S01E14 - Gold Rush Rumble #1
Apr 20, 2013 11:17:27 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Apr 20, 2013 11:17:27 GMT -5
June 2012
I had another tryout match this week; it involved some out of state travel, which I welcomed as a chance to get away from the hell that Worcester had become, if only for a few days. One of the trainers down at Saints Haven called in a favour and got me a tryout match for a promotion down in Atlanta, Georgia, so I dutifully drove down over the course of two days, nearly ten hours a day on the road, to try and seize the opportunity presented to me. You deserve it, Dom he'd tell me over and over again. Occasionally switching to They need you more than you need them or You're ready for this, which I did get tired of hearing after no more than five hours into the journey.
It' wasn't his fault the conversation lacked any form or function; I'd had a case of anhedonia the previous few weeks, some personal issues weighing heavily on my mind. And no matter how much I tried not to let them affect my wrestling, regardless of how hard I attempted to compartmentalise and box in whatever emotions I felt, I failed. I was becoming sloppy, which did not bode well for the upcoming tryout match. You see, it'd been over a month since the morning when I last spoke to or was acknowledged by Elsie. Over a month with no more communication with the object of my affection than her slamming her door shut when we happened to be together in the hallway between our apartments. The black eye I had given her had faded by this time, the swelling reduced, but her smile had not returned. I missed her smile every day.
I had tried repeatedly to make amends for my actions that night. The local florist knew me by name and sight before I was realised that flowers weren't going to work. My attempt at poetry ended horribly; my way with words left something to the imagination. Elsie, it would seem, did not respond to any form of electronic communication either. She blocked me on Facebook after a few days of my messaging her and posting on her wall; I didn't state what I was sorry for on the wall posts, I valued my privacy too much to air my dirty laundry on a public forum. My text messages were not replied to. My phone calls were screened, the voicemails left unanswered. The only recourse left available to me was to forget about my Jonquil, to move on to the next love of my life and hope for a better end.
This I realised somewhere near Spartanburg, South Carolina.
The tryout match itself was a failure. I was, as I feared I would be, sloppy and ineffectual in the ring. The promoter fobbed me off, saying I was too small and unmarketable; that if he were to offer me a contract I would be extremely lucky to make it out of the dark matches, that no-one watching their television product would ever see my face. He insisted that I needed to increase my muscle mass and to have a better definition. A look around the locker room confirmed that someone my size had no place in that company. It didn't change the fact that I stunk up the arena with that match.
There was, however, one bright side to this otherwise wasted trip South. My opponent in the tryout match, Jamal Carter, he was an old friend of my trainer and invited us both to a poker game after the show. Just six of us shooting the shit, as he so eloquently put it. I never told any of my opponents before the game, but when I was younger, like seven and eight and nine years old, I spent my summers at my Nana's house in Peterborough, Ontario. And Nana, she taught me many skills during those summers. Texas hold 'em was one of the card games I learned how to play. Well enough to defeat five men who got increasingly drunk over the course of the evening and into the early hours of the following morning. So it was that with a full house, kings over eights, I won nearly fifteen thousand dollars from a man who thought that a two pair would be good enough for him to win.
This unreported income softened the blow of the failed tryout match and the impending realisation that perhaps maybe Elsie and I were not destined to be together forever. That our love would not last throughout the ages, nor would it be sung about by the modern day minstrels. Fifteen thousand dollars can only lift my spirits so high, however. A height that hastily got reduced upon my return to Worcester a couple of days later. Two police officers arrived at my apartment shortly after I had returned and informed me they would like me to accompany them to the station to answer some questions. When I asked them what it was in regard to -- not in those words, mind -- they explained that my girlfriend -- is what referred to her as -- was treated at Saint Vincent Hospital for facial contusions and a broken wrist last night and I was suspected of domestic abuse. When I was blackout drunk I could perhaps maybe consider that I might have possibly done such a heinous thing, but not when I was several states away in a motel room.
