PROMO: The Second Chance

[Chuck Woolery 0]

after Smarkdown...

 

"FUCK!"

 

*WHAM!*

 

The 'fuck' is Mike Van Siclen's enraged voice, and the 'wham' is him taking his anger out on an unfortunately placed locker with a well-placed fist. Our scene opens up on the Spectacle's locker room, which is fairly barren -- black-and-white television in one corner, a single bench and a wall of lockers, with a small shower nestled in a corner.

 

When he demanded a private locker room, this was not what he had in mind.

 

*CRASH!*

 

And that is the sound of Van Siclen taking the television and throwing it at a wall, popping the glass and causing a loud noise but not really solving anything. Van Siclen throws the bench over, yelling various obscenities as two Bell Center security officers bust open the door to the locker room.

 

"What the HELL is going on in here?"

 

Van Siclen moves the hair out of his eyes, his breathing heavy and his facial expression pure hatred. "What does it look like?"

 

Van Siclen punches a locker for emphasis, putting another dent into the weakly-built Canadian metal. Security quickly takes action, the smaller of the two quickly speaking into his radio while the larger one charges Van Siclen, wrapping both arms around the Spectacle's waist and driving him into the cold concrete wall. Van Siclen lets out a pained whimper, and the large security guard backs up, allowing Van Siclen to slide down the wall, woozy. The guard turns his back to Van Siclen, looking back to his partner to check the status of whoever was radioed...

 

... but from behind comes Van Siclen with a stiff elbow to the head! The security guard reels from the blow, grabbing his head, and Van Siclen looks to continue the assault -- but again, the security guard drops the shoulder and drives it into Van Siclen's midsection! It's Van Siclen's turn to reel, out of breath, and the large security guard roughly throws Van Siclen into the corner with the shower. Van Siclen hits it hard, slumping down into a sitting position, blood starting to emerge from a cut on his lip as the guard turns the water on cold and stands there, watching a steaming mad Van Siclen cool off.

 

"What the hell is going on in here?"

 

And that is the voice of Joseph Peters, speaking in cold, even tones that show that he's not even remotely amused by the situation at hand. He surveys the damage -- broken television, dented lockers, heavily-breathing security guard watching Van Siclen sit in a cold shower. Now, the President cocks a smile.

 

"What, is he in time out or something?"

 

Van Siclen glares at Peters and gets to his feet, ready to charge the Prez -- but the security guard has none of that, throwing the Spectacle back into the shower. Mike groans, obviously in a bit of pain, and Peters stands above him.

 

"What's wrong, Mike? Are you upset?"

 

Van Siclen just continues to glare, not appreciating the treatment from Peters but not in the mood to get slammed into another concrete wall.

 

"Look, Michael, I'm not impressed either. I'll send you a bill for the damage. You take your shower, you cool off, and I'll see you at Storm." Peters glances at the security guard. "You make sure he stays under control." Satisfied, Peters turns heel and begins to leave...

 

"What, is Wildchild in charge of event security now?"

 

The snide, sneering remark from Van Siclen causes the President to hesitate a step, but he continues to walk out.

 

"You need to get your God damned federation under control, Peters! You're letting people walk all over you and you don't have the backbone to do SHIT about it!"

 

Peters whirls around, fury crossing his face. "And YOU need to shut your mouth."

 

Peters smooths out his tie, staring daggers at the suddenly silent Van Siclen. "Listen up, buddy. It's not my fault that you're convinced that everything bad that happens to you is a result of Wildchild. It's not my fault that you have all the competitive fire of a horsefly, and it's certainly not my fault that you couldn't win a match against a piece of cardboard."

 

"Listen, you..."

 

"No, YOU listen."

 

Van Siclen stops, not used to seeing the President put his foot down.

 

"You just got your ass handed to you by a security guard. What kind of wrestler worth half a damn gets beaten down by a security guard, Mike? And you know, I can understand you not wanting to fight Wildchild, because if you're not getting in any offence against guys like Blank and Matthews, a guy like Wildchild is going to run circles around you and make you look like an idiot." Peters smirks. "Then again, being an idiot is the only thing you can do all by yourself."

 

Van Siclen moves to get up, but a stiff boot from security keeps him in his place.

 

"Let's face it, Mike, your wrestling career is pathetic. Wildchild is going to eat you alive, and then you can rot in dark matches for all I care. Collect that paycheck that you were so adamant about getting and let these people remember you as the cocksucker you are, and then you can go home when your deal runs out and I never have to deal with you again."

 

Peters turns and leaves, leaving a very wet Van Siclen to do nothing but sit and steam...

[Ace309 0]

You write an exceptionally accurate Joe Peters, for some reason.