Post by Drakz on Aug 14, 2018 15:16:17 GMT -5
A Dragon. A Monkey. A Dog.
(A.K.A. The Zodiacs?)
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Full circle might be a bit of stretch, but f*ck it, we’ve come full circle Zmey my mountainous friend.
It’s almost 3 years to the day that you chased me out of a Tokyo bar, arm in arm with a beautiful young woman. Which in turn means it’s almost 3 years to the day that I proved to the world that I f*cking carried you through that entire Tag Team Championship tournament.
We dominated in every single one of our matches, and yet when we get to the finals? You’re no where to be seen. You leave me high and dry at the behest of a man quarter your size. You up and leave Japan without so much as clocking in at The Dome. I like to think that where ever you were, you had Donnie sat on your shoulders watching that handicap match though.
Who run Barter Town?
Mr 8.5.1. runs Barter Town.
That night the Tokyo Dome became the Thunder Dome as I single handedly defeated Nikki Dean AND Trace Demon for the Tag Team Championships.
Any reference to “Mad Drakz” is made without the knowledge or permission of Isaac Cray Industries. Any third parties doing so can speak to my solicitor………that’s limey speak for lawyer.
So why have you reared your masked boulder of a head again Tugarin? I’ve never had an issue with you per say. You’re simply a man of loyalties and duty. Who you cast your ballot with is your own business, but for f*ck sake man let’s at least grab a drink before you show up on television and try to stove my skull in. I can only hope you’re running solo right now and are ticking off a list of The New Epoch’s short pay roll, at least that means after mine, you’ll be wearing Michael Kyzer’s skin.
I’m not optimistic though. Something tells me your return to the fray is merely the fanfare before Kyzer tries to throw me off of something else. If you’re a distraction, you’re a f*cking big one. Don’t give me less than 100% though. Just because Mike is waiting for me in your silhouette I still want a good showing on your part. It’s no good to me, besting you when you’re taking it easy. I may regret asking for it, but I want you to really f*cking try to beat me. Getting the jump on me is one thing, but actually beating me in that ring? Many have tried…….well, you know the rest.
I wish I could know your reasoning for wanting this.
Proving you’re truly a force to be reckoned with?
Showing me, personally, that my delusions of tag team grandeur are unfounded?
Or simply because Michael Kyzer’s got his hands up to the wrists in your head?
Whatever your motives, it’s a long way to Japan, and I’ve got an appointment to keep with a beautiful young woman.
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Alms for the Bedridden
“He’s in there.”
Nat motions towards the bedroom door with the party end of the baseball bat.
“Don’t go trying to have sex with him, or whatever weird sh*t you’re into.”
Touché.
Meh. He’s neither related to me nor vulnerable enough.
“You know he’s bed ridden and beaten up as hell right?”
“Natalie, don’t tempt me.”
I wink and she sneers, shaking her head in disgust. It seems our senses of humour aren’t all that compatible, but I didn’t come here to make friends with her, so I’ll learn to live with it.
I don’t bother knocking as I gather that Dave’s expecting me and can probably hear us talking anyway.
“F*cking nora. What happened to you mate? You look like Joseph Merrick’s nut sack.”
Start with a joke. That’s how they tell you to start speeches isn’t it?
“Who?”
Hmmmm, the joke’s kind of lost if you need to explain it.
“Never mind. Let me rephrase. You look like sh*t.”
He coughs, propped up in bed, but I can see the edge of his mouth slightly curled into a smile. That old English charm won’t be denied.
“I feel it. That f*cker really did a number on me.”
“Which one?”
David’s had the misfortune of being reunited with both Mike and Tugarin recently, and neither of the meetings went too well for him. Admittedly that’s an understatement. He chuckles, but it quickly turns into a coughing fit again. I’m no doctor, but I’d hazard to guess that his ribcage looks more like a second hand jigsaw puzzle at the moment. Busted ribs are no fun. It hurts to exist. Breathing makes you miserable and obviously can’t be avoided, and when you’re sat across from a funny f*cker such as myself then you’re gonna have a bad time of it.
“You need a drink?”
Once he’s caught his breath he responds:
“You know I’ve knocked that on its head.”
His wording leaves a lot to be desired, as it conjures the image of a bourbon bottle, only it’s my f*cking head it’s being knocked on. Cheeky c*nt. He’s laid up, I’ll let it slide.
“I meant a glass of water. Don’t think me stupid enough to assume your last 18 months could have happened were you still under the influence.”
“You think?”
“I know. It takes a clear head to stay at the top for this long, even if it might have cost you your previously intact dental records.”
“So how’s that explain you?”
“The only substances floating round my system during that last stint were medically prescribed. Just enough to keep me from thinking about my back when a fist was flying at my face.”
“And what about this stint?”
“What about it?”
“You seemed to have found some kind a peace when I saw you in Chicago. Why bother coming back? Strikes me that unless you’d fallen back into old habits you’d have the sensibility to know it probably ain’t worth it.”
Now I’m the one chuckling.
“The only dragon worth chasing right now is a 7 foot Serbian f*cker.”
“His legs are pretty long. You reckon you can catch him? You reckon you even want to?”
He’s got a good point. There aren’t many people idiotic enough in this world to run towards Tugarin Zmey, but I’m probably one of them.
“What’s the worst that can happen?”
Even through his swollen features I pick up on the look he shoots me.
“It’s alright, I’ll just get myself set up in a bed next to yours. Though I’m not sure Nat would be too pleased.”
“Yeah, she’s non too fond of my old friends.”
“What about you? Where do you stand on that subject?”
There’s a long pause as Dave eyeballs me, then looks down at the bed and sighs.
“First of all, I don’t do a whole lot of standing at the moment.”
Start with a joke.
“But honestly? I don’t have much of an opinion on it either way. You’ve done right by me for a while, doesn’t make us best buds, but I ain’t about to come at you with everything I’ve got. Mike on the other hand…..”
I hold up my hands.
“Say no more. You already know where I stand on……him. I didn’t come here expecting to heal old wounds, I just figure even if we’re not ‘friends’, you’re still probably the closest thing I’ve got to one these days. I at least wanted to see if they were feeding you through a tube. Heh.”
“Still got enough teeth for chewing, not got much of an appetite though. You really feel that way? F*ck son. You need to re-asses your situation.”
“Oh? And how many people do you shoot the sh*t with regularly?”
“Well…”
“”NOT including Nat or that Thai street urchin.”
He pauses and I can almost hear the cogs going double time.
“Thought so. Idle conversation is overrated anyway. You think I want to end up like that group of schmucks Joshua Dean used to run with? Painting each other’s nails and sh*t.”
I can’t even remember their name. Something to do with Savoir or Salvatore or something. I do remember them being a bust when it came to actually getting the job done though. Changing the face of the wrestling industry only works if you’re winning matches and holding gold. They couldn’t do it.
Frank Lynn and Joe Bishop couldn’t do it.
It strikes me how through the history of this place only those with dirty hands seem to be any good at playing the game.
And I know, one could argue that Bishop won the big one, but I said HOLD the gold, not catch it and drop it.
“Think I’d rather have Mike paint my nails than this.”
