Baltimore, Maryland
Even though it was in the upper 50s outside, the manager of the
apartment buildings hadn't turned the heat off. And so with his
living quarters doing their best to imitate an oven, Jeff Andrews had
pulled on jeans and an old T-shirt and headed out for a walk. He
was far enough outside the city limits that there was grass instead of
pavement, but so far that he couldn't hear the din of the city.
Andrews sighed, and scratched his beard with one hand and his receding
hairline with the other. Then he sighed again, and plopped down
on a bench.
"Second most important match
since I came to the WWA, and I can't work
up the energy to give a shit..." he muttered to himself.
A slight distance away and his headlights caught the silhouette of a
man on a bench, vaguely matching the description of the man he was told
to be on the look out for. He parked not to cause suspicion and
activated his phone via Bluetooth and made his quick call.
"Sir, I think I've located
him. I'll bring him down straight
away. Yes sir."
He casually revved up the engine and brought the sleek black luxury
car along to the curb. He flipped on the cabin light and checking
his tie quickly, exited the driver's side and approached his subject
carefully. He was well aware of his reputation.
Andrews looked up at the vehicle as it pulled to a stop in front of
him. He grimaced as he saw the man in the suit step out - Andrews
disapproved of suits on principal. He'd even refused to let the
Untouchables do the classic heel stable thing of posing while wearing
suits and standing by a sports car.
"Sir, I can see by your clothes
and by your car that you are a well to
do person - so obviously, you are lost. Need you any directions?"
The chauffeur stood in front of the headlights, casting a long
shadow.
"So I've been told sir, you -
with all due respect - are the one whom is lost. I am here to
escort you to one who will direct you. And please have no fear,
not that a man of your stature is in a position to be accosted with
fear - a small lounge in Washington D.C. awaits, with the
aforementioned director; if you'd be so kind to come with me.
There's a bottle of Pikesville Supreme waiting for you in the car."
Andrews closes his eyes in thought, briefly.
"Pikesville Supreme, eh...plus
he'll probably suspend my pay again if I
don't follow you. Fine, lead the way."
The chauffeur opens the door for Andrews who sits down heavily, and
eagerly pours himself a drink. The former begins the car again
and puts it in motion.
As they begin to drive away the chauffeur makes another call.
"Sir the subject has been
acquired, we're on the way. Oh and he
didn't fall for that 'director' bullshit, he knew who you were right
away."
The chauffeur laughed. "Will
do sir, we'll be there in an
hour."
"He told me to apologize to you for calling you, 'subject.'"
Andrews turned on his Ipod, set the tunes to play the new Down release
on repeat, and leaned back, turning the volume up just barely soft
enough to not deafen him later.
A swift hour later and they arrived at the Bohemian Caverns jazz
club. The night's darkness had set in firmly, with only the moon
struggling to pierce the many evening clouds which had set in
earlier. Once more the chauffeur opened the door for Andrews, who
exited the car and entered the club.
Washington, D.C.
"Robert Lancaster,"
Andrews demanded.
A minute later he found himself surrounded by the rhythms of smooth
jazz and the back of a man's head with greying hair neatly and recently
cut. He lifts a crystal cut glass to his mouth, a few ice cubes
clinking in the glass as he lowers it.
Andrews took a slow look around the joint - the tables of people
enjoying food over in the dining room, the band playing, the alcohol in
the drink glasses - then sat down.
"Evening, Avarice."
Did I even want to dignify that with a response? I could see
where this was going already. I stood up and met the man, our
first private conference in...years.
"Jeffy. And it's not
'Avarice,' it's not 'You're Grace,' it's
'Robert,' or 'Lancaster,' so why don't you just shut up and sit your
ass down, and have yourself a drink," I offered in the
friendliest tone
I could muster.
"Lighten up Robert. I was
just thinking - we've know each other
how long? And you were called what when we tore the arena apart
at End of the Line? You can get pissed at me for calling you
Avarice, but I prefer to think of it as a back handed compliment.
Now..." Andrews sat down, stretched his arms behind his
head so
that his shoulder joints cracked. "What was that about having a
drink?"
I gestured to the near by server, who approached.
"Well then in that case, thank
you. And I drink. And I
drink scotch, which should be a close cousin of the shit you usually
toss back, no?"
"Rye whiskey? No, you did
not just call that nectar of the titans
'shit'. Now if you mean the Jager, we can agree to disagree, and
I must inform you that rumors of me drinking peach schnapps are
bullshit." Andrews grins briefly.
"But quite frankly, Robert -
I'm guessing you invited me here for a
reason, and that I ought to be listening. So take this as a
heartfelt suggestion that we not mess around getting to the
point. I drank steadily the whole way down here."
I raised an eyebrow. Hardly a surprise that my inspiration to
place a bottle of Pikesville in the car was an unmitigated
success. Drunkenness often benefits conversation.
