Post by Amok on Jun 4, 2016 22:00:32 GMT
May 24, 2016
T-Mobile Arena, Las Vegas, Nevada
Backstage at the Tuesday Night Tenacity Broadcast
Minutes after the VWS Heavyweight Championship Contact Signing
Amok stomped through the vast maze of the T-Mobile Arena’s backstage area. Still in his ring gear, the “Wolf at the Door” had one huge paw holding his sore jaw, leaving the other free to take hold of any stagehand dumb enough to be in his path. Grabbing one roadie hard by the shoulder he asked a simple question:
“Levi Daughtery: where is he?”
“W-who?” the teamster stammered out. Amok gave him a contemptuous shove and continued his search.
“Amok! Amok!” a familiar voice called from behind the Wyoming born giant. He turned to see Valentine Wrestling broadcaster Kenny Stevens and a camera man hustling down the corridor towards him, “Can we get a comment on what just happened in the ring?”
“I’m busy Stevens. So unless you can tell me where that piece of crap Daughtery is, I got no use for you,” Amok spat out.
“Levi Daughtery left,” Kenny announced, “We saw him exit the arena a few minutes ago.”
Amok’s eyes narrowed dangerously as he continued to stare a hole into the VWS interviewer.
“Um, sorry?” Stevens squeaked out, “But, uh since Levi’s left the building, maybe you can tell us what you wanted to say to him?”
“I wasn’t looking for him to chat,” Amok said grimly, “I was going to cave his face in for that Pearl Harbor job he pulled during the contract signing.”
“By Pearl Harbor job you’re referring to when Levi Daughtery, who is a wrestler in the New Generation Wrestling promotion, entered the ring and then kicked you in the face?” Kenny exposited for those listening not fluent in pro wrestling lingo.
Amok nodded, “Yeah. What’s he trying to prove? Daughtery doesn’t even work here! He’s part of a rival fed!”
“Yes, but his tag team partner in NGW, Avery Miles III, does, and just moment before he attacked you you had ambushed Miles and dropped him with a Vortex Slam,” Kenny noted timidly.
“And what had that pygmy done before that, Stevens? He provoked me by powerbombing the VWS Heavyweight Champion, the face of the company, Alex Jones, right through a table! Worse, he was about to attack our boss! Some man he is, taking his frustrations out on a woman like that. Miles is lucky I didn’t twist his head off.”
“I-I should point out for our audience that while AMIII did seem ready confront VWS owner Ana Valentine-Jones, there’s no proof he was going to assault her. Also, Mrs. Valentine-Jones is herself an experience wrestler, having beaten competition of both genders in multiple promotions during her Hall of Fame career.”
All of this was true. Amok, however, was undeterred. He continued his harangue against the actions of both Miles and his ally.
“Look,” he repeatedly prodded Kenny’s sunken chest with his finger, “I was out there at the request of management. They knew AMIII was a hothead. They knew there’d be trouble. My job was to make sure there would be a price if he tried anything stupid. And I did deliver that message to him. Only this guy went ahead and escalated things. He brought in an outsider, this Daughtery punk, because he knew he couldn’t handle business by himself.”
“The odds were against him, numbers wise,” Kenny observed not unreasonably. Amok looked about ready to throttle the smaller man.
“Geez, Stevens, who’s side are you on: the guy who was trespassing or the people who sign your paychecks?”
“I’m a journalist; I’m not on anyone’s side,” Kenny sniffed, “Er, except the side of the truth.”
Amok gave a low chuckle, “Yeah, well here’s some truth; I see that prick Daughtery again? I’m going to break him in half. I know he’s going to be tempted to put himself in matters that don’t concern him. He’ll make a big mistake if he does.”
“Is that your way of saying if Levi Daughtery shows up in Atlantic City during next week’s All In Pay Per View, you’ll attempt to get him back for attacking you tonight?”
