Saturday March 8, 1980
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.”
Monday December 10, 1979
Jurys Inn- 3rd Floor Hallway
Belfast, Northern Ireland
2:11 PM Local Time
“Three eighteen...”
Augustus Briese muttered as he eyed the three gold-plated numerals that had been nailed to the door in front of him, and took a deep breath. He still wasn’t exactly sure why he had even bothered coming down here today, other than stark curiosity. As attractive as he had found the girl, he barely even knew her. He’d much rather be at home... ‘rehearsing’ with Gayle. Or even better, celebrating the marriage proposal he had surprised her with following the wake. After all, now that he had money to call his own, what reason was there to not get married, and become the greatest husband-wife acting duo in history?
But first things first, of course. And that meant this little sidetrip to a hotel to answer a summons. Oh well, get this over with.
Gus raised his hand, and knocked three times on the door, stepping back and impatiently tapping his foot while waiting for an answer. The sound of not one, not two, but three locks sliding open greeted him, and soon the door open, and the young dark haired Ukranian stood in the doorway, exhaling with relief as she saw her guest.
“Gus, you came. Thank God.”
Her accent was still strong, but her English had improved leaps and bounds since April. But Gus barely noticed her words, so intent was he on trying not to stare. Ivana was wearing a similar style to the black dress she had worn in Eoghans, but here, in the brighter light of the hotel, everything seemed... impossibly better. Her breasts were rounder, bigger. Her hips were more perfectly proportioned. Her white skin was even creamier, her lips fuller, her hair more silky.
“Come in, please.”
The invitation jarred Gus from his thoughts, and he smiled, entering the hotel room. Ivana closed the door behind him, and beckoned for Gus to sit down in a chair. Gus obliged, and looked around. The hotel room was hardly a dump, but neither was it the luxury suite HE would stay in if he were to ever travel. There was a single bed, a dresser, with a small television atop it, the rabbit ears poking away at two odd angles. There was a small table, and two chairs over by a window, which would open up to a view of the Belfast Opera House, although now, the shades had been pulled tightly shut.
Ivana sat down on the bed, crossing her legs. For a while, a pregnant pause hovered in the air between the two of them, until finally the Ukranian found her voice, albeit a shaky one.
“Vassily’s dead.”
All the air seemed to be forced out of Gus’ lungs at the impact of the news. He blinked, and looked back at Ivana. Just the two words had caused tears to begin to trickle from her cheeks. “When was this? What happened?”
Ivana took a shuddering breath, and forced herself to continue. “It was last week. We were walking through an alley in Beechmount, and... they ambushed us. There were four of them. Russians, I think. Two of them had clubs, and one pulled out a knife. My brother... shoved me away, told me to run and don’t stop. I wanted to stay and help him, but... he kept screaming at me to run, even as he tried to fight them off. I did... I ran, and I thought they were chasing me, but... I got back here without seeing any of them.”
Gus nodded silently as he took in the story. He had known that Vassily was sending the money he had earned here in Ireland back to his homeland in the Ukraine, to support a militia of soldiers who were trying to resist the Soviet occupation. Some Kremlin jackass must have discovered Vassily’s identity and whereabouts, and setup the attack.
“I waited all night for him to come back, but he never did. I couldn’t sleep, or eat, or anything, I was so scared. I waited all that night, and until the middle of the afternoon the next day, and then I went back. He was gone, everyone was gone. But there was... so much blood.” She broke down into sobs, and Gus grabbed a tissue from a box on the table, and leaned forward offering it to the distraught girl.
“You didn’t see a body?” he asked. Ivana shook her head no, then dabbed at her eyes. Gus sighed. “Then maybe he’s not dead. Maybe they just captured him.”
“Then I hope he IS dead.” Ivana whispered. “It would be more merciful than what those jackals would do to him...”
Gus had to agree there. The Soviets were hardly known for their hospitality when it came to captives- especially ones known to be leading an armed rebellion.
Ivana had managed to calm down, slightly. “Vassily had all our money. He took care of everything, and when they got him... I don’t know many people in this city, Gus. You’re one of the few people I knew here, and... I can’t turn to anyone else, because I don’t know who to trust.”
“So you called me, looking for help?” Gus asked. He wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or amused by that.
“Please,” Ivana said again, her eyes pleading. “For the memory of my brother, your friend...”
