Post by Jules on Jan 31, 2013 20:34:07 GMT -4
(OOC: I started writing a first Meltdown RP for my new character, and well I got a bit carried away telling some of the story and way exceeded the word limit before even contemplating match relevant stuff. Therefore, I'm posting some of it now as character development and something of an introduction; the rest of what I wrote will appear later.)
P.S. I hope this isn't taken as too presumptuous.
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Preamble
When we think of “The Guv’nor” nowadays it is impossible to separate the man from the global megastar. Wrestling legend, Hollywood A-lister and the world’s most popular action movie star, multi-millionaire, and, if rumours are to be believed, a candidate in the upcoming Mayor of London elections – all of this and more is how the world has come to know and love the man who started out humbly as Lenny Lansbury from Trelawny Estate.
But it wasn’t all expensive yachts, champagne breakfasts, the biggest Hollywood fee in history, and the countless wives and mistresses “The Guv’nor” has collected along the way. Like all things, it began somewhere and sometime, and it wasn’t glamorous. So in writing this book on the history of “The Guv’nor”, I have had to scour my own memory in order to try and remember where it all began. Once I have done this, I know then it’s simply a case of piecing the whole thing together; a bit like putting a jigsaw puzzle together, once you have the edge defined, the rest of it just a matter of time and patience.
I have plenty of the latter, but unfortunately life has rendered me short of the former; therefore, I should get on with completing this document, since it is owed to the world, and the man himself, that posterity is allowed a full and thorough account of the making of this singular legend.
Deep inside the bowels of London’s magnificent Wembley Stadium sat Cheryl ‘Cher’ Underwood: alone with her thoughts, which belonged entirely to her long-time fiancé Lenny Lansbury – or as he was known in these circles, The Guv’nor – who she knew was locked in an epic battle that would live long in the memories of humanity.
100 wrestlers. One million dollars US. The most coveted trophy in the whole wrestling business. Only one person could walk away.
Survive & Conquer.
Cher didn’t know why Lenny had dragged her back from Spain for this wrestling match because he had turned his back on the wrestling world years ago (or rather, they had shunned him), but he was insistent that their future was wholly dependent upon it. Cher wasn’t stupid, in spite of appearances, she knew what her fiancé did for a living, but as long as she didn’t ask questions she knew she would never be able to answer anybody’s questions. The risk that came from the lifestyle she knew all too well and a lengthy prison sentence was the least of worries. The malice she could read in the eyes of Lenny’s associates spoke volumes about the darker shadows that could one day be cast across their lives.
She didn’t ask questions.....ever! But now she wanted to break her solitary rule because the anxiety that brought them to the home of English football had infiltrated her own soul and usurped her usual solace. Lenny was worried; for the first time, she could see fear in his eyes as he left her to join this brawl entrant 99 out of a hundred.
The time spent between that moment and this one was tempestuous; she was thankful for the interruption of her thoughts, even if it came from a very urgent Lenny pushing the door open forcefully.
“Quick, get the stuff together,” he implored, frantically stuffing his few effects into his solitary holdall, the full content of his estate right now. Looking at his fiancé frozen senseless, he barked: “Come on Cher, get a fucking move on. We haven’t got all day.”
She collected her own things together, was ready inside thirty seconds, and turned to Lenny who hadn’t even bothered to change out of his wrestling attire.
“Come on, I’ve got flights from Heathrow to Australia booked,” he told her, “don’t let it ever be said I don’t have a plan b.”
“Australia? What do you mean, Lenny - We’re leaving London?”
“Listen, I don’t have time to explain. Let’s just say if we don’t move our arses now we’re going to wish we were up shit creek without a paddle.”
“But our life here?”
“It’s gone, babe.”
She was reticent, Lenny could see she was holding back, unwilling to follow him out of the door.
“Cher, you can’t stay here. You think they won’t come for you too. Listen to me, a lot of ‘orrible cunts are looking for me right now to do the kinds of things ‘orrible cunts do. If you don’t come, they will try to get to me through you.”
“You selfish bastard!”
“Cher, this isn’t the time or place. I have a mate in Oz, he’s willing to put us up for a while, until we can get ourselves sorted.” He could see the proposal meant little to her and sighed. “I have to go now,” Lenny continued calmly, “I can’t drag you along, but I’m not staying to have a fucking discourse on the pros and cons of the subject. It’s your choice: come with me or stay here.”
Cher shook her head and sat down on a bench, her eyes dropping to her feet. The Guv’nor rose above the diplomacy of Lenny Lansbury and lashed out at Cher.
“For fuck’s sake, you stupid bitch, we can’t hang about,” he shouted, pulling Cher to her feet and trying to drag her out the door. She tried resistance, but it was no good as he easily outmuscled her, but upon gripping her firmly and turning to the door The Guv’nor found in his way the bad omen that was Mr. Black – sole representative of “Touchstone” and the reason why Lenny had brought “The Guv’nor” out of exile for this event.
Lenny let Cher go, she slumped onto the floor and began to sob. The Guv’nor stood up to Mr. Black, stared into his eyes and said.
“You’re standing in my way.”
But Mr. Black did not budge; he returned The Guv’nor’s eye contact without flinching.
“Sit down, Mr. Lansbury,” Mr. Black appealed.
“I won’t ask you again nicely,” The Guv’nor warned. With a smile Mr. Black backed off and stepped aside. The Guv’nor dragged Cher roughly to her feet and pulled her through the door, turning right.
“I wouldn’t advise you go that way, Mr. Lansbury; I passed two of your former associates on my way here.”
Lenny flashed a fearful look at Mr. Black.
“You lie!”
“It’s your call, Mr. Lansbury, but I don’t fancy your chances.”
“What’s it to you anyway? I’m sure your organisation would happily feed me to the dogs after tonight.”
“I can assure you, Mr. Lansbury, this is not my intention, nor does it portray the sentiments of the people I represent. Believe me when I say this, Mr. Lansbury, if we wanted you ‘taken out’, so to speak, you would never have made it back to the locker room.”
“Then what do you want? Money – I don’t have any; my assets, aside from this bag I hold, are now in the hands of the London mob. I bought a raffle ticket for your prize draw, and look what good it did me – a mangled face and a pack of London’s filthiest dogs salivating over my flesh.”
“Yes, it is a pity this didn’t work out. However, I am here to make you another offer.”
“What kind of offer?”
“The only way out.”
*
Mr. Black was true to his word; he smuggled Lenny and Cher out of not just Wembley, but England itself: first class to New York City. Of course, Lenny didn’t trust this Mr. Black geezer one iota, but he wasn’t about to take his chances with the mob on his own. It wasn’t so much about not having the bottle as it was the futility of it all. He would slash Frank Friday’s throat if the bread was right (and what could be more valuable than one’s life?), but he wasn’t about to do it and take it up the Khyber for doing so. Lenny had learnt as a kid that if you couldn’t hit harder then there was no shame in running; the bovver with it all meant nothing because the smart man was always he who lived to fight another day. Who the fuck wants to be a dead solider, when you can be back at the lodge scheming your next assault?
So after a few days scouring the Big Apple, being dragged from Macy’s to The Statue of Liberty to Times Square and back again, and fighting the urge to dish out a bit of aggro on every Yankee prick who offered him a hot dog, Lenny was called in to talk business with Mr. Black. The timing couldn’t have been perfect because after the three days of being subjected to ‘American culture’ by his NYC-drunk fiancé, The Guv’nor was ready to launch his own jihad campaign on The City That NeverShuts Up Sleeps.
Sitting in Mr. Black’s plush Manhattan office, the terms of contract were no different.
“It’s fifty percent, Mr. Lansbury,” Mr. Black said pouring Lenny a cup of coffee. Everything in the office was immaculate and conveyed the image of success and the highest class – from the perfectly cut suit dressing Mr. Black’s toned body to the fittings of the light switches. However, it didn’t pass Lenny’s attention that this jumped-up lawyer still had a rug on his head – the vain twat, he told himself.
“That’s fifty percent of everything: salary, prize money, endorsements, whatever you make as a consequence of your wrestling activities and persona.”
“That’s a lot of dosh you’re asking for. I could accept those terms back in London, but these are new negotiations.”
“This is not a negotiation, Mr. Lansbury. These are the terms; you either take them or leave them.”
“I’m not desperate,” Lenny lied, “and I certainly won’t sell my soul to this “Touchstone”, or whatever. Who the fuck are these geezers anyway?”
“Mr. Lansbury, there is no need to concern yourself with my client’s identity and concerns. All you need to know is that if we agree to a contract, my client will do the utmost to uphold their part of the deal.”
“Right up to bleeding me dry, yeah?”
Mr. Black smiled. “These are the terms of business, Mr. Lansbury. My client is not running a charity here.”