"In that case," I turned
to the server, "bottle of the
Macallan, 21
year old...with two glasses." He shuffled off.
"Very well Mr. Andrews.
Now. You - or anyone - has hardly
seen or heard a word from me in nearly a year. And this was
deliberate. After the abdication and that bloody murder,"
I
didn't stop to realize my unintentional pun, "I took to shelter
myself. I was either in my Toronto condo or in the offices of
OLW, consolidating my power and running the business behind the
scenes. I've let the wrestling deal with itself. Then I
started to take more notice of you. Now you've always been off
balance. Always. From the day we met, your trigger temper
and your other quirks were the norm. But recently it's been much
more than that. Would you say that's fair?"
"Guilty with reason,
yer'honor. Or in other words,
sometimes life hands you lemons and you don't damn well feel like
making lemonade... you get what I'm trying to say? Or do I need
to go into some specifics here."
"Before you do," the
bottle arrived, and I waved him off, allowing
myself to pour a first generous glass. I poured one for Andrews
and shoved it over the table as the crowd around us burst into applause
as the jazz artists just finished off an exceptional tune. "Let
me say this. I have learned that you don't seem to give a shit
for most people, if not anyone, and any respect I've tried to garner
from you has been a complete waste of time. Until that position
changes on your part, I am only interested in hearing from you because
you are an asset. People pay to see you. People pay to wear
your shirts. People pay to see you make an ass out of others -
and especially yourself. Now with those ground rules in play,"
I
take a drink, "Be my
guest. Go into specifics. What's
lurking in that mind of yours that has caused you to destabilize the
business I've spent goddamn months trying to build up."
"Lurking in my mind… lurking in
my mind? Ha. Robert, lemme
explain to you – my problem is that NOTHING is lurking in my mind, and
that it feels GREAT! I’ve got friends now, dude. I matter
again. TJ Killingsuck can keep the CAL World Title and go rot for
all I care. I’ve got the Untouchables. Me, Danny and
Ronnie. We are bringing order to the OLW, we are doing what we
want, when we want, how we want, and I am loving it because finally
fucking finally god damned FINALLY, there isn’t anyone or anything
who’s going to interrupt my flow by telling me what to think and what
to do! No Heidi, no Killingbeck, no Keep It Real Kid, and up 'til
about an hour ago, no you."
As if to emphasize the point, Andrews drained his glass of scotch – or
attempted to. He coughed, and a wave of light amber liquid washed
down his chin and onto the top of his shirt. Slamming the glass
down as if he didn’t notice, Andrews leaned forward.
"There’s no one left to tell me
what to do, Robert, but that doesn’t
mean they’ve quit trying to fuck around with my life. Look at
what Kai's doing. Look at this bullshit. He's got his own
bunch of Untouchables now, and may I ask you what in the hell he thinks
he’s doing?"
I put my hand up in the air.
"First - that was a fucking
waste of fine scotch, and secondly, I'm not
here to talk about Kai. I'm here to talk about you," I jabbed a finger in the
air. "And I'm also here
to tell you that I am here to tell you what to do,
when I see fit. I am here to run a business, do you understand?
I'm sure you do, you've been in this bloody fiasco for far too
long. And I will not allow you to come to shows drunk, even if
you weren't booked to fight, nor destroy company property even if it
were just some piece of crap we can replace at the Home Depot for $100."
I audibly sigh knowing this lecturing bullshit isn't going to do a damn
thing.
"Bottom line Jeff, you've been
off your game lately. And I
notice. The fans notice. Business notices."
"Off my game? Lancaster,
maybe you haven't heard. There's
this event that the WWA is holding, it's called Tag Wars. Myself
and Ronnie Long are booked against a couple guys named Team
Danger. They've won just about every set of tag titles there is
to win. What I have been doing is, in the span of two months,
getting noticed to the point that the people, the fans that are
'noticing me', that they want to see me up against the guys who carry
the standard. In two months. Robert, you can shove your
slipping bullshit, because I matter again! I am important!"
Breathing heavily, Andrews tries to lean back in his seat, but aims a
bit off center. He wobbles wildly before getting his feet under
him.
"I’m important, I matter, I’m
the King of my world. You can
complain about me wasting a bit of money smashing the commentary table,
but the truth is that I easily bring more than that table was worth in
each and every week. And if I show up to wrestle drunk – so
what? At least I’ve got enough fucking balls to push the limits."
"You might have balls Jeff, but
it's brains you're lacking.
That's always been the problem. That. And DISCIPLINE,"
I
added with deliberate emphasis.
I poured more scotch for my comrade in arms and filled my glass up
again even higher than before.
"You're not fooling
anybody. You can talk about your confidence,
your successes, but the way you carry yourself isn't fooling me.
