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My newspaper had been moved to the middle. Her stuffed backpack was crammed at her feet, the tray table down. Not only had she stolen my seat, she had her elbows spread out and she’d gotten too comfortable; most of the space and the shared armrest was now hers. Without complaining I took the middle seat. The girl slid her headset off. “I wasn’t finished talking about my boo.” “There’s more?” “We’ve been togther for three years now. We met doing this play in LA. A musical, actually. He was the lead. He was so good. I was the understudy for the female lead. She got sick. So I got to kiss him every night. I mean we kissed for real. Well, nobody told me I wasn’t supposed to tongue-kiss him. But I did. He was holding my butt and everything. You know, got into the part. We got a standing ovation. Actors have to get into the role, you know?” She laughed. Down the way, food service for the second-class fliers had begun. Flight attendants were coming down both aisles of the airbus, feeding the two rows on both sides, doing the same for the five seats in the middle, throwing us food in cardboard boxes the way zookeepers feed monkeys. She went on, “We started kicking it after that. The first year was re-mark-able. We were shacking. Well, he was staying at my apartment in West Hollywood, splitting the rent. He’s been on the road with Rent for two years, so we haven’t had a chance to be togther too much, only when he came home on break. But we send e-mails and text-message and don’t really talk because he’s always either distracted or in theater mode, always jibber-jabbering and going on and on about us or have some sexy conversation. Don’t think we’ve had any real sexy conversation in at least two months. At least. Maybe three. Hard being the patient girlfriend, you know? Not one of my stronger points. Because, I mean actors and actresses, we need attention, need to be in the spotlight, you know?” “In other words you’re self-centered and narcissistic, you know?” “That was mean.” “You talk a lot, you know?” “I’m wound up.” She laughed. “And I’m tired. I ramble when I’m exhausted.” She put her headphones back on. I would call this a victory. I already had a up and down few weeks. Didn’t become Sultan, but became a champion. She searched, found a magazine in her seat. Pride. London’s version of Ebony, a red haired Toni Braxton gracing the cover. I glimpsed the cover and saw it had articles on great sex saving Samuel Jackson’s marriage; lesbian love; black men and oral sex being the last taboo. She went straight to the article on black men and oral sex. Guess I was the wrong color for this one. Not that I was interested. When I thought she was comfortable, she took off her headset. She tapped my leg and said, “One more thing, then I’ll let you get back to your movie. Mrs. Jones, she’s married but she said she was about to get divorced, that her marriage was irretrievably broken. That’s why she’s crying like somebody cut her foot.” “Okay. Her marriage is irretrievably broken. Your point?” “Check it out; she’s not the one who wants the divorce, if you get my drift.” “So she’s scorned and rejected.” “Did she tell you that she hopped on a plane with no god damn luggage? She told me she was going to London, no luggage, no clothes, no nothing. All she has is what she has on. Would you believe that? Not even a clean pair of drawers. Crazy, huh?” “I wouldn’t call that crazy.” Crazy was someone like Ryan Coleman. I heard what he had to say. Wasn’t impressed. He’ll get his “C’mon man. What woman in her right mind leaves without shoes? Without drawers?” “A rich woman who doesn’t want to be found.” “Hmmm. Hadn’t thought about it from that angle.” “You done trying to play Nancy Drew?” “I’m done.” She yawned. “She’s all screwed up and here I am going to hook up with my boyfriend, about to have the time of my life in London, and she’s…I feel sorry for her. God, hope she doesn’t start bawling again. Can you imagine being on the plane for hours sitting next to somebody going to work your nerves from the U.S. to the U.K.?” “I think I can.” “That was mean.” “I thought you were done talking.” “Winding down.” She yawned again. “What’s your name?” I stared at her, stunned and irritated by her rambling. “Carmine.” There