The Art of the Diehl: Prelude
May 14, 2016 13:09:07 GMT -6
"Mr. God" Benjamin Atreyu, Spencer Adams, and 6 more like this
Post by Lyndon "Big" Diehl on May 14, 2016 13:09:07 GMT -6
“The Art of the Diehl: Prelude”
May 11, 2016
Stone’s Gym
Hot Springs, Arkansas
Wednesday was “Arm and Chest Day” for Lyndon Diehl; not that you would immediately know it by looking at him. Even in his prime the journeyman jobber to the stars had a physique that one would never classify as ‘toned’. Doughty would be a better descriptor, with his thick but largely solid trunk and long reaching limbs that lacked definition. But he was there, putting in the work, motivated by the belief that his ship had finally come in.
“United Championship Infinite? Never heard of them,” the pneumatic blonde with the “Stone’s Gym Staff” tee shirt noted as she spotted Diehl during his bench presses.
“You heard the part about them being new, right darling?” he replied after raising the two hundred pound barbell to his arms’ full extension.
The young woman (“Devon” as it said on her name tag) shrugged her impressive shoulders while silently assessing Lyndon’s form, “Yeah, but still… I try to keep up with the sport. And UCI isn’t a name I’ve heard come up anywhere.”
Diehl brought the weight back down, “I get the impression the fed starting up was kind of a spur of the moment thing. A real rush job,” he said before inhaling and pushing the barbell away from his chest.
“And that’s a good thing?”
“Sure. It’s to a wrestler’s advantage to get on the ground floor of a company; makes you an original, and with that comes cachet,” Lyndon said through gritted teeth. His arms began to tremble from holding up their burden. With Devon’s help he lowered the weight onto the ground behind his head. Then he sat up and turned to look at the mark he was trying to smarten up, “Plus, when things are done in a rush, there’s a bigger chance of chaos.”
“Which is bad,” Devon argued reasonably.
“Only if you’re the type who looks for rules to follow, darling,” Lyndon smirked as he reached for his sweat rag, “For the rest of us, chaos brings opportunity.”
“Wouldn’t winning your matches do the same thing?”
Diehl’s face turned grave, “No,” he spat out, “This business is more about politics than wins and losses. Always has been. You can be a killer in that ring but if you don’t got connections, it won’t do you a lick of good. That’s the reason I’ve never been World Champion. But that’s all going to change with UCI.”
The young woman was unconvinced, but seeing as one of the criteria of being a personal trainer was positivity, she chose to fake it (which, with Lyndon, was hardly a first for her), “Sounds like you got it all planned out, Big. Best of luck.”
His mood momentarily lightened, Lyndon smiled and gave the girl a wink, “How’d you like to be my good luck charm, Miss Devon? UCI opens Sunday after next in Chicago. Make the trip with us; see the town before the show? Ever been to the Windy City?”
Devon had not. She had hardly been anywhere unless taken by Diehl, “Sounds like fun. When are you flying out?”
“Uh, well, Ron’s negotiating with them about our travel stipend. Not sure if the itinerary has been finalized. Let me check,” Lyndon reached under the weight bench for his phone to call his manager.
Ron Rostenkowski had been with Diehl since the start. He had recruited him from high school, trained him at this very gym, and guided his career as best he could. The closest thing Lyndon had to a friend, the pair were in almost every venture joined at the hip (Devon was an exception to this rule).
‘Three of us for Chicago. Devon’s coming’ He texted to his manager.
A reply came almost instantly, ‘Who’s paying her way?’
‘Get them to’ Diehl tapped back.
‘Not going to happen. Hard enough to get a flight for us. Find some rat in Chicago to fuck instead.’
Lyndon’s brow furrowed, ‘It’s more than that now.’
‘What? Love?’
Even without any emoji Lyndon could recognize the sarcasm. He texted back, ‘Pride.’
There was a pause and the phone rang. It was Ron, “We have bigger problems that your ego.”
The news caused Lyndon’s heart to sink. He gave Devon an awkward smile and turned his attention back to the call, “What?”
“Come to my office and we’ll talk about it.”
Even if it did not bear his name, Stone’s Gym was owned by Rostenkowski; and it was where he conducted most of his business.
“I’m in the middle of my workout. You come find me,” Lyndon replied haughtily.
There was a sigh on the other end of the line, “Tell Devon to take off. She doesn’t need to hear this. And she doesn’t need to see you hear this.”
