Post by Jules on Mar 3, 2013 21:51:43 GMT -4
Book I: Beginnings
Chapter V
Chapter V
If The Guv’nor had proven anything the previous week it was simply that the task of putting him down wasn’t going to be an easy one. Nathaniel Havok, for all his self-hype, in spite of his inspired efforts in the ring, couldn’t handle the MADE IN HACKNEY brawling of The Guvnor.
But if momentum was pushing forward at this time the career of Lenny Lansbury, it was also threatening to propel him forward into dangerous territory. Think of that time when you were learning to drive and you struggled with over-revving at the ‘biting point’, likewise Lenny’s career was in danger of jutting too far forward to quickly. It could mean a crash, it could simply stall, or even thrust forward with power and vitality – it was all going to depend on the control and the mind of the driver. The trouble was, at this time, the Lenny behind the wheel wasn’t exactly Mr. Level-Headed, and with a money-grabbing lawyer egging him on relentlessly, the crash looked likely.
But none of this occurred at the time to Lenny. In fact he was feeling on top of the world and full of himself as he rolled off his fiancé Cher, utterly spent by his recent exertions (he’d said nothing of the Honduran girls and the party – it was a three-day training meet to explain his absence, and she’d been highly generous on his return), and answered the bang-bang-bang on the apartment door. It was Mr. Black.
“Where have you been?” he demanded, barging in uninvited, not even noticing the nudity of Lenny.
“Why don’t you come in,” Lenny replied sarcastically, pushing the door closed.
“If we call you we expect you to answer.”
Lenny walked passed Mr. Black to the kitchen, pulling a beer out of the fridge, downing it in one, before opening a second. It was these healthy breakfasts that made Lenny so strong.
“I asked you a question,” Mr. Black said sharply as he joined Lenny in the kitchen.
“Sounded more like a demand to me.”
“We have been trying to reach you for three days.”
“Lenny?” Cher called from the bedroom.
“It’s okay, babe, it’s only our favourite legal representative,” Lenny sank half the can of beer. “The answer to your question: I was on a training camp, you organised it remember,” Lenny said with a wink.
“Listen you moron, my client is not paying you a handsome salary for you piss it all away with drink, drugs, and cheap women.”
“Hey, that’s racist. They may have been Honduran, but those birds were high-brow”
“What! Look, I don’t want to know about your seedy little escapades. Just put some clothes on; you need to be in the car in twenty minutes.”
“Hold on a second, you can’t barge into my apartment, and tell me what to do.”
Lenny realised the meaninglessness of that sentence once he had said it; the raised eyebrow from Mr. Black told Lenny he had better quit that line of thought immediately, especially since all of this was being taken care of by Mr. Black and the organisation known as “Touchstone”.
“I’m going to take a shower; I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
Twenty-five minutes later Lenny was been couriered across the city, Mr. Black chewing his ear off.
“I will warn you only once Mr. Lansbury,” he said sternly, “do not be a disappointment to me or my clients. They have a very low threshold for people who do not deliver what is expected of them.”
“So let me get this straight,” Lenny replied, “you want me to fly to Texas tonight to wrestle tomorrow, then I have to fly to Canada to wrestle for APW, before I getting on another plane to the other side of the world to wrestle someone I’ve never heard of from a rival company, in a match licensed to a third party organisation?”
“Yes, and we’re expecting results.”
“Well I can promise you my fucking air miles account is going to be happy after all of this.”
“Remember, there’s a title on the line in ViW; so no asshole stuff, okay? You picked this Johnny Knuckles/Reaver, so you find a way to make it work.”
Lenny shook his head; he already regretted that venture.
“Then you need to keep your momentum going on Meltdown. You passed the test with Nathaniel Havok. I don’t think Duvall is a fan of yours, but he can’t ignore you while you’re winning matches. Beat Kevin Dahlia this week and you become a very serious contender for the North American Championship after Rasslemania. If I am able to report that to Touchstone on Monday night I know they will be very happy.”
“And let me guess, my little trip to Bongo-Bongo land isn’t to give me a chance to sample the local herbs.”
“That trip is arguably the most important of them all. I want you to realise the potential power earned by the man or woman who gets to call himself the Iron King. Irrespective of that, this is your opportunity to network and make greater contacts. Remember, the more places we can put that face of yours, the bigger we can build your brand, the more money we make from you.”
“Yeah, I’m regularly caged fucking hen. What else do you want from me – this week’s lottery numbers?”
“Stop being so petulant,” Mr. Black spat back. “These are the three most important days of your life, Mr. Lansbury. You can make or break your career with your actions. Come back a three score loser and I can’t promise you my clients will be so warm on you.”
