Post by Jules on May 17, 2013 5:19:39 GMT -4
Book II: An Emerging Force
Chapter VI
Lenny hated the place, but he knew it always did him right. A bit like those foul tasting medicines you swallow to cure an illness. It turns your insides to even think about consuming, but still you do because you understand the medicine’s restorative power.
This was Lockdown. A secret training camp funded by ‘Touchstone’.
What they did in this place most of the year didn’t bear thinking about to Lenny; all he knew this was the place where he was sent when ‘Touchstone’ deemed he required some kind of ‘special training’. For Rasslemania IX it was being beaten senseless by a gang of thugs for nearly a week as part of some perverted body conditioning regime. For a later event Lenny was put in the hands of The Principal – Senior Trainer and designer of all Lockdown personalised training schedules – who twisted his body in knots, as well as honing Lenny’s own mat skills in preparation for a ‘Strict Pancrase Rules’ match during the Iron King tournament.
Lenny didn’t like it, but he was back again--- a guest of The Principal. He didn’t like it, but he knew when he left this place he couldn’t be better prepared anywhere else in the world for his date with destiny and Robina Hood inside the steel cage.
“I don’t even want to think about what kind of mental plan you have in mind this time,” Lenny said as he surveyed the steel cage that surrounded the ring in which he stood. Either side of was The Principal (5'5'' tall, about 10' wide, and sporting his characteristic black beret), and some nameless thug (about 17' x 17' in stature) who made up part of the staff here.
“I find it remarkable, Lenny, that you in all your years a bare-knuckle fighter, you never found yourself cage fighting.”
“I did try it once, bruv. It was like fighting a bloody army of spiders, the way them mugs jump all over you.”
“Yes, I’m familiar with how easily exposed you are by your lack of technique.”
“Technique? I’m a fucking sledgehammer, sunshine, not a bloody chisel. My education was ‘you hit me, I hit you and we’ll see who can stand longest’, know what I’m saying?”
The Principal gave a slight, yet wholly derisive, shake of the head. Lenny approached the thug.
“But this bruiser understands what I’m talking about, innit? Big lump like this,” Lenny said as he slapped the thug on the chest, “he’d rip down houses.”
The thug parted his teeth and growled like a dog; Lenny backed off.
“What is this--- don’t feed the animals policy?”
“Something like that,” The Principal replied, before approaching Lenny and leading him away from the thug with an arm over the shoulder. “But don’t worry about Tom for the moment. I want you to familiarise yourself with this structure: see it, touch it, smell it, listen to the specific sounds it makes, even taste it if you have to; I want you to examine this and know its whole essence.”
“Bruv, it’s a cage. I’m fighting in it, I’m not trying to screw the bloody thing.”
“It will be the only weapon at your disposal in this match. Know it, and know how to use it to its true potential, like a swordsman who understands perfectly the weight of his own blade.”
“Listen bruv, the only weapons I need are these two evil bastards right here,” Lenny said dismissively, holding up his fists.
The Principal issued a short sigh, took a step back and gave a slight nod of the head in the direction of the thug we now know named as ‘Tom’. Tom exploded from his position, grabbed Lenny and threw him face first into the cage wall. Lenny ejaculated a pained groan as the steel ripped at his flesh on impact. Lenny flopped to the mat, with a click of The Principal’s fingers Tom was back in his starting position, statuesque like before.
“What the fuck!” Lenny shouted as he rose to his feet, checking the blood on his hand from wiping his forehead. “I’ll fucking kill you, you slag!”
Lenny charged with anger, but as he wound back his fist into a ball The Principal moved swiftly and decisively, clutching him by the wrist. Tom remained unmoved in his position.
“You want some too!” Lenny growled as he yanked his hand free. He checked the wound on his head again, then shaking his head with fury he managed to land a punch right on the nose of Tom. The thug dropped to the mat, but he was quickly up and re-took his position like nothing had happened, no hint of wanting vengeance.
