Post by Jules on Feb 23, 2013 18:48:52 GMT -4
Book I: Beginnings
Chapter IV
Chapter IV
“So what’s the verdict doc?”
Lenny Lansbury asked, tapping his hand on the examination bench impatiently. It was the day after The Guv’nor had given APW a glimpse of his potential by fending off the dual threat of Tuhoa Valo/Nathaniel Havok and Robina Hood in a glorified handicap match. His ribs were killing him with the sensation of being perpetually knifed, and his head banged like a thrash drummer. The X-ray film showed evidence that this wasn’t the first time Lenny had been banged up (and I assure you as you read more of this document, it would prove not to be the last), but his body screamed out in protest nonetheless.
“There’s a cracked rib,” the doctor, wearied by years in the ER, said placidly, “there’s also some bruising and minor tissue damage. We’re waiting on the results of the MRI, but I suspect there’s a concussion also.”
Lenny beamed and hopped off the table, grinning from ear to ear.
“So what’s the prescription, then – pop a few downers and give the missus the run around for a few days?”
The doctor sighed. I suspect he thought about giving a lecture, but he knew it would be pointless. Asking a man like Lenny Lansbury to give serious thought to how he made a living was like presenting a rehab brochure to an addict. Fucking pointless. The words would be wasted on a man whose only propensity into life was towards violence; whose only meaning was derived from the scars he gained. Badges they were, all telling their own unique story. A picture so profound even Picasso would have shuddered at its expressiveness.
“Take these. Two pills, three times a day,” the doctor advised as he handed Lenny some pills. “And get some rest. Try not to exert those ribs, or you’ll risk something more serious and a lot more painful.”
Lenny gave the doctor a grateful nod as he headed to the door.
“And try to avoid falling objects Mr. Lansbury,” added the doctor wryly, “especially steel chairs.”
Lenny smiled and replied: “Kind of hard where I’m going, doc”, then opened the door.
“You won’t take it the wrong way if I say I hope I never have to patch you up again?”
“There’s a lot of slags in this world looking to cause no-good, doc. What can I say, a man like me just happens to get in the way of these shit-spraying cunts.”
“Goodbye Mr. Lansbury.”
With a nod Lenny headed out the door. It didn’t take him long to get back to the reception where Cher was waiting. She rose, her face anxious with worry, and approached Lenny, wanting to know the outcome.
“It’s all good, love,” Lenny said, sinking four of the pills. “Just a bit of a bump on the head; nothing a good lie down and a few bandages can’t fix up.”
She knew it was bullshit. All she had to say was his name; the accusation poured forth. The guilt tore down Lenny’s defences and honesty had its day.
“Okay, so I got a bit of a cracked rib, nothing to write home about.” She looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “And a little concussion. But I’ll right as rain by Monday to teach that slag Nathaniel Havok a lesson for his cheek last week.”
“Fucking Hell, Len!” she whispered, trying not to make a scene. “I can’t believe you sometimes!”
Then all decorum vanished as she barged past him and stomped out of the ER and headed to the car. Having followed her, Lenny jumped into the passenger seat, the cold shoulder well and truly given to him. He couldn’t tolerate it.
“Babe, this is my living; what’s the problem? It’s not like I haven’t got bashed up before.”
“Because what good to me are you if you’re crippled, or worse?”
Lenny gave her a peculiar look. She had never once seemed to worry back in London; but then he didn’t grasp back then the gravity of the situation for Cher.
“That was in London. I knew I would never be alone there, but here – what if something happens to you Len; what will I do then?”
“Babe, trust me, nothing’s going to happen. It’s just a bit of a knock on the loaf; I’ll take a few of these pills, put my feet up for a few days; you know I’m right.”
“Not this time, Len. Why did you have to fly in like a headless chicken? You could’ve laid low, made the money we need slowly-”
“And continue to let them slags ‘Touchstone’ mug me off,” he spat, interrupting her mid-sentence. “I’m The-FUCKING-Guv’nor – don’t you ever fucking forget that!”
“Yeah, I’ve heard it all before. But you’re useless to me if you’re dead, or unable to keep this thing going. So you got hit with a chair last week; stop being such a fucking man!”
“Stop being a man – what else am I supposed to be?”
“Smart would be a nice change. You don’t have to wrestle next week; it’s a personal vendetta you’re following to stroke your own ego.”
