The Wounded Warrior
I: Sunday, February 27, 2005: Wessex,
England: just outside the Lancastrian Ancestral Estate
"The
son of a bitch is ours. They will all be ours."
This I mumble to myself under my breath. The air is cold, the stars finally have shed the night's clouds, and I venture alone in near pitch blackness from my estate to a place I have not stepped foot in quite a while - the little public house which stood just on the edge of the lands we Lancasters have tended to for nine centuries. Locals from the near by village flock to the spot on occasion for traditional fare and a few pints. The owner, who has operated the establishment for decades himself, used to slip me a few ounces of this or that when I was younger. Had my father known he would have closed the place down.
Who could do such a thing.
The week that was prior to Reindeer Games was now three days. The night was left for contemplation. I recall a night such as this when I was near but a rookie in the NAWA. How far I've come since then. From NAWA American Champion to possible World Heavyweight Champion.
The last evening in Wessex before the storm. We leave for New York City tomorrow.
And a storm it is for us. We had received Finnegan's must discourteous message via the goddess of Wessex, our Marissah. Words.
We also had the pleasure of hearing Curtis' predictions, forewarning defeat to Christenson. Yet again words, no less from a man who holds a defeat by the hand of Avarice. We have heard worse than what we heard from the likes of them, either of them.
We feel the anticipation growing within us, with each passing moment. The energies, the passions, the depths of the soul, shall all be unleashed. The gale is at hand.
But all in good time.
Tonight I'm here for quiet. If I recall - and this is a bit tricky seeing as most nights I visited this wee pub I was sloshed beyond imagination - Sunday nights were not all too busy. One or two locals, the odd tourist coming to see the county, and the publican himself.
I open the creaking door made of solid oak. It creeks back into place wonderfully. The entire pub - actually it's also an inn, I forgot about that bit, needless to say, not a very large one - is a cliché in the English style. Funny thing clichés. They are what they are because they are truths. On the walls, country theme artwork, on the floor, deep burgundy carpeting, mahogany wood fixtures everywhere, a few Union Jacks strewn about for the sake of said tourists. And much to my delight, immediately over the bar, hangs carved from solid English oak the arms of the Lancastrians of Wessex. A nice acknowledgment of our patronage. And to my embarrassment still hangs my portrait at the back of the bar. When I was younger my father's portrait graced that spot, but has been since moved across to another wall, along with the other Dukes of Wessex of ages and centuries past who have patronized this establishment.
I sit myself down at a corner table, removing my overcoat before I do so. I glance about to see the place deserted. Odd. But at least it'll ensure my drinks come to me first.
Out of the back comes the older gentleman, owner and proprietor.
"Can I help you sir with anything? A drink?"
I look up from the drink's list. A huge smile appears on his face.
"Your Grace!" he bows immediately and comes over to shake my hand. I stand up and warmly receive his hand. "It's been far too long."
Embarrassingly so, despite the fact that it's only a mere twenty minute walk by foot from my front door.
"I know, I do apologize...but I'm hardly home anymore as you well know."
He nods affirmatively. "Your new head of the household Jim comes on over pretty much on a nightly basis..."
...Really? The bastard probably drinks on the job too...
"...and always keeps us up-to-date on your travels and what not. By the way, what happened with old Simkins? I suppose he retired?"
I force a smile as I sit back down. "Long story. Anyway. I've decided what I'd like."
"Yes, please, what will it be."
"Got any Blue Label on hand?"
"Aye sir, on reserve. An ounce?"
Naw.
"I'll take the whole bottle. Just bring the glass, I'll handle the pouring."
He laughs and shuffles off slowly towards the back of the bar.
I close my eyes and await the pure pleasure that is JW Blue. I've been needing this for a long time. Not so much the booze. But the tranquility. The silence, away from the hurly burly of New York City.
They say there is truth in wine. In my case, I shall find truth in scotch, and in the peace of my surroundings.
I hope nobody else comes in tonight. I wish I could just tell him to lock the door, keep the outside world away. Here I am isolated from it. Here I am content with ourselves.
It is not to be.
"Shit." I cover my face with the drink's list and sigh loudly as whomever it is walks in.
I lower the list and see that he's taken a seat at the bar. He's got greying hair, wearing a suit. Stay there old man, have a drink or two, and get out.
My bottle of scotch is brought to me, and a fine cut crystal scotch glass.
"Thank you."
