Black
Label
I: Sunday, August 1, 2004:
Ancestral Estate of Robert Lancaster II, Wessex, England; approximately
7:25pm GMT
"Simkins, I'm leaving."
I hardly had a moment's time to notice his Grace descending the grand
staircase. A look of severe annoyance was etched indelibly on his
strained face.
Something had happened.
Something to do with the Whore of Babylon.
"Your Grace..."
He reached for his pocket and pulled out the keys to his car. I
stepped forward to blurt out a question.
"Where are you going?"
His Grace turned back, and broke his tense exterior with a smile.
"Belfast."
I knew what that meant.
And it was not wise.
"Your Grace...the tournament..."
"Fuck the tournament."
The solid oak 17th century doors slammed shut, leaving the sound
lingering with as much depth as the expression on his lips. I was
left wondering what had happened those minutes ago in the privacy of
the master bedroom.
Perhaps now was my chance...
If it were done, when 'tis done, then
t'were well it were done quickly...
That chance was dashed however, as the, whore, or lady, came down the
stairs, wearing only a silk robe.
"Where the fuck is he,"
she sighed, standing on the second last step.
Uncouth language. My hatred for her seemed to grow exponentially by the
minute.
"I am afraid he did not mention,"
I lied.
"Fuck."
"If..."
"Can I get a drink, please."
I bit my tongue and withheld the sourness from appearing on my
face. Even to the Whore of Babylon, I must show restraint,
politeness, and the paramount of respectability.
For now.
"Certainly, Miss. What would
you care for."
"Something rare and
expensive. Might as well milk the bastard for now, if he has the
nerve to get up and leave."
I believe there was no other time where I had to force a smile such as
that which I gave her in reply.
And I knew she was out to do more than milk the bastard for a drink.
She wanted everything.
II: Sunday, August 1, 2004: O'Leary's
Pub, Belfast, Northern Ireland; approximately 11:30pm GMT
It was teaming rain, as it often does in Belfast.
The city was at peace this night. No local skirmishes between the
local youths and the police, nor any inkling of sectarian
violence. No helicopters buzzing overhead attempting to pick out
the ringleaders.
While the city was at peace, the streets lay bare in the face of the
downpour from the heavens.
Once more pathetic fallacy asserted itself into the life of the Duke of
Wessex.
It had taken four hours to leave Wessex, get to Heathrow, get his Lear
powered and cleared to depart, and land at Belfast City Airport.
It was worth the trouble.
Trouble existed for O'Leary as well, the venerable owner of O'Leary's
Pub, which sat in one of the rougher neighbourhoods of Belfast.
Hard times seemed to have hit, business was slow, and the rain
contributed to the bar once again being near empty.
Suited the Duke fine, as he made his way inside.
O'Leary, who was nearing his mid sixties, middle weight and about 5'8",
was startled out of his steady habit of polishing the glasses. He
had the utmost pride in his establishment, and would not let its
condition slip one iota, whether crammed to the rafters, or empty and
sullen.
Business may have been slow, but he had been manning the bar for over
four decades. He'd seen the worst of Belfast during the troubles
of the late 1960's and early 1970's. He had many friends
killed. He came to know, appreciate, and love each and every
customer who came through that door. His face lit up brightly on
seeing Lancaster.
It did not take him long however to realize, like Seamus a few weeks
prior with his sister's car accident, that all was not jolly and
bright. O'Leary approached his customer with a slight hint of
caution, curious as to what was troubling him but not so much as to
pry.
"Somethin' on yer mind there,
Robbie?"
Lancaster sat down on the far barstool, his head held in his hands,
pensive, dull to his senses. He didn't even feel like responding
to O'Leary's concerned question.
"Scotch. Triple.
Straight. John Walker...Black Label."
Black Label. That spoke volumes enough. O'Leary nodded and
shrugged.
"I'll take that as a 'yes,'"
O'Leary said as he returned behind the bar to pour the Duke his
drink. A moment later, a large triple, straight, John Walker
Black Label scotch sat in front of Lancaster.
O'Leary sat and looked at his somber guest. Five minutes past,
and he hadn't even touched it yet. O'Leary frowned.
"Somethin's definitely not right,"
O'Leary said out loud. "He's not
even touched his drink...definitely unbeffitting of a 'Whiskey Devil.'"
Lancaster raised his eyes up with a glare. O'Leary didn't flinch
or give an inch and just stared right back, eye to eye, man to
man. He grabbed his glass, and downed the entire helping,
slamming the glass down. O'Leary nodded his head with approval,
with a slight grin.
"Auch, now there's the man I know,
not the mere shadow o'the man."
"Another one," Lancaster
demanded. He shoved his glass forward.
O'Leary shook his head. "If
yer gonna be boozin like this all bloody night...I think I'm entitled
to an explanation, don't ye think?"
"Aye, make that an explanation for
the both of us."
Seamus Finnegan had entered. Fate it seemed had its plans that
Seamus might now intercede.
Robert laughed to himself. "It seems the shoe is now on the
proverbial other foot now."
"Aye, that it does, Robbie, that
it does...O'Leary, pint o'Kilkenny's whenever yer ready!"
