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Hand-painted on the wall inside the next door was the same advertisement. Berwick Street, Central London, postal code W1. Red lights were perched in almost every windowsill, red bulbs hanging inside dingy windows. Opening to every door had at least one fading sign made from cheap cardboard, damp cardboard that had been cut by hand and warped by the elements, written on in block-style lettering that looked like it had come from someone who had a third-grade education at most. A soccer ball rolled by my feet. Two young boys, neither any more than six, ran by me, chasing the ball. One had blond, curly hair. He had on yellow-and-green footballer’s gear, Brazil’s team, the number 10, and the name Ronaldinho across his back. The other boy had dark skin, maybe the darkest sik I’d ever seen, his footballer gear blue-and-white, the colors of Chelsea, the number 8 and the name Lampard across the rear of his jersey. Fiver little girls stood to the side cheering them on. Miniature footballers and wannabe WAGS. Those preschool kids were out during the sexual hours, on their own. Not afraid of the night or the adults passing by in search of pleasure and drugs. They were at home in this world. So was I Every door was open. They were waiting; women with working names like Michelle, Sarah, and Elena were in their windows waiting to show customers how friendly they could be for the right price. The doors that had cheap signs that said Young Asian Model were ignored. Joyellen wasn’t Asian. Door after door, I searched London’s red-light district, where the whores called themselves models. I doubted if any of these woman would appear on Tyra Bank’s show. The sign was yellow. The handwriting familiar and as unique as her own fingerprints Diamond, Seductive and fully experienced, all services loves A&O Her cheap, wooden door was barely on the hinges of a small, indiscreet opening between British Sex shop and Blue Boy Paradise DVD shop, the latter having more than enough copies of blue movies with men being friendly with men in every square inch of its front window. She was working on a narrow street lined with porn shops and peep shows. I looked down the avenue. The blond kid was kicking the ball to his friend. The children of whores were entertaining themselves in the midnight hour Nobody noticed me I could find my peace and sanity in five minutes, maybe less. A man rushed down the concrete stairs. He hit the streets smiling, looking relaxed and anxious to get away before he was exposed. He made eye contact and surrendered the red-faced chuckle of a man who had just finished fucking, then hurried down Berwick, not looking back until he was down by Vinyl Junkies. He looked back and gave me the thumbs-up That meant the pussy was good. Give it a shot. The ride was worth the ticket. I turned into the opening, a piss odor assaulting my senses. Chipped concrete stairs led up to more chipped concrete stairs. Dull white walls and more foul odors greeted me. Paint was peeling away from the walls and ceiling. Exposed pipes and crooked stairs were an eyesore. Handrail was about to fall free. Light fixtures outdated, would bet the same for the electrical throughout the building. Another step inside and I saw the ceiling was sagging. A handyman could spend three years on this property doing modernization and improvements. The stairway was steep. All I could see were her feet. And from her angle all she could see were my jeans and boots. I recognized her feet. My heartbeat sped up. I stepped up until I could see most of her body, from waist down. Then went up a few stairs until I could see her up to her neck. It was her She was at the top of the dingy stairway, in the cramped space, sitting on a shiny barstool, a brand-new barstool that was in contradiction with everything else. She sat there, reggae playing in the background, legs crossed, like she was a queen sitting on her throne. Bob Marley sang his redemption song. Everyone wanted redemption I wanted revenge She was on her cell phone, finishing up a cigarette. She released a quick exhalation that stopped short of exuding boredom. She asked me, Blow job or full service? Are you as good as the Russian and Asian girls? First off, I’m better that the Russians, or the Asians. I’m better than anything you’ll find on Tisbury or Peter Street. And the Asians give you an awful blow job and the worst sex you ever had. They won’t give you your money’s worth. With me, you get a wicked time. And no up sale. My rate is all-inclusive. So, with that said, tell me what you need and I’ll tell what it will cost.” Is that right, Joyellen? She stood up with quickness when I said her birth name, a name she hadn’t probably heard or gone by in years. Her shiny barstool