| Bringing In The Big Guns; Showdown #3 RP #1 | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Oct 16 2007, 09:58 PM (272 Views) | |
| Mike Polowy | Oct 16 2007, 09:58 PM Post #1 |
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2x Former sVo Champion
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Polowy: What do you mean Jimmy Moretti isn't in today? Fifteen minutes ago, you told me he was in a meeting! An angry sigh escapes through the clenched teeth of sVo's franchise player, The Mike Effect. He'd been playing a very one sided game of phone tag with the co-owner of the Sanctioned Violence Organization for the better part of three hours now, and every time there was a new excuse. First, Moretti was taking a telephone call from an investor and "couldn't make it to the phone." Then, he had stepped out for lunch. Just a few minutes ago, he'd listened on in irritated agony as Mr. Moretti's dimwit secretary had told him in no uncertain terms that he was in a meeting, but to try back later. Well now he was trying back later, and yet somehow the minimum wage slob on the other end of his cellular phone had yet another excuse. Needless to say, this woman was becoming an aggravation. Polowy: Well you tell Mr. Moretti that Michael Polowy called. Again. And it doesn't matter how many of my phone calls he dodges, he's going to have to deal with me eventually because I'm not going to stop calling until he TAKES my damn CALL. Yeah, you have a pleasant day, too. He flips the phone shut, a little harder than he would normally have intended to, and tosses it onto the large leather chair perched in the corner of his sVo assigned locker room. Polowy: Bitch. He lets out another long, irritated sigh as he flops down into the couch behind him, running his hands through his sandy, scruffy brown hair. The locker room was well furnished, especially for someone who wasn't yet a champion. It had always been his forte to keep cool and negotiate well, and it showed in the way he'd rigged up his sVo contract. And until today, it had seemed like he finally had the upper hand over old Jimmy Moretti. But now? Well, there was only one way to describe it. Polowy: This is absolute bullshit. The sVo had only just finished it's second televised show since it's inception earlier this month, and yet somehow Jimmy Moretti had already found a way to get under the skin of his former Project:Violence World Champion. He seethes, realizing the futility of aiming all his anger at nothing. He'd tried his best to keep in the habit of staying calm when it came to professional wrestling. He rarely wrestled angry, and it was hard to find The Mike Effect without that trademark smirk plastered across his face. He'd even tried to copyright it once, back in the early 2000's, only to find out that it was indeed impossible to trademark a facial expression. And now, in the privacy of his own locker room, for the first time in a long time, Michael Polowy was losing his cool. He closes his eyes, rubbing away at weary eyelids before running his hands back up through is hair, smoothing it out carefully. Trying his best to just let go of his frustration and relax, he picks up the television remote in front of him, sitting haphazardly on the coffee table. Mike kicks his feet up, turning on the power and watching as the flat screen television mounted on the opposite wall flickers to life. He flips by a few channels in general disinterest, even flipping past a re-play of Sunday Night Showdown on a local cable channel. Joey Peyton was wrestling Johnny All-Star in the main event. *CLICK* As usual for a Tuesday afternoon, the channels are barren, a general waste of space meant for children home sick from school and frumpy housewives stuck somewhere between doing the dishes and cooking a meal. Luckily, his adventure into the not-so-exciting world of Las Vegas cable television is short lived, because as he begins to settle into a National Geographic special, something about naked African people, the familiar buzzing of cell phone vibration can be heard from the chair into which he'd so angrily thrown his phone just a few minutes prior. He flips the television off, pushing himself back up off the leather cushion and onto his feet, silently feeling very sorry for whomever chose to bother him as he finally started to wind down. However, the name on the caller ID takes him quickly by surprise. J. Moretti. An irritated smirk comes over his face as he flips the phone open, pressing the send key to accept the call. Polowy: Well well, look who made it back into the office in record time. The voice on the other end is gruff, and just about as excited to speak to Michael as Michael is to speak to him. Mike can tell from the tone in Moretti's voice that he didn't particularly want to return this phonecall. Moretti: I'm a busy man, Mr. Polowy. And you'd be well advised to mind your manners when you're speaking with me, I'm still your goddamned boss. He grits his teeth, keeping a thousand comments immediately to himself. Polowy: Moretti, we need to talk. You and me, we both