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This was a good team. Baker opened my door. Alright, Lets go He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, scanning the area. I pivoted slowly and twisted out of the car. The handcuffs didn't help. Even hotter now. I stepped forward and waited. The backup fell in behind me. Ahead of me was the station house entrance. There was a long marble lintel crisply engraved: Town of No Limit Police Headquarters. Below it were plate-glass doors. Baker pulled one open. It sucked against rubber seals. The backup pushed me through. The door sucked shut behind me. Inside it was cool again. Everything was white and chrome. Lights were fluorescent. It looked like a bank or an insurance office. There was carpet. A desk sergeant stood behind a long reception counter. The way the place looked, he should have said: how may I help you, sir? But he said nothing. He just looked at me. Behind him was a huge open plan space. A dark-haired woman in uniform was sitting at a wide, low desk. She had been doing paperwork on a keyboard. Now she was looking at me. I stood there, an officer on each elbow. Stevenson was backed up against the reception counter. His shotgun was pointed at me. Baker stood there, looking at me. The desk sergeant and the woman in uniform were looking at me. I looked back at them. Then I was walked to the left. They stopped me in front of a door. Baker swung it open and I was pushed into a room. It was an interview facility. No windows. A white table and three chairs. Carpet. In the top corner of the room, a camera. The air in the room was set very cold. I was still wet from the rain. I stood there and Baker ferreted into every pocket. My belongings made a small pile on the table. A roll of cash. Some coins. Receipts, tickets, scraps. Baker checked the newspaper and left it in my pocket. Glanced at my watch and left it on my wrist. He wasn't interested in those things. Everything else was swept into a large Ziplock bag. A bag made for people with more in their pockets than I carry. The bag had a white panel printed on it. Stevenson wrote some kind of a number on the panel. Baker told me to sit down. Then they all left the room. Stevenson carried the bag with my stuff in it. They went out and closed the door and I heard the lock turning. It had a heavy, well-greased sound. The sound of precision. The sound of a big steel lock. Sounded like a lock that would keep me in. I figured they would leave me isolated for a while. It usually happens that way. Isolation causes an urge to talk. An urge to talk can become an urge to confess. A brutal arrest followed by an hour's isolation is pretty good strategy. But I figured wrong. They hadn't planned an hour's isolation. Maybe their second slight tactical mistake. Baker unlocked the door and stepped back in. He carried a plastic cup of coffee. Then he signaled the uniformed woman into the room. The one I'd seen at her desk in the open area. The heavy lock clicked behind her. She carried a metal flight case which she set on the table. She clicked it open and took out a long black number holder. In it were white plastic numbers. She handed it to me with that brusque apologetic sympathy that dental nurses use. I took it in my cuffed hands. Squinted down to make sure it was the right way up and held it under my chin. The woman took an ugly camera out of the case and sat opposite me. She rested her elbows on the table to brace the camera. Sitting forward. Her breasts rested on the edge of the table. This was a good looking woman. Dark hair, great eyes. I stared at her and smiled. The camera clicked and flashed. Before she could ask I turned sideways on the chair for the profile. Held the long number against my shoulder and stared at the wall. The camera clicked and flashed again. I turned back and held out the number. Two-handed, because of the cuffs. She took it from me with that pursed grin which says: yes, it's unpleasant, but it's necessary. Like the dental nurse. Then she took out the fingerprint gear. A crisp ten-card, already labeled with a number. The thumb spaces are always too small. This one had a reverse side with two squares for palm prints. The handcuffs made the process difficult. Baker didn't offer to remove them. The woman inked my hands. Her fingers were smooth and cool. No wedding band. Afterwards she handed me a wad of tissues. The ink came off very easily. Some kind of new stuff I hadn't seen before. The woman unloaded the camera and put the film with the prints card on the table. She repacked the camera into the flight case. Baker rapped on the door. The lock clicked again. The woman picked up her stuff. Nobody spoke. The woman left the room. Baker stayed in there with me. He shut the door and it locked with the same greased click. Then he leaned on the door and looked at me. `My chief's coming on down, You're going to have to talk to him. We got a situation here. Got to be cleared up.’ I said nothing back to him. Talking to me wasn't going to clear any situation up for anybody. But the guy was acting civilized. Respectful So I set him a test. Held out my hands toward him. An unspoken request to unlock the cuffs. He stood still for a moment then took out the key and unlocked them. Clipped them back on his belt. Looked at me. I looked back and dropped my arms to my sides. No grateful exhalation. No rueful rubbing of my wrists. I didn't want a relationship with this guy. But I did speak. OK, Let's go meet your chief It was the first time I'd spoken since ordering breakfast. Now Baker was the one who looked grateful. He rapped twice on the door and it was unlocked from the outside. He opened it up and signaled me through. Stevenson was waiting with his back to the large open area. The shotgun was gone. The backup crew was gone. Things were calming down. They formed up, one on each side. Baker gripped my elbow, lightly. We walked down the side of the open area and came to a door at the back. Stevenson pushed it open and we walked through into a large office. Lots of rosewood all over it. A fat guy sat at a big rosewood desk. Behind him were a couple of big flags. There was a Stars and Stripes with a gold fringe on the left and what I guessed was the No Limit Company flag on the right. On the wall between the flags was a clock. It was a big old round thing framed in mahogany. Looked like it had decades of polish on it. I figured it must be the clock from whatever old station house they bulldozed to build this new place. I figured the architect had used it to give a sense of history to the new building. It was showing nearly twelve thirty. The fat guy at the big desk looked up at me as I was pushed in towards him. I saw him look blank, like he was trying to place me. He looked again, harder. Then he sneered at me and spoke in a wheezing gasp which would have been a shout if it hadn't been strangled by bad lungs. Get your ass in that chair and keep your filthy mouth shut This fat guy was a surprise. He looked like a real asshole. Opposite to what I'd seen so far. Baker and his arrest team were the business. Professional and efficient. The fingerprint woman had been decent. But this fat police chief was a waste of space. Thin dirty hair. Sweating, despite the chilly air. The blotchy red and grey complexion of an unfit, overweight mess. Blood pressure sky-high. Arteries hard as rocks. He didn't look halfway competent. My name is Dade Morrison, I am chief of the police department down here in No Limit. And you are a murdering outsider bastard. You've come down here to my town and you've messed up right there on Mr Kliner's private property. So now you're going to make a full confession to my chief of detectives. He stopped and looked up at me. Like he was still trying to place me. Or like he was waiting for a response. He didn't get one. So he jabbed his fat finger at me. And then you're going to jail, And then you're going to the chair. And then I'm going to take a dump on your shitty little pauper's grave. He hauled his bulk out of the chair and looked away from me. I'd deal with this myself, But I'm a busy man. He waddled out from behind his desk. I was standing there between his desk and the door. As he crabbed by, he stopped. His fat nose was about level with the middle button on my coat. He was still looking up at me like he was puzzled by something. I've seen you before, Where was it? He glanced at Baker and then at Stevenson. Like he was expecting them to note what he was saying and when he was saying it. I've seen this guy before He slammed the office door and I was left waiting with the two cops until the chief of detectives swung in. A tall black guy, not old, but graying and balding. Just enough to give him a patrician air. Brisk and confident. Well-dressed, in an old-fashioned tweed suit. Moleskin vest. Shined shoes. This guy looked like a chief should look. He signaled Baker and Stevenson out of the office. Closed the door behind them. Sat down at the desk and waved me to the opposite chair. He rattled open a drawer and pulled out a cassette recorder. Raised it high, arm's length, to pull out the tangle of cords. Plugged in the power and the microphone. Inserted a tape. Pressed record and flicked the microphone with his fingernail. Stopped the tape and wound it back. Pressed play Heard the thunk of his nail. Nodded. Wound back again and pressed record. I sat and watched him. For a moment there was silence. Just a faint hum, the air, the lights, or the computer. Or the recorder whirring slowly. I could hear the slow tick of the old clock. It made a patient sound, like it was prepared to tick on forever, no matter what I chose to do. Then the guy sat right back in his chair and looked hard at me. Did the steepled fingers thing, like tall elegant people can. Right, We got a few questions, don't we? The voice was deep. Like a rumble. Not a southern accent. He looked and sounded like a Boston banker, except he was black. My name is Finlay, My rank is captain. I am chief of this department's detective bureau. I