He gestures at his puffy face and I can’t help but laugh at the thought of this skin head with his nails all dolled up.
“Speaking of……that. Are you gonna be in any condition to keep a hold of that belt of yours?”
“Why? You interested?”
“Hmmm. I thought I’d made it abundantly clear, prior to my little tune up with Frank Lynn, that titles and accolades are only going to get in my way. I’m here for one thing only.”
“But you wouldn’t turn it down right?”
“Hell, it’d be a pretty little bonus, but right now? I can’t have ‘mandatory defences’ thrust in my path when I’m charging headlong for Kyzer.”
“You know, I ain’t sure how you managed it for so long.”
“What’s that?”
“All the politicking and constant bull sh*t. I don’t care about the target on my back, but f*ck am I bored of being used as a pawn by Sleater.”
It’s one thing being locked out of the arena at shows when you’re a jobless bum like me, but another all together when you’re the top damn champion of the place.
“I dunno mate. I think I must just thrive in that situation. I mean, the numbers speak for themselves don’t they?”
“You always were a piece of sh*t. The whole ‘mind games’ thing never much appealed to me. I’ve always let my fists and feet do the talking.”
“And look where it’s landed you.”
“Speaking of landings……how’s that back?”
He’s right, I don’t think either one of us has this world perfectly worked out. We have our coping mechanisms for getting through each day intact but they’re not infallible, and in this business that’s enough to cost you. One slip of concentration and you’re laid up in hospital for months. Trust me, I’m the poster boy for long stays and medical insurance.
“If you must know, better than it has been for years. That’s one thing I’m grateful to Sleater for. She kept me at arm’s length long enough for me to really heal up and get fixed. I’ve never felt this well oiled. Okay, never might be an exaggeration, but when your memory’s shot to bits like mine it certainly feels that way.”
“And after your first match back?”
“It was always going to come as a shock to the system. One minute I’ve got my feet up, wearing my dressing gown, and the next I’ve got a jumped up pr*ck pushing elbows down my throat, but honestly? After a couple of days I felt right as rain again. Even with Zmey tossing me around. I’m surprised. I guess it could just be the adrenaline keeping me alive. Once the extended surge of it wears off maybe I’ll tin man it and my rusty f*ckin’ limbs will all just start falling off.”
“You better keep the ball rolling then, ey?”
“My thoughts exactly. When was the last time you knew me to take a pair of matches on back to back shows? I’m not exactly one for showing up every week am I?”
“And you think you’ll feel the same way after that Dragon’s done picking his teeth with your femur?”
That’s very assuming of you Dave. I for one don’t intend on letting things go that way. Bigger isn’t always better, just ask any of my previous sexual exploits.
“I’ll be fine. If anyone’s perfected the art of landing comfortably when tossed from a height it’s got to be me.”
There’s an awkward silence that falls over the room now as we both contemplate the harsh reality that sits shrouded behind my bravado. Tugarin Zmey is the last person I should be facing at this stage in my career. He could easily be the one to finish me off. Forget the straw that broke the camel’s back. This bloody great c*nt of a man would grab the camel and snap it over his knee.
“Anyway, like I said, I didn’t come here to convince you to hang out with me more often. I’ve seen that you’re breathing, and in about as good a spirits as you ever have been. My work here is done.“
“You’re not staying for dinner?”
He says it with a smug grin that says far more than he needs to. Nat would sooner burn this house to the ground than have me sit as a guest at her dinner table.
“You know, I think I’ll pass, for the good of your relationship.”
“A wise choice.”
There’s a lot to be said for seeing old friends. Food for the soul, or at least what’s left of it. I don’t do a lot of talking these days in my private life, mostly because there’s no one around to direct it at. Too much time spent on my own, thinking about what I can do to get me closer to my end game. It’s probably not healthy, but then again neither is fighting for a living, and it’s served me well for the last 14 years, as long as you overlook the broken back, neck and lord knows what else.
I’d tell Dave it’s been genuinely nice to see him but I’ve still got a reputation to think about. Not only that but the visual side of things has been a nightmare. He’s closer to an overfilled carrier bag of raw meat than a human being at the moment.
I probably shouldn’t tell him that either. The last thing he needs right now is the truth.
F*ck. It’s the last thing any of us old timers need.
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Toothbrush.
Underwear.
Phrase book.
Is there much else you need when you’re going away?
I suppose I should probably make sure my wrestling gear is coming with me. Fighting Zmey’s a daunting task as it is, let alone trying to do it with my bollocks swinging free. Might play to my advantage though? I wonder if he’s ever fought a naked bloke? Probably.
Christ. I wonder if there’s any scenario involving murdering people that he’s never been in?
On horse back?
Check.
With a village burning around him?
Double Check.
With a vertically challenged sociopath on his shoulders?
You bet.
What’s this? Post? Sorry, mail?
Who the f*ck sends me letters here these days? I thought I’d had it all re-directed?
It’s hard to deny that a sense of anxiety builds as I approach the apartment doormat. My redirecting my mail was for two reasons, one: so my legal representation can collect it on my behalf and just let me know anything of importance, and two: so that I don’t have to list my home address for anything. I’m a man who’s racked up a vast number of enemies over the years and I’ve reached a point where I can’t be bothered with them just showing up on my doorstep unannounced. That and I’m just lazy as f*ck.
I reach down and pick up both envelopes and immediately recognise the sender of one of them. Printed on the top right is the company logo.
“Championship Connections”
I didn’t even realise that f*cker was still alive. I thought perhaps his impending divorce might have finally tipped the balance of whether or not he should french kiss that .45 he keeps on top of the kitchen cupboards. Has he got lackies hand delivering for him now then? Maybe there’s been a stream of these intercepted by my lawyer already and she just deemed them not worth mentioning. After all, I did distinctly tell her “no news about time wasting junk mail”, and no doubt this surely fits the bill.
On opening it I’m faced with what essentially amounts to a poaching invitation. It seems as though Mr Josh Dean has caught word of my entering back into the wrestling landscape and wants to make a quick buck at my expense.
Dear Mr Cray,
Yadda yadda yadda
As such we’d like to extend an invitation to a meeting regarding the procurement of your talents….
Blah blah blah
With our representation we would aim to close deals on the most lucrative of endorsement deals and the like.
Christ. It seems as though no one on this f*cking planet can understand that I’m back for the sole purpose of forcing Michael Kyzer to yield.
Championship matches.
Executioner contracts.
World tours.
F*cking book deals.
I just want to Murder-Death-Kill my former best friend. Is that too much for a man to ask in 2018? Why the hell does it have to include bolt ons and introductory offers? Why can’t I just get what I want?
I’m the most famous, most decorated, most highly sought after fighter in the f*cking world. If I can’t get what I want, when I want it, then who can?
Needless to say I just screw this letter of summons up and toss it across the room, somewhere close to the bin.
F*cking Joshua Dean. What business has he got trying to represent me anyway? Didn’t I make my intentions clear when I routinely beat him, denied him championship gold and tried to ruin his marriage? The guy must be a sucker for punishment, but f*ck this is just desperate. Time’s must be hard at Dean Enterprises.
I almost forget the second envelope still in my hand as I start back toward my open suitcase. I swear if this is more pointless sh*te then I’m going to have some stern words with whoever let this make it to my letterbox.