“Damn straight,” Amok turned to look directly into the camera, “Levi, I figure you’ll see this at some point, so I’ll tell you straight up. You may have taken me down earlier, but that’s because I wasn’t expecting it. Now, I’m ready for you. And that means you got no chance if we square off again. So play it smart on June 5th and stay the hell out of Atlantic City. Watch your boy Avery Miles lose his title match somewhere it’s safe for you. Because chump, if I see you at All In, whether it’s backstage or at ringside or even the frigging cheap seats, I’m going to put a such a beating on you you’ll wish you had died as a child.”
Amok, aware that delivering this threat was the closest he’d come to finding any sense of satisfaction at the arena tonight, walked away from the interview to seek solace elsewhere.
May 25, 2016 (early!)
The Butterscotch Giraffe Gentlemen’s Club, Las Vegas, Nevada
In one of the Club’s semi-private suites
Close to closing time
There wasn’t much in the way of ambiance to the room: just a low, deeply cushioned chair with a circular platform in front of it. The walls were mirrored to allow the dancer a complete view of the area- including the alcove’s “privacy curtain”- no matter where she herself was looking. This was an essential amenity for performers; not only did you want to keep your eyes on the customer at all times, but being on the lookout for a conscientious floor manager whose job it was to make sure things didn’t get too ‘carried away’ in these semi-public areas was a good way to avoid being fined.
Right now Selene had no such worries. It was the end of the night (day?) and her client was one of the staff. They would be left to their own devices.
“Another one?” the scarlet haired temptress asked as the song she had been grinding against Amok to ended. Her pale face was flush under the black lights from the exertion, and her legs were trembling slightly.
“Yeah,” the laconic big man responded. He wrapped one arm around the woman’s waist and reached behind him to where the items would normally be in his pants would be if a gorgeous woman wearing nothing but a thong and a smile wasn’t rubbing against them, “Let me just check something,” he said as he fumbled for his phone.
Selene settled in Amok’s lap and leaned her head against his collarbone. Twining her arms around his bull neck she purred, “It’s 3am, Amok. If they haven’t contacted you by now they’re not gonna.”
“I know that,” he said brusquely, “I just want to see if the next card is up… yeah. Oh, hell, yeah.”
Smirking, he held the screen for Selene to see, his thumb next to the pertinent line:
Velocity #1 Contendership Match: Night Rider v Amok
“My match at All In is for a title shot. This is the best news I could have gotten.”
Selene smiled. As Amok returned the phone to its shelf she turned so that the two were facing, “Mm, congratulations, baby. You deserve it.”
“Damn right I do,” the giant agreed, “I just beat the current Velocity Champ. I proved I’m better than that flake Dalmon, even if I didn’t pin him.”
The Giraffe’s DJ had ceased his patter. Ciara’s “Body Party” began to play through the speakers. By reflex Selene swayed back and forth in her makeshift man seat, her legs hooking around his, “And now you get the chance to take his belt.”
“Assuming he still has it. He’s facing Cable Arcane for the title at the Pay Per View,” Amok’s hands lightly took hold of Selene’s hips to guide her rocking motion, “I don’t care either way though; Cable Arcane, Landen Dalmon, it’ll all end the same; with me as Velocity Champion.”
“Mm. Don’t forget Night Rider,” Selene stated as she leaned forward, teasing Amok with her bare and ample bosom.
“Him too. Night Rider is just one more hoop VWS wants me to jump through before I get what’s coming to me,” Amok said absently. His eyes, and concentration, were focused on the voluptuous vista before him.
Selene draped her arms on the giant’s broad shoulders and wiggled her torso. Amok watched covetously as those pendulous, pillowy protrusions quivered mere centimeters from his face, “Want to come to Atlantic City with me?” he said suddenly.
The offer surprised the exotic dancer. Stripping, like wrestling, has its own type of marks, and she never expected Amok to be one of them. She quirked a perfectly applied eyebrow, “I thought we were going to keep this professional, big guy.”
