Post by Jules on Feb 15, 2013 20:41:18 GMT -4
Book I: Beginnings
Chapter III
Chapter III
Following the controversial debut of The Guv’nor, Lenny Lansbury jetted out of Chicago with a contented feeling inside his chest. He even managed to raise a return smile to the overly keen and polite check-in woman, despite being booked on an 8am flight – hideously ungodly hour he thought. Why so happy? Well, Lenny knew that controversy was a seller. The media shit storm that followed infamous events in his own country he expected would be repeated on the on other side of the Atlantic, only tenfold (because America always supersized everything!). He was right on the money: wrestling forums across the globe were divided in their opinion of The Guv’nor. Some labelled him a ‘nasty brute’ who would add ‘trash not class’ to world-leading product that APW offered. But on the other hand, his anarchic antics were celebrated by some, who felt, with the recent draft and loss of talent, Meltdown was in need of a leading star again, someone who would give viewers a reason to continue to support APW’s third brand.
Lenny basked in the response; he didn’t give a monkey’s arsehole what kind of reaction he got, as long as it was in high volume. For him it could lead only to exposure, and with that added interest he knew it would mean APW would generate more and more cash; a big cash pie he knew would be entitled to a fair slice of. Sure, some narrow-minded idiots said ‘he lost a match’ and proved nothing, but Lenny was always a bigger picture thinker. At that time the picture he was painting was his own Fort Knox, stuffed to the rafters with lots and lots of wonga!
And now Lenny was back in New York City where he knew Cher would be waiting with loving and longing arms. She had settled well into life in the Big Apple, living out whatever silly little ‘Sex and the City’ fantasy she had. But she was happy and she was at his side, which is all that Lenny wanted at that time. Back at their Manhattan apartment (provided for them by ‘Touchstone’) he stepped over the threshold and exclaimed like a returning and victorious emperor.
“Babe, your king is home. Now get your kit of love, I’m horny as fuck.”
Cher stepped into the hallway, looked at Lenny with his trousers dropped and his bits on display.
“You can put that away for starters. Where have you been?”
“Chicago, you know doing that wrestling gig that pays for your shoes. Come on, love, how can you refuse this?”
“I’m not in the mood Lenny. I’ll cut that thing off before I let you put it anywhere near me.”
Confused and deflated, Lenny pulled up his trews and followed Cher into the kitchen.
“What the fuck, Cher? I’ve been out there slaving away for us, and this is how you welcome me home.”
“First of all, what the fuck was that last night I watched on the telly? Secondly, why has your phone been off for the past twelve hours?”
“The battery died, you know how these things happen. Anyway, what you chirping about last night?”
“That bollocks I saw you pulling off in the ring.”
“Listen babe, this wrestling business is a tough sport; it’s not always suited for sensitive specs. I’m sorry you had to see that, but you know who I am, how I make my business.”
“Don’t patronise me, Lenny,” she said staring daggers at him. “You don’t become engaged to a London gangster without being prepared to turn the other cheek. You doing whatever you did in London without a word from me was one thing because you promised me I would never be involved. Well you broke that promise and now I am involved. So what you do in this wrestling venture affects me too, and what you did last night was stupid.”
“Babe, you got to know how these things work. Those people want to see someone who’s going to shake off the cobwebs. I’ve got to make us the money so we can escape this mess; trust me, I’ve set us on the track to our first million. This time next year we’ll be millionair-”
“Don’t give me that cheesy bullshit. While you’ve been wanking off to your own magnificence for the last twelve hours, I’ve been dealing with the fallout.
“What do you mean?” Lenny asked, genuinely confused.
“I’ve been taking calls from that lawyer of yours every half an hour for the last twelve hours. I’ve not got any sleep, my hair’s a mess, and worst of all you made me miss my nail appointment.”
“Mr. Black? What is he doing phoning you?”
“He’s been trying to reach you, arsehole! But your arsehole phone has been off, so he’s been bugging me for an answer.” Cher reads that Lenny still doesn’t understand: “They’re not a bunch of happy campers, do you understand that thicko?”
“What have they got to be grieved about? He wanted me to make an impact; that’s what I did.”
Right on cue the phone began to ring.
