Marked for Blood

Scene I: Topeka, KA - during and after Wildfire! - Sunday, February 23, 2003 <

It's been a long time since I've seen Robert involved in a match with such brutality in the eyes of his opponent, such hatred, such determination to crush everything my husband stands for, and I dread matches such as the one I am viewing at this moment.

Even his recent bout against Napalm did not have the degree of disgust and animosity.  Napalm and Robert now fight on the same page against bastards such as the Darkness and men such as Jonny Five.  This however is pure loathing and malice.  I however can do nothing but sit back and watch.  But, if that little bitch Chavez tries to do anything I'll kick him in whatever is between his legs, dick or otherwise, and send him whining to the back.

Five has Robert locked in a God awful crucifix armbar, which has to be tearing at his arm and ligaments.  There are times that I wish he would retire or just submit, but I know it won't ever happen - and frankly I truly do not want him to either.  Not when the stakes are so high, and knowing that his pride and honour would suffer worse than his body ever would if he submitted.  All I can do at this moment is stand before him and encourage him.  Oh yet Five's whore comes around trying to intimidate me. You little bitch, I want nothing to do with you, so I move away.

Pieces of trash like him need to be castrated.

And Robert just castrated Five by executing the Nobility of the Sword flawlessly.  Please Lord end this match here.  

Shit.  So close.  Come on Robert, you're almost there.  He mounts the ropes and looks to the fans, and looks down at me quickly.  Fly my love.

It's over.  Thank God.  He's done it again.  Robert's forehead is a downpour of blood.  It is however a mark of courage, a medal of honour.  He wears it with pride, every drop of it.  I help him strap on his championship and we embrace in the ring.

"I'm so proud of you my love," I whisper in his ear as we hold one another.  As Beethoven's masterpiece slows down, we make our way to the back, and I take the belt from Robert, not wanting to weigh him down at all.

We stumble slowly into the backstage area of the arena, I holding the championship firmly, while trying to steady my husband. He's been savagely beaten, but I know he is loving every moment of it.  Once again he showed the world that he has destroyed his past persona and is displaying the true skill and drive I knew he had deep within him.

The blood continues to pour with only some signs of clotting, causing him to wipe his brow and cheek every so often.  We near our locker room when I see - oh God, we don't need this right now - that bastard Marshall heading towards us.  He strides up and stands about ten feet from us, as he calls out.

"Lancaster get your ass over here now."

Bastard knows Robert needs to sit and rest, but being the son of a bitch that he is, he demands that he come to him, and not the reverse.

Robert steadies himself and manages to walk over on his own, as I follow close behind him.  He takes the championship from me and holds it in his hand, letting it hang loosely by his side. Marshall shuffles over until they are nearly face-to-face.

"Well I suppose I should say 'congratulations,' but since I think - as every single fan out there does as well - you hardly escaped with your ass in tact with my championship, you're going to have to go through all that hell again next week, with that belt on the line against Five."

Robert narrows his eyes and engages his eyes to Marshall's, not giving one inch of emotion or advantage to our boss.  I know he thirsts for any chance to prove himself, and Marshall very well might be the last man he will prove himself to.  Marshall stares back, waiting for a response.

"Well Lancaster??"

The Duke wipes his hand across his brow again, covering it in crimson.  He holds his blood soaked hand right in front of Marshall's face, who still stands there with an arrogant sneer.  My husband continues his stare, and holds the championship up now in our boss' face, and then smears it with his blood.  He side-steps Marshall and walks past him, but I have my own message for that pig.  As I walk by Marshall, I smack him on the ass, and grin flirtatiously at him.  Marshall turns around, a stunned look on his face.  I raise my eyebrows seductively, before I raise my middle finger, and turn around, and take my husband's arm and walk to our locker room.

I don't know how he reacted to that, and I couldn't care less.  I look up at my husband who stares outwardly into nothing really, and etched on his face is a dazed grin of satisfaction after hearing Marshall's edict.  Whenever I see the Duke of Wessex with such an expression, I know that it will not bode well for his opponent the following week.  Johnny Five is one unlucky bastard. He's marked for blood.