"Curious to see how I fare on my own..." I start by say, referencing what Johnny Blayze has been saying about me. "That, ladies and gentlemen, is what my esteemed colleague is looking to see next weekend in Boston at 'Only The Strong Survive'. That is what Blayze hopes to find out when we step foot in that ring together for the Gold Rush rumble..."
I break off the speech with a callous cackle. The camera steadies itself finally; I'm indoors for this promo, in fact I'm already at the Monroe Sports Center ahead of tonight's show, dressed in the new The Murder t-shirt with some charcoal coloured jeans; my hair styled in my favoured fauxhawk with the freshly dyed blonde streak down the middle. I'm stood in one of the locker rooms, which is obviously empty this far ahead of the show, surrounded by the green metallic lockers and wooden benches and black steel fold out chairs that are leant up against the various lockers.
"Lets pretend for a moment, Blayze, that I give a damn about your opinion. Lets pretend for a moment that you're worth my time and effort." I state with a sneer on my face. "Do you really want to know what I can do when the puppet strings are cut? When I'm standing on my own two feet and Malcolm has let me off the leash. That's what you want to see, right?" those are what I have inferred from his increasingly disrespectful tweets.
"Then allow me to refresh your memory; those attacks we orchestrated must have knocked something loose in that head of yours." Said as I tap my temple for effect. "Two weeks ago in New York City I took on a former six time World champion, a man with more experience and success in this business than I could ever hope to achieve. The man who you admire so reverently, the man whose ass you've got your lips seemingly permanently attached to..." a shake of the head, "...and I pummelled him into that mat, Blayze. It was, as I warned him it would be, a damn slaughter. A vicious onslaught to which he had response! I took that man you admire, your friend and I drove him head first into that ring, Blayze. Do you remember watching this? Seeing this. Do you remember the look of horror that must have been etched on your face when you realised that Collins wasn't going to emerge from that match unscathed, let alone victorious? Perhaps there was a live action feed that just happened to record your reaction to in-ring events ... But that night I left Collins as a stain on the canvas so the medical technicians could scrape him off the mat and cart his sorry ass to California."
"I'm the man who stood in the ring with the current number one contender for the FGA Championship." I state matter-of-factly. "And I beat Bond, I pinned his shoulders to the mat for the three count. That was fifteen years of in-ring experience squashed under my boot, Blayze. That's a man who has accumulated more accolades over his career than the two of us combined." So far, anyway. "And he fell at my feet, I brought him to him knees and I humbled him before the hundred of fans. I had him begging me for mercy by the end of that match, Blayze."
"And I'm the man who defeated your old friend, Pooler. I'm the man your old friend, Junior couldn't put down for the three count back at 'Pride, Honor & Excellence..." I say with a bitter laugh at the memory of that night. "But you want to see how I fare when I stand on my own two feet? This...coming from a man whose achievements here in FGA so far involve beating Dani Tyler." a mock round of applause; anyone who has read my blog knows how oh so very little I think of the whole Tyler family, a fact made increasingly awkward by my girlfriend Heather's friendship with Tiami. "That must have been tough match, Blayze. A hard fought contest, I'm sure. Forgive me if I don't bow before you, if I don't worship the ground you walk on. You see, I've been busy making an impact. Making a name for myself. I've been busy facing opponents more worthy of my time..."
"So, Blayze, you can see why I'm puzzled, perplexed, confounded by my name seemingly constantly escaping your lips. It's why I wonder if that attack in New York knocked something loose in that head of yours. It's why I'm left wondering what has caused you to become convinced that you're on my level, that you're worthy of my time and effort. Do you think siding with those who oppose me makes you meaningful?" a shake of the head again. "Pooler and Junior didn't think so either, did they? After all, they abandoned you, left you for the crows to pick you apart, piece by piece ... Perhaps if you take a page out of Collins's play book and use those close to me to try and rile me up because, you know, that worked so well for him..."
