A Full Course Meal

Subject: A Full Course Meal Mon Jun 11, 2012 10:31 am

Holy Diver booms through an empty arena, booming with it's deep bass and heavy guitar. Austin Cross steps out from behind the curtain with a mic, slowly walking to the top of the ramp, taking the site in. He once again starts moving slowly to the ring, putting emphasis in each step as he goes. He walks around to the announcers table, grabs a chair and, while keeping the same, laggy pace, slides into the ring. He sets up the chair, but sits in it reverse, his torso being where his back should. He stares for a few moments at the empty seats, his feelings impossible to read. If one looked at him at this moment, they might not believe he had emotions.

He slowly raises the mic to his lips, but once it gets there, he drops it. He jumps up, knocking over the chair, which in turns sends a terrible noise into the mic. Austin then picks up the chair and throws it out towards the crowd seating section, clearing three rows of seats before tumbling into a pile of chairs. Cross slides out of the ring, and begins running towards the announcing table. He tears it apart, first pulling the monitors out and slamming them on the floor, before finishing off the table itself. He then walks back and rolls into the ring, picking up the mic as he does. He thrusts it at his mouth, hatred flowing off and into everything around him. He turns around and stares at the stage, as if waiting for someone.

Austin Cross:
Warfare Entertainment Wrestling.... what has this place come to? I mean seriously. Do they even pay attention to the talent they higher? Can they even call Martin Taylor a talent? He is more like a play thing, a mouse for a cat, something to toy with before it's devoured.

Cross smiles smugly for a moment before launching back into his speech.

And then there is... what's his name? Oh. Austin Jacobs. This guy is really here? He is obviously a drunken loser, who was hired out of pity. People really give this guy the pleasure of working here? He really just needs to go to AA.

Austin says his name with disgust, really throwing venom into calling him a drunk. He begins faking a fancy, upper-class accent, using hand gestures as he speaks.

But, nevertheless, I am sure both of these so-called competitors are very competent respectable men, just like another man I want to talk about... his name is Phillip Phillips.

Cross' eyes go cold as he says The Motown Monsters name, and the look on his face would make you think he had just murdered someone. He shuts his eyes, breathing heavy, clenching his fists into balls. He slowly begins to speak, going slow, and pausing after each word.

I used to call Phillip Phillips a friend. We used to go out and party, or just kick the fuck out of random people on the streets who tried to get tough. We WERE best friends.

Cross' speech is back to normal pace now, and is gaining more and more as his voice also gets louder.

But like I've said before, this business does things to do. Once he found success beyond Decapitation Station he couldn't care less about dear ole Cross. No, the only thing that mattered to him was his precious money. And then I hit a bad streak. I was fired, and guess who I turned to to help? Yes, that's right. Phillip Phillips. You know what he told me? He told me he couldn't help, and not to associate me with himself!

By now, Cross is yelling, anger sending his voice into the mic, which propels the words through the P.A. System in the empty arena. Cross begins talking slower and softer, all the hatred still there.

So, like I did everything in Decapitation Station, I got up and got myself re-hired. When I finally got the guts to ask around to see if Philly asked if they were wanting to re-sign me, I wasn't shocked to find out the answer. He didn't. Nope. Hadn't even mentioned me since he pulled his groin before AWO Phenomenon. I didn't matter to him... but I should now. He needs to remember that he has more to worry about than the self-proclaimed Baddest Man in Wrestling. Because when you least expect it, something--or someone, might creep up from the past and let loose something you didn't want anyone to know.

Cross looks as if he's ready to go for a match right now, sweat glistening on his forehead. He smiles, a deep vicious sneer, before his mouth is pulled into a hateful look. He drops the mic, making his way up the ramp and into the backstage area. But unlike usual, the camera follows him backstage. Cross looks back, still keeping the same pace. He nods and keeps going, passing locker rooms that belong to the likes of Cole Scorpio and Matt Knoxville.

I was hoping you'd follow me. If you want to refer to Austin Jacobs and Martin Taylor as side dishes and Phillip Phillips as the main course, then you can call the next man... A Danish Dessert.

With that, Austin thrusts open the door to Anton Hinston's dressing room, and steps inside.

TBC: Anton Hinston