January 18, 2018, 05:52:51 PM

Author Topic: The Steps You Have to Take [R130 RP 1/2]  (Read 392 times)

Cross Recoba

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The Steps You Have to Take [R130 RP 1/2]
« on: October 19, 2014, 07:05:31 PM »

Finally the time has come. After two months or more the Vegas crowds finally get to see the hottest commodity the SHOOT Project has to offer. After weeks of speculation, of only rare glimpses at a time, they get to see what happens when the bell rings.

Who better to face then in my first match than my old buddy, Aiden Miles. I’ll try and keep the history brief, after all we’ve changed, we’ve grown and I’m sure we’re both better people. You managed to get to the quarter-finals of the Master of the Mat which is some achievement, and you managed to get a contract out of it. You earned yourself into the company with hard work and perseverance….go you.

Because when you look at it who did you really beat? A phallic pun and before that a no-mark. You got your first real test and you failed, that’s something that seems to be the most consistent part of your game, your failure.

First you lost to Trey Willett, and in hindsight you can take no shame from that loss - he ran Entragian pretty close this week. Hell, you might even go on to face him for the Iron Fist Title if the stars align….we both know it’s not going to happen, but I’m trying to be respectful towards you here.

Then, at Revolution 130, you got a title shot, and no-one batted an eyelid. After all you were Aiden Miles, The Standard, you’d surely find your level - but that didn’t really turn out how you planned, did it?

So imagine my surprise when I checked my email after the show and nearly dropped my iPhone! They had decided that YOU, you were suitable to not only be my opponent but also to get ANOTHER title shot!

The hustle and bustle of San Francisco was anathema to Jake. He’d spent his life trying not to be seen but this was the extreme opposite, and it was killing him. He’d taken two steps outside of the Westin St. Francis hotel and already he’d decided this wasn’t going to be worth it.

A month ago an email came in that struck as different to the rest, it wasn’t asking about the business but about him. This alone was a rarity, after a few emails back and forth the talk of business began - but this seemed different. The emails looked like they were looking to help him out, that perhaps this could be a pipeline of funding that didn’t rely on meetings, of cash-flow forecasts and five-year profit projections. Then he received an email confirming a reservation for himself on Union Square, at the Westin St. Francis to be precise. That was how he’d come to find himself in what he spent so much of his time avoiding, he was in the rat-race.

He’d received a phone-call from the concierge to inform him that he was to attend lunch at Morton’s and thus he found himself walking the block and a half to a meeting with someone he’d never actually spoken to, never seen, and who signed off his emails ‘AB’. Alongside meetings with VC’s the idea of a business lunch was a close-second and that was why right now he found himself wondering if he should have told Dan not to come into the office that morning.

His phone pulsed to signify a new email had arrived but by this point it had become second nature, a blip that could be ignored out of habit as much as the knowledge that it’d most likely be followed by another within ten minutes. Jake couldn’t complain - business had picked up over the last few weeks and if that could continue he’d be afforded precious breathing space with the bank, get Dan in for more hours to improve the user interface, and...fingers crossed,  look at getting in an extra pair of hands.

His daydreaming had gotten the better of him as he knocked into a woman window-shopping at the Victoria’s Secret window of the Westin. he smiled the best smile he could muster but he knew that her response wasn’t going to be something he’d want to hear. He ducked his head down and muttered a sorry as he picked up the pace going up the hill.

If he could get anything out of this meeting it’d be a win, he caught a look of his reflection as he turned onto Post. He never could tie a tie and today was no exception. He made a gawky attempt to straighten it but he just made it worse - he’d forgo a tie. He placed it into his satchel and pushed open the door to Morton’s.

“I’m here to meet someone, Golding?” he nervously explained - he was more of a Dave & Busters guy with a few friends or takeout ideally than this.

The maitre’d gestured for Jake to go up the stairs and as he did he saw the restaurant was empty, save for one guy in what looked like a suit that could pay the mortgage on his folks home from now until Independence Day. He approached the table gingerly, still unsure exactly how out of his depth he was.

I’ve got my ideas of how the biggest mismatch since Christina Hendricks and Geoffrey Arend happened. I can only think that whoever was doing the booking this week only saw you cheap-shotting me and interrupting the most interesting part of Revolution! Where were they when I stood over you and curb-stomped you so hard that some future archeologist digging on the ashen grounds of the Epicenter will find a dinosaur with human teeth.

As far as I was concerned you were little more than an irritant for less than thirty minutes, you might have gained the upper hand to start with but I made sure that no-one left the Epicenter without any doubt as to who the real star is in the SHOOT Project!

And maybe that’s the reasoning, you’re Dave Marz, mark two. You have a little name recognition, you’re a solid hand, I’ll give you that. You’re also the perfect size for me to make sure that the full array of my arsenal is on display in my debut match.

After all, really this is a good omen for me - remember way back when? When I beat you to claim my first ever title in professional wrestling? Well, I meant what I said earlier - we’ve changed and grown - I’ve gotten better and you’ve grown into a hell of a nearly guy! So just accept facts, Aiden, this isn’t going to be the tale of the Underdog, there won’t be a Lifetime movie coming out of this match, it’s going


The phones were set out in alphabetical order - Americas, Europe, Pacific, he’d long moved past trying to conduct business with only one phone; there was just no way of being able to keep everything organized, and organization was key to success.

