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You summanagun!
Seeking Royalty
(Storm Front- April 3rd)
Gunnar Jarlsson sat impatiently in front of the airport in Trondheim, Norway inhaling the rented car scent of Febreeze and disinfectant. He had already called twice to confirm that Sven's plane had landed half an hour ago, and yet the Swede had yet to show.
Something was wrong.
Cursing to himself in a bastardization of Icelandic and English, he started the sedan back up and went to throw it in gear. As his hand hit the gear shifter, a tall blonde man casually walked through the sliding glass doors on the front of the airport, accompanied by and equally tall and equally blonde woman. After a few steps, the man, Sven Stromberg, saw the car and approached the car, leaving the woman with a peck on the cheek and a look of shocked anguish on her face. Sven nonchalantly put his suitcase in the trunk of the car and sat next to Gunnar, seemingly unaware of his tardiness.
"Oh, c'mon Sven, you're not even gonna be polite and ask for her number?"
"Why? I already fucked her in the bathroom."
Gunnar looked over at Sven for even the slightest trace of sarcasm or even sadism, but found neither. Gunnar shook his head as the car took off. He couldn't decide if Sven was that ignorant, or just simply apathetic.
"What, friend? Just last week I saw you cheat on a woman, in a matter of speaking. Where was your honor there?"
Gunnar shifted uncomfortably in the driver's seat.
"She was tough. Tougher than I imagined she'd be. It was either that or the heart punch, and I… I couldn't."
Sven opened his mouth to respond, but thought better of it and sat content in a silence that drug on for miles.
***
Half an hour later they had arrived at the upscale hotel that would be their base of operations in Trondheim for the next few days. Overlooking the river, it was far beyond what Gunnar could hope to afford. However, this was on Sven's dime; he didn't pretend to like the Swede, but he did have his uses. They both stood over the visual cacophony of files, paperwork, and newspaper clippings that poured over the hood of the car, hoping to glean some secret nugget of information. Sven shook his head, not bothering to look up at Gunnar when he spoke.
"What was her name again, friend?"
"I… I don't remember. It was a year and a half ago. I tried to look her up, but it seems like any trace of her has been erased."
Sven scoffed and gestured towards the newspaper clippings.
"But you're sure this is her? That she's this-"
"Razorblade Queen? Without a doubt. The attacks started 14 months ago this week. Sex offenders and petty criminals reported being attacked by a woman wielding only a straight razor. A woman much smaller than any of her victims."
"That speaks to a modus operandi, but how do you know that she's your mystery woman?"
Gunnar rolled his eyes at Sven's unnecessary use of Latin and continued.
"It was one of the last MMA bouts I had. It was way out in the French countryside, real middle of nowhere kinda place. Her fight was stopped in the second round by the referee when she cut her opponent across the face with a razor blade she had hidden in her mouth. She was fired on the spot, but somehow incited the crowd to riot. The fact that she was able to slip away in the chaos is the only thing that kept her out of jail, I imagine."
"You remember all that, yet nothing regarding her name?"
"I... no. It was something Norwegian, though. Don't look at me like that. My opponent that night had almost 10 kilos on me- I wasn't paying attention to the undercard."
"How delightfully... Swedish of you. If I liked you, I'd be proud."
***
Ten days later, Gunnar found himself fuming over the desk in his hotel room. A desk that took a larger bribe than he'd care to admit to get moved from the common area into his room. As per the norm that had been established over the last week, Sven was sprawled on the bed, aimlessly flipping channels on thee flat-screen television.
"Sven, this is seriously getting us nowhere. This is insane, the attacks literally stopped the day we arrived. Its like she knew we were coming. We might want to consider tapping out on this trip and heading back to America."
"Fine by me, Guns. This was always your crusade anyway. A tag team means you and me, not you, me, and some psychotic ladybitch."
Gunnar smiled and held his heart in facetious adoration.
"Why that's the closest thing to emotion you've said to me since you landed in Norway! Why, I just might-"
Gunnar froze mid sentence, interrupted by his buzzing phone. He picked it up and read the message before turning to Sven with a scowl.
"Hey, Sven?"
"Yeah?"
"We're leaving tonight."
"Why's that?"
"You have a match on the next Storm Front. Against some... Tom Foolery. Heh, nice pun. But that raises another question."
"Hm?"
"Why in Odin's name does 4CW have my phone listed as your contact?"
"Didn't wanna give them mine. And they did get in contact with me so... I guess it worked."
"But what if-?"
