Post by Drakz on Dec 21, 2014 17:42:44 GMT -5
There's No Place Like Home
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I may not be the king of the universe just yet but I think it’s fair to say I’m swinging for the fences. Since I returned one year ago I’ve run a limited schedule yes, however I’ve also hand picked each opponent and made sure I’ve been mixing it with those that either want to prove or need to reestablish themselves.
Phillip Schneider. I don’t think we need to say any more on that one.
Joshua Dean. A man who is still battling for his stake in the company. Possibly the only man who has had a more comprehensive list of opponents than myself in 2014. He hasn’t waited for anything to be dropped on his plate. He’s gone out there and taken it. His win, loss record may not look so hot, but in some bizarre way, with him at least, it doesn’t seem to matter. He just keeps on coming.
Cameron Stone. One of only two men to hold a pin fall over me since………..you know what? Trace Demon took one in 2012 but prior to that I genuinely can’t remember the last time it happened. You have to give credit where it’s due and Stone did something only one other man on the roster can claim to have done. Pin my shoulders to the mat for 3 consecutive seconds.
Jayson Garrett. Probably the freshest face on this list but the young lad has balls. That or he’s very f*cking stupid. In my opinion it’s a little of both. This is a kid that had the audacity to claim he already knew everything I had to offer. Wether he admits it or not, I lifted him from the lower mid card up to the main event. I gave him a shot at the big time. I made him, or at least gave him the opportunity to make himself. What followed is by and large not worth talking about, and when we all fly back to the states I’ll honestly be surprised if The Golden Boy still has any gold to speak of.
Dex, Garrett & Trace Demon. All at the same time. For the belt.
Dave Demento. Just on the cusp of greatness, Demento is a name that may well be forgotten down the line if he doesn’t do something to cement himself. He’s done okay. He’s got the crowd on his side, but if he can’t make that leap into the big leagues then he’s destined to fade. Don’t get me wrong, the man is a juggernaut. I’ve had his shoulder knock the wind out of me and I dare say with some work he could step up. Right now though he’s one big loss away from another sabbatical.
And of course Shapiro. Eurgh. That match still makes me shudder. I think I came out of it alright though, and on the bright side the kid has been granted a National Title shot. Interesting how the belt I revitalised has become such a hotly sought after property.
There we have it 7 matches. Doesn’t seem like a lot when you lay it out like that. Maybe this story telling device has backfired? What I’m trying to say is that I’m no where near the point I’m aiming for. No matter how many people I’ve beaten, and by the way in case you weren’t paying attention I beat every one one of those men, I still have more to do. I still have greater tests of both my physical ability and my mental fortitude.
I have a homeless man with violent tendencies to retire.
I have a record to break.
I have a double grand slam to attain.
I have an old friend to destroy.
2015 is going to be one hell of a year.
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Flying Home for Christmas
“In case of a drop in pressure, oxygen masks will drop from above. Pull the strap over your head and pull to tighten. Always fix your own mask before helping others.”
Preach it.
I twist the cap off of another miniature bottle of Hennessey and knock back the contents while keeping my eyes on the male flight attendant. He’s currently giving all of business class the safety dance speech and, in my experience, if you try and hold their gaze for it’s entirety they’ll usually end up with the life vest manual inflation tube up their arse…………or something to that effect.
I’d like to clarify I’m not drinking because I’m scared of flying. I’m not even drinking to settle my nerves going home, I’m just trying to take my mind off of the shooting pain in my neck. Trizzle really did a number on me at the weekend with that desk. That was no reconstituted wood either. Solid f*cking oak executive desk. As though my spine wasn’t already crying itself to sleep every night.
The speech is over and unfortunately the attendant’s arse hole is free from obstructions. Unfortunately? Is that what I want to see on a long haul transatlantic flight? I’ve either drunk too much, or not enough.
I spend another midget bottle in an instant. Gin. F*ck midgets. I bet Donnie drinks these all the time, just so he can hold them next to his tiny d*ck. I don’t for one moment believe the fallacy behind midget d*cks is legit. They’re not all touting 12 gauges. Every one of them is nursing a chubby that fits in their fist just perfectly. DMK can take his stubby digits and……….how have I gone so off topic? What even was my topic?
“Can I offer you any refreshments sir?”
A thickset 50 something has stopped by my side with her cart and I can’t help but smile.
“Anything bigger than this?”
I hold up and waggle my last bottle, supped dry, having fallen prey to Incubus tendencies. The sucking dry of life force. Not the relentless sexual aggression. Although some of that wouldn’t go amiss right now either.
She smiles at me and digs around behind the curtain that cloaks the contents of the trolley. I watch her chunky thighs only to convince myself not to get a hard on over something so pathetic. I’ve not been laid since New York with Marlene, and I refuse to let this become the story of my life as champion.
Wether my odds of breaking the drought are heightened or dulled crossing the pond is anyone’s guess. It’s been years since I was last home and the English accent doesn’t charm women quite so easily when they’re speaking it right back at you.
It’s interesting that even though I’ve travelled back to the UK for work before I’ve never spent more than a day either side in the country. I’ve always flown straight out following the show. Perhaps I was running? P*ssy. Something told me this was the time to do it though. Set foot in the motherland and check up on a few memories. The pilgrim comes home. It’s a shame the dog couldn’t come along for the ride but I know what England’s like. They’d have him banged up in a quarantine for weeks before he was allowed out, so what’s the point. I just hope he doesn’t eat all of the food I left in one go. He’s a smart guy, he’ll be fine.
The attendant holds aloft two bottles, offering me the choice of a Grey Goose vodka or Courvoisier Cognac. Ultimately my indecisiveness wins the day as I take both litre bottles from her and go so far as to offer her a drink. Like a true professional she turns the offer down, that or I can’t even score with overweight birds in their twilight years. F*ck her, and make her f*ck Trace. He may be seeing more action than me but he must be getting tired of digging Jason’s cum out of his arse after each orgasm.
Trace needs to understand that before revolution you need foundation. Whilst his fight has a target, albeit a self serving and pointless one, mine until recently had little fire under it. A pilgrim can’t revolt until he has something to revolt against. Trace has given me that something. He believes he can walk through me to claim the first real victory in his “war” with Sleater. By this I consider myself oppressed. This lack of respect is the reason this moustachioed pilgrim is grabbing his pitchfork and lighting his torch. To settle the matter we make the return journey home. My home. In Canada Trace has shown he has support, but in England? Regardless of anything either of us say or do, the fans at Wembley will respond as thus: they will tear you down and call your mother a wh*re, and me? They’ll want to suck my d*ck, just because I’m one of them. I hate the blind devotion, but I’m not so much of a proud idiot that I’d waste it. Every time you slip on the sweaty canvas they’ll be there to pull you up on it. Every time you try to take a breather they’ll boo and call you a p*ssy. You best have your head screwed on tight when you step through that curtain mate, because if you’re not as great a mind as you’ve always claimed to be then that kind of pressure will rattle you.
My countrymen are loud if nothing else.
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Driving on the Left
Is it a show of weakness that even now I’m back in England I’m driving an automatic? Those yanks have made a simpleton out of me. Regardless, right now I’m cruising at a steady 70 up the M1. The tarmacked vein of the United Kingdom and fastest way from the north to the south, or in my case the south to the north. It couldn’t be much more direct. London. Leeds.
I find myself somewhat detached from the English roadside. Trees. Fields. F*ck all else. It’s not the most exciting vista, not at this height anyway.
I pass a sign for Birmingham and smile at the fact that I’ll probably never go there again. Whilst the city might be devoid of well…….anything, it does act as a good half way marker for me and I start to loosen up knowing that London is as far behind me as Leeds is ahead of me.I’ve gotten through the more stressful half of the journey.
I bet that cum slave Joe Bishop doesn’t have to drive this far to see his Dad. Why does he have to be the only other Brit on the roster? He’s really letting the side down, especially now he’s stuck in his perpetual 69 of doom with Trace Demon. It’s hard to know where one ends and the other starts half the time. F*ck my neck is stiff.
I hope I don’t get pulled. Even though I slept on the plane I’m probably still over the legal limit. I steer with my knees for a moment while I pop a couple of my pain meds. Maybe that quack was right. Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this anymore? I did break my spine after all.
Don’t think about that now. I know I’m still capable of doing this, even if I’m flat on my back. I could sever my torso at the waist and still beat 90% of the company. I’d probably get paid more.
I need to clear my head. Too many thoughts jostling for position. A simple twist of the volume on the stereo soon remedies that though as I’m beaten back into my seat by the music.
I’m soothed by the fact that I no longer have the head space for anything but the moment and I blindly continue on my drive, not remembering the minute that preceded the one I’m in. Before I know it I’m close to Leeds city and all of a sudden the pain in my neck grows. The whole left side of my head feels as though it’s burning and before I have time to react my head is filled with flashes of f*cking. I swerve into the middle lane and try to shake it off but my vision is blurred. As my eyes start to refocus, the image in front of me is interspersed with cut and paste scenes of hard, uneducated sex with a 16 year old girl. I drag my car over to the side of the road and before it’s even come to a stop I’m throwing my guts up out of the open door. The car leaves a snail trail of vomit behind it before rolling to a halt, letting it pool right beneath me.
What the f*ck was that about?
The heat has calmed but my neck is still really f*cking me over. Maybe I’ve trapped a nerve or something? What was with that 16 year old sh*t though? Who am I kidding. I know both who that was and why that was. Eurgh. England. It’s really great to be back.
Blocking one nostril I blow the contents of the other into the road. Rinse and repeat. I then grab the bottle of water from the passenger’s seat and drain it, still gasping for air a little after emptying myself like that.
I need to make a little detour. I can’t hit Leeds without paying the rocks a visit first. Clear my head.
Okay.
Let’s try this again.
I bang a couple more Vicodin down the hatch, clap my hands together and shout “F*CK YOU!” as loud as I can into the field of cows I’ve pulled up alongside.
Off we go!
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Malham Cove: Part 1
I pull the car over to the side of the road, cut the engine and step out, the cold letting me know I’m up north now. Looking up I see what was once a prehistoric wonder of nature to me.
Malham Cove.
I step off of the road side and make my way up the hill, grabbing handfuls of grass as I near the top. As I get my first look over the brow I’m stunned; both by the view and the fact that there’s someone else up here in mid December. I continue on, towards the edge, and can’t help but be distracted by the teenager stood uncomfortably close to the 260ft sheer drop.
“No coming back from that mate.”
I say it in jest but I’m starting to wonder if that’s the reason this lad’s up here in the first place. He doesn’t respond but it’s hardly surprising. The wind is blowing hard in our faces and it’s possible he didn’t hear me. My cheeks burn with the air and I come level to the boy, looking, like him, out into the country side below.
“What’s the deal then kid?”
I shout it and this time he seems to hear me. As he turns the wind drops. F*cking eerie.
“She’s been f*cking him. For f*ck sake, it might not even be mine.”
I notice he’s welling up.
“Not yours? Aren’t you a bit young to be trying for kids? What are you 15?”
“17 next month.”
“I’m 32 next month and I’m still too young for kids. What are you doing up here?”
I’m going through the motions really. I know why this silly f*cker’s up here.
“I was thinking about jumping you know……..”
I peer over the edge and chuckle.
“Down there? That’d hurt.”
And then some.
”I know you don’t want to actually die. This has got cry for help written all over it kid.”
He suddenly gets heated.
”What the f*ck do you know bruv? I’ve got every reason to go down there.”
He points over the edge and I raise an eyebrow.
”Don’t you think you’re being a little melodramatic? You don’t go to theatre school do you?”
I’m hoping if I call his bluff enough he’ll crumble……….either that or it’ll drive him to prove me wrong.
”I don’t go to school no more you f*cking prick.”
Mouthy little tart.
”Okay, reel it in. Start from the beginning. Your woman screwed some other fella? Am I right?”
With his eyes narrowed he nods at me.
”And you’re worried this sprog in her guts might belong to aforementioned man. Before we go any further do you know who this ‘other man’ is?”
”It’s that f*ckin’ Isaac. Weird c*nt probably raped her.”
