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Uneasiness crawled across my skin Distrust slowed my pace But I kept going Kept holding Mrs. Jones’s hand and going down to the ground floor When I made it to the lobby, once again I was vulnerable. She had left me both excited and dizzy. Distrust never evaporated. I wondered if Mrs. Jones had lured me down here. I kept her in front of me, left her standing between me and a bullet, and spied out on Bayley Street Dark skies and rain. Black cabs and small cars Saw coats, suits, and umbrellas passing by So many men in suits. Any one of them could’ve been the man I had chased from Knightsbridge. That was where the man with the broken nose had followed me, that was where I had turned it all around, ended up chasing him in the bowels of Lancaster Gate He’d run for miles. And he’d run fast without breaking a sweat The thought of that chase seemed surreal. The soreness in my legs told it was real Whoever he was, he was strong Mrs. Jones went to the counter, gave them a ticket, and asked the concierge to collect her luggage. My eyes took in everyone in the area. I went to the dining area, looked around, looked up and saw the TV near the bar was on CNN. Images of the Reverend were on a special report. The man I had killed was staring at me, still following me, and reminding me that this wasn’t over. I scowled back at his glare. Despite the mild chatter in the lobby and restaurant, that buzz remained, I still heard voices from a bloody house whispering my name Fear and anger swirled inside me Because I knew Even though I had done it over and over since that foot chase through Kensington Gardens, I retraced my steps, this time going backward, from Lancaster Gate back to Soho, to being on the train with Arizona. The man with the broken nose always showed up after I’d been with Arizona I had left Arizona in anger and found my mother, tried to give her that anger It took years, but I had found the source of my pain again I’d found the woman who had birthed me and made me a killer My mother was hiding in London, selling her pussy in the red-light district Violence Sex My life had been filled with nothing but violence and sex I grew up in a home perfumed by the musk of many thirty minute lovers Sheets stained by lust It was always like that. Wherever we went After we fled Montreal, we lived in so many ghettos, were always hiding in a different ghetto. I’d pass by my mother’s bedroom, see her on her back. Some strange man on top of her, his pants at his ankles, the headboard hitting the wall like a steady drum, his belt loose, clanking and singing along with the loose change in his pockets, his own percussions of pleasure. My mother’s body was flat, motionless, uninspired, as the man huffed and puffed and impaled her Things were damn horrific between us by then My mother turned toward the door, saw me watching, and simply said… Close the door I did as she said A moment later there was a knock at the front door. I thought it was her next customer; sometimes they showed up early. It wasn’t a customer, was one of my mother’s coworkers Despite her aroma she was a beautiful Filipina lady. Golden skin. Long black hair The Filipina smiled at me. Her thirtysomething smile meeting my teenage grin. She’d traveled from city to city with my mother off and on, both of them outrunning the law Where’s your mother? I nodded toward the hard drumbeats and jingles She smelled like cigarettes, hard liquor, and cheap perfume, just like my mother Sounds like that motherfucker is trying to kill your mother in there I glanced at my watch She’ll be done in five minutes. Unless he’s paying extra How’ve you been? Fine Haven’t seen you in a week or two Without asking, I got her a tall glass of ice water, that headboard still banging She gazed at me like she always did. When I handed her the water, she held my hand She sipped, made a satisfied sound Ready to get some pussy today? I nodded, not knowing how to say no to her. Knowing I didn’t want to say no to her. And still never knew what to say to her. I just smiled a little and nodded. That was my answer She laughed a little, then, holding my damp hand, followed me to my bedroom Then there was the sound of two headboards banging After my mother had finished her job and that man had paid and left, thirty minutes passed before she stuck her head inside my bedroom door, nightgown on, her wig red and crooked. She saw me naked, her Filipina friend naked and asleep. She stood in the doorframe, smoking, shaking her head Close the goddamn door She closed my door hard I was too young to understand that anger and jealousy were first cousins My Filipina lover rolled over and kissed me Then she sat up and opened her purse. She took out cocaine, powdered her nose Want some blow? I shook my head Good answer. Don’t ever start doing this shit When she was done, she lit up a cigarette, pulled the covers up to her breasts Down the hallway the front door squeaked opened and closed hard. I heard footsteps heading toward the other bedroom. Then the headboard began slapping the wall again My bed companion was high, eyes glazed over like her world was surreal She sighed hard, frowned I asked