2.11.2010
GARAGE AREA OF TEXAS MOTOR SPEEDWAY
FORT WORTH, TEXAS
10:33 AM CENTRAL TIME
"SON OF A BITCH!"
Terrence Thompson watched helplessly as his race helmet crashed into the asphalt one hundred feet away. The safety mechanism bounced once, twice, but by the third time the helmet went airborne, Terrence was looking for something else to throw.
Or punch.
Or kick.
Or something to alleviate his rage.
Finding nothing, he stalked after his helmet, sending it another thirty feet with a well-placed kick.
It wasn't like he was going to need the damned thing anyways.
When his crew chief had radioed in, cutting his testing session short, Terrence had figured something was wrong with the car.
He had been right- there was a problem with the damned car. The problem was #38 Dodge was no longer his.
No, Holly had sold his car... his ride... his job to some fucking billionaire oil tycoon from Texas. Even worse, the rich bastard was giving the car... HIS CAR... to his worthless shit of a son so the entitled silver-spooned bastard can play race car driver.
Fucking nepotism. He hoped the little fop kissed the wall on the very first turn.
Terrence picked up his helmet, looking it over. Save for a couple scratches, the helmet was okay. The things were well made.
He supposed he shouldn't have been too surprised over this. The crappy economy had hit stock car racing hard, and Holly Motorsports was no exception. And considering the other three drivers in the Holly stable had finished in the top ten in points the last three years running, he was definitely sitting on the bottom of the depth chart.
But even so, this was supposed to be HIS year!
Cursing everything under the sun, Terrence considered his situation. If he couldn't find his way onto another team (a bleak prospect considering that the season begun in just three weeks), then he was going to be sitting out at least the start of the season. There was always a chance he could find a ride after the first couple of races, but just as a replacement driver.
In short, his racing career was taking a monstrous setback.
At least his room at the Embassy Suites was paid up for another night. He didn't really feel like making the drive back to Indianapolis just yet, so there was little else to do but head back to the hotel and start making phone calls.
He thought about calling Wendy with the dire news, but ultimately decided against it. He would talk to her tonight, anyways, and it would be better if he could couple it with news of another team signing him. Besides, she was beginning work on her next play today, and he saw no reason to ruin her morning as well.
With a last muttered string of curses, Terrence turned his back on the garage area, and began the long, lonely walk to the TMS parking lot, and his trusty '71 Charger.
At least THAT was still his.
2.11.2010
GEORGE BUSH INTERCONTINENTAL AIRPORT
HOUSTON, TEXAS
11:01 AM CENTRAL STANDARD TIME
Daniel Pollaski hated airports.
He hated check-in counters. He hated security checkpoints. He hated the food (except for Minneapolis, which somehow had great tasting grub). He hated waiting to board the planes. He hated sitting on planes, his bulbous body wedged into a chair a goddamned anorexic couldn't fit in. He hated baggage claim. He hated bus shuttles. He hated rent-a-car centers.
And most of all, Daniel Pollaski hated being surrounded by a couple thousand other cranky travelers.
Considering that GBIA was the sixteenth busiest airport in the workd, Daniel Pollaski hated Houston's airport a bit more than he hated most others.
And now, staring up at the departure board, he had just found out his flight to Las Vegas had been delayed two hours. Woo-hoo!
Once he got to Vegas, he was then going to spend two hours sitting next to one of the most dangerous men in wrestling history. He supposed he should have forgiven John Cole a long time ago for Violence, Inc. beating his WhirlyBirdz in the Crockett Cup seven years ago. But that match still left a bad taste in his mouth. It had been the first time Terrence and Wendy had tagged since the ugly fight between the two that had led to their breakup. Pollaski had hoped for a fairytale ending with the two making up and winning the tournament.
Instead they merely reached the semifinals of the sixteen-team event. At least the making up part stuck. And they did win it the next year. He supposed he shouldn't complain too much. Ah well, if anything, he could see how far he could push Cole's buttons before the Gator tried to bite his arm off.
Tag Wars was going to be very interesting indeed.
With a groan, Pollaski flopped into a chair, reaching into his bag for his laptop. Time to gather the news for the day.
His first stop was his column. He enjoyed reading the responses. Not so much by the fans, he had long ago come to the conclusion that most wrestling fans were idiot homers. But occasionally, a wrestler would reply as well. These amused (and annoyed) Pollaski more than what any so-called 'smark' had to say.
This week, he was more annoyed than amused.
