Post by Chris Strike on Aug 7, 2010 1:54:50 GMT -5
“Sterling. I got your message. No, my booking in Sydney was done about two days ago. Three, if we’re going by Australian time. Yeah, I just arrived at DIA about two hours ago – cleared customs and just got my baggage.” He paused, listening intently to the other line speaking through the end of the cell phone held near his right ear. “If they are in my mailbox, I will very likely have them within the hour. I know what it means, believe me, this world tour was fun but it was getting to be time to go back. Thanks Jeremy. Yeah, I will see you and Kurt on Thursday. Later.”
With a simple motion, Chris Strike closed shut his Panasonic P900iV cell phone and slipped it back on the front right pocket of his navy blue denim jeans. He stood to his feet from the stiff chair he sat on for these last few minutes – one of four that were each separated by steel armrests – clutching on tightly to a black leather bag on his left shoulder while pulling his luggage by its wheels with his right hand. As he walked away from the Baggage Claim area, Chris winced as pain shot through his left leg. It was one of many nuisances acquired over the last month and the many, many bookings that Strike took across the globe. Ever since defeating UWL World champion Jerry McClean and winning the Wrestling World Cup tournament at PWF Declaration, the self-proclaimed God of Thunder’s name returned to a limelight not known since his GSB days – bookers from federations in Canada, Japan, Germany, South Africa and even his native Brazil came calling, wanting him to work against those companies’ respective rosters, sell some tickets and in a way, to recognize Chris Strike as one of the best wrestlers in the world today.
For an entire month, he wrestled across the world and accumulated more flight miles than ever before, but the journey and the sights more than made up for the comfort and coziness of home through that time. Chris made a left turn once past Baggage Claim 4 and found the elevators, immediately pressing the down button on the right side. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a yawn in the process. The entire thirty hour trip from Sydney to Los Angeles and then from LA to Denver was tiring in every possible way. Finally, the lit light on the down arrow turned off and with it, the elevator on the left opened, a down arrow above now lit in red. Strike entered the elevator and after straightening his wheeled luggage, he pressed the button right next to the words “Level 5” and the doors slowly closed.
Leaning back against the elevator wall, Chris gritted his teeth, having almost forgotten that it wasn’t just a leg but that his entire body was utterly sore at the moment. His last match of this “world tour” was definitely one of the most intense out of his journey. The “Crocodile” Arnie Gregory was a pure brawler and before the “God of Thunder” was able to submit them via a wicked Queen Angelito Stretch, Gregory did a fair amount of damage to his back and the left leg. His thoughts to that match were interrupted by a ding and the sliding doors of the elevator opening up. Strike stepped outside of the elevator and through a set of sliding doors that brought him to the outside of Level 5 of Denver International Airport.
Stepping outside, Chris Strike felt the summer heat along with the dry air beat down at him, his lungs taking longer breaths in order to get himself back adjusted to home. His travels took him far and wide, places that were near sea level or even below and thus, getting accustomed back to being in the Mile High City was going to take a few days. Strike crossed two of the smaller streets, noticing the multiple bus shuttles taking people to different parking lot areas near DIA (where parking was much cheaper), taxis and even a public RTD bus that followed a specific route from DIA to different places around the city. A yellow cab sat parked on the third mini-street, a Caucasian, bald man whose head was covered by a bonnet and who wore a white shirt with blue jeans sat behind the wheel. As Strike approached the yellow cab’s trunk, the driver popped the trunk open, allowing the self-proclaimed God of Thunder to throw his carry-on and luggage in the trunk. Closing the trunk, Strike opens the back door and slips quickly into the back seat, closing it immediately after sitting down.
Without turning around, the man’s gruff voice asked. “Where can I take you?”
“7110 Bronze Hill Drive, in the Littleton area,” responded Strike, lying back further against the seat in a somewhat futile to lessen the pain jolting across his back.
