t r e
New member
- Joined
- Dec 15, 2006
- Messages
- 234
- Points
- 0
- Age
- 44
- Location
- saratoga springs, new york
- Website
- www.paulbrisbin.com
Cassidy Stewart spoke calmly and clearly into his Blackberry. His voice was steady, words even, message concise.
Yes, his client has been and will be fully cooperative with authorities. Yes, his client and legal team intend to aggressively pursue clearing the aforementioned client's name. No, his client is not a criminal. No, at this time it is unclear what impact, if any, this arrest will have on his client's contract and standing with Empire Pro Wrestling.
"Now," he continued. "If you'll excuse me, I have another call."
He swept his fingers through thinning blonde hair with a nod. "Thank you. ... Yes. Yes, you do the same."
Jabbing at a button on his touch-screen, Cass returned the phone to his ear, body relaxing just a little. "Hey, baby. Sorry I didn't call you back, earlier. It's ... been hectic."
Standing in a small waiting room adjacent to the SDPD South Station precinct's booking office, Cass leaned against the table, bones aching from the grind.
He paused, letting his wife speak. Felt good to hear her voice. It had seemed like a painful eternity since he'd last seen her when, in reality, it had been just a handful of hours.
"I'm still at the precinct. ... Yeah. Lawyers just settled things. Think I signed the last of the bail paperwork. Just waiting for them to process him so we can get the hell out of here."
Footsteps approched, echoing through the hall, causing Stewart to abruptly straighten. They passed, and he, again, slumped back against the table.
"No. I still haven't spoke to him. Bernstein, the lawyer, said he was in good spirits. ... Heh, right. Tell me about it. I could wring his neck for this."
Swallowing hard, Cass braced for the next topic.
"You mind calling Mason and telling him I'm going to be late picking Brooke up? ... Yeah ... I know. I'm sorry, baby. I really am. ... You want me to ca-- Oh. Alright. ... I can't wait to be home with you, either. Tre had better appreciate me bailing him out like this!"
Cass frowned, then nervously shuffled his feet -- apparently not liking what Rebecca was saying to him.
"The bail money?" He didn't take a breathe. "It came out of the Agency, of course. What? You think I robbed a bank or something?"
A nervous chuckle followed by the scraping of table legs across the floor coincided with more approaching foot steps. The door opened and in walked one of San Diego's Finest ... leading into the room a still handcuffed King of the Streetz.
White tee, no chain. Sagging khakis, sans limp. Shoulders squared and brushed dirt free. Even without his bling, the swagger remains. He entered silently.
"...", he said.
Like I said. Silent.
Tre's lip curled with pompous disdain as his shackles were undone, yet to make eye contact with his friend and agent.
The middle-aged, doughy cop turned to Stewart with some amusement and politely announced: "He's all yours."
As the officer passed, Tre gestured as if he was going to pounce on him, then "thought better of it".
Cass waited for the door to close.
"You have ANY idea what you've done?" he asked incredulously.
Tre brushed it off. "Day in the Life, son. The Life and Times. This My Story, know'm'sayin'?"
Cass closed the gap between them, speaking a hair above a whisper.
"You walked up to a taco stand and, what ... pulled a gun on the guy because he didn't have sour cream? THAT IS YOUR STORY? That's your life and times?"
Throwing his hands in Cass' face, Tre stepped back -- ever so dramatically.
"Raise up off deez nuts, son! Step up off me! I ain't even tryin' to hear what you sayin' right about now. You got just 'bout every fact you just spit dead wrong. You wasn't there, yo. I gotst two people to answer to, son. The corrupt-ass judge who gon' sit in judgment of me when time comes ... and my lord and savior, Jesus H. Christ."
Tre kissed his forefinger and index finger, then raised them skyward. To the heavens.
"Hallowed his name be, an' sh!t."
Cass, eyes clenched in seeming discomfort, avoided the obvious topic and instead plowed forward with his own agenda.
