Post by Cross Recoba on Nov 28, 2018 20:34:20 GMT -5
Today everything moves quicker than you can keep track. No sooner had I landed back in Vegas than news reached of my signing to The Division. Once I’d answered for that move - I get my first match.
It seems that Bates, Cage, and Mills know that they have a blue-chip prospect on their hands, how else do you explain the fact that their fax machine still ran hot when the Twitter announcement went out?
So, next week the live audience in Toronto, Ontario get a sneak preview at what everyone who tunes into Battlefront every week will soon realise...my signing proves The Division is serious about wanting to make a mark on the wrestling world. Who have they put me against? Vannah White, the company’s very own self-proclaimed “Queen without a Crown”.
It’s an interesting nickname, really it is. I mean, if I was English, probably would have thought a little harder on that one. After all, what is a Queen without a Crown also known as? I’ll save you the time asking your social media followers - you’re a pretender.
A slight breeze sailed through the Vegas Strip that pushed the mop of blonde hair over his eyes. He absent-mindedly swept it back whilst swirling the Malbec in his hand and took stock of the last twenty-four hours.
He looked over his shoulder into the hotel penthouse, his eyes meeting Dakota’s; taking in the broad smile that adorned her face. She might well have been happier than Cross was that he had been signed to The Division, after months of time spent in Vegas she’d been itching for a change of scenery and pace.
London had given her that but the Atlantic Ocean gap wasn’t doing either any favors. New York, on the other hand, wouldn’t be so much of a culture shock from Arizona in comparison. Recoba’s smile grew as he looked over the Strip to the Mojave desert. Soon he’d be able to prove himself against Dixie Watson, James Raven, and Davis Wiley. Then, once he’d beaten them, the decision by The Division’s board to hire him would be proven adroit.
His train of thought was broken by the sound of the suite door opening. He turned to see Dakota pacing towards him with his phone in her hand.
“Sorry, your phone just went off. It’s Al!” the pacing of her words suggested she’d seen what he’d missed.
The text was only four words long but Al wasn’t someone known for their verbosity.
“My office. Fifteen minutes.”
Being a pretender isn’t your only concern, in all honesty - it shouldn’t even be in your immediate thoughts, you’ve far worse problems to face up to. You see, your whole view of life seems to be “I’m pretty, I have a webcam, I should be famous for being famous!”. I’ll even use parlance you can relate to - let’s talk about why that’s problematic...
You’re boasting a 2-0 record here, a pretty good start by all accounts. Does it strike you as strange that you’re not there in front of the TV cameras this week? This is my try-out match, the pressure isn’t on me, it’s on you. How do you feel about that? Does it keep you up at night that maybe there’s something missing? Could it be that you managed to win but not shine?
You see what this match at Insurrection is all about isn’t you for once, it’s about giving me a platform to showcase what I can do. I’m going into this match looking to put on a showcase so that everyone from Jack Washington to Jason Cashe watching in the back sits up and takes notice. I’m not going to become the next Vannah White; looking on from the sidelines and wondering “what about me?”.
You’ve not got an advantage going into this - you’re giving up a hundred pounds in weight, you’re a superfan but so far the most devastating move I’ve seen in your highlight reel was a roll-up! Sure, you made Ananki tap, but we both know that when that bell rings what I’ll be looking at is just a scared rabbit stuck in the headlights of what she can’t avoid!
No matter how many times he sat outside Costello’s office his eyes were always drawn to the picture that hung above his PA’s desk. Three men, a spade, and a desert all captured in black and white. A moment in time captured and preserved for all that followed. Cross smiled as he remembered that at least 70% of people who looked upon it could never realise the historical significance that lay behind the picture. Center stage was Sal Costello, father of Al, and an unknowing catalyst for everything Cross could count as his own. The other two? Chicago and New York, one of the first times that cities and families collaborated for the greater benefit.
He reached into his blazer pocket and fished out a Lucky Strike, he tapped it three times, butt down, on the armrest of the chair. Once for the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. He paused before tapping it once more for Madonna. He was early for the meeting, the only option for it, and June, the PA, had given nothing away about Al’s mood for Recoba to judge the situation.
Cross suspected New York would be on the docket for discussion. When Cross went to California to start his career it had come with a warning that he would neglect his duties back in Vegas. London saw a lecture steeped in the perils of Gotti and Giancana and their need for celebrity. Now, with a third company on the horizon, it was almost telegraphed.
