Eoghan’s Pub
Belfast, Northern Ireland
3:10 PM Local Time
“Fuckers” Augustus Briese snarled, as he tossed the newspaper onto the pub’s table. He glared one more time at the headline, splayed across the top of the article in large bold font.
MY FAIR LADY TO CONTINUE IN WAKE OF BLAINE TRAGEDY
What a joke, Gus thought as he took another drag on his cigarette. The goddamned article wasn’t about moving on. If it was, Gayle O’Reilly wouldn’t have been mentioned a whopping twice throughout. After all, his fiancee was now the lead. She was the future, so why the hell were these idiots at the Telegraph treating her like an afterthought? Instead, the article centered around some supposed controversy concerning the plays continuation.
What controversy? It was the oldest axiom in the business- the show must go on. That the Lyric theater actually cancelled shows for a week in the wake of Blaine’s death was the hight of sentimental stupidity. The delay was unnecessary- Gayle was the understudy, and probably knew the part better than the English slut did anyways. Maybe... MAYBE they could have cancelled one night as a sign of ‘respect’. But the rest of the world didn’t stop for Margaret Blaine. Why should Gayle be forced to fall behind?
What aggrivated the young red-haired man the most though, is that even Gayle was too wrapped up in the sentimentality of the deal to realize what a humiliation she was being subjected to. Despite having said nothing positive about Blaine during the entire stretch of auditions and rehearsals, Gayle had cried as if Margaret was her best friend for two days after the death. It was disgusting, and Gus desperately wanted to talk some sense into her. Didn’t she realize that Blaine’s death was just the thing her career needed? That she was free now, to soar to the top of the Belfast, the Irish, the European, even the Global theater scene?
If only he himself he could be so lucky, he sighed, looking down at his watch. Three hours until he was needed at dinner theater, where once again his talents would be wasted on pathetic melodramatic drivel.
One day, Gus told himself as he took another drink of his Scotch, this all would change. One day, the Briese name would be the most renown name in theater, and he’d be regarded as the prodigy he truly was, rather than the ne’er-do-well son of a wealthy shipping magnate. One day, instead of slurping Scotch in this dive, he’d be sipping cognac in the finest restaraunts in Dublin, Paris, and New York. He’ll be remembered, as one of the greatest thespians to ever come across the stage.
“And the quicker you’re forgotten, the happier we’ll all be,” Gus muttered aloud, talking to the picture of Margaret Blaine that had been splayed next to the article. Sneering, Gus picked up his cigarette, and rammed the butt into the picture, breathing in the scent as the burning tobacco mixed with the newsprint. A protest came from the bartender behind him, but Gus ignored it, keeping the butt pressed down until the smoke had dispersed, mixing with the rest of the tobacco smoke that hovered in the bar atmosphere.
When he removed the cigarette, the picture remained, saved for a hole that had been burned into Blaine’s right temple. Gus flicked the butt into the ashtray, and burst out in a chuckle at the impromptu accuracy he had instilled in the picture.
“Mister Briese.”
Gus looked up at the accented voice, and saw a thin, severe looking man standing over him. His face was taught, his sandy-colored hair shaved near to the scalp, a tear in his leather jacket, assumably from a knife fight several years ago. Slightly behind the man, however, was one of the most beautiful women Augustus had ever seen- even more lovely than his Gayle. She had raven black hair, parted on the side to accent her nearly porcelain face. The dress she was wearing was tight- accentuating her curves, which, in Gus’ opinion, exceeded the threshold of beauty six times over.
He forced himself to look back at the man, giving a wide smile as he did. “Vassily, my Russian friend. Sit down, sit down. Your guest too.”
“Ukrainian,” the man growled, although he did pull out a chair for the young woman, then sat down himself, not bothering to take of his jacket.
“My apologies,” Gus replied smoothly. “I know how it is to be erroneously associated with a nationality you find... undesirable.”
The Ukranian man nodded his head, apparently accepting the apology. He then looked over at the woman, slightly gesturing. “My sister, Ivana.”
“Charmed,” Gus said, beaming at the girl, who only nodded in return, the barest flicker of a smile. Gus wondered if she could even understand him.
Vassily’s attention had refocused back on the newspaper. He tapped the photo of Blaine once. “She was beautiful.”
