S02E04
Jun 1, 2013 16:26:38 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Jun 1, 2013 16:26:38 GMT -5
"Rematch clause," I say facetiously, "are there two sweeter words in the English language? A guaranteed second chance if you should happen to fail. Another chance to right the wrongs you feel have been perpetrated against you. That's what this is, isn't it, Q?" my face is set in a scowl as I ask the question; a quick glance down at the FGA Championship title belt resting comfortably on my shoulder forces me to smile wryly as I shake my head.
"Part of me is thankful, however, that this first defence goes to you, Q. It fills me with a certain sense of prosperity that this era, our era, can be defined as one where justness reigns." The words just but harsh jump to mind, but I think better than to say those out loud. "That my first title defence is against the man I beat, the beast I brought to heel, the creature I left flat out in the centre of that ring a month ago in Boston, Massachusetts. Not one of these pretenders. These undeserving wretches with their senses of entitlement. I will not have this era undermined by the likes of Tomkins or Fairchild, strolling back in here as if they still run this yard, spewing my name from their cretinous lips! I will not suffer the likes of Tryon disrespecting one of my fellow crows. And I will not endure a man such as King thinking himself worthy to be in our ring. To each of those I have something for you..." I trail off as I flip the bird to the camera.
I sneer before speaking again. "And that's more of my time than each and every one of you deserves. That's more effort than I should expend on the likes of any of you..." a crooked grin spreads across my face as I think ahead to the upcoming show in Plymouth. I have no doubt that Malcolm will squash Fairchild and ruin this comeback of his before he has chance to gain any momentum, so he can slope off to PWX or trawl back to Galveston with his tail between his legs. And I will take a certain amount of joy from my watching Heather humiliate Kaleb King by wrestling circles around him. So he can be dealt a crushing blow without my fingerprints being left behind. I train with Heather almost every day, I know exactly what she is capable of inside that ring. The Exodus Pro International Championship that currently adorns her shoulder testifies to that fact. The same belt she took from me.
There is a moment if silence as I stand before the Murder backdrop I've had specially made for such purposes; the blood red background with leaf-bare trees either side, a murder of crows lining branches of each tree as well as gathering on the razed ground in the bottom centre of the picture. For this promo I decided to wear a black Horrible Crowes t-shirt, a picture of a crow holding a red rose printed on the front, highlighted by grey splashes. Along with some charcoal jeans and some black chucks, my hair is styled in my favoured fauxhawk with the blonde streak running down the middle as usual.
"I remember the last time FGA came through Plymouth." I say, finally breaking the silence. "Murder They Wrote is the title they gave that particular DVD. And I remember it because that was the night I picked up my first victory here in FGA. That was the night I picked up my career by the bootstraps and made something of myself. And I showed the hundreds of fans who filled the Plymouth Memorial Hall that night exactly what I was made of. What The Murder was all about."
"Do you remember that night back in January, Q?" I ask in an irreverent tone. "Do you remember when I drove Magna head first into that canvas that night? The dull thud of her skull hitting the mat and the wave of boos that started as soon as the referee counted the three count..." a brief pause as I sigh dreamily, "...the sight of Bob being a crow and helping Malcolm to rob Edison of the chance to become the Pride Champion. That was masterfully done, if I do say so myself. And do you remember the sight of Junior flipping his lid inside that ring? All because we committed the most heinous act of our reign of terror. Because that was the night The Murder sent the message that we are not to be fucked with..." I raise my voice at the end. "...yet, still six months later, you people persist to push us. To try your luck. To tempt your fates!"
"Of course you remember it, Q." I say through a chortle. "You may not have been there, but I know you've watched that show a hundred times or more. That was one of those nights that fill you with dread, because that was the night you knew your days were numbered. When you knew there was a new cause rising here in FGA."
"That was the day you knew The Big Bad's legacy would be cut down before you had a chance to really start it. Six weeks later you captured this belt..." I say pointing to the strap on my left shoulder. "...and become the top dog here. You humbled the Pissed Off Teenager in Mississauga and assumed your rightful place." I chuckle again, shaking my head from side to side as the chuckle becomes a sinister cackle. "Rightful? That's one of those words being bandied around lately, isn't it? Everyone thinks they're the rightful champion ... guess what, neither you nor any of those other pretenders are the rightful champion. Neither you nor any of those proles deserve to be perched at the top of FGA."