I haphazardly rip one end off, taking a bit of the letter inside with it, then unfold the thing only for my heart to sink.
This.
This is the reason I don’t want my address listed anywhere.
I’m presented with a crude child like drawing of a dog. No doubt sketched up by any number of young Thai boys. Underneath, also in a child’s hand, is the following;
“Well done getting the monkey off your back!”
Only the word monkey has been struck through and hovering over it is the word Dog.
Capitalised.
Like a f*cking proper noun.
“C*NT!
C*NT C*NT C*NT C*NT C*NT!”
I f*cking see you Mike. You sloppy b*stard. Though I can’t for one moment imagine this was ever supposed to leave me questioning ‘Who Dunnit?!’.
I release the paper so I can clasp my fingers on the top of my head.
Deep breaths. Stay calm.
Actually f*ck it.
I turn and kick over a cabinet, scattering its contents across the floor. The f*cking cleaners can sort that out while I’m away.
I need to get out of here. Before I smash my own apartment to bits like some hormonal ex-boyfriend.
I throw my gear into the suitcase, along with my passport, zip the f*cker up and then make my way out of the room, only to stop, just shy of the door.
The letter’s landed face down on the floor, revealing a second message, this time written by the man himself though. You tend not to forget someone’s handwriting when you’ve spent hours writing up contracts together, demoralising an entire locker room under your rule.
”You may not have so much luck with the Dragon.”
“We’ll f*cking see about that won’t we?”
I hawk up a fat green lump of lung butter and spit it onto the letter, before stepping over it and out of the apartment door.
The cleaners are going to bloody love me this week.
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美を再訪
I wonder if she’ll even remember me?
Maybe.
Probably just as a gaijin though.
After all, those white, round eyed f*ckers all look the same.
Why am I even bothered?
I suppose it says a lot about my emotional development, or lack thereof, that I’m getting all knotted up about a Japanese prostitute.
“Isaac kun!”
Well I suppose that answers that one.
I turn around and am met by a force as Hiromi runs into me, holding her head against my chest and squeezing me tight.
This is……unexpected.
I’m stiff as a board, not used to such outreaches of endearment. I’ve been a horrible f*cker for as long as I can remember, and have never really been known for my emotional availability, so working out how to react takes a little longer than you might expect. After the initial shock wears off though I relax, letting my shoulders slump a little and putting my own arms around this young woman.
She leans her head back to look at me and asks, in much better English than the last time we met:
“How are you?”
I chuckle and just pull her back close to me, taking in the smell of her hair.
This is hands down the closest thing I’ve ever been to soft sh*t in public, and just my thinking that helps me snap out of it. I take a step back from Hiromi and admire the way she’s dressed for me. A simple floral yukata and her hair tied up neatly is all a woman this pretty needs, and almost makes me forget she sucks d*cks for a living.
Get your sh*t together buddy. You’re in Japan for a f*cking reason, and it’s not a nice one.
“Your English is great. You’ve been practicing?”
“Hai.”
How much she understands at any given moment will become clear the further we go this evening, but for now let’s just pretend she knows what’s going on.
“You’re hungry?”
A slight tilt of the head and a crumple of the nose lets on just how much practising she’s actually done. I gesture a bowl and scooping food toward my mouth as I ask again.
“You want to eat?”
She smiles, the penny dropping.
“Hai.”
“I can’t promise this is going to be any fun for you, but I just couldn’t face another meeting alone with that boss of mine.”
I don’t give her time to look baffled, and instead just take her by the arm and head for the entrance of the restaurant we arranged to meet outside of.
I won’t bore you with the specifics of Japanese hospitality, but just know that we’re led to a booth with a paper set of sliding doors on it. They open and reveal Lila Sleater already sat inside, nursing a glass.
We’re……I’m on time, so she’s made a point of getting here early to sneak a drink in. Hmmm, I wonder if she’s got a sponsor yet? She looks up and is clearly not impressed at us having company.
I grin, with a closed mouth, and jokingly hold up a peace sign to frame my right eye as I slip my shoes off and step up into the booth, Hiromi tagging behind. We seat ourselves at the sunken table and I make a point of introducing my guest, knowing full well it’s going to get under Lila’s skin, having to be cordial when she’s not very happy.
“Lila, this is my good friend Hiromi chan. Hiromi, this is the ever terrifying Lila sama. Be careful, she bites.”
Lila’s not even forcing a smile.
“Pleased to mee chu.”
Hiromi dips her head.
“I assure you, the pleasure is all his.”
She shoots a look at me that says everything I wanted it to. If she’s seething, I’m winning, even if it does mean the puddle she’s forming under the table is getting my socks wet.
“When has it not been? So Lila, I trust you had a pleasant flight?”
“Are we going to do this?“
“What’s that?”
“Pretend we’re here for any reason beyond business?”
Rude. I have to say the longer she’s been working in this company the more she’s turning into one of us. There was a time where she’d at the very least humour me, now it’s as though I’m the one forcing her to be here.
“F*ck ya then. Hiromi, can you order us some drinks?”
I muster up the limited Japanese I’ve picked up from my previous ‘business trips’.
“Nomimono?”
I gesture again for good luck but she smiles and even applauds my p*ss poor effort. If there are few words I’ve actually learnt in this language ‘drinks’ is definitely one of them, to the surprise of no one.
I leave her and the waiter to it as I turn back to Sleater.
“So if we’re skipping formalities do you mind telling me what the f*ck you want? I did what you asked. I beat Frank Lynn. Isn’t that where our deal ends?”
“You didn’t get rid of him though…..”
“And I didn’t agree to either. You said, and I quote ’take him down a peg or twelve’. Remember? I even made a joke about it. At no point did you request I end his f*cking career. I showed him he still hasn’t earned the title of top dog, and honestly I think he took it pretty well. What more do you want?”
“I want you to get rid of him….”
“Yeah well I want Michael Kyzer, and yet I find myself half way around the world in a match against a Serbian f*cking behemoth. Go figure.”
“And you’ll get him, but I thought you might want to return the favour planted on you last show?”
“You think fighting Tugarin Zmey is a favour to me?”
I immediately notice the change in Hiromi’s demeanour at the name. She certainly remembers.
There’s a definite look of anxiety on her face now.
“The Kaiju?”
Unsure as to what a Kaiju is? Think giant f*cking monster. Think Mothra. Think King Ghidorah.
“Hai, the Kaiju.”
Under the table I rest my hand on her knee in an attempt to comfort her. See? I’m a natural at this romantic sh*t.
“You’re not scared he’s going to beat you?”
“No, I’m concerned he’s going to put me back on the in-patient list though.”
“Then stop him.”
Then stop him she says! All casual. Has she even f*cking seen Godzilla?
“Thanks Lila, I’ll bear that in mind. And what pray tell is your plan when I squeeze a victory out over him? He’s an angry dragon when he’s winning. What kind of contingency have you got in place if he loses?”
She presses her lips together and looks down at her drink just as the next round arrives. Glasses clink as they’re placed on the table in front of us and after a little nod to the waiter I carry on.
“I assume that means you don’t? Well good luck with that. At least the Japanese authorities have a history of dealing with that kind of thing right?”