“She was nothing,” Gus snapped, suddenly irritated by his friend’s attention to the picture. “Although perhaps her death will be a service to Ireland, in teaching her overbearing lover the consequences of meddling.” Gus pointed at another article on the same page, this one about the lack of progress in the murder investigation. He dropped his voice. “It’s a shame no one seems to know who did it.”
Gus had expected at least a flicker of a smile, or some bobbed head of acknowledgement, but the Ukranian man seemed as stoic as ever. “A good sniper leaves no trace. No evidence.”
“Then he should be congratulated on a job well done, and shown the sincerest of gratitude by every true Irish patriot who breathes.” Gus said, reaching into his pocket, and pulling out a small brown envelope. Slowly, he slid it under the table, banging it against Vassily’s knee. Vassily made no move to grab it, although his eyes, flickered over to his sister, with the barest of nods. Ivana quickly grabbed the package, and slipped it into her purse.
“I’m sure he would be honored by your praise, Mister Briese,” Vassily responded, his eyes suddenly boring into Gus’ “Although he would certainly hope such praise is genuine.”
“It is, Mr. Ganiyeva,” Gus said with a smile, although he stood up as he did it. “Now if you excuse me, I must be going. Have what you want, on me. I’ll have Eoghan add it to my tab.” he finished gesturing to the bartender. “I hope to see you again soon.”
Augustus patted Vassily on the shoulder, and walked up to the bartender, exchanging a quick word with him. Vassily watched him, disinterested, then turned to his sister. “Did it weigh right?” he asked, speaking in Ukrainian.
Ivana nodded. “We can’t know for certain until we open it though.”
“Don’t. Not here,” Vassily commanded. In truth, he knew the money was real, and every pence of the fifty thousand Irish pounds he was promised was inside. Briese was far too much a coward to even think about cheating him.
After all, Augustus had just seen how good he was at business. No one wanted to be on the wrong end of Vassily Ganiyeva if things were to ever get personal.
=============================
Saturday November 19, 2011
St. Gregory’s Church- Cemetery
Belfast, Northern Ireland
2:16 PM Local Time
“Anything else we can help you with, ma’am?”
Wendy Briese nearly jumped as the question butted into her thoughts, but she quickly composed herself, and smiled at the gravediggers, two young men that Wendy strongly suspected were brothers, or cousins, or otherwise related. They had just finished piling the dirt on the last of the two graves in front of her, their work completed. “No, thank you. You’ve both been most kind.”
She quickly reached into her purse, and pulled out a twenty pound note, handing it to one she thought was the elder. The boy grinned at her, and tipped his widebrim hat, before beckoning to his companion to join him, and get out of this perpetual drizzle that had enveloped Northern Ireland.
Wendy didn’t turn to watch them go, just continued to stare at the two freshly dug graves. This whole situation... it didn’t seem right to her. Eighty years, Nana had lived. Three children, eight grandchildren, three great-grandchildren, who knew how many friends and associates here in Belfast, and yet, she, Wendy Briese, was the only attendant to her funeral.
Part of that was her own grandmother’s fault, she knew. Nana’s had a fundamentalism that was too strict for even Wendy to handle. She’d had a falling out with both her living children- Gregory for being a homosexual, Margaret for marrying an Anabaptist and converting. Wendy had been the only member of the family that Constance O’Reilly hadn’t burned her bridges with, and even that had been trying at times, considering that the woman despised her husband.
Still, to Wendy there was nothing more tragic about dying and no one caring. She had always imagined funerals as fairly lavish affairs, where dozens of mourners would convene to celebrate a person’s life. Certainly not a single woman standing at a gravesite in a drizzle.
“I hope you’re at peace, Nana,” Wendy finally adressed the leftmost grave. “You lived a long life, suriving the second World War, and the Troubles, and all the chaos within our family. You deserve the rest now. I’m sorry I never had a chance to know you better, even after the visits you and I exchanged over the years. I know you’re with Grandpa up there- I’m sorry, I couldn’t find the records of where he was buried here in Belfast, so I...”
She broke off, sighing heavily. It was all she should come up with. Even she and Nana hadn’t been exceptionally close. Wendy waited a couple more minutes to see if anything else came to her. When nothing did, she turned to the right grave, looking at the headstone that said “Gayle Briese; August 21, 1953- November 28, 2002”
“Mom, I...”