“No fucking pressure then.”
And with that the car came to a halt at the airport. No good lucks, no goodbyes, just a ‘get on with it, and get the job done’ as Lenny headed into the terminal for his sternest challenge yet.
*
From the archives of Action Packed Wrestling: The Guv’nor’s Gab (transcript #4)
When I signed my APW contract I thought I’d be making a ton of wedge from running down the ramp, giving the fans a reason to have a good old tear up to the old ‘original nuttah’, bash some heads, slap some chops, and generally go about my business as I always do – by having a fucking good knees up.
What I didn’t expect was to be part of some kind of bleeding medical miracle. First we got “The Soul of Philly” delivering a hammer blow to the recent aggressive spreading of Raabies, now it’s put in the lap of the good old ‘Guv’nor’ to find a cure for cancer. Don’t let the world tell you folks that professional wrestling is meaningless drivel; because it isn’t. We’re saving lives and pushing the boundaries of what is medically possible. Raabies taken care of with one big right boot made from the heart and soul of Philadelphia; now it’s cancer’s turn, and I’ve got a right cross that can more than account for it.
The doctors and nurses should be sucking our dicks, not the other way round. You know what I’m saying?
For all the millions and billions of dollars the health industry spends on treatments, studies, tests, machinery, better training, tit jobs for nurses, whatever! All they had to do was think ‘let’s call the Guv’nor’ and the whole thing would have been arranged and sorted for much less. Because I’m that kind of go-to guy, you know what I’m saying. You ask me to do something, and it’s done. You never have to ask or question it again.
They’ve been poisoning geezers for years and years with that chemo-shit, and the solution was waiting there, right on their doorstep. Well, maybe not right on the doorstep, but you know what I’m saying. Give it to The Guv’nor and the problem is solved.
Now I’d happily kick the arse of some life-sucking disease like cancer like any professional paid to do a job would, but when it comes this filthy, slaggy disease I’ll do for free. I mean, when it comes down to it cancer really is taking fucking liberties as far as diseases go. It’s got the audacity to spring itself to life from our own cells, then destroy us from the inside out. Talk about some bastard ungrateful spores. It takes the fucking biscuit, and I ain’t having none of that, bruvs. Leave it awwwt!
At least AIDs works its way in, infiltrates, shows some initiative, some spirit. This cancer, well it’s like an ungrateful son who takes a liberty by robbing his own mum. It’s taking us all for mugs, and well, that’s just something I’m not willing to accept.
I’d smash this cancer business just for the shits and giggles, because if there is one thing I enjoy doing it’s smashing slags that got it coming. But there is more to this than meets the eye, you see, because I got previous with cancer.
Don’t get me wrong, with my lifestyle I’ve got previous with a few ailments, but nothing a solid course of antibiotics can’t rid you of (and probably ensuring you’re carrying a few sheaths with you when there’s trouser action on the cards!). This cancer business is a different kettle of fish though. I got previous with it because it had the audacity of destroying one of my own.
When I was ten years old my uncle Dave was my hero. Looking back I knew he always lived on the other side of the fence, probably explains how I turned out the way I did, but he was always there for me and my old mum when every other twat of a man was out to make a mug of my old mum’s good nature. I can’t do justice in words how good that man was: the Christmases and birthdays he saved with his own generosity; how often him dipping into his own pocket kept a roof over me and my mum’s head; how he taught me to ride a bike, how to fall, and how to give and take a punch like a man.
Then one day he simply deteriorates from a lovely strong, proud man to a fragile skeleton, a shadow of a human being. And all because of cancer. He never smoked, he barely drank; he was a fit and healthy man. But like that he was struck down, and in six months he was gone.
Whoever designs this universe is taking one liberty too many, I tell you. If only I could get my hands on Him.
Now I ain’t literally going to take down cancer (so you can stop scratching your head about that one, Nathaniel), but this week I get tasked with fronting up against the man who likes to think of himself as ‘The New Cancer’.
I don’t know why these wrestlers deem it necessary to give themselves these ridiculous nicknames. I get that they want to give themselves a big GEE, but even by the standards of hyperbole this is pushing it.
I get the implication: he’s some kind of aggressive, menacing force who is going to overtake the wrestling world; consuming it for all its resources, for his own benefit, blah blah blah. I’ve heard it all before. You always get these mugs who think they are going to change the world for the better, well ‘the better’ as they see it; which usually means ‘the better’ in a Henry VIII ‘the better’ is whatever suits me kind of way. Some people call them idealists; I prefer to call them slags.
