benjaminzanzibar

[benjaminzanzibar]

WTW Chapter 8 - And We’re Live

"Alright! Storm and I are ready to go!" A familiar voice floated in from behind Dalton. He swiveled in his chair to see Fjord Stonewater and Emerald Storm in full-costume spandex approach the pen. As the two stepped up, Dalton noticed a dirty yet familiar manila folder in Fjord's hand. "Here you go, man. You left this in my dressing room earlier." Fjord extended the item out to Dalton, smiling with a knowing wink.

"And since you requested Fjord and I kick off the show, we're here and ready to knock it out," Storm added, the sentence dripping with Irish flare.

Dalton took the folder and opened it; the first page was the still empty match list for the evening, save for the opening slot. Barely legible, the scribbled handwriting read Fjord Stonewater -VS- Emerald Storm.

He breathed a sigh of relief before replying, "Oh man! Thanks so much guys! I don't know how to-"

"Great," Dr. Richmond interrupted. "Now save yer ass-kissin' for another time and let Kip know what the curtain-jerker will be.” The two competitors wandered off towards the entrance curtain as Dalton pressed for more information.

“Kip? What’s a Kip?”

“Kip Greywood, lead commentator. He’s the fella with the glasses.” Dr. Richmond made reference to the monitor in front of them again as he explained. “Just let him know what the first match is gonna be.” Dalton noticed all three commentators wearing similar headphones.

“Through the headphones?”

“Yes,” Dr. Richmond confirmed as Dalton began to fidget with his headset’s accompanying microphone. “He can hear ya when you press the button. Go on now.” Dalton cleared his throat as if he was readying himself for a wordier commitment.

“Hello? Kip? This is Dalton, the new talent coordinator. I have the match information here with me and-”

Monterey swiftly cut Dalton off, addressing the commentary team himself. “Kip, first match is Storm ‘n Stonewater.”

Dalton sat silently as the boss followed up. “It’s not War ‘n Peace, Kid. Just give ‘em the facts and nothin’ more. Don’t need to be cloggin’ up the airwaves with yer life story.”

“Sorry, sir. I’ll remember it for-”

“Don’t be sorry. Just be learnin’.” Immediately after the kind advice, Dr. Richmond turned to some of his entourage and began barking orders, leaving Dalton to stew alone with his headset for a bit. Through the device, Dalton heard the live television crew slinging an assortment of proprietary jargon for the upcoming feature.

Out in the arena proper, WTW fans were aggressive in their excitement for the beginning of the new season. Dalton was overwhelmed with the emphatic response from the audience, a feeling he reveled in while checking out the feed from the crowd-cams. People of all ages screamed at the top of their lungs, jumping up and down. A sea of colorful, hand-made signs waved like flags, supporting their favorite wrestlers with creative slogans.

CAROLINA QUEEN: Bow, you peasants!

JACK SLEDGE Hammers the competition!

I’d sacrifice MY hand for one minute with ALPHA!

As for the pre-show, the entire ten minutes showcased a handful of video packages with a brief introduction by Kip and his team. Additionally, a slew of footage featuring WTW World Champion, Jack “The Hammer” Sledge ran while the commentators gushed over his title defense at last season’s Supernova main event. He was massive; Dalton pondered how he had managed to miss such a sizable individual during his afternoon at the arena. He also hadn’t remembered seeing him at the meeting. Hmm.

It was almost time. Riddle me this, wristwatch: How close are we? It was 7:57 pm and in just a few minutes, the main show would finally go live. This was the moment the entire day was leading up to. One last video package ran as Dalton rapidly tapped his feet against his chair with a nervous energy.

Tap, tap, tap.

“Ya ready, kid?” Dr. Richmond snapped Dalton back to reality with the check-in, prompting a nervous smile. Dalton then turned his head towards the entrance curtains, making eye contact with Fjord and Storm, both of whom offered a thumbs-up in support. One last shift in his chair and straightening his posture for good measure, Dalton took a slow breath.

“Alright everybody! We’re live in ten, nine, eight...” Dr. Richmond thundered, catching the entire Monkey Pen’s attention.

“... Seven, six, five...”

The headset was buzzing with rapid communication.

“... Four, three...”

The red light began flashing on the production console, signaling the live broadcast.

“... Two, one...”

Here we go.

“And we’re live!”

[benjaminzanzibar]

WTW Chapter 7 - Monkey Pen

The entire meeting had turned their eyes to Dalton, whose interest in addressing an army of combat athletes was minimal, to say the least. He hadn't met with everyone as per Dr. Richmond's instructions and, as a result, was understandably worried that this invitation to speak would out his failure. His head started swarming with potential excuses that-

"What ya waitin' for? Git on over here and say yer peace. Its gettin' late. Let's go!"

Shit.

So with a deep breath, Dalton trekked up to the boss and turned to face the audience. He didn't have anything to say and he sure as hell wasn't much for public speaking, so he was going to have to make this generic and short.

