Post by Dr. Pepper on Aug 28, 2007 14:27:27 GMT -6
In Search Of...: Part One.
First impressions are important, and probably shouldn’t involve the word ‘enema’. But with Dr. Pepper, you took what you got.
Matt Money, a young, slender, green-haired businessman, found that out firsthand. Money was part of a film and talent company called WBL Studios, who hired wrestlers, helped them film promotional material, found them federations to wrestle in, and the like. Many legendary names had crossed the Studios’ doorstep in the last couple of years alone... the hellspawn Sabrina Takeshi, the young extremist Kid Awesome, and arguably the greatest wrestler of this past decade, the deceased Ellis Davis. Yes, controversy followed the Studios everywhere they went, but so did title wins. Three undefeated World Heavyweight title reigns in this year alone... and they weren’t about to die off yet.
Money was one of the managerial staff, assigned to take care of the more ‘off-center’ clients. And by judging his first contact with the man the world would come to know as Dr. Pepper, off-center would be considered a compliment. As Money stood outside a bachelor’s apartment... Yagami Tenements, room 23, which Money had a feeling was an intentional number, concerning this man’s obsession with the soft drink’s “authentic blend of 23 flavors”... he was given an excuse via cell-phone that at least told him that his new client was honest, if not tactful.
“I haven’t **** right in three days. I’m giving myself an enema.”
Of course, as dedicated or as lonely as Pepper was, he’d decided to stay on the phone the entire time. So, Matt Money’s first ever conversation with the new ‘hardcore doc’ involved detailed descriptions of pouring water in one’s ass. Money eventually had to shut off the phone when the enema had started ‘taking effect’... of course, as paper-thin as the walls were, Money could still clearly hear the grunts and groans... not to mention the ‘sloshing’ sounds... and had to remind himself that the Studios were paying him far too much money to walk out now.
After one more bout of the sound of running water... which Money hoped was the sound of this man washing his hands... Money plastered on his best fake grin as the door finally opened... and through it, emerged the physique of the new ‘hardcore doctor’. This man was pretty much everything Money had expected... tall, heavy-set (to be polite), scraggly hair and beard, torn jeans and a “Snakes on a Plane” tanktop. This was obviously a man who cared more about experience than appearance.
“You must be Money.” Pepper grunted out, extending his hand and gripping Money’s firmly, somewhat forcing him to shake it. “Sorry about that. Sometimes you just need to take a nice, healthy ****.”
“I understand completely”, Matt Money muttered in reply, trying to move past the topic with as much tact as he could muster. “So you must be Paul Prescott... Dr. Pepper, correct? Any particular reason for the name?”
Pepper motioned with that thick neck of his, for Money to follow him into his tenement. Grudgingly, Money agreed, locking the door behind him just in case as he clutched his briefcase close. The bachelor’s pad looked akin to something out of a homeless file. Simple furniture, simple television, a couple of cheap posters advertising old wrestling shows Pepper had been a part of... in fact, the massive, and seemingly rather expensive computer setup in the corner of the room, caught Money’s eye more than anything in how out of place it looked. Money made a mental note to check it out later, before turning his attention back to his new client.
Pepper had already lumbered over to the kitchen, keeping his own attention on Money. “You want a drink, man?”
“Sure... what do you have?”
“What do you think, man?”, Pepper chuckled as he swung the fridge door open in such a grandiose way, that one would think this was some sort of grand opening for an art gallery. And of course, it was art to him... as the fridge was stocked with nothing but two-liter, one-liter, and 20-ounce bottles of the Dr. Pepper soft drink that Paul Prescott named himself after. Grabbing a two-liter for himself and taking a nice long swig right from the bottle, Pepper motioned again to the fridge. Money simply shook his head.
“No, thanks. That stuff rots your teeth.”
“Yeah, I know”, Pepper replied, swigging the bottle again and slamming the door shut. “But I figure... hey, I’m a hardcore wrestler. I could lose all my teeth thanks to one bad drop toe hold or one good superkick. They’re going down my throat anyways, might as well give them something to enjoy on the way down.”
