Post by The Underdog on Feb 4, 2017 22:17:05 GMT
”MUSLIMS OUT! MUSLIMS OUT!”
“NO MORE TRUMP! NO MORE TRUMP!”
“Get out of our country! You’re not welcome here!”
“WE ARE ONE! WE ARE ONE!”
Quite frankly, Delhi Street hadn’t seen this much action since Hurricane Katrina…
The stretch of tarmac, one of many usually serene streets of suburbia in West Bossier City, Louisiana, had become overrun with a mass of humanity who filled the air with chanted proverbs, pledges and profanities. The rowdy assembly, which had by now swelled well into three figures, was gathered outside the local mosque, Masjid Alnoor, and had split into two distinct sub-groups, separated by a dangerously small number of local law enforcement officers.
On the mosque side of the street, a relatively small group had formed, made up of a real mix of ages, sizes, colours and fashions. Hand-scrawled banners and posters adorned with peace signs, pro-equality messages and, perhaps most prevalent of all, anti-Trump slogans were being waved with gusto. The group strained to make their voices heard over the second, much larger gathering across the street, which was made up almost entirely of white forty-somethings, and obvious supporters of the recently-elected Trump Administration.
The two groups continued with their loud, public proclamations. The crowd calling for equality chanted and shouted with conviction, yet conducted themselves with respect. Sadly, the same could not be said for the vast majority of the Trump supporters, who looked to be getting worked up to the point where thrown insults could quickly be replaced by thrown punches and projectiles.
“Wow… you really know how to pick ‘em, don’t you Will…?”
The muttered musings came from Jayson Jacques, who was stood observing the public confrontation from a third-floor window of the nearby ‘Quality Inn’. The big man craned his neck, peering out for one last look at the throng of protestors below, before shaking his head almost disbelievingly. As he turned away from the window, he looked around at their latest lodgings, with an expression that suggested that suing the Quality Inn motel chain for false advertising was at the forefront of his mind.
The room was anything but quality.
The single beds, flimsy metal frames slightly bowed in the middle, looked barely capable of supporting a docile cat. The cream-coloured paint peeled off the walls at seemingly random intervals, leaving behind the sad sight of stained, cheap plasterboard underneath. The grey metal bracket holding the dated television set hung, sad and damaged, from its place high on the far wall.
Jay sighed, long and loud.
“Tell me again, exactly why, out of all of the resting spots in the entire state of Louisiana, you chose this place for us to spend the night…?!”
He looked over at the silent form of ‘The Underdog’ Will Peterson, who was sat on a fragile-looking office chair, hunched over a flat-pack half table, scrawling seemingly random notes on several different pieces of paper. Every now and then, Peterson would pause, staring at the wall in front of him with a faraway look in his eyes, chewing absent-mindedly on the end of his pen, before diving down and scribbling furiously once more.
“Well you’re quite the conversationalist this afternoon…” Jay sarcastically spoke to the back of Will’s head.
Still silence, save for yet more frantic scribbling.
“Remind me – what exactly is it that you are doing again?”
“Trying to work this out…” Will finally muttered in reply.
Jayson sighed again.
“Work it out? What do you mean?”
“I need to… to fit the pieces of the puzzle together.” Will said absent-mindedly.
“Pieces of the puzzle…?” Jay asked, confused. “What do you me-…”
“THIS!” Will shouted, turning quickly in his chair and snatching one of the many sheets up in one fluid movement. He roughly thrusted the familiar looking document in his manager’s face; Jayson had to take a step back and a moment to look, before he realised that it was the now ubiquitous ‘Proverbs 4:19’ postcard that had taken on such meaning for Peterson over the last few weeks.
Jayson had to catch himself from showing his disappointment, fearing the wrath of his buddy, who was breathing heavily in front of him. He couldn’t, however, suppress a little sigh as he regarded Peterson through slightly sympathetic eyes.
“Will, I thought we talked about this…?” Jay spoke carefully.
Peterson dropped the postcard into its usual resting place – the back pocket of his navy jeans – before starting a slow pace around the motel room’s limited floor space, head bowed.
“Yeah… we talked.” Will said in a low voice. “And I listened. But I also started to remember. And to think… really think. And it’s all just a little bit too convenient. I can’t shake this, Jay. Something is definitely going on, and I need to piece it all together. To understand it. And to sort it out.”
“What do you mean?” Jay asked.
