01.17.07 Avarice

I: Wednesday, January 10, 2007, London, England, 11pm

The buzz of my microwave summons me to the grocery store bought sludge that awaits me for a late supper.

I grudgingly pull myself away from my laptop after having watched an iPod being blended to smithereens on Youtube and approach the microwave with great misgiving. I could afford to go out and eat, but I'm just too damn lazy. The little rats at that school really take it out of me.

I pop open the microwave. The smell of beef wellington and some mangy vegetables - or something pretending to be - fills the air in this cramped flat that I am paying an absurd amount of money for. I peel back the plastic and get a face full of steam. I peer towards the rubbish bin and then back at this supper, then back to the bin.

I decide against tossing it and plop back down on my chair and begin stirring the vegetables around with a plastic fork.

A few bites later and I am practically full - of disgust.

Cursing I place it on the table beside the laptop to let it cool and simmer.

I could afford a better place than this, especially after I do the deed and kill the child.

Then again I want to get the hell out of here soon as I can. Preferably to a place without an extradition treaty to the UK, especially if I get caught.

But I won't get caught. She assured me I wouldn't.

And I know better. I am the best at what I do.

I make a living by taking the lives of others.

But I wish the bitch would get off my case. The Duchess hounds me when we meet - rarely, and surreptitiously of course - to get the job done.

I told her I act within the given time frame that I gave her, which was half a year.

She wants it done sooner. I took it under advisement.

I have to gain the child's trust, get to know his movements, his friends. See any openings where I might be able to strike.

There may be one coming up.

I pick up my dinner and dig into the alleged meat. My taste buds react violently, but I stomach it anyway. Twenty-five years in the Spanish Secret Service, you go through a lot worse shit than this garbage.

...although it comes close.

With the fork back in my mouth for another perilous bite I click away and find more nonsense on Youtube to fill my time with, as I ponder the chance coming up.

It could be do-able. Just possibly.

I place the dinner aside again and pick up a highly shreddable page about various toxins. I've reviewed it a couple of times, and any number of them could do the job cleanly.

Hell, I could always use polonium.

I laugh out loud to nobody.

The assassin's life is a lonely one.

Then it hits me.

I have to do some prep work for tomorrow's school day.

Shit.

II: Wednesday, January 10, 2007, London, England, 11pm, apartment of Lady Stephanie Dynasty-Lancaster

My bones are weary tonight. I snap on the light next to my bed and find myself blinded by the light. Shit...

The dream returned again tonight, and I am horrified.

I fear

murder.

I cannot shake it.

I know it is

near.

I slip out of bed and into my slippers. Into the den I go to fetch some brandy.

I find her Ladyship reading a newspaper.

Stephanie smiles at me.

I smile back.

The scene opens to the sound of a phone ringing, some typing at a keyboard.

The camera is jittery and uneven, as it tries to steady.

One sees feet planted firmly on the ground, their owners, seated.

A pair of black loafers, next to them, some high heels.

Other voices mumble unintelligibly in the background as an agitated receptionist talks sternly into a phone.

"SHIT."

The camera shot rises to catch the receptionist in question, with her back to the shot.

She's wearing a smart looking deep burgundy blazer with matching skirt.

The phone is slammed as the camera shot approaches the desk

"What, WHAT do you want?"

The woman turns around.

Her Grace, the Duchess of Wessex is exposed. Her white blouse, with several buttons generously undone, dangles outward from her chest.

"Oh...it's you."

She grins.

"We've been expecting you. Please..." she gestures with a hand towards a door. "Go in. Your Lord and Master awaits."

The camera shot turns to the door and as it approaches, it opens.

It opens to blackness.

A red spotlight trains on the undisputed Old Line Wrestling Imperial Heavyweight Champion. He sits in a duplicate of the coronation throne used by the monarchs of England for the past several centuries. He is dressed formally, and cradles the championship belt in his arms.

"Come," he calls out. "Come. Your Lord and Master awaits. Listen. And listen closely."

The spotlight expands to reveal that it is a ring in which the throne is situated.

"Some of you may ask: what do we want."

"The answer is simple."

He turns his head to the side in a moment of thought.

"We want to go down in history - not just of OLW, but of wrestling - ass the most loathed, the most despised man to ever step foot in the ring."

"A piece of shit human being, with hatred elicited so deep, not just because of what we have done, but simply because of who we are."

"You see we are a man - nay, a god, not unlike Dionysus - who has held this rich prize for over seven months and has defended it not thrice [he holds up three fingers], not twice, [he lowers one finger], not even once [he lowers the other to leave only his middle finger standing]."

He laughs.

"Why? Because it was our will. And our word is law."

"We know you are all sick of us. Our reign. The sound of our voice."

He sneers sourly with contempt.

"And we love EVERY SINGLE GODDAMN SECOND OF IT."

"But take refuge in this fact: blessed are those who are sickened; for they shall perish."

"Also face this fact, Python, Tate, Christenson."

"Children."

"We've come too damn far, and have advanced far too much - beyond any of you, or all of you combined, for that matter - to let you halt our never ending pursuit of wickedness."

"At this point we usually placate our opponents and note how talented you are, what strengths you possess, and how we are well aware of them, and won't take any of that for granted."

He shifts in the throne slowly and shakes his head.

"Not this time. We are fed up with our own graciousness."

"It is time to condemn. Rebuke. Spurn."

"And challenge."

"You see, what happened in that battle royal was inexcusable. We were caught off guard, and we were eliminated."

He nods.

"We can accept that. We learned. We grew. But it will never happen again."

"You three, and indeed the whole of OLW will write us off as a champion about to expire. Never. A champion who has lost his luster. We shall only shine brighter with every drop of blood that we shall shed. And believe me, there is much more to be shed."

He is pensive as he looks to the title of diamonds and platinum that rests on his lap.

"We are the eternal champion. We have reigned dominantly. And should it ever eclipse. The ramifications of this reign will be felt forever."

"So come what may," as his deep red eyes glare, "we are ready for you, Tate. Snakeboy. Christenson. We await you. Thane awaits you. Dearest Heidi awaits you. The Iconoclasm await you. This match, we swear to our god, will only foreshadow the bloody and heinous things that will come to any of you unfortunate to be in the Match Beyond."

He stares

and

stares.

"Someone take these dreams away, that point me to another day.

A duel of personality, the stranger true reality."