Her Cell Rang Her ring tone was hip-hop. Beyonce. Joyellen picked up her cell phone, looked at the number, pressed a button to divert the call, and then sat back down on her barstool. I leaned against the wall, left her potential customers a clear shot of her wares. What name are you using now? Carmine The name you had when we were in Montreal, that was the name I liked best. I don’t give a shit what you like You found me. You actually found me Ran into Sergeant He told you Right before he died Her face lit up. She shook her head. Grief covered her face. Her eyes watered You? I nodded Her lip trembled, she swallowed No, Not Bucky…Why? Because he had something I wanted, and lets face it some people deserve to die Her grief magnified, as did her fear of me Looked like she wanted to run. Then realized there was nowhere to run Then She jumped Someone was sneaking up behind me. I remembered Amsterdam, how she had sent trouble to find me. I jerked around, ready to attack whoever was creeping up behind me. I wouldn’t be as nice to them as I was to the thugs in Amsterdam. A man in a suit was standing in the ragged doorway. His face was unseen. Joy called down, What can I do for you today? He crept up the stairs, took slow steps, walked halfway up before stopping Diamond? Yes You were referred to me By whom? Ahmad Okay she said that like she had no idea who Ahmad was. What can I do for you? He wore a suit and worn dress shoes. Eyeglasses with small lenses. Hair black and cut short. Thick and with so much body hair he looked like he had the werewolf syndrome. His coat was open wide, his gut spilling over his belt. He whispered, How much for straight sex? Twenty pounds How much time? Ten Minutes How much for a blow job? Sex and Blow job, thirty pounds. If you want multiple positions, forty I would like to get the sex and blow job for thirty quid, please Thirty pounds up front How soon can I see you? Catch me in about an hour Have to get the tube home to the family. I don’t have that much time to spare Then come back in fifteen to thirty. You’ll have enough time to make the last tube You take visa? Cash, until you become a regular. Then I’ll accept credit Ill go to the cash machine, be right back A cash machine is right across the street at Somerfield Somerfield is closed Use the one inside Blue Boy. Tell them I sent you The man waved and hurried away, checking his watch. It was hard to do, but I raised my head and looked in my mother’s eyes. We stared for a moment A son should never hurt his mother And a mother should never do the hurtful…the damaging things you did to her son Again we stared, two unfeeling, poker-faced stares You killed Sergeant I nodded Her grief magnified I was drunk. When that thing happened, I was drunk And I was angry You almost killed me You did so many horrible things to me I almost died that night Almost You’re still angry Very You were so angry in Amsterdam. I’d never seen you look like that This is what you created. I’m your Frankenstein monster She swallowed I had marched up to her door like I was the Cylons invading New Caprica. Had come to her filled with bile, hate poisoning my every thought. Hate was a virus. Revenge its only cure You can’t play God and wash your hands of the things you’ve created because sooner or later the day comes and you can’t run from the things you’ve done anymore I had just quoted Battlestar Galactica; a speech Adama had given had hit close to home, stayed with me. That same quote reminded me of other whispers from a shallow grave. Nothing was said for a moment Her eyes were blank, haunted. She mumbled, kept repeating Sergeant is dead. She said that like there had been a deeper connection between them. More than sex for hire. More than sharing drinks Since Amsterdam, almost every night without fail, I’ve dreamed about you coming to murder me. I knew you’d come. I knew you’d find me. I knew you’d be angry We’ll get that taken care of before I leave London She shuddered Diamond? That British accent came from behind me. Are you Diamond? A man in a leather jacket was down in the doorway. Tall, White, Dorky, Ugly as hell Her voice trembled Can I help you, handsome? What you charged for back door? Sixty quid. That includes blow job and multiple positions Now a good time? Why don’t you come up here and wait The man passed by me, went up top, passed by my mother went into her flat I smiled, my grin unadulterated anger She smiled in return, hers still laced with fear I terrified her. She had let that stranger up so she could feel safe. So I wouldn’t do her harm right now. If I did, she’d have a witness to my rage. If I needed to, I could kill him easier than I could kill her, just as fast. In every war there was collateral damage. Somebody was always in the way of victory Good to see you’re still selling the hole I came out of She swallowed, almost came undone I have to go One question before you go make that money What, Son? Don’t call me Son You are my son. I will call you my son I paused, then worked my way to one of the many questions that had been in my mind all of these years. You stole from that man. Did you not steal from that man? What man? The man who tried to kill you. The man I killed for you. The first person I Killed Mr. Midnight I think he caught you trying to steal from him That’s not what happened