Post by Jules on May 18, 2013 10:58:46 GMT -4
Book II: An Emerging Force
Chapter VII
Inside her office Sienna Harrison sat across from Lenny Lanbsury, aka The Guv’nor, and ‘Touchstone’ representative Mr. Black. Sienna, who had dressed very conservatively for this meeting, tapped a pencil on her desk.
“You know this is inevitable, Lenny. You’ve known since day one this would have to happen,” the Meltdown GM said, irritation in her voice.
The issue at stake was the upcoming Meltdown draft. Even a deaf and blind person could have known there was no love lost between Lenny and Sienna. She had a certain vision of what a Meltdown megastar, a North American Champion, should be; Lenny outright refused to have himself pressed into a box that wasn’t made to his size and shape.
“No, princess,” Lenny replied, chewing gum rebelliously, “I understand my contract states I could be drafted one day-”
“Yes,” Sienna interrupted, “and that day is here. May 20th, I want you drafted, now it’s a just course of completing the paperwork to facilitate that.”
“If you let me finish,” Lenny retorted with a sneering tone, “I may not be the vision of genius, but I can read. I’ve had a leaf through the pages and I found nothing that compels me to draft according to your say-so.”
“But Lenny,” Sienna again tried to appeal, but Mr. Black intervened here, raising an arm to indicate he would take over the negotiations.
“Mr. Lansbury, as the representative of ‘Touchstone’ I am at liberty to act on their behalf. I can say from the point of view of your backers, now is the right time to move on. You’ve outgrown Meltdown.”
Sienna frowned at that suggestion.
“There is no longer any challenge on the brand worthy of you. I think it’s time to build The Guv’nor franchise on either Overdrive or Asylum. Just imagine the buy-rates a Guv’nor versus Level-One, or Guv’nor versus Terry Marvin match could bring in. Think about the increased exposure granted by the greater purchasing power of the Overdrive or Asylum marketing budgets. No offense, Miss Harrison,” the lawyer said, turning to face Sienna, “but it’s not secret Meltdown is playing second fiddle to the top tier APW brands.”
It was a comment Sienna did not appreciate at all, but the lawyer allowed her no rebuttal, and instead she was left to frown heavily, exhale deeply and cross his arms with frustration.
“Mr. Lansbury, everybody knows a large part of Meltdown’s continued success, the increased turnover of the Meltdown product in the past two months, is due in no small part to The Guv’nor.”
“So what’s your point?” Lenny intervened, not disguising his impatience and contempt of his interlocutor.
“His point, Lenny,” Sienna chimed in, “is that it is time to end all of this. As the General Manager of Meltdown I want to thank you for your contribution. Mr. Black is correct, Meltdown owes you a lot, but the relationship has reached its zenith. We can’t go any higher from here. If we continue, the relationship will become broken.”
“Broken? I don’t know what relationship you’re talking about, sweetheart, but you listen to the fans at Mayhem, you tell them whether their ready to break-up with The Guv’nor. Here’s how I see it-”
“Mr. Lansbury,” Mr. Black started, “I understand where you are. You’re the #1 megastar on Meltdown, it is as much your show as anyone else’s.”
“Excuse me?”
“Please, Miss Harrison, bear with me.” The lawyer turned his attention back to Lenny. “But Sienna is right, there is nowhere else for you to go on Meltdown. The Guv’nor versus Robina Hood will probably go down as the biggest match in Meltdown history, but what else is there? Nobody wants to see another title defence against Billy Pepsi. Michael Jennings--- we all know he’s a medium-sized fish who’s real strength is bloated by a small, magnified pond. Roy Speede--- the kid isn’t ready yet.”
“You have to appreciate that there is no more money to be made on Meltdown. The fans --- and that’s who you want to satisfy right? --- they now want to buy The Guv’nor versus Delikado, or C.J. Gates, or maybe Jason Kash or Keaton Saint--- it’s whatever you want, the matches you want to wrestle.”
“He’s right, Lenny. If anything, remaining on Meltdown is only going to hurt you in the long run. You stay now and turn your back on Overdrive or Asylum, the people will soon lose interest; they’ll quickly see that you’re just a loud mouth afraid of a bigger challenge.”
“You have to see reason on this one, Mr. Lansbury. I know you enjoy being a Meltdown megastar, and I know how dearly you hold the North American Championship.”
“And you wouldn’t have to relinquish it, either. We allowed Young Mannie to return for mandatory title defences, I will happily accommodate that. But let’s move on, Lenny. Let’s live and let live, and put this behind us.”
