Post by Drakz on Nov 10, 2019 8:00:07 GMT -5
”Ashes”
(A.K.A. Dance of the Dragon)
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*knock knock*
Urgh. What was that? I try to ignore it and bury my face into the crook of my elbow, unsurprisingly whoever wants my attention is unrelenting though. A pattern I’ve come to realise follows me everywhere these days.
*knock knock*
This time followed up with words.
“Excuse me sir.”
*knock knock*
A third rap on the glass. Are they f*cking kidding me? Give me a minute! Waking up annoyed isn’t a great start to anyone’s day, least of all when you realise who it is banging their hairy fist on the window.
“Jesus! What?!”
F*ck sake. My eyes squint through the daylight that pours into the vehicle, and as things fade into clarity I see a pair of law enforcement orifices prowling. One looking over his cartoon like aviators into my car. At least try to break the stereotypes fellas. Who the hell wears aviators in 2019? He smirks, seemingly enjoying my little outburst. Just another reason to drag me out and f*ck me on the bonnet I suppose.
“Can you wind down your window please sir?”
Unbeknownst to him, no, I can’t. The electrics in here are on the fritz, so I open the car door instead, sending a cascade of rubbish onto the carpark’s tarmac. He’s quick to remonstrate.
“Woah now. Stay in your vehicle sir. I didn’t ask you to step out.”
“Mate. The window’s f*cked. Let me out.”
Realising it’s the only way he’s going to talk with me, he steps aside so I can open the door wide. More crap falls out, the most telling being an empty oxycontin bottle, rolling away until it stops at the feet of his partner. As in, the other officer, not his lover. Well, maybe his lover. I don’t know. Honestly I don’t care. It’s a free country, or at least that’s what people always tell me. The other policeman stoops down and picks up the bottle, eyeing the label and tutting sarcastically under his breath. These two are like a f*cking comedy double act.
“What’ve you got there Spence?”
I don’t even pay attention to the jerk off’s response. Too busy am I swinging my legs out of the car door, very aware of the hell that night’s sleep has played on my corkscrew of a spine. A huge sigh on my part as I clear the crust from my dried out eyes. The life of a champion folks.
“You got a prescription for these buddy?”
We’re buddies now are we? I thought I was “sir” a minute ago.
“In there somewhere.”
I wave over my shoulder towards the chaos that is the contents of my motorhome. Don’t get confused by that. It’s a motorhome in as much as the car has a motor and right now I’m living in it. A Winnebago this is not.
I can see he’s got more pressing plans for me though, because he doesn’t pursue this line of questioning. He starts his next sentence still reading the back of the pill pot.
“Am I right in thinking you’re Isaac Cray?”
And now he’s looking at me, or at least I assume he is. I can’t tell because of those obnoxious sun glasses. He’s right though. I am indeed Isaac Cray. Curious as to why he needs to know that though.
“You are.”
“I am? Or you are?”
Oh come on.
“You are……….right that I am Isaac Cray.”
“Less of the clever sh*t buddy, we have reason to believe you’re in trouble.”
Clever? The issue isn’t my intelligence, it’s his lack thereof. Another large sigh from me as I stand up out of the car.
“What is it then officer? Come on, shoot.”
Thankfully I’m not an African American, otherwise this dim witted “protector of the people” would probably take me up on that.
“Hey! Hey! Sit your ass back down.”
He pushes down on my shoulder, squashing me back onto the edge of the seat. If he didn’t basically have a free pass to lead this situation I’d boot him in his nuts right now. Can’t risk a bid inside though, and I think castrating a law enforcement pleb would guarantee that.
“You don’t rise toward an officer of the law like that unless told to. Do I make myself clear? Or do I need to reiterate that point a little more….physically?”
“Loud and clear….buddy.”
“Now, we have some questions for you Mr Cray. Questions regarding reports of animal abuse? You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that would you?”
I’m the abusee, not the abuser. He didn’t hear the shade that mutt was throwing.
“You were contacted by my Mother?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“Okay, well let’s assume that was a yes. And let’s also assume she told you I threw her dog off of my 8th story balcony to its unavoidable death?”
He takes the glasses off and stares a hole right through me, thinking this is an admission of guilt.
“Was that about what she told you? Though knowing her she probably exaggerated and said the 14th floor.”
“Step out of the car sir and place your hands on the roof of the vehicle.”
“I’m sure she left out the fact that her rabid hound was attacking me at the time?”
“Out of the car…..NOW!”
I roll up my shirt sleeve as I rise from the car, again.
“Here you go officer. That’s what the f*cking animal did to me. I was only acting in defence of myself and, though she’ll never admit it, my mother.”
Let’s see if I can pass off the remnants of my Superbrawl injuries as an alibi. Praise Allah for the sharp edges on that damn announcer’s desk. He spins me around and with his foot spreads my legs, grabbing my wrists and pulling them behind my back. He goes to slap on some handcuffs but I guess gets the chance to eyeball the marks on my arms.
“Spence. Take a look at this.”
“I’m telling you officer, I had to act on instinct or that dog could have ripped my throat out.”
Thankfully my back is to them both now as I’m talking through a huge f*cking smile. This is the most fun I’ve had all week. Although it didn’t take much to eclipse the previous highlight of seeing how much valium I could shelf in my ass.
Things have been…….slow, since Superbrawl.
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I’m lost now. I’ve got no purpose. No reason to fight.
Now that I’ve vanquished the big, bad, Michael Kyzer, a mission I’d been on for 7 whole years, I’m just left with this feeling of…….well……nothing. I thought after all was said and done I’d be relieved. I thought there would be some kind of emotional pay off. Hell, I thought I’d get all sticky knickered the moment that monkey was off my back. Instead? Instead I’ve got nothing.
Totally devoid of purpose am I. Wandering like an abandoned child, dragging a championship belt behind me, wondering what to do with it. I’ve got no f*cking idea. I’m just doing what I’m told at this point. Like a good little boy. They put a new challenger in front of me and I guess I have no choice but to fight them…….I guess.
It’s not the same though. That driving force that kept me going for years has been pulled out from under me. That same will to fight that made me the longest reigning champion of all time dissolved when the referee hit the matt for the 3rd time, ousting Mike from this business forever. He’s gone. Done. I proved to him, to the world and to myself, that I was ALWAYS the better man. I was ALWAYS the f*cking leader of The New Epoch. I did what Michael couldn’t do. I beat Phillip Schneider…..twice. Into retirement. Then I did the same to him.
But. Does any of that sh*t matter? Do any of the bullet points on my resumé mean anything now? Not to me. Nothing seems to at this point.
It’s no secret that I’ve been spiralling downward for some time. 37 years some f*ckers might say. I’d counter that it’s closer to 15. Pretty much the day I walked in this place. But recently, that process has seriously accelerated. I’m living out of my car and spending practically all of my time outside the ring under a heavy fog of opioids, just so I can walk upright. I’ve killed two dogs in as many years, the second of which now has me under surveillance by the f*cking police. Thanks Mum.
At this rate I doubt I’ll make it past 40.
I’ve just stopped giving a f*ck.
In the guise of Michael Kyzer I’ve become The God of (not giving a) F*ck.
