Post by Jet Somers on Oct 2, 2009 16:44:56 GMT -5
This is perhaps one of the largest and most opulent offices in the world. Rich tapestries line the walls showcasing the most extravagant of traditional Thai Buddhist art. Statuary around the room includes gold, pewter, and ivory depictions of proud and strong animalia in various powerful poses set upon overwrought marble pedestals. In glass cases, perfectly preserved weapons are displayed almost casually. The contrast of the peaceful Buddha with tools of death is strangely harmonic. Tucked into corners are a range of several canapé, and even an entire white leather Chesterfield suite. On each is draped a gorgeous waif draped in light blue satin, tight black leather, or nothing at all, just another part of the beautiful scenery. In the back of the office, framed by a gigantic picture window tinted against the rays of the sun, is a cherry escritoire, almost too extravagant for use. The Thai man sitting behind it is a picture of wealth himself.
Dressed in Antongiavanni, he takes special care not to ash on the suit. A Buddha on the desk catches the ashes in a simple bowl. The man's eyes are closed, and the haunting melody of "Porcupine Tree" can be heard drifting through the room as he moves his head almost imperceptibly in reaction to the voice of the singer. Basking in his over the top setting, his irritation is evident when his meditation is interrupted by the door opening. A young, American blonde enters.
Barely standing up to five feet, she is still already noticeably curvier and more sensual than the underfed models who decorate the room. Their refusal to move to acknowledge the newcomer only adds to the illusion of malnourishment. The blonde confidently approaches the desk, where the man's brow is furrowed, but his eyes not open.
"Sir," she begins, "the latest offer has been refused."
"Then make another one, Miss Melanie. Double the last offer."
"Sir," she seems mildly irritated, whether by the dismissal of his closed eyes, or by the futility of her task, we have yet to know. "We've doubled three times now, we've added merchandise including cars, electronics, and even a wildly overpriced home in Chonnabod, and another in Mae Hong Son. His abject refusal only serves to reiterate and confirm the fact that I've pointed out from the beginning; he's not going to leave Miss Saint behind now that he's seen firsthand the danger she could be in. He has committed himself to her protection, and getting him to abort that mission to fight for promotion in a foreign nation is impossible."
Finally the man opens his eyes.
"Impossible, you say?" he extinguishes the wine-scented cigar and casts his hand about the room. "Shouldn't this be a lesson in achieving the impossible? Should a man of my upbringing and background be accesorized with priceless art and living beauty? No, Miss Melanie, nothing is impossible. One must simply find the means to accomplish the goal. Your western-thinking mind still has trouble escaping from the taboos instilled by your capitalist society. I had thought employment in my illustrious organization had lobotomized those undesirable character traits, but apparantly my training has not yet cauterized the negative aspects of your motherland, and it seems I may have to find another agent for my business--"
"No!" she exclaims. "No, sir, I'm sorry. I... I will go to America and meet with Mr. Somers personally to deliver our demands."
"Thank you, Miss Melanie," his eyes close again, and he relites his cigar. "That will be all."
Her shoulders fall for a moment, but almost instantly her face takes on a determined set as she exits the office.
----------
It would be a mistake to think that professional wrestlers always lead exciting lives outside the arenas where they showcase their talents. In fact, those who seem to are usually still putting on the show they start and should finish under the bright lights and cameras. For the most part, they still go home, eat, shit, and sleep like everyone else. That's what Jet Somers is doing now. No, not shitting, stupid. He is sleeping.
Hotel beds are never comfortable unless you're crashing from an all night binge in some city far from home, and since this case could never apply to Jet, his sleep is troubled and intermittant. The mound of bedclothes and flesh are evidence of this, and when the hotel phone rings, it's almost no surprise when an arm shoots out from the mass to knock it from the nightstand. When the cheery chimes set off in the following crash are finished, he sits up, somewhat awkwardly.
"I shouldn't have done that," he says aloud. "That might have been the hospital."
He rolls out of bed and stretches, then begins to pick up the telephone and set it back on the nightstand.
"Not that they've called so far, of course," he huffs. "Nope, just various fighting organizations from here to Japan wondering when I'm coming back to the business. How do they manage to find me no matter in which hotel I stay? I even register under false names, not that they fool the desk ladies. Must be the internet. Heh."
He smirks as he dials the hospital, just in case.
----------
Mr. Kasem had been too good to her, no matter how much of a dick he could be at times. When Melanie Collier had failed to complete her final college courses in Japan, she'd been lost in a strange country. Both parents deceased, her scholarship had carried her far from home into what might have been a promising career as an anthropologist. But she had only made it so far before the coursework had become overwhelming, and, try as she might, she could not seem to meet the requirements of her strenuous courses.
