Post by Deleted on Feb 14, 2008 21:27:34 GMT -5
Impetus is a powerful thing.
Familiarity with your own driving force allows you to focus on your goals with a singular ferocity. You already know the destination so you’re free to concentrate on the journey. When obstacles arise, overcoming them doesn’t birth a new goal; they become part of the original, their momentum redirected and controlled, compelled to help instead of hinder. Everything is made a part of the plan and the plan is made a part of everything.
It’s generally easy to mark out the people who operate this way. Their calling card is confidence, their history success. Where others flounder in mediocrity, directionless save for the next few hours, these people stride purposefully forward, perpetually ascending. They know where they’re going so they don’t dally with distractions. They know what they want so they reach out and seize it.
If you know where you’re going, if you know your motivation, the battle is half won.
If you know the motivation of your opponent the other half falls seamlessly into place. Understanding what he wants and how he’s going after it allows you to influence his course, enables you to lay false trails for him to explore. You persuade him to follow the wrong shell, assured he knows your trick, right up until you bilk him.
If you know the motivation of your opponent, if you can manipulate it to serve your own ends, he becomes nothing more than a developing chapter in your grand story.
If you don’t know the motivation of your opponent, if you can’t manipulate it . . .
On the eve of Super Brawl, through the front of the hotel,
Strode Christian Xavier Kannon, marching down his private hell.
For more than a month now he’d watched from relative safety,
Relying on strong words of warning to battle naivety.
But those words fell flat; Eleanor wouldn’t listen;
She missed the lies in his eyes, the way that they glistened,
Like zircon in a wedding band, a falsely precious stone,
From a man with more sins than a world could atone.
A man who would kill himself for the triumph alone;
A man who used skeletons and stolen souls for a throne.
Xavier knew that and in truth always had,
Suffering injurious schemes that bordered on mad,
His career hanging in the balance, his life by a thread,
His fear reflected in eyes where he was already dead.
When he survived the encounter he found it a favor from fate;
He didn’t read the fine print that rain checked the date.
But this time was different, the stakes had been raised,
The target had shifted, the wrong idol razed.
His true love was caught in a whirlwind of malaise,
Spinning in the claws of a man only Satan would praise.
He knew how to end it, how to conquer the quicksand:
Five pounds of cold steel nestled in his waistband.
Kannon wasn’t fluent, but it seemed the only language Pierce knew,
And when The Deville came calling you gave him his due.
To get to Christian he had taken his wife;
For that indiscretion he’d pay with his life.
This isn’t about The Survivors. This isn’t about Chemical Reaction. This isn’t really even about Wayne and Kurt, specifically. It isn’t about you two being a part of a team that contains the man that cost me Survival of the Fittest.
As we’ve been over countless times, The Axis didn’t cost me Survival. All Thunder did was cost Thunder some self-respect and yourselves, as a unit, some success and longevity.
This isn’t about redemption for my trampled ego.
Even if you guys had caused me to lose the match in some way, how would that tarnish my ego? If anything, your actions would serve to appease my sense of importance; you feeling compelled to side with Thunder because you knew it was the only way to stop what I was doing.
This isn’t about me being a victim.
I’m not a victim. Even when people wrong me I’m not a victim. That would imply a sense of helplessness, of being exploited. Of being bullied. It would suggest that you overgrown mobile mannequins are the aggressors.
For it to be about any of those things, you guys would have to be the ones in control. You guys would need to be the ones doing the manipulating. It would need to be you pulling my strings. You making me dance.
Almost laughable, isn’t it?
"Millions of microscopic cameras," Pierce Deville said as if in response to a question. Standing in front of a large rectangular dress-mirror with his head cocked to the side, his serpentine black-pinstriped form was barely discernible against the shadowy orange darkness of the hotel room, lit only by a small, shaded desk lamp. "If you move slowly they’re able to compensate and maintain the illusion, but any sudden or drastic actions will likely blow your cover."
"Amazing," came a second voice, followed by a shimmering of the air beside Pierce’s head and shoulders. There was no better way to describe it; one moment the air was normal, still, and the next it . . . danced. It was as if two transparent glass tubes were rotating up and together, ever-so-slightly displacing what was refracted through them, skewing it just enough to be noticed. As if the air was a reflection on water, rippling in the wind. Another moment and a sliver of beige skin appeared, floating in the air, followed by the rest of Obo’s neck and head. "Simply amazing."
