Post by "Gentleman" Jim Douglas on Jun 29, 2012 15:55:26 GMT -6
Albuquerque, New Mexico. A Scrabble player’s dream. Probably the most difficult place name to spell in the whole of the Western world. Probably one of the hottest, too, and it was this fact that a certain pair of Brits were feeling full force as they ambled through Albuquerque’s city centre. It had just passed midday and there wasn’t a cloud to be seen on the New Mexico skyline; the temperature pushed 40 degrees C . Most of his fellow countrymen would have traded places with Douglas without question, swapping the muggy, oppressive (and usually rainy) British summer for just one day in this kind of sunshine. But Douglas didn’t look like he was enjoying it one bit. Beads of perspiration collected en masse on his forehead, his face set in a grimace against the sun and the heat.
“Fuck me, it’s like a desert round here...” Douglas remarked, unusually crass.
Douglas’ manager, Harry Burns, turned to peer at him through a pair of designer sunglasses. He looked infinitely more comfortable under the sun’s glare: the extravagant white sunhat, dark sunglasses and linen shirt, top three buttons undone, making him look like some kind of holidaying mob boss. At least, that was the look Burns was going for – to Douglas, he just looked like a typical British tourist.
“Bloody hell Jim, it’s summer! Have a Solero and shut the fuck up!”
Douglas didn’t look amused, grimacing over at his manager and wiping the perspiration from his brow.
“I feel like Scott Syren...”
“You look like Scotty Too Hotty.”
The two shared a look, Douglas looking a hell of a lot more irritable than Burns, who just grinned.
“See what I did there Jimmy? Didja?! D’you get it?”
Douglas merely sighed, looking tired and pulling a face that aged him by at least five years. He began to look around the reasonably busy high street, searching in earnest for shelter, perhaps, or somewhere to chill out.
“I can’t hack this for much longer Harry. Come on, let’s find somewhere to eat.”
“Have anywhere in particular in mind?” Burns asked.
“Not really. I’d have thought you with all your contacts would’ve known a guy, even stuck out in the arse end of America.” Douglas sounded, to put it bluntly, pissed off. Burns just chuckled.
“Hehe... yeah I visited New Mexico a couple of times, in a past life. Tell you the truth, it’s been ages since I’ve been over in America for an extended length of time, let alone down here. But I know a fella who owns quite a swanky place, actually. It’s just up the road, on Central Avenue.”
“Air conditioning?” Douglas asked, a hint of desperation in his voice.
“Naturally.”
The two continued to wander through central Albuquerque, each lost in their own thoughts. Douglas couldn’t believe how rural Albuquerque was, considering it was the biggest city in the state. He looked around at the ageing buildings, the almost Victorian feel of the place, thinking he’d seen busier and more built up villages back in England. Still, as Harry pointed out, the weather was a damn sight nicer here compared to back home. Well... by ‘nicer’, he meant hotter; Douglas hated the heat. Much to the chagrin and confusion of friends and family alike, Jim had spent many a hot summer’s day cooped up inside a dark yet cool snooker hall, competing or practicing for hours on end. Even after being knocked out of a tournament, Douglas would still much rather stick around at the venue, soaking up the atmosphere, watching his fellow professionals go to work. Comfortable around pressure, perhaps. Or maybe just hovering around the limelight, hoping the spotlight might shine on him, one last time.
Douglas smiled inwardly at the thought. Judging by his first few tentative steps into the crazy, flamboyant world of professional wrestling, he might have to make sure he carried on being comfortable in the spotlight. There were guys in the SCW who hogged the spotlight, craved it, needed it even. Greedy men and women, most of them choosing wrestling for all the wrong reasons: usually money, occasionally fame or glory. The odd one or two determined to prove someone or, more often than not, everyone wrong. To Douglas, these things were just by-products of the new world that he’d stepped into. Pleasing distractions, if you like. Sure, the money was decent and if he made a success of himself, he’d expect to be well-compensated for that success. Fame was nothing new to Douglas though, and certainly not what he was chasing. He was at the top of his game when snooker was in its pomp a decade or so ago, and he’d received a good deal of attention for his snooker success. Welcome attention, at the time. Particularly welcome female attention...