“I went through everything that has happened over the last few weeks, all of the little hints and messages and… and… clues that have been conveniently sprinkled in our path, like a trail of chocolate leading to the sweet riches of the gingerbread house. And as I sat and thought, more and more memories came back to me. Memories of a past that I was convinced I had left behind when we got on that plane a mere month ago. Yet here they are… already rearing their ugly head… haunting me…”
Jay’s eyes widened, his expression still one of sympathy, yet also with a tinge of fear for his partner’s mental wellbeing.
“Memories? What memories?”
Will stopped, now looking out of the room’s solitary window, though it was clear he had almost zero attention focused on the commotion which was still developing on the street outside.
“Memories… memories of childhood. And memories of my… of my f-…”
Will brought his right hand up, which was by now balled up into a tight fist, and let it fall onto the window pane with a dull thud. He swallowed hard, clearly unable to complete the sentence without cracking. The Underdog closed his eyes, resting his head softly against his own right arm, before turning and looking at his manager, a look of desperation and helplessness in eyes which were threatening tears. The two stood there for several moments, the only sound that of the crowd outside bleeding into the room through single-glazed window glass.
Finally, Jayson broke the tension with a clap of his hands which echoed throughout the poky room, his manner suddenly businesslike.
“Right, well that’s all well and good, but this isn’t doing either of us any favours is it?” he said briskly. “Come on, I think cabin fever is probably setting in. We should get out; go for a walk or even better, a run. And get you prepared for yet another victory on Monday night.”
“Jay… I need to…” Will began his protestations in a quiet, unconvincing tone, gesturing sadly at the papers littering the table. But Jacques cut him off, still bustling around the motel room like a seasoned mother preparing husband and children for the day ahead.
“What you need, is to remember that you’ve got a job to do…”
Will let his arm drop forlornly down by his side as he watched Jay zip up his dark olive bomber jacket.
“… and a legacy to forge…”
The Underdog looked up at his partner through slightly narrowed eyes, the tiniest hint of a wry smile dancing on his lips; he was clearly fighting against the obvious attempts to stir and motivate him.
“… and you have people out there waiting for you to make them proud.”
Jay stepped directly in front of his charge, grasping Will’s shoulder with his left hand whilst holding out The Underdog’s jacket in his other. The two locked eyes again, only now Will’s expression of helplessness had been replaced by a look of quiet defiance and intensity.
“You really are a cunt sometimes, you know that don’t you…”
Jay flashed a toothy smile, letting go of Will’s jacket before turning on his heel and heading for the door. Will snatched the coat up a split second before it dropped completely to the floor and with a final, wistful look back at the papers which still adorned the cheap table behind him, he followed his longtime pal out of the motel room and out into the madness of Delhi Street.
*****************************************************************************
Mere minutes later, and the duo of Peterson and Jacques were stood several yards away from the protests in front of the mosque, hands thrust deep into pockets to protect against the chilly evening wind that blew around them. The shouting and chanting was still in full flow, from both sides, and although neither side had progressed from their MO, one or two of the police officers that separated them were beginning to look a touch nervous at the thought of the current situation breaking down into something which might require a little more action…
“Mental world we’re living in eh?” Jay said as he watched a particularly rowdy pro-Trump protester take off his wifebeater vest and swing it about his head, all the while shouting random, profanity-filled bile at anyone who would listen.
Will nodded.
“Yup. The kind of world where a talented, intelligent wrestler ends up burdened with a morbid, rambling sap as his partner in his pay-per-view debut. A sap that was doing his level best to put him in the hospital the previous week, no less!”
Jayson raised an eyebrow.
“Still bitter then?” he said with a chuckle.
Will shook his head condescendingly.
“Honestly, sometimes I feel like there’s some kind of conspiracy against me…”
Jay barked out a laugh.
“Ha! Paranoid, much? Besides, you need to stop thinking about last week, and start looking forward; next week could be a big one – the start of something special. A shot at one of IWF’s revered champions. An opportunity for you to get some long-overdue recognition for your graft in this business. Finally, a chance at some real glory.”
Will nodded, his face set in a determined stare.
“For all of my moaning, it is reassuring that IWF seem to appreciate that actions speak louder than words. This little streak already seems to be doing wonders for my career, already opening doors, revealing new, and exciting prospects. Next week, finally, I’ll have a chance to test myself against the calibre of opponents that I crave…”
“… And Leon Black.” Jay finished with a grim smile, causing Will to scowl.