"Um... Hello everybody. As mentioned, I'm Dalton and I'm very excited to be here. Also, I'm looking forward to be, uh-  to getting to know all of you much better in the coming weeks." Dalton spotted Jestica cheerfully waving at him from the front row. He smirked in recognition before continuing. "If anyone has anything they want to talk about- uh, to talk to me about, I'm always willing to listen as I think it's important to keep communication open and, uh...  clear." He scanned the audience as he spoke, eventually locking eyes with the ceaselessly intimidating Carolina Queen. He averted his gaze, relinquishing power as she quietly scoffed at his insecurity. "Um, I- I know it's going to be a great season here at WTW, so uh... let's stay safe and put on a great show tonight!" The WTW roster feigned satisfaction as crumbs of applause dismissively mocked his rhetoric. After a brief moment, Dr. Richmond cleared his throat before again taking center stage.

"Short and pointless," he began. "I like it!" Dalton quietly shuffled off to the side as Monterey ran through some additional pre-show notes. Meanwhile out in the arena, people had begun to fill the seats, chattering in anticipation of the show. Thousands of marching fans cultivated a continuous rumble from just beyond the entrance area as Dalton peeked down at the Riddler on his wrist once more. 7:26 pm and Dr. Richmond was just wrapping up. "Alright then. That'll do it. First show of the season, so y'all don't fuck it up now, ya hear?"

The muttering crowd of wrestlers dispersed as Dr. Richmond swooped in behind Dalton, grabbing his shoulder. "Come on, my boy. We got a lot to go through tonight and we're just gettin' started."

The boss guided him over to a couple of rolling chairs parked in front of a desk with an assortment of multimedia equipment. The surrounding setup was jam-packed with polo shirt-clad production staff, each of them plugging away at their respective stations with razor focus. While Dalton was baffled by the intricacies of live television production, the backstage routine seemed exceedingly mundane to everyone else. This was the production booth.

"Have a seat and put those headphones on," Dr. Richmond commanded as Dalton settled into one of the chairs. "Now this here's our command center. We call it the Monkey Pen."

"The... Monkey Pen?" Dalton inquired.

"Yes. This here's where we keep the tech monkeys..." Monterey motioned to the surrounding production staff, "...the yes monkeys..." next pointing at his entourage who were now huddled against a back wall, "...and the shit-flingin' dumb-ass monkeys." He emphasized his words by nodding toward some wrestlers hanging out by the entrance curtain, awaiting their turn in the ring later.

"Monkey pen. Got it." Dalton pulled out his phone and started taking notes, attempting to catch each syllable falling off of Dr. Richmond's rapid southern drawl as the old man continued.

"During the live show, you'll spend the majority of your time right here. This is your new home, no matter what state we're in."

"Got it."

"You'll be able to talk with the commentary team through yer headset there."

"Talk to the... commentary team? About what?" Dalton suddenly got an awful feeling brewing in the pit of his stomach.

"Yer bookin' decisions, Kid. Whatever matches you've scheduled for the night need to be fed to the team during the show."

"Oh yeah, of course. I knew that." Technically Dalton hadn't lied; he did know that, but in the mess of happenings through the day, he'd completely forgotten. Shit. Dr. Richmond then tapped on one of the monitors in front of them. The image on the screen was a live feed to the desk at ring-side where the commentary team were just sitting down.

"So?"

"So...?"

"What's our first match now, Cowboy? You put the show together, didn't ya?" Monterey came off marginally confused and potentially irritated. Dalton hadn't had the time to even meet the roster, not to mention book any matches. Shit! The whole night was on the verge of falling apart because Dalton's white lies had started snowballing into a white avalanche that was about to bury him. The stress of the situation made it harder still to even formulate a proper excuse. The clock was ticking, Dr. Richmond was getting impatient, and almost zero percent of what Dalton had promised was coming to fruition. First day, the show hadn't even begun, and Dalton's WTW career was already over.

Shit!

Mother-fucking shit!

[benjaminzanzibar]

Chapter 6 - Ticking Clock

Dalton's head jerked to attention, finding the source of the mysterious greeting just over his shoulder.

"This place is a maze. Where's the bathroom at?"

Stepping into Dalton's view was a small woman underneath a mop of short, dark hair, half of it shaved on the sides. Her eyeshadow was cloudy and brooding with the kind of presence that only Hot Topic employees could comprehend. A bright orange jumpsuit barely cloaked a gallery of tattoos with an old bag slung over her shoulder. While inspecting the character in front of him, Dalton's eye caught a patch of visible text on her garb.

GEORGIA STATE DEPT. OF CORRECTIONS 3112767

"Oh. You have, like, a convict gimmick? That's pretty cool!"

Confusion contaminated her stare. "Uhm... yes?"

"Locker rooms and bathrooms are that way." Dalton pointed back down the hall where he recently occupied the floor of. " I don't think you have time, though. Dr. Richmond just texted that the pre-show meeting is about to start and we need to rush over there."

"Meeting? Yeah, of course. I got that text, too."

"By the way, I'm the new talent coordinator, Dalton Von Erik." He stuck out his hand, trying to remain professional under the weighty nervousness of the ticking clock.

