She wore black The hue of grief and mourning. The color of a new death Tears ran from behind her dark shades. She’d taken them off right after she got into her seat, while the rest of the plane was trying to get settled. She sobbed as the plane took off, the expression on her face revealing her anxiety. College Park and the Dirty south faded behind us. Tissue to her face, she shook her head like it was too late to change her mind, wiped away so many tears. More appeared. The redness of her eyes was as strong as the heat of the sun. The woman dress in Prada and Rolex was drying one tear at a time The black dress she wore. Reminded me of Aubrey Hepburn. Breakfast at Tiffany’s. She didn’t remind me of Audrey Hepburn. Just the dress. It had class. I’d seen her crying at the gate, looking like she was about to have a breakdown, then we boarded the British Airways aircraft with the rest of the world travelers. I hope she wouldn’t bounce her leg and cry the entire eight hours we would be on this flight, hoped she wouldn’t sob and blow her nose all the way to London. She put her shades back on, hiding from the world. I had my own problems. I’d made a bad move with a Hit on a reverend almost lost my life for the right to call myself King My face ached. Would ache for a while. I had taken a BC powder, the only thing that ever seemed to work for my pains. The swell above my left eye didn’t hurt as much, but my bottom lip still throbbed. My wounds were less that a week old. She wept. The woman dressed in death cried like she was at her mother’s funeral. She felt my energy, might have caught me peeping at her and shifted away from me. Thick book resting in her lap, she ran her hands through her hair, hair with old-school flair and contemporary highlights, hair with two personalities, two moods, and glanced at me. No words, just a quick, almost embarrassed glimpse as she raised her dark shades and dabbed her bloodshot eyes. She took a deep breath, shook her head, took off her high-priced sunglasses, eased them into the seat pocket, made her leg bounce, and fastened her seat belt. She straightened out her clothes, continued manufacturing more tears than she could wipe away. My face. My hand. Both hurt bad. I opened and closed my fingers, felt pain in my hand. All this just to be named Sultan. I must be going crazy I was glad to be leaving the U.S. needed to get away from what I’d done. I grunted with my suffering, ached, and the women dressed in mourning cried. As soon as I began to drift and land in a peaceful place, my agony grabbed me, woke me up with a start. My hands became swollen fists, my teeth clenched, until I realized where I was. She was looking at me, her mouth wide open, almost terrified. The unknown woman smelled nice, her aisle seat on empty seat away from my window seat, and she was dressed in a black dress that hit right below her knees, her black heels now off, seat reclined, overhead light on. Her toes were pretty. Sexy. She reached into her purse and took out two miniature bottles of pinot, a small plastic cup, filled her cup and began sipping. Bouncing her leg. Sobbing. Shaking her head. Drinking. She wiped her eyes again and again, got her crying under control, and picked up her book. She wasn’t Jessica Alba but at least she wasn’t a fixture of fantasy, I could score this broad and I wouldn’t need a box of tissues and a DVD copy of Good Luck Chuck to do it. I saw the cover. Skin in Darkness, a collection of erotic novellas by Max Jakubowski. I broke the silence. “Good Book?” She shrugged. “Better than reading wretched legal documents.” “What do you do?” “I was an attorney.” She hesitated. “Used to work in law. Not anymore.” “Not anymore?” More tears fell from her eyes, and she turned away. Our conversation ended. I had all the information I wanted. I thought she was British, had assumed that because of her proper demeanor, but she was American. She said attorney, not barrister. She was born outside the U.S Her accent told me that. But her accent wasn’t primary, didn’t subdue the few words she had given me. She was born somewhere else and moved to the States. She was married. She was rich. Didn’t take much information to create a package. She blew her nose. Dried her eyes. Went back to her book, her body angled away from mine. That shapely leg was bouncing, drawing my attention to her flesh. Forcing me to notice. Had been a while since I’d been inside a woman. Had been to long if you ask me. Something always got in the way. And this time it was the quest of making an impact in NEXT that had be shy away from sex. Sex before a battle tends to leave your legs weak. She was beautiful. Intelligent voice with a hint of a accent, just enough to make her words ring as exotic. Like Melissa. But not like Melissa. The lady next to me cried. Melissa would never shed a tear. Had known Melissa for a criminal’s lifetime and never saw her shed a single tear, not even when she had been slapped in the face by the man she was with when I met her, not when she was betrayed by