Post by Jules on Jun 25, 2013 8:25:14 GMT -4
Book III: Nemesis
Chapter II
Being home was always satisfying. Life on the road was tough, especially as he usually did it alone. Being part of APW’s travelling circus wasn’t Cher’s idea of an enjoyable time. At least in New York City she had all the lights and distractions she’d left behind in London more than compensated. He missed her presence the 3-4 days a week he was away preparing and performing on Meltdown, but the sense of grounding he felt when he walked through the door was indescribable. He was glad she was here with him, besides the thought of what part of the Thames she would be resting on the bottom of if he had left in London didn’t bear thinking about. In many ways he was doing all of this for her. Somewhere down the line – he didn’t know where or when; he just knew it would be there – was an escape route.
“Babe, I’m back!” Lenny exclaimed warmly as he stepped over the threshold. “I hope there’s some grub cooking because I’m Hank Marvin,” he continued as he closed the door to their apartment.
Lenny placed his bag on the floor and walked through to the lounge where Cher was watching TV. It looked like a horror movie. He walked over to her and planted a kiss on her cheek, but her eyes were fixed to the screen.
“Bit early to be watching a slasher flick,” Lenny said as he glanced at the screen and with closer inspection he realised she was watching the Victor Hades promotional video that air at the final Meltdown before T4TB. Lenny grabbed the remote and paused the screen, the screen frozen inadvertently on the message ‘Victor Hades Is Coming’.
“A lesser man would think you are having an affair.”
“I would hardly be watching it knowing you’re due home if that were the case.”
“Maybe, but then it’s a great bit of reverse psychology.”
Cher guffawed with derision and stormed out of the lounge. Lenny looked on, confused. After switching off the TV he followed her, finding her in the kitchen.
“It was a joke, love. But with a reaction like that-”
“That’s your problem, Len: everything is one big joke! It’s a game to you; nothing is ever serious; you don’t worry about a thing.”
“You think I’m going to concern myself with a trifle like that? It’s a video; it’s an exaggeration. You remember Billy, my aunt Sally’s boy?”
Cher didn’t respond.
“Well he’s just finished his A-Level in Film Studies; they’re even talking about him going onto University.”
“A Lansbury? Wonders never cease!”
“Fuck knows where he gets the brains from! You met Sally, and they don’t call his dad Terry Thick for nothing,” Lenny said, with a chuckle to himself at the memory of Terry’s legend. “Anyway, he puts this sort of thing together all the time. He put together this mock news broadcast, bit of banter like, showed it to his old dear and she freaked, thinking there was some kind of alien invasion coming to take over the world and destroy the human race. He’s a right fucking terror that one; I had to go and have a word because she wanted me to straighten the lad out. She thinks he’s got too many ideas swimming around in his head.”
Lenny smiled again, shaking his head. He looks at Cher and exhales heavily, slamming a frozen microwave Mac N Cheese on the worktop.
“You can make your own tea!”
She stormed off again. Lenny rolled his eyes, disappointed that sex was off the menu tonight. Turning on his heels he went in pursuit.
“Cher, sweetheart, my love,” he said grovellingly. “What’s going on?” he asked when he found her lying on their bed, her back to the door.
“Babe, are you going to sulk all night, or you going to be tell me what the fuck is going on?”
Sitting up she spat out: “All afternoon I’ve been watching that video and I’ve been unable to drag myself away from searching for ‘Victor Hades’.”
“Okay-”
“And all you can do is talk about your moron cousin and his fucking school work.”
“It was an anecdote, babe. I’m trying to cheer you up.”
“By telling me about aliens! I’m scared to death because you are walking into a situation with an animal, and you want to tell me about aliens!”
“There weren’t any aliens, it was a joke.”
“I FUCKING KNOW THAT!” Cher screamed. “The aliens are not the point.”
“Then what is it, because I’m struggling here sweetheart.”
“That bitch, Sienna Harrison,” she said the name like it was poison, “is setting you up, and like a big dumb bear you’re following the honey into a trap.”
“You’re worried?”
“No, I’m ecstatic!” She paused, then when Lenny showed confusion she screamed: “OF COURSE I’M WORRIED!”
She bit her lip.