I stink. I’m slipping out of shape. My moustache is slowly being lost in a full blown, depression, wank marathon beard. And the worst part? Somehow all of this qualifies me to be the number one mother f*cker in the universe. I am the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion…….again. How ridiculous is that?
So with Mike gone, along with my gusto, what’s next? That I can only answer because I’ve been told. Hell, I was told before Superbrawl had even begun, that if I were to fell Kyzer I would immediately have his former peon gnashing at my heels.
The Michael Myers of the WFWF.
Masked and refusing to stay down.
Tugarin “The Dragon” Zmey.
Unlike a lot of people I’ve always known there’s more going on behind that mask than just blind loyalty. There’s a brain, a cold, calculated brain, up in that breeze block of a head. He’s no drone. He’s always questioned his master. He has just never acted on it. His loyalty is indeed executed blindly, but not because he never thought twice about it.
But now. Now he’s his own man. He’s a far more unquantifiable entity now he’s off the leash. Much harder to read. Much harder to predict.
As a physical presence he’s insurmountable. A mountain that refuses to be climbed. Add in a heavy dose of unrelenting determination and I’ve got a recipe for a f*cking terrible night ahead.
I know I can’t fight him one on one. Not fairly.
I know I can’t run from him. God knows I’ve tried.
But maybe, just maybe I can summon enough of my former brilliance to outsmart him?
Oh who am I f*cking kidding? I’m toast.
Say goodbye to your former WFWF World Heavyweight Champion.
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“You tried to kill Zmey for God sake! Hitting him with a car? Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?”
All I seem to do is get chewed out. If it’s not by the police it’s by my Mother. If not her then it’s my other Mother, Lila “shoulder pads” Sleater. Frankly her tone is something I’ve grown used to. There’s only two types of conversations we ever have. She’s either pleading with me not to do something stupid, or remonstrating me for having done something stupid. This, I suppose, in her eyes at least, is the latter.
“Well?! We’ve already had the police snooping around, asking questions about you back in the states, and now this? Aren’t you happy being a suspected felon on one continent already?”
Former. We cleared all of that dog tossing debacle up already.
“Can you pinpoint the exact part of this you deem to be, a little too much?”
She’s drawing a blank. Clearly at her wits end with all of this. Honestly I’m surprised she’s lasted as long as she has in her position. All of her predecessors seemed to either go insane and leave, or get dragged into wrestling for their job for some unknown reason. But Lila? She somehow just keeps on squelching along.
“You can’t be serious?”
She collapses back into her seat, massaging her temples. Deep breaths. That’s it.
“Deadly.”
“How about the exact moment that you hit one of our employees with your car?!?”
She can’t even look at me.
“Frank Lynn’s car. You don’t sh*t where you eat.”
Or sleep, or get dressed, or masturbate. Though admittedly I have been accommodated on the company dime whilst we’re in the UK, and I’m not likely to run Tugarin over with a hotel room now am I?
“Who the car belongs to is f*cking irrelevant! You were the one driving it! That is the point I’m trying to make. You could have killed the guy!”
Come on. Hardly.
“But did I? Because it seems to me the big lug is still coming right at me. He is quite literally a f*cking dragon. People seem to think that’s just some nickname, but it’s actually the exact words they’d print on the plaque, outside his enclosure, at the zoo. He’s a f*cking reptilian tank! Am I really the only one who sees this?”
Lila looks up from her desk. Something I’ve said there has piqued her interest.
“Are you scared of him?”
There’s a glimmer in her eye.
“I have a healthy aversion to him.”
Who the f*ck isn’t scared of Tugarin Zmey?
“Alright. Another question.”
I don’t bother answering. She’ll ask anyway.
“Is everything……..okay?”
The f*ck?
“I’m not talking about this match, or things with Zmey. I just wondered if anyone had even asked you that lately?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t think anyone’s asked you that in a long, long time. And I don’t think things are as rosy as you like to make out.”
Here we go. The doctor is in session.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever tried to pretend things are going well for me.”
“You just seem…..distant.”
“I’m staring the end of my career in the face. Can’t I get a bit misty eyed about that?”
“So you meant it then?”
“Meant what?”
“You’re really going to retire if you lose to Zmey?”
Or anyone else.
“Lila, what a lot of people don’t understand with me is that while I laugh and joke, and yes I do that a lot, I spend most of my waking laugh worrying I’m not the best anymore. Now that might smack of arrogance, and you might write this off as just another braggadocious rant, but like it or not Lila I, at least at one point, was the greatest professional wrestler in the history of this sport. Hell, maybe I still am? I don’t know. But there was a moment at which I peaked, and in that very moment I was insurmountable. No one, and I say this with absolute confidence, will EVER be better than that. But here’s the thing, that was then, and this is now.”
I pause and surprisingly she doesn’t try to interject. She’s genuinely listening.
“It’s easy for me to say that no one will ever be remembered as better than me. That no matter what happens after today, Drakz is the name that no one can deny belongs at the top of the mountain….”
“What is it with you and mount…”
You were doing so well Lila.
“AND maybe that’s true, but that doesn’t account for where I’m at now. My legacy is solid. Cemented in place. I know that now. What concerns me is that I’m not at those dizzying heights anymore. I’m slipping. I’ve lost more times in the last year than I have in the 6 years prior to that. Surely that says something? Surely that alone is proof of my decline?
And that Lila, that is what I’m really scared of. So yes, I’m retiring the next time I lose. I don’t want to hang around so long that I become a joke. Though it could be argued that’s already begun?”
Of course that’s only if you hold me to my own lofty standards. Realistically, I’ve lost 2 matches in recent memory. Most of the people here would be happy with that kind of record, but that’s what separates me from them.
“Did it ever occur to you that you might just be a sore loser?”
“Excuse me?”
“You went how long? Five years without losing a singles match?”
Six.
But I let it slide.
“And then you lose twice in a year, and suddenly you’re talking about going home for good? I dunno, it just sounds a lot to me like you’re embarrassed, and instead of facing up to this possible third loss, you’d rather throw your toys out the pram and walk away.”
I shouldn’t have let it slide.
“Six.”
“Six? Six what?”
“It was six years. I went unbeaten for six years, that tag team match notwithstanding.
Two thousand, one hundred and ninety six days.
That’s a long f*cking time Lila. That’s more than enough time for a habit to cement itself.”
“Oh don’t be so ridiculous. So, what? You’re addicted to winning? That’s just ridiculous.”
Saying it out loud like that does make it sound f*cking dumb.
“Is it?”
Though obviously I’d never admit that.
“You’re not addicted to winning. You don’t have a “victory habit”. How can you even say that as someone who is legitimately struggling with a painkiller addi…..”
She trails off, not wanting to finish her sentence. Mostly because she didn’t want me to know that she knew.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for knowing? Sorry for what exactly? I’m more curious as to how you found out.”
It’s probably the worst kept secret in this business to be honest. I’ve become so sloppy I’d be more surprised if she didn’t know.
“I’ve not told anyone.”
She probably doesn’t have to.
“The police informed me about the state of your car. If you’re really hurting that much maybe we need to address it? I’m happy to let you retire on your own terms, but please don’t push beyond your means. I don’t want your heart giving out in that ring.”
Is this a glimmer of genuine concern on the part of Lila Sleater? Or is she just thinking of the landslide of paperwork that would come her way if I died on her watch? I just sit here, quietly.
