February 1st, 2022
Tuesday; 09:37am CST
Chicago, Illinois
It hadn't been the best weekend, to say the least. Stephen Terrella lugged his and his girlfriend, Portia's, bags through O'Hare International Airport with a bit of an ache in his back as he walked. A little more than a day prior, he had lost a match in his home promotion, the Imperial Wrestling Federation, and the wounds of war persisted. The life of a professional wrestler in their early forties can be cruel and unforgiving in that way. You go out to that ring and give every ounce of energy you have—laying it all on the line for profit, in Terrella's case—and on occasion you just come up short. The problem then is that you don't bounce back as quickly.
Portia, whom most might consider to be an extremely beautiful woman, trails closely behind Stephen as they make their way. For a number of years now, she has been his constant companion, both in life and in wrestling. They had met years ago at an establishment they had both worked at for awhile in the Las Vegas area. She was devoted to him in every sense of the word, following him into this strange world of violent art to avoid the strain of separation. As any student of this business knows, it has always been easier to get yourself over with the crowd when you have a valet to help draw eyes to your work. She was also easily more comfortable doing something that Stephen was not—speaking on a microphone.
"Do you want me to carry some of the bags," Portia asks Stephen, concern in her voice.
"No, babe. I got it," he responds to her inquiry.
"You sure," she asks, almost a plea to let her help. She knew deep down he wouldn't, of course.
"Yeah," he tells her, grimacing slightly as he adjusts a bag over his shoulder.
"I'll be fine. I just want to get home and put fucking Chicago behind us. This trip has sucked.""Okay," she reluctantly acquiesced.
"We have more than a week until our next show. Do you want to go see Cirque du Soleil this weekend? ""If you want," he says, with a slightly painful shrug of the shoulder.
"Did you look at that email I forwarded you from PWE?""I did," she admitted, with a hint of hesitation.
"It's an interesting offer and a lot of money, but babe, you can't burn the candle on both ends. I want you in one piece, and that's a rumble with twenty-nine other people. As much as I believe you can beat anyone, do you really think we should do this?"
"I don't know, yeah, maybe," he says to her.
"I walked out with the loser's share of the purse on Sunday night, and I feel like it'd be a good chance to make some extra fucking cash. I have a few days to decide, see how I feel.""Alright," she agrees.
"I'll leave it up to you. Next time, I'm not going to let you out of Cirque du Soleil so easily though. "****************
February 1st, 2022
Tuesday; 07:17pm PST
Las Vegas, Nevada
Stephen Terrella and Portia had spent some time shopping in Las Vegas after arriving at Harry Reid International Airport at around 12:30 p.m. PST. The day had grown late. The pair had grown hungry. At Portia's urging, they decided to stop somewhere for food. At Terrella's suggestion, that place would be the Flowing Tide Pub in Las Vegas. The University of Nevada Las Vegas men's basketball team is playing the Nevada Wolfpack on this night, and Terrella wanted to eat somewhere where they could also watch the game.
As they walked up to the building's face, it was clear Stephen still had a hitch in his walk. For a man that size, travelling on planes was always something that he dreaded. When first class isn't often an option, you have to find ways to contort yourself into the small confines of a seat. When you had been dropped onto a concrete floor from six feet in the air two nights prior, the process was all the more agonizing. Nonetheless, thanks in part to a few drinks on the plane, he soldiered on through the discomfort. The physicians had assured him there was no structural damage. So why worry? He gave the front door of the building a pull, holding it open to allow Portia to make her way inside.
They found an open table in the corner of the bar, tucked tightly against a railing. There was a great view of the television, and the game had just started when Terrella pulled a seat out for Portia to sit down. She placed her purse on the floor by her feet and laid her phone on the table. Terrella took up a position in the chair opposite of her, allowing them to sit face-to-face. He gingerly shifted his weight to the right, pulling out his wallet and placing it on the table so that he wasn't sitting on it the entire time against the hard wooden chair.
"I am starving," Portia tells her boyfriend.
"Where is the waitress?""Hopefully she gets her ass over here soon," he says, scanning the room for signs of staff.
"Is this game important or something," Portia asks Stephen. She wasn't what you would call a sports fan by any stretch.
He starts to explain,
"Nah, not really. It's just a regular season game. I bet a thousand dollars on UNLV, though, so the fuckers better win. "Portia is largely unphased by the statement. It was common for Stephen to bet large sums of money on sports games. He won at least as often as he lost, so she took it in stride. Even if she had wanted to protest, Stephen would've been saved by the waitress' timely arrival.
"What can I get for you this evening," the waitress asks.
"I'll have an apple gorgonzola salad and a glass of Chardonnay," Portia says.
The waitress inquires: "For you, sir?"
"Two orders of boneless wings, both XXX Nitro. Mozzarella sticks and 'The Rebel', too. Give me a pint of Miller Lite with it, "Terrella says to the waitress.
