Raising The Stakes

[Cyrus Daniels]

Cyrus Daniels and Vivienne Rodgers had spent most of the day touring the sights of Rome together. They had split the attractions they wanted to see fairly evenly. Vivienne got to visit the Trevi fountain again, and Cyrus got to tour the gladiatorial arena at the Colosseum. During a light pasta dinner by candlelight at an authentic Italian restaurant, Vivienne absolutely insisted that they should do something he wanted to do, since he had been keeping her so well throughout this European tour.

“Do ya play pool, Kitten?” Cyrus asked, feeding her the finest carbonara lovingly, their mutual gaze held.

“I haven’t played pool since I was a kid,” Vivienne beamed. Her face filled with a new light, as she once again surprised Cyrus with her enthusiasm for the things he enjoyed. “I’d love to play again.”

“Then yeah,” Cyrus smiled. “We should do that, right?”

Between shared bites, Cyrus searched out a local pool club on his phone. He read through the poorly translated website as best he could and decided from the photos that it looked decent enough.

“The Cathedral Club,” he nodded, decisively. “That’s where we’ll go.”

By the time they were done at the restaurant, it was late evening. They groped, fondled and caressed each other in the back of the taxi to the club, and because the driver had been so considerate as to mind his own business entirely, Cyrus tipped him even more generously than he had the wait staff at the restaurant.

The lateness of their arrival meant Cyrus had to ring a bell to be admitted. Vivienne instinctively held onto him a little tighter as the atmosphere seemed a little sketchy at first. Luckily, somebody on staff spoke English well enough to understand not only Cyrus’ accent but also his request for a pool table. He was presented with a pass and asked for two Euros, and then a further twelve per hour of play. Cyrus confirmed he understood and was promptly shown to a table.

It wasn’t busy, besides them, there were only half a dozen others here. This relative privacy seemed to relax Vivienne considerably. Cyrus lit himself a cigarette, whilst Vivienne walked slowly around the table, as if reacquainting herself with it. She seductively traced her finger along the varnished wooden edges on her way around.

“Want to make our game more interesting?” Vivienne asked.

The innocence of her question was severely undermined by the devilish sparkle in her narrowed brown eyes and the low seductive whisper of her tone, telltale traits with which Cyrus had become intimately familiar with in recent months, but he played along, this little dance of theirs was essentially foreplay.

“What’d ya have in mind, Kitten?”

“Raising the stakes,” Vivienne grinned. “Like, if I pot number seven from the break in the bottom corner, we play with hot wax on my tits.”

“Kinky,” Cyrus teased, “But I love it.”

“I knew you would,” Vivienne giggled, “So you in, yeah? It’ll be fun, I promise.”

“Too right I’m in, Kitten,” Cyrus said. “Let’s see what else your filthy little mind can come up with.”

“You get to wager things too. No limits.” Vivienne grabbed two pool cues, one of which she handed to him, whilst stealing a quick kiss in exchange.

Cyrus watched her set up the balls in the middle of the table, and reflected on how unrestrained she was becoming the more time she spent with him. Maybe it really was true that love had a way of changing you. Seeing her sexual confidence and liberation bloom before him was one of the most potent and intoxicating turn-ons he’d ever experienced with anybody. She absolutely adored him and though he was not a spiritual man, he imagined that this must be how people felt when they were blessed. Her hips swayed as she leant over the table and quite deliberately stuck her rear out in his direction, the champagne colour of her dress only seemed to accentuate the luxury of her curves, a luxury no other man could afford.

“Want me to break, honey?”

“Oh, yeah,” Cyrus blinked himself out of his fixation and returned to the present moment, smiling at her as she looked back over her shoulder at him.

Vivienne smiled and lined up her shot, "Seven, corner pocket. Hot wax." She broke with precision, her unforgotten skill resurfacing, like riding a bike.

The balls scattered around the table, and the shot she called sailed in, almost effortlessly. Vivienne stood up and smiled at him, confidently shaking her hips as she danced, taunting him, playfully. At that exact moment, Cyrus knew that he was in for the greatest game of his life.

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Cyrus Daniels stood in front of a pool table, the first four buttons of his navy blue shirt unfastened so as to tease his hairy and muscular torso underneath. Black trousers, leather shoes and belt with a steel buckle. His sleeves were unbuttoned and rolled up. His left wrist was adorned with a black wristband depicting a soundwave pattern. A cigarette in one hand and a pool cue in the other. He regarded the camera with a confident smirk.

Joker In The Pack, hey?

Historically, one of the most important matches in the Fed an’ absolutely not the kinda match you’d see a big bastard like me champin’ at the bit ta be apart of, not ‘cause I don’t value the carrot bein’ quite literally dangled above us in this match, but because it’s less of a straightforward fight than I’m used to. Realistically, this match is one for the flippy spot monkeys who wanna entertain the fans with fancy acrobatics and gymnastics, and all that work rate shit that bores me ta bloody tears.

I’d much rather beat the piss and shit outta ya with the ladder than climb it, honestly.