His attack wasn’t unprovoked Shouldn’t matter why he attacked me. You were supposed to save your mother He tried to kill a thieving whore Now you have become him Bullshit. I became what you made me My sweet little Frankenstein I’ll be back for you. Before I leave, I will be back I know, I’ll be here One more question Yes son? Who was my father? I told you, he was in the army. Special Forces Where is he now? Only saw him that one time Then how do you know that man was my father? Maybe I made sure he was your father What does that mean? I put his sperm inside me when he left. I took the condom and put his sperm inside me Why Because I liked him, Because he was a real man. He was the kind of man I would’ve wanted to be my husband. Because I wanted part of him to stay with me Why? Because I wanted to have a baby, Because I was tired of being alone. After my best friend was killed, maybe I had a hard time dealing with life. I hated being alone in this world. My anger had me blazing See you soon How much time do I have? Not much, get your house in order Ill be here, Ill be ready Then she backed away, eased inside her apartment, and closed the door. Her perfume remained, mixed in with the toxic stench that was assaulting my senses I turned around, took the slimy concrete stairs to the cold and slimy rue, once again greeted by droves of strangers and neon signs advertising sex. I headed up the narrow road. It was starting to rain again. Even if it stormed forty days and forty nights, it would never rain hard enough to wash away this scum. Numb I was numb. I slowed down between a cloth shop and the Islamic centre. I looked back, saw half-dressed women standing in dingy windows, cigarettes burning between their fingertips , lips painted, eyes done, boredom in their eyes, red lightbulds over their heads How much does she charge you for her services? Coming towards me, money in hand, it was the fat, hairy man I’d just seen in her doorway He adjusted his glasses, How much she charges you, mate? My eyes went to him. My hands turning into fists I t hink thirty quid is a bit much for straight sex and a bloody blow job Darkness rose. I was about to lose my freedom and kill that man. They all say she’s good, but if you ask me, she looks a little worn around the edges. What you think? Was she worth it? Did she give you full service or only a blow job? Away from me What was that? I shoved him so hard he stumbled and fell down. He rolled side to side, got up, cursed me. I went toward him, hands in fists. He ran away. I scowled at the stiff-lipped people who were staring at me. I marched away, shoulders hunched Like Frankenstein From time to time my mother used to send women to my room. I’d wake up and some beautiful stranger would be stimulating me, doing whatever my mother had paid them to do. The last time…I was sixteen, maybe seventeen. Had fallen asleep, Nocturnal emission. Might’ve been masturbating in my sleep. Don’t know what I was dreaming about, or who. Halle Berry, Vivica Fox, Nia Long, maybe all of those heavenly creatures at once. Woke up when I started having an orgasm. Looked down and expected to see the Filipina woman I had grown accustomed to, or maybe the face of a stranger from Ethiopia, or Russia, hoped to see the eyes of an exotic woman smiling up at me, sucking my dick as her introduction. But I woke up with my drunken mother in my bedroom; the woman who had birthed me had taken me inside her mouth like I was a john from the streets I knew it had to be a mistake. She wouldn’t do that on purpose Then she looked at me. She looked into my eyes I wanted to push her away. But my orgasm had traveled beyond the point of no return; no matter how I wanted to, that overwhelming sensation had gone too far to turn around. I shuddered, cursed, held her head, pulled her hair. She made me come. My drunken mother had assaulted me. Raped me with her mouth. I yanked her up to her feet and hit her. The first blow was a backhand across her face. She grabbed her bloodied mouth, tried to run, I caught her, threw her into the wall. She tried to get out the door and I grabbed her leg, dragged her back inside. Like Mr. Midnight had done, I grabbed her hard and quick, picked her up by her neck. She scratched my hands, kicked her feet, gagged. I was going to kill her and throw her dead body in the streets. Was going to kill her quick and d without mercy, kill like she had taught me to do. I had already found out she’d been stealing from me, pimping me. When she stopped moving, I yanked my hands from her throat. I dropped her. I thought she was dead. Hoped she was dead. And I left her just like that. I left her battered and bruised body in the middle of the floor That had fucked me up When I came back, she wasn’t there. She never came back. Left me there, the only skill I had was the one she had taught me Joy’s red light was off. Like a black cab that had paying customer. I stared at my mother’s window. Tears in my eyes, I hurried away, headed down the uneven and damp streets that reeked of sin and shame, shoulders hunched like I was walking down the Boulevard of Broken Dreams. I was leaving my revenge behind for one reason. I was being followed. I’d left her dilapidated flat and two minutes later I was being followed. I moved through the crowd, looking for his reflection in