the man she was seeing, not even when she was betrayed by her own family. We had that in common. The part about being betrayed by people we cared about. I put on my headphones, popped in a DVD The crying woman never said a word. She wore a sliver cross, one that hung to the swell of her breasts. Her wedding ring was asize of a weapon, large enough to kill any man or slay any conversation of a particular kind. She wiped her eyes, went to the bathroom, came back, her red-rimmed eyes taking her right back to her erotica, her black dress clinging to her like unseen hands made of high-end fabric. Drink service came by. I went for the hard stuff. Whiskey. The good stuff. I took my liquor straight up, no chaser. She ordered two more bottles of white wine, sipped on her first glass as soon as it was handed to her, wiping away her tears and falling back into a world that Maxim had fabricated, that strange woman not wanting to be disturbed until her liquor was gone. She shifted, moved her leg in an easy, stimulated way. I cleared my throat, my peripheral catching her peeping around, checking to see if anyone was watching her in her literary voyeurism. I was right there with her. As she read, with every page, she was being read. I wondered if she was wet. If the folds of her secrets were moist. A while later a sensual noise rose in her throat. A sinful and naughty sound. Again she shifted. Another noise. More shifting. She licked her lips. Then, another sex-inspired noise. She returned to the real world, looked around, took her headset off, closed her book, disturbed, no doubt stimulated by what she had read, or by the cups of wine, maybe both. She finished her second glass of wine, and asked, “What movie are you watching?” “Sci-fi.” I hit the pause button. “Battlestar Galactica.” She swallowed, a deep frown set in her face. I took it that she wasn’t a fan. “My husband…His favorite show” I didn’t know if her abrupt disbain was because of her husband or sci-fi. My bet was the husband. Even the people who disliked Sci-fi never rendered a stare of contempt for the genre. Still frowning, she went back to her book, returned to sex and fantasy, her silver cross taking refuge in the sweet mystery of her bosom, her wedding ring glittering in the faint overhead light. She began working on her third glass of wine. Not as many tears right now. Even in the middle of sorrow she was esculent, in the sensual sense of the word. Nice brown skin. Her voice had been strong, professional, accented with a mild erotic tone. She was streamlined, everything in its place, as if she had gone shopping for T&A and other accessories, shopped all over the world until she’d found the perfect match for everything, then draped it all in the color of death. I looked at my hands and expected to see streaks of crimson, but there was no blood, just swollen hands. For a moment I saw his dead body. Laying there, as I stood over him, battered and bruised. But alive and a step closer to my goal. My flesh turned hot. Had to focus to keep from feeling nauseous. Stomach hadn’t felt weak in years. My subconscious was playing itself out, fucking with me. Mild turbulence shook me away from that memory. As soon as the turbulence eased up, that nauseous feeling ceased. The Fasten Seat Belts sign went off, and one of the flight attendants came down the aisle, looking at passengers, then stopped at my row. No way would they send a flight attendant to look for me on a plane. But then again, there wouldn’t be a way for me to get off a plane. The flight attendant held the seats to stay balanced. He said, “We have a bit of a situation.” I tensed. But I smiled too. The woman in black put her book down, dried her eyes, tensed as well. No smile Flustered, the flight attendant stood over me, his British accent so thick and cockney that I had a hard time understanding what he was trying to explain to me and the woman in black. “The flight is full and unfortunately we have to do a tad bit of rearranging.” I stared at the attendant, anger and dread in my injured expression. He asked, “Is that middle seat taken?” The woman in black looked at the vacant seat, we glanced at each other, the first moment we connected, it there was a connection, and we bonded like soldiers in war, like strangers who had a common enemy, and that enemy wore a blue uniform, whit shirt, red tie. “Harvey is sitting here.” “Harvey?” “My rabbit. Don’t tell me you can’t see Harvey?” The woman in black didn’t miss a beat, said, “I see him. Hard to miss a six-foot rabbit.” The flight attendant was confused, then made a face that said he wasn’t amused. “So this seat is available.” The flight attendant shrugged as if our tribulations wee no one’s but our own. “Tell your rabbit we have a full flight. We have to make a few adjustments.” The male flight attendant hand-signaled. Halfway down the aisle, a female flight attendant acknowledged the gesture; then she waved toward the front of the plane. The woman in black cursed. Called the flight attendant a Bloody Blood Clot. She