What's it gonna take to get the straight shit from you for once?
You're not talking to goddamn Avarice you know. No impressions
are needed."
Jeff Andrews does not answer quickly. Instead, he drains the
scotch in one gulp, this time not losing a drop of it.
"Maybe I just don't care
anymore, then. How does that
sound? Maybe I just don't give a shit what anybody thinks, as
long as I'm finally succeeding on my own terms for once."
I frowned.
"Don't care? There's
danger in those words Jefferson Andrews," I
offered, evaluating his words as I evaluate the citrus undertones of
some of Macallan's finest. "'Don't care' can get you
fined.
'Don't care' can get you suspended. 'Don't care' can get you
pushed to curtain jerker. 'Don't care' can cost your job.
'Don't care' can lead you to alcoholism and into a ditch on a
street...as I once experienced. Do you realize what you're saying
when you say those words?"
"Fine me if you want, fire me
if you want. One of the great
things about an Alliance is that no matter how badly you fuck up, the
split second you get fired every other fed in the thing is banging on
your door. De-push me if you want, suspend me if you want, I can
quit. The Untouchables can quit. Sometimes I think I should
just quit the business out of spite...then I realize that's what the
assholes want me to do."
I nodded with interest. I downed my scotch and poured him yet
another. Keep the booze flowing. I have to keep provoking
him.
"Then why don't you quit?
Are you prepared to face life like
that? No aim and no direction, just as always, only without a
ring? What's keeping you in this? I got out because I did all I
wanted to. You've accomplished all that and more. So what
gives?"
"In my wrestling career, there
have been two things I'm good at.
One is enraging the people who are famous for never losing their
temper. The other is for always, always, always being
there. Asking me why I don't quit is stupid, because the
only way that will happen is if I get blackballed by every wrestling
promotion existing in the entire world."
"As far as what actually keeps
me here... there was once, something,
that I would have chosen over wrestling. But in the end, all that
thing did for me was to stab me in the face. More scotch."
I snickered. He left the door wide open.
"I could probably arrange
that...the blackballing, that is. And
by all means."
I empty the last of the bottle into his glass, and hold the empty
bottle up in the air long enough to get the waiter to call out, "Coming
up sir."
"And I wanted Heidi too you
know. I'll never forget," laying the
knife deep into his wounded heart, "those few moments in Paris before
the bitch drugged me, her hair, her skin, her barely concealed
breasts...I miss her too though. She stabbed me too.
Behold," I lift my glass up to him, "the walking wounded. Do you
still want her?"
"When my Innovative Wrestling
Alliance died…" Andrews swirls the
scotch around in his glass. "…I had, or should have had, a
choice. I would have, at that point, given up on wrestling, to
build a normal life with her. But she left me, saying that she
couldn’t make me make that choice. She didn’t want to force me to
chose, so she denied me the right. And the thing that gnaws at
me, that enrages me every time I think about it… no one realizes
this. She will never realize this. Even if I were given the
chance to tell her, easily a dozen wrestlers would come to her
defense. You know, our own OLW Heavyweight Champion claims
Heidi’s perfect… I don’t even hate Python. But he’s not the only
one…"
"That was bad enough, what she
did then. But then she comes back
to wrestling… to attack me! Because she thought it was her
business that I decided to wear a mask and pretend to be Ultra Raptor,
and that it was her responsibility to make me see the error of my
ways. She nearly permanently derailed my career, she embarrassed
me in the ring, hell, she broke two of my fucking ribs and dislocated
my shoulder in that damn match, and then she THREW THE FUCKING MATCH!!"
People around turn to look as Andrews screams, but he quickly composes
himself.
"And you know what the darndest
thing is, Robert? She’s not the
one I hate. I look into those soft, sad, sweet, beautiful blue
eyes of hers, and I can’t hate her. You want to know what I hate?"
I've enjoyed this little rant of his, and did not want to interfere.
"Enlighten me."
"I hate the world,
Robert. I hate the entire fucking
universe. The last time we had us one of these heart to heart
talks, you told me you wanted to rule the world, and I told you I only
want to rip the world in half. I want to see the world explode in
one gigantic supernova of shit. And the scary part? Some
shit's been happening to me recently that makes me thing I might
actually be able to accomplish just that some day."
I liked what I was hearing. I was hearing the passion again.
"Well, if you do, make sure you
let me know, I'd love to be a party to
it. I'm misanthropic too. I see the ignorance of man, the
savagery, and part of Avarice still swells within me: wanting to
destroy the inferior, the peons, those who love this corrupted society
and planet when in reality it is in need of a bloody and purifying
third world war. Why not abandon the Untouchables and let me help
you towards this end?"
Did I just say that?
