Convergence Joint Booking Committee – First Meeting
October 15 – Scrooge’s Convention Centre & Resort
The camera pans across an opulent boardroom, its walls lined with dark oak paneling and portraits of long-dead tycoons. A chandelier of cold crystal hangs overhead, scattering light across the polished surface of a massive round table. Plush leather chairs circle it, but all eyes are drawn to the head of the table, where PWSJowsterguy sits with a slim laptop and a stack of notes. Calm, even-tempered, the IT specialist looks oddly comfortable among the chaos he knows is about to unfold.
On his left, the NPCW delegation:
Grinch Heyman, scarf askew, smirk already planted, fingers drumming impatiently on the table.
Bernard the Elf, posture upright, hands folded, the picture of calm patience—but his eyes are alert, wary.
On his right, the HCW delegation:
Max McGillicutty, smug, silver-tongued, eyes sharp as knives. His loyalty to Count Vlad and the Dark Dominion radiates in every word and gesture.
Donnie B, broad-shouldered, suit straining slightly at the seams, a fighter’s intensity tempered by a businessman’s pragmatism.
The hum of tension fills the room before anyone speaks.
The Opening
PWSJowsterguy (measured, neutral tone):
“Gentlemen—thank you for coming. This is the first of three meetings. Our objective: 20 matches for Convergence. Ten each night, split between the North Pole and Columbia. Tonight we’ll begin negotiations. Let’s hear opening asks.”
NPCW’s First Requests
Bernard clears his throat, leaning forward slightly.
Bernard:
“Santa Claus has asked for a match with the Yeti. Tradition, rivalry, spectacle—it’s a story worth telling. The agreement we’ve reached is that it will be a tag match: Santa with an HCW ally, Yeti with an NPCW partner.”
Max smirks, tapping a pen against his notepad.
Max:
“How festive. Nothing says main event draw like the fat man in red waddling around a ring.”
Grinch Heyman (snapping back, eyes flashing):
“You keep running your mouth, Max, and you’ll be on the naughty list with two broken ribs for Christmas. Fans pay to see Santa. End of story.”
PWSJowsterguy raises a hand, cutting off the bickering.
PWSJowsterguy:
“Noted. A tag match involving Santa and Yeti will be included. Opponents TBD. Continue.”
Grinch leans in, grin sharp as glass.
Grinch Heyman:
“The Mirror Saints and the Ashen Vicar versus the Dark Dominion. Three on three. The people want it.”
Max’s grin grows sharklike.
Max:
“Done. The Dominion will send the Fangs of Despair and Azazel. Consider it signed.”
Bernard interjects quickly, firm but calm.
Bernard:
“Then Van Helsing versus Beastfang. A true clash—hunter against beast.”
Donnie B nods approvingly, leaning forward with a spark of excitement.
Donnie B:
“Good balance. That’s a marquee singles match if I’ve ever seen one. Agreed.”
Bernard continues, steady but shrewd.
Bernard:
“Moonshadow and Sandman are available for singles contests.”
Grinch Heyman:
“As are Abaddon and Lilith.”
HCW’s First Requests
Max sits forward, savoring his moment.
Max:
“Wilbur ‘Terrorfang’ Townsend wants Krampus. Their unfinished business is perfect for this stage. The Dominion versus the Legion’s traitor—it writes itself.”
Bernard nods without hesitation, sensing the fan appeal.
Bernard:
“Agreed. Their betrayal needs resolution, and the world deserves to see it settled.”
Across the table, Grinch scowls, muttering under his breath.
Grinch Heyman:
“Of course Bernard agrees. Always handing Max’s Dominion their dream matches…”
Donnie clears his throat, breaking the tension.
Donnie B:
“Zack Brown against Mean Jack Mason. A straight-up fight. Fans know them, they’ll buy in.”
Bernard:
“Fine. But not a title match. Mason’s belt stays out of this.”
This sparks a chain reaction. Max slaps the table, leaning across.
Max:
“All titles should be defended. Otherwise what’s the point? This is Convergence! The biggest stage yet!”
Grinch Heyman (nodding sharply):
“For once, the snake makes sense. Champions must defend.”
Bernard’s voice cuts through, steady and unwavering.
Bernard:
“No. It undermines the hardworking contenders already lined up for those shots. This event cannot rob them of their rightful opportunities.”
Donnie B (firmly):
“Agreed. It’s unfair to our rosters.”
The table erupts with overlapping arguments until PWSJowsterguy slams a folder shut, the crack echoing.
PWSJowsterguy:
“I will take the matter of title defenses under advisement. A ruling will be delivered at the next meeting. Move on.”
More Proposals
Max (smoothly, as though nothing happened):
“Jack Lumber versus Rudolph. The Dominion will break your reindeer’s spirit in front of the world.”
Bernard bristles but bites his tongue. Donnie seizes the floor.
Donnie B:
“HCW is known for its Battle Royals. I propose the Convergence Cup. Twenty men—ten from each promotion. Winner gets a cup and a special prize to be determined.”
Bernard nods thoughtfully.
Bernard:
“Support.”
Grinch Heyman (rubbing his hands together, intrigued):
“Oh, I like this. Chaos, drama, alliances tested. I’m in.”
Max (coolly, dismissive):
“Unnecessary gimmickry. But I won’t veto it.”
Donnie B presses further, voice firm but passionate:
“HCW has more than the Dominion. The Rich Athlete, Ashley Summers, Samoan Bloodline, Owen Zestwell, Jax Brenner—they all deserve spots on this card. This cannot be a Dominion parade.”
Max leans back, arms crossed, lips curling into a thin smile. He doesn’t argue, but his silence says everything.
Managers and Match Rules
Bernard raises one last point.
Bernard:
“Matches ending in cheap interference—disqualifications, countouts—they cheat the fans. Managers at ringside make a mockery of competition.”
Donnie B:
“He’s right. If Convergence is to mean something, it needs definitive finishes.”
Grinch explodes from his seat, scarf flapping.
Grinch Heyman:
“Managers are the lifeblood of this business! Take us away, and you strip the soul out of half these matches!”
Max (snapping in agreement):
“For once, Heyman isn’t insufferable. We’re integral to the drama. Ban us, and you may as well call this chess with spandex.”
The argument crescendos until PWSJowsterguy rises, calm but firm.
PWSJowsterguy:
“Managers will be allowed at ringside. However—there will be no disqualifications, no countouts. Every match must end by pinfall or submission. This way, interference will not cheapen the outcomes.”
The factions simmer, but reluctantly accept the ruling.
Adjournment
PWSJowsterguy (closing his laptop):
“The meeting is adjourned. Next week’s agenda:
My ruling on title matches.
Discussion of time limits.
Mapping all twenty matches.”
The camera pans across the table—the smug smirk of Max, the satisfied grin of Grinch, the thoughtful gaze of Donnie, the measured calm of Bernard. Four agendas, one battlefield, twenty matches to decide. The war of words has begun.
Fade out on the chandelier’s cold light, reflecting like fractured glass across the polished table.
No comments:
Post a Comment