And yet he’s stood up here killing himself? I know who’s door I’d be kicking down.
”You’re going about this all the wrong way sunshine. You’ve got pretty good odds in the baby daddy lottery and I can only assume you’re yet to burn this Isaac’s house down?”
Shame to turn a boy with such a lovely name to ash.
”As I see it you’ve got two choices here mate. You can wait for the baby to be born and then figure out who it belongs to. If it’s yours then look after it. If you’re stupid enough to bring the thing into this world then you absolutely HAVE to look after it. Option two starts the same, only this time you find out the baby belongs to Isaac. In that case you choose how to respond. I’d personally be counting my lucky starts but if you want to go rogue and shoot everyone that’s entirely up to you.”
He doesn’t respond.
”There’s no point killing yourself. Not over this at least. When you lose all faith in humanity and realise nothing you can do will change the fate of this planet, then you can kill yourself. Some girl though? Come on. Come now, this isn’t Shakespeare.”
I become quite animated at the mention of the bard’s name, and honestly can’t help myself.
”Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide.
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on.
The dashing rocks thy seasick, weary bark.
Here’s to my love!”
I act as though drinking a vial of poison, place my hands on the opposing shoulder and stick out my tongue. The boy doesn’t seem to get the reference. Time to change tact.
”But let me guess……you can’t get the image of another guy’s d*ck out of your head? Slapping her in the face. Making her back arch and her legs quiver.”
His screw face contorts even further as tears well up in his eyes. His p*ss poor hard man act finally wains under the pressure and the water flows. He starts snivelling and hitting himself in the head like a prozac tweaker. I just watch. Stand back and watch, and in honesty get a little bored. I turn away from the misery and start back for the path to the road. It feels like I’m walking away from a situation I’ve only made worse but this lad has already messed up my zen space, so f*ck him.
The boy’s let a vagina rule, and ultimately ruin, his life and if that’s all it takes, then his dying is simply another footnote in the evolution of man.
”There’s more to it than that!”
I pause and wait for him to surprise me.
”There’s more to Isaac than that.”
I turn and look this young man in the eye.
”Go on?”
I can see he doesn’t want to tell me any more but he forces it.
”He’s her half brother.”
Oh?
”Dad’s side. Different mothers.”
Sh*t the bed. I walk back to the cliff edge with him.
”I think we might be up here a long time…………..”
I hold my hand out and he shakes it.
”Jake.”
”Nice to meet you Jake.”
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Revolution. How do I feel about that word? I feel it’s said far too often, I feel the notion is somewhat empty most of the time, but most of all I feel the word is misused. It’s not a revolution if it’s just four guys who want to be in charge. A revolution requires a movement of people on mass, and yet all I see is two active wrestlers, one not so active wrestler and a suit. Four chumps doth not a revolution make.
Trace Demon is a man who has always loved drama. He generates it constantly. He is a man who always needs to be at war with someone or something. When Xavier was in charge he was fighting with him. Now Sleater is running the show he’s fighting her. It seems to me the guy simply wants to be the centre of attention at all times, regardless of wether people want to grant him the honour. Forcing your d*ck down a throat is rape, and rape is generally frowned upon. You’ve got to ease it in. Make them beg for it.
At no point have I thrust myself into the spotlight. It has ALWAYS happened naturally. There is no way you can sustain success and respect if you constantly act like a primma donna. Me. Me. Me. Not everyone wants the same things you do. Not everyone wants the same thing’s I do.
Making a quick rush for power under the guise of a revolution isn’t just a cheap trick, but also an old one. So many factions have come through this system, all claiming they were going to save or change the WFWF for the better. All came and went, and all of them did absolutely f*ck all in the long run to change things. At the end of the day a revolution only changes things in the instant it overcomes. The aftermath, 9 times out of 10, leads to the exact same ending. People get greedy. People think their ideas on how the new world should be crafted are superior. For all those that haven’t please read Animal Farm and you’ll see what I’m getting at. I can guarantee if Trace Demon’s little war was won by his band of merry f*ck wits tomorrow they wouldn’t instal a democratic system to ensure the business is run in a fair way that benefits all. No chance. If they oust Lila Sleater then that simply puts them in charge of the reins. It leads us into a dictatorship. Whilst I may not agree with all of Sleater’s decisions, I can say one thing. She isn’t a tyrant. She is open to suggestion, AND unlike putting an active member of the roster in her position she hasn’t got a God complex.
Now all of this might sound like I’m swinging off of Lila’s titties, but I can assure you I couldn’t give a f*ck about her. I’m on no ones side because I know the whole thing is fruitless for all involved. Next year Trace will only be fighting with someone else and cloaking it in another bull sh*t veil, making out that he’s doing it for all the right reasons. The guy’s a selfish prick and that’s all there is to it. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with looking out for number one, I mean it’s worked okay for me, but at least I’m open about my agenda. I don’t try and mask my true intentions behind a banner that reads “fight the power”.
Trace says this belt of mine should be around his waist, not because he’s the better man, not because he wants it more than I do, but because he believes it is the true symbol of his righteous battle. Have you ever heard anything more f*cking ridiculous in your lives? If Trace has managed to convince anyone that he genuinely believes that then he’s a greater mind than I anticipated. His self involvement couldn’t be any more blatant throughout this entire charade. He’s not taking the belt because he wants validation for his claims of superiority, oh no, he’s doing it for the betterment of the company. Hell he’s trying to save the f*cking world! What a guy. So selfless through all of this.
It’s total nonsense, and the sooner he drops all of this the better. I refuse to take him seriously until he straight fesses up that he simply wants to be champion again. That he longs to be the sole person in charge of the company, calling the shots in such a way that he and his cohorts always come out on top. Dressing all of his bull sh*t up like a round head only serves to diminish the respect I had for the man, which admittedly wasn’t much.
Trace, the only thing that’s going to happen this weekend is that I am going to force you to come clean. I am going to batter the spit out of you until you see sense and simply tell everyone you just want to be the dealer, the banker, the house. You want to be on the opposite side of the stage to everyone else.
I’m sorry mate but there’s only room for one man under this spot light and he’s an honest son of a gun.
A real piece of sh*t, but he’d never tell you otherwise.
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Supermarket Sweep
I find myself making the impossible decision of which frozen pizza to pick up. The one with reconstituted pig lips on top or the hormone drunk, broken legged chicken? In the end, after much sneering, I throw the lot out and opt for a margherita . Boring old c*nt.
If you want to get to the heart of the English political climate then go for a walk around a super market. You’ll see all you need to understand a nation who are as oppressed as they are free. The strip lit aisles almost sing to you as you swagger your trolley between those too slow for comfort. One side of your mind plays “Who will be my wife?” with every passing woman whilst the other can’t help but notice that cheese strings are on offer. As product after product seems to fall into my trolley I start to notice the feeling I’d come to expect rousing itself.
I’m close.
Not surprisingly I make for the booze aisle. Anyone revisiting their Father after 10 years needs dutch courage. That’s just fundamental. My balls need pumping up big time.
I stand in front of the wall of bottles, grab a 70cl of scotch and move to leave but my attention is caught by the slovenly man to my right. His hair does it’s very best to cover his bald patches. The capillaries in his nose have swollen and burst to such an extent that he seems to have grown a spare, and worst of all he stinks of sh*t. Human sh*t. Possibly his own. Possibly not. This specimen grunts to himself as he eyes up the cheapest bottles of red on the shelf before taking two from opposing ends. Different vintages I assume. HA. A beast of an alcoholic, he makes my gut churn, drawing my mind to the skin head I left behind in New York. David Brennan. Give it another 30 years and Dave will be in about the same physical state. I suppose I’m part to blame for this fact, but I did try. I also gave up trying, but I did try.
The wretch begins to shuffle away from me, his joints riddled with arthritis from the boozing, and my mind’s eye opens, if only for a moment. I place the bottle of whisky back on the shelf and, pinching the bridge of my nose, rub my closed eyes. I really don’t want to f*cking end up like that. P*ssing my pants every time I break wind. Having to lie down to put my trousers on. Sod that.
I look into my trolley and realise it’s full of sh*te I don’t need, which is just about everything in any shop in all fairness. I didn’t come here to spend, spend, spend. This is merely a fleeting visit.
I head toward the checkouts and then it hits me.
That feeling I was looking for.
I’m here.
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Dad
Three knocks. Three knocks away from facing up to a man I loved and left behind. It’s bitter outside at this time of year and, as I stand with my pizza under my arm, my breath erupts before me, curling against the door of number 68 and rising. I’m unnaturally calm standing on the precipice of my own moral compass. Maybe the big night nerves have been numbed by so many years on the game? Not as a hooker. Well not in the traditional sense. Although selling yourself to the world every night seems like prostitution to me.
I’m stalling.
I rap on the door and hear signs of life. The keys turn in the lock and now my hairs do prick a little. The door nudges and a face peers round. Not my Father’s, and I never expected it to be. When was the last time my Dad answered the door? I forget.
”Now then. Can I help?”
Hardly surprised by his not recognising me I respond with a single syllable.
”Yes.”
Bryan looks me up and down and opens the door far enough for me to see his full body. He’s a big guy. 6’ 3”. Just a little shorter than me but he’s wider, stockier. I continue without his prompt.
”I’m here to see my Dad.”
The penny drops and Bryan’s big chest is now pressed against mine as he arms wrap me in a hearty Yorkshire born hug.
”HEHAY!”
Bryan shouts as he lifts me up and jostles me.
”Good to see ya kid! Good to bloody see ya!”
He drops me and steps back to get a good look. This is quite a hello from a man I’ve not seen in over a decade.
”What type of tash is that then lad?”
HA! Straight in there with the question of all questions.
”It’s more Magnum P.I. than Freddie Mercury if that’s what you mean?”
”Haha! I thought so. Come in ya daft sod!”
He ushers me inside and I’ve honestly never felt so welcome. This is a man who doesn’t know Drakz. He’s never met the man who ruins. He’s never seen me sniffing coke from a p*ssy half way through a threesome. This is a man who welcomes me, and recognises me as Isaac Cray, the possibly autistic child of one of his closest friends. I am not autistic, but in places like this people like to talk sh*t.
”Can I get you owt?”
”Can I borrow your oven?”
I smirk as I hold aloft my somewhat hugged pizza, now mostly defrosted. We share a roar of laughter and Bryan slaps me on the back on the way through to the kitchen. For a widower of his age you’d perhaps expect a less kept house, but everything here is just so. Clean as a whistle. An unused whistle. Box fresh whistle. Whistle. Whistle. It doesn’t sound like a word anymore.
He takes the dough from me and with his back to the room, plays with the oven.
”How are ya then lad? By heck, we’ve got some catching up to do haven’t we?”
There’s not even a hint of callousness in anything he says, yet thanks to me this good man has given a large amount of his life over to looking after what used to be the man that raised me. I left. Bryan couldn’t do that. I like to think I made the right decision.
”I’m good mate. I think I am.”
”How’d you mean? You think you are?”
”I’m successful? Wealthy?…………I don’t really know how to measure a life.”
”Are you happy?”
Am I happy? Hmmmm. That’s a good question.
”Almost. Yeah, I think that encapsulates it quite well. I’m very nearly happy. Not far to go. Does that make any sense?”
”Sorta. I suppose every man has to find what he’s looking for, and if you haven’t found that yet then maybe happy isn’t the right word.”
Pretty insightful for a brickie from the estate.
”I’ve got a lot of things coming toward me mate and this is one of them. I don’t know why but it just felt like the right time to come and see all of this again.”
He turns back to face me, a warm, relaxed smile on his face.
”Well I’m mighty gad ya did.”
I feel a little awkward as he says this as in my mind I know I’m a real piece of sh*t. Regardless of what Bryan remembers of me, I know full well everything I do is about me. I’m not back here for his sake. I’m not even back here for my Father’s sake. I’m here for me. For closure. For some food for thought.
”You know, I went and visited our old house just now.”
Contrary to what you may think, this house I’m in right now has nothing to do with my childhood. This is Bryan’s house. He moved into it after his Wife, Debbie, passed away when I was 15 or so. I’ve been here before, but it’s not filled with memories or anything like that.
