Crumlin Road Gaol- Cell H2
Belfast, Northern Ireland
7:18 PM Local Time
“Briese!”
Augustus groaned as he heard his name called, and looked up to see a fat prison guard standing on the other side of the bars, his club in hand as he stared back at the red-headed man. Augustus rolled his eyes, and took a deep breath before replying.
“Now what?”
“You have a visitor,” the guard replied, in a Welsh accent that made Gus’ teeth grate.
Great, this miserable fucking day was going to continue.
It had started pleasantly enough, to be honest, waking up in that chateau in the Swiss Alps that he and Gayle had spent their honeymoon in. After one final passionate tryst, it was back to Geneva, and finally the three-hour flight home to Belfast. It was a letdown to be heading back to the city after such a wonderful time in the mountains, but it still had been a pleasant enough day as the plane landed at Aldergrove.
It wasn’t until he and Gayle had left the airport in his brand new Mercedes that the trouble had started. Heck, even while they were still in Aldergrove, Gus had gotten the feeling that he was being watched by someone. But everytime he turned to look, there was no one there, just the bustle of the other passengers as they made their way through the terminal.
But within a mile of leaving, four police cars had been on his tail, sirens blazing. For just a second, Gus had contemplated making a run for it. Even now, in this dingy cell, he almost wished he had. But he had pulled over, and soon found himself facing half a dozen armed bastards yelling at him to put his hands up, and get down on the ground. He was under arrest for conspiracy to murder Margaret Blaine.
That terrified and pissed him off at the same time. The trail had gone cold. Vassily had made sure of it. And suddenly, some smart ass detective named Loki Holmes was in Gus’ face, grilling him about shit that he should have had no idea about? What the fuck?
“I’m coming...” Gus groaned, standing up from his cell’s cot, and slowly walking over to the door. The fat cop opened it, staring at Gus with his piggy little eyes and brandishing his club. He quickly spun the Irishman around, wrenched his arm behind him, and clapped on handcuffs. It was yet another indignity added to an afternoon and evening full of themm.
“Come on, then. And no funny business.”
The pig grabbed his arm, and forced him down the hallway, past the other cells, each one occupied with some common scumbag criminal that Gus was revolted to think he was even being CONSIDERED a colleague of. How dare these people throw him in with these filthy thieves and disgusting rapists. He was rich, for fucks sake!
It wasn’t a long walk to their destination, and soon, Gus found himself being pinned against the wall again, his handcuffs being removed. The fat guard then threw him into an interrogation room, barked “Fifteen minutes!” and slammed the door.
Gus had to reach out against the wall to keep himself from falling, and it took several more seconds to see who was in the room with him. There was another guard, nervously standing against the wall, eyeing him with... was it fear? Gus almost smiled at that... finally, someone to show him proper respect.
Then Gus turned, and saw his visitor, and gulped.
Derrick Delaney.
One very, very pissed off Derrick Delaney.
“Derrick, I...” Gus began, even as the CLF leader rose from the chair, and slowly walked towards him. He trailed off, and for a second, the two men stared at each other.
Then Delaney threw a right cross that caught Gus just behind his temple. The world went blurry, and he felt himself falling towards the ground, barely managing to get his arms out to stop his collapse. He shook his head, trying to make teh spinning stop, and choking down the vomit that was rising in his trachea.
Then the stomping started, and Gus whimpered as Delaney’s boots rammed into his body over and over again.
“You... stu...pid...mo...ther....FUCKER!” Each syllable was punctuated with another stomp. Gus could have sworn he felt a rib crack, and his eyes welled up with tears from the pain. Finally, Derrick tired of the kicking, but he was by no means through. Grabbing Gus by the collar of his prison jumpsuit, he hoisted him to his feet, and threw him back first into the wall, pinning him to it with a forearm across the throat.
“Derrick, please,” Gus wheezed, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“I fucking warned you, Gus. Ten months ago, I fucking told you that if anything came out of this Blaine fiasco, there’d be hell to pay. I should crush your throat right now.”
It was an empty threat, Gus knew... at least it would be if Delaney was sane. Killing him right here would practically scream that the CLF had been involved with the Blaine assassination, and that they were trying to shut up a potential liability, someone who would turn evidence to save his own hide. Gus wouldn’t do that... at least it’d take a hell of an offer for him to... but...
But it was obvious that sanity wasn’t exactly at the top of Derrick’s list of personality traits at the moment.
“Derrick... I swear I...”