her what she was upset about Be glad when this shit is over What shit? I fuck you three more times and my debt is paid What debt? Your mother bailed me out of county. This is how she wants me to work down my tab I thought you came to see me because you liked me You’re cute. But I’m older than your mother. Sweetie, I have three kids your age I jumped up Naked, I left the room, stormed toward my mother’s bedroom door Without knocking I pushed her door open. Pushed it hard The short-haired woman who was in bed with my mother, she saw me and froze. Seeing a naked boy holding a .22 had that effect. That fat woman was on her knees, behind that pale woman, that fat woman naked in high heels, my mother wearing a strap-on doing to the that fat and flabby woman what a man had been doing to her moments before. My mother didn’t discriminate. Money was money You’re making her fuck me to pay off a goddamn debt? Are you crazy? Put that gun down. Close the goddamn door I rushed in the room and pushed her away from her customer. My mother’s client tried to move, but couldn’t. She was handcuffed to the bedpost. The gag in her mouth muffling her screams. Mother sold fantasy to anyone who had enough green to make it worth her while She slapped me hard enough to split my lip Have you lost your mind? Since Italy she had take to drinking more and striking me in anger. Are you making her fuck me? I’m doing you a favor Are you forcing her to have sex with me? Don’t you see me working? Get out of my office. Go to your room I left, that taste of blood flooding my senses Close the damn door. Come back and close the damn door I went back and slammed the door so hard the apartment building shook, birds left their nests, and the roaches ran out of their cracks and crevices in unadulterated fear I went to the bathroom, washed blood from my mouth In the background my mother was trying to calm down her angry customer My mother’s overweight customer ran out of the bedroom, bolted through the front door. The front door squealed and closed hard Back in my bedroom, the Filipina was relaxed, doing more coke We done or do I have to work off some more of my debt today? I told her to get out The Filipina wiped her nose, cigarette in hand, smoke pluming from her head My mother screamed, called the Filipina a cocksucking bitch That Filipina laughed and told my mother to go fuck herself Again our front door squealed and closed hard Then I went to my mother She was sitting on the edge of her bed, head down, tools of her trade at her side You hate me? The way I stared at my .22 and grimaced at her, that made her question rhetorical You hate me I nodded at the women who was pimping everyone she touched I hated her Hated her enough to kill her I had promised myself I would visit her, as I had visited so many others The hate inside me was a reminder that my mother and I had unfinished business Maybe this was her doing. My being followed. I had killed for her over and over And in return she had abused me. She had stolen from me. Her putting a hit out on me wouldn’t surprise me I gritted my teeth. Thought about it and shook my head. The woman who had birthed me and taught me to kill, her having a contract out on me wouldn’t surprise me at all Again I looked around the lobby. The scent of beans and toast coming from the dining area, the sound of The Reverend on the television, eyed many men in suits Mrs. Jones came and stood next to me My luggage is ready I turned and faced her, my smile so warm, the coldness hidden deep inside me I asked her to wait a second, told her I needed to check with the front desk I faced a petite young women, her smile thin, her accent Russian. I told her I was here on business. She nodded. Then I told her I had met with an American, decribed his height, his build, told her I couldn’t remember the bloke’s name, but I needed to contract him regarding some ventures back in America. Again she nodded. I told her that I had lost his business card, didn’t have an e-mail address, told her my company would be upset if I failed to locate the gentleman. The intensity behind my smile had her attention. Again I described the man I was looking for. Again I told her that the man I was looking for had a broken nose She told me she hadn’t seen anyone who fit that description. I asked her to ask her coworkers. The lobby was small, had only one elevator next to the front desk, only one way in for customers, and no more than three were working the desk. It only took her a few seconds to ask her coworkers; neither of them had seen the man who was stalking me I asked her if she and her crew would work the front desk all morning She told me she and her coworkers would be here until late evening After-hours the only entrance to the hotel was locked, the front of the hotel manned with and overnight concierge, guests who had keys being the only ones let inside I thanked her, then asked her to ring my room if my friend showed up She nodded I went to the elevator where Mrs. Jones waited with her baggage. - [ * * * ] – It’s round two of Road to Slamfest tournament, and the possibilities are epic to say the least, unless Rick Major was to meet me. Really Rick, shouldn’t you be