Author: Q
Title: The Gospel of Q - Beginnings
Word Count: 1.8K
Notes: Another character development piece. Couple of jabs thrown towards the two other competitors but mostly this is Go to Jail for Q. Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect $200. Every action has an equal but opposite reaction, whether or not instigated by the receiving end. Enjoy.
*****
'Ist dies ... for Real?'For a moment, Q forgets that he is not in Berlin anymore and reveals a beautifully lilting German that one would be hard-pressed to find resistance to. One would also be shokced to find that the person on the other side of the wooden panel door understands the words floating from his mouth.
'Yes Mr ... Q. This is real. It's DAMN real. Now if you'll please gather your things, we'll be off.'Blink.
'You might want to come in. I may be a while 'gathering my things'. You understand I hope. Certain standards.'. Q grips the door handle and unlatches the lock, pulling inwards to allow the man entrance. Ooooooh and look how neat and pressed HE looks. That bald head shining in the sunlight. A physically imposing man. Looks like he had seen the inside of a gym several times a week for the past few years. Q almost heard the Olympic Games theme sounding off inside his head. He smiles warmly and invites the man into his den, offering a cup of coffee as he waits.
'I'm afraid we must be off sir. Mr. Mason was VERY explicit --''Oh! The boss HIMSELF had this put into operation? My goodness, this must be a rather big deal. Terribly sorry for the mess. I had a few friends over for breakfast last night.'. Mess? The loft was absolutely impeccably neat and clean. No signs of a party whatsoever. Of course, he had just prepared to crawl into bed and it was three o'clock in the afternoon. He wasn't going to go into the specifics with this federal agent wannabe.
As he ascends the sprialing staircase, Q calls down to his unwitting chauffeur:
'I'll be just a moment. No worries ... '**45 Minutes Later**
'Are you ready sir?''... am I ready? I've been waiting 45 freakin' minutes and you have the sack to ask me if I'm ready?!'. Q smiles and nods enthusiastically, swiping a swatch of white and silvery hair from his face. The man isn't too pleased, Q can see and is quite aware of this. However ... just the sight of such a neat ... orderly ... and downright intimidating escort starting to lose his cool exterior facade was simply too much for Q to avoid. Hands shoved carelessly into his pockets, Q literally squeaks as he descends from the second floor.
Squeaking because of the leather tux he wears. It is uncanny; Q looked like a slightly more bat-shit crazy version of the man who has been awaiting his arrival. Aviator sunglasses. Nicely shined shoes. His white hair pulled back is the only difference between the two really. Puffy and floaty, it was unmanageable and instantly attractive to the opposite sex. Q literally has has to field the question '
Can I play with your hair?!' approximately seven times.
As he was changing.'Well sir. I'm sorry that you kept me waiting. Shall we get moving?'. The man gasped in utter surprise.
'Me?! But you're the --'. He smiles and pats the gentleman on the back as he ushers the man towards the front door.
'Now now. Who did what was SOOOOOOO fifteen minutes ago. Do you want to waste any MORE time?'. With a light shove, Q nudges the man out of the building towards the waiting vehicle. As he locks the door behind him, Q hurries to catch up with the brisk stalking gait of his companion.
'So. Where are we headed?'*****
'Ich kann nicht glauben Ich tue dies.'Q is upset. In fact, Q is SO upset that he's actually speaking in German.
'Fucking lamh, nur weil einige laute Klauenseuche erwahnt, mein Name und Drogen im gleichen Atemzug ... '. His hands rather occupied at the moment in holding his penis and a small cup, Q shuffles a bit and kicks his shoe up against the base of the toilet. The bathroom was small and confining, not to mention unbelievably sterile. It amazes Q how loudly the thump of his boot resounds off each of the four walls.
Staring at the ceiling, the fluorescent lights almost seeming to burn away any signs of disease or impurity. Like a wildfire, wiping greenery from the face of the Earth. His mind is lost to the mists of his own thoughts ... clouding any focus he may have once retained. He was sure that the staff members outside were waiting patiently for his delivery ... he simply cannot make the magic happen.
It was all just a bit too odd for him.
It requires some consideration.
And what better time to think something over than while taking a business piss?
That's right. Apparently, the head honchoes of TGW stumbled upon the blow-hard ramblings of not only their newest acqusition but Q's next opponent, Erik Eklund and took his words to heart. Too much so, unfortunately. Eklund's horrid choice of words, coupled with Q's recent actions at Retribution to a lovely and ... quite honked off ... intern, led to Q being 'randomly' selected for a drug test. That's right.