"This belt!" I exclaim, once again pointing at the FGA Championship belt, "This belongs to me! Because I am the one true champion here. Because it was I who was selected by Malcolm to take this belt from your contemptible grasp! He picked me, he gave this to me!"
"But you want to try again. You want to invoke your rematch clause because you think you were wronged. You think this belt belongs to you, so you can hold it in your grubby little mitts ... to use it a coaster for your beers ... so your whores can look at it and think you're a better man than we all know you are." I spit on the floor after those words leave my mouth. "Not gonna happen, never again will this belt be besmirched by the likes you, Q. Never again will its reputation be tarnished. Never again will it be brought into disrepute by association. Q, Fairchild, Scott, Harrison, Tomkins ... those names will be left in the annals of history as lesser beings. As unworthy champions once my acts become known, once my victories take place, my wars are won. Once I, alongside Malcolm and Bob, write our entries into the history books ... then this belt will be the most coveted prize in wrestling today. However, I am the only one who can make that happen. And I will eclipse the accomplishments of every previous champion. It is I who elevate this belt..." I sneer as I pause for a moment.
"And it starts with you, Q." I say through gritted teeth as I begin pacing from side to side. "In Boston you were lucky we only decided to take this precious title belt from you. Fact! When Malcolm laid you out, you were at our mercy. Your fate was in our hands, Q. And we spared you instead of ending your pitiful existence that night."
"You could have joined the likes of O'Hare and Mangold on the injured list, you could have tucked tail and run like Corella did after Malcolm was done with him." I say wearily. "You could have taken an extended hiatus to get your priorities in order. But not you. Not The Big Bad!" I exclaim in a raised voice, gesticulating wildly as I do so. One hand runs through my hair as I stop pacing and turn to face the camera again. "Your pride and your hubris, Q, they'll lead you to dark places. We gave you a chance, an out, a way to escape the inevitable. But for some reason you have decided not to take it."
"You thought it was a good idea to go to White Plains, New York and try to outshine Malcolm." Another chuckle escapes my lips as I glare at the camera. "Urgh, interfering little bastards will always get in the way, don't they? Malcolm was getting ready to end you that night, The Murder was ready to end you that night, Q. But those shining white knights of valour and justice, Junior and Kidd, they had to stick their nose into our business once more. Bond had to try to use us all to seek adulation in the eyes of those fans. And you escaped our clutches and got to fight another day..."
"And that is how we end up here. You invoking your rematch clause. You getting another shot, another chance to try and be the top dog." I fold my arms across my chest. "And the great equalizer, the lumberjacks. Were they your idea? Do you think for one second that any amount of people on the outside of the ring can stop us? There are two things wrong with that. Firstly, I can defeat you all by myself. Those lumberjacks are there for your protection. Not mine. And secondly, every single roster member here in FGA, every last one of those lumberjacks should be living in fear of The Murder. Scared of the reprisal and the retribution that will swiftly befall them should they wrong us."
"They should, however, be thankful for the ringside seat they have been given." I state cockily. "So they can have the up close view of history in the making. Because this week in Plymouth, Massachusetts I will once again show the world, the fans, the wrestler who dare utter my name in anything other than reverence ... I'll show them what is in store for them when they follow your example. When they cross The Murder." I say with a crooked grin on my face. "As I, once again, bring you to heel like the bitch you are, Q. Even without Malcolm's help I'll leave you flat on your back in the middle of that ring! I will finish what I started a month ago in Boston and break you! I will humble you yet again!" I emphasise my point by jabbing my finger down at the floor. "If I have to I will drive you head first into that canvas time after time, repeatedly and without mercy, until you learn your lesson. Until you learn your place in this world."
"And you can bring that fight you showed against Malcolm. Please do, I want a challenge. That fire that was lit under you that night, bring that with you. And you can think I will be unprepared or incapable of dealing with it..." I shake my head. "...but I will answer every move you make, I will return every shot you deliver twofold. I mean, you are now dealing with The Tenacious Little Bastard, Q. You are dealing with the FGA Champion. I am not some young punk you can toss around that ring, I am not one of the ten men who fell at your feet! I am the one who ended your undefeated streak. I am the one who ended your reign as champion. And I will be the one who pins your shoulders to the mat for a second time! You see, this belt is leaving Plymouth with me, Q. As I stride out of the arena with my head held high, my chest puffed out with pride and this belt around my waist, I will leave every one of those lumberjacks speechless at the sight they just witnessed. The destruction that just unfolded before their very eyes. And you ... you will be carted out of that arena on a stretcher. You will be taken to the hospital and there you can think -- think long and hard -- about why you decided to cross The Murder a second time."