But no, these things didn’t matter to him, weren’t really the reason he’d flown half way around the world and learnt how to throw grown men around a ring for a living. No... Douglas knew that the whole journey, from Burns making that first fateful call to Chris Adams all the way up to the here and now was a succession of challenges. New challenges. Doing something so far removed from what he’d spent years and years doing that it felt fresh, it suddenly felt good to be doing well at something other than snooker. He’d had his reservations about it at first, of course...
But right now, he was loving every minute of it.
As Douglas had continued his musings, both he and Burns had wandered down Central Avenue, the city suddenly looking much more like the American metropolis than Douglas had been expecting pretty much in every major city that he travelled. Burns turned to his client and jerked his head in the direction of a restaurant on the opposite side of the road. Douglas looked up at the sign, which read ‘Library Bar and Grill’, and gave the place the once over. It looked reasonably lively, at least on the outside, though a little grubby too. Douglas was intrigued by the odd choice of motif for a bar in a city which didn’t exactly have a reputation for churning out academics...
“Well?” Burns enquired. Douglas shrugged. He wasn’t feeling particularly fussy. Right now, all he craved were a few beers and a place to unwind, ideally with a few home comforts thrown in for good measure – as much as America and wrestling had surprised him in recent weeks, he really missed England.
“Yeah, it looks alright,” Douglas eventually said in a non-committal tone. “Come on then, let’s get a beer down you. And maybe see if we can find something that reminds us of home.”
The two crossed the street and, sidestepping a couple of smartly-dressed businessmen deep in conversation as they wandered across their path, strode into the Library Bar and Grill.
“Wow, this place is aptly named, eh?”
Douglas couldn’t help himself. The place was, to put it kindly, dead. Despite the fact that it was the middle of lunchtime on a hot summer’s day, a single, solitary customer sat at the bar cradling what was left of his pint. No-one at all was eating, despite the decidedly pleasant smell wafting from the kitchen. The Maitre D’, clearly unperturbed by the lack of business, stepped forwards to greet his two latest customers.
“Good afternoon gentlemen, welcome to the Library Bar and Grill. Will you be dining with us today?”
The two Brits shared a look, before smiling in spite of themselves.
“Yeah, errr... yeah we will,” came Harry Burns’ uncultured reply.
“Right this way gentlemen!”
The waiter stepped neatly between two tables, striding imperiously over the oak flooring before turning back towards his customers with a flourish, gesturing towards an empty table for two. Douglas and Burns sat, ordering a lager apiece. After a brief pause as he watched the rather flamboyant waiter step jauntily towards the bar, Burns settled in and opened his menu. Douglas, on the other hand, merely sat with his hands clasped across his, looking relaxed. Burns’ eyes flicked up over the top of the menu, looking at his client with confusion.
“What’s up?” he asked. “Didn’t realise you were a regular? You already know what you want, without even looking at the menu?”
Douglas just smiled.
“No, not quite,” he said. “I told you – home comforts. I don’t care what’s on the menu, I want to be able to forget where I am, just for a lunchtime. I want something to remind me of home, something unashamedly British!”
Burns raised an eyebrow.
“And if they don’t have anything you want?” he asked cautiously. Douglas dismissed his question as ridiculous with a simple, airy wave of the hand.
“Come on Jim, we’re England!” he said patriotically. “Once the biggest colony in the world! Birthplace of the great William Shakespeare, home to the world-famous Wembley Stadium and proud owners of the greatest cuisine on the planet!” Burns’ already-arched eyebrow rose yet further, but Douglas wasn’t to be denied. “Seriously, they’ll have something that can make me feel like I’m not some alien outsider from another world.”
On cue, the camp waiter returned, a pint of crisp golden lager in each hand, which he placed in front of each of the men seated in front of him. He smiled graciously at their ‘thank yous’, before whipping out a notebook from nowhere, with a movement which was fluid yet forced in equal measure.
“So, what will you gentlemen be eating today? I have to say, the ribs are excellent today, as is our world famous All-Day-Breakfast Burrito, if you’d like to sample a real authentic taste of New Mexico.”
