Apathy
Scene I: February 4, 2004 - Trump
International Hotel and Tower, New York City, NY
"Sons of bitches."
I slam the top of my laptop and stand up from my office chair in disgust.
Not one bloody mention, by name at least, in that entire, Goddamned long-winded press conference convened by the oh so glorious CAL President Jeffy Andrews.
How did a man named "Jeffy" ever reach such heights, my mind strays ever so briefly to ponder.
Yet still...not one mention of myself in any serious context, nor any of us: not I, not Jeff, not Seamus.
Nothing, save for a brief mentioning of our little, how shall one say, mêlée with one Chris Klein at the previous Silver.
Reindeer Games III...dear God...was going to be the biggest extravaganza the CAL had ever seen. And yet there is no room for three of the great remnants of the CSWA.
I walk over to the liquor stand and pour a generous amount of scotch into a glass, and peer down at the ever flowing traffic of New York City.
I close my eyes and sigh, leaving the smokey aftertaste of the scotch to linger, as my mind leaves the maddening press conference to delve into other things.
I realize that so much time had passed since I've done anything in this business. The CSWA had closed at the end of November, right before I was to begin my war to end all wars with Kushner.
How sad it never happened. Yet how greater that we have patched things up, once again.
One can only hope it stays that way. But why should it not. Nothing is going on for their to be any flames to re-occur in our relations.
After the end of the CSWA, Las Vegas beckoned, as myself, Seamus, and Jeff believed that Pagliano's BWWa was our destiny. We made our appearance, only to be shadowed by the appearance of Henri Chartier.
New Year's Eve saw our return to action by simply showing Chris Kline what we are about. And since then, a large void has filled my life.
Jeff and Seamus continue to be occupied with their own lives, as expected. Seamus has his family, whom I swore I'd visit at some point. Jeff I believe seems to be romantically inclined towards a femme in Canada.
The only thing that has livened my life is my son. I returned to England in early January to see him, much to the chagrin of Stephanie. The bitch be damned though. He is my son also, and I'll damn well see him when I please. He's grown up so fast, so soon. It'll almost be his birthday in a few weeks...I'll have to see what I can do to see him, if I am able.
Why in the hell am I even still here in America. My mind, my soul is in Wessex, in my estate, in my son.
I open my eyes as something horrifying, and pathetic strikes me.
My heart however, is here, for one woman, and one woman alone.
Marissah Whitely.
Yes.
I sigh.
I am in love with a married woman.
Still. Despite two months of silence.
I have stayed in New York City, hoping against all hopes, that she would magically appear at my door, begging me to take her away to Wessex, so that she could marry me and be made Marissah Whitely Lancaster, the new Duchess of Wessex.
The urge for another scotch hits me as hard as the realization of my pathetic state of nature.
I pour another helping of the amber liquid and mumble various expletives under my breath. Two thirds of the most important things in my life - it used to be four, but I have withdrawn my worship of the Lord from that list - my career, my romance, my family - are completely without inspiration at the present juncture of time and space.
Woe to the apathetic.
And woe to those who cannot as it were, get over the bane and joy of existence: woman.
It's time to stop this self-pitying bullshit. It's time to be pro-active.
We could have appeared at that lamentable press conference, yet we did not.
I could have tried more to wrest Marissah away from her husband, Sájon, or whatever his name is, yet I did not.
I have had enough of being inactive. I shall be at Reindeer Games, in some capacity.
I have had enough of having no woman in my arms. I shall go out and get more women than I can possibly handle, scandal be damned.
In the cliché of damned if you do, damned if you don't.
I shall be damned for doing.
"Sons of bitches."
I slam the top of my laptop and stand up from my office chair in disgust.
Not one bloody mention, by name at least, in that entire, Goddamned long-winded press conference convened by the oh so glorious CAL President Jeffy Andrews.
How did a man named "Jeffy" ever reach such heights, my mind strays ever so briefly to ponder.
Yet still...not one mention of myself in any serious context, nor any of us: not I, not Jeff, not Seamus.
Nothing, save for a brief mentioning of our little, how shall one say, mêlée with one Chris Klein at the previous Silver.
Reindeer Games III...dear God...was going to be the biggest extravaganza the CAL had ever seen. And yet there is no room for three of the great remnants of the CSWA.
I walk over to the liquor stand and pour a generous amount of scotch into a glass, and peer down at the ever flowing traffic of New York City.
I close my eyes and sigh, leaving the smokey aftertaste of the scotch to linger, as my mind leaves the maddening press conference to delve into other things.
I realize that so much time had passed since I've done anything in this business. The CSWA had closed at the end of November, right before I was to begin my war to end all wars with Kushner.
How sad it never happened. Yet how greater that we have patched things up, once again.
One can only hope it stays that way. But why should it not. Nothing is going on for their to be any flames to re-occur in our relations.
After the end of the CSWA, Las Vegas beckoned, as myself, Seamus, and Jeff believed that Pagliano's BWWa was our destiny. We made our appearance, only to be shadowed by the appearance of Henri Chartier.
New Year's Eve saw our return to action by simply showing Chris Kline what we are about. And since then, a large void has filled my life.
Jeff and Seamus continue to be occupied with their own lives, as expected. Seamus has his family, whom I swore I'd visit at some point. Jeff I believe seems to be romantically inclined towards a femme in Canada.
The only thing that has livened my life is my son. I returned to England in early January to see him, much to the chagrin of Stephanie. The bitch be damned though. He is my son also, and I'll damn well see him when I please. He's grown up so fast, so soon. It'll almost be his birthday in a few weeks...I'll have to see what I can do to see him, if I am able.
Why in the hell am I even still here in America. My mind, my soul is in Wessex, in my estate, in my son.
I open my eyes as something horrifying, and pathetic strikes me.
My heart however, is here, for one woman, and one woman alone.
Marissah Whitely.
Yes.
I sigh.
I am in love with a married woman.
Still. Despite two months of silence.
I have stayed in New York City, hoping against all hopes, that she would magically appear at my door, begging me to take her away to Wessex, so that she could marry me and be made Marissah Whitely Lancaster, the new Duchess of Wessex.
The urge for another scotch hits me as hard as the realization of my pathetic state of nature.
I pour another helping of the amber liquid and mumble various expletives under my breath. Two thirds of the most important things in my life - it used to be four, but I have withdrawn my worship of the Lord from that list - my career, my romance, my family - are completely without inspiration at the present juncture of time and space.
Woe to the apathetic.
And woe to those who cannot as it were, get over the bane and joy of existence: woman.
It's time to stop this self-pitying bullshit. It's time to be pro-active.
We could have appeared at that lamentable press conference, yet we did not.
I could have tried more to wrest Marissah away from her husband, Sájon, or whatever his name is, yet I did not.
I have had enough of being inactive. I shall be at Reindeer Games, in some capacity.
I have had enough of having no woman in my arms. I shall go out and get more women than I can possibly handle, scandal be damned.
In the cliché of damned if you do, damned if you don't.
I shall be damned for doing.