understand you have been apprised of your rights. You have not yet confirmed that you understood them. Before we go any further we must pursue that preliminary matter Not a Boston banker. More like a Harvard guy. I understand my rights Good, I'm glad about that. Where's your lawyer? I don't need a lawyer You're charged with murder, You need a lawyer. We'll provide one, you know. Free of charge. Do you want us to provide one, free of charge? No, I don't need a lawyer The guy called Finlay stared at me over his fingers for a long moment. OK, But you're going to have to sign a release. You know, you've been advised you may have a lawyer, and we'll provide one, at no cost to yourself, but you absolutely don't want one OK He shuffled a form from another drawer and checked his watch to enter date and time. He slid the form across to me. A large printed cross marked the line where I was supposed to sign. He slid me a pen. I signed and slid the form back. He studied it. Placed it in a buff folder. I can't read that signature, So for the record we'll start with your name, your address and your date of birth There was silence again. I looked at him. This was a stubborn guy. Probably forty-five. You don't get to be chief of detectives in a Limit jurisdiction if you're forty-five and black except if you're a stubborn guy. No percentage in jerking him around. I drew a breath. My name is Carmine Vestieri, No middle name. No address He wrote it down. Not much to write. I told him my date of birth. OK, Mr. Vestieri, As I said, we have a lot of questions. I've glanced through your personal effects. You were carrying no ID at all. No driver's licence, no credit cards, no nothing. You have no address, you say. So I'm asking myself, who is this guy? He didn't wait for any kind of a comment on that from me Who was the guy with the shaved head? I didn't answer I was watching the big clock, waiting for the minute hand to move. Tell me what happened I had no idea what had happened. No idea at all. Something had happened to somebody, but not to me. I sat there. Didn't answer. What is Pluribus? I looked at him and shrugged The United States motto? E Pluribus Unum? Adopted in 1776 by the second Continental Congress, right? He just grunted at me. I carried on looking straight at him. I figured this was the type of a guy who might answer a question. What is this about? Silence again His turn to look at me. I could see him thinking about whether to answer, and how What is this about? He sat back and steepled his fingers You know what this is about, Homicide. With some very disturbing features. Victim was found this morning up at the Miner warehouse. North end of the county road, up at the highway Cloverleaf. Witness has reported a man seen walking away from that location. Shortly after eight o'clock this morning. Description given was that of a tan man, very tall, wearing a black vest, braided hair, no hat, no baggage Silence again. I am a Tan man I am tall My hair was in braids I was sitting there wearing a long black dressed vest I didn't have a hat Or a bag I had been walking on the county road for the best part of four hours this morning. From eight until about eleven forty-five How long is the county road? From the highway all the way down to here? Maybe fourteen miles, I guess Right, I walked all the way down from the highway into town. Fourteen miles, maybe. Plenty of people must have seen me. Doesn't mean I did anything to anybody He didn't respond I was getting curious about this situation Is that your neighborhood? All the way over at the highway? Yes, it is, Jurisdiction issue is clear. No way out for you there, Mr. Vestieri. The town limit extends fourteen miles, right up to the highway. The warehousing out there is mine, no doubt about that He waited. I nodded. He carried on. Midvalley built the place, five years ago, You heard of him? How should I have heard of him? I've never been here before He's a big deal around here, His operation out there pays us a lot of taxes, does us a lot of good. A lot of revenue and a lot of benefit for the town without a lot of mess, because it's so far away, right? So we try to take care of it for him. But now it's a homicide scene, and you've got explaining to do The guy was doing his job, but he was wasting my time. OK, Finlay, I'll make a statement describing every little thing I did since I entered your lousy town limits until I got hauled in here in the middle of my damn breakfast. If you can make anything out of it, I'll give you a damn medal. Because all I did was to place one foot in front of the other for nearly four hours in the pouring rain all the way through your precious fourteen damn miles That was the longest speech I had made for six months. Finlay sat and gazed at me. I watched him struggling with any detective's basic dilemma. His gut told him I might not be his man. But I was sitting right there in front of him. So what should a detective do? I let him ponder. Tried to time it right with a nudge in the right direction. I was going to