"Oh. Hi. Yeah, they call me... Heartless." She reciprocated the handshake offering, albeit timidly. Dalton motioned for her to join him, and, as the two stepped forward, he noticed her head pivot curiously. Her eyes darted around seemingly in search of something before Dalton remembered.

"I think there might be a bathroom by the production booth," he assured her as the two marched on.

"Okay. Thanks."

Dalton pushed, attempting to kindle a positive rapport. "So, how long have you been wrestling?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, you're a WTW wrestler. How long have you been doing it? A long time?" Her eyes grinded as she seemed to overthink the question. Eventually, after inflicting an awkward, lengthy silence, she spoke up.

"Yeah. Sorry. I've been a wrestler for a long time. Yeah. Years, even." They continued marching forward, turning a corner and barely dodging a trio carrying an assortment of cables.

"Wrestling always seemed so difficult to me. A lot of skill and training, you know?"

"Nah, fighting's easy. Just prepare for the worst." Her attentions seemed elsewhere.

"Vague but... accurate?" Just as he finished his sentence, the two stepped into an open backstage area littered with an endless array of studio equipment. He saw television monitors, audio cables, and switchboards with a myriad of knobs and switches. The clearly expensive supply of technology created a pulsating ambience like that of NASA headquarters.

Among the exorbitant equipment, Dalton spotted a gathering of what may as well have been Saturday morning cartoon characters. There were all kinds of unique individuals on display here: an orange-mohawked punk rock girl stood next to a denim-clad Native American man whose head seemingly grazed the ceiling. In front of them was a duo of Mexican masked performers talking to a voluptuous woman in a skin-tight red dress. Also, sitting on his phone in the corner, was some kind of 1980's rock star, complete with wild hair and embarrassing codpiece. The list went on.

While scouring the mass of talent, Dalton noticed a familiar face: Fjord Stonewater conversing with a burly, towering Irishman sporting a red mutton chop beard. He had a matching braided ponytail draping over his animal skin coat. Dalton turned to address his prison-mate, but instead found nothing, assuming she was off continuing the bathroom quest. In her absence he opted to shuffle over to Fjord, hoping to partake in some anxiety-reducing niceties ahead of the session.

"Funny running in to you here," Dalton joked as he approached the two men.

"Oh, hello again, Dalton! You haven't quit this hell hole yet?" Fjord chuckled before throwing his arm around the Celtic giant next to him. "This here's my old pal, Emerald Storm. Storm, this is Dalton. He's our new, uh, coordinator guy." The behemoth looked down on Dalton with an affable smirk tucked underneath his fiery facial hair.

"Oi! What brought ya to WTW, Mate?" The sizable Irishman bellowed his words, stained with an inebriated brogue.

"Wow," Dalton reacted, clouded by the alcohol on Storm's breath. "Are you drunk?"

"First off," Storm began, "That's racist." Dalton momentarily seized, hoping he hadn't offended the towering athlete. "Second... yes, I am."

Fjord burst into full belly laughter, triggering Emerald to do the same. Dalton followed suit, trying to brush off the potential dangers of letting an inebriated colossus perform on live television. But just as the inappropriate levity diminished, Dr. Richmond entered the area, complete with his army of buttoned-up sycophants. He parted the mass of people like Moses and stepped up to the front of the crowd, immediately commanded attention with his booming, southern drawl.

"Alright. Is this everybody?"

A few stragglers came shuffling in on the heels of Dr. Richmond's query and, with them, a couple of familiar faces. Dalton saw Jestica race in behind Carolina, who was still flanked by her palace guards. He also noticed the entirety of Sacrificial Hand hanging out towards the back of the talent pool, potentially plotting Dalton's demise. In the past few moments, the room had filled considerably, with upwards of fifty people present.

"Alright. Y'all know the drill." Monterey started "Pre-show begins in fifteen. Final production check are goin' on now and we'll go live at 7:55 sharp. I need Jordan and Gene to oversee the S.P.T. visitors and Melanie needs to head out after commercial break, so Johnny boy, it's on you tonight." He waved his hands while speaking, as if conducting a business symphony. Dalton hadn't the slightest clue what any of his speech meant, but he could tell there was going to be a lot to learn. As long as Dr. Richmond didn't bring attention to him, or find out about that he hadn't completed practically any of his task list- "As for the wrestlers, y'all should have met our new talent coordinator this afternoon, right?"

Shit!

As she shimmied her way to the front of the crowd, Jestica Rodriguez spoke up in excitement. "Sure did! He's awesome!" Whew. This girl was turning out to be more helpful than she knew.

"Excellent! This is his first day, so make sure not to make his life a living hell until at least next week."  His business compatriots chuckled approvingly as the boss turned to Dalton, shining the proverbial spotlight. "Mr. Von Erik, you wanna say a few words to mark the occasion?"

No. No, he did not.

[benjaminzanzibar]

WTW Chapter 5 - Holy Granola!

Unable to escape his shame, Dalton sat against the cold concrete wall, unwilling to move. He had hoped that no one noticed what had just transpired, a wish that would immediately be shot down by a pair of white tennis shoes approaching from behind a nearby crate.