“Yes, Vassily was my friend,” Gus replied, sitting up a little straighter in his chair. “But Vassily never did anything for me without a fee, nor did I expect him to. I think its only fair to expect the same of him, or you for that matter.”
The light of hope that had been shining in the girls eye dimmed, and true panic set in on her features. “I already told you I have no money! I can’t pay-”
“There are other ways of making payment than monetary ones,” Gus replied shortly, a cold smile coming across his face.
Ivana didn’t move, and Gus almost enjoyed her face as the words sunk in. The expressions weren’t overt, Ivana was doing the best to keep her emotions concealed, but the confusion she initially felt shown through, before understanding kicked in. Her eyes ran the gamut, from shock, to horror, to a sense of resignation. He fought down a chuckle that was building in his belly. So this is what true power felt like, to actually have control over people.
It was almost intoxicating.
Bravely putting on her most sultry smile, Ivana rose from the bed, and stood over Gus, swaying back and forth in front of him. Slowly, she pulled at one shoulder strap, then another, before letting the dress fall around her, revealing more of that creamy white skin and, at least in Gus’ opinion, some of the most wonderful feminine features he had ever seen.
Gus smiled, and licked his lips.
“My dear, I do believe we have a deal.”Tuesday December 6, 2011
The Nest- Living Room
Indianapolis, Indiana
4:13 PM Local Time
The scene opens looking at what appears to be old television footage of a wrestling show. It’s not a very big show, set in a refurbished warehouse, with maybe one to two hundred spectators surrounding the ring. Inside the ring is a younger Wendy Briese, wearing a simple black full body leotard, her flame-colored hair tied back in a pony tail. She’s wrestling a man- altghough both would be considered a stretch. After all, the ‘man’ is little more than a boy, no more than an inch taller and ten pounds heavier than Wendy, a shock of blonde hair sticking to his forehead as he tries to catch his breath. And the wrestling... well, is some of the sloppiest, most godawful in ring action you’ll find anywhere.
Eventually, Wendy manages to dodge a massive haymaker from the boy, and catch him around the head. She leaps into the air, going for her now-famous Vortexinator, although the move, like everything else in this match, is botched, with Very little rotation, and the impact mostly absorbed by Wendy’s butt hitting the canvas well before her opponent’s head does. Nevertheless, it seems to be enough, and Wendy rolls the poor kid over, quickly gaining a three-count, and then leaping to her feet, looking as if she just won the lottery as the bell rings, and the fans, what little of them there are, clapping half-heartedly.
The image quickly shuts off, and we fade in now to the living room of the Nest, where Wendy Briese, now in her present day thirty-year old quasi-MILF state, sits on the couch, cringing at the brutality we have all just been subjected to.
Wendy: “Oh my God... was I really that bad? No wonder it took us three months and seven tries before we finally won a tag match...”
There’s a bit of laughter from the side, and the camera zooms back to see her husband Terrence, sitting at the other end of the couch. He looks over at his wife, grinning.
Terrence: “Well, to be fair, you’d been training for what? Two weeks at the time? Of course you were gonna suck. And you still won... although it’s not like Bruce Garrett was much of a wrestler either. You got better.”
He finishes with a conciliatory grin directed at Wendy, who merely sighs, and shakes her head, glancing over at the camera.
Wendy: “I just can’t believe it’s been ten years since my first official professional wrestling match! Ten years ago this week, I decided that yes, this was something I wanted to do with my life. It’s tough to believe that ten years, around two hundred and fifty matches, and twelve companies later, I’m still here.”
Terrence: “It’s been a hell of a ride, that’s for sure.”
Wendy giggles and nods, shaking her head in amazement.
Wendy: “Tell me about it. But God... watching that match. It’s almost cringe worthy. I look at the women coming out of Future Shock today, and it’s almost scary how good they are. You take anyone from that show,. I don’t care what season, and send them back to 2001 in a time machine, and they’d wipe the floor with the rookie me.”
Terrence: “Well, Charity Deas does have that DeLorean. We could send her back and put that theory to the test...
Wendy doesn’t look all that amused by the prospect of that. Then again, no one really wants to think about Charity Deas going back in time to possibly kick their ass.
Wendy: “Well, it just goes to show how high the bar has been raised, especially for female wrestlers. Future Shock Rookies today are that good because there’s so much competition to even get INTO Future Shock, you have to have at least some level of talent.”