"In all complete honesty, Rob,
I appreciate the offer. But no
thanks. The thing about the Untouchables. Danny and
Ronnie... those guys are my friends, man. I may still be angry,
and I may still hate a lot of people, but with the help of those two, I
made wrestling fun again. I'm gonna point out to you something
that you may not know or may just not care to think about."
At this point, one would have no choice but to be impressed by Andrews'
alcohol tolerance. His eyes are glazed over, but he's still
rational and coherent.
"In my entire career, I've
never backstabbed anyone. All the
backstabbing that happens is done by others, to me.
KIRK...you...Yazo...Heidi...all of it to me."
"I don't seem to recall ever
backstabbing you...nor are you innocent,
sir...might I remind you of a certain kendo stick incident with Miss
Heidi shortly before the opening of IWA?" I had to defend
myself
against the bastard who just turned down an offer he shouldn't have
refused.
"....Oh, shit."
Was that... actual remorse in his voice?
"Sometimes, Robert... sometimes
I wonder. Maybe Heidi really is
as good as everyone says she is. So maybe... maybe all the things
that happen to me are just karma. She really is a better person
than me, anyway..."
"It's like... it's like, I can
feel the regret, and you know, what I
really miss, is the old days. Back when I was me, and Heidi'd
never gotten better than me at wrestling, and Kai was still himself,
and Chris was still cool and Danny and Adam didn't hate each
other. But then, I try to apologize... and the hatred hits
me. It's like scotch in my veins. Every time I try to do
better, I just end up hating people even more..."
First remorse, now the self-pity.
"The old days are as dead as my
unbeloved ex-wife, Jeff.
And...'back when I was me?' You are
you. You've evolved. You've shifted focus. Now is the
time to cut this shit out and look towards the future. For the
love of God do you think there aren't times I'd not give anything to go
back to the days when I was on top? Of course there are.
But those days are gone. Your good days are gone. We both
have to face it."
Jeff drained the rest of his drink, and set the glass to the side.
"I never would've expected to
hear such defeatism from you, Robert."
I shook my head vehemently and mimicking Jeff drained my glass
likewise. My liver will thank me later, I'm sure.
"Don't mistake realism for
defeatism. My time had finished, I
knew when I had peaked and faded. I'm much happier to be so
self-aware rather than a delusional optimist. It serves me well."
"A minute ago you wanted to
join forces with me."
Jeff sighed.
"And maybe it's just the
alcohol talking, but I don't know what I
want. All I know is that I don't have anything to look to outside
wrestling. The person that I loved is still in the game, all the
people I know are still in the game. What do you want me to say
to my parents, Robert? I could've been a musician but I bailed on
that to become a wrestler, and they disowned me, and I disowned them
for it and haven't spoken to either of them since."
He picked up the empty glass and looked into the bottom.
"Maybe I drink so I don't have
to worry about it...but no, Rob, I think
you're wrong. Accepting my fate... accepting anything... isn't
what I need to do. If anything, I need to be less accepting."
"Then change. If you feel
you can control fate, change. Go
right ahead. I don't dare tempt such lofty things any
longer. Maybe it's age. Maybe I have nothing to aim for any
more. But if you feel you do, if you feel there is more for you
to do, then go for it. I don't know what the hell else to say to
you. I can't even remember how we've come to this point."
I pour more booze into our glasses although I embarrassingly admit my
aim is getting a little off as some of the valuable liquid spills.
"We came to this point because
you summoned me here, and you bribed me
with alcohol...and suddenly for the first time since I can remember, I
find myself in a position of not wanting any. I told you a bit
ago that all I want to do is rip the world in two...I wanna watch all
this shit wash away. Life's pathetic. I'm pathetic, you're
pathetic, everyone's pathetic. But...even if I'm as stupid, misguided
and imbecilic as everyone claims, at least I'm going against the
flow. Can you say the same? Or would you rather contradict me?"
"If I could hit the nuclear
trigger on this world, I just might do
so...unforunately that power is not within my reach. And as for
the flow? Fuck the flow. I've always believed that.
You rebel by being imbecilic and misguided and they hate you for it; I
rebelled by being above that shit and showing that I was better than
the
rest, and they hated me for it. And nothing made me
happier."
"In that case, maybe we have an
understanding. Which means I only
have one other thing to say. Whatever it is you want me to
do...you can't make me."
I had had enough by this point. Enough dissection. Enough
liquor. Enough of everything. I realized that if I was to
change this man, I had only one place to do it: inside the ring.
"In that case. Good
evening Mr. Andrews."
I pulled several hundreds from my pocket and dropped them on the table,
and to the best of my ability, walked out.
"That's all?" Jeff
looked around, then quietly pocketed two
$100s. "I guess I'll be
keeping this for my troubles then.
As for my share..."
He pulled out his wallet, then a $5, crumpled it and threw it on top of
the pile.
"I'll change when I'm damn well
ready to and not a second before."