“Baby, Ron’s coming. We need to discuss some things face to face,” Lyndon said once the call had ended. He leaned towards the artificially enhanced young lady and stage whispered, “I’d rather you not witness this. Be a bit embarrassing for him to be chewed out in front of his own employee, you know?”
He gave her rump a playful and proprietary slap, “Ten minutes, darling.”
With a forced, even smile Devon headed off to check on some of the gym’s other customers. Within a minute Ron, a sixty something gentleman with a blunt features and thinning grey-brown hair, had joined Diehl at the weight station. He got right to the point.
“Since we joined UCI has signed some world class people. Roster’s stacked now.”
Lyndon’s eyes narrowed into slits, “Who?”
Fishing his half glasses from the front pocket of his hoodie Rostenkowski read off the names listed on the tablet he carried, “Bonnie Blue, Kyle Kemp, Alex Richards, Jayson Price, Teo Del Sol, DeMarcus Jordan, Zombie McMorris, Crow McMorris, Jeff Purse, Wade Moor, Shadowlove, Jay Omega, Andre Holmes, Dustin Beaver, Polar Phantasm, and occulo.”
Diehl grew angrier with each name mentioned. His doughy features became flush, and his fingers curled and uncurled involuntarily, “Are you shitting me?”
“I shit you not. Also, insiders are reporting we may also see Chance Von Crank, Andre Jenson, and Doc Henry added to the roster before the first scheduled card. And I guarantee there will be more WCF transplants on top of that.”
“Fuck.”
“We had to expect this; all of UCI’s promoters came from the Wrestling Championship Federation,” Rostenkowski pointed out, “Makes sense for them to bring some talent with them.”
“FUCK!”
Lyndon balled his hands into fists and pounded on the cushioned bench in impotent rage. He stood and kicked at the rack of free weights to try and knock it over. A cacophony of clanking metal was the only consequence of his tantrum, which drew the attention of others using the gym.
“Big?!” Devon hurried over to check on her client, but was stopped short by a single raised digit from Rostenkowski. Diehl’s manager had been with him for close to a decade, and new when it was best to ride things out.
“Mother fucking Seth Lerch and his mother fucking bromance with that hot dog loving mother fucker! He’s ruined everything!!!!!! UCI was my fucking shot! I was going to run this fed. Me!! Now, a bunch of cast off dead beat cock sucking parasites will use their stroke to get to the front of the line. They’ll carve up UCI like a damn Christmas goose and leave me with the fucking gizzard!!” Lyndon shouted, his long arms flailing wildly as he paced back and forth. The demonstration was not enough to quell his anger, “Raaaaagggghhhhhhh!!!!!!”
Grabbing the weight bench, Diehl attempted to hurl it into the rack, only to discover it was bolted down. With a strangled cry he launched himself at the display, shaking it violently to make it topple over. Weights flew from the stand and thudded onto the padded floor. One dumbbell, a thirty pounder, came free from its nook and fell directly onto Diehl’s foot. He gave a chastened yipe and hopped backward, tripping over the bench and collapsing in a heap. Diehl groaned softly from his spot on the floor, but was otherwise silent.
“You done?” Rostenkowski finally asked.
“Might as well be now that the WCF Freakshow is in town,” Lyndon shot back bitterly.
Ron tried again with Diehl, who had remained motionless since his tumble, “Do you need help?”
“I need ice. And bourbon.”
Rostenkowski produced a set of keys and handed them to a dumbstruck Devon, “Get some ice packs from the freezer for Mister Diehl. The bourbon is in the bottom left drawer of my desk. Cups too. Bring back three; we could all use a drink.”
Once the blonde was out of earshot Diehl confided in his mentor, “I’m legit crying here, Ron. I really thought UCI was it. My moment. My time.”
“It still can be.”
Diehl crooked his neck so he could see Rostenkowski and gauge his expression. It was implacable.
“Every movement needs an enemy; we make the WCF refugees ours. Attack them for coming over. Question their motives for signing. Question management’s motives for bringing them in. We do it right, and the marks will start to wonder too. And if we can get enough of them on our side, Office will have no choice but to push you,” Ron Rostenkowski calmly and coolly laid out a plan for tainting the hearts and minds of the UCI Galaxy.
Lyndon liked it. Despite his swollen foot, twisted knee, and wrenched lower lumbar he emitted a soft chuckle.
“Yeah. Yeah. That’ll work. ‘Us versus Them’. I like it. Makes me the face of the company even before a champ is crowned.”
Slowly, the big man sat up. He grinned at his manager, and to the returning Devon who brought with her liquid relief both frozen and fermented. Then he summarized his strategy by paraphrasing a quote from a man with similar, albeit far loftier, ambitions:
“I’m going to build a mother fucking wall around UCI, and make Spencer Adams pay for it.”
