It's bad enough I've had to trek down to the Ice Arena pissed off at generally everyone involved with the National Hockey League, but just finding out that someone defaced The Second Flash's grave?
I admit, I may be a cold hearted SOB when it comes down to it, but we've all got our pet peeves. And messing with someone's final resting place is one of them. We all feel the same way when it comes to our dead loved ones. I know if that happened with Lisa, The jackass who touched her plot would never see another sunrise or sunset for that matter.
You just don't do that. Out of respect.
We may fight on seperate sides, but our commonalities are all the same. We all strive for respect, for understanding, for acceptance. Doesn't matter who you approach, ask them, and in some way, shape, or form, that's what their answer will be.
I shake my head clear as I enter the parkinglot of the arena. that's okay. This little hinderance may just aid to my needs after all.
The lines of scattered newsvans is getting annoying. I'm tired of walking around their damn equipment. I ought to do something about it... but I won't. Not this time. I'm only here for one reason.
I literally push on journalist into the brick flowerpot. "MOVE." I mutter, ice seemling to drop off my tongue.
A few people gasp when they see the blue and white and clear a path for me. Oh, what a grand feeling, i feel like royality.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see one woman motioning to her camera man to get ME on film. I don't care this time. I'm a target for the police, but it's not like they can't be "handled." Especially that stupid pretty boy Morillo hiding behind the badge. Haught, arrogant, hot-shot cop. I'd really love to have five minutes alone with HIM and show him a thing or two.
"Make sure you get all of this on film! I don't want you to miss a beat!" the woman growls to her camera men. Jeez. And they call us rouges harsh? Talk about a primamadonna.
Just as I get to the door a butt ugly six-foot tall, donut shaped man is standing in front of the door way with his arms folded across his chest. "you can't go in there."
I watch him for a few moments before sending a wave of icy energy to his feet, freezing him in place. "I don't have time for you games, fatty. I'm here on business."
"Arugh--!" He cringes in pain, trying to reach for his now frozen feet.
"Relax. You're not dead." I nudge him aside, making him wobble and topple to the ground as I make my way inside.
It doesn't take me long to find the secured room with about twenty different voices all talking at once. All arguing, all bickering.
With a swift kick the door bursts open, and my freeze gun is pointed straight at the bald man in the sports jacket. The Head, one of the owners of the NHL..
There's an eerie silence that floods across the room, all eyes trained on me.
"What? Oh..." I chuckle. "We've never met in person, have we? You may address me as Captain Cold."
A shaky voice pipes out from the very back of the room. "Please dont' kill us!"
My yes roll behind my glasses. "I'm not going to kill you, so you all can get your panties out of your asses and relax."
They're all still frozen there, none of them want to move. Heh. How cool. Intimidation is a powerrful thing, isn't it?
"Listen... I'm just a concerned fan who is basically just trying to make a point and get my voice across to the person and people in charge." My gun slides across the empty air, still aimed at basically everyone in the room. "WHICH would be you guys.
Now i don't appriciate all of this bull shit that you're trying to pull out of your asses. By cancelling the season, YES, you're going to make history, but at what cost? have you ever thought about that?"
The bald man stood, his hands leaning against the large table in front of him. "Mr.... Cold, was it?"
Pulling my hood down to rest on my shoulders, I watch him over my glasses. "Yes?" I'm being polite. And LOOK! I'm not trying to cause trouble!
"With all due respect, you're not a member of the board. You have no say in what goes on here."
"I am a paying customer that supports your paychecks and your players paychecks. I have been faithfully here, every season, for every game, for the past ten years. If the Combines play at another arena that isn't here in Keystone? I fly out to their games. I have the tickets and everything to proove so."
I show him my gun, showing him that I'm disarming. Maybe he'll better listen to me if I tuck it away and show him I mean business....and not harsh business. "I'm going to put this away so I can speak civally with you and your officals, if you don't mind?"
I could see the security guards moving in, but with a sweep of the hand, they left and I was asked to have a seat.
Heh. Bet a lot of others would kill for where I am right now. Honestly? My little boy dreams are going wild.
I'm intorduced to the officals and players around the table, who are all watching me with interst. I don't think they can grasp that us bad guys like sports too. It's not all about killing and making harm to "innocents" and whatever super we're supposed to run up against.
"So.. Mr. Cold, why don't you tell us where you're coming from, hmm?"
"I'm just simply saying that all of this bullshit running across whosever mouths is doing nothing. And as I walked in, it seemed like a lot of that was happening. Your fighting over MONEY which is, according to most, the root of all evil. Now, I won't lie. Money is a useful tool, but a lot of people misuse it. Greed is a sin and you're spreading it like wildfire over the entire organization--"
Another member of the board stepped up. "We're not getting what we deserve from this--"
"And neither are the players!" I grumble. "If it weren't for THEM you would be up a shit creek. THINK about it. They're the ones out there on the ice. They're the ones that the fans come to see and cheer on. NOT YOU. They're the life of the game, and the fans are the heart. And yes I know I'm starting to sound like a Hallmark card, but I'm telling you what's what. And I have a feeling that you all forgot about that.
"But I've got this feeling that my voice isn't going to be heard and that the season's going to be stamped over with big red letters 'CANCELLED.'"
Thing is, I'm probably right. "I'm just hoping that it won't have to come to that."
He shook his head. "Our economic status has taken a nose dive and NEEDS to be resolved."
"Then why don't you guys take forty percent, and the players take fifty percent, and gives ten percent back INTO the stadiums!"
"Why should we give up ten percent of--"
"Because you're the owners! You're the responsible ones and this whole problem can be easily resolved and here you are, all making it into this huge production!"
"It's not as easy as that, I'm afraid--"
"To HELL it isn't!" My hand reflexes and rests right over my freeze gun. The lot of them flinch. It's halarious, actually. "Why are you wanting to stall!?"
"So we can better collborate on ideas to work this over in a precise and effective manner."
My head hurts. This is an easy in and an easy out. My gun re-aims itself back to his head. "Look. BUDDY. You and I both know this is easily fixable." A warning shot is fired into the wall behind him, my eyes narrow. "SO FIX IT."