Post by Jules on Apr 21, 2013 18:55:06 GMT -4
Book II: An Emerging Force
Chapter III
“This is precisely the sort of behaviour we have to eliminate.”
Lenny Lansbury slid down his chair into a more slouched position, as if doing so would move him out of the firing line of the verbal barrage Mr. Black, staring out of his office window with his back to Lenny, unleashed. As the ‘Touchstone’ lawyer droned on Lenny zoned out, and it caught his mind how much this scene had reminded him of something that had come before in his life. The feeling of déjà vu replayed all those ‘you haven’t upset me, you’ve disappointed me’ lectures he was given by his Head of Year when he was at school.
“What I am saying, Mr. Lanbsury,” Mr. Black was still going as Lenny tuned back into reality with a heavy sigh of the much-maligned school boy, and saw Mr. Black turn from the window and take a seat across the desk from him, “it is not asking a lot for you to show some co-operation, the ability to compromise and show a collaborative spirit.”
“Leave it out, Black!” came Lenny’s exasperated retort. “I feel like I’ve gone back fifteen years and Mr. Parson is chewing my ear off.”
“Who? What are you talking about?” Mr. Black was totally incomprehensive.
“He was my Head of Year in my school days; had me in his office every day, gabbing on the same cobblers about how I need to be more disciplined, know what I’m saying.”
“I know exactly what you’re saying, because this is an entirely appropriate example. You’re behaving like a delinquent school boy.”
Lenny rolled his eyes and shook his head, his eyes flicking upwards and his lips muttering something inaudible, possibly an appeal for grace from some higher power.
“You’re in danger of becoming positively anti-social, Mr. Lansbury.”
“Yeah, Mr. Parson used to say the same thing back then.”
“Then you’ve learnt nothing.”
“What the fuck is this? I feel like I’m being persecuted.”
“Grow up, Mr. Lansbury!”
“Grow up?” Lenny spat back rhetorically. “If you’re not careful I’ll leap across this desk and knock you spark out through that fucking window. Just you mind who you’re talking to sunshine, and watch that mouth of yours, you mug!”
Taken aback by the sudden malignant outburst, Mr. Black reclined in his chair and adopted a more conciliatory tone.
“All I am saying, Mr. Lansbury, is that ‘Touchstone’ are becoming agitated by recent events.”
“Fuck ‘em!”
“They feel you’re drawing the wrong kind of attention to yourself.”
“What would them slags know about this business? They haven’t even got the bottle to come out of hiding behind your yellow spine.”
“I would consider your words carefully, Mr. Lansbury.”
It was spoken sternly, and the composite sentence was loaded with threat. Lenny knew what it meant; he didn’t need to have it spelt out for him. Like it or not, ‘Touchstone’ still very much had the choke on Lenny.
“This week for example,” Mr. Black continued, “this altercation with Sienna Harrison.”
“Altercation – leave it out! I’m just giving the little princess a bit of the old squeeze.”
“But why?”
“Because she’s a no-good, out for herself, bastard; and just like every other slag who’s crossed The Guv’nor she needs to learn what’s what.”
“It’s unnecessary Mr. Lansbury, and, more importantly, it is distracting. On top of all that ‘Touchstone’ are not happy with you forfeiting a match the way you did.”
“You telling me that weren’t ‘necessary’? You saw what she was trying to do: Yarmouth didn’t deserve that shit, and I’m not going to stand for it. I’m not going to let her take liberties me with and use me for her own little schemes.”
“It was unsanctioned. ‘Touchstone’ gave you no authority to walk out of the match.”
“Hold up, bruv. Since when did some faceless, spineless bunch of suits tell The Guv’nor what he can and can’t do?”
“Since they decided to pay for you ---and all your folly! Your objective, as it always is, was to win, to pin Yarmouth, and let Sienna, Yarmouth or anybody else worry about the consequences.”
“And be part of screwing a stand-up geezer like Yarmouth in a way he didn’t deserve. Nah bruv, that isn’t my game, and never will be.”
“It’s not your job to decide that.”
