Words of the Scottish Tyrant

Scene I: a hotel room in Florida - Thursday, March 13, 2003

It had been a turbulent few weeks for the Duke of Wessex.  His ego and body, which were both bruised by his defeat by the mighty Jonny Five, had recovered to an extent after some needed time off.  Lancaster was disappointed in himself for losing to a brute such as Five, but he recognized the talent the man had, and had never doubted it for one second.  The time would come for a rematch down the road, but his agenda had changed considerably thanks to Robert Marshall, CSWA owner and president.

That son of a b*tch.  How kind of him still to grant him a place within the ranks of the four greats, sent to various federations in the Coalition of Affiliated Leagues to fight on behalf of the CSWA.  He had not expected to be part of the quadrumvirate of men, which included Kushner, Yokel, and Five.

Lancaster wished all men luck, yes, even Five too, in their endeavors to bring the World Heavyweight Championship to Lincoln, Nebraska.  All three men had the drive and skill to do so, but Lancaster daydreamed.  Oh how sweet it would be to be able to walk to Robert Marshall, with the World Heavyweight Championship strapped around his waist, if he were able to be victorious in the tournament, and then manage to defeat the talented Ric Owens.  

The Duke of Wessex sat in the darkness of his Florida hotel room, a grin, etched indelibly across his face.  He sat with his feet up on a table, overlooking the beauty of the city's night time skyline, a glass of Johnnie Walker Premier, from his own collection of fine liquor, firmly in his hand.  On his lap lay his favourite of all Shakespeare's work, Macbeth, a tale he considered most appropriate to read considering his upcoming opponent.

Stephanie was out with Edward at that time, visiting a few old friends from university who moved from London and were residing in the area.  The Duke looked at his Rolex, noting it was almost 10 p.m.  He missed his wife and child, but appreciated the quiet time to himself.

He stretched back in his chair, his tie hanging loosely around his neck, a few buttons on his white oxford shirt undone.  Robert could not recall an instance where he had some quiet time to relax by himself for quite a while.  His past week was spent at home in Wessex, and visiting Stephanie's family in London, since it was near Edward's first birthday, coming up in two short days.  He was very glad to see his in-laws (a rare exception in the case of most sons-in-law), but was annoyed that Edward's birthday celebration had to occur days in advance of the actual day.  Lancaster had a wonderful time regardless, and even got a chance to visit O'Leary's Pub in Belfast, on a quick visit.

Lancaster smiled recalling his time overseas, but true to form,  he ached to step back into the ring and face his first opponent on the road to which he hope would lead to the World Championship.  His eye glanced down to the side of the chair, where on the floor lay a file folder simply marked "Demonstone" in black ink.  A précis of his more notable remarks from his recent rant lay on top, with certain segments underlined in red.

The Duke of Wessex took an immediate dislike - an effect Demonstone likely desired - to the Scotsman after seeing and reading his remarks, as well as reviewing his biography and watching a few tapes of his matches he received from Northern Pro Wrestling, as he had requested.  Whereas his comments to insult, harass, and provoke him humored Lancaster - even more so when seeing the "gentleman" do so while wearing an Armani suit - his matches did not.

Demonstone was dangerous.

Very dangerous.  

Lancaster read the evidence from his title record: a two-time NPW Television Champion, a former NPW Tag Team Champion, and also a holder of the NPW Extreme Championship.  The match Demonstone participated in to win the latter of the three was particularly gruesome, being a "Hell in a Cell" match.  This was on one of the tapes the Duke received from NPW, and was taken a back by Demonstone's brutality and total contempt for life.

Robert sat back further in his chair, sipping his scotch slowly, savoring the amber liquid as it burned somewhat as every good scotch did, as it slipped down his throat.  His mind continued to probe and ponder the implications and structure of his upcoming bout.

No matter, thought Lancaster.  He faced a man equal to Demonstone's viciousness but a week ago: Jonny Five.  A week prior to that he defeated that same man to become the first ever CSWA Great Plains champion.  

Lancaster knew the strengths and abilities of such men.  He knew how they moved inside the ring.  He knew their weaknesses. He faced Five, and was able to defeat him.  He had trained a man who stood 6'7", and weighed 295 pounds, his former protégé,  "the Absolutist" Leviathan, back in the WWA, and helped guide him to the WWA International Tag Team Championship.  He talked for hours at times to his friend Jeff Kushner, who faced the monolithic "One in the Throne," at 8' tall exactly, back in the Chaos Wrestling Federation.

Demonstone was an imposing challenge.  Demonstone's own vanity, however, was equally imposing.  And this was what Lancaster hoped to capitalize on.  All men and nations of history who allowed their vanity to dominate were brought to their knees at some point, be it Caesar, Hitler, and yes, even England - a fact that Demonstone obviously cherished, being a fervent Scottish nationalist.

A shame Demonstone was not a student of history beyond that which he learned in primary school.

Lancaster was determined to make an example of Demonstone.  He saw in him much of what he too once was back in the Chaos Wrestling Federation, and in the North American Wrestling Alliance: a rich, arrogant, b*stard, too blind to his own weaknesses that eventually led him to destruction.  

Demonstone crucified himself enough by merit of his own ignorance and narcissism.  All Lancaster had to do was drive in the final nail.  He would be a martyr unto himself.

The Duke finished his scotch, and wiped his mouth, as he returned to his book.  His eyes skirted across the page, reading towards the very end scene where the Scottish King would meet his bloody end.

Macbeth:  "Our castle's strength shall laugh a siege to scorn.  Here let them lie 'till famine and the augue eat them up."

The poor foolish b*stard, thought Robert Lancaster.  Unknowing of what was to come.  There would be no famine.  No plague or hunger.  Fate destined his destruction, his confidence, his firm belief in his castle's strength, parties to nothingness in the inevitable end.

Alas for Demonstone.  For Demonstone shall befall the same fate as that of his ancestor.

"Some words from the Scottish tyrant to the Scottish tyrant of NPW," declared Lancaster to the nothingness inside his room and to the outside world.  "Let him hear them although he sees or hears them not..."