trying to reassure that his new charge was well justified, despite his complains.
“That’s how it goes, Chuck. You’re the new guy, you have to do this. It’s like…hazing. But without the violence…” The waitress chimed in, but was cut off by the third employee.
“…IF you don’t fuck this up, that is. You’re also the youngest, that’s two stupid, stupid reasons. Stop complaining, if you want to keep this job, take this food out to the customer. Easy peasy.”
The young martyr sighed, his hands fidgeting in front of him. “I can’t carry this much food alone!” He continued to grasp at straws to get out of his assignment.
His older co-workers slid a two tiered tray on wheels in front of them with triumphant grins on their faces, as if on cue. With one last defeated sigh and whimper, the new waiter loaded up his cart and pushed it towards the two swinging doors that led into the dining room. With one last mournful look behind him at the senior employees, Chuck pushed through the doors. The silence of the dining room was absolutely…
Deafening.
The room was full of people who should be enjoying their food, but could only stare at each other or their plates with a nervous kind of fear, their expressions like someone who was being stalked by a feral dog; if you run away it will surely attack, but attempting to fight off the animal was another sure way of being mauled. Chuck pushed the cart past tables of terrified patrons, one squeaky wheel cutting through the tense silence. Onwards he pushed, as quiet as he could be, until he reached the biggest table in the center of the room. While it could seat at least a dozen or more, only two men occupied it.
Whitey ford and Michael John Windsor.
The two men sat, eerily motionless and staring at one another just like everyone else in the room. Chuck said nothing, afraid his voice would quiver and give away his terror, and simply began to place plate after plate in front of Whitey Ford. MJW had refused to order; this was all Ford’s meal. Navigating between half full wine bottles that littered the tablecloth, Chuck soon had emptied his cart and stood quaking, knowing that he had one more obligatory part of his job to do. Trying to look at Whitey, but definitely not in his eyes, Chuck spoke his verbatim wait staff garbage.
“Can I…can I get you anything else, sir?”
No sooner had the words escaped his mouth did MJW burst up from the table, slamming his palms down with such force that bacon and mashed potatoes flew up from their plates. “HOW ABOUT A WAITRESS WITH TITS, YOU SNIVELING WASTE OF OXYGEN!??” Chuck bolted, but not back towards the kitchen area…no, Chuck ran straight out the front door and didn’t stop running until he was well out of sight. Both Whitey and Windsor broke out into raucous laughter.
“Nice! This is a good game. They’re always watching me, waiting for me to explode. Nobody ever expects the Brit to fly off the handle.” Whitey said as his laughter trailed off and his lifted one of the half empty bottles of wine to his lips.
Windsor had a glass instead of a bottle, and took a sip. He was obviously the more sophisticated of the pair, even though he did like to have his fun from time to time. “Yeah, that was fun. The fact all these monkeys around here are too afraid to eat is even better. You have this state on lockdown, my boy.”
Whitey took a mock bow while still sitting at the table, as Windsor continued. “Now what about Showtime?”
Ford scoffed as he dug around under the plates until he found a spoon, loading up a chunk of mashed potatoes. “We can’t afford to go to the movies, Windsor. We’re filthy rich and even we can’t afford popcorn and soda there.” Barely paying attention to his manager, Whitey flung the mashed potato chunk into the crowd somewhere. The splat of it hitting an elderly man in the shoulder was heard, but no other sound. Ford grinned from ear to ear, a true bully in his natural environment. But as he saw the steely glare of MJW drill into him from across the table, Whitey only gave him a raised eyebrow. “What, did you schedule us for some gay theater or opera act? Listen, Mike, just because I’m an alcoholic and roll around with sweaty men, including Eira, for a profession doesn’t mean I’m gay. It worries me that this is the second time we’ve had this talk.” Ford goes about loading up another potato projectile.
