Post by Bernard de Montfort on Jun 16, 2013 16:07:22 GMT
“Jesus, how did you get out that one?”
Bernard shrugs, taking another gulp of beer.
“Lord knows, it is all about luck. My date with destiny was merely postponed by an air strike.”
“Shit. I don’t know how you do it.”
“Somebody has to play with Daddy’s toys.”
“I guess the army is as good a career as any for the son of an arms manufacture. Although I feel a lot safer marketing the product than firing it.”
“You always were a coward.”
Bernard bumps playfully into his brother Edward, sharing a laugh.
“Although, if you just used a few of the guns maybe the press would go easier on you.”
“I don’t know if you heard, Bernard, but threatening the tabloids usually doesn’t end well, this isn’t the middle ages anymore.”
“Shame.”
“So, are you glad to be back?”
“I think I can live without the daily threats to my life from bombs and machine gun fire.”
“Yeah, now it’s just Ford Focuses driven by middle aged women.”
The pair laugh when they are approached by their elder brother, Henry de Montfort. He is dressed in a suit with a stoic look on his face.
“Henry, come to welcome me home.”
“No. Quite the opposite, I’d rather you went back.”
Edward suddenly sits up and gets between the pair.
“Brother, please. Bernard has been in a warzone, cut him some slack.”
“I’ll cut him some slack when he doesn’t lose a whole shipment of air-to-air missiles to fucking insurgents.”
Bernard grins.
“Well, they did ask nicely, brother. Who can resist a man in a turban with an AK?”
“Shut up you little prick, you’re just lucky that father bought your little sob story.”
Edward sighs.
“Must you always be like this with one another? Can’t we just enjoy a drink?”
“No, Edward, Bernard is needed elsewhere.”
Bernard places his drink down.
“Say’s who?”
“Our father, you know, the man who continues to put up with your consistent failures?”
“Why?”
“He wants you to help him with his recent investment into New Championship Wrestling, for some reason he thinks you may have the skills to help.”
“You mean he has some dirty work he wants doing and he knows you’re not man enough to handle it.”
Suddenly Henry moves forward, pushing Edward to one side, staring Bernard straight in the eyes.
“Listen you little shit, when our father wants something, we get it done. I don’t have time to stand here trading pleasantries with you, frankly spending more then two minutes with you makes me skin crawl. So pay your tab, get your ass to the airport and fuck off to Chicago and do what is asked of you.”
The pair share a intense stare for a few more moments before Henry turns and scowls at Edward before marching back through the crowd.
“Jesus, what crawled up his ass?”
“I don’t know, maybe if something did he may lighten up a little?”
The two brothers laugh as they clink their bottles together, continuing their merriment in defiance of their elder brother’s orders.
~*~
Ever since I stepped foot on these shores I’ve heard one ringing critique of the profession I have chosen to partake in.
“Violence never solves anything.”
Really?
I’d beg to differ, violence solves everything. I know, I know, this doesn’t slot into the neo-liberal mindset we’ve been programmed with, barking out politically correct responses to awkward questions, but the fact is anybody who feels violence is not a very, very effective tool for achieving the ends they require is naïve.
Just look at this country you all patriotically celebrate as a bastion of human evolution.
Do you really think anybody in the US of A would be getting a collective erection over the founding fathers and their right to shoot one another indiscriminately if they hadn’t thrown off the yolk of imperial oppression?
If the British Empire hadn’t resoundingly defied the ambitions of the conquest from the Third Reich do you honestly think that the worst result would have been the fact you’d need a copy of the Deustch Rosetta Stone to understand me?
Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Henry V, Napoleon Bonaparte… nobody remembers them for their great civilising mission.
Carefully constructed and directed violence is anything but a problem.
It is the solution to many ills.
Take my first week in IWF, one act of violence made more of an impact than simply turning up and wrestling whatever plethora of opponents I would have assigned to me that particular week. Cracking Verona over the head wasn’t only the ultimate release of built up tension, it was the best way to make you all stand up and pay attention.
The Street Fight this weekend will be no different.
One supreme act of violence will cease the battle of wills and make an unassailable imprint on the early history of this company and I fully plan to use violence to make myself into a vital cog in the inner machinations of this company.
Violence is a weapon to achieve my ends.
Which start this week, firstly with removing Verona from his pedestal, and secondly inserting myself into the Heir to the Throne tournament without Daddy dearest’s help.
We would anybody accusing me of nepotism, would we?