There was silence as Lenny seemed to think over the case presented to him. Sienna nervously shifted her gaze to Mr. Black, he gave a short, confident nod. With a heavy sigh Lenny began his reply.
“Wow,” he said nodding his head. “That was some fucking tag team you two mugs just tried to work on me. You trying to tell me you two didn’t plan and scheme that little speech before this meeting?”
“Mr. Lansb-”
“Leave it out, you cheap bastard!”
Sienna put a palm to her face; she knew what was coming.
“Through that all I heard was ‘moneymoneymoney’ from the Tom Sawyer here, and for you darling, it’s always ‘memefuckingme’. Well both of you cunts can fuck right off. Where in all of that did you think ‘what does Lenny want?’”
“Now listen here you yeller bastard,” Lenny said to Mr. Black, “since I’m the geezer bleeding the money into your bank account, I’ll be the one who decides how and where it’s done.”
The lawyer tried to intervene, but Lenny grabbed a piece of paper off Sienna’s desk, rolled it into a ball and jammed it into the lawyer’s mouth, securing it by wrapping some sellotape around his head.
“That’s much better. I’m sick of the poison that comes out his mouth. Now for you, saucy cow. You think I don’t know what kind of mischief you’re up to here? I’m the North American Champion, the way I see it I got rights. As long as I hold the belt I say it’s my prerogative to decide where I beat people up. If it’s Meltdown, then it’s your job to stack them up, and I’ll oblige by knocking them all spark out. Know what I’m saying?”
“Fine Lenny, if that’s how you want to play it. But as it stands, as soon as you lose that title, you lose any of these so-called rights.”
“Bitch, you think I’m giving the belt up any time soon?”
“No, it is going to be ripped from you by Robina Hood at Mayhem; snatched along with your pride, and this pathetic excuse for what you call a career.”
Sienna tried to burn a hole through Lenny with his fiery gaze, but he simply smirked back.
“And when my perfect megastar destroys you inside the cage, it will be my promise that on Monday 20th May I won’t draft you from Meltdown, but I will fire you and make sure you never wrestle again in North America.”
Sienna continued her intense stare. Lenny said nothing, but maintained his smirk as he turned and exited the office. When he was gone, Sienna picked up for pen holder and threw it against the wall, screaming out in a blast of frustration.
*
From the archives of Action Packed Wrestling: The Guv’nor’s Gab (transcript #14)
I’m having trouble with this idea of ‘the perfect megastar’, and since that’s what I’m faced with I want to get to the bottom of it.
I’ll be honest I ain’t exactly the sort of geezer acquainted with all things perfect. When you grow up in the East End of London and you’re forced to graft and scrap for everything you have, the idea of an unblemished life is as far apart from your own as a beautiful Caribbean paradise and the plains of Antartica.
But is that what’re we mean by ‘the perfect megastar’--- something unblemished? That can’t be right because I’ve seen Miss Robina Hood take her falls, have her number called as much anyone else. Do I need to remind you of Rasslemania IX and how ‘the perfect megastar’ was ‘the perfect loser’ on that night, while this flawed Hackney boy stood on top of the ladder, North American Championship around his waist.
Nah, It has to be something else.
Maybe it’s the bird’s good looks. Let’s be fair here, putting all this enemy stuff to one side, I can recognise a looker when I see one, and in another world, another time, another dimension, maybe The Guv’nor gives Robina Hood a night she’ll never forget for all the right reasons, know what I’m saying? But given the circumstances, I wouldn’t bang that odious bitch with Michael Jennings’ pusing gonorrhoea’d dick. But maybe Sienna sees it a different way, maybe in her mind Robina is some vision of beauty, like that Catholic virgin, or some muse in the Greek style.
If there is some lesbian gang-bang going on there, well I hardly consider what notion of perfection that entails. But that horrid fantasy aside, maybe there’s something more. I remember the missus giving me this book read about feminism, saying I could learn a thing or two about my relations with women. Personally, I don’t see anything wrong with the old fashion values: if I’m making the money that puts food on the table, designer clothes in her wardrobe, and risking my life to do so, it isn’t much to expect a fucking hot meal on the table when I get home; it isn’t slavery to want a fresh shirt ironed so you don’t want to walk the streets looking like some bloody pikey.
I don’t go in for all this modern cobblers, but then I never saw the problem. If a woman wants to have a go at a man’s work, that’s fine with me, but the mouthy twat shouldn’t expect sympathy or preferential treatment because they find it a bit lively, know what I’m saying? But that’s what we get nowadays: all these bird’s wanting a piece of the same pie, and that’s fine with me, as long as the rules of eating stay the same. Why should she be given a fork, while I have scoop my piece of the pie like a dog with my hands tied behind my back?