I’m a funny swine, even if Lila will never admit it. I guess she’s built up a wall for my kind of wise cracks after having to deal with Trace Demon’s poor imitation schtick. Hmmm, that’s a point.
“By the way, where the hell is Trace? I thought he’d be ready and waiting to decommission me as well? He didn’t seem to like the small package I sent him back at Superbrawl.”
Much like Zmey, I can’t be stopped.
“Heh. Funny you should ask.”
“No the Superbrawl reference was funny, the question itself was genuine.”
“I got rid of him.”
What?
“What?”
“Like I said. I pulled the appropriate strings and now he’s gone.”
F*ck, she really is becoming one of us.
“You killed him?!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. No I just had him…….taken care of.”
“I repeat….you killed him?!”
“Oh for God’s sake, no. I had his pupil, Trent Draven, beat him senseless and shipped off to the closest medical facility.”
“Classic Hollywood stuff. Bloody hell Sleater do I need to be watching my back around you? What happened?”
“I got sick of taking sh*t from you lot lying down. A woman can only cope for so long.”
“Am I the only one who did the whole dark to light thing? It seems like everywhere I look the ‘good guys’ are taking liberties. First Frank Lynn, now you?”
“Frank has never been a ‘good guy’. He just wants everyone to think he is.”
“Don’t we all? Anyway, so Trace isn’t legitimately deceased then?”
“NO!”
“Then me thinks you might want to make sure you’re locking your windows and doors at night Lila. If John Carpenter taught us anything, which he did……he taught us lots, it’s that you should never assume the f*cker isn’t coming back.”
Not only am I the funniest man on the WFWF roster I’m also the best at segues. Check this out.
“Which funnily enough leads me on to my next point. What are you going to do if Brennan isn’t……………….”
A nice long, awkward pause and she’s hanging on for it.
“……………….coming back.”
“Why? You interested?”
“Funny thing, he asked me that as well.”
“Who?”
“Dave, and he wasn’t looking too good.”
“Is that so? I’ll discuss that with him if I need to. As of right now it’s non of your concern.”
I snort at her belligerence.
“Fair enough. If you don’t want advice from the guy most acquainted with that championship belt then that’s your cross to bear. You know Lila I’m only trying to help.
Your Frank Lynn problem?
I was only trying to help.
This meeting?
I’m only trying to….”
“Oh please. When have you ever had anyone’s but your own interests at the forefront of everything you do?”
She’s really stoked quite the fire in herself while I’ve been gone.
“I’ll have you know I’m the longest reigning Tag Team Champion as well thank you.”
“For your own benefit. You’re really going to try and convince me that you were looking out for Joshua Dean during that whole f*cking charade?”
“I am the gift of charity Lila. Just ask this beautiful woman beside me.”
I squeeze the hand she’s placed in mine to prompt a reaction.
“Hai!”
“Oh save it. I know she’s a f*cking prostitute.”
Aren’t all prostitutes of the ‘f*cking’ variety?
“I fail to see your point.”
“My point is that you paying her to be here isn’t proof of you being a decent human being.”
“I’m not paying her……not this time at least.”
“Listen, I don’t care. I wanted to see you to ask if you’d actually fulfil your side of our agreement, but it seems you’re willing to renege on that when it suits you.”
“Oh give it a f*cking rest Sleater. You didn’t get exactly what you wanted, even though it’s what you asked for, and now you’re sat here sh*tting in your own knickers to prove a point like the little girl you are. I’ll play your game this once. I’ll beat Zmey, and then I. Want. Michael. Kyzer.
I can’t put it much simpler than that. There’s no room there for misinterpretation. You hold up your end of our deal or I’ll become the new thorn in your side, and believe me you don’t want that.
You’ve had Trace Demon.
You’ve had Joe Bishop.
You’ve had Frank Lynn.
But you have never had to deal with someone like me. I’ve been cordial, f*ck, some might even say forthrightly helpful towards you during your time in MY company, but that could all end if you want it to? Do you want it to?”
She sits there grinding her teeth, barely able to look me in the eye.
“Lila Sleater.”
I bang my fist on the table grabbing Lila’s attention, while Hiromi jumps a little.
“Do you want it to?”
“Are you done? Puffing your chest out for your little Japanese harlot?”
“Nope, but we are. Get the f*ck out of my sight. You’re ruining our dinner plans.”
Clearly happy to oblige Sleater is already up on her feet and sliding the booth door.
“Oh, and be a darling and send the waiter this way. We’re ready to order.”
She just gives me the middle finger as she slips her shoes back on, before stepping back into the booth, drawing a wince from Hiromi, snatching up her glass and finishing her drink. And then she’s gone.
“F*cking hell. That woman leaves a damn snail trail wherever she goes.”
I roll my eyes, then get up myself, only to walk around the table and settle Hiromi’s nerves by sitting down opposite her. I raise my glass.
“Kampai.”
Her cheeks fill with colour, restoring the strange and new equilibrium from before.
“Kampai.”
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Tugarin.
I know deep down you’re a good person. I know you’re always trying to do right by those that have been good to you.
I know you’ve been hurt immeasurably in your past, though I really don’t know quite to what extent.
You’re a solider. A marksman.
And for that I have no respect. Anyone guided by another’s hand, blindly, is nothing but a f*cking puppet, and I don’t humour puppets. I’m the kind of man who goes after the hands that sit above a soldier’s head. Now don’t take that as a sign of my dismissing you. I’d never be so stupid as to think I could simply step around ‘The Dragon’. You have your sights on me for whatever reason and I of all people know you won’t stop until you’ve decimated your target. The problem with that though is unlike you I have a mind of my own. I’m capable of adapting to my situation and changing my goals to suit.
It’s Michael Kyzer I want, but if that means I have to go through you to get to him then that’s fine.
I won’t wax lyrical regarding the many ways in which I’ll beat you. No. That’s reserved for those men that falter at the suggestion of failure, and you’re neither a man nor accustomed to the idea of failing.
Mind games have no place against the mindless, although perhaps that’s a bit much. I know there’s a brain in there. I know you feel things. I know you can think for yourself and can establish the difference between right and wrong.
The issue is you choose to ignore all of that in favour of blinkering your view and running headlong toward your mission’s end. That’s the scary part about you.
The size, strength, agility, power…….all of that, that’s secondary. Your ability to shut off a very defined moral compass……that’s the notion people should be concerned about. There’s no reasoning with something like that.
There’s no begging for mercy, much to the chagrin of those that have fallen at your hands.
I recognise that though, and like I do every single time I go out there and do what I do, I adapt. I refocus and rethink, and guess what?
I win.
Every. Single. Time.
This is no different. You’re no different. You might be cast from a different mould to the others before you, but you’re still just another challenger standing across the ring from the best there’s ever been.
Give me everything you’ve got. F*ck it. Give me more than that. And when you hear that bell ring and my name announced over the Tokyo Dome’s PA you’ll maybe finally consider changing the way you do business.
Hell, you might finally even consider changing the type of person you do business with.
Let this be a learning experience Tugarin. Let this be the start of something new for you, not just another chapter in your leather bound tome of ‘woe is me’.