At the table, Harry Burns opened his mouth to speak, paused, before closing it again, choosing instead to grin across at his compatriot. Douglas simply pulled a face.
“Delicious as that sounds, I was hoping I could sample something from a little further afield...?”
The waiter took about a second to process what Douglas had said, before opening his mouth to deliver an obviously pre-prepared spiel about their more ‘international’ dishes on the menu. Douglas held up his hand, sparing him the effort.
“I’m looking for an old favourite. Something that reminds me of my childhood, growing up back in merry-old-England.” Douglas was really hamming it up now, turning up the volume on the England-O-Meter to maximum. He smiled at Burns with gusto, before turning back to his waiter, looking as if he was about to make some kind of earth-shattering announcement. “What I would like... what I would absolutely love, is for you to make and present to me, a marmite sandwich!”
Five, ten, fifteen seconds passed, and not a word was exchanged between the three. The smile slowly slid off the face of Douglas as he stared into the face of his waiter, who looked simply nonplussed. After what seemed like an age, the waiter finally regained his composure.
“Errr... I’m sorry sir but I’m not sure we ha... errrm... excuse me for asking, but – what is marmite?”
Douglas’ expression of shock and horror was the tiniest bit camper and more flamboyant than his American counterpart. He looked from the waiter to Burns, taking in his manager’s faintly amused expression, before looking back at the waiter.
“What’s marmite?! What’s marmite?! I think a more pertinent question would be ‘What kind of sheltered life have you lead?!” He turned to look at Burns. “Is this fella serious?!”
Burns gave his client a look full of meaning. He knew what Douglas was like – what he was capable of – when it came to things that were passionate and meaningful to him. He didn’t want him ruining what had been, up until now, a perfectly good day. Douglas caught the look and shook his head, obviously still incredibly put out but trying not to show it.
“No, of course... it was something of a... trivial request. Not something that you’d find every day in the US, clearly...” Douglas flashed a rather fake smile in the direction of the waiter, who responded with a weak version of his own. “Right, well, if we’re talking proper English fayre, you can’t go wrong with a roast dinner can you! Beef, naturally, with all the trimmings please my good man!”
The waiter smiled, looking relieved. “Excellent, so that’ll be roast beef, roast potatoes and all the vegetables we can pile on. And plenty of gravy of course, right sir?” The waiter punctuated his point with a comical nudge, but far from looking irritated or concerned for the man’s sanity, Douglas could only lick his lips at the prospect of a real taste of home.
“That’s right... and don’t forget the Yorkshires, of course!” Douglas flashed another toothy grin, but got only another blank look in response. SCW’s Gentleman tried again. “Yorkshires? Yorkshire puddings?”
Another blank look, and the tiniest shake of the head, told Douglas all he needed to know. He was nearly on his feet, the news almost too much to bear.
“NO YORKSHIRE PUDDINGS?!” he exclaimed, loud even enough for the ancient article at the bar to glance up from the dregs of his pint to examine the commotion. “How on EARTH do you expect to enjoy a roast dinner without Yorkshire puddings?! What is this place? Seriously! Making a mockery of a British tradition! I’ve half a mind to...”
The waiter had raised his hands slightly, intent on calming his enraged customer down, sensing perhaps that it could be damaging to his already slim chances of attracting potential punters. It was Burns, though, who quietened Douglas with a squeeze of the arm and a quietly muttered “Jim...”
Douglas, obviously exercising a massive effort, regained some semblance of composure once more.
“No... no, you’re right, they’re called ‘Yorkshire’ puddings and not ‘Albuquerque’ puddings for a reason I suppose...” He looked around, fraught, looking perhaps for just the tiniest hint of ‘England’ that he could cling to in these desperate times. And he found it, too, in the form of a huge sign advertising ‘FISH AND CHIPS’ within the restaurant – the day’s Special of the Day. Unable to stop himself, Douglas pointed excitedly at the sign, whooping triumphantly.
“A-HA!” he exclaimed, making everybody present jump. “Fish and chips! Is there a more English tradition than that?! Fantastic!” He rubbed his hands together, highlighting that he’d made his choice. The waiter, looking more relieved still, scribbled his order hurriedly down into his ubiquitous notebook.