Money sighed, trying to keep his composure in front of this devil-may-care wall of a man. “And what about the sugar and fat content?”
“Man, you really are a pisser, aren’t you? At my age, it’s all cushion for the pushin’, if you know what I mean, eh? Look, you can talk **** about my favorite soda all you want, man, I’ve heard all about it. Hell, I’ve even done that old high-school experiment where you drop a tooth in a glass of Dr. Pepper overnight, and watch it erode. But you know something? That tooth just happened to have been knocked loose thanks to a steel pipe to the face in an arena packed with about 300 people. I won, too. This is the way I’ve chosen to lead, and if you’re just gonna come here and piss all over it, man, then you just tell the Studios that I don’t need a manager. No offense, man.”
With a defeated sigh, Money sat his briefcase down on the large, wooden cargo crate that served as a coffee table... a briefcase that, odds are, cost more than the rest of the furniture in the apartment combined. “I don’t think you’re going to be so caustic, Dr. Pepper...”
“Please. Call me Doc.”
“Whatever... Doc... when you find out just what I’ve arranged for you. You see... I’ve not only managed to get you into a new federation... the nCw... but I’ve managed to arrange your schedule so that you premiere at a pay-per-view... in a very high-profile match, no less.” And with that, Money slid out one of a half-dozen paper fliers from his briefcase, and handed it to Dr. Pepper.
“Holy ****”, the hardcore doctor grunted out, squinting at the paper just to double-check the card order. “I haven’t even had a single match here, and you were able to get me a ***damned title shot? How the hell did you manage that, man?”
Money gave a cocky little smirk. “WBL Studios clients are always in demand. Consider it a signing bonus. Only problem is, the stipulation... really doesn’t work in your favor. I mean... sprinting up a ladder?”
“Well, that’s just where strategy comes in”, Pepper grunted in reply. “If I can’t get up there with, like, sheer quickness, I’ll just have to beat the crap out of everyone else involved. And trust me, man, if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s beating the crap out of people. Am I right?”
“I’ve seen the tapes”, Money deadpanned. And indeed, Matt Money had done his research... The Doc wasn’t exactly the greatest technical wrestler out there. You weren’t going to get a dragon sleeper, or a moonsault, out of the 350+ pound man. But the man’s attitude mirrored his wrestling style, inasmuch as what he lacked in tact, he more than made up for in brute force. Not to mention the charisma the man had... every time he stuck his hand into the crowd to get a weapon, more often than not, the crowd repaid all of his work with a bottle of Dr. Pepper.
“But still, man... a hardcore title match on my first-ever show for the nCw? Holy crap... that’s pretty damned big. But I don’t want you to **** around with my title shot, man. I mean, you can watch and all, but...”
Money put up a halting hand. “I’m simply an observer. If someone decides to do a run-in, I’ll help peel them off of you. But as for getting involved in the actual match, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Great, man, great. So we understand each other. It’s like our brains have morphed into one huge, throbbing... like... swollen... double-brain... thing. Like that... what was that guy... that talking brain guy on Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”
“Krang?”
“No thanks, man, I just ate. But I’ll tell you what, man. I had pretty big plans today, but if you want, you’re welcome to come along for the ride. We’ll make it a bonding experience, get to know each other, and all that good ****. What do you say, man?”
What Money really wanted to say what that he had no choice... but all that came out was “Sounds great”, in about as formal a tone as he could summon up staring down this soda-drinking hardcore icon.
“Excellent, man. Much love and respect all across the board. Now, let’s go, I’ve got some shopping to do, man.”
“In that case”, Money interjected, rifling again through his suitcase, before pulling out a small, green credit-card like object and handing it to Dr. Pepper for further inspection. “I’d better give you this. It’s a WBL Studios expense account card. All clients of the Studios receive one of those cards when they join our little family. It’s an expense account... but mind you, every purchase you make will be scrutinized by the accounting department, although there is a... small... cash allowance there for frivolous things.”
