PROMO: Mr. Z Goes To Hell

[Guest Rabbi_wilson13]

Z wanders out of his hotel room, whistling a little bit of David Bowie, and heads down the hall towards the elevator. Edwin had went off somewhere and Raynor and Mag had went to get pre and during Smarkdown food supplies. Z had meant to watch some Flesher tapes, but that bed was really comfy and its not like he’d really ever scouted before. The guys had recommended it. He could always say he watched em…

 

So he was planning on heading downstairs, maybe shoot a game of pool, hang out a little bit before he had to head over to the arena. Big time tonight. Then big time Sunday, too. Z hadn’t expected this kind of stuff this quickly after getting bumped. He stepped into the elevator and pressed the “L” button, lighting it up, before stopping the whistling and beginning to sing along to the elevator music. Some classic R.E.M. All right!

 

“It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine….”

 

Z composes himself as the elevator nears the lobby level, the small circles across the door lighting up.

 

“2”

 

“1”

 

Here we go...

 

“L”

 

Wha…

 

“SL”

 

Uh oh.

 

“SL2”

 

Did I press the right button?

 

“SL3”

 

DING!

 

Z becomes very confused as the elevator slows to a halt and the doors slide open revealing darkness. Z snorts at the notion of being afraid of the dark and steps forward, wandering if there was a game room for the staff down here or something.

 

WHOOOSH!

 

The doors immediately slide shut behind him as soon as his feet hit the concrete. He punches the call button repeatedly. Nothing doing.

 

“Mr. Z. Welcome.”

 

Z looks up as a bank of lights kick on, revealing two large armchairs, a small coffee table and two glasses with some form of alcohol between them. Standing above the farther chair was Chris Wilson. Z’s confusion was gone, and now every defense system in his body was kicking. Bring it, evil genius man. Bring it.

 

Wilson, acting very gentlemanly, motions for the chair nearest Z. “Please, sit down.”

 

Wilson sits down and Z follows, eyeing him carefully. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

 

“Oh, I just kind of set it up for a special occasion. Drink?”

 

Z responds quickly, without any hesitation. “No.”

 

Wilson sighs as he pours himself one. “Z, my friend, I’m not going to poison you. Granted, I could poison you. There could be a nice, thin layer right around the bottom of your glass and as soon as the liquid hits it, bam, instant death. But on the other hand, as soon as you got on the elevator I could of filled it with poison gas. Or dropped it a good ten stories. Or as soon as you got off, had a gun pointed at your head. Or a land mine. Or this entire room wrapped in-“

 

“I get the idea, but I still don’t want a drink.”

 

“Fair enough.” Wilson takes a sip, and thinks a moment. “I don’t believe we’ve ever actually been fomally introduced.” He sets down his glass and offers a gloved hand a big smile to Z. “Chris Wilson, Magnificent Seven.”

 

“I think we’ve been fairly well introduced, Chrissy. You beating the snot out of me, blowing up the building, some rather nasty promos at the shows and various other meetings. Formally or not, I’m comfy in the chair.”

 

Wilson frowns. “Z, I’m heart broken. I was ready to throw out the fact that you cost me my championship. My championship, Z. Not your fearless leader who’s carrying it for me now. Mine. Mine mine mine.”

 

“I hardly interfered in your match, pal. I think I was just saving my friend from your attempted gazillion on one beatdown.”

 

Wilson’s expression turns rather sour, and a sort of darkness starts to creep into his eyes. Darkness that could only mean one thing: The manipulative maniac was getting down to business.

 

“Your friend? Z, tell me, back in Jersey and the JL, did your friends warn you when you were about to get into something extremely dangerous? Did your friends watch your back when you were in matches against fellow bumpees trying to make their mark, even if that meant breaking you in half? Did your friends volunteer you for possibly the most dangerous match in the history of the WF, simply because you’re hanging out with them?”

 

“Oh don’t start with me, Wilson. I wanted to be in WarGames, and the Carnies can’t be everywhere at once fighting off your constant attacks.”

 

“Please, Z. Don’t get dramatic about it. You’re the least important thing on your ‘friends’ mind, and frankly, most people see you as the weakest link on Sunday. I don’t. I think you’re going to have a dozen championship reigns and be the strongest member of the team. It’s my allies, and the so-called experts that say ‘Z’s the weak link of the Carnies. Anne might as well tell him good bye as soon as he steps into the ring at Ground Zero.’ Not me, Z. I respect your abilities. I’ve seen what you’re capable of doing.”

