S01E15 - The Murder vs PGJr & Bob Pooler
Apr 21, 2013 19:02:48 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Apr 21, 2013 19:02:48 GMT -5
July 2012
There’s an audible sobbing sound permeating through my apartment door as I stand as numb as a statue, my hands and head resting against the wooden grain, wondering what exactly happened to Elsie while I was away and what, if anything, I could do to remedy the situation. She and I haven’t exactly been on speaking terms since that night when I got too inebriated and woke up to discover Elsie with that black eye. Obviously she despised me for what I did; I neither couldn’t nor did I blame her for not wanting to see me after that night. Her choosing not to speak to me is completely understandable. But now there’s another person hurting her and I feel powerless to help her; there’s a sense of paralysis in my lower extremities stopping me from walking the few feet across the hallway and knocking on her door and asking what, if anything, I could do to help her feel better, to cheer her up, to remedy the situation in any way, shape or form.
The sobbing grows louder, higher pitched and ever so more painful to hear. Each whimper wrenches at my heart strings; this is the woman I proclaimed to love, the one whom, in my head, I had already imagined going on holidays abroad with, of eventually possibly marrying and settling down with, of raising a family with and with whom I wished to have two children – a boy and a girl so we each have one to dote on – yet I find myself unable to offer her any comfort in her time of desperation.
One hand slides down towards the door handle as I find myself opening it; the paralysis I was experiencing in my legs disappears as quickly as it came on as I move out of the way of the door; the sobbing seems sonorous as I step out into the hallway. The strength I muster to power myself forward is more than I thought myself possible of – each step a colossal improvement on my own emotional maturity levels – as I take the four paces needed to be standing inches from Elsie’s door. Gently I knock twice then a third knock a moment later; we had developed a signature knock for each other just so we would always know it was the other person at the door. The idea of this signature knock had seemed somewhat silly at the time but Elsie had insisted it would be cute, like an old fashioned version of a personal ring tone on our cellphones. When I pointed out that we each had keys to the other’s apartment it did nothing to lessen her enthusiasm for the idea so, as I always did, I relented and agreed to the idea of a signature knock.
“Go away, Dom.” I hear her say from within the apartment; the voice inside in my head tells me to persist in this endeavour, however, to follow through and be there both physically and emotionally for the woman whom I claim to love in her hour of need.
Persevering I mumble the words “Let me in, please” before coughing and repeating it louder than before. The crying ceases with a sniff; the soft yet unmistakable sound of chair legs dragging over carpet can be heard, letting me know that Elsie has risen from her seat in the far corner of her apartment. The door opens slowly, gradually; it creaks as Elsie stops it, holding the door open just enough for me to enter through. She closes it behind me as I suddenly find myself once again in her apartment – the curtains are closed and the main light is off, the only source of illumination is the tall black metal lamp Elsie keeps between her sofa and her chair. “Thank you.” I say as our eyes meet for the first time in what seems like an eternity. Her eyes lack their usual lustre, however; the crying has left them puffy and red in addition to the bruising around the left eye; I notice her busted lip and a missing incisor in my brief glance of her face.
“I’m sorry,” are the only words I can think to say at this time. “For everything…”
“Dom,” says Elsie as she diverts her gaze to the floor. Words are failing me right now; I wish I knew what gesture, what sign I could use to say sorry, to say that I care and I can change, that I won’t do anything so heinous again. “There’s no need to apologise. You didn’t do anything wrong…”
I feel my face scrunch up, it’s not intentional. “I hit you, of course I–”
“No.” She cuts me off. “You didn’t hit me, Dom. You were passed out…” Elsie begins to cry unabashedly with tears flowing down either cheek, trying desperately to finish her sentence. It is a futile effort, however; Elsie rests her head in my chest and wraps her arms around me, still crying all the while as I respond in kind. We stand there for what I estimate to be about ten or fifteen minutes without saying a word, the occasional squeeze or stroke on either one of our backs and a soft tender kiss on her forehead are our only interactions.
It might sound weird, but I can feel the tenderness flowing between us. Almost as if the last few months haven’t happened, the awkwardness melting away with each passing second. Finally her tears subside; her eyes have recovered a modicum of their beauty, of their depth and vibrancy. They are once again the hazel brown pools in which I could lose myself for all eternity. That is when she shattered my world for the second time; President Garfield once said that the truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable and that quote is resonating in me right now. Elsie leads me by the hand towards the sofa whereupon she proceeds to reveal the truth about this latest injury, about the black eye I believed I caused her, about why she moved to Worcester what seems like a lifetime ago and about her childhood. By the end of it all, after the last revelation has been spoken, I find myself bawling unashamedly and clutching Elsie and holding her close to me. We lie down on the sofa with our arms around each other, no more words needing to be spoken.
