Where Do You Expect Us To Go When The Bombs Fall?

[Peter Shelley]

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A

WHY DON'T YOU SHUT THE HELL UP?

PRODUCTION

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It looks like lightning really does strike twice after all.

Practically falling through the fire escape doors after scoring his second ill-gotten victory in his blooming pro-wrestling career, Peter Shelley and his son Stephen shine bright. Their skin glows with a fevered, excitable warmth like the night sky during Chinese New Year as the thrill of victory in combat pumps through their racing veins.

”I DID IT!” Peter roars triumphantly, making a sour and unacknowledged Stephen fold his arms. ”I mean we did it!”

Using Stephen's shoulder for support as his tired knees buckle gently underneath him, Peter gasps violently to take in as much air as he can into his starved and labouring lungs. He's just taken the beating of a lifetime from two certified destroyers but the pain just doesn't register when the thrill of the kill is making your heart detonate with each beat.

”Stephen...” calls Peter, running out of breath after two syllables. ”I think... this is one of those moments.” Stephen silently nods, pausing for a moment before leaping into a heartfelt embrace with his old man. They hadn't been this close to one another in years.

”Way to go dad. You owned it out there,” Stephen says, patting his dad on the back in their joy stricken hug.

”I did. You're right. I owned it. We owned it” affirms Peter. He takes the linen white towel slung over his shoulder and beats his face with to mop up enough sweat to confuse for monsoon rain. ”I proved once again that Scott Wilson hasn't got a lick on me and neither does Jack Slade. I surpassed the odds of two vicious thugs for opponents and proved beyond doubt that I am the best newcomer on the Asylum brand today.”

”Well you kinda' had a little help. I think the critics will-”

”Screw the critics. Five, ten years from now when people are writing my hall of fame induction speech and looking at my greatest moments, they won't look at the asterisk and the foot notes but rather the big ol' W that it's sat next to. We can talk about the ifs or buts for weeks, how Mars was in retrograde and the star axis was off balance. It really doesn't matter because when the bell rang my hand was raised, I was called the winner and that is how it will remain.” Peter nods his head for emphasis. Stephen tries to think of something to say when an unfamiliar face in an APW crew t-shirt joins them through the fire escape door. Cigarette in mouth and lit to smoke, he sighs as the cooling night air hits his skin.

“Great match out there tonight,” says the smoker, taking a hard drag. “You really worked the crowd and owned it.”

”Thanks. Who're you?” Peter asks flatly. Both father and son share scepticism for anyone who starts a conversation with a compliment and not an introduction.

“I'm Rich Cinnamon. I'm one of the team leaders for the APW backstage crew. I work pretty closely with the guys upstairs and with the other team leaders to ensure the ring and the stage all go up on time.” His introduction is returned with vacant stares. “You've really been whipping up a storm here my dude. I dig it. After your first match, the curiosity of the fan base was piqued to see how you'd pull it out of the bag this time but frankly, I think your next match is far more interesting on that front.”

”My next match? You know what it is?”

“Of course I do. I know everything. I'm the god damn Matrix. You'll be delighted to know that you'll be getting the chance to humiliate Scott Wilson again in glorious table based combat,” announces Rich, ripping the wind out from their sails. Peter's elation turns violent with a subtle touch of fear.

”What? This is ridiculous. How many times do I have to beat this man to prove beyond doubt that I'm better than him? What's next after this huh? Legalised murder match? Loser leaves town? I beat him, TWICE! Get over it!” huffs Peter. He takes the cigarette out of Rich's hand and takes a drag for himself, much to the dismay of his son and the annoyance of the crew leader.

“Don't shoot the messenger, cowboy. Besides, there's seven other people in the match and it's a gauntlet so who knows? You might be eliminated before you face him. He might be eliminated before you even come out.”

”A gauntlet? God give me strength. This is ridiculous. The prize better be a contract for never having to face Scott Wilson again or at the very least a title shot,” Peter groans, teeth grinding in his mouth. His face doesn't show it but the idea of management siccing that sociopath on him again in a No Disqualification environment makes him reconsider wearing a cycle suit.

“Nope! None of that. Just the glory of beating all of APW's best newcomers in one match. Bragging rights ahoy. Title shots are sure to follow. Anyway, I've done my job of putting the fear of God into you people. I'm off to go play poker. Later Peter,” says Cinnamon, taking the cigarette back and crushing it half smoked underneath his boot. He saunters arrogantly into the building leaving Peter to stew and Stephen to panic like there's no tomorrow.

”Thanks a lot jerk,” Peter grunts.