The Deville’s lips peeled back in a sickle of a grin. "Indeed. A marvel of modern technology." The bodiless head of Obo nodded as Deville went on, looking down at his midsection as he turned the mask over in his hands, watching as it showed him the floor beneath as if through a kaleidoscope tube. "With its price tag it’ll never revolutionize the world of crime, but it serves my purposes grandly."
Obo’s hovering head twisted back and forth with wonder, still enthralled with the novelty. "How does it work, though?"
"Fiber-optics?" Deville questioningly began with a shrug. "Each camera records and projects simultaneously, and . . ." Grimacing, Deville trailed off, before finishing with a vague "It’s complicated," which was as close as he could bring himself to admitting he didn’t fully understand something. "How it works is unimportant. That it works, that it makes you invisible for all practical purposes, is what’s important. There is no greater advantage to have than the ability to act without being seen, to move beyond the notice or understanding of your adversary."
Obo continued nodding, half-vacantly, already accustomed to Deville’s lecturing method of conversation.
"The best part about it," The Deville went on, grinning once more as he raised his hand high, "is that the cameras aren’t in the least fragile." To illustrate the point, he brought his hand clapping down on Obo’s invisible back. His hand undulated on impact, the air immediately beneath Obo’s head flickering as the cameras shook and reconciled, then there was just Pierce’s outstretched hand resting on an invisible barrier beneath a floating, smiling face. "And no matter how close the subject matter is, the projection is never blurred or compromised."
"This is . . . surreal." The air wavered as Obo twisted. "Have you used this in WFWF?"
"The concept, yes. I use the concept in everything I do." The Deville paused, letting his gaze bore into Obo’s until the man nodded his understanding. "But the suit itself, no. Not yet. I’m saving it for a special occasion," he added with another grin.
Obo’s head was suddenly a floating ball of appreciative lascivious scandal. "Like finally meeting the ladies beneath the wrestling garb?" He chuckled at the joke, amused with himself, but it was short-lived. Seeing the mirth melt from Deville’s face, watching the swirling oceans of his eyes freeze, he raised his hands to forestall any offense, forgetting they couldn’t be seen. "I did--"
"I like you, Obo, or you wouldn’t be here," The Deville cut him off curtly, turning to face him without the mirror. His voice was low and calm, but there was an undercurrent of danger, an undertow of violence that could pull that calmness down and drown it. "But if you ever again disrespect me or mine your invisibility will become more than a parlor trick."
"I didn’t mean any disrespect," Obo muttered, resisting the temptation to describe the concept of humor to his new friend. The concept of friendship as well. "Does that mean you’re not interested in ****?" he asked cautiously, testing just how touchy Deville’s idea of respect was.
Composed once more, The Deville dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. "Worry about our title match tomorrow, not whether or not I’d say yes to any propsition from you. Worry about tonight. It needs to go down exactly as I outlined earlier. Any deviation, any hesitation, and the whole thing could explode. It’s very sen--"
"Sensitive," Obo finished for him in a weary tone, "yeah, got it." Deville narrowed his eyes at the interruption, on the verge of calling Obo down, but in the end he gave only a satisfied nod.
"You’re ready then?"
"C’mon . . . crap’s cake, dude."
"Beautiful. Get into position."
Obo replaced the mask, disappearing from view, as Deville walked over to the night-table, picked up the phone, and dialed zero. "This is Pierce Deville," he said after a moment, then paused, nodding. "Yes, that’s right. You can send him up now."
A few minutes later there was a knock at the door, an angry thumping without even the pretence of courtesy. Pierce couldn’t help but grin to himself as he called for the visitor to enter, standing as far from the door as possible without making it obvious that’s what he was doing.
When Christian Kannon entered the room, regarding the darkness suspiciously, searching every corner of it with his eyes, Deville replaced the grin with a look of welcoming hospitality.
"Christian," he greeted affectionately, clasping his hands behind his back in a petty attempt to rile Kannon’s suspicions. "So nice to see you again after so long. How’s the life of a washed up invalid treating you?" he asked, delivering the question in the same jovial tone as the rest.
"Shut it," Kannon snarled, taking a few more steps into the room before stopping just shy of the centre, glaring at Deville as if it was high noon in the old west. "I’m in no mood for your games, Deville."
Pierce adopted a wounded look of confusion. "Such unfounded animosity. Really, Christian, there’s no need for it. One might get the impression I cut your brake cables or something equally fiendish." Chuckling under his breath, Deville gave his head an amused shake before continuing. "No matter. Tell me, though, if not for the fun and games, why are you here?"