One thing is for sure, I will forever curse the name Arthur Webster.
“People ask me…” I start my promo by saying this as I take a seat in front of an FGA banner; the red lion prominently on display behind me. “…they stop me in the street or they tweet me, whenever and wherever they can and people ask me why couldn’t I get the job done at ‘Pride, Honor & Excellence’.” I scoff. “They think they’re taunting me, you see, irritating me by trying to point out my failings. Alluding to the fact that while we, The Murder, remain at two members our opposition is growing exponentially.”
A small chuckle escapes my lips as I shake my head. “Reminding me that Junior recruited Blayze to help him combat us. Because, you know, that worked out so well. He even managed to be useful once or twice before he let his guard down. Before his paranoia and his delusions got the better of him and he went schizo; thinking you two – Pooler and Junior – were laughing at him being attacked, that there just happened to be cameras recording your reaction to something that was happening somewhere backstage...” An eye roll accompanies that thought.
“And Pooler, trying valiantly to earn some brownie points, to redeem yourself in the eyes of these fans after those rumours broke last year. After your failed business ventures and the snaking of your friend’s girlfriend; you think that standing up to us can save you?” I smirk as I shake my head. “There aren’t enough hail Marys you can say, no penance you can seek to rectify your mistakes, to right your wrongs. And it’s a shame that you included yourself in this, Pooler, it really is. It’s regrettable that you sided with Junior, that you chose to play the brave knight and to try to save those wretched beings we have cast aside, to seek vengeance for those souls we vanquished.”
“Is it that you think people like DeMore, Mangold, O’Hare didn’t deserve the beat downs, the thrashings, the crippling injuries that we dealt them? That the way we screwed Kidd out of his championship opportunity, out of his contract, his livelihood – do you think that wasn’t justified?” an incredulous look spreads across my face; my eyes open wide, my eyebrows sloped upwards, the corner of my mouth turned up on one side as I gesticulate wildly. “Huh?”
“They deserved everything they got!” I exclaim loudly. “The only thing they didn’t deserve was to be called professional wrestlers. What they didn’t deserve was to earn a living in the promotion that we are elevating to the next plateau. What has saved you so far, Pooler, is that I have a modicum of respect for your in-ring ability. That match we fought – that I won – rescued you from the brink of oblivion. It saved you from a fate worse than death because now you can reclaim some of that relevance you so desperately desire. That spotlight that has eluded you for oh so very long, Pooler, you get a chance to bask in its sodium glow one last time. In front of your adopted home town, you can stand proudly in that ring and hold on to the idea that you are fighting for a noble cause…for right…for the victims we have left in our path, the bodies we have left strewn across rings and arenas all across this continent, from Jersey to Ontario. You can think that this will be your finest hour…”
I trail off, bursting into a small fit of laughter. I run a hand through my hair and stare at the camera, that crooked grin on my face once more as I continue speaking, “…but you would be wrong. You see, next weekend you won’t be walking out of that ring under your own recognisance, Pooler. If you’re lucky you can sling your arm over the shoulder of whatever friend remains and be escorted out of the arena; the more likely scenario, however, is that you’ll be strapped to a stretcher; the EMTs shining a light in your eyes to check for signs of consciousness, a brace wrapped around your neck for your own personal protection.”
“That is, of course, the results of the path you have chosen, Pooler.” I state emphatically. “That is the direction you chose to go, the option you picked when you stood by Junior’s side. Your failed business ventures, your stealing your best friend’s girlfriend … I could let those slide, but for choosing to stand against me. Against Malcolm. Against The Murder!” A chortle breaks up the speech. “That, Pooler, will go on record as the worst decision you ever made. The beat down you will endure at our hands this weekend in Boston will be a testament – lasting throughout the ages – as proof of what happens when you cross The Murder!”
My head hangs low for a moment as I chuckle to myself, rubbing the heel of my hand down my jawline. “Of course, you two aren’t alone when it comes to that sin. You see, Hardaway has now taken issue with us. He feels the need to play make-believe and dream that he has a chance if he were ever to stand against us. And then there’s Collins, who thought he deserved to have an issue with me. I sorted that little problem before it had a chance to grow and fester, though. And lets not forget Bond and Jones and Magna all looking down their noses at us. Thinking they’re better than us despite what we prove in that ring, despite what the record books show. To their credit, however, they haven’t decided to push the issue. They haven’t opted to stand up and say to us ‘no, I want to stop you’. They have the sense to see what would befall them if they did. They have seen the carrion waste we have left behind, the corpses we have left for the scavengers to feast upon and they, wisely, do not wish to end up like them…unlike some.”
