2020-08-09
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GAMMA: Press Conference Gone Wrong - By Alika Webb

Global Association of MMA, Fight Organization, London
Company profile by Mentor Guru Corleone

 A press conference gone wrong – Part 2

  “Hurry up,” Mentor says, peeking through the curtain. “Those journalists are getting restless.”   "You did plan this kind of last minute, I was in the middle of training for Pete’s sake,” I say, taking off my sweatshirt backstage, changing it for a suit and a tie.   “If you hadn’t challenged Paddy last time, we wouldn’t have to do this whole press conference in the first place, you lousy bum!”   “All right, all right,” I say, taking off my shoes.“Just give me a couple more minutes.”     “You have one."   “Don’t rush me,” I say, taking off my sweatpants, eyeing the fancy pants Mentor brought me. “You know, you really shouldn’t have brought those fancy clothes. They make me feel like I’m going to a wedding, or worse, a funeral.”   “You’re a champion, you lousy bum! The least you can do is look like one,” Mentor says. “Your minute is up.”   “No, wait!”   “Too late!” Mentor says, grabbing me by the hand and dragging me through the curtain.   I grab the golden GAMMA middleweight title belt as if my life depends on it, wrapping it around my waist. I sprint faster than my own shadow, taking place behind the small desk on stage, hoping nobody noticed. The desk is littered with microphones, the only thing visible to those journalists is my head. The room is pretty dark, only one bright spotlight, aiming right above those microphones.   A legion of journalists stares at me with puppy eyes, silence grips the room. I scratch my hair, not knowing what to say.   “Apologize,” Mentor whispers through his teeth. “Do it now, you lousy bum!”   “I … want to start by apologizing to you all,” I say, relaxing my shoulders a little. “I called someone out last time I was here, standing in front of you all. And the truth is, I shouldn’t have.”   “Don’t you want to fight Paddy anymore?” a journalist shouts out"     “I would love to fight Paddy. Unfortunately, he was not the one I was meant to challenge. Besides, Paddy’s got other things to worry about.”   “This is the guy that ran away after you called him out, right?” a journalist asks.   “Smart fighter,” another journalist says. “Knows when to run away from a fight.”The crowd full of journalists start to laugh, making me feel like a lousy excuse of standup comedian.   “I don’t think Paddy ran away from everything. If what he’s saying is correct, aliens walk among us. Some of them could even be in this room! Wake up people, the truth is out there!”   The crowd of journalists is silenced.   “Change the subject,” Mentor hisses. “This isn’t the X-Files, you lousy bum!”   “But,” I say, “that is not the reason why we invited you all here today. I wanted to make it known to all of you that I’m still trying to conquer the world.”   “Don’t forget,” Mentor interjects, grabbing the mic. “Thomas Bolleke knocked out a word class knockout artist and grappled with a world class submission fighter in his last two fights and walked away with his hands raised.”   “That’s why I want to do now what I wanted to do in the last press conference and that is to challenge the best fighter in the world: Earlobe Frikandel!”   “Earlobe Frikandel?” journalists whisper.   “Earlobe Frikandel?” Mentor asks, a vein angrily throbbing above his brow. “Earlobe Frikandel? You lousy bum!”   “Crap!” I whisper. “What was his name again? And by the way, where can I get me a frikandel to eat tonight?”   “It’s …” Mentor starts, pensively putting his finger to his lips. “Wait, what’s his name again.”   "Aha!” I yell, pointing accusingly at Mentor. “Not so easy to remember his name with all those cameras pointing at you, huh?”   “Shelob Rivendell!” Mentor shouts, like a light bulb just came to life inside his mind.   “That’s from Lord of the Rings!” I shout, slamming my fist on the desk. “Screw it!” I shout, grabbing the microphone, stretching my arm out in front of me. “Paddy Mcgillicutty, I choose you!”   “No, you lousy bum! Not again!” Mentor shouts, snatching the microphone out of my hands. “He’s only joking!” Mentor nervously laughs it away.       “I am the GAMMA middleweight champion,” I say, losing my patience. “I am a mighty tiger, hear me ROAR!”   The journalists stare at me with expectant puppy eyes.   “MIAOW!” I roar, raising my hands like claws.   A second of silence transforms into an orchestra of laughter.   “Miaow?” Mentor asks.   “A tiger’s a cat, right? What else would they say?”   “That’s really smart of you,” Mentor says.   “Thanks Mentor, you know I’ve been thinking about taking an iq test.”   “That seems like a big waste of paper,” Mentor sneers. “I can tell you how smart you are, right here and now.”   Journalists start laughing even louder than before, looking at our discussion and pointing at me.   Now I get it, mentor’s making a fool out of me in front of all these people. Well, two can play that game.   “Who made you the expert?”   “I’m just below Mensa, just so you know.”   “You wanna know what’s below Mensa?” I snap back. “Dirt.”       “You lousy bum! Just get over here,” Mentor grabs me by the hand and we step into the middle of the stage.   A new spotlight nearly washes over me, bathing me in a bright yellow light, I shield my eyes.   Mentor rips the belt from my waist, raising it above his head so the crowd can gaze upon it. An army of cameras start flashing. If the spotlight hasn’t blinded me yet, the cameras just might finish the job.       “Are you sure this is a good idea?” I whisper.       “Stand tall,” Mentor says. “You’re a champion in one of the best orgs in all of MMATycoon, so you better look like one.”       I broaden my shoulders, posing like a model for a statue of an ancient Greek god as the cameras keep snapping away.       ‘That should do it,” Mentor whispers. “We should be on the cover of the next MMATycoon Times by the looks on their faces. You’re really giving them their money’s worth, huh?”       I shift my hips and flex my muscles, taking on a different pose, staring right at Mentor. He’s scanning me from top to bottom. If his eyes could shoot daggers, I’d die a thousand deaths.       “You lousy bum!” Mentor curses through his teeth. “Where are your pants?”   “Backstage.”   Writer: Alika Webb

 

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