”Terrible isn’t it? I can’t believe they flattened the lot. Isn’t there a bloody supermarket there now?”
”Yep. Aisle 9. I could feel it. It’s funny to think that now anyone buying jams and/or spreads will be in the presence of the ghosts of my wanking teenage years.”
Bryan explodes with laughter and we carry on talking like this until the pizza is cooked, cut and eaten. Only as I crunch on the final piece of crust do I begin to move things toward business.
”So. I can only assume he’s here?”
Bryan’s demeanour suddenly changes, and he comes over quite sheepish.
”I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this Isaac.”
”Bryan?”
His reluctance is palpable.
”I think it’s best you didn’t see him.”
What? I came all this way, and Bryan now tells me he thinks I should head back to London. This doesn’t add up.
”Care to elaborate?”
”I just don’t think it will do either of you any good at this stage mate.”
I rise from my seat and Bryan moves to catch me be the wrist. I simply step out of the way and calmly walk toward the front room. He’ll be sat in his seat, staring at nothing. I can guarantee that even after 10 years that won’t have changed.
”Please lad, this isn’t going to end well.”
I turn to look at him, and I can see he really means it. He’s scared. Sh*t, he’s terrified. Why?
I grasp the handle and look back at Bryan again who has stayed rooted to the spot since his lacklustre attempt to restrain me failed.
”I’m sorry mate. This needs to be done. No matter the outcome.”
Now I have been some what cryptic with regards to my Father’s situation up until now. Why did I leave him behind? Why does he live with Bryan? He’s not gay if that’s your first thought. No. My Father had a very severe stroke when I was 19. The severity of it was such that he lost all motor function. Not just down one side like a lot of people.
Everything.
The cruel joke lies in the fact that he never had a follow up bleed. One that would have killed him. The doctors warned that it was highly likely, yet it never came. I hung around for 6 months or so. Maybe even a year. I’ve forgotten. After that time I packed my bag and got on a plane to America, never to return. Bryan, as my Dad’s longest and best friend, was left in charge of his care, and to this day has never revoked that responsibility. In my eyes my Father is dead. He can’t communicate. He can’t move. I don’t even know if he can feel or think. That is my Father. The man I loved irrefutably. The man who had to protect me from my own Mother and her influence. Wasting away in a chair.
I enter the room and all it’s silence. The dust in the air dances in the single beam of light jutting through the crack in the curtains. A beam of light that should theoretically be splitting my Dad’s face in two and yet instead it draws a line up the full length of the arm chair. The empty arm chair.
”I’m sorry Isaac.”
Bryan’s shuffled up behind me.
”Sorry about what?”
”He’s not here any more.”
”You had him moved to a care home? I’m amazed it took so long mate. It must have been draining going through all of that every day. There’s only so many times you can wipe another man’s arse, am I right?”
Bryan’s hand comes to rest on my shoulder and he squeezes.
”No Isaac. I mean…….he’s…….not here any more. He’s dead.”
I wish I could say I suddenly felt crippled with grief. I wish I could tell you this news broke my heart, but there is no need for all of that.
”When?”
”About 2 years ago now mate. I’m so sorry. I should have told you when we spoke on the phone. Hell I should have found a way to get in touch when it happened.”
”Don’t apologise Bryan. It’s not a problem. Honestly.”
I’ve already grieved the loss of the man. I was emotionally destroyed 13 years ago. I went through the ringer and used it to urge myself on to do something with my life. I’ve come to terms with all of this already and so the news that my Father is finally dead merely lets me know he’s not trapped anymore, and to be honest it makes me smile.
I close my eyes and exhale, letting all of the tension flow out through my feet. I have overcome the first obstacle this country presents. I have been granted knowledge that lets me rest a little easier. I won’t fall to my knees and bawl. I won’t curse Bryan for his secrecy. I will move forward. I turn to face Bryan and embrace him again, talking to him as I do.
”Thank you……………thank you for doing what I couldn’t.”
”I’d do it all again if I was asked lad.”
I feel the shoulder of my shirt get a little damp with tears as Bryan is told, perhaps for the first time, that everything he has done for the last 13 years is appreciated. This weeping man of humble origins is stronger than anyone in my line of work. Phillip Schneider may end careers, Trace Demon may start wars and Michael Kyzer may break backs, but not one of those men can hold a candle to Bryan and his sheer honesty, humility and determination.
Take heed you f*ckers. If you love something you don’t destroy it because it’s not how you remember it. You care for it regardless. You try to help it. You stay with it until the end.
Trace Demon could learn a thing or twelve from the man I hold right now.
I draw back, hold onto both of Bryan’s shoulders and smile, knowing this may genuinely be the last time I ever see his face. This is closure and you don’t pick a scab once it’s healed over, not unless you want to revisit the wound.
”Goodbye mate.”
Bryan panics at this statement. I know he still has a lot to talk to me about. He probably wants to let me know the ins and outs of the day my Father’s body died but to me that’s not important. I have what I needed and I think within a moment Bryan has realised that too as he returns the smile, steps aside and leads me back to the front door. He opens up the cold world and we embrace one more time without a word before I step out and walk down the garden path toward the road. I close the waist high gate behind me and make for the car but before I’m out of sight I hear one more utterance;
”Take care Isaac.”
I glance back at Bry and give a faux salute before digging both hands into my pockets and heading on to the next British dilemma.
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Woman
Another door. Another serious test of my balls.
I like to think I’m a pretty straight up guy. 99% of the time what I say will happen does indeed happen. I’m no prophet, I simply follow through with things. However this time I very nearly didn’t. That first knock, back at Bryan’s house, was easy compared to this. I’ve been hovering outside this house for 10 minutes now and I need to hurry up before someone calls the filth. The last thing I need is my presence made known as I’m wrestled to the ground by a police man with his knee in my back. Jesus. That would be embarrassing. Okay, strap some on.
Here we go.
I knock and immediately my guts drop. The nerves that were absent from my previous knocking experience seem to have finally caught up with me, smashing my head in at the same time as the ones you’d expect in the present moment. Imagine if I legitimately pissed my pants before the door was answered. I’d have to turn and run. Oh sh*t.
The door opens and in front of me stands a small boy. 6 maybe? 7? I’m no good with ages, especially when they’re that young. He could be 3 for all I know. Why is he answering the door? I could snatch him right now, from his very own doorstep! I assume he’s her child. He’s not Jake’s though. That’s easy enough to tell. You don’t mix a Mediterranean girl with a black guy and get this little fella, that’s for sure.
I realise now I’ve been staring this kid out for a good 20 seconds yet he doesn’t seem to be phased by the fact. Our contest is interrupted as an older girl (11? 12?) walks up behind him and holds onto his shoulders.
”Who are you?”
Now this girl. There’s no denying that she belongs to Jake. She is a perfect mix of both parent’s features and one day she will grow up to break a great many hearts. Her piercing green eyes sit just above her freckled nose, and with an eyebrow cocked she asks me again.
”Hey mister! Who are you?”
I should probably answer before that call to the police gets put in.
”I’m a friend of your Mother. Is she around?”
She nods.
”What’s your name?”
”Tell her Isaac has come home.”
She nods again and dragging her little brother behind her she rushes off into the house to find her Mum. I wait patiently outside in the cold and have to eat a couple more pain killers to clear my head. The temperature isn’t doing my re-injured neck any good. I feel stiff as hell.
And then…..
”Oh my God! It’s actually you!”
For the second time today I’m wrapped in another human’s arms, and for once they’re not trying to hurt me. I lose my breath. My eyes open wide. I’ve not even seen her yet but her dark hair is all in my face and I can smell her. At first I’m in shock and I can’t figure out where to put my hands, but now I’ve wrapped my arms around her and we hug for a solid minute. A single tear rolls down my cheek and I’m disgusted with myself for letting it happen.
”F*ck.”
It simply comes out as a whisper and I rub the side of my face against her head to hide the tear from anyone else but myself. She loosens her grip and for a split second I almost refuse to release her, but better judgement allows her to step back and this time it’s me who looks at her.
My God.
Karla.
I remember her as she was, a beautiful 17 year old girl. She still has the essence of that but now she’s blossomed. If she was beautiful back then, then I’m not sure I know words to describe her now. She stands before me as a vision. Her dark hair is roughly tied up allowing all of her perfect face to be seen. I can still see the hole in her philtrum, never fully healed from her piercing. I wonder how long it’s been since she wore it? Her olive skin shows the signs of a stressful few years but none the less she is radiant. Two children haven’t taken much of a toll on her body by the looks of things, only she has a little more weight on her than 12 years ago, but so do I.
”Are you coming in?”
The two children stand in front of their mother, holding tightly onto the hem of her top, still unsure as to wether I can be trusted or not. I can’t.
I answer her question with a smile. An honest smile. I’m actually quite enjoying being Isaac for the day. If only I were capable of more than this. In theory the only thing stopping me coming back to a normal life and living it as Isaac Cray is myself, but that’s perhaps over simplifying it. Drakz needs to be fed. I need to be fed. Whilst it may feel like a breath of fresh air being this regular man for a day, I can guarantee within two weeks I’d be itching to leave.
”Isaac?”
I’ve been standing here mute, lost in thought.
”Sorry. Yes, of course.”
I follow her into my second kitchen of the day and the kids join us.
”Can I get you a drink? Cup of tea?”
”Please.”
”No milk, no sugar?”
Please stop it Karla. Why does she remember things like that? I just grin at her and I must look like such a doting imbecile. She puts the kettle on to boil and then crouches down to eye level with her daughter.
”Miya, can you take your brother and go and play upstairs? Mummy really needs some time to talk to her friend.”
She strokes the side of her face and the little girl smiles, nodding frantically. Anything to please her Mother. That’s nice. She turns to her brother, who’s playing with the magnets on the fridge, and takes him by the hand.
”Come on Ryan. Let’s go play in my room.”
Without a sound the boy obliges and off they go, Karla pushing the door shut behind them both.
”Before you say anything, I just want to let you know that in spite of that hug I’m still furious with you.”
I’d expect no less.
”I’ve neither seen nor heard from you in what? 10 years? It must be more in fact. That’s a long, long time Isaac. I’ve had two children in that time. My life’s changed a huge amount and don’t for one minute think you can just waltz back in and sweep me off my feet.”
I’m being thoroughly put in my place right now, but I’m kind of enjoying it. No one has even come close in the longest time. Whittle me down to a f*cking nub woman.
”My children come first now. I can’t think of myself before I think of them, and your being here isn’t good for them, I know that much,”
”Karla?”
The temper she’s started to work herself into is stopped in it’s tracks as I accept the hot mug from her hands, trying to touch them without making it look like I meant to. I have to put it down on the table to hide the fact that mine are shaking.
”Karla, I’m not here looking for forgiveness. I’m not trying to pry my way back into your life, or any of this.”
”Then why are you here?”
Good question.
”I just needed to see how things were. I wanted to know what ever happened to you, my sister.”
She takes a boiling sip of her tea and sighs.
”Half sister…….”
”Do you have to add that word to justify what happened? Does it make it easier if you’re only my half sister?”
That pissed her off. She looks hostile now.
”Get the f*ck out of my house.”
She hasn’t really raised her voice, but it crackles with ferocity. I open my mouth but she cuts me off, slamming her mug onto the table.
”You will not talk to me like that in my own home! Get out!”
I get up to appease her, in the hope that I can diffuse the sh*t storm I have just crafted in a single outburst.
”Sorry. I’m not that used to being reasonable. In my line of work I always have to be the final word. That wasn’t fair of me.”
The apparent anger fades from her face and almost in response to the one I shed on the door step, a single tear rolls from the corner of her eye.
”It wasn’t fair…………but it was right.”
Knew it.
”I was so happy when I was handed Miya to hold for the first time. I looked into her face and I immediately knew she wasn’t yours. She was Jakes.”
”There’s no denying that. She looks a lot like him.”
Karla stares off into a corner of the ceiling.