say something about the real guy still running around out there while he was wasting time in here with me. That would feed his insecurity. But he jumped first. In the wrong direction. No statements, I'll ask the questions and you'll answer them. You're Carmine-none-Vestieri. No address. No ID. What are you, a vagrant? I sighed. Today was Friday. The big clock showed it was already more than half over. This guy Finlay was going to go through all the hoops with this. I was going to spend the weekend in a cell. Probably get out Monday. I'm not a vagrant, Finlay, I'm a hobo. Big difference He shook his head, slowly. Don't get smart with me, Vestieri, You're in deep shit. Bad things happened up there. Our witness saw you leaving the scene. You're a stranger with no ID and no story. So don't get smart with me He was still just doing his job, but he was still wasting my time. I wasn't leaving a homicide scene, I was walking down a damn road. There's a difference, right? People leaving homicide scenes run and hide. They don't walk straight down the road. What's wrong about walking down a road? People walk down roads all the damn time, don't they? Finlay leaned forward and shook his head. No, Nobody has walked the length of that road since the invention of the automobile. So why no address? Where are you from? Answer the questions. Let's get this done OK, Finlay, let's get it done, I don't have an address because I don't live anywhere. Maybe one day I'll live somewhere and then I'll have an address and I'll send you a picture postcard and you can put it in your damn address book, since you seem so damn concerned about it Finlay gazed at me and reviewed his options. Elected to go the patient route. Patient, but stubborn. Like he couldn't be deflected. Where are you from? What was your last address? What exactly do you mean when you say where am I from? His lips were clamped. I was getting him bad-tempered, too. But he stayed patient. Laced the patience with an icy sarcasm. OK, You don't understand my question, so let me try to make it quite clear. What I mean is, where were you born, or where have you lived for that majority period of your life which you instinctively regard as predominant in a social or cultural context? I just looked at him I'll give you an example, I myself was born in Boston, was educated in Boston and subsequently worked for twenty years in Boston, so I would say, and I think you would agree, that I come from Boston I was right. A Harvard guy. A Harvard guy, running out of patience OK, You've asked the questions. I'll answer them. But let me tell you something. I'm not your guy. By Monday you'll know I'm not your guy. So do yourself a favor. Don't stop looking Finlay was fighting a smile. He nodded gravely. I appreciate your advice, And your concern for my career You're welcome, According to your fancy definition, I don't come from anywhere. I come from a place called Italy. I was born on a US Army base in West Naples. My old man was Marine Corps and my mother was a French civilian he met in Holland. They got married in Korea Finlay nodded. Made a note. I was a military kid, Show me a list of US bases all around the world and that's a list of where I lived. I did high school in two dozen different countries and I did four years up at West Point Go on I stayed in the army, Military Police. I served and lived in all those bases all over again. Then, Finlay, after a couple of years of first being an officer's kid and then being an officer myself, suddenly I wanted a change so I became a fighter He thought for a moment. Wasn't impressed. Continue So right now I'm just enjoying myself, Maybe eventually I'll find something to do, maybe I won't. Maybe I'll settle' somewhere, maybe I won't. But right now, I'm not looking to He nodded. Jotted some more notes. When did you leave the army? Nine months ago, April I couldn't think of anything else to say. A long silence. Finlay drummed a rhythm with the wrong end of his pen So let's talk about the last twenty-four hours I sighed. Now I was heading for trouble. I came up on the Greyhound bus, Got off at the county road. Eight o'clock this morning. Walked down into town, reached that diner, ordered breakfast and I was eating it when your guys came by and hauled me in You got business here? I shook my head I haven't got any business anywhere He wrote that down. Where did you get on the bus In Tampa, Left at midnight last night He rattled open another drawer. Pulled out a Greyhound schedule. Riffed it open and ran a long brown finger down a page. This was a very thorough guy. He looked across at me That's an express bus, Runs straight through north to Atlanta. Arrives there nine o'clock in the morning. Doesn't stop here at eight I shook my head I asked the driver to stop, He said he shouldn't, but he did. Stopped specially, let me off You been around here before? I shook my head again Got family down here? Not down here You got family anywhere? A brother up in DC, Works for the Treasury Department You got friends down