His character, an Imperial, stood tall and proud, a reflection of Stu-E's own imposing presence. Adorned in gleaming armor, his virtual self radiated power and authority. With each swing of his two-handed sword, Stu-E's muscles tensed, mirroring the intensity of his digital avatar. The room echoed with the sound of clashing steel and triumphant shouts as Stu-E's hero triumphed over formidable foes, leaving a trail of virtual death in his wake.
However, amidst the chaotic battleground of Skyrim, Stu-E's focus was persistently tested by the incessant ringing of his phone. Distracted, he briefly tore his gaze away from the epic fantasy world and reached for the offending device, adorned with a personalized BriSCA F1 Stock Car themed case. The display screen flashed with a series of missed calls, reminders of the outside world that sought to intrude upon his gaming sanctuary.
With a sigh, Stu-E reluctantly pressed the ignore button, silencing the incessant interruptions for the time being. His devotion to his craft and love for wrestling were undeniable, but even the most dedicated warriors need their moments of respite. As the adrenaline of battle surged through his veins in Skyrim, the phone remained a mere afterthought, an annoyance easily brushed aside for the sake of immersive escapism.
Back to the game, Stu-E refocused his attention on his character, delving deeper into the rich tapestry of quests and adventures that awaited. The grandeur of his surroundings, both within the game and in his luxurious surroundings, created a sense of synergy, blending the lines between reality and fantasy. In this moment, Stu-E Price, the legendary wrestler of the Hardcore Wrestling Alliance, found solace and tranquility in the boundless realms of Skyrim, even as the echoes of his infamy reverberated in the outside world.
Again his phone rang, this had been the 27th missed call in the last hour, each call from a phone number he didn’t recognize or was unconcerned about. However, he’d now got to the point of no return. Annoyed at the phone calls, all he wanted was his solitude but enough is enough. He reaches over and picks it up, going down the call list. One by one he copies and pastes in to google to find out who on Earth has been harassing him.
As the added information flows into him, his expression changes from one of annoyance to one of wonder. “Hey Google, text Butch Parker the following... Hey Butch, my phone is going crazy with all these different newspapers and news programmes. Bloody New York Times, LA Times, Chicago Tribune, CBS News, Fox News? Who do I need to speak too, because I don’t want to be saying anything that is not cleared by HWA.”
Within a split second the message is sent, and Price can go back to Skyrim to hunt down thieves and Vampires. Just as he unpaused the game and sat back, his damn phone screen lit back up but thankfully, this time it was an immediate reply from Butch telling him to reach out to HQ and contact Terry who handles the media. Stu-E was about to reply but thought ‘screw it, it can wait, now’ and casually tosses the phone to one side on the couch so he can concentrate on the game. Last week his character almost succumbed to vampirism so he was on a mission to eradicate every one of them, which was why he was not in the mood to answer any phone calls.
Unfortunately for Price’s gaming session, now it was time for his alarm clock to go off. It was now 7pm and he’d promised the office to have an old-fashioned promo recorded for their website regarding his upcoming match with Jeremy Branson, thankfully the hotel had allowed him to record footage in a side room of the bar before it got too busy.
**15 minutes later...**
The hotel bar exuded an air of refined elegance, beckoning guests with its warm, inviting ambiance. A polished mahogany counter spanned the length of the room, adorned with sparkling bottles of top-shelf and top priced liquor that glistened under the soft glow of dimly lit chandeliers. Behind the bar, skilled mixologists diligently crafted intricate cocktails, their deft hands maneuvering shakers and pouring vibrant concoctions into crystal-clear glassware.
Plush, high-backed chairs and comfortable leather couches were scattered strategically across the room, providing ample seating options for patrons seeking relaxation or engaging in animated conversations. The bar itself was lined with ornate barstools, their cushioned seats offering a luxurious perch for those indulging in a glass of aged whiskey or a meticulously crafted martini.