"Hey. Are you alright?" A quiet feminine voice whispered from beyond the darkness of his self-appointed prison. He moved his hands away from his face and looked upward, his cheeks tinted with the rosy inflammation of sorrow. He locked eyes with a young girl; she couldn't have been more than twenty-one. Her long pigtails, black as night, hung from underneath a knit jester's cap comfortably hugging her head. Thick eyebrows tilted over soft hazel windows, displaying a deep concern from an empathetic heart sheltered by a well-worn, oversized hoodie. Dalton struggled to make cohesive sounds come out of his mouth as his body continued trembling.

"Hi" was all he could muster.

"Hi!" Her face lit up instantaneously with the toothiest smile Dalton had ever seen. Her chubby cheeks shifted upward, pinching her eyes shut while her face beamed with delight. "Can I sit with you for a minute?" Her voice, carrying a slight lisp, enthusiastically increased in both tone and volume.

"I- I think so?" Dalton wasn't sure if he actually wanted company at the moment, but her warmth was a welcome addition to this, the coldest hour of his day. With that, she opted to join him on the floor, scooting up next to him.

"Just so you know-" she started. "I saw what happened. Those guys have been terrible ever since they came over."

"Came over?"

"From Japan. We have a training facility there because the Old Japan promotion can't keep talent." Her expression soured a bit through the exposition. "You know, it's a revolving door over there."

"I'm actually not familiar with the, uh... the Japanese wrestling...  scene," Dalton admitted.

"What? So you've never seen Tanaka's run with the belt? Not even his awesome feud with Kai Shimada? The Kai Shimada?!?"

"No, I don't think so... sorry." Dalton shook his head, apologizing as he gritted his teeth in slight embarrassment. She immediately and theatrically flailed her body in defiance of Dalton's ignorance.

"OH. MY. GOD! Their entire feud was a parallel to the Old Japan dojo management deal. You must remember that fiasco?!" Dalton's eyes betrayed him through a display of confusion. "Get the heck outta here!" She smashed his shoulder with her fist. "It was A-MAZ-ING!" Her head leaned back, exasperated that her cheers went unechoed.

"To be honest with you, I've never really been a big fan of professional wrestling." Her head perked up,  eyes popping with outrage as he confessed, "The whole scene is pretty new to me, actually."

Her eyes darted down to the staff badge still hanging around his neck before commenting, "But... don't you work here?"

Dalton nodded with a worried countenance. "Could you do me a favor, though, and please not tell anybody? I'm already having trouble getting a passable level of respect and the last thing I need is for any of the talent to find out."

The girl's face contorted in obvious confusion. "But I am one of the talent." Her words jolted through his ears, rattling his brain in bewilderment. He had assumed she must be a friend or family to one of the staff. Apparently not.

"Wait. You're not like... somebody's kid?"

"Well, I think I can be both?"

He stuttered in confusion. "Well, no. I mean yeah, but- You're a wrestler? And you're so young?"

"Excuse me! I'm nineteen, so I'm not a kid anymore, you know!" Her lisp grew heavier as her exasperation increased.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I'm just kind of surprised."

"It's okay." Her tone softened as she released a quiet sigh. "I just worked real hard to get here and everyone teases me 'cause of my age." Dalton wasn't sure how to respond until something struck him. Flabbergasted, he went for a conversational reset.

"Oh! I'm such a moron! We've been talking this whole time and I just realized I haven't even introduced myself! I'm-"

"Dalton. I know." She grinned warmly as her eyes bolted from his face down to his employee badge and back again. "I'm Jestica. Jestica Rodriguez. Nice to meet you... several minutes ago." Her toothy smile made a reappearance as her hand outstretched, nearly jabbing him in the side. Suddenly, Dalton's phone chirped with a text notification.

"Ha! First day in WTW and you already have a fan!"

"Sorry. One second." Dalton lightly chuckled as he twisted to get his hand into his front pocket, fumbling for his phone. Thanks to the distractions of his youthful companion, his eyes were dry enough to be able to read the device.

From: Monterey Richmond Pre-show meeting @ the booth in 10 Sent- 7:01 pm

Dalton recounted the message audibly. "Apparently we have a meeting at the booth in ten minutes. I assume he's talking about the production booth by the entrance stage, right?"

"Holy granola! Is it seven already?!" Jestica sprang to her feet as she dipped into her hoodie pouch, retrieving her phone to confirm the time. "Sorry! I didn't know it was so late. I gotta pick something up, but I'll see you there, ok?"

"Sure. Yeah. I'll see you there." Dalton watched her shoot off down the hallway while he slowly ascended to a standing position. As he settled, back against the wall, he eyed his surroundings. A slurry of paperwork still scattered across the concrete floor, stretching up and down the hall. While taking it all in, a heavy sigh escaped Dalton's tired lips. "Fuck it."

He turned and started down the opposite direction that Jestica had departed, walking with a defeated stride. Shoulders slumped and posture bent, he wondered what else would go wrong.

"Hey, you!"