***

Barely able to see past the crowds of people at the Tokyo International Airport baggage claim, Peter and Stephen anxiously await their luggage to come through. In the two hour flight from Beijing to Tokyo, Peter hasn't done anything but groan about his One Night In Hell match and worry about terrorism. Stephen was eager to get some beauty sleep on the flight but he wasn't so lucky. Instead, the two stand shoulder to shoulder in the queue running on no sleep at all and an empty stomach filled with nothing but worry.

”Y'know, I can't believe this. They want me to be in a match where the objective is to put all my colleagues through the table. It's just like being back at the stock market again.” Peter growls, a little too close and a little too loud to the ear of a hungover lady who groans and takes a step away.

”Oh for God's sake dad. I've bitten my tongue but I've had enough of your complaining. You're going to lose at One Night in Hell okay? You just about survived your last two matches. How're going to handle yourself against everyone and their mom and your biggest rival trying to put you through a table? Are you even strong enough to lift someone?” snaps Stephen, a furious scrunched up expression turning apologetic as soon as he realises his loss of control. Peter falls deathly silent for a moment.

”Son, I love you but if you ever question the power of the Team Turtle artillery pieces again I will give you an enema with a hand grenade,” threatens Peter. Stephen nods silently, acknowledging his dads request. Peter rolls up his sleeves and tenses his arms, completely undeterred by the strange looks he's getting from the other people in the line.

”You see these two guns right here? These masterfully sculpted weapons of war? They're golden guns baby and you can damn well call me James Bond. I'll come up with a masterful plan, defeat all the bad guys and then I'll say something witty and badass as I walk away. Something awesome and snappy like “Looks like the tables have been turned”. Then I'll fly off into the sunset and bang Halle Berry. Or Kaylyn Evans, whichever is nearest. God I love her.”

Peter's eyes drift skywards, daydreaming about the breathtaking hiney of one of the challengers for the North American championship. Stephen simply shudders.

“You're just the worst. Have you ever tried talking to Kaylyn?” asks Stephen grabbing both their bags off the belt.

”What? No. I'm approaching forty and she's young, beautiful and built like a Ferrari. It's all going on in the back, y'know what I'm saying?” says Peter with a wink. Stephen cringes at the attempt.

”She's really nice. You should say hi. Even if she shoots you down, you can at least look at her and talk to her.” suggests Stephen in earnest only to be scoffed at in disbelief by his dad.

”What? How the Hell would you know?”

”Because I talked to her?”

”Bullshit! When?” Peter asks bewildered, almost at a loss for words.

”She bumped into me when you went for a pre-match shower. I said hi and she was really cool. Gave me some really good suggestions for where to buy some designer threads in Beijing. That's where I got this sweater,” Stephen gives Peter a twirl to show off his new party piece, a sleeveless Argyle with a tiny golden dragon and a star stitched on the breast.

”Well I'll be son. Just don't let Molly find out you're getting dressed up by a sex symbol. You don't want Lady Robot to turn Terminator on you,” Peter jokes with a nudging elbow, much to Stephen's chagrin.

”She already knows. She also knows I love her and as beautiful as all the girls in APW are, I'm with her and nobody else. And stop calling her a robot!”

”Look all I'm saying is if it looks like a robot... smells like a – what the fuck?”

Interrupting himself, the sound of frantic yelling from the exit distracts both of them from the discussion of Molly Heath's humanity. Standing in the doorway is a gaggle of at least thirty people, all wearing Team Turtle t-shirts and the Team Turtle cycling helmet with the little kicky legs. The Shelley's can barely believe their eyes.

“AIIIIIIIII! HE IS HERE! THE GENERAL IS HERE!” screams the leader of the pack, a chunky looking man with square framed spectacles and a white button shirt. He charges across the shiny airport tiles to greet his hero with his fans in tow.

“KONICHIWA GENERAL-SAN! I am Naruki Tomasu, president of the Team Turtle JPN fan club! We are your biggest fans in all of the world! You are so funny and American! Can we have autograph?” asks the eccentric superfan. Behind him, a group of mostly male fans have pen and paper too, looking at Peter with sparkling, hopeful eyes.

”I don't know...” says Peter, reaching into his coat pocket. ”Can you?” He smirks, pulling a fountain pen out from his pocket. The collective throng gasp in excitement as Peter takes a moment to bask in his new found celebrity status. Stephen steps aside to let Peter have his moment but the girls of the group swarm him and before he realises it, he's caught up in it all too.

***

”Hello everybody!