“Sweet stuff, man!”, Pepper replied, cramming the card haphazardly into his wallet. “Money for nothing, chicks for free, just like the song says, right?”
“It’s not for nothing, Doc. This is an investment, and one the Studios can’t afford to blindly enter. We’ve been going through a somewhat... trying period recently. Sure, we’ve managed three World Heavyweight champions this year alone... I, personally, managed two of them... but these last few months have been... trying, to say the least.”
Dr. Pepper nodded, mulling over this statement. No doubt, that Money was talking about the infamous hacking charges leveled against the Studios... charges that turned out to be false, however, as even the accuser admitted he’d only leveled such accusations because a certain group of federation-killers who had recently helped kill yet another federation that a Studios client was a champion in... a trio of filthy, worthless bastards named Dave Michaelson, Candle Jack, and Cristy... had told him to. Nevertheless, the attempt to smear the Studios’ name was unsuccessful, as not only were people coming out of the woodwork to defend the film and talent company, but this very federation that Dr. Pepper had inked a contract with, had come about due to those accusations.
Proving the fact that any press is good press.
“Best not to think about it”, Dr. Pepper grunted out, breezing by the topic with his own brand of tact as he slapped the smaller Matt Money on the back. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry. We’re gonna go down to the military supply store, and then we’re off.”
Military supply store... three words that, when chained together as such, worried Money a little bit. “And just why are we going to a military supply store?”, he asked, almost unsure that he wanted to hear the answer.
Dr. Pepper merely replied with his half-toothy grin. “Today, man... we’re gonna find Bigfoot! And don’t forget to bring the cooler, man!”
The statement didn’t need elaboration, and Pepper didn’t give it any, as he lumbered out the tenement door. With a dejected sigh, Money noticed the small cooler sitting in the corner of the apartment... and again, looked at the rather expensive computer system that still seemed horribly out of place in this shell of an apartment. Something was going on here, and he didn’t like how it all added up.
Or maybe, Money thought as he grabbed the cooler and sloshed his way down the stairs after The Doc, that’s just how his mind works...
First impressions are important, and probably shouldn’t involve the word ‘enema’. But with Dr. Pepper, you took what you got.
Matt Money, a young, slender, green-haired businessman, found that out firsthand. Money was part of a film and talent company called WBL Studios, who hired wrestlers, helped them film promotional material, found them federations to wrestle in, and the like. Many legendary names had crossed the Studios’ doorstep in the last couple of years alone... the hellspawn Sabrina Takeshi, the young extremist Kid Awesome, and arguably the greatest wrestler of this past decade, the deceased Ellis Davis. Yes, controversy followed the Studios everywhere they went, but so did title wins. Three undefeated World Heavyweight title reigns in this year alone... and they weren’t about to die off yet.
Money was one of the managerial staff, assigned to take care of the more ‘off-center’ clients. And by judging his first contact with the man the world would come to know as Dr. Pepper, off-center would be considered a compliment. As Money stood outside a bachelor’s apartment... Yagami Tenements, room 23, which Money had a feeling was an intentional number, concerning this man’s obsession with the soft drink’s “authentic blend of 23 flavors”... he was given an excuse via cell-phone that at least told him that his new client was honest, if not tactful.
“I haven’t **** right in three days. I’m giving myself an enema.”
Of course, as dedicated or as lonely as Pepper was, he’d decided to stay on the phone the entire time. So, Matt Money’s first ever conversation with the new ‘hardcore doc’ involved detailed descriptions of pouring water in one’s ass. Money eventually had to shut off the phone when the enema had started ‘taking effect’... of course, as paper-thin as the walls were, Money could still clearly hear the grunts and groans... not to mention the ‘sloshing’ sounds... and had to remind himself that the Studios were paying him far too much money to walk out now.
After one more bout of the sound of running water... which Money hoped was the sound of this man washing his hands... Money plastered on his best fake grin as the door finally opened... and through it, emerged the physique of the new ‘hardcore doctor’. This man was pretty much everything Money had expected... tall, heavy-set (to be polite), scraggly hair and beard, torn jeans and a “Snakes on a Plane” tanktop. This was obviously a man who cared more about experience than appearance.