complicating pulling the plug on your ol lady, rather than staging a comeback? I knew entering this tournament; I’d be facing the best of NLCW. I’m talking about people from all walks of life, and people from different geographical hot spots around the globe. However; I didn’t know, they were going to go to the gutter. Dumpster diving, for the next piece of hot trash. Looks like they found a piece of shit, paid him a few dollars, and slapped the stereotypical Hulk Hogan comeback on-top of him, and expected his competitors to take him seriously. Rick you are no savior. You’re looking for an out let to escape the tragedy of life, News flash, Ol man... there is no CURE for the nightmares of our lives. Everyone has them... yourself included, Rick. You can deny them all you like; but the fact of the matter is this... Your nightmares read like an open book, Rick.... like a book I've read time in and time out and have memorized it line for bloody line. So do me a favor, drop the bullshit act of bravado. Come at me like the broken and defeat shell I know you to be, Rick. If you make it pass Dom, I want you to come and fight the good fight against me. Fight like you care... fight like you have no fears and no nightmares... and watch as I slap the taste out of your mouth; and drag you right back down into the abyss that had become your cold and stagnant career. Before I came here to NLCW... it was the same old fights. The same boring and contrite shit you had been forced to dwell in. Before ME... NLCW had no purpose; just going through the motions, people fighting the same people week in and week out. Must have been real boring for a man of your... talents to be sitting at home, watching a promotion you help create crumble into a dark grave. But I did you a favor taking out the weak links in this company one by one. Disposing of them with each victory... and now look at yea... Rick by god fuckin' Majors has become a house hold name once more! I did it for Alex Jay as well... brought him credibility before destroying him once and for all in that ring just last month. And unlike you, Rick... while YOU were busy crying over a vegetable; I was leaving a trail of bodies behind me. I am the current future of this company, I am the hungry lion that has run roughshod over the best and brightest this company has to offer... and it sickens you don't it, Rick? It sickens you to the point that deep down... you resent me. you RESENT the fact that I could become something you want to be again... a threat. Let me guess Rick you’re here to show the world that you still a serious mark on today’s wrestling industry? You want to put NLCW, as-well as your own name—back on the map so to speak? Wake the fuck up! The only mark on the wrestling world you’re making is a hot steaming shit stain. You said it yourself Rick, you don’t have the talent, you have no future, and you will make no impact. So take your dreams, your veggie-stated wife—pull up your pants while you’re at it, and get the fuck out of my way, because you and everyone else will not stop me from etching my own Slamfest moment Immortality is not glamerous Rick. Not in the slightest... These leeches and sycophants do not care about you... they don't care if you pour your heart on your sleeve and go out there at Road to Slamfest and spill your blood to go along with it. They will not cry for you when you are left a broken and defeated man. They will not cheer for you when you walk into the back with your head held down. Your fight is in vain. Your attempt to end the living nightmare that has become your life is for naught. You are the wild animal with nothing to lose, trapped in a corner and bleeding out from the wound your current family status has created. But like all wounded animals; I've got the gun cocked, loaded, and ready to pull the trigger to put you right out of your misery. It’s the least I could do for you, Rick. I am the little phoenix that had been robbed of my innocence such a long time ago; but I have risen through the ashes to become the strong and stedfast lion that stands before you this night. You want to dance within my realm, Rick? You want to test your mettle against me in a match? I'm warning you now, you won't LIKE the outcome of this. I will use anything and EVERYTHING I can to take you down. To PROVE to you that your career is over and that you should just ride off into the sunset... Never to be seen from again, Rick. This tournament is nothing more than a approaching disappointment Rick, you are going to walk out of Road to Slamfest, a broken and defeated man. No more chances... because I'm not going to GIVE you that chance. After I am done with you, Rick... you will be WISHING for death's sweet embrace for you and your Wife… A wish I will gladly grant you Of course none of this matters if Rick doesn’t get out of the first round Dominic Pericolo He could always upset Rick and move to the second round. Unlike Rick, Dom and I have a little history between each other… Time just flies, doesn’t it? It’s been almost a month since I have stepped in the ring alongside Dominic. It’s been damn near seven months from the first day in which we had first met. And every day since then, that