I clench and unclench my fists within view of the camera; the memories of that night in New York are still fresh and filled with a certain sweetness; the undeniable pleasure I took in pounding Jon Collins into the canvas might just be evident by the sly smile that appears on my face.
"For one night I'll humour you, Blayze." I state. "I'll treat you as more than a joke and an easy target. For this Gold Rush rumble, you have my attention. You have my interest. Because, lets make no mistake, you aren't the one walking out of Boston as the number one contender to the FGA Championship. That honour will fall to one of two people, either Malcolm Drake or myself. We are the only two in that rumble worthy of facing the FGA Champion, whomsoever that should be after 'Only The Strong Survive'. We are the only two capable of elevating that title to the heady heights at which it belongs..." I pause briefly, laughing to the camera before pounding my fist into the palm of my other hand. "...and if that just happens to involve teaching you a lesson, putting you into your rightful place at the bottom of the food chain. Jerking that curtain each and every show. Losing to the likes of Zero and Santa Claus, then I'll happily do that. It will be my absolute fucking pleasure to show you exactly why you made a mistake ever uttering my name. Ever taunting me over Twitter. The hypocrisy you've displayed calling me a puppet in the same breath where you claim to have heard the calling shall not go unpunished. So next weekend in Boston I will treat you exactly how I treated your new bestest buddy, Collins, and I'll tear you apart in that ring. I will leave you as a stain on that gymnasium floor. Hell -- lets go all out, shall we -- I'll put you in that hospital bed next to Collins so the two of you can compare notes! You can exchange your memories of the humbling defeats you suffered at the hands of The Tenacious Little Bastard!"
Okay, I may have raised my voice a little too much at the end there. I pace around the locker room for nigh on ten seconds, silent except for my laboured breathing. Taking in a deep breath, I finally continue speaking, "And the rest of you, don't think I've forgotten about you. For God's sake don't do me the disservice, don't show the damn disrespect of thinking I'm not thinking about each and every one of you. From Karma to Brandt, Cash to Santa Claus, I have my eye on you all..."
"You see, 'Only The Strong Survive' will be the finest hour so far in my career." I speak with confidence. "It shall be the night where The Murder not only debut as a tag team here in FGA, it'll be the night when we knock Junior and Pooler down one more notch. And after we are done with them, when we have vanquished them to the wallow in their own pits of self-pity and misery, we will turn our attention to this Gold Rush Rumble. And as I said earlier there are two factors you must consider in this match."
"First, there are only two possible winners. Either Malcolm Drake or myself, we are the only people deserving of winning this match, of earning that number one contendership." I'm holding up one finger as I speak, raising the second, my middle finger, before I speak again. "Two, I'm one of two men who holds a victory over the current number one contender, Bond. Consider that no man has beaten me here in FGA since Corella upset me in my debut four months ago. Consider the simple fact that I'm not gonna stop until I have thrown each and every one of you out of that ring all by myself if I have to!"
"I am the Tenacious Little Bastard and I will not quit! I will not stop. I'm not even going to slow down to allow any of you to get out of my way. Those of you who have seen me in the UWL, Brandt, Santa, you've seen the ferocity I fight with. It's why I have beaten three of the best tag teams they've thrown at me, why I'm one half of the current and reigning UWL World Tag Team Champions. And those of you who have stepped into the ring with me here, Magna, Oro, Junior, Pooler. You know the strength I possess. The skills I have at my disposal. And the rest of you, even those who haven't seen me in years...Cash...by now you should have witnessed what I am capable of. You should know exactly what I can do in that ring, that I have what it takes to walk out of Boston, out of 'Only The Strong Survive' with two victories in one night under my belt."
A crooked grin spreads across my face as I speak, "As I leave Boston as the number one contender for the FGA Championship, you can all remind yourself that it's ok, the better man won that night. And the example I make out of Johnny Blayze..." the name is said with a hint of venom, "...should serve as a reminder to all of you. A constant reminder that you do not cross The Murder."