May 11, 2016
Stone’s Gym
Hot Springs, Arkansas
Wednesday was “Arm and Chest Day” for Lyndon Diehl; not that you would immediately know it by looking at him. Even in his prime the journeyman jobber to the stars had a physique that one would never classify as ‘toned’. Doughty would be a better descriptor, with his thick but largely solid trunk and long reaching limbs that lacked definition. But he was there, putting in the work, motivated by the belief that his ship had finally come in.
“United Championship Infinite? Never heard of them,” the pneumatic blonde with the “Stone’s Gym Staff” tee shirt noted as she spotted Diehl during his bench presses.
“You heard the part about them being new, right darling?” he replied after raising the two hundred pound barbell to his arms’ full extension.
The young woman (“Devon” as it said on her name tag) shrugged her impressive shoulders while silently assessing Lyndon’s form, “Yeah, but still… I try to keep up with the sport. And UCI isn’t a name I’ve heard come up anywhere.”
Diehl brought the weight back down, “I get the impression the fed starting up was kind of a spur of the moment thing. A real rush job,” he said before inhaling and pushing the barbell away from his chest.
“And that’s a good thing?”
“Sure. It’s to a wrestler’s advantage to get on the ground floor of a company; makes you an original, and with that comes cachet,” Lyndon said through gritted teeth. His arms began to tremble from holding up their burden. With Devon’s help he lowered the weight onto the ground behind his head. Then he sat up and turned to look at the mark he was trying to smarten up, “Plus, when things are done in a rush, there’s a bigger chance of chaos.”
“Which is bad,” Devon argued reasonably.
“Only if you’re the type who looks for rules to follow, darling,” Lyndon smirked as he reached for his sweat rag, “For the rest of us, chaos brings opportunity.”
“Wouldn’t winning your matches do the same thing?”
Diehl’s face turned grave, “No,” he spat out, “This business is more about politics than wins and losses. Always has been. You can be a killer in that ring but if you don’t got connections, it won’t do you a lick of good. That’s the reason I’ve never been World Champion. But that’s all going to change with UCI.”
The young woman was unconvinced, but seeing as one of the criteria of being a personal trainer was positivity, she chose to fake it (which, with Lyndon, was hardly a first for her), “Sounds like you got it all planned out, Big. Best of luck.”
His mood momentarily lightened, Lyndon smiled and gave the girl a wink, “How’d you like to be my good luck charm, Miss Devon? UCI opens Sunday after next in Chicago. Make the trip with us; see the town before the show? Ever been to the Windy City?”
Devon had not. She had hardly been anywhere unless taken by Diehl, “Sounds like fun. When are you flying out?”
“Uh, well, Ron’s negotiating with them about our travel stipend. Not sure if the itinerary has been finalized. Let me check,” Lyndon reached under the weight bench for his phone to call his manager.
Ron Rostenkowski had been with Diehl since the start. He had recruited him from high school, trained him at this very gym, and guided his career as best he could. The closest thing Lyndon had to a friend, the pair were in almost every venture joined at the hip (Devon was an exception to this rule).
‘Three of us for Chicago. Devon’s coming’ He texted to his manager.
A reply came almost instantly, ‘Who’s paying her way?’
‘Get them to’ Diehl tapped back.
‘Not going to happen. Hard enough to get a flight for us. Find some rat in Chicago to fuck instead.’
Lyndon’s brow furrowed, ‘It’s more than that now.’
‘What? Love?’
Even without any emoji Lyndon could recognize the sarcasm. He texted back, ‘Pride.’
There was a pause and the phone rang. It was Ron, “We have bigger problems that your ego.”
The news caused Lyndon’s heart to sink. He gave Devon an awkward smile and turned his attention back to the call, “What?”
“Come to my office and we’ll talk about it.”
Even if it did not bear his name, Stone’s Gym was owned by Rostenkowski; and it was where he conducted most of his business.
“I’m in the middle of my workout. You come find me,” Lyndon replied haughtily.
There was a sigh on the other end of the line, “Tell Devon to take off. She doesn’t need to hear this. And she doesn’t need to see you hear this.”
“Baby, Ron’s coming. We need to discuss some things face to face,” Lyndon said once the call had ended. He leaned towards the artificially enhanced young lady and stage whispered, “I’d rather you not witness this. Be a bit embarrassing for him to be chewed out in front of his own employee, you know?”
