Where Are You
I: Monday, May 23,
2005: Alain Ducasse at
the Essex House, New York City, New York, 7:30 PM
I don't know what the bloody hell this match is supposed to prove - or will prove.
Team Bishop versus Team Union?
Myself and nine others pitted in the ring to settle this alleged feud of Shakespearean proportions.
I could not care less.
I could not care less about any of my teammates - a phrase I use very loosely. The irony of teaming with the very man I disposed of last week is not lost on me. He shall be fortunate if I do not eliminate him from the match.
As for the others. Jack Cassidy...I know of him, but not a great deal. Heidi, she's a phenomenal talent and definitely beneficial. The CAL World Heavyweight Champion - having such a man can only help in victory.
That is the only thing I am interested in. And not for the team - for ourselves.
I am not pro-Bishop whatsoever really. We came to a...mutual understanding those few weeks back. But let nobody be mistaken...I am in this for me, for my advancement, and should team Bishop fall to defeat?
I shant lose any sleep over it.
It will be nice to tangle with Mr. Christenson again, and the others I have met. I have a certain...how shall one say...relaxation...knowing that I have defeated 60% of the opposing team in singles matches.
These statistics are obviously just trivialities. Meaningless really, but they are accurate.
I live for the fight. And whatever comes of this battle in the ring, I shant be overwrought.
I will certainly take notice of Ultra Raptor though...he in particular. I shall observe. Watch. Analyze. I have every intention of taking that lovely belt off him.
Sure. Me and everybody else in the goddamn CAL.
Patience.
What I do not have patience for is awaiting the reappearance of Seamus. It is a bit disconcerting to have heard or seen nothing of him for the most of one month.
I fear him not. It is only the anticipation...the waiting game. Perhaps I should go down to Phoenix and see what that miserable excuse is up to, go to his door and slap him in the face and tell him come at me. This will be resolved sooner than later.
"Monsieur, have you chosen your wine?"
I look up.
"Yes, I'll just have a glass of your house wine to start."
"Very good monsieur."
Marissah is running late. No shock there really. Always was when she was my girlfriend, fiancée, and so the trend continues in marriage.
House wine. How abominable. But no use splurging when she will certainly come along and order the most expensive bottle on the carte du vin. I already checked which reigned supreme as most expensive: 1961 Chateau d'Yquem, $10 500.
Sigh. Fucking Diners Club should change their card name to Lancaster Club in my honour.
I check my Rolex.
Thirty minutes late.
Where
are you?
II: Monday, May 23, 2005: a condominium, elsewhere in New York City, New York, 7:30 PM
"Where
is my fucking wedding ring?"
"Relax." A voice calls out from the bathroom. "It probably just fell off the nightstand. Did you check under it or under the bed?"
I duck down and frantically look for it...if I lost it, I'm in deep shit. I'll have to bullshit something if I can't...a glint out of the corner of my eye finally leads me to its location.
"Thank God." I get up and dust off my knees and slide the ring back on. I squeeze on my heels and check in the mirror.
"Shit my make up is a MESS."
"Just put it back on at the restaurant, tell him you were caught up in traffic and had no time."
Not a bad idea. He's a pretty good lay, but he has even better ideas at times. I go inside the bathroom too and quickly work to remove the smudged make up from off my face.
"When's Aryanna getting home?"
"In a few hours. Don't worry about her." Paulus exits out of the bathroom with a business shirt on, unbuttoned.
I wipe the rest of the make-up off, get my earrings back in and then exit the bathroom too, turning to him.
"Thanks babe, I gotta take off." We embrace and lock lips and tongue one last time as I speed out of there.
I check my watch.
Thirty minutes late.
III: Monday, May 23, 2005: Alain Ducasse at the Essex House, New York City, New York, 8:00 PM
"Babe!"
Finally.
Finally.
I turn around and stand up. She runs up to me and kisses me deeply but quickly.
"I'm so sorry I'm late."
I could have said...you could have at least called. But why waste my time. She's here, that's all that matters.
It's a sin she's late, but no greater sin than me being on my third glass of house wine.
The waiter comes over and hands her a menu and the carte du vin.
"So what took so long," as I finished off the glass.
She shrugged her shoulders. "Traffic was bad, I took way longer to get ready then I thought."
"With no make-up on?"
"I got ready late dumbass, but if you want me to put some on, just let me decide what to eat at least, and more importantly, what to drink."
Fair enough.
"How was your training session?" she mumbled as she looked over the wine list.
"Fine. I managed to bench-press more than I ever have before," I smiled with some satisfaction.
"Then I take it handling those bastards in the ring come soon won't be any problem? I'm sure you're out to impress Angelina as much as you can still..." She looked up and sneered.
"Tut tut my love, you know I only have eyes for you. I don't know what the hell to expect from this match really. I'll be impressed if both teams can refrain from tearing their own teammates apart. Hell knows I'd love to throw Jack Cross through a table still just for the fuck of it."
The waiter reappeared, looking none too impressed by my cursing.
I smile.
He'll be none too impressed by the tip I leave now.
"Has Madame decided what to drink?"
"Yes, we'll get a bottle of 1961 Chateau d'Yquem please."
