Lancaster's Inferno - return to Circle V (the Angry)

Scene I: Las Vegas, NV - the Bellagio, 36th floor penthouse - Saturday, May 10, 2003

The time was nearly upon them.

Lancaster took it upon himself to say a few words to his opponents, particuarly Flare before the appointed hour.

He purchased a camcorder after feeling a rousing rush of inspiration, partially generated by several shots of J&B Rare and John Walker Gold.

The scene opens very shakily, the darkness of Las Vegas apparent, the sounds of the living, breathing city of twenty four hours that was of course the Devil's Playground.

"Is this bloody thing on?" asks a gruff voice off scene.

Lancaster sat down on the outside patio of his room, his smoking pipe in one hand, a glass of scotch in the other.  The wind raced through his hair from time to time as the Duke took his place in front of the camera, unsure of how he was coming off.

But not caring, either.

He took a long deep puff on his pipe, and a swig of scotch, before placing the latter down.

"Alright, well, here we are, less than forty eight hours away from the big one, the first title defense of the Whiskey Devils, YOUR [Lancaster grabbed the CAL World Tag Title that lay nonchalantly on his patio table and held it up to the camera lens] CAL World Tag Team Champions."

Rob dropped the belt on the floor, and continued onwards.

"And this, you may ask, is the way one half of the champs decided to spend those hours before grappling two of the brightest stars, in the BWWa."

The Duke shrugged his shoulders, and shook his head.

"What the hell do I care.  We each chose to spend these past few days the way we chose.  What's done is done. Flare," as Lancaster reached for his scotch, "you chose to spend these valuable hours in a most creative way.  Making some material with questionable content."

Lancaster finished his scotch and put the glass on the table.  He hung his head, the wind again blowing at force, his white Oxford shirt, which was completely unbuttoned, flailing waving in sequence and motion with his blond hair.

"Let's face it Flare, you've decided to waste your days producing shyte."

Rob lifted his head, not caring what he was saying, or to whom he was saying it to.

"This is how you've chosen to prepare for your shot at this, [the Duke again picked up his title and held it up] the most precious, valuable prize in our goddamned sport.  This is your chance boyo, one you, like me, I admit, haven't had since we both lost the Crusade.  But still.  You chose to waste my time, that of my partner, and everyone else's in the BWWa by talking shyte and feckin' around like this match you're about to under go is some big, fanciful walk in the park."

Lancaster spat on to the floor.

"I rarely talk shyte, but I will when I feel passionate enough about it.  And you've done that.  But hey, well Flare, you're young, you like to have fun.  And Christ, so do I, I mean, I've lost $5 million dollars in these past several days, what the hell do I care! I don't Flare, I don't, because money is nothing to me.  But my good fellow, this match, certainly is not nothing to you, nor your partner Thunder."

"Or is it?" Again Lancaster shrugged.

"Frankly, I could not possibly know what you think, or what you think or discuss in private, away from the cameras.  Perhaps you sit drinking and discussing your love life with that elegant waif Evelyn, or whatever her name happens to be.  Perhaps you dream of better things to come in your career.  And this Monday will be yours' and Thunder's chance to have those better things happen."

Rob shook his head side to side quickly.

"Not gonna happen though.  I've decided to not mince or sugar coat my words, as you've seen, and I'm, to be honest, already tired of talking to you Flare.  My life has been crap these past three weeks, and you and Thunder are just the types that I and Seamus, yes him too, will willingly and gladly take our our frustrations on."

"We're not going to beat you, we're going to destroy you, and perhaps, and perhaps then Flare, when you and Thunder lay listening to the fans boo us realizing we've retained, when you hear the Mahones' roaring their drums, and when you grow sick of the taste of your own blood, then, and perhaps then, you'll prepare a little better next time."

Lancaster laughed.

"Good luck chaps.  And a very good night to you."

The scene fades away, the City of Las Vegas unaware of what transpired alone, heard by no one.  

Heard by no one.

The effects though - unmistakable.