I can help you get the monkey off your back.
If you’ll let me.
(A.K.A. The Zodiacs?)
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Full circle might be a bit of stretch, but f*ck it, we’ve come full circle Zmey my mountainous friend.
It’s almost 3 years to the day that you chased me out of a Tokyo bar, arm in arm with a beautiful young woman. Which in turn means it’s almost 3 years to the day that I proved to the world that I f*cking carried you through that entire Tag Team Championship tournament.
We dominated in every single one of our matches, and yet when we get to the finals? You’re no where to be seen. You leave me high and dry at the behest of a man quarter your size. You up and leave Japan without so much as clocking in at The Dome. I like to think that where ever you were, you had Donnie sat on your shoulders watching that handicap match though.
Who run Barter Town?
Mr 8.5.1. runs Barter Town.
That night the Tokyo Dome became the Thunder Dome as I single handedly defeated Nikki Dean AND Trace Demon for the Tag Team Championships.
Any reference to “Mad Drakz” is made without the knowledge or permission of Isaac Cray Industries. Any third parties doing so can speak to my solicitor………that’s limey speak for lawyer.
So why have you reared your masked boulder of a head again Tugarin? I’ve never had an issue with you per say. You’re simply a man of loyalties and duty. Who you cast your ballot with is your own business, but for f*ck sake man let’s at least grab a drink before you show up on television and try to stove my skull in. I can only hope you’re running solo right now and are ticking off a list of The New Epoch’s short pay roll, at least that means after mine, you’ll be wearing Michael Kyzer’s skin.
I’m not optimistic though. Something tells me your return to the fray is merely the fanfare before Kyzer tries to throw me off of something else. If you’re a distraction, you’re a f*cking big one. Don’t give me less than 100% though. Just because Mike is waiting for me in your silhouette I still want a good showing on your part. It’s no good to me, besting you when you’re taking it easy. I may regret asking for it, but I want you to really f*cking try to beat me. Getting the jump on me is one thing, but actually beating me in that ring? Many have tried…….well, you know the rest.
I wish I could know your reasoning for wanting this.
Proving you’re truly a force to be reckoned with?
Showing me, personally, that my delusions of tag team grandeur are unfounded?
Or simply because Michael Kyzer’s got his hands up to the wrists in your head?
Whatever your motives, it’s a long way to Japan, and I’ve got an appointment to keep with a beautiful young woman.
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Alms for the Bedridden
“He’s in there.”
Nat motions towards the bedroom door with the party end of the baseball bat.
“Don’t go trying to have sex with him, or whatever weird sh*t you’re into.”
Touché.
Meh. He’s neither related to me nor vulnerable enough.
“You know he’s bed ridden and beaten up as hell right?”
“Natalie, don’t tempt me.”
I wink and she sneers, shaking her head in disgust. It seems our senses of humour aren’t all that compatible, but I didn’t come here to make friends with her, so I’ll learn to live with it.
I don’t bother knocking as I gather that Dave’s expecting me and can probably hear us talking anyway.
“F*cking nora. What happened to you mate? You look like Joseph Merrick’s nut sack.”
Start with a joke. That’s how they tell you to start speeches isn’t it?
“Who?”
Hmmmm, the joke’s kind of lost if you need to explain it.
“Never mind. Let me rephrase. You look like sh*t.”
He coughs, propped up in bed, but I can see the edge of his mouth slightly curled into a smile. That old English charm won’t be denied.
“I feel it. That f*cker really did a number on me.”
“Which one?”
David’s had the misfortune of being reunited with both Mike and Tugarin recently, and neither of the meetings went too well for him. Admittedly that’s an understatement. He chuckles, but it quickly turns into a coughing fit again. I’m no doctor, but I’d hazard to guess that his ribcage looks more like a second hand jigsaw puzzle at the moment. Busted ribs are no fun. It hurts to exist. Breathing makes you miserable and obviously can’t be avoided, and when you’re sat across from a funny f*cker such as myself then you’re gonna have a bad time of it.
“You need a drink?”
Once he’s caught his breath he responds:
“You know I’ve knocked that on its head.”
His wording leaves a lot to be desired, as it conjures the image of a bourbon bottle, only it’s my f*cking head it’s being knocked on. Cheeky c*nt. He’s laid up, I’ll let it slide.
“I meant a glass of water. Don’t think me stupid enough to assume your last 18 months could have happened were you still under the influence.”
“You think?”
“I know. It takes a clear head to stay at the top for this long, even if it might have cost you your previously intact dental records.”
“So how’s that explain you?”
“The only substances floating round my system during that last stint were medically prescribed. Just enough to keep me from thinking about my back when a fist was flying at my face.”
“And what about this stint?”
“What about it?”
“You seemed to have found some kind a peace when I saw you in Chicago. Why bother coming back? Strikes me that unless you’d fallen back into old habits you’d have the sensibility to know it probably ain’t worth it.”
Now I’m the one chuckling.
“The only dragon worth chasing right now is a 7 foot Serbian f*cker.”
“His legs are pretty long. You reckon you can catch him? You reckon you even want to?”
He’s got a good point. There aren’t many people idiotic enough in this world to run towards Tugarin Zmey, but I’m probably one of them.
“What’s the worst that can happen?”
Even through his swollen features I pick up on the look he shoots me.
“It’s alright, I’ll just get myself set up in a bed next to yours. Though I’m not sure Nat would be too pleased.”
“Yeah, she’s non too fond of my old friends.”
“What about you? Where do you stand on that subject?”
There’s a long pause as Dave eyeballs me, then looks down at the bed and sighs.
“First of all, I don’t do a whole lot of standing at the moment.”
Start with a joke.
“But honestly? I don’t have much of an opinion on it either way. You’ve done right by me for a while, doesn’t make us best buds, but I ain’t about to come at you with everything I’ve got. Mike on the other hand…..”
I hold up my hands.
“Say no more. You already know where I stand on……him. I didn’t come here expecting to heal old wounds, I just figure even if we’re not ‘friends’, you’re still probably the closest thing I’ve got to one these days. I at least wanted to see if they were feeding you through a tube. Heh.”
“Still got enough teeth for chewing, not got much of an appetite though. You really feel that way? F*ck son. You need to re-asses your situation.”
“Oh? And how many people do you shoot the sh*t with regularly?”
“Well…”
“”NOT including Nat or that Thai street urchin.”
He pauses and I can almost hear the cogs going double time.
“Thought so. Idle conversation is overrated anyway. You think I want to end up like that group of schmucks Joshua Dean used to run with? Painting each other’s nails and sh*t.”
I can’t even remember their name. Something to do with Savoir or Salvatore or something. I do remember them being a bust when it came to actually getting the job done though. Changing the face of the wrestling industry only works if you’re winning matches and holding gold. They couldn’t do it.
Frank Lynn and Joe Bishop couldn’t do it.
It strikes me how through the history of this place only those with dirty hands seem to be any good at playing the game.
And I know, one could argue that Bishop won the big one, but I said HOLD the gold, not catch it and drop it.
“Think I’d rather have Mike paint my nails than this.”
He gestures at his puffy face and I can’t help but laugh at the thought of this skin head with his nails all dolled up.
