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April 2011

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Omega - Part 1

As promised, here's the writing I've been doing.  It's between Jak and Giavonne - two guys that took on personalities of their own.  :]  Enjoy.  Part 2 is nearly done.  I just have to finish a little bit more.  I tend to do a lot of writing at school, so, it should be done within a couple days, maybe.

The phone cut through the still air, seemingly trying to wake the dead.  A heavy thud, crunch, and mumbled cursed followed suit.
“The hell is this and what do you want?” Obviously not pleased, the blanketed lump growled into the receiver, eyes still glued shut from the night.
“Jak, get your ass out of bed.  It’s Marty and you got work to do.  The match is on Friday and you’ve barely gotten the gist of how it’s supposed to go.  Lazy bastard.”
   “Marty, you twisted chipmunk bastard, it’s Monday for God’s sake, and seven in the fucking morning.  I actually have a life outside of the ring.  I’ll be in at eleven.”  The phone slammed into its base, nearly cracking it.  Of course now¸ Jak was already awake.  Rather than leaving the comfort of his warm satin bed, he lay curled on his side, blanket wrapped around all but his face; which peaked out, glacier blue eyes open but a crack.
  On the nightstand lay the crumpled remainders of his plasma alarm clock.  “Fucking lovely,” Jak grunted, kicking off the blanket and sitting up.
New York was well thriving and alive down below.  Car horns screamed and jet planes thundered with sonic booms above.  Light from the rising sun streaked through the windows, obscured by the light mist, creating a fractal image on the ornate tile.  From the twenty-seventh floor of the condominium complex, the view was nothing short of spectacular.  Just across the way was the Broadway theatre, which always was alight and bubbling with people; albeit said-people were scurrying about as large as ants.  Often, Jak would step out onto his small balcony and lean on the railings, gazing out over the city.  He’d grown up small-town material and moved to the city five years prior, only eighteen at the time.  It was the move that had paved his way into the ring.
He’d been wrestling throughout junior-high and into college.  After he graduated high school at seventeen, he’d accepted a full-ride scholarship to New York.  Two days after his eighteenth birthday, he had been on a flight from Charleston, South Carolina to the hub of the United States itself: New York City.  It was in his sophomore year of college that a scout, Marty’s son, had taken an interest in him after viewing one of his college matches, and referenced him to Smackdown.  The kid had talent – and his appearance definitely was an advantage.  That was why Marty took over control of his career in the heavyweight division.  He’d stood out, especially being as young as he was; twenty, and already in training for the big time.
Jak had quickly adopted and accepted the nickname “Phantom” in the ring.  “Phantom” had come around due not only to his fluidity when he moved – despite being seven feet tall, but also due to his soft, nearly fluorescent, electric blue eyes.  Jak “Phantom” held and maintained a body-builders stature – possessing next to no body fat.  He wasn’t one, however, to flaunt himself – even in a match.  When he wrestled, he kept to the less-than-comfortable black show pants, and no shirt.  That was one of the only aspects Jak didn’t mind freely showing off; his back and chest.  The entirety of his back was laced in intricate tribal tattoos, all swirling together and continuing up over his right arm in a sleeve to his wrist.
It wasn’t typical of him to leave his condo, ever really.  Being one of the younger wrestlers gone pro, he’d been taken out of college to wrestle when he was twenty-one.  Jak had trained, worked out, and shadowed both individuals and stables [tag-team partnerships] for another year following his college dismissal.  He’d only just started his own rookie career at twenty-two, one year ago.  Wrestlers, rookies especially, only got paid after a performance.  Early on in any career it, it wasn’t the most glamorous beginning – but Phantom already was pulling in a decent fan base, despite his being new; that’s not to say he didn’t receive his fair share of crap.  His salary hadn’t yet increased to enough to freely cover the price of a condominium in New York, so he also held a steady stop as the daytime manager at a local Starbucks; which brought a decent flow of money for substance. As if rent wasn’t enough of a worry, Jak was also intent on continuing his education; he was smart enough to know wrestling wouldn’t last him forever.  Online courses not only cost money, but time as well.  His schedule was far less desirable than his fans thought – and it was nearly always hectic.