 

“Listen, Wilson, I probably am the weak link. The world champion? A former world champion? Two former ICTV champions? Who wouldn’t say that? And the Carnival is running just fine, thank you. Sure, Edwin is having his troubles with that guy, Nat-“

 

Z immediately shuts his trap, but Wilson’s caught it and he’s leaning forward, eyeing Z hungrily. “Pardon, Z? I didn’t hear what you said there at the end. Whose Edwin having trouble with?”

 

“Nobody. Nothing. We’re peachy keen.”

 

“Z, you do realize the only reason you were even brought into the Carnival? They just needed some bodies, and my boys, Ced and Tod were smart enough to turn them down. They didn’t tell you what your job entails, does it? They knew I like to surround myself with proper villains, and they just wanted some cannon fodder. An extra body to take a chair shot or a Platinum Nightmare during a brawl. They don’t really respect or want you. I do, Z. I do.”

 

“The way I see it, WarGames is going to be particularly brutal at Ground Zero. Extremely brutal. And there are going to be casualties. Some men’s careers may end that very night, in that very cage. And you don’t want that to happen, do you? Cut down in your prime, just as you begin to get your title shots and champions and a following of loyal fans. You really want to throw all of that away for some stable that you’re not even sure they want you or not? Or would you rather be secure?”

 

Z should be getting up and leaving right now, but it was an interesting proposition. No pain at WarGames? Maybe Wilson was ready to just concede the match! Z would be a hero. Talking Wilson into giving up as soon as the match got started. He’d be the hero of the main event once again. Wooooo, baby. Mr. Evil Genius thinks he’s so smart. Time to show him what the doctor prescribes…

 

“What are you getting at Wilson? You want to end WarGames as soon as we get it started?”

 

Wilson forces a smile, still wishing Z would of finish the damned sentence about whatever Edwin was being bothered by. Nat what? Whatever. Z would be gushing whatever Wilson wanted him to, shortly.

 

“Precisely! See, you’re already smarter than your average Carnie. As soon as we get all ten men into the ring and we’re locked up, it’ll be so simple.”

 

“You want me to put you in a soft Neblina, and then you’ll tap out accordingly? It really is a violent move, Wilson. Nobody would think any less of you, and think of all the time and blood we’d save. It’s a great idea.”

 

Wilson’s bites his lip, staring at the floor and nodding slowly. “Well Z, that’s an incredibly good idea, but I was thinking something more along the lines of this. You know Stryke has departed back to the land down under, so the Magnificent Seven is short one. As soon as we get all ten men into the ring, fake an injury. One of your Carnies will come over to come and check on you…bam, piano wire. Then you guard my back while I wring the life out of whoever was sappy enough to come check on you, match over, and your on the winning side! How does that sound?”

 

Z seriously ponders the thought. “So all I’d have to do is fake an injury-“

 

“Yep…”

 

“Distract a Carnie or Thoth-“

 

“Yessir...”

 

“Then guard your back while you try to kill them with your piano wire-“

 

“Again, correct…”

 

“And then I’ll be a full-fledged member of the Magnificent Seven?”

 

“Exactly! See, it’s a grand idea. Absolutely spectacular.”

 

Z appears to really consider it, extending his hand towards Wilson, who gets very excited.

 

“So it’s a deal?” asks Wilson as he shakes Z’s hand, preparing to pull out the contract that Z signs with blood, maybe pitching in a golden fiddle to seal the deal.

 

“Not exactly. Thanks for your time, Mr. Wilson.” Z releases his grip and stands up, a shocked Wilson’s eyes following him. He tips an imaginary hat. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ll see you on Sunday.”

 

Z turns and heads back towards the elevator, confident a stunned and defeated Wilson will be of no trouble.

 

“Grrrr…”

 

Z tries to whirl around, but before he can get even a quarter turn in, a slicing pain cuts across the front of his trachea. Z tries to swallow, but realizes that he’s being baptized as a Carnie, the piano wire wrapped tight around his throat.