"Mister Harter," the man outside my door says as he knocks repeatedly. "I know you're in there, Mister Harter. Do us both a favour and open this door."
I awaken from my slumber to find myself laid out face down on my sofa as the man continues to knock on my door. Wiping the sleep from my eyes with one hand, I push myself up off the sofa with the other, all the while casting a glance over towards the entrance of my apartment, wondering who exactly it is that wants my attention. And why they're calling me Mister Harter in that southern drawl.
"Mister Harter..." he says again with yet more knocking; I open the door slightly, the chain lock stops it from opening too far. As I peer out through the gap I see a familiar face; the private investigator who was hired by Arthur Webster to try and pin Elsie's disappearance on me. He's dressed exactly as I would expect him to; a sand coloured trench coat, white shirt and a black tie with black slacks and unpolished black leather shoes. Although he has grown some stubble since I saw him last.
"I assume you know who ah am," he says, peering intently at me with those beady little eyes. I nod in confirmation. "And you know why ah'm here." I know who he is, one of the men I've been trying to avoid for the last few months. Why he's here on my doorstep actually speaking to me instead of recording me or whatever shit he's done ... that's a mystery to me.
"Not a clue, McDonough." I say through the opening. "Enlighten me, please." I close the door to allow myself to undo the chain lock; Gerard enters my apartment without an invitation as I open the door again. The little gray kitten on my sofa looks up at him expectantly and tries to meow. Gerard, unsurprisingly, looks a little shocked at the ball of fur who is only in my possession due to the events of a drunken night out. To his credit, Gerard doesn't mention the kitten, instead turning back to me.
"Ah'll be blunt, Mister Harter." He blusters. "You know full well that Arthur Webster hired me to investigate the disappearance of his daughter, Elsie. An' ah'm sure you know that this investigation has reached an impasse." I smirk at that revelation; Gerard just stares at me until I wipe the cocky grin from my face. "When he first hired me ah took one look at that file an' ah was certain, positively, one hundred percent sure that you were involved in her disappearance, Mister Harter."
I resist the urge to laugh in his face; I was cleared of all charges last year and, perhaps foolishly, thought that would be the end of it. The fact that Arthur might resurface never occurred to me. Not at the time.
"Tell me, what do you remember of the weekend June ninth an' tenth, two thousand twelve?" he takes a seat on the arm of my sofa as he asks the question, both hands resting either side of his backside as he does so. That was the weekend of my tryout down in Atlanta, when Elsie got admitted to hospital with the contusions and broken wrist, when the police interviewed me in regards to whether or not I was guilty of causing these injuries to my then ex-girlfriend. Right now I fear my face is portraying the grief I feel as these memories fill my mind. "Ah ask because ah recently came across a hospital admission form that had previously escaped mah notice. A woman matching Elsie's description, albeit with a fake name, went to Saint Vincent's with a broken wrist an' bruises on her face, suspected domestic abuse so they contacted the police. Ah believe you remember what ah'm talking about, don't you, Mister Harter."
"Yeah."
"And ah expect you're going to tell me what you told the police officers who interviewed you that night."
"I was out of town, down in Georgia wrestling in front of five thousand people that night." I say finally and Gerard nods in acceptance.
"Which ah have confirmed with several witnesses." He replies. "An' the man you drove with from Atlanta back to Boston, he corroborated this story of yours. A perfect alibi. But it got me thinking, Mister Harter, if you didn't do this, then who did?"
There's a moment of silence as Gerard McDonough glares at me; either he wants me to confess to the crimes of which I have been cleared or he wants me to tell him who did it. Which he wants is not overly clear, but I avoid his gaze nonetheless.
"Mister Harter," he says again. "Don't you want justice for Elsie?" he asks as a wry smirk appears on my face. It's apparently enough to make the private investigator angry; he rises from his perched position on my sofa, scaring my as-of-yet-unnamed kitten slightly with his swift movement. "What's so funny!?" he shouts as he grabs me by the collar of my t-shirt, pushing me back against the wall. "Why are you laughing?"
