NoNeck
06-23-2009, 06:11 PM
(OOC: First and foremost, welcome readers. The start of this diary is going to coincide with the announced end of my other, SOTR V2-Peter Michaels. However, I wanted to do something interesting and run the beginning of this new one while the other one winds down and I get set to release the mod that is based on this dataset. That said, I am expecting that Volume Two will carry on for another six months of game time, which will allow me to finish the stories that I planned for it while letting me also begin to flesh out the world outside of the SWF a bit more in this diary.
Before I start, I wanted to thank the most excellent graphics folks that have lent their efforts to this upcoming venture, led by Reaper, Finisher, and Kamchatka. Folks like these three add so much depth to the entire community’s enjoyment of the game; I appreciate their work.
I also wanted to thank Phantom Stranger and his PPPW diary for raising the bar so high on the style I was attempting with SOTR V2, that I gave up trying to be innovative and flat-out mugged his format for this one. Kudos to a fine writer.
Finally, thanks to Bigpapa for having an SWF diary that’s so good, I have no issues abandoning mine…..once I finish, that is. Enjoy.)
Secrets of the Ring : Volume Three
-Jillefski Takes Manhattan-
-NYCW 2013-
<a href="http://s179.photobucket.com/albums/w286/NoNeck_photo/?action=view¤t=nycw3keeper.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i179.photobucket.com/albums/w286/NoNeck_photo/nycw3keeper.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a>
<a href="http://s179.photobucket.com/albums/w286/NoNeck_photo/?action=view¤t=DannyJillefski.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i179.photobucket.com/albums/w286/NoNeck_photo/DannyJillefski.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a>
“I mean, it’s not like I’d never owned and operated my own promotion before,” Danny Jillefski says as he sends another cigarette to its death in the bottom of an ashtray off camera. “The truth of the matter is that it was always my long term goal to open another one after I sold the USPW to Sam, this just happened to work out even better. My being fired by the company I started, that is.”
He pauses and shifts in his chair, obviously a rotund leather job fit for CEO’s, Senators, and other fat-asses who spend a lot of time on their duffs.
“And I had the money, that wasn’t an issue like some people in the business thought at the time. Turns out The Stomper really just wanted out and didn’t even seem to take into consideration the deal I had in place. It was almost failsafe.”
A close up.
“Almost being the operative word in that sentence.”
His face looks worn as he grins but his eyes, his eyes are very alive.
“But the real selling point had to be New York City, baby.”
He smiles; already time for another cigarette.
“There’s just something about it. The air, the people, and the expectation that those people have about being in the biggest city in the known universe; I don’t know what exactly it is, but there’s something and it’s there. And it wasn’t being capitalized on by anyone.”
A pause.
“The way that NYCW was going at that point, being as painfully stuck in the past as they were, there was no way for them to even capitalize on being there. The tri-state area has a rich wrestling history and some of the most loyal, rabid wrestling fans in the world. And for the most part, those fans had to go out of their way to get their wrestling fix. New York was dead. Ask anyone who knows anything about the business in that part of the country and they’ll tell you all about DAVE, and they’ll tell you all about Horatio and PPPW, and about Rapid Pro.”
“That was a long time ago. Those names; those promotions are dead. But their fans aren’t. Their fans were just sitting there, waiting to come out of the woodwork to see a company whose product spoke to them, that made them feel involved, like they mattered again.”
“That was who I wanted to be. The one who brought them back.”
He shakes his head, letting some smoke come out his nostrils.
“But really, none of this would’ve happened if it weren’t for Alex DeColt.”
<a href="http://s179.photobucket.com/albums/w286/NoNeck_photo/?action=view¤t=AlexDeColt2.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i179.photobucket.com/albums/w286/NoNeck_photo/AlexDeColt2.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a>
The scene switches to the inside of a board room, the new angry CGC logo plastered on every surface imaginable just to the point of it being gaudy. The eldest DeColt son, Alex, sits behind a desk, wearing a very casual open collared light blue shirt, trying to look a bit more everyman than his ample mortgage payments would probably suggest.
“I’d known Danny Jillefski for years at that point, you know, and I’ve always been a fan of his character work. In fact, I know that my father had really tried at a couple of different points to have him come up north and run his executive consultant bit with us. Pops was convinced that we could’ve used him as a heel commentator to start and transitioned him into being the manager of a stable of some sort.”