“It will be,” Amok replied, letting go of Selene’s waist as she stood to mount the platform in front of him. Laying on her back, she scissored her shapely legs open and close repeatedly while resting on her elbows, “You’ve helped me put together my last promos, and people in the office have been impressed.”
“Impressed? With little ol’ me?” Selene moued, her ruby red lips forming a pout. She rubbed her toes against the front of Amok’s jeans.
“No. They don’t know who you are; at least not yet. We can change that, if you want.”
Selene set her feet on the ground and leaned forward. Resting her forearms on the big man’s thighs she shifted to a kneeling position. She confessed, “Sounds tempting. Maybe it’s time I broadened my horizons some. I have looked into getting my valet’s license.”
Amok smiled broadly, and leered down at the crimson goddess supplicate between his spread knees, “Good. That would keep things between us professional and legal.”
She chuckled, and then cast a furtive glance over her shoulder. The curtain to the nook was still closed, and there were no stray shadows or garbled voices to hint that anyone was nearby. Directing her gaze back at Amok, she slid her hands towards the buckle of his belt. What happened next, even in Las Vegas, met neither of those standards.
June 4, 2016
Boardwalk Hall, Atlantic City, New Jersey
Outside the Main Entrance
The Saturday Afternoon before “All In”
Amok leaned against one of the stone columns that line the front of the historic venue. He is dressed in a black suede biker jacket open to reveal a “Butterscotch Giraffe” tee shirt, a pair of dungarees, and a grey Stetson hat with a cattleman’s crease.
“In about twenty four hours I’ll be inside Boardwalk Hall, wrestling at my second Pay Per View for Valentine Wrestling. Like before, the stakes of the match are high: a title shot. What’s different though is this time I’m going to win.
“The odds are in my favor. Instead of having to fight five other guys in a Battle Royal like I did at Uprising, where I only got beat because three of those turds teamed up to dump me out of the ring, I only have one man standing in my way: Night Rider. He and I will be scrapping to become Number One Contender of the VWS Velocity Championship. And he’s going to lose.”
Amok grinned wickedly, “Now, it’s not going to be easy. Night Rider is a vet in this business. And he’s a big dude, not as tall as me, but a little bit heavier. I’m not exactly used to fighting men my size because, hey,” he shrugged, “There aren’t many. So this match would have put me out of my comfort zone a little, if I hadn’t taken this week tweaking my game some. Expect to see some surprises tomorrow; tools I normally keep in the box on account I don’t need them.”
He folded his arms across his chest, “So, yeah, that one advantage you might have had, Rider, was neutralized by a couple of trips to the gym. Sorry. Now you got nothing except maybe the slight hope I might vanish between now and Sunday, allowing you to win by default.”
He gave a knowing wink to the camera.
“People had high expectations when you signed for Valentine Wrestling. You were a known commodity. You’ve won titles elsewhere. You got a rep of being a hard ass. That’s probably why the bookers chose you to help me school those twerps Avery Miles III and Johnny Gillmen a couple weeks back at Tenacity. But what happened, Night Rider? You got pinned. Gillmen dropped you with the Hang Ten and any point me and VWS Management were trying to make with those two uppity pricks got lost. You failed, Rider; just like you’re going to fail at the Pay Per View.
“You don’t deserve to be fighting for the Velocity Championship. Nothing you’ve managed to accomplish here warrants the chance you’ve been handed. Yeah, you got the jump on Monster Max last week; beat him so bad he’s disappeared into the ether. But destroying some over-hyped jobber shouldn’t give you the right to face me at All In. I earned my shot, Rider, by towing the company line and by winning matches against people who matter. I’ve proven my worth to VWS. I’ve shown I have what it takes to hold one of this company’s top honors. You’ve done none of that, Night Rider. You’re a placeholder, a warm body Ana Valentine needs to fill out the card-.”
Amok moved away from the pillar and towards the camera. Grabbing the device despite the protest of its operator, he raised it up so it was focusing on his severe and solemn face.
“- a sacrificial lamb for the Wolf at the Door.”
He covered the lens with his hand to end the promo with darkness.
