The Furies

Scene I: unknown  - Thursday, March 20, 2003

The scene fades to a completely blackened screen.  Silence, followed by more silence.  Finally.  An unknown voice declares, in a deep, brooding tone:

"Long before Western Europe and the world was civilized, the Greeks held the earth in their hands, the pantheon of gods of Olympia reigned supreme from Olympus, and justice was dispensed by most foul means...by the hand of the Furies."

The shot then opens to a painting, hanging on a wall, completely engulfed by darkness save for the single focused light that shone down upon it, illuminating the few square feet around it.

Echoed footsteps resonate on the hardwood floor, as a familiar voice punctures the darkness and fractures the silence.

"'Orestes Pursued by the Furies' of Adolphe-William Bouguereau, 1862.  Deceptively beautiful."

Robert Lancaster II, Duke of Wessex, steps into the scene, wearing a black suit, collared white shirt, and burgundy tie, tied in a perfect Windsor knot.  His blond hair is spiked yet professional, his gold chain, in his family since the late 15th century, bearing the Lancaster coat of arms, hangs around his neck and over his tie.

"And chillingly monstrous.  The centuries whisper to us and inform us that Orestes stood no chance to escape the Greek goddesses of vengeance.  His bloody matricide against his mother Clytemnestra, his misconception of the power of the Furies, his own ignorance that his hubris would climax into nemesis is stark and powerful."

"Leprechaun, and all others that I am to encounter within this tournament, whether it be Chris Kline, E-Normus Norman, Cledus Yokel, Brad Andrews, Alex Flare, or Big D.  The Furies stalk you.  Their retribution shall be my profit.  And my silence..."

The Duke of Wessex cracks a knowing, unkind grin.

"Has been truly golden."

"While I shall not and will never dismiss or purge the fact from my mind that I will have to smash three of the finest grapplers in history, I must address and focus the majority of my remarks on my first opponent on that fateful evening.  Leprechaun."

Lancaster stands firm in front of the painting, his eyes unmoving, emotionless, his thoughts organized, prepared to do everything in his might to show the world that he had what it would take.

"Leprechaun.  The darling of the fans.  The delight of the CAL, many who have you pinned to be the next contender for the World Heavyweight Championship before the tournament even gets underway.  It has been many a year since I have seen one with such gusto, with such flair, with such talent and drive such as yourself.  I have been sitting, listening, watching, evaluating. And you wonder why I have stayed silent up to this point, when the final hour for us both draws oh so near."

"Simple.  Tactics.  Strategy..  And it has capitalized handsomely.  With every word you speak you expose more of your foibles, more weaknesses that I will be bound to exploit and use with every fiber of my being ...in order to destroy you."

"You prepare your body day in, and day out, as I do, most recently by isolating yourself and unleashing your anger within the confines of a very stark and imposing warehouse.  Your frustration was apparent, your words, misguided, ill-informed, and to a large extent, empty."

"I may be a prick, and many have thus accused me of this unenviable trait.  And they have paid for doing so...and alas, you shall too.  I have no qualm with you as a man or a professional, but frankly you are a sad excuse for a philosopher, as I have insinuated."

"I must turn to what you have said and rebut as you so desired, those words which I find most odious and misinformed."

Robert Lancaster closes his eyes, and then, opens them, and continues.

"First and foremost.  You believe you understand me, that you have figured me out.  What arrogance.  I am in this for fame, for glamour, all in order to shore up my ego."

The scene cuts to Leprechaun's most recent release, the shot however, only showing his face partially,  his words, hilighted by his thick Irish accent are unmistakable:

"I think I got ye figured out Lancaster... I do. Yer d'kind o' guy that's in this fer d'glamor. D'fame. D'pride an' braggin' rights."

The shot returns to Lancaster, frowning, a tone of disgust more than apparent in this voice.

"Glamour."

"YER...IN THIS FER D'GLAMOR."

Again, Lancaster.

"Fame."

"YER...IN THIS FER...D'FAME."

Once again the Duke of Wessex.

"Pride."

"YER...IN THIS FER...D'PRIDE."

The shot stabilizes from the quick jumps to and fro, and focuses on the Duke, the tinge of malice still very noticeable.

"You mistake me, sir, for another man.  Fame, glamour, egotistical pride...are fleeting.  As are your hopes for victory if you approach me in that arena of warriors with this mindset in your mental strategy."  

"You talk ad nausea about your fan support, the power of the people, their ability to energize.  That is all well and good, and simply endears you to them forevermore.  I congratulate you on that.  They are the life blood of this sport, and can invigorate and give a man superhuman abilities.  You are a self-declared modern day gladiator, amongst many other things."

Robert Lancaster smiles gently.

"That you truly are.  You speak like a champion, move as a gladiator.  But a man who relies on the masses is doomed.  You must contend against me if you are to be victorious, rely on your own strength and judgment ultimately.  The hand of Caesar will not decide this contest for you as in the forum."

The Duke pauses.

"I will never deny your passion however.  Your love for this sport, your desire to be your very best, for yourself, your nation, your masses, are all apparent.  I laud your quest for respect and what this tournament means to you.  This is all very obvious. And if indeed you are victorious over me, a feat of which I know you are extremely capable of doing - if not likely - I do hope that you shall be successful.  There are very few in this sport such as you.  And I share your belief that this tournament is about pride."

"However you may be asking yourself what I am in this for.  Since you have made it abundantly clear what your aims are, let it be known that mine is to fulfill history."  

"You and I Leprechaun, along with Norman, D, Flare, Andrews, Kline, Yokel, are engaged in a game of history.  I must fulfill the destiny ingrained in my blood, something of which I have no control over.  My quest is to become one of the immortals of this sport and fulfill and live up to the honour and dignity of my family name.  I do this for the love of my family, my ancestors, my wife, my child."

"Know this Leprechaun.  Today you wallow in the glory and love of the fans and yuke their strengths.  History has shown that the masses can be soft of heart, easily swayed, disloyal when advantageous.  Your own Irish history, my British history cries out to this fact.  You rely on those who may turn at any moment - no matter what you may say or believe otherwise, no matter how much you declare their loyalty and strength of which you draw upon - do not delude yourself."

The Duke of Wessex sighs.

"The time for words is over Leprechaun.  Save your breath.  You have tried to win the hearts and minds of the masses and you have likely done so.  I have done so as well to an extent, but as much as I accept and desire the respect of all persons...I must rely on myself."

"The storm has brewed.  The whirlwind nears.  I must engage a human storm.  But all storms pass.  And after it has you shall see that I am indeed the living personification of the wrench in your gears, the log in your road."

"I will do as you say, but differently.  I will drink my fine drinks.  Only that I shall drink the cup of the Furies and seek my retribution.  I will f*ck my fine woman.  Only that you shall find that it is your dreams and ego that have been f*cked.  I will sit in my fine jets.  Only for you to find that I have left you behind."

Robert Lancaster looks as he is ready to walk off from in front of the painting.

"And one last thing.  Just remember, reality is not always as it seems."

With that, lights come on and the camera pulls back to find the Duke of Wessex standing in the midst of a Celtic pub.  A classic Irish tune begins to play, namely "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling."  A waitress walks by and hands the Duke a Guinness, which he brings to his lips, and begins to sip slowly.

"Cheers lad."

The scene fades.