Historian Posted July 28, 2018 Share Posted July 28, 2018 November 28, 2005 “To hell with you, Rich.” He cursed as he downed a shot of whiskey. This was one of the few bars left where he wouldn’t be bothered. Where no one would ask him for an autograph or a picture. He could drink beer and have shots of whiskey and drown his sorrows without having anyone bother him. That was a valuable skill to have. His cellphone rested on the table in front of him. It rang. His wife, Rebecca. Probably wondering when he was coming home. His boys were in high school sports now. Football had just ended. Wrestling season was starting. Of course his boys were wrestling. He shook his head and answered the phone on its third ring. “Hello.” “What did you do?” Rebecca asked, her Texas drawl heavy on the other end of the line. “I quit.” “What do you mean you quit? You left 350 a year, guaranteed, on the table and just walked out?” Her voice was in shock. “Yep.” “Why?” She was trying not to panic. He could tell. She always worried about money. Even though for the last decade he had been clearing at least have a million a year, including a four year span where he made seven figures each year. They had plenty socked away. “I couldn’t take Rich any more. I couldn’t take his demands that I make Eric the vocal point of the show. Just couldn’t do it. Twelve years was enough.” “But what are we going to do?” Her voice had softened. She knew that he had been on edge this last year. How could she really be mad at him for having had enough? “I don’t know yet. But, I know something will come up. Maybe I’ll go work for TCW. Do a couple of tours in Japan. We’ll be fine. I promise.” “Okay. I trust you. When are you coming home?” “Soon.” He promised. “I love you.” “I love you too. Don’t drink too much.” She knew him to well. Almost better than he knew himself most of the time. He hung up the phone and lifted his beer, the empty shot glass next to it. His eyes raised to the television. A basketball game was on. It didn’t look like it was any good, neither team had a star. Neither team was particularly talented offensively. He shrug and took a drink. His cellphone rang again. He didn’t recognize the number. 410 area code. He picked the phone up. “Hello.” “Hey.” The voice on the other end said. “Its Rip.” “Rip? Did you get a cellphone?” “No. This is my office phone.” “You have an office phone?” “Of course. I have to have a phone.” Rip said very matter of factly. “Oh. Well that’s true.” “I hear you quit today.” Rip said, immediately getting down to business. “Where’d you hear that?” “People still call me.” “I guess that’s true, but yeah, I did.” “You done with the business or you want a job?” “What kind of job?” “You want the book?” “Don’t you have Karen booking?” “She’ll understand.” Rip said. He was confident in that. It came through clearly. “Sure. Why the hell not?” “When can you start?” Rip asked. “December. They didn’t have a non-compete clause in my contract.” “Good. I’ll see you in a couple of days, Sam. You got the address for the school still? That’s where the offices are.” “I’ve got the address still from my tour. I’ll see you soon, Rip.” Sam Keith hung up the phone and finished his beer. Mid Atlantic Wrestling. It was brand new. It was tiny. It was founded on Rip Chord’s belief that an old school wrestling company could work. Now Rip was asking Sam to helm that ship. To be the creative force to prove the vision. Sam smiled. This was going to be fun. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Join the conversation
You can post now and register later. If you have an account, sign in now to post with your account.
Note: Your post will require moderator approval before it will be visible.