Post by Mark Carlton on Jun 29, 2012 7:11:16 GMT -6
‘No, I swear, I’m a wrestler!’
The woman I was chatting up looked at me up and down. ‘Uh-huh.’
‘The sport is evolving beyond the archetypa-‘
‘Look, pal, I know enough about wrestling to know they have to be freaky strong. You? I’m probably stronger than you.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t be too sure about that, but...’ It was in vain. A couple of singlet-wearing hulks had approached her from the other side, and she had turned to them with far greater interest.
Dammit, when does the going get good? I had come to America with promises of glory, but I had been handed my first in-ring defeat, followed by no less than five rejections, from this night alone!
I was utterly dejected, and signaled the bartender to mix me up a Churchill. The man shrugged and said he didn’t know that one. Oh, God, I miss John and his sullen competence! ‘A glass of Southern Comfort, then, and I’ll take a double-shot.’ He poured it for me, and I took in the surroundings. This was certainly different to the bars I had become accustomed to – it was all clean, and the dim lighting appeared to be intentional. The music, too, was different – John’s bar had always been heavy on the 80’s rock, lots of Queen and Guns N Roses; this place featured some bubbly American lass offering someone her number. If only it were that bloody easy! Although she did seem to be saying it was crazy, so at least the circumstances seemed to be extenuating…
As I got steadily drunker, my mind wandered back to my fight from Sunday night. For the first few minutes, it seemed to be going so well – the fight was almost as easy as I was accustomed to, and I looked good to make the sort of start I had expected. But then out came Scott Syren – sneaky bastard, I’ll need to try sitting out the first two eliminations of the fight next time! – and I was beginning to see why Steve had assured me that this was a different league. I had underestimated Syren, and it had backfired. The berk had beaten me. And I had… overreacted.
But it wasn’t entirely unjustified, I thought to myself as I sipped my eighth Southern Comfort.
The next morning…
Oh, God, my head…
Going to move now.
Okay, now.
…dammit.
What time is it… 3pm? Bloody hell, that time is significant for some reason… Crap! The Hamiltons are coming over!
On queue, the door to my apartment opened, and the raucous banter of the Hamilton brothers, my managers, could be heard. It was about at that point that I realized I had passed out naked on the couch.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Sam covered his eyes. ‘Please tell me this isn’t going to be a regular thing!’
Steve, seemingly unperturbed, threw me a blanket. I caught it – what? My reflexes are still good, even when I’m hung over. ‘Morning, sunshine!’ he boomed. I groaned and hid behind the blanket. ‘Don’t worry, mate, the sun won’t hurt ya!’
‘Unless you actually are a vampire, and you’ve been holding out on us,’ quipped Sam.
‘No, just… let’s keep inside voices…’
Steve laughed. ‘Alright, mate, we’ll keep it down. I hope you’re ready for your promo this time!’
‘But the promo didn’t help last time…’
‘It doesn’t directly affect your likelihood of winning!’
‘Then why do it?’
‘Because…’
‘Because it gives the fans more of a chance to know what you’re about, and make them want to buy more shirts. That means more money, which means more scotch,’ said Sam.
I pointed at him. ‘Now here’s someone who’s speaking my language! Who’s my opponent?’
‘His name is Justin Reilly, calls himself the Black Horse. He also lost last week – ‘
‘Who to?’
‘Alexis Prodigy.’
‘Ah, yes, I’m very familiar with her… very familiar…’
Sam winced. ‘Oh, God, not this again…’
Steve continued unabated. ‘And he’s ex-Army, very popular.’
That got my attention. ‘Ex-Army?’
‘Yes, he was-‘
‘I’m not doing the promo.’
The two brothers looked at me. ‘What?’
‘Look, last week you told me that making fun of my opponents was a large part of doing these promos, right?’
‘Yes…’ said Sam.
‘Justin Reilly fought for his country, for his beliefs. Making fun of someone willing to make that kind of sacrifice is a line I will not cross.’ Oh, God, it’s coming back to me… Memories of gunfire, of confusion and fear and the sickly stench of blood. ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, but there won’t be a promo this week.’
Steve and Sam looked somewhat taken aback. I didn’t blame them. They probably hadn’t expected my resistance to recording a promo to take quite that line. ‘Alright, um…’ said Sam.
‘I am, however, more than happy to listen to anything you have to say about how to combat this man. My advantage to date has been my tactical edges afforded by my military training; this week, I do not have that advantage.’
Sam pulled a binder out of his satchel, labeled ‘Combat Analysis: Kendu-Strong’. Steve opened it. ‘Alright, so your best bet is to…’
I tried to listen, but the floodgates had been opened in my mind. My thoughts wandered back to the memories I had tried to drive out for the last three years. I found myself falling asleep; it was something of a defense mechanism. I didn’t dream, particularly, and if I couldn’t keep my mind off the past, it had worked to distract me from it.
When I woke up, the Hamiltons were both grinning at me. ‘Too much to drink again?’ asked Steve.
‘I was paying attention…’ Both brothers laughed at that one.
‘Sure, mate, sure. Tell you what, we’ll talk about this another time. Just watch Reilly’s match and see what you can get of his style. He’s a bit smaller than you, so you might want to try to get a handle on his speed.’
‘Of course,’ I said. As the brothers rose, so did I, forgetting that all that stood between my indecency and the eyes of the Hamiltons was a single blanket, which did not come with me as I stood up. Sam winced, and even Steve looked aside with a slight groan.
As soon as they left, I poured myself a glass of whiskey – my other defense mechanism. I had all but forgotten about the incident until Steve’s words had dragged it back up. I turned on my TV and put on some comedy show or another, staring at the screen until I could feel my mind going numb.