The crooked grin is still plastered across my face as I rub my right hand along my jaw. "My patience with you has exhausted, Q. My mercy for you has all but depleted. And your time in our world has run out. So now is time for you to say goodnight to the world..." I bare my teeth with a wicked smile, a vicious scowl on my face as the camera fades out to black.
August 2012
I returned to Saints Haven that Saturday morning for a training session that Nails Turner was putting on; the man was once regarded as one of the finest brawlers on the independent wrestling scene before a leg injury of some sorts stopped him from actively competing. Now with his weight having ballooned to near three hundred pounds, Nails spends his time back in one of his former promotions training us. The 'future' of the sport he purportedly loves.
"Welcome, Dom!" he shouts to me from inside the ring as he sees me enter and I give him a nod let him know I appreciate the sentiment. This last week my sleep has been intermittent at best, my dreams haunted by visions of Elsie and Malcolm Drake, albeit not together. I've taken some steps to try and remedy them; someone once told me to wear my fears and dreams, to help deal with them. That is why I now have a tattoo on my wrist with the letters EW -- for Elsie Webster -- and why my hair is now black; a sign of my new attitude, courtesy of Malcolm Drake.
The training session starts as any other, Turner picks a couple of students to show him what they've got as he sits on his increasingly large ass to watch us, take notes and claim to help us better ourselves. Sure he's given us some useful tips, but I learned more about what I need to do from watching three minutes of Malcolm Drake in action ... but he's gone I tell myself as I force myself to watch Jordan Rhodes and Doug Smith, two teenagers of mediocre talent, wrestle for us. They're too small, too scrawny for this style of wrestling, but they try. With Turner's advice I've bulked up during my time here, now I'm near the two-thirty pound mark. I just need to increase my definition.
The action in the ring is less than entertaining. Smith doesn't sell for shit and Rhodes is sloppy; I'm sure Turner will tell them as such in a few minutes, and not diplomatically either. But my thoughts turn to Malcolm Drake. From what I've found out about him it would seem as if he's pulled this routine before, having been kicked out of several wrestling schools for similar acts. That I could find nobody who'd say a nice thing about him astounds me. He may be one of the most legitimately hated men I have ever come across, Isaac Bronco would certainly echo that sentiment, but almost everyone also said that they wouldn't want to be in the ring with him.
Fear.
Malcolm had the fear factor. I saw what he did to Perry Martin. I was intimidated by him, as I imagine most of the people who saw him wrestle or train were as well. As yet nobody has told me they fear me. Nobody has told me that they're scared to step into the ring with me. Their lips can say what they want, but when I look into their eyes and see their confidence ... it's beginning to sicken me. The fact that these men overlook me is beginning to turn me bitter. As if I'm not better than each and every one of them; I know that I am, I can look around the ring at these students and know that none of them will accomplish what I did in Simcoe, let alone what I will accomplish given more time.
In the ring Turner tells the two students, Rhodes and Smith, exactly what both he and I thought about them. "Harter!" he calls out to me, "Get in here and show them how it's done!"
I enter the ring through the middle ropes, removing my sweat shirt as Turner picks my sparring partner for me. To my great satisfaction he picks the preppy kid from over the river in Cambridge, Michael Van Cisin. I hope he takes a ring name if or when he becomes a pro. Standing an inch taller than me, but weighing fifteen or twenty pounds less than I do, Van Cisin almost cuts an intimidating figure. But as I look down at the tattoo on my wrist I smile inside. I'm gonna do this for you, Elsie. To show that I'm not afraid anymore. I'm gonna do this for Malcolm as well, hoping that he'll take me under his wing and show me the rest of what I need to know. To help me become stronger, braver. To help me strike fear into the hearts of my opponents.
Van Cisin doesn't see it coming. As our session continues I take my chance to stiff him, delivering a vicious elbow smash that lands square on his nose. He bleeds almost instantly, dripping down his septum and chin as I drive a knee up into his gut. The wind is knocked out of Van Cisin as he bends over, allowing me chance to send my knee up into his busted nose. He collapses backwards, landing flat out on the mat as I assume a mounted position astride his chest. Turner and a couple of students rush the ring as I begin to rain down punches on Van Cisin. Rights and lefts that'll leave some bruises and swelling in the morning.