“Ahh yes, our resident gravedigger.” he mused. “What more can I say about The Blackened Light, or as I like to call him – Wrestling’s Biggest Dimmer Switch. With emphasis on the ‘dim’. The man is like a bipolar inpatient. Or a hormonal, pre-menstrual woman. One minute he’s getting all ‘angsty teenager’ on us, shouting out all of his pent up anger and frustration with idle, empty threats of hospital visits and melodramatic sacrifices. Then we get him in the ring, and all of a sudden he’s like an over-excited puppy, putting aside all of his dark and brooding thoughts in favour of a desperate desire to impress, to belong.
But sadly for Leon, he will never belong here in the IWF. This promotion doesn’t need him, it barely even wants him. He can quote his stories of darkness, tales of Heaven and Hell, but for him, the sad ending to the story is that he does not have the ability to make it to the promised land, forever destined to fall into his own personal purgatory. He is inconsequential, and not deserving of this golden opportunity being afforded to him.”
“He is a factor in this matchup, Will, however small.” Jay responded sternly. “You outwrestled him two weeks ago, yes, and you carried him at Metamorphosis. You know you have his number, so just make sure that you wrestle smartly, with this…” he pointed to the side of his head, “… and not this…” before pointing to his heart, “… and you can safely focus on the other two competitors in the matchup.”
Will nodded; almost without thinking, and practically perfectly in sync, the two began slowly pacing along the sidewalk.
“So first, we need to think about Bob Pooler.” Jay said.
Will let out a low whistle.
“Now here is the step up in class and calibre of opponent that I was talking about. We go from a freaky, face-painted flop to a bona-fide legend who has, to borrow a phrase, spent more time on that canvas than Rembrandt. Backstage, he commands a hell of a lot of respect, and from what I’ve seen, he’s technically sound and can dig in and scrap when required too.
Yet despite all of that, Pooler still confuses me; he’s something of an enigma. You see, he’s managed to reach this revered, legendary status without really seeming to achieve much success in IWF. Not one title reign. Not one major pay-per-view victory in recent memory. Nothing. Bob Pooler, then could be considered the perennial underachiever in this company.”
“A dangerous beast.” Jayson mused. “A sleeping giant, perhaps, just waiting to awaken and unleash his full potential on an unwary opponent.”
“Wise words, Jay.” Will replied. “And there’s no doubt that Pooler deserves my, and anybody else’s, respect. And d’you know why? You know what he’s got that could negate any and all flaws in his game? Charisma. That’s the ‘it factor’ for Pooler. He’s not just some nameless, faceless wrestling machine or over-dramatic, no-action windbag. He has character. He is a master of the spoken word. He practically demands the reaction that he seeks, whether from opponent or fan, and more often than not, the man gets it, and uses it to his fullest advantage.
So yeah, Pooler deserves respect. But certainly not fear. Because if you’re going to go out there and make a name for yourself, to get to the top, what better way to do it than to climb the metaphorical ladder and throw the established names right off the top. Pooler may be ‘The Underachiever’, and I surely am ‘The Underdog’; but the difference between those two? Even when he’s not the biggest dog in the fight, The Underdog finds a way to come out on top, whilst The Underachiever fades, once more, back into obscurity.”
Jay turned his head slightly, surreptitiously checking Will out as he got into his flow, looking impressed with his attitude.
“And finally, we’ve got The Demon of Sobriety, Dorian Hawkhurst, to contend with.” Jay said.
“Ahh yeah, Wino Walter” Will replied, sneering. “Wonder how many bottles he’ll have worked his way through before he staggers through the curtain on Monday night…”
Jay frowned.
“Come on Will, it’s a serious condition. And full credit to him, he’s at least shown some remorse and desire to get his life back on the straight and narrow. He’s not your run-of-the-mill, easy pickings closing time drunk.”
Will snorted, but looked to be taking the prospect of Hawkhurst a little more seriously as he continued on.
“No, you’re right.” he said. “And I think that’s what happened in the past – people have had the same complacent attitude when stepping through those ropes to face Hawkhurst. Unfortunately for them, they’ve then been met not with a clueless, bumbling pisshead, but a focused and fiery animal. Just like Black, Hawkhurst seems to be a completely different person inside the ring compared to out of it, but unlike Wrestling’s Biggest Dimmer Switch, it works to his advantage.”
“You’re right.” Jay said. “He’s picked up some impressive victories over some impressive opponents in recent weeks. But surely, you’ve seen enough of him not to be surprised on Monday?”