[benjaminzanzibar]

WTW Chapter 4 - Sacrificial Lamb

Still catching his breath from the uneasiness of the previous encounter, Dalton opted to check in with Father Time. 6:31 pm. The afternoon was getting away from him, magnifying his anxieties by the minute. Back on the move, he shuffled through his manila folder to find that he still had thirty-four wrestlers to touch base with before the pre-show in an hour. His pace and his pulse quickened.

Sliding gracelessly between hallway-clogging production assistants, Dalton took notice of a rowdy squad advancing his direction. The group of five rolled an assortment of hard shell luggage behind them as their cacophony of laughter heralded their presence. Their energy was joyous yet chaotic. Dalton course corrected to intercept them with the warmest smile he could muster, polite greeting at the ready.

"Hey, guys. How are you?" The gang immediately stopped, turning full attention to Dalton and his blinding friendliness.

The central young man with a head of bleached white hair stepped forward; his locks dangling over the left half of his face. He lifted his arm dismissively and spoke with a dense Japanese accent. "So sorry. No time for autographs now."

"Oh no, no. I'm the new talent coordinator." The sentence fumbled from Dalton's mouth as he worked to enunciate his words in a well-meaning attempt at better communication. "My name is Dalton Von Erik. It is nice to meet you!" He book-ended the statement with a sizable grin and an outstretched hand.

They turned to one another and began muttering in Japanese. Dalton's bilingual status served him purpose here as he was certain that none of them spoke Klingon. Instead, while awkwardly awaiting some kind of direct response, he surveyed the group. Each member sported a distinct unnatural hair color; an easy identifier for a team all wearing similar clothing. Black pants, black coats, and a black shirt that read Sacrificial Hand. What did that mean? But before Dalton could formulate any more queries, the group refocused and the ivory mop stepped forward once more.

"So, you must be replacement for Claire?" he asked.

"Yes! I'm the new Claire!" Dalton smiled, feeling the weight of exposition drop off his shoulders. Through context, they'd know who he was and what he did. No need to further-

"Haha! Welcome to WTW, Claire!" His mouth wide with an overachiever's smile. The remainder of the group mirrored his energy, laughing witlessly before the bunch settled down. "I, Alpha Teramoto, am captain of Sacrificial Hand." He threw his arm around Dalton's shoulder aggressively, like a friendly bear unaware of its own strength.

He continued, motioning to his first follower enthusiastically. "Nightmare Igarashi. Great in ring strategy. Unbeatable submission expert." The highlighted individual was shorter, with shoulder length hair parted in the center. Half of it was electric green, fraying into bright yellow at the ends. His expression was somehow contemplative, yet empty. Teramoto continued.

"Exact twin brothers. Rose Kita. Sky Kita. WTW Tag Team Champions supreme." The identical twin brothers flashed a grin at Dalton before turning to each other with a sly expression. They each had a streak of color running recklessly through their undercuts; pink and blue respectively. "They are undefeated champions, Claire. Do not make angry," Alpha teased with a playful smirk.

The lone female member shoved her way between the brothers, her stringy Scarlet hair burned brightly against her all black attire. She ripped off her cat eye sunglasses before addressing Dalton directly, cutting off Teramoto's forthcoming introduction.

"My name is Widow Hatanaka and I demand a shot at the Women's Championship. I will accept this opportunity tonight." Her expression was surly and her posture arrogant. She stood impatiently waiting for Dalton to bow to her demand with hands on hips.

Dalton stammered in confusion.  "I... uh... I don't know if I can just-"

"Hahaha!" Alpha started laughing again. " Hatanaka, she is... excited for new season." Dalton awkwardly chuckled alongside him, trying to keep pace with his exuberance; however, discomfort grew as the faction quickly went silent. Their smiles had washed away. The air felt thick. Something was wrong.

Suddenly, and without warning, Teramoto rocketed his right fist into Dalton's abdomen, collapsing him to the floor in monumental pain. Papers scattered through the air as he hit the concrete, desperately gasping like a fish out of water. As Dalton struggled on the ground, Teramoto sauntered over before digging a foot into his throat. Desperately, Dalton grabbed upward at Teramoto's leg, still choking, as his attacker squatted over him in an intimidating display of power. The laughter was gone.

"Listen here, you worthless shit!" Alpha's voice was shockingly precise and without accent. "I want to make it clear that no matter what Richmond told you, WE are in charge of this shithole." Dalton's cheeks were painted in tears of despair, sullying his professionalism with a cowering weakness. "If Hatanaka insists on a title shot, then you fucking give her the title shot!" Dalton's head rapidly shook in agreement with Teramoto's demands as his lungs continued fighting for air. The entire group surrounded him, mocking his pain as he realized that he never wanted anything more in his life than for this to be over. "Are we on the same page, Claire?"

Dalton gave up. His failing attempts to remain in control of his own emotions crumbled. He was being held to the ground by a group of schoolyard bullies and the only thing he could do was openly cry. To the ignorant passers-by he looked defeated, but much more importantly, he felt defeated himself.

Dalton managed to smuggle a single word out through a passing gulp. "Yes."

As Alpha's foot mercifully pulled away from Dalton's throat, the laughter began again. This time, it was the soundtrack of suffering: an unwelcome wailing that would haunt his career. Never so quickly had he entertained the idea of resigning.