“Do you even understand who Victor Hades is? Have you stopped for just one minute to think about why she picked him over everybody else? Have you asked why she brought him ‘back from the dead’ just for you?”
“I wouldn’t worry about Sienna Harrison, love. She’s got a consistent record of backing the lame horse.”
“He’s ended five careers. Five,” she repeated with emphasis.
“And how many slags do you think I’ve fucked up in my time? Why should I be impressed with this Victor Hades mug? That fucker didn’t even have the courage to face me on Meltdown. Instead he hides behind the geezers doing the tech.”
“I know who you were in London, Lenny,, she spat. “I’m not blind; I could see how people would shrink away if you happened to be walking on the same side of the road. You think I didn’t see the waiters moving people to give us the best table whenever we were out for dinner? I few people would even dare to look you in the eye when talking to you.”
Lenny smiled, impressed with Cher’s recollection and the memory of how he was one of the top faces in London’s East End.
“But this isn’t Mare Street or The Downs or Mountford Estate. These people don’t give a fuck who you are, and they won’t stop a second to think about what it means to try and hurt you.”
“Oh they do. It might take them a second or two longer, but they all know. How many times do hear Michael Jennings call for me these days? Nathaniel Havok--- he’s so traumatized by how I battered him week after week that he’s regressed into forming that Boy Band of his.”
“And what about Robina Hood?”
“Sweetheart, who’s the man with the gold?”
“She smashed you in the face with a crowbar,” she reminded him. “And you think she wouldn’t do the same again given half the chance?”
“She wouldn’t dare!” Lenny barked unconvincingly.
“You keep telling yourself that, Lenny,” Cher chided. “But I’ve looked into this Victor Hades, and he’s ten of Robina Hood. He was so brutal they had to lock him up. He wasn’t safe to wrestle with. I even read one article that described him as the Hannibal Lektor of professional wrestling.”
Lenny ponders the thought as Cher taunts.
“And Sienna brought him back for you.”
“Yeah, well the thing about Hannibal is he was just a figment of some nerd’s imagination.”
“Maybe, but Victor Hades,” Cher pauses, “he’s entirely real.”
She turned over, signalling she was done and that Lenny would have to entertain himself. Lenny clenched his fist and considered going a second round, but he knew this was a fight he couldn’t win; he never did with Cher. He turned on his heels and as he was closing the door she said.
“By the way, your brother called.”
Lenny’s blood boiled at the mention of his sibling.
“He’s in New York again. He wants you to call him.”
Lenny closed the door, looked down and saw the number written on a pad. He searched out his mobile and punched in the number. After a few rings his brother picked up.
“It’s Lenny, I told you never to call again you filth cunt!”
*
From the archives of Action Packed Wrestling: The Guv’nor’s Gab (transcript #18)
When I was four years old my brother told me all about The Boogeyman. He was a sadistic cunt even then; it’s probably why he joined the filth. But he told me this proper frightening stories about how The Boogeyman had horns and claws and great big gnashing teeth, and how he could invade your dreams and feeds on your soul. He said old people’s homes weren’t for the retired; they were for kids who’d been aged by The Boogeyman taking over their dreams and devouring their soul.
Well that little rump made my brother a fortune of glee at my expense. I didn’t sleep for over a year, pissing the bed every night; I was terrified of The Boogeyman hiding under my bed and would cower under the sheets, afraid to look out into the darkness because I feared the noises were The Boogeyman breathing down on me. I fucking hated going to sleep, and it even got my dear old ma into a spot of bother with some meddlers from the Social Services. They said it was neglect; but I know now it was torture from that tyrant who shares my blood.
Anyway, the long and short of it was little Lenny had enough of it, and one day he decided it was time to have a little confrontation with The Boogeyman. I pulled off the sheets and leaped out bed, carrying my Captain America figure, ready to bash that paedophilic demon with it. I had my little toy torch to hand and flashed it under the bed. Nothing. I did the same the next night. Nothing. And the next and so on until one night I heard the noises again.
I won’t lie, I was only five years old so I was ready to piss my Y-fronts again, but I endeavoured and found no horned monster breathing on me; there was nothing under the bed, and out of the corner of my eye I could see my twat brother making those noises. Not a lot I could since I was five and he was nine (although revenge in this case would cook slowly and when it came was full of juicy, meaty, tenderness), but I learnt that day that the only demons in this world are in your head.