“I never asked for charity; but if I’m doing all the work, I expect a bigger share of the bread.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Lansbury. It seems we have reached an impasse; like I said, my client will not relent on the terms of these deals. Considering the circumstances, this is to be considered a very generous offer. But if it is too much for you, then I have to respect that.”
The Guv’nor smiled at Cher, a proud smile of a man who feels he hasn’t let himself be pushed around by the man.
“Now, you are not the only matter I must attend to in my business. If we can go no further I must politely ask that we bring this meeting to an end. If you speak to my secretary she will arrange for a car to return you to the airport.”
Lenny was rising out of his seat, but this reference to the airport stopped him in doing. He cut a look at Cher who was also puzzled, then addressed Mr. Black who was making a show of perusing some documents.
“What do you mean ‘return us to the airport’?”
“For your flight back to London,” Mr. Black answered without looking up.
“What flight?” Lenny asked with a nervous chuckle. “Who said we wanted to go back to London. I thought-”
“You thought what, Mr. Lansbury? The condition of your visa is a business visit; if we are not to do business, then I am afraid my client can no longer be expected to sponsor your right to be here. But there is no need to worry, everything has been arranged for you; my client thanks you for your time, and wishes to show that gratitude by flying you back first class. My client has taken care of all the expenses. Good luck in your future endeavours Mr. Lansbury.”
Mr. Black extended a hand, but Lenny backed off, twitching with nerves.
“Hold on, wait a minute,” he stammered, “you can’t send us back. You know what’s waiting for us in London.”
“I’m afraid, Mr. Lanbsury, that is not my client’s concern. You are not a citizen of the United States, therefore as things stand you have no right to be here. The procedure is to return you whence you came.”
“But you said you could offer us a way out-”
“Under the terms of a business agreement, yes, my client can extend to you all the benefits and securities of such a contract. But since you have made it patently clear that you do not wish to take up my client’s business offer, no further security can be invested.”
Lenny looked at Cher, her face covered by her hands in a gesture of despair. He had to practically drag her away from London after Survive & Conquer while Frank Friday’s hitmen closed in, and the dazzle of NYC had done enough to tame the volcanic eruption of anger she could have unleashed on him. The anger he could have toughened out, he’d done it before; however, the guilt was doing a number on Lenny. He knew he couldn’t take Cher back into the cauldron of boiling piss the London mob would forever have held in reserve in case Lenny Lansbury ever returned. She hadn’t made the same choices he had; this wasn’t her fault. If nothing else, he owed Cher the comfort of not worrying whether every night would the final night she went to sleep.
“And what if this business offer suddenly appeals to me?”
“Then I would invite you to sit down and enjoy another cup of coffee.”
“What guarantees can you give us?”
“Total immunity and protection.”
“That means you keep us in the country and keep the gangsters out?”
“Something like that.”
“And all I’ve got to do is wrestle and give you, or ‘Touchstone’, 50%?”
Mr. Black shuffled in his seat, a nasty little smile appearing on his face.
“Given the circumstances, I’m afraid we will have to re-negotiate the terms of the contract. Following our earlier discussion, I believe my client would not accept anything less than a 60/40 split.”
Getting the wrong end of the stick Lenny grinned, but Mr. Black put an end to that.
“In their favour.”
“What? You are the slighest kind of crook, Black!”
“Mr. Lansbury, this is business, and when one factors in the delicate and profound circumstances, it is my duty to ensure the best possible deal for the people I represent.”
Lenny shook his head, agitated, trying to suppress the compulsion to wrap his hands around the prick’s neck and wring every drop of life out of this weasel. Cher sensed this and put her hand on Lenny’s, her grave look quelling the beast fighting for release.
“You are not obliged to sign, Mr. Lansbury,” Mr. Black said with a pretence at empathy that jangled at Lenny’s tension. “You can say ‘no’ and take your chances with your friends in London.”
Lenny could feel the grip on his cobblers tightening; he had no room for manoeuvre here. It was either jump into bed with this rum geezer, take it up the arse and be thankful for it; or step inside some seedy little room, with no light and no possibility of knowing how many dicks were waiting to fuck you – or worse still, have to take it at both ends.
One look at Cher and Lenny knew what he had to do. Stuck between a rock and hard place would have been a walk in the park right now; he had to take this one on the chin and smile for the camera like a good whore. It didn’t help that Cher went nailed the lid on his coffin.
“Lenny, sign the contract. I don’t think I can face the possibility of London anymore. At least, this gives us a chance of some kind of life.”
Yes, Cher was always the practical one. Women – fucking spineless the lot of ‘em.
“Where do I sign?” Lenny said with a sigh of resignation.
“On the dotted line.”
Lenny did so and felt the gloom of his impending servitude envelope his soul.
“We’re in negotiations with a few companies, but at the moment my client is keen to make good on the ground you made at Survive & Conquer. We’re trying to get you a contract with Action Packed Wrestling. I’ll be in touch once we have arranged something more formal.”
At that moment Lenny didn’t care; he just wanted to the opportunity to make some fucker pay for this, like the agitated husband who beats his wife to give himself a vestige of pride after an emasculating day under his master’s whip. Yeah, someone would pay for this; they would all pay for this....eventually.
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(OOC: While I'm at it, I'll post the extended version of my S & C RP. The difference will be hardly noticeable, probably a bit of extra waffle here and there, but I wrote it, so I'll post it.)
Cruising at 35,000 feet on flight BA2731 Malaga Airport to London Gatwick I take a sip of the whiskey the stewardess has just poured, recline back in my seat and try to relax. The world outside is like a child’s vision of heaven: pure blue skies, invigorating yellow light, and those great big puffy clouds, like giants balls of cotton wool, or huge pillows stuffed with luxurious feathers. Yeah, if I could just step out onto those clouds right now and fall asleep in those soft recesses I know everything would be alright.
But here I am, making my way back to London at a rate of knots (well, you get the idea), a road of uncertainty ahead of me – heading back into a environment, the world of wrestling, that cast me out like a hated son many years ago. I’ve got to try and stay positive, I’ve got to see this as some wonderful opportunity; the kind me and Cher always talked about. Yeah, the high life; got to keep that picture in mind. Forget about the fact that I’m not just flirting with the grim reaper, I’m giving him a full-on cock tease. Forget and fuck all that, right?
So much for Heaven, huh? All I’ve got is the Devil at my back, a bunch of uncertainties enveloping me, and a meeting with 100 ‘ard-cases, all in the name of some moose-hugging Canadian who calls himself ‘The President’.
How did I find myself in said predicament? Well, as usual, the answer is a pretty straightforward one....I fucked up.
Just give me a minute to get comfortable and I’ll tell you all about it.
*
Where did this all begin?
I remember now, I was lounging on a poolside sun bed at that five-star hotel on the Costa del Sol. Sun, sangria and the sea – that was my world. Of course the talent was scarce, but with Cher at my side it seemed like I’d made it. We’d finally made, like a couple of millionaires tanning it up on one of those sultry mid-summer breaks that is the postmark of the upper echelons. Sunning it up I was like right toffy twat.
Yeah, we’d made it alright, to all looks and appearances. But the truth is there was nothing magical about this situation, impromptu definitely, but certainly not as romantic as it seemed to Cher’s sensibilities. Not that I wasn’t taking that credit. I think you can level with me on that one, chaps.
Nah, this was an escape trip. That’s truth of it. There was nothing blissful about the situation, not in my eyes. Shitting myself I was, not knowing whether I’d wake up every day to a bloody Mary or a bloody mess at the hands of some nuttah sent here for me by the whole of the London underworld.
That’s right, all of this began in London. Bloody fucking London.
It was one of those typical London days; I’m sure anyone who has resided in the bosom of that corrupt maiden can picture it exactly, that special shade of grey and murkiness that can only be synthesised by that glorious city. Fog rolled in off the Thames, smothering every nook and cranny, the perfect cover for the criminal element to stalk like a tiger in the jungle. On top of all of that, the rain fell. Now it’s hard to put a definite description on the rain that falls in London, such is its uniqueness. It doesn’t fall in sheets, rather it shimmers down in an endless procession, as if the rain itself long ago resigned itself to falling on London. Like a traditional whose purpose has disappeared from memory long ago, we accept it because it has always been there. In this manner the rain falls on London; not with any sense of purpose, but with the lethargy of someone who goes about their business unable to question, challenge or even invigorate their fate.