”I could breathe again, knowing that no one else had to find out about us. You and me. My daughter was fathered by Jake, the only person besides us who knew the truth, and he was already dead by the time she was born. He never knew she was his. He never got to meet his own flesh and blood. He wasted his life for nothing, and now Miya hasn’t got a Daddy. But his death meant our secret was safe. It meant the only two people on this earth who knew about what we did were me and you and I knew you’d never tell anyone because…..”
”Because I loved you……………………..it’s one of the reasons I left.”
Her head tilts and her eyes move down to meet mine as she leans against the kitchen counter.
”And the reason you’ve come back?”
”I wanted to know if I still did.”
Let that one hang for a moment……….
”And?”
I can’t look at her. She moves toward me. This isn’t wise.
”Karla……”
I have to consider the next 5 seconds very carefully yet instantaneously. That my friends is practically a contradiction in terms.
”Well?”
I need to be a responsible adult. An upstanding citizen. I have to be the guy who says no to everything deemed off limits……………………f*ck it. When have I ever been any of the above?
I step forward and lift my arms to embrace this forbidden woman but it is needless as she is upon me before I know it. There is an unspoken passion that flowers in the heat of the moment and before the aforementioned 5 seconds have passed I find myself pinned against the fridge with a woman’s tongue in my mouth. I kiss her back and then spin us around so that instead she is backed against the door. The glaring obviousness of how wrong this is can wait. I throw a dust sheet over the thought and save it for later as she lifts both of her feet off of the floor and wraps her legs around my waist. I turn and carry her across the room whilst she tells me, in between kisses to clear the table. The mug full of tea crashes on the tiled floor along with the morning’s papers and as she lays back onto the table top she pulls her top over her head showing me her braless torso. Her breasts are perfect even with the stretch marks and I lean over her, my hands holding hers. I kiss her stomach. I kiss her chest. I kiss her shoulders and neck. I start to undo the button on her jeans but suddenly her hand is on my head and she stops me. My initial reaction is to look up at her face, but then I follow her eye line and turn around to find Miya standing in the door way, still holding the handle. Knowing she’s walked into something she shouldn’t be seeing she turns and races up the stairs, assuming she’s the one in trouble. Karla, sitting up and pushing me aside, pulls her top back on and heads after her.
”Miya!”
This is why forbidden fruit is forbidden. It’s unsavoury. It’s not for the eyes of babes.
It’s wrong.
As I hear the muffled conversation between Karla and her daughter I come to realise that no matter what we want as individuals there is no room for Karla and I as a singular. We can never be together. I know that now. I don’t care about the here-say around town. I don’t care about never having children of my own. I do care enough about Karla though to understand that her children can’t be around that. Around us.
And with that realisation I pick up the pieces of broken mug, the newspapers and everything else. I wipe up the spilt tea with a cloth and then wrap the sharp pieces of ceramic up inside it before dumping it in the bin. Then I leave.
I walk out of the front door and close it as carefully as possible behind me. I can’t have Karla coming after me. I have to leave for good this time.
I head up the path and look back, glancing up at the first floor window. I see Karla looking out at me, her beautiful daughter in her arms, and she just watches. No wave. No smile. No nothing. I smile up at her in a helpless kind of way and mouth the words goodbye. She moves away from the window and that’s how it ends. There’s no grand finale it seems. I just climb back into my rental and begin the long drive back to London.
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Malham Cove: Part 2
Out on the winding, windy moors,
We’d roll and fall in green.
Kate Bush. It’s the only thing I can think of right now and I’m on verge of singing it at the top of my lungs, which is terrible really considering I’m still trying to talk down a teenager from killing himself. We’ve been up here together for over an hour now and he still doesn’t seem to have swayed one way or the other. We’ve just been sat, our feet hanging over the edge of the cliff face, in silence for the last 10 minutes. Staring out at the receding day light.
”Jake?”
We don’t look at one another. Instead we talk out into the open wilderness.
”What?”
”You’re not really going to kill yourself anymore are you?”
”I don’t know man. I’m so confused.”
What’s there to be confused about?
”It’s like you said, I can’t escape the image of Karla f*cking her brother. Even if the kid does turn out to be mine, how can I forgive her for something that’s just going to haunt me? It’s f*cked bruv.”
Indeed it is. Indeed it is.
”Jake, I think you need to consider the fact that maybe you and Karla aren’t meant for each other. Can’t you live for the child instead of the mother?”
”I couldn’t man. I couldn’t have her in my life in that way. She just made a mistake that’s all.”
A pretty big mistake in my eyes.
”F*ck it man. Maybe I should forget about all of this. Be the bigger man. If I want to be happy and have this family I need to show forgiveness.”
Praise be! Hallelujah!
Jake stands up and I don’t feel comfortable with him towering over me so I rise as well.
”Thank you man. You’ve saved more than just me today. You’ve saved a family.”
The young man holds out his hand to shake my own and I look at it, then back at his fae before speaking.
”So where does the brother fit into all of this? Surely he’s still going to be around?”
”This morning I decided one of us was going to die. That fact still remains bruv. I just changed my mind about which one of us is going.”
I grin and shake his hand firmly. He grins back, bizarrely trusting me with this information.
”Ey man, you never told me your name. I’ve been rambling on for ages and I don’t even know what to call you.”
”My name? Oh it doesn’t matter.”
”Nah come on man. I need to know what to call the guy who saved me from myself.”
My grin widens.
”Drakz. My name is Drakz.”
Jake raises an eyebrow.
”Where you from bruv? Are you Russian or something?”
”No. I’m from around here. Anyway I guess I’ll be seeing you kid.”
Abruptly bringing things to a close I start to walk away but only get a couple of premeditated paces before I turn back to him. That grin has returned. Ear to f*cking ear.
”Oh by the way, you know that mole on the inside of Karla’s thigh………..the one right at the top.”
His look of confusion at my name has now moved into distress.
”I never told you about that mate. What the f*ck is this about?”
”She loves being kissed there.”
He doesn’t know how to react to this. Am I just making bold guesses? Do I know something he doesn’t? His mind can’t comprehend how this stranger, a stranger who just saved his life, could know something so personal about his one love. The possible mother of his child.
”You better move quick if you’re going to kill me kid. You missed your chance last time. Wouldn’t want you to miss it again”
He’s still struggling to understand. Dumb c*nt. Time to spell it out for him.
”You f*cking idiot, my name is Isaac Cray, and I not only f*cked your woman, I made her fall in love with me.”
As I speak I step toward him, and with one huge shove on his chest send him careering over the precipice and into the beyond……………again.
I relive the moment so tangibly that I can feel the weight of his body resist against my hands. I start to f*cking scream the words to Wuthering Heights and then fall into incessant laughter. This is the real reason I came back to the north. This is what it all means. I needed to remind myself that I may be the good guy now. I may be reformed and reimagined, but deep down inside I’m an unrepentant f*cking killer.
I am both light and dark.
Ying and yang.
Above and below.
I am the epitome of completion. Not missing a single character trait, and not harbouring a single weakness. I have grown beyond this day. This incident. I have achieved greatness and along the way quite possibly done worse things than this, but today I stand before the world as a font of clarity. A greater good of herculean proportions. I have become THE good guy by evolving from THE bad guy.
Two sides to every coin, even if in this case they are both heads.
I take a deep breath, having released a huge amount of pent up emotions. They’re now flowing through me and I’ve opened myself up enough to carry on this journey through my past. It’s time to revisit the pieces that made me the man I am. I have to show them………I have to show them what I have become.
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The Clash Beckons
Back down the M1. Back to the big smoke. The big sh*tty, smothering smoke. One has to question what the f*ck just happened to me? I tried to be more human. I tried to crack my calcified heart open and find even a hint of normality, yet here I am, on my own, again.
In the space of 48 hours I’ve been hit by a number of freight trains and yet I’m still moving forward. I’m actually quite up together all things considered. The amount of baggage I’ve left behind me has allowed me to soar upwards, like a balloon that’s dropped all sand bags. I am the Wizard of Oz only I’m not stopping in Kansas. I’m heading straight for the sun. I’ll eat the f*cking thing.
As I race down the motorway I have a fire in my eyes. I’m urged on by death. I’m urged on by necessary rejection. I’m hungry for some glory. I need a mouthful of victory to take the edge off of all this loss. Genghis Khan Jnr. doesn’t waste time on losing. I refuse to dwell on the happenings of the north. I may have lost a parent, I may have lost a lover and I may have lost a family home but it is all dust in the wind to me now as I charge head first toward Wembley Stadium. Head first towards a man who thinks he can take from me.
I will not be stolen from. I will f*cking crush anyone who even touches what is mine. I reach under the driver’s seat and pull out the World Heavyweight Title belt. It’s been there the whole time, away from prying eyes. I toss it onto the dash board so that I can see it in my peripheral field as I smash my way up the road ahead. That gold has got me crazy. This belt is the symbol of my unquenchable thirst, a thirst that can only be held off, never quenched. Perpetual in its very nature is my madness.
Trace Demon thinks of himself as an Oliver Cromwell of the modern era. He expects, with an army at his side, that he can roll into the capital and behead the king with ease. I will need no second shirt to hide my shivering dear boy. I will not find myself on my knees, head on the block, arms behind back. You can sharpen that axe as much as you want Trace, it will only bounce from my neck and rile me further. When a man’s ability is brought into question he has two options. One is to cower and try to laugh it all off, the other is to stand up and prove his nay sayers wrong. If you think I will serve as a milestone in your war then you have underestimated my worth.
I have already done battle and won with a man who calls himself God. It only makes sense for me to do the same with the King of Demons. A head in each hand. A belt around my waist.
I hope Trace has the good sense to do this on his own. I hope he respects me enough to know that involving anyone else is presenting them to be sacrificed. If a Joe Bishop or a Kyle Matthews happens to find himself in my line of fire I will not hesitate putting the boots to them. If they want to follow Trace blindly then that’s fine, but if they are fool enough to make their way to the ring on match night I will have to act. A man’s belief in a higher purpose is a powerful thing. Men will gladly sacrifice themselves for the good of the cause and that makes them dangerous. My dealing with them may lead to my comeuppance if my eye is lead astray for too long. Like Kamikaze pilots they will throw themselves at me in the hope I go down with them. I need to have my dancing shoes on from the first bell if I want to avoid looking like Bunker Hill.
I would like to think it won’t come to that and that Trace Demon is as curious as I am to see what would happen if we’re left to our own devices, but I fear this little battle with Sleater means even more to him than personal pride. He may well be willing to mar his own victory just to ensure the belt leaves England over his shoulder.
For me this match is a one way road. I have to win to continue on my way, there’s no room for anything but. If I want to finish this business with Schneider I need the belt. If I want to lure Kyzer out of his hole I need the belt. If I want to cement myself as the greatest of all time I need the belt.
In the past my run ins with Trace have been personal. Emotionally charged back and forths that nearly destroyed us both. This time is different. This time we both have ulterior motives and the man across the ring simply poses a threat to their success. I don’t hate Trace, I don’t stand against his revolution and I’m certainly not emotionally invested in any kind of feud with him. This time things are plain and simple. This match serves as a physical decision maker. The outcome will alter the future of both this company and our careers and at this point in time I can’t afford to change plans. I’m a man on borrowed time and my clear cut plan of attack must be followed to the letter if I want to achieve my goals in what limited career I have left. A back can only be broken so many times before it crumbles and after doing it once I think that number might be as low as twice.
Trace Demon has his reasons and I have mine, but in both instances the outcome here is bigger than either of us.
However while my success here is intrinsic to my future I must say I’ll be enjoying it in the here and now. This return to the UK has sh*t on me far more than expected but now I can finally get excited about beating the p*ss out of someone, and in this case that someone happens to be an ego with a terrible hair cut. I’m looking forward to letting fly some of this pent up energy. I’ve had to play my usual self down in the last few days to integrate more readily with normal people and it’s left me jonesing for some depravity. You know how it can get. I just need to cut loose and this match with Trace is the perfect platform for that.
At The Clash I get to have my fun, win the rubber match and do some serious venting. I’m going to vent all over his f*cking face and then make him swallow any he catches.
I may have been unlucky in love recently but at The Clash I will make Trace Demon my woman. It’s not because I think he deserves it, it’s because I think I do, and you’ve got to show yourself a little love from time to time…………….don’t you?
