Post by Benedict Mason Wentworth on Jul 2, 2019 19:36:27 GMT -8
The scene fades in from the match as Jessie Robert’s music is still echoing in the background as Butterscotch Monroe knocks on the office door of Brooklyn Holloway. As she waits for the door to open, she readies herself… but even she wasn’t ready for who answered the door… Stasi Herveaux. The raven haired woman stood there, arms folded across her chest as she glared at Butterscotch. The shine from the metal of the Real Championship can be seen from around her waist.
Stasi: Is there something I can help you with Butters?
Butterscotch: Uh...I’m here to question Mrs. Holloway about some issues.
Stasi: Yeah… that won’t be happening. You see, Brooklyn has a company to run because Joshua Samson is being a little bitch boy with his “wife” and his mistress. So she’s a little bit too preoccupied at the moment.
Butterscotch: But everyone is curious about the statements made to Jon Kellar earlier tonight concerning him and the Sons of God.
Stasi: They might be curious… but it’s not like they’re entitled to elaborated statements. You always act like you and everyone else… that you are allowed to know the thoughts inside someone’s head. You are… incredibly rude Butters.
Butterscotch: Or perhaps I’m just doing my due diligence as an investigative journalist for this company, Stasi? Have you forgotten that’s why I was hired?
Stasi: You are a backstage interviewer. You think that by calling yourself a “journalist” that you are someone that should be revered.
Butterscotch: I’m not here to debate my title or my job description with you. I know why I was hired here by the owner, Joshua Samson, and I will continue to do my job regardless. Now if you excuse me?
Stasi continues to block the door.
Stasi: You were hired by ONE of the owners and you weren’t allowed access. So slow your roll there.
The door opens behind the Real Champion drawing everyone’s attention. Expecting Brooklyn Holloway to emerge instead it is a short statured, weasly looking cheap suit wearing man with a smug smile on his face. He pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose before brushing his dark brown hair out of his eyes.
Man: There a problem out here, Ms. Herveaux?
Stasi: Butters is being annoying… but that’s nothing out of the usual. She thinks she’s entitled to clarification on Brooklyn’s comments from earlier.
The man peers over the top of his glasses over the shoulder of Stasi at Butterscotch.
Man: Butters? Butters? This name doesn’t ring a bell.
Butterscotch: I’m…
Completely ignoring Butterscotch, the man speaks directly to Stasi.
Man: Who is this woman, Ms. Herveaux?
Stasi: Butterscotch Monroe, the biggest pain in the ass in this company… backstage interviewer who thinks she’s a real journalist.
Butterscotch rolls her eyes.
Butterscotch: And who are you, sir?
The man removes his glasses to further inspect the longtime friend of Joshua Samson.
Man: Backstage interviewer, huh? I’m not impressed. And if I’m not impressed you can beat your patooty that Mrs. Holloway isn’t impressed. Please get rid of her, Ms. Herveaux.
Stasi: Yeah… I’ve tried that and this is one fly that won’t shoo away.
Man: Ms. Herveaux, do what you do best.
With a look of trepidation, Butterscotch glares Stasi.
Butterscotch: Wait, wait. I’ll gladly leave. At least tell me who you are?
The man places his glasses back upon his face before address Butterscotch.
Man: Why, Mrs. Monroe, I am none other than THE Voice of the New Regime. I am the spoken word of Mrs. Holloway herself. Why should she have to step down off of Mt. Olympus in order to address mere mortal such as yourself? My name is Benedict Mason Wentworth and you, Mrs. Monroe, like so many others in this company, are simply unworthy. Now good evening, ma’am.
BMW steps back into the room and slams the door behind him.
Stasi: You heard him… get out before I do what I do best. I’m really starting to think you want to end up just like Joshua Samson.
Butterscotch: I’m going, I’m going.
Stasi: Toodles…
Stasi does a quick flip of a certain finger before disappearing back inside of the office.
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Butterscotch Monroe
Stasi: Is there something I can help you with Butters?
Butterscotch: Uh...I’m here to question Mrs. Holloway about some issues.
Stasi: Yeah… that won’t be happening. You see, Brooklyn has a company to run because Joshua Samson is being a little bitch boy with his “wife” and his mistress. So she’s a little bit too preoccupied at the moment.
Butterscotch: But everyone is curious about the statements made to Jon Kellar earlier tonight concerning him and the Sons of God.
Stasi: They might be curious… but it’s not like they’re entitled to elaborated statements. You always act like you and everyone else… that you are allowed to know the thoughts inside someone’s head. You are… incredibly rude Butters.
Butterscotch: Or perhaps I’m just doing my due diligence as an investigative journalist for this company, Stasi? Have you forgotten that’s why I was hired?
Stasi: You are a backstage interviewer. You think that by calling yourself a “journalist” that you are someone that should be revered.
Butterscotch: I’m not here to debate my title or my job description with you. I know why I was hired here by the owner, Joshua Samson, and I will continue to do my job regardless. Now if you excuse me?
Stasi continues to block the door.
Stasi: You were hired by ONE of the owners and you weren’t allowed access. So slow your roll there.
The door opens behind the Real Champion drawing everyone’s attention. Expecting Brooklyn Holloway to emerge instead it is a short statured, weasly looking cheap suit wearing man with a smug smile on his face. He pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose before brushing his dark brown hair out of his eyes.
Man: There a problem out here, Ms. Herveaux?
Stasi: Butters is being annoying… but that’s nothing out of the usual. She thinks she’s entitled to clarification on Brooklyn’s comments from earlier.
The man peers over the top of his glasses over the shoulder of Stasi at Butterscotch.
Man: Butters? Butters? This name doesn’t ring a bell.
Butterscotch: I’m…
Completely ignoring Butterscotch, the man speaks directly to Stasi.
Man: Who is this woman, Ms. Herveaux?
Stasi: Butterscotch Monroe, the biggest pain in the ass in this company… backstage interviewer who thinks she’s a real journalist.
Butterscotch rolls her eyes.
Butterscotch: And who are you, sir?
The man removes his glasses to further inspect the longtime friend of Joshua Samson.
Man: Backstage interviewer, huh? I’m not impressed. And if I’m not impressed you can beat your patooty that Mrs. Holloway isn’t impressed. Please get rid of her, Ms. Herveaux.
Stasi: Yeah… I’ve tried that and this is one fly that won’t shoo away.
Man: Ms. Herveaux, do what you do best.
With a look of trepidation, Butterscotch glares Stasi.
Butterscotch: Wait, wait. I’ll gladly leave. At least tell me who you are?
The man places his glasses back upon his face before address Butterscotch.
Man: Why, Mrs. Monroe, I am none other than THE Voice of the New Regime. I am the spoken word of Mrs. Holloway herself. Why should she have to step down off of Mt. Olympus in order to address mere mortal such as yourself? My name is Benedict Mason Wentworth and you, Mrs. Monroe, like so many others in this company, are simply unworthy. Now good evening, ma’am.
BMW steps back into the room and slams the door behind him.
Stasi: You heard him… get out before I do what I do best. I’m really starting to think you want to end up just like Joshua Samson.
Butterscotch: I’m going, I’m going.
Stasi: Toodles…
Stasi does a quick flip of a certain finger before disappearing back inside of the office.
Butterscotch Monroe