here? Nope Finlay wrote it all down. Then there was a long silence. I knew for sure what The next question was going to be. So why? Why get off the bus at an unscheduled stop and walk fourteen miles in the rain to a place you had absolutely no reason to go to? That was the killer question. Finlay had picked it out right away. So would a Prosecutor. And I had no real answer. What can I tell you? It was an arbitrary decision. I was restless. I have to be somewhere, right? But why here? I don't know, Guy next to me had a map, and I picked this place out. I wanted to get off the main drags. Thought I could loop back down toward the Gulf, further west, maybe You picked this place out? Don't give me that shit. How could you pick this place out? It's just a name. It's just a dot on the map. You must have had a reason I nodded I thought I'd come and look for Blind Blake Who the hell is Blind Blake? I watched him evaluating scenarios like a chess computer evaluates moves. Was Blind Blake my friend, my enemy, my accomplice, conspirator, mentor, creditor, debtor, my next victim? Blind Blake was a guitar player, Died sixty years ago, maybe murdered. My brother bought a record, sleeve note said it happened in No Limit. He wrote me about it. Said he was through here a couple of times in the spring, some kind of business. I thought I'd come down and check the story out Finlay looked blank. It must have sounded pretty thin to him. It would have Sounded pretty thin to me too, in his position. You came here looking for a guitar player? A guitar player who died sixty years ago? Why? Are you a guitar player? No How did your brother write you? When you got no address? He wrote my old unit, They forward my mail to my bank, where I put my severance pay. They send it on when I wire them for cash He shook his head. Made a note. The midnight Greyhound out of Tampa, right? I nodded Got your bus ticket? In the property bag, I guess I said. I remembered Baker bagging up all my pocket junk. Stevenson tagging it Would the bus driver remember? Maybe, It was a special stop. I had to ask him I became like a spectator. The situation became abstract. My job had been not that different from Finlay's. I had an odd feeling of conferring with him about somebody else's case. Like we were colleagues discussing a knotty problem Did you have any trouble in the army? No more than you did in Boston He was surprised. What do you mean by that? You did twenty years in Boston, That's what you told me, Finlay. So why are you down here in this no-account little place? You should be taking your pension, going out fishing. Cape Cod or wherever. What's your story? That's my business, Mr. Vestieri, Answer my question I shrugged Ask the army I will, You can be damn sure of that. Did you get an honorable discharge? Would they give me severance if I didn't? Why should I believe they gave you a dime? You live like a damn vagrant. Honorable discharge? Yes or no? Yes, Of course He made another note. Thought for a while. How did it make you feel, being let go? I thought about it. Shrugged at him. Didn't make me feel like anything, Made me feel like I was in the army, and now I'm not in the army Do you feel bitter? Let down? No, Should I? No problems at all? He asked. Like there had to be something. I felt like I had to give him some kind of an answer. But I couldn't think of anything. I had been in the service since the day I was born. Now I was out. Being out felt great. Felt like freedom. Like all my life I'd had a slight headache. Not noticing until it was gone. My only problem was making a living. How to make a living without giving up the freedom was not an easy trick. I hadn't earned a cent in six months. That was my only problem. He'd see it as a motive. He'd think I had decided to bankroll my vagrant lifestyle by robbing people. At warehouses, And then killing them guess the transition is hard to manage, Especially since I had the life as a kid, too” Finlay nodded. Considered my answer. Why you in particular? Did you volunteer to muster out? I never volunteer for anything, Soldier's basic rule Another silence Did you specialize? In the service? General duties, initially, That's the system. Then I handled secrets security for five years. Then the last six years, I handled something else Let him ask What was that? Homicide investigation Finlay leaned right back. Grunted. Did the steepled fingers thing again. He gazed at me and exhaled. Sat forward. Pointed a finger at me. Right, I'm going to check you out. We've got your prints. Those should be on file with the army. We'll get your service record. All of it. All the details. We'll check with the bus company. Check your ticket. Find the driver, find the passengers. If what you say is right, we'll know soon enough. And if it's true, it may let you off the hook. Obviously, certain details of timing and methodology will determine the matter. Those details are as yet unclear He paused and exhaled again, Looked right at me. In the meantime, I'm a cautious man, On the face of