“Oh, what a surprise!” Cher exclaimed sarcastically. She answered the phone. “Yeah, he’s here now, putting him on now.”
Lenny took the call, tried to get in a few words, but by his inability to complete even one word and his general deflated demeanour it would have been obvious to an observer that he was taking a severe tongue-lashing. After a minute he put down the phone.
“He’s coming to New York tomorrow, said he wants to have a serious talk.”
Cher was seething: “Don’t you dare fuck this up Lenny and expect to find me standing beside you. Just get this fixed,” she ordered before leaving the apartment with the exclamation mark of a slammed door.
*
The next day he followed the instructions given to him. He was at the corner of West 57th and 5th when he was told to be there, got into the black luxury sedan that he was told would be there at precisely the time it arrived, and was conveyed to the office of Mr. Black, the lawyer who was the public front of the mysterious ‘Touchstone’ organisation backing The Guv’nor U.S. wrestling venture. To say Lenny was given the cold shoulder treatment was an understatement: no cup of coffee this time, no comfortable arm chair, instead a rickety wooden one. The lawyer entered and took up a seat, skipping the greetings and straight into business.
“Your fiancé has spoken to you?”
“She indicated you weren’t very happy, but you got to understand Mr. Black what it means to make waves in this bus-”
Mr. Black held up a hand, signalling he wanted Lenny to listen.
“The people I represent fully understand the mechanics of the sport, Mr. Lansbury. They also understand the nature of your personality, your past credentials etc. They are the very reason they are backing you with unfathomable financial generosity. However, what you need to understand is the mechanics of the relationship between you and my client. You do understand why ‘Touchstone’ is supporting you, when they could just as readily cut you adrift to fend for yourself. Something, I am sure, your friends in London would be delighted to hear.”
Lenny nodded, his understanding was crystal clear.
“Your job is to make money,” the lawyer continued, “and you don’t make money if you don’t have a contract.”
“Did you see what I did out there?”
“You got yourself disqualified from a match you should have won, you physically assaulted a referee, then later on carried out an act of stupidity by trying to embarrass the man who runs the show on live television.”
“And that’s what the people are talking about. Who cares whether Warren Peace, Trevor The Magic Mushroom, or Doris the Dingle won that match – I made a statement. With the draft, I’m the guy everyone wants to see on Meltdown. I’m telling you, watch the internet buzz, every breath I took on the show spawned dough.”
“Right now, Mr. Lansbury, the only thing between you and the firing line is me. On Monday night I had to fend off calls from Alexander Duvall threatening to suspend you for your actions. If you don’t wrestle, you don’t get paid. If you don’t get paid, you’re losing ‘Touchstone’ money, and, trust me, they are not people you want to be in debt with.”
“Listen Mr. Black, I’m not the kind of geezer who goes out there with string attached to my back. You, or ‘Touchstone’, or any other rum fucker isn’t going to tell me how and what to do. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for the generosity ‘your client’ has shown, and it is my aim to pay them back every penny and more. If they make millions, I make millions, that’s the deal we have, yeah. It’s win-win, but I do things my way, and certainly not how some prick in a suit who wouldn’t know the first thing about holding his fists right wants me to. You got that, chief?”
Mr. Black smiled and reclined back in his seat, the picture of the calm smugness of a successful business man (with his expensive assembled ensemble of the finest suit, designer watch, and a tie that probably cost more than Lenny’s entire wardrobe), completely unimpressed and not intimidated by Lenny’s aggression.
“With the likes of Logan Alexander, Christian Kane and Young Mannie drafted, my client wants you to fill the void they have left. Whatever the resolution of the North American Championship, ‘Touchstone’ want you there as part of the process. They want to see you with that belt around your waist sooner rather than later. You understand?”
Lenny nodded.
“With that belt we can start to draw in the bigger cheques. But all of this tomfoolery from the last show, that is only going to be a blockade to you becoming the #1 name on Meltdown. History has proven that the way onto the bigger stage of Overdrive or Asylum is through the North American Championship. Evan Envi, Michael Lively, AJP, Logan Alexander and Young Mannie have all earned a fast-track ticket off Meltdown through that title.”
Mr. Black’s tone suddenly shifted to a more conciliatory one.
