Cluan Place- Sidewalk
Belfast, Northern Ireland
3:17 PM Local Time
Augustus Briese nervously tugged at the collar of his shirt and looked around, picking up the pace. He had every right in the world to be nervous, he knew. The Cluan Place district of Belfast was heavily Loyalist, and- worst of all, Protestant. It had also been the site of some of the more notorious battles of their battle for Independence, and the feelings stemming from the Battle of Saint Matthews just eight years ago were still harsh. He had every right to feel unwelcome here. But he had to pass through, in order to reach his destination.
But even more so, Gus was nervous about what was going to happen when he actually arrived. It wasn’t every day that one had a courier bang on his door and deliver a note from Derrick Delaney, practically demanding that he appear immediately. Gus didn’t like being told what to do, but the thought of the consequences of ignoring such a summons meant that he would walk through Hell itself- heck, Cluan Place was the closest thing on earth to it.
Gus sighed with relief as the peace wall- an eighteen foot high concrete barrier built to seperate the Protestant neighborhood from the Catholic Short Strand district- loomed ahead. The gates to heaven, where no heathens dared tread, were wide open, and Gus picked up his brisk pace even more, breathing a sigh of relief as the officer manning the gate waved him through, and he emerged on the Republican side of the barrier.
He paused as he passed a mural painted on a wall, showing British soldiers walking home, the saying Slan Abhaile stenciled above it- a plea for the peaceful removal of British soldiers from occupation, the Gaelic words literally meaning ‘safe home’.
“Fuck that,” Gus snarled, hawking and spitting, the projectile landing squarely on the back of the British soldier. The only thing that would cure Ireland of this British plague was a cleansing, one of fire and blood. The stupid English didn’t understand anything else.
The Delaney residence wasn’t too much further, and it wasn’t long before Gus was arriving at the front walk. The house was by no means a mansion, but certainly seemed like a palace compared to the surrounding working-class neighborhood. Gus took another deep breath, trying to steady himself, before knocking on the door.
A woman- he could only assume she was Derrick’s wife- answered the door, and quickly led him upstairs, into a small office with a large wooden desk. Behind the desk, sat a man in his mid-thirties, a craggy face, a shock of read hair atop his head, with a matching goatee. He was dressed in an open collared black blazer, a white buttoned shirt underneath. The two men behind him- each one prominently carrying an American M16 assualt rifle in his arms, were dressed in closed leather jackets. Both men glared at Gus as he stood, waiting for Derrick to acknowledge him.
It didn’t take long. Derrick looked up from a packet of papers he had been reading, and flashed a grim smile. “Gus! Thank you for coming today. Please, sit down. Sit down.”
He beckoned to a lone hardback chair sitting in front of the desk, in a stark contrast to his own plush leather-bound office chair. Gus sat down, fidgeting nearly immediately. The seat was uncomfortable- made doubly so by the man staring at him from across the desk. “You sent for me, Derrick?”
“I did,” Delaney replied, shaking his head. “I’m hearing some disturbing things, Gus. About this whole Margaret Blaine murder case that’s been all over that goddamned Telegraph.”
“I’m fucking sick of hearing about that,” Gus snarled.
“As am I, Gus. As am I. But you know what I’m really sick of hearing about? The idea that the Celtic Liberation Front was behind the shooting. A lot of people, Gus, think that we were behind that, which is funny, because I don’t ever recall ordering the assassination of Margaret Blaine.”
Gus began to sweat as Delaney’s emerald eyes bore into him. He found it suddenly hard to breathe. “Well, I’m sure it’s not the first time rumors have been wrong.”
Delaney shook his head. “No, it wouldn’t be. Except... Gus, I did a little digging, and I’m starting to believe the rumors myself. The CLF might just be behind the shooting, which like I said, is funny, because again, I didn’t order it. So that just leaves the question... who did?”
Gus nearly choked, a bead of sweat running down his forehead. He didn’t dare try to wipe it off- his eyes kept darting at the two armed men standing behind Derrick. Delaney, for his part, leaned forward, his smile now completely gone. “This would be a really fucking good time to start telling the truth, Gus.”
