A New Man?

[Cyrus Daniels]

DR NICOLE KINGSLEY, MD

HEAD PHYSICIAN

IWF MEDICAL SERVICES UNIT

The bold clear letters etched in glass marked her authority. Acfew years ago, Cyrus Daniels regarded her official position as a challenge, now it seemed more like a warning. Where once he would have marched into her office, bent her over her desk and relieved her of every duty except to him, now he hesitated.

Cyrus hadn’t officially wrestled in several years, but Nicole had been his way to stay connected to the world he left behind. A world he was too real and too raw for, because he’d never learned how to pull his punches or how to drop an opponent safely. He wasn’t an actor or a stuntman, and whilst IWF’s trainers and coaches had agreed that at 6’11 and 327 pounds, he had an impressive core strength and power base, apparently he lacked the showmanship, finesse and charisma to be anything truly special in professional wrestling. In their last meeting seven years ago, Verona had reluctantly let him out of his contract because Cyrus refused to follow their script for him as just a sideshow freak for the true stars of the business to ultimately conquer. Nicole didn’t give up on him so easily.

She had tried to maintain their personal relationship, even as Cyrus was forced to drift away from the rehearsed pageantry of professional wrestling to the raw brutality of boxing and MMA. For a while, she had even been the only doctor he so implicitly trusted. Often, he’d show up here, at her office, battered and bruised and she’d tend to him in any way he needed, even off the clock. She had a wonderful way of treating him without asking too many questions, of believing him when he said that his latest bruises were from MMA and that his freshest cuts were from amateur boxing.

The last time he was here, he’d marched into her office with such focused tunnel vision that he’d completely ignored that she was with a patient. He’d swept her up in a long passionate kiss eager to celebrate the signing of his most lucrative MMA deal to date. It wasn’t until Vivienne Rodgers had a small less than subtle cough that he’d even noticed her.

Nicole had introduced him as her boyfriend, but whereas he could not recall any significant detail of her appearance that day, he remembered Vivienne’s tight red dress vividly. He remembered telling her that red was most definitely her colour and he had laughed when she apologised for blushing. He then remarked that if she turned any redder she’d disappear into her dress and that would be a great shame.

A harmless remark, about as tame as Cyrus had ever been in his flirting, but one Nicole couldn’t and wouldn’t let go of, even long after Vivienne had left the office. He told Nicole that whilst red was Vivienne’s colour, green almost certainly wasn’t Nicole’s. He then reasserted his control over the situation and his girlfriend by bending her over her desk and taking her until she learned her place in his life and begged for his forgiveness.

He had gotten through a couple rounds of her mediocre consensual non consent submissive play with Nicole by imagining Vivienne in her tight red dress, begging for him. Nicole could beg about as believably as he could wrestle, and so whilst Nicole was cuddling in his arms as part of their aftercare routine, Cyrus picked his moment and said they should invite Vivienne for a night of NSA fun. Nicole agreed, told him she’d do anything for him and even reasoned that it might be nice to not have to deal with his intensity all by herself for a change.

Madison Weatherby snapped Cyrus out of his reverie by draping an olive tie around his neck.

“Is all this really necessary?” Cyrus groaned, “I’m already wearing the bloody suit.”

“We can’t take any chances.” Madison folded the tie neatly around his neck. “You need to show her you’re a changed man, not just so she’ll clear you to wrestle again, but also to give her no reason to be reminded of the unfortunate events of your last meeting.”

“I don’t think a blue suit and green tie is gonna make her forget why she kicked me out.”

“We’re not asking her to forget, hun. Just making sure she doesn’t have a reason to cite the DV incident as a reason for why she won’t clear you. I pulled a lot of strings to get you this chance to rehabilitate your image on a more public and family friendly stage, and I won’t let a little lover’s spat jeopardise it…for either of us.”

“Ex-lover, Maddy, ex-lover,” Cyrus emphasised.

“Sure, sure, ex-lover.” Madison tightened the half-Windsor knot with the delicacy of a uniquely feminine touch. “I hear your current one has already been doing the rounds for us like a good girl. Got her well trained already. Any better and we’re gonna need a leash and collar for her.”

“Her name is Vivienne,” Cyrus smiled. “An’ I already got her that for Valentine’s.”

“And they say romance is dead,” Madison smiled, folding the collar of his white shirt over the tie, she rest her hand on his chest a moment and held his gaze. “ There, now you look like a client worthy of my representation.”

Cyrus took a deep breath, turned towards the door, adjusted his tie. He walked into his former lover’s office, tailed by Madison who was strategically there as a witness to make sure things didn’t get out of control.

“G’day, Nic,” Cyrus greeted casually.

“Dr Kingsley,” she corrected, closing Warren Harper’s medical record on her computer. “Ya lost Nic privileges a while ago.”

“Right, right,” Cyrus said. He tried to ignore the itch that was rapidly spreading from his palm to the rest of his body. Inflamed and irritated by the fine navy threads he was restrained by as much as they way she dared speak to him. The bitch clearly had not learned to respect him, even after all this time.