“Let me make one thing very clear,” I say with a wry smile on my face, “Junior and Pooler – both of you – you’re only able to stand up against us right now because we want you to. You’re only going to be able to make it to Boston next weekend, to walk into ‘Only The Strong Survive’ with your heads held high because we have deemed it necessary. Because we weren’t done tearing you down before now; and not until you’re both broken physically, mentally and emotionally will we be content. Until you are quivering wrecks, until the pain that runs through your bodies becomes unbearable and you scream in agony!”
“And even then…” I chuckle. “…even then we won’t be done. You see, you two don’t get the same courtesy I personally have shown the like of Collins and Blayze; those mindless bastards had my attention for one week and one week only; their crimes against this industry, this sport, this business, they don’t run as deep as yours. Their crimes against me, against Malcolm, they pale in comparison to your crimes.”
I run a hand through my hair and pop my neck, grinning that crooked grin all the while. “From the very beginning of this saga we have been building to this moment, haven’t we, Junior? Our match at ‘Pride, Honor & Excellence’, however, won’t compare to this in terms of brutality and sheer violence…” I state vehemently, fully believing that this match will be the true slobberknocker of 2013 and a shoe-in for match of the year. “…because I know you’re both bringing your a-games. And I know you’re both coming in with guns cocked and barrels loaded, ready for whatever Malcolm and I can throw at you…”
“The trouble is…” I whisper softly, “…you have no idea what we are truly capable of.”
“Back at ‘Pride, Honor & Excellence’ I let my guard down with you, Junior, I underestimated the ferocity with which you would fight that night.” I admit bitterly. “But there is no element of surprise this time, Junior. In the last two months I have watched the tapes; your matches against Stryker and Corella, you versus Scott or Malcolm; I’ve seen them, I’ve watched them repeatedly and I have studied them intently. Our match together is a damn near permanent fixture on my television screen so I can see where I … went wrong that night. Where I slipped up…”
My nostrils flare and my brow furrows; I’m positively seething about my failure to win that match. “Your name should have been added to the ever-growing list of victims that night! And your name should be at the top of that list, Junior, because I want to be the man who brings the UWL World Heavyweight Champion to his knees. I want to be the man to humble the Southie Scrapper. I want to be the man to make Pat Gordon Jr. scream out in agony and to beg for mercy!”
“What I did in New York City to your good friend Jon Collins,” the name is said with derision, “that will pale in comparison to what I have planned for you, Junior. What Malcolm has in store for you; your win over him a few weeks ago will be avenged with a victory of majestic proportions. I mean, this match will forever be burned into the memories of all who watch it for years to come. It will be a slobberknocker, it will be brutal and it will be epic. And when it is all said and done, Junior…” I take a deep breath in through the nose, exhaling through my mouth before continuing. “…when Malcolm and I are standing over your beaten, bloodied, broken body. When you look up and see us, I expect you to beg for mercy, for forgiveness. I expect an apology for your being a constant thorn in our sides. I expect you to grovel at our feet, imploring us to forget your transgressions…”
I laugh devilishly. “And we will say no. You don’t deserve our sympathy, our forgiveness, our mercy. You deserve nothing less than to be completely, utterly and undeniably annihilated, Junior. To be a stain on the canvas just like Collins was. Just like O’Hare…” I snicker. “Do you remember that night, Junior? When Malcolm and I found your childhood friend backstage, all alone. I do. I remember it vividly; that startled expression on her face when she saw us coming. The fear in her eyes when she spied the weapons we carried. I can still hear her cries of pain, the dull thwacks of steel hitting flesh. Oh yes. And I remember what she said to us as she lay there; writhing in pain, wracked with agony. She cursed us, Junior. She asked us what she did to deserve this…” I laugh. “…and I told her the truth; that she was a scourge on this sport that needed to be eliminated. That is what O’Hare deserved…”
“And you, Junior, you deserve nothing less than to be the fresh corpse that feeds the crows; make no mistake, at ‘Only The Strong Survive’ we will pick the meat from your bones, rip the flesh right off you and we will devour you inside that ring. And when we have finished with you, Junior … when Malcolm and I have had our fill, when the fans cannot stomach any more of the violence, the brutality that they will have just witnessed … by then, you should have finally learned your lesson: that you do not cross The Murder.”
“You wouldn’t understand…” I say, removing his hands from the collar of my t-shirt. Gerard McDonough stares at me blankly; the cogs working in his brain are practically visible as he tries to fathom the exact meaning of my words.
“What do you mean ah wouldn’t understand?” he asks bluntly. “What is it you’re not telling me, Mister Harter?”
I divert my gaze at the question; my chin nearly touching my chest as I hang my head in shame; there are tears forming behind my eyes as I begin to well up; these are the memories from which I have been shielding myself, the events that have haunted my dreams for nearly a year. For all the bravado with which I carry myself, for all the macho posturing there have been times in my life when I have been reduced to a quivering wreck and he is asking me to recall the latest and most traumatic of them.