The man punched the address in along with a few other things on the GPS that sat right above the AC and the two-way radio that Strike deducted was a way of communicating for the cab driver and his employer. After a few seconds, the driver had his directions and thus, one turn of a key roared the car engine to life and on its way towards home. Strike slowly closed his eyes, the long trip definitely having taken its toll on his body and for a good ten minutes of the trip, he managed to nap. That was until Strike felt something vibrate inside of his jeans and in a sudden jerk reaction, his right hand reached for the respective front pocket and pulled out his cell phone, now blaring “Maniac Dance” by Stratovarius. Strike flipped the phone open.
“Hello?” he asked, groggy and very much wondering who exactly disturbed his slumber. That expression changes in two seconds’ time, as his eyes widen and a sly grin curls on his lips, the remainder of his body forgetting about the pain as the melodic voice speaks to him. “Good morning to you too Serena, how have you been? Wait, really? You are coming out here next week? You missed me that much, huh?” he chuckled, rubbing his eyes with his left hand in order to wake up, to focus on this conversation and to pay attention – after all, Serena was a full-fledged Irish woman and her accent could be hard to understand if one did not pay attention to every syllable out of those lips. “So let me get this straight…you are writing a new book and due to catching me at that Dublin show three weeks ago, you may have possibly found your subject in our sport? Oh, nothing wrong with that, but it will take a fair amount of research to pull that off, which is why you are calling me, isn’t it?”
Chris’ hands went from his eyes to his own chin, stroking the scruffy surface around his jaw line slowly while intently listening on the line and what Serena was saying. “Yeah, rumors are right. Noble called me last week and so did Sterling a little while ago. If they have the contract sent to me on the mail, I will be signing it, yeah.” Strike raised his eyebrows, the voice in the other line telling him something very, very interesting. He laughed. “Wait a second. Even without a signed contract, they already scheduled me for a match – the main event, at that – against these two guys Parker and Carter and my tag team partner is Chris freaking Hart himself? That’s bold of them, it’s what it is. Serena, of course I plan on showing up! To their credit, they read me all too well…this is like an invitation to step in with some of their best and show them what it’s all about. Yeah, yeah, I’ll come get you from DIA next Monday then, don’t sweat it. Okay, I’ll catch you later.”
Chris Strike snapped the phone close and slipped it back onto his pockets. Crossing his arms, Chris’ mind immediately thought back to Chris Hart – the last time both men crossed paths was when they both aided on chasing away Delikado, Christian Kane, Jeof Caravelle, Leon Tyrell and a few other of the PWF’s so-called “bad guys” and allow Paul Sant a free reign on defeating Jack Benevolence, closing out PWF in a bright note as the “Saint of Terror” then won the PWF Triple Crown. Before that, the two had been bitter enemies for the better part of two and a half months through the warfare of their respective tag teams: the Natural Disasters and Noble-Hart. The two men’s history was not all that pleasant, but there was a mutual respect and that alone allowed Chris Strike to trust Hart in the extent of teaming with him – even when given the God of Thunder’s tendencies for being a lone wolf when it came to his career, teaming with Lyn Dallins being the only exception to that rule.
His opponents were two unknown fellas by the name of John Parker and Steven Carter. The moment he got back home and slept the amount of fucking jet lag along with tiredness off, Strike would kick into full research mode, as the unknown always found a way of making things annoying for the self-proclaimed God of Thunder if not made known. Then finally, there was the one and only Serena Gallagher, a New York Times Bestseller author (for a mystery thriller called “Lord of the Castle”) that he met at an Iron Maiden concert nearly two months ago while she was in town for a book signing – the two of them ending up drunk on Chris’ apartment after the show and having a fantastic night in the process. What he first thought was a simple one-time encounter turned into another meeting in Dublin, Ireland, when Strike was in the beginning of his bookings around the world. While in Ireland, they struck a friendship and after this phone call, Chris Strike was about to become of this woman’s better friends for as long as it took her to finish her next book – a book based on the world of professional wrestling, where the God of Thunder would serve as one of her many guides.
Needless to say, life was about to get complicated and be nowhere near the perfect, quiet life he almost wished for after winning the Wrestling World Cup on the Fourth of July. “But if the world was perfect, it wouldn’t be,” thought Strike out loud, his mind entering the nonsensical realm of Yogi Berra-isms that actually made sense at times once again. A small sigh escaped him, before he closed his eyes once more and allowed himself to drift off into sleep until the yellow cab arrived at his home.