After that I never let fear take control of me. Over time I’ve come to understand the true meaning of that. The fact is all the things we fear are things we can’t see and we can’t understand, but if you can look closer enough you’ll see that what’s there is either your imagination, some slag taking a liberty, or just a human being who is just like you in every way. UFOs, demons, devils, ghosts and ghouls, every single story about these sorts of things are fantasies or the games played by someone. I took this and applied it to my entire life. When I was boxing I knew no matter how much growl my enemy had, it was all a show; in the criminal world you have some right rummy geezers who go to great lengths to deliver a picture of real menace. I’ve seen it in names, in scars, even in those sick bastards who create bloodbaths to make their legend. But at the end of the day when The Guv’nor caught up with them they all shrivelled like flowers in a cold snap because they could see I saw right through them. Monsters reduced to violets with the merest glare.
Vic bruv, I’ll give you your dues. You know a thing or two about production values. That little video you gave us it was the works. It’s like the whole of APW has gone all Academy on us because we’re seeing these little movie trailers everywhere, but Vic, yours was as good as any I’ve seen. For a moment there you had me thinking I was facing Freddy Kruger with chainsaw’s for fingers. It was real, nasty, brutal stuff. Took me right back to those days when I feared what was under the bed.
But then I remembered that just like The Boogeyman it’s all bollocks.
Don’t get me wrong Vic, I ain’t about to make you out to be a chump. If you need me to enunciate that more clearly: I recognise you’re a cunt, Vic, but I ain’t going to do you like one.
See, I know your myth and your legend. I know all about Survive & Conquer, and I know all about how you literally painted the arenas red when you was Xtreme Champ back in the days of prohibition. Yeah, the records go way back and so do people’s memories judging by the reaction that little video of yours got. But just because you managed to win one scrap as the cavemen were first crawling out their caves in the shadow of the dying Dinosaurs doesn’t mean I have to be impressed.
Anyone these days can throw together a good trailer with a few bits of DIY technology. I see it all the time at the movies: I watch these trailers and I can see Hollywood’s trying to sell me an epic film, something that may change the way I see the world forever, but then buy your ticket and you take your seat and you realise it’s not the life-changing visual and sonic experience you wanted but Hazel & Gretel: Witch Hunters. The thing is when you put in all the best bits, even if it’s just a fraction of the whole, and ignore everything that’s shit you can make anything seem the bees knees. But I learnt a long time ago, you can’t polish a turd and make it into a block of gold – no matter how hard you try and no matter how you dress it up. Shit stinks at the end of the day, and you can’t hide that behind sequins and gilt.
It says more to me, Vic, that after Sienna had lined you up as the man to bring The Guv’nor down you didn’t even have the stones to walk to the ring and give me a glare. Sure, you could be keeping your cards close to your chest, and maybe it’s the businessman in you who says let’s keep this ‘Box Office’; but trust me if what I am facing is a man who considers some over-produced VT to his psychological warfare then I ain’t exactly quaking in my boots. At least Robina Hood has the cobblers to stick a crowbar in my face.
You’ve got the credentials Vic, no doubt. I can’t take away the fact you won a Survive & Conquer match, and I can’t deny in your day you were renowned for being one of the most fearsome competitors in APW’s locker room. You can play those cards, and I can’t. I’d like to think I got an answer for everything, but this is a hand you win with a clear margin. Congratulations Vic, you’ve got the same status as a Spitfire, which was considered the height engineering in its day but is now obsolete.
You see, Vic, while you’ve been hiding in some hole for the past three years the world has kept turning; the world has moved on. You can throw together a video package of your highlights, you can ram that Survive & Conquer trophy down my throat until I take on its shape, but the fact is while you’ve been sitting with wires in your brain and your thumb up your arse people like me having taking names and marking cards every night of the week.
Let’s not call apples oranges, bruv: the fact is this show has for a long time been carried by many, and it’s The Guv’nor who bears the biggest burden. You can crawl out of your white room and start growling like a leashed dog all you want, but it won’t change the fact that you are the one who’s got everything to prove in this match.