What’s the point? Simply put, it’s to let them join in, see what they can take for themselves, but this isn’t a bloody charity. Life is a hard graft, and you got to fight for what you have: man, woman, dog, or any other living thing. If women like Robina Hood want to enter the same sports and with compete with men, let them, but they can expect to be got after as hard and as vicious as anyone else.
I’m rambling you’re probably thinking, but it isn’t my job to open your fucking eyes and see what’s so bloody obvious to see. You’re not a child, so don’t stop fucking behaving like one. But if you want the ABCs, here it is: maybe Sienna’s ‘perfect megastar’ is some cobbled idea of the perfect woman who mixes it with men in the day, but can still run a tight ship in her homelife. Is Robina the feminist dream--- this super woman who isn’t shackled by the pathetic body nature supplied her with, and by force of will can stick it to the blokes, while maintaining that femininity at home.
Maybe it means nobody wipes Sienna’s arse with such a caressing touch as Robina; maybe the bitch just gives the best head Sienna’s ever had.
Well frankly, who gives a shit?
All that matters is that I smash that slag to kingdom come. I don’t really care whatever bollocks in Sienna’s mind lets her think Robina is ‘the perfect megastar’, my job is to smash that notion. The most important thing in this cage match is to prove that any possibility of ‘perfection’ on Meltdown is a bankrupt non-starter; my aim being to undo whatever plans Sienna or Robina want to put into place, because if that is ‘perfection’ and I’m it’s opposite, then I want Meltdown as flawed as it can possibly be.
Let’s be honest, this whole ‘perfect megastar’ thing is just another means by which Sienna tries to exercise her control over the roster. It’s adopting a stooge to do her dirty work, to kiss her backside whenever that ego of hers needs comfort. Let’s look at the history. Amy Zing was cast out, and Young Mannie was the flavour of the month because he toed the line, even though Amy Zing, a woman, had bigger balls than Young Mannie could ever know.
But while I’m on the show I won’t allow this model to take root and flower. If a piece of scum like me is everything Sienna doesn’t want in her Champion, then that is exactly what she is getting. If I’m everything that is wrong with Meltdown in Sienna’s eyes, then to her the show stays broken.
Why?
Because I won’t let some jumped-up administrator dictate what is right and what is wrong. The natural order decides that, and there is no bigger judge in the natural order than the people who pay their dues. If they want to cheer The Guv’nor when he fronts up and knocks the bottle out of every mug in the back, and they want to jeer when slags like Robina Hood buy their status with caresses and fawning, or when attention-seekers like Michael Jennings make cheap and empty threats, then that’s what goes.
I’m not saying I’m hero for the fans, I’m just not trying to force feed them something they don’t want. I’m sure the time will come when The Guv’nor isn’t the apple, but the difference is I won’t ever take liberties on that fact. Smashing up slags is what I do, and that won’t stop until the day my body gives out, whether that brings love or hate.
If that’s not ‘perfect’, then so be it. But I won’t change a fucking thing.
So what you’re getting inside the cage is a demonstration of what ‘imperfect’ can do, and the promise of the ‘perfect’ destruction of ‘the perfect megastar’. No holds barred, no limitations, not a drop of blood or sweat held in reserve.
The cage can be a lasting symbol of many things in professional wrestling: torture chamber, weapon, career-ender, career-definer. At Mayhem it becomes the symbol of ‘imperfection’, the symbol of how chaos will continue to reign on Meltdown, and how Sienna and Robina Hood’s continued attempts to organise the chaos into a ‘harmony’ will always fail.
Like my old physics teacher told me many moons ago: the universe is a continual motion of things moving from an organised to a disorganised state. The world is biased towards ‘imperfection’, and as long as there are agents of doom, ministers of chaos and corruption, social pathogens like The Guv’nor, every attempt to ‘perfect’ will collapses into the black hole.
I like ‘imperfect’. It means discord and disorder; a state of bedlam and chaos where everything is to play for. Who wants to bring order to anarchy when you know it is the turmoil that drags life from under the rock into the sunshine. To me, Sienna and Robina’s vision of ‘perfection’ is one that stamps all over innovation, doesn’t want megastars engaged in the tooth and claw struggle for survival; but instead promotes the stale, predetermined order of things. It’s a hierarchy of entropy. Give me the free-for-all, give me battle provoked by bloodlust and desire for power.