"Your Grace."
I pour a helping into the glass and touch it to my lips, as the old man turns around on his stool.
There the glass stays, the contents, it too stays.
"Your Grace." He nods his head.
Simkins. Overwhelming disgust wells up in me. A look I'm sure of utter bitterness crosses my face as I settle my glass on the table. He says nothing, he merely stares. For some reason...
"Please." I gesture to the seat across from me. "Come."
Simkins and the owner have a quick friendly word as he orders if I heard correctly a glass of red cabernet. Simkins accepts the offer and sits, still looking directly into me, silent, nearly motionless.
I cannot stare...I...I laugh.
"So why the hell accept my offer if you're just going to sit there silent?"
I take a badly needed gulp of the scotch. His wine appears and the owner vanishes from the scene. Simkins drinks.
"And what would you have me say."
I shrug my shoulders. "I have a feeling that you're here for a reason and that you're not just here to drop in and visit. Why are you here."
"Need I explain anything to you anymore?"
I frown. "Why don't you just get up and..."
"I'll explain if I so desire. I came on my own accord, for personal reasons."
Oh yes? "Not because that bitch, her Ladyship, sent you?"
"Do not speak of my employer like that," he retorts. "If you wish to speak afoul of her, let me speak afoul of you."
I knew things would quickly get out of hand.
"You know what old man," I pour another glass and gulp it down in a second, slamming my glass down, "I'm tired of your fucking condescending attitude and tone. For years you treated me like an idiot, like some child who can't bloody well take care of his own business. As far as I'm concerned," I point a finger right at him, "You are the reason my marriage failed, you caused my divorce. And why? Because you thought you were doing me a favour. Now, if you want to get anything off your chest, please, go ahead."
I stretch back and pour again, another generous helping. I am feeling militant to say the least.
"As far as I am concerned, you caused your own divorce. You became an alcoholic. You, sir, committed adultery, you sir, just weeks ago, left your son to cry in his mother's arms for hours on end simply because you did not like to see that she had generously hired me. You sir, are to marry the woman that will destroy the House of Lancaster, and I - and every Lancaster before you - will hold you accountable."
"I've heard just about enough, old man," I respond coldly.
"So what, shall you run? Shall you run back to the arms of the she-wolf and let her comfort you, and let her coddle you and stroke your ego by telling you how great thou art, O Avarice, Destroyer of Worlds? What has become of you? What evil was it that poisoned the seed of your father and mother that they would produce what the world sees before it."
I am infuriated. I stand up enraged.
"Do NOT mention my parents to me, nor DARE YOU speak of her that way!"
I see no fear in him. I see only steel. I am terrified. He stands up and faces me. My pulse races.
"I see it in your eyes, I see the Devil, Robert Edward James Lancaster, I see what he has done to you, and I know he rules your life. You have nothing but defeat and destruction coming to you, and you will be left with only your avarice, your dead soul rotting forever."
"And I hope you burn in hell."
He stares at me looking for something in me...he slaps me across the face.
I lower my head, my body trembles. My fists clench. I look up.
"JESUS CHRIST!! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!!"
Simkins lays flat on the floor, perhaps unconscious. His eyes are closed, his body sprawled out.
My body shakes faster. The owner leans crouches down and gently smacks Simkins on the face, trying to stir him. He looks up at me.
"Christ Almighty the man is almost 70 years old, what in God's name are you doing!?! GET OUT!"
I grab the bottle and take a long drink as I look at him trying to revive the pathetic old bastard that lays on the floor. I am stabilized. I walk over to the owner and pick him up forcefully by the arm and look directly at him. I speak slowly and deliberately.
"Need I remind you that you are on my land. And need I remind you that it is because of me that this establishment even exists. Until now. I want that fucking coat-of-arms removed by tomorrow, and I expect you and any tenants off my land by tomorrow, or I'll have you arrested. Are we clear." We release his arm with a shove.
Tears well up in the owner's eyes as he runs to the back of the bar, and as I grab my overcoat and Simkins' glass of wine. I walk over Simkin's form and pour the remainder of the wine over his face, the crimson blood wine slowly trickling down.
I reach the door only to hear the owner scream a profanity at me, and see him hurl something. It is my portrait, torn down from the bar. I look at him as he begins to sob uncontrollably, face down on the bar. I look down at the portrait and with one swift motion, force my shoe through it.
I exit the pub.