was a time I would have loved to let her call me Sultan. But that dream never came to be. Now I’m just Carmine. North American Champion. “I’m Lisa. In case you were wondering. Lisa McVeigh.” “Nice to meet you, Lisa.” “Lisa McVeigh but I use the stage name Lisa Mack. Sexy and cool, huh? Lisa, like Lisa Falana. Mack like the movie The Mack. And like that Mark Morrison song ‘Return of the Mack’” I rubbed my temples, really did wish a door would blow off and suck Lisa out of the plane. Almost the same fate I wished Ryan. Lisa shifted, hummed a bit, put on a hug smile. “Can’t wait to see my boyfriend.” Lisa. Please. Give it a rest.” “Your sexy, got this rugged way about you that’s hot, you know that?” “Uh…Lisa…” “Not hitting on you. Just saying. I got a man. My man is so damn fine it’s ridiculous. Was just pointing out you got this mad aphrodisiac thing working, but you probably know that.” “You finished?” “Nnnnope. Even with you face banged up like that, you look good. Man, wither you got it bad, or somebody got it worse. Serious, what happened to your face? All red and swollen around the eyes. Hands scratched up. Looks like somebody just kicked your ass or vice versa.” “Fell down” “Did you fall down on somebody else’s wife?” I opened my eyes, actually laughed. “What did you say you did for a living?” “Actress. Singer. Masseuse with no happy endings. Oh happy endings are Orgasms.” “I know what a happy ending is.” She laughed “I know this guy at the Ritz who does that for his clients, men or women.” “Men or Women?” “He services both. Men and Women ask me to give them a happy ending all the time.” “Women want happy endings from women?” “Devil talk has your ears burning now, huh? I’ll be quiet now.” The hell she well “No, tell me about this women and happy ending thing.” “See talk about sex and a man is all ears.” “Go to sleep, Lisa.” The woman in black returned, tipsy, two bottles of wine in her hands, moving at a slow pace. She eased into her seat, found her seat belt, adjusted it, found her sex-filled novel again. In the softest, kindest voice I’d ever heared, Lisa asked her, “Sure your gonna be okay?” The woman in black nodded, went to her wine and her book, shutting us out. “This is Carmine. He falls down a lot” Mrs. Jones said, “Carmine.” “Carmine, this is Mrs. Jones. Like the love song ‘Me and Mrs. Jones’ or the movie called Devil in Miss Jones, only this isn’t that Mrs. Jones, not the one in the song or the women in the nasty movie. You met Carmine, Mrs. Jones?” Mrs. Jones said, “We chatted. He recommended a hotel in Bloomsbury.” “Which Hotel?” “Myhotel.” “You own a friggin’ hotel? You rolling like that?” “No, that’s the name of it. Myhotel. Right, Carmine?” I nodded. Lisa frowned. “That’s a stupid name for a hotel.” Food service finally made it back to us. We all let out our tray tables, ate the bland food without talking. When we were done, Lisa took our trash, stacked it all up on her tray. She let her seat back, popped in her earphones, cranked up Ne-Yo, and fell into the R&B world. Mrs. Jones picked up the Pride magazine, went straight to the article about great sex saving Samuel L. Jackson’s marriage. I asked Mrs. Jones to let me out. Needed to stretch my legs. I wandered the aisle, went to the back, did some stretches, then made a bathroom run. When I came back, Mrs. Jones had moved to the middle seat, Pride magazine in her lap. The armrest between her and Lisa was up. Lisa was giving Mrs. Jones a shoulder massage. Mrs. Jones’s eyes were tight, face looking ethereal. Lisa said, “Turn a little bit so I can work on your neck.” Soft moans from Mrs. Jones. “Oh god, Lisa, oh god, oh god” “No wonder you can’t stop crying. All these knots and rocks in your shoulders and back.” “Lisa, Lisa, oh god, Lisa.” Mrs. Jones shivered and sighed and moaned. “Oh, God.” “If I had my table and oils. I could really hook you up.” I let the armrest between the aisle and middle seat up, Mrs. Jones’s warm leg rubbing up against mine. First she twitched. Then her leg started to shake. Like a dog in heat. Lisa asked her is she was okay. Mrs. Jones bit her bottom lip and let out soft moans, held on to the armrest like somebody was licking figured eights on her. Her hand ended up on my hand, felt her quivering from deep inside, felt her riding