After a moment's pause I simply say "You wouldn't understand..."
I had another tryout match this week; it involved some out of state travel, which I welcomed as a chance to get away from the hell that Worcester had become, if only for a few days. One of the trainers down at Saints Haven called in a favour and got me a tryout match for a promotion down in Atlanta, Georgia, so I dutifully drove down over the course of two days, nearly ten hours a day on the road, to try and seize the opportunity presented to me. You deserve it, Dom he'd tell me over and over again. Occasionally switching to They need you more than you need them or You're ready for this, which I did get tired of hearing after no more than five hours into the journey.
It' wasn't his fault the conversation lacked any form or function; I'd had a case of anhedonia the previous few weeks, some personal issues weighing heavily on my mind. And no matter how much I tried not to let them affect my wrestling, regardless of how hard I attempted to compartmentalise and box in whatever emotions I felt, I failed. I was becoming sloppy, which did not bode well for the upcoming tryout match. You see, it'd been over a month since the morning when I last spoke to or was acknowledged by Elsie. Over a month with no more communication with the object of my affection than her slamming her door shut when we happened to be together in the hallway between our apartments. The black eye I had given her had faded by this time, the swelling reduced, but her smile had not returned. I missed her smile every day.
I had tried repeatedly to make amends for my actions that night. The local florist knew me by name and sight before I was realised that flowers weren't going to work. My attempt at poetry ended horribly; my way with words left something to the imagination. Elsie, it would seem, did not respond to any form of electronic communication either. She blocked me on Facebook after a few days of my messaging her and posting on her wall; I didn't state what I was sorry for on the wall posts, I valued my privacy too much to air my dirty laundry on a public forum. My text messages were not replied to. My phone calls were screened, the voicemails left unanswered. The only recourse left available to me was to forget about my Jonquil, to move on to the next love of my life and hope for a better end.
This I realised somewhere near Spartanburg, South Carolina.
The tryout match itself was a failure. I was, as I feared I would be, sloppy and ineffectual in the ring. The promoter fobbed me off, saying I was too small and unmarketable; that if he were to offer me a contract I would be extremely lucky to make it out of the dark matches, that no-one watching their television product would ever see my face. He insisted that I needed to increase my muscle mass and to have a better definition. A look around the locker room confirmed that someone my size had no place in that company. It didn't change the fact that I stunk up the arena with that match.
There was, however, one bright side to this otherwise wasted trip South. My opponent in the tryout match, Jamal Carter, he was an old friend of my trainer and invited us both to a poker game after the show. Just six of us shooting the shit, as he so eloquently put it. I never told any of my opponents before the game, but when I was younger, like seven and eight and nine years old, I spent my summers at my Nana's house in Peterborough, Ontario. And Nana, she taught me many skills during those summers. Texas hold 'em was one of the card games I learned how to play. Well enough to defeat five men who got increasingly drunk over the course of the evening and into the early hours of the following morning. So it was that with a full house, kings over eights, I won nearly fifteen thousand dollars from a man who thought that a two pair would be good enough for him to win.
This unreported income softened the blow of the failed tryout match and the impending realisation that perhaps maybe Elsie and I were not destined to be together forever. That our love would not last throughout the ages, nor would it be sung about by the modern day minstrels. Fifteen thousand dollars can only lift my spirits so high, however. A height that hastily got reduced upon my return to Worcester a couple of days later. Two police officers arrived at my apartment shortly after I had returned and informed me they would like me to accompany them to the station to answer some questions. When I asked them what it was in regard to -- not in those words, mind -- they explained that my girlfriend -- is what referred to her as -- was treated at Saint Vincent Hospital for facial contusions and a broken wrist last night and I was suspected of domestic abuse. When I was blackout drunk I could perhaps maybe consider that I might have possibly done such a heinous thing, but not when I was several states away in a motel room.