screeched across the rugged concrete landing. I went up a few more stairs, until I could see her face, until she could see mine What’s the matter, Joy? Disbelief widened her eyes Haven’t seen you since Amsterdam. Not since you were in window 120 She saw that it was really me and dropped her cigarette, fumbled for it, and dropped her phone. Her phone hit the stairs, came apart, the battery flying out. I picked up the phone, the battery, put it back together, took a couple of steps up and tossed it back to her. She tried to catch it, but it fell again, this time near her feet. She left it where it was, not worried about reconnecting and finishing her phone call in the proper way. I took three more steps. Heard her deep breathing. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was trembling. The red light over my head, darkness still shadowing most of my features. She lit another cigarette. In a trembling voice she asked, How did you find me? I found you You’re angry. You’re still angry I took another step up. Very angry She backed away from me I asked, You don’t think I’d kill you, do you? You’re so damn angry. She touched her left eye, did the same to her lips and chin, made a terrified face, cringed like she still felt the pain. You beat me up pretty bad With cause You went insane You were gone when I came back I was in the hospital pissing blood You should’ve been in a mental institute What I did was wrong. But I never struck you. Not once I was one step below her by then. Close enough to inhale her perfume. Smelled the scent of seven or colognes mixed into the sweat that had dried on her skin. The scent of many men lived on her flesh. Today had been a good day for her. I’d showed up after the rush. She took my hand, pulled me closer, kissed both sides of my cheeks, then kissed me on my lips. Her lipstick was thick, red. I wiped it away. It stained my hands like blood. She softened her voice, How’ve you been? Was about to ask you the same, Joyellen Please, stop calling me Joyellen Your name is Joyellen You’re my son. Please. Call me mother - [ * * * ] – At this very moment I feel like Scar from the beloved children’s movie The Lion King. You see, Scar wanted nothing more than to be king. A birth right that he felt was pass over from him. He wouldn’t let anyone stop him from achieving his goal, even killing his very own brother. And when he was finally king, the pride lands feel apart, animals were fleeing the kingdom. But the only difference between Scar and myself is I inherited a kingdom that was already falling apart, I inherited a kingdom were many of the subjects already fled. I guess you could even compare it to the current presidential change. Bush fucked the country beyond repair, and here comes Obama, ready to fix the problem. This match tonight Dom, could very well be the stimulus package that saves NLCW from the brink of death. Weather I win or lose, my only goal is putting on a match that leave the people wanting more, I want to give everyone who watches tonight satisfied. I want to leave them wanting more Dom. I want them to keep coming back, keep tuning in. My only goal tonight is to save NLCW. Dom I respect everything you’ve done thus far for this company, but you did walk away from it. You did leave the company once before on bad terms. Sure you were welcome back, but you still left. And I believe that is the trouble of NLCW today. People leaving, whether it be on good terms or bad. They still leave for other promotions. While I’m still here. I never asked to be champion Dom, I was booked against Bucky and won which granted me a championship opportunity, an opportunity I took full advantage of. Am I sorry about taking the opportunity? Absolutly not. Bucky didn’t want to be champion anymore, his fire and desire left him a long time ago. Mine was just getting started. I knew right after I became Champion your name would be calling. It was destined to happen since the Sultan. Remember that night Dom, when you had nothing but praise for me. Said I had a promising future. Guess you were right. I went on to become the American Champion and currently the NLCW Champion. But here we are four months after the epic clash for the Sultan title, and your whole tune about me has changed. I’ve done nothing different. I still go out to the ring every week and give each and every person one hell of a show. Hell I go out to the ring when the rest of the roster, yourself included doesn’t want to. I show up week after week when others make excuses or don’t give a fuck about disappointing the people who fill their pockets with money. Yet I’m not championship Material, not ready to be champion So I ask you Dom, what makes a ‘good’ champion? What shows you that someone is worthy to be champion? Is it sonority? Is it the