Guilty as Charged

From the angle of the sun on his face, it's probably about 1PM. There's alcohol still floating around inside him, and he's sweating, but despite all of the symptoms of trauma, Frank Hart feels fantastic. Pretty much the opposite of how he felt after the Chuck Matthews fight. The reason? Obvious. He'd expected to win the No Limit Championship eventually, but he'd expected it to be after a long feud with Chuck Matthews and months of hard work and tape study. Still, it feels good to get throw himself into the thick of things. Perhaps one day, he thinks, we can sketch his name in the history books along with legends like Brenton Cyrus and Cyber Punk and Joe Santiago

It's going to be a couple more days before they get the titles back with the engraving and all that fancy stuff, hopefully in time for the next show. Frank hadn't put his nose in a book or anything, but he understood that he was five defenses away from cashing in the No Limit Championship in hopes of becoming a Heavyweight or a Universal champion…

..:: Frank Hart ::..
How dare Death Angel smeer blood on my championship? Was you trying to send some sort of a sign Death? Because really there was no point, I mean how many people can honestly say they didn’t see Death Angel returning after Shayne Wolf was set on fire and Sarah was fucked to death?

And How many people can honestly say they were surprise Death Angel made a play after the No Limit championship? A belt he feels he should still hold, a belt that was handed to him by Silva. He never defeated anyone for it, but had it handed to him. Seems like the undying theme of former No Limit champions.

I swear to God, what the fuck are you still doing in this business anyway? The only reason I can fathom for you resurrecting Death Angle is because Shayne Wolf stock has fallen harder then the US economy. Surprised not at all, you really can’t expect things from someone who only holds a championship for 7 days. Maybe you think it’s a good idea to bring back Death Angel because you somehow bring in some revenue and push some merchandise. Or maybe because you hoped on finally challenging Chuck Matthews to the No Limit Championship?

Your not selling any merchandise and your not facing Chuck for the No Limit champion, so why are you Death Angel again?

Let's face facts, DA. You are, at best, a career midcarder. You know? Someone who maybe brings in some niche fans, but not a headliner. You're good, but just... not that good. Shayne Wolf, became Universal champion because of the stars being in the right alignment

In the months since then, DA, you have done absolutely nothing to prove that you even deserved that title shot in the first place, let alone actually win the title. You've been mediocre your entire career. You're a little boy playing with the men.

You can have heart like a cardiomegaly patient, and Fighting Spirit~ out the wazoo, but all that is going to mean absolute shit when you're put up against someone with a metric fuckload more talent and ability than you. Case in point, my victory against Chuck last week.

My entire career, I carried myself as just plain better than everyone around me. I carried myself as a main eventer, as a champion. I carried myself as a fully-developed wrestler, even when I was just starting out. Because when you do that, people will subconsciously start to believe it.

You? You started out your career calling yourself "Death Angel member of the Asylum," proving two things.

One -- you’re a follower and not a leader

Two -- you knew for a fact that you were immature and not ready to play with the 'big boys.'

And don't say it was because of alliterative naming conventions.

Granted, you soon realized how much you fucked up, and broke free of the Asylum, but even so. You made such an impression that the Asylum stink has followed you ever since you became Universal champion. And, of course, you have assholes like me who like to keep throwing it in your face.

Death your not on the level as Chuck, even when feeling exhausted I well enter the draft Sunday as the No Limit champion…

There's a buzz in the bed that distracts him before he can finish his thought, and he has to fish around in the sheets a little before he gets to it. Thankfully, it's not some weird purple Naomi thing shaped like a bunny rabbit - she hates it when runs out of battery power and they only find out in the middle of things. He picks up the cellphone and presses a few buttons. He had to sign up to this stupid NLWF text messaging service, find these things out at the same time as the other mannequins, PLUS it's 99 cents a message - scam if he'd ever heard one. But this particular note is worth the dollar. He checks the thing twice, and then crawls out of bed with a bemused sort of WTF chuckle. Bookers are ridiculous wherever you go. He thinks about how Naomi would react, and that amuses him enough to pick the cell up, hold it to his chest, and follow his nose (which he never understood because Fruit Loops smell like every cereal ever made) into the kitchen -

And before he can ruminate on it any further, something chilly and wet slaps him across the face, like a particularly slimy call back to reality.