The demons grabbed their luggage and continued to parade down the hallway, kicking Dalton's paperwork as they gleefully sang, "See you later, Claire!" Their clatter eventually dampened in the distance before the audible buzz of WTW staff had resumed in his ear. The passing crew seemed uninterested in Dalton's suffering, leaving him to stew in his own humiliation. He slowly lurched himself up against the adjacent wall before burying his head in his hands. While the ache of the strike lingered, it was nothing compared to the agony of realizing that at thirty-five, he was still being harassed to tears. Not since he last saw his sister had he openly wept.

He hated it.

[benjaminzanzibar]

CHAPTER 3 - Eye Contact

Dalton shuffled toward the locker rooms as he checked off Fjord's name on his now disorganized pile of papers. While ambling through the arena's back halls, a strangely decorated doorway came into view. Sheer blue curtains dressed the opening with a surprising elegance while silhouettes maneuvered in organized fashion behind them. Dalton had been drawn, like a moth to the fire, unaware of the discomfort he was about to suffer.

Upon carefully drawing back the curtain, an intriguing exhibition played out before him.  The room was dimly lit by a series of ornamental candles accompanying a thick bouquet of lavender, filling the air with a sense of warm laziness. Amid the relaxed ambiance, a small formation of leather clad enforcers brandishing impressive physiques encompassed a singular seated figure upon an elevated throne. Dalton was taken aback by the setting as the closest guardian sternly approached.

"May I ask who calls upon the Queen?" the man demanded.

"The Queen?"

"Correct. The Queen."

"I don't think that clarified anything" Dalton quizzically replied. "Who's the Queen?" The man stood resolute as his face contorted in annoyance.

"I'll ask one last time before you are forcefully ejected from the royal garden. Who calls upon the Queen?" Dalton stood speechless, unsure of how to respond to the renaissance fair level of over theatrics. "Your name, you idiot."

"Oh. Dalton Von Erik. I'm the new talent coordinator. I just-" Peering over the man's shoulder, he noticed that the aforementioned throne was currently occupied by a statuesque woman who's interest in anything that wasn't her phone seemed minimal. "It's just that, you know, we have a show in a couple hours and I have to meet with everyone first. Is your Queen one of the performers?"

Her head turned slightly from her mobile device as the posh lilt of an English aristocrat rumbled from between her lips.

"Who is it?"

"The new talent coordinator, Your Majesty." The man's curt response was enough to uproot the queen from her digital distractions. He leaned in close to Dalton and whispered "Whatever you do, do not look her directly in the eye." The man quickly turned, making way for her royal highness.

The towering amazon with a braided platinum blonde crown embodied elegance juxtaposed with her frame of rippling musculature. A translucent robe decorated in rococo lace draped across her chiseled torso, delicately cascading over her artificial monuments to femininity before crumpling on the carpet below. Through confident presentation she flexed aggressive sexuality like one of her endless assortment of well-toned muscles. Dalton realized her sharp olive eyes had locked in on his own, having marked her prey before stepping off the throne with an impressive swagger. She approached Dalton with intense focus before halting just in front of him, a sudden stop that made him flinch.

"What?" From her lips, it came as less of a question and more of a command.

"I, uh-" he stammered as the uncomfortable eye contact challenged his ADD to an unwinnable match. "I'm the new... person who, uh... talent coordinator."

"So I hear."

"I was just, um, introducing myself to-" Any second now, Dalton was expecting her to unhinge her jaw and swallow him whole. Actually, he would have welcomed anything that would allow him respite from her aggressively judgmental gaze. "Name.  Uh, your name? Ma'am. Your Highness?" Still locked in direct eye contact, the woman chose to ignore his question, instead prompting a different query.

"You're still looking at me like you want to fight me... or fuck me." She paused, looking him up and down in quick assessment. "Either way, I don't think you have the stamina." She wrote him off, turning around and starting back towards her seat. Dalton remembered the packet of information under his arm and rapidly rifled through it. As his eyes skimmed the walls of text printed on each page, her Royal Highness retook the throne, settling in by reengaging her mobile device. "Carolina Queen." she finally answered with her eyes fixated on the screen.

Dalton spotted her name among the list of WTW staff. "Oh, Carolina Queen, yeah.  It has you right here." Against his better judgment, he attempted further communication. "So, you, uh... look pretty shredded, right? What's your workout routine like? D- Do you-"

"Let me stop you right there." Her hand outstretched "I don't need you checking in on me. I'm not your bloody child. You have your information, now kindly toddle your way to a place that is anywhere but here."

"Sorry. I just -"

"Yes. I get it. You're the new Claire." She rolled her eyes in defiance of Dalton's attempted small talk.

"Wait. What? Who's Claire?"

Carolina's head sharply turned away from her device; her gaze furiously burned directly into Dalton's retinas. "Oh, I'm sorry. Was my last statement about leaving this fucking room not clear enough for you?" Her voice growled in anger making each of the words sting like the impact of a freshly shot paintball.