“Mister Harter…” says Gerard again in a begging tone. “What is it that happened to Elsie?”
“I can’t…” I say, wiping a tear from my eye. “I promised her I wouldn’t tell anyone.” Gerard places a hand on my shoulder and tells me in that southern drawl of his that it’s the only way to clear my name. The words resonate with me; last year the police suspected me of being involved with her disappearance and/or murder, the neighbours here in the apartment building still eye me suspiciously and talk behind my back about all the times that Elsie appeared with fresh bruises and the occasional broken bone. And I want my name to be clear, I really do. But is it worth breaking a promise to the woman who I loved more than anyone else? Gerard speaks again, imploring me to open up about the events in question; he wants to know where Elsie is, but that is one salient piece of information that escapes even me.
Forgive me, Elsie, I say to myself in my head as I walk towards the sofa, Gerard following behind me. I explain to him that what I’m about to tell him has to remain between us; I’m already breaking my promise by telling him, I can’t have it spread further, certainly not to Arthur Webster. He, by no means, can learn what happened to his daughter; that was another of the promises that Elsie made me swear to her and that one I intend on keeping.
Gerard listens intently, perched on the edge of his seat as I begin my explanation. It was July last year, just after we had gotten back together… the story starts as I recall what Elsie told me; the details of her childhood that she herself had kept secret for so many years; precisely what happened that night she went to the hospital to be treated for the broken wrist; the follow up visit that Arthur had made to her in the hospital, playing the doting father in full view of the doctors and nurses and Elsie being too scared to say anything or do anything to stop him. And I explain the fear that Elsie felt about her own personal daddy and how and why she had come to Worcester to try and escape his clutches. It, the running away that is, had even worked for a few years; Elsie fled from the family home when she eighteen and moved nearly a thousand miles to Massachusetts to start a new life. But after her mother died, Arthur began his search for her. This appears to be a story that Gerard has heard before; I can tell he’s piecing together exactly where this story is leading and maybe possibly even realising the parts of the story of which I have excluded; the parts of the story I wish I had never learned.
I recall the night of July twentieth when Elsie returned home in floods of tears; her own personal daddy had appeared at her work place that day and gave her the howling fantods when he was schmoozing with her boss and when he gave her a kiss on the cheek goodbye. So, at that moment, Elsie decided that the only recourse left to follow would be to move away again; the idea of which made me miserable, it literally filled me with the most morose feelings I had experienced up to that point and even to this very day. The idea of losing my Jonquil was not one I had contemplated; the months we had spent apart were torturous enough for me, how was I possibly expected to last a lifetime never again seeing her face, smelling her hair, giving her a kiss good morning. How was I supposed to go about my life knowing that I would never again get to hold her in my arms and tell her that I loved her; I wanted to be able to look into those hazel brown eyes of hers every day for all eternity and lose myself in them, I wanted to be able to give her everything she had ever wanted in life. And to that she said if you love me, you’ll help me do this and I was, and still am, an absolute sucker for that particular brand of emotional blackmail.
Gerard sat in silence as I continued my story; tears roll down my cheeks as I recall that particular day. I went to the train station the next day and bought tickets to three different cities; one to the South, one somewhere in the Midwest and the third and final one somewhere I think that is either in California or Nevada. And I took what was left of my recent poker winnings; the knowledge of which I had shared with Elsie; these along with a few thousand dollars of her own savings account would be what she would use to give herself this new start. So it was that I presented these three tickets to Elsie and I told her that I couldn’t know which one she chose; if I knew where she was then I would travel there myself so we could be together. Elsie didn’t want me to give up my life for her though. She claimed I had a promising career ahead of me, that with some determination and a figure to lead the way I could achieve great things. She said that she’d always support me, now and forever but I shouldn’t give up my dream for her. I explain to Gerard that I thought this was a sweet sentiment and has been the driving force behind the recent resurgence in my career. He replies that’s all well and good, but he’d be more interested if I could return to the part of the story that explains what happened to Elsie.
We had a plan, Elsie and I, to help her escape this life and her own personal daddy. She’d take a train across the country and start a new life there under an assumed identity. I never asked for details on that part. So it was that we went to bed that night and made love for what turned out to be the last time and drank what would be our final drink together; at the time I was unaware that Elsie had put some sleeping pills in my glass, so before I knew it I was fast asleep in my bed. And I explain to Gerard that by the time I woke up the next morning that Elsie was gone; she had packed her bag and taken the money and the train tickets, all three of them so I wouldn’t know where she went, and she had left in the night. She had left before I had the chance to say good-bye or the chance to once again tell her that I loved her. That I would always love her and I would do what I had to in order to honour her wishes. That the one treasured keepsake she left me was a note scrawled on a piece of paper, simply saying thank you, my Florian. And that, I explain to Gerard, was the lowest point in my life. And that, I emphasise for his benefit, is all I know in regards to the whereabouts of Elsie Webster.