Her eyes widen a bit at the size of the order as she hurries to jot everything down. She promises everything will be out shortly and takes her leave from the table.
"Shit," Terrella mutters, having watched Bryce Hamilton miss a three point shot.
"Why does he shoot it from all the way out there," Portia asks Stephen.
"Wouldn't it be better to be, like, closer?"
"I'd like to fucking ask him. I mean, shit," Terrella says only half in jest.
Time passes as they discuss various topics. Their food would come, and a second and third round of drinks would be ordered. By halftime of the game, Terrella would be able to relax a bit with the Rebels up forty-two to twenty-six. Stephen would stand and stretch in an effort to keep himself loose. He could still feel the twinge in his back, but the alcohol had taken some of the edge off. The Tennessee Bourbon he had may indeed be taking over the wheel now, but he felt well enough to tell Portia what he had been ruminating on for the entire plane ride.
"I want to do the PWE thing, babe." There it was. Stephen had come out and said it.
"The Doritos Rumble!" Her words were slurred. By now, she was a little bit of a mess.
"Okay, but you be careful. I'll go with you! Maybe they'll let me enter and we'll have two chances to win!"Terrella still had his wits about him, or so he felt. He is a heavy drinker, and at over three hundred pounds, it was like trying to bring down a rhino for Mr. Jack Daniels.
"Easy, killer," Terrella jokes, opening the email on his phone.
"I'm going to email them I'm in."
"I need a swimsuit for Mexico City!" Portia had drawn the attention of a few patrons in the restaurant with her outburst, but if anyone had thoughts on daring to say anything, Terrella's presence may have swayed them otherwise.
"I want corn chips."Stephen presses send, and with that, the ball is rolling. On February 7th, he would step through the forbidden door for the very first time in his professional career.
****************
February 2nd, 2022
Wednesday; 09:33am PST
Unknown Location, Nevada
On a small patch of dirt in the desert, sits a single-wide mobile home. The landscape is mostly barren, sans a couple smatterings of brush. The home itself is clearly older and shows the signs of age, with the exception of the freshly painted porch on the front. On the side, there is a shabby, wooden garage whose decaying doors hang open, allowing a bystander a free peek at its prize: a 1969 Chevrolet Chevelle SS, black and in mint condition. You'd be hard-pressed to find a bystander within miles, however. This is a no-man's land. Although this is home to Stephen Terrella and Portia.
The sun shines through a sheet hanging over the window as Stephen Terrella's eyes lift open. Portia was sound asleep in the bed beside him. He looked around the room, trying to shake the sandman's grip. Quickly glancing over at the clock, he notices the time.
"Fuck," he thought. He could feel a tightening in his back. The protracted process of getting out of bed would begin, one in which he would take great care to try not to wake his girlfriend.
"Satin sheets," he thought, gliding his hand over the fabric for feel. He remembered buying them the day before, but how they made their way onto the bed was a mystery.
He would look down at the scars on his surgically repaired right knee from an old football injury in his college days, repeated a few times over. Rubbing his head, he could feel some stubble, meaning it was time to shave. First, water. He was badly in need of water. Lifting himself off the bed, he listlessly made his way to the bathroom. Stephen opened the medicine cabinet. He pulled out a bottle marked 'Ibuprofen' from its contents, quickly popping a few and bending over the bathroom sink to down them with some water. "This Rumble may have been a mistake," he thought.
He shut the door to the cabinet, staring at his reflection in the mirror.
"Real chance to make some easy cash though," his internal monologue told himself.
"I'm built for this shit. Whatever it takes, fuck it. I'll never see these people again. Money is all that matters. Time to go to work."He pushes himself off the sink and begins a trek down the hall. His fighting style was as much influenced by his circumstances as anything else. He wasn't going to be faster. He wasn't going to jump higher. At his age, he wasn't going to learn to out-wrestle anyone. He was going to hit harder and be stronger, his mantra since his football days. He was going to be ruthless, pushing anyone's head he had to underwater in order to get to shore. Now it was time to go lift.
****************
February 2nd, 2022
Wednesday; 12:16pm PST
Unknown Location, Nevada
Portia is resting on a well-worn, brown couch, dressed in nothing but one of Terrella's t-shirts that fit her like a dress; her legs tucked underneath her, knees bent to the left as she faces the arm of the couch. She had woken up about a half hour prior, and had been enjoying her morning coffee while she browsed her phone to the feint sounds of Alice in Chains pumping in through the exterior walls. She knew Stephen was outside pounding the weights. Four times a week that was his ritual.
Last night may have been a bit hazy in her brain, but even in the wine's grip she remembered Stephen committing to do the PWE event. This meant she was doing some work of her own, filling out paperwork and medicals for Stephen, and signing forms online. Her to-do list also included looking for places to stay in Mexico City and booking flights, finding out information on some of the other competitors, and hopefully finding an interesting place or two to visit on the trip.