“You must be Money.” Pepper grunted out, extending his hand and gripping Money’s firmly, somewhat forcing him to shake it. “Sorry about that. Sometimes you just need to take a nice, healthy ****.”
“I understand completely”, Matt Money muttered in reply, trying to move past the topic with as much tact as he could muster. “So you must be Paul Prescott... Dr. Pepper, correct? Any particular reason for the name?”
Pepper motioned with that thick neck of his, for Money to follow him into his tenement. Grudgingly, Money agreed, locking the door behind him just in case as he clutched his briefcase close. The bachelor’s pad looked akin to something out of a homeless file. Simple furniture, simple television, a couple of cheap posters advertising old wrestling shows Pepper had been a part of... in fact, the massive, and seemingly rather expensive computer setup in the corner of the room, caught Money’s eye more than anything in how out of place it looked. Money made a mental note to check it out later, before turning his attention back to his new client.
Pepper had already lumbered over to the kitchen, keeping his own attention on Money. “You want a drink, man?”
“Sure... what do you have?”
“What do you think, man?”, Pepper chuckled as he swung the fridge door open in such a grandiose way, that one would think this was some sort of grand opening for an art gallery. And of course, it was art to him... as the fridge was stocked with nothing but two-liter, one-liter, and 20-ounce bottles of the Dr. Pepper soft drink that Paul Prescott named himself after. Grabbing a two-liter for himself and taking a nice long swig right from the bottle, Pepper motioned again to the fridge. Money simply shook his head.
“No, thanks. That stuff rots your teeth.”
“Yeah, I know”, Pepper replied, swigging the bottle again and slamming the door shut. “But I figure... hey, I’m a hardcore wrestler. I could lose all my teeth thanks to one bad drop toe hold or one good superkick. They’re going down my throat anyways, might as well give them something to enjoy on the way down.”
Money sighed, trying to keep his composure in front of this devil-may-care wall of a man. “And what about the sugar and fat content?”
“Man, you really are a pisser, aren’t you? At my age, it’s all cushion for the pushin’, if you know what I mean, eh? Look, you can talk **** about my favorite soda all you want, man, I’ve heard all about it. Hell, I’ve even done that old high-school experiment where you drop a tooth in a glass of Dr. Pepper overnight, and watch it erode. But you know something? That tooth just happened to have been knocked loose thanks to a steel pipe to the face in an arena packed with about 300 people. I won, too. This is the way I’ve chosen to lead, and if you’re just gonna come here and piss all over it, man, then you just tell the Studios that I don’t need a manager. No offense, man.”
With a defeated sigh, Money sat his briefcase down on the large, wooden cargo crate that served as a coffee table... a briefcase that, odds are, cost more than the rest of the furniture in the apartment combined. “I don’t think you’re going to be so caustic, Dr. Pepper...”
“Please. Call me Doc.”
“Whatever... Doc... when you find out just what I’ve arranged for you. You see... I’ve not only managed to get you into a new federation... the nCw... but I’ve managed to arrange your schedule so that you premiere at a pay-per-view... in a very high-profile match, no less.” And with that, Money slid out one of a half-dozen paper fliers from his briefcase, and handed it to Dr. Pepper.
“Holy ****”, the hardcore doctor grunted out, squinting at the paper just to double-check the card order. “I haven’t even had a single match here, and you were able to get me a ***damned title shot? How the hell did you manage that, man?”
Money gave a cocky little smirk. “WBL Studios clients are always in demand. Consider it a signing bonus. Only problem is, the stipulation... really doesn’t work in your favor. I mean... sprinting up a ladder?”
“Well, that’s just where strategy comes in”, Pepper grunted in reply. “If I can’t get up there with, like, sheer quickness, I’ll just have to beat the crap out of everyone else involved. And trust me, man, if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s beating the crap out of people. Am I right?”