He gave her rump a playful and proprietary slap, “Ten minutes, darling.”
With a forced, even smile Devon headed off to check on some of the gym’s other customers. Within a minute Ron, a sixty something gentleman with a blunt features and thinning grey-brown hair, had joined Diehl at the weight station. He got right to the point.
“Since we joined UCI has signed some world class people. Roster’s stacked now.”
Lyndon’s eyes narrowed into slits, “Who?”
Fishing his half glasses from the front pocket of his hoodie Rostenkowski read off the names listed on the tablet he carried, “Bonnie Blue, Kyle Kemp, Alex Richards, Jayson Price, Teo Del Sol, DeMarcus Jordan, Zombie McMorris, Crow McMorris, Jeff Purse, Wade Moor, Shadowlove, Jay Omega, Andre Holmes, Dustin Beaver, Polar Phantasm, and occulo.”
Diehl grew angrier with each name mentioned. His doughy features became flush, and his fingers curled and uncurled involuntarily, “Are you shitting me?”
“I shit you not. Also, insiders are reporting we may also see Chance Von Crank, Andre Jenson, and Doc Henry added to the roster before the first scheduled card. And I guarantee there will be more WCF transplants on top of that.”
“Fuck.”
“We had to expect this; all of UCI’s promoters came from the Wrestling Championship Federation,” Rostenkowski pointed out, “Makes sense for them to bring some talent with them.”
“FUCK!”
Lyndon balled his hands into fists and pounded on the cushioned bench in impotent rage. He stood and kicked at the rack of free weights to try and knock it over. A cacophony of clanking metal was the only consequence of his tantrum, which drew the attention of others using the gym.
“Big?!” Devon hurried over to check on her client, but was stopped short by a single raised digit from Rostenkowski. Diehl’s manager had been with him for close to a decade, and new when it was best to ride things out.
“Mother fucking Seth Lerch and his mother fucking bromance with that hot dog loving mother fucker! He’s ruined everything!!!!!! UCI was my fucking shot! I was going to run this fed. Me!! Now, a bunch of cast off dead beat cock sucking parasites will use their stroke to get to the front of the line. They’ll carve up UCI like a damn Christmas goose and leave me with the fucking gizzard!!” Lyndon shouted, his long arms flailing wildly as he paced back and forth. The demonstration was not enough to quell his anger, “Raaaaagggghhhhhhh!!!!!!”
Grabbing the weight bench, Diehl attempted to hurl it into the rack, only to discover it was bolted down. With a strangled cry he launched himself at the display, shaking it violently to make it topple over. Weights flew from the stand and thudded onto the padded floor. One dumbbell, a thirty pounder, came free from its nook and fell directly onto Diehl’s foot. He gave a chastened yipe and hopped backward, tripping over the bench and collapsing in a heap. Diehl groaned softly from his spot on the floor, but was otherwise silent.
“You done?” Rostenkowski finally asked.
“Might as well be now that the WCF Freakshow is in town,” Lyndon shot back bitterly.
Ron tried again with Diehl, who had remained motionless since his tumble, “Do you need help?”
“I need ice. And bourbon.”
Rostenkowski produced a set of keys and handed them to a dumbstruck Devon, “Get some ice packs from the freezer for Mister Diehl. The bourbon is in the bottom left drawer of my desk. Cups too. Bring back three; we could all use a drink.”
Once the blonde was out of earshot Diehl confided in his mentor, “I’m legit crying here, Ron. I really thought UCI was it. My moment. My time.”
“It still can be.”
Diehl crooked his neck so he could see Rostenkowski and gauge his expression. It was implacable.
“Every movement needs an enemy; we make the WCF refugees ours. Attack them for coming over. Question their motives for signing. Question management’s motives for bringing them in. We do it right, and the marks will start to wonder too. And if we can get enough of them on our side, Office will have no choice but to push you,” Ron Rostenkowski calmly and coolly laid out a plan for tainting the hearts and minds of the UCI Galaxy.
Lyndon liked it. Despite his swollen foot, twisted knee, and wrenched lower lumbar he emitted a soft chuckle.
“Yeah. Yeah. That’ll work. ‘Us versus Them’. I like it. Makes me the face of the company even before a champ is crowned.”
Slowly, the big man sat up. He grinned at his manager, and to the returning Devon who brought with her liquid relief both frozen and fermented. Then he summarized his strategy by paraphrasing a quote from a man with similar, albeit far loftier, ambitions:
“I’m going to build a mother fucking wall around UCI, and make Spencer Adams pay for it.”