More sweat poured down Gus’ forehead. Finally, he couldn’t stand the pressure anymore. His breathing rapid and uneven, he finally nodded his head. “Okay, it was me.”
“I doubt you pulled that trigger yourself. Who’d you have do it? One of our guys?”
Gus shook his head “No. I hired some Ukranian. An exiled freedom fighter or something.”
“So now we’re outsourcing, and bringing outsiders in. Motherfucker.” Derrick exhaled, leaning back in his chair. Gus expected him to start screaming. To throw things from the desk. But to his shock, Delaney started laughing. It was a more horrible sound than any amount of rage.
“Goddammit Gus. Where’d you even get the money to pay for something like that? Waiting tables and doing vaudeville?”
Gus bristled at the mockery. “I simply asked for it. You know who my parents are... mother still won’t refuse me anything.”
“I know who you’re parents are. They employ more Protestants than Catholics at their docks. They give their lowest rates to England. Your dad would suck Prime Minister James Callaghan’s cock if it would get him a contract. They’re fucking traitors. Just as I’m starting to think you are.”
“No!” Gus burst out, holding his hands up. “Please! She was just a stupid English girl!”
“You’re right Gus. She was just a girl. There was absolutely no point in killing her. In fact, I could probably come up with seven different reasons why killing her would be counterproductive. The only connection she had to anything is because she beat your girlfriend out for a stupid acting part. Half my men reported that you spend the better part of two weeks bitching about that to anyone who would listen. Is that why you killed her? Over a fucking play? Did you just use me and my fucking army for your own personal, petty gain?”
“No!” Gus exclaimed, although he himself knew it was a lie. “She was Kensington’s girl, and I wanted to send a message...”
“Kensington?” Delaney sneered, and glowered at Gus. “Gareth Kensington is a buffoon, Gus. But now he’s a Buffoon that everyone has sympathy for. You’ve turned Margaret Blaine into a martyr for the Loyalists, and Kensington’s her champion. Right now he’s in London, proposing MORE bills, and MORE restrictions on the Irish. And he’s hounding Scotland Yard to pour every fucking resource they have into this investigation.”
Derrick leaned forward again. “And here’s the kicker Gus. I know how Scotland Yard operates in Ireland. They’re always looking for a bigger fish. They’ll connect Blaine to you. Then they’ll connect you to me, and the CLF. And soon, we’re all dealing with shit we won’t be prepared to.”
“Vassily said he made sure there was no evidence. He’s very good at his job.” Gus said, hoping in vain for something to appease the irate leader.
Delaney chuckled and shook his head. “Maybe you’re not a traitor, Gus, but you’re certainly an idiot. There’s ALWAYS evidence. It’s just a matter of whether or not they can find it. And if they do...”
Desperate, Gus found some amount of bravado in the pit of his stomach. “Then let them come. Isn’t that what we’re about? Fighting the goddamned English for our freedom?”
“Right,” Delaney nodded, sneering. “And how many SAS commandos can you take on, Gus? We don’t have the manpower to do that. We have to choose our strikes carefully, and not just pull the trigger on anything that offends us. That’s why we’re in such a dangerous position now, thanks to you, Gus. Your perfidity could set hounds on our trail we can’t shake.
Gus bowed his head in acquiescence. “Forgive me Derrick. I was short-sighted, and I won’t go over your head again.
“No, you won’t.” Delaney said. “Because your mind is incapable of fathoming the consequences that would befall you if you do. Just one thing before you go. This Ukranian you hired. I’d like to speak to him myself. What’s his name?”
“Vassily. Vassily Ganiyeva.” Gus replied, hoping he wasn’t sending his associate to his death.
“Thank you. Now... get out of here Gus. This won’t be spoken of again... unless other’s start speaking of it first. And you’d best pray that doesn’t happen.”
“I understand,” Gus replied, standing up, and quickly leaving the room, and the house. He got a good block before he ducked down an alleyway, and doubled over, expunging the contents of his stomach all over the ground as the nerves and adrenaline began to subside.
That had been too close.