“Well I’m changing my job description, because as long as I’ve got breath in my body I won’t be part of no rump that I don’t agree with. I won’t be some pawn to fulfil Sienna Harrison’s personal agenda. And if that means I’m anti-social, then you can call me MR.FUCKING-ASBO!”
Mr. Black sighed with overt frustration.
“You are missing the point, Mr. Lansbury. ‘Touchstone’ have had enough: they aren’t making suggestions; this isn’t constructive criticism--- they are ordering you, whatever this thing is between you & Sienna, let it lie. Don’t interrupt----” Mr. Black held up a hand. “It has become a distraction. You are the North American Champion: the championship belt must become the focus now every single week. Let Sienna decide the opponent, and you just get on with beating every single challenger she can find.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing, bruv. Last week was all about the title. Yeah, I had Yarmouth there for the beating, but what would that have meant? Nothing! Now because I won’t let Sienna move us about like the pieces of her chess board, Meltdown gets arguably its biggest ever main event. The Guv’nor versus Yarmouth---- the match Sienna should have booked last week. Nobody wants to see me murder some little girl in the ring--- plus there are snuff flicks for perverts who like that sort of sick shit. You tell me how that isn’t good for business, how that doesn’t tickle the feet of the cowards you represent?”
“You’re just the soldier, Mr. Lansbury. It’s not your job to worry about why the objective is what it is, it’s your job to carry the orders out. ‘Touchstone’ want you to stay away from Sienna, forget about Sienna, and just get on with winning matches. That is an order.”
“Well the order is bollocks, and you can tell those slags they can stick it where the sun don’t shine.”
“Because I believe you not to be a total imbecile, I will strike that last comment from the record and won’t include it in my report on this meeting. The point isn’t whether you like or agree with the orders, the fact they come from ‘Touchstone’ means you have to follow them.”
“So the orders are right because they say they are, rather than because the orders are good orders.”
“If you want to think about it that way---- fine.”
“It’s bollocks, sunshine, and you know it.” Lenny slipped off into a moment of thought, then looked at Mr. Black again. “Fuck ‘em! I’m the North American Champion, I won this belt all by myself, and I’ve defended it without anything but these two hands. I’m not The Guv’nor because I take it up the Khyber, so if ‘Touchstone’ got a problem with how I do things, then let them cunts come and say it to me personally.”
Lenny stood up and walked to the door. Mr. Black called out his name and drew his attention; Lenny turned to face the lawyer.
“Stay away from Sienna; that’s all you have to do.”
*
From the archives of Action Packed Wrestling: The Guv’nor’s Gab (transcript #10)
There’s been a lot of questions asked of me this week. It seems there are some people who just can’t understand what happened last week. After all, why would The Guv’nor – the meanest, baddest, skull-smashing bastard Meltdown has ever seen – walk out on a match?
I know some people think I’ve gone a bit soft in the head, suggesting there was a touch of sympathy in my actions not befitting a man of granite like me. They’re looking at this thing and they’re saying ‘Guv’nor made an imperfection on his own record to help a friend’. I know how this works: the merest sign of weakness and the whole pack descends upon you, tearing you limb from limb.
There’s something about weakness – whether it be in the will, the thought, or the action – we find so repulsive that we just don’t want to see it from the people we look up to. I’m that sort of geezer--- the one everybody is looking to (whether it from aspiration, envy, or just the primal desire to try and smash me). Some look at last week, see weakness, and it makes them sick; some ‘perceive’ a weakness and they see an opportunity.
Maggie Thatcher died last week ---- God fuck her wretched soul ---- and even though I’d sooner bit on her grave than lay a wreath, one thing that bitch proved the world is that if you’ve got nothing else, you need to have your conviction. Even if you’re wrong, then be whole-heartedly wrong; be wrong with every ounce of your being, and follow that conviction to the end. Maggie can burn with the devil for all I care, but one thing you have to admire about that slag---- she lived and died by her convictions.
My point is the man of conviction is never weak---- even when he’s wrong. So when people start gabbing on about how The Guv’nor has gone soft and shown weakness, well I got just a few words of wisdom...
