Ah, Tradition

Saturday, November 30, 2002.

Memphis, Tennessee - new Memphis home of Duke Robert Lancaster II

The new Memphis home of the Lancaster's - Stephanie Erin, his wife, and their little boy, and of course, the ever faithful Simkins, would be joining him in a few days - was just a condominium, a rather luxurious one at that however, minus any semblance of furnishing save for a bed, a few chairs, and a table with a small television, a phone, and a laptop computer sitting idly.  It was a far cry from the Ancestral Estate of the Lancaster's, back in Wessex, England.

The Duke of Wessex, Robert Lancaster, paced around, his right arm tucked under his left, as his left hand rested on his cheek.  Wearing dark blue Calvin Klein jeans - a rare garment to see Lancaster in - and an old Triumvirate shirt, from the days of the World Wrestling Alliance; the words "History Never Dies" still wore bright in white on the front of the shirt.

Lancaster was somewhat tired from the exciting events of the night, which saw himself and Scott Easton beat down on Chris Wright during the former's TV Title Championship match against Johnny Five.  However he had a new distraction to deal with, the ever eccentric Helius Andrös, who had flown in from Zug, Switzerland, to inspect Lancaster's new accommodations.

Andros was obviously not content.  All Lancaster could do is roll his eyes occasionally, and feign agreement to the ranting of the self-proclaimed great mind of the artist/architect/interior designer, who spoke in a slightly high pitched, broken English-German mix which anyone English or German would find difficult to comprehend.  Andrös mumbled to himself.

"Dieser platz ist abfall. Mein Gott dieses ist hoffnungslos."

Lancaster was perturbed by Andrös' lack of communication in Her Majesty's English.

"If you've got something to say,  say it in bloody English."

Andrös let out a very noticeable, heavy sigh, one of artistic torture and exasperation.

"Ya ya, okay okay.  This place though it is impossible; Memphis I mean where is its style, it has no techno rave happy bars does it even!"

"No, no techno rave happy bars."  The Duke wondered if Helius had any Swedish blood in him a la his Swedish Chef back in England.

The German wandered about the condo, poking his head out the window and looking at the space inside the condo, holding his fingers as if to frame the place within his hands.

"Fine okay fun boy, what furniture you getting here, Ikea right I hope mein Herr?"

"I'm having some things brought over from Wessex."

Helius hissed in disgust. "Nein, always with the boring stuff, no fun ever.  You need multilevel you can have built, and different colour items, brighten up this place because you sure as hell can't brighten up the city outside."

Examining his Rolex, Robert was growing tired of the whole discussion.

"I happen to be fond of this town."

The German, staring out from white plastic glasses, drew his head back in a look of horror.

"What you been too long away from London and Europe."

Thankfully Robert's cell phone rang.

"Excuse me."

Helius turned his portable mp3 player back on, causing his favourite German techno tune, "Super Gut" by Modo to come blasting out of his headphones.

Stephanie, Robert's wife, was calling.

"Hello my sweet...what's that...that's Helius' music. Hold on."

Lancaster began, "Could you please turn that bloody shit..." but was cut off by Andrös, "What who is that your frau?"

Andrös grabbed the cell from Lancaster's hand.

"Hello Frau Lancaster, you tell your husband that he need Ikea, okay, he must follow my ideas for they are filled with German brilliance, understand good, bye."

Andrös hung up on Stephanie, and grabbed his scarf, and head for the door.

"I send you my plans soon and I hope you consider them, good understand, bye."

Robert was more than pleased to show him the door.  He called back his wife and apologized for German rudeness, and the two chatted for a while about their boy, and the upcoming move.  After twenty minutes or so, he said good bye, and picked a leather jacket out of the closet, deciding to head for the Jack Lynch Bar and Grille for a late night dinner and drink.  He had much to think about, not only about his condominium, but the events of Championship Wrestling, which saw a new faction form under the direction of the CAL Undisputed Heavyweight Champion of the World, "Think Tank" Turner: National Pro Wrestling.

The streets of Memphis buzzed with some activity as midnight approached, in particular around the many jazz clubs and bars.  The chill in the air reflected Lancaster's mood very aptly.

His foot steps echoed almost in his ears as he headed towards the Lynch Pub and Grille, with various images running through his mind.  The very impressive entrance of "Think Tank" Turner, and his very powerful and intellectually provoking "discussion" with Psycho Steve provoked him.