“God DAMMIT.” Derrick screamed, throwing Gus onto the ground, and stomping around the table back to the chair he was sitting in. He plopped down, rubbing his temples as if he had a migraine. Finally, hs sighed. “For once in your life, will you act like a fucking man? Stop lying there like a bitch, and have a seat, goddammit.”
That was easier said than done at the moment, given Gus’ state. He lay on the floor, coughing and wheezing, trying to push himself off the ground. He looked up, and saw the young guard, who, strangely, hadn’t moved at all, even during Delaney’s attack. He was staring down at Gus, and if he had been afraid before, he was terrified now.
But then again, so was Gus.
Gus crawled to the chair, and slowly managed to climb up into it, cradling his midsection as he did. He looked across the table at Derrick. The man was stroking his goatee, breathing heavily, trying to calm himself down. Finally, Delaney looked back over at him.
“Your Ukranian slut has betrayed you.”
“Ivana? No...” Gus could barely believe it. Ivana wouldn’t do that... she couldn’t afford to. She simply needed him too much.
“Then who? Not many people knew about this, Gus. You, me, my guards, Vassily, and his sister. I know me, and I know my guards, and I know we didn’t go around broadcasting this shit. Vassily’s dead, and I’d like to think you’re not stupid enough to go blabbing about this shit to just anyone on the street. Who’s that leave?”
Gus shook his head, refusing to believe it. “Please, Derrick. Don’t do anything to her. There has to be an explanation...”
“That’s adorable, Gus,” Delaney snarled. “Real fucking adorable that you actually think some girl you’ve coerced to fuck you raw in exchange for a couple bucks is going to remain loyal to you. My men are searching for her right now, and if they find her...” Derrick trailed off, allowing the ramifications ot hang in the air. Then he sighed. “We need to make this go away. And fast.”
Gus nervously glanced at the guard, and gulped. “Are you sure we should be talking about this... here?”
Delaney snorted. “Him? Twenty thousand pounds and the promise that his wife and children will end up scattered across the Aughrim Landfill if he so much as sneezes wrong is enough to buy any man’s silence,” He finished by taking a pointed look at the guard, who simply gulped, and tried to shuffle along the wall away from him. Derrick turned back to Gus, a satisfied look on his face.
“So what do we do?” Gus whispered, wondering if Delaney was right about this whole problem disappearing.
“WE aren’t doing a damn thing. You don’t have the brains to even attempt to pull off something like this. I’LL be the one taking care of it.” Delaney paused, and a small smirk appeared on his face, as he looked back at Gus. “Of course, this isn’t for free, Gus. There will be a price.”
“Of course,” Gus agreed, although considering all that he had voluntarily donated to Delany and the CLF, he thought it was rather bullshit he’d be asked to pay even more. Nonetheless, he was hardly in a position to bargain here. “Whatever you want, Derrick. You know I’m good for it.”
“Not all prices are monetary, Gus,” Derrick replied. There was a long pause, before Derrick leaned forward. “When your name is clear, I want you out. Gone.”
“From the CLF?” Gus was aghast. He was being forced out of the fucking organization he funded for the past...
“No. Of Ireland.”
Gus was certain that every single one of his internal organs had stopped working. He felt comatose, staring at Derrick, his mouth wide open in shock. Finally, he managed to force some air into his lungs, and find his voice. “You want me to leave Ireland? My home?”
“Yeah. Go to France. Go to Spain. Go to America. Go to fucking Abu Dhabi for all I care, but just get the fuck out of the British Isles.” Derrick paused, and sighed his voice softening. “I don’t want to do this, Gus. You’re a true patriot, and you’ve been a great help over these past couple years in our fight for independence. But you’re too impulsive, and too fucking headstrong. You’re only going to cause more trouble. I can’t afford a liability like that.”
Gus bowed his head, and looked at his hands, which were now trembling. “What if I say no? You leave me in here to rot?”
Derrick shook his head. “No. If you want to stay in Ireland, you can. You can stay all over it. I’ll bury your heart here in Belfast, your skull in Ballycastle, your arms in Derry, your legs in Cork, and your dick in Dublin. You spend the next hundred years fertilizing this great land of ours, if that’s what you want. Now do we have a deal?”
Gus continued to look at the table. He wanted to tell Delaney to fuck himself, that he would never leave Ireland. But he knew that would be a death sentence. Delaney wasn’t the type to make idle threats. But how was he going to break the news to Gayle? How was he going to live outside of the homeland he was prepared to die for?
Gus closed his eyes, and felt single tear squeeze out, rolling down his cheek. Then he looked up at Delaney, sighing.