"Curious to see how I fare on my own..." I start by say, referencing what Johnny Blayze has been saying about me. "That, ladies and gentlemen, is what my esteemed colleague is looking to see next weekend in Boston at 'Only The Strong Survive'. That is what Blayze hopes to find out when we step foot in that ring together for the Gold Rush rumble..."
I break off the speech with a callous cackle. The camera steadies itself finally; I'm indoors for this promo, in fact I'm already at the Monroe Sports Center ahead of tonight's show, dressed in the new The Murder t-shirt with some charcoal coloured jeans; my hair styled in my favoured fauxhawk with the freshly dyed blonde streak down the middle. I'm stood in one of the locker rooms, which is obviously empty this far ahead of the show, surrounded by the green metallic lockers and wooden benches and black steel fold out chairs that are leant up against the various lockers.
"Lets pretend for a moment, Blayze, that I give a damn about your opinion. Lets pretend for a moment that you're worth my time and effort." I state with a sneer on my face. "Do you really want to know what I can do when the puppet strings are cut? When I'm standing on my own two feet and Malcolm has let me off the leash. That's what you want to see, right?" those are what I have inferred from his increasingly disrespectful tweets.
"Then allow me to refresh your memory; those attacks we orchestrated must have knocked something loose in that head of yours." Said as I tap my temple for effect. "Two weeks ago in New York City I took on a former six time World champion, a man with more experience and success in this business than I could ever hope to achieve. The man who you admire so reverently, the man whose ass you've got your lips seemingly permanently attached to..." a shake of the head, "...and I pummelled him into that mat, Blayze. It was, as I warned him it would be, a damn slaughter. A vicious onslaught to which he had response! I took that man you admire, your friend and I drove him head first into that ring, Blayze. Do you remember watching this? Seeing this. Do you remember the look of horror that must have been etched on your face when you realised that Collins wasn't going to emerge from that match unscathed, let alone victorious? Perhaps there was a live action feed that just happened to record your reaction to in-ring events ... But that night I left Collins as a stain on the canvas so the medical technicians could scrape him off the mat and cart his sorry ass to California."
"I'm the man who stood in the ring with the current number one contender for the FGA Championship." I state matter-of-factly. "And I beat Bond, I pinned his shoulders to the mat for the three count. That was fifteen years of in-ring experience squashed under my boot, Blayze. That's a man who has accumulated more accolades over his career than the two of us combined." So far, anyway. "And he fell at my feet, I brought him to him knees and I humbled him before the hundred of fans. I had him begging me for mercy by the end of that match, Blayze."
"And I'm the man who defeated your old friend, Pooler. I'm the man your old friend, Junior couldn't put down for the three count back at 'Pride, Honor & Excellence..." I say with a bitter laugh at the memory of that night. "But you want to see how I fare when I stand on my own two feet? This...coming from a man whose achievements here in FGA so far involve beating Dani Tyler." a mock round of applause; anyone who has read my blog knows how oh so very little I think of the whole Tyler family, a fact made increasingly awkward by my girlfriend Heather's friendship with Tiami. "That must have been tough match, Blayze. A hard fought contest, I'm sure. Forgive me if I don't bow before you, if I don't worship the ground you walk on. You see, I've been busy making an impact. Making a name for myself. I've been busy facing opponents more worthy of my time..."
"So, Blayze, you can see why I'm puzzled, perplexed, confounded by my name seemingly constantly escaping your lips. It's why I wonder if that attack in New York knocked something loose in that head of yours. It's why I'm left wondering what has caused you to become convinced that you're on my level, that you're worthy of my time and effort. Do you think siding with those who oppose me makes you meaningful?" a shake of the head again. "Pooler and Junior didn't think so either, did they? After all, they abandoned you, left you for the crows to pick you apart, piece by piece ... Perhaps if you take a page out of Collins's play book and use those close to me to try and rile me up because, you know, that worked so well for him..."
I clench and unclench my fists within view of the camera; the memories of that night in New York are still fresh and filled with a certain sweetness; the undeniable pleasure I took in pounding Jon Collins into the canvas might just be evident by the sly smile that appears on my face.
