05-05-2016, 05:22 PM
Join Date: Sep 2007
Location: Denver, CO
SWF: Sins of the Father
“This is your fault; and your fault alone.”
The room descended into a state of absolute silence. Those new to our boardroom conversations were obviously shocked. The wide-eyed looks upon their faces, a marker of extreme stress, were only masked by the fact that they simply could not make eye contact with either of us. If they look away, in their mind, then this awkward situation would eventually go away.
Those accustomed to our boardroom spats simply went about their work. Others even rolled their eyes.
This was, and still is, typical of our relationship.
As the silence continued, neither my father nor I backed down. At this moment, much like many moments before, we were two caribou with their horns locked high; pushing one another back and forth… attempting to out-man the other in a primal, if not brutal, fashion.
“You gave the book (Head Booker) to Sam [Keith]. Then, Peter [Michaels], and what did that get you?”
We were still locked in a heated staredown from across the room.
I then slammed my fist down on the large black table before me; the one that separated us… potentially, the only saving grace from a possible fist fight.
To this day, we’ve never actually thrown a punch at one another. That said, we’ve come close to crossing that line; many times. We often, instead, chose our words as the knockout blow (as it tends to stick with you longer than a black-eye does).
“I… should… have HAD… the book! We wouldn’t be IN this sh*t-hole if I were!”
My father, a stoic monster of sorts, gave me the kind of stare I’ve long known since my childhood. His browline dipped, his eyes fixated, a very subtle snarl forming in the corner of his mouth. He was mad. No. He was furious that I would dare call him out.
Funny enough, I’ve been calling him out since as long as I can remember. The Eisen family is not your typical family; not by any means. We were once described as a “cold connection of individuals” by a terrible biography writer in the early 2000’s. We are more known for our continual spats, or explosions of frustration, than an outpouring of love. But, that’s why we’ve been successful. We don’t let “love” get in the way of our thinking. We challenge… we push… we fight… ALL with the end outcome in sight… Dominance. Sheer… and utter… dominance.
Of each other… of our rivals… of our industry as a whole...
“You think you can do better?”
The stare my father was projecting could be called “the fiery pits of hell shooting from the ground below…”
I call it… Wednesday.
“It’s yours, hot shot. Don't f*ck it up…”
I couldn’t fight it off any longer. A slight smirk formed upon my cracked lips as I stood a little taller. I adjust my suit coat and raised my chin higher from the midline. I knew this was the moment I had been pushing for for years now. The head booker position of the Supreme Wrestling Federation.
My chance to steer the ship back in the right direction; through disastrous waters…
My chance to make my own way; securing my control of the “Land of Supreme”...
My chance to finally shut the ‘old man up and take his company from underneath him; like I was always destined to do.
“You mean like your cronies did before me?”
I confidently spouted between my smirking lips.
My father sternly relayed his warning without looking up at the crowd within the boardroom. In doing so, those new to our daily altercations scurried quickly out of the room; dropping every notebook, pencil, and folder that’s possible as they ooze nothing more than absolute nervousness.
Those accustomed, slowly shuffle out of the room; making lunch plans and talking about their families in a calm tone.
… Mediocre Nobodies.
All that was left in the boardroom was… Myself… my father… and Eric…
It was time for a family showdown; one I expected to win.