“Excellent, so that will be one fish and chips for sir...” he muttered.
“And mushy peas, of course,” Douglas said matter-of-factly. The waiter didn’t have to say anything, didn’t even have to look at Douglas for him to put two and two together. He turned and watched his pen grind to a halt, saw him glance furtively at Burns, silently asking for help. For Douglas, it was the last straw.
Was it really that difficult?
He sprung roughly up from his seat, sending drink, cutlery and condiments scuttling across the floor. Burns tried to grab hold of his arm, to pull him back, but Douglas twisted his way out of his grip. The former snooker player, his face like thunder, stalked off to the bathroom, leaving an almost comic freeze frame of a bemused-looking waiter trading glances with an increasingly apologetic Harry Burns.
Douglas threw himself at the bathroom door, opening it with a slam, before taking a run up and kicking the wall in frustration. He was sick of it. He’d been here less than two weeks and already he was sick of it. Sick of feeling like the odd one out. Sick of being the weirdo in the corner who has got precisely nothing in common with the rest of the group. So what if he was from ‘across the pond’? So what if he’d take a less-than-conventional route to get himself into a professional wrestling ring? So the fuck what if he could actually speak something close to decent English and actually string a coherent sentence together? It was utterly sickening.
He leant down on the white, faux-marble sink and looked up at his face, which was screwed up with anger and frustration. As he stared with fury, with intensity, his own dimly-lit reflection suddenly wobbled and distorted, before settling and being replaced with a figure that was definitely not his own.
Dangerous Dan. A man who had been blessed with an irritating amount of good things, yet was choosing to waste these advantages as he walked almost unknowingly down the wrong path. The path of darkness. Douglas knew enough about Dan to know he was a danger alright... a danger to himself! The guy was two sandwiches short of a picnic. As far as Douglas was concerned, he’d beat him once before, yet he didn’t think he’d have to exercise too much effort to beat him again – Dangerous Dan would beat Dangerous Dan this coming Sunday, and the SCW arena would be the site for his untimely self-destruction.
Almost on cue, the figure of Dangerous Dan disappeared, to be replaced with another slighter figure. A feminine figure. The figure of Alexis Prodigy. Another, Douglas thought, who didn’t quite know who she was any more. That was the problem with this business as far as ‘Gentleman’ Jim was concerned – you see people straining every sinew to convince others that your gimmick is legit, that you’ve got it, that it’s all too easy to forget who you are and what you want from the world. Prodigy had lost her way, no doubt, blinded by success and confused by expectations of the people who mattered, who really mattered. Yet the promise of fame, glory and, most importantly at the moment, gold could work both ways. It could turn a macho tough guy into a blubbering mess, but it could also inspire the unlikeliest of champions. Douglas could only hope against hope that Alexis would not be inspired by the promise of gold, and would follow Dan down the path of darkness.
By the time Douglas had finished his musings on Alexis, the figure in the bathroom mirror had already changed, to that of Curt Canon. The ‘veteran’, as everybody was now referring to him as. Douglas had seen enough of his SCW debut to question that veteran status, but knew well that Canon had other, more tangible advantages here in SCW. Contacts, for one. Connections. And from connections spring allies. Unpredictable allies who could help him achieve everything here in SCW, but who could just as easily snatch it away, just as quickly...
Scott Syren, of course, was that potential ally, and it was the man who had already, perhaps indirectly, shown favour towards Mr Canon who appeared finally before Douglas now. The man who harped on about infuriating clichés and the mundane lives that others led compared to his existence; an existence which involved drug-addled nights with a moustachioed tranny.
I mean, come on!
