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With my fake passport, I had made it through customs, no alarms sounding. When I took my jet-lagged stroll by the last of the police officers, I took a deep breath. Lisa was excited, eyes wide. “This is an airport? This joint looks like both the Grove and the Beverly Center in Los Angeles. Look at all these places to shop. They have so many stores in here…Off the chains…this is like walking down Rodeo Drive.” Mrs. Jones was quiet and unimpressed, the opposite of Lisa. Lisa went on, “Café Nero. They have a friggin’ Burberry store up in here. Chez Gerard, whatever that is. HMV. Lacoste. Nike. Nine West. Starbucks. WHSmith. This is awesome.” Local time was eight thirty in the morning, my body still on eastern time, my every cell crying for a warm bed and few more hours of sleep. We’d been on the ground just long enough to battle our way through customs and make our way over to the North Terminal; Mrs Jones walked at my right side, her expensive heels clinking. My backpack was hanging from my right shoulder and I was pulling an over packed suitcase that had bad wheels, Lisa’s cheap luggage. Lisa had her backpack on and was pulling her second suitcase, that one having better wheels. Since she had so much to carry, I’d waited for her at baggage claim. Kept her talking, kept her laughing. Kept my eyes on the police. “Aww, man.” Lisa cursed at her phone. “Cell doesn’t work here.” I shook my head. “Not unless you have tri-band.” “Damn Verizon. I have to find a Verizon store and handle this.” “No Verizon here. If you had T-Mobile, you could upgrade, make the phone international. “ “They have Starbucks every tem feet but they don’t have one Verizon store?” “You need a phone with a SIM card.” “What’s a SIM card?” “SIM card. Subscriber Identity Module. Gets you international service. About the size of a postage stamp. Stores all kind of info. Like saved telephone numbers. Text messages.” Lisa cursed. “How am I going to survive without a phone?” “You can get a SIM card for about five bucks U.S. over in Chinatown.” “Yeah, but I need a freakin’ T-Mobile phone. You okay with that bag, Carmine?” I asked, “Did you have to pack your entire life in these bags, Lisa?” “I’m a girl, Carmine. I never know what kinda mood I’m going to be in, so I have to bring clothes to match my mood. Assholes made me pay extra. Said my bags were too heavy.” “How much did your bas weigh?” “One was like ninety pounds. The other one weighed a little over a hundred.” “How long are you staying with your boyfriend?” “The rest of my life. I’m going to be his Mimi, without the drug habit.” Mrs. Jones fell back behind us. I glanced and saw her break her cellular in half, then she dropped the remains in a trash can. She caught up with us, then once again she fell behind. She had freed herself of her electronic leash. Lisa asked, “Carmine, think I could borrow a few dollars?” “Pounds. Or quid. Same thing.” “Okay, pounds,” Lisa asked. “Can I borrow a few pounds, quids, whatever they use?” “For what?” “Check it. Kinda broke. Spent all of my money on the plane ticket. Was gonna ask my boyfriend to come get me. No signal, no cell. I don’t have enough to make a phone call.” “How much you need?” “How many pounds or quid do you get for a dollar anyway?” I motioned to a huge screen right above a money exchange station. She said, “Eighty cents for a dollar? The euro is kicking the dollar’s butt.” “Not eighty cents. That means eight-tenths of a euro for a buck. London is still on the pound system, Look at BP. British pound.” “Are you serious? Does that mean…I’m confused. Fifty-five cents for a damn dollar?” “Means fifty-five percent of a pound for a dollar. Less that that once they take their commission.” “That’s robbery. We need to be in Mexico. You can buy Mexican for like five dollars.” “How much British money you need?” “Well, I’ll need enough to get to Embankment. My boyfriend is chilling down in that area. The theater is on St. Martin’s street. He said his hotel was a two-minute walk from the theater.” “You have the address?” “Got it right here.” “No problem. I’ll get you to your man.” “Cool. My boo will have my back after that. I can get some money from him and kick you down what I owe you. Just holla at me down there and I’ll bring you what I owe you.” “Don’t worry about it.” “You sure?” “I’ll get you a day pass for all the zones. Just in case.” “And can you throw in enough for me to buy some condoms?” “Condoms?” “In case he doesn’t have any. Lose your momentum, spoil the mood.” “How many condoms will you need, Lisa.” “A dozen should get me through the weekend. At least until Sunday.” “Today is Friday. And you want a dozen?” “You’re right. I should get more.” - [ * * * ] - Dom, here we are