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Some would call Deeds a stalker, but those people just don’t know what it’s like to be a hot commodity. A little chalk mural or love letter every now and then isn’t all that creepy. Though Dee Dee’s wandering hands are becoming more of a thing.
“Ronin, my number one.” The leprechaun sitting behind a cluttered desk doesn’t bother getting up. And I don’t bother to react to his sarcasm, so I shut the door and pull up the chair across from him.
“Glad you’re not on the phone,” I lie, ignoring his comment. “Wouldn’t want you to hang up on any of your other number ones.”
Ignoring my own comment, Marty smirks, sending the sides of his thin lips curling into each of his generous sideburns. “He can knock a troll out and make it look real, but when it comes to a door, he’s all handles.”
I reach for a handful of chocolate-covered peanuts from a bowl near a teetering stack of files on his desk. “Speaking of handle, I thought we talked about going over my shows and routines.”
My grab shakes the stack, which hits another paper tower. Neither of us moves as a barrage of files scatter to the floor.
“Go ahead and put those anywhere, Ro,” Marty chides, pulling open his desk drawer and snatching out a cigar. If he doesn’t like his shit all over the place, he can get a filing cabinet. And on his time. Now is about me.
“You told me last time was the last time,” I say.
He heaves a sigh as he unwraps the stogie, not bothering to look at me. “Ronan, Ronan, Ronan. You come in here like you’re king hot shit.”
“But I am,” I correct. “I specifically remember you telling me that when you signed me.”
He finally shoots me a quick and hollow glance, then adjusts the unlit cigar in his mouth with two thin and hairy fingers. “Let me finish. Can I finish?”
I fold my arms across my chest but refrain from putting my feet up on his desk. Murphy’s always been a crusty loaf of rye bread. I’ve never met a leprechaun who wasn’t, so I know my manager can leave a mark.
Maybe he’s not about to swing at me for disrespecting him, not while I’m making him money. But I’m not making him any more money until that respect starts going two ways.
Adding to the mounting pile of paper on the floor isn’t going to get my point across. Not on its own, so I gesture for him to continue.
“So you’re King Hot Shit.” He gets up to begin his classic pace and speech, where he walks and talks at me for five minutes before getting to the point. Back when I was younger, a kid just starting out, I thought this made Marty look powerful, active, and on the move. Now, I wonder how much of it is theater. “But you know what that makes me?”
I will myself not to get up and pace, too. I don’t need to be Lawless Jackson right now responding to a challenger, regardless of what my clenched fists are saying. I lean an elbow against the leather armrest and try to look bored. “You better not say God Hot Shit.”
He shakes his head, then looks out the window of his corner office. “No, that would be Raucous Entertainment itself, which is something you should remember with that renewal coming up.”
“Back at you,” I warn, letting him know I’m happy to go over his head, and maybe get Lena and Fitz on my plans to spearhead my next big story. “Lena and Fritz have okayed crazier changes than what I want –”
“I’m King Hot Shit’s vizier, his grand wizard, his right hand,” Marty cuts me off. I grit my teeth as he adjusts his black suspenders, pacing to the door and back now. “You come to me for advice, don’t you? Don’t you?”
I’m sure he’s taken note of my clenched jaw, so I let the next words fall out as condescendingly as possible. “I want to give advice, Marty. Don’t act like I haven’t been clear about bookers.”
That’s industry slang for story writers, the creatives who write our plots. Raucous’s bookers have been changing since Fool’s Gold and all its poaching. The best bookers left already write for more than one performer. It’ll take Fritz or Lena – or Marty Murphy himself – to make our skilled vets add me to their list of story arcs.
“What’s wrong with the lineup? You don’t like a storyline that sees you useful?” he asks, grabbing two glasses from his minibar and pouring us each a shot.
He sets mine down on the desk and continues.
“You’re practically Darth Vadar meets Jason in this one. The fans are going to eat it.”
“But how does that set him up for what I want? What we talked about?”
Sure, Lawless is killing it now, but so was Quicksilver back when he took his character from heavy-hitting villain to legendary anti-hero. Lawless has that same spark in him and now is the time to start him on a new path. It’s a risky move that most wrestling characters can’t expect to make, not successfully by keeping their fanbase.
But that’s most wrestlers. Lawless has three separate fan clubs, a thriving merch store, and all the media coverage I can handle. The character even landed me a two-episode arc playing a serial killing trainer on Spirit Seers, a popular supernatural crime series that’s set me apart from plenty of other Raucous villains. I’m marketable. I’m versatile.
“You didn’t read it,” Marty says, shaking his head at the ground, then talking to the air like it's an audience. “He didn’t read it. He didn’t fucking read it.”
“Didn’t read what?” I ask.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen the leprechaun use the move. Still, the reaction never fails to get me wondering. When Marty’s this animated, there’s a reason.