“That was a cheap shot; what kind of liberty you trying to take, sunshine?” Lenny mouthed off to no-one in particular.
“That’s the first lesson, Lenny,” The Principal interjected. “Appreciate how this structure may be used, and what it can do to your body. In your match with Robina, don’t think of the cage as simply a cell to keep you contained; recognise it as a tool possessing the malice of Hell itself, to be used by you against your opponent.”
“You could have just told me that.”
“Some lessons are learnt only through showing their truth. Would you believe the existence of God if I simply told you it was true?”
“You what? Leave it out and speaking some fucking sense, you mug! I get it. The fucking cage hurts.”
“Yes, and iron sharpens iron to quote a wise maxim. This structure, by the time we are through with you, will hold no fear for you; instead you will learn to use it as an extension of your own body and powers. Do you understand that?”
“Yeah bruv,” Lenny spat in a short tone, “but I still don’t see why this fucking SLAG,” he eyed darts at Tom, “had to bum rush me like that. Just give me one round with this cunt, and I promise I’ll knock him spark out.”
The threat made no mark on Tom, who remained in the same position, his gaze fixed forward in the manner of a well-trained and fully brainwashed sentinel.
“Well, be careful what you wish for. Tom here is to be your room-mate for the duration of your stay.”
“Leave it out, boss! You expect me to buddy up with this miserable bastard. Look at him, he’s hardly Mr. Fucking Charisma now, is he?”
“I think you find Tom the perfect foil for what we have planned.”
“And I think you better stop trying to pull the rump on The Guv’nor. Anyway, I hope the lodgings are a bit better than that dungeon you cooped me up in before.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll find them more than adequate. I promise you even have an outside view on all sides.”
“Luvvly jubbly!”
This exchange took place as they walked towards the exit of the cage. The Principal was first through the door, and as Lenny made the last quoted exclamation he closed and bolted the door--- locking Lenny inside with Tom.
“Not quite, Lenny,” he said with a smile. “It seems you still haven’t quite accepted that how we do things in Lockdown isn’t strictly orthodox.”
“What’s the meaning of this, bruv? Let me out of here!”
Lenny shook the door, but it was bolted securely, and locked by two guards who appeared from the shadows.
“What about the room with the view on all sides?”
“You’re in it. Look around, you have a 360 panorama to behold.”
“Very funny, bruv. You got me. Now let me out of this cage.”
Lenny was seized by Tom from behind, gripped into an iron waistlock and tossed over Tom’s shoulder and slammed face first on the mat, transitioned with swiftness and a startling economy of movement into an excruciating armbar that had Lenny screaming out in agony. Through the pain Lenny could discern the lecturing tone of The Principal.
“Lenny, welcome to your room for the duration of your visit to Lockdown. Here you will eat, sleep, and shit--- if you really need to. You will be locked inside the cage with Tom from now until I deem the training complete. It may take a few days, it may take a week; that all depends on how quickly I feel you are learning; how quickly you can pass the course.”
Tom released the armbar, lifted Lenny and tossed him into the cage wall in the position where The Principal stood on the outside. Lenny slumped down over the middle rope, The Principal right there on the other side of the mesh.
“We will feed you three times a day, but there is a catch. We will provide only one meal, and let’s just say if you want to eat in peace, you’re probably going to have to incapacitate your room-mate. Water? You must reach the platform above the ring. You want to sleep? You may have to think about putting Tom to sleep first, but it will probably take more than simply a bed-time story. Oh, and I’d give serious thought to practicing the ability to sleep with one eye open.”
Lenny tried to struggle to his feet, but Tom thumped him on the back, then applied a Cobra Clutch on the ropes. The Principal continued.
“We will provide one bucket once a day, but only one of you is going to piss and shit. And if you try to escape? We have guards on alert 24 hours a day for the duration of this exercise, and this cage has been rigged to receive a quantity of electricity that isn’t conducive to good health.”
“You fucking cunt! I’m going to k-”
Tom shut Lenny up by slamming his face down on the mat with a vicious stomp.