was from the islands. Married. Crying. I wondered if she was crying, reading erotica, and on her way to attend a funeral, or is she had just buried someone she loved. A moment later another woman was being ushered down the narrow aisle, her super sized and overstuffed backpack and coat being held in front of her. “Oh god.” the woman in black groaned. “Not her.” The young woman heading our way. Her easy brown complexion the same hue as sugar in the raw. Dressed in tight jeans. T-shirt cut to expose her stomach, a stomach that had done hundreds of sit-ups. The swell of her breasts made it hard for any man to maintain eye contact. Her T-shirt read MAKE POVERTY HISTORY. But the jeans sent another type of message. The girl snapped at the flight attendant. “I don’t see why I have to change seats.” The way those dungarees fit her small waist and rocked her thick thighs was obscene. Thigh, low-rise pants that were well below her belly button. Built for both speed and comfort. The flight attendant remained proper. “Please, ma’am. The other couple, they have a baby and they were supposed to have those seats assigned to them. They need the seats designated for babies. It’s policy.” “Show me that policy in writing.” “We apologize for the inconvenience.” Well, you’re going to be apologizing to the NAACP as soon as I land. Wait, is there a NAACP in England? Has to be a NAACP office in Brixton. That’s where the black people at.” “You can check, ma’am, upon arrival. Somehow I doubt if there is one of those.” “Well, could you stick me in first class as compensation?” “Afraid not, ma’am” “At least hook a sister up with a free drink or something.” The flight attendant walked away, left in a hurry, left the angry girl and her pissed-off attitude standing in the aisle. She cursed and flipped the bird. Her headset was around her neck, her ipod on her hip, her music loud, spilling into the aisle, NE-YO singing about How I do. The angry girl looked at us. “Sorry, but they put me on the back of the bus. No wonder their asses are being investigated for price-fixing. Need to investigate them for seat-fixing too. And they need Jesus. They sent an employee home because she wore a crucifix. Heathens.” The woman in black raised her head, did that with reluctance, got up with a sigh. The angry girl looked the woman in black in her face, smiled and said: “Hey, it’s you again.” The woman in black dabbed her eyes with a napkin, created a smile. “Surprise.” “Sorry about this. But they moved three of us because of a baby. You’re stuck with me, I guess. Better me that the three-hundred-pound woman wearing floral spandex. They sent her wobbling the other way. Bet those people are mad as hell right about now. All because of a damn baby.” They shuffled around a bit, tried to get by each other. “Can you believe what they did to me? First they asked me to move. I said no. Actually, I told his ass hell no. That’s why I booked online ad checked the box for a window seat. So could put my head against the window and sleep. So I wouldn’t have to move to let people out every time they want to get up. Then they kick me to the back of the plane like it’s the back of the damn bus, This is a long flight and people will want to get up. I bought a ticket from Orbitz and I checked the box for a window seat and now I’m being forced to get stuck in a middle seat? Why didn’t they ask some of those white people to move? Why me?” The woman in black sighed. Shifted. The angry girl went on, I can guess this flight isn’t going to be as easy going as I pictured. “Then that anorexic-looking, pale ass bitch got all the flight attendants, all of them in my face, trying to encourage me to move back here. Had everybody watching the black girl, trying to see what I was going to do. I wanted to knock that bitch the fuck out.” The woman in black sighed again. The angry girl asked the woman in black, “How are you feeling now?” “Better. Can’t believe I’m on a plane to London.” “You’re still crying?” “Off and on. The woman in black hurried by our new seatmate and headed toward the long line of people waiting to get into the claustrophobic size bathroom. Our reluctant seatmate opened and slammed the overhead bins; each time she tiptoed, her tight jeans slipped down below decency. She marched up and down the aisle, complaining, hunting for some place to put her backpack and coat. She stuffed her coat in a bin about ten rows up, struggled to get her backpack in a bin in the same area, not enough room, went down five rows, found another bin, same result, gave up, and dragged her gear back to the seat, bent over , and squeezed her backpack in the little space we had, that move making her low-rise jeans fall even lower, low enough to see she was wearing a blue thong, a lacy number that contradicted the rest of her urban gear, and struggled to stuff her legs on either side of her luggage. Her left leg would be touching mine for the entire flight. She tried to shift, but there was nowhere to shift, no room left, would be even less when the woman