the storefronts. I caught a glimpse Saw the man following me had on a suit. Saw the bandages on his nose. Him again I was confused. Him being on the plane, My mother, tried to put all of this together. The pieces didn’t fit. The dots wouldn’t connect, but that didn’t mean they didn’t. The stench of Chinese food assaulting me, I made a thousand turns. He stayed behind me, kept a few people between us. I didn’t know if he was carrying, I only knew I was naked right now. Then I ducked inside the tube station. Put hundreds of people between us. Hundreds of witness, which didn’t mean much. A man got his throat cut while he rode the tube in Croydon. Got his throat slashed wide-open in a crowded, and nobody saw anything. I got on the tube My wounded admirer did the same. Rushed on the same car, only a different door. I pretended I was reading a left-behind paper, saw him without looking at him. He never looked directly at me, but at the same time he never took his eyes off me. I tucked the paper under my arm, took out my cell to phone Arizona, needed backup. But there was no signal underground Death was raising this train, like it was 309 I was on my own I ended up leading my stalker to Knightsbridge. I took to the crowed strip outside Harrods. Blended with thousands of shoppers. He was still behind me. Had taken the heavily populated tubes along with me. Big crowd. An Ocean of people with bags in their hands going in every direction. Lots of corners, I made a few turns and he lost me. He lost me because now I was behind him. The rabbit had become the fox. He gave up looking for me and I followed him back down into the tube. He saw me in the crowd. He saw me without looking directly at me. I did t he same without looking directly at him. My position let him see the mouse had become the cat. I was near one door and he was at the door at the opposite end Then we killed the game and looked at each other. I nodded he did the same With those simple gestures, this had been confirmed; we kept our eyes on each other. He rode the Piccadilly Line down on exit and jumped off at South Kensington, an area where a small flat went for over a million pounds, then rushed through the underground through-way. He started running. I did too. I chased him through an underground tunnel that extended the better part of a mile and came out at the base of Hyde Park, a few blocks shy of Prince Albert Hall. He ran uphill toward the high street, dashed through traffic to Prince Albert, a tribute surrounded by lights and sculptures. Those bright lights kept me from losing him. He kept running, never slowing down. I was running behind him, I chased him through the darkness and light, ran another good mile across the park to the Bayswater Road and came out by the Corus Park Hotel. He went to his right, bolted across the streets and through traffic, headed by the Swan restaurant, another intersection, looked back, saw I was still there, then bolted inside the Lancaster Gate tube. He had me by thirty seconds I chased him into the tube station, slapped my Oyster card on the sensor, and waited for the gate to open. People were at the elevator, but I heard his feet racing down winding stairs that went into the bowels of the earth. I went that way as fast as I could. I was halfway down the two-hundred step descent when I heard a train stopping down below. I stumbled, got my balance, raced around a few people, and tried to catch him. I was catching up, had made it down the stairs and was racing through the final tunnel that led to the trains, but he had me by a good twenty seconds. Just enough time for him to jump on the Central Line before the doors closed. He looked back at me Scowling as the train pulled away He didn’t look fifty anymore. He looked like he could pass for thirty. The next train was in two minutes. But he could’ve gotten off the Central Line tube anywhere from the next stop at Marble Arch or where the train ended an hour away at Epping. I was drenched, winded He hadn’t broken a sweat I had chased him over three miles and he hadn’t broken a sweat, now he rides off with my championship and my ego… - [ * * * ] – I’ve been pushed to the limit last Sunday, and I lost. I’m sure everyone expects me to stand here and bitch about losing to Dom at Eternity, or make some sort of an excuse about losing to him, but I can’t. Dom was the better man, I gave the son of a bitch everything I had and he kept coming. The only thing I can say about Eternity is that, Dom has the heart of a motherfucking champion. And I’m sure he feels the same way about me, he better because in a months’ time there will be a Dominic Pericolo vs. Carmine Vestieri III And this time I’ll be the hungry challenger with everything to prove and nothing to lose But that’s still a month’s time away, this week while the champion takes the night off, I lick my wounds and head back into the ring, against the Punk. A man I’ve never faced before and a man you’ve never met before. Hi, my name is Carmine and I’m a sexaholic. Oh, wrong meeting. You think this is a joke? Punk we all watched as you added more insult to the career of Sean Galen, hell I did twice already, but while you were kicking a once former legend, now current jobber I was wrestling in what has to be match of the year at least until the rematch. You see no one cared