“If you’re not at 100% then this match with Zmey……”
Oh, I know.
“He could bring things to a halt for you right now. Win, lose or draw, you might be forced to retire.”
“Lila, I’ve not been 100% for a very, very long time. How can anyone in my position be?”
When you throw yourself around for a living it’s practically impossible to find time to heal.
“I’ve given this place everything. I’ve given you everything, and in doing so have checked all the boxes on my to do list. Getting rid of Mike was the last one, and that’s done.”
It still feels weird to say that. Mike is done. Michael Kyzer is done.
“I thought for a long time I wanted to find a successor, someone who was worthy of taking this mantle, but I’ve come to realise I actually don’t give a f*ck. This place can f*cking burn without me for all I care. So please, if you’re happy for me to do things on my own terms, let me die in peace.”
“That’s it then? You’re resolute in letting Tugarin Zmey rip you apart? You’re dying on this hill? ”
“On the back of a Dragon? F*ck no.”
For the first time in this conversation I actually sit up straight, and though my back groans under the change in posture, I maintain it.
“I may be almost spent, but I’m not letting this LARPing, Tolkein wet dream be the one that finishes me. Note the word ALMOST Sleater. I’m not finished. I’m close. I’m really bloody close. But it’s not happening here. I sure as f*ck am not retiring in this dumpster fire of a country either.”
F*ck the United Kingdom.
“You might not have a choice.”
“Have a little respect. If I lose to Zmey it’s going to be a mess. I’ll be a mess. A puddle of piss and blood on the canvas. Do you think I want that to be the lasting image in everyones’ mind when they look back at Drakz years from now?
It’s not going to pretty, but I’ll find a way to trip this clown up for just long enough to beat him. Think about it Lila, I’m the man who handed the damn janitor a win over the Dragon. That had nothing to do with his wrestling acumen, that was all me. I’ve just got to do it again.”
I make that sound easier than I know it’s going to be. It’s one thing to distract someone when they’re fending off an opponent, it’s something altogether different when you are that opponent.
“Just don’t hit anyone with a car again okay? Can we at least come to an agreement on that?”
I suppose she needs to have gained something from this meeting.
“Sure. Why not? If it means that much to you. Who knew you were such an advocate against vehicular manslaughter?”
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The distaste is palpable as the concierge takes my dinner date’s coat. His top lip is quite literally curling. Not very professional if you ask me.
“Oooh this is nice.”
She looks around the restaurant, drawing the attention of more than a handful of its patrons with her bruised legs on show and heaving tits not far off. She’s a state, but this all got thrown together on fairly short notice, so you’l have to forgive the……compromises. We’re shown to our table and she proceeds to ask me what half the menu is. Who’d have thunk it? A prostitute from the streets of Melbourne, Florida, doesn’t know a roulade from a rim-job.
“And what the f*cks a bisque?”
She sn!ggers, but I’m too busy scoping out the clientele to answer.
“I said what’s a f*ckin’ bisque?”
Can’t let her get too excited, so I draw my attention back in to our table.
“It’s a soup made out of fish sh*t. Don’t order it. You’ll hate it.”
She grimaces.
You know, she probably used to be an attractive woman, once upon a time. She’s not hideous, not by a long stretch, but the tolls of her line of work have more than weighed heavy on her. But like I already said, this was a bit of a bodge job, so she was the best of a bad bunch.
I go back to scouring the other tables, looking for them, while this whore who’s name I forgot to ask just jabbers on endlessly. She’s so high I don’t think she even realises I’m not looking at her, let alone listening to her.
“You know usually guys just pay me and f*ck me. You don’t have to do all of this girlfriend sh*t.”
Endlessly talking.
“Will you please shut your mouth? Just for 5 minutes? I’m paying you to sit there and….”
“Good evening madame…..monsieur. Can I bring you some drinks?”
“Something cheap and wet for the lady, and I’ll have a scotch. Thank you.”
He turns back to ‘madame’ as though to check if this was adequate for her, but she just laughs at him, so he leaves.
“Like I was saying; I’m paying you to sit right where you are and enjoy yourself. Do you want the rest of the money or not?”
“Okay. Okay. Sheesh. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”
The urge to slap this woman around the face is insane, but I suppress it, for the good of the plan.
“You got anymore blow?”
That was too loud. If I wasn’t whispering I’d be f*cking screaming my reply at her.
“Of course I do. Show a little class for God sake. We’re in a nice restaurant! I don’t want us getting thrown out prematurely because of you broadcasting your habit to the entire place.”
She just rolls her eyes at me like I’m the uncool parent to her teenage self, which, for the record, she is not. I want to make that absolutely clear. I’ve already checked her ID just to be doubly sure.
Hmmm. Where are they? I figured they’d be here before us.
“So hun, whaddya do?”
Murder prostitutes for a living.
“I’m an athlete.”
I’m still only half present as I finish scanning the rest of the room.
“A professional athlete.”
“Aren’t you a little old to be in sport?”
The cheek.
“Aren’t you a little old to be getting stretched out daily by Johns?”
“Hey! There’s no need for that. I do the work I do because the economy is in the sh*t pan.”
The waiter, without saying a word, places our drinks on the table in front of us, and our conversation pauses for those brief few seconds.
“Oh really? And tell me, why can’t you just get a job in a diner, or factory? Instead of draining guy’s nuts for a living?”
I’m not sure why I’m pursuing this line of questioning. I’m well aware that there is no one answer to why anyone gets into sex work. The answer is always long and winding, with many things to blame along the way, and societal circumstances playing their part. I’ve got no problem with sex workers, but this b*tch is pushing my buttons.
“F*cking immigrants took all those jobs.”
All of them. Sure.
“I ain’t kidding. When was the last time you got served by a white person in a McDonalds? We’re turning into the minority in this country.”
I take back my previous statement. There’s just one reason this idiot only amounted to being a cum deposit, and I’m sure you know what it is without my having to spell it out.
Oh sh*t! Here they are! Here she is.
“I’m just glad we’ve got Trump in charge now. He’ll really turn this thing around in his second term.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever. Trump is great.”
Anything to shut her up while I watch. And I mean anything.
I need to keep my attention on Delilah.
For those among you who pay attention, you’ve probably worked out why I’m here. For the less attentive, the young woman currently being seated at the bar has been let out into the wild for the night. She’s being wined and dined by a young man who has no idea how f*cked he is if he upsets her. She might not have a parent, a guardian angel or a fairy godmother, but she’s got one hell of a protective dragon sat, waiting for her back at home.
Fat lot of good he’s gonna do all the way back there though right?
“Hey! What the f*ck is this?”
Bringing her here with me was a massive f*cking oversight. Delilah probably doesn’t even know my face well enough to pick me out of a crowd. I could just have easily done this alone. If anything this old sow of a hooker is blowing my cover.
“Will you please keep your voice down? Pretty please with a cherry on top?”
“I’m coming down hard right now buddy. If you want me to behave you’re gonna have to hook me up.”
“That wasn’t the deal. Just keep your hair on for another half an hour and you’re free to do what you want with the money I’m giving you.”