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I may not be the king of the universe just yet but I think it’s fair to say I’m swinging for the fences. Since I returned one year ago I’ve run a limited schedule yes, however I’ve also hand picked each opponent and made sure I’ve been mixing it with those that either want to prove or need to reestablish themselves.
Phillip Schneider. I don’t think we need to say any more on that one.
Joshua Dean. A man who is still battling for his stake in the company. Possibly the only man who has had a more comprehensive list of opponents than myself in 2014. He hasn’t waited for anything to be dropped on his plate. He’s gone out there and taken it. His win, loss record may not look so hot, but in some bizarre way, with him at least, it doesn’t seem to matter. He just keeps on coming.
Cameron Stone. One of only two men to hold a pin fall over me since………..you know what? Trace Demon took one in 2012 but prior to that I genuinely can’t remember the last time it happened. You have to give credit where it’s due and Stone did something only one other man on the roster can claim to have done. Pin my shoulders to the mat for 3 consecutive seconds.
Jayson Garrett. Probably the freshest face on this list but the young lad has balls. That or he’s very f*cking stupid. In my opinion it’s a little of both. This is a kid that had the audacity to claim he already knew everything I had to offer. Wether he admits it or not, I lifted him from the lower mid card up to the main event. I gave him a shot at the big time. I made him, or at least gave him the opportunity to make himself. What followed is by and large not worth talking about, and when we all fly back to the states I’ll honestly be surprised if The Golden Boy still has any gold to speak of.
Dex, Garrett & Trace Demon. All at the same time. For the belt.
Dave Demento. Just on the cusp of greatness, Demento is a name that may well be forgotten down the line if he doesn’t do something to cement himself. He’s done okay. He’s got the crowd on his side, but if he can’t make that leap into the big leagues then he’s destined to fade. Don’t get me wrong, the man is a juggernaut. I’ve had his shoulder knock the wind out of me and I dare say with some work he could step up. Right now though he’s one big loss away from another sabbatical.
And of course Shapiro. Eurgh. That match still makes me shudder. I think I came out of it alright though, and on the bright side the kid has been granted a National Title shot. Interesting how the belt I revitalised has become such a hotly sought after property.
There we have it 7 matches. Doesn’t seem like a lot when you lay it out like that. Maybe this story telling device has backfired? What I’m trying to say is that I’m no where near the point I’m aiming for. No matter how many people I’ve beaten, and by the way in case you weren’t paying attention I beat every one one of those men, I still have more to do. I still have greater tests of both my physical ability and my mental fortitude.
I have a homeless man with violent tendencies to retire.
I have a record to break.
I have a double grand slam to attain.
I have an old friend to destroy.
2015 is going to be one hell of a year.
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Flying Home for Christmas
“In case of a drop in pressure, oxygen masks will drop from above. Pull the strap over your head and pull to tighten. Always fix your own mask before helping others.”
Preach it.
I twist the cap off of another miniature bottle of Hennessey and knock back the contents while keeping my eyes on the male flight attendant. He’s currently giving all of business class the safety dance speech and, in my experience, if you try and hold their gaze for it’s entirety they’ll usually end up with the life vest manual inflation tube up their arse…………or something to that effect.
I’d like to clarify I’m not drinking because I’m scared of flying. I’m not even drinking to settle my nerves going home, I’m just trying to take my mind off of the shooting pain in my neck. Trizzle really did a number on me at the weekend with that desk. That was no reconstituted wood either. Solid f*cking oak executive desk. As though my spine wasn’t already crying itself to sleep every night.
The speech is over and unfortunately the attendant’s arse hole is free from obstructions. Unfortunately? Is that what I want to see on a long haul transatlantic flight? I’ve either drunk too much, or not enough.
I spend another midget bottle in an instant. Gin. F*ck midgets. I bet Donnie drinks these all the time, just so he can hold them next to his tiny d*ck. I don’t for one moment believe the fallacy behind midget d*cks is legit. They’re not all touting 12 gauges. Every one of them is nursing a chubby that fits in their fist just perfectly. DMK can take his stubby digits and……….how have I gone so off topic? What even was my topic?
“Can I offer you any refreshments sir?”
A thickset 50 something has stopped by my side with her cart and I can’t help but smile.
“Anything bigger than this?”
I hold up and waggle my last bottle, supped dry, having fallen prey to Incubus tendencies. The sucking dry of life force. Not the relentless sexual aggression. Although some of that wouldn’t go amiss right now either.
She smiles at me and digs around behind the curtain that cloaks the contents of the trolley. I watch her chunky thighs only to convince myself not to get a hard on over something so pathetic. I’ve not been laid since New York with Marlene, and I refuse to let this become the story of my life as champion.
Wether my odds of breaking the drought are heightened or dulled crossing the pond is anyone’s guess. It’s been years since I was last home and the English accent doesn’t charm women quite so easily when they’re speaking it right back at you.
It’s interesting that even though I’ve travelled back to the UK for work before I’ve never spent more than a day either side in the country. I’ve always flown straight out following the show. Perhaps I was running? P*ssy. Something told me this was the time to do it though. Set foot in the motherland and check up on a few memories. The pilgrim comes home. It’s a shame the dog couldn’t come along for the ride but I know what England’s like. They’d have him banged up in a quarantine for weeks before he was allowed out, so what’s the point. I just hope he doesn’t eat all of the food I left in one go. He’s a smart guy, he’ll be fine.
The attendant holds aloft two bottles, offering me the choice of a Grey Goose vodka or Courvoisier Cognac. Ultimately my indecisiveness wins the day as I take both litre bottles from her and go so far as to offer her a drink. Like a true professional she turns the offer down, that or I can’t even score with overweight birds in their twilight years. F*ck her, and make her f*ck Trace. He may be seeing more action than me but he must be getting tired of digging Jason’s cum out of his arse after each orgasm.
Trace needs to understand that before revolution you need foundation. Whilst his fight has a target, albeit a self serving and pointless one, mine until recently had little fire under it. A pilgrim can’t revolt until he has something to revolt against. Trace has given me that something. He believes he can walk through me to claim the first real victory in his “war” with Sleater. By this I consider myself oppressed. This lack of respect is the reason this moustachioed pilgrim is grabbing his pitchfork and lighting his torch. To settle the matter we make the return journey home. My home. In Canada Trace has shown he has support, but in England? Regardless of anything either of us say or do, the fans at Wembley will respond as thus: they will tear you down and call your mother a wh*re, and me? They’ll want to suck my d*ck, just because I’m one of them. I hate the blind devotion, but I’m not so much of a proud idiot that I’d waste it. Every time you slip on the sweaty canvas they’ll be there to pull you up on it. Every time you try to take a breather they’ll boo and call you a p*ssy. You best have your head screwed on tight when you step through that curtain mate, because if you’re not as great a mind as you’ve always claimed to be then that kind of pressure will rattle you.
My countrymen are loud if nothing else.
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Driving on the Left
Is it a show of weakness that even now I’m back in England I’m driving an automatic? Those yanks have made a simpleton out of me. Regardless, right now I’m cruising at a steady 70 up the M1. The tarmacked vein of the United Kingdom and fastest way from the north to the south, or in my case the south to the north. It couldn’t be much more direct. London. Leeds.
I find myself somewhat detached from the English roadside. Trees. Fields. F*ck all else. It’s not the most exciting vista, not at this height anyway.
I pass a sign for Birmingham and smile at the fact that I’ll probably never go there again. Whilst the city might be devoid of well…….anything, it does act as a good half way marker for me and I start to loosen up knowing that London is as far behind me as Leeds is ahead of me.I’ve gotten through the more stressful half of the journey.
I bet that cum slave Joe Bishop doesn’t have to drive this far to see his Dad. Why does he have to be the only other Brit on the roster? He’s really letting the side down, especially now he’s stuck in his perpetual 69 of doom with Trace Demon. It’s hard to know where one ends and the other starts half the time. F*ck my neck is stiff.
I hope I don’t get pulled. Even though I slept on the plane I’m probably still over the legal limit. I steer with my knees for a moment while I pop a couple of my pain meds. Maybe that quack was right. Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this anymore? I did break my spine after all.
Don’t think about that now. I know I’m still capable of doing this, even if I’m flat on my back. I could sever my torso at the waist and still beat 90% of the company. I’d probably get paid more.
I need to clear my head. Too many thoughts jostling for position. A simple twist of the volume on the stereo soon remedies that though as I’m beaten back into my seat by the music.
I’m soothed by the fact that I no longer have the head space for anything but the moment and I blindly continue on my drive, not remembering the minute that preceded the one I’m in. Before I know it I’m close to Leeds city and all of a sudden the pain in my neck grows. The whole left side of my head feels as though it’s burning and before I have time to react my head is filled with flashes of f*cking. I swerve into the middle lane and try to shake it off but my vision is blurred. As my eyes start to refocus, the image in front of me is interspersed with cut and paste scenes of hard, uneducated sex with a 16 year old girl. I drag my car over to the side of the road and before it’s even come to a stop I’m throwing my guts up out of the open door. The car leaves a snail trail of vomit behind it before rolling to a halt, letting it pool right beneath me.
What the f*ck was that about?
The heat has calmed but my neck is still really f*cking me over. Maybe I’ve trapped a nerve or something? What was with that 16 year old sh*t though? Who am I kidding. I know both who that was and why that was. Eurgh. England. It’s really great to be back.
Blocking one nostril I blow the contents of the other into the road. Rinse and repeat. I then grab the bottle of water from the passenger’s seat and drain it, still gasping for air a little after emptying myself like that.
I need to make a little detour. I can’t hit Leeds without paying the rocks a visit first. Clear my head.
Okay.
Let’s try this again.
I bang a couple more Vicodin down the hatch, clap my hands together and shout “F*CK YOU!” as loud as I can into the field of cows I’ve pulled up alongside.
Off we go!
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Malham Cove: Part 1
I pull the car over to the side of the road, cut the engine and step out, the cold letting me know I’m up north now. Looking up I see what was once a prehistoric wonder of nature to me.
Malham Cove.
I step off of the road side and make my way up the hill, grabbing handfuls of grass as I near the top. As I get my first look over the brow I’m stunned; both by the view and the fact that there’s someone else up here in mid December. I continue on, towards the edge, and can’t help but be distracted by the teenager stood uncomfortably close to the 260ft sheer drop.
“No coming back from that mate.”
I say it in jest but I’m starting to wonder if that’s the reason this lad’s up here in the first place. He doesn’t respond but it’s hardly surprising. The wind is blowing hard in our faces and it’s possible he didn’t hear me. My cheeks burn with the air and I come level to the boy, looking, like him, out into the country side below.
“What’s the deal then kid?”
I shout it and this time he seems to hear me. As he turns the wind drops. F*cking eerie.
“She’s been f*cking him. For f*ck sake, it might not even be mine.”
I notice he’s welling up.
“Not yours? Aren’t you a bit young to be trying for kids? What are you 15?”
“17 next month.”
“I’m 32 next month and I’m still too young for kids. What are you doing up here?”
I’m going through the motions really. I know why this silly f*cker’s up here.
“I was thinking about jumping you know……..”
I peer over the edge and chuckle.
“Down there? That’d hurt.”
And then some.
”I know you don’t want to actually die. This has got cry for help written all over it kid.”
He suddenly gets heated.
”What the f*ck do you know bruv? I’ve got every reason to go down there.”
He points over the edge and I raise an eyebrow.
”Don’t you think you’re being a little melodramatic? You don’t go to theatre school do you?”
I’m hoping if I call his bluff enough he’ll crumble……….either that or it’ll drive him to prove me wrong.
”I don’t go to school no more you f*cking prick.”
Mouthy little tart.
”Okay, reel it in. Start from the beginning. Your woman screwed some other fella? Am I right?”
With his eyes narrowed he nods at me.
”And you’re worried this sprog in her guts might belong to aforementioned man. Before we go any further do you know who this ‘other man’ is?”
”It’s that f*ckin’ Isaac. Weird c*nt probably raped her.”
And yet he’s stood up here killing himself? I know who’s door I’d be kicking down.