YOU DON’T HAVE A FUCKING CLUE WHAT YA TALKING ABOUT!
Do I consider Yarmouth a stand-up geezer, one of your own, who deserves respect for spilling his guts and wearing his heart on his sleeve every night of the week?
Yes.
Do I think Yarmouth deserved a shot over whatever simple-minded little protégé Sienna Harrison has destined to be smashed up by me?
Yes.
Did I act last week out of some sense of kinship towards Yarmouth---- in other words, did I play the sympathy card for Yarmouth?
FUCK NO!
Sure, I think a match with Yarmouth would be a right fucking tear-up, and I think it would bring the house down. I think it would give some of these wet lettuces on Meltdown a wake-up call about what it takes to compete at the very best; it would have shown any complacent bastards on the so-called higher levels that there are at least two mean-spirited, savage, nasty pieces of works coming with a lot bovver to shake things up. In short, me and Yarmouth would shake the ground like an earthquake in China.
But let’s get this straight and clear, here and now, I didn’t deliberately have myself counted-out because I wanted Yarmouth to get a shot; I did it because I just had to see that look on Sienna Harrison’s face when it was done. I knew above all else in the world the last thing she wanted to see was The Guv’nor versus Yarmouth. She created the situation where she thought her wish would come true. She never believed Yarmouth could beat me, and she believed my ego was more important to me than anything else.
Now the fans may cheer for me, but that don’t change the fact, at times, I can be a horrible cunt: I like to see slags like Sienna not getting their way, and it gives me a rise just like my Cher when she’s starkers. Whether it was Yarmouth, Robina Hood, or anyone else, I’ll face --- and beat ---- them all when it comes to defending MY North American Championship; but in that moment, nothing meant more to me than seeing that look on precious Sienna’s face.
The look of total and abject failure.
To quote a famous advert, it was FUCKING PRICELESS!
But it is Yarmouth, and let’s get this straight, bruv, this week there are to be no distractions. I know you’re an animal, a fighter who can dominate like no other when your head is right, and last week you gave me a bit of a run around. You don’t have to say or do a thing to convince me that you’re a fighter, bruv, but last week you weren’t really fighting The Guv’nor because The Guv’nor wasn’t fighting you.
Don’t get me wrong, bruv, I’m not selling you short. I still got the bruises on my body from everything I had to take from you last week, but last week’s match---- well that was hardly the fucking weighing, sunshine. Last week you got the chance to scuffle with The Guv’nor and you proved you’re not out of your depth against the HACKNEY-MADE aggro, but this week the HACKNEY HAMMER gets turned up to 10 and we’re playing for keeps.
Listen bruv, I’ve been questioned at various times in my life, in whatever capacity I’ve made my corn. The amount of times some slag has thought The Guv’nor was slipping, they paid for it, because every time the question is asked I provide the answer like a blunt implement to the back of the head. No University Challenge sophistication, just a boot stomping the eyeballs out of your head, and the brains through your ears.
I know people are asking of The Guv’nor whether his time at the top of Meltdown has come and gone. Some mug looks at last week and sees how Yarmouth gave The Guv’nor a proper bit of aggro, and, they argue, without intervention Yarmouth would have put The Guv’nor away. Where there’s doubt I bring belief in the form of these two hard-hitting evil hands, clenched into a ball and hungry to punch holes through your body like it were made of dough.
The point if you just can see it Yarmouth ---- though you’ll see it through all the stars and the tweet-tweets after a single BLACK CAB SMASH ---- is that last week was about making a statement to Sienna that she cannot manipulate and rump The Guv’nor because he’s always one, two, three steps ahead of her, just like all the other slags; this week the statement goes out to the whole of Meltdown, and it goes....
Just-FUCKING-Try-Me-Sunshine!