Trapped with no future in Hiroshima, with no money to get back home to Idaho, she'd turned to waitressing. It was hostile, and people were not appreciative of her tenuous grasp on the language or cuisine. After four different terminations, she'd turned to the streets for an income. Enterprising young professional Japanese men didn't discriminate, and paid good money for a petite attractive American woman. Visiting Americans made great clientile as well, despite the stereotypes of American men having a fetish for Asian women. It was like a sick taste of home.
One night a limo had pulled to the curb and she'd been invited in. She never worked a street again. Mr. Kasem had never offered her sex, only employment. His motivations for selecting her were never revealed, and she never was rude enough to ask why this ridiculously rich Messiah had rescued her.
So, here she is on an airplane to Los Angeles, doing his bidding once again, no matter how sordid it may be. Nothing would return her to the streets of Hiroshima, and the relative comfort she enjoys in life now is worth the occasional questionable mission. She settles into the seat a little more snugly, and smile finally curves her pretty lips. She was determined to enjoy this trip.
----------
Jet slams the phone back onto it's cradle. His expression isn't hard to read, even in the dark hotel room. His shoulders move up and down as he breathes in obvious anger. It was Salem, calling with an update on Jezebel's condition. Convenient of him to call now that he's crossed the lines twice. The audacity of Salem, after Jet explicitly explained the drawbacks of using poor little Havyn to snap Jez out of her fugue. He went and did it anyway, of course, surprising Jet while Jet prayed over poor Jezebel. And so it worked, congratulations on that lucky shot. It was a gamble, one that should not have been taken. Had it not worked, Havyn would have been traumatically scarred. Jet isn't even sure she hasn't been scarred by knowing her own freaking hair caused her mommy pain. Salem is sick, though, and can only think in terms of the most extreme solutions to problems.
"What is wrong with the people in this business?" he wonders aloud. "Everyone has some screwed up agenda, some chip on their shoulder, some axe to grind. From Mickey Dragon, who has mommy issues he can't seem to get worked out, to Raenius, chickenhawk extraordinaire... of course, considering the endless women, soul 'brothers,' and multiple personalities he surrounds himself with, he's probably just a sadly lonely guy. At least my purpose for being here is noble. You can almost not say that for anyone else on the roster. Everyone has some souleating unending need to fulfill that drives them to this hellmouth.
He raises an eyebrow suddenly.
"Except, it seems, for Alex Kiseragi, my esteemed opponent this week," he muses in the dark for a moment. "Hmm, I've researched him some, and I've tried to follow his doings since we started to become rivals, but I honestly can't seem to find any source of motivation for him. This man could have been a god on the MMA circuit, but he chose to instead debase himself and follow a path to corruption, greed, and anarchy. Why? Even in the pit of sin, he manages to retain his honor... at least for the most part."
"I mean, I'm a little disappointed that he'd choose to pick on the announcers. These guys are basically paid to say interesting and pithy things about the men and women who fight in the ring. It's their job, especially the color commentary. Can you even sue someone for doing their job? It seems like he thinks so. I would have thought Kiseragi above this, but apparantly the taint of this organization has started to get a hold on him. Shame, really. I guess I should be thankful that we are having this match now, before he turns into a lying, cheating lowlife like everyone else. At least now, hopefully, we can have one epic, honor bound fight. Probably for the last time. Even with this one beacon of integrity in the shadowland of corruption, I'm not completely convinced that any good can come of this business."
"Even I, a paramount of the moral high ground, can feel the taint seeping in the cracks. Last week, that display in front of the innocent Sherry. So unlike me, to lose my temper in a display of violence like that. She was only trying to help," he sighs. "What is this business doing to me, and am I prepared to sacrifice myself to it in order to protect my sister? I want to say yes, but when I feel the fangs bite into the vein, I still recoil, hoping not to take the poison. Will I hesitate, when it matters?"
He stands, and begins to get dressed.
"No," he decides. "I must trust myself to do what is necessary to keep Jezebel safe. It isn't my place to clean up this sorry port, only to play my part. And I decide what my part is. If my part is using my incredible martial arts prowess to hold back the advancing army of villans to keep my family safe, then I accept it willingly. Mixed martial arts is a quarter shoot wrestling anyway, and professional wrestling is an amalgamation of styles that surprisingly work well together if the performer is on his game, no matter the opponent. That's why petite women like Jezebel can hold their own against hulking monsters... even taming them to a point, it seems."
He chuckles at the thought of Salem weakened over Jezebel's beauty, attitude, and skill.