On this not unusual murky day I was inside the slaughterhouse. There was some work to be done, and if my dear old ma taught me one thing it was never to leave undone work that needs doing. My ironically named assistant, Handsome, and I had just finished up with the essential business of the day, and I volunteered to make a brew while Handsome cleaned up the mess. I stepped into the canteen and immediately sensed something foreign, and I didn’t like foreign. In an instant the cleaver in my hand, used with such surgical precision just moments earlier, was launched in the direction of the presence I felt. The dull thud of the cleaver lodging itself into a wooden pillar was followed by a cry in an Irish accent:
“Jesus-fooking-Christ!”
I turned and saw Kevin Cheshire, PA to Frank Friday, my boss, staring at the blade of the cleaver that had found a place in the wood just an inch or so from his face. I walked across and tugged out the cleaver, trying desperately to maintain a menacing look in my eyes.
“Lenny, are you fooking nuts, or what?” He stomped off, I could see he was trying to force the shock out of his system, but I caught that flash in his eye. It was fear. I postured with the cleaver still there, threatening; I wanted this Mick worm to know he should tread carefully.
“You’ll do yourself a mischief creeping up like that on men carrying meat cleavers,” I told him, trying to maintain the bravado. However, the reality was that my heart immediately sank upon the sight of him. A visit from ‘Chesh’ in these circumstances was never a good thing. I slammed the cleaver into a nearby table, a blood-curdling thud sending ripples down his spine.
Shrugging this off he looked me up and down. “Look at the state of you, Lenny,” his tone stinking of a mixture of impertinence and disdain. I looked down at the apron, plastered with fresh blood, still moist in places.
“You should see the other guy,” I told him without a trace of humour.
“You need to put a stop to all these little messes you create. It’s not acceptable.”
“What do you want, Chesh?”
“Mr. Friday sent me.”
Inside my heart pounded and I fought the urge to gulp; body language was everything at times like these.
“And?”
“He wants to talk to you.”
Chesh pulled out a mobile phone, I momentarily flinched expecting something else, and dialled a number. It was Frank Friday himself.
“We need to get you out for a while, Lenny.”
I knew from this that my bags were already packed. I tried to protest.
“Listen, son, this is a toilet even I can’t clean.”
I knew that meant the old bill were involved.
“I’ve got a chartered flight arranged. We’re giving you and that pretty girl of yours a holiday – no expense spared; I hope you like sangria.”
One hour and forty-five minutes later Cher & I were on Frank Friday’s private jet, destination Malaga. I would have been as happy as a chubby kid in a tuck shop if I wasn’t privy to the fact that often geezers didn’t make it back from Frank Friday’s generous hospitality. Of course, I didn’t tell Cher this.
*
For the time of year I suppose you could say the weather was absolutely bloody marvellous, especially considering this cold snap choking London. After a few days lying by the pool in the soothing January heat I was taken by sudden attack of anxiety. Suddenly nothing seemed kosher anymore, and every unfamiliar face I was certain was some assassin sent by Frank to blow my brains all the way to the African coast. I took solace in drink, frequenting bars; seedy, grotty little holes that indulge the darkened soul. I didn’t see Cher very much, but then she was happy doing whatever it is women with an open cheque book like to do. For my part I did my best at drinking any bar I could find dry, snorting up my nostrils whatever filth the local dealers had to offer, and taking in the very best (and worst) trouser action the local talent had to offer. If I was going down in this tacky tourist village I was certain it was going to be while fully tooled, high as an Arab kite, and with my John Thomas freshly shined.
One sultry afternoon, mid-session, I stumbled out of the hole in the ground they called the toilet. Oggling the backside of that senorita who’d just moments ago squeezed out of me more than just the €30 in her back pocket, I didn’t fail to recognise the suit sat in the corner, so conspicuous in a dive like this, his eyes fixed on me. At the bar my glass was full. I slouched back on the stool I had chosen as my home for the last 40 hours.
“Just leave the bottle,” I told him as I knocked back a shot of the noxious substance. Fuck you sobriety! Go hide again under that rock!
In spite of the intoxication I sensed the suit at my shoulder, spinning around I barked at him with my ether breath.
“Mr. Lansbury, I presume,” the suit enquired in response.
So this is how it was going to happen. No point trying to diffuse the situation, got to face this with a little dignity I reminded myself
“Listen pal, you can buy me a drink, but let it be known I won’t be sucking your cock,” I told the suit, unable to suppress a cackle.
“When you have sobered up, Mr. Lansbury, I have a business proposition for you.”
Building a rapport, gaining my trust; I never knew Frank Friday would be so cold.
“My client, Touchstone, see great potential in you. I’ll leave my business card. I’m staying at the Kempinski.”
With that the suit was gone. Fucking Touchstone or whatever; I was savvy to these tricks. I was sure as soon as I stepped out and turned the corner I’d find staring at me the barrel of some cheap Chinese handgun. Hence, I was destined to have one last moment of pleasure. Looking at the slapper I had engaged earlier I ordered.
“Senorita, me espresso muchas gracias, get your working arse in gear, love,” as I headed for the toilets. Inside my wallet I had €200 – I was going to make this one count.
*
Well, as you might know from my narrating this story and whatnot, there was no gun waiting for me that day, nor was there any sign for the next few days, just enough time for me to find my sanity again. It was then I stumbled across the card given to me by the suit. I dialled his number and he had some very interesting things to say, so I agreed a date and time to meet him at his hotel.
I had no idea who or what Touchstone was, and to be honest I couldn’t have a wipe of my arse for them, except this Mr. Black, that was the suit’s name, so he said, was proposing to brush my troubles away.
I arrived at the hotel, a right swanky establishment, better than the four-star help yourself breakfast buffet place Frank Friday had us holed up in. Mr. Black was where he said he would be. A right proper dressed geezer who fancied himself as some kind of pillar of sophistication, but I knew a ropey geezer when I saw one, and I could tell that was a rug on his head – so the chap’s ashamed of being a slaphead, is he? He offered me a drink and some lunch, but I wasn’t here to enjoy the gastronomy.
“What’s this about you giving me a million,” I got straight to the point.
He smiled in a way that he probably would have called enigmatic; I just thought he was being a smug twat.
“Mr. Lansbury, and I didn’t say we would give you a million,” he replied, taking a sip of whatever fancy five-star cocktail he had in front of him, “I said we are prepared to offer you an opportunity to earn a million.”
“What’s the difference? You wouldn’t have invited me to your knobby hotel if you believed me incapable of completing whatever job it is you have in mind for me.”
“Quite, Mr. Lansbury. But it’s not quite as straightforward as you might think.”
I gave him a raise of my eyebrows. “Then it’s not exactly kosher,” was my verbal reply.
“Oh it’s perfectly legitimate, Mr. Lansbury; it’s just that you will be required to beat 100 others to gain your prize.”
“100? What is this some kind of audition, for like a movie? I’ve only ever been good at two things in my life, Mr. Black, and one ‘em isn’t dressing up.”
“ We’re asking you go back inside the wrestling ring, Mr. Lansbury, and compete with 100 other wrestlers from around the world.”
Wrestling. This guy knew his history, and he’d done his homework. I smiled at him.
“Where?”
“The event is in London.”
If I was warming to the idea a few seconds before, suddenly my countenance was as cold as a season assassin. Cool as ice I became on the idea.
“I’m not exactly flavour of the month back in Blighty. Trust me, you don’t want me to show my face in the old town again and be the ones backing me.”
I could see him fiddling with his drink; the smirk on his face the kind you give when someone makes a threat you know they aren’t going to be able to keep.
“Touchstone are fully aware of the situation. My client knows there are a lot of bad people baying for your blood, but you have their absolute assurance that the circumstances are not such that they cannot be overcome.”
This kind of brashness at least required a listening ear.
“Okay, let’s just say you can swing things in my favour. If you know anything about my wrestling career, you know no company in the UK is going to give me a license. Let’s just say I didn’t exactly see eye to eye with those promotions and their rules.”
“My client knows the full extent of your previous career, Mr. Lansbury. It is for that reason they have sent me to ask you to bring “The Guv’nor” out of retirement.”
I couldn’t help but smile; it had been a long time since anyone had mentioned my wrestling alias.
“Besides, this event isn’t being held by a UK promotion,” Mr. Black continued, “they are Canadians, and believe me, they will take your registration.”
I could feel my buzzing inside, that old frenzy working itself to the surface. But I had to tread carefully here, not let my emotions get the best of me. Think this one out, make sure I got all the angles covered.
“Alright, let’s just say you can hold back the hordes of criminals, thugs and professional murderers that are going to be coming for me as soon as they hear I’m back on a flight home. Let’s just saying this Touchstone has enough influence to get the authorities to turn the other cheek, and you can get me into this match. What if I don’t win? I mean, if I win, I got a million big ones burning a hole in my pocket, and I could just about pay to keep people quiet. But what if I lose? How can I be sure you lot aren’t going to leave me high and dry?”
He took another sip, then said in a tone so matter of fact that I knew there would be no discussion.
