Post by Jules on Apr 13, 2013 9:07:38 GMT -4
Book II: An Emerging Force
Chapter II
Less than an hour after April 8th edition of Meltdown went off air, the main event of which saw The Guv’nor retain the North American Championship against Tommy Knoxville, Lenny Lansbury sat on the examination table of the medics room still clothed in his ring attire. The doctor had just finished examining Lenny’s nose, which was given the treatment and bent all out of shape by Knoxville during the match.
“I’d like you to have an X-ray at the hospital to confirm it,” the APW doctor began, “but I’m pretty sure, Lenny, the nose is broken.”
“Bloody Hell, bruv! How many of medical school led you to that conclusion?” Lenny snapped sarcastically. “I knew it was broken the moment Knoxville landed that punch on me. What I want to know is the damage.”
“It may require an operation, but it’s hard to know without an X-ray. Are you have any trouble breathing?”
“Not really.”
“Does it hurt to touch?”
The doctor pinched the bridge of Lenny’s nose slightly.
“Fuck you!” Lenny retorted angrily. “Of course it fucking it hurts; the bastard is broken!”
“Okay, I’m going to give you some pain killers, then I’ll ask the nurse to dress the nose, and we can get you off to hospital for an X-ray.”
The doctor handed Lenny a couple of pills, which he downed with a single gulp of water. The doctor told Lenny he would be back shortly, and as soon as the door closed Lenny’s phone began to ring. He looked at the caller ID.
Cher.
Lenny answered and put the call onto loudspeaker.
“Hey babe,” Lenny’s fiancé greeted warmly. “How you feeling? Still the champ I see.”
“Did you watch it?”
“I saw the end. What happened to your nose? It looked bloody on the telly.”
Lenny explained.
“Oh baby, is it bad?”
Lenny explained it might need surgery.
“What’s happening to my pretty man?”
“Leave it out, Cher! No need to be sarcastic about it. I fucking won, didn’t I?”
“You did babe, I’m proud of you.”
There was a pause as Cher went silent.
“What’s the ‘but’, Cher?”
“I’m still worried, babe.”
“About what?”
“I’m worried about you, arsehole! I’m worried that this is becoming like London again; you seem to have this unique ability to rub people the wrong way, to make them want to do these sorts of things to you.”
“Listen love, you know it’s just part of the job. It’s not exactly netball, is it? These are mean, nasty, brutish fighters I’m up against. I’m the champ, of course they coming after me. I’ve got what they want to make them feel worthy; they’re going to do whatever it takes to make me give it up.”
“I’m just worried one day you’re going to get yourself hurt really bad.”
“Trust me, there is nothing anyone here can do that I can’t come back from. For six years I battled some of the nastiest cunts the London underworld could spew out, and not one of them could do anything to take me out for good. Remember love, MADE IN HACKNEY, it would take more than the hammer of Thor to crush The Guv’nor.”
“I know. I just---”
Lenny waited a few seconds for Cher to finish her sentence, then he prompted her.
“What is it, love?”
“I just wish you would swallow a bit of your pride, not try to be such a loner.”
“What are you saying – I can’t watch my own back?”
“No!” Cher replied with a touch of rebuke. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m just saying it wouldn’t help to have an extra set of eyes. I know you, Len, I know what you’re like. It’s only a matter of time you have that whole company on your back. You can’t help it, compromise isn’t a word in your vocabulary.”
“Why should I compromise for some slag who’s just going to try and rump me?”
There was anger in Lenny’s voice, clearly this was a sore point. Cher sighed.
“Len, I’m not going to have this argument with you again, but the whole world isn’t against you.”
“You haven’t seen it through my eyes; trust me, that’s exactly how it is.”
“Okay fine, but you can just try, for me at least.”
“Try what?”
“Find an ally in the squad, or whatever they call it.”
“It’s called a roster. To be honest I don’t there is anyone here who wouldn’t spit in my face given half the chance.”
“What about that Yarmouth bloke?”
“What about him?”
“You said he was alright when you knew him before.”
“Yeah, he’s a stand-up geezer; one of your own. But times change--”
“Well you seemed to be having a good time with him earlier tonight.”
“How much of the show did you watch? I thought you hated it.”
“I was nervous. I had to do something, especially with you being so far away.”
“Okay. Look, how can I be sure Yarmouth isn’t just trying to rump me, like all the others? It takes more than a few beers to make a man trustworthy.”
“And if you’re going to be cynical like that, then what do you expect?”
“What does that mean?”
“It means--”
There was a knock on the door.
“Babe, someone’s here, I’ll call you later.”
“Okay, love you.”