===========================================================
Tuesday November 22, 2011
The Nest- Kitchen
Indianapolis, Indiana
5:15 PM Local Time
“WOMAN! I’m hungry! Where’s my dinner?”
Terrence Thompson’s voice bellowed throughout the downstairs floor of the Nest as the ARCA driver stepped in from the garage. Patting his belly, he strode confidently into the kitchen. “I said, WO-”
He abruptly stopped. The kitchen was completely empty, all the appliances off. Terrence peered around the corner, looking through the formal dining room out into the living room. “Wendy?”
No answer, and no sign of her. Was she upstairs?
Terrence quickly climbed the stairs, and looked in the bedroom, the computer room, even Theresa’s bedroom. No sign of her. She was home- her Vespa was still in the garage (not that she’d go riding in this weather anyways.) So where was she?
His stomach growling, Terrence climbed back down the stairs, and began strolling to the kitchen. He stopped, however, when he noticed that the door to the basement was wide open, the light on. Terrence walked to the edge of the stairs, and listened, being rewarded with the sound of objects being moved around.
Ah, there she was.
Terrence slipped down the stairs, and saw Wendy, her back to him, trying to organize one of the shelves against the far wall, trying her hardest not to trip over the various boxes and odds and ends that littered the floor. Off to the side, boredly playing on a DS, sat Theresa. She lit up as she saw him, but Terrence quickly put a finger to his mouth, shushing her. He pointed at Wendy, and grinned. Theresa, understanding what was coming, grinned back.
The Mechanical Mayhem tiptoed around a couple of boxes, creeping up behind his redheaded wife. She was holding an open box of papers, staring appraisingly at the shelf, trying to decide where to put it. Three feet away, and she hadn’t even noticed him. Two feet... one feet... he was practically touching her....
“WOMAN!”
The reaction was far more than he could have ever hoped for. The box flew from her hands, upending as it crashed to the ground. Wendy screamed, wheeling around and putting herself into a defensive fighting position. Upon seeing her assailant, the panic on her face turned to annoyance, her cheeks flushing crimson from embarassment. Terrence grinned, while a few feet away, Theresa rolled on the floor, howling in laughter.
“I’m hungry! Where’s my dinner!”
Wendy was still breathing heavily from the scare. “Man go upstairs and order pizza! Woman not cooking!” She snarled back.
“Aw...” Terrence grumbled, his voice taking on an edge of disappointment. “I was hoping for lasagna tonight.”
Wendy rolled her eyes. “There’s a Stouffer’s lasagna in the freezer. Just follow the instructions on the box.”
“But I really like the way YOU do it.” Terrence whined.
The look on Wendy’s face strongly suggested that his life might be coming to an end, and with the mess down here, there were plenty of places to hide a body. Terrence acquiesced. “Okay, fine. I’ll call Domino’s or something. What are you doing down here anyways?”
Wendy beckoned to the shelf behind her. “When I was in Ireland, I packed up anything of Nana’s that I thought was important and had it shipped here. It arrived today, and I’m putting it with the stuff I got from my parent’s house before I...” her voice trailed off.
“Burned it down?” Terrence helpfully finished for her.
“Yeah. That.”
“You know, that’s always bothered me. You torched a whole house, and they give you a little ticket for illegal burning. But try and cremate ONE rodent in the driveway...”
The glare Wendy gave him would have melted the vast majority of metals. “You’re right, Terrence. I got off easy with that. But I was forthcoming the whole way with why I burned down my parents house. No one was in it. It wasn’t for the insurance. I just... felt it had to go. It was my first time back in Indianapolis after dad’s arrest, and...” She looked away.
Terrence grimaced. He had gone too far. “I’m sorry. I’m just teasing you, y’know. He reached out, and put his arms around his wife.
Wendy smiled back. “I know you are, hon. All that’s the past. I’m trying to put it behind me the best I can.”
They released, and Wendy bent down to pick up the papers that had scattered on the floor. Terrence, for his part, looked around, grinning. “I suppose since I’m down here, I should start bringing up Christmas lights.”
“You said you weren’t going to do that until we got back from Dallas.” Wendy reminded him, shoveling more papers into the box. “And you PROMISED me that you weren’t going to go overboard this year. Not after last year’s debacle.”