Ignoring the barbs, Kannon answered the question, every ounce of his being as challenging and defiant as the words themselves. "I came to tell you that Eleanor is no longer your manager. You leave my wife alone."
The Deville clucked his tongue and sighed. "Have you spoken with Eleanor regarding this?"
"That’s none of your concern," Kannon growled, taking a menacing step forward. Deville didn’t seem menaced by it in the slightest, raising his brow in mock affront, but Kannon ploughed ahead unfazed. "What is your concern is staying away from my wife. If you don’t . . ." Kannon paused, steeling himself. "If you don’t, I’ll kill you."
Silence reigned for a long moment, broken finally by Deville’s low chuckling, devoid of mirth, saturated with menace. "You will, will you?" Eyeing Kannon sideways, Deville began taking small steps toward him, slowly but surely eating up the space between them. "You’re not the first to make such a boast. If you’re serious, you won’t be the first to try to carry through with it, either. I sincerely doubt you’ll be the last." A bare meter from being in his face, Deville stopped and proffered a knowing smile. "Have you ever murdered, Christian?"
Kannon didn’t back up an inch, or even flinch, instead swelling with cold anger. "There’s a first for everything."
"Is there?" The Deville asked rhetorically. "I’m afraid we’re about to find out. You see . . . if it really is what Eleanor wants, obviously I have no objection to her and I parting company. But if that is what she wants, if she does stop managing me, I’m afraid I’m going to have to withdraw my protection."
"Stuff your protection. I can protect her just fine."
Deville blinked, seeming surprised. "I had no idea your connections ran so deep, Christian."
Kannon could feel the trap, itching in the back of his mind like a forgotten thought, but he had no choice except to spring it. "No games, Deville. What are you talking about?"
"Oh, you mean you don’t know?" Deville waited a moment as if expecting a response, then went on in an unhurried, conversational tone. "It seems that our darling Eleanor is an attempted murder suspect."
It was Kannon’s turn to blink. He half-reached for Deville’s throat before catching himself and laughing, shaking his head ruefully. "Don’t give me that crap, Deville. I said no games."
"Games?" Deville looked around as if for a definition of the word, since his understanding was obviously wrong. "According to an associate of mine with the bureau, they aren’t playing around. It seems that -- unlike you -- the boys in blue don’t find anything humorous about trying to use a rabid animal as an instrument of murder."
Kannon didn’t blink or flinch. He couldn’t even breathe. "What does your use of that dog have to do with my wife?" he asked through gritted teeth.
Deville remained the perfect picture of nonchalance. "Who do you think gave it to me?"
"I don’t care where you got it. I know it wasn’t from her."
Grimacing, sucking air through his teeth, Deville didn’t know how to break the news. Well, he did, actually. That’s why he was dragging it out, enjoying himself. "The FBI disagrees. At first they dismissed it as an unfortunate coincidence, but now, faced with all the evidence, they have little choice but to pursue charges."
Leaving Deville’s face intact took all of Kannon’s effort. "What evidence?"
"Nothing direct," Deville responded, "you guys could probably beat it in court. It’s all circumstantial. Like the fact that she received an underground rabies inoculation mere weeks before the incident. I’m sure your lawyers will come up with a reasonable explanation for that. You can still afford the best in your retirement, can’t you?"
"She received no such thing," Kannon hissed, now actually trembling with adrenaline and rage. Not just for what he was being told, but for what it would force him to do.
"I’m afraid her blood, and now her medical file, say otherwise. Didn’t she tell you? No, I guess she didn’t." Deville shook his head with disappointment, as if offended by their apparently failing marriage. "Well, I’m sure it’s all just coincidence. I’m sure the courts will see it that way, too." Smiling smugly, Deville threw in a prolonged "Unless . . ."
"Unless what?" Kannon demanded, feeling nauseous, sick to death of the baiting.
"Unless they subpoena me to the stand," Deville finished with mock apology. "You know that I’d hate to do it, but if they called me to testify, it’s not like I’d have a choice. We both know I hold the law in too high of esteem. I’d be forced to relate to the jury Eleanor’s cold, calculating side, to tell them how she forced the dog onto me under comedic pretence, insisting it would be hilarious if the ‘Taco Bell Chihuahua’ attacked CBT." Pierce shrugged. "How was I to suspect the nefarious truth? She’s my manager. I’m supposed to be able to trust her."
