Slate & 10|EL Walk into a Bar...

by **krzy** Thu Sep 07, 2017 6:24 pm

Clinking glasses, happy chatter and the latest top 40 hit on the stereo fill the room of this dimly-lit bar that certainly isn't hurting for patrons.

The bartender is working hard, taking and filling drink orders simultaneously all while maintaining a conversation about the local team's struggles with an older gentleman sitting at the counter.

The camera pans around to reveal the reason why we're here: Xander Slate is also sitting at the bar, glass in hand talking to himself in a hoarse voice.

"I still don't understand," he starts then cuts himself off by taking a sip of his beverage, "how he got in there this morning." Slate downs the rest of the glass' contents with a big gulp then motions the bartender over for a refill.

While he waits, Slate runs a hand over his head, his gaze fixed on a spot somewhere off in the distance. "That freak! That...that wannabe is trying to leech off of MY fame, MY success. But he's not getting anywhere near MY title."

Slate chuckles.

"Oh no. I'm gonna beat his ass down and send back to struggling for roles with the other D-listers."

He nods, the idea perfectly coming together in his head.

"That was a room in a five-star hotel that he broke into. I didn't even get my complimentary breakfast."

Slate snatches the glass off the counter the moment the bartender sets it down and drinks a few gulps of its contents. The bartender tries to say something to him, but Slate's so into his diabolical plans for revenge that he ignores the guy.

"We gotta do something about this," he says once his thirst is quenched, for now. "We're in this together and after that bastard made a fool of me this morning, we cannot rest until he's dealt with once and for all...by any means necessary."

The United States champion pounds his fist on the table to emphasize how serious he is about this all. "What you did on Fusion was a start, but it was a mistake letting him live to see another day. Next time we knock him back down, we gotta make sure he never gets back up! Now whattaya say to that?"

The camera zooms out to reveal that Russell Pontarelli was sitting next to Slate all this time, except the protégé was so caught up with making out with a stranger he met here that he likely didn't hear a single word that Slate said. The champ shakes his head and lifts himself from his stool. He reaches into his front pocket for his wallet that he keeps in there like a sick freak, just to learn that it's not there.

Slate gives the bartender a sheepish look, but he just smiles in response and points a thumb over his shoulder. "I was trying to tell you earlier, but a guy over there already picked up your tab."

Looking over in the direction the bartender's pointing, Slate can't quite make sense of this. "Who--" Is all he's able to get out before it all clicks. He spots 10|EL sitting off to the side and the two lock eyes. A burning rage fueling his every action, Slate makes it over to 10|EL's table in a few, long strides.

Slate slams both palms on the table. "You've got some nerve showing your face here," he says with a snarl. "Especially not that I got backup. Russell!"

The champ turns to see his protégé is still locking lips, just with a different women this time around. "RUSSELL!" Though it's all in vain as the sound of 10|EL chuckling makes Slate snap his head back around. Slate's eyes open wide when he sees what’s now lying on the table: the pair of boxer shorts that he couldn't find this morning.

Written on the undergarment in red lipstick is 10|EL’s signature; he autographed it! Slate lunges for his clothing, but 10|EL is a hair quicker. The soap opera star slides over in his booth, and pats the seat next to him then motions toward the full drink on the table waiting for Slate to enjoy. Slate glances back at Russell, who might as well be on another planet, realizing now that he’s in this on his own and thus will have to be smart about this.

Or maybe there’s no point in fighting right now, you know? There are no wrestling fans here, there’s nothing to be gained or lost by shedding blood in a place like this. Besides, 10|EL has shown a willingness to be friendly, to let bygones be bygones and move forward toward a future where the two are allies, not bitter rivals. None of Slate’s friends, much less his rivals, have been kind enough to buy him a drink in a bar or keep the other side of a hotel bed occupied so that Slate’s money doesn’t go to waste by only having half the bed in use.

That thoughtfulness perhaps could lay the foundation for their relationship being repaired. At Ascendance, 10|EL was merely bitter about being abandoned and forgotten and was looking to make the biggest splash that he could. Even Slate would have to admit that he would do the same did in 10|EL’s shoes, if not worse.

Because he has done worse.

But that was then and this is now. The moment where they’ll look back and laugh at how they could ever be on bad terms. Slate shrugs and takes a seat next to 10|EL who flashes a brilliantly white smile as he watches Slate take the glass. The United States champion visually inspects the contents, as if expecting it to be drugged, and as if expecting to be able to tell if it was drugged just by looking at it. Finally, throwing caution to wind, Slate raises his glass toward 10|EL and the two share a toast to a less antagonistic tomorrow. The two throw their heads back and down their respective drinks, and Slate suddenly spits his into 10|EL’s face!