“And if you do still manage to escape before I say it’s time leave, I will toss you back into this cage with five of my best men--- and I will cut the rations.”
“Enjoy your stay, Lenny!”
The Principal walked off as Tom lifted Lenny with a choke hold, slammed his body down on the mat and began to beat him senseless with kicks and punches. Lenny’s stay in Hell was just beginning.
*
From the archives of Action Packed Wrestling: The Guv’nor’s Gab (transcript #13)
First time I took a heavy blow to the head I was a gibbering idiot. I sat at home dribbling like a proper window licker, unable to string a syllable together, and generally proving myself a right useful bastard. Cher, it did her nut in. Anyways, I went to see the quacks and they said I was troubled by a concussion. The good news was I soon made a recovery and the spastic symptoms soon faded. Fortunately, it was only temporary stupidity on my part. In the case of Robina Hood I suspect it’s something a lot more permanent.
I’m being harsh? Let me explain. The only explanation I can give for why Robina Hood would try to take on The Guv’nor with a crowbar is that all the time she’s spent with Sienna has rendered her thick as my old school’s custard.
Robina should’ve known better.
She’s been on Meltdown for nearly six months, so she’s got as good an overview of this show as anyone. She’s seen what came before The Guv’nor, and she’s seen the destruction that has followed The Guv’nor’s arrival, know what I’m saying? She’s followed it; she’s been there every step of the way with as keen an eye as anyone. Just go and ask her, she can tell you what became of Warren Peace, Tommy Knoxville and Michael Jennings after they tried and failed to put down The Guv’nor. So you got to wonder what the saucy tart is up to.
Now I know I ain’t the best looking geezer in the world, so she can’t be attracted to my looks, and this is her kinky way of telling The Guv’nor she wants a bit of behind closed doors action, know what I’m saying? I’ve got a nice bit of gold around my waist, maybe it’s that. We all know women are like magpies and they chase anything with a bit of bling to it. But then it just comes back to Robina knowing the consequences of coming after it. You get hurt; you get knocked spark out!
I’m a lot of things, but one thing I’m is a deceiver. Look at my history in APW: I never once told anyone a lie, and I never once tried to pass off as true something so blatantly false. So when I say I’m coming to smash your face in my boot, you can bet your house on that fact. Many have tried to make a liar out me, but none have succeeded yet. I ain’t saying some daft like the truth is on my side, but it should suffice to know I’m a man of my word; and the word is Robina Hood has written and signed off her own death sentence.
But I’ll give the little darling her dues. She hurt me. I mean she really hurt. I’m talking about a little bruise to my pride, or the emotional lark you see in all that Hollywood cobblers. I’m talking about proper, feel it right down to your bones, physical pain. I’ve been in the fighting game for much of my life, whether it be scrapping with some local hooligans as a nipper, becoming London’s most fearsome bare knuckle boxer, or just smashing up plastic gangster slags who had it coming; but of the monsters I fought in the ring, all the bullies who tried to thump that scrawny kid I was, and every knife some slag pulled on me, I never felt pain like what Robina gave me the past few weeks.
Yeah, the bitch used a crowbar, but I’ve seen killers who are artists with a sledgehammer. She found her method, and it fucking hurts let me tell you.
I’ve been steaming these past few weeks, to the point where I seriously considered waiting in the car park in Rio and mowing that slag down with a bus. Fuck the match, fuck the championship, I’d just run that cunt over and show her who’s boss; show her what the consequences are of taking liberties with The Guv’nor. They could send a whole army of bastard filth after me, and I’d serve years and years of my life satisfied and unrepentant because it was just another slag who got what was coming.
But I settled my rage and I thought about it, and the conclusion I reached was that a fate like that was too good for a greasy bastard like that. I’ve had to endure being nursed back to health, waiting for the bruises to heal, bones to mend, muscles to regain their former strength. I’ve had suffer weeks of inconvenience and doubt, so to be given the peace of being crushed to an instant death. No fucking chance sister!