Terrence snorted. “Debacle? We won second place in the lighting contest hon! I figured this year we’ll go for first.”
Wendy looked up from the box. “At least promise me that you’ll leave the snow-making machine down here.”
“You kidding me? That’s WHY we won second, hon! And first place in the neighborhood snowball fight. We had our own little armory...” Terrence’s voice turned nostalgic as he remembered back on the day. “Ricky Davis never found his retainer after Theresa nailed him...”
“Boom! Headshot!” Theresa piped in helpfully.
“Don’t say that, Theresa,” Wendy rebuked, picking up the box. She gritted her teeth in irritation as she realized that she had missed two of the papers. “Terry, could you get those please?”
“Sure.” Terrence said, turning away from admiring the snow machine to pick up the leafs. “What’s this?” he asked, holding up what appeared to be a newspaper article. Wendy peered at the headline above it.
ACTRESS BLAINE GUNNED DOWN OUTSIDE LYRIC THEATER
“Oh, it’s about the Margaret Blaine assassination.” Wendy replied, quickly skimming the article. “Don’t you remember that? It’s the one that they accused my father of- that’s supposedly why he left Ireland.”
“Probably did it, too, the fucker.” Terrence growled. Even before Gus had killed Gayle and made his and Wendy’s life a living hell, Terrence hadn’t been too fond of the Irishman.
“They never could prove it,” Wendy reminded him. “But you’re probably right. I certainly wouldn’t put it past him.”
“So what’s this other thing?” Terrence asked, looking at the other piece of paper. “It’s like, a map or something...”
Wendy looked at it. “That’s my parent’s old house...” she said, blinking.
The map did show the no-longer existing house, but seemed to be more focused on the outside yard. Showing several markings, including a huge X in the back-right corner of the yard, near a clump of bushes. Written neatly to the side of the X were the letters ‘CLF’.
“CLF?” Terrence asked. “What’s that mean?”
“Celtic Liberation Front,” Wendy hissed. “It was a terrorist group dedicated to freeing Northern Ireland from British Rule. My father helped fund it.”
“I thought that was the IRA.” Terrence mused.
“There were several groups.” Wendy explained. “The IRA, the PIRA, the RIRA, the INLA... they all had relatively the same goal, but different philosophies on how to obtain it. Sometimes, even they clashed with each other. The CLF was one of the smaller factions, but they did some pretty horrible stuff.”
“Yeah, that sounds like your dad, alright,” Terrence proclaimed, looking back at the map. “But why would the CLF be burying stuff in your dad’s backyard, five thousand miles away?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” Wendy said, shaking her head. “Either way, we can’t go find out. I sold that land, and there’s a new house there, and I doubt they’d want us digging up the yard. Besides, whatever it is, it’s probably better if it just stayed buried.”
“Not even the least bit curious?” Terrence pressed.
“I am. But we’ve got packing, and a trip to Dallas to make,” Wendy replied. “And you still haven’t ordered our pizza yet. Go on, I’ll be right up as soon as I get this put away.”
“Oh yeah,” Terrence replied. “Come on, Terr-Bear. You gotta help me pick out what we’re gonna get!”
Terrence hoisted the five year old girl up, and together, the two of them marched up the stairs. As they left, Wendy shoved the box onto the shelf, and looked around. The rest of this, including the Christmas lights, could wait for another day.
She turned to walk away, and then stopped. Thinking for just a second longer, she reached into the box she had just shelved, pulled out the map, quickly folded it into her pocket, and followed her husband up the stairs.
Saturday November 26, 2011
Cowboys Stadium, Section 131
Arlington, Texas
11:51 AM Local Time
The time has come. The big day. Hundred thousand people congregate to watch thirteen matches, one of the biggest, boldest, most exciting wrestling shows of the year. All coming from the biggest boldest most exciting arena...
Pollaski: “JERRYWORLD!”
Yeah. That.
