Dean Johnson sat firmly on a flimsy bench alone in the medical examiner’s room. The PPV had just ended and the medical professional had wrapped up with his job. Dean's blonde hair down over the top of his face. Two ice packs bandaged to his neck and upper torso as wrap surrounded his body. He looked red and exhausted as little blood marks were still seen. He had a quick match against Salem, but he underestimated the amount of pain his body was still under. Every action in that match caused stinging sensations and things as simple as boot opened up old wounds. He rubbed the deep tissue scar that now ran across his cheek. A reminder of Blackjack. Forever Marked.
He thought he could push past it. Hey, a paycheck was a paycheck. It had been months. This is what healed looked like. But it wasn’t even the physical wounds. Seeing Rosario as his partner, Showing no care or concern about Dean’s new appearance. Taking no steps to help or care for the man he called his protégé. Once again he had run out on him. Beyond that Dean tried to do the right thing and in the end he was turned on by others as well. His neck felt pulled away from its body. Joints felt sore and separated. Salem wanted to kill him even though he wasn’t involved in any of the shenanigans. Once again Dean was left carrying Rosario’s burdens.
Too many scars. But whatever he had to do for his kid. Medical bills weren’t going away any time soon and this was how the bills were paid. He was getting a pay increase. He was getting recognition. He was making it for him and his family. He was….
“ANNNNND THE NEEEEEEWWWW WWFG Tag Team Champions….. FIRST CLASSSS….BABBY. ROSSSARIO AND DEAN JOHNSON ARE HEEEERE”
The phrase was sung with glee and with a lil bit of a hop. Pitch raises and little flurries were found all about the statement as Rosario danced in, hunched back a little, swaying his shoulders. On top of each one was a title belt. He carried both so passionately and strongly as he danced towards them. No bruises, bandages or sweat in sight. Rosario was ready to party. And in his hand was a check. He held it out to Dean who dismissed it at first.
“Hey Big Man, Champ, This is for you. Your cut, with management fees subtracted of course. This is what we’ve wanted, your name at the top of the pay sheets! And as long as we keep these titles, your boy will have the best treatment he can…”
“Why is everything a scheme with you?” Dean interjected. Rosario looked shocked. He gulped a second thinking about a response and came correct very clear and cleanly. Looking the torn man in the eyes.
“Listen Dean, I get it. Things didn’t go how you planned it. But listen up kid, they never do. Play Ball. Keep your ears open and go where the money is and that’s how you make it here. Get over your scars, we all have them. Do what I say, and keep the handicap in your favor, and well, there’s your meal ticket. If people want this belt they are going to have to face the odds we faced every single day. Keep getting in the way and you're going to find yourself alone in that ring more often. Stay quick, and buy yourself a ******** present kid.”
Rosario dropped the check at the rookie’s feet. Dean’s eyes moving towards the numbers, contemplating the words. He had no response, as one wouldn't do any good. Rosario had one mode and that was that talking. Rosario began to leave the room for the man to lick his wounds, whispering “wet” on his way out.
He thought he could push past it. Hey, a paycheck was a paycheck. It had been months. This is what healed looked like. But it wasn’t even the physical wounds. Seeing Rosario as his partner, Showing no care or concern about Dean’s new appearance. Taking no steps to help or care for the man he called his protégé. Once again he had run out on him. Beyond that Dean tried to do the right thing and in the end he was turned on by others as well. His neck felt pulled away from its body. Joints felt sore and separated. Salem wanted to kill him even though he wasn’t involved in any of the shenanigans. Once again Dean was left carrying Rosario’s burdens.
Too many scars. But whatever he had to do for his kid. Medical bills weren’t going away any time soon and this was how the bills were paid. He was getting a pay increase. He was getting recognition. He was making it for him and his family. He was….
“ANNNNND THE NEEEEEEWWWW WWFG Tag Team Champions….. FIRST CLASSSS….BABBY. ROSSSARIO AND DEAN JOHNSON ARE HEEEERE”
The phrase was sung with glee and with a lil bit of a hop. Pitch raises and little flurries were found all about the statement as Rosario danced in, hunched back a little, swaying his shoulders. On top of each one was a title belt. He carried both so passionately and strongly as he danced towards them. No bruises, bandages or sweat in sight. Rosario was ready to party. And in his hand was a check. He held it out to Dean who dismissed it at first.
“Hey Big Man, Champ, This is for you. Your cut, with management fees subtracted of course. This is what we’ve wanted, your name at the top of the pay sheets! And as long as we keep these titles, your boy will have the best treatment he can…”
“Why is everything a scheme with you?” Dean interjected. Rosario looked shocked. He gulped a second thinking about a response and came correct very clear and cleanly. Looking the torn man in the eyes.
“Listen Dean, I get it. Things didn’t go how you planned it. But listen up kid, they never do. Play Ball. Keep your ears open and go where the money is and that’s how you make it here. Get over your scars, we all have them. Do what I say, and keep the handicap in your favor, and well, there’s your meal ticket. If people want this belt they are going to have to face the odds we faced every single day. Keep getting in the way and you're going to find yourself alone in that ring more often. Stay quick, and buy yourself a ******** present kid.”
Rosario dropped the check at the rookie’s feet. Dean’s eyes moving towards the numbers, contemplating the words. He had no response, as one wouldn't do any good. Rosario had one mode and that was that talking. Rosario began to leave the room for the man to lick his wounds, whispering “wet” on his way out.