“You want to be the anarchist; fine, but be smart and do it when you have some bargaining power. Right now, you’re just a thug that’s been pulled from the gutter. You have to start winning matches, and you have to start this week. No more nonsense, Mr. Lansbury. This week you face Hood and Valo, so go out there and beat them; that is how we’re going to turn you into a money-making machine.
*
From the archives of Action Packed Wrestling: The Guv’nor’s Gab (transcript #2)
For the past week I’ve had to listen to the world ask me why. Twitter, facebook, emails, texts, you name it I’ve been questioned through it – why, Guv’nor, did you spoil your debut?
Here’s the rub: I didn’t spoil a thing. Yeah, Warren Peace and that Magic Mushroom-popping muggins Trevor-who-gives-a-fuck get to square off for a shot at the title. I understand where you’re coming from people; that could’ve been me. So have I squandered a golden opportunity? Well if you’re asking that question you’re missing the bleeding point.
Think about it: does anyone really care about a Warren Peace or a Trevor-wotsits title charge? You’re having a bubble, mate! These are just the next two tits in the Meltdown merry-go-round. Sure a nice bit of blinged weight about the waist is no bubble, but I’ve got my eyes on a bigger prize. Frankly, whoever is there when my time comes don’t matter a jot, matey. But when that time comes will the people be screaming out for The Guv’nor to be champ?
I FUCKING GUARANTEE IT!
That’s the real prize my friends. Just like my bird keeps me waiting a week before she relents on the trouser action, so too I’ll cock tease this audience ‘til they are literally gushing for The Guv’nor.
Now chief muppet, Alexander Duvall, whatever, has seen fit to try and punish me a bit this week. Seems I rubbed that geezer up the wrong way last week when I gave him the WUM treatment. Seems his idea of a witty riposte is to put me in the ring with two of his finest dandies, and me with some twit in my corner who calls himself Mr. Dangerous, setting me up as some kind of patsy. Luvvly jubbly Duvall, you fucking tool, don’t you know I dance this one professionally? What gets me, though, is this prick has to dress it up as some kind of fair fight. You wanna bust my balls, as those old timers in the Scorsese movies like to say, then just front up, sunshine, and I’ll have you fucked like a Soho slapper.
But it is what it is, and this week I find myself up against the very best Meltdown has to offer: some bird with a right hard-on for Kevin Costner, and some lanky prick who fancies himself as some kind of Nordic Beserker.
Robina Hood. Listen babe, I’ve love your thing: coming into this place and giving it the big medieval number. I don’t quite know what in your mind possessed you to prance about this place in some frilly green tights, probably the worst idea since the Russell Crowe remake, but I can’t deny I don’t get a rock on for a fitty in a tight dress.
Yeahyeah love, I know you’re married like, but I promise I won’t touch.....too much. But in all seriousness Robina, you’ve got to think about this rationally. I’m not that sort of guy who goes in for the intellectual side of things, but even I can see it’s not wise for a waif like you, hubby and little nipper at home, to step inside the ring with an animal like me. Don’t get me wrong here, sweetheart, this isn’t a sex thing: trust me, in my neck of the woods I’ve seen slags tooled-up with as much hardware as the most psychotic rudeboys, and when those crazy bitches go in search of aggro the whole of the borough cognizes, know what I mean?
I got no compunctions laying hands on a woman, after all this path was your choice not mine. I’m here to hurt whatever stands across from me and collect as much glory along the way; so the fact you’re a bird; well it wouldn’t matter if you were Princess Cathy herself, I’d still have two fists here to give your dentist work for life.
Robina, I know you got yourself set up as the queen bee around here: you did a fine job creating nightmares for wotsit from The Matrix, and I can see you’ve got that snappy tongue of yours lodged firmly up Sienna’s stinker; but this isn’t just a different level, it’s a different game altogether. I’m not talking about this being a man’s game; I’m talking about this being a game MADE IN HACKNEY. That’s the jungle, sweetheart; urban flava and all dat, know what I mean? In this kind of warfare people from the woods...well they just don’t survive too well against dem big and nasty beasts. Beasts carrying around an appetite like this one growling in my stomach.
