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Post by Sally Talfourd on Jan 11, 2024 22:18:41 GMT -6
The camera opens up on luxury. The Carlyle stood tall and opulent in the heart of the Upper East Side, a fortress of luxury where the whispers of wealth echoed in every 5-star corridor. Jordan ‘Freaking’ Sharpe – General Manager of PRIME and future Hall of Famer, with the kind of shrewd smirk only a man with all the wrestling business acumen a person could want, sauntered into the lobby, his tailored suit clinging to the edges of rebellion. A glint in his eyes hinted at clandestine plans, and his stride betrayed a confidence that could either be admired or feared. As he entered, heads turned as the 230 pound embodiment of corporate exceptionalism entered the foyer.
The air was thick with extravagance, but Jordan, unimpressed by the gilded surroundings, scanned the foyer as if he owned it. He flexed his shoulders with the arrogance of a maverick, his presence commanding attention even in a place accustomed to affluence. In an instant he understood the world he was walking into – not fully unfamiliar to him, nor fully uncomfortable, but not a place he would call home. He had left behind the opulence of the champion’s life long ago, trading it in for the at times soul-crush, at other times heart-warming, life of a General Manager.
Right now though, his destination was clear - the rendezvous with Paramount's prized possession, EWC’s very own Undisputed Champion, ‘The Last Magician’ Sally Talfourd - a champion whose arrogance matched the grandeur of the hotel she frequented. A woman whose reputation in the ring was only surpassed by her unapologetic self-interest. And a woman who, as recent internal EWC corporate documents, was not to be spoken to.
For, you see, that is precisely what had brought Jordan here. He reached into his pocket and immediately he felt the weight of the internal EWC memo marked “Confidential – General Manager Only”. It was a document that crackled with the electricity of forbidden knowledge, explicit instructions, and the opportunity for rebellion by only the most daring, most courageous and most adventurous of General Managers. The thick parchment bore the unmistakable embossing of EWC, an emblem of both authority and (for now) uncertainty.
As Jordan delved deeper into the lobby, his eyes caught sight of the only other person who stood out as much as he. Hot on his heels rushes in a man in hi-vis, work-out gear, the regular appearance of a courier. Under his arm is the unmistakable logo of EWC printed embossed onto a title belt bag, with a label hanging off it that, for the quick-of-eye, someone might make out the initials S and T. With an equally quick mind, Jordan starts to follow the courier, joining the line at reception right behind them. Soon, the courier is at the counter. The opulent surroundings of The Carlyle’s lobby contrasted sharply with the mundane simplicity of his delivery attire.
The receptionist, impeccably groomed and poised, looked up with a practiced smile, "Checking in or checking out, sir?" she inquired, her fingers hovering over the keyboard.
The courier shifted awkwardly, momentarily distracted by the grandeur of the hotel, "Uh, neither. I'm here to deliver something. They’re a guest here."
The receptionist raised an elegant eyebrow, a hint of curiosity breaking through her professional demeanour, "Guest's name?"
The courier hesitated for a moment before responding, "Sally Talfourd."
The name seemed to reverberate through the lobby, catching the attention of those within earshot. A hushed whisper of recognition swept through the air, reaching the ears of the man who had been meticulously observing the unfolding scene: Jordan.
With his characteristic smile, Jordan approached the reception desk. "I'll take that," he declared, reaching out for the package.
The receptionist glanced between Jordan and the courier, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. "Are you authorised, sir?"
Jordan's confidence didn't waver, "I'm here to see Ms. Talfourd, and I work for this,” Jordan points at the logo, “Company. I pretty much run the place."
The courier, eager to be relieved of his duty, handed the bag over to Jordan, "Make sure she gets it," he muttered, his eyes flickering between the enigmatic businessman and the glitzy surroundings.
Jordan nodded in acknowledgment, the bag now in his possession, a silent agreement sealed between the courier and the rebel with a heart of gold. Now in his hands, there was no doubt that it was the EWC Undisputed Championship – this General Manager could feel it out blindfolded. As the courier made his way back to the exit, Jordan turned and headed towards the elevators, a man on a mission in the lavish corridors of The Carlyle.