You see, while Yarmouth remains my primary focus, I can’t help but feel Sienna hasn’t pre-empted some rump with the announcement that if Yarmouth ---- for whatever reason ---- cannot compete, the shot goes to someone else. In this case the brown-nosing Robina Hood, or that filthy tramp Michael Jennings. I’m sure both are licking their lips; I wouldn’t be surprised if both are in on whatever little scheme Sienna is plotting in that empty space between her ears. But if you, if you’re not, if you do ‘profit’ from some little backstage conspiracy, the net result is the same for either: you go home with the self-same pain and shame of some whore who’s just been arse-fucked for the first time.
Jennings, I look at you and the charitable side of me thinks I should just buy you a new tracksuit, or show you to the soup kitchen, or whatever. Michael Norcia once told me beating bums was a great way to relieve boredom. Personally, I thought that might have been a stretch to far, but in your case I’ll make an exception.
I’m not a mind reader, nor a genius by any stretch, but even I can see if you’ve held down a job here for a few weeks then you’ve obviously earned some wedge. So the least you could do, bruv, is having a fucking wash! There’s always soap lying around backstage, so you’ve got no excuse. At first when I heard nobody would share a locker room with you, I thought it maybe because you’re one of them fruits, but now I’ve come to realise it’s because your breath probably stinks of shit! The same shit you spew out every week about how everything needs to change.
The only thing that needs to change around here, sunshine, is your grubby clothing and your attitude to personal hygiene!
If your plan around here Jennings is to beat people into submission with that odour that emanates from you, then you’re on track. But since I’ve spent most of life wading through shit and cleaning out scum, I’m on home ground. A lesson I learned when I was a kid: if the turd sticks, keeping flushing. Likewise, as long as you’re breathing that stinking breath of yours I’ll keep punching.
But we all know who Sienna really wants, who she’s placed all her faith in: Robina Hood. I’m not sure about ‘perfect megastar’, but the little girl is certainly ‘perfect’ in some other sense. Amazing how in modern Amercia, where slavery is outlawed, slags like Sienna can always find someone to wipe their arse for free.
Robina, let’s be clear about this sweetheart: when you’ve got an equaliser like that crowbar you’re fond of using you’re a right hard case. But take that away, and what have you got? Listen up princess, it would be remiss of me to dismiss you because you’re a feeble woman, because you’ve proven time after time that you’re anything but. However, you’ve also proven on numerous occasions that when you’re faced with The Guv’nor you’re a straight A loser.
Look, I know it’s tough being a youngster in this world: I’ve seen how society has really fucked the kids of today like a Malaysian hooker, but that isn’t going to be an excuse for the future generation when the world falls apart. Right now, you’ve got to educate yourself, you’ve got to learn to find your own way about how to do it. I’ve got no doubt, Robina, you’ve got some of the credentials, but until you’ve learnt to distinguish your arse from your elbow you’re always going to have skiddies in your knickers.
Sienna thinks you’re ready, sweets, but you’re not even close. You’re like that goggle-eyed little twat in Stand By Me, thinking you can stare down a locomotive from a 100 yards. Maybe you can do that, but try to stare down a black cab with the pedal to the floor and fucking psychopath at the wheel and I promise you’ll get smashed.
You both probably think this is your one big chance to hit the top. Hate to disappoint you, but there’s only one geezer on top around here, and it’s The Guv’nor! You don’t like that---- then you can FUCK OFF! And where that don’t oblige you, I’ve got a couple of maniacs on the end of each arm that’ll show you the door with some broken bones and a mangled face as a parting gift MADE IN HACKNEY!
End.
There’s been a lot of questions asked of me this week. It seems there are some people who just can’t understand what happened last week. After all, why would The Guv’nor – the meanest, baddest, skull-smashing bastard Meltdown has ever seen – walk out on a match?
I know some people think I’ve gone a bit soft in the head, suggesting there was a touch of sympathy in my actions not befitting a man of granite like me. They’re looking at this thing and they’re saying ‘Guv’nor made an imperfection on his own record to help a friend’. I know how this works: the merest sign of weakness and the whole pack descends upon you, tearing you limb from limb.
There’s something about weakness – whether it be in the will, the thought, or the action – we find so repulsive that we just don’t want to see it from the people we look up to. I’m that sort of geezer--- the one everybody is looking to (whether it from aspiration, envy, or just the primal desire to try and smash me). Some look at last week, see weakness, and it makes them sick; some ‘perceive’ a weakness and they see an opportunity.