“Damn straight.” Will growled back. “I’ll have him well-scouted, and if there’s one person in the match that I feel confident enough that I’ll be able to out-wrestle from a technical point-of-view, it’s Hawkhurst. He won’t surprise me though. None of them will. You have to have your wits about you in this sort of matchup, and I’ll have eyes in the back of my head, my arse, and m-…”
Will stopped in his tracks, staring dead ahead at the baying crowd, who were now much closer than before. He’d stopped so suddenly that it was several steps before Jayson had realised, and turned his head back towards his pal, looking confused.
“Will, what’s wrong?” Jay asked, a quizzical look on his face.
Will squinted, staring deeper into the throng.
“I thought I could see th-…”
Will didn’t finish, as in a flash, he tore into the crowd like a man on a mission. Shouts, screams, flailing elbows and stray boots all rained down on Peterson as he pushed and shoved his way through the mob, fighting desperately not to lose sight of his target.
After an almighty struggle, Will emerged on the other side, looking utterly bedraggled, still turning his head frantically this way and that, panicked that he’d been too slow. Just as he seemed to be losing all hope, he spotted the hem of a grubby, shabby, yet familiar looking long coat disappearing around the corner of Delhi Street into the gloom of an unnamed side street. Will didn’t think twice, instead tearing off full pelt in the same direction.
Peterson arrived in the alleyway panting and heaving, stopping begrudgingly with his hands on his knees in an attempt to recover from his exertions. His break didn’t last long, though, as a nearby rustling jolted him upright, The Underdog peering into the darkness for the source.
Through the gloom came the image of a bedraggled, broken down human, but one we have seen before, albeit in slightly more pleasant locale. Here, in Louisiana, surrounded by black garbage bags, sat the drunken, homeless religious preacher first encountered in Florida, some one thousand miles away. The hobo clutched his ever-present bible, taking a deep swig from the labelless green bottle in his other hand, before throwing it down with an echoing SMASH.
Will moved towards the drunken figure warily, but disturbed some stones and broken glass under his feet as he did so, drawing the attention of the slumped preacher. Will stared at him. He stared at Will. The wind whistled through the alleyway. Everything was still, until finally, the drunken preacher smiled widely at The Underdog, waggling his bible out towards him, clearly goading him.
Will snapped, rushing towards the would-be cleric, snarling. He hauled him out of his trash-filled resting place, before tossing him roughly to the ground. Peterson followed him down, getting right up in his face as his screams echoed long into the ever-darkening sky.
“WHO ARE YOU?!” he asked furiously. “HOW DO YOU KNOW ME?! WHY ARE YOU FOLLOWING ME?!”
Will paused, his breathing laboured as he waited for a response. But none came, the homeless preacher merely staring up at his attacker with the same provocative smile spread across his filthy face. Peterson let out a frenzied scream.
“ANSWER ME!!!”
The Underdog jolted forward, aiming a kick straight into the ribs of his victim. Within a flash, though, Peterson was suddenly horizontal, the hobo having impossibly grabbed and twisted his right leg in an expert takedown. One swift movement later, and the homeless man was atop Peterson. A sudden flash of silver, and a small yet dangerous-looking flick knife had been produced seemingly from nowhere, and was now being pressed threateningly against Peterson’s cheek.
The preacher looked down at the now-terrified form of Peterson, still wearing a menacing smile. He pressed the knife down onto his face, a trickle of blood already appearing from underneath the glistening blade, which was being fogged by the assailant’s alcohol-tainted breath. He leaned in desperately close, almost touching Peterson’s right ear as he growled into it.
“Your… history… has… caught… up… with… you.”
The homeless drunk pulled his head back, wearing a satisfied, sick smile, revelling in the look of fear he was receiving in kind. Suddenly, he drew the knife back, looking to land a fatal blow. Peterson brought his arms up to cover his face… but seconds later was surprised to find not his homeless assailant, but rather his best friend sprawled across him, Jayson Jacques having finally caught up with the action and despatching him with an impactful flying tackle.
Both men scrambled to their feet, Peterson motioning to follow his retreating attacker, but Jayson held him back, panting.
“Will.,. leave it…”
“NOW WILL YOU BELIEVE ME? NOW WILL YOU ADMIT THAT WE’VE GOT A PROBLEM ON OUR HANDS?!”
Will dropped to his knees, wide-eyed, as he looked up at Jay, who continued to stare off in the direction of the fleeing drunk.
“Ohh we’ve got a problem. But we’re gonna get through it. We’re gonna sort through and solve this godawful, shitty mess. We’re gonna sort it… together.”