that you made a return to the NLCW at Eternity they were too busy watching the man who was carrying NLCW while you were on vacation. But hey, don’t feel too bad it’s a growing trend, just ask the Shiz You could talk about how Dom is a NLCW original and he beat me, and I’ll stand here and admit to it. I’ll get him, sooner or later It doesn’t faze me to lose to a guy like Dom. Shit, Punk, you’ve never beaten the cat. You’re nowhere near his level. You’re nowhere near his or my league. So keep that in mind before trying to throw it out there I’ve just taken the major point of your next promo and shit all over it before you even had the chance to write it down…Fuck that must blow But I should praise you right Punk, your back, you’ve defeated Sean. Which again isn’t anything special, but I bet you still believe things are looking up, in the same breath I bet you think I should respect the fans and the legends that came before me. I bet you think this next run with NLCW well be a golden one But in reality, you’ll just be sizing yourself up for yet another disappointment I'm like a hungry Lion right now; and you know what a caged animal is like, that’s what this lion is feeling. I've been backed into a corner. I've been pushed to the edge of the cliff. I've been victimized time and time again. Now this animal has no other option. I've avoided this for long enough. Come this Avulsion, the career of The Punk will be dead, once and for all. When a Lion is backed into a corner and there is no escape no good can ever come of it, I will take every advantage I can get. I will grind the wrestling mat against your flesh. I will make blood poor and bones break! I have nothing to lose. Nothing You on the other hand have everything to lose. Your career. Your health. Your life. Those who care about you will be begging you not to step into that ring this Monday but you will do so anyway; you love the fans too much. The rush you get when you step into the squared circle is too great. It's like a natural high for you, isn't it Punk? This is what makes me better than you Not only do I have nothing to lose but I don't do things for other people. There is no one worth my affection. You have to much to prove; to much on your plate. What happens when you drop the ball and leave for a second time? What happens if you follow the trend of vets before and no show event after event. You become a jobber, you become Sean Galen, you become Bucky Skyler, you become like everyone else who has dropped the ball when NLCW needed them the most. And the people, what do they do when you drop the ball? They forget about you and keep paying for tickets to see me night-in and night-out. These fans are a bunch of mindless sheep; they pay and they sit and they eat and they drink and they boo and they cheer and then they leave before the process starts all over again. They cheer for the underdog because that's how society works. You like see someone doing well, but you don't like seeing someone doing better than you. Sorry to break it to you; I am better than you. Not only am I better than you, I'm better than all of your peons who even believe that this run is different. They hate me, Punk. All these people, they hate to see me doing so well. They call me cocky, arrogant, self-righteous and a certified prick. They're not wrong. Why should I respect those weaker than me? Why should I have to be modest about my ability? Why should I have to be the good guy? Easy answer. I shouldn't. I know how great I am. I know how talented I am. I know how confident I am. Why should I have to hide it? To impress the peons; to gain respect? I don't think so. I tried that whole respect thing when I started out wrestling down in a small fish farm in Italy. You know what happened? Each and every week I tried to get the fans to like me; to love me as much as they love you. Nothing. I gave them everything I had every night. Everything. What happened? Nothing. They turned their back on me, so what I do each and every week is justified. These fans are fickle; they change their mind in the blink of an eye. One moment they could be your biggest fan and the next they'll boo you out of the arena. That is why I don't wrestle for these hypocrites. That is why I wrestle for one man only; Myself. Now you know. Come this Monday however, my mind will be fully focused; one thing will be on my mind. Breaking bones, causing bloodshed and coming that much closer to my championship rematch. You have limits, Punk. I'm willing to Cross the Line, take another big step, spit on the line and keep on running. I will do whatever it takes to win. I will sacrifice my body to win this match. There is nothing I will not do to win this match. It is now time for me to prove to everyone that what I've been saying is the absolute truth, even if I shouldn't have to prove anything. Lets face it Punk, you don't like me one bit, yet you respect my abilities; rightfully so. When you look through the blood in your eyes and you see yourself crashing into the canvas when I send you down under what exactly are you going to think? That you're a worthless, old, pathetic, withered up, old, nuisance, boring, old fossil who has no reason to return to a wrestling ring? Sounds about right. Remember this. I'm just simply better than you. Period. -- That’s a Wrap! --