The world's most powerful columnist, Mark Calloway, will stop at nothing to
destroy his sister's romance with jazz playing bass guitarist HBK—features
HHH as the hungry press agent, desperate to claw to the top (Also: Trish
Stratus, Steph as sister) A/N: this is from the film noir classic " Sweet
Smell of Success" starring Burt Lancaster and Tony Curtis
Disclaimer: Please, I own absolutely no one, I don't own "Sweet Smell of Success", Hecht-Hill-Lancaster does—McMahon owns all WWF characters so don't sue!
Setting: takes place in 1940s New York City, a dark and dirty place
1 "The Sweet Smell of Success"
Default Chapter:
"Mr. Helmsley, phone for you," Sal, the owner of Lucky's men's club said, handing him a strip of paper containing a name.
"How many times do I have to tell you Sal? I don't want any phone calls"
"But sir, its--" Hunter cut him off sharply.
"I don't give a damn who it is! No calls!" Turning his back to Sal, he addressed the gathered men at the bar.
"I'd like to make a toast before I leave this rather illustrious group of degenerates," Hunter began, smirking and holding his shot glass high above his head. "To our driving force, our lifeline to our sad and lonely existences…it runs through our veins…it keeps us cool in the summer and warm in the winter…here's to the sweetest fragrance of them all…success!"
"Cheers!" the press agents chimed in unison.
1.1 Chapter 1
Hunter paced up and down the New York City sidewalk. Though it was three in the morning, the streets were rather busy. He rubbed his hands furiously to keep warm from the chilled air as he anxiously awaited the early edition. Mark had to have his tip in the column. God knows that Gerald would kill him if he didn't fulfill his end of the bargain. He laughed slightly as he recalled their conversation. The things he would do for a dime, a nickel, a dollar. He could be starving right now.
****
"Don't worry Ger, I've got it all under wraps," Hunter began.
"Yeah, yeah Hunter, right, like the last time… you know what? You're like a god damn thief, only difference is, you do it right in front of your victim's face. What is the point in paying you the money if you never get the job done? Hmm? If you don't get this done, we are finished, no more business from me," Gerald snapped angrily.
****
The loud thud of stacks of heavy papers quickly brought Hunter back to reality.
"Get your daily Globe, featuring Mark Calloway!" An old man said, advertising for the paper.
Hunter flipped a quarter to him, grabbing a copy. "There you go Gramps," Hunter said mockingly.
Hunter started to walk away as the old man began to speak to him, "Hey Hunter, want a hot tip for Calloway's column?"
Hunter turned around, surprised that he would know who he was, although he did have quite the reputation.
"The president of the United States has been assassinated and the House of Representatives doesn't exist," he said rather stupidly, satisfied that he had gotten Hunter to turn around and listen to him.
"Ha ha ha," Hunter replied tautly.
Hunter tightened his grip on the paper as he walked to the nearest club, desperately trying to get some light so he could read the paper. He turned to page B6 and quickly scanned Mark's column for the item.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered rather loudly. "What's he trying to do, strip me out of house and home?". Gerald was one of his last customers and he needed to come through for him, he needed to find Mark and quick. Why had he been shutting him out of his column?
"So H H H, I hear Marky mark Calloway has shut you out of his column. I always thought you boys were tight, you know, you're the rat that furnishes him with dirty little items so he can print them in his column, God, you must be broke, ha, you must be living on food stamps."
Hunter spun around on his barstool, looking in the face of Mick Foley, one of Mark's rival columnists from the Star. Hunter had mainly furnished items for Mark, but occasionally did a job for Foley. But not anymore. Foley didn't trust Hunter. Hunter was a snake in the grass. Venemous, just as dirty and rotten as Mark Calloway himself. Hunter was desperate to be at the top of the food chain, right were Mark was.
"So what is it that you've done, or haven't done," Mick questioned slyly. Though Mick and Mark were enemies to the core, Mick would never stoop to Mark's level of personal attacks in the column, although that didn't stop Mark from doing it. Mark was what Mick considered to be a shock artist. And that just made him all the more popular. For god's sakes, the paper's circulation was 80 million in the U.S. alone and most of it was due to Mark Calloway and his shock style writing.
"I don't know, I thought I got the job done, but I guess I didn't. I was supposed to break up Mark's kid sister's mickey mouse romance with some stupid banjo player." Hunter said, answering his question.
"Ha, that's it? He wants you to break up Stephanie and Shawn? How the hell are you gonna do that? Wait, I don't want to know. But I would want to know why he should even care. Damn, that man is sick. Calloway always was a crazy cocakmamie bastard." Mick added.
"Mick, if I were you, I'd be careful with my words, Mark is a very powerful man, and I'm sure you know he has connections to the police," Hunter advised to Mick while getting up and heading for the exit.
"Where are you going?" Mick questioned.