I say all of this with one eye on Delilah the whole time. I hear her laugh at whatever her date said, touching her neck while she talks to him. Sure sign that they’re gonna bang. That’s not the excellent news the young fella thinks it is either. Once Zmey finds out he’ll rip the kid’s d*ck right off.
My table-mate is starting to catch on to the fact that I’ve got an ulterior motive behind our being here. She turns around, all blatant like, and scours the room, not doing as I’ve requested this ENTIRE time.
“Who is it? Who the f*ck is it you’re so distracted by?”
People start to look again and I make a last ditch attempt at damage limitation.
“I’ll pay you double. How does that sound?”
“That sounds like you’re trying to shut me up. If you’re not gonna pay attention to me then at least f*ck me so I can leave.”
Oh. My. Days.
The room seems to have gone silent. We’re in a clichéd freeze frame moment from one of those sh*t British gangster films Michael always got a boner over. I can see Delilah shifting in her seat, about to look over her shoulder at all the fuss.
I don’t think there’s much chance of her recognising me, but I can’t take that kind of risk, no matter how small. Snatching up my table spoon I hop out of my seat, grab the wh*re by her arm and usher her out of harm’s way. My harm, not hers.
Before you know it she’s tumbling into the disabled bathroom, the only thing stopping her from falling face first are her hands on the rim of the toilet seat. She stares into the bowl as I follow her in, her skirt already hoisted right up over her unadorned ass.
I dig into my pocket, past my completely docile c*ck, and pull out the bone of crack I scored earlier on in an attempt to coax this hag into doing more than her usual service. I hold the rock in the palm of my hand, spit on it and then, with no warning to her, shove it, and two of my fingers up her assh*le. There’s a little yelp and then an attempt at telling me off, but before she knows it I’ve pushed her face into the water and flushed the damn thing.
I hold her there for a few seconds. Just long enough to scare the f*ck out of her, but not long enough to do any real damage. I don’t think. Her arms are flailing and her legs give way, pulling my digits from her cavity and slamming her knees against the tiled floor.
I’m still holding her under.
Hello sailor. All this excitement has got things stirring downstairs. The blood rushes and things start to swell.
Okay, that should do it. I smack her on the backside, pull her head from the toilet pan and let her flop to the ground. Her soaked hair tangles across her face while she gasps for air. I think about unzipping, but remember I’ve got more important matters to attend to.
“You…*cough*……..f*cking….*cough*…..psycho mother…..”
Enough.
“Enough.”
I stuff the outstanding half of the agreed fee into her mouth, wipe my fingers on her blouse, and then step outside before she can object. To keep things from immediately boiling over I have to act quickly, and I do. Of course I do.
I pull out the spoon and jam the flat handle into the gap beside the hinges on the closed toilet door. That should keep her occupied for long enough to realise she’s got drugs on….sorry, in her person.
And now I casually saunter back into the seating area of the establishment, hoping that everyone’s moved on from that little scene. I’m right, people are back to their hors d'oeuvres and no one so much as glances at me as I decide it’s time to act on the presence of my target…..only…..she’s gone.
F*ck.
“F*ck”
It comes out verbally, under my breath as well. How can they be gone already? They hadn’t even been shown to their table yet?
“Excuse me. Excuse me, waiter?”
“Yes sir?”
“The young couple who were at the bar just now. Have you seated them somewhere? The woman is a friend’s daughter and I wanted to say hi.”
“Oh I’m sorry sir, they were only stopping in for a drink. On their way to somewhere else I believe.“
Sh*t arse.
“Sh*t arse.”
“I’m sorry sir?”
“Oh. Nothing. Thanks.”
He smiles and gets back to things, leaving me wondering how I f*cked this whole thing up so royally?
Time to spin this into a victory of sorts. I am the spin doctor after all.
Just knowing her whereabouts should be enough to light a fire under the Dragon’s arse. So what if I didn’t manage to kidnap her? It’s probably a blessing in disguise given that I’ve recently been a suspect in another case, and given the fact I just left a semi conscious dope wh*re locked in the disabled toilet.
Yeah.
This worked out pretty well all things considered.
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So, Zmey. How was Delilah’s date?
Did she enjoy her Cosmopolitan?
Who the f*ck am I kidding? You don’t know what a Cosmopolitan is. You probably don’t even know what a date is. I image where you come from you just grab the nearest “no tail” that happens past you on your 16th birthday, and that’s it. Mother to your children.
Let me try to simplify it. What I’m asking is, did Delilah have a nice time with her man friend the other night? Did she have some fun for the first time in an age? Did she laugh, and swoon, and feel the tender caress of another human? Did she get a stash of drugs shoved up her backside and her head flushed in a toilet? No? Send her my way. I know how to show a woman a good time.
Irregardless of that last point, you need to keep a closer eye on her Zmey. It’s a dangerous world out there and you never know who’s watching……but of course you know that.
But do you know me?
Do you know what I’m capable of…..Subutai?
Because I sure know you. I know more about you than you might care to imagine Tugarin.
Most importantly, I know your weakness. Perhaps your only weakness. We both know physicality isn’t an option. No. If I want to get to your soft and gooey centre I need to hit you elsewhere. I’ve learned where to strike to REALLY hurt you.
But I don’t hate you. And honestly? I don’t care enough about you to make this really personal. But I do want you to remember that I know. I know about her.
Some might think I’m making a mistake in telling you this. That this knowledge will only serve to give you strength. That instinct in you to protect her will kick in, and that will be the death of Drakz. But do you want to know what I think? Of course you don’t. But I’ll tell you anyway. I think right now you’re seeing red. I think that come bell time you’ll be as good as colour blind. So charged up that you’ll put a foot wrong. You’ll make a mistake. You’ll cut the wrong wire, and then? Boom.
You self destruct.
Prove me wrong big man. Biggest of men.
Show us all you have restraint. Show us that you’ve grown enough in all these years to keep your head. Try to keep your cool, knowing that it wouldn’t take much for me to take her away from you. She was so close Zmey. I could smell her perfume. That scent must drive you crazy. Putting on her perfume before she left. A sure sign that whilst you have to keep your hands off, some other guy is no doubt putting his all over her. Let’s see if you can display that same restraint when we arrive in sunny Scotland.
We both know I can’t physically dominate you, and I know that any edge I have in technique is simply ruled out by your raw power. But I’ve been in this line of work longer than you. Sure, you’ve killed fools. Been a mercenary. Killing other idiots is easy game though. What I really want to know is when was the last time you tried to destroy someone smarter than any man you’ve ever called Mas’er?
Someone who’s smart enough to know this isn’t the bloody Thunderdome?
I’m not trying to fight you Tugarin. I’m not trying to show the world I’m the stronger, more dominant force. No. I’m trying to beat you. This isn’t a battle to the death. This is a battle until the bell rings again. You’d do well to remember that. I don’t have to put you down forever to come out of this on top. I only have to put you down for 3 seconds. You can pop right back up again for all I care. What matters is who has their hand raised by that referee afterwards, not who still has their head. Though that said, I intend on keeping mine.
My head. My championship. My career.
For now at least.
So do your homework Zmey. Settle your temper. Meditate.
Or don’t surprise me at all, and just come in swinging.
Beat your wings and raze this f*cking village to the ground.
Maybe after all this talk it will be you who finally puts this legend to rest?
Maybe I’m already just a pile of ashes?