Looks like I’m not out of the woods yet…
The woman I was chatting up looked at me up and down. ‘Uh-huh.’
‘The sport is evolving beyond the archetypa-‘
‘Look, pal, I know enough about wrestling to know they have to be freaky strong. You? I’m probably stronger than you.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t be too sure about that, but...’ It was in vain. A couple of singlet-wearing hulks had approached her from the other side, and she had turned to them with far greater interest.
Dammit, when does the going get good? I had come to America with promises of glory, but I had been handed my first in-ring defeat, followed by no less than five rejections, from this night alone!
I was utterly dejected, and signaled the bartender to mix me up a Churchill. The man shrugged and said he didn’t know that one. Oh, God, I miss John and his sullen competence! ‘A glass of Southern Comfort, then, and I’ll take a double-shot.’ He poured it for me, and I took in the surroundings. This was certainly different to the bars I had become accustomed to – it was all clean, and the dim lighting appeared to be intentional. The music, too, was different – John’s bar had always been heavy on the 80’s rock, lots of Queen and Guns N Roses; this place featured some bubbly American lass offering someone her number. If only it were that bloody easy! Although she did seem to be saying it was crazy, so at least the circumstances seemed to be extenuating…
As I got steadily drunker, my mind wandered back to my fight from Sunday night. For the first few minutes, it seemed to be going so well – the fight was almost as easy as I was accustomed to, and I looked good to make the sort of start I had expected. But then out came Scott Syren – sneaky bastard, I’ll need to try sitting out the first two eliminations of the fight next time! – and I was beginning to see why Steve had assured me that this was a different league. I had underestimated Syren, and it had backfired. The berk had beaten me. And I had… overreacted.
But it wasn’t entirely unjustified, I thought to myself as I sipped my eighth Southern Comfort.
The next morning…
Oh, God, my head…
Going to move now.
Okay, now.
…dammit.
What time is it… 3pm? Bloody hell, that time is significant for some reason… Crap! The Hamiltons are coming over!
On queue, the door to my apartment opened, and the raucous banter of the Hamilton brothers, my managers, could be heard. It was about at that point that I realized I had passed out naked on the couch.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Sam covered his eyes. ‘Please tell me this isn’t going to be a regular thing!’
Steve, seemingly unperturbed, threw me a blanket. I caught it – what? My reflexes are still good, even when I’m hung over. ‘Morning, sunshine!’ he boomed. I groaned and hid behind the blanket. ‘Don’t worry, mate, the sun won’t hurt ya!’
‘Unless you actually are a vampire, and you’ve been holding out on us,’ quipped Sam.
‘No, just… let’s keep inside voices…’
Steve laughed. ‘Alright, mate, we’ll keep it down. I hope you’re ready for your promo this time!’
‘But the promo didn’t help last time…’
‘It doesn’t directly affect your likelihood of winning!’
‘Then why do it?’
‘Because…’
‘Because it gives the fans more of a chance to know what you’re about, and make them want to buy more shirts. That means more money, which means more scotch,’ said Sam.
I pointed at him. ‘Now here’s someone who’s speaking my language! Who’s my opponent?’
‘His name is Justin Reilly, calls himself the Black Horse. He also lost last week – ‘
‘Who to?’
‘Alexis Prodigy.’
‘Ah, yes, I’m very familiar with her… very familiar…’
Sam winced. ‘Oh, God, not this again…’
Steve continued unabated. ‘And he’s ex-Army, very popular.’
That got my attention. ‘Ex-Army?’
‘Yes, he was-‘
‘I’m not doing the promo.’
The two brothers looked at me. ‘What?’
‘Look, last week you told me that making fun of my opponents was a large part of doing these promos, right?’
‘Yes…’ said Sam.
‘Justin Reilly fought for his country, for his beliefs. Making fun of someone willing to make that kind of sacrifice is a line I will not cross.’ Oh, God, it’s coming back to me… Memories of gunfire, of confusion and fear and the sickly stench of blood. ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, but there won’t be a promo this week.’
Steve and Sam looked somewhat taken aback. I didn’t blame them. They probably hadn’t expected my resistance to recording a promo to take quite that line. ‘Alright, um…’ said Sam.
‘I am, however, more than happy to listen to anything you have to say about how to combat this man. My advantage to date has been my tactical edges afforded by my military training; this week, I do not have that advantage.’
Sam pulled a binder out of his satchel, labeled ‘Combat Analysis: Kendu-Strong’. Steve opened it. ‘Alright, so your best bet is to…’
I tried to listen, but the floodgates had been opened in my mind. My thoughts wandered back to the memories I had tried to drive out for the last three years. I found myself falling asleep; it was something of a defense mechanism. I didn’t dream, particularly, and if I couldn’t keep my mind off the past, it had worked to distract me from it.
When I woke up, the Hamiltons were both grinning at me. ‘Too much to drink again?’ asked Steve.
‘I was paying attention…’ Both brothers laughed at that one.
‘Sure, mate, sure. Tell you what, we’ll talk about this another time. Just watch Reilly’s match and see what you can get of his style. He’s a bit smaller than you, so you might want to try to get a handle on his speed.’
‘Of course,’ I said. As the brothers rose, so did I, forgetting that all that stood between my indecency and the eyes of the Hamiltons was a single blanket, which did not come with me as I stood up. Sam winced, and even Steve looked aside with a slight groan.
As soon as they left, I poured myself a glass of whiskey – my other defense mechanism. I had all but forgotten about the incident until Steve’s words had dragged it back up. I turned on my TV and put on some comedy show or another, staring at the screen until I could feel my mind going numb.
Looks like I’m not out of the woods yet…