“This isn’t Mountain Dew,” he shouts as the alcohol burns 10|EL’s eyes. The patrons in the bar scream out as pandemonium breaks out as Slate grabs 10|EL by his luscious locks and drags him out of the booth. 10|EL crumbles to the ground still rubbing his eyes. Slate gives him something else to worry about with rapid, stiff stomps to the ribs, the hips, the abdomen, even the head at one point. Every exposed body part is fair game.

Slate peels 10|EL off the ground and bashes his face onto the unyielding wood of the thick table. He’s going after 10|EL’s looks, truly the dirtiest route you could take! Finally 10|EL is able to use his hands to block to next face smash, then jerks his elbow so hard into Slate’s gut that it almost pierces the flesh. The impact doubles Slate over as he tries to catch his breath. This gives 10|EL the opening he needs to take Slate by the hand and chomp down on it!

“Russell! Russell!” Slate continually cries out, but gets nothing in response as Pontarelli has moved on to his third woman, that we know of, for the night, damn near sticking his tongue down her throat. He puts a hand up her slender, smooth thigh giving it a gentle squeeze. She giggles softly, smiling through the kiss and for all we know these two may be soulmates. They’re definitely enjoying each other’s company, and it’s truly a beautiful thing to see such a bond being formed right before our eyes.

Pontarelli brushes her long auburn hair out of her face with one hand while the other begins sliding higher and higher up her leg until 10|EL tosses Slate back into the booth. Slate lands with a thud on the floor, groaning in pain as he feels the teeth marks on the palm and back of his hand.

10|EL uses the back of his sleeve to scrape his tongue, clearly put off by the taste. Who knows where that hand has been. 10|EL walks over to the bartender and orders a drink to get the taste out of his mouth, casually leaning against the bar as if there were nothing wrong. The bartender puts the glass, with a cherry in it, in 10|EL’s hand and he drinks it down quickly, cherry and all. 10|EL grabs the bartender by the lapels, pulls him in close and plants one on him. When they separate, the cherry is in the bartender’s mouth now.

They look to be going for round two, when Slate cuts their fun short by nearly knocking 10|EL over the counter with a vicious clothesline to the back of the head. Slate grabs a handful of 10|EL’s hair and throws 10|EL face first into the wall. Slate quickly peppers 10|EL with rights and lefts to the ribs. Slate takes a few steps back to create some distance, breathing heavily from the strain of this impromptu battle. He charges forward and with as much force as he can muster he thrusts his shoulder into 10|EL’s back sandwiching him against the wall as well.

Before 10|EL can drop to the ground, Slate lifts him over the shoulder, then lets his foe free fall gut first onto the bar stool. 10|EL coughs and wheezes on the floor, trying to collect himself. Slate adds insult to injury, the proverbial salt to the wound, by rubbing the sole of his dirty shoes into 10|EL’s face. Slate looks down, and with a smile he admires his handiwork. He walks over to a man sitting at a table with a plate of fries in front of him. He takes one without asking, dips into it into their ketchup and takes a bite out of it.

Keeping an eye on 10|EL, Slate nods, this is just what he needed. He then puts the other half into their ketchup and finishes it off. He double dipped! A look of pure horror crosses their faces, their night ruined by the most heinous act imaginable being committed right before their very eyes. Before he can enjoy another, Slate notices 10|EL using the bar stool he was dropped on to pull himself off the ground. Slate grabs the plate and prepares to use it as a weapon. He dashes forward and swings it in an overhead arc, but the motion is easily read by 10|EL who ducks under it.

The plate goes flying and breaks into several pieces the moment it hits the ground. 10|EL grabs Slate from behind and drops him groin first onto the stool. “Russell…” Slate wheezes, but now Pontarelli isn’t in the room at all anymore. 10|EL headbutts Slate right between the shoulder blades, then slaps him on the back of the head. 10|EL pulls Slate off the Stool rips Slate’s shirt clean down the middle exposing his bare chest.

The sound of flesh on flesh echoes in the room as 10|EL chops the living hell out of Slate. Slate stumbles away trying to keep some distance between them, but 10|EL doesn’t let him get too far. The actor spins Slate around and chops him once, twice, three times before Slate pushes him away and tries to find a way out of here. He finds himself in a hallway and he frantically pushes at doors, but they’re all locked. He makes it to the last one, though before he can try to open it, 10|EL tackles him from behind and they go tumbling through the swinging door, landing hard on the tiled floor.

They’re in the bathroom now, but the room is currently occupied. Pontarelli is swapping Saliva with a woman sitting on the sink, legs wrapped around him. 10|EL pauses to admire the view, giving Slate the opening to jerk his leg upward and kick 10|EL where the sun don’t shine. Slate is so caught up in getting the upperhand in this brawl, that he doesn’t even realize that Pontarelli is here. Slate grabs 10|EL by the hair and drags him out of the bathroom. He throws 10|EL into a door that opens when 10|EL makes impact with it, causing him to fall through.