 

“Damn you, you little bastard!” hisses Wilson as he locks his arm, putting as much pressure around Z’s throat as he could. “I offered you a ticket away from all of this. I accepted your god damn early birthday present with a smile. Cute little tambourine player you make Z. You’re also gonna make a bloody good loser on Sunday.”

 

Z tries to fight back, his brawling skills coming into effect, but his lack of sizes rears its head as Wilson no-sells a set of very weak elbows, and then forces Z down to his knees. Wilson drops down with him, mouth right behind Z’s ear and his voice a near whisper.

 

“Because you will lose on Sunday, Z. You cost me my title, and you’re lucky I’m not costing you your life. I just want you alive so that when I find out what the hell you were talking about with Edwin, I want you to know that you’re the one that betrayed your friend. You’re the one that sold his weakness to the devil because you thought you were going to be cute and outsmart me.”

 

Z’s resistance falters, and he slowly fades…

 

“Well, you may be as smart as you think you are, or the biggest smart ass in the world, but I’ve dealt with worse than you before, and frankly, I’m going to deal with worse before I’m finally dragged kicking and screaming off of this earth. You are nothing. You’re worse than nothing, since your friends can’t even-“

 

Wilson notices that Z’s rather unconscious and decides that further ranting, though it would be very satisfy and a good soliloquy never hurt anybody, his message had been sent. Well, at least the first part.

 

Chris Wilson rises to his feet, unwrapping the wire as he rises, and stuffs it back into his pocket. He picks up Z, grabbing him under one arm, and heads for the elevator. He hits the call button, miraculously working now, and the door slides open. Wilson dumps Z inside and smiles.

 

“Welcome to the Carnival, my friend.”

 

With that, he presses the lobby button and steps back, the door sliding shut…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“…but then the iguana says, “Lo siento, mi amigo, but that isn’t my bottle!”

 

Chris Raynor nearly doubles over with laughter as he and El Luchadore Magnifico walk back into their hotel.

 

“Oh, lordy, Mag, that was great.” They reach the elevator and Raynor presses the call button. “Where you come up with some of that stuff.”

 

ELM ponders a moment. “Generally I make them up during drunken tequila binges. Things are just cleared then.”

 

“I’d drink to that.”

 

DING!

 

“Oh, that was fast.”

 

WHOOOOOOOOSH!

 

“Wonder how Edwin and Z are-“

 

“Uh oh.”

[Guest Beingz0wningj00]

Revenge is sweet, ain't it Wilson?

 

 

 

Seems like Z is now Spark... We only need Crusen to say. "Shut up, Z. You suX0rz."

[Guest chirs3]

I liked it.

 

Not that I like attempted brainwashes... or elevator hijackings... or strangling Z with piano wire... Because that would be weird.

 

But I liked it.

[Guest Kibagami]

Very nice, Wilson. I actually thought Z was getting out of that basement unhurt with you being all civilized and whatnot, but hey.

 

(Y) @ heelish things done with piano wire. In fact, (Y)(Y) at them.

 

I still own you, though.

 

S.

[Guest Edwin MacPhisto]

Dude, you are so getting three Nelbinas on Sunday for disrespecting the Z man.

 

Nice evil villain stuff, though I think you might have made Z a little too capable, if that's possible with all the still-present bumbling. Three cheers for piano wire.

[Guest Rabbi_wilson13]

See, I don't know the Z character as well as the other Carnies. My bad.

 

I didn't want to make him look dumb or like he was ready to betray the Carnies. I dunno. He did turn his back on me though after he shot down my offer. That could be considered somewhat bumbling. Or really bumbling.

[Guest Lerrin Breggan]

Wilson, heelish mastermind at its best! A good way to get revenge and another excellent promo to build up to the huge wargames cage match. This storyline is just getting better and better with each passing promo! Bravo guys, keep it up!

[Guest Ironman]

Yeah, yeah I finally read it and it was a damn fine promo. WarGames will be great.

[Guest kelloggs]

I predicted it...revenge...me like...but he only passed out. Z can no-sell almost anything characterwise Chris. MAKE HIM BLEED!!!!

 

Oh yeah WFers I'm plugging the last SJL show on the Lawn, Crimson. Read it causes it's good stuff

 

the educated mark

M. Francis

[Guest midnight_burn]

Wilson + promo = great.

 

Another fine peice of work Wilson, adding some extra spice to Wargames, as if it needed any more.