07.18.06 Avarice - Charmed Life

Robert Edward James Lancaster.

I sit above the Earth and watch his little pathetic life unfold slowly, under the watchful eye of the world's sports press, and most importantly, that of one my number one minions, his wife.

She has done a superb job of insulting him, belittling him, making him feel like the worthless, vacant, vacuous individual that he is.

Keith Edwards has too.

A wonderful job. Perhaps I should make an appearance before him in a hallucination and offer him the top spot, and kick out that fuck twad Lancaster while the time's ripe...

Patience, patience. One ruined life at a time. Even I have to remind myself that.

I watched a few seats away as the arrogant Edwards gave his little tirade against my poor Robert, hurling scathing words, and tossing around callous insinuations with the best of them.

It's all very old and tedious, and mind you, Robert does the same every single time he has a competitor.

"We are the Destroyer of Worlds we shall humble you," and so on and so forth.

Didn't get him very far last time.

We made a deal, and I've paid handsome dividends. Now I collect payment.

As for Edwards, he really has struck a chord at Lancaster. He's insecure. Inwardly, deeply, he feels he's hit a wall.

He's found a man he thinks he cannot beat.

He can beat Edwards however. I know it. He knows it.

He just needs to convince himself that the martini drinking, smack talking, larger-than-life, insecure Edwards is a mere mortal and is capable of being disassembled piece by piece, strategically.

Will he find this out? I don't know.

Only my eternal enemy, God, knows that.

All I can do is wait and see what he does.

I'm through holding his hand.

If he can't beat that son of a bitch, then he's not worthy to hold the title.

Edwards will be 100% correct in that assumption. He will be the better man should my Robert lose yet again, and he might as well forfeit the title and retire to the Boards of Directors of some meaningless banks or oil companies.

Is that what he's fought for for all these years though?

Through CWF, where he was a nobody - a rich nobody, but a nobody nonetheless?

Through the likes of NAWA, WWA, CSWA, MSWA, where he felt this intangible glass ceiling was holding him down? The only thing holding him down was himself and his ego.

Then the good times came in BWWa, and finally in OLW here, where he struck gold.

But will it last?

Will he be his own downfall?

Will this megalomaniac do him in?

Or will my Robert find what it takes to take this fucker and send him straight to Hell, where I myself will end up someday?

Sigh. I don't like reminding myself of THAT fact.

Yet it is inevitable.

In any case, I anticipate the outcome most eagerly, whilst Robert is shitless.

He must not let fear be his enemy.

He must embrace it.

He must embody it in the face of his opponent and seek out, and indeed, destroy.

I wonder what he's doing at this moment, or how things have developed since his little spat with my darling Marissah. I do worry.

I don't want him happy or anything.

Only one way to find out.

"Get that damn camera out, I'm ready."

"You better be," she replies.

He's sitting looking very stylish, very in-command in his New York condo. Full suit, shades, his hair cleanly shaven, his championship in his arms.

I take a few steps forward and stand beside him - unbeknownst to him, of course.

I look down deep into his face. I see apprehension.

He's preparing to respond to Edwards little, what is it called, promo. Yes.

He has a lot to respond to, frankly. His foe does not mince words. And he speaks well. But frankly if Edwards could ejaculate merely to the sound of his own voice he'd do it.

More hot air is to be counteracted by more hot air.

You add them up, all you get is bullshit.

I don't think either man has realized this. Alas.

Ignorance is bliss.

Yet here's my Robert, preparing, checking his collar and lapels. Yes, it's all fine.

I'm anxious to hear what he has to say. I take a few steps back - not that it maters - and put my hand pensively under my chin.

"Now speak from the heart babe. This son of a bitch needs to taste his own blood. But you can do that partially through your words."

"I shall do so...I have enough that could fill a tome."

I truly hope he's exaggerating.

"Okay then...go for it."

She stands and holds the camera steady.

He's breathing heavily. His hands grip the title.

...still...

He lowers his head. And then raises it back up.

"I have nothing to say."

He stands up and places the title down, and walks away, leaving Marissah dumbfounded.

Interesting.

I suppose Mr. Edwards won't have a retort from him.

Only his own empty words to sound out on.

I can do nothing more here.