Terrence nods in agreement, obviously conceding Wendy’s point.
Terrence: “Remember that one company pretty much took anyone who had two lumps up here and a dent down there, so long as it was good eye-candy.”
Terrence gestures, with his hands to accentuate his point, indicating first Wendy’s chest, and then her lower body. Wendy’s not exactly amused by the crude phrasing, but she still nods in agreement.
Wendy: “And they really didn’t care how well we were trained either.. they just stuck us in matches. I remember week after week, where we’d get slaughtered in a match, then spend the next week trying desperately to figure out how to get better, only to get slaughtered again seven days later. It was a tough start.”
Terrence: “But you can’t say it was all a bad thing. We got better... we kind of had no choice.”
Wendy: “Yeah, we were fortunate. But how many didn’t? How many ended up washing out of what could have been a promising career because the promoters kept sticking them into matches they had no possible hope of being ready for? How many people got hurt because they simply weren’t prepared?”
Wendy shakes her head sadly.
Wendy: “And that’s yet another reason why Femme Fatale Wrestling is such a great place! The level of competition is high here, and while it causes some of the most entertaining matches you’ll ever see anywhere in wrestling, it also serves a far more noble purpose. You can’t step in the ring here until you’re absolutely ready. Newcomers don’t get thrown to the wolves... they don’t get thrown to anything until they can prove that they can handle it here.”
Terrence coughs, which sounds like strangely like “Astral”. Wendy pointedly ignores this.
Wendy: “And that’s why I think there’s someone who needs to be pointed out, because I think she’s taken a bad rap ever since she got here, and I know I’m one of the guilty parties. But ever since Jo McFarlane walked into FFW, she’s taken flack about so much, how she doesn’t take things seriously, her win/loss record. Her attitude in general.”
Wendy takes a deep breath.
Wendy: “There’s a lot not to like about Jo McFarlane. Her overall attitude, who she chooses to associate with. There’d be one heck of a list if we were to be thorough. But that’s not what I’m after. The fact is, anyone who saw our match at Violent Night can’t deny that Jo McFarlane has deserved her spot in the FFW roster. She’s young and inexperienced, sure. But she’s got heart, and she’s improved every single match she’s participated in.”
Another sigh, Wendy offers a crooked apologetic smile.
Wendy: “Jo took me to the limit at Violent Night, and I left Dallas feeling extremely fortunate to have won there. And I think I owe Jo an apology, for the callous, arrogant comments I made before that match. And I’ll say this, I know that’s not the last time we’ll be facing off in that ring. I look forward to the rematch, although if she’s any better the next time around, I can safely say that I’ll be in serious trouble!”
Terrence: “Not to mention listening to her rage on about how you’re a filthy hypocrite again.”
Wendy shoots an annoyed sidelong glance at her husband.
Wendy: “I was hoping that part wouldn’t be brought up. And certainly hoping that the next time around, Jo will take a more...enlightened approach to her view of my career. I think that match gave us both a bit of change in perspective...”
Terrence shrugged, breaking into a triumphant grin.
Terrence: “Yeah, but only Jo got a change in spinal alignment from that. That was beautiful. You looked like you enjoyed nearly bending her in half like that...”
Wendy shoots another glare at her husband, although she bites her lip, apparently thinking.
Wendy: “I don’t think ‘enjoyed’ would be the most appropriate word there. The most I was feeling was relief, because Jo was putting up a heck of a struggle to keep kicking out after everything I gave her, and I could tell that this was finally going to do the trick. But yeah, I’ll confess. That’s about as satisfying a victory as you can get.”
Terrence chuckles, and flashes a teasing grin at his wife.
Terrence: “Gettin’ a little sadistic there, hon?”
Wendy waves her hands a tad on the defensive side.
Wendy: “No! Of course not! But Terrence, there’s generally three ways to win a wrestling match. No one likes to win by disqualification, you gain nothing from it. And don’t get me wrong- there’s nothing wrong with getting a pinfall victory... heck, that’s how I win the majority of my matches. But for your opponent to ASK you to stop, to give up the match on their own free will, not because you forced their shoulders to the mat... I’ll admit it... it’s a heck of a rush when that happens. There’s not a single more decisive way to win a match than that.”
Wendy takes a deep breath, and grimaces.