II: Tuesday, March 1, 2005: New York City, NY; the Metropolitan Museum of Art, 9:30 am
I've arranged the Lear to depart JFK at noon, for the quick flight to Washington D.C., and to Reindeer Games.
I am one of the first patrons to enter the MET. Having a membership I breeze past the early lines, and make my way into the galleries.
As I walk, I ponder. I wonder what Christenson is doing at this moment. Asleep? Breakfast perhaps? I wonder if he likes strawberry jam. I had an enormous helping of it on my toast this morning. Marissah chastised me, fearing it'll rot my teeth. Rotting teeth isn't exactly at the top of my priorities at this moment in time. Christenson is, and the other fellows that I might face. Hmm. Maybe Christenson is working out, or reading a book. He seems like the literary type. Kinda. More so than those Newfoundlander chaps that might by in that match.
What about our CAL World Champion? Or Ultra Raptor. Or Phoenix, and Curtis, both of whom, we remind ourselves, we humbled in the ring.
I'm sure they're all busy about their business. Some might choose to work out. Some might choose to make love, or talk to their loved ones, or sit and assure themselves that glory is just one more step away!
I choose the museum. I find my inspiration here.
Does this guarantee me victory? Does this increase my odds of thwarting one of the most talented men in wrestling?
No.
It does energize my mind. Stimulate my senses.
And thus I settle before one piece, in the Greek and Roman Art gallery.
Marble statue of a wounded warrior, Statue of a wounded warrior, ca. A.D. 138–181; Mid Imperial, Antonine; copy of a Greek bronze statue of 460-450 B.C.
Roman copy of Greek original
I have been through the MET several times since I chose to make New York City, and many times prior, but never before did this piece strike me. Until now.
The name intrigues me.
The wounded warrior.
I stand nearer to the piece to get a closer look at it. His body is proportionate, formed, strong. His arms, defiant. His facial expression.
A smile.
A smile?
Wounded? Yet his face shows no sign of it.
He pushes onwards. He knows what he must accomplish, despite the obstacle. But what kind of wound? Where? Serious, minor?
I think deeply. I seek answers in him but I find none as to his predicament.
I find answers of a different sort however.
Hours pass.
I have found what I need.
I wonder if Edwards, or TD, or Astroth have found what they needed.
Irrelevant, I conclude.
To Washington.
This I mumble to myself under my breath. The air is cold, the stars finally have shed the night's clouds, and I venture alone in near pitch blackness from my estate to a place I have not stepped foot in quite a while - the little public house which stood just on the edge of the lands we Lancasters have tended to for nine centuries. Locals from the near by village flock to the spot on occasion for traditional fare and a few pints. The owner, who has operated the establishment for decades himself, used to slip me a few ounces of this or that when I was younger. Had my father known he would have closed the place down.
Who could do such a thing.
The week that was prior to Reindeer Games was now three days. The night was left for contemplation. I recall a night such as this when I was near but a rookie in the NAWA. How far I've come since then. From NAWA American Champion to possible World Heavyweight Champion.
The last evening in Wessex before the storm. We leave for New York City tomorrow.
And a storm it is for us. We had received Finnegan's must discourteous message via the goddess of Wessex, our Marissah. Words.
We also had the pleasure of hearing Curtis' predictions, forewarning defeat to Christenson. Yet again words, no less from a man who holds a defeat by the hand of Avarice. We have heard worse than what we heard from the likes of them, either of them.
We feel the anticipation growing within us, with each passing moment. The energies, the passions, the depths of the soul, shall all be unleashed. The gale is at hand.
But all in good time.
Tonight I'm here for quiet. If I recall - and this is a bit tricky seeing as most nights I visited this wee pub I was sloshed beyond imagination - Sunday nights were not all too busy. One or two locals, the odd tourist coming to see the county, and the publican himself.
I open the creaking door made of solid oak. It creeks back into place wonderfully. The entire pub - actually it's also an inn, I forgot about that bit, needless to say, not a very large one - is a cliché in the English style. Funny thing clichés. They are what they are because they are truths. On the walls, country theme artwork, on the floor, deep burgundy carpeting, mahogany wood fixtures everywhere, a few Union Jacks strewn about for the sake of said tourists. And much to my delight, immediately over the bar, hangs carved from solid English oak the arms of the Lancastrians of Wessex. A nice acknowledgment of our patronage. And to my embarrassment still hangs my portrait at the back of the bar. When I was younger my father's portrait graced that spot, but has been since moved across to another wall, along with the other Dukes of Wessex of ages and centuries past who have patronized this establishment.