I know there are some sensitive types in professional wrestling who cannot separate business from family, it’ll be a fun experience severing those ties for them. I have never needed my father to achieve my goals, in fact I have achieved in defiance of him, this will be no different.
I will make my stake to be the first ever Imperial Champion free of the shackles of parentalism by tearing through a field of seven other men to wrench it from their grip.
Although first there is a small matter of a Battle Royale to take care of.
Like many, I am an unknown element amongst so many familiar faces. There isn’t a man in this company who has an idea of what I am capable of and I plan to use that to my advantage this Sunday. When you expect me to shift left, I will sway right. When you expect me to throw a punch, I’ll kick you in the gut. Every expectation you have will never be met, unpredictable violence is my advantage, predictable exertions your weakness.
This contest will reward the resilient and punish the exuberant.
Staying power is the key, the ability to survive in the harshest conditions, like the cockroach it is those who will adapt from the ashes which consumed the might dinosaurs, ushering in a new world order.
One which will replace the ordained of old.
I am at the very vanguard of this new faction, a new wave of talent to eclipse the old and resign hem to the annals of history where the rightfully belong. To carve out new icons and ignite new stars in the sky.
Those who cling to the past will be resigned to it.
This weekend all I need do is survive. Survive until the final eight and then live to fight another day. There is not requirement to be left standing tall, so many place too much infantile importance on being able to declare themselves the “best”.
I’d sooner have longevity than short term glory.
There are some who view this opportunity as rewarding the failure of those who are incapable of winning their respective belts this weekend, I beg to differ. This is an opportunity to make amends for your mistakes, to insert yourself into a month long penance, to redeem oneself and to be rewarded with the most prestigious prize in recognition of that redemption.
Too many men are consigned to viewing ultimate success on a weekly basis, victory by victory, defeat by defeat.
The end game is far longer than their confined definition of success.
Whatever happens this weekend, it will not determine the fate of the Imperial Championship, merely set destiny on its course towards it. I plan to book my place and worry about the consequence of my sequence of elimination at a later date, the important thing is securing my spot.
No matter what Verona unleashes upon me, I will do whatever it takes to survive and make it to the final eight of this competition.
To do the name of the de Montfort’s proud once more, to cleanse our name and return glory to our house.
Like my father.
This weekend I show my quality.
This weekend I make an impact.
~*~
“Father”
Simon looks up from behind a large wooden desk, strewn with paper work and model prototypes of a variety of killing devices.
“Bernard. What took you so long?”
Bernard scratches the back of his head awkwardly.
“I got delayed at Heathrow, you know how it is…”
Simon cocks an eyebrow.
“Quite.”
The pair share a silence before Simon looks up again.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Have a seat.”
“Yes, father.”
Bernard pulls of the nearest chair and sits down obediently.
“So, why did you send for me?”
“I have a purpose I require you to fulfil. My client requires your expertise in violent escapades for our latest business venture.”
“New Championship Wrestling?”
“Yes.”
“Just who is this client?”
“The NCW World Champion.”
“Xander?”
Simon laughs.
“Oh, boy, you’ve been away a while. The current champion is Roberto Verona and he would like our help to secure a permanent place at Kelly Fox’s dinner table.”
“May I ask…”
Bernard pauses, seeking affirmation from his father. Simon nods his head.
“Why?”
“I thought you may. I owe Mr. Verona a favour, on account of his father. Our business is violence, and in a manner of speaking, so is his.”
“Then what is it he requires of me?”
“He requires some physical insurance, to further his interests. You’ll remain anonymous of course, but he requires a task force capable of striking at any place, any time.”
“And that is why you wanted me?”
“Yes. Edward isn’t capable of fulfilling the subtle nuances a weapon can provide and Henry… he is far too important to the company to insert into a scenario so dangerous. You’re perfect.”
“You mean I am disposable.”
Simon lets out a deep sigh.
“You misunderstand me. You have the most useful skillset for this particular job, you need to stop looking at everything as an insult, Bernard.”
“Yes… forgive me father.”
“You needn’t ask for forgiveness, boy. Just do as Mr. Verona wants, I have every faith you will be useful to him.”
“Very well.”
Bernard bows his head before lifting himself up from his chair, heading to the exit. He suddenly pauses, turning to face his father.
“It was nice to see you again, father…”
Simon, already returned to his paperwork simply continues to read.
“Mhmm.”
Bernard closes his eyes and sighs, turning away disappointedly before exiting the office.
Well howdy there pardner.