Pollaski's column had been inspired by his impromotu interview with Eric Dane. Despite the fact that Dane and his friends in Team Danger had taken great pleasure in torturing Pollaski and the WhirlyBirdz in the past, Dane had been shockingly cordial to the former manager.
Dane had also made it very clear that there was absolutely nothing that would stop him from his domination of the WWA.
Daniel Pollaski did NOT want that domination to happen.
Pollaski's column had been a call to war, an attempt to muster some form of resistance. He had hoped that he would wake up the next morning, and find a virtual army ready to end the Eric Dane menace once and for all.
Instead he had gotten a hissy catfight between three Appalachian Wrestling midcarders.
Splendid.
Didn't these idiots realize what was at stake? He took it back, fans weren't morons. Everyone was!
This Alliance needed a savior. This alliance needed someone to take up the flag, someone to stand up for the greatness the WWA was, and the greatness the WWA would be again.
Fuck it, this alliance needed the WhirlyBirdz. Its a shame that Terrence's racing career and Wendy's theater, both Birdz were too busy to even think about returning to the ring.
There had to be someone else. Anybody.
In truth, Dan agreed with Eric Dane's assessment that the Alliance needed a change. The wrestlers, even the so-called fan favorites, didn't seem to give a flying damn about anyone but themselves. The regions were more concerned about maintaining their so-called superiority than working for a better place for all.
And the central authority power, Chance Wolfington, was weak at best, and flat out negligent at worst. He would fall, in due time, Pollaski could tell.
In fact, he didn't know when, and he didn't know how, but Daniel knew something here eventually had to break. There was too much pressure building up. Too many egos about to clash.
And sooner or later, walls, those egos, hell, maybe even a few careers, were all going to be tumbling down.
Pollaski smirked at the thought. He didnt know what the coming chaos would bring. He doubt even Dane knew. But he did know that if he played his cards well, when he dust settled, it would not be Eric Dane controlling the alliance.
In fact, if he played his cards REALLY well, then it just might be Daniel Pollaski standing at the helm.
And that was a change he could get behind.
Wendy Briese had no idea how she had gotten here.
In fact, she couldn't even tell where 'here' was. Had she taken a wrong turn fleeing the theater? She hadn't. thought so. No, in fact, she distinctly remembered starting her Focus and peeling out of the parking lot.
So where the heck was she now?
The room was dusty and cluttered, and, above all else, quite dark. Was she... had she somehow been kidnapped and returned to Mandrake's dungeon?
No. She was free to move, and this place, whatever it was, definitely was not anywhere in Mandrake's castle. Not that her captor had offered her a guided tour or anything, but this place... felt different.
Wendy's eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she could see objects now in the darkness. Desks. Tables. Chairs. Obviously she was in some old storage closet. A very OLD storage closet, she had to guess. Some of this furniture looked to be at least a century old.
Wendy was still trying to make sense of her surroundings when a scream split the air.
Wendy felt her blood freeze in her veins. She gulped. The scream had definitely come from a male. And it had been full of agony.
What in the devil was going ON here?
By feel, Wendy made her way around the room, wincing as each time a new scream split the air. Someone had to be being tortured. Finally, the red-haired woman found a door, and, flinging open, left.the room
She was now in a stone hallway, underground if her guess was any good. It was still dark, but down the corridor, she could see light filtering down from what looked like a staircase. Being careful not to trip, she slowly made her way towards the stairs.
And the screaming man, judging by the echoes.
Wendy slowly climbed the stairs, having no more desire to move quicker, even though the light had grown significantly more adequate. Call her crazy, but whatever was causing the screams, she was in no hurry to meet.
As Wendy climbed the stairs, a knocking sound joined the screams. It was almost rhythmic. First a knock... then a scream. Then another knock... then...
-Oh my God...-
A lump of bile was rising in her throat. That wasn't knocking. That was the sound of a hammer hitting a nail.
And Wendy, a devout Catholic, knew exactly what form of torture involved a hammer and nails.
*BANG BANG BANG*
Wendy bolted upright in her bed. Brushing her unkept hair from her face, she looked around wildly. Had that just been a dream? She hoped so... at least the screaming had stopped. But the hammering was still going...
Wait no. This time it WAS knocking. On her door.
2.11.2010
THE NEST
INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA
4:12 PM EASTERN TIME
"Come in!" Wendy croaked, her voice hoarse from sleeping.
Now she had remembered what happened. After punching Simon Cassidy, she had ran from the theater, gotten in her car, and driven straight home. After greeting her daughter in a way that seemed automatic even to her, she had retreated to her bedroom, and promptly fallen asleep.