He runs his hand through his dyed-and-still-blonde hair before leaning in toward the camera a bit.
“But when I called Danny about possibly coming to work for us after he had his huge blowup with Strong, he told me he was thinking about going into business for himself again, which I can respect.”
A cup of coffee is delivered to his desk by a buxom assistant.
“Being the boss does have its advantages.”
DeColt takes a second, looking like he is trying to decide the best way to phrase what is about to say.
“I knew that The Stomper was looking for a buyer. He had debts outside the business and I think by then he knew the industry had passed him by. But a he’s stubborn old coot and for whatever reason he had no interest in selling out to me. I made him at least three offers, each a little higher than the next. And we’re talking some serious money. Life changing money.”
He shakes his head, letting out a small exasperated laugh.
“There weren’t even any other offers even on his radar screen when he turned me down the last time.”
A pause.
“Some people still say that’s because he knew what I was trying to do and didn’t like it …..”
He laughs to himself again.
“…..well, what we were trying to do, anyway. Rip and I. I don’t think either of us were in it for anyone’s approval.”
<a href="http://s179.photobucket.com/albums/w286/NoNeck_photo/?action=view¤t=Rip20Chord_alt.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i179.photobucket.com/albums/w286/NoNeck_photo/Rip20Chord_alt.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a>
An old ring shakes with the impact of another tired body slamming down onto its creaky frame. There are only a few cheers from the guys around the ring; this arena is empty, it is a few hours before an MAW show. Sitting above it all, getting a great look at all of the goings on from a balcony seat is Rip Chord, wrestling legend and the owner of Mid-Atlantic Wrestling. As usual, he looks in need of a shave and a shower; his eyes are red around the edges and his posture speaks volumes about the damage he has done to his body.
“How long have I been in this business?”
The rhetorical question goes as unanswered as it was intended.
“Almost forty years, right?”
His eyes gleam, harkening back to his days as one of the most feared men in the industry.
“And in those forty years, how often am I not near the top of the heap? I’m used to being the best because that’s just how it’s always been for me. Even when I was still drinking, I always came to fight, and more often than not, I was victorious.”
“That’s why the MAW became such a……”
He searches for a second.
“…..a burden. There, I said it. It became a goddamned burden. It became something that I wasn’t nearly as proud of as I thought I would be.”
For a second he looks a bit ashamed of himself, but the look is quickly erased and replaced by one of indifference.
“Even when we were running at our peak then, we were nothing more than a solid indy promotion that might produce a handful of good workers every couple of years….”
“That’s it. Nothing more. There was never the prospect of any growth for us past a certain point unless we started traveling the country, which is a dangerous proposition for a company like MAW.”
“Not to mention, do I want to be traipsing all over the friggin’ lower forty-eight at my age? Hell no, I don’t!”
But then, his frown turns upside down.
“But ticket sales are just one piece of the pie when it comes to the ways that a wrestling organization can make money. But in order to have some of those things; the bigger advertising contracts, the video games, the DVD distribution, you have to be a national entity. And to be a national entity, you need money.”
<a href="http://s179.photobucket.com/albums/w286/NoNeck_photo/?action=view¤t=JKStalkingsJr.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i179.photobucket.com/albums/w286/NoNeck_photo/JKStalkingsJr.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a>
“I told myself that I never wanted to be involved in the wrestling business again after HGC. But over the course of a few years I began watching it on television and then started following a few of the independents via the internet and their home releases. It was a lot like it used to be for me. I became a fan again.”
He takes a sip out of an enormous gas-station soda cup. It looks almost as out of place on his big executive desk as the three snow globes to his left.
“And the first time that Rip contacted me about financially backing his MAW’s expansion, I told him that I didn’t really have the interest in it, as a project. I needed to be excited by an idea, something needed to draw me out of the office and back into the business. And throwing some money behind a regional promotion that was being run by a man not exactly known for his dependability was not that thing.”
He shrugs a little bit.
“I’m sorry if that sounds coarse; I’m a fan of Rip’s. It was just the reality of the situation.
Taking a second to adjust his glasses, he continues.
“But when he called me again, about a year later, I had my assistant schedule him for an appointment at eight o’clock on the following Monday morning, just out of curiosity; he sounded different than he did before. What’s the word I’m looking for?”