No need for any overwrought explanations, or any pretentious gabbing about all the psychological wotsits – let’s just call an apple an apple, instead of taking it down to the Latin or whatever big words these pricks like to use to make themselves feel superior. A no-good bastard is still a no-good bastard however you try to dress it up. And believe me, from what I’ve seen of Kevin Dahlia, he’s about as big a slag as they come.
Kevin, listen here sunshine. I’ve heard you over the past few weeks, and know you think you’re a pretty big deal. Far be it from me to contradict those who see themselves as so lofty, but I’m not exactly quaking in my boots here.
Don’t take it the wrong way, bruv, you’ve got your pretty face this far, so obviously there is something lurking behind all that make-up and all those wordy, waffly speeches. You can handle yourself because you’ve passed all the tests that have got you this far. I’m not gonna pour hot water over all of that thinking it will melt it away. I may not exactly be the man in terms of being intellectual but I’m no fool, and I’m certainly not ignorant enough to dismiss the fact that any man who step through the ropes on Meltdown and can keep his chin up is obviously packing a serious pair of cobblers.
Admittedly, I saw you a few weeks ago and I really wasn’t impressed. I thought you needed to spend a little less time in front of the mirror, and devote more effort to starving yourself until you were insatiable with hunger. I can see you’ve found whatever gets your clock ticking in recent weeks, you’ve found yourself son, and in all honesty, I’d rather be facing the Kevin Dahlia that will be facing me this week, than the one who was masquerading as a fighter a few weeks ago.
But the internet buzz this week has got it right: you’ve got yourself warmed up of late, but now it’s time to face the real test. Cid Phoenix, bless his soul, he’s a tryer and he’s got a lot of heart, but he’s no Guv’nor. You don’t need to be Albert-fucking-Einsteen to see that one.
What you’ve got to reconcile with this week Kev, is not that I’m a better wrestler than Cid Phoenix. Maybe Cid is one of those guys who can wrestle with a broom and make it look good; never really saw the point of that myself because I’m the guy who measures himself not by how good he makes others look, but how vulnerable he makes them feel when they step through the ropes with him. As soon as the bell ring-a-ding-dings you’re gonna see this because it will be staring you right in the eyes, pouring out my soul with every drop of sweat my body issues; it’s the realisation that you’re not necessarily contending with someone who may be a better wrestler, but you’re certainly face to face with the most dangerous man you’ve ever laid eyes upon.
Here’s a controversial truth, Kev: you want to be known as the wrestling purist? Fine, I’ll let you have that title. If you want to grapple and feel up some blokes for points and technicalities, then piss off to the Olympics sunshine (or if it’s just the feel up you’re after I can point out to you one or two rum gaffs in Soho). Me, I’ll stick with being a winner.
Just ask Nathaniel Havok, for all his wrestling ability and his dozens of World Titles, he couldn’t get one over on The Guv’nor...TWICE! He had to take liberties with weapons after the match to get his GEE. Me, well I take mine from the 1-2-3.
You see, what you crusaders don’t realise is that professional wrestling is the greatest combat sport in the world today because it doesn’t exclude people like me. Where else can a lunatic with no ‘pure’ skills, no graduation from some ponsy wrestling school, just a temper like a ticking time bomb waiting to go off, make a legitimate success of himself? I’ll tell you: only in this sport.
The fans don’t come to watch a ‘pure’ spectacle, they’d watch the Olympics for that, and judging by recent events, the public couldn’t give a monkey’s arsehole for two men rolling around in a onesy to score technical points. What they come to see is true gladiators bludgeoning each other senseless until one can take it no longer. They come to see heart, spirit, combat stripped of everything pretentious, leaving only what is primal and necessary.
But you’ll never get that because with all your fancy training, you think it gives you a right to feel superior, to laud yourself over everybody else. I don’t kno a hip toss from a head lock, but I promise you after ten minutes in the ring with me, Kev, you’ll have wish Duvall put you through a meat grinder instead.
And that’s what the people want to see, that’s what they’re paying for. They don’t want some slag telling them what they should like, what professional wrestling should be like. They will tell you want they want, and when they tell you’re brand of ‘pure’ groping is no spectacle at all you should listen sunshine, instead carrying on with the expectation that the fans should owe you something.
But guys like you, Kev, the world’s crusaders, will never understand that because you only see it one way: you are right and it is your duty to tell the world what’s what, and anyone who dissents....well it’s the gallows for him or her.
Well maybe, sunshine, you should stop, pull your head out of your own arse and listen every once in a while. Do that and you may actually hear the fans and what they want. You might even stumble across a little humble truth.
But then again, for some people it’s just not possible to stop behaving like a right cunt.