Wendy: “At the same time though... it’s pretty humbling to be submitted, especially if you’re a submissionist in your own right. It’s remember it in the heat of the moment, when every inch of your body’s on fire from a hold, but when you tap that mat, you’re basically saying ‘I give up, please stop hurting me’. That’s a pretty tough thing to have to admit. Most wrestlers aren’t exactly known for being short on pride, and asking someone to give up is a huge blow to it. I mean, look at Payton St. Pierre... she couldn’t just tap a mat... she had to VERBALLY tell Sophie she couldn’t take anymore, and she never recovered from that.”
Wendy looks over at her husband, a mixture of excitement and trepidation on her face.
Wendy: “And that’s the absolute brilliance of the No Surrender division. If you’re a submission wrestler, this is as high stakes, all-or-nothing as it gets. Either you get the satisfaction of making your opponent give up, or you have to swallow your pride, and give up yourself. No woman wants to be thought of as a quitter, and when you enter this division, you’re risking that.”
Terrence: “Well, not something you have to worry about, right? You haven’t submitted since, what? 2003?”
Wendy nods slowly, but then quickly shakes her head.
Wendy: “I think... but that’s misleading. Not many people have TRIED to submit me...”
Terrence: “Crystal Hilton did. Twice. And you held out beautifully.”
Wendy nods.
Wendy: “I did, but it sure wasn’t easy. It hurt, a lot. But I knew how I was doing, and I knew that I could hold out.”
Wendy frowns, and sighs.
Wendy: “The thing is, I’m not one of those women who are going to come on camera, thump their chest, and say that they’ll NEVER give up, even if it kills them. I can withstand pain as good as anyone else in this business, and I’ll hold out in any move longer than anyone else, but the fact of the matter is, if it comes down to me losing a match, or my arm being broken, I’ll take the loss. I’m sure someone who hasn’t a clue what they’re talking about will probably call me out on that, but I stand by it. Part of being a good submissionist is to know when you’re beaten, when its time to swallow your pride and give it up. I’m no good to myself, my company, or my family if I’m injured, or even crippled, because I was too stubborn to know when the match was over”
Wendy talks matter-of-factly, and it’s evident she’s thought this through a long time.
Wendy: “That’s not going to make me an easy out, and anyone who’s tried to make me tap before knows that they’ll have a devil of a time to even get me into a position that could make me tap. I can do a lot of things in that ring, whether it’s my kicks, or jumping off the top rope, or even high impact moves. But I’ve always been the most sure of my own submissions, and my knowledge of proper reversals. Back when I was in intergender competition, I figured out long ago that it was a great way to level the playing field when facing bigger guys. After all, a three hundred pounder is going to have a harder time throwing you if his arm feels like its on fire. A speedy luchador isn’t so speedy if the nerves in his legs scream in protest every time he tries to move. I’ve built my career on submissions. And now I can further it by putting everything I’ve learned over these years on the line.”
Another deep breath, and this time, Wendy’s eyes dance with excitement.
Wendy: “Honestly, a division like the No Surrender Divison has been a LONG time in coming. After all, this is wrestling, which is about holds and throws at its core. So if people who spend entire matches hitting each other over the head with various objects can get a title belt out of it, why not belt for us too? After all, you don’t get much purer in terms of technical expertise than two combatants in a submission wrestling match.”
Wendy looks away, her tone growing wistful for a second.
Wendy: “I was excited when the division was announced back in August. I was ecstatic when in September I found out that I was to be part of the process to select the first champion. And now, here we are in December, and its time. Two women are qualified to move on, Starla and Kassandra. Now its’ my chance to join them. And I’m facing Stephanie Sullivan, and I know she’s the so-called Technical Princess, and I’m certain she’s earned that name. But I’m not letting that stop me.”
Wendy shifts slightly in her chair, and leans slightly forward.
Wendy: “I’ll be honest. There aren’t many title belts I’ve wanted to hold more than this one. I know its ridiculous, but sometimes, I almost wonder if this belt was designed with me in mind. I’m drawn to it, like a moth to a flame. Over the past three months, every single time a card was announced, I was hoping there was something concerning this division, and no matter what else the match entailed, I’ll confess that I was disappointed when I knew I would have to wait another week. There’s no more waiting for me. There’s no more putting it off. On Thursday, December Eighth, I make my move.”
One final deep breath, Wendy’s eyes burning with determination.
