Post by David Atkins on Dec 16, 2005 19:42:14 GMT -5
"...as Mr. King insists that it wasn't you..."
Anthony sat silently across the desk from his lawyer, his head down as he listened to all the man had to say. He didn't know what to make of anything anymore, not since Travis' outburst at the trial-- at HIS trial. It just didn't add up. Why would Travis, the man whom had been victimized by Anthony's stupidity, stick his neck out for him like that?
"...there simply is no evidence that any crime has been committed on your part." His lawyer ruffled through some papers. "All charges have been dropped."
"But..." Anthony began.
"I know what you're going to say; don't." Anthony's lawyer stood up from behind his desk and walked around to lean against it nearer to Anthony. "Here's some extra advice, free of charge; when a man like Travis King decides to give you a gift, you accept it graciously and move on with your life. There are no buts."
Anthony sighed. "I guess I just don't understand why he did it."
"Neither do I." His lawyer turned away and walked over to a filing cabinet. "Though if I were to hazard a guess, I'd suggest that perhaps he thought that life without possibility of parole would be a little stiff a sentence for a fifteen year old kid who fucked up."
"Now why don't you go on home? I'll be in touch."
Travis walked forward to stand in the exact center of the stage, his arms raised. Four bright blue spotlights rotated around his position before focusing in the center, on him, and changing to white. He wore neither shirt nor jacket to hide the definition of his upper body, and his tights had been exchanged for a pair of short wrestling trunks that reached perhaps half way to his knee.
He stopped and turned around, his hands spread out to the sides, his palms up, signifying his confusion.
"Hey, guys, what the fuck? You forgot the music."
---
"What the fuck, Travis?"
Heidi was livid when she picked him up from the police station. Her eye were wide, her nostrils flared, and her knuckles turned white as she gripped the steering wheel and swore at the person, or persons, in the car in front of them-- not that they had done anything wrong, but they were present and Heidi needed to vent.
"I told you before," Travis said, as calmly as he could for he did not want this to degenerate into the kind of fight he and Heidi had been having back before he got shot, before she left him. "Anthony may have fucked up hardcore, but I don't want to see his life ruined over this shit. Kid's just... well... "
"Yeah, a kid." Heidi glared at him, not needing to watch the road for a moment as they were pulled up at a stop light. "I get that, Travis, but to go and stick your neck out for him like that... "
"What the hell was I supposed to do?!"
"Let him rot!"
---
"Sorry," the Technician explained, "but for dry runs like this, we don't normally turn on the PA. It's kind of pointless, without anybody out there to hear it."
Travis looked back out at the empty arena, his eyes drifted across row after row of empty seats. On the night he made his first appearance for the new LOC-- the very night he had his first altercation with Anthony Coffman-- he had been appalled at the size of the crowd. It was tiny. It didn't look so bad, however, empty. It actually looked like a place that could, temporarily, house several thousand people without becoming too ridiculously cramped.
"Mind if we try it anyway?" Travis asked. "All this shit seems kinda stupid without it."
---
In the end, as is ever the case, it seemed a stupid thing to fight about. But the fight served a purpose, nonetheless. Within two hours, they were naked, they were sweaty, and they were very, very busy. And when they were finally done, they laid for a long time in each others arms, basking in the afterglow of their lovemaking.
"I'm still mad, you know." Heidi stated, trying to sound as stern as she possibly could.
"Really?" Travis raised up. "Well, I guess I can go dow--"
She laughed and covered his mouth with one hand. "Later."
"Mm-hmm," came his muffled response.
"You know I wasn't really mad at you, right?" She searched his eyes. "It's just... that 'kid' almost stole you from me. I can't forgive that. And then, all this sudden, you're sticking your neck out for him... he doesn't deserve it. That's all."
"He doesn't deserve to have you on his side."
She removed her hand from his mouth and kissed him again.
---
His entrance music began;
Umm... what am I supposed to do?
He walked out, again, with his arms raised as the song got underway. Making his way down toward the ring, he gave the absent fans along the aisle a series of vulgar-- and therefore hilarious-- gestures ranging from a one-finger salute to crotch shaking. During his actual entrance, those gestures would-- for the most part-- be replaced with the usual fan interaction; slapping hands, pointing out signs, verbally running down this guy or that for having an enemy's sign or shirt.
Reaching the end of the aisle, he slid under the bottom rope and into the ring.
---
Barely thirty minutes earlier, backstage at the nearly empty LOC arena, Bob Clarke happened to run into Travis King for the second time in as many weeks.
"Hey Travis.."
"Hey, Bobby-boy," Travis grabbed the man's hand, which hadn't been offered, and shook it. "What's up?"