“I’ve seen the tapes”, Money deadpanned. And indeed, Matt Money had done his research... The Doc wasn’t exactly the greatest technical wrestler out there. You weren’t going to get a dragon sleeper, or a moonsault, out of the 350+ pound man. But the man’s attitude mirrored his wrestling style, inasmuch as what he lacked in tact, he more than made up for in brute force. Not to mention the charisma the man had... every time he stuck his hand into the crowd to get a weapon, more often than not, the crowd repaid all of his work with a bottle of Dr. Pepper.
“But still, man... a hardcore title match on my first-ever show for the nCw? Holy crap... that’s pretty damned big. But I don’t want you to **** around with my title shot, man. I mean, you can watch and all, but...”
Money put up a halting hand. “I’m simply an observer. If someone decides to do a run-in, I’ll help peel them off of you. But as for getting involved in the actual match, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Great, man, great. So we understand each other. It’s like our brains have morphed into one huge, throbbing... like... swollen... double-brain... thing. Like that... what was that guy... that talking brain guy on Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”
“Krang?”
“No thanks, man, I just ate. But I’ll tell you what, man. I had pretty big plans today, but if you want, you’re welcome to come along for the ride. We’ll make it a bonding experience, get to know each other, and all that good ****. What do you say, man?”
What Money really wanted to say what that he had no choice... but all that came out was “Sounds great”, in about as formal a tone as he could summon up staring down this soda-drinking hardcore icon.
“Excellent, man. Much love and respect all across the board. Now, let’s go, I’ve got some shopping to do, man.”
“In that case”, Money interjected, rifling again through his suitcase, before pulling out a small, green credit-card like object and handing it to Dr. Pepper for further inspection. “I’d better give you this. It’s a WBL Studios expense account card. All clients of the Studios receive one of those cards when they join our little family. It’s an expense account... but mind you, every purchase you make will be scrutinized by the accounting department, although there is a... small... cash allowance there for frivolous things.”
“Sweet stuff, man!”, Pepper replied, cramming the card haphazardly into his wallet. “Money for nothing, chicks for free, just like the song says, right?”
“It’s not for nothing, Doc. This is an investment, and one the Studios can’t afford to blindly enter. We’ve been going through a somewhat... trying period recently. Sure, we’ve managed three World Heavyweight champions this year alone... I, personally, managed two of them... but these last few months have been... trying, to say the least.”
Dr. Pepper nodded, mulling over this statement. No doubt, that Money was talking about the infamous hacking charges leveled against the Studios... charges that turned out to be false, however, as even the accuser admitted he’d only leveled such accusations because a certain group of federation-killers who had recently helped kill yet another federation that a Studios client was a champion in... a trio of filthy, worthless bastards named Dave Michaelson, Candle Jack, and Cristy... had told him to. Nevertheless, the attempt to smear the Studios’ name was unsuccessful, as not only were people coming out of the woodwork to defend the film and talent company, but this very federation that Dr. Pepper had inked a contract with, had come about due to those accusations.
Proving the fact that any press is good press.
“Best not to think about it”, Dr. Pepper grunted out, breezing by the topic with his own brand of tact as he slapped the smaller Matt Money on the back. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry. We’re gonna go down to the military supply store, and then we’re off.”
Military supply store... three words that, when chained together as such, worried Money a little bit. “And just why are we going to a military supply store?”, he asked, almost unsure that he wanted to hear the answer.
Dr. Pepper merely replied with his half-toothy grin. “Today, man... we’re gonna find Bigfoot! And don’t forget to bring the cooler, man!”
The statement didn’t need elaboration, and Pepper didn’t give it any, as he lumbered out the tenement door. With a dejected sigh, Money noticed the small cooler sitting in the corner of the apartment... and again, looked at the rather expensive computer system that still seemed horribly out of place in this shell of an apartment. Something was going on here, and he didn’t like how it all added up.
Or maybe, Money thought as he grabbed the cooler and sloshed his way down the stairs after The Doc, that’s just how his mind works...