There’s an audible sobbing sound permeating through my apartment door as I stand as numb as a statue, my hands and head resting against the wooden grain, wondering what exactly happened to Elsie while I was away and what, if anything, I could do to remedy the situation. She and I haven’t exactly been on speaking terms since that night when I got too inebriated and woke up to discover Elsie with that black eye. Obviously she despised me for what I did; I neither couldn’t nor did I blame her for not wanting to see me after that night. Her choosing not to speak to me is completely understandable. But now there’s another person hurting her and I feel powerless to help her; there’s a sense of paralysis in my lower extremities stopping me from walking the few feet across the hallway and knocking on her door and asking what, if anything, I could do to help her feel better, to cheer her up, to remedy the situation in any way, shape or form.
The sobbing grows louder, higher pitched and ever so more painful to hear. Each whimper wrenches at my heart strings; this is the woman I proclaimed to love, the one whom, in my head, I had already imagined going on holidays abroad with, of eventually possibly marrying and settling down with, of raising a family with and with whom I wished to have two children – a boy and a girl so we each have one to dote on – yet I find myself unable to offer her any comfort in her time of desperation.
One hand slides down towards the door handle as I find myself opening it; the paralysis I was experiencing in my legs disappears as quickly as it came on as I move out of the way of the door; the sobbing seems sonorous as I step out into the hallway. The strength I muster to power myself forward is more than I thought myself possible of – each step a colossal improvement on my own emotional maturity levels – as I take the four paces needed to be standing inches from Elsie’s door. Gently I knock twice then a third knock a moment later; we had developed a signature knock for each other just so we would always know it was the other person at the door. The idea of this signature knock had seemed somewhat silly at the time but Elsie had insisted it would be cute, like an old fashioned version of a personal ring tone on our cellphones. When I pointed out that we each had keys to the other’s apartment it did nothing to lessen her enthusiasm for the idea so, as I always did, I relented and agreed to the idea of a signature knock.
“Go away, Dom.” I hear her say from within the apartment; the voice inside in my head tells me to persist in this endeavour, however, to follow through and be there both physically and emotionally for the woman whom I claim to love in her hour of need.
Persevering I mumble the words “Let me in, please” before coughing and repeating it louder than before. The crying ceases with a sniff; the soft yet unmistakable sound of chair legs dragging over carpet can be heard, letting me know that Elsie has risen from her seat in the far corner of her apartment. The door opens slowly, gradually; it creaks as Elsie stops it, holding the door open just enough for me to enter through. She closes it behind me as I suddenly find myself once again in her apartment – the curtains are closed and the main light is off, the only source of illumination is the tall black metal lamp Elsie keeps between her sofa and her chair. “Thank you.” I say as our eyes meet for the first time in what seems like an eternity. Her eyes lack their usual lustre, however; the crying has left them puffy and red in addition to the bruising around the left eye; I notice her busted lip and a missing incisor in my brief glance of her face.
“I’m sorry,” are the only words I can think to say at this time. “For everything…”
“Dom,” says Elsie as she diverts her gaze to the floor. Words are failing me right now; I wish I knew what gesture, what sign I could use to say sorry, to say that I care and I can change, that I won’t do anything so heinous again. “There’s no need to apologise. You didn’t do anything wrong…”
I feel my face scrunch up, it’s not intentional. “I hit you, of course I–”
“No.” She cuts me off. “You didn’t hit me, Dom. You were passed out…” Elsie begins to cry unabashedly with tears flowing down either cheek, trying desperately to finish her sentence. It is a futile effort, however; Elsie rests her head in my chest and wraps her arms around me, still crying all the while as I respond in kind. We stand there for what I estimate to be about ten or fifteen minutes without saying a word, the occasional squeeze or stroke on either one of our backs and a soft tender kiss on her forehead are our only interactions.
It might sound weird, but I can feel the tenderness flowing between us. Almost as if the last few months haven’t happened, the awkwardness melting away with each passing second. Finally her tears subside; her eyes have recovered a modicum of their beauty, of their depth and vibrancy. They are once again the hazel brown pools in which I could lose myself for all eternity. That is when she shattered my world for the second time; President Garfield once said that the truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable and that quote is resonating in me right now. Elsie leads me by the hand towards the sofa whereupon she proceeds to reveal the truth about this latest injury, about the black eye I believed I caused her, about why she moved to Worcester what seems like a lifetime ago and about her childhood. By the end of it all, after the last revelation has been spoken, I find myself bawling unashamedly and clutching Elsie and holding her close to me. We lie down on the sofa with our arms around each other, no more words needing to be spoken.
One thing is for sure, I will forever curse the name Arthur Webster.