again. Seems like the Sultan has been a forever past. But even though I lost to you on that night, it’s still a night I haven’t forgotten. But since the Sultan I’ve been on a trail of greatness. I’ve become the North American Champion. And if we were to be the last two standing I would say it would be a damn honor to be your partner. That’s the respect angle right there. The flip side of that is, I’m not aiming to have you as my partner. To be blunt I would be fine tossing everyone out of my ring. See, Dom. It’s more than just garnering the opportunity to become someone. It’s more than just been thrown the chance, in the form of a hit and miss battle royal. With every chance, you must be able to capitalize. We’ve meet before. You were the better man that night but if you were to become Tag-team champion I’m sure that title would glow in the palm of your hands, it would outshine you while you do a shitty job trying to cater to it in the background. Just like you have done with your Hardcore Championship You’re the type of guy who lets the championship define him. I know you as the guy who won many titles in Joe blows federation, but when it comes to knowing and understanding the name ‘’Dominic Pericolo’’ I couldn’t tell you, from a flaming bag of shit. Sure, you come with familiar scents, but I don’t have the nose to deal, nor stomach your crap. Take your accomplishments; and save them for the Mc Donald’s application, because if you believe you are cut out for another worthless championship? Then there obviously isn’t a big enough brain, to match the size of your overgrown head. I guess you only have room to fit the ego, a fucking shame. But then again you always have that Sultan victory, its just a shame that I lost and yet still outshined you. They weren’t talking about Pericolo finally becoming Sultan, they were talking about that new kid. That kid who damn near defeated Pericolo. That new kid who in less then a month stole a PPV show, and became a champion. Now this kid has another chance to become a double tier champion. Dom it seems you’ve built this false image of your self, Sure you play the humble card. The hero card. But I can see that ego trying to itch its way out to the surface. That ego that leaves you to believe that Nobody can touch you, nobody can stop you, and everyone and everything is below you. Unfortunately, you have failed to do your research. There is only ONE man standing atop the NLWF world, and no its not Enigma. He holds the crown, but its me who brings the people in. Go ahead and tell me I’m full of shit Dom, but last time I checked I was pulling double duty to help beef up a crying show. I know I’m not perfect. There’s things about me, I am still trying to change. There are wholes to my philosophy, I am still trying to patch up. Somewhere lurking in the shadows, remains a figure that can destroy me, but until they are willing to come out of hiding, step out from under their shadows, they simply do not stand a chance. This perfect image you have built up, that will shatter upon my impact. Let’s see how many pieces can your ‘’perfection’’ can create. Of course there still people who just don’t take the time of paying attention to the future of NLWF. Yea, Miss Jones Its your turn. You see Stacy I could give a rats ass If you know who I am. I could care less if you remember my name as I toss your ass over the top rope. Don’t expect me to go easy on you. You’re no different than a man Stacy. I’ll batter and bruise your face until you look like Lindsay Lohan before rehab. Yet, don’t think this is a gender thing. I don’t care if you’re a guy, a girl, a midget, retarded, an immigrant, a homosexual, or all of the above combined. You get in my path you will get put down. It’ll be a similar case to Ol’ Yeller but I’m not going to use a gun. I’m going to use the sheer prowess I have every time I enter that ring. You’ll die somehow and you’ll never know exactly how I’m going to do it. Stacy, your name just screams “paint on brick wall’’ and just mentioning your name makes me yawn. Nobody has really heard of you, and you’ve been apart of NLWF so sometime now. One has to stop and ask themselves, why exactly aren’t they making any waves? Please, save me from the bullshit story, on how you have been steadly making your move. Or about how you’re a former Cruiserweight champion. None of that matters. Were in a age where most of these NLWF championship carry no respect with them. Hell this North American championship I hold means jack coming from Sean Galen. After this match, Stacy, you will wish that you never became a professional wrestler. God spares no one, dear, and I apologize in advance. That’s life, sweetie, and you’re just going to have to get used to it. As far as this