Post by Jules on May 3, 2013 9:09:12 GMT -4
Book II: An Emerging Force
Chapter V
Lenny arrived at the Blind Tiger Ale House on Bleecker Street and stopped to compose himself before crossing the threshold. He’s bubbling inside, although the initial anger had subsided during the walk here. He’d just got home from his latest stop on the Meltdown tour of South America, to be told by Cher that his brother had called. His fucking brother! What was Benny doing here?
Lenny called him at his hotel, and told him to meet him at the Blind Tiger. Now he was there, he wished he’d just told him to fuck off.
Entering the bar Lenny spotted Benny immediately, ignoring the warm smile his brother gave. It wasn’t always like this. In their youth, Benny and Lenny would cause proper tear ups on the old estate; now Lenny could barely stand to share the same air as his sibling.
“Hello little brother,” Benny greeted as he filled an empty glass set for Lenny with beer from a pitcher.
“I’m not staying, so don’t bother.”
“It’s nice to see you too,” Benny replied, placing the pitcher back on the table.
“Go fuck yourself!”
There was a momentary silence, during which Lenny fought every urge in his soul to reach across and strangle the life of his own flesh and blood. Nearly a minute went by before Benny broke the tense atmosphere.
“What happened, Len--- Why the sudden disappearance from London?”
Lenny sat in silence.
“It’s like one day you just vanished into thin air, without a word, and seemingly without a trace.”
“I let the people that mattered know. I sent a note to ma.”
“Yeah, and you’ve had her worried half to death.”
“What can I say, bruv--- I got a job offer I couldn’t turn down. I didn’t have time for a big send-off.”
“Yeah, I know a lot of your ‘friends’ were kicking up a right stink about it.”
“Who’d have thought, eh--- the runt of the family being so popular; while Mr. Perfect here--- well who’d give a shit if you vanished.”
Benny smiled, took a sip of his beer and probed.
“Listen Len, I know something went awry in London. I’m not stupid, I’ve got my contacts. So why don’t you just cut the bullshit and be honest with me.”
“Leave it out! So you can record it all on your fucking wire!” Lenny exploded across the table and ripped open his brother’s collar. There was no wire; nothing at all. A few people in the bar looked their way, but the commotion was over when Lenny sat down.
“Easy there little brother,” Benny said, re-buttoning his collar. “I’m on holiday.”
“No filth I knew was ever off-duty,” Lenny spat with venom, “especially my own brother. If you’re gonna shop me, just do it already, otherwise fuck off out of my life.”
“I’ve got no jurisdiction in the States, you know that. I even left my badge back in London. This is strictly a courtesy call.”
“Some fucking courtesy! How many geezers did you squeeze to try and get some dirt on me--- your own brother!”
“Len, listen up. You’re not exactly keeping a low-profile over here; your mug is plastered all over the television, even in England. Every crook in London was after you, now it’s like you never existed. So I know you must be well-protected out here.”
“What can I say--- the people I’m working for know how to take care of their grafters. Besides I got nothing to hide, and you got nothing on me. Otherwise why would you come begging like this?”
“Who you working for, Len?”
“Mind your own fucking business, bruv! I’m legit now. You seen me, I’m a professional wrestler. It’s proper kosher. I pay tax and everything.”
“Yeah, well I hope so. Whatever it is, looks like you’ve got a good thing. Try not to be yourself and screw this up. Especially for Cher, she deserves-”
“Fuck you!” Lenny reacted with anger and bitterness in his voice. “Don’t you fucking dare mention Cher; I’ll cut your throat you fucking slag!”
Lenny on his feet again, leaned over the table, his eyes bulging, practically spitting with rage.
“Okay Len, calm down,” Benny said in his most soothing tone. “But you’re not the only one who cares for her.”
Lenny sat down again, took a swig of the beer and calmed himself.
“I’m going to tell you this once,” Lenny said with a calm, even tone. “Stay away from her, or I’ll dump your body in the river like an unwanted dog.”
“I’m just saying Len, think of her in all this. I’ve seen this thing with the woman, Hood is it? Don’t do anything stupid, Len. I know you, we’re brothers-”
Lenny feigned spitting. “In name alone.”
“I know what you’re capable of, and this whole Guv’nor thing, it takes over you, Len. Just promise you’ll stay in control and you won’t lose it.”
“That slag will get what’s coming to her; no more, no less.”
“Just think about it, Len. Think about everything you do here. Whether this wrestling is legit or not, well I don’t give a shit; it’s not on my patch, so it’s not my problem. But if keeps you out of London, then you got my blessing.”