(A.K.A. Dance of the Dragon)
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*knock knock*
Urgh. What was that? I try to ignore it and bury my face into the crook of my elbow, unsurprisingly whoever wants my attention is unrelenting though. A pattern I’ve come to realise follows me everywhere these days.
*knock knock*
This time followed up with words.
“Excuse me sir.”
*knock knock*
A third rap on the glass. Are they f*cking kidding me? Give me a minute! Waking up annoyed isn’t a great start to anyone’s day, least of all when you realise who it is banging their hairy fist on the window.
“Jesus! What?!”
F*ck sake. My eyes squint through the daylight that pours into the vehicle, and as things fade into clarity I see a pair of law enforcement orifices prowling. One looking over his cartoon like aviators into my car. At least try to break the stereotypes fellas. Who the hell wears aviators in 2019? He smirks, seemingly enjoying my little outburst. Just another reason to drag me out and f*ck me on the bonnet I suppose.
“Can you wind down your window please sir?”
Unbeknownst to him, no, I can’t. The electrics in here are on the fritz, so I open the car door instead, sending a cascade of rubbish onto the carpark’s tarmac. He’s quick to remonstrate.
“Woah now. Stay in your vehicle sir. I didn’t ask you to step out.”
“Mate. The window’s f*cked. Let me out.”
Realising it’s the only way he’s going to talk with me, he steps aside so I can open the door wide. More crap falls out, the most telling being an empty oxycontin bottle, rolling away until it stops at the feet of his partner. As in, the other officer, not his lover. Well, maybe his lover. I don’t know. Honestly I don’t care. It’s a free country, or at least that’s what people always tell me. The other policeman stoops down and picks up the bottle, eyeing the label and tutting sarcastically under his breath. These two are like a f*cking comedy double act.
“What’ve you got there Spence?”
I don’t even pay attention to the jerk off’s response. Too busy am I swinging my legs out of the car door, very aware of the hell that night’s sleep has played on my corkscrew of a spine. A huge sigh on my part as I clear the crust from my dried out eyes. The life of a champion folks.
“You got a prescription for these buddy?”
We’re buddies now are we? I thought I was “sir” a minute ago.
“In there somewhere.”
I wave over my shoulder towards the chaos that is the contents of my motorhome. Don’t get confused by that. It’s a motorhome in as much as the car has a motor and right now I’m living in it. A Winnebago this is not.
I can see he’s got more pressing plans for me though, because he doesn’t pursue this line of questioning. He starts his next sentence still reading the back of the pill pot.
“Am I right in thinking you’re Isaac Cray?”
And now he’s looking at me, or at least I assume he is. I can’t tell because of those obnoxious sun glasses. He’s right though. I am indeed Isaac Cray. Curious as to why he needs to know that though.
“You are.”
“I am? Or you are?”
Oh come on.
“You are……….right that I am Isaac Cray.”
“Less of the clever sh*t buddy, we have reason to believe you’re in trouble.”
Clever? The issue isn’t my intelligence, it’s his lack thereof. Another large sigh from me as I stand up out of the car.
“What is it then officer? Come on, shoot.”
Thankfully I’m not an African American, otherwise this dim witted “protector of the people” would probably take me up on that.
“Hey! Hey! Sit your ass back down.”
He pushes down on my shoulder, squashing me back onto the edge of the seat. If he didn’t basically have a free pass to lead this situation I’d boot him in his nuts right now. Can’t risk a bid inside though, and I think castrating a law enforcement pleb would guarantee that.
“You don’t rise toward an officer of the law like that unless told to. Do I make myself clear? Or do I need to reiterate that point a little more….physically?”
“Loud and clear….buddy.”
“Now, we have some questions for you Mr Cray. Questions regarding reports of animal abuse? You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that would you?”
I’m the abusee, not the abuser. He didn’t hear the shade that mutt was throwing.
“You were contacted by my Mother?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“Okay, well let’s assume that was a yes. And let’s also assume she told you I threw her dog off of my 8th story balcony to its unavoidable death?”
He takes the glasses off and stares a hole right through me, thinking this is an admission of guilt.
“Was that about what she told you? Though knowing her she probably exaggerated and said the 14th floor.”
“Step out of the car sir and place your hands on the roof of the vehicle.”
“I’m sure she left out the fact that her rabid hound was attacking me at the time?”
“Out of the car…..NOW!”
I roll up my shirt sleeve as I rise from the car, again.
“Here you go officer. That’s what the f*cking animal did to me. I was only acting in defence of myself and, though she’ll never admit it, my mother.”
Let’s see if I can pass off the remnants of my Superbrawl injuries as an alibi. Praise Allah for the sharp edges on that damn announcer’s desk. He spins me around and with his foot spreads my legs, grabbing my wrists and pulling them behind my back. He goes to slap on some handcuffs but I guess gets the chance to eyeball the marks on my arms.
“Spence. Take a look at this.”
“I’m telling you officer, I had to act on instinct or that dog could have ripped my throat out.”
Thankfully my back is to them both now as I’m talking through a huge f*cking smile. This is the most fun I’ve had all week. Although it didn’t take much to eclipse the previous highlight of seeing how much valium I could shelf in my ass.
Things have been…….slow, since Superbrawl.
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I’m lost now. I’ve got no purpose. No reason to fight.
Now that I’ve vanquished the big, bad, Michael Kyzer, a mission I’d been on for 7 whole years, I’m just left with this feeling of…….well……nothing. I thought after all was said and done I’d be relieved. I thought there would be some kind of emotional pay off. Hell, I thought I’d get all sticky knickered the moment that monkey was off my back. Instead? Instead I’ve got nothing.
Totally devoid of purpose am I. Wandering like an abandoned child, dragging a championship belt behind me, wondering what to do with it. I’ve got no f*cking idea. I’m just doing what I’m told at this point. Like a good little boy. They put a new challenger in front of me and I guess I have no choice but to fight them…….I guess.
It’s not the same though. That driving force that kept me going for years has been pulled out from under me. That same will to fight that made me the longest reigning champion of all time dissolved when the referee hit the matt for the 3rd time, ousting Mike from this business forever. He’s gone. Done. I proved to him, to the world and to myself, that I was ALWAYS the better man. I was ALWAYS the f*cking leader of The New Epoch. I did what Michael couldn’t do. I beat Phillip Schneider…..twice. Into retirement. Then I did the same to him.
But. Does any of that sh*t matter? Do any of the bullet points on my resumé mean anything now? Not to me. Nothing seems to at this point.
It’s no secret that I’ve been spiralling downward for some time. 37 years some f*ckers might say. I’d counter that it’s closer to 15. Pretty much the day I walked in this place. But recently, that process has seriously accelerated. I’m living out of my car and spending practically all of my time outside the ring under a heavy fog of opioids, just so I can walk upright. I’ve killed two dogs in as many years, the second of which now has me under surveillance by the f*cking police. Thanks Mum.
At this rate I doubt I’ll make it past 40.
I’ve just stopped giving a f*ck.
In the guise of Michael Kyzer I’ve become The God of (not giving a) F*ck.
I stink. I’m slipping out of shape. My moustache is slowly being lost in a full blown, depression, wank marathon beard. And the worst part? Somehow all of this qualifies me to be the number one mother f*cker in the universe. I am the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion…….again. How ridiculous is that?