“Half, Mr. Lansbury.”
“Half, what?”
“You’ll have half a million if you win. Those are Touchstone’s terms. Fifty percent, take it or leave it.”
The crafty fuckers. I knew the offer was too good to be true.
“You still haven’t answered my question, Mr. Black.”
“Think of Survive & Conquer as an audition,” he said with a grin. “My clients are very generous when they find something worth investing in.”
Well I could hardly refuse. Sure, this Touchstone was probably as bent as David Mack and the LAPD, but did I have a choice? I could turn down their offer, sit in this sunshine and wait for the bullet with my name on; or I could take my chances with this mysterious force. It could all go to shit, but I’m nothing if I’m not a tryer. I was begging for this chance; I knew the only thing that stood between me and certain death were the sinister fuckers behind this condescending prick Mr. Black. He knew, and he knew I knew, they had me by the balls. It was either them or Frank Friday. In this case it was better the devil you didn’t know; it was less frightening.
So I got Cher to pack our stuff, and at Mr. Black’s arrangement we got on a flight back to London, and here we are. Of course, Cher wasn’t happy, but I couldn’t exactly tell her the truth; not yet at least. The holiday’s been cut short, love; yeah, Frank wants me to wrestle against some yanks. Piece of piss I told her. In truth I was shitting myself. I couldn’t be sure Frank Friday wouldn’t have a gunman in the crowd (or even in the match itself!), but if I could dodge that bullet and get away with a square million, well then who’d be laughing then? I simply had to try. Who dares wins, my son; who fucking dares!
*
The scene flickers into life as the handheld camera is turned. What do we see? It looks like a ring canvas.
“You got it on yet, babe?”
An upwards motion to the tune of 45 degrees reveals the face of our protagonist, Lenny Lansbury, aka “The Guv’nor”. By the looks of things he is stood inside the APW ring inside WEMBLEY STADIUM itself.
“Yeah, it’s working, at least that red light is flashing. What do you want me to do?”
“Just stand there and point it at me, you can manage that?”
“I’m not thick Lenny.”
“Just stand there quietly and keep it pointed on me. Get it?”
The camera nods up and down. The Guv’nor begins.
“So here it is, Wembley-Fucking-Stadium. I used to dream about this place, picture myself alongside Gazza bangin’ ‘em in at both ends. Every red-blooded Englishman’s dream is to play here, to be roared on by 90,000 and the whole nation. Wembley Stadium – I can’t believe it!”
“As a boy I used to dream of shedding blood for the love of my country in this stadium, instead I’m being thrown back into the lion’s den that spat me out like a bad taste; faced with the prospect of my blood being spilled just so I can keep my head out of those shark-infested waters. Some glory, some honour.”
“But that’s what every fighter in this match is going to tell you, ‘I’m doing this for the honour, Guv, honest’. To be the toughest and the most durable among a clusterfuck of ‘ard nuts – that’s the aim, right? These fighters can shine that turd up all they want, but let’s be quite frank, this is all about the moneymoneymoney. You want to turn your nose up at that cool million? Fine, I’ll take it, there are one or two things I know I could do with that kind of bees.”
“Yeah, I fancy I’d look pretty fucking dandy with a million bucks on my arm.”
“The truth of it, I feel like I’m Charlie just walking into Willy Wonka’s house of tricks. I’m the pauper in all of this, and I see all these established fighters who are in it for the prestige of the thing, like it’s some social occasion ‘one must certainly be photographed at’. Me? Survive & Conquer is my golden ticket out of the same poverty and squalor dear little Charlie was born into. Except where his was material, mine is of the soul. Oh and the small matter of that contract on my head.
“I don’t keep up with the affairs of Yankee wrestlers, but I know the scene, I am sure there are one or two who fancy themselves as a bit tasty. They’ll be looking at their numbers, looking at those around them, thinking, planning, scheming, trying to figure out all the angles about how they are going to survive, how long they will need to hang in there. But let’s be honest – all of that is hopeless. Unless you’re some kind of Keanu Reeves you’re not simply going to bend this match to suit your needs. Reason has no jurisdiction in this match, so sit down and say yourself ‘what do I need to do?’ is to miss the point entirely. This is a crazy match constructed by a crazy mind, whose lunacy is diminished only by the sheer insanity of 100 fighters who think they can figure this thing out. Trust me the man or woman standing at the end is a certifiable who didn’t give a moment’s thought to what they were going to do; Mr. Strategy over there is the first one to find himself over that top rope and plonked on his derriere.”
“To save all you intellectuals the trouble I spell out the only rule in this match: HIT HARDER!”
“I suppose the selling point of this whole match is that it is a great equalizer, right? Where else could a petty street thug like yours truly get to rub shoulders against some pampered professional athlete for a shot at a million bucks? Champions, legends, men, women, three-legged orang-utans – we all have a chance in this match. Why? Because we’re all reduced to common rabble before ‘the luck of the draw’. Let’s be honest, if you’re pulling #1 the odds of you pulling off a two hour shift against the meanest lunatics the wrestling world could find are not worth backing; #100? Well, my son, you may want to start speaking to a few Swiss bank managers.
“Speaking of which,” he says to the camera, “do you still have that envelope?”
We hear a shuffling sound, then a hand appears from behind the camera and hands The Guv’nor an envelope. He tears it open and pulls out a small card, a smile raised on his face.
“Number 99 – somebody up there likes me. I wonder if I float this number out there on ebay whether I may raise a bid exceeding one million bucks?”
“I can’t deny this doesn’t give me a little lift. Here I was thinking I was on some shot to nothing, now suddenly that golden ticket has increased in its lustre. But what does this all mean? The bookies flooded with bets backing my name? Do I have a 98 times better chance of winning than #1? In short, it gives me a reason to hope, but you won’t find me taking out any large mortgages over this. Think about it, how many battle royal winners come from the back end of the draw? I’m willing to bet fewer than those that haven’t.”
“While it may seem sensible, logical even, to think those coming in towards the end have a better chance because they have more reserves, the truth is fights aren’t won by energy alone. When I started out with my London firm I was just a nipper really, but I was keen as mustard. I would plough into some aggro without ever thinking about it, more energy than a flock of headless chickens, but even less brains. The net result was I got myself jumped too often. Those first few times they really hurt, but when you’ve taken a few punches and you realise you’re not made of glass you get used to it. Fighting experience is everything, how to flow in a fight, having all those senses acutely tuned to everyone and everything around you. Think about it the last time you had a scrap? It’s only when you’ve been in the mix for a while that you know you’re throwing punches that land and hurt, it’s only when you’ve had a few blows that every cell in your body is arranged for survival, to duck, weave and dodge the bullets your enemy writes your name on.”
“#99 is a great number because it means I can come in and hit hard on a few softened up souls, but it also means that I’m fresh as newly sprung daisy and unequipped for the morning frost. In these situations, the advantage is always with the experienced, wily head; those who have seen, felt and smelt the war, they are the most dogged of soldiers, no matter how exhausted they may be, not some fresh out of the barracks recruit. At bottom, if weariness hinders #1, then as #99 I have to be aware that my principal enemy in all of this is complacency.”
“All of that aside, the question lingers ‘what chance does a down and out ruffian from the East End have against the world’s best collection of professional fighters?’ Whether I come in #1 or #99, the outcome will be the same.”
“True, I don’t have the look, I don’t have an expensively assembled entourage ensuring every minute detail is covered in my preparation, I don’t have a bunch of titles, or a reputation to psychologically burden others; I haven’t even been inside a wrestling ring in years. But all of this incidental to a degree. When you’re in the fight for your life what really matters?”
“I’ve heard some say it is having nothing to lose, not fearing the fate that awaits you if it all goes tits up. I think that’s a load of bollocks all the same. If you’ve nothing to lose, nothing to fear, why not just be done with it and slice open your own throat? What matters is desperation: an absolute desperate clinging to the life you are living. I don’t have all the comforts these professional wrestlers have: There is no warm, safe bed for me to sleep in; I don’t go into this match knowing when I wake up the next day, whatever happens, I’ve still got a job; I don’t even know if there will be a Monday morning for me to wake up to.”
“Yet in spite of all that, I am desperate not to go down in this manner. I’m not going to be some unknown man to history, some street thug who look a bullet in some dirty abandoned warehouse in Hackney Borough. This isn’t about some five minutes of fame, the honour of bearing a title, all of that can come later for me; this about finding a foothold on the rock face. It’s a chance to walk out with a million in my pocket, enough to buy myself a clean slate and a second chance; it’s the chance to prove the industry was wrong to cast me out, the chance to show the world that Lenny Lansbury was a fighter – even if for just ten minutes – but most of all it’s my one and only chance to show all those who wish they could have my blood on their hands that, when push comes to shove, you DON’T FUCK WITH THE GUV’NOR!”