We’re in an empty Cowboys Stadium (or, as Pollaski calls it, Jerryworld, after the Cowboys owner Jerry Jones), up in the stands, where Daniel Pollaski and Wendy Briese are standing on the steps to the arena, looking out over the magnificent scene of a hundred thousand empty seats, all looking down to the ring below. Above them, the video screen is showing different photographs of various wrestlers. Pollaski chuckles and points up, at the massive eighty yard by fifty yard video screen hanging down from the ceiling.
Pollaski: “Hey look. Even on the Jerrytron, Wendy’s breasts still look small.”
Wendy turns immediate crimson, and glares bug-eyed at her manager. Behind the camera there’s a chuckle, that belonging to Wendy’s husband, and apparent cameraman, Terrence.
Terrence: “Dude, don’t look at my wife’s chest.”
Pollaski: “What? It’s not like there’s much to look at...”
Wendy’s eyes narrow immediately. Pollaski grins, and decides its time to end the fun.
Pollaski: “So Wendy! Big day’s finally here! Welcome to Dallas and all that. Now that Violent Night is finally here... how do you feel about tonight?”
Wendy looks around, takes a deep breath, and sighs.
Wendy: “Well, in one aspect Dan, I’m kind of disappointed.”
Terrence & Pollaski: “DISAPPOINTED?!”
Note: That is said in the same tone and cadence as “New York City?!” in those old salsa commercials.
Wendy: “Yeah. You know what? I’m a bit disappointed. Jo’s spent the better part of the last two months keeping the reason she selected me for this match some big secret. She’s been playing her cards close to the vest, and giggling like it’s a royal flush. So now the time’s finally come to lay the hand down, and give us her big secret and its...”
*Drumrolll.... TADA!* WEndy gasps.
Wendy: “Wendy Briese is a big phony!”
Wendy bursts out laughing, and shakes her head at the absurdity of it all.
Wendy: “Well, Jo. You got me. After nine years, someone has finally figured it out. All this bit about Wendy Briese the saint, it’s an act. One I’ve put on for nine years of my life. In reality, I’m actually a heavy drinking athiest. Terrence and I have what you would call an open relationship. Oh, and I secretly cheat to win all my matches using some invisible mind control ray. And I single handedly destroyed a dozen wrestlinc companies with my ego alone. Because I’m evil like that.”
The sarcasm here would best be described as ‘dripping’.
Wendy: “Or Jo, did it ever occur to you that I’m a human being, with as many flaws as the next person, and I’ve never pretended to be anything but. Now maybe I’ve set standards for myself, and I frequently fail to live up to them. It’s disappointing at times, even frustrating. But in this situation, there’s two things you can do. You can try harder, and hope that maybe the next time you can jump a little higher, and meet that bar. Or you can set the bar lower, and go the easy route.”
As Wendy talks, she raises her right hand, as if it’s a high jump bar, that faint sarcastic smile still on her face.
Wendy: “And maybe my goal is a futile one. But I’m not going to stop trying, and I can say that’s a heck of a more noble amibtion than whatever the heck you’ve done over the last few months. Maybe I’m flawed, maybe I’m no saint, but whatever I am, its sure as heck better than the little chameleon you’ve allowed yourself to become.”
“You’re the last person on Earth to have the right to call anyone a phony, Jo. Either you’re full of it and lying now, or you were putting on some charade for the first four months of your existence in this company. I don’t care which, Jo. All I know is that I liked the ‘old’ Jo McFarlane better than the ‘new’ one, or the ‘real’ one, or whatever the heck you want to call yourself.”
Wendy scoffs.
Wendy: “You were likeable at least, back then. At least I thought so, although perhaps the fans disagreed with me- after all they did vote you off first in Future Shock. But I thought you had a good heart, Jo, even if you didn’t find the in-ring success you were hoping for. I can’t blame you for being frustrated, especially after that Rori match, when she took that roll of quarters to your head. And I was so happy for you when you learned from your mistake, and took out Traci Loveheart when she tried to do the exact same thing.”
“But somewhere along the line, you tossed ‘if at first you don’t succeed, try and try again’ to the side, and exchanged it for ‘if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”
Wendy shakes her head in disgust.