the waves of pleasure. Lisa was humming, singing low, sounding like an angel, doing that without thought as she finished her work. Mrs. Jones let my hand go, stopped moving. Lisa whispered her name. No answer. The woman in black was sleeping. Light snores, like she hadn’t slept in years. I was aroused. Very aroused. Lisa looked over at me, winked, then whispered, “Told you I was the bomb.” “Never doubted you.” “Soon as I get to London, I’m going to give my man one. With a very happy ending.” A while later Lisa put her headset back on. I looked at my hands again. I could’ve been dead. Never mind a sultan lose. I’d stop at a million dollars. The flight attendants came back down the aisle, collecting trays and trash. Mrs. Jones shifted, leaned against me, still in a deep, deep, sleep. Mrs. Jones the heartbroken runaway. Her marriage irretrievably broken. Lisa wiggled, still in my stolen seat, her head against the window, snoring a little. Lisa McVeigh. Stage name Lisa Mack. The hopeless romantic. And me, the man with the gentle smile that hid so much anger. Coleman…The Preacher had family…The source of my anger Hadn’t though about him for a few hours. Anger rose so high it chocked me. Couldn’t get her out of my mind. I’d be in England soon. Close to Amsterdam once again. Brain Coleman Some people deserved to die. Brain was at the top of that list. Amsterdam. Window 120. His ladies working. All of a sudden those images flashed in my mind. I handed the trays and trash to the flight attendant without waking Mrs. Jones or Lisa, opened another BC Powder, washed it down with the last of my hard liquor, then let my seat back. I had hoped the caffeine in the BC Powder would keep me awake. But I leaned against Mrs. Jones’s softness, her bushy hair like a pillow, her warmth and easy breathing soothing me. Her energy soothed me the same way Lisa’s touch had soothed her. I slipped into a dreamless slumber. But my sleep never stayed dreamless for long. Just like every flight had some turbulence. The reverend on my mind, found its way through the darkness and into my dreams. So did my last trip to the Netherlands. Memories created a thick shadow that darkened all thoughts of the Reverend. I had eliminated many, but there was one person I had to destroy to find my own peace. Had to destroy him to be known as the greatest North American Champion in the history of No Limits. Had to destroy Mr. Reynolds -- [ * ] -- It seems that I’m finally getting through to people. It seems that my presence has begun to light a fire under certain people. Bringing former champions back. Bringing disgruntle legends begging for rematches. This is why I call myself the Bailout of the NLCW. Isaac Reynolds, the man who holds the longest reign as North American champion. His biggest accomplishment. Doesn’t mention that he is a former Undisputed champion. Doesn’t try to gun after Enigma for a chance to maybe become a 2 time Undisputed champion. A feature that could be very will accomplish. It’s no secret that NLCW has fallen on hard times. Championship chances are being tossed out to anyone who wants em. It’s how Ryan Coleman had himself a TV Championship shot. A shot he let slip through his hands. But yet feels he is a threat to me? Come on Ryan, if you couldn’t get by Stacy, then your asking for a massacre by mentioning my name But I’m getting off the point. Isaac tossed the challenge out to me. Why? Simple he feels that his record as longest reign as North American champion happens to be in jeopardy. He is looking at the future of NLCW and he feels his only meaningful accomplishment is at risk. That’s the whole reason for are showdown. 