This... is a dead chicken. It is not a grocery store dead chicken, neatly sanitized for your culinary approval. The phrase disemboweled chicken corpse is closer to fact than anything else he can imagine. The feet are still there, the head is still attached (with beady black eyeballs giving him How Could You looks) and there's some feathers still stuck to the side.

..:: Naomi ::..
"Try not to tenderize it with your thick skull too much, Frank."

..:: Frank Hart ::..
"I'm aware that Fresh Tastes Best."

Squint.

..:: Frank Hart ::..
"You may be overdoing it."

Naomi Wethler stands across from him, behind the table, with a white apron already daubbed lightly with her work. One hand is wielding a fuck-you cleaver, big heavy blade with slices of ginger still sticking to it. There's pot on the stove simmering, various vegetables and plastic bags of dried Chinese ingredients on one side of the table, and a box reading ELECTLIC WOK below a big bamboo steamer.

..:: Naomi ::..
"Fresh is best. Refridgeration kills the taste."

..:: Frank Hart ::..
"It also keeps your house from smelling like soup for the next two days."

There's an old movie on TV behind me. Kano is eating a piece of chicken and spitting at an animatronic freak show. While discussing immortal sorcerers, of course. Mortal Kombat the movie, reason #4,021 why he reads.

..:: Naomi ::..
"I'm sick of pizza. I'm sick of protein shakes and McD's and boneless skinless flavorless meat. And if I have to see one more goddamn Golden Chinatown Lucky Deep Fried Sugar Meat Dragon restaurant without having had a bowl of rice and yu choy and some spareribs..."

..:: Frank Hart ::..
"Hey."

He crosses over the kitchen and look into the pot.

..:: Frank Hart ::..
"Golden Chinatown Lucky Deep Fried Sugar Meat Dragon has some upsides -"

It's filled with ... things. Little white nuts split in two. Some carrots. Star-shaped spices. A couple bones cut in two at the bottom. She glances back at him. "What, were you expecting a pig head to look back up at you?"

This feels like one of those trap questions. "Yes." But Frank doesn't believe in those things. He stares at the pot for a second before he remembers what he came in for. Remembers Death Angel smeering blood on the No Limit Champion, and remembering how lucky he felt when he realized the title was Chuck’s, and his would be ready to display at Guilty as Charged.

She puts the knife down first, which is relieving.

..:: Naomi ::..
"So Death Angel this week"

..:: Frank Hart ::..
"Hilarious."

..:: Naomi ::..
"My god"

she chuckles.

..:: Naomi ::..
"He drops gimmicks almost as much as Havoc drops picture bases"

He raises an eyebrow. Frank figures if he ruined some wrestling orgasm against some other nameless assmaster years ago, the revenge will likely be in the form of a poorly prepared chicken.

..:: Naomi ::..
"This is a good month for you, isn't it?"

..:: Frank Hart ::..
"I think so."

She rustles in the fridge and pulls out a bag full of more bones.

..:: Frank Hart ::..
"Week one, Lose to Alex Mark. Week two, become No Limit champion."

..:: Naomi ::..
"Sounds about right."

She hops into the living room and turns the station, flipping around before finally landing on a rerun of Pimp My Ride.

..:: Naomi ::..
"Do me a favor, and tell me more about Death Angel."

..:: Frank Hart ::..
"For somebody that's been around so long, there's not much to tell. He's not an asshole, he's more of a pushover in the lockeroom sense. Plays off the gothic idea. thinks he's owed this shot, doesn’t defend his wife Sarah’s honor, pretty much pimped her out to be fucked to death (and I thought Lauren Taylor had it bad!) To be blunt Death Angel of irritating wrestling fucknuttery."

"So I heard you like to get pwned by your ex so we put an ex in your ride so you can get pwned while you drive!"

In the corner of his eye, Frank sees a midget punch some ghetto punk in the junk.

She gives him a Look, hefts the cleaver and slams it into a bone. The table, of course, isn't designed to cope with that much force - the legs buckle, leaving the top hanging in air for a minute before going collapsing in a heap in the floor. It almost felt human.

..:: Frank Hart ::..
"Well, I'm glad it happened like that instead of when I decided to bend you over it."

..:: Naomi ::..
"..."

..:: Frank Hart ::..
"Please put down the knife."

..:: END ::..