Wendy: “And I know I can’t win the belt Thursday night, only lose my chance at it when Cold Blooded comes around. But that’s not going to happen. Because my pride, my ego, my reputation, I’m more than happy to put it on the line if it gets me one step closer to that belt. A belt that defines my career more than anything else- because I don’t give up. I don’t surrender Just ask the A-List how tenacious I am when there’s something out there that I feel strongly about..”
Wendy flashes a smile.
Wendy: “And don’t think I’m contradicting myself. Like I said, I’ll know when I’m beaten. But I know even more than it takes more than most people have to get me to that point.”
Exhaling slowly, Wendy leans back in her chair, and the scene fades.
Saturday December 9, 1978
St. Timothy’s Funeral Parlor- Reception room
Belfast, Northern Ireland
4:03 PM Local TimeAugustus Briese struggled to keep the bored expression from his face as he poured himself another glass of Glenfiddich. One more hour, he kept reminding himself. One more hour, and this would all be over, and he and Gayle could go back to their flat, and continue their private rehearsals. Surely he could feign interest in this whole rigamarole for that long. After all... one’s Father’s funeral hardly happened every day. Still, Gus found funerals drab, soulless, boring rites in the best of times, and it didn’t help that during today’s event he had been forced to deal with throngs of mourners, each offering their rehearsed condolences, and repeatedly asking him how he was holding up in this time of great loss. The constant repetition was both aggrivating and tiring, but Gus had gamely flashed a smile, and assured the asker that he was doing just fine.It was a lie of course. He wasn’t just fine. He was bloody fucking fantastic. The hard part had been three months ago, when Mother had died in her sleep. She and Gus had been close. Not so much with his father, the overbearing English-loving traitor. Gus had spent half the service entertaining himself with thoughts of which infernal torments were due up for the old bastard in the afterlife, and outside of that one small amusement, Seamus Briese’s death held no more of an emotional effect on him than would the death of a random butcher in Ballycastle.The pragmatic effect, however, was tremendous. And most welcome.Despite his constant assertation that Augustus was a miserable failure and disgrace to the family, everything had been left to him in his father’s will. The shipping company. The house. The Rolls Royce. The jewelry. And, most importantly, the money. More money than even Gus had imagined his family had held. And every cent of it was now his.There would be even more after he sold the shipping company. And possibly the house as well. Even in this somber environment, Gus had to smile at that. It was about time that he and Gayle pushed themselves above the rest of the rabble in this city. No more living in a dingy flat just outside of downtown. No more going to his parents to beg for money whenever he needed something. Now he, Augustus Briese was in control, the world at his feet.He almost laughed when he imagined the expression on Delaney’s face after finding out that, thanks to him, the CLF would never want for any funding for any operation ever again. Heck, with this kind of money, he could depose Derrick, and take over things for himself- but he found himself not wanting to. Derrick was a more than competent leader, and Gus would be more than happy to let him handle the day to day stresses of running a liberation army. He’d simply provide the financial backing, and continue to focus on his acting career.And even that was going so much better than it had been several months ago. Finally- FINALLY- someone at the Lyric Theatre had realized just how amazing a thespian he was. After several years of ignominy in dinner theaters and vaudeville, he was finally getting his shot at the limelight. In just three weeks, the curtain would rise on the production of W.B. Yeats’ play Diarmuid and Grania, and he was set to play the male lead, opposite his girlfriend. It was a challenging, yet rewarding role, one that required endless hours of rehearsal. Augustus especially loved the private rehearsals that he and Gayle were conducting in their own apartment- and the inevitable surrendering to passion that came with rehearsing such love scenes. In fact, one of those ‘sessions’ awaited him tonight, just as soon as he could shake these buffoons and leave this funeral. He saw Gayle across the room, discussing something with a middle-aged gentleman that Gus didn’t recognize. Gayle’s popularity had soared these last few months, as she had delivered sublime performance after sublime performance. Within a week of ‘My Fair Lady’resuming, the Telegraph had taken to calling her the ‘Angel of the Lyric,’ fully laying the credit of the