Nevermind, Kev, I’ll knock some sense into you on Monday, then you can be just another slag who was taught his lesson: a lesson so ‘pure’ and true because it was
End.
When I signed my APW contract I thought I’d be making a ton of wedge from running down the ramp, giving the fans a reason to have a good old tear up to the old ‘original nuttah’, bash some heads, slap some chops, and generally go about my business as I always do – by having a fucking good knees up.
What I didn’t expect was to be part of some kind of bleeding medical miracle. First we got “The Soul of Philly” delivering a hammer blow to the recent aggressive spreading of Raabies, now it’s put in the lap of the good old ‘Guv’nor’ to find a cure for cancer. Don’t let the world tell you folks that professional wrestling is meaningless drivel; because it isn’t. We’re saving lives and pushing the boundaries of what is medically possible. Raabies taken care of with one big right boot made from the heart and soul of Philadelphia; now it’s cancer’s turn, and I’ve got a right cross that can more than account for it.
The doctors and nurses should be sucking our dicks, not the other way round. You know what I’m saying?
For all the millions and billions of dollars the health industry spends on treatments, studies, tests, machinery, better training, tit jobs for nurses, whatever! All they had to do was think ‘let’s call the Guv’nor’ and the whole thing would have been arranged and sorted for much less. Because I’m that kind of go-to guy, you know what I’m saying. You ask me to do something, and it’s done. You never have to ask or question it again.
They’ve been poisoning geezers for years and years with that chemo-shit, and the solution was waiting there, right on their doorstep. Well, maybe not right on the doorstep, but you know what I’m saying. Give it to The Guv’nor and the problem is solved.
Now I’d happily kick the arse of some life-sucking disease like cancer like any professional paid to do a job would, but when it comes this filthy, slaggy disease I’ll do for free. I mean, when it comes down to it cancer really is taking fucking liberties as far as diseases go. It’s got the audacity to spring itself to life from our own cells, then destroy us from the inside out. Talk about some bastard ungrateful spores. It takes the fucking biscuit, and I ain’t having none of that, bruvs. Leave it awwwt!
At least AIDs works its way in, infiltrates, shows some initiative, some spirit. This cancer, well it’s like an ungrateful son who takes a liberty by robbing his own mum. It’s taking us all for mugs, and well, that’s just something I’m not willing to accept.
I’d smash this cancer business just for the shits and giggles, because if there is one thing I enjoy doing it’s smashing slags that got it coming. But there is more to this than meets the eye, you see, because I got previous with cancer.
Don’t get me wrong, with my lifestyle I’ve got previous with a few ailments, but nothing a solid course of antibiotics can’t rid you of (and probably ensuring you’re carrying a few sheaths with you when there’s trouser action on the cards!). This cancer business is a different kettle of fish though. I got previous with it because it had the audacity of destroying one of my own.
When I was ten years old my uncle Dave was my hero. Looking back I knew he always lived on the other side of the fence, probably explains how I turned out the way I did, but he was always there for me and my old mum when every other twat of a man was out to make a mug of my old mum’s good nature. I can’t do justice in words how good that man was: the Christmases and birthdays he saved with his own generosity; how often him dipping into his own pocket kept a roof over me and my mum’s head; how he taught me to ride a bike, how to fall, and how to give and take a punch like a man.
Then one day he simply deteriorates from a lovely strong, proud man to a fragile skeleton, a shadow of a human being. And all because of cancer. He never smoked, he barely drank; he was a fit and healthy man. But like that he was struck down, and in six months he was gone.
Whoever designs this universe is taking one liberty too many, I tell you. If only I could get my hands on Him.
Now I ain’t literally going to take down cancer (so you can stop scratching your head about that one, Nathaniel), but this week I get tasked with fronting up against the man who likes to think of himself as ‘The New Cancer’.
I don’t know why these wrestlers deem it necessary to give themselves these ridiculous nicknames. I get that they want to give themselves a big GEE, but even by the standards of hyperbole this is pushing it.
I get the implication: he’s some kind of aggressive, menacing force who is going to overtake the wrestling world; consuming it for all its resources, for his own benefit, blah blah blah. I’ve heard it all before. You always get these mugs who think they are going to change the world for the better, well ‘the better’ as they see it; which usually means ‘the better’ in a Henry VIII ‘the better’ is whatever suits me kind of way. Some people call them idealists; I prefer to call them slags.
No need for any overwrought explanations, or any pretentious gabbing about all the psychological wotsits – let’s just call an apple an apple, instead of taking it down to the Latin or whatever big words these pricks like to use to make themselves feel superior. A no-good bastard is still a no-good bastard however you try to dress it up. And believe me, from what I’ve seen of Kevin Dahlia, he’s about as big a slag as they come.