Turner marches me out of the building, not even allowing me to collect my stuff as he tells me what I expected to hear. Dom Harter is no longer welcome in Saints Haven... I smile to myself. I'm already one step closer to being like Malcolm Drake.
"Part of me is thankful, however, that this first defence goes to you, Q. It fills me with a certain sense of prosperity that this era, our era, can be defined as one where justness reigns." The words just but harsh jump to mind, but I think better than to say those out loud. "That my first title defence is against the man I beat, the beast I brought to heel, the creature I left flat out in the centre of that ring a month ago in Boston, Massachusetts. Not one of these pretenders. These undeserving wretches with their senses of entitlement. I will not have this era undermined by the likes of Tomkins or Fairchild, strolling back in here as if they still run this yard, spewing my name from their cretinous lips! I will not suffer the likes of Tryon disrespecting one of my fellow crows. And I will not endure a man such as King thinking himself worthy to be in our ring. To each of those I have something for you..." I trail off as I flip the bird to the camera.
I sneer before speaking again. "And that's more of my time than each and every one of you deserves. That's more effort than I should expend on the likes of any of you..." a crooked grin spreads across my face as I think ahead to the upcoming show in Plymouth. I have no doubt that Malcolm will squash Fairchild and ruin this comeback of his before he has chance to gain any momentum, so he can slope off to PWX or trawl back to Galveston with his tail between his legs. And I will take a certain amount of joy from my watching Heather humiliate Kaleb King by wrestling circles around him. So he can be dealt a crushing blow without my fingerprints being left behind. I train with Heather almost every day, I know exactly what she is capable of inside that ring. The Exodus Pro International Championship that currently adorns her shoulder testifies to that fact. The same belt she took from me.
There is a moment if silence as I stand before the Murder backdrop I've had specially made for such purposes; the blood red background with leaf-bare trees either side, a murder of crows lining branches of each tree as well as gathering on the razed ground in the bottom centre of the picture. For this promo I decided to wear a black Horrible Crowes t-shirt, a picture of a crow holding a red rose printed on the front, highlighted by grey splashes. Along with some charcoal jeans and some black chucks, my hair is styled in my favoured fauxhawk with the blonde streak running down the middle as usual.
"I remember the last time FGA came through Plymouth." I say, finally breaking the silence. "Murder They Wrote is the title they gave that particular DVD. And I remember it because that was the night I picked up my first victory here in FGA. That was the night I picked up my career by the bootstraps and made something of myself. And I showed the hundreds of fans who filled the Plymouth Memorial Hall that night exactly what I was made of. What The Murder was all about."
"Do you remember that night back in January, Q?" I ask in an irreverent tone. "Do you remember when I drove Magna head first into that canvas that night? The dull thud of her skull hitting the mat and the wave of boos that started as soon as the referee counted the three count..." a brief pause as I sigh dreamily, "...the sight of Bob being a crow and helping Malcolm to rob Edison of the chance to become the Pride Champion. That was masterfully done, if I do say so myself. And do you remember the sight of Junior flipping his lid inside that ring? All because we committed the most heinous act of our reign of terror. Because that was the night The Murder sent the message that we are not to be fucked with..." I raise my voice at the end. "...yet, still six months later, you people persist to push us. To try your luck. To tempt your fates!"
"Of course you remember it, Q." I say through a chortle. "You may not have been there, but I know you've watched that show a hundred times or more. That was one of those nights that fill you with dread, because that was the night you knew your days were numbered. When you knew there was a new cause rising here in FGA."
"That was the day you knew The Big Bad's legacy would be cut down before you had a chance to really start it. Six weeks later you captured this belt..." I say pointing to the strap on my left shoulder. "...and become the top dog here. You humbled the Pissed Off Teenager in Mississauga and assumed your rightful place." I chuckle again, shaking my head from side to side as the chuckle becomes a sinister cackle. "Rightful? That's one of those words being bandied around lately, isn't it? Everyone thinks they're the rightful champion ... guess what, neither you nor any of those other pretenders are the rightful champion. Neither you nor any of those proles deserve to be perched at the top of FGA."
"This belt!" I exclaim, once again pointing at the FGA Championship belt, "This belongs to me! Because I am the one true champion here. Because it was I who was selected by Malcolm to take this belt from your contemptible grasp! He picked me, he gave this to me!"