To one side of the bar, an assortment of small tables were arranged in intimate settings, their polished surfaces reflecting the gentle glow of candlelight. Soft jazz music played discreetly in the background, adding a touch of sophistication to the atmosphere. The hotel bar served as a sanctuary for weary travelers, a haven where they could unwind, socialize, and savor the pleasures of the evening.
In contrast, the closed-off room where Stu-E had been granted permission to record his promo presented a starkly different scene. It was a small, empty space, devoid of the opulence found elsewhere in the hotel. Plain white walls enclosed the room, lending it a sterile, utilitarian feel. A single, unadorned wooden table stood at the center, upon which Stu-E rested his elbows emphasizing his significance and seriousness.
A professional-grade camera on a tripod was positioned across from the table, ready to capture Stu-E's every word and movement. Soft studio lighting bathed the room in a flattering glow, ensuring that Stu-E would be the focal point of the frame. The silence in the room amplified the significance of the moment, allowing Stu-E's words to resonate with greater impact.
“I see somebody is going to need his big boy drinking pants on if he’s promising me the second and third round of drinks! Jeremy, I’ll be taking you up on the offer, sunshine, regardless of if I win or lose.”
He smiles, “However, it’s not all jagerbombs and mojitos, pal. I don’t appreciate your attitude, questioning my morals and ethics. The only reason I’m willing to let that slide is because I understand you’ve been messed around by the old guard and you just don’t know what to make of someone like me. That’s all cool, I’ve been told my whole life I’m hard to read and pretty unique.”
Price pauses, not entirely sure where to take the next line as he’s always preferred to do these shoots in one go, without bullet points, just purely off the top of his head.
“I tell you what, I’ll humour you and actually answer, and put to bed the little doubt you had about me, just so we’re clear before you buy that first round of drinks. You want to know how I know where Bryan Deas is coming from?” He shrugs his shoulders.
“I’ve been around him for decades; I’ve fought him and stood by him when he had nobody else. That bloke has given everything to this sport, and I know the Business and his peers haven’t always been kind to him in return. He’s worked his ass off his whole career, and when HWA closed, nobody was calling him, not even me. Then, unexpectedly, to him, it returns and unfortunately you were chosen to be the sacrifice.
I don’t agree with what he did to you, but I understand that passion; he must be noticed, to matter, to be relevant because he has missed that for too many years. Would I have done what he did? No. But just because I wouldn’t do something, or agree with something, doesn’t mean I can’t understand it.
It’s part and parcel of becoming older, you see things differently, you learn to remove emotion out of situations and try to find the sense in it and in doing that, you understand people a little better. Just remember, understanding people doesn’t mean supporting them. And that’s all I’ve got to say about it, this business will swallow you up if you let it, pal, I know I had to leave it to become a better person.”
While lacking the grandeur of the hotel bar, the closed-off room exuded an aura of purpose and concentration. It served as a sanctuary of creativity, a space where Stu-E could channel his passion and craft his promotional message with precision as he continues.
“It is because I’m a better person that I can think of your words and hold nothing but a smile on my face. Especially when you think you’re going to make me regret coming back if you don’t like what you see up close? I don’t think so, Branston Pickle, I don’t think so in the slightest. A man like me has no regrets about anything he’s done in this Business, and people like me don’t need a quick five minutes in a wrestling ring to decide what I think about someone, and then decide how much effort I’m going to put into the match.
Hands down, I couldn’t care less if I liked my opponent, or I thought they were a piece of shit; wrestlers like me who respect this business go into every match the exact same way, full steam ahead, every night. So Jeremy, I would very politely insist you stop treating this like a book cover judging contest and just shut and wrestle because if not, you very well might be paying The Price, quicker than you know it.”
Within those walls, the wrestler found himself alone, yet acutely aware of the eyes that would later witness this proclamation, stirring emotions that were ready to ignite the flames of his fans' anticipation. As he leaves the room, the scene fades out.
Message Thread
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