Then there is THE FINNISHED PHENOM: Tooty-Frooty Tuhoa Valo himself. Now you don’t got to go far to find a man in the wrestling world with a God complex. I know these geezers: they jack themselves up so hard they’ve got skittles for balls and tram lines running the length of their tiny cocks. They look at themselves in the mirror and says ‘I’m a fucking ‘ard nut’. Yeah, yeah I get it sunshine, you got no dick and your missus is laughing ‘cause you can’t get it up. Stop over-compensating!
But here’s the thing about Valo: he says he’s a God among men; well either he’s been sipping a little too much at that Nordic juice they got cooking up in the fjords, or he’s got some strange sense of what is divine-like. The Bible bashers in my mandep always preaching how God is some all-powerful being who sees and does everything; so given Valo’s run of affairs around here I’m not quite sure what kind of God he’s imitating....maybe that one that bends over and takes it right up the [CENSORED].
I mean this guy has got a real thick one for himself, and fair play, he’s riding some big waves. He came into Meltdown with a big head of steam, promising this, promising that. First he was going to take over the show, then he has some big scheme that’s gonna blow the world away, like he has some kind of revelation that will rupture the fabric of reality, but to do all that he just needs a few pounds of gold plated nickel round his waist.
I love these geezers who stomp into a room, backing themselves with some muscular threats. But you and whose army is going to deliver, matey? It’s hilarious! I couldn’t give a monkey’s arsehole whatever scheme Tooty-Frooty has up his sleeve, but I promise all of you the only revelation he’ll have for us this week is the sound of his squeal as The Guv’nor delivers a Gypsy Kiss – so pucker up you slaaaaaaaaag!
The pitiable about Valo is that his whole persona is dependent on a single thing: the North American Championship. He’s thinks of nothing else; it oozes out of every pore of his body like cowardice out of a gooner. Yet it’s the one thing he can’t get his hands on. A truly fucking tragic state of affairs that a man defines himself by that one thing that is completely and utterly out of his reach. I don’t want to do you a disservice Toots, ‘cause I’m no Mystic Meg and I can’t promise you won’t ever reach that goal. But right now you’re looking in the wrong place: you’re staring at the tits of that fitty, who is way out of your league, on the side of the road when there is a HACKNEY CAB bearing down to smash you to pieces. I would sympathise with you Valo if it wasn’t so pathetic.
But pay attention, bruv, because this week you learn what it’s like to be made of sterner stuff, what it means to be....
End.
For the past week I’ve had to listen to the world ask me why. Twitter, facebook, emails, texts, you name it I’ve been questioned through it – why, Guv’nor, did you spoil your debut?
Here’s the rub: I didn’t spoil a thing. Yeah, Warren Peace and that Magic Mushroom-popping muggins Trevor-who-gives-a-fuck get to square off for a shot at the title. I understand where you’re coming from people; that could’ve been me. So have I squandered a golden opportunity? Well if you’re asking that question you’re missing the bleeding point.
Think about it: does anyone really care about a Warren Peace or a Trevor-wotsits title charge? You’re having a bubble, mate! These are just the next two tits in the Meltdown merry-go-round. Sure a nice bit of blinged weight about the waist is no bubble, but I’ve got my eyes on a bigger prize. Frankly, whoever is there when my time comes don’t matter a jot, matey. But when that time comes will the people be screaming out for The Guv’nor to be champ?
I FUCKING GUARANTEE IT!
That’s the real prize my friends. Just like my bird keeps me waiting a week before she relents on the trouser action, so too I’ll cock tease this audience ‘til they are literally gushing for The Guv’nor.
Now chief muppet, Alexander Duvall, whatever, has seen fit to try and punish me a bit this week. Seems I rubbed that geezer up the wrong way last week when I gave him the WUM treatment. Seems his idea of a witty riposte is to put me in the ring with two of his finest dandies, and me with some twit in my corner who calls himself Mr. Dangerous, setting me up as some kind of patsy. Luvvly jubbly Duvall, you fucking tool, don’t you know I dance this one professionally? What gets me, though, is this prick has to dress it up as some kind of fair fight. You wanna bust my balls, as those old timers in the Scorsese movies like to say, then just front up, sunshine, and I’ll have you fucked like a Soho slapper.
But it is what it is, and this week I find myself up against the very best Meltdown has to offer: some bird with a right hard-on for Kevin Costner, and some lanky prick who fancies himself as some kind of Nordic Beserker.