So with Mike gone, along with my gusto, what’s next? That I can only answer because I’ve been told. Hell, I was told before Superbrawl had even begun, that if I were to fell Kyzer I would immediately have his former peon gnashing at my heels.
The Michael Myers of the WFWF.
Masked and refusing to stay down.
Tugarin “The Dragon” Zmey.
Unlike a lot of people I’ve always known there’s more going on behind that mask than just blind loyalty. There’s a brain, a cold, calculated brain, up in that breeze block of a head. He’s no drone. He’s always questioned his master. He has just never acted on it. His loyalty is indeed executed blindly, but not because he never thought twice about it.
But now. Now he’s his own man. He’s a far more unquantifiable entity now he’s off the leash. Much harder to read. Much harder to predict.
As a physical presence he’s insurmountable. A mountain that refuses to be climbed. Add in a heavy dose of unrelenting determination and I’ve got a recipe for a f*cking terrible night ahead.
I know I can’t fight him one on one. Not fairly.
I know I can’t run from him. God knows I’ve tried.
But maybe, just maybe I can summon enough of my former brilliance to outsmart him?
Oh who am I f*cking kidding? I’m toast.
Say goodbye to your former WFWF World Heavyweight Champion.
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“You tried to kill Zmey for God sake! Hitting him with a car? Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?”
All I seem to do is get chewed out. If it’s not by the police it’s by my Mother. If not her then it’s my other Mother, Lila “shoulder pads” Sleater. Frankly her tone is something I’ve grown used to. There’s only two types of conversations we ever have. She’s either pleading with me not to do something stupid, or remonstrating me for having done something stupid. This, I suppose, in her eyes at least, is the latter.
“Well?! We’ve already had the police snooping around, asking questions about you back in the states, and now this? Aren’t you happy being a suspected felon on one continent already?”
Former. We cleared all of that dog tossing debacle up already.
“Can you pinpoint the exact part of this you deem to be, a little too much?”
She’s drawing a blank. Clearly at her wits end with all of this. Honestly I’m surprised she’s lasted as long as she has in her position. All of her predecessors seemed to either go insane and leave, or get dragged into wrestling for their job for some unknown reason. But Lila? She somehow just keeps on squelching along.
“You can’t be serious?”
She collapses back into her seat, massaging her temples. Deep breaths. That’s it.
“Deadly.”
“How about the exact moment that you hit one of our employees with your car?!?”
She can’t even look at me.
“Frank Lynn’s car. You don’t sh*t where you eat.”
Or sleep, or get dressed, or masturbate. Though admittedly I have been accommodated on the company dime whilst we’re in the UK, and I’m not likely to run Tugarin over with a hotel room now am I?
“Who the car belongs to is f*cking irrelevant! You were the one driving it! That is the point I’m trying to make. You could have killed the guy!”
Come on. Hardly.
“But did I? Because it seems to me the big lug is still coming right at me. He is quite literally a f*cking dragon. People seem to think that’s just some nickname, but it’s actually the exact words they’d print on the plaque, outside his enclosure, at the zoo. He’s a f*cking reptilian tank! Am I really the only one who sees this?”
Lila looks up from her desk. Something I’ve said there has piqued her interest.
“Are you scared of him?”
There’s a glimmer in her eye.
“I have a healthy aversion to him.”
Who the f*ck isn’t scared of Tugarin Zmey?
“Alright. Another question.”
I don’t bother answering. She’ll ask anyway.
“Is everything……..okay?”
The f*ck?
“I’m not talking about this match, or things with Zmey. I just wondered if anyone had even asked you that lately?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t think anyone’s asked you that in a long, long time. And I don’t think things are as rosy as you like to make out.”
Here we go. The doctor is in session.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever tried to pretend things are going well for me.”
“You just seem…..distant.”
“I’m staring the end of my career in the face. Can’t I get a bit misty eyed about that?”
“So you meant it then?”
“Meant what?”
“You’re really going to retire if you lose to Zmey?”
Or anyone else.
“Lila, what a lot of people don’t understand with me is that while I laugh and joke, and yes I do that a lot, I spend most of my waking laugh worrying I’m not the best anymore. Now that might smack of arrogance, and you might write this off as just another braggadocious rant, but like it or not Lila I, at least at one point, was the greatest professional wrestler in the history of this sport. Hell, maybe I still am? I don’t know. But there was a moment at which I peaked, and in that very moment I was insurmountable. No one, and I say this with absolute confidence, will EVER be better than that. But here’s the thing, that was then, and this is now.”
I pause and surprisingly she doesn’t try to interject. She’s genuinely listening.
“It’s easy for me to say that no one will ever be remembered as better than me. That no matter what happens after today, Drakz is the name that no one can deny belongs at the top of the mountain….”
“What is it with you and mount…”
You were doing so well Lila.
“AND maybe that’s true, but that doesn’t account for where I’m at now. My legacy is solid. Cemented in place. I know that now. What concerns me is that I’m not at those dizzying heights anymore. I’m slipping. I’ve lost more times in the last year than I have in the 6 years prior to that. Surely that says something? Surely that alone is proof of my decline?
And that Lila, that is what I’m really scared of. So yes, I’m retiring the next time I lose. I don’t want to hang around so long that I become a joke. Though it could be argued that’s already begun?”
Of course that’s only if you hold me to my own lofty standards. Realistically, I’ve lost 2 matches in recent memory. Most of the people here would be happy with that kind of record, but that’s what separates me from them.
“Did it ever occur to you that you might just be a sore loser?”
“Excuse me?”
“You went how long? Five years without losing a singles match?”
Six.
But I let it slide.
“And then you lose twice in a year, and suddenly you’re talking about going home for good? I dunno, it just sounds a lot to me like you’re embarrassed, and instead of facing up to this possible third loss, you’d rather throw your toys out the pram and walk away.”
I shouldn’t have let it slide.
“Six.”
“Six? Six what?”
“It was six years. I went unbeaten for six years, that tag team match notwithstanding.
Two thousand, one hundred and ninety six days.
That’s a long f*cking time Lila. That’s more than enough time for a habit to cement itself.”
“Oh don’t be so ridiculous. So, what? You’re addicted to winning? That’s just ridiculous.”
Saying it out loud like that does make it sound f*cking dumb.
“Is it?”
Though obviously I’d never admit that.
“You’re not addicted to winning. You don’t have a “victory habit”. How can you even say that as someone who is legitimately struggling with a painkiller addi…..”
She trails off, not wanting to finish her sentence. Mostly because she didn’t want me to know that she knew.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for knowing? Sorry for what exactly? I’m more curious as to how you found out.”
It’s probably the worst kept secret in this business to be honest. I’ve become so sloppy I’d be more surprised if she didn’t know.
“I’ve not told anyone.”
She probably doesn’t have to.
“The police informed me about the state of your car. If you’re really hurting that much maybe we need to address it? I’m happy to let you retire on your own terms, but please don’t push beyond your means. I don’t want your heart giving out in that ring.”
Is this a glimmer of genuine concern on the part of Lila Sleater? Or is she just thinking of the landslide of paperwork that would come her way if I died on her watch? I just sit here, quietly.