Kannon had nothing to say. There was nothing he could say. All that came to mind was a shouting string of curses, a primal raging roar. Instead of speaking, Christian reached into his waistband with a hand he couldn’t feel, rolled the gun into his hand as if by instinct and thrust it forward so the end of the barrel was less than an inch from The Deville’s eye. Kannon had never shot anyone before, but he had no doubt he could do it now; the trigger was already a quarter of the way compressed beneath his numb, trembling finger.
"End it," Kannon ordered simply, his voice like steel sliding against steel, like a blade being drawn. There was no need to elaborate on what he meant; they both knew Deville was the source of everything, whether he’d admit it or not. "End it or die."
Pierce simply smiled, for the entire world as if there wasn’t a gun in his face, brandished by a man he had personally pushed beyond the edge of reason. Perhaps the reason was that he couldn’t be killed, as rumor claimed, but then again, perhaps it was something else. Like the clicking of a chamber behind Kannon.
Kannon twitched at hearing it, making Deville flinch, certain the surprise would startle Kannon into firing, but instead he twisted around and to the side, so he could see what had been behind him while keeping The Deville in his sights. While keeping the gun pointed at him. The precaution was for naught, however, as when Christian saw the phantom pistol pointed at him, suspended in mid-air at shoulder-height, his own piece clattered to the ground.
"As I said," Deville breeched the ominous silence with, not even bending down to retrieve Kannon’s gun, "I’ve instructed them not to pursue the investigation. They won’t unless I tell them otherwise." Kannon was still staring at the floating gun, transfixed as it angled itself between pointing at his head and at his heart, as if it had its own mind and couldn’t make it up. "If she continues managing me," Deville continued, snapping his fingers to get Kannon’s attention, "I won’t tell them otherwise. If you make her stop, however, I imagine I will, as I’ll have no reason to protect her. It needs to be worth my while, after all."
Trying to forget the gun -- as much as one could forget a flying gun that seemed to cock its own hammer -- Kannon forced his gaze to focus on The Deville, forced his mouth to form coherent words. "What would that take?" The question came as a strangled whisper, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "What would that take? To make it worth your while without her being your manager."
The Deville grinned. "You know."
Kannon scoured his mind and found nothing. If the situation wasn’t so serious, if it wasn’t his wife hanging in the balance, he might have laughed at the absurdity of Deville’s scheming. "I don’t. I wish I did -- I wish I knew why you’ve been after me these past couple of years, trying to exact revenge for a wrong I don’t remember doing you -- but I don’t. I have no clue what you want."
Pierce appeared offended, uncharacteristically free of mockery. His brow drew down tight and dark over his eyes, his lips compressed to a thin, bloodless line.
"A match."
The relief at it being something ridiculous, at it being so simple and un-sinister, forced a laugh from Kannon’s throat before he could think better of it. "A match?" he demanded incredulously, squinting at Deville as if seeing him for the first time. "Why on earth do you want another match? You won the last one, remember?"
"We never had a match," Deville corrected him gravely, making it a threat as much as a statement. "That was a work."
Christian closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Wrestling is a work."
"Not for me," The Deville grated. "And not for you, not against me. I never would have agreed to it in the first place had I known what you had planned."
"What I had planned? I planned to put you over! It worked!"
"If you ever lie to me again," Deville warned, closing the intervening space, looming forward until all he could see were Kannon’s eyes, "I’ll slit your
ing throat."
"Fine," Kannon growled, seeing that path was a dead-end but refusing to back up an inch. "You want a match? Let’s do it. Right here. Right now."
The Deville smiled, then laughed, backing away from Kannon, shaking his head. "Not here. Not now. It’s been building too long to end it in a grungy hotel room. Besides, we’re much too big of stars for that." Pierce barked another hollow laugh before continuing in a solemn tone.
"You were the best, Christian -- Xavier -- and I was the best. We should have had it out then, to discover for ourselves who truly deserved the title, to give the world a single body to rally behind, a lone champion to honor. We should have, and as far as the world knows we did, but you and I know better. My pride knows better."
Kannon wanted to leave, unsure of how mad The Deville truly was, but if he did it would be Eleanor who was sacrificed to the man’s insanity. It would be Eleanor who was made a victim for no better reason than one lunatic’s jaded view of pride.
"You’ve been ducking me my entire career, refusing to let me know whether or not I ever truly was at the top of our sport. Sure, you’re past your prime and out of shape now, but given a bit of time to train I have faith you could return in all your glory. Whether you can or not, though, we’re finally going to settle this.
"Either you’re going to get yourself into condition to give me and the world the rematch -- the real match! -- we deserve . . . or you’re going to prove yourself a coward and feed our darling Eleanor to the dogs."