“NO MORE TRUMP! NO MORE TRUMP!”
“Get out of our country! You’re not welcome here!”
“WE ARE ONE! WE ARE ONE!”
Quite frankly, Delhi Street hadn’t seen this much action since Hurricane Katrina…
The stretch of tarmac, one of many usually serene streets of suburbia in West Bossier City, Louisiana, had become overrun with a mass of humanity who filled the air with chanted proverbs, pledges and profanities. The rowdy assembly, which had by now swelled well into three figures, was gathered outside the local mosque, Masjid Alnoor, and had split into two distinct sub-groups, separated by a dangerously small number of local law enforcement officers.
On the mosque side of the street, a relatively small group had formed, made up of a real mix of ages, sizes, colours and fashions. Hand-scrawled banners and posters adorned with peace signs, pro-equality messages and, perhaps most prevalent of all, anti-Trump slogans were being waved with gusto. The group strained to make their voices heard over the second, much larger gathering across the street, which was made up almost entirely of white forty-somethings, and obvious supporters of the recently-elected Trump Administration.
The two groups continued with their loud, public proclamations. The crowd calling for equality chanted and shouted with conviction, yet conducted themselves with respect. Sadly, the same could not be said for the vast majority of the Trump supporters, who looked to be getting worked up to the point where thrown insults could quickly be replaced by thrown punches and projectiles.
“Wow… you really know how to pick ‘em, don’t you Will…?”
The muttered musings came from Jayson Jacques, who was stood observing the public confrontation from a third-floor window of the nearby ‘Quality Inn’. The big man craned his neck, peering out for one last look at the throng of protestors below, before shaking his head almost disbelievingly. As he turned away from the window, he looked around at their latest lodgings, with an expression that suggested that suing the Quality Inn motel chain for false advertising was at the forefront of his mind.
The room was anything but quality.
The single beds, flimsy metal frames slightly bowed in the middle, looked barely capable of supporting a docile cat. The cream-coloured paint peeled off the walls at seemingly random intervals, leaving behind the sad sight of stained, cheap plasterboard underneath. The grey metal bracket holding the dated television set hung, sad and damaged, from its place high on the far wall.
Jay sighed, long and loud.
“Tell me again, exactly why, out of all of the resting spots in the entire state of Louisiana, you chose this place for us to spend the night…?!”
He looked over at the silent form of ‘The Underdog’ Will Peterson, who was sat on a fragile-looking office chair, hunched over a flat-pack half table, scrawling seemingly random notes on several different pieces of paper. Every now and then, Peterson would pause, staring at the wall in front of him with a faraway look in his eyes, chewing absent-mindedly on the end of his pen, before diving down and scribbling furiously once more.
“Well you’re quite the conversationalist this afternoon…” Jay sarcastically spoke to the back of Will’s head.
Still silence, save for yet more frantic scribbling.
“Remind me – what exactly is it that you are doing again?”
“Trying to work this out…” Will finally muttered in reply.
Jayson sighed again.
“Work it out? What do you mean?”
“I need to… to fit the pieces of the puzzle together.” Will said absent-mindedly.
“Pieces of the puzzle…?” Jay asked, confused. “What do you me-…”
“THIS!” Will shouted, turning quickly in his chair and snatching one of the many sheets up in one fluid movement. He roughly thrusted the familiar looking document in his manager’s face; Jayson had to take a step back and a moment to look, before he realised that it was the now ubiquitous ‘Proverbs 4:19’ postcard that had taken on such meaning for Peterson over the last few weeks.
Jayson had to catch himself from showing his disappointment, fearing the wrath of his buddy, who was breathing heavily in front of him. He couldn’t, however, suppress a little sigh as he regarded Peterson through slightly sympathetic eyes.
“Will, I thought we talked about this…?” Jay spoke carefully.
Peterson dropped the postcard into its usual resting place – the back pocket of his navy jeans – before starting a slow pace around the motel room’s limited floor space, head bowed.
“Yeah… we talked.” Will said in a low voice. “And I listened. But I also started to remember. And to think… really think. And it’s all just a little bit too convenient. I can’t shake this, Jay. Something is definitely going on, and I need to piece it all together. To understand it. And to sort it out.”
“What do you mean?” Jay asked.