in black came back. “Hate damn middle seats. Can you believe that shit?” The girl sucked her teeth, shook her head, enraged. “This sucks. This really sucks. Can’t wait to find the NAACP.” She saw me looking at her, saw me shifting, watching her struggle. She gave up a stiff smile, her headset still dangling, music loud, Ne-Yo still wailing. “Mrs. Jones hanging in there or what?” “What?” “The lady who is sitting next to you. Mrs. Jones. She was going through it at the airport.” “Mrs. Jones…A friend of yours?” “Nah. Met her when we were in line getting tickets. Had a problem with mine and had to go to the counter. Had an e-ticket but they couldn’t find the damn info. Nothing but drama.” “What’s up with her?” “Heartbroken. Kidnapping herself.” “She’s to old to be running away.” “I’m just repeating what she told me. Heartbroken and kidnapping her self away from drama.” “That explains all the crying.” She took a deep breath. “She told me she hopped on a damn plane and decided she was going to London. She’s never been England. She just passed by LAX, went inside, broke out her American Express, and bought a ticket. Being traumatized will make you do that. Just snap, break out a platinum card, slap down your passport, hop on a plane, and go as far away from your problems as you can afford to go. Or being in love. Being in love will make you spend your last dime. Will make you borrow money against your future. Love is an investment, you know?” “I heard it could be traumatic.” “Watch what you say. I’m in love, which is different than being traumatized. Or crazy. I decided this morning to just get up and go see my boyfriend. Well I didn’t just decide. We were talking and he told me he wished I were there, in London. He’s an actor. I’m and actor too.” Between her and Gavin Payne, starting to think I was surrounded by actors “Are you?” “Or an actress. Some call us actors, some say actress. I don’t care as long as they spell my name right on my check. But things are slow, not working right now. My agent sucks. I do massages on the slide. No happy endings. People always ask. Men. And women too. Would you believe women ask other women for happy endings? I guess all the touching, you know, the dark room with candles, the soft music, I guess, you know, people are bound to get aroused.” “I guess. Touching does create arousal.” “My boyfriend is in London. He’s starring in a play. Rent. You heard of Rent?” I shook my head. I have little time to get caught up in movies. Always to busy. Always working towards something bigger. Like beating Payne “You haven’t heard of Rent?” She beamed. “It’s a play and a movie.” “What’s it about? People struggling…to pay their rent?” “Nah. It’s like…like…like broke back mountain and Queer as folk meets the L Word with the crack head from Jungle fever and it’s set in the eighties. I have it on DVD if you want to-” Reminds me of Gavin Payne’s new outlook “I’ll pass on that one.” “Sure? It’s really good. It’s about love and loving unconditionally.” “I’ll pass. I’m sure. But if you have something with Clint Eastwood or Wesley Snipes…” “My man, he’s so good. From Boston. Never thought I’d fall in love with a black man from Boston. Hell, didn’t know there were any black men in Boston. Besides Bobby Brown. Maybe that’s why he left. Got tired of being the only black man in Boston. Just kidding. Lots of black people in Boston. My honey is straight gangsta. Public-housing baby. From Mattapan, aka Murderpan. Aka Ratattattattapan. You know Boston? I looked it up. Used to be Jewish area, but when black people showed up, white flight like a mofo. He grew up around Blue Hill ave. Like the movie. My boo is six-four. Two hundred plus. Bona fide soldier.” I shifted, hoped she was done. You have no idea how uneasy this conversation is. I’m a white Italian and she’s talking to me like I was a brother “My boo plays the part of the landlord. A straight part. He’s not a homophobe, but he wouldn’t audition to playa gay role to save his life, not at this point in his career. He said you didn’t see Denzel and Sidney Poitier or James Earl Jones playing no fag, and I’m not talking about a cigarette. No sir. They played straight men all the way down the line. He wants to be famous and not get typecast, like, like, you know, like other famous actors. Wesley Snipes almost made it, but he played a transvestite and BAM, career went downhill from there.” I put my things to the side, let my tray table, told her to let me out. I had to get out of that corner. Was starting to feel claustrophobic like an American soldier during Vietnam, held captive in a small cage, being tortured by the enemy in Vietcong. As soon as I was free, she put her headset on, bobbed to Ne-Yo. The lady in black was hanging out in the back of the airbus, near the bathroom. I headed that way. Still anxious. Still looking for trouble. Still swimming in Lake Panic Something told me I was being watched I looked behind me. He was wearing a dark gray suit And he was coming toward me. - [ * ] - Is it me or was Gavin Payne’s