”You’re going about this all the wrong way sunshine. You’ve got pretty good odds in the baby daddy lottery and I can only assume you’re yet to burn this Isaac’s house down?”
Shame to turn a boy with such a lovely name to ash.
”As I see it you’ve got two choices here mate. You can wait for the baby to be born and then figure out who it belongs to. If it’s yours then look after it. If you’re stupid enough to bring the thing into this world then you absolutely HAVE to look after it. Option two starts the same, only this time you find out the baby belongs to Isaac. In that case you choose how to respond. I’d personally be counting my lucky starts but if you want to go rogue and shoot everyone that’s entirely up to you.”
He doesn’t respond.
”There’s no point killing yourself. Not over this at least. When you lose all faith in humanity and realise nothing you can do will change the fate of this planet, then you can kill yourself. Some girl though? Come on. Come now, this isn’t Shakespeare.”
I become quite animated at the mention of the bard’s name, and honestly can’t help myself.
”Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide.
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on.
The dashing rocks thy seasick, weary bark.
Here’s to my love!”
I act as though drinking a vial of poison, place my hands on the opposing shoulder and stick out my tongue. The boy doesn’t seem to get the reference. Time to change tact.
”But let me guess……you can’t get the image of another guy’s d*ck out of your head? Slapping her in the face. Making her back arch and her legs quiver.”
His screw face contorts even further as tears well up in his eyes. His p*ss poor hard man act finally wains under the pressure and the water flows. He starts snivelling and hitting himself in the head like a prozac tweaker. I just watch. Stand back and watch, and in honesty get a little bored. I turn away from the misery and start back for the path to the road. It feels like I’m walking away from a situation I’ve only made worse but this lad has already messed up my zen space, so f*ck him.
The boy’s let a vagina rule, and ultimately ruin, his life and if that’s all it takes, then his dying is simply another footnote in the evolution of man.
”There’s more to it than that!”
I pause and wait for him to surprise me.
”There’s more to Isaac than that.”
I turn and look this young man in the eye.
”Go on?”
I can see he doesn’t want to tell me any more but he forces it.
”He’s her half brother.”
Oh?
”Dad’s side. Different mothers.”
Sh*t the bed. I walk back to the cliff edge with him.
”I think we might be up here a long time…………..”
I hold my hand out and he shakes it.
”Jake.”
”Nice to meet you Jake.”
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Revolution. How do I feel about that word? I feel it’s said far too often, I feel the notion is somewhat empty most of the time, but most of all I feel the word is misused. It’s not a revolution if it’s just four guys who want to be in charge. A revolution requires a movement of people on mass, and yet all I see is two active wrestlers, one not so active wrestler and a suit. Four chumps doth not a revolution make.
Trace Demon is a man who has always loved drama. He generates it constantly. He is a man who always needs to be at war with someone or something. When Xavier was in charge he was fighting with him. Now Sleater is running the show he’s fighting her. It seems to me the guy simply wants to be the centre of attention at all times, regardless of wether people want to grant him the honour. Forcing your d*ck down a throat is rape, and rape is generally frowned upon. You’ve got to ease it in. Make them beg for it.
At no point have I thrust myself into the spotlight. It has ALWAYS happened naturally. There is no way you can sustain success and respect if you constantly act like a primma donna. Me. Me. Me. Not everyone wants the same things you do. Not everyone wants the same thing’s I do.
Making a quick rush for power under the guise of a revolution isn’t just a cheap trick, but also an old one. So many factions have come through this system, all claiming they were going to save or change the WFWF for the better. All came and went, and all of them did absolutely f*ck all in the long run to change things. At the end of the day a revolution only changes things in the instant it overcomes. The aftermath, 9 times out of 10, leads to the exact same ending. People get greedy. People think their ideas on how the new world should be crafted are superior. For all those that haven’t please read Animal Farm and you’ll see what I’m getting at. I can guarantee if Trace Demon’s little war was won by his band of merry f*ck wits tomorrow they wouldn’t instal a democratic system to ensure the business is run in a fair way that benefits all. No chance. If they oust Lila Sleater then that simply puts them in charge of the reins. It leads us into a dictatorship. Whilst I may not agree with all of Sleater’s decisions, I can say one thing. She isn’t a tyrant. She is open to suggestion, AND unlike putting an active member of the roster in her position she hasn’t got a God complex.
Now all of this might sound like I’m swinging off of Lila’s titties, but I can assure you I couldn’t give a f*ck about her. I’m on no ones side because I know the whole thing is fruitless for all involved. Next year Trace will only be fighting with someone else and cloaking it in another bull sh*t veil, making out that he’s doing it for all the right reasons. The guy’s a selfish prick and that’s all there is to it. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with looking out for number one, I mean it’s worked okay for me, but at least I’m open about my agenda. I don’t try and mask my true intentions behind a banner that reads “fight the power”.
Trace says this belt of mine should be around his waist, not because he’s the better man, not because he wants it more than I do, but because he believes it is the true symbol of his righteous battle. Have you ever heard anything more f*cking ridiculous in your lives? If Trace has managed to convince anyone that he genuinely believes that then he’s a greater mind than I anticipated. His self involvement couldn’t be any more blatant throughout this entire charade. He’s not taking the belt because he wants validation for his claims of superiority, oh no, he’s doing it for the betterment of the company. Hell he’s trying to save the f*cking world! What a guy. So selfless through all of this.
It’s total nonsense, and the sooner he drops all of this the better. I refuse to take him seriously until he straight fesses up that he simply wants to be champion again. That he longs to be the sole person in charge of the company, calling the shots in such a way that he and his cohorts always come out on top. Dressing all of his bull sh*t up like a round head only serves to diminish the respect I had for the man, which admittedly wasn’t much.
Trace, the only thing that’s going to happen this weekend is that I am going to force you to come clean. I am going to batter the spit out of you until you see sense and simply tell everyone you just want to be the dealer, the banker, the house. You want to be on the opposite side of the stage to everyone else.
I’m sorry mate but there’s only room for one man under this spot light and he’s an honest son of a gun.
A real piece of sh*t, but he’d never tell you otherwise.
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Supermarket Sweep
I find myself making the impossible decision of which frozen pizza to pick up. The one with reconstituted pig lips on top or the hormone drunk, broken legged chicken? In the end, after much sneering, I throw the lot out and opt for a margherita . Boring old c*nt.
If you want to get to the heart of the English political climate then go for a walk around a super market. You’ll see all you need to understand a nation who are as oppressed as they are free. The strip lit aisles almost sing to you as you swagger your trolley between those too slow for comfort. One side of your mind plays “Who will be my wife?” with every passing woman whilst the other can’t help but notice that cheese strings are on offer. As product after product seems to fall into my trolley I start to notice the feeling I’d come to expect rousing itself.
I’m close.
Not surprisingly I make for the booze aisle. Anyone revisiting their Father after 10 years needs dutch courage. That’s just fundamental. My balls need pumping up big time.
I stand in front of the wall of bottles, grab a 70cl of scotch and move to leave but my attention is caught by the slovenly man to my right. His hair does it’s very best to cover his bald patches. The capillaries in his nose have swollen and burst to such an extent that he seems to have grown a spare, and worst of all he stinks of sh*t. Human sh*t. Possibly his own. Possibly not. This specimen grunts to himself as he eyes up the cheapest bottles of red on the shelf before taking two from opposing ends. Different vintages I assume. HA. A beast of an alcoholic, he makes my gut churn, drawing my mind to the skin head I left behind in New York. David Brennan. Give it another 30 years and Dave will be in about the same physical state. I suppose I’m part to blame for this fact, but I did try. I also gave up trying, but I did try.
The wretch begins to shuffle away from me, his joints riddled with arthritis from the boozing, and my mind’s eye opens, if only for a moment. I place the bottle of whisky back on the shelf and, pinching the bridge of my nose, rub my closed eyes. I really don’t want to f*cking end up like that. P*ssing my pants every time I break wind. Having to lie down to put my trousers on. Sod that.
I look into my trolley and realise it’s full of sh*te I don’t need, which is just about everything in any shop in all fairness. I didn’t come here to spend, spend, spend. This is merely a fleeting visit.
I head toward the checkouts and then it hits me.
That feeling I was looking for.
I’m here.
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Dad
Three knocks. Three knocks away from facing up to a man I loved and left behind. It’s bitter outside at this time of year and, as I stand with my pizza under my arm, my breath erupts before me, curling against the door of number 68 and rising. I’m unnaturally calm standing on the precipice of my own moral compass. Maybe the big night nerves have been numbed by so many years on the game? Not as a hooker. Well not in the traditional sense. Although selling yourself to the world every night seems like prostitution to me.
I’m stalling.
I rap on the door and hear signs of life. The keys turn in the lock and now my hairs do prick a little. The door nudges and a face peers round. Not my Father’s, and I never expected it to be. When was the last time my Dad answered the door? I forget.
”Now then. Can I help?”
Hardly surprised by his not recognising me I respond with a single syllable.
”Yes.”
Bryan looks me up and down and opens the door far enough for me to see his full body. He’s a big guy. 6’ 3”. Just a little shorter than me but he’s wider, stockier. I continue without his prompt.
”I’m here to see my Dad.”
The penny drops and Bryan’s big chest is now pressed against mine as he arms wrap me in a hearty Yorkshire born hug.
”HEHAY!”
Bryan shouts as he lifts me up and jostles me.
”Good to see ya kid! Good to bloody see ya!”
He drops me and steps back to get a good look. This is quite a hello from a man I’ve not seen in over a decade.
”What type of tash is that then lad?”
HA! Straight in there with the question of all questions.
”It’s more Magnum P.I. than Freddie Mercury if that’s what you mean?”
”Haha! I thought so. Come in ya daft sod!”
He ushers me inside and I’ve honestly never felt so welcome. This is a man who doesn’t know Drakz. He’s never met the man who ruins. He’s never seen me sniffing coke from a p*ssy half way through a threesome. This is a man who welcomes me, and recognises me as Isaac Cray, the possibly autistic child of one of his closest friends. I am not autistic, but in places like this people like to talk sh*t.
”Can I get you owt?”
”Can I borrow your oven?”
I smirk as I hold aloft my somewhat hugged pizza, now mostly defrosted. We share a roar of laughter and Bryan slaps me on the back on the way through to the kitchen. For a widower of his age you’d perhaps expect a less kept house, but everything here is just so. Clean as a whistle. An unused whistle. Box fresh whistle. Whistle. Whistle. It doesn’t sound like a word anymore.
He takes the dough from me and with his back to the room, plays with the oven.
”How are ya then lad? By heck, we’ve got some catching up to do haven’t we?”
There’s not even a hint of callousness in anything he says, yet thanks to me this good man has given a large amount of his life over to looking after what used to be the man that raised me. I left. Bryan couldn’t do that. I like to think I made the right decision.
”I’m good mate. I think I am.”
”How’d you mean? You think you are?”
”I’m successful? Wealthy?…………I don’t really know how to measure a life.”
”Are you happy?”
Am I happy? Hmmmm. That’s a good question.
”Almost. Yeah, I think that encapsulates it quite well. I’m very nearly happy. Not far to go. Does that make any sense?”
”Sorta. I suppose every man has to find what he’s looking for, and if you haven’t found that yet then maybe happy isn’t the right word.”
Pretty insightful for a brickie from the estate.
”I’ve got a lot of things coming toward me mate and this is one of them. I don’t know why but it just felt like the right time to come and see all of this again.”
He turns back to face me, a warm, relaxed smile on his face.
”Well I’m mighty gad ya did.”
I feel a little awkward as he says this as in my mind I know I’m a real piece of sh*t. Regardless of what Bryan remembers of me, I know full well everything I do is about me. I’m not back here for his sake. I’m not even back here for my Father’s sake. I’m here for me. For closure. For some food for thought.
”You know, I went and visited our old house just now.”
Contrary to what you may think, this house I’m in right now has nothing to do with my childhood. This is Bryan’s house. He moved into it after his Wife, Debbie, passed away when I was 15 or so. I’ve been here before, but it’s not filled with memories or anything like that.