"Not a lot." Bob Clarke tried his best to appear comfortable but, although he didn't know it, he failed miserably. He was visibly relieved when Travis released his hand. Then, as if suddenly becoming aware of the fact that Travis was wearing his ring attire, spoke again. "There's nobody out there, you know, it's..."
"Yeah, I know. Shop's all closed up for today." Travis gave a half-shrug. "Figured that'd make today as good a day as any to practice my new entrance."
"Oh."
"Hey, why don't you come watch?"
"I don't--"
"Come on," Travis grabbed Bob by the shoulder and turned him around. "I feel like an idiot, doing this shit without an audience.. Oh, hey, I found a recording of your old man in my wrestling collection. Back when he was working the Dallas territory."
"Really?" Bob said, taking a sudden interest.
---
"So," Travis approached his guest after both he and the techs were satisfied that they had everything down. "What'd ya think?"
Bob was leaning against the wall under the huge Eye of Chaos screen, to one side of the curtain through which Travis had entered. He stared down at the ring, long and hard, before finally answering Travis King. "It isn't you."
"How so? Or not, I mean?"
"Well... you're Travis King. Mr. Tough-as-nails, I-get-shot-up-for-fun, and-oh-yeah-did-I-mention-Angel-hanged-me-by-a-bit-of-barbed-wire?"
Travis laughed, hard, and leaned against the wall beside Bob, whose confidence suddenly folded in on itself. He continued a bit more subdued. "I don't think you need to do all that kind of posturing."
"Hey, ya know somethin'?"
"What?"
"You're a pretty smart kid." Travis grinned. "How 'bout I tell them to lose the lights and pyro and just walk out to my music like I've always done?"
"Yeah," Bob said. "That'd work a lot better."
"I think so, too. But I think I'll tell the techs later-- tell them now, after all that shit, and they're liable to jump my ass."
"Yeah, that'd suck."
"Hell yeah! The fuck would we do for our entrances if all those guys were laid up in the hospital?" Travis laughed. "Hey, after I get changed I'm meeting my wife at the Circus Room. You should come with, knock a few back with us."
"The Circus Room?" Bob frowned.
"It's a bar. A great bar. But it's not good enough for me to wanna listen to that goddamned Toby Keith song, so don't even start that shit."
Bob shook his head. "I think I should--"
"Oh no you don't!" Travis shook his finger at the man. "You stood here and watched me make an ass outta myself, the least you can do is come get shitfaced with me. Or at least watch me get shitfaced."
"O...kay..." Bob said slowly as Travis took him by the shoulder and pulled him by the shoulder through the curtains and back into the backstage area.
Anthony sat silently across the desk from his lawyer, his head down as he listened to all the man had to say. He didn't know what to make of anything anymore, not since Travis' outburst at the trial-- at HIS trial. It just didn't add up. Why would Travis, the man whom had been victimized by Anthony's stupidity, stick his neck out for him like that?
"...there simply is no evidence that any crime has been committed on your part." His lawyer ruffled through some papers. "All charges have been dropped."
"But..." Anthony began.
"I know what you're going to say; don't." Anthony's lawyer stood up from behind his desk and walked around to lean against it nearer to Anthony. "Here's some extra advice, free of charge; when a man like Travis King decides to give you a gift, you accept it graciously and move on with your life. There are no buts."
Anthony sighed. "I guess I just don't understand why he did it."
"Neither do I." His lawyer turned away and walked over to a filing cabinet. "Though if I were to hazard a guess, I'd suggest that perhaps he thought that life without possibility of parole would be a little stiff a sentence for a fifteen year old kid who fucked up."
"Now why don't you go on home? I'll be in touch."
Travis walked forward to stand in the exact center of the stage, his arms raised. Four bright blue spotlights rotated around his position before focusing in the center, on him, and changing to white. He wore neither shirt nor jacket to hide the definition of his upper body, and his tights had been exchanged for a pair of short wrestling trunks that reached perhaps half way to his knee.
He stopped and turned around, his hands spread out to the sides, his palms up, signifying his confusion.
"Hey, guys, what the fuck? You forgot the music."
---
"What the fuck, Travis?"
Heidi was livid when she picked him up from the police station. Her eye were wide, her nostrils flared, and her knuckles turned white as she gripped the steering wheel and swore at the person, or persons, in the car in front of them-- not that they had done anything wrong, but they were present and Heidi needed to vent.
"I told you before," Travis said, as calmly as he could for he did not want this to degenerate into the kind of fight he and Heidi had been having back before he got shot, before she left him. "Anthony may have fucked up hardcore, but I don't want to see his life ruined over this shit. Kid's just... well... "
"Yeah, a kid." Heidi glared at him, not needing to watch the road for a moment as they were pulled up at a stop light. "I get that, Travis, but to go and stick your neck out for him like that... "
"What the hell was I supposed to do?!"
"Let him rot!"