End.
P.S. I hope this isn't taken as too presumptuous.
------
MADE IN HACKNEY
Preamble
When we think of “The Guv’nor” nowadays it is impossible to separate the man from the global megastar. Wrestling legend, Hollywood A-lister and the world’s most popular action movie star, multi-millionaire, and, if rumours are to be believed, a candidate in the upcoming Mayor of London elections – all of this and more is how the world has come to know and love the man who started out humbly as Lenny Lansbury from Trelawny Estate.
But it wasn’t all expensive yachts, champagne breakfasts, the biggest Hollywood fee in history, and the countless wives and mistresses “The Guv’nor” has collected along the way. Like all things, it began somewhere and sometime, and it wasn’t glamorous. So in writing this book on the history of “The Guv’nor”, I have had to scour my own memory in order to try and remember where it all began. Once I have done this, I know then it’s simply a case of piecing the whole thing together; a bit like putting a jigsaw puzzle together, once you have the edge defined, the rest of it just a matter of time and patience.
I have plenty of the latter, but unfortunately life has rendered me short of the former; therefore, I should get on with completing this document, since it is owed to the world, and the man himself, that posterity is allowed a full and thorough account of the making of this singular legend.
Book I: Beginnings
Chapter I
Chapter I
Deep inside the bowels of London’s magnificent Wembley Stadium sat Cheryl ‘Cher’ Underwood: alone with her thoughts, which belonged entirely to her long-time fiancé Lenny Lansbury – or as he was known in these circles, The Guv’nor – who she knew was locked in an epic battle that would live long in the memories of humanity.
100 wrestlers. One million dollars US. The most coveted trophy in the whole wrestling business. Only one person could walk away.
Survive & Conquer.
Cher didn’t know why Lenny had dragged her back from Spain for this wrestling match because he had turned his back on the wrestling world years ago (or rather, they had shunned him), but he was insistent that their future was wholly dependent upon it. Cher wasn’t stupid, in spite of appearances, she knew what her fiancé did for a living, but as long as she didn’t ask questions she knew she would never be able to answer anybody’s questions. The risk that came from the lifestyle she knew all too well and a lengthy prison sentence was the least of worries. The malice she could read in the eyes of Lenny’s associates spoke volumes about the darker shadows that could one day be cast across their lives.
She didn’t ask questions.....ever! But now she wanted to break her solitary rule because the anxiety that brought them to the home of English football had infiltrated her own soul and usurped her usual solace. Lenny was worried; for the first time, she could see fear in his eyes as he left her to join this brawl entrant 99 out of a hundred.
The time spent between that moment and this one was tempestuous; she was thankful for the interruption of her thoughts, even if it came from a very urgent Lenny pushing the door open forcefully.
“Quick, get the stuff together,” he implored, frantically stuffing his few effects into his solitary holdall, the full content of his estate right now. Looking at his fiancé frozen senseless, he barked: “Come on Cher, get a fucking move on. We haven’t got all day.”
She collected her own things together, was ready inside thirty seconds, and turned to Lenny who hadn’t even bothered to change out of his wrestling attire.
“Come on, I’ve got flights from Heathrow to Australia booked,” he told her, “don’t let it ever be said I don’t have a plan b.”
“Australia? What do you mean, Lenny - We’re leaving London?”
“Listen, I don’t have time to explain. Let’s just say if we don’t move our arses now we’re going to wish we were up shit creek without a paddle.”
“But our life here?”
“It’s gone, babe.”
She was reticent, Lenny could see she was holding back, unwilling to follow him out of the door.
“Cher, you can’t stay here. You think they won’t come for you too. Listen to me, a lot of ‘orrible cunts are looking for me right now to do the kinds of things ‘orrible cunts do. If you don’t come, they will try to get to me through you.”
“You selfish bastard!”
“Cher, this isn’t the time or place. I have a mate in Oz, he’s willing to put us up for a while, until we can get ourselves sorted.” He could see the proposal meant little to her and sighed. “I have to go now,” Lenny continued calmly, “I can’t drag you along, but I’m not staying to have a fucking discourse on the pros and cons of the subject. It’s your choice: come with me or stay here.”
Cher shook her head and sat down on a bench, her eyes dropping to her feet. The Guv’nor rose above the diplomacy of Lenny Lansbury and lashed out at Cher.
“For fuck’s sake, you stupid bitch, we can’t hang about,” he shouted, pulling Cher to her feet and trying to drag her out the door. She tried resistance, but it was no good as he easily outmuscled her, but upon gripping her firmly and turning to the door The Guv’nor found in his way the bad omen that was Mr. Black – sole representative of “Touchstone” and the reason why Lenny had brought “The Guv’nor” out of exile for this event.
Lenny let Cher go, she slumped onto the floor and began to sob. The Guv’nor stood up to Mr. Black, stared into his eyes and said.
“You’re standing in my way.”
But Mr. Black did not budge; he returned The Guv’nor’s eye contact without flinching.
“Sit down, Mr. Lansbury,” Mr. Black appealed.
“I won’t ask you again nicely,” The Guv’nor warned. With a smile Mr. Black backed off and stepped aside. The Guv’nor dragged Cher roughly to her feet and pulled her through the door, turning right.
“I wouldn’t advise you go that way, Mr. Lansbury; I passed two of your former associates on my way here.”
Lenny flashed a fearful look at Mr. Black.
“You lie!”
“It’s your call, Mr. Lansbury, but I don’t fancy your chances.”
“What’s it to you anyway? I’m sure your organisation would happily feed me to the dogs after tonight.”
“I can assure you, Mr. Lansbury, this is not my intention, nor does it portray the sentiments of the people I represent. Believe me when I say this, Mr. Lansbury, if we wanted you ‘taken out’, so to speak, you would never have made it back to the locker room.”
“Then what do you want? Money – I don’t have any; my assets, aside from this bag I hold, are now in the hands of the London mob. I bought a raffle ticket for your prize draw, and look what good it did me – a mangled face and a pack of London’s filthiest dogs salivating over my flesh.”
“Yes, it is a pity this didn’t work out. However, I am here to make you another offer.”
“What kind of offer?”
“The only way out.”
*
Mr. Black was true to his word; he smuggled Lenny and Cher out of not just Wembley, but England itself: first class to New York City. Of course, Lenny didn’t trust this Mr. Black geezer one iota, but he wasn’t about to take his chances with the mob on his own. It wasn’t so much about not having the bottle as it was the futility of it all. He would slash Frank Friday’s throat if the bread was right (and what could be more valuable than one’s life?), but he wasn’t about to do it and take it up the Khyber for doing so. Lenny had learnt as a kid that if you couldn’t hit harder then there was no shame in running; the bovver with it all meant nothing because the smart man was always he who lived to fight another day. Who the fuck wants to be a dead solider, when you can be back at the lodge scheming your next assault?
So after a few days scouring the Big Apple, being dragged from Macy’s to The Statue of Liberty to Times Square and back again, and fighting the urge to dish out a bit of aggro on every Yankee prick who offered him a hot dog, Lenny was called in to talk business with Mr. Black. The timing couldn’t have been perfect because after the three days of being subjected to ‘American culture’ by his NYC-drunk fiancé, The Guv’nor was ready to launch his own jihad campaign on The City That Never
Sitting in Mr. Black’s plush Manhattan office, the terms of contract were no different.
“It’s fifty percent, Mr. Lansbury,” Mr. Black said pouring Lenny a cup of coffee. Everything in the office was immaculate and conveyed the image of success and the highest class – from the perfectly cut suit dressing Mr. Black’s toned body to the fittings of the light switches. However, it didn’t pass Lenny’s attention that this jumped-up lawyer still had a rug on his head – the vain twat, he told himself.
“That’s fifty percent of everything: salary, prize money, endorsements, whatever you make as a consequence of your wrestling activities and persona.”
“That’s a lot of dosh you’re asking for. I could accept those terms back in London, but these are new negotiations.”
“This is not a negotiation, Mr. Lansbury. These are the terms; you either take them or leave them.”
“I’m not desperate,” Lenny lied, “and I certainly won’t sell my soul to this “Touchstone”, or whatever. Who the fuck are these geezers anyway?”
“Mr. Lansbury, there is no need to concern yourself with my client’s identity and concerns. All you need to know is that if we agree to a contract, my client will do the utmost to uphold their part of the deal.”
“Right up to bleeding me dry, yeah?”
Mr. Black smiled. “These are the terms of business, Mr. Lansbury. My client is not running a charity here.”