rumble is concern, I control your destiny. You’re the type of gal who sits back, until a chance comes up and slaps her across the face. I’m the kind of guy who makes a name for himself no matter his opponent; It’s why I call myself the bailout of NLWF, I don’t need a championship to be up for grabs for me to put it all on the line and provide the entire world with the performance they want. My heart has gone cold, but by god I still have something in my chest that beats. Whatever you have in your heart, we’ll find out, I do plan on remaining the match long enough to pick you apart. - [ * * * ] - Tired and irritable, we ate upstairs at Brasserie Bar. Lisa had three scramble eggs and smoked salmon. I had veggie sausages, grilled tomatoes, and fried eggs. Mrs. Jones sat across from me, away from Lisa, without talking. Mrs. Jones hadn’t said much to Lisa since we’d left the plane and made it through customs. She hadn’t said anything to Lisa since that massage. At the table next to us were four Africans, all speaking French. Beyond them were Europeans speaking a language I couldn’t make out, not at first. One of the Europeans, a young Slavic blonde wearing a T-shirt with a picture of Folasade Coker, a Nigerian writer, across the front, had put her backpack, identical to mine. The blonde smiled at me, then told her make friend, “Is dit bet echte leven?” He responded, “Is dit enkel fantasie?” Lisa said, “These accents.” I asked, “What do you mean?” “All kinds of African. German. Russian. Don’t hear a lot of that gibberish in LA. And I haven’t seen a Mexican for hours. Not one Mexican in sight. This is straight-up weird. I mean, if there are no Mexicans, who keeps the city clean? Who cuts the grass? Who babysits?” One of the Europeans next to us said. “Open uw ogen.” I turned to them, smiled, and said, “Kijk tot de hemelen en zie.” They laughed. The blonde looked at me again. She nodded. Lisa said, “What language is that?” “Dutch” “You speak Dutch?” “Not really.” I winked at her. “You were saying this feels like an alternate universe, huh?” “People, especially the black people over here, they sound so smart. Speak all these languages. Their accents are the bomb. Even the stupid people sound so smart like they have a PHD Mrs. Jones drank her latte from Café Nero without acknowledging Lisa, but her red eyes came to mine. She was in London, free to go, but she was still here with me. Yea I KNOW I’m a pimp. Lisa headed to the bathroom, left me and Mrs. Jones sitting at the table. I asked the woman in the black dress if she was okay. She asked me, “Why do you like Battlestar?” “It’s filled with Greek mythology and Christianity and atheism and zodiac references…Caprica…that’s their home planet….Caprica…as in Capricorn.” “The number twelve comes up a lot” “As in twelve disciples and twelve signs of the zodiac and twelve colonies.” “The number twelve keeps coming up, implying earth was part of something larger.” “So you like the show.” “I despise it. Only way I used to spend time with my husband on Friday nights.” “Guess you won’t be asking to borrow my DVDs.” She hesitated, looked a little embarrassed. “Seen enough. Felt like I was forced to. Had to pay attention just so we would have something to talk about. Just so we could…communicate. Just to get some conversation out of him. But I…I guess I don’t have to watch that nonsense anymore.” We let that settle between us. That tension returned. Her eyes were on her sparkling wedding ring. She spoke without moving her gaze. “My husband…he doesn’t touch me.” “I find that hard to believe.” “He hasn’t touched me for years.” “As beautiful as you are? I’d never stop touching you.” I put my hand on hers. Her eyes came to mine. She asked, “Are you testing the waters?” I smiled. “Only if you’re inviting me for a swim.” The Dutch-speaking Europeans finished their breakfast, grabbed their backpacks, and left. Again the blond girl looked at me. She was nervous. I saw it in her eyes. She said, “Scaramouche.” I nodded, said, “Bismillah.” They left, talking first in Dutch, then changing to French. My focus went back to Mrs. Jones. I was looking in her eyes, holding her hand. She was holding my hand too. She said, “You’re a liar, Carmine.” “What have I lied about, Mrs. Jones?” “No luggage.” “You don’t have any luggage either.” “Are you on the run?” “I have a backpack.” “A small backpack. And you didn’t bring a coat.” “Neither did you.” “My trip wasn’t planned I winked at her. “Maybe we have more in common that we realize.” “Your voice…your tone…” “What about it?” She said, “Your intelligent. Very. I’d guess you’re an attorney or a thief of some sort.” “Is there a difference?” “Not that it matters.” she smiled. “I love the way your hand feels on mine. Love touching you.” “Are