Wendy: “Oh, no wait. I’m sorry, that’s just you being ‘genuine now, isn’t it? After all, I remember clearly that’s what you said after you won the Pick your Poison match at Unstoppable. So is this it Jo? Is truly who you want to be now? A bully who latches onto other, stronger women so she can feel good about herself?”
“It’d be funny if it weren’t so sad. You had just won the biggest match of your career, and that’s the point you decided it would be a good time for a change? You honestly think that joining up with the A-List was the turning point you needed? You lost your next three matches in the wake of that, Jo! You didn’t become stronger. That didn’t magically remove some mental block that made you better. It turned you into a little insufferable brat, who STILL lost!”
Wendy gestures by slightly raising her hands, as if conceding a point.
Wendy: “You’re getting better now, though. Anyone can see that. You’ve been training with Chris. He’s a phenomenal wrestler, and I think it’s only a matter of time before he’s atop SVW. And I’m sure you’ve had a chance to work with Colleen, as well. For all our differences, I know that Colleen is one of the best wrestlers I’ve ever set foot in that ring with. With those two on your side, you can’t help but improve.”
“But Jo, there’s a level you have got to be at tonight, that you haven’t been at yet. You’re the one with everything to prove tonight- this is YOUR match, after all. This’ll sound preachy and arrogant, but if you want to win tonight, you better come up to my level, because I’m sure as hell not going to be lowering myself to yours.”
That’s like the fourth use of the word Hell. By Wendy standards, this promo has now become profanity-laden.
Wendy: “The issue isn’t whether or not you have the talent. Because you do. It’s not about how much you’ve improved, either, because you have. It’s about your attitude. And I don’t mean that angry-at-the world, I’ll do whatever I want and bleep you if have a problem with it attitude. I mean that competitive spirit in you, Jo.”
And yes, she actually did say bleep.
Wendy: “You want to know why I’m at this level I am, Jo, depsite the fact that I’m apparently boring and unlikeable? It’s because go out every single night, and give everything I have, regardless of who I’m facing. I don’t hold back, and I’ll give every wrestler just as much effort as I would give Colleen, or Katherine Stryfe.”
“Can you say the same thing Jo? Can you say that you’ve given it all, no matter how bright the lights are? Did you walk out of that match with Crystal Hate, knowing you had done all you could? Did you leave your soul in that ring with Hanna Elliot? Don’t lie to me, and don’t lie to yourself. You didn’t.”
“It’s different tonight, though, isn’t it? The biggest night of your career, the lights are brighter. You’ve practically staked your entire career on this match, and you’re not about to show up unprepared. And as much as I’m honored that facing me might actually make you start living up to your potential, I have to wonder, what happens after? Will it be the same old Jo? Will you go back to your ho-hum attitude, waiting until the next golden door shows up to give everything?”
“Even though you’ve spent fifteen minutes of your life spewing lies about me, I’m glad that you respect me enought to at least try to make something of this match. But don’t you DARE disrespect me by going back to being the same old Jo McFarlane after it’s all said and done.”
For a second, Wendy frowns, and looks away.
Wendy: “Maybe that’s why you’re so mad at me, isn’t it Jo? This is a big match for you, but it could have been bigger. If only I had beaten Crystal Hilton and retained that Evolution Championship. Then this contest would likely be with that on the line wouldn’t it? That seemed to be what Samantha was thinking. I’m so sorry I ruined those plans.”
Wendy rolls her eyes, suddenly annoyed for a second.
“But Jo, see, this is where you start to realize that you’re starting to grasp at straws when you start calling me a phony. Hypberbole is your best friend here- like how I never wanted the Evolution Title? Go back and re-listen to that promo against Kitty Stryfe, and tell me where I said that. See, other people were smart enough to actually GRASP what I was trying to say there, even if you simply are going out of your way to miss the point. Here’s another- what was offered first in my match against Crystal Hilton, the Femme For All bye, or the Evolution Championship?
“Anyone who guessed option A was obviously paying better attention than you, Jo, because the bye was offered immediately, while the Evolution title wasn’t up for grabs until right before I won it. And you criticize me for wanting in both, when BOTH were the prize of that match? Jo, do me a favor, don’t even pretend you know what the Evolution Title, or the FFW championship means to me, before you can actually get within sniffing range of either.”
