BITTERSWEET NIGHT
All in all, it’s a bittersweet night for Melvin Beauregard.
Sure, he lorded the PWA deal and the no-contact clause over the unflappable Lindsay Troy, and he was able to ensure GREAT SCOTT a rematch for the Five Star Title at the upcoming supershow. But he also got assaulted by over a dozen eggs thanks to an eGG Bandits’ prank gone awry and that was enough to put a damper on the evening.
He’d tried to clean himself up the best he could but he already knew his suit was ruined. He could go to JCPenney and get another one, but that’s not the point. Ever since he was assigned to work for PRIME, he’d been at the mercy of all sorts of shenanigans and bullshittery and he’d had about enough.
Melvin walks through the casino before arriving at the MGM Grand parking garage. He reaches into his pocket for his keys, but stops suddenly as a voice calls out to his left.
“Evenin’, Slick.”
The deep, gravelly voice can only belong to one man, and Melvin swallows with fear, slowly turning around to meet six feet, four inches of southern hospitality leaning against the wall, a trademark thundercloud glare pushing through the dark and dim parking lot lights.
Melvin Beauregard: Um…good evening, Wade…
The Blue Collar Brawler steps forward, further into the light, blue eyes sizing up the PWA Liaison while scratching his chin through a short, gray beard.
Wade Elliott: Don’t worry yerself, I won’t keep ya long. Just wanted t’say congrats on the new position, and give ya kudos on that contract language. Awful clever.
Melvin can only respond with a forced smile, and the Southern Sparkplug takes a size 14 step closer.
Wade Elliott: But while I have ya, I’d like t’make somethin’ clear…
Another step forward. Melvin wishes he’d done more kegel exercises.
Wade Elliott: Yer contract may say that the wrestlers can’t touch ya, but lucky fer me…
The Bad Dog leans down to Melvin’s height, and growls in his ear:
Wade Elliott: …I’m just security.
Beauregard, again, offers little response, as The Bad Dog stands upright. Elliott nods his head over his shoulder.
Wade Elliott: See that rig over there?
Melvin looks past Wade to see a giant, black GMC Sierra 2500, foreboding against the dark.
Wade Elliott: That’s mine. If I were you, I’d go get in yer’s.
Melvin, somewhat instinctively, backpedals toward his own late model sedan, and then breaks into a run. Behind him, the black behemoth’s engine turns over to bellow through the parking lot, headlights snapping to life, thanks to a remote starter.
Melvin Beauregard: Ohhh shit…
Melvin bumps into his car, then clambers clumsily to unlock and it and climb inside. Before he knows it, he’s crushed against the driver’s side door by the force of nearly 260 pounds.
Wade Elliott: On second thought, lemme give ya a hand….
BLACK.