I can't understand what happened.

Marissah pointed the camera at me, and I became speechless.

And I have so much I could say to the bastard.

He is nothing. He is truly nothing. He is the lowest individual I've encountered in this business since Adam-X.

And that is saying a lot.

He is only flash; no substance. No depth. No character.

I am infinitely evolved above him.

Yet when I heard his spiel, I was impressed. And when it came to say everything that had become encompassed in my soul thereafter, only silence resonates.

I'm disappointed in myself.

I sit on the edge of our bed and run my hands over my head.

She'll be in any minute now to -

"Robert, what the hell happened?"

I am again speechless.

"All right, whatever, if you don't want to do this, I'm going out."

She approached me and kissed my head, which still lay mostly in my hands.

"I'll bring you back something nice."

By nice I hope she means a hooker and a six pack.

She picks up her purse - yet another one purchased with my hard earned money - and out she struts, in her recently purchased Versace dress.

If she is going to bring me back a six pack and a whore, I'd be much appreciative. But I'm not going to wait for her.

In this mindset, I feel like doing only one thing.

No glass this time.

Only a bottle is needed. Oban, fourteen year old, single malt scotch.

Before I begin though, I walk over to the stereo and insert a gold covered CD: "Holst - the Planets." Track 5. Indefinite loop.

Mars: The Bringer of War.

Theme song of The Triumvirate. As soon as the first few chords strike a huge grin awakes on my face.

It is such powerful music. Hip hop, rap, I can piss on it all but for this one masterpiece of classical music.

Memories of yore begin to flood over me. And the rage which I find myself trapped by, encapsulated in one mere individual who seeks to dethrone me as I dethroned Curtis.

It shall never happen.

I bare a charmed life.

Which must not yield to one of mortal born.

I drink and drink and...

Finally she comes home after a seeming eternity.

"Baby, I'm home."

With over three quarters of my 80 proof scotch gone, I do not dare leave my chair.

"Told you I'd bring you home something nice."

In steps a ravenous looking Latina girl. Can't be more than 20 years old - even through these eyes I can still judge.

A lethal body. Pouty red lips. Nicely dyed and permed hair.

"Tanya, this is my husband, His Grace by the Grace of God, Robert Edward James Lancaster II, Duke of Wessex. Isn't that right baby," Marissah titters.

"How...how do you do Miss."

My head grows heavier. And as I finish the last of my scotch, I toss the bottle to the ground.

"Be a dear and get me some more, will you."

"Aw my poor sweetie." Marissah runs over and kisses and coddles me. She walks over to my cabinet and pulls out a bottle of J&B. She was even sweet enough to unscrew the cap for me.

I greedily take it and imbibe some more.

"Baby wanna have some fun with us?"

You have to be fucking kidding me.

The Latina slides over to me and begins to unbutton my shirt. She licks my ears and without much subtlety, grabs my crotch, gives it a squeeze, and mumbles something incomprehensible in Spanish.

"Heyy," Marissah pouts. "I want some fun too..."

She grabs the Latina by the arm and turns her around, and the two begin to go at it, voraciously.

I only slide into my chair farther and tilt back the J&B as far as I can.

The two girls giggle as Marissah turns the Latina around and pulls the zipper down on her short dress, and turns herself as Tanya reciprocates. I like Tanya's lingerie better - but I don't dare tell her that.

"Aw honey turn this shit off."

I would protest, but I am off in a distant land now.

She puts in her own compact disk. Rammstein. Asche Zu Asch.

Marissah then runs in her bare feet to towards the bedroom and comes back, holding a mirror.

"Oooo," purrs the Latina.

She scurries over to join my wife the Duchess of Wessex by the dining room table, which I sit not too far off from.

Marissah begins to giggle once more as she opens her purse and pulls out a small bag containing white powder.

She carefully deposits a little onto the mirror, and then reaching into her purse once more, pulls out a crisp bill note.

She divides it into lines and rolls the note almost excitedly.

A line vanishes, then two.

Tanya then does her own shots.

And here I sit.

I can only pour more scotch into myself.

The room begins to spin.

Losing control.

The music blares louder and louder with every passing moment.

Edwards, the championship, my wife, my life, all vanish

into oblivion