Post by Sally Talfourd on Jan 13, 2024 3:08:56 GMT -6
Jordan made his way to the elevator, his mind already concocting schemes and strategies. One of the elevators was waiting, doors open. Not much traffic up or down at this time of day. Stepping in, he silently counted to the button marked ‘30’ and gave it a soft push. The metallic buttons lit up in response to his command, the doors closed with a soft hum, enveloping Jordan Sharpe in a cocoon of solitude. The elevator began its smooth ascent through the very heart of The Carlyle. Jordan stood with an air of calm determination, the memo snug in his pocket, and the Undisputed Championship under his arm.
The elevator pinged as it reached the thirtieth floor, the doors opening to reveal a hallway adorned with plush carpets and dimly lit sconces. Jordan strode purposefully, his footsteps muffled by the luxurious carpeting beneath. Arriving at room 3502, he took a moment to compose himself. He fixed his suit jacket, brushed down his sleeves and rolled his shoulders back. With a deep breath, he raised his hand and knocked on the door, the sound echoing through the corridor like a discreet drumbeat.
The seconds stretched, each one pregnant with anticipation, until the door swung open, revealing Sally Talfourd, clearly not anticipating visitors given her current state of casual dress. Her hair is up in a messy bun, she’s wearing an oversized ‘Level-One Hall of Fame Class of 2009’ shirt on and for pants a set of gym leggings. Her eyes, an amalgamation of curiosity and disdain, fixed on Jordan.
"Sharpe?" She acknowledged, a half-smile playing on her lips, "What brings you to my humble abode?"
Jordan met her gaze with a grin that bordered on insolence, "Special deliveries," he said, holding up the belt bag.
Sally's eyes flickered with a mixture of intrigue and scepticism, "Open it," she demanded, crossing her arms defiantly.
Jordan obliged, carefully loosening one end, and sliding the belt half-out. The gleaming gold face plate captured and reflected the ambient light of the hallway. The intricate design sparkled as if etched with a touch of magic, each facet of the championship belt telling a story of triumph and struggle. Jordan could not help but remember his own triumphant moment when he won it himself as his eyes traced the contours of the belt, a symbol of prestige and power. As Jordan held it in his hands, the gold face plate radiated an ethereal glow, casting a luminous aura that seemed to transcend the material world.
Sally, however, is a little less captured with EWC’s pride and joy. After a quick glance, she scoffs with a bemused expression playing on her face, "The rebel General Manager of Prime delivering wrestling bling. Did EWC run out of couriers, or did they decide to send you instead? I hope they paid you the dollar I left.”
"I'm just the messenger, Sally,” Jordan chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Anyway, thanks,” Sally throws a dismissive hand towards the elevators, “You could have left it at reception. I’d have got it in a day or two.”
Unfamiliar as to how the belt even was lost from Sally’s possession, Jordan is too smart to ask any further questions. He slips the blet back into the velvet bag and draws the strings once more, “I did say deliveries. I have more.”
Sally gives Jordan the once-over, then again. She purses her lips for a moment before shrugging, “You have less hair than I’m used to, but if you want to ...”
Jordan instinctively enters before understanding what Sally’s comment mean then pulls up short. Unfortunately, the two of them are stuck in the doorway, Sally leaning on the frame, Jordan on the door, mere inches apart, “I don’t mean like that.”
Sally lets out a sigh, dejected, then pushes past Jordan into her room, “Yeah, I figured.”
The air hung with a peculiar tension, a moment of misunderstanding that added a layer of awkwardness to the exchange. Jordan, the puppet master in this intricate dance, remained composed, his intentions still hidden beneath the surface. He carefully followed Sally in, allowing the door to glide to an all but silent close.
“I was referring to this,” Jordan's eyes never wavered as he reached into his inner pocket, retrieving the folded memo that had sparked this clandestine journey. The weight of the document seemed to amplify in the charged atmosphere of the room as he unfolded it with deliberate intent.