"And if my opponent is versed in MMA," he declares, "So much the better. I'll feel more in my element. I'm starting to learn that professional wrestling, at least on the facet of competition, isn't all that different from MMA afterall. Add in some more power moves, a little more brawling, some unorthodox flying, and of course a cheap move here and there, and you've got it to a science. I stick to my guns, but I'm not above learning some new tricks to hold my own. In the end, MMA is designed to work in a variety of battle settings. This is nothing new. My skill, stacked with my already considerable distrust of the citizens of this godforsaken sport, will be my weapon."
He stops suddenly, glancing into the mirror.
"And apparantly, speaking to oneself in long soliloquies is a side effect of this business." He grins before grabbing his bag and heading out the door.
Dressed in Antongiavanni, he takes special care not to ash on the suit. A Buddha on the desk catches the ashes in a simple bowl. The man's eyes are closed, and the haunting melody of "Porcupine Tree" can be heard drifting through the room as he moves his head almost imperceptibly in reaction to the voice of the singer. Basking in his over the top setting, his irritation is evident when his meditation is interrupted by the door opening. A young, American blonde enters.
Barely standing up to five feet, she is still already noticeably curvier and more sensual than the underfed models who decorate the room. Their refusal to move to acknowledge the newcomer only adds to the illusion of malnourishment. The blonde confidently approaches the desk, where the man's brow is furrowed, but his eyes not open.
"Sir," she begins, "the latest offer has been refused."
"Then make another one, Miss Melanie. Double the last offer."
"Sir," she seems mildly irritated, whether by the dismissal of his closed eyes, or by the futility of her task, we have yet to know. "We've doubled three times now, we've added merchandise including cars, electronics, and even a wildly overpriced home in Chonnabod, and another in Mae Hong Son. His abject refusal only serves to reiterate and confirm the fact that I've pointed out from the beginning; he's not going to leave Miss Saint behind now that he's seen firsthand the danger she could be in. He has committed himself to her protection, and getting him to abort that mission to fight for promotion in a foreign nation is impossible."
Finally the man opens his eyes.
"Impossible, you say?" he extinguishes the wine-scented cigar and casts his hand about the room. "Shouldn't this be a lesson in achieving the impossible? Should a man of my upbringing and background be accesorized with priceless art and living beauty? No, Miss Melanie, nothing is impossible. One must simply find the means to accomplish the goal. Your western-thinking mind still has trouble escaping from the taboos instilled by your capitalist society. I had thought employment in my illustrious organization had lobotomized those undesirable character traits, but apparantly my training has not yet cauterized the negative aspects of your motherland, and it seems I may have to find another agent for my business--"
"No!" she exclaims. "No, sir, I'm sorry. I... I will go to America and meet with Mr. Somers personally to deliver our demands."
"Thank you, Miss Melanie," his eyes close again, and he relites his cigar. "That will be all."
Her shoulders fall for a moment, but almost instantly her face takes on a determined set as she exits the office.
----------
It would be a mistake to think that professional wrestlers always lead exciting lives outside the arenas where they showcase their talents. In fact, those who seem to are usually still putting on the show they start and should finish under the bright lights and cameras. For the most part, they still go home, eat, shit, and sleep like everyone else. That's what Jet Somers is doing now. No, not shitting, stupid. He is sleeping.
Hotel beds are never comfortable unless you're crashing from an all night binge in some city far from home, and since this case could never apply to Jet, his sleep is troubled and intermittant. The mound of bedclothes and flesh are evidence of this, and when the hotel phone rings, it's almost no surprise when an arm shoots out from the mass to knock it from the nightstand. When the cheery chimes set off in the following crash are finished, he sits up, somewhat awkwardly.
"I shouldn't have done that," he says aloud. "That might have been the hospital."
He rolls out of bed and stretches, then begins to pick up the telephone and set it back on the nightstand.
"Not that they've called so far, of course," he huffs. "Nope, just various fighting organizations from here to Japan wondering when I'm coming back to the business. How do they manage to find me no matter in which hotel I stay? I even register under false names, not that they fool the desk ladies. Must be the internet. Heh."
He smirks as he dials the hospital, just in case.
----------
Mr. Kasem had been too good to her, no matter how much of a dick he could be at times. When Melanie Collier had failed to complete her final college courses in Japan, she'd been lost in a strange country. Both parents deceased, her scholarship had carried her far from home into what might have been a promising career as an anthropologist. But she had only made it so far before the coursework had become overwhelming, and, try as she might, she could not seem to meet the requirements of her strenuous courses.
Trapped with no future in Hiroshima, with no money to get back home to Idaho, she'd turned to waitressing. It was hostile, and people were not appreciative of her tenuous grasp on the language or cuisine. After four different terminations, she'd turned to the streets for an income. Enterprising young professional Japanese men didn't discriminate, and paid good money for a petite attractive American woman. Visiting Americans made great clientile as well, despite the stereotypes of American men having a fetish for Asian women. It was like a sick taste of home.
