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Countdown to Minimum Wage; CtV RP 1/3
Topic Started: Jun 24 2008, 06:36 AM (286 Views)
Talon
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The Hero
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It was Monday night, just after an uneventful Unsanctioned main event which saw Talon squash a nobody named Nanu for a chance to roll the dice of destiny a week later. Talon was sitting in a cushy first class seat on a new jet liner from Air Cucaracha, leaning his head back as he smiled at a stewardess flight attendant. She smiled back, so he decided to take the opening and wave her over.

"Excuse me, miss," he said, looking her straight in the eyes, "But I was wondering if you were a member of the mile-high club?" Her face flushed as she closed her eyes.

"Sir, I've no idea what you are talking about," she said crossly. Talon smirked and waited until she opened her eyes again.

"Would you like me to show you the ropes?" he asked as innocently as possible, "We have membership cards and celebrities give out autographs after initiation. She placed her hands on her hips and looked at him, contemplating. After a moment, her eyes widened in recognition.

"Aren't you that Talon guy?" she asked. He grinned as he pulled his green autograph marker from his pocket.

"The one and only, gorgeous," he said, eying her seductively, "Now then, what would you like autographed tonight... t-shirt? Action figure? Breasts?" She looked at him, annoyed and taken aback again.

"Didn't you go out on a date with a whore in Mexico just because your buddy told you it was a blind date?" she asked, victory in her tone. His heart sank as he realized that he wouldn't be cashing in with his MHC savings card tonight.

"Well, actually, it wasn't so much a 'date'..." he said sheepishly, "We uh, we went back to my hotel room and watched wrestling tapes." He realized then that he was doomed. As if to put an exclamation point on the exchange, the flight attendant turned away and sighed in exasperation.

"Damnit," he said as she walked away smugly, "I can't believe Ross had that whole thing televised. That bastard is cockblocking me without even stepping in like he usually does."

Then he had an idea.

An awful idea.

The Talon had a wonderful, awful idea.

He frantically pulled his laptop out of its bag and set it on his lap, waiting impatiently as Windows XP Home Edition: No It Doesn't Suck This Time We Promise loaded up. Five minutes later, he was clicking the Firefox browser shortcut on his desktop, doing his best not to stare at his wallpaper, a spread featuring Megan Fox.

He was on the sVo website, his homepage, and he discovered that his "epic" win over Nanu was posted. Getting sidetracked, he clicked the Countdown to Violence page and scanned his list of opponents.

Nanu. I've already beaten this idiot, I have nothing to prove there. If he's smart he won't show up in Toronto, or I'll just beat him down again.

Kaden Alonzo. The savior from another time who has come to save us from our sins and the sins of the next World Champion Alex Ross? Ross beat him, and I'll have no problem trashing him. He won't be able to save the sVo from a Talon Las Vegas title reign. He can't even save himself from headaches, amnesia, and a cult out for him.

Drew Carrig. He's having a rough week. First he loses to some guy who is preaching to secret agents about milkshakes and quid pro quo and... yeah, that about covers it. I'll just take him down and send him back to the bottom of the card. That preacher guy started it, and Talon is going to finish it.

Rodimus. Wasn't that guy supposed to be in a tag team title match? No? No, he lost that chance? Oh. Well, that sucks for him. He lost his chance at the tag titles, and he's going to lose his chance at the Las Vegas title. Maybe I'll hit him with the Wings of Destiny off the top rope, just for giggles.

Quinten Fayte. No concern here. He lost to a guy whose biggest worry is whether or not his tag team partner will accept his homosexuality.

"These idiots are all working for peanuts with the sVo... they don't have contracts... illegal aliens in the United States make more than them... illegal Mexican immigrants even make more than them! I'll have to prove it as soon as I touch down. But I can’t help feeling like I was going to do something…"

Putting his laptop and his memory doubts away, Talon nestled himself under a blanket and went sound to sleep. The flight attendant that had been victorious in a war of the words earlier passed by him, shocked that he hadn't tried anything after she summarily put him in his place.

No international incidents, no airplanes getting held up due to an unruly passenger in first class. No brawls in the airport. Talon slept like a baby, and when the plane arrived in the morning he got his things, checked through security again, and made his way to the hotel.

After he dropped off his things and checked his laptop again. No updates on the sVo website from the last night. Just a bunch of rumors involving various people that he didn’t care about one way or another. That’s how it always was.