Erik Eklund's words are worth exactly 8 fluid ounces of Q's golden shower.
Hm. That was pretty good. Where's a video camera when you need one, to immortalize such a good insult? Q possibly considers that he would use such a barb on national television to get a cheap laugh out of the huddled masses. Instead, Q is left to ruminate upon his clever wiiticism alone in some damned medical facility with no outside appreciation. In spite of his current predicament, Q manages to smile as he looks down at the cup. Thinking does not seem to inspire a bladder to expunge its' contents.
Groaning in frustration, Q begins to look around the room.
Nothing interesting here, Q muses silently to himself.
Couple of magazines ... the floor is pretty though. Blue and white tile. Is that Italian styled?. Q shrugs. And looks around but slowly ... surely ... Q finds himself drawn back into his own little world.
Oh no!
This is happening just like Michael Hyde and Erik Eklund said it would! Alert the presses, stop the media!
Wait.
... scratch that. The only reason Erik Eklund knew this would happen is because EVERYONE does this in light of absolutely dreary surroundings and circumstances. Retreating into one's own thoughts to escape the pitiful day-to-day existence so many call 'life'.
Truth be told, if True Glory Wrestling is the outside world? Q is quite content to live in his own little make-believe world, thank you. For christ's sakes, look at who represents the company if you need any sort of proof. Everyone always says
'Think outside the Box.'. Think outside the box? Q has oftentimes found himself belabored over this phrase and its' implications, ultimately coming to a concrete and ultimate decision:
Thinking outside the box gets a person NOWHERE. He has long kept a strand of mental focus to the idea and WHY it always manages to get under his skin. And then one day, like a hammer striking The Anvil, it dawned upon him.
EVERYONE THINKS OUTSIDE THE BOX.
It's a commonplace quotation, and everyone attempts to think outside the box. While everyone is thinking outside the box, Q is free to run amok INSIDE the box. Take the box as his own. Decorate it and leave all the other suckers outside ... thinking about where their box has gone.
Supply and demand.
And besides, were the world allowed to glimpse Q's little fantasy world then existence probably wouldn't be so mundane. But it does offer a valuable pearl of wisdom, a pearl unearthed by Erik Eklund. Something rather GROUND-BREAKING. At least to Q, anyways. For as he stands there, taking a state-mandated piss break, Q begins to realize just how SERIOUS these guys and girls are. About what amounts to little more than a violent ballet, the people who compete in it are DEADLY serious. Drug tests, gonna-beat-you, wearing gold and proving worth.
It's all so ... dull.
Even the man with the clown face, the third man in his next match. For the entire time that Q saw the guy walking around before last week's confrontation, Q just wanted to grab the man up by his nifty purple lapels and scream in his face
'WHY SO SERIOUS?!'. It was ridiculous. But this notion is impactful to Q in that NOW ...Q sees why and what sets him apart from the rest of the roster in TGW.
To Q? This sport is entirely NOT a matter of life or death. To Q, there is SO much more important ... so much more to do than get wrapped up in some spandex-jockey's ranting and raving about violence and injury. He smiles. Beaming with the smile of one who truly understands why he happens to be ahis specific place ... at THIS particular time. If you've ever had one of those sudden A-HA moments, then you'll relive that feeling all over again with Q.
So to continue ... how does one go about fighting hordes of man-monsters aiming to pound one's face into disgusting chunks of human hamburger? How does one even attempt to muscle in on some muscle-bound gladiator's territory? The two options that spring to Q's mind are simple in theory ... strenuous in execution. And Q could honestly say that he is NOT an Excellence of Execution. Close, not quite.
The first option is simple:
-Train Hard.
-Learn the Sport
-Study Tapes
-Eat Right
-Say Prayers
-Take Vitamins
-Struggle for years to get a nibble on a pie that's already been dibbed.
-Get a Nibble
-Drop it on the FLOOR.
Ooooooor there's the second option.
The only option that Q would TRUKY consider exploring.
At this point, Q frowns. His lips scrunch to the side as he rolls this specific train of thought over the tracks. Inner thoughts bringing his focus back to the present, the here-and-now ... and the real world, Q stares down at the cup in his hand. The ocean blue toilet water. The porcelain basin just waiting for his expenditure. The physical world's echoing of his spiritual sentiments. His head lifting gently, Q gazes into the mirror hanging almost TOO neatly above the back of the toilet ... reflecting his own illuminated gaze back to him.
'I have to find Teresa.'Cue the sound of a running trickle of water.
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