Dalton didn't know what to do. He was both scared and embarrassed, a combination that he felt didn't suit him. But as an assortment of frustrations all checked in at Hotel Von Erik, Dalton himself turned to Guard Number One for some kind of clue. He soundlessly mouthed one very clear piece of advice: Get the fuck out. And without further word, Dalton took a deep breath and turned away, passing a few scented candles and escaping through the sheer blue curtains that decorated the exit.

He was already hating this job, but at least the worst was behind him. There was no way tonight was going to get any worse.

Impossible.

Right?

[benjaminzanzibar]

CHAPTER 2 - Coffee Break

Dalton walked briskly through the obstacle course of arena faculty as he attempted to drink in the contents of the folder he was carrying. His eyes darted back and forth to the collection of papers as he continued moving towards the locker room area, only half aware of his surroundings. With only a minimal amount of time before the show went live, Dalton would need to quickly kindle some productive relationships. He'd hoped that forty minute TED talk he watched on "proper hand shake techniques" would actually benefit him in some meaningful way.

BAM! Thanks to a loose sense of spatial awareness, Dalton face-checked an abruptly opening door, toppling him and the contents of his folder into a scattered mess on the linoleum tiles below. A scruffy voice shook Dalton from his post concussive haze.

"Oh, crap! I'm so sorry, brother. You alright?" A thoroughly calloused hand extended down to help Dalton as he attempted to regain his footing . "That was a hell of a bump! Could'nt've taken it better myself!"

"Oh, Thanks. I was just-" Dalton's train of thought derailed immediately. "Wait. Aren't you one of the wrestlers?" The man nodded.

"Fjord Stonewater, current North American men's champion." Dalton took notice of the short, yet stocky man in front of him. Bright pools of blue glistened as they perched warmly above cheeks framed by wrinkles of experience. His braided beard was robust, like it had been hand crafted by Tolkien himself while a nest of unkempt blonde hair attempted to escape from under his homemade knit cap. "You new around here?"

Dalton lifted his employee badge for clarity as he responded. "Yeah, I'm the new talent coordinator. In fact, I'm making the rounds to meet everyone now. I'm actually glad I ran into you!"

"You talkin' to me or the door?" Both men laughed briefly as Dalton's first day anxieties began to melt. Fjord grunted as he squatted down to help clean up the clutter of stationery now decorating the floor.

"Oh, you don't need to do that!" Dalton insisted.

"Nonsense! It's the least I could do." Working together, the duo made quick work of the task. "I'm on schedule a bit early today anyhow since I woke up at three."

"Early morning workout?"

"Nah. It's just the most convenient time to talk to my wife and daughter." Fjord began walking towards catering after eyeing several crew members with hot coffee. Dalton kept pace as the conversation continued.

"I don't have any kids myself, so I'm not sure if there's something inherently magical about family communication before sunrise." Dalton smiled while Fjord chuckled.

"No, my family's back in Iceland. Time difference means a few odd hours here and there."

Dalton's tone shifted to mild concern. "Oh, that must be rough. How often you get to see them?"

"Not often enough." Conversation continued as they shimmied between tables, heading toward the coffee machine across the room. The liquid caffeine called out to them, cutting the aroma of the surrounding buffet that occupied catering.

"You got plans to see them again soon?"

"Just saw 'em last week, actually" Fjord replied as he began filling the cups, eyes fixated on the swirling Columbian darkness. "After every season, I fly home to Reykjavik and spend my vacation with them and my mum."

Through the ensuing coffee consumption, Fjord would warmly recount a few funny memories of his three-year-old, Olivia; particularly her bathroom mishaps which Dalton found amusing. Time was quickly slipping by and Fjord's family folklore distracted for longer than anticipated; a fact that would alarm Dalton when he checked his wristwatch once again. 6:14 pm - Shit!

"This break's been great, but I have a crap-load of work ahead of me, man. Thanks a ton!" Dalton extended his hand as Fjord reciprocated with a firm grip of reassurance.

"Been a pleasure. I'll see you later this evening, uh...what was your name again?"

"Dalton Von Erik."

"Dalton. Right. See you later, friend." Dalton waved in return as he exited hastily, tossing his empty Styrofoam cup into a nearby waste bin. With attentions turned to the clock, he hadn't noticed Fjord's concerned expression that accompanied some barely audible self muttering. "That poor man. This place'll kill him."

[benjaminzanzibar]

WTW - Chapter 1

On a frost-bitten Monday afternoon in January, the Mercedes-Benz Stadium in Atlanta Georgia bustled with the energy of live performance roadies working diligently to prepare the location for the night's event. Within hours, attendees would course through the building, breathing life into the production as millions of fans tuned in at home, popcorn at the ready. Excitement was bubbling to a fever pitch as production crews prepared to broadcast a brand new season of World Tournament Wrestling.

For decades, the standards of professional wrestling had been set by the WTW, a promotion synonymous with blistering bouts, tremendous talent, and charismatic competitors. But while the on-camera action satiated the ravenous masses, the foundation of the back stage crew brought the whole thing to life. Lighting specialists coordinated with set designers who worked around production assistants that organized television schedules. From top to bottom, the backbone of World Tournament Wrestling would come to work not in blinding multicolored spandex, but in simple collars and slacks.