"Tre, I'm not going to ask you what your defense is -- I don't know if you even have one -- I am going to let you and Bernstein figure that out. My job is to handle your BUSINESS. And ... I'm going to be honest with you..."
Cass placed his hands on Tre's shoulders, pulling him forward just a bit. He smiled, slyly, and whispered once more.
"We have a huge opportunity right now."
Tre smirked, as if he knew this was coming. Cass pressed on.
"You, my friend, are the Celebrity F_ck-Up of the Week. TMZ, YouTube, the late night shows, they've all picked up on this over the last 36 hours. Your name, face, and BRAND is being marketed on a massive scale as we speak. And we need to capitalize on it. Now."
Tre nods his head, his expression unsettled.
"S'long as err'body knows... this wasn't no publicity stunt."
Tre jabbed a pointed finger in Stewart's direction for added emphasis. He took a long, much needed breath.
"I didn't walk into no mexican restaurant a block away from the Highway Patro's barracks to start an unnecessary argument that could logically lead to the brandishing of a clearly illegal weapon for the purpose of gettin' my name out there, on the street, on the tip of err'y tongue, top of err'y gossip column, err'y blog 'round the world."
Tre took another breath and emphatically shook his head.
"That ain't me," he swore.
Nodding in agreement, Cass gently slapped Tre across the face. Repeatedly.
"I'm sure no one will get that impression at all," Cass assured him. He rounded the table, closing his waiting briefcase. "The challenge, I fear, will be convincing Lindsay Troy and the EPW brass that their company will be helped by your prescence on TV and events, ... not HURT by it."
Cass went to sit down on the table.
"Have a seat, Tre," he suggested. Tre balked, wincing as he adjusted his weight.
"Nah, 'nova," Tre cautiously replied. "I think I'll stand."
Paying it no mind, Cass continued.
"You need to get on TV, as soon as possible. Unfortunately, the next show is an all tag affair--"
Tre cut in, forcefully. "Ain't a thang. Best believe I'll be there. I got some thangs in the works, mah'self."
Cass grinned. "Good. Just be sure to meet with Bernstein first thing in the morning. He's hoping he can get the charge reduced to an aggravated misdemeanor. But that all hinges on your story, so--"
"This My Story. This My Struggle. Ice Tre; All Day, Everyday."
Cass nodded, tired. "I know, I know."
Again, he levelled his gaze at the pro wrestler who he HAD to believe was on the brink of all out, global stardom.
"I used my money, my FAMILY'S money, to get you out of lock-up, into the ring, and in front of a camera. Every opportunity you have to insert yourself into the mix--"
"Stick my d!ck in the puddin'," Tre offered.
"Exactly. Every chance you get, TAKE IT. You need to reintroduce yourself to the wrestling audience. Who ARE you?"
Tre instantly snapped into pose; each hand clutching the opposite shoulder, head cocked, eyes hazy, lop-sided grin appropriately lop-sided.
"Straight ROYALTY."
Cass pressed on. "I know I've been on you to tone yourself down. To reign it in a bit. But ... Ignore everything I said."
Tre smirked, absently feeling for his absent gold chain. "No sh!t, Shalondra. I'm ahead of you on dat."
Cass' eyes narrowed. There was no mistaking the grave tone of his voice.
"But you need to stay out of trouble. As a matter of fact? Let's stash you at The VZ," Cass suggested with a proud grin. Rising back to his feet, he could see that Tre was not "about" that idea.
"*****, you CRAZY! I ain't hidin' out and I ain't crashin' at that run-down ass wrestling school! The SMELL of that place makes Your Boy sick to DEATFF!", Tre exploded.
"Tre," Stewart reasoned. "This is a good idea. Keep you out of trouble, keep you focused. We've got the video room there so we can cut a promo -- TOMORROW." Cass could tell he was making headway. "Just think about it."