you flirting with me, Mrs. Jones?” We sat there looking at each other, in provocative silence, until Lisa came back. The man with the broken nose passed by. Gray suit and red shirt looking wrinkled. He was on his cell. He took a seat at a table near us and took out a London Underground map. He was preoccupied, didn’t notice us. A second cellular phone rang. He put down the first mobile and answered the second one, his face all business. He juggled phone calls. Then hung up both and took out that yellow book again. He had come trough customs and wasn’t carrying anything, not even a backpack. All he had was that yellow book. I said, “Looks like he had a rough night.” “His eyes are black as hell.” Lisa rubbed her nose, as if seeing his made her conscious of her own. “Thought that was from plastic surgery or something.” “He’s traveling light.” Lisa said, “Not as light as Mrs Jones. Not like you have much luggage yourself.” I regarded Mrs. Jones. Inside that moment, I was once again suspicious of her too. She said, “Maybe he left an unhappy life. Maybe he had been cheated on, cuckold. Maybe his kid, or kids, became his worst nightmare. Maybe he had to leave or go insane.” Lisa and I looked at Mrs. Jones “Maybe he’s trying to start over without baggage.” ‘What about his face?” “Were all wounded in some way. Maybe he came here to heal.” Her mind was on something else, something more promising, something more urgent. After the man looked at the menu, he sat back, rubbed his eyes, and opened that yellow book. He took out a pair of reading glasses, struggled to get them over his bandaged nose, gave up, and held the book close to his eyes. He bothered me. I kept him in my periphery. He never glanced my way, just read his book and checked his watch. He ordered breakfast and ate like he was in a rush, or starving, not at the easy pace of the Europeans. He ate like an American, and most Americans ate like they were convicts, fast and in a hurry, like men and women in prison. We left before he did, left him eating and reading his book, the pages and words right up to his eyes. I looked back as we took the escalator, looked again as we left the airport. He never spied my way. - [ * * * ] - Sean Galen, this would be the second time of the night that I get to send you crying back to Chris Champion. Sure your a fairly big name we already discussed this my first face time, but am I simply am missing the ‘’bang’’ behind it? I mean, maybe your novelty had drained out along with your loyalty, when you decided to wrestle federation to federation, as if working shows simply became the ‘’IN’’ thing to do? It’s clear you have bit off more than you can chew. Not to mention the fact that your talent has been so magnified and ballooned by your fellow co-workers and fans; so much to the point, I had actually looked forward to stepping in the ring with you, provided you weren’t eliminated before then. But now, as I take it upon myself to research you, I am simply not impressed. I say, show up to the rumble; but you can throw out your chances of winning this entire thing. Feel free to stick around until I step through those ropes, because it would be my pleasure to eliminate you myself. While the likely route is that you have been removed from the match before I have the chance to escort you out myself. Like I said Sean your career has died the second time you mounted a comeback. I can expect you to deny this up and down in a rebuttal speech. I know this is up front, because I haven’t even shaken your hand yet, and called you a friend. But I’ll skip the pats on the back, and get straight to the introduction. I’m the fucking future of NLWF. Do you understand what this means, or are you crying loud enough, that you can’t acknowledge me? You know what, kid? Fuck you. Scrap your plans on walking out with the victory, and grab your laundry list of 100 hundred excuses why you failed to even make a impact ready. It’s ok Sean, if you ask for a rematch, I’m sure Ill give you another take. I find these to be great sparing sessions. Sean, I’m going to tell you the exact same thing I told you earlier in the week. Don’t try and prevent the inevitable. You know just as well as I do that nothing is going to stop me from becoming the man you desire to be…again. You know nothing is going to stop me from taking this entire federation by the throat and squeezing the life from it. Once I am through you’ll have to hire a whole new roster. They’ll all be dead and I’ll stand over the rubble smirking and smiling as my quest will have been completed. This whole rumble could be summed up as ME defeating the former greats of NLWF. Sean I now you used to be this bad ass, you used to want to be THAT GUY. But between a failed marriage and a drug