Familiarity with your own driving force allows you to focus on your goals with a singular ferocity. You already know the destination so you’re free to concentrate on the journey. When obstacles arise, overcoming them doesn’t birth a new goal; they become part of the original, their momentum redirected and controlled, compelled to help instead of hinder. Everything is made a part of the plan and the plan is made a part of everything.
It’s generally easy to mark out the people who operate this way. Their calling card is confidence, their history success. Where others flounder in mediocrity, directionless save for the next few hours, these people stride purposefully forward, perpetually ascending. They know where they’re going so they don’t dally with distractions. They know what they want so they reach out and seize it.
If you know where you’re going, if you know your motivation, the battle is half won.
If you know the motivation of your opponent the other half falls seamlessly into place. Understanding what he wants and how he’s going after it allows you to influence his course, enables you to lay false trails for him to explore. You persuade him to follow the wrong shell, assured he knows your trick, right up until you bilk him.
If you know the motivation of your opponent, if you can manipulate it to serve your own ends, he becomes nothing more than a developing chapter in your grand story.
If you don’t know the motivation of your opponent, if you can’t manipulate it . . .
~><>…<><~
On the eve of Super Brawl, through the front of the hotel,
Strode Christian Xavier Kannon, marching down his private hell.
For more than a month now he’d watched from relative safety,
Relying on strong words of warning to battle naivety.
But those words fell flat; Eleanor wouldn’t listen;
She missed the lies in his eyes, the way that they glistened,
Like zircon in a wedding band, a falsely precious stone,
From a man with more sins than a world could atone.
A man who would kill himself for the triumph alone;
A man who used skeletons and stolen souls for a throne.
Xavier knew that and in truth always had,
Suffering injurious schemes that bordered on mad,
His career hanging in the balance, his life by a thread,
His fear reflected in eyes where he was already dead.
When he survived the encounter he found it a favor from fate;
He didn’t read the fine print that rain checked the date.
But this time was different, the stakes had been raised,
The target had shifted, the wrong idol razed.
His true love was caught in a whirlwind of malaise,
Spinning in the claws of a man only Satan would praise.
He knew how to end it, how to conquer the quicksand:
Five pounds of cold steel nestled in his waistband.
Kannon wasn’t fluent, but it seemed the only language Pierce knew,
And when The Deville came calling you gave him his due.
To get to Christian he had taken his wife;
For that indiscretion he’d pay with his life.
~><>…<><~
This isn’t about The Survivors. This isn’t about Chemical Reaction. This isn’t really even about Wayne and Kurt, specifically. It isn’t about you two being a part of a team that contains the man that cost me Survival of the Fittest.
As we’ve been over countless times, The Axis didn’t cost me Survival. All Thunder did was cost Thunder some self-respect and yourselves, as a unit, some success and longevity.
This isn’t about redemption for my trampled ego.
Even if you guys had caused me to lose the match in some way, how would that tarnish my ego? If anything, your actions would serve to appease my sense of importance; you feeling compelled to side with Thunder because you knew it was the only way to stop what I was doing.
This isn’t about me being a victim.
I’m not a victim. Even when people wrong me I’m not a victim. That would imply a sense of helplessness, of being exploited. Of being bullied. It would suggest that you overgrown mobile mannequins are the aggressors.
For it to be about any of those things, you guys would have to be the ones in control. You guys would need to be the ones doing the manipulating. It would need to be you pulling my strings. You making me dance.
Almost laughable, isn’t it?
~><>…<><~
"Millions of microscopic cameras," Pierce Deville said as if in response to a question. Standing in front of a large rectangular dress-mirror with his head cocked to the side, his serpentine black-pinstriped form was barely discernible against the shadowy orange darkness of the hotel room, lit only by a small, shaded desk lamp. "If you move slowly they’re able to compensate and maintain the illusion, but any sudden or drastic actions will likely blow your cover."
"Amazing," came a second voice, followed by a shimmering of the air beside Pierce’s head and shoulders. There was no better way to describe it; one moment the air was normal, still, and the next it . . . danced. It was as if two transparent glass tubes were rotating up and together, ever-so-slightly displacing what was refracted through them, skewing it just enough to be noticed. As if the air was a reflection on water, rippling in the wind. Another moment and a sliver of beige skin appeared, floating in the air, followed by the rest of Obo’s neck and head. "Simply amazing."