Embracing his co-workers' dapper aesthetic, a slender silhouette dipped out of the main lobby bathroom. The bespectacled mid-30's gentleman adjusted his circular frames before fumbling around his waist, guiding a cyan button-up hastily into his black pleats. He quickly coaxed his copper mane to form as final adjustments centered a laminated badge over his black vest.

WTW Staff: Dalton Von Erik Talent Coordinator / Fly-Booking Official

Dalton made eye contact with Frank Gorshin on his Batman wristwatch. 4:45 pm - shit! He had been expected nearly ten minutes ago. Nervous energy and over-preening had caught the best of him, a mistake he'd have to undo with some strategic ass-kissery. The rapid tempo of recently shined shoes echoed through the busy hallways as Dalton dashed between security on his way to conference suite 12.

Was the meeting over? Did he miss it? Dalton re-read the metallic plaque by the closed double doors several times, wishing he'd written the information down on something that wasn't a used Starbucks napkin. Suddenly, both doors swung open, unleashing a tidal wave of faceless suits buzzing excitedly about 'productivity' and 'branding.' Oh shit, he'd missed it! The wave of business professionals finished washing past him as a singular figure shifted into focus.

The gentleman in question couldn't have been more than five-foot-four, but what he lacked in height, he made up for in posture. His billionaire status shone radiantly through his tailored white suit just as his thick, silvery hair reflected age and experience. Dalton approached him nervously, but before his brain could successfully formulate an introduction, the first move had already been made.

"Let me guess. Dalton, right?" His stiff, southern dialect stuck like a barnacle to the hull of his diction.

"Yes, sir." Dalton nervously squeaked, anticipating reproval for his tardiness. "Listen, I am so, so sorry for-"

The gentleman interrupted with little concern for hasty apologies. "Nice to finally meet ya face to face. I'm Dr. Monterey Richmond, owner of World Tournament Wrestling and all of its subsidiary enterprises."

"Of course, Sir! I, uh-" Dalton stammered as his new boss continued.

"Been runnin' this business for decades, so I'm more than a little familiar with first day jitters." He chuckled before clarifying, "Ya see, I always fudge appointment times for the new blood so when their shit piles up, shovel's never too short for diggin' themselves out."

"Oh." He wasn't quite sure how to respond, but it made no difference as Dr. Richmond continued seamlessly.

"I'm no charity, though, so have your shit together by the end of the night."

"Of course, Sir. I'll make sure-" Interrupted again. It was becoming clear that Dr. Richmond's time was finite and pleasantries were his way of making sure conversational recipients had little room to participate. He was more about talking than listening, a lesson Dalton quickly took to heart.

"How I see it, best way to learn is to dive right in. Sure, water's freezin' and you'll traumatize your balls, but it'll thicken your skin, somethin' that'll do ya good 'round here." Dalton simply nodded in acknowledgement. "Now, let's set ya up and getcha movin'. Angela, you got those documents for our boy here?"

Dalton hadn't noticed that Dr. Richmond was flanked by a small army of suits, including a young Hispanic woman currently shuffling through some papers. His presence had been so commanding that the boss' less talkative accomplices hadn't even pinged Dalton's radar: the surprising power of charisma. Almost instantly, a manila folder of paperwork was thrust in front of him, snapping him out of his thoughts. Monterey started moving towards the conference room doors as he continued dictating, necktie ducklings waddling in line behind him, ushering Dalton to keep up.

"This here's a list of each WTW athlete, complete with medical, personal, and contact information. Add 'em to your phone and prepare yourself for nuclear meltdown. These kids are.." His face contorted, clearly trying to remain professional. "Well, they're fuckin' obnoxious, really."

"Shouldn't be a problem, Sir. I spent nearly ten years working with talent in reality TV, so I've had plenty of experience with-"

"Uh huh." For the first time, Dr. Richmond's interruption was less apathy and more condescension. "Listen, I'm sure your experience will be invaluable, but perhaps you misunderstood me. To be blunt, you are a highly compensated babysitter, leveraging my generosity to make sure a locker room full of overly difficult prima donnas go through the curtain."

Dalton responded with a very recently acquired sense of confusion. "So, uh, you just want me to keep tabs on the roster and make sure they-?"

"Do their job? Yes. There are additional responsibilities we'll get to later, but for now, focus your attention on the wrestlers. Communicate effectively and let 'em know who's in charge. Now go get 'em, Chief." His tone had become more dismissive, as if he purposefully neglected a few key pieces of information. Dr. Richmond and his crew shuffled off down one of the arena's many corridors just as the assistant coyly addressed Dalton for the first and last time that afternoon.

"Welcome to the team, and best of luck!" Blushing, Angela immediately turned to catch up to the swiftly escaping collective while Dalton stood clutching the folder that now represented his entire life. The sudden solitude gave him a moment to reflect before checking in with the Riddler again. 5:22 pm - Shit! The show would go live in less than 3 hours and, so far, he hadn't a clue with whom he should be speaking, what he needed to know, or where the hell everyone was. Shit, shit, shit...

Shit.