theater’s salvation in the wake of the Margaret Blaine tragedy on her shoulders. Gayle had responded to the accolades- and the accompanying additional pressure well. Even tonight, her ability to act like someone who actually gave a damn about Seamus Briese’s death was a phenomenal performance. She had been the soul of charm tonight, every bit as outgoing as Gus had been reserved. Gus took another sip of his Scotch, and set the empty glass down. Everything was going better than he had possibly ever imagined. Even the Margaret Blaine case had died out completely, just as Vassily had promised. He had followed the story in the Telegraph, as the newspaper printed more and more discouraged reports on how the police were struggling for any evidence. It wasn’t long before the media had moved on to other stories, the articles about Blaine becoming scarcer and scarcer, and relegated further and further back in the paper.“Mister Briese?” A voice off to the side startled Gus, and the young man turned, frowning as he saw one of the servants working the wake standing next to him. “What is it?” Gus demanded, resisting the urge to punch the man in the jaw, and have him thrown out on his ear for this breach of propiety.“I...” the servant stepped back, nervously tugging at his collar as Gus stared him down. “I have a note for you, sir.”“A note?” Curiosity quickly overcame his indignation, and Gus frowned, wondering who here would have to resort to writing a note, instead of simply coming up and talking to him. “Who gave it to you?”“Some woman, sir,” the servant replied. “I didn’t really get a good look at her, she was wearing a coat and hat.. but she looked kind of upset. She simply appeared at the service entrance, knocked on the door, and insisted I give this to you.”“Well, give it here,” Gus said, holding out his hand to receive the note. The servant passed it to him, then patiently waited, obviously expecting some sort of tip for his sevice. Gus pointedly ignored him, focusing instead on opening the note, and reading its contents. Realizing that no such gratuity was forthcoming, the servant quickly turned on his heel, and briskly walked away. “Ungrateful bastard,” Gus muttered as the man left. He then opened the note, quickly glancing at the contents. There wasn’t much, just three short sentences scrawled onto the paper.Please meet me tomorrow at the Jurys Inn next to the opera house. My room is 318. It is extremely important.- IvanaThat only served to further Gus’ curiosity. What did Vassily’s sister want to talk to him for? He had only seen Ivana a couple more times since their meeting in Eoghan’s eight months ago. Heck, he hadn’t even seen her brother for nearly two months now, either. It wasn’t something that worried him- Vassily was a busy man after all. “Very curious,” Gus muttered to himself as he folded up the paper and placed it into his pocket. He turned back to the table, picked up the empty glass, and poured himself another helping of Glenfiddich. ‘Very curious, indeed.===========================Friday December 2, 2011
J.A.G. Gymnasium & Fitness Center- Hallway to Locker Rooms
Pensacola, Florida
11:37 AM Local Time“Oh, GodDAMMIT!” Daniel Pollaski barked as the Caramello bar became lodged in the bars of the snack machine. It was criminal enough that the damned machine was charging a buck twenty-five for a candy bar, but to not even deliver the goods... “Come on...” the portly manager pleaded with the machine, banging his fist on the side in a vain attempt to dislodge the candy. Failing that, he kicked the side, wincing as his attempt caught the corner of the machine, sending a sharp pain searing up his right leg. “Motherf-”“What’s all the racket?” A female voice demanded behind him, and Pollaski turned, still hopping on one leg as his client walked up to him. Wendy was zipping up her jacket as she walked through the hallway, a task made slightly more difficult thanks to the gym bag slung over her shoulder. Her flame-colored hair was wet, having just finished showering up after her morning workout session. Her emerald eyes were fixated solely on Pollaski, the expression on her face both one of irritation and condemnation. “Stupid machine ate my money!” Pollaski protested, pointing at the dangling Caramello. “I’ve been trying to get it to cough it up.” Wendy sighed, knowing full well what her manager was hinting at, and she shot Pollaski a severe look. “You paid for this? Seriously?”Dan nodded vigorously, managing to keep his expression solemn, and held his hand up as if he were swearing an oath. “Honest to God, Wendy. I put five quarters in, and got no candy out.”Wendy sighed again, resigning herself to her manager’s silent plea. She took one look at the Caramello bar, noting it’s location in the machine, then curled her hand into a fist, cocking it back and quickly banging it on the side of the machine.The Caramello came free, and fell to the bottom.