“Like I ever wanted that. Now are you done? I’ve had more than my fill of cunt for today.”
Lenny stood up and pulled out his wallet.
“Enjoy your stay in New York. Don’t be upset if I don’t call or invite you round for a beer.”
Lenny threw down some bills of cash on to the table.
“I don’t need your money, Len.”
“It’s not for you,” Lenny sneered, then nodded to the bar. “It’s to cover my tab. Nice one Jeff,” Lenny said to the barman, who nodded back.
Lenny turned away from his brother without even so much as a hint of a gesture of goodbye or good will. He took two steps, then.
“Lenny,” his brother called out. Lenny stopped momentarily, but ignored him and began to walk off.
“Whatever happened to Jack Parish? You know, the son of Harold Small,” Small was a London boss, ironically named given his 6’5’’ 20st frame.
Lenny paused, gritted his teeth. He had to tread careful here, this being shark-infested waters.
“Only he hasn’t been seen in six months, and the last known sighting he was supposed to be fighting you down at Frank Friday’s gym.”
Lenny curled his right hand into a ball.
“Funny thing is, little brother, whenever that night is mentioned, everyone seems to suffer with a small case of amnesia. It’s as if that fight never happened. But here you stand, but he’s nowhere to be found.”
Lenny took a long, deep breath then walked calmly out of the Blind Tiger Ale House and back onto Bleecker Street.
*
From the archives of Action Packed Wrestling: The Guv’nor’s Gab (transcript #12)
I’ve got to begin by admitting I made a boob last week, a bit of a mistake. That’s right, The Guv’nor isn’t too big and too proud to admit when he’s made an error. Last week I misjudged Billy Pepsi. I was guilty of judging the book by its cover. But can you blame an honest man for making that mistake every now and then? When you look down the Meltdown roster you can see a right bunch of big, nasty brutes with muscles bulging and the testosterone just oozing out of their skin. Then you look at Billy Pepsi and you think he’s either the relative of some executive on the board or whatever, or he’s some Joe Bloggs who won an APW contract in a raffle somewhere.
I’m not going to lie to you. I looked at Billy Pepsi and I thought he was a pathetic example of humanity. I thought he was a retard, not fit for purpose around here. I was wrong, and have to admit in my heart of hearts, given the outcome, watching The Goonies for tips on how to deal with Sloth wasn’t exactly the proper preparation for scouting out the opposition.
But Billy showed more than his worth. In fact Billy showed despite his pathetic appearance and his dopey personality, there’s a big set of cobblers hanging between those chicken legs of his. What you can’t deny is that Billy got the job done last week, after coming back from a beating and wanting more. You can’t argue with that--- well unless you’re Michael Jennings.
If I’m allowed a distraction for a moment, I want to address last week. All I’ve been this week on that bloody Twitter is this slag Michael Jennings pissing and moaning like a woman on the rag. Apparently because Michael got his arse beat last week it’s all the fault of The Guv’nor. I’ve already told you, sunshine, if you can’t take care of your own business that isn’t my problem, especially when it concerns someone who, in your words is ‘weak and pathetic’ and has ‘the same intelligence as a fourth grader’, whatever the fuck that is. Well Mickey Mouse, he was smart enough to rump you and put you down like a proper mug, know what I’m saying? But I welcome you trying to make my life a living hell because I’ll take pleasure in ripping out your windpipe and putting an end to your sheep-like bleating.
But enough with the hobo. I bought the Big Issue once, that’s enough support for the cause. This week I’ve got some real business to take care of. First I am going to break down some doors, find that slag Robina Hood, take that crowbar of hers and double-stuff the bitch with it. When I’m done with that I’ll turn my attention to Billy Pepsi and the North American Championship.
Billy boy, this week you’ve got the opportunity of a lifetime. Not because this is a Championship match, not because you’re finding yourself headlining the go-home show before Mayhem, not because you are even facing The Guv’nor 1-on-1 and have the chance to become to the first person in APW to pin The Guv’nor. All of that is a big deal bruv, but most of all this week you’re faced with the opportunity to make your career, your entire existence in this business relevant.
I’ve got to be honest, until last week I thought you some fucking idiot who barely merited my attention. Maybe that sounds a bit harsh, but why sugar-coat it? Just like you get these geezers who can talk all intellectual outside the ring, yet unable to throw a punch in it if their life depended on it, so too this world has room for some dopey bastard who probably can’t tie his own shoe laces, but is right feisty fucker between the bells. Maybe before last week nobody really took you as a serious threat, but after last week anyone would be a fool to dismiss you.