She broke off as a wave of emotion overwhelmed her, and Wendy wiped her eyes with a gloved hand. Deep down, some strange part of her wondered if her grandmother was jealous by the sudden emotion for a woman who had been dead for nine years, when Wendy could barely manage any for her.
“I don’t know if this is what you wanted, Mom. It just... didn’t seem right that you were stuck in some site in upstate New York. Dad said it was what you wanted, but I know now that he never gave a damn about what you wanted. If he did, you’d still be alive.”
Wendy breathed in heavily, wiping away more tears.
“You always told me how much you loved Belfast, despite all the... problems that were going on when you lived here. I can see why, it’s such a beautiful city, even with all this rain. You deserve to be here. If nothing else, at least you’re no longer buried alone. You have Nana... I know how close you were, even after you moved to America.”
“It’s been nine years. They say you should move on, and I’ve done my best. But I still dream about the phone call I got. I still dream about you lying in that hospital bed. And I still regret that the last time I saw you, we were arguing, and I told you to go to hell.”
She sighed. “I still have the letter you sent me after that. I cried when I read it the first time, and I cry whenever I think about the promises you made in it that you never had a chance to fulfill. You wanted to give Terrence a shot, and try and understand why I had chosen professional wrestling as a career. I’m still with Terrence, mom, and the biggest regret I have of all of it is that you never got to see what a wonderful daughter our union brought into the world. And I’m wrestling again. I tried going back to the theater, and I enjoyed it. But wrestling... it’s what I do best. I don’t know why. I just hope that you’re up there, and you’re proud of me.”
“And I just wish I knew why. Why did you have to be shoved in front of that semi? What did Dad have to gain from it? I know there were problems between you two, and there were problems between you and me, but we could have worked through it! And one moment of rage, Daddy threw it all away. And I can’t forgive him for it, mom. He’s asked me too, but I won’t. He took you away from me, at the time in my life I couldn’t afford to lose you.”
Wendy choked down another sob, then wiped her eyes, before continuing, her voice thick.
“Well, Daddy’s still in jail, and he will be until he dies. And mom, despite all this, I’m as happy as I’ve ever been. Theresa is growing up so fast- you should see her. And I love my job. I love my husband. And I love my daughter. I just wish you could be around to share in it.”
Wendy wiped her eyes, one last time, and looked at the gravestone. She had said what she needed to say, and now words were failing her. It took several more seconds before she came to the realization that she was being watched.
Wendy slowly looked to her right, and blinked as she saw a man standing there. He wasn’t young- probably in his sixties, maybe even early seventies. But there was a strength about him, despite the cane he was holding. He was staring at her, a mixture of curiosity and concern on his face. “Everything okay, child?”
“Y..yeah.” Wendy stammered, wondering just how long she’d been watched. “Just, you know. Emotion.”
The man hobbled forward, his cane tapping on the ground as he approached. He looked over at the gravestones, then back at Wendy. “The grave is freshly dug, but the headstone says nine years ago.”
“I moved her. She was buried in America, in upstate New York,” Wendy explained. “I always thought she deserved to be here, in the city of her birth. After Nana died this week, I realized that it was a good time.”
“So Gayle O’Reilly has been dead for nine years,” the man mused, in a tone that suddenly made Wendy uncomfortable. That discomfort only heightened when he turned towards her, looking her up and down appraisingly. “You’re her daughter, aren’t you?”
Wendy nodded, although she was clearly taken aback. “You knew Gayle?”
“Everyone in Belfast knew Gayle Briese. Or O’Reilly as she was called before she was married. The “Angel of the Lyric”, they called her, given that she saved the theater after a... horrible tragedy. And she was a damn fine actress, although she was big on the Belfast scene for only a couple of years before she moved to America. I’m sure she did as well there as she did here.”
“She did,” Wendy replied. “She was even on Broadway for a while.”
“Not surprising in the least,” the man said. “By the way, I’m Derrick Delaney.” He offered a wrinkled, calloused hand, which Wendy took after a second’s hesitation.
“Wendy Briese,” she replied, still not sure what to make of this sudden stranger.
“I’m sorry for your mother’s passing,” the man continued. “And I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear when you were talking... did you say your father was still alive?”
“I... I guess. Why?” Wendy couldn’t figure out why she was so uncomfortable with this man- he was kindly enough. But something about his curiosity was really bugging her.
“I had heard otherwise,” Delaney said. “My apologies if I offended you.”
