CONGO vs. WHITE

[coreycz]

Quarter Final Singles Match Number Three
King Congo
vs.
"Ice Cold" Jimmy White jr.

[pete]

Edwin felt the satisfying 'thud' of Jimmy[/b]'s body hitting the floor as he performed his finishing move on him. Pausing for a beat, for effect, he placed his left foot dominantly over his opponent's prone body, as the referee crouched down for the count. Another ten beats or so, and he was holding the Championship belt aloft, the ring announcer making his win official in resounding manner behind him:

Announcer: The winner, and new SCIW Heavyweight Champion...EDWIN "THE KING" SOLOMON!

Edwin[/b] stepped through the ropes, grinning from ear to ear as he heard the small crowd gathered in the USC gym cheer him on. Among the college crowd gathered for a night of mindless, beer-fueled fun, he spotted a few familiar faces: Dick Mongoose[/b]'s girlfriend was in one of the top rows and, closer to the ring, Freddy Flash[/b]'s wife and children smiled and waved at him, little Bobby making a fistpump gesture in celebration. Even as he grinned at them, however, Ed[/b] could not help a pang of sadness from crossing his stomach. Not so long ago, Andre would have been right there beside them; but that was before Tricia[/b] had whisked him halfway across the country...

The new SCIW Heavyweight Champion was trying hard to put such thoughts behind him - as well as to remember to congratulate Jimmy[/b] on a match well performed - when he was intercepted. His interloper looked and dressed like somebody out of a 1970s porn movie, sporting a bad mullet, garish sunglasses, and the type of clothes midlife-crisers wear to make themselves appear young. Edwin[/b] guessed he drove something like a Porsche, or maybe a Beamer or 'Vette; the kind of car you buy when you're forty and you want to chat up your daughter's nineteen-year-old sorority sisters. He disliked the man instantly.

If he had given any signs of it, however, his interloper seemed to have missed them. He stepped forward, giving Edwin[/b] a vigorous handshake as he launched into a rapid-fire pitch:

Man: Eddie, baby! How ya doin'? You took quite a beatin' out there, how're the legs holdin' up? He was really goin' for 'em, wasn't he?

Ed[/b] stopped him short with one massive palm outstretched:

Edwin Solomon: Who the fuck are you?

The man didn't miss a beat, proceeding with his spiel as if he had delivered it a million times before:

Man: Glad you asked, my dear boy! Aloysius P. Harrison, entertainment promoter. Just call me Slick. My card...

He slid a tacky business card from his pocket, which Edwin[/b] took with some reluctance. Barely giving him time to breathe, Slick[/b] dove into the next part of his pitch, his tone rising with forced excitement:

Slick: ...I know what you're about to ask - what do I want, right? Well, my dear boy, I'm here with an ex-CI-tin' op-PAH-TOO-nah-ty! Now, I'm'a cut straight to the chase: I've heard good things about'cha. And from what I saw out there, you've defahnitely got what it takes to make it in the big time! And that is why I want to present you with the op-PAH-TOO-nah-ty of a *lifetime*! Guys dream about havin' an offer like this! The Rock would kill for it. John Cena would kill for it. CM Punk would kill for it. You get the drift. And I am offering it to *you*, Ed Solomon, *right now*. Are ya ready?

The promoter paused for a moment before, to Edwin[/b]'s astonishment, making a sound which might have been a drumroll, placing his hands in front of his face and gesturing as if to place invisible words in the air in front of him as he over-enunciated three words.

Slick: HOLLYWOOD...ELITE...WRESTLING!

To his surprise, Edwin[/b] was interested. Suddenly, his thoughts were filled with nice houses, busty blondes, swimming pools, private schools filled with preppy kids in uniforms, and not a gun, gang-banger or drug dealer in sight. Hollywood. Yeah. If he moved to Hollywood, he might even be able to afford a better lawyer to fight for custody of Andre[/b]. "An' ain't gonna be nothin' that bitch can do about it!"

A look of triumph must have invaded his features, as Slick[/b] seemed animated:

Slick: Excellent, excellent! I knew you wouldn't refuse! I've even got the perfect gimmick for you - you'll be...

Here, Edwin[/b] stopped his new acquaintance once again with a wave of his hand:

Edwin: Whoa, whoa, whoa...back up! Did you say 'gimmick'? I don't do gimmicks!

To his credit, the promoter did not seem intimidated, instead giving a patronizing chuckle:

Slick: Oh, my dear boy...! This isn't Redneck Rasslin' anymore! You'll be in the big leagues, the big time! *Everyone* has a gimmick in the big time!

The man had a point. If he was going to get his son back and raise him in a mansion with a swimming pool and a Nintendo Wii U, he couldn't just be joe-schmoe Edwin Solomon[/b], from Texas. Nobody cared about *that* guy. But with the right gimmick...hell, he could be an Undertaker. Or an Ultimate Warrior[/b]. Someone *everyone* knew! And hell, having a gimmick couldn't be all that bad, or so many people wouldn't have one...

Edwin: OK, what'chu got? Hit me.

Slick[/b] pretended to punch him, taking Edwin[/b] by surprise, then laughed at his feeble attempt at a joke, winking at the bigger man as if to say 'Gotcha!'. Edwin[/b] was miffed, but before he could say anything, Slick[/b] had adopted his letters-in-the-air stance again and was triumphantly pronouncing his new name:

Slick: KING. CONGO.

Edwin[/b] did a double take:

Ed: SAY WHAAAA...?!

Slick[/b], however, was lost in his reverie:

Slick: A savage from the darkest regions of Africa, who only one fearless, dauntless man managed to do-MES-tah-cate - and, ladies and gentlemen, you're lookin' at him!

He gestured wildly, keeping an imaginary pundit at bay:

Slick: Stand BACK, my dear boy, stand BACK! Congo here's been known to eat people!

Eat people? What the actual fuck? Edwin[/b] couldn't help himself:

Edwin: Slick, what are you doing?

The promoter, however, had an answer at the ready:

Slick: Think about it, my dear boy. Everybody loves to hate heels. You will get heat like never before! We will sell masks! Plastic spears and shields! T-shirts! We'll make *millions*!

Again, that was a valid point. People did love to hate heels, and they were often as popular as, if not more than, the faces they were facing. This guy wasn't dumb. Could he be trusted, though?

Edwin[/b] thought of his son once again. For a moment, he envisioned Dre[/b]'s smiling, buck-toothed face peering up at him from a nice blazer-vest-and-tie uniform, with some important school's crest on it. He would grow up to be somebody. He'd be a doctor, or an engineer, or an astronaut, as he sometimes claimed he wanted to be. "A rasslin' asternaut!"

Edwin[/b] grinned to himself, even then knowing he would accept the man's proposal. Sensing exactly that, Slick[/b] beat his prospective client to the punch, magically producing a contract from out of nowhere and pointing frantically at the dotted line with the head of his pen:

Slick: Just sign there, my dear boy!

The big Texan eyed his soon-to-be manager menacingly:

Edwin: Only if ya stop callin' me 'boy'.

Slick[/b] made a face, as if deeply wounded by his charge's lack of trust in him, and quickly crossed his heart with purposefully exaggerated gestures. Only after this did Edwin[/b] sign the contract, almost getting mauled by his new agent as he rushed to shake his hand:

Slick: Excellent decision, my dear bo...erm, man!

Then, with a final dramatic flourish in tone:

Slick: Now let's go make history.