“Hang on-”
“No! I’m sick of it, Len. There’s no value in this match and you know it!”
“No value in it! Leave it awt, you dumb bitch! Who the fuck said anything about value?”
“Then you’re saying it means nothing?”
“Nah, I didn’t say that. I said it isn’t about value. But it means everything. Do you know who I am?”
“You’re Lenny Lansbury – selfish wanker!”
“I’m The Guv’nor, love.”
“Don’t give me that, Len. Save it for all those idiots who watch your shows.”
“I’m serious, Cher. I’m The Guv’nor – that’s who I am. That may not carry much value right now, but it means everything. Do you know what that title means?”
She rolled her eyes dismissively; like someone does when they’re being fed what they think is bullshit for the umpteenth time. As it would turn out, the Lenny would give much of the same speech verbatim when he cut his match promo later in the week.
However, before all that some upsetting news landed at the door of Lenny. It came in the form of a doctor’s note declaring him unfit to wrestle for two weeks. Lenny never knew if Cher was behind it, but if she was he wouldn’t have held it against her because what did she understand about what it meant to a man, a grafter, to be The Guv’nor.
But it didn’t take much for him to find a source of blame. A good shaking down had convinced the happy doctor to confess he’d been paid off by some lawyer saying he represented Lenny’s best interests. It didn’t take long for Lenny to find Mr. Black and gate-crash the sordid little shindig he was hosting for NY’s finest society slags.
Barging his way through a posse of mugs, Lenny clocked Mr. Black and before the lawyer could even begin to raise a fake, slimy grin Lenny had punched him spark out. A furore tried to get going, some mug stepped forward and spoke with outrage.
“Who the hell are you? You can’t just come in here and-”
But he never got to finish his sentence as Lenny slapped the head on him, putting that muggy straight right on his arse. As the crowd backed off Lenny spoke.
“When that slag wakes up, tell him if he ever again tries to pull the plug on The Guv’nor I’ll feed him his own balls.”
Out walked Lenny, his chest all puffed up with triumph. Right then he felt on top of the world; not foretelling the fallout this act of resistance would create.”
*
From the archives of Action Packed Wrestling: The Guv’nor’s Gab (transcript #3)
Last week the world got to see the potential of The Guvnor, but this week APW and the wrestling world will get an idea of what it means to be it.
You see, what I showed last week is that I am a force to be reckoned with; which I knew all along. I didn’t doubt for one second that I had the fight in me to confront the best team Duvall could muster, and that’s not me boasting, or saying I knew I would get the win. If anything I was certain there would be some set-up to ensure I didn’t leave of my own powers, but I knew whatever happened the world would know that there is plenty of fight in my fists.
However, it’s what came after that leads us to the key points of this week’s episode of Meltdown. In my old line of business I’ve known some right nasty cunts; plenty of people I wouldn’t exactly want to leave my old nan with. We was saints none of us, but if there is one thing you don’t tolerate over the fence is the loitering of slags. I’m talking about them no-good bastards who go around rumping others to get themselves ahead, taking what isn’t theirs or isn’t earned, giving themselves the big GEE when they haven’t got a set a cobblers to sit on.
I knew this business was going to be full of this sort: good for nothing mugs who could do with a dose of reality and some good-to-honest slapping about. But I never expected to run into such a big slag as Nathaniel Havok in just my second week. I mean we got that German mug spraying shit all over Twitter like it never rained before, but that plastic is nothing on this slag behind the mask.
Listen, I got some bit of admiration for Nathaniel Havok. I looked into the guy and to be honest, to have the determination to want to come back to the place where you were embarrassed by your boss who could barely tie up his own wrestling boots takes...well, it means he’s got some spirit at least. He never gave up; he kept on grafting to get what he wanted. Fair play, even a total mug can have a glimmer of light inside him.
But the whole mask thing? Nah, that ain’t for me. I’ve always lived by the principle that if there’s something you don’t like, you put your face up front and make it known. Not all this creeping around, pretending to be one thing, manipulating and scheming against others. Give the lad his due, he certainly rumped old Duvall, and that’s always good in my book. But at the bottom this is an act of cowardice.
I’m sure old Nathaniel thinks it makes him look right proper smart. Personally, I just think it shows him to be the rotten slag that he is.
