Return of the Damned
Scene I: Monday, March 15, 2004 - Trump
International Hotel and Tower, New York City, NY
I sit back and grin, a bottle of 1945 Giacomo Conterno Barolo dangling in one hand, an empty wine glass, in the other, my head flung back over the end of a chair.
Everyone in this entire goddamned building must be calling the super right now complaining about the sound.
It is a chilled New York City night, the balcony doors are wide open, the wind blows the curtains into a wild torrent, reflecting my current dimension of mentality and spirit, as nature, in pathetic fallacy, also endures to parallel the music currently enrapturing the entire penthouse.
A powerful, stirring rendition of Mamma, quel vino è generoso from Mascagni's Cavalleria rusticana blasts unabated from the Bose CD player which I've hooked up to two powerful speakers.
My phone must be ringing off the hook, but I have of course taken precaution and switched off the ringers on all my phones, and have placed my cell phone in a similar state.
This was perhaps not the best way to ready my body for a match I was to have in mere hours: nearly intoxicated.
However, it was the best method to prepare my mind, and my soul...what was left of it.
I still lay possessed by the Dark Power, whose firey steel grasp still lay firm around my throat.
No matter, to hell with it all.
To hell with those down below, the unknown people, irate, inconvenienced by the ritual cleansing of my mind.
To hell with Estral and Unknown. They are formidable, there is no doubt, but against a man possessed, what chance have they - even more so when the man possessed is also possessed by wine.
To hell with virtue and mercy, and the female gender. I am still enslaved to a married woman whom I shall never see again.
To hell with...
me.
I laugh a loud as the wine glass slips out of my hand and crashes on the floor. I tilt my head forward to examine the damage.
The shattered glass lays motionless amongst the blood red drops of wine, which trickles outwards, and spreads methodically. On this day, the Ides of March, it can only be an omen of utter doom...
or utter victory.
I decide to take it at its worth, and let the music sweep over me once more.
The music is all to appropriate considering the romantic dramatics that have unfolded over the past several months. A spurned lover resents her former lover's attention to a woman, who is married. The spurned one provokes the husband to duel her former lover, who is killed by the husband.
I laugh again. I could not picture myself in a duel against Sájon, Marissah's husband. Oh but to dream that she would even be jealous about me. Would my death be worth having her attentions once again?
Maybe not.
But maybe so.
I sigh heavily and close my eyes. Thirst however erases the thought of relaxing just a little more before preparing for my flight to Las Vegas. I stagger out of my chair and fetch another glass, and fill it to the point of overflowing. I glance at the clock, which reads 12:20 am.
Shit. Only another hour or so and then I must depart for JFK.
I shall enjoy every minute between now, and then, and the minutes before I return to the ring.
I stumble back to the chair, drinking the excess wine at the top of my glass.
Yes, I return to the ring.
This day, the Ides of March - and I shall not play Caesar, no I shall not, to Estral and Unknown - marks the return of the damned.
My eyes grow heavy and I...
I stir and I check my watch, seeing it's 1 am.
I groan and rub my eyes, as I arise once more and finally switch off the cascade of music.
I need to get dressed.
I fumble about for a few minutes and finally settle on a black CK blazer and matching trousers, and a white oxford. I mumble various expletives as I attempt to do up each button, one by one.
I grab my keys and head for the door. I open it and
"Babe, I need to talk to you, now."
I sit back and grin, a bottle of 1945 Giacomo Conterno Barolo dangling in one hand, an empty wine glass, in the other, my head flung back over the end of a chair.
Everyone in this entire goddamned building must be calling the super right now complaining about the sound.
It is a chilled New York City night, the balcony doors are wide open, the wind blows the curtains into a wild torrent, reflecting my current dimension of mentality and spirit, as nature, in pathetic fallacy, also endures to parallel the music currently enrapturing the entire penthouse.
A powerful, stirring rendition of Mamma, quel vino è generoso from Mascagni's Cavalleria rusticana blasts unabated from the Bose CD player which I've hooked up to two powerful speakers.
My phone must be ringing off the hook, but I have of course taken precaution and switched off the ringers on all my phones, and have placed my cell phone in a similar state.
This was perhaps not the best way to ready my body for a match I was to have in mere hours: nearly intoxicated.
However, it was the best method to prepare my mind, and my soul...what was left of it.
I still lay possessed by the Dark Power, whose firey steel grasp still lay firm around my throat.
No matter, to hell with it all.
To hell with those down below, the unknown people, irate, inconvenienced by the ritual cleansing of my mind.
To hell with Estral and Unknown. They are formidable, there is no doubt, but against a man possessed, what chance have they - even more so when the man possessed is also possessed by wine.
To hell with virtue and mercy, and the female gender. I am still enslaved to a married woman whom I shall never see again.
To hell with...
me.
I laugh a loud as the wine glass slips out of my hand and crashes on the floor. I tilt my head forward to examine the damage.
The shattered glass lays motionless amongst the blood red drops of wine, which trickles outwards, and spreads methodically. On this day, the Ides of March, it can only be an omen of utter doom...
or utter victory.
I decide to take it at its worth, and let the music sweep over me once more.
The music is all to appropriate considering the romantic dramatics that have unfolded over the past several months. A spurned lover resents her former lover's attention to a woman, who is married. The spurned one provokes the husband to duel her former lover, who is killed by the husband.
I laugh again. I could not picture myself in a duel against Sájon, Marissah's husband. Oh but to dream that she would even be jealous about me. Would my death be worth having her attentions once again?
Maybe not.
But maybe so.
I sigh heavily and close my eyes. Thirst however erases the thought of relaxing just a little more before preparing for my flight to Las Vegas. I stagger out of my chair and fetch another glass, and fill it to the point of overflowing. I glance at the clock, which reads 12:20 am.
Shit. Only another hour or so and then I must depart for JFK.
I shall enjoy every minute between now, and then, and the minutes before I return to the ring.
I stumble back to the chair, drinking the excess wine at the top of my glass.
Yes, I return to the ring.
This day, the Ides of March - and I shall not play Caesar, no I shall not, to Estral and Unknown - marks the return of the damned.
My eyes grow heavy and I...
I stir and I check my watch, seeing it's 1 am.
I groan and rub my eyes, as I arise once more and finally switch off the cascade of music.
I need to get dressed.
I fumble about for a few minutes and finally settle on a black CK blazer and matching trousers, and a white oxford. I mumble various expletives as I attempt to do up each button, one by one.
I grab my keys and head for the door. I open it and
"Babe, I need to talk to you, now."