Monday through Friday was a blur of work, school, and wrestling.  Starting at seven in the morning, he opened Starbucks, worked until 1:30, sometimes 2:00.  Whenever there was a spare moment, he was studying behind the counter.  When he got home, he studied and reviewed lectures until evening, where he’d scarf down a quick dinner and be out of the house by 7:30 to hit the gym.  Jak accepted whatever challenges he could.
He stood and stretched, twisting to crack his back with a grunt.  Last night’s workout had been insane.  Today was one of the rare Mondays off, so he could have slept in – but Marty, stupid bastard, had known once he was woken up he could never get back to sleep.
Still irritable and brooding, Jak flipped on the bathroom light, squinting to give his eyes a chance to adjust.  He leaned on the counter and twisted his face, scratching at the stubble along his jaw and cheek.  No reason to shave just yet.  For some reason, he’d always liked a little stubble: the shadow aged his face slightly and just suited him.  With a lazy flick of the wrist, water flowed into the sink.  His razor lay next to his toothbrush on the counter, and as he reached past it, he debated a clean shave – finally definitively deciding against it and continuing to brush his teeth.
After readying himself with a quick shower, in which a much needed muscle relaxation followed, Jak pulled on a black tank top that dipped down his chest, pulled and expanded by his muscles – and followed with gray basketball shorts.
   The phone erupted through the condo once more and he glanced at the clock: 10:20am.  That left only one person who could possibly be calling – Marty.  Upon passing a mirror on his way to the living room, Jak paused and ruffled his fauxhawk, spinning and blending the black and blonde together.  The phone rang twice more and stopped.
   “5...4...3...2...” Jak sighed, rocking on his heels.  The phone rang once again.
  “Marty, you’re so damn predictable.”
   “Yeah, well I wish you were dependable.  Get your ass down here.  You’ll be meeting your partner today.  He’s a luchador; the kid’s name is Giavonne.”
  “You’re kidding.  A luchador?  Against me?  You can’t be serious, Marty.”
  “As a heart attack.  Publicity, buddy.  The match will be ending in a double knockout.”
  “You’re a crazy bastard.”
“Yeah, yeah, kid.  Be here in twenty.”  With that, the line went dead.
  Jak rolled his eyes and put the phone down.  The guys was a genius for a career, but totally bloody bonkers.
A luchador?  He was a rising heavyweight champion.  In a real match, the runt wouldn’t stand a chance.  Jak was still irked as he hefted his duffle bag over his shoulder and left the apartment.  The door latched shut behind him and he thumbed the down arrow on the elevator.  As the doors clanged open, he noticed a woman leaning against the far wall by the panel.  Awkward...  He always had trouble with women.
Quickly, he stepped into the elevator and jabbed at the first floor button before pushing himself into the opposite corner, avoiding eye contact with the woman.  Every sideways glance he gave was met almost immediately and she giggling, always tucking a strand of golden hair behind her ear and looking down through her eyelashes.  God, this couldn’t get any worse.  But, of course, it did.
Ding! Floor 27. “So, I’ve never seen you in the building before.  You’re definitely a guy I’d... notice,” her voice was liquid honey, quiet.  She was staring at him now; he felt her eyes scanning his expansive chest.
Ding! Floor 24. “Uhh,” he coughed and shifted his duffle bag, “yeah, I don’t get around much...” He laughed awkwardly and shrugged at her.
  Ding! Floor 21. God, this elevator was slow!  “Oh, neither do I…” There was a danger level now in her tone, and it was clear that she didn’t mean social events.
Ding! Floor 18. Jak’s eyes widened a bit.  He hadn’t encountered one this forward in a while.  He remained quiet.
Ding! Floor 15. She’d gotten closer now.  “So, where are you off to?  And why so quiet?” He could practically feel her breath on his arm.  Too close, far too close.
Ding! Floor 12. “The gym,” Way to sound like a typical tool, “That is… I train.  Wrestler for Smackdown...”
Ding! Floor 9. “Wrestlers are sexy,” her perfume was too strong, and she kept getting so damn close. He could all but see her hands itching to touch his arm – to trace his tattoo.
   Ding! Floor 6. “They’re... We’re ok.  Just normal people,” Jak shrugged, using the movement to shift his arm uncomfortably away.  She couldn’t have been over five-three and one hundred pounds – but here he was jammed in a corner of an elevator.
   Ding! Floor 3. “So what’s your name sexy?  Want my number?  We could… Get together at your place?”  Her hair tickled her arm again as she advanced.