Listen, people can make what they want about the way the match finished. I can stand here and argue still I’m blue in the face about how you would never have got the job done if I was around, but the fact is I wasn’t there; and if I was, it could have been my head you sledged. The what ifs and the why fors don’t really matter, that’s what people need to start realising in this business, and accept the only fact that really matters is who gets the 1-2-3.
So let’s just say, Billy boy, you come and you fight, and you give me a proper tear up as good as anyone before you. That could be the making of you, bruv. It could be not just your ticket to stardom on Meltdown, but an exit route to what some folk call the ‘major leagues’. Imagine that. Or let’s just assume you go one better, bruv, and you pin The Guv’nor. Imagine that. What would that mean for Billy Pepsi? What would it mean for Meltdown, or APW as a whole?
I know this whole court jester thing has got a few kids on the Youtube chuckling away, but I ain’t a mug. Maybe you are a fucking moron like your videos portray, it’s neither here nor there to me. What I can see, when you’re in the ring, you want credibility as much as anyone else. Sure, you probably express it in different terms. I call no-good bastards ‘slags’, you call them ‘barf-breathed metaheads’. The difference is slight, the essence is identical. Oh, and if you’re still struggling with that term, ask that assistant of yours to read it out from the dictionary.
So you’re coming for the gold, Billy boy; I got no doubt about that, bruv. The face you put on may be a little less intense, but the intent is undeniable. But let’s consider it Billy boy; could you actually win this championship and be the first person to repel the force of The Hackney Hammer, or resist the temptation of a Gypsy Kiss?
You’ve proven you can win matches, bruv, and in many ways laid to rest the ghosts of your previous APW misadventure. You may have left a joke a year ago, but the joke is now firmly on the people like Michael Jennings who want to throw that mud at you like it still sticks. But winning matches against people like Roy Speede and Michael Jennings is one thing, taking on The Guv’nor, ending one of the most dominant undefeated streaks on Meltdown, and becoming the North American Championship--- well, that’s a completely different affair, know what I’m saying?
Nathaniel Havok, he could win matches, but when it really mattered he always choked. Warren Peace, yeah he climbed the mountain so to speak, but he got vertigo faster than a hooker drops her trews when the cash is flashed. Holding the championship is one thing, being a Champion is something else altogether. You understand what I’m saying to you, Billy bruv?
You’re dealing with the most dominant force Meltdown has ever seen. You’re not just trying to win a match here, you’re looking to overtake someone who’s miles ahead. That’s what it means to be a front-runner, Billy boy: it means to lead and show the route to everyone lagging behind. My job isn’t to carry people to finish line, to coax them along the way; it’s my job to lead, to set the example, to set the pace. And you know what? Right now I feel uncatchable.
When you step through the ropes Billy boy, that’s what you got to ask yourself. Are you ready to lead this brand? Are you capable of carrying this symbolic cross--- the North American Championship belt? Can you handle that burden? It’s the burden of knowing that at every corner you turn there could be some slag with a crowbar, a sledgehammer, or even a fucking oversized can of pop, ready to smash you with it to prove a point, to make a name for themselves. You’re going to have to prepare yourself for all of that bruv, if you think you’re going to take this Championship belt from me. Being secure in the knowledge that there is a giant bullseye on your back (because the slags around here, most of them don’t have the bottle to throw from the front) and take every dart they can throw and pierce your body with.
As good as Roy Speede may become, right now he is no Guv’nor. As good as you could be Billy bruv, right now you just aren’t strong enough to handle the responsibility. This isn’t like learning your ABCs, because this world doesn’t give you second chances, and these ruthless bastards who are all desperate to get their mitts on the only bit of property on this brand, well they will do anything to steal it from its owner.
That’s the life of the front runner, Billy. It’s not the threat of being caught that has you looking over your shoulder, it’s the worry that one of these days one of these rotten bastards will shoot you from behind. And with all that you just keep on running, keep on pumping those legs to the only thing you know and understand: victory!
I want you think about this Billy boy, ask these very serious questions of yourself before you step out with The Guv’nor. Do all your homework, sunshine, and make sure you got all the right answers because the questions I ask you only get one shot at, and there is no multiple choice. You have to find the answers inside yourself. There are no grades here, there’s no formative assessment or room for improvement. It’s a simple process of pass or fail. Either way you are going to get smashed up, bruv; all scenarios dictate that you will be made to bleed, because I have bled for this championship, and I’ll be fucked if I go quietly without taking back some of what I’ve given out.