I am honoured to be broadcasting tonight live from a city envied the world over for its incredible technology, a vast and rich history of art and culture, and pillow cushions that you can stick your pecker into. Yeah you heard right, I'm coming at you live and uncut from Tokyo, Japan and boy am I glad to be here! It's 3AM now and as the city sleeps soundly and I take a cab ride to one of those fancy schmancy, claustrophobic morgue hotels I've heard so much about, I can only sit and wait on a hatching egg of unmatched anticipation for the most important match of my lifetime. And when that egg cracks, a beautiful monster will fly free and be unleashed upon the world. Majestic, mighty, merciless, dominant.

That monster ladies and gentlemen is me, and as my already unrivalled excellency in the ring scales to breathtaking new heights I will soar unchallenged and unconquerable over the unpredictable and volatile landscape that is the APW. It's a dangerous world to live in people. Wrestlers, like the shoguns of Feudal Japan muster their armies and take to battle in the name of fame, eternal glory and conquest but it won't be the horse or the man or the blade that will be instrumental in the outcome of battle but The Turtle. Even moreso than the championship matches, this match is the most important match on the show because it determines not the present but the future and ironically enough, to illustrate my point I'm going to give you all a little history lesson.

A long time ago, back in the war, our humble American government completely devastated this proud nation of warriors and indeed the entire world when they detonated two nuclear bombs at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Hundreds of thousands of people were killed within seconds. Buildings were turned to glass and the Pacific Theater of World War 2 was brought to a triumphant and shattering curtain call that will echo hauntingly through the history books for the rest of our existence. Tonight though, almost seventy years later, I, Arch-General Peter Shelley and the Turtle Army are coming back for more and we're going to make an impact that will not just rival but trump those disasters. First came Fat Man, then Little Boy, now Team Turtle. The destruction will be immeasurable.

You see tonight at One Night In Hell, it's all to play for. This is the match that'll separate the men from the boys and establish a brand new pecking order for the competing faces of APW. It's a gymnasts trampoline of a platform for me to springboard from into the glittering starry sky of wrestling immortality. Whoever wins this contest will be separated from the rough like the diamond that they are and be illuminated in the eyes of the upper echelon. When our names are up in bulbs, being noticed in the most positive of positive lights by the people who matter, the only certain move is the next move forward and without doub, we will be impossible to ignore when we come a knockin'.

To ascend to that platform though is to be the sole survivor of a battle the likes that Greek epics were written about. Godlike power awaits those who can conquer the challenge set before us. Eight competitors, zero rules but only one simple mission, run the gauntlet and put every last opponent that stands in your way through a table. It sounds easy but to mere mortal men it'll be a career shortening, agonising ordeal and only one will be allowed to stand tall when the dust finally settles. At One Night in Hell, the first battle will be waged in World War III for the future of APW and there is but one constant that you can be sure to count on when that bell rings.

The battle lines are drawn differently, the rules have changed and the names and the faces will have all changed with them but in this instrumental battle for the future of the promotion only one thing is absolutely certain, the good guys will win again. The California boy with the perfect hair, the cycle suit and the chosen one in this prophecy to become the idol of the industry will emerge victorious. I'll be coming home to mama in fatigues with my war paint on and my rifle as a keepsake while everyone else becomes a mere name in the history books. Meanwhile the hungry up and comers of APW who I've stepped over to ascend to the throne will degrade into androgynous eccentrics who jack it to cartoons, left in sheer awe of my emerging super power. Such is the fallout of the hard work at the Beverly Hills Project. Such is the future for Peter Shelley.

At One Night in Hell, I will continue to establish my winning habit. When I first set foot on the scene just three weeks ago on Asylum I was nothing but flawless and I have been immaculate since. I have been the tour de force long overdue to shake this stagnant industry to the roots and the trail of beaten losers left in my wake are a testiment to that. It doesn't just stop here though. Now The Turtle March is picking up momentum and when The Shooter is looking down the sights at not one, not two but seven rivals there is not an army you can assemble that can stop me. There will be nowhere to run. There will be nowhere to hide. This will be a clean, efficient but decisive massacre, a master class in marksmanship as I one by one eliminate every ambling amateur looking for an opportunity and establish myself as The Maverick, The Top Gun of APW but without the need for any wingman.

Now as my finest hour draws near and I await deployment to the war zone I have one thing to say to the critics. My assured victory is not an anomaly. It's no freak occurrence or accident. It's a sign of things to come. It's a sign of the regime change, the changing of the guard, the overhaul that's going to rapidly topple this dying empire and remould the face of APW's uncertain future. It won't happen overnight, it won't happen in a week but it will be a gradual change. It will be a smooth transition. It will be a revolution from with in. Slow and steady always wins the race and after I've conquered this battle and proven myself to be every bit legitimate as I say I am, we're marching onwards to bigger and better.

First we strike victory, then we strike gold, then we strike the stars.

Immortality awaits me.

I'll see you at the show.”