He pulled out a matchbook he’d acquired the day before at The Gramercy and struck a light. His first hit of nicotine was welcomed with a shake of the head and a disapproving glance from June. An involuntary smirk became painted across his face, petty acts of youthful rebellion and arrogance were still just about within his grasp.
“I’ll quit one day, June, I swear…” Cross tried to sound apologetic but wasn’t entirely sure he’d rid his face of the petulant smirk.
She almost let a smile break across her own face; in the six years that he’d been at The Sands he’d told her this at least every other time he waited for a meeting with Costello. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the red light on her phone come to life.
“Cross, Al is ready to see you now”
Answer me, Vannah. How are you going to cope with two and a half thousand people willing you to get it done? All their expectations, their hopes, their dreams all transferred to you? The fourth grader who wants you to win so that the disappointment on that pop quiz fades away, the single mother who saved up to take her kids to Insurrection in the hope that one of their favorites can grab a win and take the edge off that missed payment? Think you can handle it at this stage in your career?
I could make this easy for you, how about I cut you a cheque? You can put it towards your social media efforts, maybe better lighting? A better webcam? Save yourself the embarrassment of being outclassed on the biggest stage you’ve been on in The Division, you know it makes sense.
Alternatively, you can resign yourself to the best you can make from the inevitable, at least it’s mutually agreeable on both sides. You see, beating you puts me on the map here, takes away your perfect record that you’ve stumbled into here. Whether it’s by making you tap in Garibaldi’s Guillotine or whether you start seeing the stars Up All Night in Dakota - it’s going to happen. What do you get in return? You’ll go down in the books as the first person I beat here at The Division, it’ll be a moment of historical significance and isn’t that what you want more than anything, to be remembered?
Believe me, I can make you famous!
Believe me, I can make you famous!
Costello felt a sense of symmetry as he saw the door open to his office. He watched as the twenty-four-year-old shut the door, the cigarette still smoking away. Al noticed that Recoba was nervous, the attempt to check his tie while his back was turned was a sign that his protege was expecting a turning out.
Cross ditched the cigarette into an ashtray by the door and walked over to Al to shake his hand.
“Cross, take a seat. This is an important time for you” Al’s hoped his enthusiasm would take away some of the uncertainty to the nature of the talk. Cross placed himself in the chair opposite Costello.
“Congratulations on signing with The Division…” Al smiled as he spoke, knowing the words would disarm the Illinois native. Cross leaned forward as if to interject but Costello cut him off. “Your team told me. They may answer for you but ultimately, they work for me...and New York? It’s not exactly foreign territory for us, is it?”
Recoba’s mind started to kick into overdrive, generally, these talks consisted of a lecture from Al about responsibilities but this seemed different.
“You seem to approve of the move.” Cross kept his words short, his tone measured.
“You’ve developed a good team here at The Sands and for that, you deserve full credit. Now, you need to develop the ability to let other people flourish in your absence. If your team can’t function without you, and you can’t trust them to lead, then the whole department becomes weaker for it." Cross’ expression betrayed that of a man trying to work out the angle.
“When I was your age my father sent me out on what, I imagine, the modern world would call a secondment. I went to New York as well, now it’s time for you to take that step. To go and work for someone else, to round out your education. I’ve already made calls to my family’s closest allies for you to help them while you work for The Division out East.”
“You mean....”
“The Padovano's, Cross. My father might have been the man who held the shovel but he didn’t do it alone. Each family still controls a stake in this place, even if some are less than others. They’ll brief you on what they need from you when you land. Have you looked into where you’re staying?”
“We’re viewing a place this week ahead of my first match, it’s in Orangeburg, an hour out from the city. Six bedrooms, five bathrooms, a modern mansion, if you will…” Cross could feel the disapproval of his choice from Costello.
“That could be a wise move if this was for anything else I’d call overly opulent but, for how they operate, being out of the city and somewhere spacious could be to your benefit. All I’m asking for is that you treat them with the respect you treat me and put your head down.”
“Noted. Al, who is going to be heading up Comms in my absence?”
“For the side, the shareholders hear about? Elliott…” Cross subconsciously shook his head at the decision.
“And for the side, the shareholders don’t need to know about?”
“That’s something you don’t need to worry about…” Costello got up and reached for a bottle of limoncello and two glasses, placing them in front of Recoba. He poured two shots and pushed one towards Cross.
“ Saluti!”
“ Saluti!”
The two men drank to their toast. Cross stood to make his exit, he took three steps towards the door before Al left him with parting words.
“Good luck against Vannah White!” Cross raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Elliott told me, he’s one of her YouTube subscribers”
*****