Tony Gamble
A deep breath.
Inhale.
Exhale.
A puddle has formed between his feet, slowly growing with every drop of sweat that falls from his brow.
Another breath, this one deeper than the one before.
“You good, Tony?”
A young man lifts his head, a slight smirk on his face. His hair is damp and messy, and there is a bit of a bruise starting to form under his left eye.
“Yeah, I’m good,” he replies with a chuckle. “Just let my guard down, Frankie.”
The young man sitting on the bench; wearing a white sleeveless shirt drenched in sweat, and a pair of gray and orange basketball shorts, wipes the sweat away from his brow with the back of his hand before wiping it off on his shorts. While in good shape, he isn’t as cut and defined as his sparring partner.
The old gym is dimly lit, and the ring has seen better days. Duct tape struggles to keep the turnbuckle covers together, and the worn logo in the center of the ring is unreadable.
“You looked distracted,” Frank Monteverdi starts unwrapping the tape from his hand and wrist. “Something on your mind?”
Antonio Gambellini stands up, and starts removing the tape from his own wrists.
“Just thinking about tonight.”
“Having second thoughts about popping your cherry?”
“Of course not,” Tony replies, shaking his head slightly. “You know I’ve been waiting for this chance.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Frank grabs a bottle of water from the bench and sprays some into his mouth, then spits it onto the ground to his left.
“Are people going to take me seriously?”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, Frank,” Tony stretches his arms out, looking down at himself. “Do I look like the type of guy people are going to be intimidated by?”
“Trust me, Tony,” Frank put a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “There’s different ways to strike fear into people, and what you look like isn’t necessarily the best. You know I had to bust a few skulls to get my reputation to where it’s at, but there’s always someone bigger.”
“Emphasis on always in my case.” Tony interrupts. “You’re really not helping me out here.”
“Look, Tony, you’re not helping yourself out. You don’t have to be as big as me to put the fear of God into someone. You just need to make them believe that you are the meanest son of a bitch to ever walk this earth, and that they are better off not knowing what would happen if they chose to disrespect you. It isn’t going to happen overnight, but one day your name is going to be feared in this neighborhood.”
“Is fear better than respect?”
“For guys like us,” Frank uses his middle and index finger to point between them in a wagging motion. “You better fucking believe it.”
**==**
A deep breath.
Inhale.
Exhale.
A puddle has formed between his feet, slowly growing with every drop of sweat that falls from his brow.
Another breath, this one deeper than the one before.
“You good, boss?”
The trademark smile of the man sitting on the bench widens as he reaches back and rubs the small of his back.
“Yeah, I’m good, ” The Grin replies with a chuckle. “Just landed wrong, Frankie.”
Wearing a gray fitted shirt, the type that wicks water away from the body to keep it cool, and black sweatpants; Gamble arches his back to stretch it out.
“Yeah, you looked a little distracted.”
Frank Pastore towers over his former manager, he rubs a towel against his shirtless chest to dry off his own sweat.
The mats laid out on the floor are splashed with perspiration, drips here and there along with a few larger spots where a back or face got smacked against them. They glisten under the bright lights that shine down from the ceiling of the large room that has been converted into a small gym.
“Just thinking about the past,” Tony answers as he stands up from the bench he was sitting on. “It’s just funny how it all comes back around sometimes, you know.”
“Is that why you’re taking this risk, boss?”
Tony looks up at Frank, only one side of his face has a smile on it.
“Come on, Frank, we’ve been through this. The doctors cleared me.”
“A friend’s doctor cleared you,” Frank interjects.
“I’m good, Frank,” Tony reaches up and places his hand on Pastore’s chest. “Trust me.”
“I do trust you, but it would make me feel better if I was the one in the ring instead of you.”
“No,” Tony waves his hand, dismissing the comment. “This is my mess, and I’ll work my way through it.”
Tony grabs a towel off the bench he was sitting on and throws it over his head.
“Why did you sign a contract though, couldn’t you have just broken a leg or arm and taken Mortimer off television?”
“That would’ve been a temporary fix.” He pauses a beat. “Morty needs to know that if he slips up, I’ll be there to teach him the error in his ways.”
“What if he’s like that stupid dog you had that kept running into the invisible fence over and over again, damn dog nearly fried himself.”
“I doubt Morty is that stupid.”