I sit myself down at a corner table, removing my overcoat before I do so. I glance about to see the place deserted. Odd. But at least it'll ensure my drinks come to me first.
Out of the back comes the older gentleman, owner and proprietor.
"Can I help you sir with anything? A drink?"
I look up from the drink's list. A huge smile appears on his face.
"Your Grace!" he bows immediately and comes over to shake my hand. I stand up and warmly receive his hand. "It's been far too long."
Embarrassingly so, despite the fact that it's only a mere twenty minute walk by foot from my front door.
"I know, I do apologize...but I'm hardly home anymore as you well know."
He nods affirmatively. "Your new head of the household Jim comes on over pretty much on a nightly basis..."
...Really? The bastard probably drinks on the job too...
"...and always keeps us up-to-date on your travels and what not. By the way, what happened with old Simkins? I suppose he retired?"
I force a smile as I sit back down. "Long story. Anyway. I've decided what I'd like."
"Yes, please, what will it be."
"Got any Blue Label on hand?"
"Aye sir, on reserve. An ounce?"
Naw.
"I'll take the whole bottle. Just bring the glass, I'll handle the pouring."
He laughs and shuffles off slowly towards the back of the bar.
I close my eyes and await the pure pleasure that is JW Blue. I've been needing this for a long time. Not so much the booze. But the tranquility. The silence, away from the hurly burly of New York City.
They say there is truth in wine. In my case, I shall find truth in scotch, and in the peace of my surroundings.
I hope nobody else comes in tonight. I wish I could just tell him to lock the door, keep the outside world away. Here I am isolated from it. Here I am content with ourselves.
It is not to be.
"Shit." I cover my face with the drink's list and sigh loudly as whomever it is walks in.
I lower the list and see that he's taken a seat at the bar. He's got greying hair, wearing a suit. Stay there old man, have a drink or two, and get out.
My bottle of scotch is brought to me, and a fine cut crystal scotch glass.
"Thank you."
"Your Grace."
I pour a helping into the glass and touch it to my lips, as the old man turns around on his stool.
There the glass stays, the contents, it too stays.
"Your Grace." He nods his head.
Simkins. Overwhelming disgust wells up in me. A look I'm sure of utter bitterness crosses my face as I settle my glass on the table. He says nothing, he merely stares. For some reason...
"Please." I gesture to the seat across from me. "Come."
Simkins and the owner have a quick friendly word as he orders if I heard correctly a glass of red cabernet. Simkins accepts the offer and sits, still looking directly into me, silent, nearly motionless.
I cannot stare...I...I laugh.
"So why the hell accept my offer if you're just going to sit there silent?"
I take a badly needed gulp of the scotch. His wine appears and the owner vanishes from the scene. Simkins drinks.
"And what would you have me say."
I shrug my shoulders. "I have a feeling that you're here for a reason and that you're not just here to drop in and visit. Why are you here."
"Need I explain anything to you anymore?"
I frown. "Why don't you just get up and..."
"I'll explain if I so desire. I came on my own accord, for personal reasons."
Oh yes? "Not because that bitch, her Ladyship, sent you?"
"Do not speak of my employer like that," he retorts. "If you wish to speak afoul of her, let me speak afoul of you."
I knew things would quickly get out of hand.
"You know what old man," I pour another glass and gulp it down in a second, slamming my glass down, "I'm tired of your fucking condescending attitude and tone. For years you treated me like an idiot, like some child who can't bloody well take care of his own business. As far as I'm concerned," I point a finger right at him, "You are the reason my marriage failed, you caused my divorce. And why? Because you thought you were doing me a favour. Now, if you want to get anything off your chest, please, go ahead."
I stretch back and pour again, another generous helping. I am feeling militant to say the least.
"As far as I am concerned, you caused your own divorce. You became an alcoholic. You, sir, committed adultery, you sir, just weeks ago, left your son to cry in his mother's arms for hours on end simply because you did not like to see that she had generously hired me. You sir, are to marry the woman that will destroy the House of Lancaster, and I - and every Lancaster before you - will hold you accountable."
"I've heard just about enough, old man," I respond coldly.