Sally, leaning against the plush sofa with an emotionless face, regarded the memo with mild curiosity, "What's this, Jordan? Another copy of my contract? Because I told those executive shills I wasn’t signing …”
“No, it’s not the contract,” Jordan takes three steps towards Sally, “Just a little something I stumbled upon. Figured you might find it interesting."
Sally, feigning putting away clothes, stops half-stooped over. Her mind races weighing up just how much interest to show. Slowly standing, she bundles the clothes under her arm as she reaches out to Jordan.
Jordan's smirk held an enigmatic quality as, at the last second, he pulled the memo away, “I could get in a lot of trouble if it gets out I showed you this?”
Sally’s mouth curls into a playful smile, “When has that stopped you from doing anything?”
Jordan slowly lowers the memo into Sally’s hand. Sally accepted the memo with an air of dismissive nonchalance, her eyes scanning the words without much concern, "More contractual gibberish, I suppose. EWC’s legal mumbo-jumbo. I've seen it all before."
As she began to read, the lines etched on her forehead deepened, confusion replacing her initial indifference. The dismissive smirk faded, replaced by a furrowed brow as the weight of the message sank in. Then, in a moment, the bundle of clothes under her arm slip out and cascade to the floor.
"What's this nonsense?" Sally muttered, her eyes darting across the memo. She read a line again, her expression shifting from confusion to disbelief, "No engagement until further notice? What the hell is EWC playing at?"
Jordan, still standing with an air of quiet authority, observed her reaction with a satisfied glint in his eyes, "Seems like your negotiations hit a snag, Sally. EWC’s put a halt on all interactions between you and all us General Managers."
Sally, her initial dismissal replaced by genuine shock, read the memo again with a newfound gravity. The absurdity of the situation unfolded before her, the words on the paper reshaping the narrative she thought she knew.
Jordan's smirk deepened into a knowing smile as he watched Sally grapple with the revelation. The memo, once a silent accomplice in the shadows, had become a catalyst for upheaval, a twist in the tale that neither of them could have anticipated. The air crackled with tension as Sally, her gaze returning to the memo, absorbed the implications of a narrative veering into uncharted territories.
Last Edit: Jan 14, 2024 21:24:55 GMT -6 by Sally Talfourd
Post by Sally Talfourd on Jan 14, 2024 21:29:57 GMT -6
As Sally scanned the memo once more, her expression morphed from defiance to surprise to bewilderment. Her eyes lingered on the paper, the weight of its contents settling into her consciousness. The air in the room seemed to thicken with uncertainty as she looked up, meeting Jordan's gaze with a newfound wariness.
"So, Sharpe," she began, her voice carrying a hint of suspicion, "if EWC’s slammed the door on anyone talking to me … how is it that you are standing here in my hotel room?"
Jordan's composure remained unbroken, his demeanour a blend of confidence and nonchalance. He took off his suit jacket, hanging it over the back of a chair at a nearby desk, "I’d like to think you know me well enough to know I’m exception to the rules, Sally. EWC corporates might have put a pause on official engagements, but that doesn't mean we can't have a friendly chat, does it?"
"A friendly chat? While this thing is hanging over us?” Sally's eyes narrowed, a sceptical glint in her gaze, “You don't strike me as the casual conversationalist, Jordan. What's your angle, risking your job like this?"
Jordan leaned against the edge of the desk, his smile betraying a sense of amusement, "Let's just say I'm here to make sure you're not left in the dark. After all, information has a way of finding its way to those who need to know, doesn't it?"
Sally crossed her arms, a mixture of defiance and curiosity etched on her face, "And why would you care if I'm in the dark or not? What's in it for you, Jordan?"
Jordan's expression shifted, a momentary flicker of sincerity in his eyes. "Call it professional courtesy, Sally. You might be the face of Paramount and I might be the driver of Prime, but we're all players in the same game. All this drama you’re part of is just another chapter in the story of wrestling, and I thought you might want to know how it's unfolding."
Sally, still sceptical but intrigued, studied Jordan for a moment before exhaling a sigh. "Fine, Sharpe. You've got your friendly chat. But make it quick. I don't have time for theatrics. I’ve got to get to Boston tonight for … well … let’s call it a different friendly chat."