The Deville’s lips peeled back in a sickle of a grin. "Indeed. A marvel of modern technology." The bodiless head of Obo nodded as Deville went on, looking down at his midsection as he turned the mask over in his hands, watching as it showed him the floor beneath as if through a kaleidoscope tube. "With its price tag it’ll never revolutionize the world of crime, but it serves my purposes grandly."
Obo’s hovering head twisted back and forth with wonder, still enthralled with the novelty. "How does it work, though?"
"Fiber-optics?" Deville questioningly began with a shrug. "Each camera records and projects simultaneously, and . . ." Grimacing, Deville trailed off, before finishing with a vague "It’s complicated," which was as close as he could bring himself to admitting he didn’t fully understand something. "How it works is unimportant. That it works, that it makes you invisible for all practical purposes, is what’s important. There is no greater advantage to have than the ability to act without being seen, to move beyond the notice or understanding of your adversary."
Obo continued nodding, half-vacantly, already accustomed to Deville’s lecturing method of conversation.
"The best part about it," The Deville went on, grinning once more as he raised his hand high, "is that the cameras aren’t in the least fragile." To illustrate the point, he brought his hand clapping down on Obo’s invisible back. His hand undulated on impact, the air immediately beneath Obo’s head flickering as the cameras shook and reconciled, then there was just Pierce’s outstretched hand resting on an invisible barrier beneath a floating, smiling face. "And no matter how close the subject matter is, the projection is never blurred or compromised."
"This is . . . surreal." The air wavered as Obo twisted. "Have you used this in WFWF?"
"The concept, yes. I use the concept in everything I do." The Deville paused, letting his gaze bore into Obo’s until the man nodded his understanding. "But the suit itself, no. Not yet. I’m saving it for a special occasion," he added with another grin.
Obo’s head was suddenly a floating ball of appreciative lascivious scandal. "Like finally meeting the ladies beneath the wrestling garb?" He chuckled at the joke, amused with himself, but it was short-lived. Seeing the mirth melt from Deville’s face, watching the swirling oceans of his eyes freeze, he raised his hands to forestall any offense, forgetting they couldn’t be seen. "I did--"
"I like you, Obo, or you wouldn’t be here," The Deville cut him off curtly, turning to face him without the mirror. His voice was low and calm, but there was an undercurrent of danger, an undertow of violence that could pull that calmness down and drown it. "But if you ever again disrespect me or mine your invisibility will become more than a parlor trick."
"I didn’t mean any disrespect," Obo muttered, resisting the temptation to describe the concept of humor to his new friend. The concept of friendship as well. "Does that mean you’re not interested in ****?" he asked cautiously, testing just how touchy Deville’s idea of respect was.
Composed once more, The Deville dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. "Worry about our title match tomorrow, not whether or not I’d say yes to any propsition from you. Worry about tonight. It needs to go down exactly as I outlined earlier. Any deviation, any hesitation, and the whole thing could explode. It’s very sen--"
"Sensitive," Obo finished for him in a weary tone, "yeah, got it." Deville narrowed his eyes at the interruption, on the verge of calling Obo down, but in the end he gave only a satisfied nod.
"You’re ready then?"
"C’mon . . . crap’s cake, dude."
"Beautiful. Get into position."
Obo replaced the mask, disappearing from view, as Deville walked over to the night-table, picked up the phone, and dialed zero. "This is Pierce Deville," he said after a moment, then paused, nodding. "Yes, that’s right. You can send him up now."
A few minutes later there was a knock at the door, an angry thumping without even the pretence of courtesy. Pierce couldn’t help but grin to himself as he called for the visitor to enter, standing as far from the door as possible without making it obvious that’s what he was doing.
When Christian Kannon entered the room, regarding the darkness suspiciously, searching every corner of it with his eyes, Deville replaced the grin with a look of welcoming hospitality.
"Christian," he greeted affectionately, clasping his hands behind his back in a petty attempt to rile Kannon’s suspicions. "So nice to see you again after so long. How’s the life of a washed up invalid treating you?" he asked, delivering the question in the same jovial tone as the rest.
"Shut it," Kannon snarled, taking a few more steps into the room before stopping just shy of the centre, glaring at Deville as if it was high noon in the old west. "I’m in no mood for your games, Deville."
Pierce adopted a wounded look of confusion. "Such unfounded animosity. Really, Christian, there’s no need for it. One might get the impression I cut your brake cables or something equally fiendish." Chuckling under his breath, Deville gave his head an amused shake before continuing. "No matter. Tell me, though, if not for the fun and games, why are you here?"