habit you became that disappointment. Huh, you have the perfect script for a E True Hollywood story. Sean, there is a big difference between you and I. You see even in your prime, you still allowed ‘off’ nights to effect your image. I have no ‘off’ nights. I do loose nearly enough to blame it on interferences and stand off interruptions and distractions. So while your preparing to explain to the world why you FAILED or FLAKED AGAIN, I’ll be preparing my trophy case for another NLWF Championship. Bucky Skylar, I don’t know much about you nor do I care. I understand guys like you are just trying to make a name in the business, but I don’t understand why I should be wary about you. Your just another big name trying to amount a come back, just because there happens to be a new buzz about NLWF. It’s what makes me sick to my stomach, all you big name power players of the past have been no where to be found when this company was on its last leg. But now that I’ve managed to get another leg to support this promotion. You all come crawling out from the cracks and corners like a bunch of cockroaches. Well consider me the exterminator. The NLWF don’t need there faces of the past, when they have a fresh face tearing shit up. But what I can’t wrap my mind around is, why are people so quick to pick you as a hands down winner? You haven’t done shit, you’ve been MIA for the last five weeks, if not longer. The only way your going to win, is if I allow you to become my partner. And I hate to break it to you, but I need a more ACTIVE partner. The truth hurts, and it’s going to poke-you right between those eyes. Those snake eyes you have, slithering through the green grass just waiting to jump up, and shock those he charges at with complete and utter surprise. Unfortunately, I can call your bluff; before you even think to fake it. I don’t know what cards you have up your sleeve, but this is a gamble you simply cannot afford. - [ * * * ] - We rode the Gatwick Express nonstop toward London’s Victoria station. It was going to be a thirty-minute ride. Thirty minutes before I was alone with Mrs. Jones. Thirty more minutes of Lisa. We sat in the red seats, two facing forward, two facing backward. Lisa crashed across from me. Mrs. Jones sat next to me, again not talking to Lisa, avoiding any contact with the animated woman, but every now and then gazing at Lisa, a quick glance before looking away. Mrs. Jones kept her eyes on the graffiti and countryside we were passing. Lisa bounced around, humming and smiling her ass off, then said, “This is crazy.” I asked, “What?” “Gas is cheap as hell. We just passed a gas station and gas was a dollar a gallon.” “Wrong money. That was in pounds. One pound is about two dollars.” “My bad. Then two dollars a gallon. Still damn good.” “They measure in liters, not gallons. Four liters equal one gallon.” “That shit’s too much like algebra for me. How much is gas over here, Brainiac?” “Petrol is about eight dollars a gallon.” “Get the fuck out. No wonder they’re in these itsy-bitsy-ass clown cars.” Lisa closed her eyes and at last, did the same with her mouth. Then Mrs. Jones eyes returned to mine. She licked her lips, sighed, shifted around, spoke to me in restless silence. Her eyes went to my backpack. Then her eyes met mine head-on. She reminded me expressionless, then turned her head away. Again she wiped her eyes. Tears came and went. I asked her, “How are you feeling?” She set free one soft word. “Scared.” Victoria Station… British accents dominated the international chatter; announcements from a woman who sounded like Miss Moneypenny reminded everyone to mind the gap and to please tap in and tap out their Oyster cards. British culture met us head-on as we followed the way out signs from the trains up to the streets, blended in with the pace and pandemonium that was equal to being at Union Station in DC during rush hour. It was damn cold. Everyone had on gloves, scarves, hats, and coats. On the escalator we followed the rules and stood to the right so the important people could hurry by on the left. Lisa was behind me, Mrs Jones in front. Lisa called to Mrs. Jones, offered to let Mrs. Jones use her Old Navy coat, said she had an extra one in her bag, but Mrs. Jones refused her offer without looking back, only gave Lisa the somewhat detectable shake of her head. Still not a single word for Lisa. Something was wrong. Something bigger than the two women at my side. Instinct told me to look back. Instinct told me to always look back. Instinct had me on edge, being on edge created paranoia. Paranoia was my alarm clock. The man with the broken nose was back there, map of the tubes unfolded in his hands. This time I put my luggage down and followed my paranoia. I asked, “You okay? Need