As the conversation between Jordan and Sally danced on the edge of intrigue, a subtle tension lingered in the air, a precursor to the revelation that would tip the scales of wrestling politics.
Jordan, leaning against the desk, paused for a moment, his gaze locked with Sally's, "You know, Sally, before you sign your contract, have you given thought to fact that there's another stage waiting for someone of your calibre? A stage where the lights shine brighter than Paramount and the opportunities can be career defining."
Sally arched an eyebrow, her suspicions resurfacing, "And what stage would that be, Jordan? Wouldn’t happen to be Prime’s stage, would it?"
Jordan's smile broadened; his eyes alight with the conviction of a man who has just revealed the grand design of a narrative, "Prime is more than just a brand on EWC, Sally. It's a stage for those who want to redefine the rules. You, with your talent and charisma and experience, could be a game-changer, a force to be reckoned with beyond Paramount's constraints."
Sally, though intrigued, retained a degree of caution, "And I’m sure there’s no benefit to the Undisputed Champion walking onto your stage?”
Jordan reached into his inner pocket, this time retrieving a sleek contract adorned with the Prime’s emblem, "Consider this a formal invitation, Sally. Prime is ready to welcome you with open arms. We're talking creative freedom, better deals, and a chance to shape your legacy on a canvas how you want to. You go sort out your contract issues back at HQ, then sign this."
Sally's eyes flickered between the contract and Jordan, the wheels of consideration turning in her mind, "This is quite the proposal, Jordan. But what's the catch? Nothing in our business comes without a price."
Jordan's laughter rippled through the room, "Smart as always, Sally. The catch, if you want to call it that, is a simple one. Prime believes in letting the talent shine. No suffocating matches, no drama. Just an opportunity to elevate your career to new heights. It’s one thing to be Undisputed Champion on Paramount. It’s another to be the Undisputed Champion on Prime"
The room hung in a pregnant pause, the weight of Jordan's proposition lingering like the anticipation before a climactic wrestling move. Sally, caught in the crossfire of wrestling politics and personal aspirations, contemplated the offer that seemed to dance on the fringes of absurdity and opportunity. In the world they inhabited, where spotlights cast both shadows and brilliance, the rebel with a heart of gold had laid his cards on the table, and the stage was set for Sally to make a choice that would echo through the annals of wrestling history.
“Well, I appreciate you coming here,” After tossing the memo onto the couch, Sally buries her hands in her pockets and slowly walks over to Jordan, “Risking your biscuit and all. And if you get put to the fire over this, I’ll be right there with you.”
“Does that mean yes?” There’s a flicker of excitement in Jordan’s voice.
“It does not,” Sally shakes her head.
“So no then?” Now there’s a tinge of disappointment.
“Not quite,” Sally reaches out and snatches the Prime contract from Jordan, “It means I need time to think. It’s not every day the heart and soul of EWC comes to you with a proposal like … this.”
Sally waves the contract in the air a little. Then, her mind swirling with the weight of Jordan's proposal, she took a step back, creating a moment of distance between herself and the unexpected orchestrator of her wrestling fate.
Jordan, ever the professional, nodded in understanding, "Of course, Sally. Take all the time you need. Prime isn't going anywhere, and neither am I. When you're ready, you know where to find me."
Sally acknowledged his words with a curt nod, her eyes still fixed on the contract in her hands. The room, once filled with the charged energy of revelation, now settled into a contemplative silence.
"I'll leave you to it," Jordan said as he placed the EWC Undisputed Championship onto the desk he was leaning on, his tone carrying a hint of sincerity, "This is your story, Sally. You decide how the chapters unfold."
As he made his way towards the door, Sally's gaze followed him, a mixture of gratitude and susppicion in her eyes. Jordan paused at the threshold, his hand on the doorknob, and cast a final glance back at the champion standing at the crossroads.
"I'm here if you have questions or if you just want to talk. Prime unlocks everyone’s potential, Sally, and I believe you could be the spark that sets a new narrative in motion."
With that, Jordan exited the room, leaving Sally to grapple with the echoes of his proposition. The door closed behind him, and the drama retreated into the hushed corridors of The Carlyle.