Well Scott, it just so happens that I do have a thing for clichés. You see, the thing is, clichés are clichés for a reason. They represent sayings and ‘doings’ that are repeated again and again. That’s because they ring true, Scott. They happen. Perhaps not in your sad, messed up existence, but in the lives of every other self-respecting human being treading this earth, clichés represent life. And after I’ve dumped you, as well as your four partners in crime who will all be gunning for me, out over the top rope on Sunday, I intend to make loud, obvious use of a cliché of my own. A cliché which I picked up, ironically enough, playing the oh-so-English game of cricket, back when I was just an impressionable teenager. Yet it still rings true today, Scott. Well, it will for one of us, at the end of what promises to be a titanic battle in the main event on Sunday night. And it’s a cliché, Scott, that goes a little bit like this:
It’s not how you start, it’s how you finish![/b]
“Fuck me, it’s like a desert round here...” Douglas remarked, unusually crass.
Douglas’ manager, Harry Burns, turned to peer at him through a pair of designer sunglasses. He looked infinitely more comfortable under the sun’s glare: the extravagant white sunhat, dark sunglasses and linen shirt, top three buttons undone, making him look like some kind of holidaying mob boss. At least, that was the look Burns was going for – to Douglas, he just looked like a typical British tourist.
“Bloody hell Jim, it’s summer! Have a Solero and shut the fuck up!”
Douglas didn’t look amused, grimacing over at his manager and wiping the perspiration from his brow.
“I feel like Scott Syren...”
“You look like Scotty Too Hotty.”
The two shared a look, Douglas looking a hell of a lot more irritable than Burns, who just grinned.
“See what I did there Jimmy? Didja?! D’you get it?”
Douglas merely sighed, looking tired and pulling a face that aged him by at least five years. He began to look around the reasonably busy high street, searching in earnest for shelter, perhaps, or somewhere to chill out.
“I can’t hack this for much longer Harry. Come on, let’s find somewhere to eat.”
“Have anywhere in particular in mind?” Burns asked.
“Not really. I’d have thought you with all your contacts would’ve known a guy, even stuck out in the arse end of America.” Douglas sounded, to put it bluntly, pissed off. Burns just chuckled.
“Hehe... yeah I visited New Mexico a couple of times, in a past life. Tell you the truth, it’s been ages since I’ve been over in America for an extended length of time, let alone down here. But I know a fella who owns quite a swanky place, actually. It’s just up the road, on Central Avenue.”
“Air conditioning?” Douglas asked, a hint of desperation in his voice.
“Naturally.”
The two continued to wander through central Albuquerque, each lost in their own thoughts. Douglas couldn’t believe how rural Albuquerque was, considering it was the biggest city in the state. He looked around at the ageing buildings, the almost Victorian feel of the place, thinking he’d seen busier and more built up villages back in England. Still, as Harry pointed out, the weather was a damn sight nicer here compared to back home. Well... by ‘nicer’, he meant hotter; Douglas hated the heat. Much to the chagrin and confusion of friends and family alike, Jim had spent many a hot summer’s day cooped up inside a dark yet cool snooker hall, competing or practicing for hours on end. Even after being knocked out of a tournament, Douglas would still much rather stick around at the venue, soaking up the atmosphere, watching his fellow professionals go to work. Comfortable around pressure, perhaps. Or maybe just hovering around the limelight, hoping the spotlight might shine on him, one last time.
Douglas smiled inwardly at the thought. Judging by his first few tentative steps into the crazy, flamboyant world of professional wrestling, he might have to make sure he carried on being comfortable in the spotlight. There were guys in the SCW who hogged the spotlight, craved it, needed it even. Greedy men and women, most of them choosing wrestling for all the wrong reasons: usually money, occasionally fame or glory. The odd one or two determined to prove someone or, more often than not, everyone wrong. To Douglas, these things were just by-products of the new world that he’d stepped into. Pleasing distractions, if you like. Sure, the money was decent and if he made a success of himself, he’d expect to be well-compensated for that success. Fame was nothing new to Douglas though, and certainly not what he was chasing. He was at the top of his game when snooker was in its pomp a decade or so ago, and he’d received a good deal of attention for his snooker success. Welcome attention, at the time. Particularly welcome female attention...
But no, these things didn’t matter to him, weren’t really the reason he’d flown half way around the world and learnt how to throw grown men around a ring for a living. No... Douglas knew that the whole journey, from Burns making that first fateful call to Chris Adams all the way up to the here and now was a succession of challenges. New challenges. Doing something so far removed from what he’d spent years and years doing that it felt fresh, it suddenly felt good to be doing well at something other than snooker. He’d had his reservations about it at first, of course...
