He clicked the mouse again, the cursor set idle on the screen hoovering over the save icon. It had seemed he had been starring at this same screen for 20 mins now, silently he watched as a small rotation of blips rotated clockwise around his cursor. The wind blew the flip in the front of his salt and pepper hair upwards every time the door across the room opened. "Sales call line 172" broke the silence and echoed across the showroom, he did not blink an eye. He stared at the bright screen......................
The announcer adjusts his head set. "He hits him with the falcon arrow, there is no way Couch recovers from this one folks! The Butcher goes for the cover" yells the commentator almost jumping out of his seat as he counts "1......2........ oh almost, he almost pinned the champion folks, we almost had a new world champion right here in New York! Couch is still in a lot of trouble as the Butcher looks around the ring. This is a no disqualification match ladies and gentleman."
The Butcher makes his way to the ring post and begins his accent into history. "We all know that Dwight Couch could not hold this title forever." A short rotund commentator pipped in. "He has defended that belt all over the world for the last year Mike, we knew he would run into someone who could handle him eventually, and the Butcher seems to be slicing him down to size."
Mike clears his throat. "Well Swammi, I still think Couch will pull it off! He will not let this crowd down." Mike exclaimed as he looks onward in the ring. "OH MY FOLKS!
The Butcher has made his way to the top ropes and Couch is still on his back in the center of the ring. The Butcher is going for the Boston Butt, if he hits this I ..... I .....I ..... I don't think Couch will recover."
The Swammi pipes in with a sleazy smile. "That is what we are all hoping for Mike, that is what we are all hoping for.".
The Butchers frame casts a shadow over the ring as he stands up on the top rope, the shadow slowly eclipses over Couch as he raises his hand to his throat and with a gesture of his thumb across his neck, he jumps up and off the top rope. His muscular frame extends out and then tucks as he brings his legs up into a cannonball position.
Dwight could not move, he laid there as the shadow blocked out the lights from the top of the arena. His eyes squinted as he braced for the impact. In fact every muscle in his body tightened up, except for his right arm, it had not moved since the falcon arrow moments ago.
Mike and the Swammi scream together "BOOM SHAKALAKA". The ref Larry Peace drops down for the count "1.......2".... "Are you ok Dwight?" asks Larry "Just count the three Peace." Dwight mutters as the Butcher landed sitting square on his chest. ....... "3"? A pin drop could be heard through the arena and the faces on the sold out crowd say it all with out speaking a word. Larry Peace falls back to the corner and places his hands on his red hair in disbelief.
The Butcher looks down at Dwight seemingly just as confused and whispers "Hey man, you were supposed to kick out." Dwight replies in a low gasp "Get the hell off me and celebrate dude." The Butcher rolls off of Couch and runs over to the ref and demands his hand be raised in victory. The announce team begins to scream "The Butcher has done it, he has beaten the Champion something no one has done in the last four hundred forty two days, four hundred forty two days, four hundred forty two, four hundred forty two.
"Four hundred forty two, Couch is that right? Four hundred Forty Two?" a small skinny guy with glasses looks across the desk at Dwight as he stares off at his computer screen. "Hey man" he pokes Dwight in the shoulder. Dwight snaps out of it and looks over at him dazed and confused. "Four Hundred Forty two?" Dwight asks. "Yeah that young family who you work with the other night, that new van we quoted them payments on was $442.00 a month right?" Dwight regained focus. "Yes, yes it was sorry." He replies pushing up his glasses "No worries man, just needed to know they want to go ahead and take delivery of it tonight." Dwight nods his head in approval and the salesman walks away. Dwight spins around in his chair looking over at a few pictures, the first is a picture of his beautiful 1 year old daughter and his wife, the second one of his son in his basketball jersey and the third is a framed magazine Power Bomb Nation is the headline across the top and photo of Dwight Couch holding the World Championship graces the cover. Dwight lets out a huge sigh "That was so long ago" as he knocks the local paper off his desk. He leans to the right side of his chair and lifts the paper off the floor; a yellow insert falls out with the headline think you got what it takes? U.O.W presents the Tournament of Fortune.
The salesman with glasses enters back into the office. "Couch, Mr. Couch where you........." he looks around at the empty office, newspaper is scattered all over the floor and the three pictures that were on the window sill are gone. The computer screen is lit up with the mouse hovering over the save icon and rotation of blips run in circles clockwise.
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