“If you’re not at 100% then this match with Zmey……”
Oh, I know.
“He could bring things to a halt for you right now. Win, lose or draw, you might be forced to retire.”
“Lila, I’ve not been 100% for a very, very long time. How can anyone in my position be?”
When you throw yourself around for a living it’s practically impossible to find time to heal.
“I’ve given this place everything. I’ve given you everything, and in doing so have checked all the boxes on my to do list. Getting rid of Mike was the last one, and that’s done.”
It still feels weird to say that. Mike is done. Michael Kyzer is done.
“I thought for a long time I wanted to find a successor, someone who was worthy of taking this mantle, but I’ve come to realise I actually don’t give a f*ck. This place can f*cking burn without me for all I care. So please, if you’re happy for me to do things on my own terms, let me die in peace.”
“That’s it then? You’re resolute in letting Tugarin Zmey rip you apart? You’re dying on this hill? ”
“On the back of a Dragon? F*ck no.”
For the first time in this conversation I actually sit up straight, and though my back groans under the change in posture, I maintain it.
“I may be almost spent, but I’m not letting this LARPing, Tolkein wet dream be the one that finishes me. Note the word ALMOST Sleater. I’m not finished. I’m close. I’m really bloody close. But it’s not happening here. I sure as f*ck am not retiring in this dumpster fire of a country either.”
F*ck the United Kingdom.
“You might not have a choice.”
“Have a little respect. If I lose to Zmey it’s going to be a mess. I’ll be a mess. A puddle of piss and blood on the canvas. Do you think I want that to be the lasting image in everyones’ mind when they look back at Drakz years from now?
It’s not going to pretty, but I’ll find a way to trip this clown up for just long enough to beat him. Think about it Lila, I’m the man who handed the damn janitor a win over the Dragon. That had nothing to do with his wrestling acumen, that was all me. I’ve just got to do it again.”
I make that sound easier than I know it’s going to be. It’s one thing to distract someone when they’re fending off an opponent, it’s something altogether different when you are that opponent.
“Just don’t hit anyone with a car again okay? Can we at least come to an agreement on that?”
I suppose she needs to have gained something from this meeting.
“Sure. Why not? If it means that much to you. Who knew you were such an advocate against vehicular manslaughter?”
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The distaste is palpable as the concierge takes my dinner date’s coat. His top lip is quite literally curling. Not very professional if you ask me.
“Oooh this is nice.”
She looks around the restaurant, drawing the attention of more than a handful of its patrons with her bruised legs on show and heaving tits not far off. She’s a state, but this all got thrown together on fairly short notice, so you’l have to forgive the……compromises. We’re shown to our table and she proceeds to ask me what half the menu is. Who’d have thunk it? A prostitute from the streets of Melbourne, Florida, doesn’t know a roulade from a rim-job.
“And what the f*cks a bisque?”
She sn!ggers, but I’m too busy scoping out the clientele to answer.
“I said what’s a f*ckin’ bisque?”
Can’t let her get too excited, so I draw my attention back in to our table.
“It’s a soup made out of fish sh*t. Don’t order it. You’ll hate it.”
She grimaces.
You know, she probably used to be an attractive woman, once upon a time. She’s not hideous, not by a long stretch, but the tolls of her line of work have more than weighed heavy on her. But like I already said, this was a bit of a bodge job, so she was the best of a bad bunch.
I go back to scouring the other tables, looking for them, while this whore who’s name I forgot to ask just jabbers on endlessly. She’s so high I don’t think she even realises I’m not looking at her, let alone listening to her.
“You know usually guys just pay me and f*ck me. You don’t have to do all of this girlfriend sh*t.”
Endlessly talking.
“Will you please shut your mouth? Just for 5 minutes? I’m paying you to sit there and….”
“Good evening madame…..monsieur. Can I bring you some drinks?”
“Something cheap and wet for the lady, and I’ll have a scotch. Thank you.”
He turns back to ‘madame’ as though to check if this was adequate for her, but she just laughs at him, so he leaves.
“Like I was saying; I’m paying you to sit right where you are and enjoy yourself. Do you want the rest of the money or not?”
“Okay. Okay. Sheesh. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”
The urge to slap this woman around the face is insane, but I suppress it, for the good of the plan.
“You got anymore blow?”
That was too loud. If I wasn’t whispering I’d be f*cking screaming my reply at her.
“Of course I do. Show a little class for God sake. We’re in a nice restaurant! I don’t want us getting thrown out prematurely because of you broadcasting your habit to the entire place.”
She just rolls her eyes at me like I’m the uncool parent to her teenage self, which, for the record, she is not. I want to make that absolutely clear. I’ve already checked her ID just to be doubly sure.
Hmmm. Where are they? I figured they’d be here before us.
“So hun, whaddya do?”
Murder prostitutes for a living.
“I’m an athlete.”
I’m still only half present as I finish scanning the rest of the room.
“A professional athlete.”
“Aren’t you a little old to be in sport?”
The cheek.
“Aren’t you a little old to be getting stretched out daily by Johns?”
“Hey! There’s no need for that. I do the work I do because the economy is in the sh*t pan.”
The waiter, without saying a word, places our drinks on the table in front of us, and our conversation pauses for those brief few seconds.
“Oh really? And tell me, why can’t you just get a job in a diner, or factory? Instead of draining guy’s nuts for a living?”
I’m not sure why I’m pursuing this line of questioning. I’m well aware that there is no one answer to why anyone gets into sex work. The answer is always long and winding, with many things to blame along the way, and societal circumstances playing their part. I’ve got no problem with sex workers, but this b*tch is pushing my buttons.
“F*cking immigrants took all those jobs.”
All of them. Sure.
“I ain’t kidding. When was the last time you got served by a white person in a McDonalds? We’re turning into the minority in this country.”
I take back my previous statement. There’s just one reason this idiot only amounted to being a cum deposit, and I’m sure you know what it is without my having to spell it out.
Oh sh*t! Here they are! Here she is.
“I’m just glad we’ve got Trump in charge now. He’ll really turn this thing around in his second term.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever. Trump is great.”
Anything to shut her up while I watch. And I mean anything.
I need to keep my attention on Delilah.
For those among you who pay attention, you’ve probably worked out why I’m here. For the less attentive, the young woman currently being seated at the bar has been let out into the wild for the night. She’s being wined and dined by a young man who has no idea how f*cked he is if he upsets her. She might not have a parent, a guardian angel or a fairy godmother, but she’s got one hell of a protective dragon sat, waiting for her back at home.
Fat lot of good he’s gonna do all the way back there though right?
“Hey! What the f*ck is this?”
Bringing her here with me was a massive f*cking oversight. Delilah probably doesn’t even know my face well enough to pick me out of a crowd. I could just have easily done this alone. If anything this old sow of a hooker is blowing my cover.
“Will you please keep your voice down? Pretty please with a cherry on top?”
“I’m coming down hard right now buddy. If you want me to behave you’re gonna have to hook me up.”
“That wasn’t the deal. Just keep your hair on for another half an hour and you’re free to do what you want with the money I’m giving you.”
I say all of this with one eye on Delilah the whole time. I hear her laugh at whatever her date said, touching her neck while she talks to him. Sure sign that they’re gonna bang. That’s not the excellent news the young fella thinks it is either. Once Zmey finds out he’ll rip the kid’s d*ck right off.