“No... its okay...” Wendy stammered. “Just.. Dad ki... he’s responsible for Gayle’s death. He’s in jail.”
“As he should be, if he took away a blossoming flower like Gayle O’Reilly,” Delaney replied. “Well, child. I won’t keep you. Thank you for indulging an old man’s curiosity.”
“No... no problem.” Wendy replied. “Although I really should be getting back to my hotel. I have a long flight home tomorrow.”
“Well, safe travels, then.” Delaney said, shaking her hand one last time. “Go n-éirí an bóthar leat”
“May the road rise up to meet you,” Wendy whispered, then smiled. “Thank you, Mister Delaney. God bless you as well, and a pleasure to meet you.”
Wendy smiled one last time at the old man, who turned away, and hobbled back towards the path. Wendy watched him for a couple of paces, then turned, heading in the opposite way. Back to the hotel, and the warmth of a nice shower and a hot dinner.
She was so intent on the plans she was making for herself that she hadn’t noticed that the man had turned to watch her, a leer on his face as he stared. He stared after her, even after she rounded a bend in the path, and was gone from sight. Finally, he reached into his pocket, and pulled out a cellphone, chuckling as he did so.
“Rest assured, Miss Briese, the pleasure is all mine.”
Monday November 21, 2011
Speed City Gymnasium & Training Center- Utility Room
Indianapolis, Indiana
4:17 PM Local Time
=======
So after a long flight home, and a short rest, it’s promo time. The promo opens with a quick flashback, showing a segment from Sin & Sacrifice, with Samantha Star and Jo McFarlane sitting in Star’s office. Jo is giggling at something Samantha had just said.
Jo: “No disrespect intended, Samantha, but Wendy wouldn’t be able to do “whatever it takes” against a trained wrestler because she doesn’t know HOW to.
==================================
The scene opens on what appears to be a Crash Test Dummy, tied to a pole that’s running from the ground to the ceiling of the room. The mannequin, not the Canadian one-hit wonder that did that annoying “Mmm mmm mmm mmm” song. Although considering what’s about to happen, you might actually wish it WAS a member of that infamous band.
*WHAM!*
Chairshot, yo.
The chairshot’s fairly impactful, slightly cracking the plastic in the maneuqin’s head as it bounces off the steel pole it’s tied to. The camera zooms back, and we see the swinger of the chair- none other than Wendy Briese herself.
“So, Jo. When you told Samantha that I didn’t know how to do ‘whatever it took’, is this what you meant? Did you honestly think I was incapable of swinging a chair? Or even, your personal favorite, a Kendo Stick?”
Wendy picks up the Kendo stick, and after winding up, she swings it like a baseball bat at the mannequin.
*CRACK!*
Splintering the wood in two. Wendy drops the half still in her hands, and looks back at the camera.
“Of course I can do that. Any Neanderthal can pick up a heavy object and swing it at something- or someone else. Then again, they likely had wrestling back in Neanderthal times as well- it is one of the oldest sports known to humanity. But I’d like to think we’ve evolved from that, Jo. You look at the vast array of talents that we have in that locker room, and I think it’s safe to say that we’ve come quite a ways from the days of the caveman in terms of sophistication.”
Wendy walks over to the dummy again, speaking to the camera as if she were a professor in a lab giving a demonstration.
“Especially for us submissionists, Jo. The study of anatomy has given us awesome new and inventive ways we can hurt our opponents. Such as you can easily pop a joint with a simple twist”
Wendy puts the dummy in a hammer lock, and drives her elbow into the inside of the mannequins elbow, causing the lower half of its arm to break loose. She tosses the forearm aside, moving to the mannequins other arm.
“Or with the right leverage, you can pull a limb clean from its socket.”
Wendy yanks on the arm, pulling it straight out of the mannequin’s shoulder, again casually dropping it on the floor.
“Or, Jo. If you can get the positioning right, and have good torque, you could do something even more sinister.
Wendy moves behind the mannequin, putting her arms around the head and neck. With a sharp twist and a loud crack, the dummy’s neck breaks. Wendy lets go, leaving the head tilting obscenely to the side, as she walks away from the dummy.
“Isn’t civilization wondeful Jo? We just keep up coming up with new and inventive ways to hurt each other.”
A shrug.