The Guv’nor is the man on top, but like fuck do I want to stop those below me from reaching. I ain’t going to show any mercy, and you can be certain I’ll stamp on their fingers as they reach for the precipice on which I stand. But I don’t want them to stop struggling. I want them to force me to keep my eyes open, earn my place and not be told by any miserable slag in a suit what my place in the order of things is.
Robina and Sienna are gonna learn that lesson as I unleash mayhem inside the steel cage. Robina as her body is ripped to shreds; Sienna as she watches and witnesses everything she has invested her hopes and dreams in dashed to nothing.
Nothing’s perfect in this life, especially when it comes MADE IN HACKNEY.
I’m having trouble with this idea of ‘the perfect megastar’, and since that’s what I’m faced with I want to get to the bottom of it.
I’ll be honest I ain’t exactly the sort of geezer acquainted with all things perfect. When you grow up in the East End of London and you’re forced to graft and scrap for everything you have, the idea of an unblemished life is as far apart from your own as a beautiful Caribbean paradise and the plains of Antartica.
But is that what’re we mean by ‘the perfect megastar’--- something unblemished? That can’t be right because I’ve seen Miss Robina Hood take her falls, have her number called as much anyone else. Do I need to remind you of Rasslemania IX and how ‘the perfect megastar’ was ‘the perfect loser’ on that night, while this flawed Hackney boy stood on top of the ladder, North American Championship around his waist.
Nah, It has to be something else.
Maybe it’s the bird’s good looks. Let’s be fair here, putting all this enemy stuff to one side, I can recognise a looker when I see one, and in another world, another time, another dimension, maybe The Guv’nor gives Robina Hood a night she’ll never forget for all the right reasons, know what I’m saying? But given the circumstances, I wouldn’t bang that odious bitch with Michael Jennings’ pusing gonorrhoea’d dick. But maybe Sienna sees it a different way, maybe in her mind Robina is some vision of beauty, like that Catholic virgin, or some muse in the Greek style.
If there is some lesbian gang-bang going on there, well I hardly consider what notion of perfection that entails. But that horrid fantasy aside, maybe there’s something more. I remember the missus giving me this book read about feminism, saying I could learn a thing or two about my relations with women. Personally, I don’t see anything wrong with the old fashion values: if I’m making the money that puts food on the table, designer clothes in her wardrobe, and risking my life to do so, it isn’t much to expect a fucking hot meal on the table when I get home; it isn’t slavery to want a fresh shirt ironed so you don’t want to walk the streets looking like some bloody pikey.
I don’t go in for all this modern cobblers, but then I never saw the problem. If a woman wants to have a go at a man’s work, that’s fine with me, but the mouthy twat shouldn’t expect sympathy or preferential treatment because they find it a bit lively, know what I’m saying? But that’s what we get nowadays: all these bird’s wanting a piece of the same pie, and that’s fine with me, as long as the rules of eating stay the same. Why should she be given a fork, while I have scoop my piece of the pie like a dog with my hands tied behind my back?
What’s the point? Simply put, it’s to let them join in, see what they can take for themselves, but this isn’t a bloody charity. Life is a hard graft, and you got to fight for what you have: man, woman, dog, or any other living thing. If women like Robina Hood want to enter the same sports and with compete with men, let them, but they can expect to be got after as hard and as vicious as anyone else.
I’m rambling you’re probably thinking, but it isn’t my job to open your fucking eyes and see what’s so bloody obvious to see. You’re not a child, so don’t stop fucking behaving like one. But if you want the ABCs, here it is: maybe Sienna’s ‘perfect megastar’ is some cobbled idea of the perfect woman who mixes it with men in the day, but can still run a tight ship in her homelife. Is Robina the feminist dream--- this super woman who isn’t shackled by the pathetic body nature supplied her with, and by force of will can stick it to the blokes, while maintaining that femininity at home.
Maybe it means nobody wipes Sienna’s arse with such a caressing touch as Robina; maybe the bitch just gives the best head Sienna’s ever had.
Well frankly, who gives a shit?
All that matters is that I smash that slag to kingdom come. I don’t really care whatever bollocks in Sienna’s mind lets her think Robina is ‘the perfect megastar’, my job is to smash that notion. The most important thing in this cage match is to prove that any possibility of ‘perfection’ on Meltdown is a bankrupt non-starter; my aim being to undo whatever plans Sienna or Robina want to put into place, because if that is ‘perfection’ and I’m it’s opposite, then I want Meltdown as flawed as it can possibly be.
