Post by LankyLefty17 on Sept 8, 2020 7:28:27 GMT -8
THE NEWLY CROWNED I.C. CHAMPION HEADS HOME
Robino should have known that the plane tickets David Harley had furnished him with weren’t going to be first class, but he was annoyed all the same when the ticketing agent handed him a stub that indicated unequivocally that he would indeed be sitting in coach.
Warrior Pro wrestlers - of which there were a good many on that particular plane, and all of whom were sitting in first class - scoffed and jeered as Robino entered the airplane with the Intercontinental title belt draped prominently over his shoulder. As he took the walk of shame through the curtain that separated the haves from the have-nots, deep belly laughter filled the air behind him. It embarrassed him deeply that he - a champion! - had to sit with the commoners while all those lesser wrestlers got to sit on the preferable side of the curtain, sipping on champagne and flirting with flight attendants.
At the tail end of the plane he found his aisle seat and was relieved to find the chair next to it empty. Robino slung the gold Intercontinental title belt into the vacant seat and sat down beside it, but before he could even get comfortable someone tapped impatiently on his shoulder and cleared their throat. Robino looked up at a pudgy, middle-aged man who was gesturing toward the chair currently occupied by the championship.
“Sorry man, I’m pretty sure that seat right there is mine.”
Robino sighed, picked up his big gold belt and sat it on his lap as the stranger squeezed past and plopped down onto the seat.
“Say man, what’s that thing? Looks fancy.”
Robino brightened up a bit. At least there would be an opportunity to brag.
“It’s the Warrior Pro Wrestling Intercontinental title.”
The man seemed impressed by that, and Robino began to warm up to his new neighbor.
“Wow!” the guy said, sounding genuinely astonished. “So you work for Warrior Pro, hey? My eleven-year-old son absolutely loves that stuff! You think I could get your autograph, man?”
The guy started shuffling around inside the pocket on the back of the seat directly in front of him, looking for anything that could be scribbled upon. Robino reached into the pocket of his jeans and produced a Sharpie he always kept handy for precisely this sort of situation.
“Well, I don’t actually work for Warrior Pro,” Robino said. “I wrestle for the i.W.e.”
“The who now?” the guy asked, and abruptly stopped rifling through the seat pocket.
“The i.W.e.,” Robino said again. When he noted the look of confusion on the man’s face, he added: “The Independent Wrestling Empire.”
The man thought about it for a second, coming up empty. “What’s that? Some sorta new company? Never heard of it.”
Robino grimaced. “No, not new. Not at all. We just celebrated our twentieth anniversary, in fact.”
The guy shrugged and looked at Robino with an expression that indicated he felt some degree of pity for the pro wrestler. “Well, I’m sure if you keep at it, they’ll let you join Warrior Pro one day.”
Robino’s eyebrows raised up about as high on his forehead as they could possibly go. He just glared at the guy for a few silent moments, eyes wide. His neighbor seemed utterly oblivious about the faux pas he’d just committed. Robino rubbed at his temples, trying to just let it slide.
“So…” Robino began hesitantly, “... did you still want that autograph?”
The man looked at Robino as though he’d just said something patently ridiculous.
“No thanks, man,” the guy said, straightening up the Skymall catalogs and emergency procedure pamphlets in the seat pouch. “I’m good.”