There’s plenty of bark, but have you still got the bite, Vic? That’s the big question. By the look of you I’d say you do. Are you motivated? Every starved man is ready to eat. But are you good enough to go toe to toe with the best and the hardest, nastiest bastard Meltdown has ever seen? By the time it’s bell-time 98 days will testify to that, and the same question has been asked of me every night since the day I walked in. Every night I’ve given the same answer and some mug has gone home with his or her face smashed in.
That’s the key difference: for three years you’ve been terrorizing part-time security bums with only truncheons to protects themselves; for four months I’ve become battle hardened fighting some of the toughest bastards in this company armed with weapons North Korea wished they could get their hands on.
Victor Hades. That’s just the image. Just like The Guv’nor, it’s the front. You want to build yourself into a frenzy and give yourself this feeling you’re larger than life; that’s cool, I get it, because we all do the same. But Victor Hades is the myth, and the reality is that behind it all is a man: a man who can feel pain, a man who bleeds, a man who can be beaten.
I know I can’t and I won’t beat Victor Hades the myth, but I promise I am going to smash three lifetimes of Hell into the man behind that myth. Whether I take away the North American Championship or not means a lot, but first and foremost this about a statement:
Victor Hades is a shadow, an illusion who’s reality is about to be smashed. The Guv’nor? He’s a man of substance, MADE IN HACKNEY, and he’s about to buy him some fava beans.
End.
When I was four years old my brother told me all about The Boogeyman. He was a sadistic cunt even then; it’s probably why he joined the filth. But he told me this proper frightening stories about how The Boogeyman had horns and claws and great big gnashing teeth, and how he could invade your dreams and feeds on your soul. He said old people’s homes weren’t for the retired; they were for kids who’d been aged by The Boogeyman taking over their dreams and devouring their soul.
Well that little rump made my brother a fortune of glee at my expense. I didn’t sleep for over a year, pissing the bed every night; I was terrified of The Boogeyman hiding under my bed and would cower under the sheets, afraid to look out into the darkness because I feared the noises were The Boogeyman breathing down on me. I fucking hated going to sleep, and it even got my dear old ma into a spot of bother with some meddlers from the Social Services. They said it was neglect; but I know now it was torture from that tyrant who shares my blood.
Anyway, the long and short of it was little Lenny had enough of it, and one day he decided it was time to have a little confrontation with The Boogeyman. I pulled off the sheets and leaped out bed, carrying my Captain America figure, ready to bash that paedophilic demon with it. I had my little toy torch to hand and flashed it under the bed. Nothing. I did the same the next night. Nothing. And the next and so on until one night I heard the noises again.
I won’t lie, I was only five years old so I was ready to piss my Y-fronts again, but I endeavoured and found no horned monster breathing on me; there was nothing under the bed, and out of the corner of my eye I could see my twat brother making those noises. Not a lot I could since I was five and he was nine (although revenge in this case would cook slowly and when it came was full of juicy, meaty, tenderness), but I learnt that day that the only demons in this world are in your head.
After that I never let fear take control of me. Over time I’ve come to understand the true meaning of that. The fact is all the things we fear are things we can’t see and we can’t understand, but if you can look closer enough you’ll see that what’s there is either your imagination, some slag taking a liberty, or just a human being who is just like you in every way. UFOs, demons, devils, ghosts and ghouls, every single story about these sorts of things are fantasies or the games played by someone. I took this and applied it to my entire life. When I was boxing I knew no matter how much growl my enemy had, it was all a show; in the criminal world you have some right rummy geezers who go to great lengths to deliver a picture of real menace. I’ve seen it in names, in scars, even in those sick bastards who create bloodbaths to make their legend. But at the end of the day when The Guv’nor caught up with them they all shrivelled like flowers in a cold snap because they could see I saw right through them. Monsters reduced to violets with the merest glare.
Vic bruv, I’ll give you your dues. You know a thing or two about production values. That little video you gave us it was the works. It’s like the whole of APW has gone all Academy on us because we’re seeing these little movie trailers everywhere, but Vic, yours was as good as any I’ve seen. For a moment there you had me thinking I was facing Freddy Kruger with chainsaw’s for fingers. It was real, nasty, brutal stuff. Took me right back to those days when I feared what was under the bed.