"So what, shall you run? Shall you run back to the arms of the she-wolf and let her comfort you, and let her coddle you and stroke your ego by telling you how great thou art, O Avarice, Destroyer of Worlds? What has become of you? What evil was it that poisoned the seed of your father and mother that they would produce what the world sees before it."
I am infuriated. I stand up enraged.
"Do NOT mention my parents to me, nor DARE YOU speak of her that way!"
I see no fear in him. I see only steel. I am terrified. He stands up and faces me. My pulse races.
"I see it in your eyes, I see the Devil, Robert Edward James Lancaster, I see what he has done to you, and I know he rules your life. You have nothing but defeat and destruction coming to you, and you will be left with only your avarice, your dead soul rotting forever."
"And I hope you burn in hell."
He stares at me looking for something in me...he slaps me across the face.
I lower my head, my body trembles. My fists clench. I look up.
"JESUS CHRIST!! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!!"
Simkins lays flat on the floor, perhaps unconscious. His eyes are closed, his body sprawled out.
My body shakes faster. The owner leans crouches down and gently smacks Simkins on the face, trying to stir him. He looks up at me.
"Christ Almighty the man is almost 70 years old, what in God's name are you doing!?! GET OUT!"
I grab the bottle and take a long drink as I look at him trying to revive the pathetic old bastard that lays on the floor. I am stabilized. I walk over to the owner and pick him up forcefully by the arm and look directly at him. I speak slowly and deliberately.
"Need I remind you that you are on my land. And need I remind you that it is because of me that this establishment even exists. Until now. I want that fucking coat-of-arms removed by tomorrow, and I expect you and any tenants off my land by tomorrow, or I'll have you arrested. Are we clear." We release his arm with a shove.
Tears well up in the owner's eyes as he runs to the back of the bar, and as I grab my overcoat and Simkins' glass of wine. I walk over Simkin's form and pour the remainder of the wine over his face, the crimson blood wine slowly trickling down.
I reach the door only to hear the owner scream a profanity at me, and see him hurl something. It is my portrait, torn down from the bar. I look at him as he begins to sob uncontrollably, face down on the bar. I look down at the portrait and with one swift motion, force my shoe through it.
I exit the pub.
II: Tuesday, March 1, 2005: New York City, NY; the Metropolitan Museum of Art, 9:30 am
I've arranged the Lear to depart JFK at noon, for the quick flight to Washington D.C., and to Reindeer Games.
I am one of the first patrons to enter the MET. Having a membership I breeze past the early lines, and make my way into the galleries.
As I walk, I ponder. I wonder what Christenson is doing at this moment. Asleep? Breakfast perhaps? I wonder if he likes strawberry jam. I had an enormous helping of it on my toast this morning. Marissah chastised me, fearing it'll rot my teeth. Rotting teeth isn't exactly at the top of my priorities at this moment in time. Christenson is, and the other fellows that I might face. Hmm. Maybe Christenson is working out, or reading a book. He seems like the literary type. Kinda. More so than those Newfoundlander chaps that might by in that match.
What about our CAL World Champion? Or Ultra Raptor. Or Phoenix, and Curtis, both of whom, we remind ourselves, we humbled in the ring.
I'm sure they're all busy about their business. Some might choose to work out. Some might choose to make love, or talk to their loved ones, or sit and assure themselves that glory is just one more step away!
I choose the museum. I find my inspiration here.
Does this guarantee me victory? Does this increase my odds of thwarting one of the most talented men in wrestling?
No.
It does energize my mind. Stimulate my senses.
And thus I settle before one piece, in the Greek and Roman Art gallery.
Marble statue of a wounded warrior, Statue of a wounded warrior, ca. A.D. 138–181; Mid Imperial, Antonine; copy of a Greek bronze statue of 460-450 B.C.
Roman copy of Greek original
I have been through the MET several times since I chose to make New York City, and many times prior, but never before did this piece strike me. Until now.
The name intrigues me.
The wounded warrior.
I stand nearer to the piece to get a closer look at it. His body is proportionate, formed, strong. His arms, defiant. His facial expression.
A smile.
A smile?
Wounded? Yet his face shows no sign of it.
He pushes onwards. He knows what he must accomplish, despite the obstacle. But what kind of wound? Where? Serious, minor?
I think deeply. I seek answers in him but I find none as to his predicament.
I find answers of a different sort however.
Hours pass.
I have found what I need.
I wonder if Edwards, or TD, or Astroth have found what they needed.
Irrelevant, I conclude.
To Washington.