”Terrible isn’t it? I can’t believe they flattened the lot. Isn’t there a bloody supermarket there now?”
”Yep. Aisle 9. I could feel it. It’s funny to think that now anyone buying jams and/or spreads will be in the presence of the ghosts of my wanking teenage years.”
Bryan explodes with laughter and we carry on talking like this until the pizza is cooked, cut and eaten. Only as I crunch on the final piece of crust do I begin to move things toward business.
”So. I can only assume he’s here?”
Bryan’s demeanour suddenly changes, and he comes over quite sheepish.
”I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this Isaac.”
”Bryan?”
His reluctance is palpable.
”I think it’s best you didn’t see him.”
What? I came all this way, and Bryan now tells me he thinks I should head back to London. This doesn’t add up.
”Care to elaborate?”
”I just don’t think it will do either of you any good at this stage mate.”
I rise from my seat and Bryan moves to catch me be the wrist. I simply step out of the way and calmly walk toward the front room. He’ll be sat in his seat, staring at nothing. I can guarantee that even after 10 years that won’t have changed.
”Please lad, this isn’t going to end well.”
I turn to look at him, and I can see he really means it. He’s scared. Sh*t, he’s terrified. Why?
I grasp the handle and look back at Bryan again who has stayed rooted to the spot since his lacklustre attempt to restrain me failed.
”I’m sorry mate. This needs to be done. No matter the outcome.”
Now I have been some what cryptic with regards to my Father’s situation up until now. Why did I leave him behind? Why does he live with Bryan? He’s not gay if that’s your first thought. No. My Father had a very severe stroke when I was 19. The severity of it was such that he lost all motor function. Not just down one side like a lot of people.
Everything.
The cruel joke lies in the fact that he never had a follow up bleed. One that would have killed him. The doctors warned that it was highly likely, yet it never came. I hung around for 6 months or so. Maybe even a year. I’ve forgotten. After that time I packed my bag and got on a plane to America, never to return. Bryan, as my Dad’s longest and best friend, was left in charge of his care, and to this day has never revoked that responsibility. In my eyes my Father is dead. He can’t communicate. He can’t move. I don’t even know if he can feel or think. That is my Father. The man I loved irrefutably. The man who had to protect me from my own Mother and her influence. Wasting away in a chair.
I enter the room and all it’s silence. The dust in the air dances in the single beam of light jutting through the crack in the curtains. A beam of light that should theoretically be splitting my Dad’s face in two and yet instead it draws a line up the full length of the arm chair. The empty arm chair.
”I’m sorry Isaac.”
Bryan’s shuffled up behind me.
”Sorry about what?”
”He’s not here any more.”
”You had him moved to a care home? I’m amazed it took so long mate. It must have been draining going through all of that every day. There’s only so many times you can wipe another man’s arse, am I right?”
Bryan’s hand comes to rest on my shoulder and he squeezes.
”No Isaac. I mean…….he’s…….not here any more. He’s dead.”
I wish I could say I suddenly felt crippled with grief. I wish I could tell you this news broke my heart, but there is no need for all of that.
”When?”
”About 2 years ago now mate. I’m so sorry. I should have told you when we spoke on the phone. Hell I should have found a way to get in touch when it happened.”
”Don’t apologise Bryan. It’s not a problem. Honestly.”
I’ve already grieved the loss of the man. I was emotionally destroyed 13 years ago. I went through the ringer and used it to urge myself on to do something with my life. I’ve come to terms with all of this already and so the news that my Father is finally dead merely lets me know he’s not trapped anymore, and to be honest it makes me smile.
I close my eyes and exhale, letting all of the tension flow out through my feet. I have overcome the first obstacle this country presents. I have been granted knowledge that lets me rest a little easier. I won’t fall to my knees and bawl. I won’t curse Bryan for his secrecy. I will move forward. I turn to face Bryan and embrace him again, talking to him as I do.
”Thank you……………thank you for doing what I couldn’t.”
”I’d do it all again if I was asked lad.”
I feel the shoulder of my shirt get a little damp with tears as Bryan is told, perhaps for the first time, that everything he has done for the last 13 years is appreciated. This weeping man of humble origins is stronger than anyone in my line of work. Phillip Schneider may end careers, Trace Demon may start wars and Michael Kyzer may break backs, but not one of those men can hold a candle to Bryan and his sheer honesty, humility and determination.
Take heed you f*ckers. If you love something you don’t destroy it because it’s not how you remember it. You care for it regardless. You try to help it. You stay with it until the end.
Trace Demon could learn a thing or twelve from the man I hold right now.
I draw back, hold onto both of Bryan’s shoulders and smile, knowing this may genuinely be the last time I ever see his face. This is closure and you don’t pick a scab once it’s healed over, not unless you want to revisit the wound.
”Goodbye mate.”
Bryan panics at this statement. I know he still has a lot to talk to me about. He probably wants to let me know the ins and outs of the day my Father’s body died but to me that’s not important. I have what I needed and I think within a moment Bryan has realised that too as he returns the smile, steps aside and leads me back to the front door. He opens up the cold world and we embrace one more time without a word before I step out and walk down the garden path toward the road. I close the waist high gate behind me and make for the car but before I’m out of sight I hear one more utterance;
”Take care Isaac.”
I glance back at Bry and give a faux salute before digging both hands into my pockets and heading on to the next British dilemma.
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Woman
Another door. Another serious test of my balls.
I like to think I’m a pretty straight up guy. 99% of the time what I say will happen does indeed happen. I’m no prophet, I simply follow through with things. However this time I very nearly didn’t. That first knock, back at Bryan’s house, was easy compared to this. I’ve been hovering outside this house for 10 minutes now and I need to hurry up before someone calls the filth. The last thing I need is my presence made known as I’m wrestled to the ground by a police man with his knee in my back. Jesus. That would be embarrassing. Okay, strap some on.
Here we go.
I knock and immediately my guts drop. The nerves that were absent from my previous knocking experience seem to have finally caught up with me, smashing my head in at the same time as the ones you’d expect in the present moment. Imagine if I legitimately pissed my pants before the door was answered. I’d have to turn and run. Oh sh*t.
The door opens and in front of me stands a small boy. 6 maybe? 7? I’m no good with ages, especially when they’re that young. He could be 3 for all I know. Why is he answering the door? I could snatch him right now, from his very own doorstep! I assume he’s her child. He’s not Jake’s though. That’s easy enough to tell. You don’t mix a Mediterranean girl with a black guy and get this little fella, that’s for sure.
I realise now I’ve been staring this kid out for a good 20 seconds yet he doesn’t seem to be phased by the fact. Our contest is interrupted as an older girl (11? 12?) walks up behind him and holds onto his shoulders.
”Who are you?”
Now this girl. There’s no denying that she belongs to Jake. She is a perfect mix of both parent’s features and one day she will grow up to break a great many hearts. Her piercing green eyes sit just above her freckled nose, and with an eyebrow cocked she asks me again.
”Hey mister! Who are you?”
I should probably answer before that call to the police gets put in.
”I’m a friend of your Mother. Is she around?”
She nods.
”What’s your name?”
”Tell her Isaac has come home.”
She nods again and dragging her little brother behind her she rushes off into the house to find her Mum. I wait patiently outside in the cold and have to eat a couple more pain killers to clear my head. The temperature isn’t doing my re-injured neck any good. I feel stiff as hell.
And then…..
”Oh my God! It’s actually you!”
For the second time today I’m wrapped in another human’s arms, and for once they’re not trying to hurt me. I lose my breath. My eyes open wide. I’ve not even seen her yet but her dark hair is all in my face and I can smell her. At first I’m in shock and I can’t figure out where to put my hands, but now I’ve wrapped my arms around her and we hug for a solid minute. A single tear rolls down my cheek and I’m disgusted with myself for letting it happen.
”F*ck.”
It simply comes out as a whisper and I rub the side of my face against her head to hide the tear from anyone else but myself. She loosens her grip and for a split second I almost refuse to release her, but better judgement allows her to step back and this time it’s me who looks at her.
My God.
Karla.
I remember her as she was, a beautiful 17 year old girl. She still has the essence of that but now she’s blossomed. If she was beautiful back then, then I’m not sure I know words to describe her now. She stands before me as a vision. Her dark hair is roughly tied up allowing all of her perfect face to be seen. I can still see the hole in her philtrum, never fully healed from her piercing. I wonder how long it’s been since she wore it? Her olive skin shows the signs of a stressful few years but none the less she is radiant. Two children haven’t taken much of a toll on her body by the looks of things, only she has a little more weight on her than 12 years ago, but so do I.
”Are you coming in?”
The two children stand in front of their mother, holding tightly onto the hem of her top, still unsure as to wether I can be trusted or not. I can’t.
I answer her question with a smile. An honest smile. I’m actually quite enjoying being Isaac for the day. If only I were capable of more than this. In theory the only thing stopping me coming back to a normal life and living it as Isaac Cray is myself, but that’s perhaps over simplifying it. Drakz needs to be fed. I need to be fed. Whilst it may feel like a breath of fresh air being this regular man for a day, I can guarantee within two weeks I’d be itching to leave.
”Isaac?”
I’ve been standing here mute, lost in thought.
”Sorry. Yes, of course.”
I follow her into my second kitchen of the day and the kids join us.
”Can I get you a drink? Cup of tea?”
”Please.”
”No milk, no sugar?”
Please stop it Karla. Why does she remember things like that? I just grin at her and I must look like such a doting imbecile. She puts the kettle on to boil and then crouches down to eye level with her daughter.
”Miya, can you take your brother and go and play upstairs? Mummy really needs some time to talk to her friend.”
She strokes the side of her face and the little girl smiles, nodding frantically. Anything to please her Mother. That’s nice. She turns to her brother, who’s playing with the magnets on the fridge, and takes him by the hand.
”Come on Ryan. Let’s go play in my room.”
Without a sound the boy obliges and off they go, Karla pushing the door shut behind them both.
”Before you say anything, I just want to let you know that in spite of that hug I’m still furious with you.”
I’d expect no less.
”I’ve neither seen nor heard from you in what? 10 years? It must be more in fact. That’s a long, long time Isaac. I’ve had two children in that time. My life’s changed a huge amount and don’t for one minute think you can just waltz back in and sweep me off my feet.”
I’m being thoroughly put in my place right now, but I’m kind of enjoying it. No one has even come close in the longest time. Whittle me down to a f*cking nub woman.
”My children come first now. I can’t think of myself before I think of them, and your being here isn’t good for them, I know that much,”
”Karla?”
The temper she’s started to work herself into is stopped in it’s tracks as I accept the hot mug from her hands, trying to touch them without making it look like I meant to. I have to put it down on the table to hide the fact that mine are shaking.
”Karla, I’m not here looking for forgiveness. I’m not trying to pry my way back into your life, or any of this.”
”Then why are you here?”
Good question.
”I just needed to see how things were. I wanted to know what ever happened to you, my sister.”
She takes a boiling sip of her tea and sighs.
”Half sister…….”
”Do you have to add that word to justify what happened? Does it make it easier if you’re only my half sister?”
That pissed her off. She looks hostile now.
”Get the f*ck out of my house.”
She hasn’t really raised her voice, but it crackles with ferocity. I open my mouth but she cuts me off, slamming her mug onto the table.
”You will not talk to me like that in my own home! Get out!”
I get up to appease her, in the hope that I can diffuse the sh*t storm I have just crafted in a single outburst.
”Sorry. I’m not that used to being reasonable. In my line of work I always have to be the final word. That wasn’t fair of me.”
The apparent anger fades from her face and almost in response to the one I shed on the door step, a single tear rolls from the corner of her eye.
”It wasn’t fair…………but it was right.”
Knew it.
”I was so happy when I was handed Miya to hold for the first time. I looked into her face and I immediately knew she wasn’t yours. She was Jakes.”
”There’s no denying that. She looks a lot like him.”
Karla stares off into a corner of the ceiling.
”I could breathe again, knowing that no one else had to find out about us. You and me. My daughter was fathered by Jake, the only person besides us who knew the truth, and he was already dead by the time she was born. He never knew she was his. He never got to meet his own flesh and blood. He wasted his life for nothing, and now Miya hasn’t got a Daddy. But his death meant our secret was safe. It meant the only two people on this earth who knew about what we did were me and you and I knew you’d never tell anyone because…..”