42 Weeks… Gonna make that look easy! You don’t have the class to hold a record anymore Isaac. You don’t have the swagger to be recognized with such a feat. You see me? These sunglasses cost me two thousand dollars. Do you even make that per appearance anymore? Have you ever seen two thousand dollars in your life? I didn’t think so. Isaac, what you’re going against isn’t anyone you’re used to. This isn’t the kind of match where you walk in and think you’re going to win. This isn’t the kind of competitor who will just let you mow over them. You know what this is? This is death. This is the black plague. This… The Bailout homie. Are you ready for this Isaac? You can grasp onto your freedom but in a dictatorship you have no freedom. You can hold that record close to your heart before our match but when you enter that ring all your freedoms and records are gone. They become my freedoms…My records and I’ll do whatever I wish with them. I’ll stop them to the ground, throw them around the ring, and even eat them. Your freedoms, your accomplishments no longer exist in reality. That is where you will fail. See, Isaac, I’m the new blood if you will, and you’re the old guard of this place. And Reality has you living in the place below me. That place consists of people who think they can run free. The people think that their lives are perfect but there is one person sitting on a perch casting a dark shadow over them. One is a man who would kill your wife without thinking. See, Isaac, I’m a vicious son of a bitch. I’m malicious. I’m what you wished you were in your prime. So as I look down on you thinking you have your ‘accomplishments’ in tack, I know the reality. I know that if you ever saw the face of the dictators your Accomplishments would be gone. So what do you do? Address me head on. Embark on a suicide mission I really didn’t want to face the likes of you because, let’s face it, compared to me you’re scum. I’ve already moved pass other big names of NLCW. I’m on a tour of taking down former headliners. You’re just another former name trying to create a buzz and get that attention that seems to have passed you by along with time. Well, Isaac, you caught my attention. You’re going to be saying, after you bleed from the mouth, that you should have never gotten my attention. You’ll wish you still had the freedom to twist your false reality. You’ll reach out for it but I will be there stepping on your fingers and breaking them with the slightest of pressure. Then, tell me Isaac, what will your Reality be then? Would your reality show your accomplishment along with your epic come back being destroyed? Will it be easy to stomach the fact that in reality the only person walking out under his own volition will be the young buck and not the old guard? Will it be easy to accept defeat? So keep that little detail in the back of your head, Isaac. Keep the fact that when you enter the ring with me you’re facing the bailout. Keep the fact that after the match you’ll be lying on your back the victim of the brutal gunshot wound to the head. I’ll put the gun right to your temple and put it through your skull. The blood will squirt from both sides and land on my face. I’ll find it… amusing, really. I’m a sick bastard Isaac. That’s why I’m unstoppable. I don’t have remorse when it comes to what I do. I have no remorse when it comes to laying out the bodies. I have no remorse taking the freedom from those who feel they earned it. Sean Galen was first and now you’re another one trying to express his there seniority. You know what I do to senile veterans? I exterminate them. Call it The Final Solution. I find it amusing that everyone is trying to step up against the future. I find it hilarious that people are starting to gather to defeat this ‘new Kid’. All the peasants are having meetings and discussing how they’re going to try and bring me down. I’ve grown to the pinnacle of power in just one months time and I’ve grown to immortality. If the Highlander taught you anything is you can’t kill the immortal without chopping off its head. I’ll be damned if you even get that close, Isaac. Proclaim you’re going to be the one to stop ‘This Kid’ just like everyone else says. From Sean Galen to Ryan Coleman, everyone thinks they can stop me. Well, if you can stop me then why haven’t you? You all talk a big game but when you’re in the ring you freeze. You stutter step and I take advantage of it. You slow down while I speed up. You’re two steps behind me and then I’ll do it again. I’ll be the Kid your mom warned you about. I’ll be your gift, your curse, your excellence, and your execution. You’ll see why they call me The S Factor. You’ll see why your record is in mortal danger. In the end, Isaac, you might have your ‘Accomplishments’ but in reality your accomplishments mean nothing in today’s world. You will be the perfect example. The example of what today‘s reality looks like. -- That’s a Wrap! -- |