---
"Sorry," the Technician explained, "but for dry runs like this, we don't normally turn on the PA. It's kind of pointless, without anybody out there to hear it."
Travis looked back out at the empty arena, his eyes drifted across row after row of empty seats. On the night he made his first appearance for the new LOC-- the very night he had his first altercation with Anthony Coffman-- he had been appalled at the size of the crowd. It was tiny. It didn't look so bad, however, empty. It actually looked like a place that could, temporarily, house several thousand people without becoming too ridiculously cramped.
"Mind if we try it anyway?" Travis asked. "All this shit seems kinda stupid without it."
---
In the end, as is ever the case, it seemed a stupid thing to fight about. But the fight served a purpose, nonetheless. Within two hours, they were naked, they were sweaty, and they were very, very busy. And when they were finally done, they laid for a long time in each others arms, basking in the afterglow of their lovemaking.
"I'm still mad, you know." Heidi stated, trying to sound as stern as she possibly could.
"Really?" Travis raised up. "Well, I guess I can go dow--"
She laughed and covered his mouth with one hand. "Later."
"Mm-hmm," came his muffled response.
"You know I wasn't really mad at you, right?" She searched his eyes. "It's just... that 'kid' almost stole you from me. I can't forgive that. And then, all this sudden, you're sticking your neck out for him... he doesn't deserve it. That's all."
"He doesn't deserve to have you on his side."
She removed her hand from his mouth and kissed him again.
---
His entrance music began;
Umm... what am I supposed to do?
He walked out, again, with his arms raised as the song got underway. Making his way down toward the ring, he gave the absent fans along the aisle a series of vulgar-- and therefore hilarious-- gestures ranging from a one-finger salute to crotch shaking. During his actual entrance, those gestures would-- for the most part-- be replaced with the usual fan interaction; slapping hands, pointing out signs, verbally running down this guy or that for having an enemy's sign or shirt.
Reaching the end of the aisle, he slid under the bottom rope and into the ring.
---
Barely thirty minutes earlier, backstage at the nearly empty LOC arena, Bob Clarke happened to run into Travis King for the second time in as many weeks.
"Hey Travis.."
"Hey, Bobby-boy," Travis grabbed the man's hand, which hadn't been offered, and shook it. "What's up?"
"Not a lot." Bob Clarke tried his best to appear comfortable but, although he didn't know it, he failed miserably. He was visibly relieved when Travis released his hand. Then, as if suddenly becoming aware of the fact that Travis was wearing his ring attire, spoke again. "There's nobody out there, you know, it's..."
"Yeah, I know. Shop's all closed up for today." Travis gave a half-shrug. "Figured that'd make today as good a day as any to practice my new entrance."
"Oh."
"Hey, why don't you come watch?"
"I don't--"
"Come on," Travis grabbed Bob by the shoulder and turned him around. "I feel like an idiot, doing this shit without an audience.. Oh, hey, I found a recording of your old man in my wrestling collection. Back when he was working the Dallas territory."
"Really?" Bob said, taking a sudden interest.
---
"So," Travis approached his guest after both he and the techs were satisfied that they had everything down. "What'd ya think?"
Bob was leaning against the wall under the huge Eye of Chaos screen, to one side of the curtain through which Travis had entered. He stared down at the ring, long and hard, before finally answering Travis King. "It isn't you."
"How so? Or not, I mean?"
"Well... you're Travis King. Mr. Tough-as-nails, I-get-shot-up-for-fun, and-oh-yeah-did-I-mention-Angel-hanged-me-by-a-bit-of-barbed-wire?"
Travis laughed, hard, and leaned against the wall beside Bob, whose confidence suddenly folded in on itself. He continued a bit more subdued. "I don't think you need to do all that kind of posturing."
"Hey, ya know somethin'?"
"What?"
"You're a pretty smart kid." Travis grinned. "How 'bout I tell them to lose the lights and pyro and just walk out to my music like I've always done?"
"Yeah," Bob said. "That'd work a lot better."
"I think so, too. But I think I'll tell the techs later-- tell them now, after all that shit, and they're liable to jump my ass."
"Yeah, that'd suck."
"Hell yeah! The fuck would we do for our entrances if all those guys were laid up in the hospital?" Travis laughed. "Hey, after I get changed I'm meeting my wife at the Circus Room. You should come with, knock a few back with us."
"The Circus Room?" Bob frowned.
"It's a bar. A great bar. But it's not good enough for me to wanna listen to that goddamned Toby Keith song, so don't even start that shit."
Bob shook his head. "I think I should--"
"Oh no you don't!" Travis shook his finger at the man. "You stood here and watched me make an ass outta myself, the least you can do is come get shitfaced with me. Or at least watch me get shitfaced."
"O...kay..." Bob said slowly as Travis took him by the shoulder and pulled him by the shoulder through the curtains and back into the backstage area.