But right now, he was loving every minute of it.
As Douglas had continued his musings, both he and Burns had wandered down Central Avenue, the city suddenly looking much more like the American metropolis than Douglas had been expecting pretty much in every major city that he travelled. Burns turned to his client and jerked his head in the direction of a restaurant on the opposite side of the road. Douglas looked up at the sign, which read ‘Library Bar and Grill’, and gave the place the once over. It looked reasonably lively, at least on the outside, though a little grubby too. Douglas was intrigued by the odd choice of motif for a bar in a city which didn’t exactly have a reputation for churning out academics...
“Well?” Burns enquired. Douglas shrugged. He wasn’t feeling particularly fussy. Right now, all he craved were a few beers and a place to unwind, ideally with a few home comforts thrown in for good measure – as much as America and wrestling had surprised him in recent weeks, he really missed England.
“Yeah, it looks alright,” Douglas eventually said in a non-committal tone. “Come on then, let’s get a beer down you. And maybe see if we can find something that reminds us of home.”
The two crossed the street and, sidestepping a couple of smartly-dressed businessmen deep in conversation as they wandered across their path, strode into the Library Bar and Grill.
“Wow, this place is aptly named, eh?”
Douglas couldn’t help himself. The place was, to put it kindly, dead. Despite the fact that it was the middle of lunchtime on a hot summer’s day, a single, solitary customer sat at the bar cradling what was left of his pint. No-one at all was eating, despite the decidedly pleasant smell wafting from the kitchen. The Maitre D’, clearly unperturbed by the lack of business, stepped forwards to greet his two latest customers.
“Good afternoon gentlemen, welcome to the Library Bar and Grill. Will you be dining with us today?”
The two Brits shared a look, before smiling in spite of themselves.
“Yeah, errr... yeah we will,” came Harry Burns’ uncultured reply.
“Right this way gentlemen!”
The waiter stepped neatly between two tables, striding imperiously over the oak flooring before turning back towards his customers with a flourish, gesturing towards an empty table for two. Douglas and Burns sat, ordering a lager apiece. After a brief pause as he watched the rather flamboyant waiter step jauntily towards the bar, Burns settled in and opened his menu. Douglas, on the other hand, merely sat with his hands clasped across his, looking relaxed. Burns’ eyes flicked up over the top of the menu, looking at his client with confusion.
“What’s up?” he asked. “Didn’t realise you were a regular? You already know what you want, without even looking at the menu?”
Douglas just smiled.
“No, not quite,” he said. “I told you – home comforts. I don’t care what’s on the menu, I want to be able to forget where I am, just for a lunchtime. I want something to remind me of home, something unashamedly British!”
Burns raised an eyebrow.
“And if they don’t have anything you want?” he asked cautiously. Douglas dismissed his question as ridiculous with a simple, airy wave of the hand.
“Come on Jim, we’re England!” he said patriotically. “Once the biggest colony in the world! Birthplace of the great William Shakespeare, home to the world-famous Wembley Stadium and proud owners of the greatest cuisine on the planet!” Burns’ already-arched eyebrow rose yet further, but Douglas wasn’t to be denied. “Seriously, they’ll have something that can make me feel like I’m not some alien outsider from another world.”
On cue, the camp waiter returned, a pint of crisp golden lager in each hand, which he placed in front of each of the men seated in front of him. He smiled graciously at their ‘thank yous’, before whipping out a notebook from nowhere, with a movement which was fluid yet forced in equal measure.
“So, what will you gentlemen be eating today? I have to say, the ribs are excellent today, as is our world famous All-Day-Breakfast Burrito, if you’d like to sample a real authentic taste of New Mexico.”
At the table, Harry Burns opened his mouth to speak, paused, before closing it again, choosing instead to grin across at his compatriot. Douglas simply pulled a face.
“Delicious as that sounds, I was hoping I could sample something from a little further afield...?”
The waiter took about a second to process what Douglas had said, before opening his mouth to deliver an obviously pre-prepared spiel about their more ‘international’ dishes on the menu. Douglas held up his hand, sparing him the effort.