"But you want to try again. You want to invoke your rematch clause because you think you were wronged. You think this belt belongs to you, so you can hold it in your grubby little mitts ... to use it a coaster for your beers ... so your whores can look at it and think you're a better man than we all know you are." I spit on the floor after those words leave my mouth. "Not gonna happen, never again will this belt be besmirched by the likes you, Q. Never again will its reputation be tarnished. Never again will it be brought into disrepute by association. Q, Fairchild, Scott, Harrison, Tomkins ... those names will be left in the annals of history as lesser beings. As unworthy champions once my acts become known, once my victories take place, my wars are won. Once I, alongside Malcolm and Bob, write our entries into the history books ... then this belt will be the most coveted prize in wrestling today. However, I am the only one who can make that happen. And I will eclipse the accomplishments of every previous champion. It is I who elevate this belt..." I sneer as I pause for a moment.
"And it starts with you, Q." I say through gritted teeth as I begin pacing from side to side. "In Boston you were lucky we only decided to take this precious title belt from you. Fact! When Malcolm laid you out, you were at our mercy. Your fate was in our hands, Q. And we spared you instead of ending your pitiful existence that night."
"You could have joined the likes of O'Hare and Mangold on the injured list, you could have tucked tail and run like Corella did after Malcolm was done with him." I say wearily. "You could have taken an extended hiatus to get your priorities in order. But not you. Not The Big Bad!" I exclaim in a raised voice, gesticulating wildly as I do so. One hand runs through my hair as I stop pacing and turn to face the camera again. "Your pride and your hubris, Q, they'll lead you to dark places. We gave you a chance, an out, a way to escape the inevitable. But for some reason you have decided not to take it."
"You thought it was a good idea to go to White Plains, New York and try to outshine Malcolm." Another chuckle escapes my lips as I glare at the camera. "Urgh, interfering little bastards will always get in the way, don't they? Malcolm was getting ready to end you that night, The Murder was ready to end you that night, Q. But those shining white knights of valour and justice, Junior and Kidd, they had to stick their nose into our business once more. Bond had to try to use us all to seek adulation in the eyes of those fans. And you escaped our clutches and got to fight another day..."
"And that is how we end up here. You invoking your rematch clause. You getting another shot, another chance to try and be the top dog." I fold my arms across my chest. "And the great equalizer, the lumberjacks. Were they your idea? Do you think for one second that any amount of people on the outside of the ring can stop us? There are two things wrong with that. Firstly, I can defeat you all by myself. Those lumberjacks are there for your protection. Not mine. And secondly, every single roster member here in FGA, every last one of those lumberjacks should be living in fear of The Murder. Scared of the reprisal and the retribution that will swiftly befall them should they wrong us."
"They should, however, be thankful for the ringside seat they have been given." I state cockily. "So they can have the up close view of history in the making. Because this week in Plymouth, Massachusetts I will once again show the world, the fans, the wrestler who dare utter my name in anything other than reverence ... I'll show them what is in store for them when they follow your example. When they cross The Murder." I say with a crooked grin on my face. "As I, once again, bring you to heel like the bitch you are, Q. Even without Malcolm's help I'll leave you flat on your back in the middle of that ring! I will finish what I started a month ago in Boston and break you! I will humble you yet again!" I emphasise my point by jabbing my finger down at the floor. "If I have to I will drive you head first into that canvas time after time, repeatedly and without mercy, until you learn your lesson. Until you learn your place in this world."
"And you can bring that fight you showed against Malcolm. Please do, I want a challenge. That fire that was lit under you that night, bring that with you. And you can think I will be unprepared or incapable of dealing with it..." I shake my head. "...but I will answer every move you make, I will return every shot you deliver twofold. I mean, you are now dealing with The Tenacious Little Bastard, Q. You are dealing with the FGA Champion. I am not some young punk you can toss around that ring, I am not one of the ten men who fell at your feet! I am the one who ended your undefeated streak. I am the one who ended your reign as champion. And I will be the one who pins your shoulders to the mat for a second time! You see, this belt is leaving Plymouth with me, Q. As I stride out of the arena with my head held high, my chest puffed out with pride and this belt around my waist, I will leave every one of those lumberjacks speechless at the sight they just witnessed. The destruction that just unfolded before their very eyes. And you ... you will be carted out of that arena on a stretcher. You will be taken to the hospital and there you can think -- think long and hard -- about why you decided to cross The Murder a second time."