Make no mistake Billy bruv, you’re getting The Guv’nor at his meanest, his nastiest, in the foulest mood. Usually I’d settle for beating you up as a matter of principle: trespassers get butchered when they invade my turf. But here there is a bigger picture that makes it essential I retain before Meltdown
The plans won’t change, but knowing I get to put Robina and Sienna through the torment of ‘hoping’ that they may take the title, that would be sweet. Sounds sick, but I never said I was a nice person. I never set myself out to be model citizen, but then that’s probably what people respect. I’m honest because I’m not hiding who or what I am. I don’t need anyone to spin a picture of what I should be. You take me for who I am, or you get fucked up opposing that.
So I’ll see on Monday Billy bruv, and we’ll find out what kind of geezer you really are. We’ll find out whether the next generation is built on Pepsi cola, or whether future remains a hammer that bludgeons brains and smashes skulls--- a future MADE IN HACKNEY.
End.
I’ve got to begin by admitting I made a boob last week, a bit of a mistake. That’s right, The Guv’nor isn’t too big and too proud to admit when he’s made an error. Last week I misjudged Billy Pepsi. I was guilty of judging the book by its cover. But can you blame an honest man for making that mistake every now and then? When you look down the Meltdown roster you can see a right bunch of big, nasty brutes with muscles bulging and the testosterone just oozing out of their skin. Then you look at Billy Pepsi and you think he’s either the relative of some executive on the board or whatever, or he’s some Joe Bloggs who won an APW contract in a raffle somewhere.
I’m not going to lie to you. I looked at Billy Pepsi and I thought he was a pathetic example of humanity. I thought he was a retard, not fit for purpose around here. I was wrong, and have to admit in my heart of hearts, given the outcome, watching The Goonies for tips on how to deal with Sloth wasn’t exactly the proper preparation for scouting out the opposition.
But Billy showed more than his worth. In fact Billy showed despite his pathetic appearance and his dopey personality, there’s a big set of cobblers hanging between those chicken legs of his. What you can’t deny is that Billy got the job done last week, after coming back from a beating and wanting more. You can’t argue with that--- well unless you’re Michael Jennings.
If I’m allowed a distraction for a moment, I want to address last week. All I’ve been this week on that bloody Twitter is this slag Michael Jennings pissing and moaning like a woman on the rag. Apparently because Michael got his arse beat last week it’s all the fault of The Guv’nor. I’ve already told you, sunshine, if you can’t take care of your own business that isn’t my problem, especially when it concerns someone who, in your words is ‘weak and pathetic’ and has ‘the same intelligence as a fourth grader’, whatever the fuck that is. Well Mickey Mouse, he was smart enough to rump you and put you down like a proper mug, know what I’m saying? But I welcome you trying to make my life a living hell because I’ll take pleasure in ripping out your windpipe and putting an end to your sheep-like bleating.
But enough with the hobo. I bought the Big Issue once, that’s enough support for the cause. This week I’ve got some real business to take care of. First I am going to break down some doors, find that slag Robina Hood, take that crowbar of hers and double-stuff the bitch with it. When I’m done with that I’ll turn my attention to Billy Pepsi and the North American Championship.
Billy boy, this week you’ve got the opportunity of a lifetime. Not because this is a Championship match, not because you’re finding yourself headlining the go-home show before Mayhem, not because you are even facing The Guv’nor 1-on-1 and have the chance to become to the first person in APW to pin The Guv’nor. All of that is a big deal bruv, but most of all this week you’re faced with the opportunity to make your career, your entire existence in this business relevant.
I’ve got to be honest, until last week I thought you some fucking idiot who barely merited my attention. Maybe that sounds a bit harsh, but why sugar-coat it? Just like you get these geezers who can talk all intellectual outside the ring, yet unable to throw a punch in it if their life depended on it, so too this world has room for some dopey bastard who probably can’t tie his own shoe laces, but is right feisty fucker between the bells. Maybe before last week nobody really took you as a serious threat, but after last week anyone would be a fool to dismiss you.
Listen, people can make what they want about the way the match finished. I can stand here and argue still I’m blue in the face about how you would never have got the job done if I was around, but the fact is I wasn’t there; and if I was, it could have been my head you sledged. The what ifs and the why fors don’t really matter, that’s what people need to start realising in this business, and accept the only fact that really matters is who gets the 1-2-3.
So let’s just say, Billy boy, you come and you fight, and you give me a proper tear up as good as anyone before you. That could be the making of you, bruv. It could be not just your ticket to stardom on Meltdown, but an exit route to what some folk call the ‘major leagues’. Imagine that. Or let’s just assume you go one better, bruv, and you pin The Guv’nor. Imagine that. What would that mean for Billy Pepsi? What would it mean for Meltdown, or APW as a whole?