But then I remembered that just like The Boogeyman it’s all bollocks.
Don’t get me wrong Vic, I ain’t about to make you out to be a chump. If you need me to enunciate that more clearly: I recognise you’re a cunt, Vic, but I ain’t going to do you like one.
See, I know your myth and your legend. I know all about Survive & Conquer, and I know all about how you literally painted the arenas red when you was Xtreme Champ back in the days of prohibition. Yeah, the records go way back and so do people’s memories judging by the reaction that little video of yours got. But just because you managed to win one scrap as the cavemen were first crawling out their caves in the shadow of the dying Dinosaurs doesn’t mean I have to be impressed.
Anyone these days can throw together a good trailer with a few bits of DIY technology. I see it all the time at the movies: I watch these trailers and I can see Hollywood’s trying to sell me an epic film, something that may change the way I see the world forever, but then buy your ticket and you take your seat and you realise it’s not the life-changing visual and sonic experience you wanted but Hazel & Gretel: Witch Hunters. The thing is when you put in all the best bits, even if it’s just a fraction of the whole, and ignore everything that’s shit you can make anything seem the bees knees. But I learnt a long time ago, you can’t polish a turd and make it into a block of gold – no matter how hard you try and no matter how you dress it up. Shit stinks at the end of the day, and you can’t hide that behind sequins and gilt.
It says more to me, Vic, that after Sienna had lined you up as the man to bring The Guv’nor down you didn’t even have the stones to walk to the ring and give me a glare. Sure, you could be keeping your cards close to your chest, and maybe it’s the businessman in you who says let’s keep this ‘Box Office’; but trust me if what I am facing is a man who considers some over-produced VT to his psychological warfare then I ain’t exactly quaking in my boots. At least Robina Hood has the cobblers to stick a crowbar in my face.
You’ve got the credentials Vic, no doubt. I can’t take away the fact you won a Survive & Conquer match, and I can’t deny in your day you were renowned for being one of the most fearsome competitors in APW’s locker room. You can play those cards, and I can’t. I’d like to think I got an answer for everything, but this is a hand you win with a clear margin. Congratulations Vic, you’ve got the same status as a Spitfire, which was considered the height engineering in its day but is now obsolete.
You see, Vic, while you’ve been hiding in some hole for the past three years the world has kept turning; the world has moved on. You can throw together a video package of your highlights, you can ram that Survive & Conquer trophy down my throat until I take on its shape, but the fact is while you’ve been sitting with wires in your brain and your thumb up your arse people like me having taking names and marking cards every night of the week.
Let’s not call apples oranges, bruv: the fact is this show has for a long time been carried by many, and it’s The Guv’nor who bears the biggest burden. You can crawl out of your white room and start growling like a leashed dog all you want, but it won’t change the fact that you are the one who’s got everything to prove in this match.
There’s plenty of bark, but have you still got the bite, Vic? That’s the big question. By the look of you I’d say you do. Are you motivated? Every starved man is ready to eat. But are you good enough to go toe to toe with the best and the hardest, nastiest bastard Meltdown has ever seen? By the time it’s bell-time 98 days will testify to that, and the same question has been asked of me every night since the day I walked in. Every night I’ve given the same answer and some mug has gone home with his or her face smashed in.
That’s the key difference: for three years you’ve been terrorizing part-time security bums with only truncheons to protects themselves; for four months I’ve become battle hardened fighting some of the toughest bastards in this company armed with weapons North Korea wished they could get their hands on.
Victor Hades. That’s just the image. Just like The Guv’nor, it’s the front. You want to build yourself into a frenzy and give yourself this feeling you’re larger than life; that’s cool, I get it, because we all do the same. But Victor Hades is the myth, and the reality is that behind it all is a man: a man who can feel pain, a man who bleeds, a man who can be beaten.
I know I can’t and I won’t beat Victor Hades the myth, but I promise I am going to smash three lifetimes of Hell into the man behind that myth. Whether I take away the North American Championship or not means a lot, but first and foremost this about a statement:
Victor Hades is a shadow, an illusion who’s reality is about to be smashed. The Guv’nor? He’s a man of substance, MADE IN HACKNEY, and he’s about to buy him some fava beans.
End.