“Thanks!” Pollaski exclaimed, bending over and helping himself to the prize. “I don’t know how you can do that every time.”“It’s a gift,” Wendy replied flatly, before reaching into her coat pocket, searching for some change of her own. “Hang on, I’m going to get a Snickers,” she said, inserting the quarters into the slot.”“Why not just get it for free?” Pollaski inquired, mimicing Wendy’s quick hammerfist to the machine, and grinning.“Because that would be stealing,” Wendy replied in exasperation, having grown tired of this argument with both her husband and her manager ages ago. She smiled grimly. “And like any good hero, one should only use their powers for good, not evil.”“Suit yourself,” Pollaski shrugged, leaning against the wall, and unwrapping his own candy bar. “By the way,” he continued, suddenly serious. “Great job out there, today. You were really focused.”“Thanks,” Wendy replied, bending over to retrieve her Snickers. “That Shawna was a good sparring partner, especially considering my next match. She really knew her submissions. I don’t know how you get me such good partners whenever I go on the road.”“It’s a gift,” Pollaski replied, taking a whole segment of the Caramello, and popping it in his mouth. “I’ve just met more than my fair share of local promoters over the years. One of them’s the president of Florida Panhandle Wrestling, and he recommended her. If you’re that happy with her, I’ll see if I can get her for tomorrow, too.”“Go ahead,” Wendy agreed. She looked over at her manager. “Thanks Dan. I almost stayed home to focus on training instead of coming down here to Florida, and you’re making me feel easier about my decision.”“Yeah, well, Terrence would have been pretty bummed had you not come,” Pollaski replied, shrugging. “He’s pretty excited about this Snowball Derby, you know. At least four guys from the Sprint Cup series are entered in this, and Terrence has been itching all month to see if he can hang with them in the track. He really wants you and Theresa here to cheer him on.”“I know,” Wendy nodded, somehow forgetting her manners and talking with her mouth full. “And I’m glad I’m here now. I just..” she paused to swallow the Snickers. “I just REALLY want to win this match.”“You want to win every match, I hope,” Pollaski teased, although he turned serious quickly. “Feeling a bit of the pressure now that the No Surrender qualifiers are upon you?”“A bit,” Wendy admitted. She finished the last of her candy bar, and crinkled the wrapper in her hand. “I really want this title, Dan.”“I can imagine, especially considering the disappointment you had with the Evolution Championship. Don’t worry, Wendy, we’ll get you there.” Pollaski chuckled. “I was doing some reading on this Ring of Beauty Stephanie used to come from. Did you know that... at least according to this article I read, Stephanie Sullivan had the WORST win/loss record of anyone in that company? She was the Charity Deas of this RoB.”Wendy snorted, shrugging. “That was then, this is now. She could have- no, she’s probably gotten better. But thanks for the added pressure to beat her.”Pollaski grinned that insufferable grin of his. “Oh well, just so long as you don’t launch another tweet saying you should be beaten with a sock full of quarters if you lose to her, we’re good.”Wendy was surprised to find herself laughing. “Don’t worry,” she promised, tossing her wrapper into a garbage can. “I learned a very valuable lesson about letting my ego tweet for me.” She checked her watch, and grimaced. “We better get going. Derby qualifying starts at one, doesn’t it?”“Yeah, but there’s a picture taking session for kids with Snowball at twelve-thirty,” Pollaski replied, referring to the costumed snowman mechanic who served as the event’s mascot. “You should take Theresa to that.”Wendy grimaced. “I don’t know. I think Snowball gives Theresa the creeps. Come to think of it, I think Snowball gives ME the creeps. We’ll probably pass. Anyways, if you’ve paid up already, we should go.” Wendy turned, and began walking up the hallway, Pollaski turning to follow her, but abruptly stopping after only a couple of steps.“Yeah, I paid.. what’s this?” Wendy turned around at her manager’s query, and stopped as she saw him bending over to pick a folded sheet of paper off the ground. Pollaski unfolded the paper, blinking slightly as he looked it over. “It’s a map or something.”Wendy suddenly realized what it was, and she quickly moved foward. She had forgotten that stupid thing was in her pocket. “That’s mine. I must have dropped it.” She reached her hand out, and tugged at the map, but Pollaski didn’t reqlinquish it. “Isn’t this your parent’s old house?” Pollaski asked, still staring at the map. “And what does CLF stand fo-” Pollaski obviously remembered his history better than Terrence had, because Wendy didn’t even need to reply. Her manager’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. “Dude. There’s some super secret terrorist shit buried in your old back yard!”