Tony rubs the towel against his scalp, drying his hair in the process. When there is no reply from his associate, he pulls the towel from atop his head and turns to look at him. Frank just glares back at him, not satisfied with Tony’s answer.
“You think he’s that stupid?”
“No,” Frank answers, “I think he’s that stubborn.”
“Regardless, I know full well what I’m doing and you have nothing to worry about.”
“That’s what you said after Midorikawa drop kicked that chair into your face, but then I found you passed out in the hotel room a few hours later. What would’ve happened if I didn’t decide to pick up some wings and beer, instead of blowing off steam after that bullshit loss to Scott Douglas.”
“Seriously?” Gamble shakes his head, not really interested in remembering that night. “That was six years ago, let it go.”
“You were unconscious when I found you, Tony. Paramedics said you were lucky”
“I said drop it!” Tony turns away from Frank, his eyes closed as he sighs. “Look, I know you’re just worried about me. But this… well this just isn’t news I want getting out.”
“Don’t worry,” Frank reassures him. “I’m not telling anyone.”
**==**
Tony stares at his reflection in the section of mirror he had just wiped condensation from with the towel around his neck. He stands there shirtless, a pair of gray shorts his only attire. His hands rest on the edge of the off white porcelain sink.
“Safe to say my first match back didn’t remind anyone of my immense talent.”
Gamble shakes his head, then turns and walks out of the bathroom. The towel around his neck is thrown onto the bed, as he collapses onto the gray lounge chair against the wall.
“Apparently I need a new way to make people think twice of stepping into a ring with me, and I really doubt anything is going to do that before our match this week, Flamo. I’m pretty sure you saw the lineup and wet yourself though, I mean you’re facing a PRIME hall of famer after all.”
He reaches over and grabs a bottle of water from the table to his left, twisting the top off as he continues.
“Can you imagine the street cred you’ll get in the locker room if you can find a way to beat me? It’s a slim chance, I know, but I’m sure you’re not even thinking about losing our match. Why would you though, am I right?”
After taking a quick sip from his water, Tony puts the top back on but keeps it in his hand.
“You’re a young guy with a bright future ahead of you, so I get that maybe this opening bout against some old man that probably should have stayed retired might be a bit of a step down that ladder you’re trying to climb. I remember when I first joined PRIME and thought there was no one there on my level. There wasn’t, but I learned soon enough that there were levels that I was going to have to reach in order to have my name mentioned amongst those that had already cemented themselves as some of PRIME’s best. Names like Black Angel, Hoyt Williams, and Killean Sirrajin, to name a few.”
The man known as The Grin pauses for a second, reflecting on the fact that unlike the names he mentioned he never won the Universal championship. He came close, but in the grand scheme of things that hardly matters. What matters is if you’ve ever done it, and with the answer being no he just gets ranked as one of the best to never have held the Universal title. Does Youngblood still fall on this list?
“I’ve been where you are, dreaming about what the future holds and how long it was going to take me to get there. Hell, I’m there now. I mean, I’m right back at the bottom just like you. Who I am and what I’ve done gives me a reasonable amount of respect, but what good does that do me now? Do I have a shortcut to the Universal title because of that… nope.”
He shakes his head as he stands, putting his water bottle back on the table before making his way to the foot of the bed. The Permascar Superstar grabs the red shirt that was thrown on the bed and pulls it up and over his head, tugging it down and straightening it around his waist before walking up to a mirror on the wall. The newest shirt on PRIME’s merchandise rack reflected for all to see, even if it takes a moment to realize what it says. “MY SMILES BIGGER THAN YOURS IS” with a cartoon version of Gamble’s scarred grin just underneath the words.
“All I have is a match against some punk kid with daddy issues, and an attitude the size of Texas.”
He chuckles softly as he fusses with his still damp hair a bit, his partial grin growing slowly into a full blown smile.
“I have to say, I’m pretty impressed with the way you’ve been carrying yourself these last few weeks. A weaker man…”
He pauses slightly, looking into the mirror as if he’s speaking to Flamberge himself.
“Can I call you a man? Do you even consider yourself a man yet?”
He shakes his head, because it’s obvious he isn’t going to get a reply.