My table-mate is starting to catch on to the fact that I’ve got an ulterior motive behind our being here. She turns around, all blatant like, and scours the room, not doing as I’ve requested this ENTIRE time.
“Who is it? Who the f*ck is it you’re so distracted by?”
People start to look again and I make a last ditch attempt at damage limitation.
“I’ll pay you double. How does that sound?”
“That sounds like you’re trying to shut me up. If you’re not gonna pay attention to me then at least f*ck me so I can leave.”
Oh. My. Days.
The room seems to have gone silent. We’re in a clichéd freeze frame moment from one of those sh*t British gangster films Michael always got a boner over. I can see Delilah shifting in her seat, about to look over her shoulder at all the fuss.
I don’t think there’s much chance of her recognising me, but I can’t take that kind of risk, no matter how small. Snatching up my table spoon I hop out of my seat, grab the wh*re by her arm and usher her out of harm’s way. My harm, not hers.
Before you know it she’s tumbling into the disabled bathroom, the only thing stopping her from falling face first are her hands on the rim of the toilet seat. She stares into the bowl as I follow her in, her skirt already hoisted right up over her unadorned ass.
I dig into my pocket, past my completely docile c*ck, and pull out the bone of crack I scored earlier on in an attempt to coax this hag into doing more than her usual service. I hold the rock in the palm of my hand, spit on it and then, with no warning to her, shove it, and two of my fingers up her assh*le. There’s a little yelp and then an attempt at telling me off, but before she knows it I’ve pushed her face into the water and flushed the damn thing.
I hold her there for a few seconds. Just long enough to scare the f*ck out of her, but not long enough to do any real damage. I don’t think. Her arms are flailing and her legs give way, pulling my digits from her cavity and slamming her knees against the tiled floor.
I’m still holding her under.
Hello sailor. All this excitement has got things stirring downstairs. The blood rushes and things start to swell.
Okay, that should do it. I smack her on the backside, pull her head from the toilet pan and let her flop to the ground. Her soaked hair tangles across her face while she gasps for air. I think about unzipping, but remember I’ve got more important matters to attend to.
“You…*cough*……..f*cking….*cough*…..psycho mother…..”
Enough.
“Enough.”
I stuff the outstanding half of the agreed fee into her mouth, wipe my fingers on her blouse, and then step outside before she can object. To keep things from immediately boiling over I have to act quickly, and I do. Of course I do.
I pull out the spoon and jam the flat handle into the gap beside the hinges on the closed toilet door. That should keep her occupied for long enough to realise she’s got drugs on….sorry, in her person.
And now I casually saunter back into the seating area of the establishment, hoping that everyone’s moved on from that little scene. I’m right, people are back to their hors d'oeuvres and no one so much as glances at me as I decide it’s time to act on the presence of my target…..only…..she’s gone.
F*ck.
“F*ck”
It comes out verbally, under my breath as well. How can they be gone already? They hadn’t even been shown to their table yet?
“Excuse me. Excuse me, waiter?”
“Yes sir?”
“The young couple who were at the bar just now. Have you seated them somewhere? The woman is a friend’s daughter and I wanted to say hi.”
“Oh I’m sorry sir, they were only stopping in for a drink. On their way to somewhere else I believe.“
Sh*t arse.
“Sh*t arse.”
“I’m sorry sir?”
“Oh. Nothing. Thanks.”
He smiles and gets back to things, leaving me wondering how I f*cked this whole thing up so royally?
Time to spin this into a victory of sorts. I am the spin doctor after all.
Just knowing her whereabouts should be enough to light a fire under the Dragon’s arse. So what if I didn’t manage to kidnap her? It’s probably a blessing in disguise given that I’ve recently been a suspect in another case, and given the fact I just left a semi conscious dope wh*re locked in the disabled toilet.
Yeah.
This worked out pretty well all things considered.
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So, Zmey. How was Delilah’s date?
Did she enjoy her Cosmopolitan?
Who the f*ck am I kidding? You don’t know what a Cosmopolitan is. You probably don’t even know what a date is. I image where you come from you just grab the nearest “no tail” that happens past you on your 16th birthday, and that’s it. Mother to your children.
Let me try to simplify it. What I’m asking is, did Delilah have a nice time with her man friend the other night? Did she have some fun for the first time in an age? Did she laugh, and swoon, and feel the tender caress of another human? Did she get a stash of drugs shoved up her backside and her head flushed in a toilet? No? Send her my way. I know how to show a woman a good time.
Irregardless of that last point, you need to keep a closer eye on her Zmey. It’s a dangerous world out there and you never know who’s watching……but of course you know that.
But do you know me?
Do you know what I’m capable of…..Subutai?
Because I sure know you. I know more about you than you might care to imagine Tugarin.
Most importantly, I know your weakness. Perhaps your only weakness. We both know physicality isn’t an option. No. If I want to get to your soft and gooey centre I need to hit you elsewhere. I’ve learned where to strike to REALLY hurt you.
But I don’t hate you. And honestly? I don’t care enough about you to make this really personal. But I do want you to remember that I know. I know about her.
Some might think I’m making a mistake in telling you this. That this knowledge will only serve to give you strength. That instinct in you to protect her will kick in, and that will be the death of Drakz. But do you want to know what I think? Of course you don’t. But I’ll tell you anyway. I think right now you’re seeing red. I think that come bell time you’ll be as good as colour blind. So charged up that you’ll put a foot wrong. You’ll make a mistake. You’ll cut the wrong wire, and then? Boom.
You self destruct.
Prove me wrong big man. Biggest of men.
Show us all you have restraint. Show us that you’ve grown enough in all these years to keep your head. Try to keep your cool, knowing that it wouldn’t take much for me to take her away from you. She was so close Zmey. I could smell her perfume. That scent must drive you crazy. Putting on her perfume before she left. A sure sign that whilst you have to keep your hands off, some other guy is no doubt putting his all over her. Let’s see if you can display that same restraint when we arrive in sunny Scotland.
We both know I can’t physically dominate you, and I know that any edge I have in technique is simply ruled out by your raw power. But I’ve been in this line of work longer than you. Sure, you’ve killed fools. Been a mercenary. Killing other idiots is easy game though. What I really want to know is when was the last time you tried to destroy someone smarter than any man you’ve ever called Mas’er?
Someone who’s smart enough to know this isn’t the bloody Thunderdome?
I’m not trying to fight you Tugarin. I’m not trying to show the world I’m the stronger, more dominant force. No. I’m trying to beat you. This isn’t a battle to the death. This is a battle until the bell rings again. You’d do well to remember that. I don’t have to put you down forever to come out of this on top. I only have to put you down for 3 seconds. You can pop right back up again for all I care. What matters is who has their hand raised by that referee afterwards, not who still has their head. Though that said, I intend on keeping mine.
My head. My championship. My career.
For now at least.
So do your homework Zmey. Settle your temper. Meditate.
Or don’t surprise me at all, and just come in swinging.
Beat your wings and raze this f*cking village to the ground.
Maybe after all this talk it will be you who finally puts this legend to rest?
Maybe I’m already just a pile of ashes?
, and how sick and twisted he is, seeing just how far he can go. 