His world tour may be over, but his reign as God within the Kingdom was just beginning.
[/font]With a simple motion, Chris Strike closed shut his Panasonic P900iV cell phone and slipped it back on the front right pocket of his navy blue denim jeans. He stood to his feet from the stiff chair he sat on for these last few minutes – one of four that were each separated by steel armrests – clutching on tightly to a black leather bag on his left shoulder while pulling his luggage by its wheels with his right hand. As he walked away from the Baggage Claim area, Chris winced as pain shot through his left leg. It was one of many nuisances acquired over the last month and the many, many bookings that Strike took across the globe. Ever since defeating UWL World champion Jerry McClean and winning the Wrestling World Cup tournament at PWF Declaration, the self-proclaimed God of Thunder’s name returned to a limelight not known since his GSB days – bookers from federations in Canada, Japan, Germany, South Africa and even his native Brazil came calling, wanting him to work against those companies’ respective rosters, sell some tickets and in a way, to recognize Chris Strike as one of the best wrestlers in the world today.
For an entire month, he wrestled across the world and accumulated more flight miles than ever before, but the journey and the sights more than made up for the comfort and coziness of home through that time. Chris made a left turn once past Baggage Claim 4 and found the elevators, immediately pressing the down button on the right side. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a yawn in the process. The entire thirty hour trip from Sydney to Los Angeles and then from LA to Denver was tiring in every possible way. Finally, the lit light on the down arrow turned off and with it, the elevator on the left opened, a down arrow above now lit in red. Strike entered the elevator and after straightening his wheeled luggage, he pressed the button right next to the words “Level 5” and the doors slowly closed.
Leaning back against the elevator wall, Chris gritted his teeth, having almost forgotten that it wasn’t just a leg but that his entire body was utterly sore at the moment. His last match of this “world tour” was definitely one of the most intense out of his journey. The “Crocodile” Arnie Gregory was a pure brawler and before the “God of Thunder” was able to submit them via a wicked Queen Angelito Stretch, Gregory did a fair amount of damage to his back and the left leg. His thoughts to that match were interrupted by a ding and the sliding doors of the elevator opening up. Strike stepped outside of the elevator and through a set of sliding doors that brought him to the outside of Level 5 of Denver International Airport.
Stepping outside, Chris Strike felt the summer heat along with the dry air beat down at him, his lungs taking longer breaths in order to get himself back adjusted to home. His travels took him far and wide, places that were near sea level or even below and thus, getting accustomed back to being in the Mile High City was going to take a few days. Strike crossed two of the smaller streets, noticing the multiple bus shuttles taking people to different parking lot areas near DIA (where parking was much cheaper), taxis and even a public RTD bus that followed a specific route from DIA to different places around the city. A yellow cab sat parked on the third mini-street, a Caucasian, bald man whose head was covered by a bonnet and who wore a white shirt with blue jeans sat behind the wheel. As Strike approached the yellow cab’s trunk, the driver popped the trunk open, allowing the self-proclaimed God of Thunder to throw his carry-on and luggage in the trunk. Closing the trunk, Strike opens the back door and slips quickly into the back seat, closing it immediately after sitting down.
Without turning around, the man’s gruff voice asked. “Where can I take you?”
“7110 Bronze Hill Drive, in the Littleton area,” responded Strike, lying back further against the seat in a somewhat futile to lessen the pain jolting across his back.
The man punched the address in along with a few other things on the GPS that sat right above the AC and the two-way radio that Strike deducted was a way of communicating for the cab driver and his employer. After a few seconds, the driver had his directions and thus, one turn of a key roared the car engine to life and on its way towards home. Strike slowly closed his eyes, the long trip definitely having taken its toll on his body and for a good ten minutes of the trip, he managed to nap. That was until Strike felt something vibrate inside of his jeans and in a sudden jerk reaction, his right hand reached for the respective front pocket and pulled out his cell phone, now blaring “Maniac Dance” by Stratovarius. Strike flipped the phone open.