“Speaking of……that. Are you gonna be in any condition to keep a hold of that belt of yours?”
“Why? You interested?”
“Hmmm. I thought I’d made it abundantly clear, prior to my little tune up with Frank Lynn, that titles and accolades are only going to get in my way. I’m here for one thing only.”
“But you wouldn’t turn it down right?”
“Hell, it’d be a pretty little bonus, but right now? I can’t have ‘mandatory defences’ thrust in my path when I’m charging headlong for Kyzer.”
“You know, I ain’t sure how you managed it for so long.”
“What’s that?”
“All the politicking and constant bull sh*t. I don’t care about the target on my back, but f*ck am I bored of being used as a pawn by Sleater.”
It’s one thing being locked out of the arena at shows when you’re a jobless bum like me, but another all together when you’re the top damn champion of the place.
“I dunno mate. I think I must just thrive in that situation. I mean, the numbers speak for themselves don’t they?”
“You always were a piece of sh*t. The whole ‘mind games’ thing never much appealed to me. I’ve always let my fists and feet do the talking.”
“And look where it’s landed you.”
“Speaking of landings……how’s that back?”
He’s right, I don’t think either one of us has this world perfectly worked out. We have our coping mechanisms for getting through each day intact but they’re not infallible, and in this business that’s enough to cost you. One slip of concentration and you’re laid up in hospital for months. Trust me, I’m the poster boy for long stays and medical insurance.
“If you must know, better than it has been for years. That’s one thing I’m grateful to Sleater for. She kept me at arm’s length long enough for me to really heal up and get fixed. I’ve never felt this well oiled. Okay, never might be an exaggeration, but when your memory’s shot to bits like mine it certainly feels that way.”
“And after your first match back?”
“It was always going to come as a shock to the system. One minute I’ve got my feet up, wearing my dressing gown, and the next I’ve got a jumped up pr*ck pushing elbows down my throat, but honestly? After a couple of days I felt right as rain again. Even with Zmey tossing me around. I’m surprised. I guess it could just be the adrenaline keeping me alive. Once the extended surge of it wears off maybe I’ll tin man it and my rusty f*ckin’ limbs will all just start falling off.”
“You better keep the ball rolling then, ey?”
“My thoughts exactly. When was the last time you knew me to take a pair of matches on back to back shows? I’m not exactly one for showing up every week am I?”
“And you think you’ll feel the same way after that Dragon’s done picking his teeth with your femur?”
That’s very assuming of you Dave. I for one don’t intend on letting things go that way. Bigger isn’t always better, just ask any of my previous sexual exploits.
“I’ll be fine. If anyone’s perfected the art of landing comfortably when tossed from a height it’s got to be me.”
There’s an awkward silence that falls over the room now as we both contemplate the harsh reality that sits shrouded behind my bravado. Tugarin Zmey is the last person I should be facing at this stage in my career. He could easily be the one to finish me off. Forget the straw that broke the camel’s back. This bloody great c*nt of a man would grab the camel and snap it over his knee.
“Anyway, like I said, I didn’t come here to convince you to hang out with me more often. I’ve seen that you’re breathing, and in about as good a spirits as you ever have been. My work here is done.“
“You’re not staying for dinner?”
He says it with a smug grin that says far more than he needs to. Nat would sooner burn this house to the ground than have me sit as a guest at her dinner table.
“You know, I think I’ll pass, for the good of your relationship.”
“A wise choice.”
There’s a lot to be said for seeing old friends. Food for the soul, or at least what’s left of it. I don’t do a lot of talking these days in my private life, mostly because there’s no one around to direct it at. Too much time spent on my own, thinking about what I can do to get me closer to my end game. It’s probably not healthy, but then again neither is fighting for a living, and it’s served me well for the last 14 years, as long as you overlook the broken back, neck and lord knows what else.
I’d tell Dave it’s been genuinely nice to see him but I’ve still got a reputation to think about. Not only that but the visual side of things has been a nightmare. He’s closer to an overfilled carrier bag of raw meat than a human being at the moment.
I probably shouldn’t tell him that either. The last thing he needs right now is the truth.
F*ck. It’s the last thing any of us old timers need.
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Toothbrush.
Underwear.
Phrase book.
Is there much else you need when you’re going away?
I suppose I should probably make sure my wrestling gear is coming with me. Fighting Zmey’s a daunting task as it is, let alone trying to do it with my bollocks swinging free. Might play to my advantage though? I wonder if he’s ever fought a naked bloke? Probably.
Christ. I wonder if there’s any scenario involving murdering people that he’s never been in?
On horse back?
Check.
With a village burning around him?
Double Check.
With a vertically challenged sociopath on his shoulders?
You bet.
What’s this? Post? Sorry, mail?
Who the f*ck sends me letters here these days? I thought I’d had it all re-directed?
It’s hard to deny that a sense of anxiety builds as I approach the apartment doormat. My redirecting my mail was for two reasons, one: so my legal representation can collect it on my behalf and just let me know anything of importance, and two: so that I don’t have to list my home address for anything. I’m a man who’s racked up a vast number of enemies over the years and I’ve reached a point where I can’t be bothered with them just showing up on my doorstep unannounced. That and I’m just lazy as f*ck.
I reach down and pick up both envelopes and immediately recognise the sender of one of them. Printed on the top right is the company logo.
“Championship Connections”
I didn’t even realise that f*cker was still alive. I thought perhaps his impending divorce might have finally tipped the balance of whether or not he should french kiss that .45 he keeps on top of the kitchen cupboards. Has he got lackies hand delivering for him now then? Maybe there’s been a stream of these intercepted by my lawyer already and she just deemed them not worth mentioning. After all, I did distinctly tell her “no news about time wasting junk mail”, and no doubt this surely fits the bill.
On opening it I’m faced with what essentially amounts to a poaching invitation. It seems as though Mr Josh Dean has caught word of my entering back into the wrestling landscape and wants to make a quick buck at my expense.
Dear Mr Cray,
Yadda yadda yadda
As such we’d like to extend an invitation to a meeting regarding the procurement of your talents….
Blah blah blah
With our representation we would aim to close deals on the most lucrative of endorsement deals and the like.
Christ. It seems as though no one on this f*cking planet can understand that I’m back for the sole purpose of forcing Michael Kyzer to yield.
Championship matches.
Executioner contracts.
World tours.
F*cking book deals.
I just want to Murder-Death-Kill my former best friend. Is that too much for a man to ask in 2018? Why the hell does it have to include bolt ons and introductory offers? Why can’t I just get what I want?
I’m the most famous, most decorated, most highly sought after fighter in the f*cking world. If I can’t get what I want, when I want it, then who can?
Needless to say I just screw this letter of summons up and toss it across the room, somewhere close to the bin.
F*cking Joshua Dean. What business has he got trying to represent me anyway? Didn’t I make my intentions clear when I routinely beat him, denied him championship gold and tried to ruin his marriage? The guy must be a sucker for punishment, but f*ck this is just desperate. Time’s must be hard at Dean Enterprises.
I almost forget the second envelope still in my hand as I start back toward my open suitcase. I swear if this is more pointless sh*te then I’m going to have some stern words with whoever let this make it to my letterbox.
