Post by William Turner on Jun 5, 2012 22:22:45 GMT -5
“Just as long as you know a baby’s for life, not just for christmas.” A subtle, monotone and rather disgruntled voice booms down the corridoors of the NYCCW HQ as William “Big Willy” Turner turns a corner, coming into view. He comes donning a black suit jacket over a white shirt and a messy tie, acompanied with black trousers, polished black shoes and a golden watch around his left wrist. He has his hand raised to his ear, the hand grabbing hold onto a small black phone. Turner continues to talk to the mystery individual, continuing to walk down the NYCCW corridoors late at night, holding a folder titled “Evans. Metallica.”.
William: You think she’s just going to cower over and let her take that belt? By sunrise she would have raised an army of angry fans ... on twitter.
Mumbling is heard from the phone, sounding femanine in nature.
William: Oh, yes. The sponsors are arriving tomorrow. I’ve got something better to show them than your shit-eating grin.
William smirks cockily, obviously taking joy as the mumbled female voice sounds as if whoever was on the other line got rather angry rather fast.
William: Alright, alright, keep your knickers on. All I ask for doing this is a bit of a raise and a firm contract here. Maybe even a holiday to Spain?
Willaim continues to walk down the halls of the NYCCW HQ, entering his office and jumping onto his seat, spinning around as he listens to the person on the other end of the line.
William: Right, that’s it. Now just PISS OFF.
William furiously hangs up on the mystery individual, slamming his tiny black cell phone to his desk and leaning back in his chair, fitting his fingers together and cracking them before throwing open the “Evans. Metallica.” folder. He reads through it for a few moments.
William: Hmm ...
After a few more moments, William frantically searches through the folder, eventually sighing and stuffing it onto some other folders on his desk titled “Sonispier. Stytch.”, “Clash. Johnny.”, “Hunter. Drake.” and “Williams. London.”. He sits there, brushing his fingers through his hair as he takes a look at a sheet in front of him. He soon drops his head onto the table and tenses up his fingers, most likely due to stress. He takes all the folders and places them in front of him, taking a look at the expiry of the contracts. He reads through them, looking at how long there is left on the group’s contracts.
William: Stytch ... contract runs out October 8th, Clash ... contract runs out Feburary 11th 2013, Drake ... contract runs out 4th November, London ... contract runs out August 24th. Hmm ... Johnny, Rage and Laura all have considerably longer contracts than everyone else ... I didn’t sign these ...
Turner’s cell phone begins to ring, he soon answers but in doing so, lets go of the folders and they immediatly fall and slide off of the desk, Turner grunting at this. Whoever was on the other line was very feminine, their mumbling voice being very high. Turner seemed to smile as soon as he got talking to her.
Turner: Hey babe, everything okay?
(mumbling sounds)
Turner: You sound exhausted, you alright, love?
(mumbling sounds with a giggle at the end)
Turner: Ah, I see. Been jogging ‘ave you?
(mumbling sounds)
Turner: What you bin doin’ then?
(mumbling sounds)
Turner: Yeh don’ ‘ave tah lose weight, you look beautiful already.
(mumbling sounds)
Turner: Seriously, eat a cake or something, enjoy yourself.
(mumbling sounds)
Turner: *grunt* *sigh* Yes, yes, I sorted out the invitations.
(mumbling sounds)
Turner: Alright, buh bye. Love you, cupcake.
Turner hangs up on the mystery caller, his last words revealing her to be his fiancee, Jane. He soon goes back to sorting his files and looking into the mystery of the TWI members’ contracts being longer than anyone else’s.
Turner: Hmm ... who will save NYCCW from the big bad TWI ... BA-BA-DA-DAAAh ... it’s me.
Turner smiles to himself as he lifts Johnny’s contract up from his desk, confident in his abilities as general manager to bring down these “sacks of shit” dubbing themselves the TWI.
#TurnerForPresident
William: You think she’s just going to cower over and let her take that belt? By sunrise she would have raised an army of angry fans ... on twitter.
Mumbling is heard from the phone, sounding femanine in nature.
William: Oh, yes. The sponsors are arriving tomorrow. I’ve got something better to show them than your shit-eating grin.
William smirks cockily, obviously taking joy as the mumbled female voice sounds as if whoever was on the other line got rather angry rather fast.
William: Alright, alright, keep your knickers on. All I ask for doing this is a bit of a raise and a firm contract here. Maybe even a holiday to Spain?
Willaim continues to walk down the halls of the NYCCW HQ, entering his office and jumping onto his seat, spinning around as he listens to the person on the other end of the line.
William: Right, that’s it. Now just PISS OFF.
William furiously hangs up on the mystery individual, slamming his tiny black cell phone to his desk and leaning back in his chair, fitting his fingers together and cracking them before throwing open the “Evans. Metallica.” folder. He reads through it for a few moments.
William: Hmm ...
After a few more moments, William frantically searches through the folder, eventually sighing and stuffing it onto some other folders on his desk titled “Sonispier. Stytch.”, “Clash. Johnny.”, “Hunter. Drake.” and “Williams. London.”. He sits there, brushing his fingers through his hair as he takes a look at a sheet in front of him. He soon drops his head onto the table and tenses up his fingers, most likely due to stress. He takes all the folders and places them in front of him, taking a look at the expiry of the contracts. He reads through them, looking at how long there is left on the group’s contracts.
William: Stytch ... contract runs out October 8th, Clash ... contract runs out Feburary 11th 2013, Drake ... contract runs out 4th November, London ... contract runs out August 24th. Hmm ... Johnny, Rage and Laura all have considerably longer contracts than everyone else ... I didn’t sign these ...
Turner’s cell phone begins to ring, he soon answers but in doing so, lets go of the folders and they immediatly fall and slide off of the desk, Turner grunting at this. Whoever was on the other line was very feminine, their mumbling voice being very high. Turner seemed to smile as soon as he got talking to her.
Turner: Hey babe, everything okay?
(mumbling sounds)
Turner: You sound exhausted, you alright, love?
(mumbling sounds with a giggle at the end)
Turner: Ah, I see. Been jogging ‘ave you?
(mumbling sounds)
Turner: What you bin doin’ then?
(mumbling sounds)
Turner: Yeh don’ ‘ave tah lose weight, you look beautiful already.
(mumbling sounds)
Turner: Seriously, eat a cake or something, enjoy yourself.
(mumbling sounds)
Turner: *grunt* *sigh* Yes, yes, I sorted out the invitations.
(mumbling sounds)
Turner: Alright, buh bye. Love you, cupcake.
Turner hangs up on the mystery caller, his last words revealing her to be his fiancee, Jane. He soon goes back to sorting his files and looking into the mystery of the TWI members’ contracts being longer than anyone else’s.
Turner: Hmm ... who will save NYCCW from the big bad TWI ... BA-BA-DA-DAAAh ... it’s me.
Turner smiles to himself as he lifts Johnny’s contract up from his desk, confident in his abilities as general manager to bring down these “sacks of shit” dubbing themselves the TWI.
#TurnerForPresident