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Nothing really happens; Showdown 4, Rp 1
Topic Started: Nov 2 2007, 09:49 PM (126 Views)
Jack
sVo Champion
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Jack tapped his foot impatiently. The little sliver bell on the curled toe of his shoe tinkled with each movement. Across a desk buried in paperwork, Jimmy Moretti sat crowned in the usual haze of cigar smoke. The owner of the Sanctioned Violence Organization was growling with his usual geniality into the phone.

"No, I don't care. If he's winning that much it's more than luck. Get him off that table!" Moretti snapped before slamming the reciever onto the cradle. "What?" He glowered at Jack.

"What?" Jack responded, leaning foreward in his chair, "I deliver the one thing that no one else in this company is able to and you ask 'What?' "

Moretti shrugged his impressive shoulders and spoke with the tone one takes when addressing a simpleton: "That sort of bluster only works when I know or give a damn about what you're talking about. So again, What?"

"You know what, I gave you the one thing no one else here can: A victory over Mike Polowy. And what do I get for it?" Jack sneers.

"The Hardcore Championship?" Moretti said mildly.

"Shuffeled off to mid-card obscurity against Achmed the mobbed-up terrorist!" Jack huffs.

"His name isn't Awkmed." Moretti said with uncharacteristic patience.

"Right, I said Achmed." Jack asserted.

"Wait, what?"

"It needs more phlegm to sound properly terrifying. Yours sounded like a parrot getting a prostate exam." Jack nodded, the little bells on his cap jangleing merrily.

The Boss just shook his head. "Candi was right about talking to you.

"And now this week I find myself again facing more of your riff-raff. An ex-con this time! And still in mid-card hell." Jack folded his arms and glared across the desk. "Doubtless he's someone you son met in the pen after soliciting a prostitute."

Color began to flush Moretti's cheeks. "My son is no concern of yours. You will fight who, when and where I tell you for as long as I tell you. Is that understood?" The old mobster's voice was cold and dangerous.

"Fine, but who are you going to get to rub out the non-trademarked smirk? Peyton certainly wasn't up to the job." Jack graced Moretti with a grin of his own.

"And you had help."

"So?" The Dark Jester leaned foreward in his seat, "Look, we both want the cockiest man in wrestleing knocked down a peg. You helped me once, help me again."

Moretti relaxed a shade, "Maybe we have something to talk about after all.
The Dark Jester...
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