A pathetic attempt to escape this miserable day.
Wendy attempted to smooth her hair as the door swung open. Cassie DeSlair, her sitter, stood in the doorway.
"There's a young woman here to see you, Wendy," Cassie said quietly. "I think she said her name was Megan"
Megan Cerotta, one of the mainstays of Wendy's theater group. An amazingly gifted actress.
And one of the last people Wendy wanted to see right now. How was she going to look Megan in the eye and tell her in one burst of anger, she had ruined everything?
"Tell her I'm busy, and I'll give her a call."
Cassie did not move. "She said you got fired from the theater. What happened, Wendy?"
Wendy's already frayed temper began to flair anew. "I SAID I am busy, Miss DeSlair."
"The hell you are," Cassie snapped, and, to Wendy's utter.shock (and massive irritation), the blonde walked into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Wendy saw fire in Cassie's pale blue eyes.
"Wendy, what's going on? You came home from work looking like a wreck, you barely acknowledged your daughter, and you've hid up here the entire afternoon, and now I have a girl downstairs wondering why the hell you just got fired from a theater you spent a month trying to save."
"I'm just tired. And be careful how you address me, Miss DeSlair. I am your-"
"Boss?" Cassie gave a mirthless laugh. "Hardly. If what Megan said is true, and you have been terminated, then so have I. Without your job, you have absolutely no reason to keep me on. I'm talking to you now, as a woman who has known you for two years, and a woman who has spent the last three hours trying to explain to YOUR daughter why mommy's so sad. So don't you DARE play the rank card on me, Wendy. Not now."
Wendy's jaw dropped. She couldn't believe Cassie had said that to her. It seemed insubordination was the order of the day. Her emotions were pulling her in about thrty different directions. Part of her wanted to yell at Cassie to get out. Part of her wanted to punch Cassie, just like Simon. Part of her wanted to run from the room screaming. Part of her just wanted to curl up into a ball and cry. And part of her just wanted to go back to sleep.
But prevailing was the part that told her Cassie was right.
Wendy dropped her head. "I'm sorry."
"So what's going on?"
"I punched Simon in the mouth"
Cassie gasped. "Why the hell did you do that?"
"I didn't mean to!" Wendy snapped back, then sighed. "I mean, I guess I did at the time. I just let my temper get the better of me... again. But he was going on and on about how Victor , was this great savior, and I just couldn't take it anymore."
And because he called me 'my dear', she added silently. Although she knew it was incidental, it had been Cassidy saying those two words that had shoved her over the edge.
Only Victor Mandrake had ever called her 'my dear'.
"Vicotor? Mandrake? The one from the letter?" Cassie inquired. When Wendy nodded, pressed on. "How does Simon know him?"
"He was the donor, Cassie."
Cassie gasped. "Why? If he was your enemy, why would he save your theater."
"He doesn't. He wants to corrupt it, because he knows it would hurt me more if I knew he had is hand in the theater, than if the whole thing had just shut down. He's a master at mind-games, Cassie."
"You need to tell Terrence!"
"NO!" Wendy said, quickly rising to her feet. "That is the one thing we absolutely cannot do"
"Why?" Cassie.demanded "Wendy, if you don't tell him, I will! He needs to know."
"If he knows, Cassie, then Terrence will try to hunt Mandrake down. And for all I know, thats exactly what Victor wants. Terrence isn't a wrestler anymore. He couldn't take Mandrake. Not now, at least."
"But.."
"Cassie, I swear, if you tell Terrence, and he winds up in the hospital... or worse, I will NEVER forgive you!"
"And if I don't tell Terrence," Cassie whispered, "and you end up dead, how could I forgive myself?"
"The issue is closed," Wendy responded coldly. Please tell Megan I will be down in five minutes."
"But..."
Wendy looked Cassie dead in the eye. "Please, trust that I know what I'm doing. I know how Victor works. The worst mistake I ever made was taking Victor's bait the first time. I won't let that happen again. If I don't play along, he can't hurt me. He can't hurt any of us."
"You just gave up your job to this man, Wendy. How much more of your life are you willing to surrender before you stand up to him?"
"I don't know," Wendy whispered.
"I thought you were a fighter!" Cassie spat.
Wendy shook her head sadly. "Not anymore. Not for five years."
Cassie stared at Wendy coldly. "I'll tell Megan you'll be right down."
And the blonde girl walked out if the room, leaving Wendy alone with her thoughts.
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