it, you look bad. A drifter. A vagrant. No address, no history. A fighter. Your story may be bullshit. You may be a fugitive. You may have been murdering people left and right in a dozen states. I just don't know. I can't be expected to give you the benefit of the doubt. Right now, why should I even have any doubt? You stay locked up until we know for sure, OK? It was what I had expected It was exactly what I would have said. But I just looked at him and shook my head. You're a cautious guy? That's for damn sure He looked back at me If I'm wrong, I'll buy you lunch on Monday, At Eno's place, to make up for today I shook my head again I'm not looking for a buddy down here Finlay just shrugged Clicked off the tape recorder. Rewound. Took out the tape. Wrote on it. He buzzed the intercom on the big rosewood desk. Asked Baker to come back in. I waited. It was still cold. But I had finally dried out. The rain had fallen out of the No Limit sky and had soaked into me. Now it had been sucked out again by the dried office air. A dehumidifier had sucked it out and piped it away. Baker knocked and entered. Finlay told him to escort me to the cells. Then he nodded to me. It was a nod which said: if you turn out not to be the guy, Remember I was just doing my job. I nodded back. Mine was a nod which said: while you're covering your ass, there's a killer running about outside. The cell block was really just a wide alcove off the main open-plan squad room. It was divided into three separate cells with vertical bars. The front wall was all bars. A gate section hinged into each cell. The metalwork had a fabulous dull glitter. Looked like titanium. Each cell was carpeted. But totally empty No furniture or bed ledge. Just a high-budget version of the old-fashioned holding pens you used to see. No overnight accommodation here? `No way, You'll be moved to the state facility later. Bus comes by at six. Bus brings you back Monday He clanged the gate shut and turned his key. I heard bolts socket home all Around the rim. Electric. I took the newspaper out of my pocket. Took off my coat and rolled it up. Lay flat on the floor and crammed the coat under my head Now I was truly pissed off. I was going to prison for the weekend. I wasn't Staying in a station house cell Not that I had any other plans. But I knew about civilian prisons. A lot of army deserters end up in civilian prisons. For one thing or another The system notifies the army. Military policeman gets sent to bring them back. So I'd seen civilian prisons. They didn't make me wild with enthusiasm. I lay angrily listening to the hum of the squad room. Phones rang. Keyboards pattered. The tempo rose and fell. Officers moved about, talking low. Then I tried to finish reading the borrowed newspaper. It was full of shit about the President and his campaign to get himself elected again for a second term. The old guy was down in Pensacola on the Gulf Coast. He was aiming to get the budget balanced before his grandchildren's hair turned white. He was cutting things like a guy with a machete blasting his way through the jungle. Down in Pensacola, he was sticking it to the Coast Guard. They'd been running an initiative for the last twelve months. They'd been out in force like a curved shield off Florida's coast every day for a year, boarding and searching all the marine- traffic they didn't like the smell of. It had been announced with an enormous fanfare. And it had been successful beyond their wildest dreams. They'd seized all kinds of stuff. Drugs, mostly, but guns as well, illegal migrants from Haiti and Cuba. The interdiction was reducing crime all over the States months later and thousands of miles further down the line. A big success So it was being abandoned. It was very expensive to run. The Coast Guard's budget was into serious deficit. The President said he couldn't increase it. In fact, he'd have to cut it. The economy was in a mess. Nothing else he could do. So the interdiction initiative would be cancelled in seven days' time. The President was trying to come across like a statesman. Law enforcement big shots were angry, because they figured prevention was better than cure. Washington insiders were happy, because fifty cents spent on beat cops was much more visible than two bucks spent out on the ocean two thousand miles away from the voters. The arguments flew back and forth. And in the smudgy photographs, the President was just beaming away like a statesman saying there was nothing he could do. I stopped reading, because it was just making me angrier. To calm down, I ran music through my head. The chorus in `Smokestack Lightning'. The Howling Wolf version puts a wonderful strangled cry on the end of the first line. They say you need to ride the rails for a while to understand the travelling blues. They're wrong. To understand the travelling blues you need to be locked down somewhere. In a cell. Or in the army. Someplace where you're caged. Someplace where smokestack lightning looks like a far-away beacon of impossible freedom. I