Gunnar was interrupted again, this time by a sharp crack from the hotel door. The two men jumped, then without eye contact, leapt up and made for the door immediately. Without breaking their strides, they slammed through the door, sending it through the drywall on the other side of the hall. They took up a defensive stance and scanned the hallway.
Nobody was there.
They exchanged confused looks, then went to return to their room when something caught Sven's eye.
"Hey, Gunnar?"
Sven walked to the shards of the door and flipped over a piece. On the underside was a small note, written on a napkin, impaled through the door with an older looking stiletto knife. He read it, the color draining from his face, then handed it to Gunnar.
Star light, star bright
I watched you sleep last night.
-The Razorblade Queen
Last edited by Jaco (Tue-29-Mar-2016 18:27:53)
And the name is Jaco!
... because I can't fucking figure out how to change it...
Fuckin' Shenanigans
(Storm Front- April 17th)
It was three hours post-Storm Front and Gunnar Jarlsson still couldn't get the last of the blonde flecks from his hair. The hotel sink was a mess, but it was a hotel, and therefore someone else's problem. Aggravated as he was, Gunnar knew he was fortunate. No one in 4CW had seen Sven up close before, so impersonating the no-showing piece of shit wasn't as hard as it probably should've been. Still, if Sven did decide to show up after all, violence would be imminent; the complimentary preheated curling iron would see to that. As if on cue, Gunnar heard the hotel lock click, then the door open and close.
He picked up the curling iron, then set it down silently. No, he would take it slow with Sven.
"Gunnar? Gunnar? You here? You wouldn't believe-"
In one swift motion, Gunnar twirled out of the bathroom, grabbed Sven and pinned him against the cheap hotel wall, almost two feet from the ground. Gunnar growled and let his eyes bore holes through the Swede's head.
And it was in this moment that Gunnar realized how much he truly hated Sven. Most anyone would have either fought back or been paralyzed with fear. Sven was neither. He was…
… annoyed?
"Seriously, friend? Not today."
Gunnar let Sven fall to the ground before starting his best imitation of an interrogation.
"Where the fuck were you?!"
Sven moved to get back up to his feet, but thought better of it and shifted to a more relaxed pose on the carpet.
"Before or after I was interrogated by every other government agency these United States can offer? And a few Canadian ones too, oddly enough."
"... What are you talking about Sven?"
"Yeah, apparently my passport got flagged for 'providing material support to terrorism'. I tell you what, they do freak out mightily when you show up on a No Fly List halfway over the Atlantic."
"What did- How- Are you a-?" Gunnar sputtered.
Sven chuckled back at him. "A terrorist? God no. Someone framed me. I was inclined to say 'poorly' until the Bureau of Indian Affairs showed up. That took skill, I'll admit."
"That begs the question, then."
"Of who? Easy. Your Razorblade Bitch."
Gunnar pondered the idea for a minute, them shook his head.
"No way, not her style. You don't hunt men down with a blade unless you like the conflict. Its way too passive to be her. My wager is one of those women you love and leave."
"I don't know how you handle your … business, Gunnar, but I don't deal in dissatisfaction. They get what they're looking for every time."
"Then who?"
Both men sat I'm contemplative silence for minutes before something clicked behind Gunnar's eyes.
"You know, that Bally Whoever did seem exceptionally surprised when I... you showed up tonight."
"He didn't notice that you didn't even try to copy any of my normal moves?"
Sven sat for a moment longer and nodded in agreement.
"They're the closest thing we have to an enemy so far. And we're the only two tag teams; we're bound to clash sooner or later."
Gunnar went to respond, but he was cut off by a knock at the door. Another interruption- vengeance wasn't going as planned. He opened the door to reveal a meek, middle aged man in a wrinkled suit. Not wanting to waste time or mince words, Gunnar's facial expression told the man to state his name and business quickly.
"Mr. Jarlsson, I- I'm Jude Goldenblatt. I'm a la- lawyer for 4 Corners Wrestling. I'm supposed t- I'm here to inform you that Mr. Stromberg cannot and will not participate in the Soul Survivor matches."
The lawyer wiped the flop sweat from his forehead, subconsciously looking at Gunnar's as well. Seeing the remnants of blond hair dye, Goldenblatt worked up a nerve and tried in his timid way to call the Icelander out on it.
"And I think you know why!"
"Listen here, little man..." Gunnar's expression darkened as he moved towards Jude, but he was stopped by a hand on the shoulder. He looked back, met by Sven's calmly confident smile.
"I got this, friend."