“People ask me…” I start my promo by saying this as I take a seat in front of an FGA banner; the red lion prominently on display behind me. “…they stop me in the street or they tweet me, whenever and wherever they can and people ask me why couldn’t I get the job done at ‘Pride, Honor & Excellence’.” I scoff. “They think they’re taunting me, you see, irritating me by trying to point out my failings. Alluding to the fact that while we, The Murder, remain at two members our opposition is growing exponentially.”
A small chuckle escapes my lips as I shake my head. “Reminding me that Junior recruited Blayze to help him combat us. Because, you know, that worked out so well. He even managed to be useful once or twice before he let his guard down. Before his paranoia and his delusions got the better of him and he went schizo; thinking you two – Pooler and Junior – were laughing at him being attacked, that there just happened to be cameras recording your reaction to something that was happening somewhere backstage...” An eye roll accompanies that thought.
“And Pooler, trying valiantly to earn some brownie points, to redeem yourself in the eyes of these fans after those rumours broke last year. After your failed business ventures and the snaking of your friend’s girlfriend; you think that standing up to us can save you?” I smirk as I shake my head. “There aren’t enough hail Marys you can say, no penance you can seek to rectify your mistakes, to right your wrongs. And it’s a shame that you included yourself in this, Pooler, it really is. It’s regrettable that you sided with Junior, that you chose to play the brave knight and to try to save those wretched beings we have cast aside, to seek vengeance for those souls we vanquished.”
“Is it that you think people like DeMore, Mangold, O’Hare didn’t deserve the beat downs, the thrashings, the crippling injuries that we dealt them? That the way we screwed Kidd out of his championship opportunity, out of his contract, his livelihood – do you think that wasn’t justified?” an incredulous look spreads across my face; my eyes open wide, my eyebrows sloped upwards, the corner of my mouth turned up on one side as I gesticulate wildly. “Huh?”
“They deserved everything they got!” I exclaim loudly. “The only thing they didn’t deserve was to be called professional wrestlers. What they didn’t deserve was to earn a living in the promotion that we are elevating to the next plateau. What has saved you so far, Pooler, is that I have a modicum of respect for your in-ring ability. That match we fought – that I won – rescued you from the brink of oblivion. It saved you from a fate worse than death because now you can reclaim some of that relevance you so desperately desire. That spotlight that has eluded you for oh so very long, Pooler, you get a chance to bask in its sodium glow one last time. In front of your adopted home town, you can stand proudly in that ring and hold on to the idea that you are fighting for a noble cause…for right…for the victims we have left in our path, the bodies we have left strewn across rings and arenas all across this continent, from Jersey to Ontario. You can think that this will be your finest hour…”
I trail off, bursting into a small fit of laughter. I run a hand through my hair and stare at the camera, that crooked grin on my face once more as I continue speaking, “…but you would be wrong. You see, next weekend you won’t be walking out of that ring under your own recognisance, Pooler. If you’re lucky you can sling your arm over the shoulder of whatever friend remains and be escorted out of the arena; the more likely scenario, however, is that you’ll be strapped to a stretcher; the EMTs shining a light in your eyes to check for signs of consciousness, a brace wrapped around your neck for your own personal protection.”
“That is, of course, the results of the path you have chosen, Pooler.” I state emphatically. “That is the direction you chose to go, the option you picked when you stood by Junior’s side. Your failed business ventures, your stealing your best friend’s girlfriend … I could let those slide, but for choosing to stand against me. Against Malcolm. Against The Murder!” A chortle breaks up the speech. “That, Pooler, will go on record as the worst decision you ever made. The beat down you will endure at our hands this weekend in Boston will be a testament – lasting throughout the ages – as proof of what happens when you cross The Murder!”
My head hangs low for a moment as I chuckle to myself, rubbing the heel of my hand down my jawline. “Of course, you two aren’t alone when it comes to that sin. You see, Hardaway has now taken issue with us. He feels the need to play make-believe and dream that he has a chance if he were ever to stand against us. And then there’s Collins, who thought he deserved to have an issue with me. I sorted that little problem before it had a chance to grow and fester, though. And lets not forget Bond and Jones and Magna all looking down their noses at us. Thinking they’re better than us despite what we prove in that ring, despite what the record books show. To their credit, however, they haven’t decided to push the issue. They haven’t opted to stand up and say to us ‘no, I want to stop you’. They have the sense to see what would befall them if they did. They have seen the carrion waste we have left behind, the corpses we have left for the scavengers to feast upon and they, wisely, do not wish to end up like them…unlike some.”
“Let me make one thing very clear,” I say with a wry smile on my face, “Junior and Pooler – both of you – you’re only able to stand up against us right now because we want you to. You’re only going to be able to make it to Boston next weekend, to walk into ‘Only The Strong Survive’ with your heads held high because we have deemed it necessary. Because we weren’t done tearing you down before now; and not until you’re both broken physically, mentally and emotionally will we be content. Until you are quivering wrecks, until the pain that runs through your bodies becomes unbearable and you scream in agony!”