Now Havok’s business is his own. I got no gripes with him needing to hide behind a mask; I don’t judge if it doesn’t interfere with my own. But that’s where Havok has incurred the vexation of The Guv’nor. If he wanted to make his little speech after I’d put him down, well then I’ll always oblige. But my issue is when this slag thinks he can take liberties with me, use my name as a way to gain a reputation he hasn’t earned.
This no-good slag putting me down with a chair after the match, that’s a stretch too far. If Havok wants to play that game between the bells, then you won’t get no argument from me. I know the name of the game, and I’ve lived off violence my whole life; I’m not afraid to take a punch, and I’m not ashamed of getting bashed up a little. But when a dirty bastard comes along and tries to mug you off like this, well that’s a black mark in my book.
It’s like I had to tell my missus just the other day when she tried to persuade me out of this match. What’s at stake in this match isn’t the result; on the face of it it’s just two blokes having a tear up in the ring, business as usual. So for some, they look at me, with my concussion and say, ‘Len, leave it out, mate, take a chill; there’s no value in this one, leave it be’.
Sure, there may be no value in this match over and above any other. But it fucking means everything!
It means everything because what it takes to be ‘The Guv’nor’ is at stake in this very match. The long and short is that the title brings with it a certain set of principles. It says I’m a sort that you just don’t fuck about with – because the bomb you set off won’t be worth the trouble. You don’t just walk away from that ‘cause you’ve got a bit of a headache, or ‘cause you just don’t fancy getting out of bed. You do that and all the slags in this world will jump all over you and rip the very skin from your bones.
When you’re a man like that, you can’t let mugs like Nathaniel Havok start taking liberties and allow them to get away with it. There’s principles involved, and they have to be upheld. In this case I can’t let lie what that slag Havok did. I wouldn’t be The Guv’nor if I did. As soon as you allow one bad apple, the whole barrel goes rotten. It’s not about revenge, or personal gratifaction, whatever they call it. It’s about the world knowing there is an order to things, and the day when ‘The Guv’nor’ starts letting slags like Havok take more than their share without so much as a fist thrown in anger, well then that’s the day the world starts to fall apart.
I’ve seen the Twitter feeds, I saw the smug look on that twats face after the show. I know he’s giving himself the GEE like King Kong is his personal bitch. I’m sure the lad can wrestle; I’ve had my people do the research and I know who he used to fuck, who he thinks he fucked up, and the titles he once enjoyed. But here’s the thing: this is about none of that.
I know Havok is looking for some glorious return, like some conquering Emperor, but if he thinks he’s going to achieve that with a bunch of wrist locks and frisky grapples then he needs to think again. This Monday night won’t be about proving who is the best wrestler, who is the best fighter, or any of those delusional notions Nathaniel Havok has about himself. This one is a mission statement, being set down by The Guv’nor, and it says that freeloading will not be tolerated on Meltdown, and that any slag out there who thinks he can rise and make his name without the right graft by having a pop at me, well then he’s badly mistaken.
I’m telling you once Havok, so listen well my old son; forget about everything you learnt in your wrestling schools, forget about the rule book that exists between those ropes ‘cause I’m burning it before I step through the ropes. Monday is the time you learn the hard way, the painful way, that slags aren’t tolerated when you’re...
End.
Last week the world got to see the potential of The Guvnor, but this week APW and the wrestling world will get an idea of what it means to be it.
You see, what I showed last week is that I am a force to be reckoned with; which I knew all along. I didn’t doubt for one second that I had the fight in me to confront the best team Duvall could muster, and that’s not me boasting, or saying I knew I would get the win. If anything I was certain there would be some set-up to ensure I didn’t leave of my own powers, but I knew whatever happened the world would know that there is plenty of fight in my fists.
However, it’s what came after that leads us to the key points of this week’s episode of Meltdown. In my old line of business I’ve known some right nasty cunts; plenty of people I wouldn’t exactly want to leave my old nan with. We was saints none of us, but if there is one thing you don’t tolerate over the fence is the loitering of slags. I’m talking about them no-good bastards who go around rumping others to get themselves ahead, taking what isn’t theirs or isn’t earned, giving themselves the big GEE when they haven’t got a set a cobblers to sit on.