“I went through everything that has happened over the last few weeks, all of the little hints and messages and… and… clues that have been conveniently sprinkled in our path, like a trail of chocolate leading to the sweet riches of the gingerbread house. And as I sat and thought, more and more memories came back to me. Memories of a past that I was convinced I had left behind when we got on that plane a mere month ago. Yet here they are… already rearing their ugly head… haunting me…”
Jay’s eyes widened, his expression still one of sympathy, yet also with a tinge of fear for his partner’s mental wellbeing.
“Memories? What memories?”
Will stopped, now looking out of the room’s solitary window, though it was clear he had almost zero attention focused on the commotion which was still developing on the street outside.
“Memories… memories of childhood. And memories of my… of my f-…”
Will brought his right hand up, which was by now balled up into a tight fist, and let it fall onto the window pane with a dull thud. He swallowed hard, clearly unable to complete the sentence without cracking. The Underdog closed his eyes, resting his head softly against his own right arm, before turning and looking at his manager, a look of desperation and helplessness in eyes which were threatening tears. The two stood there for several moments, the only sound that of the crowd outside bleeding into the room through single-glazed window glass.
Finally, Jayson broke the tension with a clap of his hands which echoed throughout the poky room, his manner suddenly businesslike.
“Right, well that’s all well and good, but this isn’t doing either of us any favours is it?” he said briskly. “Come on, I think cabin fever is probably setting in. We should get out; go for a walk or even better, a run. And get you prepared for yet another victory on Monday night.”
“Jay… I need to…” Will began his protestations in a quiet, unconvincing tone, gesturing sadly at the papers littering the table. But Jacques cut him off, still bustling around the motel room like a seasoned mother preparing husband and children for the day ahead.
“What you need, is to remember that you’ve got a job to do…”
Will let his arm drop forlornly down by his side as he watched Jay zip up his dark olive bomber jacket.
“… and a legacy to forge…”
The Underdog looked up at his partner through slightly narrowed eyes, the tiniest hint of a wry smile dancing on his lips; he was clearly fighting against the obvious attempts to stir and motivate him.
“… and you have people out there waiting for you to make them proud.”
Jay stepped directly in front of his charge, grasping Will’s shoulder with his left hand whilst holding out The Underdog’s jacket in his other. The two locked eyes again, only now Will’s expression of helplessness had been replaced by a look of quiet defiance and intensity.
“You really are a cunt sometimes, you know that don’t you…”
Jay flashed a toothy smile, letting go of Will’s jacket before turning on his heel and heading for the door. Will snatched the coat up a split second before it dropped completely to the floor and with a final, wistful look back at the papers which still adorned the cheap table behind him, he followed his longtime pal out of the motel room and out into the madness of Delhi Street.
*****************************************************************************
Mere minutes later, and the duo of Peterson and Jacques were stood several yards away from the protests in front of the mosque, hands thrust deep into pockets to protect against the chilly evening wind that blew around them. The shouting and chanting was still in full flow, from both sides, and although neither side had progressed from their MO, one or two of the police officers that separated them were beginning to look a touch nervous at the thought of the current situation breaking down into something which might require a little more action…
“Mental world we’re living in eh?” Jay said as he watched a particularly rowdy pro-Trump protester take off his wifebeater vest and swing it about his head, all the while shouting random, profanity-filled bile at anyone who would listen.
Will nodded.
“Yup. The kind of world where a talented, intelligent wrestler ends up burdened with a morbid, rambling sap as his partner in his pay-per-view debut. A sap that was doing his level best to put him in the hospital the previous week, no less!”
Jayson raised an eyebrow.
“Still bitter then?” he said with a chuckle.
Will shook his head condescendingly.
“Honestly, sometimes I feel like there’s some kind of conspiracy against me…”
Jay barked out a laugh.
“Ha! Paranoid, much? Besides, you need to stop thinking about last week, and start looking forward; next week could be a big one – the start of something special. A shot at one of IWF’s revered champions. An opportunity for you to get some long-overdue recognition for your graft in this business. Finally, a chance at some real glory.”
Will nodded, his face set in a determined stare.
“For all of my moaning, it is reassuring that IWF seem to appreciate that actions speak louder than words. This little streak already seems to be doing wonders for my career, already opening doors, revealing new, and exciting prospects. Next week, finally, I’ll have a chance to test myself against the calibre of opponents that I crave…”
“… And Leon Black.” Jay finished with a grim smile, causing Will to scowl.