Wendy forces herself to take a deep breath. And calm down.
Wendy: “It’s almost sad what this match could have been, Jo, if you had shown just a little more respect during your tenure here. You could have been the plucky underdog rookie, desperate to make a name for herself. I could have been the established veteran, ready to make her earn that. This could have been all about respect. A hundred thousand fans wondering if Jo McFarlane could overcome Wendy Briese, and get that huge win she so desperately needed.”
“That’s not happening, Jo. Wrestling is a sport of seconds, and in the one second you spent driving a Kendo Stick into Isabella Pazzini, you wrecked it. You’re not the plucky underdog. You’re the insufferable bully who hasn’t yet been able to back her words up. I’m not the established veteran posing as the ultimate trial, I’m just someone trying to stand up to your clique. In one swing, Jo, this match went from being about you in the eyes of the fans, to about me. It went from “Will Jo overcome the odds?” to “Will Wendy PLEASE shut this girl up?”
Wendy takes another deep breath, and sighs again.
Wendy: “Wake up, Jo. Because it’s not me the fans are sick of hearing- it’s you. I’ll admit, I might repeat a couple of things from time to time, but that’s because some people, yourself included, can’t seem to comprehend it the first time. You... well, Jo, mistress of independent original thought, when’s the last time you actually stood in a camera and NOT knocked my morals?”
“In fact, Jo, I would go so far as to say that you’ve carped about me being preachy far more times than I’ve actually BEEN preachy.”
Behind her, Pollaski has this expression on his face that he suggests that it’s not physically possible.
Wendy: “And maybe I am a bit preachy from time to time. I’m outspoken, and I believe what I believe. I can’t apologize for that, Jo. You might not like it. Colleen might not like it. But someone’s got to speak up from time to time. This month in America, we learned all to well the truth behind the phrase “The only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.”
Oh don’t worry. We’re so not going any further down that road.
Wendy: “Or women for that matter. You want to know why I’m opposing the A-List, Jo? When it’s supposedly not my fight? Because it IS my fight, whether you want to admit it or not. After all, you apparently had your sights set on me from the moment you joined, and where one A-Lister goes, others soon follow.”
“As far as Isabella goes, she approached me, not the other way around. She asked for my help, and I agreed, because whatever Isabella did in the past, I sincerely believes she wants to make things right. I doesnt’ matter whether or not Isabella’s being booked, or choosing to openly oppose you guys, or not. I am, because someone has to. And every victory I gain over you will make other women realize more and more that they can stand up to you to.”
“And I bet what scares the lot of you the most is that concept that I might actually succeed. After all, the vailidity of this whole banding-together, anything-goes thesis you’ve implied predicates on one small thing- that its impossible to win by playing by the rules. And if I can pull this off, and I can beat not just you, but every single women in your clique that’s thrown at me, you guys are going to be exposed as the cowards you truly are.”
Another grim smile
Wendy: “And I’ve been down this road before, Jo. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen the company I work for attempted to be tyrannized by some ‘elite’ clique of wrestlers who tried to own the place. And you know what? I succeeded. I fought them off. Your sister should know that story well- she was there in that company. Or did she neglect to leave that part out of her history lesson as well?”
“She probably did, considering that was probably not the high point of her career. She did, after all, choose the wrong side. She beat a good man nearly senseless with a chair, and ended his career.”
There’s short pause.
Wendy: I don’t even know why you brought that company up, Jo. It bears no meaning on this match.. at least I hope it doesn’t. Because if you based your poison pick on a tag team match Terry and I fought a year ago in a dead company against your sister that ended in controversy, you just replaced Alysson Summers for the lamest poison pick in the history of FFW.”
“It’s obvious Jo, that by now you’re trying to throw whatever you can find against the wall, and see what can sticks. If anyone really cares about what a horrible person I was before I joined FFW, they can feel free to discuss matters with me when I’m NOT trying to promote the biggest pay-per-view of the year”
More sarcasm there. Wendy smirks.