"For one night I'll humour you, Blayze." I state. "I'll treat you as more than a joke and an easy target. For this Gold Rush rumble, you have my attention. You have my interest. Because, lets make no mistake, you aren't the one walking out of Boston as the number one contender to the FGA Championship. That honour will fall to one of two people, either Malcolm Drake or myself. We are the only two in that rumble worthy of facing the FGA Champion, whomsoever that should be after 'Only The Strong Survive'. We are the only two capable of elevating that title to the heady heights at which it belongs..." I pause briefly, laughing to the camera before pounding my fist into the palm of my other hand. "...and if that just happens to involve teaching you a lesson, putting you into your rightful place at the bottom of the food chain. Jerking that curtain each and every show. Losing to the likes of Zero and Santa Claus, then I'll happily do that. It will be my absolute fucking pleasure to show you exactly why you made a mistake ever uttering my name. Ever taunting me over Twitter. The hypocrisy you've displayed calling me a puppet in the same breath where you claim to have heard the calling shall not go unpunished. So next weekend in Boston I will treat you exactly how I treated your new bestest buddy, Collins, and I'll tear you apart in that ring. I will leave you as a stain on that gymnasium floor. Hell -- lets go all out, shall we -- I'll put you in that hospital bed next to Collins so the two of you can compare notes! You can exchange your memories of the humbling defeats you suffered at the hands of The Tenacious Little Bastard!"
Okay, I may have raised my voice a little too much at the end there. I pace around the locker room for nigh on ten seconds, silent except for my laboured breathing. Taking in a deep breath, I finally continue speaking, "And the rest of you, don't think I've forgotten about you. For God's sake don't do me the disservice, don't show the damn disrespect of thinking I'm not thinking about each and every one of you. From Karma to Brandt, Cash to Santa Claus, I have my eye on you all..."
"You see, 'Only The Strong Survive' will be the finest hour so far in my career." I speak with confidence. "It shall be the night where The Murder not only debut as a tag team here in FGA, it'll be the night when we knock Junior and Pooler down one more notch. And after we are done with them, when we have vanquished them to the wallow in their own pits of self-pity and misery, we will turn our attention to this Gold Rush Rumble. And as I said earlier there are two factors you must consider in this match."
"First, there are only two possible winners. Either Malcolm Drake or myself, we are the only people deserving of winning this match, of earning that number one contendership." I'm holding up one finger as I speak, raising the second, my middle finger, before I speak again. "Two, I'm one of two men who holds a victory over the current number one contender, Bond. Consider that no man has beaten me here in FGA since Corella upset me in my debut four months ago. Consider the simple fact that I'm not gonna stop until I have thrown each and every one of you out of that ring all by myself if I have to!"
"I am the Tenacious Little Bastard and I will not quit! I will not stop. I'm not even going to slow down to allow any of you to get out of my way. Those of you who have seen me in the UWL, Brandt, Santa, you've seen the ferocity I fight with. It's why I have beaten three of the best tag teams they've thrown at me, why I'm one half of the current and reigning UWL World Tag Team Champions. And those of you who have stepped into the ring with me here, Magna, Oro, Junior, Pooler. You know the strength I possess. The skills I have at my disposal. And the rest of you, even those who haven't seen me in years...Cash...by now you should have witnessed what I am capable of. You should know exactly what I can do in that ring, that I have what it takes to walk out of Boston, out of 'Only The Strong Survive' with two victories in one night under my belt."
A crooked grin spreads across my face as I speak, "As I leave Boston as the number one contender for the FGA Championship, you can all remind yourself that it's ok, the better man won that night. And the example I make out of Johnny Blayze..." the name is said with a hint of venom, "...should serve as a reminder to all of you. A constant reminder that you do not cross The Murder."
"Mister Harter," the man outside my door says as he knocks repeatedly. "I know you're in there, Mister Harter. Do us both a favour and open this door."
