Porsche Man: The English Premiere West Ham

Still feeling the chilling effects to the Craven Cottage treatment program, Porsche Man approached her London flat calm and prepared for any early weekday evening confrontation. A stranger sat on the stoop peacefully dressed in festive Bavarian attire.

“Who are you?” The American theatrical tease investigated.

“I am German Sporting Frieberg, and I want my gentlemen’s fantasy image to compete in the knockout round,”

“You come here wanting to qualify for credibility in being called a knockout?”

“As you see my toned body belongs in the knockout round.” Sporting Frieberg expressed, flexing his physique.

Reaching for keys Porsche Man unlocked the latch, “do you have any goals? Sporting Frieberg.” Silence responded, encouraging her to turn on the entertainment glitz.

“Are you here wanting my bubble busted?” Porsche Man tempted, as sparkling fizz overpowered the apartment.

Still quiet, Sporting Frieberg noticed Porsche Man had an early goal, “Kudos to that,” he responded politely acknowledging the successful message.

When another goal arrived later, the relaxing, pampering strategy paid off, “I will take the playoff slot Porsche Man,” Sporting Frieberg suggested backing off.

Accepting the logical proposal, Porsche Man wondered, “will I see you again?”

“Depends on if I succeed in the extra match and the draw.” Sporting Frieberg packed his bags and escorted himself towards the exit, while Porsche Man showed true emotion, realizing she was now an internationally recognized knockout.

Returning to normal scheduled events Sunday morning, Porsche Man seemed stunned filling her coffee cup. Outside the window a wolfpack assembled and patiently waited for her to emerge.

“I wonder what they want,” she thought, “it must be I am a knockout.”

Porsche Man’s main reason moving to the United Kingdom from the states was the attractive good looks and staged talent capabilities. Getting pushed away from assignments due to not having a realistic casting image the go getter decided combining seeing Europe with breaking into the business.

“We hear you are finding goals these days and wanted to check in,”

“I am,” Porsche Man cleared up the curiosity.

“Kudos, to the two you have this morning,”

“They were very nice, weren’t they,” Porsche Man commented.

“What about you? Wolves, are you planning any goals?”

Marking their territory, the group surrounded the star-spangled banner, grinning, “do you have any goals?” Porsche Man repeated.

“Maybe,” the Wolves inched closer, creating a tighter environment, “how does this one look for a goal?”

After taking a hard inspection, Porsche Man rendered a verdict, “you are offsides.” “Offsides, what do you mean offsides?” The Wolves showed their disappointment and displeasure.

Feeling uneasy, Porsche Man called upon her Julie Bowen defense mechanism and combatted the pressure. This rehearsed display earned a goal, dropping a hint telling the contingent, “it was time to go.”

Inside counting her three goals attached to a clean sheet, Porsche Man once again celebrated, blowing bubbles until the phone rang.

“Porsche Man,” the voice on the other end exclaimed, “I hear you are now a knockout.”

“That is right, I am top of my group.”

“Very good, very good.” The friendly caller continued, “well with those honors comes responsibilities and I have you booked for an appearance with the boys in the band this week then the red devil wants to speak with you.”

“When?” Porsche Man inquired.

“He is very concerned with your climb up the table, and you are in occupying spots that used to be reserved for him,”

“I am not sorry about that; I have worked very hard to get to where I am going.”

“That is true, Porsche Man,” her friend agreed, “now get some energy and enjoy the concert.”

Hanging up, Porsche Man navigated her way through the enthusiasm, opening the refrigerator, “great I still have a Carabao energy drink can left,” she thought, planning her next move.