The Bible, what I remember of it, says pay kind with kind, and while I’m not exactly one of God’s good Christian children, I ain’t averse to a bit of wisdom, whatever the source. Whoever’s idea the steel cage was, well I fucking thank you, because locked inside that torture device am I going to give Robina Hood an exact play by play run through of the Hell that’s been forced upon me by her.
I remember when I was a kid this mental preacher used to give it his all every Saturday on the Ridley Road Market, warning all us sinners with prophecies of doom and eternal torture forever more. I thought he was just trying to get us into church to listen to some boring lecture about Jesus, but he was very graphic about how devils would peel off your skin in this roaring inferno, and how all the bum bandits would be punished with hot pokers.
I fucking love a colourful yarn, and the image always stuck with me. Every time I sorted some slag who had it coming, I always had in mind I was one of them demons inflicting righteous damnation, or whatever. But that’s good for Robina. When she’s locked inside that cage with this animal, she’s going to be wishing only for the release of Hell and its eternal torment. She’ll pray for some devil to come and peel away her skin, after I’ve grated that pretty face of hers against the cage, provoking every cell to new levels of excruciating pain.
Unlike the poor bastards who end up in Hell, there is salvation in God’s mercy, so the Bible bashers tell us. But for Robina all hope is lost. Inside the cage, when the fight is on, I am a monster completely incapable of mercy. It doesn’t matter whether Robina is a 130lb woman, or whether she’s a bulging 300lb monster. She made her choices, she has to accept the responsibility and suffer the consequences. As far as I know nobody forced her into targeting The Guv’nor, nobody compelled her to chase me down with a crowbar and beat me worse than a dog.
But the best of it all will be to watch that giddy bitch come to the ring full of hope and expectation that she can finally fulfil that fantasy Sienna has been living for months--- that her ‘perfect’ megastar is the one to finally end the most dominant run ever seen on Meltdown, to be the first person to score a legitimate singles win over The Guv’nor, and steal back the North American Championship. I get to see witness that hope, I get to destroy with my very own hands, and afterwards I even get to raise a smile about it.
I never said I wasn’t a horrible cunt, or a sadistic bastard. But I always promise to win--- an iron-clad guarantee MADE IN HACKNEY!
End.
First time I took a heavy blow to the head I was a gibbering idiot. I sat at home dribbling like a proper window licker, unable to string a syllable together, and generally proving myself a right useful bastard. Cher, it did her nut in. Anyways, I went to see the quacks and they said I was troubled by a concussion. The good news was I soon made a recovery and the spastic symptoms soon faded. Fortunately, it was only temporary stupidity on my part. In the case of Robina Hood I suspect it’s something a lot more permanent.
I’m being harsh? Let me explain. The only explanation I can give for why Robina Hood would try to take on The Guv’nor with a crowbar is that all the time she’s spent with Sienna has rendered her thick as my old school’s custard.
Robina should’ve known better.
She’s been on Meltdown for nearly six months, so she’s got as good an overview of this show as anyone. She’s seen what came before The Guv’nor, and she’s seen the destruction that has followed The Guv’nor’s arrival, know what I’m saying? She’s followed it; she’s been there every step of the way with as keen an eye as anyone. Just go and ask her, she can tell you what became of Warren Peace, Tommy Knoxville and Michael Jennings after they tried and failed to put down The Guv’nor. So you got to wonder what the saucy tart is up to.
Now I know I ain’t the best looking geezer in the world, so she can’t be attracted to my looks, and this is her kinky way of telling The Guv’nor she wants a bit of behind closed doors action, know what I’m saying? I’ve got a nice bit of gold around my waist, maybe it’s that. We all know women are like magpies and they chase anything with a bit of bling to it. But then it just comes back to Robina knowing the consequences of coming after it. You get hurt; you get knocked spark out!