“Let’s just say there are many people that would’ve taken that loss to Cancer Jiles as a sign that they weren’t ready to step up into the big time, not ready to headline a show and hang with the big boys. Some would’ve tucked tail and ran away to somewhere less challenging like Defiance Wrestling. You though, you realized that you weren’t ready and decided to keep trying until you are.”
A devilish grin spreads wide across his face.
“I mean, you’ve been going backwards since then, but a win is a win and you have to take what you can get. That’s what I’ve come to accept, and for me that starts this week. You aren’t, how did you say it on Revival? Oh yeah, on my list of five names, either. But what you are on, is the marquee across from me this upcoming Revival, and that means you’re an obstacle in front of me on my road to proving that not only does my name still belong to be mentioned amongst PRIME’s greatest…”
Tony leans closer to the mirror, the grin never leaving his face as his tone manages to become a bit more aggressive.
“But that it should be at the top of the damn list.”
**==**
Frank Pastore stepped out of the elevator and walked through the casino, it had been a very long time since he had been in Vegas. He wasn’t familiar with the hotel he was staying in, but Tony had assured him it was one of the best and that it wouldn’t be as crowded and loud as most of the casinos on the strip. He was right, because there weren’t people sitting at every single slot machine, yanking on their arms like their last damn cent was on the line. There was a distinct lack of desperation in the air, and the people standing around the roulette table he was about to pass didn’t look like they’d be in debt if they lost a few hundred dollars on the next spin.
He wasn’t necessarily swimming in it, but figured a small bet wouldn’t hurt him so why the hell not. He stepped over to the roulette table and pulled the fieh dollah bill of of his pocket and placed it on the table.
“Sorry sir,” the croupier said as he waved his hand in Frank’s direction. “but there is a twenty five dollar minimum at this table.”
“Someone should stick to slots.”
Frank wasn’t sure which one of the stuck up people standing around the table had made the comment, and was sure he’d be kicked out of the hotel permanently if he decided to find out, so he just smiled and picked his cash up off the table. “My mistake, sorry.”
“That one over there has a five dollar minimum.” The croupier pointed toward a table not too far away with two people at it, not counting it’s own croupier.
“Thanks, pal.” Frank nodded his head, a courteous smile accompanied it. “But I might just stick to the slots.”
Truth is Pastore was never one to depend on luck. He had put his faith in his talent and skill, and of course his manager Tony Gamble, when he had decided to make his debut for Defiance Wrestling six years ago. He was a fresh name that no one expected much from, well except for Tony; who had been the one in his ear for about six months telling him that he was more than ready to finally get out of the independents and go pro.
A signature on the dotted line later, and Frank had his debut match in the main event of Defiance TV 69 against Bronson Box and Curtis Penn. Having a match against one of those guys back then would have been a big deal, but he had to face them both and it was a main event match with names like Impulse, Lindsay Troy, and Dan Ryan on the roster. He was nervous, to say the least, and he somehow managed to pull off the damn win.
Tony was there for him when no one else was, and now it was Frank’s turn to be there for him. Hopefully, this time things wouldn’t end up the way they did back then. With Tony in the damn hospital.
Frank got his five dollar chip from the croupier and placed it down on thirteen. To some that would be considered an unlucky number, but as said before Frank doesn’t really depend on luck. Besides, the upcoming Revival is number thirteen and that sounds like as good enough a reason to do so.
Like Gamble’s upcoming match, or even Frank’s debut match, winning or losing this bet wasn’t the point of making it. No, it was anticipating the outcome that really made the blood boil. So as he watched the little metal ball bounce around the spinning wheel, kissing a different number briefly before moving onto the next with no sense of faithfulness he knew he missed this sensation himself. It wasn’t the sound of a referee slapping his palm on the mat for a count of three or his opponent slapping the mat in submission, but that brief moment of waiting and hoping for it to happen that really fueled him… it was addicting.
“Seven.”
Not the number he wanted to hear, but it wasn’t the first and definitely wouldn’t be the last time he lost. A buzzing from his pocket drew his attention away from the table, probably Tony. He reached in and pulled his phone out, then paused slightly when he realized it wasn’t Gamble’s number on the screen.
“Bout damn time you called me back, Dom!”
Business was about to pick up.
“No, I haven’t talked to him yet, but Tony’s gonna love you. No way he’ll say no.”
Frank made his way through the casino with his phone pressed against his ear and a smile on his face.