One night a limo had pulled to the curb and she'd been invited in. She never worked a street again. Mr. Kasem had never offered her sex, only employment. His motivations for selecting her were never revealed, and she never was rude enough to ask why this ridiculously rich Messiah had rescued her.
So, here she is on an airplane to Los Angeles, doing his bidding once again, no matter how sordid it may be. Nothing would return her to the streets of Hiroshima, and the relative comfort she enjoys in life now is worth the occasional questionable mission. She settles into the seat a little more snugly, and smile finally curves her pretty lips. She was determined to enjoy this trip.
----------
Jet slams the phone back onto it's cradle. His expression isn't hard to read, even in the dark hotel room. His shoulders move up and down as he breathes in obvious anger. It was Salem, calling with an update on Jezebel's condition. Convenient of him to call now that he's crossed the lines twice. The audacity of Salem, after Jet explicitly explained the drawbacks of using poor little Havyn to snap Jez out of her fugue. He went and did it anyway, of course, surprising Jet while Jet prayed over poor Jezebel. And so it worked, congratulations on that lucky shot. It was a gamble, one that should not have been taken. Had it not worked, Havyn would have been traumatically scarred. Jet isn't even sure she hasn't been scarred by knowing her own freaking hair caused her mommy pain. Salem is sick, though, and can only think in terms of the most extreme solutions to problems.
"What is wrong with the people in this business?" he wonders aloud. "Everyone has some screwed up agenda, some chip on their shoulder, some axe to grind. From Mickey Dragon, who has mommy issues he can't seem to get worked out, to Raenius, chickenhawk extraordinaire... of course, considering the endless women, soul 'brothers,' and multiple personalities he surrounds himself with, he's probably just a sadly lonely guy. At least my purpose for being here is noble. You can almost not say that for anyone else on the roster. Everyone has some souleating unending need to fulfill that drives them to this hellmouth.
He raises an eyebrow suddenly.
"Except, it seems, for Alex Kiseragi, my esteemed opponent this week," he muses in the dark for a moment. "Hmm, I've researched him some, and I've tried to follow his doings since we started to become rivals, but I honestly can't seem to find any source of motivation for him. This man could have been a god on the MMA circuit, but he chose to instead debase himself and follow a path to corruption, greed, and anarchy. Why? Even in the pit of sin, he manages to retain his honor... at least for the most part."
"I mean, I'm a little disappointed that he'd choose to pick on the announcers. These guys are basically paid to say interesting and pithy things about the men and women who fight in the ring. It's their job, especially the color commentary. Can you even sue someone for doing their job? It seems like he thinks so. I would have thought Kiseragi above this, but apparantly the taint of this organization has started to get a hold on him. Shame, really. I guess I should be thankful that we are having this match now, before he turns into a lying, cheating lowlife like everyone else. At least now, hopefully, we can have one epic, honor bound fight. Probably for the last time. Even with this one beacon of integrity in the shadowland of corruption, I'm not completely convinced that any good can come of this business."
"Even I, a paramount of the moral high ground, can feel the taint seeping in the cracks. Last week, that display in front of the innocent Sherry. So unlike me, to lose my temper in a display of violence like that. She was only trying to help," he sighs. "What is this business doing to me, and am I prepared to sacrifice myself to it in order to protect my sister? I want to say yes, but when I feel the fangs bite into the vein, I still recoil, hoping not to take the poison. Will I hesitate, when it matters?"
He stands, and begins to get dressed.
"No," he decides. "I must trust myself to do what is necessary to keep Jezebel safe. It isn't my place to clean up this sorry port, only to play my part. And I decide what my part is. If my part is using my incredible martial arts prowess to hold back the advancing army of villans to keep my family safe, then I accept it willingly. Mixed martial arts is a quarter shoot wrestling anyway, and professional wrestling is an amalgamation of styles that surprisingly work well together if the performer is on his game, no matter the opponent. That's why petite women like Jezebel can hold their own against hulking monsters... even taming them to a point, it seems."
He chuckles at the thought of Salem weakened over Jezebel's beauty, attitude, and skill.
"And if my opponent is versed in MMA," he declares, "So much the better. I'll feel more in my element. I'm starting to learn that professional wrestling, at least on the facet of competition, isn't all that different from MMA afterall. Add in some more power moves, a little more brawling, some unorthodox flying, and of course a cheap move here and there, and you've got it to a science. I stick to my guns, but I'm not above learning some new tricks to hold my own. In the end, MMA is designed to work in a variety of battle settings. This is nothing new. My skill, stacked with my already considerable distrust of the citizens of this godforsaken sport, will be my weapon."
He stops suddenly, glancing into the mirror.
"And apparantly, speaking to oneself in long soliloquies is a side effect of this business." He grins before grabbing his bag and heading out the door.