Robina Hood. Listen babe, I’ve love your thing: coming into this place and giving it the big medieval number. I don’t quite know what in your mind possessed you to prance about this place in some frilly green tights, probably the worst idea since the Russell Crowe remake, but I can’t deny I don’t get a rock on for a fitty in a tight dress.
Yeahyeah love, I know you’re married like, but I promise I won’t touch.....too much. But in all seriousness Robina, you’ve got to think about this rationally. I’m not that sort of guy who goes in for the intellectual side of things, but even I can see it’s not wise for a waif like you, hubby and little nipper at home, to step inside the ring with an animal like me. Don’t get me wrong here, sweetheart, this isn’t a sex thing: trust me, in my neck of the woods I’ve seen slags tooled-up with as much hardware as the most psychotic rudeboys, and when those crazy bitches go in search of aggro the whole of the borough cognizes, know what I mean?
I got no compunctions laying hands on a woman, after all this path was your choice not mine. I’m here to hurt whatever stands across from me and collect as much glory along the way; so the fact you’re a bird; well it wouldn’t matter if you were Princess Cathy herself, I’d still have two fists here to give your dentist work for life.
Robina, I know you got yourself set up as the queen bee around here: you did a fine job creating nightmares for wotsit from The Matrix, and I can see you’ve got that snappy tongue of yours lodged firmly up Sienna’s stinker; but this isn’t just a different level, it’s a different game altogether. I’m not talking about this being a man’s game; I’m talking about this being a game MADE IN HACKNEY. That’s the jungle, sweetheart; urban flava and all dat, know what I mean? In this kind of warfare people from the woods...well they just don’t survive too well against dem big and nasty beasts. Beasts carrying around an appetite like this one growling in my stomach.
Then there is THE FINNISHED PHENOM: Tooty-Frooty Tuhoa Valo himself. Now you don’t got to go far to find a man in the wrestling world with a God complex. I know these geezers: they jack themselves up so hard they’ve got skittles for balls and tram lines running the length of their tiny cocks. They look at themselves in the mirror and says ‘I’m a fucking ‘ard nut’. Yeah, yeah I get it sunshine, you got no dick and your missus is laughing ‘cause you can’t get it up. Stop over-compensating!
But here’s the thing about Valo: he says he’s a God among men; well either he’s been sipping a little too much at that Nordic juice they got cooking up in the fjords, or he’s got some strange sense of what is divine-like. The Bible bashers in my mandep always preaching how God is some all-powerful being who sees and does everything; so given Valo’s run of affairs around here I’m not quite sure what kind of God he’s imitating....maybe that one that bends over and takes it right up the [CENSORED].
I mean this guy has got a real thick one for himself, and fair play, he’s riding some big waves. He came into Meltdown with a big head of steam, promising this, promising that. First he was going to take over the show, then he has some big scheme that’s gonna blow the world away, like he has some kind of revelation that will rupture the fabric of reality, but to do all that he just needs a few pounds of gold plated nickel round his waist.
I love these geezers who stomp into a room, backing themselves with some muscular threats. But you and whose army is going to deliver, matey? It’s hilarious! I couldn’t give a monkey’s arsehole whatever scheme Tooty-Frooty has up his sleeve, but I promise all of you the only revelation he’ll have for us this week is the sound of his squeal as The Guv’nor delivers a Gypsy Kiss – so pucker up you slaaaaaaaaag!
The pitiable about Valo is that his whole persona is dependent on a single thing: the North American Championship. He’s thinks of nothing else; it oozes out of every pore of his body like cowardice out of a gooner. Yet it’s the one thing he can’t get his hands on. A truly fucking tragic state of affairs that a man defines himself by that one thing that is completely and utterly out of his reach. I don’t want to do you a disservice Toots, ‘cause I’m no Mystic Meg and I can’t promise you won’t ever reach that goal. But right now you’re looking in the wrong place: you’re staring at the tits of that fitty, who is way out of your league, on the side of the road when there is a HACKNEY CAB bearing down to smash you to pieces. I would sympathise with you Valo if it wasn’t so pathetic.
But pay attention, bruv, because this week you learn what it’s like to be made of sterner stuff, what it means to be....
End.