“Dr Kingsley, Madison Weatherby.” Madison stepped forward and extended her hand, literally interjecting herself to prevent unnecessary escalation of a clearly awkward situation. “I’m here to represent my client’s best interests.”

Nicole returned an insincere handshake for the sake of professionalism, as Cyrus enjoyed the subtle flicker of apprehension and fear in her eyes. She broke eye contact first, letting him know she was no longer in as firm control as she appeared. The threat of the law working for him for a change was a new sensation, one he rather enjoyed seeing in action.

“We have the signed contract in hand and a meeting with Mr Verona scheduled for this afternoon,” Madison said.

“An’ a dinner date in the evenin’,” Cyrus taunted, simply because it amused him.

“So all we need from you doctor is an official clearance. The sooner we have it, the sooner we will be out of your hair,” Madison said.

“Of course. I understand,” Nicole swallowed awkwardly.

“Good girl,” Cyrus smirked.

“Oh fuck off.” Nicole regretted the words as soon as they left her lips, but it was too late to take them back, so she shrugged them off. “Right, let’s get this over with, shall we, Mr Daniels?”

Nicole gestured to the examination table, whilst Madison made herself a part of the furniture in the corner of the office. It was almost a novelty for Cyrus to follow Nicole’s instructions, shame she wasn’t this much fun during their last threesome Cyrus thought as he sat down.

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Cyrus Daniels sat in an old cane chair, in navy pants and a white shirt half unbuttoned, teasing his monstrous physique underneath. Almost as if the shirt was a thin veil, barely containing him. A lit cigarette hung from his mouth as he smirked, taking a drag before he exhaled and spoke, low and raspy.

G’day.

Betcha never thought you’d see the likes of me again, ‘ey?

I’ll admit, for years a return to this place was never on the cards an’ then by pure happenstance I met a Viking you may be familiar with on the MMA circuit, hell he may even show up in this match for all I know an’ though we ain’t mates he told me about how much fun he was havin’ here. Balancin’ the best of both worlds, even told me he’d met someone very special here, so I figured what the hell, everyone deserves a second chance, right?

So here I am, seven years after my last pro wrestlin’ beatin’ the shit outta a dominant World Champion in a steel cage. The very same World Champion who I’m told until very recently was the very best but don’t even go here anymore. Shame, really.

‘Course I ain’t surprised.

This company has a dreadful history of sidelining blokes like me in favour of younger, more athletic pretty boys. Blokes who look good with their faces blown up on the side of a production truck. Blokes like Andrew Jacobsen, Warren Kane an’ Ryan Shane - the guy who took everythin’ from me when I was in this match eight years ago.

Whatever happened ta him?

Oh right, he was another youngster Verona backed who don’t go here anymore.

See the pattern yet Bertie?

Every single hot prospect ya ever pushed ahead of me never quite panned out long term, did they? Tell me, was it really worth sacrificin’ my momentum as Extreme Champion for a snot nosed punk who thought it was the height of hilarity ta make his banana sandwich fetish his whole bloody personality?

Ya had a legit God killer in me an’ rather than capitalise on that, ya relegated me ta a bloody joke. Need I remind you that I was embarrassin’ prominent members of the Kane bloodline long before Dean Harper earned his crust by literally rootin’ ‘em?

I beat the shit outta the father and the son, hell ya could dig up Spike’s old bones an’ I’d complete the trifecta by beatin’ the unholy ghost of Kane back into the dirt under my boot. Ya know that, don’t ya?

‘Course you do mate.

After all, somethin’ made ya reach out ta me again, didn’t it, Verona?

Yet another promise of a new direction.

Yet another assurance of a clean slate.

You’ve said all the right things so far, tellin’ me how much ya admire how I’ve been able ta reinvent myself and hone my natural talent for hurtin’ people in both boxin’ and MMA, an’ now you’ve left the ball in my court ta steal the biggest main event in a decade of big money matches away from each of your classically trained wrestlers.

Ya promised me a new bookin’ philosophy an’ ya promised me a fair shake on this go ‘round. I’ll admit I thought you were just honey coating shit again until my legal advisor pointed out that someone who murdered a legend live on IWF TV six years ago is now a four time World Champion.

The very bloke I will come face to face with after I dispose of twenty-nine younger, more agile spot monkeys and for the first time in Night Of The Immortals history reserve the most important spotlight not for self proclaimed Gods or their wayward sons, but rather men.

Real men.

Men of flesh, blood and spunk. Real men who aren’t afraid to beat the snot and the piss out of jumped up little shits like Dean Harper just ‘cause they can. An’ ‘cause I know the little Blake prince is watchin’, son you better be ready ‘cause when all is said and done I’ll show the world why I’ve never believed in either you or your Pops before you.

In time, you’ll see, you’ve nothin’ to threaten me with.

No power.

No reputation.

Nothin’.