Let’s be honest, this whole ‘perfect megastar’ thing is just another means by which Sienna tries to exercise her control over the roster. It’s adopting a stooge to do her dirty work, to kiss her backside whenever that ego of hers needs comfort. Let’s look at the history. Amy Zing was cast out, and Young Mannie was the flavour of the month because he toed the line, even though Amy Zing, a woman, had bigger balls than Young Mannie could ever know.
But while I’m on the show I won’t allow this model to take root and flower. If a piece of scum like me is everything Sienna doesn’t want in her Champion, then that is exactly what she is getting. If I’m everything that is wrong with Meltdown in Sienna’s eyes, then to her the show stays broken.
Why?
Because I won’t let some jumped-up administrator dictate what is right and what is wrong. The natural order decides that, and there is no bigger judge in the natural order than the people who pay their dues. If they want to cheer The Guv’nor when he fronts up and knocks the bottle out of every mug in the back, and they want to jeer when slags like Robina Hood buy their status with caresses and fawning, or when attention-seekers like Michael Jennings make cheap and empty threats, then that’s what goes.
I’m not saying I’m hero for the fans, I’m just not trying to force feed them something they don’t want. I’m sure the time will come when The Guv’nor isn’t the apple, but the difference is I won’t ever take liberties on that fact. Smashing up slags is what I do, and that won’t stop until the day my body gives out, whether that brings love or hate.
If that’s not ‘perfect’, then so be it. But I won’t change a fucking thing.
So what you’re getting inside the cage is a demonstration of what ‘imperfect’ can do, and the promise of the ‘perfect’ destruction of ‘the perfect megastar’. No holds barred, no limitations, not a drop of blood or sweat held in reserve.
The cage can be a lasting symbol of many things in professional wrestling: torture chamber, weapon, career-ender, career-definer. At Mayhem it becomes the symbol of ‘imperfection’, the symbol of how chaos will continue to reign on Meltdown, and how Sienna and Robina Hood’s continued attempts to organise the chaos into a ‘harmony’ will always fail.
Like my old physics teacher told me many moons ago: the universe is a continual motion of things moving from an organised to a disorganised state. The world is biased towards ‘imperfection’, and as long as there are agents of doom, ministers of chaos and corruption, social pathogens like The Guv’nor, every attempt to ‘perfect’ will collapses into the black hole.
I like ‘imperfect’. It means discord and disorder; a state of bedlam and chaos where everything is to play for. Who wants to bring order to anarchy when you know it is the turmoil that drags life from under the rock into the sunshine. To me, Sienna and Robina’s vision of ‘perfection’ is one that stamps all over innovation, doesn’t want megastars engaged in the tooth and claw struggle for survival; but instead promotes the stale, predetermined order of things. It’s a hierarchy of entropy. Give me the free-for-all, give me battle provoked by bloodlust and desire for power.
The Guv’nor is the man on top, but like fuck do I want to stop those below me from reaching. I ain’t going to show any mercy, and you can be certain I’ll stamp on their fingers as they reach for the precipice on which I stand. But I don’t want them to stop struggling. I want them to force me to keep my eyes open, earn my place and not be told by any miserable slag in a suit what my place in the order of things is.
Robina and Sienna are gonna learn that lesson as I unleash mayhem inside the steel cage. Robina as her body is ripped to shreds; Sienna as she watches and witnesses everything she has invested her hopes and dreams in dashed to nothing.
Nothing’s perfect in this life, especially when it comes MADE IN HACKNEY.
*
“I-”
SLAM!
“HAVE-”
SLAM!
“HAD-”
SLAM!
“ENOUGH”
SLAM!
“OF”
SLAM!
“YOU!”
In a flurry of rage Lenny Lansbury slammed Tom’s (the thug from our previous chapter) head repeatedly into the exposed steel ring beneath the turnbuckle. It must have been twenty times Tom’s head bounced off the steel before he was released and slumped to the mat. Lenny backed away; outside the ring the voice of The Principal was heard shouting.
“It’s time to finish this!”
Lenny backed up a few steps, then charged in and lifted his boot into Tom’s face with a vicious, then half a dozen sickening stomps on the head did the job as Tom sank into unconsciousness. Lenny, caked in his own blood and sweat, slumped to his knees and crawled towards the cage door, which was open for his release after five days locked inside this hell. The Principal waited and embraced Lenny.
“Congratulations! You passed the course. Now I know you’re ready.”
Lenny took a step a back, breathing heavily.
“No,” he said between heaves.
“What?”
“I said ‘no’.”
The Principal looked confused, with a huge effort Lenny sprang up and floored him with a sledgehammer of an uppercut. Looking down on the shocked trainer, Lenny smirked and said.
“Now I’m ready, you fucking slag!”
End.