“Yeah.”
Lenny hung up and called out for the knocker to enter. It was Sienna Harrison. Gone was the slutty attire she wore for the show, now she was dressed in jeans and a vest-top.
“Sienna, sweetheart, what a pleasure,” Lenny greeted with derision, “you’ll excuse me if I don’t kneel down and kiss your feet.”
“Ew, gross.”
“What do you want? I’m sure you haven’t dropped in to congratulate your champion.”
Sienna pulls a face at the jibe.
“Lenny, I’ve been thinking about you. NOT LIKE THAT!” She said emphatically before Lenny make any sort of quip, but it didn’t prevent a cheeky grin from appearing on his face.
“I’ve been thinking what next for you. You won the North American Championship, and you proved tonight you are, er, worthy, of leading Meltdown for the time being. My offer still stands you know.”
“Unless that offer involves me tying you up in a hotel room--”
Sienna’s face flushes a little and smile begins to creep out at that suggestion, whether it was part of the game or genuine was unclear.
“—and leaving you there to rot,” Lenny finished, “then you can go to Hell!”
The hint of a smile, turns to a sneer.
“One day you will learn what is good for, Lenny! But I suspect it will be long after I’ve rid of you from my hair. Anyway---”
“Yeah, get to the point.”
“I’ve been thinking about your next challenge, and since you seemed so buddy-buddy with Yarmouth earlier tonight, I thought the best thing for Meltdown is to pair you together.”
“Me and Yarmouth? You want us to work together?”
“Yes. I think it makes perfect sense. It’s exactly what the fans want to see.”
“With all due respect, sweetheart, I heard you were trying to build the tag team division on Meltdown. You put me and Yarmouth on the same side and there won’t be a tag team division left for you to build.”
Sienna gives out a ironic chuckle.
“Oh Lenny, that’s cute.”
Lenny looked at Sienna with confusion.
“I’ve got no interest in promoting you and Yarmouth as a tag team. Who would want to see that? I’m talking about you and Yarmouth, one-on-one, in the Meltdown ring next week.”
Lenny looked on a bit shocked, then shook his head.
“You’re a piece of work, you know that?”
“Thank you,” Sienna replied with a proud smile. “Good luck champ, and I hope that little boo-boo on your nose gets better real soon.”
With a smile and a wink Sienna left Lenny alone in the room. Lenny hopped down off the examination table, grabbed a box of implements across the room and vented his primal thoughts about Sienna Harrison.
“CUNT!”
*
From the archives of Action Packed Wrestling: The Guv’nor’s Gab (transcript #9)
Let’s be honest for a second here: this isn’t a business you enter if you’re looking to make friends. We’re in the business of entertaining people through our sport, and that means to a certain extent we got to work with people, we go to interact with, even if it’s just to tell them how much you want to spill their guts all over the canvas.
If you’re what they call a ‘people person’, well this isn’t the business for you, in spite of what I just said. The fact is nobody in this business gives a bucket of piss about anybody else but themselves. Sure, you’ll get plenty of slags out there looking to be a bit contradictory. They’ll tell you they’re doing it for the sport, for the fans, fuck, some of them even have the cobblers to bare-faced lie and say they’re doing it for some idea of justice.
Me? I’m doing it for myself, no word of a lie. I’ve not got some fanciful notion that I’m pursuing my vocation in life: I’m good at hurting people; at bruising flesh and breaking bones, and this job pays well people with those sorts of skills. We got to do what gets us paid, so this being an entertainment’s business I’m going to go out there and give the fans what they want to see: a proper nasty brute who takes no shit and no prisoners, marking cards all day every day. It’s that simple.
So outside what is necessary for me to do my work I don’t have much time for what people would call my ‘peers’. Just look at the twitter feed of some of the more elevated APW megastars and you’ll see what a bunch of self-glorifying, bullshit-spreading, nonsensical no-good bastards they are.
And that’s just the ones I can tolerate.
So yeah, professional wrestler is a breed of human being I don’t put a lot of stock in. I respect them as opponents, as professionals, as threats to my territory, but I don’t and I won’t ever pretend to like them. Except one.
Yarmouth.
A lot of people in APW and America as whole won’t know this, but me and the Bad Ass Boom go back years and years. I remember when I first started out in this gig, back when I was a younger of barely 20 years, some time before the slags for promoters exiled me from the business, me and Yarmouth to use run in the same circles; that is to say in the motel to motel, crummy pigeon-hole of an arena to the next one, nomadic existence of the independent wrestler back in England we often came across each other. We must have been on the road together for about 18 months solid, and we got to know each other pretty well.