know the facts. You brought me into the sVo for one reason and one reason only, and it sure as hell wasn't because you like me. The fact of the matter is, I draw money. I draw fans. I put asses in seats and as much as you can't stand to breath the same air I breath, you know that I'm going to help you sell out your PPV this month, and you know that I'm the whole reason your little experiment with Jon Page is getting nearly as much exposure as it has been getting lately. And more than anything, as much as you may not like it, you know that nothing is going to stand in my way of becoming sVo Champion at Ultimate Victory. There is an arrogant, spiteful chuckle from the other end of the phone. Moretti: And what a... humble... champion you would make, Mr. Polowy. But I hear this little diatribe eight times a day from every idiot who's ever put on a pair of tights, so unless you've got some kind of a point I think I'll let you rant about your meager accomplishments on your own time, thank you. Mike grits his teeth again. He does his best to swallow the frustration, putting a smile back on his face. Polowy: Oh, there's a point, Jimmy. The point is that you're undermining me. Last week, I swallowed my pride and I held my tongue when you gave Joey Peyton the main event with Johnny All-Star. I swallowed by pride when you gave someone who can never hope to be better than the SECOND best in the sVo MY top billing. But if you think I'm going watch on as Joey Peyton takes on two of sVo's champions this match in the main event, while I wrestle some double reject, maraca shaking nobody in the midcard, then you've got another damn thing coming. I've busted my ass, Moretti, and at every turn you've done your best to undermine me. You've had me arrested, you had my P:V title stripped away... you've tried to intimidate me out of this Victory Cup tournament. And still, I keep busting my ass, week after week, getting no respect from the crowds, from your employees, and least of all, from you. And if you're gonna throw my name and my face up on a PPV banner because you know it'll make the difference between selling into forclosure and selling out the building, then you'd better damn well show me the respect to take that two bit punk Joey Peyton out of the main event this week and give me the kind of match I deserve. There is a long pause on the other end of the phone, and for a brief instant it seems as if The Mike Effect may have scored the killing blow. In standard Jimmy Moretti fashion, however, everything is not as it seems. The silence breaks as Morretti clears his throat, dropping the sarcasm and dropping the games. He speaks firmly. Moretti: I'm tired of you. I'm tired of your ego, I'm tired of your disrespect, and I'm tired of you walking around thinking that just because you've laced up a pair of boots for this organization that I'm going to kiss your goddamned feet and treat you special. You are NOT special. You are NOT god's gift to professional wrestling. And until I see a goddamned belt around your undeserving, overconfident waist, you are NOT the sVo Champion. Now this week, you WILL face Spring Heeled Jack. You WILL fight midcard. And if you don't like it, tough shit, kid, because if you don't show up this week on Showdown, you won't be showing up at Ultimate Victory, either, and you can kiss your chances of ever even LOOKING at that championship belt. Do I make myself clear? He clenches his fists, nearly spitting his next words into the phone as he barely keeps control of himself. Moretti has hit a nerve, and he knows it. Polowy: Crystal, sir. He slams the phone shut, winging it across the room and watching it crack as it slams into the far side wall. Jimmy Moretti knew how to push his buttons, and he did it whenever possible, but this time was somehow worse. Somehow special. A sneer comes over his face as he stares at the broken flip phone, and he cracks his knuckles in effort to calm himself. It doesn't work. Polowy: Oh, I'll fight Spring Heeled Jackoff this week, alright. I'll break his goddamned arms, rip his shoulders out of their goddamned sockets, and then I'll march into the main event and show Joey Peyton why nobody takes my spot. I earned it, and I'll be damned if Jimmy Moretti, Joey Peyton, or anyone else is going to take it away from me. Yes, on Sunday Night, I'm making an impact. There is a knock at the door. Polowy: And I'm not doing it alone. His sneer becomes a smirk, and a chuckle escapes his meaty frame as heads for the large, metal door. He unlocks the chain, swinging the door open to reveal a man in his late forties or early fifties. He has a strong chin and a wrestler's build, and his graying black hair is foiled strikingly by his flashy, Italian made suit. Polowy ushers the man into his locker room as his grin widens. Polowy: Michael Fazoli, welcome to the Sanctioned Violence Organization. |
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-The First Sanctioned Violence Organization World Champion -Winner of the Victory Cup | |
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6:56 PM Jul 11