When the music stopped she knew it wouldn't be long before her boyfriend walked in. Moments later, she would prove correct in her assumption.
"Morning," Terrella says, coming through the front door and tossing a sweat soaked shirt onto the floor by the door.
"Good morning," she says to him. Drawing the cup of coffee to her mouth, she pauses for a sip.
"You're up early.""Yeah," he says, running his hand down the back of his head and neck.
"Couldn't fucking sleep any more, so figured I'd get to work. I didn't wake you, did I?""
No," she says, shaking her head.
"I've been up for maybe a half hour, just taking care of some of the details with PWE.""You forge my signature," Terrella says with a chuckle.
"Four times already," she says with a laugh. "
I'm pretty good at it now."Moving for the kitchen, Terrella jokes:
"Guess if I had a fortune I was sittin' on I'd be fucking worried."Portia tosses a bed pillow from the couch at him.
"Hey, did you win that bet last night?""Yeah," Terrella says to her.
"UNLV won by eleven.""Good," she responds.
"Do you think we could use some of that money on something in Mexico City?"Terrella nods, opening the door to the fridge.
"Yeah, I'll make it up to you since we're not going to Cirque du Soleil. I just want to keep five hundred back to bet Saturday's game."
Terrella pulls out a beer from the fridge and bangs the cap against the counter, popping the top off.
"Hair of the dog," he says, toasting toward Portia before downing a massive swig. She shudders a bit.
"Any idea how the new sheets got on the bed, babe?"She bites at her lower lip, her eyes shifting to the side as she tries to recall.
"I thought you did it. I don't have a fucking clue. Maybe I did?"Terrella shrugs, flinching a little with his back. The fact doesn't go unnoticed by Portia.
"You think Ricky would let us use the club for a promo later," Terrella asks Portia.
"We need to put something together for this rumble.""If we ask, I don't know." Portia begins to type at a rapid pace on her phone.
"I'll ask Jenna to ask him, though. He's in fucking love with Jenna. He's letting her drive around his brand new Corvette just because.""Dumbass," Terrella says, shaking his head.
"Five years he's been trying to fuck with that girl, and for five years she's shut his ass down. But, works out for us.""What do you think about leaving Friday for Mexico City? They have a 12:51am flight out of Vegas we could catch." Portia pauses her thought for another sip of coffee.
" We'd have a layover in DFW for three hours, leave out of there at about nine in the morning, getting to Mexico City at 11:30am."Stephen walks back into the living room area, leaning on the wall.
"Fuck, what is that, eight hours in the air?""I know." Portia says, fully aware of how difficult the flight would be for him. She had tried so hard to find a flight straight through, but the there was nothing available that allowed carryons- a must for a professional wrestler spending a few days in Mexico.
"I saw you flinch earlier when you moved. You're still hurting, aren't you?""Some, yeah." Terrella stands silent a moment, contemplating the decision he's made to make this appearance.
For her part, Portia looks at him with concern.
"I love you, and I'll never stand in the way of you doing what you want to do. I just hope you'll be careful with this. You went along time the other night. This could be another long match if you draw an early number. You're putting in a lot of ring time in a short time."
"I love you, too, babe. I will." Stephen takes another drink from his Miller.
"I want to push this year, though. I want the money, for us. I win this and shit, I get a title shot, too. Win or lose, a title fight is a nice payday. We could use that because I don't want to go out there and kiss people's asses to sell shirts. I really don't care if I sell one. ""What would you even put on one of your shirts?" Portia was changing the subject, knowing he was intent on doing this no matter what.
"You, maybe? Or a middle finger?" Terrella shrugs.
"I don't know. I'm just glad the IWF doesn't ask me to do that shit. I'd rather eat this glass bottle than spend an afternoon in one of those fucking meetings."Portia laughs. She finishes off her last bit of coffee when her phone vibrates. A quick glance shows the message was from Jenna.
"Jenna said Ricky is going to give us the club before open on Thursday. That was easy.""Free drinks?" Terrella rubs at his head, remembering he needs to shave the stubble.
"I can ask." Portia says to Stephen.
"Nah, don't put her through that. Ricky is a pain in the ass." Terrella chuckles, but it's cut a bit short by another wince.
Portia begins to get up from her seat.
"Ok. So do you have any ideas for what you want to do with this promo?"
"Yeah, a few." Terrella tells Portia. "What do you think about..."
****************
The Promo
The camera starts rolling inside of what looks like a club. 'The King of Clubs' Stephen Terrella rests on a high-backed chair under a purple neon glow, mimicking a throne of sorts. He has a strong posture, sitting upright with both arms draped over the armrests of the chair. His girlfriend, Portia, stands behind him, kneading his shoulders with her small hands.
