PROMO

[Guest kelloggs]

=====

 

It all begins in a small gymnasium on the outskirts of Philadelphia. He always tries to come back to Philadelphia on his off days. It gives him a sense of purpose, visiting his family...the ring that he trained in…and a trip to back to Fairmount Park. It all helps him remember why he does it. Not for the fans...or the love of the game. But to be the best, get the Gold and live the highlife that he deserves. And only one thing can get him there. A match. One match...

 

"The Franchise" and "The Dream"...

 

A few men stand upon the ring apron, each holding himself in pain, usually their necks. But not him...Although winded, he stands in the corner, leaning up against the turnbuckle pads. Alone with his thoughts, thoughts of the being the World Heavyweight Champion once again. The man he was grappling with, an unnamed jobber or student of the self-proclaimed Franchise, holds his neck as he rolls out of the ring, falling victim to a Fisherman’s Buster.

 

"Does anybody else want another lesson?" asks Mak Francis; a smirk on his face as he waits for the answer he knows is coming. The rest of the group all groan in pain--and then they look up as a wiry individual steps up and slips the ring. Some remember him from the last time Mak was in town, but most know him as a Smarks Junior Leagues wrestler, the sadistic sWo member Fugue.

 

"I’m glad you decided to come by, Tony," Mak says. "We need to talk."

 

"Is it how you thought it would be?"

 

Francis stands perplexed, responding with a blink of puzzlement that Fugue has seen on many faces in conversation with him. The musician grins. "Losing," he clarifies.

 

The response is quick. "No. That's why I needed to talk with you."

 

"Ah?" Fugue looks down at the ropes, running his hand along one of them as he listens.

 

"I had this discussion with you before, but everything didn't go--quite as planned." The surrounding wrestlers laugh and mutter among themselves. Mak throws an angry glance at them, and they take the hint and begin to file out. "So that's why I invited you here," the Franchise continues.

 

"I think I've heard this song before," Fugue murmurs. He turns to peer intently at his sWo cohort.

 

"I’m asking you to do me this favor," Francis says, stepping forward and meeting Fugue's gaze. "I need the belt. I NEED to be the best, over him. You’ll get other chances, I know." Mak steps forward until he's almost face to face with the smaller man. "I need this," he says quietly. "So...I’m asking you to do the job. Edwin's put me in a real bind here, but I HAVE to have the belt. We’ll make it look good--"

 

"Is that what you want?" Fugue asks.

 

Mak frowns. "Well, I'm asking--"

 

"Have you thought about it?" Fugue cocks his head and stares off into space. "Do you hear that?"

 

Mak looks around. "Hear...what?"

 

"Those voices." The Franchise stares at his compatriot. "I can hear them singing," Fugue continues. "I hear them singing to YOU. They're singing..." A grin spreads over his face. "Mak was handed the victory...how can he call himself a champion?" His eyes bore into Francis' soul. "How can he call himself a real Franchise?"

 

Francis breathes heavily, and his face darkens. "You--of COURSE it's what I want!" he replies. "It doesn't matter how you win, as long as you DO!"

 

Fugue shakes his head slowly. "I thought you'd learned something, Mak," he says. "I thought you'd learned that sometimes it’s not just about getting the belt. That it's not whether you win or lose--it's how well you sing."

 

Mak Francis looms over Fugue. "Oh, the hell with that," he snaps. "I'm getting a little tired of your mysterious musical crap! This is about my future, and you're talking about singing? Do I look like a singer, huh?" He shoves Fugue.

 

The musician looks up and smiles, his eyes glittering. "I know you're excited, Mak," he says, "so I'll let that one slide. ...This time. But I think if you'll compose yourself--aha--you'll see what I mean. So..." He suddenly sticks out a hand. "Good luck, huh?"

 

The Franchise scowls in incomprehension. He grabs Fugue's hand in his own and holds it tightly. The musician grins back.

 

...there is a grunt of effort. Francis grimaces as the muscles in his arm strain--as do Fugue's, his smile becoming strained as well. Both men's fingers whiten as they squeeze--and Fugue suddenly spins in place, pulling Francis' arm over his head and twisting it hard. The Franchise' eyes narrow, and he suddenly twists back, sheer strength turning Fugue's arm in the other direction. The musician staggers awkwardly, trying to keep his balance...then he throws the hand away, backing up and leaning against the ropes, breathing heavily. Francis flexes his arms a bit and glares at Fugue...who smiles back.

 

"Not bad," Fugue comments. "Not bad at all. See you tonight." The musician leans back and falls backward over the ropes, turning over and landing on his feet outside the ring. He throws one more smile at the Franchise, then turns and walks out of the room.

 

Francis stands in the ring; massaging his hand gently...staring at the door long after Fugue has disappeared. Wondering, what the hell just happened.

 

=====

[Guest kelloggs]

giving this a bump so you can all comment and if you don't I 'll tell Thugg and Edwin to job you. They love holding people down.

[Guest Powerplay]

Commentary, 'cause I don't want Mak to beat me up!

 

Well, you and Fugue blend really well if this was a joint write of some sort. I've seen both of your styles, and you are very similar. A solid promo, as usual. I read it before the matchup, and damned if that wasn't that match I was looking for first. Too bad I had to wait a while. But again, solid promage from the sWo top two. I really can't give any pointers on what's wrong, because really I don't see anything all that wrong with it. So good job again.