face, those eyes, that putrid smell on your breath Dominic, has remained in the back of my head, and I couldn’t shake it. Not until now. Dominic with all the championships, main-events, and epic encounters I’ve won, I still can’t seem to move past our history. Knowing that somewhere, in some dark corner of the planet you hide behind, I’ve never been able to beat you. Every day I wake up, this little tib bit of my career drives me insane I can’t fucking sleep. Not with your voice in the back of my head, reminding us just how much we both want to end this between us. Dominic, I need to move on. With you, with this, the entire wrestling industry as a whole. And while I still have a few years ahead of me, I can’t walk away with-out by-passing that first road block. So help me god, even if we end up killing each-other when we meet again, at least I’ll have the fucking right to rest in peace. So Dom, let’s cut the bullshit, no need for a shit load of smack here, we know each other and we both know what’s up for grabs So why don’t you grab your sharpest pen there Dom, write a creative Detective story, go ahead and hype yourself as some sort of Hero. Its what you do isn’t it? All along Dom, you’ve painted me as the bad guy. As if I am damaged goods, whom skipped out on morale cleansing, pissing in the holy water just for kicks, but we know as well as you do that beyond your hidden persona, your pretty wife, and the struggling family man you appear to be; you have that same nothingness flowing through your veins that I have. It’ll only take one freak accident with that bitch of yours involved, to send your entire life spiraling down; after all I know the rotations better than anyone. You’re as a broken man as I am. You are a splitting image of me. There is no other person on this planet, that is more alike to me then you are. Yet, rather accepting this; you paint yourself over with colors that eventually will wash away. To hide your pain, you wear a smile. You surround yourself by good men and women, because acceptance from those ignorant sheep is the only thing that keeps you and me different. Before coming out of retirement you can Chris were BFF, now look at you two, both of you breaking piece by piece from each other, FOR CRYING OUT LOAD Dominic your killing your best friend, and how do you show remorse, by apologizing to him as you drive his face into a cage of steel! Would Superman feed Supergirl a steaming bowl of Kyriptonite? Your no hero Dom, you just play one on TV You’ve fed my image both fuel & fire, then you sat back and watched as the flames destroyed everything in its path. Just like you’re doing to Chris, you have the hand that pushed me deeper into a world where I feel no empathy, no passion, and no love for another human being. Mentally, you have pushed me to my limits—you have put voices into my head over the past seven months, YOU have fed the beast within ME! Then like the puppet master you are, you sat back and smiled, you point and you laugh, and you fool an entire world into buying you as the true victim, the real underdog… No more strings attached. I am going to bite the same hand that fed me. The final round… This is where it’s tricky, will maybe not. As Sean Galen is more known for his record amount of no-shows, then he is for his golden moments here in NLCW The same could be said about Coleman This is what has separated me, from people like Sean and Ryan, I always put a 110 percent in everything I do, sure I may be a fucking dick, but no one can question my dedication to this game. I have what it takes to go one step further; I have that push to move me one inch closer to my goals. Ryan or Sean? It may not seem much, but that’s what happens when you look at the bigger picture—with a single eye. That extra inch, has carried me long ways, Ryan. It’s why I’m still in the tournament, and it’s why I’ve had so much success—in yet a short period of time. To achieve world champion status? You need that extra inch; it’s what leads you to the road of walking long miles. As good as you are; I don’t think you have that extra inch. I mean it’s not something you can train for, it’s not something you can drop to your knees and pray to your god for—and it’s not something a cock pump will get you, so tuck that shit back under your angelic wings—and forget about it. People just don’t see to get it, and I simply don’t understand why. They’re too focused on the bigger issues, to not realize how they came to be of such size. I didn’t start off world champion over night. I came up from wrestling in high school gyms and dark shows before I sold out entire arenas. Yeah, Sean—you heard me. Entire arenas, now go flap your angel wings and pitch some lemonade to the people who were retarded enough, to watch you bounce it out on a trampoline, now would you? All jokes aside, my point still stands. To make it out with the victory called in your two favors, you’ll both need to be better than mediocre. Fuck, you’ll both need to be greater than great. The deeper you go into the tournament, and the talent pool itself, it’s the extra inch—that decides whether you walk out the winner, or an empty handed looser. And trust me, Sean, Ryan. With