Wendy: “I’ll just say that I don’t lose any sleep at night over the decisions I made regarding those two companies. After all, it ultimately got me to where I am today, didn’t it? Terrence is in ARCA, getting ready for his second season, and I’m... well, I honest to God think that FFW is the best company I’ve ever been in, even if I do have some... unfortunate problems with certain members of the roster.”
“But you’d get those anywhere you go, and not just wrestling companies. But I’ve also found wonderful people that I can consider friends in FFW, even if I’m a preachy-insert-slang-for-the-female-anatomy-here. Good people, such as Eileen, and Cara, and Arianna, and Desirae, and Isabella. And do you know what the best thing about them is? I’m not going to give up on them, just as I don’t think they’ll give up on me. Even if I’m facing one of them at New Years Revolution. Even if I’m not completely in-line philosophically with any of them. Even if one of them’s the most shameless cheater I’ve ever met.”
Wendy actually smiles, and shakes her head. Wrestling’s a strange sport.
Wendy: “You see Jo, there’s something funny about friendship- it’s more about what you have in common with people than what you don’t. There was a time, not really that long ago, where I started to think of you as a friend, too. I mean, we weren’t bosom buddies, but we seemed to get along just fine.”
“Well, that time’s obviously past. It went away when you decided to make this match a hit on me, not a contest of respect. It went away when you gave into the temptations that Samantha Star dangled in front of you. It went away, shall we say, quicker than my Evolution Championship did?”
A self-depricating grin.
Wendy: “Yeah, a joke about it. You know why? Because the two weeks I spent hanging onto that title is a heck of a lot more than most other people are ever going to get. You can laugh about it, mock me, whatever you want to do. Two months worth of ridicule have helped me get over that misfortune. A lot of other women lost their titles that night, and a lot of other women did it in their first defense as well. All I know is I’m the only one who went down fighting so hard, she ended up with a match of the year nomination.”
“So go ahead, Jo. Giggle it out like you always do. Compare me to Michelle Taylor. After all, you’re the one who’s trying to aspire to beat me.”
Wendy chuckles again, and takes another step up the stairs.
Wendy: “So I hope I answered your questions, Jo, and I”m sorry if I’m not who you seemed to think I was. I never was perfect, nor did I ever claim to be. I just try to do my best, and do what’s right. But at least I try to aspire to some semblance of the truth, not the overblown, inaccurate, tabloid-like hyberbole you spew. But given that you actually think your attitude is actually effective, I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised.”
A small smile, and a small shrug.
Wendy: “So go on Jo, with your own little world. Where barfights and professional wrestling are the same thing. And drop the “I’m Scottish, I’m supposed to swear and drink,” card again, because I’m sure the population of your country enjoys one of their ambassadors acting like a foul-mouthed barbarian. Just try and root yourself in reality long enough to meet me in the ring tonight. Give me everything you have, Jo. I’m expecting it. After all, two of my four pay-per-view matches so far have been match of the year nominees. I have a reputation to uphold!”
“Just remember, Jo. You may think you have the antidote, but you better darn well make sure it’s the right one. After all, an incorrect antidote is often just as bad as the poison itself.”
Wendy smiles, and walks away, heading up the stairs.
===========
Saturday November 26, 2011
Delaney Household- Office
Belfast, Northern Ireland
9:13 PM Local Time
Derrick Delaney sat at his desk, huffing on a cigarette and looking through a manilla colored folder, the small lamp on his desk the only source of light in the room. He was distracted from his reading only by his mobile phone ringing, just off to the side of him. Pausing in his work, he checked the number, and irritably, flipped the phone open.
“This better be important.”
The voice on the other line sounded like a young Irish man. “We’ve found him, sir. He showed up in the prison database, just like you said.”
“Where?”
“The state prison in Michigan City, Indiana, sir.”
“Thank you, good work. Expect additional orders tomorrow. I need some time to think about what I’m going to do.” Delaney shut the phone off, and chuckled quietly to himself. He knew damn well what he was going to do- he just didn’t know quite how to go about it yet.
That would come to him soon, he knew.
“Oh Gus, it’s been a long time,” the elderly man said to the empty office around him. “A long time indeed. I just hope you’re as prepared for a reunion as I am.”
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