I awaken from my slumber to find myself laid out face down on my sofa as the man continues to knock on my door. Wiping the sleep from my eyes with one hand, I push myself up off the sofa with the other, all the while casting a glance over towards the entrance of my apartment, wondering who exactly it is that wants my attention. And why they're calling me Mister Harter in that southern drawl.
"Mister Harter..." he says again with yet more knocking; I open the door slightly, the chain lock stops it from opening too far. As I peer out through the gap I see a familiar face; the private investigator who was hired by Arthur Webster to try and pin Elsie's disappearance on me. He's dressed exactly as I would expect him to; a sand coloured trench coat, white shirt and a black tie with black slacks and unpolished black leather shoes. Although he has grown some stubble since I saw him last.
"I assume you know who ah am," he says, peering intently at me with those beady little eyes. I nod in confirmation. "And you know why ah'm here." I know who he is, one of the men I've been trying to avoid for the last few months. Why he's here on my doorstep actually speaking to me instead of recording me or whatever shit he's done ... that's a mystery to me.
"Not a clue, McDonough." I say through the opening. "Enlighten me, please." I close the door to allow myself to undo the chain lock; Gerard enters my apartment without an invitation as I open the door again. The little gray kitten on my sofa looks up at him expectantly and tries to meow. Gerard, unsurprisingly, looks a little shocked at the ball of fur who is only in my possession due to the events of a drunken night out. To his credit, Gerard doesn't mention the kitten, instead turning back to me.
"Ah'll be blunt, Mister Harter." He blusters. "You know full well that Arthur Webster hired me to investigate the disappearance of his daughter, Elsie. An' ah'm sure you know that this investigation has reached an impasse." I smirk at that revelation; Gerard just stares at me until I wipe the cocky grin from my face. "When he first hired me ah took one look at that file an' ah was certain, positively, one hundred percent sure that you were involved in her disappearance, Mister Harter."
I resist the urge to laugh in his face; I was cleared of all charges last year and, perhaps foolishly, thought that would be the end of it. The fact that Arthur might resurface never occurred to me. Not at the time.
"Tell me, what do you remember of the weekend June ninth an' tenth, two thousand twelve?" he takes a seat on the arm of my sofa as he asks the question, both hands resting either side of his backside as he does so. That was the weekend of my tryout down in Atlanta, when Elsie got admitted to hospital with the contusions and broken wrist, when the police interviewed me in regards to whether or not I was guilty of causing these injuries to my then ex-girlfriend. Right now I fear my face is portraying the grief I feel as these memories fill my mind. "Ah ask because ah recently came across a hospital admission form that had previously escaped mah notice. A woman matching Elsie's description, albeit with a fake name, went to Saint Vincent's with a broken wrist an' bruises on her face, suspected domestic abuse so they contacted the police. Ah believe you remember what ah'm talking about, don't you, Mister Harter."
"Yeah."
"And ah expect you're going to tell me what you told the police officers who interviewed you that night."
"I was out of town, down in Georgia wrestling in front of five thousand people that night." I say finally and Gerard nods in acceptance.
"Which ah have confirmed with several witnesses." He replies. "An' the man you drove with from Atlanta back to Boston, he corroborated this story of yours. A perfect alibi. But it got me thinking, Mister Harter, if you didn't do this, then who did?"
There's a moment of silence as Gerard McDonough glares at me; either he wants me to confess to the crimes of which I have been cleared or he wants me to tell him who did it. Which he wants is not overly clear, but I avoid his gaze nonetheless.
"Mister Harter," he says again. "Don't you want justice for Elsie?" he asks as a wry smirk appears on my face. It's apparently enough to make the private investigator angry; he rises from his perched position on my sofa, scaring my as-of-yet-unnamed kitten slightly with his swift movement. "What's so funny!?" he shouts as he grabs me by the collar of my t-shirt, pushing me back against the wall. "Why are you laughing?"
After a moment's pause I simply say "You wouldn't understand..."