Tre turned to the door. "Man, let's get up outta here, know'm'sayin'? I got a media to face."
Cass surpressed a smile, following Tre down the stuffy hall.
"Ya feel me?"
Yes, his client has been and will be fully cooperative with authorities. Yes, his client and legal team intend to aggressively pursue clearing the aforementioned client's name. No, his client is not a criminal. No, at this time it is unclear what impact, if any, this arrest will have on his client's contract and standing with Empire Pro Wrestling.
"Now," he continued. "If you'll excuse me, I have another call."
He swept his fingers through thinning blonde hair with a nod. "Thank you. ... Yes. Yes, you do the same."
Jabbing at a button on his touch-screen, Cass returned the phone to his ear, body relaxing just a little. "Hey, baby. Sorry I didn't call you back, earlier. It's ... been hectic."
Standing in a small waiting room adjacent to the SDPD South Station precinct's booking office, Cass leaned against the table, bones aching from the grind.
He paused, letting his wife speak. Felt good to hear her voice. It had seemed like a painful eternity since he'd last seen her when, in reality, it had been just a handful of hours.
"I'm still at the precinct. ... Yeah. Lawyers just settled things. Think I signed the last of the bail paperwork. Just waiting for them to process him so we can get the hell out of here."
Footsteps approched, echoing through the hall, causing Stewart to abruptly straighten. They passed, and he, again, slumped back against the table.
"No. I still haven't spoke to him. Bernstein, the lawyer, said he was in good spirits. ... Heh, right. Tell me about it. I could wring his neck for this."
Swallowing hard, Cass braced for the next topic.
"You mind calling Mason and telling him I'm going to be late picking Brooke up? ... Yeah ... I know. I'm sorry, baby. I really am. ... You want me to ca-- Oh. Alright. ... I can't wait to be home with you, either. Tre had better appreciate me bailing him out like this!"
Cass frowned, then nervously shuffled his feet -- apparently not liking what Rebecca was saying to him.
"The bail money?" He didn't take a breathe. "It came out of the Agency, of course. What? You think I robbed a bank or something?"
A nervous chuckle followed by the scraping of table legs across the floor coincided with more approaching foot steps. The door opened and in walked one of San Diego's Finest ... leading into the room a still handcuffed King of the Streetz.
White tee, no chain. Sagging khakis, sans limp. Shoulders squared and brushed dirt free. Even without his bling, the swagger remains. He entered silently.
"...", he said.
Like I said. Silent.
Tre's lip curled with pompous disdain as his shackles were undone, yet to make eye contact with his friend and agent.
The middle-aged, doughy cop turned to Stewart with some amusement and politely announced: "He's all yours."
As the officer passed, Tre gestured as if he was going to pounce on him, then "thought better of it".
Cass waited for the door to close.
"You have ANY idea what you've done?" he asked incredulously.
Tre brushed it off. "Day in the Life, son. The Life and Times. This My Story, know'm'sayin'?"
Cass closed the gap between them, speaking a hair above a whisper.
"You walked up to a taco stand and, what ... pulled a gun on the guy because he didn't have sour cream? THAT IS YOUR STORY? That's your life and times?"
Throwing his hands in Cass' face, Tre stepped back -- ever so dramatically.
"Raise up off deez nuts, son! Step up off me! I ain't even tryin' to hear what you sayin' right about now. You got just 'bout every fact you just spit dead wrong. You wasn't there, yo. I gotst two people to answer to, son. The corrupt-ass judge who gon' sit in judgment of me when time comes ... and my lord and savior, Jesus H. Christ."
Tre kissed his forefinger and index finger, then raised them skyward. To the heavens.
"Hallowed his name be, an' sh!t."
Cass, eyes clenched in seeming discomfort, avoided the obvious topic and instead plowed forward with his own agenda.
"Tre, I'm not going to ask you what your defense is -- I don't know if you even have one -- I am going to let you and Bernstein figure that out. My job is to handle your BUSINESS. And ... I'm going to be honest with you..."