months of waiting to cash in a championship shot? Na, that’s not what makes a worthy champion. A champion is born from hard work, dedication, and being yourself. Everything I’ve display since day one. I’ve never changed since coming to NLCW. People know who I am. I’m an asshole. I’m a jerk. I’m that son of a bitch parents tell their children to not imitate. I’m the NLCW Heavyweight Champion This is something you’ve never experienced. See, Dom, I’m not fighting for something. I am something. You’re still fighting for something and you’re absolutely nothing. You have everything to prove. You have to prove that you still got it. That you can still hang, that your return wasn’t a wasted effort to fund your lifestyle. You’re not fighting for NLCW, you don’t need anything Dom. You have a family, you have the rich lifestyle. You don’t need NLCW to survive. That’s a big difference between us Dom, because I’m not a millionaire, I don’t have a nice nest egg waiting for me. The only thing I have is the NLCW, I’m not just fighting to keep the championship tonight, I’m fighting to save my job! See, Dom, the only thing I’ve ever wanted in life is a chance. A chance to make a name for myself, March 2nd, 2009 I made a mountain out of a molehill. I was the underdog going into that match and since then, people have never looked at me the same. I’ve faced some of the greats this business has ever seen. I’ve taken down so called legends on my way to championship gold. Dom, since the Sultan, we have thrown verbal spats at each other, trying to get the upper hand. We’ve been trying to get that advantage on one another. You’ve thrown your best and so have I. But you have to realize that this is a new Lion. I will mean business tonight when we step into the ring, going face to face and looking each other square in the eyes. What you’ve stated in the past about me means shit. What I’ve said about you in the past means shit. This is about the present day. And the present fact: I’m leaving the ring tonight as Champion, and NLCW well be grateful for this You’ll point out things I’ve forgotten or little quips you’ll spout out because you want to be clever. Dom, spare them please. Spare all the jokes, name calling, and what not. Your second chance at being NLCW Champion will be in the hands of God, and He will decide to tighten the grip on what is the last leg of your career. After tonight, what do you have to do? You won’t be Champion because you can’t beat This hungry Lion, so how can you get to the top? You can’t get better than me. I’m the Epitome… of Excellence. I’m the god damn measuring stick in this business. I am the one you show tapes of to your students in wrestling school and they say ‘Damn, he’s amazing’. But you’ve heard that shtick before, right? Let me ask you something Dom. In your career, have you ever been afraid? Have you ever had those feelings in your stomach where you have to sit and take a deep breath. In and out. In… and out. Have you ever had those moments where you wonder ‘What If?’ Have you ever been there Dominic? Have you ever been so nervous for a match you sweat bullets that ricochet off your body looking for a place to call home? You ever been afraid Dominic? Tonight. July 5th 2009. This is what will happen to you. It will be eleven thirty. You will be sitting in your locker room, going over your opponent and what you have to do to win. You will start to feel a pinch in your stomach. You will take a deep breath. In and out. In… and out. You will get up and stand in front of the mirror and smack yourself in the face a bit. Your flesh hitting your flesh will get you a bit motivated. Then that pinch will come back. You’ll pace in your locker room and look at the ground. You will start to over examine your boots and you’ll sit back down to tie them. You will look up at the clock and it will only be 11:32. Thirty more minutes. You run your hands through your hair, the coarseness of it imprinting itself within the crevices of your fingers. The beads of sweat will hit your forehead and roll down the side of your face and hit the floor, ricocheting like a bullet that barely missed you. At that moment, for the first time in your career, you will be afraid. You will be afraid for your life. On the other side of the locker room will be a man, grinning from ear to ear knowing that he has you in the palm of his hand and is slowly tightening the grip on your career. The final nail will be your head ricocheting eerily like your sweat as you finally come to terms with your death. One move, Dom, and it will all be over. One move and it will all end just like it began. One move… three seconds… forgotten. This is your fate. This is your destiny. This is your epitome. This is your excellence. This is your execution -- That’s a Wrap! -- |