Maggie Thatcher died last week ---- God fuck her wretched soul ---- and even though I’d sooner bit on her grave than lay a wreath, one thing that bitch proved the world is that if you’ve got nothing else, you need to have your conviction. Even if you’re wrong, then be whole-heartedly wrong; be wrong with every ounce of your being, and follow that conviction to the end. Maggie can burn with the devil for all I care, but one thing you have to admire about that slag---- she lived and died by her convictions.
My point is the man of conviction is never weak---- even when he’s wrong. So when people start gabbing on about how The Guv’nor has gone soft and shown weakness, well I got just a few words of wisdom...
YOU DON’T HAVE A FUCKING CLUE WHAT YA TALKING ABOUT!
Do I consider Yarmouth a stand-up geezer, one of your own, who deserves respect for spilling his guts and wearing his heart on his sleeve every night of the week?
Yes.
Do I think Yarmouth deserved a shot over whatever simple-minded little protégé Sienna Harrison has destined to be smashed up by me?
Yes.
Did I act last week out of some sense of kinship towards Yarmouth---- in other words, did I play the sympathy card for Yarmouth?
FUCK NO!
Sure, I think a match with Yarmouth would be a right fucking tear-up, and I think it would bring the house down. I think it would give some of these wet lettuces on Meltdown a wake-up call about what it takes to compete at the very best; it would have shown any complacent bastards on the so-called higher levels that there are at least two mean-spirited, savage, nasty pieces of works coming with a lot bovver to shake things up. In short, me and Yarmouth would shake the ground like an earthquake in China.
But let’s get this straight and clear, here and now, I didn’t deliberately have myself counted-out because I wanted Yarmouth to get a shot; I did it because I just had to see that look on Sienna Harrison’s face when it was done. I knew above all else in the world the last thing she wanted to see was The Guv’nor versus Yarmouth. She created the situation where she thought her wish would come true. She never believed Yarmouth could beat me, and she believed my ego was more important to me than anything else.
Now the fans may cheer for me, but that don’t change the fact, at times, I can be a horrible cunt: I like to see slags like Sienna not getting their way, and it gives me a rise just like my Cher when she’s starkers. Whether it was Yarmouth, Robina Hood, or anyone else, I’ll face --- and beat ---- them all when it comes to defending MY North American Championship; but in that moment, nothing meant more to me than seeing that look on precious Sienna’s face.
The look of total and abject failure.
To quote a famous advert, it was FUCKING PRICELESS!
But it is Yarmouth, and let’s get this straight, bruv, this week there are to be no distractions. I know you’re an animal, a fighter who can dominate like no other when your head is right, and last week you gave me a bit of a run around. You don’t have to say or do a thing to convince me that you’re a fighter, bruv, but last week you weren’t really fighting The Guv’nor because The Guv’nor wasn’t fighting you.
Don’t get me wrong, bruv, I’m not selling you short. I still got the bruises on my body from everything I had to take from you last week, but last week’s match---- well that was hardly the fucking weighing, sunshine. Last week you got the chance to scuffle with The Guv’nor and you proved you’re not out of your depth against the HACKNEY-MADE aggro, but this week the HACKNEY HAMMER gets turned up to 10 and we’re playing for keeps.
Listen bruv, I’ve been questioned at various times in my life, in whatever capacity I’ve made my corn. The amount of times some slag has thought The Guv’nor was slipping, they paid for it, because every time the question is asked I provide the answer like a blunt implement to the back of the head. No University Challenge sophistication, just a boot stomping the eyeballs out of your head, and the brains through your ears.
I know people are asking of The Guv’nor whether his time at the top of Meltdown has come and gone. Some mug looks at last week and sees how Yarmouth gave The Guv’nor a proper bit of aggro, and, they argue, without intervention Yarmouth would have put The Guv’nor away. Where there’s doubt I bring belief in the form of these two hard-hitting evil hands, clenched into a ball and hungry to punch holes through your body like it were made of dough.