“And even then…” I chuckle. “…even then we won’t be done. You see, you two don’t get the same courtesy I personally have shown the like of Collins and Blayze; those mindless bastards had my attention for one week and one week only; their crimes against this industry, this sport, this business, they don’t run as deep as yours. Their crimes against me, against Malcolm, they pale in comparison to your crimes.”
I run a hand through my hair and pop my neck, grinning that crooked grin all the while. “From the very beginning of this saga we have been building to this moment, haven’t we, Junior? Our match at ‘Pride, Honor & Excellence’, however, won’t compare to this in terms of brutality and sheer violence…” I state vehemently, fully believing that this match will be the true slobberknocker of 2013 and a shoe-in for match of the year. “…because I know you’re both bringing your a-games. And I know you’re both coming in with guns cocked and barrels loaded, ready for whatever Malcolm and I can throw at you…”
“The trouble is…” I whisper softly, “…you have no idea what we are truly capable of.”
“Back at ‘Pride, Honor & Excellence’ I let my guard down with you, Junior, I underestimated the ferocity with which you would fight that night.” I admit bitterly. “But there is no element of surprise this time, Junior. In the last two months I have watched the tapes; your matches against Stryker and Corella, you versus Scott or Malcolm; I’ve seen them, I’ve watched them repeatedly and I have studied them intently. Our match together is a damn near permanent fixture on my television screen so I can see where I … went wrong that night. Where I slipped up…”
My nostrils flare and my brow furrows; I’m positively seething about my failure to win that match. “Your name should have been added to the ever-growing list of victims that night! And your name should be at the top of that list, Junior, because I want to be the man who brings the UWL World Heavyweight Champion to his knees. I want to be the man to humble the Southie Scrapper. I want to be the man to make Pat Gordon Jr. scream out in agony and to beg for mercy!”
“What I did in New York City to your good friend Jon Collins,” the name is said with derision, “that will pale in comparison to what I have planned for you, Junior. What Malcolm has in store for you; your win over him a few weeks ago will be avenged with a victory of majestic proportions. I mean, this match will forever be burned into the memories of all who watch it for years to come. It will be a slobberknocker, it will be brutal and it will be epic. And when it is all said and done, Junior…” I take a deep breath in through the nose, exhaling through my mouth before continuing. “…when Malcolm and I are standing over your beaten, bloodied, broken body. When you look up and see us, I expect you to beg for mercy, for forgiveness. I expect an apology for your being a constant thorn in our sides. I expect you to grovel at our feet, imploring us to forget your transgressions…”
I laugh devilishly. “And we will say no. You don’t deserve our sympathy, our forgiveness, our mercy. You deserve nothing less than to be completely, utterly and undeniably annihilated, Junior. To be a stain on the canvas just like Collins was. Just like O’Hare…” I snicker. “Do you remember that night, Junior? When Malcolm and I found your childhood friend backstage, all alone. I do. I remember it vividly; that startled expression on her face when she saw us coming. The fear in her eyes when she spied the weapons we carried. I can still hear her cries of pain, the dull thwacks of steel hitting flesh. Oh yes. And I remember what she said to us as she lay there; writhing in pain, wracked with agony. She cursed us, Junior. She asked us what she did to deserve this…” I laugh. “…and I told her the truth; that she was a scourge on this sport that needed to be eliminated. That is what O’Hare deserved…”
“And you, Junior, you deserve nothing less than to be the fresh corpse that feeds the crows; make no mistake, at ‘Only The Strong Survive’ we will pick the meat from your bones, rip the flesh right off you and we will devour you inside that ring. And when we have finished with you, Junior … when Malcolm and I have had our fill, when the fans cannot stomach any more of the violence, the brutality that they will have just witnessed … by then, you should have finally learned your lesson: that you do not cross The Murder.”
“You wouldn’t understand…” I say, removing his hands from the collar of my t-shirt. Gerard McDonough stares at me blankly; the cogs working in his brain are practically visible as he tries to fathom the exact meaning of my words.
“What do you mean ah wouldn’t understand?” he asks bluntly. “What is it you’re not telling me, Mister Harter?”
I divert my gaze at the question; my chin nearly touching my chest as I hang my head in shame; there are tears forming behind my eyes as I begin to well up; these are the memories from which I have been shielding myself, the events that have haunted my dreams for nearly a year. For all the bravado with which I carry myself, for all the macho posturing there have been times in my life when I have been reduced to a quivering wreck and he is asking me to recall the latest and most traumatic of them.
“Mister Harter…” says Gerard again in a begging tone. “What is it that happened to Elsie?”