Kevin, listen here sunshine. I’ve heard you over the past few weeks, and know you think you’re a pretty big deal. Far be it from me to contradict those who see themselves as so lofty, but I’m not exactly quaking in my boots here.
Don’t take it the wrong way, bruv, you’ve got your pretty face this far, so obviously there is something lurking behind all that make-up and all those wordy, waffly speeches. You can handle yourself because you’ve passed all the tests that have got you this far. I’m not gonna pour hot water over all of that thinking it will melt it away. I may not exactly be the man in terms of being intellectual but I’m no fool, and I’m certainly not ignorant enough to dismiss the fact that any man who step through the ropes on Meltdown and can keep his chin up is obviously packing a serious pair of cobblers.
Admittedly, I saw you a few weeks ago and I really wasn’t impressed. I thought you needed to spend a little less time in front of the mirror, and devote more effort to starving yourself until you were insatiable with hunger. I can see you’ve found whatever gets your clock ticking in recent weeks, you’ve found yourself son, and in all honesty, I’d rather be facing the Kevin Dahlia that will be facing me this week, than the one who was masquerading as a fighter a few weeks ago.
But the internet buzz this week has got it right: you’ve got yourself warmed up of late, but now it’s time to face the real test. Cid Phoenix, bless his soul, he’s a tryer and he’s got a lot of heart, but he’s no Guv’nor. You don’t need to be Albert-fucking-Einsteen to see that one.
What you’ve got to reconcile with this week Kev, is not that I’m a better wrestler than Cid Phoenix. Maybe Cid is one of those guys who can wrestle with a broom and make it look good; never really saw the point of that myself because I’m the guy who measures himself not by how good he makes others look, but how vulnerable he makes them feel when they step through the ropes with him. As soon as the bell ring-a-ding-dings you’re gonna see this because it will be staring you right in the eyes, pouring out my soul with every drop of sweat my body issues; it’s the realisation that you’re not necessarily contending with someone who may be a better wrestler, but you’re certainly face to face with the most dangerous man you’ve ever laid eyes upon.
Here’s a controversial truth, Kev: you want to be known as the wrestling purist? Fine, I’ll let you have that title. If you want to grapple and feel up some blokes for points and technicalities, then piss off to the Olympics sunshine (or if it’s just the feel up you’re after I can point out to you one or two rum gaffs in Soho). Me, I’ll stick with being a winner.
Just ask Nathaniel Havok, for all his wrestling ability and his dozens of World Titles, he couldn’t get one over on The Guv’nor...TWICE! He had to take liberties with weapons after the match to get his GEE. Me, well I take mine from the 1-2-3.
You see, what you crusaders don’t realise is that professional wrestling is the greatest combat sport in the world today because it doesn’t exclude people like me. Where else can a lunatic with no ‘pure’ skills, no graduation from some ponsy wrestling school, just a temper like a ticking time bomb waiting to go off, make a legitimate success of himself? I’ll tell you: only in this sport.
The fans don’t come to watch a ‘pure’ spectacle, they’d watch the Olympics for that, and judging by recent events, the public couldn’t give a monkey’s arsehole for two men rolling around in a onesy to score technical points. What they come to see is true gladiators bludgeoning each other senseless until one can take it no longer. They come to see heart, spirit, combat stripped of everything pretentious, leaving only what is primal and necessary.
But you’ll never get that because with all your fancy training, you think it gives you a right to feel superior, to laud yourself over everybody else. I don’t kno a hip toss from a head lock, but I promise you after ten minutes in the ring with me, Kev, you’ll have wish Duvall put you through a meat grinder instead.
And that’s what the people want to see, that’s what they’re paying for. They don’t want some slag telling them what they should like, what professional wrestling should be like. They will tell you want they want, and when they tell you’re brand of ‘pure’ groping is no spectacle at all you should listen sunshine, instead carrying on with the expectation that the fans should owe you something.
But guys like you, Kev, the world’s crusaders, will never understand that because you only see it one way: you are right and it is your duty to tell the world what’s what, and anyone who dissents....well it’s the gallows for him or her.
Well maybe, sunshine, you should stop, pull your head out of your own arse and listen every once in a while. Do that and you may actually hear the fans and what they want. You might even stumble across a little humble truth.
But then again, for some people it’s just not possible to stop behaving like a right cunt.
Nevermind, Kev, I’ll knock some sense into you on Monday, then you can be just another slag who was taught his lesson: a lesson so ‘pure’ and true because it was
End.