“We have a deal.”
Thursday December 8, 2011
Daniel Pollaski’s Car
Interstate 74 Near Greensburg, Indiana
11:49 AM Local Time
Dashboard cam: On.
We’re in Daniel Pollaski’s super-bitchin 2002 Saturn LS 3000, speeding down Interstate 74 on its way to Cincinnati. Actually, ‘speeding’ would be a fairly inaccurate word, because when Wendy Briese gets behind the wheel of a car, sixty-five miles per hour MEANS sixty-five miles per friggin’ hour! At least she’s stayed entirely in the right lane for the course of the trip. She’s not one of THOSE people.
Unfortunately, Velocity’s on a school night, which means the kid’s gotta stay home, and thus the dad’s gotta stay home to watch her the kid. That means that there’s only one other occupant of the car- Daniel Pollaski. The portly manager is living it up riding shotgun, a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos on one side, a Bladder Buster 3000XL (128 ounces!) of Mountain Dew on the other. And a Droid in his hands, from which emanates a sound of a high pitched “woo-hoo!’, followed by the sound of a thousand breaking boards and collapsing towers.
Angry Birds, yo.
Wendy: “I’m annoyed, Dan.”
Wendy looks over at her manager as she says this, apparently expecting some sort of response. Pollaski doesn’t even look up from his phone, just adjusts slightly as he digs into his pocket, and pulls out what looks to be a bottle of pills.
Pollaski: “Midol?”
Wendy’s eyes had gone back to the road, but she does a complete classic double take, her head whipping around and looking back at her manager, her mouth open.
Wendy: “What? NO! Not... that!”
Pollaski casually starts pressing the touchscreen on his phone, quitting his game, and bringing up a calendar (although you can’t exactly see this). He shrugs, nodding in agreement.
Pollaski: “Oh yeah. You’re not due for another two weeks. Merry fuckin’ Christmas, everyone.”
Wendy seems to be contemplating whether or not it would be physically possible to beat the living shit out of her manager without crashing. Finding such a feat would be unlikely, she sighs, and glances back at Pollaski.
Wendy: “Why are you... please don’t... keep track of that. That’s kind of creepy.”
Pollaski: “Let me put it this way, Wendy. It’s a lot easier to survive a volcanic eruption when you know the lava flow’s coming.”
There’s a pause. The expression on Wendy’s face would be best categorized as ‘horrified disgust’.
Wendy: “That analogy... just made this whole conversation worse.”
NOW Pollaski finally looks up from his phone, and grins at Wendy.
Pollaski: “Well, anyways, camera’s on. What’s eatin’ ya?”
Having her train of thought completely derailed by her manager hasn’t done Wendy any favors, and it’s a couple of seconds before she can refocus her thoughts.
Wendy: “I’ve got some things on my chest, Dan, and I think its best I get them off, and not worry about being nice, or mean, or being perceived as whining, or anything like that. But the fact of the matter is, when I found out that my No Surrender Qualifier was going to be against Stephanie Sullivan, I’ll confess, I had a problem with that.”
Wendy shrugs, and continues
Wendy: “It wasn’t that I had anything personal against Stephanie. It’s just, you know, I’ve been busting my butt in this company for the eight months I’ve been here. I’ve won some, lost a few along the way, but I don’t think that anyone would ever criticize me of showing a lack of effort. Stephanie Sullivan, well, she’s had one match here, and now she’s going to be put in the exact same position I am? Just a couple of matches away from a chance to be the first No Surrender champion. I busted my butt to earn a spot in this qualifier, and she just gets handed it? Yeah, I had a bit of a problem with that.”
“But the more and more I thought about it, the more I realized that in the end, it was okay. I mean, if I want to call myself the best submissionist in FFW, that means I need to beat anyone put up against me, no matter how many matches they had. And besides, FFW is the land of opportunity, and I’ know I’ve been given far more chances at things than I likely deserve here, so who am I to be complaining when someone else gets a shot?”
“And the more I read into it, the more I started to actually be excited about the match. I mean, you look at Stephanie’s history, and you’ll see that she was a former hardcore champion over in Ring of Beauty. And now she’s known as the “Technical Princess”. She actually took the time and effort to go into training and radically change her style so that she would be more effective in the ring. That’s pretty admirable right there. So I was actually starting to realize that this was going to be a heck of a contest between two great submissionists trying to advance in this tournament.”
Wendy pauses, and sighs.
Wendy: “And then Stephanie actually opened her mouth.”