The waiter nods and shuffles off.
Do I know my wife or what.
I don't know what the bloody hell this match is supposed to prove - or will prove.
Team Bishop versus Team Union?
Myself and nine others pitted in the ring to settle this alleged feud of Shakespearean proportions.
I could not care less.
I could not care less about any of my teammates - a phrase I use very loosely. The irony of teaming with the very man I disposed of last week is not lost on me. He shall be fortunate if I do not eliminate him from the match.
As for the others. Jack Cassidy...I know of him, but not a great deal. Heidi, she's a phenomenal talent and definitely beneficial. The CAL World Heavyweight Champion - having such a man can only help in victory.
That is the only thing I am interested in. And not for the team - for ourselves.
I am not pro-Bishop whatsoever really. We came to a...mutual understanding those few weeks back. But let nobody be mistaken...I am in this for me, for my advancement, and should team Bishop fall to defeat?
I shant lose any sleep over it.
It will be nice to tangle with Mr. Christenson again, and the others I have met. I have a certain...how shall one say...relaxation...knowing that I have defeated 60% of the opposing team in singles matches.
These statistics are obviously just trivialities. Meaningless really, but they are accurate.
I live for the fight. And whatever comes of this battle in the ring, I shant be overwrought.
I will certainly take notice of Ultra Raptor though...he in particular. I shall observe. Watch. Analyze. I have every intention of taking that lovely belt off him.
Sure. Me and everybody else in the goddamn CAL.
Patience.
What I do not have patience for is awaiting the reappearance of Seamus. It is a bit disconcerting to have heard or seen nothing of him for the most of one month.
I fear him not. It is only the anticipation...the waiting game. Perhaps I should go down to Phoenix and see what that miserable excuse is up to, go to his door and slap him in the face and tell him come at me. This will be resolved sooner than later.
"Monsieur, have you chosen your wine?"
I look up.
"Yes, I'll just have a glass of your house wine to start."
"Very good monsieur."
Marissah is running late. No shock there really. Always was when she was my girlfriend, fiancée, and so the trend continues in marriage.
House wine. How abominable. But no use splurging when she will certainly come along and order the most expensive bottle on the carte du vin. I already checked which reigned supreme as most expensive: 1961 Chateau d'Yquem, $10 500.
Sigh. Fucking Diners Club should change their card name to Lancaster Club in my honour.
I check my Rolex.
Thirty minutes late.
Where
are you?
II: Monday, May 23, 2005: a condominium, elsewhere in New York City, New York, 7:30 PM
"Where
is my fucking wedding ring?"
"Relax." A voice calls out from the bathroom. "It probably just fell off the nightstand. Did you check under it or under the bed?"
I duck down and frantically look for it...if I lost it, I'm in deep shit. I'll have to bullshit something if I can't...a glint out of the corner of my eye finally leads me to its location.
"Thank God." I get up and dust off my knees and slide the ring back on. I squeeze on my heels and check in the mirror.
"Shit my make up is a MESS."
"Just put it back on at the restaurant, tell him you were caught up in traffic and had no time."
Not a bad idea. He's a pretty good lay, but he has even better ideas at times. I go inside the bathroom too and quickly work to remove the smudged make up from off my face.
"When's Aryanna getting home?"
"In a few hours. Don't worry about her." Paulus exits out of the bathroom with a business shirt on, unbuttoned.
I wipe the rest of the make-up off, get my earrings back in and then exit the bathroom too, turning to him.
"Thanks babe, I gotta take off." We embrace and lock lips and tongue one last time as I speed out of there.
I check my watch.
Thirty minutes late.
III: Monday, May 23, 2005: Alain Ducasse at the Essex House, New York City, New York, 8:00 PM
"Babe!"
Finally.
Finally.
I turn around and stand up. She runs up to me and kisses me deeply but quickly.
"I'm so sorry I'm late."
I could have said...you could have at least called. But why waste my time. She's here, that's all that matters.
It's a sin she's late, but no greater sin than me being on my third glass of house wine.
The waiter comes over and hands her a menu and the carte du vin.
"So what took so long," as I finished off the glass.
She shrugged her shoulders. "Traffic was bad, I took way longer to get ready then I thought."
"With no make-up on?"
"I got ready late dumbass, but if you want me to put some on, just let me decide what to eat at least, and more importantly, what to drink."
Fair enough.
"How was your training session?" she mumbled as she looked over the wine list.
"Fine. I managed to bench-press more than I ever have before," I smiled with some satisfaction.
"Then I take it handling those bastards in the ring come soon won't be any problem? I'm sure you're out to impress Angelina as much as you can still..." She looked up and sneered.
"Tut tut my love, you know I only have eyes for you. I don't know what the hell to expect from this match really. I'll be impressed if both teams can refrain from tearing their own teammates apart. Hell knows I'd love to throw Jack Cross through a table still just for the fuck of it."
The waiter reappeared, looking none too impressed by my cursing.
I smile.
He'll be none too impressed by the tip I leave now.
"Has Madame decided what to drink?"
"Yes, we'll get a bottle of 1961 Chateau d'Yquem please."
The waiter nods and shuffles off.
Do I know my wife or what.