Ignoring the barbs, Kannon answered the question, every ounce of his being as challenging and defiant as the words themselves. "I came to tell you that Eleanor is no longer your manager. You leave my wife alone."
The Deville clucked his tongue and sighed. "Have you spoken with Eleanor regarding this?"
"That’s none of your concern," Kannon growled, taking a menacing step forward. Deville didn’t seem menaced by it in the slightest, raising his brow in mock affront, but Kannon ploughed ahead unfazed. "What is your concern is staying away from my wife. If you don’t . . ." Kannon paused, steeling himself. "If you don’t, I’ll kill you."
Silence reigned for a long moment, broken finally by Deville’s low chuckling, devoid of mirth, saturated with menace. "You will, will you?" Eyeing Kannon sideways, Deville began taking small steps toward him, slowly but surely eating up the space between them. "You’re not the first to make such a boast. If you’re serious, you won’t be the first to try to carry through with it, either. I sincerely doubt you’ll be the last." A bare meter from being in his face, Deville stopped and proffered a knowing smile. "Have you ever murdered, Christian?"
Kannon didn’t back up an inch, or even flinch, instead swelling with cold anger. "There’s a first for everything."
"Is there?" The Deville asked rhetorically. "I’m afraid we’re about to find out. You see . . . if it really is what Eleanor wants, obviously I have no objection to her and I parting company. But if that is what she wants, if she does stop managing me, I’m afraid I’m going to have to withdraw my protection."
"Stuff your protection. I can protect her just fine."
Deville blinked, seeming surprised. "I had no idea your connections ran so deep, Christian."
Kannon could feel the trap, itching in the back of his mind like a forgotten thought, but he had no choice except to spring it. "No games, Deville. What are you talking about?"
"Oh, you mean you don’t know?" Deville waited a moment as if expecting a response, then went on in an unhurried, conversational tone. "It seems that our darling Eleanor is an attempted murder suspect."
It was Kannon’s turn to blink. He half-reached for Deville’s throat before catching himself and laughing, shaking his head ruefully. "Don’t give me that crap, Deville. I said no games."
"Games?" Deville looked around as if for a definition of the word, since his understanding was obviously wrong. "According to an associate of mine with the bureau, they aren’t playing around. It seems that -- unlike you -- the boys in blue don’t find anything humorous about trying to use a rabid animal as an instrument of murder."
Kannon didn’t blink or flinch. He couldn’t even breathe. "What does your use of that dog have to do with my wife?" he asked through gritted teeth.
Deville remained the perfect picture of nonchalance. "Who do you think gave it to me?"
"I don’t care where you got it. I know it wasn’t from her."
Grimacing, sucking air through his teeth, Deville didn’t know how to break the news. Well, he did, actually. That’s why he was dragging it out, enjoying himself. "The FBI disagrees. At first they dismissed it as an unfortunate coincidence, but now, faced with all the evidence, they have little choice but to pursue charges."
Leaving Deville’s face intact took all of Kannon’s effort. "What evidence?"
"Nothing direct," Deville responded, "you guys could probably beat it in court. It’s all circumstantial. Like the fact that she received an underground rabies inoculation mere weeks before the incident. I’m sure your lawyers will come up with a reasonable explanation for that. You can still afford the best in your retirement, can’t you?"
"She received no such thing," Kannon hissed, now actually trembling with adrenaline and rage. Not just for what he was being told, but for what it would force him to do.
"I’m afraid her blood, and now her medical file, say otherwise. Didn’t she tell you? No, I guess she didn’t." Deville shook his head with disappointment, as if offended by their apparently failing marriage. "Well, I’m sure it’s all just coincidence. I’m sure the courts will see it that way, too." Smiling smugly, Deville threw in a prolonged "Unless . . ."
"Unless what?" Kannon demanded, feeling nauseous, sick to death of the baiting.
"Unless they subpoena me to the stand," Deville finished with mock apology. "You know that I’d hate to do it, but if they called me to testify, it’s not like I’d have a choice. We both know I hold the law in too high of esteem. I’d be forced to relate to the jury Eleanor’s cold, calculating side, to tell them how she forced the dog onto me under comedic pretence, insisting it would be hilarious if the ‘Taco Bell Chihuahua’ attacked CBT." Pierce shrugged. "How was I to suspect the nefarious truth? She’s my manager. I’m supposed to be able to trust her."
