Offices were more glamorous back then. Mahogany desks, cigars, sexy redhead receptionist types with tight blouses. DOORS. Actual doors to take you into the office from the waiting area. But now...
"I'm sorry but... we can't go back to the glory days."
Eric Valentine, once a former champion who wrestled as Bounce, sits across a folding table from you in the spare office of the Landmark Theatre in Chicago.
Beneath you is a dirty piece of paper. Eric points at the dollar figure and you can't help but scoff.
"And it's not much mate. Christ knows I made more jobbing my first night. But we're not famous anymore. There's no RWF, XRF, ICW or even RAW. No one wants wrestling on T.V."
He sighs and scratches his head nervously. He's clearly not used to this. He's more disheveled than you are. Sure he's made a mint but it looks like he needs this as much as you. The man formerly known as Bounce scratches away at his stubble. He pulls the paper away realising he's come on a bit strong, but after a pause he slowly slides it back in your direction.
"But gents like us, um... well, like you, we're not cut out to do much else."
He taps the paper gently.
"We don't have the patience to watch the clock, lift a box or learn a trade. But to put the hurt on somebody, ahhh..."
"It's like every synapse, muscle and cell was designed to do such a thing. And if people want to bet on who was created to be the superior fighter, wrestler or pain specialist - and they do - then mate, I say we take a small cut and make ourselves a living again... if not a small fortune."
He wriggles around in his pants but its not suss, honest. He wriggles more and produces a pen. He starts to hand it to you before pulling away and looking at you sharply.
"You need to know that the better the match, the more word of mouth, and the more the word of mouth -- the more people.... and THEN the more money. And we, given the private and possibly illegal nature of our business can't have sponsors... but we can have those who like to gamble. So don't fixate on what the wage is but rather er, what kind of investment you're making into you---OUR future."
Eric puts the pen on the paper, the "contract" I suppose. Who knows, I can't read it from this angle. I'm just the sexy beast narrator. Eric stands up and looks super keen, he leans forward putting both palms on the table, grinning like an idiot. This is one of his better pitches, sober.
"So mate, what do you say? You in?"
The R-Feds Present:
After the fall.
Card coming soon.