“Ahh yes, our resident gravedigger.” he mused. “What more can I say about The Blackened Light, or as I like to call him – Wrestling’s Biggest Dimmer Switch. With emphasis on the ‘dim’. The man is like a bipolar inpatient. Or a hormonal, pre-menstrual woman. One minute he’s getting all ‘angsty teenager’ on us, shouting out all of his pent up anger and frustration with idle, empty threats of hospital visits and melodramatic sacrifices. Then we get him in the ring, and all of a sudden he’s like an over-excited puppy, putting aside all of his dark and brooding thoughts in favour of a desperate desire to impress, to belong.
But sadly for Leon, he will never belong here in the IWF. This promotion doesn’t need him, it barely even wants him. He can quote his stories of darkness, tales of Heaven and Hell, but for him, the sad ending to the story is that he does not have the ability to make it to the promised land, forever destined to fall into his own personal purgatory. He is inconsequential, and not deserving of this golden opportunity being afforded to him.”
“He is a factor in this matchup, Will, however small.” Jay responded sternly. “You outwrestled him two weeks ago, yes, and you carried him at Metamorphosis. You know you have his number, so just make sure that you wrestle smartly, with this…” he pointed to the side of his head, “… and not this…” before pointing to his heart, “… and you can safely focus on the other two competitors in the matchup.”
Will nodded; almost without thinking, and practically perfectly in sync, the two began slowly pacing along the sidewalk.
“So first, we need to think about Bob Pooler.” Jay said.
Will let out a low whistle.
“Now here is the step up in class and calibre of opponent that I was talking about. We go from a freaky, face-painted flop to a bona-fide legend who has, to borrow a phrase, spent more time on that canvas than Rembrandt. Backstage, he commands a hell of a lot of respect, and from what I’ve seen, he’s technically sound and can dig in and scrap when required too.
Yet despite all of that, Pooler still confuses me; he’s something of an enigma. You see, he’s managed to reach this revered, legendary status without really seeming to achieve much success in IWF. Not one title reign. Not one major pay-per-view victory in recent memory. Nothing. Bob Pooler, then could be considered the perennial underachiever in this company.”
“A dangerous beast.” Jayson mused. “A sleeping giant, perhaps, just waiting to awaken and unleash his full potential on an unwary opponent.”
“Wise words, Jay.” Will replied. “And there’s no doubt that Pooler deserves my, and anybody else’s, respect. And d’you know why? You know what he’s got that could negate any and all flaws in his game? Charisma. That’s the ‘it factor’ for Pooler. He’s not just some nameless, faceless wrestling machine or over-dramatic, no-action windbag. He has character. He is a master of the spoken word. He practically demands the reaction that he seeks, whether from opponent or fan, and more often than not, the man gets it, and uses it to his fullest advantage.
So yeah, Pooler deserves respect. But certainly not fear. Because if you’re going to go out there and make a name for yourself, to get to the top, what better way to do it than to climb the metaphorical ladder and throw the established names right off the top. Pooler may be ‘The Underachiever’, and I surely am ‘The Underdog’; but the difference between those two? Even when he’s not the biggest dog in the fight, The Underdog finds a way to come out on top, whilst The Underachiever fades, once more, back into obscurity.”
Jay turned his head slightly, surreptitiously checking Will out as he got into his flow, looking impressed with his attitude.
“And finally, we’ve got The Demon of Sobriety, Dorian Hawkhurst, to contend with.” Jay said.
“Ahh yeah, Wino Walter” Will replied, sneering. “Wonder how many bottles he’ll have worked his way through before he staggers through the curtain on Monday night…”
Jay frowned.
“Come on Will, it’s a serious condition. And full credit to him, he’s at least shown some remorse and desire to get his life back on the straight and narrow. He’s not your run-of-the-mill, easy pickings closing time drunk.”
Will snorted, but looked to be taking the prospect of Hawkhurst a little more seriously as he continued on.
“No, you’re right.” he said. “And I think that’s what happened in the past – people have had the same complacent attitude when stepping through those ropes to face Hawkhurst. Unfortunately for them, they’ve then been met not with a clueless, bumbling pisshead, but a focused and fiery animal. Just like Black, Hawkhurst seems to be a completely different person inside the ring compared to out of it, but unlike Wrestling’s Biggest Dimmer Switch, it works to his advantage.”
“You’re right.” Jay said. “He’s picked up some impressive victories over some impressive opponents in recent weeks. But surely, you’ve seen enough of him not to be surprised on Monday?”
