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Jack Frost; Showdown 11, Rp 1
Topic Started: Jan 3 2008, 07:26 PM (105 Views)
Jack
sVo Champion
[ *  *  *  * ]
Snowflakes fell in pristine, crystalline beauty. Fluttering softly on the night breeze. Now and then one brushed softly down Jack's exposed cheek leaving a chilly wet trail, like frozen tears. The Dark Jester exhaled, his breath warming his chapped lips. A quick gust of wind tugged at his tangled brown hair and caused the tree limbs above him to sway and creak. A small flurry of white detached itself from the branches and spund down to caress him.

In front of him, a much warmer scene was unfolding. Across the undisturbed white lawn of the Sanctioned Violence Organizeation's golden son, the sprawling Buffalo estate of Mike Polowy was awash in the light and merriment of the season. Colored lights, hip music, champagne fountains and high profile guests created the ideal atmosphere to ring in the new year. Stareing into the golden hub of festivities from the pressing darkness, it was easy to spot the A-list guests. Christopher Starr was in the main foyer with an arm around Christine Dolce, the "Queen of Myspace" and talking animatedly to some b-rank celeberatiy that Jack couldn't quite place. Michael Fazoli and his wife could bee seen in the parlor sharing a drink with Candi Cross. The line of the reporter's scarlet evening gown was broken only by her press tags. From the crowd roped off near the door, She was likely the only press allowed inside.

Yet, throughout the buzz and the bustle, the guest of honor was not to be seen. Polowy himself had yet to appear. Even as his onetime Press Manager, a sultry red-head named Mehgan, flitted from one social knot to another, the entire house was aware on some level that it's master was absent. All around the house, heads turned at supposedly inconspicuous moments, all searching the staircases and dark corners for the missing host.

Jack reached out blindly in the night and gripped the rough bark of the tree that served as sentinal to his watch. Meltwater had run down the trunk during the day and refrozen as the sun set. The resulting ice burned into his palm and ripped away small bits of skin. The mild pain of it helped him to ignore the cold creeping through his dress shoes and into his toes. Where was Mike?

Another blast of frigid air and the former Hardcore Champion had to move. Had to remind his limbs that they weren't part of some lawn decoration to be draped in ice. He moved out into the open. Moonlight flooded the yard away from the trees, and long skeletal shadows reached out as if to drag him back to the safety of observation. But shadows are fleeting, etherial things. Like championships. They have no real hold over men, so Jack strode freely from their embrace.

The gateway to this prestegious event was warded by a grizzeled ogre of a man. At a glance it looked as if Jay Wildman, clean shaven, was guarding his foe's front stoop. Upon closer inspection, the man was shorter, and much younger. His skin only had Wildman's raw sheen from the biting cold. He glared at Jack in the no-bullshit manner of a professional bouncer. "Name?" He queeried in a voice benefitting a gorilla-in-a-suit.

"Church." Jack responded, quickly adding "John." when the bouncer raised an eyebrow.

The man took his time scanning the list, letting Jack puff into his hands and rub them to force life to remain in the exposed digits. After a brief eternity, the big man nodded and stepped out of Jack's way. The superstar strode into the house with as much dignty as he could muster.

Inside, an unobtrusive hireling helped Jack from his gray jacket and bustled it off somewhere leaving Jack with a numbered ticket. A serving girl quickly bustled through the crowd and made sure he had a glass of something sweet and heady. Nothing more than a typical Polowy event. So where was Mike?

After several minutes of uncomfortable hob-knobbing Jack was ready to give up. It was still a couple of hours untill the ball dropped, there were other places he could be. The package under his suit jacket crinkled softly as he quaffed his fourth (or was it fifth?) glass of bubbling wine and contemplated calling a cab.

Suddenly the lights flickered and the murmer of conversation dropped. Many eyes snapped to the main staircase in the grand foyer, the one place the lights had not dropped. Then a new sound thundered through the house, as if someone had wired every room on the ground floor with surround sound:

"Ladies and gentlemen, your guest of honor: Mike the Man Polowy!"

Harder,
Better,
Faster,
Stronger...