He had an idea fresh in his mind from last night, and he wanted to experiment. First and foremost, he was hungry. He needed some food for thought, and he needed it cheap.

McFatAss’. Home of a series of hamburgers: the quarter pounder, the double, the triple, and the specialty: The Heart Attack. Four greasy meat patties, with a slice of cheese between each one. Topped off with a double helping of mayonnaise, ketchup, mustard, and bacon. Talon’s heart soared and felt like crapping out at the same time. “I’m not sure whether I want to cry from joy or fear,” he muttered as he recalled the last time he ate a Heart Attack.

He was lucky enough to be on the ground floor of the hotel this time around. Still in a suite, of course, but on the ground floor. “Heh, that’ll come in handy when I’m so out of shape that I can barely breath.”

As he walked through the streets of Toronto, he could feel his phone buzzing in his pants pocket. Retrieving it, he looked at it and saw an incoming call from “Ross, Alex”.

“Yeah?”

“Dude, where the hell are you?”

“I’m going to McFatAss’ to see what I can get with six dollars and thirty-three cents. Wanna come with?” He smirked.

“Uh, don’t you have eight fuckin’ credit cards?”

“Two. But anyway, I’m trying to see what I can buy with my opponents’ salaries. And seeing as how they only work like an hour a week and minimum wage back in Vegas is…”

“Uh huh… yeah, that sounds like a lot of fun, but I have work to do. I got a soundstage and stuff to film something… and I want you to be part of it.” Talon raised his eyebrows as he waited for the light to tell him to cross the street. McFatAss’ was in sight.

“Really. What is it?”

“It’s a performance piece. Very dull. Very dialogue heavy. You don’t need to memorize any lines though. You just have to look angry. And I know you can do that. Anyway, I gotta go man, my Indian kid is here. Later.”

Click. Talon was confused. Indian kid? Performance piece? Dialogue heavy? Was Ross getting into Shakespeare? Was he going gay like that? Talon swore under his breath that he would flat-out refuse to do anything if he was part of Hamlet.

Opening the door, he heard a loud mooing noise as he walked through the land of grease and mouthbreathers that was McFatAss’. The décor was cheap and trying to be sophisticated, yet failed miserably. He approached the counter, and a zitty teenaged boy straightened his cap and nervously looked him in the eye.

“Hello, and welcome to McFatAss’, may I take your order?” he said, and Talon knew that this kid was on his first job, and that he hated it. He could see the general manager of the facilities glaring. Someone to the left made a smartass comment and the GM flashed a shit-eating grin that was begging to be in an internet fetish phenomenon.

“Uh yeah, could I have a… junior Heart Attack, a value sized sprite, and a… small French fry please? To go, too.” He smiled sheepishly. The teenaged boy looked at the screen nervously as he clicked each button.

“Your total is… six dollars and twenty seven cents.” Talon whistled in relief. At least he knew that his opponents and their Nevada minimum wage paychecks would be able to buy them at least one meal this week. Starvation would not take them before he got to them.

Good… He would have hated to have an easy time of it.

He handed the cashier the money as other teenagers on line slaved away at sloppily making his sandwich. With the cash he handed a front-row ticket to Countdown to Violence on Sunday, June 29th, live on pay-per-view. “Keep the change, bud,” he said, winking for no real reason other than to wink. He enjoyed winking.

The cashier’s face brightened, probably because his cash drawer was short and they would castrate him if he didn’t make up for it. Or he got free food for a perfect drawer. Whichever, really.

“Oh, uh, another question…” he continued casually, “What’s the minimum wage here in Toronto?” The cashier looked a bit surprised at the question.

“It’s, um, $8.75,” he said, “And it goes up next year too!”

“Hmm,” Talon said to himself, “Even these teenagers in a burger joint make more than my opponents do. I’m going to have to pay a visit to my congressman and get something done about that. Minimum wage in Nevada must go up! And I’m going to do something about it!” Grabbing his bag, Talon made his exit to the sound of another moo.

A block away, Talon’s stomach grumbled. Smiling to himself, he reached into the bag to grab a French fry to hold him over, but he could feel nothing but a straw and a burger. He dropped the bag to the ground and dropped to his knees.

“MOTHER FUCKERS FORGOT MY FRIES!” he shouted as he held his clenched fists in the air.
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Talon
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