PROMO: 'Talking to Mr Flesher'

[Toxxic 0]

Tom Flesher sits back, smiling smugly (although with a considerable amount of relief) at the paperwork in front of him. The publicity is out, all the interviews are done, everything that needs his personal seal of approval or a picture of him on or a few well-chosen words has been completed. There should be nothing, nothing that will stop Tom Flesher’s Ground Zero from being one of the most successful events in SWF history. The Superior One’s business cellphone goes and Flesher, acting on instinct from the last couple of days, snatches it up to answer without even looking at the caller’s number.

 

“Hi, Tom Flesher.”

 

“Eh up Tom, how’s it goin’?”

 

“Who… Toxxic?” Flesher snaps, suspicion crystallising into annoyed certainty as the Nottingham accent greets him through his handset. “What do you want?”

 

“I want you to make a change to the Ground Zero card.”

 

Flesher says nothing for a second. Then he lets rip with a rich, fruity chuckle that may not be entirely for Toxxic’s benefit.

 

“I’m very sorry, but I just can’t do that,” Flesher replies. “I mean, the matches are signed, the paperwork’s done, all the publicity’s out… not to mention the fact that the booking committee certainly isn’t going to change anything just because you want it,” he finishes slightly spitefully. “Just out of interest, what were you after? A World Title shot?”

 

“No. I want my Canadian Deathmatch with Pretzler to lose the No-DQ and No Countout stipulations.”

 

That one seems to surprise Flesher. He actually takes the cellphone from his ear and looks at it for a second in mild disbelief before replacing it and speaking.

 

“Why?”

 

“Tom, use your head. I don’t like hardcore but I’m bloody good at it, and if it’s in the rules then I’m going to hit Scott with anything that comes to hand. But Pretzler hates weapons, and he won’t use ‘em. So at the end of the match when I’ve been hitting him with chairs and ladders and God knows what else and I’ve won, he’ll claim it isn’t settled. We’ll have gone through five matches without proving anything.”

 

“…OK,” Flesher says reluctantly. “So let me get this straight. You want me to remove some stipulations so you’re in fact competing under regular singles rules, just trying to get to ten counts, and you want me to do this to make it harder for you to win?” Flesher chuckles again, although not as merrily this time. “I’m not a stupid man, Toxxic. Why would you make it harder on yourself? What’s the catch?”

 

“No catch, numpty. When I beat Pretzler, I want him to know that I beat him on his terms. In fact, I’m amazed he hasn’t rung you himself.”

 

Tom Flesher pauses for a moment. Scott Pretzler hasn’t rung; in fact he visited the Superior One in person yesterday, protesting at what he viewed was an unnecessary licence for violence and deploring the lack of traditional wrestling rules. Flesher had apologised but informed the Critic of the necessity to satisfy the fans, who would undoubtedly want a suitably dramatic blow-off to the issues between him and Toxxic, as well as hinting darkly about unwelcome pressure from Joseph Peters. Pretzler had left with the air of a man resigned to barbarism but determined to prove that his non-hardcore style would still win. And yet here is Toxxic on the phone, demanding the very same thing (although for different reasons). It only takes Flesher a moment to come to his decision; no weapons on his part of the card suits him fine, and not even Peters could complain if both wrestlers were adamant they wanted it this way…

 

“Well, since you’re so determined to have it your way,” Flesher says magnanimously, “I suppose I might be able to make a small alteration… OK Toxxic, I’ll remove the stipulations. Your match now has regular singles rules, apart from the fact that you need to accumulate a total of ten counts to win. Enjoy,” Flesher finishes and goes to hang up, but he hears Toxxic’s voice over the earpiece.

 

“Tom?”

 

Flesher doesn’t answer. He just hold the phone close enough to his ear to hear what the Straight-Edge Sensation has to say.

 

“You probably think I’ve just guaranteed myself a loss, don’t you? That I’ve played right into Scott’s hands?”

 

Flesher finds himself nodding in unconscious agreement.

 

“Sunshine, you’d better prepare to be proved wrong.”

 

*click*

 

Tom Flesher stares at his phone for a moment, then jabs a thumb to hang up and stuffs it back into his pocket.

 

“Arrogant little prick…”

[Toxxic 0]

[This is being done because when Pretz and I discussed the stip for our final match we didn't realise it'd be No-DQ and No Countouts, and he's on holiday and has already written his match so it seemed unfair to go ahead with stips different from what he thought he was getting.]

[Toshiaki Koala 0]

Wait a sec... my match is No DQ and No Countouts!

 

Why must I fuck everything up?

[Toxxic 0]

You could have TOLD me that when we had that MSN conversation JUST THE OTHER DAY! You know, when I said 'oh, Canadian Deathmatch is no-DQ and no-countout' and you went 'Oh shit, that fucks me over' or words to that effect.

 

Ah well. It'll all come out in the wash.