I haphazardly rip one end off, taking a bit of the letter inside with it, then unfold the thing only for my heart to sink.
This.
This is the reason I don’t want my address listed anywhere.
I’m presented with a crude child like drawing of a dog. No doubt sketched up by any number of young Thai boys. Underneath, also in a child’s hand, is the following;
“Well done getting the monkey off your back!”
Only the word monkey has been struck through and hovering over it is the word Dog.
Capitalised.
Like a f*cking proper noun.
“C*NT!
C*NT C*NT C*NT C*NT C*NT!”
I f*cking see you Mike. You sloppy b*stard. Though I can’t for one moment imagine this was ever supposed to leave me questioning ‘Who Dunnit?!’.
I release the paper so I can clasp my fingers on the top of my head.
Deep breaths. Stay calm.
Actually f*ck it.
I turn and kick over a cabinet, scattering its contents across the floor. The f*cking cleaners can sort that out while I’m away.
I need to get out of here. Before I smash my own apartment to bits like some hormonal ex-boyfriend.
I throw my gear into the suitcase, along with my passport, zip the f*cker up and then make my way out of the room, only to stop, just shy of the door.
The letter’s landed face down on the floor, revealing a second message, this time written by the man himself though. You tend not to forget someone’s handwriting when you’ve spent hours writing up contracts together, demoralising an entire locker room under your rule.
”You may not have so much luck with the Dragon.”
“We’ll f*cking see about that won’t we?”
I hawk up a fat green lump of lung butter and spit it onto the letter, before stepping over it and out of the apartment door.
The cleaners are going to bloody love me this week.
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美を再訪
I wonder if she’ll even remember me?
Maybe.
Probably just as a gaijin though.
After all, those white, round eyed f*ckers all look the same.
Why am I even bothered?
I suppose it says a lot about my emotional development, or lack thereof, that I’m getting all knotted up about a Japanese prostitute.
“Isaac kun!”
Well I suppose that answers that one.
I turn around and am met by a force as Hiromi runs into me, holding her head against my chest and squeezing me tight.
This is……unexpected.
I’m stiff as a board, not used to such outreaches of endearment. I’ve been a horrible f*cker for as long as I can remember, and have never really been known for my emotional availability, so working out how to react takes a little longer than you might expect. After the initial shock wears off though I relax, letting my shoulders slump a little and putting my own arms around this young woman.
She leans her head back to look at me and asks, in much better English than the last time we met:
“How are you?”
I chuckle and just pull her back close to me, taking in the smell of her hair.
This is hands down the closest thing I’ve ever been to soft sh*t in public, and just my thinking that helps me snap out of it. I take a step back from Hiromi and admire the way she’s dressed for me. A simple floral yukata and her hair tied up neatly is all a woman this pretty needs, and almost makes me forget she sucks d*cks for a living.
Get your sh*t together buddy. You’re in Japan for a f*cking reason, and it’s not a nice one.
“Your English is great. You’ve been practicing?”
“Hai.”
How much she understands at any given moment will become clear the further we go this evening, but for now let’s just pretend she knows what’s going on.
“You’re hungry?”
A slight tilt of the head and a crumple of the nose lets on just how much practising she’s actually done. I gesture a bowl and scooping food toward my mouth as I ask again.
“You want to eat?”
She smiles, the penny dropping.
“Hai.”
“I can’t promise this is going to be any fun for you, but I just couldn’t face another meeting alone with that boss of mine.”
I don’t give her time to look baffled, and instead just take her by the arm and head for the entrance of the restaurant we arranged to meet outside of.
I won’t bore you with the specifics of Japanese hospitality, but just know that we’re led to a booth with a paper set of sliding doors on it. They open and reveal Lila Sleater already sat inside, nursing a glass.
We’re……I’m on time, so she’s made a point of getting here early to sneak a drink in. Hmmm, I wonder if she’s got a sponsor yet? She looks up and is clearly not impressed at us having company.
I grin, with a closed mouth, and jokingly hold up a peace sign to frame my right eye as I slip my shoes off and step up into the booth, Hiromi tagging behind. We seat ourselves at the sunken table and I make a point of introducing my guest, knowing full well it’s going to get under Lila’s skin, having to be cordial when she’s not very happy.
“Lila, this is my good friend Hiromi chan. Hiromi, this is the ever terrifying Lila sama. Be careful, she bites.”
Lila’s not even forcing a smile.
“Pleased to mee chu.”
Hiromi dips her head.
“I assure you, the pleasure is all his.”
She shoots a look at me that says everything I wanted it to. If she’s seething, I’m winning, even if it does mean the puddle she’s forming under the table is getting my socks wet.
“When has it not been? So Lila, I trust you had a pleasant flight?”
“Are we going to do this?“
“What’s that?”
“Pretend we’re here for any reason beyond business?”
Rude. I have to say the longer she’s been working in this company the more she’s turning into one of us. There was a time where she’d at the very least humour me, now it’s as though I’m the one forcing her to be here.
“F*ck ya then. Hiromi, can you order us some drinks?”
I muster up the limited Japanese I’ve picked up from my previous ‘business trips’.
“Nomimono?”
I gesture again for good luck but she smiles and even applauds my p*ss poor effort. If there are few words I’ve actually learnt in this language ‘drinks’ is definitely one of them, to the surprise of no one.
I leave her and the waiter to it as I turn back to Sleater.
“So if we’re skipping formalities do you mind telling me what the f*ck you want? I did what you asked. I beat Frank Lynn. Isn’t that where our deal ends?”
“You didn’t get rid of him though…..”
“And I didn’t agree to either. You said, and I quote ’take him down a peg or twelve’. Remember? I even made a joke about it. At no point did you request I end his f*cking career. I showed him he still hasn’t earned the title of top dog, and honestly I think he took it pretty well. What more do you want?”
“I want you to get rid of him….”
“Yeah well I want Michael Kyzer, and yet I find myself half way around the world in a match against a Serbian f*cking behemoth. Go figure.”
“And you’ll get him, but I thought you might want to return the favour planted on you last show?”
“You think fighting Tugarin Zmey is a favour to me?”
I immediately notice the change in Hiromi’s demeanour at the name. She certainly remembers.
There’s a definite look of anxiety on her face now.
“The Kaiju?”
Unsure as to what a Kaiju is? Think giant f*cking monster. Think Mothra. Think King Ghidorah.
“Hai, the Kaiju.”
Under the table I rest my hand on her knee in an attempt to comfort her. See? I’m a natural at this romantic sh*t.
“You’re not scared he’s going to beat you?”
“No, I’m concerned he’s going to put me back on the in-patient list though.”
“Then stop him.”
Then stop him she says! All casual. Has she even f*cking seen Godzilla?
“Thanks Lila, I’ll bear that in mind. And what pray tell is your plan when I squeeze a victory out over him? He’s an angry dragon when he’s winning. What kind of contingency have you got in place if he loses?”
She presses her lips together and looks down at her drink just as the next round arrives. Glasses clink as they’re placed on the table in front of us and after a little nod to the waiter I carry on.
“I assume that means you don’t? Well good luck with that. At least the Japanese authorities have a history of dealing with that kind of thing right?”