And maybe I still will, I just have ta keep my instinct in check and remember ta make sure that I don’t fuck myself over by breaking the ladder I need whilst I’m breakin’ each of the five other blokes in this match. Yeah, I said five and if you’re surprised by that you’re dumber than I thought. See, I get that there are no allies in this match, it’s every bloke for himself.

An’ that means that as much as The Russian Lion and I have found a common interest in smackin’ around a group who are actually proud ta be hired primarily ta fill a corporate diversity quota than any actual wrestlin’ ability or standout talent, when Tytus Rost dares ta cross me in this match - and I know he will - ‘cause I’d do the same - all bets are off.

The big Russki knew exactly the kinda deal he was strikin’ when he invited me ta join him in his plan ta make a statement by takin’ down a former World Champion in Pax Stormcrow and some of his closest mates. See, the bloke feels disrespected an’ overlooked, just like I was in my previous runs in this company, so I completely got where he was comin’ from.

We were gonna make sure Bertie knew we weren’t here ta be novelty acts.

It didn’t take much at all ta sell me on that particular mission statement, an’ well I’d say the plan worked out beautifully ‘cause look where we are now. Far from just filling the tired niche of the big foreign heel bastards for the American heroes of this industry ta routinely embarrass. Nah, now we’re finally bein’ taken seriously an’ treated like genuine physical threats.

It’s about bloody time Bertie recognised my worth ta his company.

As much as I think Chaney’s standup routine needs work, the guy’s wrestlin’ ability speaks for itself and so I totally get why he feels that good ol’ Bobby Verona ain’t givin’ him his just dues around here. But trust me mate, beneath the fancy suit an’ tie is a young wrestler still in his prime, so the only way you’re gonna get him ta take ya seriously is not by smashin’ equipment or beatin’ up his officials but rather by punchin’ him directly in the face a few times.

That’s my plan, anyway.

And hey, since Verona’s put himself in this match specifically ta stop Allen from takin’ one of the most valuable contract opportunities ever offered in this company, I’d say Chaney is gonna get his chance to do exactly that. And hey, as long as you’re willin’ ta stand in line and wait your turn on teachin’ Verona a few painful but overdue lessons in respect, then The Comedian and I are likely gonna find smashin’ that smug Italian mug against cold hard steel ta be somethin’ of a bondin’ experience, right?

After the over privileged pretty boy orphan has been humbled, then we can find out if you can fight as well as you wrestle, ‘cause believe me mate, whether ya realise it or not there is a difference, and when you cross me on Sunday I’ll be more than happy ta make the distinction painfully obvious.

Cyrus takes a moment to take a drag from his cigarette.

Speakin’ of painfully obvious, or should it be painfully oblivious? It seems that Mr Checkbox himself, Pax Stormcrow has a problem with Tytus and I makin’ him and his boys a target. Well, get used ta it kid, ‘cause if you’re not bein’ targeted in this business, you’re irrelevant, and so you should thank us for beatin’ the tar outta you and your little group of fashionable corporate identity avatars, ‘cause if it wasn’t for our intervention, the fact that you still worked here would be just as memorable as your transitional run as IWF’s World Champion.

Now I know ya didn’t hold the top title very long, but surely it gave you a little taste of bein’ a target. Bein’ a target is what this business is all about, it’s how most of us earn a livin’ in this business an’ if ya ain’t got the balls ta take that kinda pressure and run with it then it’s no wonder you’re seen as a stepping stone by so many of your peers, Pax.

You are livin’ proof that ya can have all the Olympic trainin’ in the world, but it don’t mean jackshit if you don’t know how ta apply it in the long term when it matters, and if hearin’ that pisses ya off, good. I want ya pissed, I want ya ta come at me with everythin’ ya have. I wanna know exactly how different it feels ta beat the most legitimate athlete in this match ta a bloody pulp. I’ve never had the chance before, so ya can bet your tanned arse that I ain’t about ta pass it up.

Cyrus grins.

Speakin’ of needin’ ta be bloodied, Sabin.

And yeah, I’m gonna call you Sabin ‘cause I’m not about ta indulge your God complex by takin’ any of your made up “demonic” personalities seriously. Personalities that only ever seem to surface when you’re intimidated by the reputation of a much bigger star and need ta compensate for professional impotency making yourself appear much bigger and much badder than you are.

See kid, I don’t need to compensate for my anger management or daddy issues by painting myself up like a clown, changing my name or talkin’ out my damn arse about how everyone is beneath me. And I certainly don’t need ta constantly reinforce how people are afraid of me.

Boy, I ain’t afraid of you. I ain’t afraid of your Daddy, I ain’t afraid of your Momma, I ain’t afraid of your Auntie or anybody else in your overrated family who compensates for having a memorable charm and natural charisma by exaggeratin’  their intermittent personality quirks ta comical levels.

The whole God schtick was old hat when Spike did it.

Ya ain’t him, just like ya ain’t your stepfather, boy.

Learn ta live with that disappointment, ya pale imitation.