The incredible thing is we never once fought each other. I just remember Yarmouth being this beast of man who would tear some a mug a new one every night of the week. He was running by the name Yarmouth Blade back then, but I’m not sure why he dropped the ‘Blade’. Got to be honest we always used to have a bit of the banter over a few fans backstage about squaring off: while he used to threaten to slam me about like a ragdoll, I told him he wouldn’t be able to get close enough without me knocking him spark out.
Good times, bruv.
Don’t ask me why we never fought, because I don’t know the answer. I guess people were afraid of what might happen if they put the two meanest bastards in the whole of England together in one ring; not even sure the Albert Hall could have contained that kind of tear up. Actually, I know why it never happened --- because those slags who called themselves promoters decided they wanted to give The Guv’nor a bit of a rump, and when I wouldn’t stand for it they cut me out.
The last laugh is on them though because that match, even in England, would have made a tonne of wedge. Now it’s APW, and the Yanks, who get to profit from a fight that has been literally ten years in waiting.
Listen, I’m not going to paint a false picture here. Me & Yarmouth we were mates back in those days, but a lot of water has passed under the bridge since then. When I left wrestling to pursue other activities, we never stayed in touch. There were a few times down the years when I remembered that big bastard, like when Carlos Tevez scored that goal to keep the Hammers in the Premier League and send Sheffield United down. Yeah, that was fucking mint, bruv!
But otherwise I forgot Yarmouth even existed until he stomped back onto Meltdown a few weeks ago, and I got to say it was great to share a few tins with the geezer before and after I gave Knoxville some aggro he didn’t have the bottle to handle. Fair play to Sienna, she might be a right cunt 99% of the time, but she’s shown she’s got some redeeming features in booking what could be the fight of the century on Meltdown. The Guv’nor versus Yarmouth. Fuck, it gives me goose bumps just thinking about it.
Yarmouth, bruv, can you fucking believe this, mate? Who would have thought all them years ago that nowadays we would both be in America, wrestling in the same company. It’s the kind of crazy bollocks Mystic Meg-types make up. But this is reality now, bruv. Me and you, the two tastiest fighters England ever produced, and we’re going to tear it up and paint the whole country of Peru red.
Funny that we’re wrestling in a place that’s had its fair share of earthquakes in recent times, because when we collide the force is going to be like an earthquake, a hurricane, and a neutron bomb going off at once. I hope APW’s got insurance because the government of Peru is going to be suing President Jeff’s moose-eating arse when the devastation we bring comes to an end.
But all that rhetoric aside, I can see this match being something defining for Meltdown. Last week the dirt sheets said mine and Knoxville’s battle was the most brutal and titanic struggle Meltdown had ever televised – I liked that, it put a smile on my face – but me and you, bruv, we can take this thing off the charts.
Have no doubts, this is the sort of match that puts the entertainment in wrestling: two tough bastards, as stubborn as the hills, creating a proper tear up simply because they love kicking lumps out of other people. There’s no angle here, no revenge, no redemption; just two geezers fighting because that’s what they do, it’s what their good at, and they’re bloody entertaining in the way they do it.
I feel like I shouldn’t have say it, Yarmouth bruv, cause it’s almost a given: but let’s bring the house down with us, raze it to the ground, as well give hell to one another. Let’s show everyone on Meltdown what it means to be a fighter in the proper sense; let’s show these Yanks what it means to be made from the stern stuff.
Sheffield Steel versus The Hackney Hammer.
The Bad Ass Boom versus The Guv’nor.
MADE IN HACKNEY!
Let’s do this, FELLA!
End.
Let’s be honest for a second here: this isn’t a business you enter if you’re looking to make friends. We’re in the business of entertaining people through our sport, and that means to a certain extent we got to work with people, we go to interact with, even if it’s just to tell them how much you want to spill their guts all over the canvas.
If you’re what they call a ‘people person’, well this isn’t the business for you, in spite of what I just said. The fact is nobody in this business gives a bucket of piss about anybody else but themselves. Sure, you’ll get plenty of slags out there looking to be a bit contradictory. They’ll tell you they’re doing it for the sport, for the fans, fuck, some of them even have the cobblers to bare-faced lie and say they’re doing it for some idea of justice.
Me? I’m doing it for myself, no word of a lie. I’ve not got some fanciful notion that I’m pursuing my vocation in life: I’m good at hurting people; at bruising flesh and breaking bones, and this job pays well people with those sorts of skills. We got to do what gets us paid, so this being an entertainment’s business I’m going to go out there and give the fans what they want to see: a proper nasty brute who takes no shit and no prisoners, marking cards all day every day. It’s that simple.