lay there with my coat as a pillow and listened to the music in my head. At the end of the third chorus, I fell asleep. I woke up again when Baker started kicking the bars. They made a dull ringing Sound Like a funeral bell Baker stood there with Finlay. They looked down at me. I stayed on the floor: I was comfortable down there. Where did you say you were at midnight last night? Getting on the bus in Tampa We've got a new witness, He saw you at the warehouse facility. Last night. Hanging around. At midnight Total bullshit, Finlay, Impossible. Who the hell is this new witness? The witness is Chief Dade Morrison, The chief of police. He says he was sure he had seen you before. Now he has remembered where - [ * * * ] – Ah, there are five little words in this business that can crush the spirits of so many fans in one moment. Of course, me being the sort of man I am, I love those five little words with all my shriveled, black, little heart: "Card is subject to change." Ever since last Sunday night, the cattle on the other side of that barricade, all the little internet wrestling pundits, and I'm sure a fair number of my colleagues at No Limit Championship Wrestling, they've all been waiting for this week’s Avulsion, ever since he entered the ring and stole my moment! Alex Jay Returns…Takes on Carmine Vestieri "Finally," they said, "we'll get to see that Lion of a motherfucker Carmine silenced for good when Alex Jay shows him how it's done. Finally, someone will shut that man up." Only, that's not happening, is it, folks? Nope. Alex Jay, you see, is still retired. That's right. He has no obligations to Dade or the board of directors. I know you all were looking forward to this match, finally Alex Jay would be pressured to defend his right to be called the Prince of Wrestling. A chance to finally put down the "lucky hack" Carmine Vestieri, right? A chance to prove why he is the Prince of Wrestling, Alex Jay, right? A chance to maybe, juuuuuust maybe stop my verbal rampages. Except... ennnh, sorry! You instead decided to stay a bitch rather than stand and face me. Christ. What a dickless wonder you turned out to be, Alex. Moreso, given who No Limit Championship Wrestling has decided to replace you to somehow keep the people interested is none other then… Gabe Roken Yea, the same guy who two weeks ago felt the bitter end of defeat from yours truly, guess it’s the common theme around these woods, look at Jackson, Faced him twice and now his career is back where it started…In the shitter Congratulations, Gabe you have a rematch. You don't even have anything under your belt that even warrants a rematch with me. Not a win, not even a real great showing. And how do they reward such a colossal fuck-up? By throwing you in the ring with a man who has been waiting for the last week to finally silence the doubters and prove that Alex Jay is way, wa-ha-way out of his league going up against me, and now has to take out all that pent-up energy on you. Yours Truly, Carmine Vestieri I'm not underestimating you, Gabe, It would be very hard to underestimate someone who's worth less than the shirt on his back. When I look at you, I don't see a challenger. Hell, I don't even see a challenge. I see a piece of meat, being thrown to the lion to get its appetite whetted before unleashing it upon the slaves in the Coliseum. You're barely even worth the oxygen I'm wasting talking to you right now. If you beat me, Gabe-- and that's a very, very big "if" -- you won't be showing pity, and you won't be rubbing it in my face, because if you beat me, you'll barely be able to stand yourself. And that's because no matter who the fuck stands across from me in that ring, the person who takes it from me will have to pry it from my unconscious fingers. But all that is idle speculation. You're not beating me this week, Gabe. This is a repeat of are last meeting. Hell, the only difference this time around would be the fact that I may not allow you to move after I break your neck You're living in a dream world, Gabe. It is comprised of a quality that, alas, far too many people in this business possess in very large quantities. And those who suffer from an overabundance of it can delude themselves into thinking they're better than they really are. They get so wrapped up in their own, self-professed magnificence that they don't even notice that people barely pay any notice to them. And these people, when they step into the ring with people who can see this quality and exploit it in others, these people are swiftly and decisively beaten by the people who don't have that quality. It is known as 'Suck,' Gabe, and you, I'm delighted to say, have probably the largest burden of it I've ever seen. And I've seen plenty of cases. Sadly, 'Suck' is not something that can be cured or removed via surgery. It's a life-long, terminal illness. Don't think of this as a loss, Gabe Think of it as... assisted suicide. I'll be doing you a favor. Hell, I'll be doing all of us a favor. Wake up, and smell the Suck. -- That’s a Wrap! -- |