I’m a lot of things, but one thing I’m is a deceiver. Look at my history in APW: I never once told anyone a lie, and I never once tried to pass off as true something so blatantly false. So when I say I’m coming to smash your face in my boot, you can bet your house on that fact. Many have tried to make a liar out me, but none have succeeded yet. I ain’t saying some daft like the truth is on my side, but it should suffice to know I’m a man of my word; and the word is Robina Hood has written and signed off her own death sentence.
But I’ll give the little darling her dues. She hurt me. I mean she really hurt. I’m talking about a little bruise to my pride, or the emotional lark you see in all that Hollywood cobblers. I’m talking about proper, feel it right down to your bones, physical pain. I’ve been in the fighting game for much of my life, whether it be scrapping with some local hooligans as a nipper, becoming London’s most fearsome bare knuckle boxer, or just smashing up plastic gangster slags who had it coming; but of the monsters I fought in the ring, all the bullies who tried to thump that scrawny kid I was, and every knife some slag pulled on me, I never felt pain like what Robina gave me the past few weeks.
Yeah, the bitch used a crowbar, but I’ve seen killers who are artists with a sledgehammer. She found her method, and it fucking hurts let me tell you.
I’ve been steaming these past few weeks, to the point where I seriously considered waiting in the car park in Rio and mowing that slag down with a bus. Fuck the match, fuck the championship, I’d just run that cunt over and show her who’s boss; show her what the consequences are of taking liberties with The Guv’nor. They could send a whole army of bastard filth after me, and I’d serve years and years of my life satisfied and unrepentant because it was just another slag who got what was coming.
But I settled my rage and I thought about it, and the conclusion I reached was that a fate like that was too good for a greasy bastard like that. I’ve had to endure being nursed back to health, waiting for the bruises to heal, bones to mend, muscles to regain their former strength. I’ve had suffer weeks of inconvenience and doubt, so to be given the peace of being crushed to an instant death. No fucking chance sister!
The Bible, what I remember of it, says pay kind with kind, and while I’m not exactly one of God’s good Christian children, I ain’t averse to a bit of wisdom, whatever the source. Whoever’s idea the steel cage was, well I fucking thank you, because locked inside that torture device am I going to give Robina Hood an exact play by play run through of the Hell that’s been forced upon me by her.
I remember when I was a kid this mental preacher used to give it his all every Saturday on the Ridley Road Market, warning all us sinners with prophecies of doom and eternal torture forever more. I thought he was just trying to get us into church to listen to some boring lecture about Jesus, but he was very graphic about how devils would peel off your skin in this roaring inferno, and how all the bum bandits would be punished with hot pokers.
I fucking love a colourful yarn, and the image always stuck with me. Every time I sorted some slag who had it coming, I always had in mind I was one of them demons inflicting righteous damnation, or whatever. But that’s good for Robina. When she’s locked inside that cage with this animal, she’s going to be wishing only for the release of Hell and its eternal torment. She’ll pray for some devil to come and peel away her skin, after I’ve grated that pretty face of hers against the cage, provoking every cell to new levels of excruciating pain.
Unlike the poor bastards who end up in Hell, there is salvation in God’s mercy, so the Bible bashers tell us. But for Robina all hope is lost. Inside the cage, when the fight is on, I am a monster completely incapable of mercy. It doesn’t matter whether Robina is a 130lb woman, or whether she’s a bulging 300lb monster. She made her choices, she has to accept the responsibility and suffer the consequences. As far as I know nobody forced her into targeting The Guv’nor, nobody compelled her to chase me down with a crowbar and beat me worse than a dog.
But the best of it all will be to watch that giddy bitch come to the ring full of hope and expectation that she can finally fulfil that fantasy Sienna has been living for months--- that her ‘perfect’ megastar is the one to finally end the most dominant run ever seen on Meltdown, to be the first person to score a legitimate singles win over The Guv’nor, and steal back the North American Championship. I get to see witness that hope, I get to destroy with my very own hands, and afterwards I even get to raise a smile about it.
I never said I wasn’t a horrible cunt, or a sadistic bastard. But I always promise to win--- an iron-clad guarantee MADE IN HACKNEY!
End.