The point if you just can see it Yarmouth ---- though you’ll see it through all the stars and the tweet-tweets after a single BLACK CAB SMASH ---- is that last week was about making a statement to Sienna that she cannot manipulate and rump The Guv’nor because he’s always one, two, three steps ahead of her, just like all the other slags; this week the statement goes out to the whole of Meltdown, and it goes....
Just-FUCKING-Try-Me-Sunshine!
You see, while Yarmouth remains my primary focus, I can’t help but feel Sienna hasn’t pre-empted some rump with the announcement that if Yarmouth ---- for whatever reason ---- cannot compete, the shot goes to someone else. In this case the brown-nosing Robina Hood, or that filthy tramp Michael Jennings. I’m sure both are licking their lips; I wouldn’t be surprised if both are in on whatever little scheme Sienna is plotting in that empty space between her ears. But if you, if you’re not, if you do ‘profit’ from some little backstage conspiracy, the net result is the same for either: you go home with the self-same pain and shame of some whore who’s just been arse-fucked for the first time.
Jennings, I look at you and the charitable side of me thinks I should just buy you a new tracksuit, or show you to the soup kitchen, or whatever. Michael Norcia once told me beating bums was a great way to relieve boredom. Personally, I thought that might have been a stretch to far, but in your case I’ll make an exception.
I’m not a mind reader, nor a genius by any stretch, but even I can see if you’ve held down a job here for a few weeks then you’ve obviously earned some wedge. So the least you could do, bruv, is having a fucking wash! There’s always soap lying around backstage, so you’ve got no excuse. At first when I heard nobody would share a locker room with you, I thought it maybe because you’re one of them fruits, but now I’ve come to realise it’s because your breath probably stinks of shit! The same shit you spew out every week about how everything needs to change.
The only thing that needs to change around here, sunshine, is your grubby clothing and your attitude to personal hygiene!
If your plan around here Jennings is to beat people into submission with that odour that emanates from you, then you’re on track. But since I’ve spent most of life wading through shit and cleaning out scum, I’m on home ground. A lesson I learned when I was a kid: if the turd sticks, keeping flushing. Likewise, as long as you’re breathing that stinking breath of yours I’ll keep punching.
But we all know who Sienna really wants, who she’s placed all her faith in: Robina Hood. I’m not sure about ‘perfect megastar’, but the little girl is certainly ‘perfect’ in some other sense. Amazing how in modern Amercia, where slavery is outlawed, slags like Sienna can always find someone to wipe their arse for free.
Robina, let’s be clear about this sweetheart: when you’ve got an equaliser like that crowbar you’re fond of using you’re a right hard case. But take that away, and what have you got? Listen up princess, it would be remiss of me to dismiss you because you’re a feeble woman, because you’ve proven time after time that you’re anything but. However, you’ve also proven on numerous occasions that when you’re faced with The Guv’nor you’re a straight A loser.
Look, I know it’s tough being a youngster in this world: I’ve seen how society has really fucked the kids of today like a Malaysian hooker, but that isn’t going to be an excuse for the future generation when the world falls apart. Right now, you’ve got to educate yourself, you’ve got to learn to find your own way about how to do it. I’ve got no doubt, Robina, you’ve got some of the credentials, but until you’ve learnt to distinguish your arse from your elbow you’re always going to have skiddies in your knickers.
Sienna thinks you’re ready, sweets, but you’re not even close. You’re like that goggle-eyed little twat in Stand By Me, thinking you can stare down a locomotive from a 100 yards. Maybe you can do that, but try to stare down a black cab with the pedal to the floor and fucking psychopath at the wheel and I promise you’ll get smashed.
You both probably think this is your one big chance to hit the top. Hate to disappoint you, but there’s only one geezer on top around here, and it’s The Guv’nor! You don’t like that---- then you can FUCK OFF! And where that don’t oblige you, I’ve got a couple of maniacs on the end of each arm that’ll show you the door with some broken bones and a mangled face as a parting gift MADE IN HACKNEY!
End.