O'Leary nodded his head to his most faithful of customers, as Seamus
took a seat beside the Englishman and fellow Whiskey Devil, and leaned
in, ready to listen
"Now, ye mind tellin' me what this
is all about, lad?"
"Marissah. Now where's my
drink O'Leary."
O'Leary shook his head and muttered something, as he finished pouring
Seamus' Kilkenny's, and went to work on yet another triple straight
scotch for Robert.
"Auch, Marissah...I might have
known...what about her, lad? Don't tell me she's really a man or
somethin'...she isn't, is she?"
Lancaster gave a brief chuckle, as O'Leary handed the Duke his scotch.
"Now don't be going saying that
about the bitch who fucked her best friend's husband."
Seamus' eyes grew with wide eyed disbelief. As he was about to
respond, the Duke cut him off.
"And," engulfing a large
portion of the scotch, and turning his head to Seamus, with a
self-depricating smile, "the
woman I proposed to."
Another large sip.
"Auch, ye did, did ye? And yer
sure she did all that?"
Looking straight forward, "I
overheard her talking on her mobile, after Satan told me to listen in
to her."
"Auch, yer sure it's not that wee
bugger tryin' to twist things around, ye know, bein' the prince
o'darkness an' what-not? I wouldn't put it past him, ye know!"
"Now there you go again,
insulting my Master now," Lancaster grinned sadistically. "Besides, the bitch confessed after
I confronted her."
Seamus nodded. "Aye, so it is
true, then...feck, what are ye gonna do now, then?"
"Hope she says 'yes' to
me. I want her to be my wife. Desperately."
O'Leary and Seamus could not believe their ears.
"Yer sure about that, lad? Yer not
lettin' yer emotions cloudin' yer mind, are ye?"
The Duke finished his scotch and slammed the glass down again. "For fuck's sake I want her, don't
you understand?"
"Aye, lad. I know it's been tough
for ye since ye an' Stephanie split up, but yer sure yer not just
rushin' into it?"
"Goddamn, have you taken a few
too many chair shots to head or something?" Lancaster
shrilled with disgust as he sighed and shook his head. Mentioning
Lancaster's ex-wife hardly set him in a better mood.
Seamus wasn't taking too kindly to his accomplice's tone.
"Auch, use yer common sense, lad!
I may have taken a few chair shots to the head in my time, but come on!
She's already messed ye about, but askin' her to marry ye?! Ye sure ye
haven't taken a few too many chair shots yerself!?" Seamus
was obviously exasperated.
"Fuck I NEED HER." Robert
yelled. "I'm sorry I can't have a perfect feckin marriage like
you or what not," Lancaster shoved Seamus on the shoulder, "waiting for you with open arms
after the goddamn BWWa seems to have closed down but SHIT I NEED HER,
open your EARS."
"Feck, who said mine was perfect?"
Seamus took a sip of his Kilkenny's. "Yer forgettin' how Rebecca's been after
me to retire, lad...an'ye of all people know how much this business is
in my blood, but feck...she might be right, after all. The BWWa's
closed...I'm 38 years old...my body's not what it used to be, lad...an'
now wi'my sister's accident, feck, it's really put things into
perspective...so in a way, I do see where yer comin' from as well."
More disgust from his partner. "Shit you don't understand a fucking
thing, do you...why don't you just piss off and retire with that nice
big belt of yours, listen to that wife of yours and leave Thane and I
to our own resources."
Seamus had had about enough. "Shyte,
am I talking to Robert Lancaster or some fecker who's afraid of getting
his arse whipped in the Quest, is jealous that I finally won the big
one, and is so desperate for a woman that he wants to marry the Whore
of feckin Babylon?"
Lancaster stood up from his stool.
"You think I can't take out
each and every one of those sons of bitches in that fucking
tournament? And by the way," Lancaster grabbed Seamus
roughly by the shoulder and pointed his finger right in Seamus' face, "if you ever, ever talk about her that way again, I'll
break that back of yours permanently."
Robert turned away, but was halted with equal force by Seamus, who now
too stood from his seat. The stood face-to-face.
"Go ahead lad...try. See
where it'll get ye." Seamus stared, emotionless. "'Tis nay going to alleviate yer fears
about that tournament yer lucky to be in. And ye are lucky, ye
know that? Ye don't think that I'd nay have liked to be in
that? But ye got the nod lad...ye want to try and take me out,
and prove what ye can do? Ye want to go toe to toe with the Irish
Assassin?"
Robert's lips curled with building apprehension. "You know I could. And you
know I could take you out."
"Aye, I know ye could. But
what good will it do. Ye want blood lad? Seek it in that
ring from each and every one of those bastards who are in yer
way. Ye want confidence? Prove it to yerself that ye can be
the World Heavyweight Champion. Ye've done it before, aye, with
me, but aye, still. Ye can do it again."
Each word struck more blows, and did more for him than any brawl ever
could.
"I will do it. And I know
someday. You and I will prove again that we were, are, and always
will be, the most powerful tag combination in history."
The tension in both against each other had subsided - the tension in
Lancaster's blood however, had not. And it would be
expressed. All too soon.
"Feckin aye."
At that moment, Lancaster's mobile rang. He answered.
"Lancaster."
"It's me. I have your
answer."
