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Trains had been delayed due to service. He had been lost most of the morning. He was still lost in Savage Gardens; one of the landmarks he had been given, a hotel called Novotel, was down the street. He couldn’t find 1 Pepys Street. He walked the block, passed by Fenchurch Street Station, the English Club, Cheshire Cheese, Landbrokes betting shop. He made a frustrated sound, double-checked his instructions, then went back to Tower Hill tube station and started over. He was in EC3. EC3 was the postal code. And that postal code was posted on the corner of almost every building. Once again he passed the first landmark, looked up, and saw the blue heritage plaque on the wall of the flat where the Reverend P.T.B. “Tubby” Clayton had lived. Again he passed the Wine Library. And St. Olave’s Church. He didn’t want to ask for directions. Not this close to his destination. He didn’t need to be remembered. Again he circled the block, passed by all the pubs and betting shops. Then he found the apartment building. It had been right in front of him, its address etched in glass and impossible to read. The building was on a narrow street barely wide enough for a taxi to negotiate, faced Novotel, was directly across from the hotel’s main entrance. He took a deep breath and almost smiled. He had found where the famous barrister lived. He was running late. Very late. He hated to waste time. Time was unrecoverable. As he walked to the glass door, he saw the beautiful barrister rushing off the lift, tension in her face. Without looking up she hurried across the marble floor in the pristine lobby. She looked just like her photograph. Actually better. Not many did. The woman was part of the elite group known as WAGs. Wives and Girlfriends of Sports Stars, this included wrestlers. Stunning woman. Long yellow hair. Could pass for a Spice Girl. He had made it to her flat just in time to catch her leaving, dark sweats on, iPod on, heading out for her morning jog. She came out of her flat, jogged right past him, never looked at him. He hated the way he was invisible to women. Especially to beautiful women. He turned around and watched her hair bouncing as she passed by buildings where historical figures had resided, crossed the narrow street, darting toward Trinity Square, arrogant enough to ignore Smart Cars and mopeds. As if she owned the road. Her form was bad. Her back wasn’t straight. She moved her arms too much. Ran flat-footed. Six miles. The package said she always ran six miles. His Intel said that took her an hour. And she still had cellulite. With better form she could knock a minute off each mile in no time. He couldn’t help with her cellulite. He had an hour. Plenty of time to read some more of his book. Divorce for Dummies. The WAG always ran toward Embankment. Part of him wished he could’ve gone running with her. He touched his nose, yawned as he walked up to her flat, took keys out of his pocket. One was a sensor key. He waved it in front of the sensor pad. The glass doors opened. He took the elevator to the fourth floor. Wetn to her flat, stopped in front of her door. He had almost put the key in the lock, then decided to ring the doorbell. No one answered. Her new boyfriend stayed with her after her marriage. The man with the broken nose rang again. No one answered. He used the key, and with a simple turn the dead bolt was undone. He walked into a well-lit flat, closed the door, engaged the deadbolt. It was quiet. Birds-of-paradise were on a glass table, along with a mushy card from her new lover. Red leather furniture. Granite counters and marble floors. Stainless-steel appliances. From the window in her living room he had a view of Novotel. He wondered how much a suite cost in that swank hotel. He went and looked in both bedrooms. Her king-size bed was unmade. The second bedroom had been converted into an office. He wondered how much a tiny place like this cost. Compared to what real estate cost in Reno, Nevada, the property prices were outrageous in London. He was hungry. The rabbit food on the flight hadn’t done a thing for him. He hated the food at the airport. He had stopped at Tesco, a grocery-store-type place, to get a muffin. But the English had all their muffins and rolls in open containers. He watched people pick over the food before they chose the one they wanted. Hands that had touched unsanitary tube rails and doorknobs, hands that touched their penises and vaginas and wiped their asses and masturbated and picked noses, those filthy hands were picking over fresh muffins and rolls, not taking the first muffin or roll they contaminated, leaving the tainted one on the pile, that infected on rolling over on the fresh ones. Unsanitary. He thought that shit was plain old disgusting. He looked inside the WAG’s refrigerator. Saw a lot of ready made food from Marks & Spencer, crisps on the counter, fruit and fiber cereal, and a few figs, nothing of interest. He looked at the package of crisps. Had no idea what those were. Saw a picture of potato chips on the package. He realized the English called their potato chips Crisps. He went to the bathroom, put his book on divorce down, looked at his nose. Broken. He got a little angry. Someone had gotten the best of him. His mind wondered a second though maybe he would start over in Jacksonville. Maybe he’d meet a Spanish woman this time He’d think about that some more after he left London. After he was done with the WAG. After he left his message for Carmine His nose ached. He had a high threshold for pain, but still it ached. He took bandages out, was starting to change them when the front door opened. An hour hadn’t passed. Only ten minutes had gone by. Barely enough time for her to run a mile. Her profile said that she always ran six, showered, then went to her office. Sounded like she dropped her keys at the door, dropped them hard. She moved with an urgency, came running down the short hallway toward the bathroom, moving and moaning like she was in agony. She bolted into the bathroom, iPod still on, her running pants already halfway down. She had cut her run short because she had to pee. Everything couldn’t be factored in. Nothing ever went according to plan. Not until then did she look up. The WAG stopped pissing, jumped up from the toilet. Her iPod blasted a song by the Pussycat Dolls as she opened her mouth to scream. The man with the broken nose charged and hit her in the nose. Right-handed punch. Like when he worked out on the bag. His punch had great form. She went down hard, just like that. Unconscious, just like that. Nose crushed, just