And the host was no longer absent. Mike was there, at the head of the stair. His hands held high as the gathering thundered applause. The fans might throw trash at him in the ring, but in his own home among friends and powerful aquaintences he was loved. Two quick steps and the World Champion was sliding down the bannister. When he reached the bottom he hopped off with the agility that made him so powerful in the ring and wrapped old man Fazoli in a bear hug. That done, he began talking animatedly to the people around him.

Jack ginned. For a man who would monologue for hours in front of a camera, Mike had rather neatly doged the need for a speech just then. Jack found an unobtrusive corner and settled in to wait as Mike made the courtesy rounds of the guests. Several more long minutes passed. Jack took another glass from the serving girl, knowing he probably shouldn't. Then Mike stopped at a group very near to Jack's corner. Jack didn't know the people that the other superstar was talking to, but Mike seemed rather animated about it, so he waited. When it looked like the conversation had run it's course Jack took a deep breath and tapped Mike on the shoulder, facing him without a mask for the first time in almost two years.

"Happy New Years, Mikey."

Mike turned, the trademark grin melting into something a little more real. A smile that a kid wore years ago as he and his friend turned the living room into their own private ring and wrestled for every title they could imagine.

"John!"

"I was suprised you had my name at the door, Mike. It's been a while." Jack said.

"Damn right." Mike agreed, pulling Jack into a hug that rivaled the one he'd given his mentor. "What the hell are you doing with yourself these days?"

Jack tried with some difficulty not to spill his drink on his old friend. "Nothing really man, did a stint on the lightweight boxing circuit. Got my ass beat. But look at you! New federation, new titles, and apparently some pocket change to spare."

Mike pulled back from the hug. "Yeah, I'm doing alright these days. Hey, come this way, there's got to be a quieter place to have a reunion. Put that glass of sparkleing water down, I've got better upstairs."

Mike lead Jack to a cozy study on the second floor. The sounds of celebration below became a muted humming. Mike flipped a switch by the door and a gas fire roared to life in a chic brick fireplace. Jack looked around bemused.

"When have you ever read anything?"

"I like to read my own reviews in the morning." Mike replied.

"When the hell have you ever seen a morning?" Jack quipped.

"Usually right before I go to bed." Mike returned, heading to a minibar and pouring something dark. "You still a whiskey man, John?"

"There is no other kind of man."

"Hm."

"So I saw the press release on that tag match you have coming up," Jack said, accepting a full glass, "Not a friendly crowd they've put you in."

Mike lifted his own glass, a dark look on his face. "No. No it isn't. Cheers!"

The two men drank. Then a moment of silence passed, as one often does once the small talk has ended. Jack reached for the package in his coat. "Mikey, I came here tonight for a reason. And not just because you know how to throw a kickass party." He pulled the brightly wrapped presant out and handed it to the Champ. "I know christmas was a while ago, but I wasn't here then."

Mike takes the offered package, setting aside his drink for the moment. He tears away the colorful paper and pulls the lid off the box. He throws a bemused expression at his childhood friend before pulling out a bit of cardboard shaped like a belt. Crayon lettering proclaims: Livingroom Heavyweight World Champion. A look of recognition passes over the champ's face and for the second time in one night, a genuine smile crosses his face.

"Forget the backstage politics and all the nutjobs you have to face." Jack said taking a step closer to Mike, "Forget Moretti, and the fans. Forget the gold. You are a Champion, and that means a lot more than a belt. You've always been a champion, and you're always gonna be a champion. It's in your blood. No one and nothing is ever going to take it away from you. Remember that." Jack punches Mike playfully in the shoulder, "And remember that you haven't fufilled the terms of my rematch clause for that thing." He nods at the child's belt.

Mike laughs. "I don't think the livingroom could take that kind of punishment. We're a lot bigger now."

"So is your livingroom." Jack pointed out. Mike just laughed again. "Alright then, how about the one arena where we're even?"

Mike grinned, cockey and trademarked this time. "As a matter of fact..." The champ collected his glass and set the gift down tenderly before turning to a space set comfortably between the fire and the window. Two comfortable chairs faced a chess board. The black and white figures stood silently at attention.

"I just need to beat you quickly." Mike commented as the men settled into their seats, "There's still a party downstairs."

Jack shrugged, "Make a few moves, go down after. We can finish after the ball drops."

Mike sighed, "I wish I could. I have to get on a plane and cut a promo in the morning."
The Dark Jester...
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