The crooked grin is still plastered across my face as I rub my right hand along my jaw. "My patience with you has exhausted, Q. My mercy for you has all but depleted. And your time in our world has run out. So now is time for you to say goodnight to the world..." I bare my teeth with a wicked smile, a vicious scowl on my face as the camera fades out to black.
August 2012
I returned to Saints Haven that Saturday morning for a training session that Nails Turner was putting on; the man was once regarded as one of the finest brawlers on the independent wrestling scene before a leg injury of some sorts stopped him from actively competing. Now with his weight having ballooned to near three hundred pounds, Nails spends his time back in one of his former promotions training us. The 'future' of the sport he purportedly loves.
"Welcome, Dom!" he shouts to me from inside the ring as he sees me enter and I give him a nod let him know I appreciate the sentiment. This last week my sleep has been intermittent at best, my dreams haunted by visions of Elsie and Malcolm Drake, albeit not together. I've taken some steps to try and remedy them; someone once told me to wear my fears and dreams, to help deal with them. That is why I now have a tattoo on my wrist with the letters EW -- for Elsie Webster -- and why my hair is now black; a sign of my new attitude, courtesy of Malcolm Drake.
The training session starts as any other, Turner picks a couple of students to show him what they've got as he sits on his increasingly large ass to watch us, take notes and claim to help us better ourselves. Sure he's given us some useful tips, but I learned more about what I need to do from watching three minutes of Malcolm Drake in action ... but he's gone I tell myself as I force myself to watch Jordan Rhodes and Doug Smith, two teenagers of mediocre talent, wrestle for us. They're too small, too scrawny for this style of wrestling, but they try. With Turner's advice I've bulked up during my time here, now I'm near the two-thirty pound mark. I just need to increase my definition.
The action in the ring is less than entertaining. Smith doesn't sell for shit and Rhodes is sloppy; I'm sure Turner will tell them as such in a few minutes, and not diplomatically either. But my thoughts turn to Malcolm Drake. From what I've found out about him it would seem as if he's pulled this routine before, having been kicked out of several wrestling schools for similar acts. That I could find nobody who'd say a nice thing about him astounds me. He may be one of the most legitimately hated men I have ever come across, Isaac Bronco would certainly echo that sentiment, but almost everyone also said that they wouldn't want to be in the ring with him.
Fear.
Malcolm had the fear factor. I saw what he did to Perry Martin. I was intimidated by him, as I imagine most of the people who saw him wrestle or train were as well. As yet nobody has told me they fear me. Nobody has told me that they're scared to step into the ring with me. Their lips can say what they want, but when I look into their eyes and see their confidence ... it's beginning to sicken me. The fact that these men overlook me is beginning to turn me bitter. As if I'm not better than each and every one of them; I know that I am, I can look around the ring at these students and know that none of them will accomplish what I did in Simcoe, let alone what I will accomplish given more time.
In the ring Turner tells the two students, Rhodes and Smith, exactly what both he and I thought about them. "Harter!" he calls out to me, "Get in here and show them how it's done!"
I enter the ring through the middle ropes, removing my sweat shirt as Turner picks my sparring partner for me. To my great satisfaction he picks the preppy kid from over the river in Cambridge, Michael Van Cisin. I hope he takes a ring name if or when he becomes a pro. Standing an inch taller than me, but weighing fifteen or twenty pounds less than I do, Van Cisin almost cuts an intimidating figure. But as I look down at the tattoo on my wrist I smile inside. I'm gonna do this for you, Elsie. To show that I'm not afraid anymore. I'm gonna do this for Malcolm as well, hoping that he'll take me under his wing and show me the rest of what I need to know. To help me become stronger, braver. To help me strike fear into the hearts of my opponents.
Van Cisin doesn't see it coming. As our session continues I take my chance to stiff him, delivering a vicious elbow smash that lands square on his nose. He bleeds almost instantly, dripping down his septum and chin as I drive a knee up into his gut. The wind is knocked out of Van Cisin as he bends over, allowing me chance to send my knee up into his busted nose. He collapses backwards, landing flat out on the mat as I assume a mounted position astride his chest. Turner and a couple of students rush the ring as I begin to rain down punches on Van Cisin. Rights and lefts that'll leave some bruises and swelling in the morning.
Turner marches me out of the building, not even allowing me to collect my stuff as he tells me what I expected to hear. Dom Harter is no longer welcome in Saints Haven... I smile to myself. I'm already one step closer to being like Malcolm Drake.