Think About It

Saturday, September 14, 2002.  Approximately 7pm.

Lynch Sports Pub and Grille, Memphis, TN

"Guinness, please."

The bartender, who looked like he had been at his job for countless years, yet still loved every second of it, smiled slightly.

"Which kind...we have two...Guinness regular draught, or Guinness Extra Cold."

The customer's eyes widened.  Never outside of Europe had he had the option of Guinness Extra Cold.

"The latter, for certain."

A minute or two later, a perfectly pulled pint of Guinness Extra Cold, with the authentic British pint glass, sat before him.

So far from home yet so close.

"Thank you, sir. What does that come to," queried the customer, as he pulled out his black leather wallet.

The bartender only smiled once more.

"For you, no charge your Grace."

The barkeep obviously recognized his famous patron.

"Robert. And please I insist."

"Don't you mean 'we' insist?'"

A slight smirk crossed the barkeep's face, as did that of the customer.  The former certainly did not forget the smug persona his customer used to portray in the ring back in the days of the Chaos Wrestling Federation (CWF) and the NAWA.

"Kiss OUR ass. Now please," he insisted, as he pulled out a crisp twenty dollar bill, "take this and buy yourself some goddamn manners."

They shared a laugh, and already sensed a friendship was developing.  Something which occurred quite naturally at the Lynch Sports Pub and Grille.  The Duke of Wessex, Robert Lancaster, knew he'd be in Tennessee more often than he could ever have dreamed of, at any time.

But the city had a very distinct flavour, a mixture of hospitality yet weariness - most people in that town wouldn't put up with bullshit, from anyone, at anytime.  Yet if you had a good heart, a determined spirit, you'd blend in and be welcomed, whether from the deep South itself, or from London.

Lancaster closed his eyes briefly and savoured the taste of the dark, rich and of course, extra cold brew.  The barkeep returned to his duties, cleaning a few glasses.  Robert admired his dedication to his job and friendly aura.

"What's your name, if I may ask, since you know mine."

He was responded, but not by the barkeep.

"The only name you need to know is the most 'Dashing' name in the Colonies, my good sir."

Lancaster put his pint glass down, a large smirk crossing his face.  Without turning around, he spoke.

"Well that sounds like the most dashing son of a bitch in wrestling history."

The Duke shifted in his seat, to see "Dashing" Doug Daniels, standing, drinking Sambuca, wearing black slacks, a blue polo shirt, his hair tied back, and a grin dressing the rest of him.

Lancaster stood up and laughed, going over to Triple D, where the two shared a friendly, "how the hell are you doing" type hug.  The Duke sat back down, Daniels sitting next to him.  Seeing Daniels nearing the end of his Sambuca, Lancaster ordered another for him.

Daniels, calling out to the barkeep, declared, "Make sure this English git pays for it since he ordered the damn thing, not I, understood?"

The barkeep rolled his eyes slightly, looking at the Duke, who only nodded his head as if to say, "Alright fine I'll pay for the cheap bastard."

"So," stated Daniels, as he relaxed and sipped slowly on his new Sambuca, "what the hell are you doing giving five million dollars to the MSWA?"

The Duke licked his lips, and took another drink from his Guinness.  He shifted his shoulders somewhat.

"It's business my friend...and besides, if I ever return...at least I will have paid penance for my past wrongs."

Daniels had followed the Duke's career in the NAWA, and CWF, and new exactly what he meant by paying for his "past wrongs."

With a slight laugh, Daniels continued.  "You certainly weren't the most beloved of all superstars back in the NAWA my good fellow, that much I know.  There were some guys who wouldn't have shed very many tears had your little stunt with your Jag gone wrong."

Triple D was referring to the time back in the WWA, where Lancaster, then known as Goodlife, ran his Jaguar off a road outside his home in Wessex, England, in an attempt to put over his protégé, "the Absolutist" Leviathan.

"No shit," realized the Duke of Wessex.  "But hell, at least I tried to change in the face of the fans, during the latest incarnation of the NAWA...I extended my hand to every guy back in that damn lockeroom as a friend," motioned Lancaster, pointing back to the Jack Lynch Theater.

The Duke took a deep sigh...not so much sad, as flustered, at least to an extent.  He looked into his drink, raised the glass to his lips, and took a big swig.  He laughed to himself.

"Fuck if five million dollars doesn't buy a few friends, what the hell will?"

Triple D gave him a sympathetic smile.

"We could use a good man in the back.  I'm sure you'd be welcomed."

"You really think so."

"Sure.  Especially if you fork out some of that money to the most 'Dashing' of all superstars, than I can assure a warm welcome, if not, then, there could be some trouble."

Lancaster laughed, seeing Daniels holding out his hand, looking for his "protection payment" as it were.

"You're just asking for some 'Champagne Wishes and Caviar Dreams,' aren't you," threatened the Duke, jokingly of course, with his cobra clutch sleeper finisher.

Daniels turned in his seat, acting effeminately, and stated, "Sorry, caviar makes me bloaty."

Lancaster just shook his head, and looked at his watch.  Time to go.

"Well my friend, time flies when one is being annoyed.  But seriously, it was good to see you.  Thank you sir."

He took Daniel's hand, and shook it.

Daniels looked firmly at the Duke, as the latter stood up and dropped another Andrew Jackson on the bar surface.

"Mr. Lancaster, you have a home here.  Even if it's amongst the Luke Starr's and Chris Stratford's.  Think about it.  I'll be here - Jeff is already here, your Triumvirate could live again.  Think about it."

Robert's eyes stared blankly for a moment, lost in thought, deep in thought.  He finally brought himself to speak.

"I will."