“I can’t…” I say, wiping a tear from my eye. “I promised her I wouldn’t tell anyone.” Gerard places a hand on my shoulder and tells me in that southern drawl of his that it’s the only way to clear my name. The words resonate with me; last year the police suspected me of being involved with her disappearance and/or murder, the neighbours here in the apartment building still eye me suspiciously and talk behind my back about all the times that Elsie appeared with fresh bruises and the occasional broken bone. And I want my name to be clear, I really do. But is it worth breaking a promise to the woman who I loved more than anyone else? Gerard speaks again, imploring me to open up about the events in question; he wants to know where Elsie is, but that is one salient piece of information that escapes even me.
Forgive me, Elsie, I say to myself in my head as I walk towards the sofa, Gerard following behind me. I explain to him that what I’m about to tell him has to remain between us; I’m already breaking my promise by telling him, I can’t have it spread further, certainly not to Arthur Webster. He, by no means, can learn what happened to his daughter; that was another of the promises that Elsie made me swear to her and that one I intend on keeping.
Gerard listens intently, perched on the edge of his seat as I begin my explanation. It was July last year, just after we had gotten back together… the story starts as I recall what Elsie told me; the details of her childhood that she herself had kept secret for so many years; precisely what happened that night she went to the hospital to be treated for the broken wrist; the follow up visit that Arthur had made to her in the hospital, playing the doting father in full view of the doctors and nurses and Elsie being too scared to say anything or do anything to stop him. And I explain the fear that Elsie felt about her own personal daddy and how and why she had come to Worcester to try and escape his clutches. It, the running away that is, had even worked for a few years; Elsie fled from the family home when she eighteen and moved nearly a thousand miles to Massachusetts to start a new life. But after her mother died, Arthur began his search for her. This appears to be a story that Gerard has heard before; I can tell he’s piecing together exactly where this story is leading and maybe possibly even realising the parts of the story of which I have excluded; the parts of the story I wish I had never learned.
I recall the night of July twentieth when Elsie returned home in floods of tears; her own personal daddy had appeared at her work place that day and gave her the howling fantods when he was schmoozing with her boss and when he gave her a kiss on the cheek goodbye. So, at that moment, Elsie decided that the only recourse left to follow would be to move away again; the idea of which made me miserable, it literally filled me with the most morose feelings I had experienced up to that point and even to this very day. The idea of losing my Jonquil was not one I had contemplated; the months we had spent apart were torturous enough for me, how was I possibly expected to last a lifetime never again seeing her face, smelling her hair, giving her a kiss good morning. How was I supposed to go about my life knowing that I would never again get to hold her in my arms and tell her that I loved her; I wanted to be able to look into those hazel brown eyes of hers every day for all eternity and lose myself in them, I wanted to be able to give her everything she had ever wanted in life. And to that she said if you love me, you’ll help me do this and I was, and still am, an absolute sucker for that particular brand of emotional blackmail.
Gerard sat in silence as I continued my story; tears roll down my cheeks as I recall that particular day. I went to the train station the next day and bought tickets to three different cities; one to the South, one somewhere in the Midwest and the third and final one somewhere I think that is either in California or Nevada. And I took what was left of my recent poker winnings; the knowledge of which I had shared with Elsie; these along with a few thousand dollars of her own savings account would be what she would use to give herself this new start. So it was that I presented these three tickets to Elsie and I told her that I couldn’t know which one she chose; if I knew where she was then I would travel there myself so we could be together. Elsie didn’t want me to give up my life for her though. She claimed I had a promising career ahead of me, that with some determination and a figure to lead the way I could achieve great things. She said that she’d always support me, now and forever but I shouldn’t give up my dream for her. I explain to Gerard that I thought this was a sweet sentiment and has been the driving force behind the recent resurgence in my career. He replies that’s all well and good, but he’d be more interested if I could return to the part of the story that explains what happened to Elsie.
We had a plan, Elsie and I, to help her escape this life and her own personal daddy. She’d take a train across the country and start a new life there under an assumed identity. I never asked for details on that part. So it was that we went to bed that night and made love for what turned out to be the last time and drank what would be our final drink together; at the time I was unaware that Elsie had put some sleeping pills in my glass, so before I knew it I was fast asleep in my bed. And I explain to Gerard that by the time I woke up the next morning that Elsie was gone; she had packed her bag and taken the money and the train tickets, all three of them so I wouldn’t know where she went, and she had left in the night. She had left before I had the chance to say good-bye or the chance to once again tell her that I loved her. That I would always love her and I would do what I had to in order to honour her wishes. That the one treasured keepsake she left me was a note scrawled on a piece of paper, simply saying thank you, my Florian. And that, I explain to Gerard, was the lowest point in my life. And that, I emphasise for his benefit, is all I know in regards to the whereabouts of Elsie Webster.