like his. Bladder emptying itself. If it were in a movie, it would’ve been funny, like Scary Movie. He said, “Sorry about that, ma’am. Not polite for a man to hit a woman. Just business.” He tied her hands and feet. Pussycat Dolls singing for a man to loosen up their buttons Then he stood behind her, covered her head with a plastic bag. Suffocation left no blood. Minimal amount of noise. As the WAG twitched, he was thinking how the U.K. weather sucked. Thinking that he couldn’t wait to get back to Reno. Long day. But he’d be back in time to pick the kids up from school tomorrow. He looked down at the WAG. Pretty woman. As is there were ugly WAGs. Nice breasts. Sweet hips. A child bearer. She could’ve had some beautiful children He took out his cell phone. Took a photo of the WAG. Sent the image to his client. Damn shame, he thought. Damn shame. He undressed her. Dropped her smelly clothes in the compact washer. He started a load of laundry. Then mopped up the piss in the bathroom. He left the floor spotless. He was anal. Liked things clean and in their place. Then he took out the map of London, wanted to see how far he’d be from a different tube. The type was too small, but he tried to comprehend the tubes. London confused him. Always had. Frustrated, feeling vulnerable, he sighed when he had to put his reading glasses back on. Glasses he’d bought at Hartsfield International for ten bucks He’d left his prescription reading glasses at home He reminded himself to go ahead and make that appointment for LASIK surgery. IRS wanted money. Attorneys wanted money. Kids wanted money. Church wanted tithes. He didn’t have an extra three thousand for LASIK, but he had to do what he had to do. Mortgage had to be paid. The gardener had to be paid. He needed the money. He dressed nice, but being broke and looking broke were two different things. That’s why he had left working at the University and gone back to picking up contracts. For the money. The tax-free kind of money you got under the table He had come back because he needed the cash. His ex would get the kids, the house, half the pension. All he’d walk away with would be the memories. And he wished he could let his soon-to-be ex take those bittersweet memories too. The first few years had been good. New was always good. New was always exciting. Having kids changed her for the worse. She was a horrible mother. Being a parent had been the best thing that ever happened to him. He was a great father. He did what he had to do to make sure his kids had what they needed. He just needed a woman in the house. A man was supposed to take a wife. He picked up his self-help book. He’d find a new wife, he hoped, before long. He dragged the WAG’s naked body down the hallway, Jacksonville on his mind. Then he passed by a black dress, saw it hanging in her bedroom, the clothes the WAG had no doubt planned on wearing this morning, saw the blackness, and his thoughts shifted. To the beautiful woman he’d seen on the plane. The one who had been crying. He would’ve stayed another day just to have a ten-minute conversation with her. Divorce for Dummies in his pocket, dragging a dead WAG across the tile floor, he wondered where the woman in black was right now. He wished he had asked her, her name. He wished he had given her a handkerchief to dry her tears. Wished for a easier way to becoming the champion of North America one more time. He had to send a message Had to make it clear Carmine was running out of wiggling room - [ * * * ] - My father always told me things happen for a reason. I know this reason. One man. Isaac Reynolds. The Reality. The man who holds the longest streak, the ma who has already seen gold on this comeback tour. Now he looks to add another run as North American Champion to his resume. He wants another check on his checklist of his personal ‘bitches’. Believe me, he will try. He’ll walk down the ramp, get in the ring, and look me dead in the eye. However, when he looks me deep into my eyes, he won’t see a man who will lie down for him. He won’t see a man whose head will snap against the canvas with the Reality Bomb. He won’t see a man who once thought of him as the Baddest mother fucker on the face of the Earth. He will see a man willing to kill without a known reason. See, Isaac, the only thing I’ve ever wanted in life is a chance. A chance to make a name for myself. Since Sultan. 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. I slipped into a deep abyss for a hot minute, but now I have a second chance. A second chance to prove to the world why the fuck you should fear me. Isaac, for weeks 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 the fun and games all end tonight. Tonight I will mean business 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: You can’t touch me, you hack. Look at what is upon us, Isaac. The biggest match in both of our careers. A chance to really steal the show. The Champion vs. The Reality. Isaac, what exactly makes you the Reality? Is it your long ass title reign? Is it your precious comeback streak? Or is it the fact that you build your career as a joke? Your moniker is a joke. Your career is a joke. Let’s not forget you wanting to all of a sudden team with Dom. What the fuck is that? Have you fallen so low you need to reform with old enemies to pick you up? What else have you done in the last year Isaac? What accomplishments can you say you’ve done? Come on… I’m waiting. Nothing. Zilch. Zip. Nada. While yours truly was all around the world taking on the best. Sure I lost some matches but I was doing something, not sitting at home nursing myself. You’ll point out things I’ve forgotten or little quips you’ll spout out because you want to be clever. Isaac, spare them please. Spare all the jokes, name calling, and what not. Your little comeback Streak will be in the hands of the new kid, and He will decide to tighten the grip on what is the last leg of your career. After Fallout, what do you have to do? You won’t be the North American Champion because I just won’t allow it. You earned this spot, but now I have the task to even the match count and send you back to Dom crying as you watch the weeks of your record begin to pale away. Let me ask you something Isaac. 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 Isaac? 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 Isaac? Tonight. This is what will happen tonight. It will be about nine 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 9:32. Time‘s up. 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, Isaac, 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 Reality. -- That’s a Wrap! -- |