Wendy bites her lower lip, and glances over at Dan, who’s merely sitting and listening. She takes a deep breath, but if you look closely, you’ll see that her eyes are blazing.
Wendy: “I’d like to think that I do a pretty good job of keeping myself, and my career in perspective. I’ve had some successes here in FFW, and I’ve unfortunately come up short a few times as well. I don’t think I’ve ever shied away from discussing anything I’ve done here, whether good or bad. All in all, I’m pretty happy with what I’ve done, and where I sit in the grand scheme of things, even though I know there’s plenty of room for improvement. So when someone gets on the camera and tries to drag my FFW career through the mud, well...”
A small, cold smile from Wendy.
Wendy: “Stephanie, don’t take this personally... but up yours.”
Pollaski, who had been taking a gulp of his Mountain Dew, snorts, spewing the soda all over the dashboard in front of him. Eyes streaming, he begins choking and gagging. Wendy looks slightly disgusted, but she’s far more focused on talking into the camera and driving.
Wendy: “Maybe... MAYBE there’s some people in FFW who could actually say stuff like that, and not look like a raging idiot, but you’re not even close to being on that list. So do me, and do everyone else a favor, and go focus on actually GETTING an FFW career before you start trying to downplay anyone else’s.”
Wendy takes a deep breath, and checks her mirrors.
Wendy: “You know, I’m starting to see why Alysson Gardner doesn’t really like you.”
Pollaski snorts, although he’s more focused on trying to wipe the Mountain Dew off his dashboard.
Wendy: “You’re not going to get any sort of justificaton from me, Stephanie, because you of all people don’t deserve one. Like I said, I know how to keep my career in perspective. I know EXACTLY where I came up short, and I know what caveats lie behind my successes, and I sure as HELL don’t need to be reminded of it by someone like you. Someone who’s been in this company FOUR MONTHS and has had all of ONE match. And you dare to downplay ANYTHING from ANYONE?”
“No. Sorry. Does not compute. Apparently when you came out of the basement after locking yourself down there for three months to ‘train your butt off,’ you left your common sense behind. Or maybe you just walked over to your friend Crystal’s house and asked if you could borrow her notes on me...”
Pollaski looks over at Wendy.
Pollaski: “Are they friends? I thought they had a falling out...”
Wendy rolls her eyes, and sighs.
Wendy: “I don’t know.. and honestly, I don’t really care. But God, they sure seem to sound alike. I mean, that rant was just a watered-down, less profanity laden one than Crystal’s when she...”
Wendy pauses, and it looks like a light has just gone off in her head.
Wendy: “Oh my God... that’s it, isn’t it? All this is because I beat out Crystal Hilton for Breakout Star of the Year...”
Wendy laughs helplessly, and shakes her head.
Wendy: “Yeah, I heard that little rant Crystal spewed out when she was SUPPOSED to be focusing on Tara Thunder. And you said it yourself, Stephanie, didn’t you? The year I had wasn’t deserving of being named the “Breakout Star of the Year.” Well, Stephanie, I’m SORRY that the FFW Faithful didn’t seem to agree with you when they cast their votes. I can’t explain why I won and Crystal didn’t. Maybe they got tired of her need to remind the entire world every ten seconds just how great she is.”
“But you know what the funniest thing of all is, Stephanie? You were so bent on trying to downplay everything, you lost track of yourself. You did everything in your meager power to make me out to be some overrated, underachieving choke artist, and at the same time, made it out as if beating me was some massive accomplishment that would get the fan’s thinking YOU’RE AMAZING! You can’t have your cake and eat it too.”
Pollaski would disagree.
Wendy: “Either I’m good,and beating me’s something of an accomplishment, or I’m overrated and just looking to get exposed. Don’t try to play both sides of the fence. But I could spend all day going on about your contradictions. I mean, have you ever considered running for Congress, Stephanie? Because its like you made three different campaign speeches to three different constituencies.”
“Even more bizarre is that you claim to admire Colleen as your hero, on the sole basis of her six month Evolution Title reign. That was impressive, and I was just one of the MANY people who failed to shorten that reign, but if you ask Colleen, how impressive do you think she’ll find it. Because just like you claim I did, in the biggest matches, with the brightest lights, Colleen came up short. Camilla... twice. Kaitlynn. Stacey. But she’s a hero, and I’m a choke artist?”
Wendy snorts, and shakes her head.
Wendy: “If you want to put Colleen on a pedestal, go ahead. I’ll admit it myself, looking at the wrestlers I have faced throughout my career, from a purely technical standpoint, there aren’t many better than her. But at least Colleen has some sense in her. Some sort of perspective, even if it’s a little warped. Some sense of moderation.”