Out of habit he checked that his personal phone was sitting inside the left inside pocket of his blazer - the only phone he could afford to neglect. Today was, on paper, another day but that was what stood him out from the rest in his field. They made decisions based on empirical facts, and sure they were important. What he’d learnt from his time was that numbers would only tell you so much and that often the value was to be made on those ventures where the proposition told you that the numbers were lying, that the projections were cowardly, the forecasts weak as to not disappoint. Today’s meeting was a great example of the figures painting a weaker reality than really existed.

His relative youth had allowed him certain advantages that others couldn’t dream of possessing. He’d come into his field at a time of great change, had honed his craft during it’s infancy and over the last five years, as the world of business shifted, he possessed what had once being described as ‘the perfect blend of risk, technical savvy, and market reading’. This meeting was one he knew had been avoided by those to which he was compared, the payoff from this would be his late Christmas present to himself.

He surveyed the restaurant and smiled to himself. It was the small advantages that one could make that made money. He could have gone for a more sought-after place in the Bay Area, but that would have been foolish. Why publicise his moves? He had been to this place for years, knew the owners, and knew that they weren’t averse to giving him free-run of the place when he stopped by. Taking this meeting in a more highly-populated restaurant would have betrayed his motives and that wasn’t an option his clients allowed him to take.

The Old Fashioned passed his lips as he saw the door at the front of the restaurant open. He observed the timid approach of Jake Golding. He’d hoped that the second-tier restaurant would have eradicated the nerves, if anything the empty restaurant seemed to make the matter worse as Jake approached him like man approaching the gallows.

He stood and extended a hand to Golding who met it rather meekly.

“Alexander Beasant, pleasure to meet you”

He gestured for Jake to sit down. Jake was taken aback by the received pronunciation, what is known as ‘BBC English’. He took a seat as the waiter approached the table and poured him a glass of water.

“Could I get you a drink?”

Jake seemed flustered by the rapid response of the waiter.

“A...beer is fine”

“Which one,sir?”[/]

“He’ll have an Orval Trappist”[/i] Beasant wanted to get the formalities out the way and realized that Jake would need some hand-holding. The waiter walked off to get the drink as Jake realized he had yet to take off his satchel.

“Thank you for coming today. I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that I’m a big fan of your work.”

Jake seemed to be surprised that the Englishman had come across his ‘work’.

“I spend a lot of time on this side of the pond, so to speak. I attended a dinner party last year that without your app would not have nearly have been as much of a success.”

Golding was flattered by the words, it’d been a long time since he’d heard them spoken aloud.

“Jake, you’ve got a great product, with a lot of potential. Now, and feel free to turn around and walk out the door, but the thing that is holding it back is that you’re not a people person”

Jake seemed visibly wounded.

“It’s fine, you spotted an opportunity, you developed a solution, your issue is that you need someone to deal with the larger issues. The business matters, if you will….that’s where I can help….”

The waiter came to the table and poured the Belgian beer part-way into the glass and set down the bottle. Jake took a healthy glug but remained seated.

“My role is to help people like yourself and put them in touch with resources, not just financially, to help them realise the potential of their ideas. Now, if you’ll afford me the time it takes for us to enjoy lunch, and I recommend you try the filet mignon, then maybe we can come to an understanding.  If at any point you don’t like what I’m saying or you think this isn’t something you’d be comfortable pursuing you can walk away from today safe in the knowledge that what we’ve discussed won’t leave these four walls. All I ask in return is the same favor. Do we have a deal?”

Beasant took a sip of the Old Fashioned and saw that Jake was going to speak for the first time.

“Yes, deal.”
When that bell rings you have to ask yourself - is it really third time lucky? Maybe the Gods will smile upon Aiden Miles and you’ll get your shot at the Iron Fist title. Maybe you’ll do pretty well - after all you beat the ten count at Revolution 130. Then again let’s just examine some facts.  Who, really, has done well from being on the show with me?

First there was Dave Marz, did he even make it to the arena? I’m classing that as a career killer - have you heard from him lately? Perhaps he’s back in his bar, or his auto-shop, saving the community one product of his own making after another?

Then there was Kyle, the guy who tried to get out of Garibaldi’s Guillotine - maybe you can compare notes with him after the show on how best to heal your back. Lastly, there was Trent, the kid who caught a football like his mother chowed down on Phalidomide like they were M & Ms. Haven’t seen either of those two in the Epicenter since. No-one even tagged them in the numerous tweets of disapproval I received after the facts.

You, you survived forty-five seconds and got a momentary break. I left because that’s not what the fans want to see, they want to see me, not you. That’s why I’m going to leave the paying audience in no doubt when it comes to Revolution One-Thirty-One.

Putting you up for the Iron Fist Title would be like Richard Dunn against Muhammed Ali. I know it, the fans know it, and soon the matchmakers here will know it when I hit the Sicillian Typewriter on you and Willie Dean counts the one, two, three.