celebration sad? We were ten seconds away from watching Gavin Payne reach for a box of tissues and some lubricant as he was about to slip in the best of Jessica Alba Talk about a sight to cause a headache Gavin Payne is in a very similar position to where I used to be. He’s one of the company’s biggest figureheads and he likes to walk around backstage with a step in his shoes. He thinks he’s some kind of new wave demi-god and that he should be respected; the truth is, Gavin, you’re just the latest in a very long line of guys to come off of a conveyor belt. And you’re not even that fucking good either. That’s what wrestling has come to though. It’s degenerated into a playground where pole smokers like Payne believe that they’re in keeping with the great tradition and foundations that guys like myself laid. The fact is that Gavin isn’t World Champion because he’s a great wrestler, no... He’s the champion because of a lack of a better option. Gavin likes to think he’s some slick pimp. We’ve seen all this before though; the smooth talking half cast guy gimmick went out years ago. He represents everything that’s wrong with the industry today... cookie-cutter bullshit ripped from the moa Hollywood hotshot. Seriously, it’s been done. If you bring a cliché to my doorstep, I’ll eat it up, spit it out and ram it down your throat. I’ve seen your type before though, Gavin. Underneath it all, you don’t really believe that you’re worthy of being talked about in the same breath as the true greats of this company; you’re just clinging to what’s left of this place’s name to try and convince yourself that you’re worth something. Newsflash: you’re not. It’s hard for me to comprehend that someone with your limited ability could wear the world championship It just shows how much this place has gone down the shitter. Maybe I’m being a bit too hard on you though, Gavin. Perhaps you expected me to pay you a glowing tribute and roll out the red carpet before our match. That’s the sort of thing that Enigma usually does; God knows you two have been wiping each other’s asses for the past few weeks. I’m a bit more of an asshole than that. This is a fucking wrestling match at the end of the day, son. This is about two men going to war and seeing who comes out on top... And I’m the best soldier in the business. Your rise to power in NEXT has coincided with its fall from grace and that tells me everything I’ll ever need to know about you, Gavin. You just don’t have what it takes when it really comes down to it. Your cluster fuck of a feud with Enigma pays testament to that fact. Underestimate me at your own peril. That's a warning I honestly don't expect you to heed, but so be it. Everyone says I’m caught up in my own hype, my own ego, but I do care about the little people. If I didn’t care about all you little people my job would be pointless. It’s like you’re all swimming in a pool of mediocrity and I’m watching you high from my life guard seat. Then, when one of you starts to drown I won’t come out to save you. I will look at you through my binoculars and watch you die. Everyone else will be trying to save you but I won’t. Now, it’s not because I’m an asshole, even though I am, but it will be for one simple fact. Gavin, I want you to kill yourself to get my attention. Honestly Gavin, What the hell are you doing, son? The cocky/arrogant deal has been used over and over again. No one cares if you have the most money because whatever money you have, I have more. Whatever women you have, I have more. Whatever skill you possess, I possess more. It’s the simple rule of NEXT. I’m not sure if you’re familiar with it but let me remind you. The Lion > You It’s always going to be that way. It’s never going to be the other way around. You can talk about your money, your style, or whatever but when you do keep that rule tightly wrapped around your cerebellum. And if you try and defy that rule, I’ll make sure my boot is tightly wrapped around your cerebellum instead. So don’t try anything fancy. Try and stop me Gavin. You can the first victim of this Lion’s attack and will be a hard landing for you. When you’re looking at the mat from atop my shoulders, you can go back to hustling. When you’re flat on your back, you can go back to working out in gyms. When you’re lying on that stretcher, you can go back to praising my name. It’s a darling one. Unlike yours, I’ve never heard of Gavin Payne outside the walls of NEXT, to be frank not sure anyone has. You’re a minor leaguer kid and I’m a season veteran. Go ahead and read off a list of accomplishments, but just like your dreams of Jessica Alba they amount to nothing but made up fantasies Seriously, you’re running your mouth like we’ve been feuding for years and you know me but I know nothing about you. How embarrassing. So bring your best game, Gavin. It won’t match up or compare to what I am going to bring. I’m here to prove a point and I’m here to make a statement. What are you here for? Answer that question after your mouth stops swelling. -- That’s a Wrap! --