“I’m looking for an old favourite. Something that reminds me of my childhood, growing up back in merry-old-England.” Douglas was really hamming it up now, turning up the volume on the England-O-Meter to maximum. He smiled at Burns with gusto, before turning back to his waiter, looking as if he was about to make some kind of earth-shattering announcement. “What I would like... what I would absolutely love, is for you to make and present to me, a marmite sandwich!”
Five, ten, fifteen seconds passed, and not a word was exchanged between the three. The smile slowly slid off the face of Douglas as he stared into the face of his waiter, who looked simply nonplussed. After what seemed like an age, the waiter finally regained his composure.
“Errr... I’m sorry sir but I’m not sure we ha... errrm... excuse me for asking, but – what is marmite?”
Douglas’ expression of shock and horror was the tiniest bit camper and more flamboyant than his American counterpart. He looked from the waiter to Burns, taking in his manager’s faintly amused expression, before looking back at the waiter.
“What’s marmite?! What’s marmite?! I think a more pertinent question would be ‘What kind of sheltered life have you lead?!” He turned to look at Burns. “Is this fella serious?!”
Burns gave his client a look full of meaning. He knew what Douglas was like – what he was capable of – when it came to things that were passionate and meaningful to him. He didn’t want him ruining what had been, up until now, a perfectly good day. Douglas caught the look and shook his head, obviously still incredibly put out but trying not to show it.
“No, of course... it was something of a... trivial request. Not something that you’d find every day in the US, clearly...” Douglas flashed a rather fake smile in the direction of the waiter, who responded with a weak version of his own. “Right, well, if we’re talking proper English fayre, you can’t go wrong with a roast dinner can you! Beef, naturally, with all the trimmings please my good man!”
The waiter smiled, looking relieved. “Excellent, so that’ll be roast beef, roast potatoes and all the vegetables we can pile on. And plenty of gravy of course, right sir?” The waiter punctuated his point with a comical nudge, but far from looking irritated or concerned for the man’s sanity, Douglas could only lick his lips at the prospect of a real taste of home.
“That’s right... and don’t forget the Yorkshires, of course!” Douglas flashed another toothy grin, but got only another blank look in response. SCW’s Gentleman tried again. “Yorkshires? Yorkshire puddings?”
Another blank look, and the tiniest shake of the head, told Douglas all he needed to know. He was nearly on his feet, the news almost too much to bear.
“NO YORKSHIRE PUDDINGS?!” he exclaimed, loud even enough for the ancient article at the bar to glance up from the dregs of his pint to examine the commotion. “How on EARTH do you expect to enjoy a roast dinner without Yorkshire puddings?! What is this place? Seriously! Making a mockery of a British tradition! I’ve half a mind to...”
The waiter had raised his hands slightly, intent on calming his enraged customer down, sensing perhaps that it could be damaging to his already slim chances of attracting potential punters. It was Burns, though, who quietened Douglas with a squeeze of the arm and a quietly muttered “Jim...”
Douglas, obviously exercising a massive effort, regained some semblance of composure once more.
“No... no, you’re right, they’re called ‘Yorkshire’ puddings and not ‘Albuquerque’ puddings for a reason I suppose...” He looked around, fraught, looking perhaps for just the tiniest hint of ‘England’ that he could cling to in these desperate times. And he found it, too, in the form of a huge sign advertising ‘FISH AND CHIPS’ within the restaurant – the day’s Special of the Day. Unable to stop himself, Douglas pointed excitedly at the sign, whooping triumphantly.
“A-HA!” he exclaimed, making everybody present jump. “Fish and chips! Is there a more English tradition than that?! Fantastic!” He rubbed his hands together, highlighting that he’d made his choice. The waiter, looking more relieved still, scribbled his order hurriedly down into his ubiquitous notebook.
“Excellent, so that will be one fish and chips for sir...” he muttered.
“And mushy peas, of course,” Douglas said matter-of-factly. The waiter didn’t have to say anything, didn’t even have to look at Douglas for him to put two and two together. He turned and watched his pen grind to a halt, saw him glance furtively at Burns, silently asking for help. For Douglas, it was the last straw.
