Post by Dionysus on Oct 16, 2022 12:40:21 GMT -5
As Odin looked off wistfully in the middle distance, Dionysus flagged down a nearby waiter. This conversation is going nowhere, he thought, and the only option I have left is to liquor them up more.
Dion: How about we formalize this with a team name? A showcase of unity even before the bell rings should be a good psychological edge, would it not?
Singh: We're not calling ourselves Dion's Drunks.
Dion: ...I wasn't going to-
Odin: Well obviously we're The Sons of Odin.
Singh: You're name is Odin, you idiot. How can you be a son of yourself?
Odin: Still a better name than Dion's Drunks.
Singh: That was Dion's suggestion, not mine.
Dion: ...What?
Odin: Are you even supposed to be out in the sun this long, Gingerballs? I can smell the your melanomas multiplying from here.
Pretending to be unbothered by Balfore's barb, Singh huffs over to Dionysus and pours himself a glass without even pretending to ask permission.
Dion: What did you say? Of course, of course! By all means, help yourself!
Singh takes an ungracious, ungrateful gulp and then licks his lips after. Meanwhile, Odin is pouring himself a goblet full as well.
Singh: Dion, this is delicious. And I appreciate you inviting us out to discuss all this. But if you think I'm going to let this son of a bitch steamroll me into fighting under HIS name--
Odin: I'm a son of a bitch? Isn't half your angst about what a bitch your whore mom is? Or what a whore your bitch mom is? Either way, YOU are the son of a bitch.
Singh: YOU-
Dion: GENTLEMEN!
Dionysus slapped a hand on the table, causing Odin and Singh to stop their quarreling.
Dion: I know that is the first time you have probably heard that word referred to you, but could you both shut up for ten seconds? We have spent the better part of an hour just trying to co-exist here. Like it or not, we're teaming together. We're all a bunch of hot heads looking to outperform each other in the ring. Don't you see how that's one of the best tools we have at our disposal? Think about it; King Shit has to find a way to incorporate Cedrone into their two-man domination act. It doesn't really work, because for one, its Cedrone. The guy can barely rub two pennies together and make it rain, let alone find a way to cleanly synergize with "the most dominant tag team this month." For two, the "most dominant tag team since blinking" will likely look at putting together a cohesive strategy and not just leave Cedrone to flounder. But we have the luxury of wanting to outshine one another. Singh is coming back from time away and wants to show he still has it. Odin, you just dropped the CBS title and need momentum again. And for myself...well, that one should be obvious, right?
No one in this merry band is aiming to be the one that blows it for the rest of the team. And if we're going to do that, we need our egos to shine while keeping them in check. Everyone in this group pulls their own weight, and if we lose its because we lost as a team. It sure as shit won't be because we underestimated Cedrone's ability to be too nice to everyone in the ring. Sometimes I find it hard to believe that he was a former Hardcore Champion. Seriously, the guy stumbled into the belt because of two high school's worth of drama. And we're expecting greatness out of him? Our only concern should be with King Shit, and in a three-on-two fight, the odds are in our favor, even if we can't quite co-exist yet. But we have time. We can get there; maybe not perfectly, but we can put aside our differences and actually come out ahead in all of this.
Besides, you are both entirely correct. You are both...sons of bitches.
Odin takes a satisfying swig from his goblet as Singh snatches the bottle from the table, reads the type of wine, and butchers the pronunciation of the word 'Marsanne' like he's Johnny Cedrone trying to use more than two syllables.
Singh: Mar...sane?
Odin: Less class than school on Saturdays. It's pronounced mahr-sahn.
A smile spreads across Dionysus' face as he swirls he peers into his glass.
Dion: As in...Marsannes of Bitches.
Odin and Singh paused, both looking at the bottle, then staring at Dionysus, who was whimsically swirling his glass of win.
Singh: Dion...that is the single stupidest name I've ever heard in my life.
Odin: For once, we agree on something.
Another beat of silence. Then a nod.
Singh and Odin: I like it.
Dion: How about we formalize this with a team name? A showcase of unity even before the bell rings should be a good psychological edge, would it not?
Singh: We're not calling ourselves Dion's Drunks.
Dion: ...I wasn't going to-
Odin: Well obviously we're The Sons of Odin.
Singh: You're name is Odin, you idiot. How can you be a son of yourself?
Odin: Still a better name than Dion's Drunks.
Singh: That was Dion's suggestion, not mine.
Dion: ...What?
Odin: Are you even supposed to be out in the sun this long, Gingerballs? I can smell the your melanomas multiplying from here.
Pretending to be unbothered by Balfore's barb, Singh huffs over to Dionysus and pours himself a glass without even pretending to ask permission.
Dion: What did you say? Of course, of course! By all means, help yourself!
Singh takes an ungracious, ungrateful gulp and then licks his lips after. Meanwhile, Odin is pouring himself a goblet full as well.
Singh: Dion, this is delicious. And I appreciate you inviting us out to discuss all this. But if you think I'm going to let this son of a bitch steamroll me into fighting under HIS name--
Odin: I'm a son of a bitch? Isn't half your angst about what a bitch your whore mom is? Or what a whore your bitch mom is? Either way, YOU are the son of a bitch.
Singh: YOU-
Dion: GENTLEMEN!
Dionysus slapped a hand on the table, causing Odin and Singh to stop their quarreling.
Dion: I know that is the first time you have probably heard that word referred to you, but could you both shut up for ten seconds? We have spent the better part of an hour just trying to co-exist here. Like it or not, we're teaming together. We're all a bunch of hot heads looking to outperform each other in the ring. Don't you see how that's one of the best tools we have at our disposal? Think about it; King Shit has to find a way to incorporate Cedrone into their two-man domination act. It doesn't really work, because for one, its Cedrone. The guy can barely rub two pennies together and make it rain, let alone find a way to cleanly synergize with "the most dominant tag team this month." For two, the "most dominant tag team since blinking" will likely look at putting together a cohesive strategy and not just leave Cedrone to flounder. But we have the luxury of wanting to outshine one another. Singh is coming back from time away and wants to show he still has it. Odin, you just dropped the CBS title and need momentum again. And for myself...well, that one should be obvious, right?
No one in this merry band is aiming to be the one that blows it for the rest of the team. And if we're going to do that, we need our egos to shine while keeping them in check. Everyone in this group pulls their own weight, and if we lose its because we lost as a team. It sure as shit won't be because we underestimated Cedrone's ability to be too nice to everyone in the ring. Sometimes I find it hard to believe that he was a former Hardcore Champion. Seriously, the guy stumbled into the belt because of two high school's worth of drama. And we're expecting greatness out of him? Our only concern should be with King Shit, and in a three-on-two fight, the odds are in our favor, even if we can't quite co-exist yet. But we have time. We can get there; maybe not perfectly, but we can put aside our differences and actually come out ahead in all of this.
Besides, you are both entirely correct. You are both...sons of bitches.
Odin takes a satisfying swig from his goblet as Singh snatches the bottle from the table, reads the type of wine, and butchers the pronunciation of the word 'Marsanne' like he's Johnny Cedrone trying to use more than two syllables.
Singh: Mar...sane?
Odin: Less class than school on Saturdays. It's pronounced mahr-sahn.
A smile spreads across Dionysus' face as he swirls he peers into his glass.
Dion: As in...Marsannes of Bitches.
Odin and Singh paused, both looking at the bottle, then staring at Dionysus, who was whimsically swirling his glass of win.
Singh: Dion...that is the single stupidest name I've ever heard in my life.
Odin: For once, we agree on something.
Another beat of silence. Then a nod.
Singh and Odin: I like it.