As Lancaster entered the Grille, on what was then Sunday, December 1, the sound of laughter, bottles opening and loud chatter filled his ears, as the smell of cigarette and cigar smoke and liquor did so for his nose.

It may not have been the small pub near his Estate, or O'Leary's in Northern Ireland, but it was honest and steeped in tradition.

Ah, tradition.

Robert sat down in one of the very few empty bar stools, where he was greeted with a "thud," created by the sound of a Guinness Extra Cold being placed in front of him by the same bartender who had served him the first time he entered those hallowed walls those few months ago.

The Duke was very pleased, and smiled.

"Thank you, sir."

The barkeep who was rather busy, just nodded and went about his business serving other customers.

The cold Guinness served to the Duke was about to be enjoyed, verily much so, when his cell rang yet again.  Goddamn technology.  His expression soured.

"Lancaster.  Yes..."

The pint glass that was brought to his lips was lowered very slowly, as the Duke's expression widened in a mixture of shock and incredulity.

"Are you certain...very well...I'll be ready.  Thank you."

The pint glass was raised back up as fast as it was lowered down slowly.  It vanished within half a minute.  And suddenly, he desired something stronger now.

"Johnny Walker, Black Label...double, on the rocks."

The bartender poured the double shot of fine scotch whiskey into a glass, and was greedily taken by the Duke of Wessex.  The phone call was from an MSWA official, who related the next match which saw Lancaster involved in - an eight man tag, CAL forces versus NATPW - himself, alongside and fighting against some of the greatest legends in the business - Napalm, Southern Comfort - as well as Chris Wright, Quinn Tate, Cito Conarri, and Johnny Five, all of whom were powers to be reckoned with in their own right.

"Holy shit," Lancaster mumbled to himself under his breath.  The implications of the match, for himself, for the MSWA, even for the CAL itself, were nearly beyond comprehension.

The fact that Strat had joined the NATPW was not a surprise to him. He never cared for the man. Stratford always left a very sour residue in the Duke's mind, largely because he at one time had a lot in common with the self-proclaimed "Main Event" of professional wrestling.  Both were womanizing drunks to an extent, however after his marriage to Stephanie Erin Dynasty, Robert mellowed out greatly.  Stratford, during his mic rant at Championship Wrestling, certainly proved that he had not changed.

Napalm, the other subject of Lancaster's ire at one time, was a part of the (in)famous Authority, which feuded greatly with his Triumvirate at one point during the era of the WWA.

So much to consider.

The Duke's appetite for liquor steadily increased as his actual appetite for food dropped dramatically.  He finished his Black Label and requested that the whole bottle be left with him.  Lancaster reached into his jacket pocket and tossed a crisp $100 note on the surface of the bar, and filled his glass with more of the light amber fluid.

Robert, who was sitting in the back watching a monitor in the locker room when the whole debacle with the new NATPW began, was intrigued.  Lancaster respected Turner, and sensed a business savvy which he prided himself on having as well.  The NATPW represented a new wave, a new philosophy, a new paradigm.  The CAL was vested in tradition, especially the MSWA.

Ah, that word again, tradition.

Lancaster was raised by his father Edward James Lancaster VII to respect and revere tradition with every iota of his being, of his fiber.  Being a rather rebellious child, Robert resisted greatly at many turns wherever his father pressed tradition - whether it was leaving home and living on the streets of London for a period of time, or entering the ring of wrestling instead of the ring of law.  Lancaster spat at tradition many times.

But also respected it, a great deal too.

Lancaster had had enough of this internal debating back and forth like some insane tennis match over something that needed serious discussion with his colleagues, his friends, and of course, himself.

He finished what he could of that bottle of Black Label, and after an hour more or so, walked home to the best of his ability, which was not easy considering his blood/alcohol level was already very much over the legal limit.

Robert's bed greeted him warmly as he slid off his leather jacket and collapsed, inebriated, tired, and his mind still tossing and turning the countless things he encountered during his day.  Unfortunately,  Helius Andrös' obnoxious artistic tirade was prominent amongst them.

Lancaster fought off the image of that German twit and fell into a deep slumber.  That night he dreamed of things to come.  And what volumes they spoke.  The ring became a bloody battlefield pitting the NATPW against the CAL.  Revolution versus tradition.

Ah, tradition.