“Damn straight.” Will growled back. “I’ll have him well-scouted, and if there’s one person in the match that I feel confident enough that I’ll be able to out-wrestle from a technical point-of-view, it’s Hawkhurst. He won’t surprise me though. None of them will. You have to have your wits about you in this sort of matchup, and I’ll have eyes in the back of my head, my arse, and m-…”
Will stopped in his tracks, staring dead ahead at the baying crowd, who were now much closer than before. He’d stopped so suddenly that it was several steps before Jayson had realised, and turned his head back towards his pal, looking confused.
“Will, what’s wrong?” Jay asked, a quizzical look on his face.
Will squinted, staring deeper into the throng.
“I thought I could see th-…”
Will didn’t finish, as in a flash, he tore into the crowd like a man on a mission. Shouts, screams, flailing elbows and stray boots all rained down on Peterson as he pushed and shoved his way through the mob, fighting desperately not to lose sight of his target.
After an almighty struggle, Will emerged on the other side, looking utterly bedraggled, still turning his head frantically this way and that, panicked that he’d been too slow. Just as he seemed to be losing all hope, he spotted the hem of a grubby, shabby, yet familiar looking long coat disappearing around the corner of Delhi Street into the gloom of an unnamed side street. Will didn’t think twice, instead tearing off full pelt in the same direction.
Peterson arrived in the alleyway panting and heaving, stopping begrudgingly with his hands on his knees in an attempt to recover from his exertions. His break didn’t last long, though, as a nearby rustling jolted him upright, The Underdog peering into the darkness for the source.
Through the gloom came the image of a bedraggled, broken down human, but one we have seen before, albeit in slightly more pleasant locale. Here, in Louisiana, surrounded by black garbage bags, sat the drunken, homeless religious preacher first encountered in Florida, some one thousand miles away. The hobo clutched his ever-present bible, taking a deep swig from the labelless green bottle in his other hand, before throwing it down with an echoing SMASH.
Will moved towards the drunken figure warily, but disturbed some stones and broken glass under his feet as he did so, drawing the attention of the slumped preacher. Will stared at him. He stared at Will. The wind whistled through the alleyway. Everything was still, until finally, the drunken preacher smiled widely at The Underdog, waggling his bible out towards him, clearly goading him.
Will snapped, rushing towards the would-be cleric, snarling. He hauled him out of his trash-filled resting place, before tossing him roughly to the ground. Peterson followed him down, getting right up in his face as his screams echoed long into the ever-darkening sky.
“WHO ARE YOU?!” he asked furiously. “HOW DO YOU KNOW ME?! WHY ARE YOU FOLLOWING ME?!”
Will paused, his breathing laboured as he waited for a response. But none came, the homeless preacher merely staring up at his attacker with the same provocative smile spread across his filthy face. Peterson let out a frenzied scream.
“ANSWER ME!!!”
The Underdog jolted forward, aiming a kick straight into the ribs of his victim. Within a flash, though, Peterson was suddenly horizontal, the hobo having impossibly grabbed and twisted his right leg in an expert takedown. One swift movement later, and the homeless man was atop Peterson. A sudden flash of silver, and a small yet dangerous-looking flick knife had been produced seemingly from nowhere, and was now being pressed threateningly against Peterson’s cheek.
The preacher looked down at the now-terrified form of Peterson, still wearing a menacing smile. He pressed the knife down onto his face, a trickle of blood already appearing from underneath the glistening blade, which was being fogged by the assailant’s alcohol-tainted breath. He leaned in desperately close, almost touching Peterson’s right ear as he growled into it.
“Your… history… has… caught… up… with… you.”
The homeless drunk pulled his head back, wearing a satisfied, sick smile, revelling in the look of fear he was receiving in kind. Suddenly, he drew the knife back, looking to land a fatal blow. Peterson brought his arms up to cover his face… but seconds later was surprised to find not his homeless assailant, but rather his best friend sprawled across him, Jayson Jacques having finally caught up with the action and despatching him with an impactful flying tackle.
Both men scrambled to their feet, Peterson motioning to follow his retreating attacker, but Jayson held him back, panting.
“Will.,. leave it…”
“NOW WILL YOU BELIEVE ME? NOW WILL YOU ADMIT THAT WE’VE GOT A PROBLEM ON OUR HANDS?!”
Will dropped to his knees, wide-eyed, as he looked up at Jay, who continued to stare off in the direction of the fleeing drunk.
“Ohh we’ve got a problem. But we’re gonna get through it. We’re gonna sort through and solve this godawful, shitty mess. We’re gonna sort it… together.”
Well howdy there pardner.