”Because I loved you……………………..it’s one of the reasons I left.”
Her head tilts and her eyes move down to meet mine as she leans against the kitchen counter.
”And the reason you’ve come back?”
”I wanted to know if I still did.”
Let that one hang for a moment……….
”And?”
I can’t look at her. She moves toward me. This isn’t wise.
”Karla……”
I have to consider the next 5 seconds very carefully yet instantaneously. That my friends is practically a contradiction in terms.
”Well?”
I need to be a responsible adult. An upstanding citizen. I have to be the guy who says no to everything deemed off limits……………………f*ck it. When have I ever been any of the above?
I step forward and lift my arms to embrace this forbidden woman but it is needless as she is upon me before I know it. There is an unspoken passion that flowers in the heat of the moment and before the aforementioned 5 seconds have passed I find myself pinned against the fridge with a woman’s tongue in my mouth. I kiss her back and then spin us around so that instead she is backed against the door. The glaring obviousness of how wrong this is can wait. I throw a dust sheet over the thought and save it for later as she lifts both of her feet off of the floor and wraps her legs around my waist. I turn and carry her across the room whilst she tells me, in between kisses to clear the table. The mug full of tea crashes on the tiled floor along with the morning’s papers and as she lays back onto the table top she pulls her top over her head showing me her braless torso. Her breasts are perfect even with the stretch marks and I lean over her, my hands holding hers. I kiss her stomach. I kiss her chest. I kiss her shoulders and neck. I start to undo the button on her jeans but suddenly her hand is on my head and she stops me. My initial reaction is to look up at her face, but then I follow her eye line and turn around to find Miya standing in the door way, still holding the handle. Knowing she’s walked into something she shouldn’t be seeing she turns and races up the stairs, assuming she’s the one in trouble. Karla, sitting up and pushing me aside, pulls her top back on and heads after her.
”Miya!”
This is why forbidden fruit is forbidden. It’s unsavoury. It’s not for the eyes of babes.
It’s wrong.
As I hear the muffled conversation between Karla and her daughter I come to realise that no matter what we want as individuals there is no room for Karla and I as a singular. We can never be together. I know that now. I don’t care about the here-say around town. I don’t care about never having children of my own. I do care enough about Karla though to understand that her children can’t be around that. Around us.
And with that realisation I pick up the pieces of broken mug, the newspapers and everything else. I wipe up the spilt tea with a cloth and then wrap the sharp pieces of ceramic up inside it before dumping it in the bin. Then I leave.
I walk out of the front door and close it as carefully as possible behind me. I can’t have Karla coming after me. I have to leave for good this time.
I head up the path and look back, glancing up at the first floor window. I see Karla looking out at me, her beautiful daughter in her arms, and she just watches. No wave. No smile. No nothing. I smile up at her in a helpless kind of way and mouth the words goodbye. She moves away from the window and that’s how it ends. There’s no grand finale it seems. I just climb back into my rental and begin the long drive back to London.
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Malham Cove: Part 2
Out on the winding, windy moors,
We’d roll and fall in green.
Kate Bush. It’s the only thing I can think of right now and I’m on verge of singing it at the top of my lungs, which is terrible really considering I’m still trying to talk down a teenager from killing himself. We’ve been up here together for over an hour now and he still doesn’t seem to have swayed one way or the other. We’ve just been sat, our feet hanging over the edge of the cliff face, in silence for the last 10 minutes. Staring out at the receding day light.
”Jake?”
We don’t look at one another. Instead we talk out into the open wilderness.
”What?”
”You’re not really going to kill yourself anymore are you?”
”I don’t know man. I’m so confused.”
What’s there to be confused about?
”It’s like you said, I can’t escape the image of Karla f*cking her brother. Even if the kid does turn out to be mine, how can I forgive her for something that’s just going to haunt me? It’s f*cked bruv.”
Indeed it is. Indeed it is.
”Jake, I think you need to consider the fact that maybe you and Karla aren’t meant for each other. Can’t you live for the child instead of the mother?”
”I couldn’t man. I couldn’t have her in my life in that way. She just made a mistake that’s all.”
A pretty big mistake in my eyes.
”F*ck it man. Maybe I should forget about all of this. Be the bigger man. If I want to be happy and have this family I need to show forgiveness.”
Praise be! Hallelujah!
Jake stands up and I don’t feel comfortable with him towering over me so I rise as well.
”Thank you man. You’ve saved more than just me today. You’ve saved a family.”
The young man holds out his hand to shake my own and I look at it, then back at his fae before speaking.
”So where does the brother fit into all of this? Surely he’s still going to be around?”
”This morning I decided one of us was going to die. That fact still remains bruv. I just changed my mind about which one of us is going.”
I grin and shake his hand firmly. He grins back, bizarrely trusting me with this information.
”Ey man, you never told me your name. I’ve been rambling on for ages and I don’t even know what to call you.”
”My name? Oh it doesn’t matter.”
”Nah come on man. I need to know what to call the guy who saved me from myself.”
My grin widens.
”Drakz. My name is Drakz.”
Jake raises an eyebrow.
”Where you from bruv? Are you Russian or something?”
”No. I’m from around here. Anyway I guess I’ll be seeing you kid.”
Abruptly bringing things to a close I start to walk away but only get a couple of premeditated paces before I turn back to him. That grin has returned. Ear to f*cking ear.
”Oh by the way, you know that mole on the inside of Karla’s thigh………..the one right at the top.”
His look of confusion at my name has now moved into distress.
”I never told you about that mate. What the f*ck is this about?”
”She loves being kissed there.”
He doesn’t know how to react to this. Am I just making bold guesses? Do I know something he doesn’t? His mind can’t comprehend how this stranger, a stranger who just saved his life, could know something so personal about his one love. The possible mother of his child.
”You better move quick if you’re going to kill me kid. You missed your chance last time. Wouldn’t want you to miss it again”
He’s still struggling to understand. Dumb c*nt. Time to spell it out for him.
”You f*cking idiot, my name is Isaac Cray, and I not only f*cked your woman, I made her fall in love with me.”
As I speak I step toward him, and with one huge shove on his chest send him careering over the precipice and into the beyond……………again.
I relive the moment so tangibly that I can feel the weight of his body resist against my hands. I start to f*cking scream the words to Wuthering Heights and then fall into incessant laughter. This is the real reason I came back to the north. This is what it all means. I needed to remind myself that I may be the good guy now. I may be reformed and reimagined, but deep down inside I’m an unrepentant f*cking killer.
I am both light and dark.
Ying and yang.
Above and below.
I am the epitome of completion. Not missing a single character trait, and not harbouring a single weakness. I have grown beyond this day. This incident. I have achieved greatness and along the way quite possibly done worse things than this, but today I stand before the world as a font of clarity. A greater good of herculean proportions. I have become THE good guy by evolving from THE bad guy.
Two sides to every coin, even if in this case they are both heads.
I take a deep breath, having released a huge amount of pent up emotions. They’re now flowing through me and I’ve opened myself up enough to carry on this journey through my past. It’s time to revisit the pieces that made me the man I am. I have to show them………I have to show them what I have become.
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The Clash Beckons
Back down the M1. Back to the big smoke. The big sh*tty, smothering smoke. One has to question what the f*ck just happened to me? I tried to be more human. I tried to crack my calcified heart open and find even a hint of normality, yet here I am, on my own, again.
In the space of 48 hours I’ve been hit by a number of freight trains and yet I’m still moving forward. I’m actually quite up together all things considered. The amount of baggage I’ve left behind me has allowed me to soar upwards, like a balloon that’s dropped all sand bags. I am the Wizard of Oz only I’m not stopping in Kansas. I’m heading straight for the sun. I’ll eat the f*cking thing.
As I race down the motorway I have a fire in my eyes. I’m urged on by death. I’m urged on by necessary rejection. I’m hungry for some glory. I need a mouthful of victory to take the edge off of all this loss. Genghis Khan Jnr. doesn’t waste time on losing. I refuse to dwell on the happenings of the north. I may have lost a parent, I may have lost a lover and I may have lost a family home but it is all dust in the wind to me now as I charge head first toward Wembley Stadium. Head first towards a man who thinks he can take from me.
I will not be stolen from. I will f*cking crush anyone who even touches what is mine. I reach under the driver’s seat and pull out the World Heavyweight Title belt. It’s been there the whole time, away from prying eyes. I toss it onto the dash board so that I can see it in my peripheral field as I smash my way up the road ahead. That gold has got me crazy. This belt is the symbol of my unquenchable thirst, a thirst that can only be held off, never quenched. Perpetual in its very nature is my madness.
Trace Demon thinks of himself as an Oliver Cromwell of the modern era. He expects, with an army at his side, that he can roll into the capital and behead the king with ease. I will need no second shirt to hide my shivering dear boy. I will not find myself on my knees, head on the block, arms behind back. You can sharpen that axe as much as you want Trace, it will only bounce from my neck and rile me further. When a man’s ability is brought into question he has two options. One is to cower and try to laugh it all off, the other is to stand up and prove his nay sayers wrong. If you think I will serve as a milestone in your war then you have underestimated my worth.
I have already done battle and won with a man who calls himself God. It only makes sense for me to do the same with the King of Demons. A head in each hand. A belt around my waist.
I hope Trace has the good sense to do this on his own. I hope he respects me enough to know that involving anyone else is presenting them to be sacrificed. If a Joe Bishop or a Kyle Matthews happens to find himself in my line of fire I will not hesitate putting the boots to them. If they want to follow Trace blindly then that’s fine, but if they are fool enough to make their way to the ring on match night I will have to act. A man’s belief in a higher purpose is a powerful thing. Men will gladly sacrifice themselves for the good of the cause and that makes them dangerous. My dealing with them may lead to my comeuppance if my eye is lead astray for too long. Like Kamikaze pilots they will throw themselves at me in the hope I go down with them. I need to have my dancing shoes on from the first bell if I want to avoid looking like Bunker Hill.
I would like to think it won’t come to that and that Trace Demon is as curious as I am to see what would happen if we’re left to our own devices, but I fear this little battle with Sleater means even more to him than personal pride. He may well be willing to mar his own victory just to ensure the belt leaves England over his shoulder.
For me this match is a one way road. I have to win to continue on my way, there’s no room for anything but. If I want to finish this business with Schneider I need the belt. If I want to lure Kyzer out of his hole I need the belt. If I want to cement myself as the greatest of all time I need the belt.
In the past my run ins with Trace have been personal. Emotionally charged back and forths that nearly destroyed us both. This time is different. This time we both have ulterior motives and the man across the ring simply poses a threat to their success. I don’t hate Trace, I don’t stand against his revolution and I’m certainly not emotionally invested in any kind of feud with him. This time things are plain and simple. This match serves as a physical decision maker. The outcome will alter the future of both this company and our careers and at this point in time I can’t afford to change plans. I’m a man on borrowed time and my clear cut plan of attack must be followed to the letter if I want to achieve my goals in what limited career I have left. A back can only be broken so many times before it crumbles and after doing it once I think that number might be as low as twice.
Trace Demon has his reasons and I have mine, but in both instances the outcome here is bigger than either of us.
However while my success here is intrinsic to my future I must say I’ll be enjoying it in the here and now. This return to the UK has sh*t on me far more than expected but now I can finally get excited about beating the p*ss out of someone, and in this case that someone happens to be an ego with a terrible hair cut. I’m looking forward to letting fly some of this pent up energy. I’ve had to play my usual self down in the last few days to integrate more readily with normal people and it’s left me jonesing for some depravity. You know how it can get. I just need to cut loose and this match with Trace is the perfect platform for that.
At The Clash I get to have my fun, win the rubber match and do some serious venting. I’m going to vent all over his f*cking face and then make him swallow any he catches.
I may have been unlucky in love recently but at The Clash I will make Trace Demon my woman. It’s not because I think he deserves it, it’s because I think I do, and you’ve got to show yourself a little love from time to time…………….don’t you?
though. Grade A stuff, man.