Windsor has had enough of his question being dodged, and readily slaps the spoon from his clients hand in mid-fling. The potato splats back into the World Champions face. “You know I mean Michael Wryght, stop playing stupid.” MJW exclaimed.
With a groan, like a child being questioned about homework, Whitey found a napkin and cleaned off his face. “What do you MEAN, what am I going to do about Showtime? I’m going to beat him up and get paid to do it, that’s what I’m going to do about Showtime.”
“He’s had your back countless times, mate.”
“And I’ve had his. We’re in the business of wrestling, these things happen.”
“Even through the whole Marshall’s Law debacle.”
“Big fucking deal.”
“His legal team convinced the jury that you didn’t commit the crime of FUCK-ING MUR-DER!” MJW practically screamed at Ford, not caring that he practically shared with the world that he believed Whitey Ford was a killer. A couple in their late twenties slowly stood up from their chairs and began to inch towards the exit. “You two cunts sit the fuck down!” MJW’s ire was turned on them for a moment, but only briefly as Whitey chimed in.
“I didn’t kill anybody, you asshole!”
“Mate, the only way anybody would believe that you’re not capable of killing someone is if it were spoken as, ‘Whitey Ford killed someone with kindness.”
Ford sat silent for a moment, his teeth grinding in anger. With one very calm, calculated movement, his arm cleared off the entire table of all food and drink. Not a single soul in the restaurant dared to breathe…or laugh, as Whitey stuck out his tongue at his manager just after throwing the tantrum. MJW looked on in disbelief as Whitey reached into his pants pocket only to pull out an inch long vial, dumping out the remaining cocaine he had for the evening right there on the dining table. “You know why I don’t care what happens in my match with Showtime, Windsor? Watch this.”
With a sudden jerk forward, Whitey smashed his forehead into the table and began dragging his nose around the table, snorting up whatever cocaine he could get up his nostrils. When he lifted his head up he was finally met with noise from those in ‘attendance;’ a gasp of shock and awe as his head was busted open, coke lining the edge of his nose and his hair shooting wildly out of his head, here and there. “I am Whitey Ford. I was born in Leeds, Maine. I’m the PCW World Champion, and I just scared the shit out of these honest, decent, God-fearing folk and I don’t give a fuck. Just because I take a fuckload of powder to the face doesn’t make me forget who…I…am. He couldn’t handle whatever Grimm gave him and to me, that makes him weak. I don’t associate myself with the weak.”
Windsor was resigned now, but not yet defeated; he sat with his arms crossed, looking off across the room as Whitey continued his tirade. The World Champions voice continued to rise. “You’re the one who’s always telling me to focus. Stay focused, keep my eye on the prize and do what I do best; win. But when you find out that I used Showtime for his money, for his lawyers, for a fucking stepping stone to get where I am today, you suddenly have a moral obligation to try and make me feel like I’m doing something wrong? Fuck you, Windsor. I’m Whitey Ford, and I do whatever it takes to stay ahead in this game!”
Windsor shrugged his shoulders, and stood up then. For a moment he said nothing, only adjusted his shirts collar. But when he finally spoke, it was with a cold, calculated voice. “You’re right, mate. Showtime is nothing compared to what we’ve…YOU’VE accomplished. I know you have no allegiances to him, and you’re a heartless bastard who’d turn his back on his own mother if it would save his tail.” Windsor pushed in his chair and turned his back to Ford as he walked away. “Fuck Michael Wryght, I say. But it makes me wonder how long it’ll take you to decide that you don’t need my help either.”
Whitey Ford watched his manager exit the restaurant, a stunned expression on his coke-covered and still bleeding face. Only a short moment passed before he stood up himself, throwing a billfold on the table before heading towards the back exit, through the kitchen. “Finish your fucking meals in peace, you assholes.” Ford reached the back door and kicked it open, crying out one last thing before he stepped out into the night. “And if the cops ask where the cocaine residue came from, tell them it was Chucks!”