I knew this business was going to be full of this sort: good for nothing mugs who could do with a dose of reality and some good-to-honest slapping about. But I never expected to run into such a big slag as Nathaniel Havok in just my second week. I mean we got that German mug spraying shit all over Twitter like it never rained before, but that plastic is nothing on this slag behind the mask.
Listen, I got some bit of admiration for Nathaniel Havok. I looked into the guy and to be honest, to have the determination to want to come back to the place where you were embarrassed by your boss who could barely tie up his own wrestling boots takes...well, it means he’s got some spirit at least. He never gave up; he kept on grafting to get what he wanted. Fair play, even a total mug can have a glimmer of light inside him.
But the whole mask thing? Nah, that ain’t for me. I’ve always lived by the principle that if there’s something you don’t like, you put your face up front and make it known. Not all this creeping around, pretending to be one thing, manipulating and scheming against others. Give the lad his due, he certainly rumped old Duvall, and that’s always good in my book. But at the bottom this is an act of cowardice.
I’m sure old Nathaniel thinks it makes him look right proper smart. Personally, I just think it shows him to be the rotten slag that he is.
Now Havok’s business is his own. I got no gripes with him needing to hide behind a mask; I don’t judge if it doesn’t interfere with my own. But that’s where Havok has incurred the vexation of The Guv’nor. If he wanted to make his little speech after I’d put him down, well then I’ll always oblige. But my issue is when this slag thinks he can take liberties with me, use my name as a way to gain a reputation he hasn’t earned.
This no-good slag putting me down with a chair after the match, that’s a stretch too far. If Havok wants to play that game between the bells, then you won’t get no argument from me. I know the name of the game, and I’ve lived off violence my whole life; I’m not afraid to take a punch, and I’m not ashamed of getting bashed up a little. But when a dirty bastard comes along and tries to mug you off like this, well that’s a black mark in my book.
It’s like I had to tell my missus just the other day when she tried to persuade me out of this match. What’s at stake in this match isn’t the result; on the face of it it’s just two blokes having a tear up in the ring, business as usual. So for some, they look at me, with my concussion and say, ‘Len, leave it out, mate, take a chill; there’s no value in this one, leave it be’.
Sure, there may be no value in this match over and above any other. But it fucking means everything!
It means everything because what it takes to be ‘The Guv’nor’ is at stake in this very match. The long and short is that the title brings with it a certain set of principles. It says I’m a sort that you just don’t fuck about with – because the bomb you set off won’t be worth the trouble. You don’t just walk away from that ‘cause you’ve got a bit of a headache, or ‘cause you just don’t fancy getting out of bed. You do that and all the slags in this world will jump all over you and rip the very skin from your bones.
When you’re a man like that, you can’t let mugs like Nathaniel Havok start taking liberties and allow them to get away with it. There’s principles involved, and they have to be upheld. In this case I can’t let lie what that slag Havok did. I wouldn’t be The Guv’nor if I did. As soon as you allow one bad apple, the whole barrel goes rotten. It’s not about revenge, or personal gratifaction, whatever they call it. It’s about the world knowing there is an order to things, and the day when ‘The Guv’nor’ starts letting slags like Havok take more than their share without so much as a fist thrown in anger, well then that’s the day the world starts to fall apart.
I’ve seen the Twitter feeds, I saw the smug look on that twats face after the show. I know he’s giving himself the GEE like King Kong is his personal bitch. I’m sure the lad can wrestle; I’ve had my people do the research and I know who he used to fuck, who he thinks he fucked up, and the titles he once enjoyed. But here’s the thing: this is about none of that.
I know Havok is looking for some glorious return, like some conquering Emperor, but if he thinks he’s going to achieve that with a bunch of wrist locks and frisky grapples then he needs to think again. This Monday night won’t be about proving who is the best wrestler, who is the best fighter, or any of those delusional notions Nathaniel Havok has about himself. This one is a mission statement, being set down by The Guv’nor, and it says that freeloading will not be tolerated on Meltdown, and that any slag out there who thinks he can rise and make his name without the right graft by having a pop at me, well then he’s badly mistaken.
I’m telling you once Havok, so listen well my old son; forget about everything you learnt in your wrestling schools, forget about the rule book that exists between those ropes ‘cause I’m burning it before I step through the ropes. Monday is the time you learn the hard way, the painful way, that slags aren’t tolerated when you’re...
End.