The Swede stepped past his partner and into what Jude considered his personal bubble.
"Listen to me and listen closely. 4CW doesn't have much now, so I assume you're a large part, if not all of the legal team, am I correct?"
The lawyer nodded, wide eyed.
"That means you know who I am."
"You're Mr. Sven Stromberg of Göteborg, Sweden."
"No, who I really am."
Another nod, more vigorous this time.
"So you know that even at this company's height, their legal team would be dwarfed by what I have at my disposal. Is this really the hill you want your career to die on?"
"No, sir. Welcome to the tournament, sir."
"That's better."
With one hand, Sven pushed the lawyer back into the hallway, and with the other, he slammed the door shut. With a smug grin, he turned back to an astonished Gunnar.
"What? Now, how are we going to plan for this match?"
"Well Sven, first thing's first. I'm gonna have to teach you the proper way to hit a man with a telephone."
And the name is Jaco!
... because I can't fucking figure out how to change it...
Check-In
(Storm Front- March 13th)
It took 30 seconds for Gunnar Jarlsson to realize he was tapping his finger on the hotel lobby counter rather obnoxiously. He flashed an embarrassed smile at the clerk and turned away.
'Great. You spent an hour in your car working on your accent so you wouldn't sound like an immigrant only to act like one instead '
Taking a deep breath, Gunnar looked around the lobby. He admitted to himself that it wasn't in the greatest condition anymore, but it was obvious that it used to be. And yet judging by the new carpets, wallpaper, and posh seating area, rock bottom had come and gone long ago. It was amazing what new management could do to a place.
"Mr. Jarlsson?"
"Já?"
'Wrong language, dumbass. '
"You'll be in room 209, sir. Also, you have a message waiting for you."
Gunnar smiled and took the room key and envelope in one hand. His polite smile melted into a scowl as he opened the envelope and read the message. He didn't have to ask who had sent the note. Sven's absence was palpable.
G-
Not coming to the show. Not booked, so no point. Nobody knows you, nobody hates you, so nobody will jump you. If you don't need backup, then I'm redundant. See you in Trondheim on the 20th. Hopefully she'll meet us this time.
-S
Gunnar crumpled the note up and dropped it in a wastebasket on the way to the elevator. He pressed the button for the second floor and then held the "Close Door" button until the machine complied. Despite his best efforts, he was a stranger in a strange land and he sure as hell wasn't going to let anyone else ask where he was from.
'Redundant my Icelandic ass! He's curled up in his apartment with some blonde floozy that inexplicably found him attractive. With as many failures as we've had in the last few months, the least he could be doing is trying to find... her.'
The elevator came to a halt and after what seemed like ten minutes (or five excruciating seconds) the doors creaked open and let Gunnar out. He walked down the hall and found his door easily. Gunnar took a beat before entering the key into the handle-
'What hotel still uses real keys? Is this trashy or classy?'
- and let himself in. He had made it. In all of his travels, Gunnar never stayed in a hotel room paid for by an employer. This must be what the "big time" felt like. Gunnar laid his single duffel bag on the bed and sat next to it. He was only 14-
'Its been a decade already? Damn.'
- since the first time he'd punched something. The fact that he could still remember exactly how it felt was helped by the fact that every time knuckle met bone, a part of his soul was taken back to that first flood of… being. From the sound a well-placed hook makes, to the vibration up the arm, to the head snapping back and the knowledge that he alone was the creator and God of that moment…
'Its not who I am, it is me.'
And then two years later, when he was 16, he received his first punch. The shock, the pain, the raw reality of the moment was both tortuous and rapturous. It was as if he held the entire cosmos for one throbbing second. Giving wasn't always better than receiving.
Gunnar leaned back onto the bed and grabbed the remote. Waxing poetically about getting hit in the mouth wasn't going to prepare him anymore than he already was. There were a lot of reasons he could fail this weekend, but preparation would not be one of them. He flipped the channels a few times and stopped, transfixed. He silently thanked God he was in a hotel room, because he'd never be caught dead watching this with anyone else around. The movie, which reeked of low production values, seemed to be the bastard child of a Made-For-TV Hallmark special and steroid-laden homoerotic softcore porn. And yet the lead actor seemed so familiar. Gunnar checked an app on his phone and audibly gasped as the movie's title card came up.
"No. Fucking. Way."
'Queen of the Sahara
Starring Senecca Payne!'
Last edited by Jaco (Fri-11-Mar-2016 20:03:34)
And the name is Jaco!
... because I can't fucking figure out how to change it...