So outside what is necessary for me to do my work I don’t have much time for what people would call my ‘peers’. Just look at the twitter feed of some of the more elevated APW megastars and you’ll see what a bunch of self-glorifying, bullshit-spreading, nonsensical no-good bastards they are.
And that’s just the ones I can tolerate.
So yeah, professional wrestler is a breed of human being I don’t put a lot of stock in. I respect them as opponents, as professionals, as threats to my territory, but I don’t and I won’t ever pretend to like them. Except one.
Yarmouth.
A lot of people in APW and America as whole won’t know this, but me and the Bad Ass Boom go back years and years. I remember when I first started out in this gig, back when I was a younger of barely 20 years, some time before the slags for promoters exiled me from the business, me and Yarmouth to use run in the same circles; that is to say in the motel to motel, crummy pigeon-hole of an arena to the next one, nomadic existence of the independent wrestler back in England we often came across each other. We must have been on the road together for about 18 months solid, and we got to know each other pretty well.
The incredible thing is we never once fought each other. I just remember Yarmouth being this beast of man who would tear some a mug a new one every night of the week. He was running by the name Yarmouth Blade back then, but I’m not sure why he dropped the ‘Blade’. Got to be honest we always used to have a bit of the banter over a few fans backstage about squaring off: while he used to threaten to slam me about like a ragdoll, I told him he wouldn’t be able to get close enough without me knocking him spark out.
Good times, bruv.
Don’t ask me why we never fought, because I don’t know the answer. I guess people were afraid of what might happen if they put the two meanest bastards in the whole of England together in one ring; not even sure the Albert Hall could have contained that kind of tear up. Actually, I know why it never happened --- because those slags who called themselves promoters decided they wanted to give The Guv’nor a bit of a rump, and when I wouldn’t stand for it they cut me out.
The last laugh is on them though because that match, even in England, would have made a tonne of wedge. Now it’s APW, and the Yanks, who get to profit from a fight that has been literally ten years in waiting.
Listen, I’m not going to paint a false picture here. Me & Yarmouth we were mates back in those days, but a lot of water has passed under the bridge since then. When I left wrestling to pursue other activities, we never stayed in touch. There were a few times down the years when I remembered that big bastard, like when Carlos Tevez scored that goal to keep the Hammers in the Premier League and send Sheffield United down. Yeah, that was fucking mint, bruv!
But otherwise I forgot Yarmouth even existed until he stomped back onto Meltdown a few weeks ago, and I got to say it was great to share a few tins with the geezer before and after I gave Knoxville some aggro he didn’t have the bottle to handle. Fair play to Sienna, she might be a right cunt 99% of the time, but she’s shown she’s got some redeeming features in booking what could be the fight of the century on Meltdown. The Guv’nor versus Yarmouth. Fuck, it gives me goose bumps just thinking about it.
Yarmouth, bruv, can you fucking believe this, mate? Who would have thought all them years ago that nowadays we would both be in America, wrestling in the same company. It’s the kind of crazy bollocks Mystic Meg-types make up. But this is reality now, bruv. Me and you, the two tastiest fighters England ever produced, and we’re going to tear it up and paint the whole country of Peru red.
Funny that we’re wrestling in a place that’s had its fair share of earthquakes in recent times, because when we collide the force is going to be like an earthquake, a hurricane, and a neutron bomb going off at once. I hope APW’s got insurance because the government of Peru is going to be suing President Jeff’s moose-eating arse when the devastation we bring comes to an end.
But all that rhetoric aside, I can see this match being something defining for Meltdown. Last week the dirt sheets said mine and Knoxville’s battle was the most brutal and titanic struggle Meltdown had ever televised – I liked that, it put a smile on my face – but me and you, bruv, we can take this thing off the charts.
Have no doubts, this is the sort of match that puts the entertainment in wrestling: two tough bastards, as stubborn as the hills, creating a proper tear up simply because they love kicking lumps out of other people. There’s no angle here, no revenge, no redemption; just two geezers fighting because that’s what they do, it’s what their good at, and they’re bloody entertaining in the way they do it.
I feel like I shouldn’t have say it, Yarmouth bruv, cause it’s almost a given: but let’s bring the house down with us, raze it to the ground, as well give hell to one another. Let’s show everyone on Meltdown what it means to be a fighter in the proper sense; let’s show these Yanks what it means to be made from the stern stuff.
Sheffield Steel versus The Hackney Hammer.
The Bad Ass Boom versus The Guv’nor.
MADE IN HACKNEY!
Let’s do this, FELLA!
End.