“Motivated, that’s it. He sounded motivated. I liked that.”
“And when I arrived that Monday, Rip was already outside my office.”
Smiling.
“And he wasn’t alone.”
Before I start, I wanted to thank the most excellent graphics folks that have lent their efforts to this upcoming venture, led by Reaper, Finisher, and Kamchatka. Folks like these three add so much depth to the entire community’s enjoyment of the game; I appreciate their work.
I also wanted to thank Phantom Stranger and his PPPW diary for raising the bar so high on the style I was attempting with SOTR V2, that I gave up trying to be innovative and flat-out mugged his format for this one. Kudos to a fine writer.
Finally, thanks to Bigpapa for having an SWF diary that’s so good, I have no issues abandoning mine…..once I finish, that is. Enjoy.)
Secrets of the Ring : Volume Three
-Jillefski Takes Manhattan-
-NYCW 2013-
<a href="http://s179.photobucket.com/albums/w286/NoNeck_photo/?action=view¤t=nycw3keeper.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i179.photobucket.com/albums/w286/NoNeck_photo/nycw3keeper.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a>
<a href="http://s179.photobucket.com/albums/w286/NoNeck_photo/?action=view¤t=DannyJillefski.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i179.photobucket.com/albums/w286/NoNeck_photo/DannyJillefski.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a>
“I mean, it’s not like I’d never owned and operated my own promotion before,” Danny Jillefski says as he sends another cigarette to its death in the bottom of an ashtray off camera. “The truth of the matter is that it was always my long term goal to open another one after I sold the USPW to Sam, this just happened to work out even better. My being fired by the company I started, that is.”
He pauses and shifts in his chair, obviously a rotund leather job fit for CEO’s, Senators, and other fat-asses who spend a lot of time on their duffs.
“And I had the money, that wasn’t an issue like some people in the business thought at the time. Turns out The Stomper really just wanted out and didn’t even seem to take into consideration the deal I had in place. It was almost failsafe.”
A close up.
“Almost being the operative word in that sentence.”
His face looks worn as he grins but his eyes, his eyes are very alive.
“But the real selling point had to be New York City, baby.”
He smiles; already time for another cigarette.
“There’s just something about it. The air, the people, and the expectation that those people have about being in the biggest city in the known universe; I don’t know what exactly it is, but there’s something and it’s there. And it wasn’t being capitalized on by anyone.”
A pause.
“The way that NYCW was going at that point, being as painfully stuck in the past as they were, there was no way for them to even capitalize on being there. The tri-state area has a rich wrestling history and some of the most loyal, rabid wrestling fans in the world. And for the most part, those fans had to go out of their way to get their wrestling fix. New York was dead. Ask anyone who knows anything about the business in that part of the country and they’ll tell you all about DAVE, and they’ll tell you all about Horatio and PPPW, and about Rapid Pro.”
“That was a long time ago. Those names; those promotions are dead. But their fans aren’t. Their fans were just sitting there, waiting to come out of the woodwork to see a company whose product spoke to them, that made them feel involved, like they mattered again.”
“That was who I wanted to be. The one who brought them back.”
He shakes his head, letting some smoke come out his nostrils.
“But really, none of this would’ve happened if it weren’t for Alex DeColt.”
<a href="http://s179.photobucket.com/albums/w286/NoNeck_photo/?action=view¤t=AlexDeColt2.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i179.photobucket.com/albums/w286/NoNeck_photo/AlexDeColt2.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a>
The scene switches to the inside of a board room, the new angry CGC logo plastered on every surface imaginable just to the point of it being gaudy. The eldest DeColt son, Alex, sits behind a desk, wearing a very casual open collared light blue shirt, trying to look a bit more everyman than his ample mortgage payments would probably suggest.
“I’d known Danny Jillefski for years at that point, you know, and I’ve always been a fan of his character work. In fact, I know that my father had really tried at a couple of different points to have him come up north and run his executive consultant bit with us. Pops was convinced that we could’ve used him as a heel commentator to start and transitioned him into being the manager of a stable of some sort.”
He runs his hand through his dyed-and-still-blonde hair before leaning in toward the camera a bit.