Was it really that difficult?
He sprung roughly up from his seat, sending drink, cutlery and condiments scuttling across the floor. Burns tried to grab hold of his arm, to pull him back, but Douglas twisted his way out of his grip. The former snooker player, his face like thunder, stalked off to the bathroom, leaving an almost comic freeze frame of a bemused-looking waiter trading glances with an increasingly apologetic Harry Burns.
Douglas threw himself at the bathroom door, opening it with a slam, before taking a run up and kicking the wall in frustration. He was sick of it. He’d been here less than two weeks and already he was sick of it. Sick of feeling like the odd one out. Sick of being the weirdo in the corner who has got precisely nothing in common with the rest of the group. So what if he was from ‘across the pond’? So what if he’d take a less-than-conventional route to get himself into a professional wrestling ring? So the fuck what if he could actually speak something close to decent English and actually string a coherent sentence together? It was utterly sickening.
He leant down on the white, faux-marble sink and looked up at his face, which was screwed up with anger and frustration. As he stared with fury, with intensity, his own dimly-lit reflection suddenly wobbled and distorted, before settling and being replaced with a figure that was definitely not his own.
Dangerous Dan. A man who had been blessed with an irritating amount of good things, yet was choosing to waste these advantages as he walked almost unknowingly down the wrong path. The path of darkness. Douglas knew enough about Dan to know he was a danger alright... a danger to himself! The guy was two sandwiches short of a picnic. As far as Douglas was concerned, he’d beat him once before, yet he didn’t think he’d have to exercise too much effort to beat him again – Dangerous Dan would beat Dangerous Dan this coming Sunday, and the SCW arena would be the site for his untimely self-destruction.
Almost on cue, the figure of Dangerous Dan disappeared, to be replaced with another slighter figure. A feminine figure. The figure of Alexis Prodigy. Another, Douglas thought, who didn’t quite know who she was any more. That was the problem with this business as far as ‘Gentleman’ Jim was concerned – you see people straining every sinew to convince others that your gimmick is legit, that you’ve got it, that it’s all too easy to forget who you are and what you want from the world. Prodigy had lost her way, no doubt, blinded by success and confused by expectations of the people who mattered, who really mattered. Yet the promise of fame, glory and, most importantly at the moment, gold could work both ways. It could turn a macho tough guy into a blubbering mess, but it could also inspire the unlikeliest of champions. Douglas could only hope against hope that Alexis would not be inspired by the promise of gold, and would follow Dan down the path of darkness.
By the time Douglas had finished his musings on Alexis, the figure in the bathroom mirror had already changed, to that of Curt Canon. The ‘veteran’, as everybody was now referring to him as. Douglas had seen enough of his SCW debut to question that veteran status, but knew well that Canon had other, more tangible advantages here in SCW. Contacts, for one. Connections. And from connections spring allies. Unpredictable allies who could help him achieve everything here in SCW, but who could just as easily snatch it away, just as quickly...
Scott Syren, of course, was that potential ally, and it was the man who had already, perhaps indirectly, shown favour towards Mr Canon who appeared finally before Douglas now. The man who harped on about infuriating clichés and the mundane lives that others led compared to his existence; an existence which involved drug-addled nights with a moustachioed tranny.
I mean, come on!
Well Scott, it just so happens that I do have a thing for clichés. You see, the thing is, clichés are clichés for a reason. They represent sayings and ‘doings’ that are repeated again and again. That’s because they ring true, Scott. They happen. Perhaps not in your sad, messed up existence, but in the lives of every other self-respecting human being treading this earth, clichés represent life. And after I’ve dumped you, as well as your four partners in crime who will all be gunning for me, out over the top rope on Sunday, I intend to make loud, obvious use of a cliché of my own. A cliché which I picked up, ironically enough, playing the oh-so-English game of cricket, back when I was just an impressionable teenager. Yet it still rings true today, Scott. Well, it will for one of us, at the end of what promises to be a titanic battle in the main event on Sunday night. And it’s a cliché, Scott, that goes a little bit like this:
It’s not how you start, it’s how you finish![/b]