Cass placed his hands on Tre's shoulders, pulling him forward just a bit. He smiled, slyly, and whispered once more.
"We have a huge opportunity right now."
Tre smirked, as if he knew this was coming. Cass pressed on.
"You, my friend, are the Celebrity F_ck-Up of the Week. TMZ, YouTube, the late night shows, they've all picked up on this over the last 36 hours. Your name, face, and BRAND is being marketed on a massive scale as we speak. And we need to capitalize on it. Now."
Tre nods his head, his expression unsettled.
"S'long as err'body knows... this wasn't no publicity stunt."
Tre jabbed a pointed finger in Stewart's direction for added emphasis. He took a long, much needed breath.
"I didn't walk into no mexican restaurant a block away from the Highway Patro's barracks to start an unnecessary argument that could logically lead to the brandishing of a clearly illegal weapon for the purpose of gettin' my name out there, on the street, on the tip of err'y tongue, top of err'y gossip column, err'y blog 'round the world."
Tre took another breath and emphatically shook his head.
"That ain't me," he swore.
Nodding in agreement, Cass gently slapped Tre across the face. Repeatedly.
"I'm sure no one will get that impression at all," Cass assured him. He rounded the table, closing his waiting briefcase. "The challenge, I fear, will be convincing Lindsay Troy and the EPW brass that their company will be helped by your prescence on TV and events, ... not HURT by it."
Cass went to sit down on the table.
"Have a seat, Tre," he suggested. Tre balked, wincing as he adjusted his weight.
"Nah, 'nova," Tre cautiously replied. "I think I'll stand."
Paying it no mind, Cass continued.
"You need to get on TV, as soon as possible. Unfortunately, the next show is an all tag affair--"
Tre cut in, forcefully. "Ain't a thang. Best believe I'll be there. I got some thangs in the works, mah'self."
Cass grinned. "Good. Just be sure to meet with Bernstein first thing in the morning. He's hoping he can get the charge reduced to an aggravated misdemeanor. But that all hinges on your story, so--"
"This My Story. This My Struggle. Ice Tre; All Day, Everyday."
Cass nodded, tired. "I know, I know."
Again, he levelled his gaze at the pro wrestler who he HAD to believe was on the brink of all out, global stardom.
"I used my money, my FAMILY'S money, to get you out of lock-up, into the ring, and in front of a camera. Every opportunity you have to insert yourself into the mix--"
"Stick my d!ck in the puddin'," Tre offered.
"Exactly. Every chance you get, TAKE IT. You need to reintroduce yourself to the wrestling audience. Who ARE you?"
Tre instantly snapped into pose; each hand clutching the opposite shoulder, head cocked, eyes hazy, lop-sided grin appropriately lop-sided.
"Straight ROYALTY."
Cass pressed on. "I know I've been on you to tone yourself down. To reign it in a bit. But ... Ignore everything I said."
Tre smirked, absently feeling for his absent gold chain. "No sh!t, Shalondra. I'm ahead of you on dat."
Cass' eyes narrowed. There was no mistaking the grave tone of his voice.
"But you need to stay out of trouble. As a matter of fact? Let's stash you at The VZ," Cass suggested with a proud grin. Rising back to his feet, he could see that Tre was not "about" that idea.
"*****, you CRAZY! I ain't hidin' out and I ain't crashin' at that run-down ass wrestling school! The SMELL of that place makes Your Boy sick to DEATFF!", Tre exploded.
"Tre," Stewart reasoned. "This is a good idea. Keep you out of trouble, keep you focused. We've got the video room there so we can cut a promo -- TOMORROW." Cass could tell he was making headway. "Just think about it."
Tre turned to the door. "Man, let's get up outta here, know'm'sayin'? I got a media to face."
Cass surpressed a smile, following Tre down the stuffy hall.
"Ya feel me?"