“But when I called Danny about possibly coming to work for us after he had his huge blowup with Strong, he told me he was thinking about going into business for himself again, which I can respect.”
A cup of coffee is delivered to his desk by a buxom assistant.
“Being the boss does have its advantages.”
DeColt takes a second, looking like he is trying to decide the best way to phrase what is about to say.
“I knew that The Stomper was looking for a buyer. He had debts outside the business and I think by then he knew the industry had passed him by. But a he’s stubborn old coot and for whatever reason he had no interest in selling out to me. I made him at least three offers, each a little higher than the next. And we’re talking some serious money. Life changing money.”
He shakes his head, letting out a small exasperated laugh.
“There weren’t even any other offers even on his radar screen when he turned me down the last time.”
A pause.
“Some people still say that’s because he knew what I was trying to do and didn’t like it …..”
He laughs to himself again.
“…..well, what we were trying to do, anyway. Rip and I. I don’t think either of us were in it for anyone’s approval.”
<a href="http://s179.photobucket.com/albums/w286/NoNeck_photo/?action=view¤t=Rip20Chord_alt.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i179.photobucket.com/albums/w286/NoNeck_photo/Rip20Chord_alt.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a>
An old ring shakes with the impact of another tired body slamming down onto its creaky frame. There are only a few cheers from the guys around the ring; this arena is empty, it is a few hours before an MAW show. Sitting above it all, getting a great look at all of the goings on from a balcony seat is Rip Chord, wrestling legend and the owner of Mid-Atlantic Wrestling. As usual, he looks in need of a shave and a shower; his eyes are red around the edges and his posture speaks volumes about the damage he has done to his body.
“How long have I been in this business?”
The rhetorical question goes as unanswered as it was intended.
“Almost forty years, right?”
His eyes gleam, harkening back to his days as one of the most feared men in the industry.
“And in those forty years, how often am I not near the top of the heap? I’m used to being the best because that’s just how it’s always been for me. Even when I was still drinking, I always came to fight, and more often than not, I was victorious.”
“That’s why the MAW became such a……”
He searches for a second.
“…..a burden. There, I said it. It became a goddamned burden. It became something that I wasn’t nearly as proud of as I thought I would be.”
For a second he looks a bit ashamed of himself, but the look is quickly erased and replaced by one of indifference.
“Even when we were running at our peak then, we were nothing more than a solid indy promotion that might produce a handful of good workers every couple of years….”
“That’s it. Nothing more. There was never the prospect of any growth for us past a certain point unless we started traveling the country, which is a dangerous proposition for a company like MAW.”
“Not to mention, do I want to be traipsing all over the friggin’ lower forty-eight at my age? Hell no, I don’t!”
But then, his frown turns upside down.
“But ticket sales are just one piece of the pie when it comes to the ways that a wrestling organization can make money. But in order to have some of those things; the bigger advertising contracts, the video games, the DVD distribution, you have to be a national entity. And to be a national entity, you need money.”
<a href="http://s179.photobucket.com/albums/w286/NoNeck_photo/?action=view¤t=JKStalkingsJr.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i179.photobucket.com/albums/w286/NoNeck_photo/JKStalkingsJr.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a>
“I told myself that I never wanted to be involved in the wrestling business again after HGC. But over the course of a few years I began watching it on television and then started following a few of the independents via the internet and their home releases. It was a lot like it used to be for me. I became a fan again.”
He takes a sip out of an enormous gas-station soda cup. It looks almost as out of place on his big executive desk as the three snow globes to his left.
“And the first time that Rip contacted me about financially backing his MAW’s expansion, I told him that I didn’t really have the interest in it, as a project. I needed to be excited by an idea, something needed to draw me out of the office and back into the business. And throwing some money behind a regional promotion that was being run by a man not exactly known for his dependability was not that thing.”
He shrugs a little bit.
“I’m sorry if that sounds coarse; I’m a fan of Rip’s. It was just the reality of the situation.
Taking a second to adjust his glasses, he continues.
“But when he called me again, about a year later, I had my assistant schedule him for an appointment at eight o’clock on the following Monday morning, just out of curiosity; he sounded different than he did before. What’s the word I’m looking for?”
“Motivated, that’s it. He sounded motivated. I liked that.”
“And when I arrived that Monday, Rip was already outside my office.”
Smiling.
“And he wasn’t alone.”