"21," he answered. "I've gotta find Mark, no one will hire me again if I don't find out why he refuses to print my items, especially when I thought I had gotten the job done," he said while flicking the collar of his wool coat upward and jamming his hands in his coat pockets.
Disclaimer: Please, I own absolutely no one, I don't own "Sweet Smell of Success", Hecht-Hill-Lancaster does—McMahon owns all WWF characters so don't sue!
Setting: takes place in 1940s New York City, a dark and dirty place
1 "The Sweet Smell of Success"
Default Chapter:
"Mr. Helmsley, phone for you," Sal, the owner of Lucky's men's club said, handing him a strip of paper containing a name.
"How many times do I have to tell you Sal? I don't want any phone calls"
"But sir, its--" Hunter cut him off sharply.
"I don't give a damn who it is! No calls!" Turning his back to Sal, he addressed the gathered men at the bar.
"I'd like to make a toast before I leave this rather illustrious group of degenerates," Hunter began, smirking and holding his shot glass high above his head. "To our driving force, our lifeline to our sad and lonely existences…it runs through our veins…it keeps us cool in the summer and warm in the winter…here's to the sweetest fragrance of them all…success!"
"Cheers!" the press agents chimed in unison.
1.1 Chapter 1
Hunter paced up and down the New York City sidewalk. Though it was three in the morning, the streets were rather busy. He rubbed his hands furiously to keep warm from the chilled air as he anxiously awaited the early edition. Mark had to have his tip in the column. God knows that Gerald would kill him if he didn't fulfill his end of the bargain. He laughed slightly as he recalled their conversation. The things he would do for a dime, a nickel, a dollar. He could be starving right now.
****
"Don't worry Ger, I've got it all under wraps," Hunter began.
"Yeah, yeah Hunter, right, like the last time… you know what? You're like a god damn thief, only difference is, you do it right in front of your victim's face. What is the point in paying you the money if you never get the job done? Hmm? If you don't get this done, we are finished, no more business from me," Gerald snapped angrily.
****
The loud thud of stacks of heavy papers quickly brought Hunter back to reality.
"Get your daily Globe, featuring Mark Calloway!" An old man said, advertising for the paper.
Hunter flipped a quarter to him, grabbing a copy. "There you go Gramps," Hunter said mockingly.
Hunter started to walk away as the old man began to speak to him, "Hey Hunter, want a hot tip for Calloway's column?"
Hunter turned around, surprised that he would know who he was, although he did have quite the reputation.
"The president of the United States has been assassinated and the House of Representatives doesn't exist," he said rather stupidly, satisfied that he had gotten Hunter to turn around and listen to him.
"Ha ha ha," Hunter replied tautly.
Hunter tightened his grip on the paper as he walked to the nearest club, desperately trying to get some light so he could read the paper. He turned to page B6 and quickly scanned Mark's column for the item.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered rather loudly. "What's he trying to do, strip me out of house and home?". Gerald was one of his last customers and he needed to come through for him, he needed to find Mark and quick. Why had he been shutting him out of his column?
"So H H H, I hear Marky mark Calloway has shut you out of his column. I always thought you boys were tight, you know, you're the rat that furnishes him with dirty little items so he can print them in his column, God, you must be broke, ha, you must be living on food stamps."
Hunter spun around on his barstool, looking in the face of Mick Foley, one of Mark's rival columnists from the Star. Hunter had mainly furnished items for Mark, but occasionally did a job for Foley. But not anymore. Foley didn't trust Hunter. Hunter was a snake in the grass. Venemous, just as dirty and rotten as Mark Calloway himself. Hunter was desperate to be at the top of the food chain, right were Mark was.
"So what is it that you've done, or haven't done," Mick questioned slyly. Though Mick and Mark were enemies to the core, Mick would never stoop to Mark's level of personal attacks in the column, although that didn't stop Mark from doing it. Mark was what Mick considered to be a shock artist. And that just made him all the more popular. For god's sakes, the paper's circulation was 80 million in the U.S. alone and most of it was due to Mark Calloway and his shock style writing.
"I don't know, I thought I got the job done, but I guess I didn't. I was supposed to break up Mark's kid sister's mickey mouse romance with some stupid banjo player." Hunter said, answering his question.
"Ha, that's it? He wants you to break up Stephanie and Shawn? How the hell are you gonna do that? Wait, I don't want to know. But I would want to know why he should even care. Damn, that man is sick. Calloway always was a crazy cocakmamie bastard." Mick added.
"Mick, if I were you, I'd be careful with my words, Mark is a very powerful man, and I'm sure you know he has connections to the police," Hunter advised to Mick while getting up and heading for the exit.
"Where are you going?" Mick questioned.
"21," he answered. "I've gotta find Mark, no one will hire me again if I don't find out why he refuses to print my items, especially when I thought I had gotten the job done," he said while flicking the collar of his wool coat upward and jamming his hands in his coat pockets.