“So yeah, Jo. I know how to do ‘whatever it takes’. I could do any one of those things to you... or anyone else, in the middle of that ring. And I know that you’re young, Jo. That you’re brash, and prone to foolishness. But I’d expect that even you would be capable of knowing the difference between ‘incapable’ and ‘disinclined’.”
“See, I could do horrible things to you in that ring. Things that would get me put on trial in the Hague for war crimes. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to because I don’t believe in taking liberties with my opponents, in hurting people just for the sake of hurting them. I don’t think it’s right, and come to think of it, neither do those who make the rules that govern this sport, and those who make the laws that govern our society.”
Wendy smiles, and leans back against the wall.
“And here’s the better news for me, Jo. As much as I don’t WANT to resort to that, it’s comforting to know that I’ll never NEED to. Because like I’ve proved, time and time again throughout my career, I’m good enough to get ahead in this sport without having to resort to being a cavewoman”
“Now is that arrogance? Or is it just confidence and self-assurance. I suppose the truth in this case is in the eye of the beholder. But I never pretended that there wasn’t some level of pride and ego running through these veins. You can ask my husband on that count. I’m prideful. I’m stubborn. I’m strong-willed. I’m sure we could go through the thesaurus and find all kinds of synonyms.”
Wendy pauses, and takes a deep breath, the sardonic smile fading just a little from her face.
”And sometimes, just like with everyone else, that pride can get away from me, and leave me with egg on my face. It did a few months ago at Byte This, when, tired, frustrated, and disappointed after a match, I threw my tag partner Isabella Pazzini under the bus.”
Metaphorically. Although probably never a good analogy wherever any member of Mr. Showtime’s family’s concerned.
“And it did again a couple weeks ago, when I said something completely moronic and egotistical on Twitter.”
Wendy flashes a small, self-deprecating smile, and shrugs.
“I’m not going to issue some apologetic statement about it, or even try backtracking. I’m just simply admitting it was a dumb thing to say. After all, the last thing I needed was to you additonal fuel for her fire. Implying that you were so bad I deserved ridicule for losing to her is a couple can’s of gasoline’s worth.”
Wendy bites her lip, shaking her head in disgust with herself.
“But even more important, it’s that I broke a promise I had made to myself coming out of Sin & Sacrifice. I promised myself that I was going to be more secure in the accomplishments I had in my career, and stop worrying about what every single match would do to impact my legacy, or standing in the company. To quit worrying so much about what other people thought, and just get out there and wrestle.”
“And what’s really dumb is that it was an inaccurate statement to make anyways. Losing to you won’t cost me my job. It won’t take away my shot at the no surrender title. It won’t void my rematch clause for the Evolution Championship. I’ll drop a few spots in my manager’s rankings, probably, but you know what? With a chance to shut you up, and pick up another win over the A-List, and prove once again to you all that I’m not going to be bullied by a bunch of entitled brats, I’ll gladly wager a couple of spots in a subjective rankings list.”
Wendy chuckles, and shakes her head.
“And I’m sure there would be ridicule from some camps, especially yours, Jo. But that’ll be nothing new. You’ve been laughing at me for the better part of the last two months, haven’t you? Mocking my refusal to say a certain word prevalent in my manager's column. Mocking my reluctance to wear certain types of clothing. Pretty much mocking everything that makes me different from you and your friends, like the good little A-Lister you are. Seriously Jo, you’re like a little chipmunk, standing off to the side and tittering as Ms. Star, or Colleen, or Arabella try to run me down with a barrage of mockery and insults on the camera.”
Another small shrug, although Wendy’s eyes darken somewhat from irritation.
“Well, Jo, keep laughing. Laugh as long and hard as you can, all the way down to that ring. Because when you finally enter, and the introductions are made, and the bell rings, you’re suddenly not going to find Wendy Briese so funny anymore. You’re going to discover first hand that what words I choose to say, or not say, and what attire I choose to wear, or not wear, has little bearing on what I can do in that wrestling ring. And when I’m done with you, run back to the shelter of the A-List, and pass the message along to them. But most of all, Jo, make sure they realize that of all the annoying qualities you think I have, the most annoying will be that I’m not going to go away, and I’m not going to give up the fight, until you and your cronies stop trying to stomp on anyone who wasn’t hand picked to be in your little clique. And I don’t care what you throw at me, and what the odds are, I’ll still be standing.”
A small smile.
“Just like I’ll be standing at the end of Violent Night, and every night thereafter.”
Fade
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