“And that’s something else, Stephanie. Something about you that really gets to me. And honestly, it kind of ticks me off.”
Wendy takes another deep breath, and continues.
Wendy: “You’re determined to make sure that everyone knows you’re taking this serously. You haven’t wasted a single moment to remind the world how dedicated you are. After all, you did train for something along the lines of three months straight, never stopping to eat or sleep, or anything else, right? That’s dedication right there, isn’t it?”
Wendy shakes her head.
Wendy: “No that’s stupidity. Of the absolute highest degree. And yeah, brace yourself, because Wendy might be getting a little preachy and judgemental here. And if you have a problem with it, you can go ahead and click that little X in the upper right hand corner of the video player, because I feel strongly about this, and I’m going to say it.”
“You actually think that’s okay? To lock yourself in a bloody basement for three months, and train until you drop? That’s the exact same mentality that convinces girls to starve themselves and stick their fingers down their throat because they don’t look like a supermodel. Trainings important, and self-improvement is vital, but to do it in excess is STUPID!”
Wendy pounds the dashboard of the car, and takes several deep breaths, trying to calm herself down.
Wendy: “Great. You worked out. Didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. You’re a finely toned workout machine of pure muscle. But you know what else you need in a wrestling ring, Stephanie? Strength. Energy. Stamina. You don’t get those from a powerbar fifteen minutes before the match. You need your sleep, you need your food. It’s as important a part of a regimen as anything you do in a gymnasium.”
“And what really gets me is what you readily admitted what it did to your family, that it ripped at them, and wore it like it was some badge of honor. For three months your husband sat, worried sick about you. For three months, your son didn’t have his mother. That’s not a noble sacrifice, Stephanie. That’s a selfish one. And you DARE compare yourself to me as a mother?”
Wendy’s voice is actually tinged with emotion at this point, and her face is slowly turning red.
Wendy: “If the complete abandonment of your own family is what it takes to be a champion, Stephanie, then forget it. I’m done. I want no part of this business anymore. Fortunately for me... it isn’t. I can train my butt off eight hours a day, wrestle all over the country, and still find time to work on a three thousand piece jigsaw puzzle with my daughter. I still can find time to go out and enjoy an evening with my husband. That doesn’t make my dedication any less, that just means I GET IT.
“And I’m not alone. Look at the Champions we have had around here. Most, if not all of them has someone to go home to at the end of the night. Someone they’re not neglecting for the sake of their careers. Stacey has Ryan. Scarlett has Cody and Lucien. Isabella has Mr. Showtime. Even Colleen has Leo. You... better remember what you have Stephanie, or you’re going to be losing something way more valuable than a wrestling match or a strap of leather and gold.”
“No Stephanie, we’re not cut from the same cloth. I don’t even think we’re from the same fabric store. And I know you told me not to take this personally, but I can’t do that. You just spit on everything I’ve done, and you’ve soured everything I stand for in this business. That doesn’t sit well with me. At all.”
Another deep breath, and Wendy attempts a smile.
“So yeah, Stephanie. I’m looking forward to this match, but probably not for the reasons you think. I want the No Surrender title, because I know I have a lot to prove, both by getting it, and keeping it. And I want to shut you up, because there’s only so much even I can take someone before I had enough. But most importantly, I want to make you surrender. To give up. To, quite honestly, destroy whatever it is you’ve let yourself become.”
“After all, Stephanie. You’re the Phoneix, and you’ve built yourself a nest of twigs with your comments and habits. I’ll be more than happy to be the one to light that fire, so that you can reconsider everything, and emerge from the wreckage reborn, and anew.”
“At least then maybe we’d all be actually able to put up with you.”
Wendy gives a half smile at the camera, and quickly reaches foward, and we fade to black.
===========================
Friday December 9, 2011
Delaney House- Study
Belfast, Northern Ireland
2:17 AM Local Time
“We’ll get your confirmation e-mail sent out to you right away, sir. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Then thank you for flying Aer Lingus, sir, and I hope you have a wonderful morning!”
Derrick Delaney flipped off his phone, and leaned back in his chair. Six hundred and sixty nine Euros for a one-way ticket to Chicago, by way of London and then Dublin. Saturday January 7, 2012. One month to prepare.
“You better be ready as I will be, old friend,” he said aloud to the empty room, then opened a door on his desk, and pulling out a bottle of Glenfiddich. He poured a glass, and raised it in a solitary toast.
“To old times, and new beginnings.”
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