    Ding! The doors rattled open and Jak quickly stepped out.  “Phantom.  And I’ll… Take a rain check.  On a time crunch!”

    The elevator doors clanked shut and he glimpsed her crestfallen and confused expression.  He assumed she’d put her best efforts forward. Definitely on the wrong guy...

    It’s not that she wasn’t attractive – she’d been very pretty.  She was just… Well.  Just that she had been a she.  Categorically not his type.

    Jak nodded at the doorman, Pauli, who bobbed by his elbow like a Chihuahua.  “Have a great day, Señor!  We weel see joo when joo return, Señor!”

    A large smile pulled his lips.  Pauli had come to New York from Mexico a few years ago.  The doorman job was going to pay to bring his family up as well.  Sweet guy, Pauli.  Sweet guy.

    His strides lengthened and he glanced at his phone for the time.  Ten minutes until he was supposed to be at the gym.  Thank God it was just around the corner.

    Just as his phone began to scream once more, Jak opened the door and stepped through.  “Marty, will you unglue that fucking phone from your damn ear?”

    “Shut up and hit the treadmill, man!”  Marty jogged up and smacked the lower part of his arm.  “The new guy is in there.”
    “Lovely.  I’m thrill–“He broke off mid-sentence as he pushed into the weight room and looked in.  Marty uttered a low chuckled and walked into his office, which was adjacent to the workout room.

    “Play nice,” he teased.

    The man on the treadmill was shirtless, gazing idly at the television across the room – but clearly listening to whatever played in the headphones dangling from his ears.  Sweat lightly coated his bronzed skin.  Jak shook his head and walked in, purposely looking only at the wooden floor as he passed to the dumbbell rack and dropped his duffel bag.  The bag rolled and clanked loudly from not only his gear inside, but then proceeded to knock into the weights.  Jak winced and shut his eyes tight.  Lovely.  The treadmill belt stopped whirring.  Shit.

    “You must be Jak the Phantom then,” There were footsteps now; “Thought phantoms were quiet?”

    Jak smiled a little and shrugged, “Guess it would depend on how you perceive phantoms.”

    Giavonne chuckled, “Yeah, I guess it would,” he drew a breath and crossed his arms, giving his head an involuntary twitch to shift his hair from his eyes.  “You must be Jak Damon,” A hand was extended.

    The two exchanged a quick, firm handshake.  Giavonne was smaller in size, so Jak’s hand nearly drowned the latter.  “Yeah, that’s me.  Giavonne, right?”  To his horror, his New Yorkian accent faltered and his thick South Carolinian accent rolled over the words.

    Giavonne laughed again, “Giavonne Quirin.”  It was blatant that the man was French.  His name didn’t carry the thick ‘Gee-ah-vahn-knee’ that Americans so horribly portrayed it as.  The G rolled in smoothly with the name, almost a J sound.  The last name was as smooth as melted butter.

    “So, what do you think of the whole double-knockout aspect of our match?”  He’d already begun pulling out his gear from his bag.

    The nearest treadmill was already whirring again, however this time, Giavonne’s headphones dangled loosely around his neck, bobbing with his movements.  “I guess whatever works for Marty.  The man’s all about fucking publicity stunts.”

    Jak grinned and strapped ankle and wrist weights on.  “We could very well become best friends.”  The other didn’t seem to hear him, just kept running; each step seeming to get more intense.  The heavyweight dropped to the floor and fell into a steady pushup rhythm of his own – chest skimming the floor each time.

    “So where do you work?  Other than here, I mean.”

    Blue eyes glanced up from the floor to meet glowing green ones, “Starbucks,” he admitted quietly.  “You?” he paused and knelt, massaging his shoulders.

    Giavonne winced cautiously, “I’m a… bartender,” he spoke the words dismissively, which only spiked Jak’s curiosity.

    “Oh yeah?  Where at?  I should have seen you around?”

    “I don’t think you’d be familiar with my bar.”  It was the emphasis on the word My that drew him in like a spider to a trapped fly.

    “Huh?  What do you mean?  I’m a twenty-three year old living in New York and you say I wouldn’t be familiar with a bar?”

    “I’m downtown.”

    “What, like in Manhattan?”  Jak had sidled over to a bench now and was doing curls with the weights his bag had nearly sent to the floor.

    “A gay bar.  The Oil Spill,” Giavonne’s reflection in the wall-sized mirror suddenly took an almost challenging hardness.
    With a fluttering alight in his chest, there was a long repressed rush of heat throughout his body.  “I go there all the time!  I’ve never seen you there before, though.”

    Giavonne suddenly looked as stunned as Jak felt.  He stood on the guards of the side of the treadmill and looked over his shoulder.  “You go there?  You’re gay?”  The expression on his face was nothing short of comical.

    “Yeah, I am.”  A smile still plastered itself onto his face, though he couldn’t quite understand why.

    “Explains why you wrestle then,” Giavonne poked, pulling the safety clip from the treadmill and jumping off; all confidence and coolness returning to his brilliant green eyes.

    An indignant snort erupted from somewhere in Jak’s chest; he threw a bean bag at Giavonne’s bare back.  It made contact with a satisfying Smack.

    “I’ll take that as a yes.”

    “Watch it, runt!  Otherwise it might not be a double knock-out after all.”  Jak set the weight on the bench and leaned back, gripping the bar and shifting his hips to center them.

    “I’m so scared,” the luchador settled himself behind the bar as a shadow spotter.

    Playful challenging banter flew back and forth for the duration of the workout.  Marty reclined back in his office chair next to the workout room, hearing every word the two fags exchanged.  Brandy and cigar in hand, he glared into his reflection on the black computer monitor.  These two would never make it big in the industry, but for now, they were different – and being different paid.  The debut match would open the pair to publicity like none before them.  That’s he would launch them as a new stable.  However, gathering from how well he saw the two getting along, the homo bastards would sink their own careers.  Either way, he walked away with a fortune and came off scot-free.  It was all far too perfect.  Too perfect.




I like these two. :3

That, and I watch wrestling, which only makes it better. :d