“I never asked for charity; but if I’m doing all the work, I expect a bigger share of the bread.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Lansbury. It seems we have reached an impasse; like I said, my client will not relent on the terms of these deals. Considering the circumstances, this is to be considered a very generous offer. But if it is too much for you, then I have to respect that.”
The Guv’nor smiled at Cher, a proud smile of a man who feels he hasn’t let himself be pushed around by the man.
“Now, you are not the only matter I must attend to in my business. If we can go no further I must politely ask that we bring this meeting to an end. If you speak to my secretary she will arrange for a car to return you to the airport.”
Lenny was rising out of his seat, but this reference to the airport stopped him in doing. He cut a look at Cher who was also puzzled, then addressed Mr. Black who was making a show of perusing some documents.
“What do you mean ‘return us to the airport’?”
“For your flight back to London,” Mr. Black answered without looking up.
“What flight?” Lenny asked with a nervous chuckle. “Who said we wanted to go back to London. I thought-”
“You thought what, Mr. Lansbury? The condition of your visa is a business visit; if we are not to do business, then I am afraid my client can no longer be expected to sponsor your right to be here. But there is no need to worry, everything has been arranged for you; my client thanks you for your time, and wishes to show that gratitude by flying you back first class. My client has taken care of all the expenses. Good luck in your future endeavours Mr. Lansbury.”
Mr. Black extended a hand, but Lenny backed off, twitching with nerves.
“Hold on, wait a minute,” he stammered, “you can’t send us back. You know what’s waiting for us in London.”
“I’m afraid, Mr. Lanbsury, that is not my client’s concern. You are not a citizen of the United States, therefore as things stand you have no right to be here. The procedure is to return you whence you came.”
“But you said you could offer us a way out-”
“Under the terms of a business agreement, yes, my client can extend to you all the benefits and securities of such a contract. But since you have made it patently clear that you do not wish to take up my client’s business offer, no further security can be invested.”
Lenny looked at Cher, her face covered by her hands in a gesture of despair. He had to practically drag her away from London after Survive & Conquer while Frank Friday’s hitmen closed in, and the dazzle of NYC had done enough to tame the volcanic eruption of anger she could have unleashed on him. The anger he could have toughened out, he’d done it before; however, the guilt was doing a number on Lenny. He knew he couldn’t take Cher back into the cauldron of boiling piss the London mob would forever have held in reserve in case Lenny Lansbury ever returned. She hadn’t made the same choices he had; this wasn’t her fault. If nothing else, he owed Cher the comfort of not worrying whether every night would the final night she went to sleep.
“And what if this business offer suddenly appeals to me?”
“Then I would invite you to sit down and enjoy another cup of coffee.”
“What guarantees can you give us?”
“Total immunity and protection.”
“That means you keep us in the country and keep the gangsters out?”
“Something like that.”
“And all I’ve got to do is wrestle and give you, or ‘Touchstone’, 50%?”
Mr. Black shuffled in his seat, a nasty little smile appearing on his face.
“Given the circumstances, I’m afraid we will have to re-negotiate the terms of the contract. Following our earlier discussion, I believe my client would not accept anything less than a 60/40 split.”
Getting the wrong end of the stick Lenny grinned, but Mr. Black put an end to that.
“In their favour.”
“What? You are the slighest kind of crook, Black!”
“Mr. Lansbury, this is business, and when one factors in the delicate and profound circumstances, it is my duty to ensure the best possible deal for the people I represent.”
Lenny shook his head, agitated, trying to suppress the compulsion to wrap his hands around the prick’s neck and wring every drop of life out of this weasel. Cher sensed this and put her hand on Lenny’s, her grave look quelling the beast fighting for release.
“You are not obliged to sign, Mr. Lansbury,” Mr. Black said with a pretence at empathy that jangled at Lenny’s tension. “You can say ‘no’ and take your chances with your friends in London.”
Lenny could feel the grip on his cobblers tightening; he had no room for manoeuvre here. It was either jump into bed with this rum geezer, take it up the arse and be thankful for it; or step inside some seedy little room, with no light and no possibility of knowing how many dicks were waiting to fuck you – or worse still, have to take it at both ends.
One look at Cher and Lenny knew what he had to do. Stuck between a rock and hard place would have been a walk in the park right now; he had to take this one on the chin and smile for the camera like a good whore. It didn’t help that Cher went nailed the lid on his coffin.
“Lenny, sign the contract. I don’t think I can face the possibility of London anymore. At least, this gives us a chance of some kind of life.”
Yes, Cher was always the practical one. Women – fucking spineless the lot of ‘em.
“Where do I sign?” Lenny said with a sigh of resignation.
“On the dotted line.”
Lenny did so and felt the gloom of his impending servitude envelope his soul.
“We’re in negotiations with a few companies, but at the moment my client is keen to make good on the ground you made at Survive & Conquer. We’re trying to get you a contract with Action Packed Wrestling. I’ll be in touch once we have arranged something more formal.”
At that moment Lenny didn’t care; he just wanted to the opportunity to make some fucker pay for this, like the agitated husband who beats his wife to give himself a vestige of pride after an emasculating day under his master’s whip. Yeah, someone would pay for this; they would all pay for this....eventually.
-----
(OOC: While I'm at it, I'll post the extended version of my S & C RP. The difference will be hardly noticeable, probably a bit of extra waffle here and there, but I wrote it, so I'll post it.)
Cruising at 35,000 feet on flight BA2731 Malaga Airport to London Gatwick I take a sip of the whiskey the stewardess has just poured, recline back in my seat and try to relax. The world outside is like a child’s vision of heaven: pure blue skies, invigorating yellow light, and those great big puffy clouds, like giants balls of cotton wool, or huge pillows stuffed with luxurious feathers. Yeah, if I could just step out onto those clouds right now and fall asleep in those soft recesses I know everything would be alright.
But here I am, making my way back to London at a rate of knots (well, you get the idea), a road of uncertainty ahead of me – heading back into a environment, the world of wrestling, that cast me out like a hated son many years ago. I’ve got to try and stay positive, I’ve got to see this as some wonderful opportunity; the kind me and Cher always talked about. Yeah, the high life; got to keep that picture in mind. Forget about the fact that I’m not just flirting with the grim reaper, I’m giving him a full-on cock tease. Forget and fuck all that, right?
So much for Heaven, huh? All I’ve got is the Devil at my back, a bunch of uncertainties enveloping me, and a meeting with 100 ‘ard-cases, all in the name of some moose-hugging Canadian who calls himself ‘The President’.
How did I find myself in said predicament? Well, as usual, the answer is a pretty straightforward one....I fucked up.
Just give me a minute to get comfortable and I’ll tell you all about it.
*
Where did this all begin?
I remember now, I was lounging on a poolside sun bed at that five-star hotel on the Costa del Sol. Sun, sangria and the sea – that was my world. Of course the talent was scarce, but with Cher at my side it seemed like I’d made it. We’d finally made, like a couple of millionaires tanning it up on one of those sultry mid-summer breaks that is the postmark of the upper echelons. Sunning it up I was like right toffy twat.
Yeah, we’d made it alright, to all looks and appearances. But the truth is there was nothing magical about this situation, impromptu definitely, but certainly not as romantic as it seemed to Cher’s sensibilities. Not that I wasn’t taking that credit. I think you can level with me on that one, chaps.
Nah, this was an escape trip. That’s truth of it. There was nothing blissful about the situation, not in my eyes. Shitting myself I was, not knowing whether I’d wake up every day to a bloody Mary or a bloody mess at the hands of some nuttah sent here for me by the whole of the London underworld.
That’s right, all of this began in London. Bloody fucking London.
It was one of those typical London days; I’m sure anyone who has resided in the bosom of that corrupt maiden can picture it exactly, that special shade of grey and murkiness that can only be synthesised by that glorious city. Fog rolled in off the Thames, smothering every nook and cranny, the perfect cover for the criminal element to stalk like a tiger in the jungle. On top of all of that, the rain fell. Now it’s hard to put a definite description on the rain that falls in London, such is its uniqueness. It doesn’t fall in sheets, rather it shimmers down in an endless procession, as if the rain itself long ago resigned itself to falling on London. Like a traditional whose purpose has disappeared from memory long ago, we accept it because it has always been there. In this manner the rain falls on London; not with any sense of purpose, but with the lethargy of someone who goes about their business unable to question, challenge or even invigorate their fate.
On this not unusual murky day I was inside the slaughterhouse. There was some work to be done, and if my dear old ma taught me one thing it was never to leave undone work that needs doing. My ironically named assistant, Handsome, and I had just finished up with the essential business of the day, and I volunteered to make a brew while Handsome cleaned up the mess. I stepped into the canteen and immediately sensed something foreign, and I didn’t like foreign. In an instant the cleaver in my hand, used with such surgical precision just moments earlier, was launched in the direction of the presence I felt. The dull thud of the cleaver lodging itself into a wooden pillar was followed by a cry in an Irish accent:
“Jesus-fooking-Christ!”