"Some of you may know us, and some of you may not." Portia begins, continuing to rub at Terrella's shoulders.
"For those of you who don't know, allow me to introduce myself: my name is Portia, and I am your new Queen.""I am the smartest and most beautiful woman in professional wrestling, but your eyes alone should be enough to clue you in as to that last part. The pleasure, of course, is entirely yours and yours alone. I manage and handle most of the business affairs for the man you see in front of me, the love of my life, Stephen Terrella."
"He stands six feet and two inches tall, and weighs in at over three hundred pounds of pure muscle. He is a former World Tag Team Champion. Some will say he has a bad attitude, but those are the same gullible idiots who believe there is more to combat sports than winning and losing."
"He is not an entertainer, though. We will not jump through hoops to make you laugh. He doesn't give a damn about having five star matches or earning your respect or your adulation. He is a fighter. He steps into that ring for the money, and that's it. If the price is right, there isn't a fight we won't accept. "With a dry smile, Portia adds,
"and as it so happens, on February seventh, in Mexico City, the price is right for us to come to Pro Wrestling Excellence for a night."
"We're not being paid by the minute here, however, so let's get down to this, shall we?"Stephen moves to crack his knuckles on his right hand, tucking it tightly into his left and creating a resounding pop. He moves to repeat the process on his left hand. Behind sunglass-covered eyes, his stare never deviates from the camera. One might imagine he doesn't even so much as blink.
"One hundred seventy-eight," Portia says to the camera, allowing the vagueness of the statement to linger.
"Any guesses?""That is the average weight of twenty-eight out of the twenty-nine competitors -minus the oh-so-shy-about-her-weight, Emmanuelle- that will be competing in the Olla-Rumble at Magnificence. In this match, that is significant. As a combined five thousand two hundred ninety-seven pounds plus of humanity -which is more than a Lexus LS 500, might I add- parade to the ring, striving to throw each other over the top rope and to the floor, size matters. Size always matters," she says with a wry smile.
"You see, when that first entrant starts their march toward the ring, it will be the beginning of a contest in which at least twenty-one other competitors will be at more than a one hundred pound disadvantage against my boyfriend here. What you see sitting before you is a man able to squat five hundred sixty pounds. For context, you could pile Ruby Steele, Aaliyah Landerson, Sybil Halter, and Lewis Chad Pinkston on his shoulders, and from a squatted position, Stephen could lift the four of them up and dump them out of the ring at the same time. Individually, there isn't one of you that he couldn't press over his head before throwing you out onto the floor. "Terrella leans forward in the chair. For those paying attention, they might have spotted a slight wince of the lip—a crack in the shell—as he shifted his weight. He rests an elbow on his knee, flexing the fingers on his left hand in-and-out of a fist as he menacingly stares into the camera. Portia steps out from behind the chair, coming to a halt at Stephen's side, her left hand now resting softly on his right shoulder.
"I want you to let that sink in for a moment," Portia adds, allowing time afterward for the statement to possibly do just that.
"That is not excellence, that is dominance. Do you have an answer for that?""If the roles were reversed, I wouldn't know what to tell him to do. Hope the monster's flight is cancelled?"Portia brandishes a malicious smile.
"If you don't believe me about the power he possesses, just go ask Chelsea Skye. We have history. She has been on that apron when Stephen is in the ring, and she has seen it firsthand. She watched as Stephen decimated a pathetic excuse for a man she had dated once. I'd imagine that might be a sore subject, though. "
"By the way, sweetheart, it's great to see you've found a niche wrestling cats these days." Portia's tone is as condescending as humanly possible.
"Wow, and a count-out victory over a cat at that... that had to be a proud moment for you. Who says you can't put a price on dignity? "Portia laughs coldly, obviously amused by the whole affair because of how degrading she views it to be.
"This is Stephen's match to win." Portia says, switching gears.
"It was from the moment Ophelia Knight reached out to us to come. Everything about it was designed to allow my King to claim his new throne. It's not a matter of if, it's only a matter of when. By all means, though, bring your heart and your passion, your bravado and violence, whatever it is that makes you feel special. It's always just a little more fun to watch him destroy you when you try to resist. "
Terrella casually tilts his head to the side, gruffly stating:
"The names don't matter. We run this shit now, motherfuckers. This is my table, and at my table, the only two people that eat are us. You can feel however you want about it, but that's how shit is."Terrella leans back on this 'throne', stoic and solid.
"As for which title he'll go for after he wins, that's easy," Portia says, her eyes narrowing as she flashes a knowing smile.
"The one that comes with the biggest check attached.""Now if you'll excuse us, it's been five minutes, and that's all you'll get for free. We'll see you in Mexico City. Have a private dressing room ready for us, will you?""Cut the camera. Cut the damn camera!"