I’m a funny swine, even if Lila will never admit it. I guess she’s built up a wall for my kind of wise cracks after having to deal with Trace Demon’s poor imitation schtick. Hmmm, that’s a point.
“By the way, where the hell is Trace? I thought he’d be ready and waiting to decommission me as well? He didn’t seem to like the small package I sent him back at Superbrawl.”
Much like Zmey, I can’t be stopped.
“Heh. Funny you should ask.”
“No the Superbrawl reference was funny, the question itself was genuine.”
“I got rid of him.”
What?
“What?”
“Like I said. I pulled the appropriate strings and now he’s gone.”
F*ck, she really is becoming one of us.
“You killed him?!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. No I just had him…….taken care of.”
“I repeat….you killed him?!”
“Oh for God’s sake, no. I had his pupil, Trent Draven, beat him senseless and shipped off to the closest medical facility.”
“Classic Hollywood stuff. Bloody hell Sleater do I need to be watching my back around you? What happened?”
“I got sick of taking sh*t from you lot lying down. A woman can only cope for so long.”
“Am I the only one who did the whole dark to light thing? It seems like everywhere I look the ‘good guys’ are taking liberties. First Frank Lynn, now you?”
“Frank has never been a ‘good guy’. He just wants everyone to think he is.”
“Don’t we all? Anyway, so Trace isn’t legitimately deceased then?”
“NO!”
“Then me thinks you might want to make sure you’re locking your windows and doors at night Lila. If John Carpenter taught us anything, which he did……he taught us lots, it’s that you should never assume the f*cker isn’t coming back.”
Not only am I the funniest man on the WFWF roster I’m also the best at segues. Check this out.
“Which funnily enough leads me on to my next point. What are you going to do if Brennan isn’t……………….”
A nice long, awkward pause and she’s hanging on for it.
“……………….coming back.”
“Why? You interested?”
“Funny thing, he asked me that as well.”
“Who?”
“Dave, and he wasn’t looking too good.”
“Is that so? I’ll discuss that with him if I need to. As of right now it’s non of your concern.”
I snort at her belligerence.
“Fair enough. If you don’t want advice from the guy most acquainted with that championship belt then that’s your cross to bear. You know Lila I’m only trying to help.
Your Frank Lynn problem?
I was only trying to help.
This meeting?
I’m only trying to….”
“Oh please. When have you ever had anyone’s but your own interests at the forefront of everything you do?”
She’s really stoked quite the fire in herself while I’ve been gone.
“I’ll have you know I’m the longest reigning Tag Team Champion as well thank you.”
“For your own benefit. You’re really going to try and convince me that you were looking out for Joshua Dean during that whole f*cking charade?”
“I am the gift of charity Lila. Just ask this beautiful woman beside me.”
I squeeze the hand she’s placed in mine to prompt a reaction.
“Hai!”
“Oh save it. I know she’s a f*cking prostitute.”
Aren’t all prostitutes of the ‘f*cking’ variety?
“I fail to see your point.”
“My point is that you paying her to be here isn’t proof of you being a decent human being.”
“I’m not paying her……not this time at least.”
“Listen, I don’t care. I wanted to see you to ask if you’d actually fulfil your side of our agreement, but it seems you’re willing to renege on that when it suits you.”
“Oh give it a f*cking rest Sleater. You didn’t get exactly what you wanted, even though it’s what you asked for, and now you’re sat here sh*tting in your own knickers to prove a point like the little girl you are. I’ll play your game this once. I’ll beat Zmey, and then I. Want. Michael. Kyzer.
I can’t put it much simpler than that. There’s no room there for misinterpretation. You hold up your end of our deal or I’ll become the new thorn in your side, and believe me you don’t want that.
You’ve had Trace Demon.
You’ve had Joe Bishop.
You’ve had Frank Lynn.
But you have never had to deal with someone like me. I’ve been cordial, f*ck, some might even say forthrightly helpful towards you during your time in MY company, but that could all end if you want it to? Do you want it to?”
She sits there grinding her teeth, barely able to look me in the eye.
“Lila Sleater.”
I bang my fist on the table grabbing Lila’s attention, while Hiromi jumps a little.
“Do you want it to?”
“Are you done? Puffing your chest out for your little Japanese harlot?”
“Nope, but we are. Get the f*ck out of my sight. You’re ruining our dinner plans.”
Clearly happy to oblige Sleater is already up on her feet and sliding the booth door.
“Oh, and be a darling and send the waiter this way. We’re ready to order.”
She just gives me the middle finger as she slips her shoes back on, before stepping back into the booth, drawing a wince from Hiromi, snatching up her glass and finishing her drink. And then she’s gone.
“F*cking hell. That woman leaves a damn snail trail wherever she goes.”
I roll my eyes, then get up myself, only to walk around the table and settle Hiromi’s nerves by sitting down opposite her. I raise my glass.
“Kampai.”
Her cheeks fill with colour, restoring the strange and new equilibrium from before.
“Kampai.”
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Tugarin.
I know deep down you’re a good person. I know you’re always trying to do right by those that have been good to you.
I know you’ve been hurt immeasurably in your past, though I really don’t know quite to what extent.
You’re a solider. A marksman.
And for that I have no respect. Anyone guided by another’s hand, blindly, is nothing but a f*cking puppet, and I don’t humour puppets. I’m the kind of man who goes after the hands that sit above a soldier’s head. Now don’t take that as a sign of my dismissing you. I’d never be so stupid as to think I could simply step around ‘The Dragon’. You have your sights on me for whatever reason and I of all people know you won’t stop until you’ve decimated your target. The problem with that though is unlike you I have a mind of my own. I’m capable of adapting to my situation and changing my goals to suit.
It’s Michael Kyzer I want, but if that means I have to go through you to get to him then that’s fine.
I won’t wax lyrical regarding the many ways in which I’ll beat you. No. That’s reserved for those men that falter at the suggestion of failure, and you’re neither a man nor accustomed to the idea of failing.
Mind games have no place against the mindless, although perhaps that’s a bit much. I know there’s a brain in there. I know you feel things. I know you can think for yourself and can establish the difference between right and wrong.
The issue is you choose to ignore all of that in favour of blinkering your view and running headlong toward your mission’s end. That’s the scary part about you.
The size, strength, agility, power…….all of that, that’s secondary. Your ability to shut off a very defined moral compass……that’s the notion people should be concerned about. There’s no reasoning with something like that.
There’s no begging for mercy, much to the chagrin of those that have fallen at your hands.
I recognise that though, and like I do every single time I go out there and do what I do, I adapt. I refocus and rethink, and guess what?
I win.
Every. Single. Time.
This is no different. You’re no different. You might be cast from a different mould to the others before you, but you’re still just another challenger standing across the ring from the best there’s ever been.
Give me everything you’ve got. F*ck it. Give me more than that. And when you hear that bell ring and my name announced over the Tokyo Dome’s PA you’ll maybe finally consider changing the way you do business.
Hell, you might finally even consider changing the type of person you do business with.
Let this be a learning experience Tugarin. Let this be the start of something new for you, not just another chapter in your leather bound tome of ‘woe is me’.
I can help you get the monkey off your back.
If you’ll let me.