I turned and saw Kevin Cheshire, PA to Frank Friday, my boss, staring at the blade of the cleaver that had found a place in the wood just an inch or so from his face. I walked across and tugged out the cleaver, trying desperately to maintain a menacing look in my eyes.
“Lenny, are you fooking nuts, or what?” He stomped off, I could see he was trying to force the shock out of his system, but I caught that flash in his eye. It was fear. I postured with the cleaver still there, threatening; I wanted this Mick worm to know he should tread carefully.
“You’ll do yourself a mischief creeping up like that on men carrying meat cleavers,” I told him, trying to maintain the bravado. However, the reality was that my heart immediately sank upon the sight of him. A visit from ‘Chesh’ in these circumstances was never a good thing. I slammed the cleaver into a nearby table, a blood-curdling thud sending ripples down his spine.
Shrugging this off he looked me up and down. “Look at the state of you, Lenny,” his tone stinking of a mixture of impertinence and disdain. I looked down at the apron, plastered with fresh blood, still moist in places.
“You should see the other guy,” I told him without a trace of humour.
“You need to put a stop to all these little messes you create. It’s not acceptable.”
“What do you want, Chesh?”
“Mr. Friday sent me.”
Inside my heart pounded and I fought the urge to gulp; body language was everything at times like these.
“And?”
“He wants to talk to you.”
Chesh pulled out a mobile phone, I momentarily flinched expecting something else, and dialled a number. It was Frank Friday himself.
“We need to get you out for a while, Lenny.”
I knew from this that my bags were already packed. I tried to protest.
“Listen, son, this is a toilet even I can’t clean.”
I knew that meant the old bill were involved.
“I’ve got a chartered flight arranged. We’re giving you and that pretty girl of yours a holiday – no expense spared; I hope you like sangria.”
One hour and forty-five minutes later Cher & I were on Frank Friday’s private jet, destination Malaga. I would have been as happy as a chubby kid in a tuck shop if I wasn’t privy to the fact that often geezers didn’t make it back from Frank Friday’s generous hospitality. Of course, I didn’t tell Cher this.
*
For the time of year I suppose you could say the weather was absolutely bloody marvellous, especially considering this cold snap choking London. After a few days lying by the pool in the soothing January heat I was taken by sudden attack of anxiety. Suddenly nothing seemed kosher anymore, and every unfamiliar face I was certain was some assassin sent by Frank to blow my brains all the way to the African coast. I took solace in drink, frequenting bars; seedy, grotty little holes that indulge the darkened soul. I didn’t see Cher very much, but then she was happy doing whatever it is women with an open cheque book like to do. For my part I did my best at drinking any bar I could find dry, snorting up my nostrils whatever filth the local dealers had to offer, and taking in the very best (and worst) trouser action the local talent had to offer. If I was going down in this tacky tourist village I was certain it was going to be while fully tooled, high as an Arab kite, and with my John Thomas freshly shined.
One sultry afternoon, mid-session, I stumbled out of the hole in the ground they called the toilet. Oggling the backside of that senorita who’d just moments ago squeezed out of me more than just the €30 in her back pocket, I didn’t fail to recognise the suit sat in the corner, so conspicuous in a dive like this, his eyes fixed on me. At the bar my glass was full. I slouched back on the stool I had chosen as my home for the last 40 hours.
“Just leave the bottle,” I told him as I knocked back a shot of the noxious substance. Fuck you sobriety! Go hide again under that rock!
In spite of the intoxication I sensed the suit at my shoulder, spinning around I barked at him with my ether breath.
“Mr. Lansbury, I presume,” the suit enquired in response.
So this is how it was going to happen. No point trying to diffuse the situation, got to face this with a little dignity I reminded myself
“Listen pal, you can buy me a drink, but let it be known I won’t be sucking your cock,” I told the suit, unable to suppress a cackle.
“When you have sobered up, Mr. Lansbury, I have a business proposition for you.”
Building a rapport, gaining my trust; I never knew Frank Friday would be so cold.
“My client, Touchstone, see great potential in you. I’ll leave my business card. I’m staying at the Kempinski.”
With that the suit was gone. Fucking Touchstone or whatever; I was savvy to these tricks. I was sure as soon as I stepped out and turned the corner I’d find staring at me the barrel of some cheap Chinese handgun. Hence, I was destined to have one last moment of pleasure. Looking at the slapper I had engaged earlier I ordered.
“Senorita, me espresso muchas gracias, get your working arse in gear, love,” as I headed for the toilets. Inside my wallet I had €200 – I was going to make this one count.
*
Well, as you might know from my narrating this story and whatnot, there was no gun waiting for me that day, nor was there any sign for the next few days, just enough time for me to find my sanity again. It was then I stumbled across the card given to me by the suit. I dialled his number and he had some very interesting things to say, so I agreed a date and time to meet him at his hotel.
I had no idea who or what Touchstone was, and to be honest I couldn’t have a wipe of my arse for them, except this Mr. Black, that was the suit’s name, so he said, was proposing to brush my troubles away.
I arrived at the hotel, a right swanky establishment, better than the four-star help yourself breakfast buffet place Frank Friday had us holed up in. Mr. Black was where he said he would be. A right proper dressed geezer who fancied himself as some kind of pillar of sophistication, but I knew a ropey geezer when I saw one, and I could tell that was a rug on his head – so the chap’s ashamed of being a slaphead, is he? He offered me a drink and some lunch, but I wasn’t here to enjoy the gastronomy.
“What’s this about you giving me a million,” I got straight to the point.
He smiled in a way that he probably would have called enigmatic; I just thought he was being a smug twat.
“Mr. Lansbury, and I didn’t say we would give you a million,” he replied, taking a sip of whatever fancy five-star cocktail he had in front of him, “I said we are prepared to offer you an opportunity to earn a million.”
“What’s the difference? You wouldn’t have invited me to your knobby hotel if you believed me incapable of completing whatever job it is you have in mind for me.”
“Quite, Mr. Lansbury. But it’s not quite as straightforward as you might think.”
I gave him a raise of my eyebrows. “Then it’s not exactly kosher,” was my verbal reply.
“Oh it’s perfectly legitimate, Mr. Lansbury; it’s just that you will be required to beat 100 others to gain your prize.”
“100? What is this some kind of audition, for like a movie? I’ve only ever been good at two things in my life, Mr. Black, and one ‘em isn’t dressing up.”
“ We’re asking you go back inside the wrestling ring, Mr. Lansbury, and compete with 100 other wrestlers from around the world.”
Wrestling. This guy knew his history, and he’d done his homework. I smiled at him.
“Where?”
“The event is in London.”
If I was warming to the idea a few seconds before, suddenly my countenance was as cold as a season assassin. Cool as ice I became on the idea.
“I’m not exactly flavour of the month back in Blighty. Trust me, you don’t want me to show my face in the old town again and be the ones backing me.”
I could see him fiddling with his drink; the smirk on his face the kind you give when someone makes a threat you know they aren’t going to be able to keep.
“Touchstone are fully aware of the situation. My client knows there are a lot of bad people baying for your blood, but you have their absolute assurance that the circumstances are not such that they cannot be overcome.”
This kind of brashness at least required a listening ear.
“Okay, let’s just say you can swing things in my favour. If you know anything about my wrestling career, you know no company in the UK is going to give me a license. Let’s just say I didn’t exactly see eye to eye with those promotions and their rules.”
“My client knows the full extent of your previous career, Mr. Lansbury. It is for that reason they have sent me to ask you to bring “The Guv’nor” out of retirement.”
I couldn’t help but smile; it had been a long time since anyone had mentioned my wrestling alias.
“Besides, this event isn’t being held by a UK promotion,” Mr. Black continued, “they are Canadians, and believe me, they will take your registration.”
I could feel my buzzing inside, that old frenzy working itself to the surface. But I had to tread carefully here, not let my emotions get the best of me. Think this one out, make sure I got all the angles covered.
“Alright, let’s just say you can hold back the hordes of criminals, thugs and professional murderers that are going to be coming for me as soon as they hear I’m back on a flight home. Let’s just saying this Touchstone has enough influence to get the authorities to turn the other cheek, and you can get me into this match. What if I don’t win? I mean, if I win, I got a million big ones burning a hole in my pocket, and I could just about pay to keep people quiet. But what if I lose? How can I be sure you lot aren’t going to leave me high and dry?”
He took another sip, then said in a tone so matter of fact that I knew there would be no discussion.
“Half, Mr. Lansbury.”
“Half, what?”