“Shh!” Wendy hissed, looking around the hallway frantically. “Not so loud.”“Sorry,” Pollaski said, lowering his voice. “But this is AWESOME! Do you know what it is?”Wendy shook her head, grimacing. “Of course I don’t.”“Bummer,” Pollaski said, frowning for just a second. He then broke into a grin. “Let’s go dig it up!”“No!” Wendy hissed. “Dan, I don’t even OWN that land anymore! I sold it, and there’s a new house and another family living there now! You just can’t walk into someone’s back yard and dig it up, even you used to live there!”“Oh come on. I’d be all super-secret ninja like. Scope the house, sneak under the cover of the night, and then I’d get me some pirate booty!” Pollaski grinned, although it faded quickly as he realized that Wendy was still glaring at him. “Or we could just ring the doorbell and ask really nicely. Or bribe them.”“Or neither,” Wendy replied, wheeling away. “But dude! There could be like jewels! Or gold!”Wendy rolled her eyes. “It was Irish terrorists, Dan. Not pirates.”“Or like some secret awesome weapon thingie. A neutron bomb!”“Neutron bombs don’t exist.”“As far as YOU know,” Pollaski declared, crossing his arms defiantly over his chest. “This could be the prototype.”“Why would they bury...no, never mind.” Wendy sighed dramatically, and turned away. “Drop it, okay? Whatever’s under there, I don’t care. We’re NOT digging it up.”“Okay, fine,” Pollaski said, crinkling the map up, and lobbing it in the trash. “Suit yourself.”“I will,” Wendy replied, dispassionately looking at the garbage can. “Now can we go?”“Fine by me,” Pollaski replied mildly, turning and walking away down the hall. Wendy watched him for a few paces, then shook her head and followed after him. As she passed the garbage can, she picked up the now-crumpled map, slipping it back into her coat pocket.“HA”! Wendy jumped, and looked up. With the timing of a master, Pollaski had spun around just in time to catch her in the act, and he stood in the middle of the hallway, an accusatory finger pointed directly at her. “If you don’t care what’s the map leads to, why even hang onto it? Admit it. You’re curious!”“Of course I’m curious!” Wendy snapped back. “But I’m...” she took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. “I’m afraid, okay.”“Afraid of a neutron bomb?”“Shut up about the neutron bomb, okay? There’s no neutron bomb.” Wendy sighed wearily. “But yeah. I’m afraid. I’m afraid because I have a bad feeling that whatever is there, it’s something I’m better off not seeing.”“Well, I could look at it first,” Pollaski offered helpfully. “Tell you if it’s kosher or not.”“Dan, I’m serious.” Wendy’s voice had gone quiet. “This whole business with my father nine years ago... you saw what it did to me. My mom’s dead because of it. My father’s in jail, and my family was ruined. My LIFE was ruined, and it took every ounce of willpower I had to get it behind me. I burned down that house, for God’s sakes, because I felt the only way I could move on was to kill everything that had happened.”She could feel the hot tears trickling down her cheek, and she sighed. “I have a new life now, and a new family, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose this one too, or even jeopardizing it. Whatever it is is probably harmless... but I’m not taking any chances. So Dan, if you value me, if you value our friendship, please, just let this one go.”It wasn’t often that Pollaski mustered up the decency to look chagrined, but he was doing so now. “I understand,” he finally said. “I didn’t mean to upset you...”Wendy scoffed, and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her coat. “You ALWAYS mean to upset me, Dan. Just never that much.”“Eh, fair enough...” Pollaski acknowledged, apparently taking a sign that his apology was accepted. He suddenly smiled. Not the smirk or grin he was so famous for flashing, but a rare, genuine, friendly smile directed at his client. “Now come on. We can still catch that picture session with Snowball...”“I already told you, Dan. I don’t think-”“Who said anything about you?” Pollaski interrupted. “I happen to look damn photogenic when I’m standing next to anthropomorphic snowmen dressed as mechanics.”Wendy couldn’t help but chuckle. “If you really want a picture, Dan, I’ll take one. We can make it your twitter profile. Show everyone how cute you are.”Pollaski grimaced. “Yeah... on second thought...”Wendy laughed, and together, the two headed down the hallway together, heading towards the exit to the building. As she walked, Wendy quickly patted the pocket of her coat, feeling the crumpled paper still tucked inside. Even if she never used it, the thought of her still having it was somehow reassuring.
