Conversations

Scene I: New York City, New York - Trump International Hotel & Tower - Friday, September 26, 2003

Well, here I am.

New York City.

Friday night.

But not alone.

I had a glass of Quinta do Noval Vintage Port Nacional, 1963 by my side.  Port, not whiskey, at a mere $3000, I felt it was worth the cost to celebrate something momentous.

A new car? Oh no.

I solved the final puzzle on Wheel of Fortune AND got the Final Jeopardy! question right?  Well, I did.  But, no.

I got laid? Well yes...but not really the reason.

My first one week anniversary, actually dating a woman since my divorce.

The incredibly vain, self-absorbed, egotistical genius I was smitten with - Marissah - was to have dinner with me tonight to celebrate this oh so wonderful occassion.

Of course I would not broadcast my sheer happiness on the matter of a one week anniversary to her, but I would be whooping it up in my own mind.  The mere fact that I woke up after our first encounter to find her next to me still was relief enough, but this was the coup de gras, at least for me, recently.

I was busying myself getting dressed in suitable attire for dinner at The Plaza.  Woosh.  On goes the Axe Body Spray, "Phoenix" or whatever in God's name it's called.  Woosh.  On goes the Calvin Klein's "Truth" cologne.  

I coughed as I shooed the chemically engulfed air away from my nose.  "Hans Blix," I spoke to myself, "There's your goddamned chemical weapons right there."

I whistled my entrance tune, Beethoven's "Ninth Symphony" as I finished getting ready.  I wondered to myself, how many guys in the back actually stopped to think what their music really meant to them as they came out.  I know my tune was a very familiar one, but it was powerful, and moving.  I always felt it ironic that I was coming out to the music of  some Austrian-German twit rather than someone English.  Oh well, beats "God Save the Queen," or whatever else I could think of...although I'd never tell Her Majesty that.

I checked myself over once more.  Hair, done.  Suit, fine.  Smell? *cough* Yes, fine.

"Stephanie Erin who?" I snickered mentally as my mobile rang.

The call display was indicating Marissah's number.  I grinned again happily.

"Good evening my dear cherry cheesecake."

She laughed.  "Hey sweetie.  You're coming to pick me up right?"

"Yes, I am."

"In your Jag?"

"Yesssssss."  This was getting odd.

"Could you do me a favourrrrrrrrr," she said oh so sweetly.  

Blah.  Sweetness from her was often like venom from an asp.  Yet, addictive.

"Anything for you cherie," I lied.

"Could we go in a limosine instead?  I'd love to pull up at The Plaza and step out from one...that'd be so sweet and elegant."

I wanted to sigh but I controlled myself.  "Of course love...I'll ring you up and let you know how long it will be 'till I get there, alright?"

"Aww," she cooed.  "Thanks sweetie, you're fabulous.  Kisses!"  She hung up.

"Pffffffffffft."  I tossed my mobile down and got out the Yellow Book or whatever the hell it's called, and ordered a limosine to head here, and then to Marissah's.

Ten minutes.  I relayed the message back to her and got more cooing in return.  Huzzah.

But hell.  I was still excited.  I ignored her hopeless materialism that I listened to in that conversation and focused on the positive: she is smart, beautiful, witty.  And a great fuck in bed.  And who knows.  Maybe it can lead to more - even the most savage beast can be tamed, after all.  

Ah, my Marissah.

I plunked my arse back in front of the large windows over looking the downtown, and poured another glass of that lovely port.  

I stretched my legs and looked over to the seat opposite me, where I saw, myself.

I too held a glass of the same port, dressed the same, head to toe.  I turned my head and nodded at myself.  I reciprocated, and after taking a sip of port, spoke.

So, what am I going to do about Wildfire.

"What about Wildfire," I queried.

Oh don't be so ignorant.

I shrugged.  "It's a fair question.  Be more specific at least for God's sake."

Alright, fine.  My Lord wants me to, oh...make my presence known that night.

"Don't I always," I offered.  "Even if I'm not on the card, Lancaster certainly will be.  Me and the fellows are going to speak our minds freely, believe me."

I drank my port as I laughed.

Oh a speech.  Speeches are all well and good.  But you know I mean something else.

Sigh.  "Yes, I should get involved...what should I do...destroy Taranis, and Moonstar, that walking breathing piece of shit?  Beat the living hell out of Python and Tate?  Or better still, assist in getting us the World Tag Team Championship again from that horse's ass Tanke, and Skene."

I listened and moved my head to and fro.  Yes, those are all admirable ideas.  But what about Seamus and Jeff's match.

I widened my eyes.  "I should thrash one of my best friends all for the sake of business?"

I nodded and grinned wickedly.  Now old boy, that is more like it.

"I don't particularly want to go down that path again.  It's not worth it."

What of the Jacobins and its message.

I glared angrily.  "Don't taint the purity of the Jacobin message."

Taint?  Surely I mean adding and enhancing its purity and lustre.

"He's one of my best friends in wrestling," I protested.

Really.  He is Authority.  You are Jacobins.  He is therefore by default ripe for annihilation lest he allign himself with his true friends for once.  But has he?  He turned on the Triumvirate.  He never even voiced interest in the Jacobins after its creation, instead he remained crawling on his hands and knees like Adam-X's and Constantine's bitch.  Then they got involved with each other and Jeff was nothing more than an afterthought.  Now he has won the championship and all of a sudden they're all chummy again.  He has forfeited his loyalty to you.  Your mission is clear, Lancaster.

"I...no," I hesitated.

I leaned over and yelled slightly.  Do this for HIM as much as for yourself and the Jacobins.

I was beginning to listen to myself.

Besides.  You do not have to give up your friendship.  This is business.  He'll understand.  And if he doesn't, you can list his treasons to him.  That he cannot counter.

I shifted in my seat.  "What of Seamus.  He will not appreciate it, and it'll be hard as hell to convince him that I did the right thing."

He'll understand.  If he's as true to the Jacobin cause as you are, which I know he is - he'll understand after some discussion over a few pints.  And need I remind you - the British after all, stick together.

I smiled at myself.

You know I'm right.  It's Libertas an Mortis.  The Darkness, and yes the Authority - in any form, even if championed by your friend - must be dismantled, at all costs.

My mobile phone rang again.  It was the limo.

I turned to myself and, without expression, nodded.

"Libertas an Mortis."


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Jacobins

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