talent like mine? You never leave the ring empty handed. But I’m not stupid. I know exactly what’s coming. Maybe we’ll all be wrong in writing the two of you out, maybe you’ll both will take the time out of your lives to open your traps—and spew shit about how you have that extra inch. Some of us will listen; most of us will flip the switch, and watch something worth actually worth our time. It will only be until our match, when the whole world witnesses you almost there. An inch away from success, only for it to be stomped on by the force-full clamp of my foot—and rightfully swept under the ropes, and forgotten. Then we can all enjoy Sean crying about not getting Dominic in the first round, or Ryan just crying But the finals could hold two worthy competitors Jason Stylez…Cole Marr Jason Stylez—I know everything I’ve done in my career, world title and all—it might not seem much, if anything to you. I mean, when it comes down to it? Any Joe shmoe can waltz into some second rate federation, and win a few titles—when in reality? In the top federations, they wouldn’t make it past dark match status—if they were wielding a fucking flash light. And I understand that, but me? I’m different, I assure you that. The evidence lies; with the countless bodies I’ve left on my path. Broken bones, broken dreams, broken hearts—I’ve left them all laying, with not even the slightest bit of remorse pinching my own heart. I had to leave a dark trail of destruction, deceit, and pain behind, to walk my path of enlightenment—the Undisputed title, waiting on the other side. And I can honestly say, every single moment was worth it. Now I want you to ask yourself, is this really any different? While you maybe a much more seasoned competitor, what honestly makes you different from Sean Galen or Ryan Coleman? In my eyes? I see no different. I see a man; I must beat to advance to Slamfest to face Chris Champion. You may tell me, I’m in over my head—and I’d walk over each body, I’ve placed there to slap you across your fucking face. Your road ends with me, Jason. So, I here I wait. In anticipation, for how you will accept my words. Will you take them, pull out a red pen and jot down your cold and calculated counter attack, like you have in reaction to your Twitter statements? Will you sharpen your tongue, with verbal insults, with the intention of inflicting wounds to me, your potential finals opponent? Or will you take everything I said, shut your mouth—and allow your ears to pick up and relish in the truth? I don’t know, but I eagerly await your stance on things—that’s always good hearing… right after they fall. You see, Jason. Your problem lies within your strategy, you know? That break everyone until there’s no-one to be broken; has been done before. It’s been done by everyone in this tournament. And what happened? I drove my elbow into all their faces and knocked the greatest of the greats unconscious and out of the tournament. You know, it’s hard to take a card game seriously, when all you people have is a few jokers up your sleeves. Ditch your clichés, ditch your knockout punch lines, and ditch your fancy metaphors—because when it comes down to hit? My fist meets your face, the rest is pretty simple, and there’s no buttering up that situation. You can’t destroy me, Cole. Are you stupid? If that’s your game plan, it’s un-effective, and it’s never worked. You should be fighting for the North American Championship rather than be embarrassed in a tournament that once housed Champions. You have done nothing to prove your self around these woods Cole, your only markie victory was tainted, due to Alex Jay. You’re mistaking victory, with destruction. I can’t be destroyed, Cole. At one point in time, I’d maybe singing a different tune. As of this moment? I’m indestructible. To destroy me? You need to dig a lot deeper than pulling out the win. You need to dig deeper than the cuts; my body has worn proudly like a tattoo. Fuck, to destroy me you’re going to have to reach into my chest and rip my heart out. A heart in which has been bordered up, and sealed off to the rest of the world. Because filthily hands like yours? Often reached out, to grab hold of it. They did, they kicked it, they stomped on it—and I’ve vowed to never allow such to happen again. When you’re in that ring, staring into my eyes? You’ll see exactly what I mean, if even you blinked. I’m cold, I’m mean, fuck I’m pretty much heartless. I’ve built up these walls so tall, and so damn strong—you’re going to begin to wonder yourself if there’s even anything there. You want to destroy me? Breech my walls, I dare you. Fuck, I’ll give you step ladder, some rope, maybe even a bulldozer?—and do your best to capitalize on it. I’d love to witness your failed attempt, first hand. Cole…Jason? I’m done talking. Now that we know where we stand? Let’s decide where you two fall. No, silly me. The time and place has already been set, the lights are awaiting our performance—where you two fall, the destination has been chosen in advance. As for the person who is egger to knock you both down? Well, you just ran face first into a world of back luck, and ass back onto a final round elimination. -- That's a Wrap -- |