| Garcia Y Hollywood; [SD-9] Roleplay #1 | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Dec 13 2007, 03:10 AM (83 Views) | |
| Mike Polowy | Dec 13 2007, 03:10 AM Post #1 |
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2x Former sVo Champion
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The roaring fire in the fireplace lights the otherwise darkened study, crackling in it's metal framed prison on the back wall. For those familiar with Project: Violence, they would immediately recognize the darkened room as the New Jersey office of one Mike Fazoli, former manager to The Legend's Club and the current agent of sVo champion Michael Polowy. The office, usually well lit and smelling of freshly cut cigars, seems almost devoid of any light not cast from the fireplace on this particular evening. The curtains have been pulled casually shut, and the hi-tech desk lamp on the desk has been replaced with an old fashion pull string and shade set up. A tall backed chair, it's plush cushions gleaming royal purple in the fire's soft light, sits comfortably in the center of a small circular rug near the fireplace. As our hero steps into the frame, he reaches toward the desk and pulls down on the lamp string. The bulb flickers to life, casting a bit more light across the office. He's wearing a long, gold smoking jacket with black trim, the belt tied loosely around his midsection. His initials, "MP", are stitched in black where the breast pocket would normally be, and underneath is a sharp looking white dress shirt. As the thus faceless protagonist takes a seat in the oversized chair, he finally reveals his face to the camera. A smile comes over the strong jaw line of sVo World Champion Michael Polowy as he kicks one of his legs over the other, crossing them into a position for maximum relaxation. It's not a warm smile, but a cocky kind of sneer, the kind of smirk he's become famous for. The kind of smirk that belittles opponents and makes his adversaries feel like garbage the second they lay eyes on him. If he could trademark it, stick it in a bottle, and sell it to whiny teenagers... he would. Polowy: Ah, welcome, welcome. Glad to see you could make it this evening. Awfully cold weather we're having tonight. Please, get warm by the fireplace. His smirk grows into a full, ear to ear grin. Taking his eyes away from the camera for a moment, he reaches to the end table next to the large chair he's occupying, picking up a dark, mocha colored cigar from next to his half full brandy glass. From his jacket pocket, he produces a small, shiny cigar cutter. It sparkles in the light of the fireplace as he clips off the rounded brown tip of the cigar and strikes a match, letting the smoke slowly waft into his mouth as he takes a few deep puffs. The smoke rolls out of his mouth like a thick fog. Polowy: All settled in? Good. You'll have to excuse me, I just can't pass up a good cigar every now and then. A delicious Camacho Corojo is just too much to say no to, even given how terrible they really are for you. You know, this is the closest thing you can get to a Cuban cigar before it becomes illegal to own in the United States... they took the seeds from Cuba, transported them over to the Honduras, and now they grow "cuban" cigars all over South America. This, though... He gestures assuredly over at his cigar of choice, the smoke just drifting towards the ceiling from the tip. Polowy: THIS... is heaven inside a fine cedar wrap. It's hard to find, though. It's not like it's a... rare... cigar. It's just that it's the best. And like anything else that is the best in this world, it has a million and one impostors. Fakes. There are a hundred cigars that look, smell, and feel just like a Camacho Corojo... but the taste is so distinct that once you've taken that first puff, you just KNOW it's the genuine article. You just can't fake the taste. That's how I feel, sometimes. There's a lot of wannabes out there. There's a lot of guys who lace up a pair of boots, throw on a pair of spandex tights, and think that they're something great just because some promotor threw them into a few matches. And on the outside, a lot of them look quite a bit like me. When you're flipping channels in the middle of the night, trying to beat the sad cocktail of a dead end job and a family that hates you, you just might catch someone like Mitch Cashmore or Orlando Fox frolicking around and think that you're looking at a championship caliber performer. You might even mistake them for a world class professional like myself. But just like a bottom of the barrel, cheap imitation of my favorite cigar... once you get a taste of them in the ring, you just know you're not looking at the real thing. He takes another puff off of the cigar, dragging deep and letting the flavor permeate over his tastebuds. He blows out a few smoke rings nonchalantly, letting the smoke waft around the sides of his lips. Polowy: And I'll tell you something, over the last couple of weeks there have been a whole lot of Philly Blunts trying to pass themselves off as Cubans. And for the most part, I've been letting it slide. I live my life, I let them live theirs, and in the end everyone out there knows that I'm the superior brand. However, lately, there has been one... shall I say... off-brand version of The Mike Effect running around the Sanctioned Violence Organization that's just getting my goat. He's a knockoff. A bargain bin wannabe champion. Normally I'd brush him aside and pick up my usual brand. But sometimes, one bad box of stogies can ruin the whole humidfier, and Howie Banks is leaving a bad taste in my mouth. Deliberately, and almost regretfully, he cocks his head slightly to the side, as if contemplating his own last words. He bites his bottom lip, deep in thought, as if rethinking his words. Polowy: I suppose I shouldn't say a "bad" taste. A bad taste would imply some kind of distinct flavor that just doesn't tickle my taste buds. Maybe a bland taste. Yeah, bland is the right word. Or redundant. You see, on the outside, Howie Banks doesn't quite have it all, but he's got enough. He's got enough physique to look like a solid athlete, enough brainpower to form a few coherent sentences in front of a television camera, and enough wrestling ability to make it through a match without looking like a total fool. But just like a subpar cigar, just like that wannabe Camacho, it's not the outside that matters so much as the inside. When I light a cigar, I know the taste of sweet cedar and aged tobacco isn't far behind. You can tell from the smell. You can tell from experience. And all those off brand, off the rack impersonators are really starting to give my cigar a bad name. They're bland. They're redundant. They lack that something special. Howie Banks lacks that something special. He's the kind of guy who will call you a bore as he reads for thirty minutes from an English book on how to beat writer's block. He's the kind of sad sap who opens his own wrestling promotion, and then loses to pretty much everyone. And to see him here in my sVo, in MY collective humidifier... well, he's giving me a bad name. Cause on the outside, he looks somewhat like me. He talks somewhat like me. Hell, he wrestles somewhat like me. But he's NOT me. And when an impersonator like Howie Banks starts making my brand look bad, it's about time I did something about it. Like a bad cigar, I'm going to stomp him out. He takes one last drag from the cigar, deeper than before. He enjoys the tingling sensation of the smoke wafting over his tastebuds as it rolls over his tongue and past his lips for the final time, before dropping the half smoked stogie down onto the carpet beneath him. With force, he slams his foot down onto it's mocha exterior as it continues to burn, rubbing out the last of the embers as he extinguished the flame with his shoe. The butt of the cigar remains in the center of the carpet, a small amount of smoke still rising from it's remains, as the shoe disappears from the frame, and the lights flick back to darkness. |
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-The First Sanctioned Violence Organization World Champion -Winner of the Victory Cup | |
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6:55 PM Jul 11