Kannon had nothing to say. There was nothing he could say. All that came to mind was a shouting string of curses, a primal raging roar. Instead of speaking, Christian reached into his waistband with a hand he couldn’t feel, rolled the gun into his hand as if by instinct and thrust it forward so the end of the barrel was less than an inch from The Deville’s eye. Kannon had never shot anyone before, but he had no doubt he could do it now; the trigger was already a quarter of the way compressed beneath his numb, trembling finger.
"End it," Kannon ordered simply, his voice like steel sliding against steel, like a blade being drawn. There was no need to elaborate on what he meant; they both knew Deville was the source of everything, whether he’d admit it or not. "End it or die."
Pierce simply smiled, for the entire world as if there wasn’t a gun in his face, brandished by a man he had personally pushed beyond the edge of reason. Perhaps the reason was that he couldn’t be killed, as rumor claimed, but then again, perhaps it was something else. Like the clicking of a chamber behind Kannon.
Kannon twitched at hearing it, making Deville flinch, certain the surprise would startle Kannon into firing, but instead he twisted around and to the side, so he could see what had been behind him while keeping The Deville in his sights. While keeping the gun pointed at him. The precaution was for naught, however, as when Christian saw the phantom pistol pointed at him, suspended in mid-air at shoulder-height, his own piece clattered to the ground.
"As I said," Deville breeched the ominous silence with, not even bending down to retrieve Kannon’s gun, "I’ve instructed them not to pursue the investigation. They won’t unless I tell them otherwise." Kannon was still staring at the floating gun, transfixed as it angled itself between pointing at his head and at his heart, as if it had its own mind and couldn’t make it up. "If she continues managing me," Deville continued, snapping his fingers to get Kannon’s attention, "I won’t tell them otherwise. If you make her stop, however, I imagine I will, as I’ll have no reason to protect her. It needs to be worth my while, after all."
Trying to forget the gun -- as much as one could forget a flying gun that seemed to cock its own hammer -- Kannon forced his gaze to focus on The Deville, forced his mouth to form coherent words. "What would that take?" The question came as a strangled whisper, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "What would that take? To make it worth your while without her being your manager."
The Deville grinned. "You know."
Kannon scoured his mind and found nothing. If the situation wasn’t so serious, if it wasn’t his wife hanging in the balance, he might have laughed at the absurdity of Deville’s scheming. "I don’t. I wish I did -- I wish I knew why you’ve been after me these past couple of years, trying to exact revenge for a wrong I don’t remember doing you -- but I don’t. I have no clue what you want."
Pierce appeared offended, uncharacteristically free of mockery. His brow drew down tight and dark over his eyes, his lips compressed to a thin, bloodless line.
"A match."
The relief at it being something ridiculous, at it being so simple and un-sinister, forced a laugh from Kannon’s throat before he could think better of it. "A match?" he demanded incredulously, squinting at Deville as if seeing him for the first time. "Why on earth do you want another match? You won the last one, remember?"
"We never had a match," Deville corrected him gravely, making it a threat as much as a statement. "That was a work."
Christian closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Wrestling is a work."
"Not for me," The Deville grated. "And not for you, not against me. I never would have agreed to it in the first place had I known what you had planned."
"What I had planned? I planned to put you over! It worked!"
"If you ever lie to me again," Deville warned, closing the intervening space, looming forward until all he could see were Kannon’s eyes, "I’ll slit your
ing throat.""Fine," Kannon growled, seeing that path was a dead-end but refusing to back up an inch. "You want a match? Let’s do it. Right here. Right now."
The Deville smiled, then laughed, backing away from Kannon, shaking his head. "Not here. Not now. It’s been building too long to end it in a grungy hotel room. Besides, we’re much too big of stars for that." Pierce barked another hollow laugh before continuing in a solemn tone.
"You were the best, Christian -- Xavier -- and I was the best. We should have had it out then, to discover for ourselves who truly deserved the title, to give the world a single body to rally behind, a lone champion to honor. We should have, and as far as the world knows we did, but you and I know better. My pride knows better."
Kannon wanted to leave, unsure of how mad The Deville truly was, but if he did it would be Eleanor who was sacrificed to the man’s insanity. It would be Eleanor who was made a victim for no better reason than one lunatic’s jaded view of pride.
"You’ve been ducking me my entire career, refusing to let me know whether or not I ever truly was at the top of our sport. Sure, you’re past your prime and out of shape now, but given a bit of time to train I have faith you could return in all your glory. Whether you can or not, though, we’re finally going to settle this.
"Either you’re going to get yourself into condition to give me and the world the rematch -- the real match! -- we deserve . . . or you’re going to prove yourself a coward and feed our darling Eleanor to the dogs."
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