“Hello?” he asked, groggy and very much wondering who exactly disturbed his slumber. That expression changes in two seconds’ time, as his eyes widen and a sly grin curls on his lips, the remainder of his body forgetting about the pain as the melodic voice speaks to him. “Good morning to you too Serena, how have you been? Wait, really? You are coming out here next week? You missed me that much, huh?” he chuckled, rubbing his eyes with his left hand in order to wake up, to focus on this conversation and to pay attention – after all, Serena was a full-fledged Irish woman and her accent could be hard to understand if one did not pay attention to every syllable out of those lips. “So let me get this straight…you are writing a new book and due to catching me at that Dublin show three weeks ago, you may have possibly found your subject in our sport? Oh, nothing wrong with that, but it will take a fair amount of research to pull that off, which is why you are calling me, isn’t it?”
Chris’ hands went from his eyes to his own chin, stroking the scruffy surface around his jaw line slowly while intently listening on the line and what Serena was saying. “Yeah, rumors are right. Noble called me last week and so did Sterling a little while ago. If they have the contract sent to me on the mail, I will be signing it, yeah.” Strike raised his eyebrows, the voice in the other line telling him something very, very interesting. He laughed. “Wait a second. Even without a signed contract, they already scheduled me for a match – the main event, at that – against these two guys Parker and Carter and my tag team partner is Chris freaking Hart himself? That’s bold of them, it’s what it is. Serena, of course I plan on showing up! To their credit, they read me all too well…this is like an invitation to step in with some of their best and show them what it’s all about. Yeah, yeah, I’ll come get you from DIA next Monday then, don’t sweat it. Okay, I’ll catch you later.”
Chris Strike snapped the phone close and slipped it back onto his pockets. Crossing his arms, Chris’ mind immediately thought back to Chris Hart – the last time both men crossed paths was when they both aided on chasing away Delikado, Christian Kane, Jeof Caravelle, Leon Tyrell and a few other of the PWF’s so-called “bad guys” and allow Paul Sant a free reign on defeating Jack Benevolence, closing out PWF in a bright note as the “Saint of Terror” then won the PWF Triple Crown. Before that, the two had been bitter enemies for the better part of two and a half months through the warfare of their respective tag teams: the Natural Disasters and Noble-Hart. The two men’s history was not all that pleasant, but there was a mutual respect and that alone allowed Chris Strike to trust Hart in the extent of teaming with him – even when given the God of Thunder’s tendencies for being a lone wolf when it came to his career, teaming with Lyn Dallins being the only exception to that rule.
His opponents were two unknown fellas by the name of John Parker and Steven Carter. The moment he got back home and slept the amount of fucking jet lag along with tiredness off, Strike would kick into full research mode, as the unknown always found a way of making things annoying for the self-proclaimed God of Thunder if not made known. Then finally, there was the one and only Serena Gallagher, a New York Times Bestseller author (for a mystery thriller called “Lord of the Castle”) that he met at an Iron Maiden concert nearly two months ago while she was in town for a book signing – the two of them ending up drunk on Chris’ apartment after the show and having a fantastic night in the process. What he first thought was a simple one-time encounter turned into another meeting in Dublin, Ireland, when Strike was in the beginning of his bookings around the world. While in Ireland, they struck a friendship and after this phone call, Chris Strike was about to become of this woman’s better friends for as long as it took her to finish her next book – a book based on the world of professional wrestling, where the God of Thunder would serve as one of her many guides.
Needless to say, life was about to get complicated and be nowhere near the perfect, quiet life he almost wished for after winning the Wrestling World Cup on the Fourth of July. “But if the world was perfect, it wouldn’t be,” thought Strike out loud, his mind entering the nonsensical realm of Yogi Berra-isms that actually made sense at times once again. A small sigh escaped him, before he closed his eyes once more and allowed himself to drift off into sleep until the yellow cab arrived at his home.
His world tour may be over, but his reign as God within the Kingdom was just beginning.