Post by Carlson Rex on Jan 28, 2021 23:29:13 GMT -5
Disappointment. No other way to describe the look on the face of Carlson Rex. His match with Lucy Wylde may not have ended the way he would have liked, but it was a good match. He had been paying attention, as Carl Sabre had said to. He had seen a thing or two, now that he knew to look. Those hadn't saved him on this night. Disappointment was what he had earned. He also had earned a bit of hope. She'd brought her best, and he his. On this night, as in their previous meetings, she had simply been better. For how long that would last? Well, that was where the hope came in. This did little to comfort the shiny headed Technician King as he walked to the exit to the common Dressing Room for the male talent who had not their own, private dressing area. Carlson walks the short, ninety degree turn of the hallway and ducked his shoulder, pushing open the solidly built door. He emerges into the hallway, to his right, the hallway leads into the bowels of the UGWC Arena building. Main offices, rentable rooms and other such locations were that way. To his left, the hallway lead to the main corridor to the Arena proper. The show was over now, so mostly technicians, lighting crew and sound crew bustled about with post show clean up. He looked back to his right, and from a side hallway, which lead to the Private dressing area, emerges none other than Lucy Wylde herself. Carlson's gaze fixes on her. Her demeanor is that of someone who is indecisive about exactly what to do, or where to go. She looks up from her watch and for a brief moment, locks eyes with her opponent of the evening. Carlson smiles at her, a friendly greeting sort of look. Lucy, for her part, blinks, turns and without any acknowledgement, walks toward the main offices, and the exit to talent parking, her heels leaving, to Carlson's ears, loud clicks of silence. The smile fades from his face as he watches her disappear around the corner and out of sight. He sighs and lowers his head, lost in thought as he turns around and nearly runs over a figure in the hallway, standing less than a full step from him. Carlson jumps in fright, almost falling over. Standing before him, leaning on his sabre handled cane, is none other than Carl Sabre himself.
Carl: "Well if that wasn't the most pathetic thing I've ever seen."
Carlson catches his breath and waits for his heart to beat again.
Carlson: "Carl! The hell are you doing here?"
Carl reaches into the pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a small card.
Carl: "Managers license got reactivated. As of now, I can be back here if I want to. And, God knows it looks like I'm needed."
He reaches out and grabs Carlson by the arm and pulls him forward, surprising strength for a man his size and age.
Carl: "Get your young ass in gear. While you're at it, go and GET your damn gear."
Carlson: "We going for dinner?"
Carl smirks, shifting his weight and leaning on his cane again after returning his card to his pocket.
Carl: "Fuck no. We're going home. YOU are going to eat in, you don't get dinner after a shit job of wrestling like that. In the morning, I'm going to find us a good spot to work on your basics. You've lost everything we spent the Holiday break working on. Only took you two weeks. That's got to be a record."
Carlson: "But, I..."
Carl taps his cane. The echo is loud enough that a pair of techs behind him pause in rolling a cart full of folding chairs to look down the hallway. Carlson blushes as he notices the two, who shrug and go back to their duties without a word. Saying nothing, Carlson turns and heads back into the dressing room area. Once he disappears, Carl sighs and leans his shoulder against the painted cinderblock wall.
Carl: "Guess I'm gonna have to push more than his buttons. Fucking hell."
A couple of moments later, Carlson emerges with a Puma roll bag in his hand. Carl looks down at it and shakes his head.
Carl: "You're not going to the gym for a game of pick-up, you putz. We need to get you a proper gear bag. And a proper nickname. As of now, you're no longer The Technician King."
Carlson stops next to his now Manager and looks sideways at him.
Carlson: "The hell am I then?"
Carl smirks.
Carl: "I got some ideas, but I want to run them by the Fed's Merchandising group. God knows, you gotta be good for something, maybe gimmicks is the angle. T-shirt or something. Come on."
As Carl click walks away, Carlson turns and calls out.
Carlson: "Hey, I'm worth....something!"
He stalks out behind his Manager, not muttering beneath his breath, but certainly not at the gait of someone who thinks he's about to have an enjoyable experience.[/i]
Carl: "Well if that wasn't the most pathetic thing I've ever seen."
Carlson catches his breath and waits for his heart to beat again.
Carlson: "Carl! The hell are you doing here?"
Carl reaches into the pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a small card.
Carl: "Managers license got reactivated. As of now, I can be back here if I want to. And, God knows it looks like I'm needed."
He reaches out and grabs Carlson by the arm and pulls him forward, surprising strength for a man his size and age.
Carl: "Get your young ass in gear. While you're at it, go and GET your damn gear."
Carlson: "We going for dinner?"
Carl smirks, shifting his weight and leaning on his cane again after returning his card to his pocket.
Carl: "Fuck no. We're going home. YOU are going to eat in, you don't get dinner after a shit job of wrestling like that. In the morning, I'm going to find us a good spot to work on your basics. You've lost everything we spent the Holiday break working on. Only took you two weeks. That's got to be a record."
Carlson: "But, I..."
Carl taps his cane. The echo is loud enough that a pair of techs behind him pause in rolling a cart full of folding chairs to look down the hallway. Carlson blushes as he notices the two, who shrug and go back to their duties without a word. Saying nothing, Carlson turns and heads back into the dressing room area. Once he disappears, Carl sighs and leans his shoulder against the painted cinderblock wall.
Carl: "Guess I'm gonna have to push more than his buttons. Fucking hell."
A couple of moments later, Carlson emerges with a Puma roll bag in his hand. Carl looks down at it and shakes his head.
Carl: "You're not going to the gym for a game of pick-up, you putz. We need to get you a proper gear bag. And a proper nickname. As of now, you're no longer The Technician King."
Carlson stops next to his now Manager and looks sideways at him.
Carlson: "The hell am I then?"
Carl smirks.
Carl: "I got some ideas, but I want to run them by the Fed's Merchandising group. God knows, you gotta be good for something, maybe gimmicks is the angle. T-shirt or something. Come on."
As Carl click walks away, Carlson turns and calls out.
Carlson: "Hey, I'm worth....something!"
He stalks out behind his Manager, not muttering beneath his breath, but certainly not at the gait of someone who thinks he's about to have an enjoyable experience.[/i]