I know this whole court jester thing has got a few kids on the Youtube chuckling away, but I ain’t a mug. Maybe you are a fucking moron like your videos portray, it’s neither here nor there to me. What I can see, when you’re in the ring, you want credibility as much as anyone else. Sure, you probably express it in different terms. I call no-good bastards ‘slags’, you call them ‘barf-breathed metaheads’. The difference is slight, the essence is identical. Oh, and if you’re still struggling with that term, ask that assistant of yours to read it out from the dictionary.
So you’re coming for the gold, Billy boy; I got no doubt about that, bruv. The face you put on may be a little less intense, but the intent is undeniable. But let’s consider it Billy boy; could you actually win this championship and be the first person to repel the force of The Hackney Hammer, or resist the temptation of a Gypsy Kiss?
You’ve proven you can win matches, bruv, and in many ways laid to rest the ghosts of your previous APW misadventure. You may have left a joke a year ago, but the joke is now firmly on the people like Michael Jennings who want to throw that mud at you like it still sticks. But winning matches against people like Roy Speede and Michael Jennings is one thing, taking on The Guv’nor, ending one of the most dominant undefeated streaks on Meltdown, and becoming the North American Championship--- well, that’s a completely different affair, know what I’m saying?
Nathaniel Havok, he could win matches, but when it really mattered he always choked. Warren Peace, yeah he climbed the mountain so to speak, but he got vertigo faster than a hooker drops her trews when the cash is flashed. Holding the championship is one thing, being a Champion is something else altogether. You understand what I’m saying to you, Billy bruv?
You’re dealing with the most dominant force Meltdown has ever seen. You’re not just trying to win a match here, you’re looking to overtake someone who’s miles ahead. That’s what it means to be a front-runner, Billy boy: it means to lead and show the route to everyone lagging behind. My job isn’t to carry people to finish line, to coax them along the way; it’s my job to lead, to set the example, to set the pace. And you know what? Right now I feel uncatchable.
When you step through the ropes Billy boy, that’s what you got to ask yourself. Are you ready to lead this brand? Are you capable of carrying this symbolic cross--- the North American Championship belt? Can you handle that burden? It’s the burden of knowing that at every corner you turn there could be some slag with a crowbar, a sledgehammer, or even a fucking oversized can of pop, ready to smash you with it to prove a point, to make a name for themselves. You’re going to have to prepare yourself for all of that bruv, if you think you’re going to take this Championship belt from me. Being secure in the knowledge that there is a giant bullseye on your back (because the slags around here, most of them don’t have the bottle to throw from the front) and take every dart they can throw and pierce your body with.
As good as Roy Speede may become, right now he is no Guv’nor. As good as you could be Billy bruv, right now you just aren’t strong enough to handle the responsibility. This isn’t like learning your ABCs, because this world doesn’t give you second chances, and these ruthless bastards who are all desperate to get their mitts on the only bit of property on this brand, well they will do anything to steal it from its owner.
That’s the life of the front runner, Billy. It’s not the threat of being caught that has you looking over your shoulder, it’s the worry that one of these days one of these rotten bastards will shoot you from behind. And with all that you just keep on running, keep on pumping those legs to the only thing you know and understand: victory!
I want you think about this Billy boy, ask these very serious questions of yourself before you step out with The Guv’nor. Do all your homework, sunshine, and make sure you got all the right answers because the questions I ask you only get one shot at, and there is no multiple choice. You have to find the answers inside yourself. There are no grades here, there’s no formative assessment or room for improvement. It’s a simple process of pass or fail. Either way you are going to get smashed up, bruv; all scenarios dictate that you will be made to bleed, because I have bled for this championship, and I’ll be fucked if I go quietly without taking back some of what I’ve given out.
Make no mistake Billy bruv, you’re getting The Guv’nor at his meanest, his nastiest, in the foulest mood. Usually I’d settle for beating you up as a matter of principle: trespassers get butchered when they invade my turf. But here there is a bigger picture that makes it essential I retain before Meltdown
The plans won’t change, but knowing I get to put Robina and Sienna through the torment of ‘hoping’ that they may take the title, that would be sweet. Sounds sick, but I never said I was a nice person. I never set myself out to be model citizen, but then that’s probably what people respect. I’m honest because I’m not hiding who or what I am. I don’t need anyone to spin a picture of what I should be. You take me for who I am, or you get fucked up opposing that.
So I’ll see on Monday Billy bruv, and we’ll find out what kind of geezer you really are. We’ll find out whether the next generation is built on Pepsi cola, or whether future remains a hammer that bludgeons brains and smashes skulls--- a future MADE IN HACKNEY.
End.