“You’ll have half a million if you win. Those are Touchstone’s terms. Fifty percent, take it or leave it.”
The crafty fuckers. I knew the offer was too good to be true.
“You still haven’t answered my question, Mr. Black.”
“Think of Survive & Conquer as an audition,” he said with a grin. “My clients are very generous when they find something worth investing in.”
Well I could hardly refuse. Sure, this Touchstone was probably as bent as David Mack and the LAPD, but did I have a choice? I could turn down their offer, sit in this sunshine and wait for the bullet with my name on; or I could take my chances with this mysterious force. It could all go to shit, but I’m nothing if I’m not a tryer. I was begging for this chance; I knew the only thing that stood between me and certain death were the sinister fuckers behind this condescending prick Mr. Black. He knew, and he knew I knew, they had me by the balls. It was either them or Frank Friday. In this case it was better the devil you didn’t know; it was less frightening.
So I got Cher to pack our stuff, and at Mr. Black’s arrangement we got on a flight back to London, and here we are. Of course, Cher wasn’t happy, but I couldn’t exactly tell her the truth; not yet at least. The holiday’s been cut short, love; yeah, Frank wants me to wrestle against some yanks. Piece of piss I told her. In truth I was shitting myself. I couldn’t be sure Frank Friday wouldn’t have a gunman in the crowd (or even in the match itself!), but if I could dodge that bullet and get away with a square million, well then who’d be laughing then? I simply had to try. Who dares wins, my son; who fucking dares!
*
The scene flickers into life as the handheld camera is turned. What do we see? It looks like a ring canvas.
“You got it on yet, babe?”
An upwards motion to the tune of 45 degrees reveals the face of our protagonist, Lenny Lansbury, aka “The Guv’nor”. By the looks of things he is stood inside the APW ring inside WEMBLEY STADIUM itself.
“Yeah, it’s working, at least that red light is flashing. What do you want me to do?”
“Just stand there and point it at me, you can manage that?”
“I’m not thick Lenny.”
“Just stand there quietly and keep it pointed on me. Get it?”
The camera nods up and down. The Guv’nor begins.
“So here it is, Wembley-Fucking-Stadium. I used to dream about this place, picture myself alongside Gazza bangin’ ‘em in at both ends. Every red-blooded Englishman’s dream is to play here, to be roared on by 90,000 and the whole nation. Wembley Stadium – I can’t believe it!”
“As a boy I used to dream of shedding blood for the love of my country in this stadium, instead I’m being thrown back into the lion’s den that spat me out like a bad taste; faced with the prospect of my blood being spilled just so I can keep my head out of those shark-infested waters. Some glory, some honour.”
“But that’s what every fighter in this match is going to tell you, ‘I’m doing this for the honour, Guv, honest’. To be the toughest and the most durable among a clusterfuck of ‘ard nuts – that’s the aim, right? These fighters can shine that turd up all they want, but let’s be quite frank, this is all about the moneymoneymoney. You want to turn your nose up at that cool million? Fine, I’ll take it, there are one or two things I know I could do with that kind of bees.”
“Yeah, I fancy I’d look pretty fucking dandy with a million bucks on my arm.”
“The truth of it, I feel like I’m Charlie just walking into Willy Wonka’s house of tricks. I’m the pauper in all of this, and I see all these established fighters who are in it for the prestige of the thing, like it’s some social occasion ‘one must certainly be photographed at’. Me? Survive & Conquer is my golden ticket out of the same poverty and squalor dear little Charlie was born into. Except where his was material, mine is of the soul. Oh and the small matter of that contract on my head.
“I don’t keep up with the affairs of Yankee wrestlers, but I know the scene, I am sure there are one or two who fancy themselves as a bit tasty. They’ll be looking at their numbers, looking at those around them, thinking, planning, scheming, trying to figure out all the angles about how they are going to survive, how long they will need to hang in there. But let’s be honest – all of that is hopeless. Unless you’re some kind of Keanu Reeves you’re not simply going to bend this match to suit your needs. Reason has no jurisdiction in this match, so sit down and say yourself ‘what do I need to do?’ is to miss the point entirely. This is a crazy match constructed by a crazy mind, whose lunacy is diminished only by the sheer insanity of 100 fighters who think they can figure this thing out. Trust me the man or woman standing at the end is a certifiable who didn’t give a moment’s thought to what they were going to do; Mr. Strategy over there is the first one to find himself over that top rope and plonked on his derriere.”
“To save all you intellectuals the trouble I spell out the only rule in this match: HIT HARDER!”
“I suppose the selling point of this whole match is that it is a great equalizer, right? Where else could a petty street thug like yours truly get to rub shoulders against some pampered professional athlete for a shot at a million bucks? Champions, legends, men, women, three-legged orang-utans – we all have a chance in this match. Why? Because we’re all reduced to common rabble before ‘the luck of the draw’. Let’s be honest, if you’re pulling #1 the odds of you pulling off a two hour shift against the meanest lunatics the wrestling world could find are not worth backing; #100? Well, my son, you may want to start speaking to a few Swiss bank managers.
“Speaking of which,” he says to the camera, “do you still have that envelope?”
We hear a shuffling sound, then a hand appears from behind the camera and hands The Guv’nor an envelope. He tears it open and pulls out a small card, a smile raised on his face.
“Number 99 – somebody up there likes me. I wonder if I float this number out there on ebay whether I may raise a bid exceeding one million bucks?”
“I can’t deny this doesn’t give me a little lift. Here I was thinking I was on some shot to nothing, now suddenly that golden ticket has increased in its lustre. But what does this all mean? The bookies flooded with bets backing my name? Do I have a 98 times better chance of winning than #1? In short, it gives me a reason to hope, but you won’t find me taking out any large mortgages over this. Think about it, how many battle royal winners come from the back end of the draw? I’m willing to bet fewer than those that haven’t.”
“While it may seem sensible, logical even, to think those coming in towards the end have a better chance because they have more reserves, the truth is fights aren’t won by energy alone. When I started out with my London firm I was just a nipper really, but I was keen as mustard. I would plough into some aggro without ever thinking about it, more energy than a flock of headless chickens, but even less brains. The net result was I got myself jumped too often. Those first few times they really hurt, but when you’ve taken a few punches and you realise you’re not made of glass you get used to it. Fighting experience is everything, how to flow in a fight, having all those senses acutely tuned to everyone and everything around you. Think about it the last time you had a scrap? It’s only when you’ve been in the mix for a while that you know you’re throwing punches that land and hurt, it’s only when you’ve had a few blows that every cell in your body is arranged for survival, to duck, weave and dodge the bullets your enemy writes your name on.”
“#99 is a great number because it means I can come in and hit hard on a few softened up souls, but it also means that I’m fresh as newly sprung daisy and unequipped for the morning frost. In these situations, the advantage is always with the experienced, wily head; those who have seen, felt and smelt the war, they are the most dogged of soldiers, no matter how exhausted they may be, not some fresh out of the barracks recruit. At bottom, if weariness hinders #1, then as #99 I have to be aware that my principal enemy in all of this is complacency.”
“All of that aside, the question lingers ‘what chance does a down and out ruffian from the East End have against the world’s best collection of professional fighters?’ Whether I come in #1 or #99, the outcome will be the same.”
“True, I don’t have the look, I don’t have an expensively assembled entourage ensuring every minute detail is covered in my preparation, I don’t have a bunch of titles, or a reputation to psychologically burden others; I haven’t even been inside a wrestling ring in years. But all of this incidental to a degree. When you’re in the fight for your life what really matters?”
“I’ve heard some say it is having nothing to lose, not fearing the fate that awaits you if it all goes tits up. I think that’s a load of bollocks all the same. If you’ve nothing to lose, nothing to fear, why not just be done with it and slice open your own throat? What matters is desperation: an absolute desperate clinging to the life you are living. I don’t have all the comforts these professional wrestlers have: There is no warm, safe bed for me to sleep in; I don’t go into this match knowing when I wake up the next day, whatever happens, I’ve still got a job; I don’t even know if there will be a Monday morning for me to wake up to.”
“Yet in spite of all that, I am desperate not to go down in this manner. I’m not going to be some unknown man to history, some street thug who look a bullet in some dirty abandoned warehouse in Hackney Borough. This isn’t about some five minutes of fame, the honour of bearing a title, all of that can come later for me; this about finding a foothold on the rock face. It’s a chance to walk out with a million in my pocket, enough to buy myself a clean slate and a second chance; it’s the chance to prove the industry was wrong to cast me out, the chance to show the world that Lenny Lansbury was a fighter – even if for just ten minutes – but most of all it’s my one and only chance to show all those who wish they could have my blood on their hands that, when push comes to shove, you DON’T FUCK WITH THE GUV’NOR!”
End.