They’re outside the building now, the fight taking them to an alley behind it. Slate’s gaze lands on a dumpster and without hesitation he grabs 10|EL by the scruff of his neck and tosses him in there. Slate does the ol’ “job’s all done” triple palm swipe. Then makes his way back into the bar.

“Russell! Russell! Let’s get the hell out of here!” Slate shouts as he limps down the hallway. He’s back in the main room, where staff and some good samaritans are trying to clean up the mess. Slate takes a seat at the bar and tries to collect his breath. It’s been a hell of a night, hell of a day, matter of fact, but it’s all over now.

As he order something, the screen begins to fade to--10|EL kicks the front doors open. All eyes turn to him as his body fills the doorframe. You can almost hear the western music playing, as 10|EL talks a few steps forward and locks eyes with Slate who swivels around on his stool. 10|EL is holding a bottle of Victory that he found in the dumpster, barely enough for one spray, but just enough to finish this once and for all. His eyes wide, Slate watches as 10|EL applies the fragrance to himself, a heavenly aroma immediately fills the room.

10|EL parts his legs, raises his arms, and blesses the room with the sight of his famed poses which effectively draws the ire of Slate. The champ hops to the ground, but it’s as though 10|EL were born anew. The actor easily ducks underneath Slate’s wild right, and with blinding speed he rocks Slate with a left that hits flush on the jaw. Slate staggers backward the strike nearly flooring him. 10|EL rushes forward and drives his knee into Slate’s gut, then hits a double axe handle to the small of Slate’s spine.

The consecutive blows cause Slate to fall to his knees, the back of one hand pressed against his back. 10|EL squats down in front of him and blows him a kiss. With that said he takes Slate by the arm and forces him back onto his feet; he’s trying to lock in Insatia.

“Who does a submission in a brawl?!” Slate cries out as 10EL tries to get himself positioned. “RUSSELL!!!”

“What?” Pontarelli saunters into the room, a new girl on his arm. When he realizes what’s going on, he pushes the girl in 10|EL’s direction to serve as a distraction. 10|EL smoothly scoops her into his arms, their eyes locking. “¿Tu nombre?” he asks.

“Triss,” she replies breathlessly. 10|EL leans in and they share a passionate kiss.

“That’s my girl!” Pontarelli shouts incredulously. He charges forward only to eat a shoe to the face as 10|EL twirls the woman around, using her as a weapon. Now it’s Slate’s turn to take a crack at this. 10|EL tosses the woman at Slate who catches her, and as he cradles her in his arms, hoping for a little action himself, 10|EL hits a legsweep. Slate falls on his back with the lady landing right on his chest.

10|EL squares up, prepared to fight all night, but that little bit of Victory. wears off. Once again the room smells like cigarettes, vomit and shame. 10|EL falls to a knee, suddenly exhausted, allowing Pontarelli to nail him with a boot right to the side of the head. The protege mounts 10|EL and unloads with punches to the face.

“Hey!” Now everyone turns to be the man Slate stole fries from earlier. He puts the last fry in his mouth, eating them from the table after Slate took, and broke, his plate. He chews slowly, savoring every bite, his expression serious. Finally he stands up, wiping some crumbs from his face with a napkin. “I’m the bouncer, and my snack break is over, so I’m not going to just sit back and let this slide.”

He takes a step around the table. Now that he’s standing under a brighter light, this hulking figure has the physique to match his booming voice and back up his ominous words. Pontarelli slowly slides off of 10|EL hands up in a defensive stance, while Slate forcefully shoves the woman off of him. Together they get onto their feet, their eyes never leaving the bouncer, worried that if they look away it’ll be his signal to pounce. Slowly they back up, until their backs in the front door 10|EL entered through minutes before.

As if reading each other’s minds, they run through the doors in a burst of energy. The crowd applauds at this thing finally getting a resolution with the bad guys being ran off. Those who saw this unfold from the beginning, remember that 10|EL never once seemed to threaten Slate with any violence. Much like at Ascendance it was the United States champion who sensed something in 10|EL and felt compelled to strike first.

The bouncer kneels by 10|EL’s side and helps the aching actor to his feet. After seeing that 10|EL is okay his angry expression dissolves into a smile. “Oh my god, 10|EL, big fan! I watching Dying to Live on Netflix all the time! That scene with you and Dennis getting chased in the car? Gets me everytime.”

He pulls out his wallet and takes out a movie ticket stub. “I was there for the live screening of the first four episodes. I have to get your autograph!”

10|EL, never one to let a fan down, signs his name and takes a picture with the bouncer. While the bouncer tries to determine which pic to keep and which to delete, 10|EL turns and winks at the camera. “Mientros yo lucho con mi corazón y alma, no puedo perder.”