Help?” He looked up from his map. “Weren’t you on my flight from Atlanta?” “Yeah. Saw you on the phone too.” “You’re American?” “Yeah.” “Good. Maybe you can help me. I’m trying to figure out how to get to Tower Hill. The directions my friend gave me didn’t make sense. I asked inside, but the accents are killing me.” His accent was soft and southern. Genial. Like Billy Bob Thornton in a good mood. I looked at his map. He looked toward Mrs. Jones and Lisa. He said, Beautiful women you’re with.” “Yeah, they are.” “Saw the woman in the black dress crying at the airport.” “She’s doing much better.” I saw the yellow book he was holding. Divorce for Dummies He was nobody. Just another nobody. “That’s good to hear. Now, how do I find Tower Hill?” I told him to go back inside, find out what zone he was going to, buy a travel card, down to the tubes, follow the yellow line on the map, and take the Circle Line to Tower Hill. It was morning rush hour in London, so he’d get there faster and cheaper if he took the tube. He checked his watch and rushed back inside the station. No police. No trouble. I let all my anxiety mix in with the voices from the city. Mrs. Jones looked at me. I smiled at the woman whose marriage was irretrievably broken. - [ * * * ] - Mask of William…You could very will be the wild card, as I know almost everything a Bio could tell me, there is little to know about you. So I found myself asking myself, who is the man behind the mask? It doesn’t matter. But I am a curious son of a bitch. Like why are the reason you feel you have to hide yourself behind the mask? Everyone already knows you don’t have a single inch of talent in your body. You could be a postive impact here in NLWF, a fresh face ready to remove the spoiled old farts that have become a plague to the land of No Limit. But instead you feel as if you have to follow there footsteps. There One week on, One week off attitude. Don’t you understand that attitude will only send you crashing to the outside of this rumble? Why are you in this match? Why did you feel the need to toss you name into the pot? To say you were in the ring with people like Dom, Isaac, Sean, Bucky? Unfortunately, you will be eliminated before you even get to suck in the greatness. You are out of the leagues by miles; but delusional fucks like you always seem to think they are twice as decent as they really are. While you may bring an air of unpredictability to this match, it simply won’t be enough to blow the world off its feet. I would love to teach you a thing about wrestling, since you are so heavily involved with the sport, but much like Ryan Coleman, your nothing more but a big disappointment. And at last we have Isaac. I should be applauding your victory last week. You grabbed yourself a date for fallout. And a chance to become North American Champion one more time. It’s to bad your gonna fall flat on your face. Lets look at the facts Isaac, you needed a count out to get you into the Fallout showdown. Now if that turns out to be the outcome of Fallout, I would still be North American Champion and you would be holder of a worthless victory. You can go ahead and tell everyone you’ve been in the driver’s seat of our little feud since your cheap victory. Tell everyone that you have gotten the upper hand on the North American Champion last week. Tell everyone how you called me and how I gave you ‘immature pop culture references’. Tell them that, Isaac. You’ve obviously never seen me in my true form. It‘s a whole new ball game when a championship is on the line, I give you a little preview tonight. You should know how I am, Isaac. If this was normal, I would have jumped your ass every chance I got. There’s a reason I let you get over me last week. There’s a reason I have said nothing and done nothing. It’s a fucking mind game, kid. Drive the car into hell. Drive it into the depths of hell and attempt to throw me into the fire. The one thing you’ll never see is me in the trunk sitting up with a loaded gun. When you open up that trunk your face will be blow to bits as you’re lying in a pool of your own blood. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. You’re living in a state of self denial. You used to be good, Isaac. Now you’re putting on a front, telling everyone your opponent is has skills, but carries a sour attitude. You’re regressing and with regression comes suffering. Timeline your ego all you want. You’re the only one who cares about what you did last week. Don’t get me wrong Isaac, you are easily the one of the more skilled competitors in this match. But when it comes to stacking up to the this kid? You’re a few chips too short. You are a choke artist. And it’s quite clear that you aren’t ready for the big times. -- That’s a Wrap! -- |