Damned are the Merciful
I:
Tuesday, October 18,
2005: New York City, New York: Christie's,
Rockefeller Plaza
So much pain. So much destruction.
My copies of both The Economist and the Financial Times have been consistently overwhelmed with great quantities...excessive quantities...of both lately.
Katrina then Rita, then the earthquake in South Asia, and now a possible pandemic threatens to strike us all.
Tens of thousands of lives lost, and with this possible pandemic, millions of lives at risk. The amount of money it will take to resurrect these areas, once great towns and cities, will be astronomical.
I have had quite a few calls asking me to donate whatever cash I can spare to aid those who are suffering.
I turned them all down. I have concerns for only three people on this Earth: my wife, my son, and myself. The business of other people is simply that: their business. My own concerns are no one else's, and I intend to keep it that way.
Mercy is for the weak. And damned are those who are merciful, for they shall be defeated, whether in the ring, or in life. What I showed the world those weeks ago at the MSWA show was an unbridled lack of mercy, and utter contempt for human life. Seamus Finnegan, Daemon Curtis, Freddy Phoenix, all the other bastards who would seek to challenge my dominance should take notice of what I did to Wilde Tanke.
He pushed me to the limit, without a doubt: his skills are not and will never be questioned. But he did not finish the job. And he paid for that dearly. The Dreams of Avarice shattered his dreams, as he faded away in pain unparalleled in his career, and succumbed to unconsciousness. I left his crumpled body in the middle of the ring and walked out into the Memphis night with my wife.
Since then I have waited and waited for OLW to return to active life, what with Coronation as with all CAL pay-per-views, monopolizing weeks and months of preparation time. I stand now, chomping at the bit, salivating in fact, to return once more to the ring, to finish off Finnegan's career, or if needs be, his existence.
It is regrettable that it shall not happen at this upcoming Outrage. I must deal with the two usurpers who would attempt to dislodge me from the summit of OLW, Phoenix and Curtis, and in doing so, I have been given Charles Scott to deal with. I know the former two men quite well, the latter, not so much. I have pondered a phone call soon to establish our strategy, seeing as our bout is only days away. I am cognizant of what he is capable of, and that championship around his waist clearly establishes the caliber at which he competes. We will dispose of Phoenix and Curtis and leave them at the curb side of wrestling like the proverbial rubbish that they are, and I shall thank Mr. Scott and send him on his merry way. The bloody Irishman is my priority, and after I have vanquished him, I shall take much pleasure in taking the OLW Heavyweight Championship for myself, and my wife.
The era of the Avarice Hegemony will be upon the OLW and the CAL. They should verily brace themselves, for those who do not, shall be finding mercy wanting.
In this atmosphere that I find myself in right now also, those around me, chattering away in their taylor made suits and Rolex watches, they shall find mercy wanting from me also.
In the ring I am ruthless. In the auction house, I am deadly. That much I can thank my father for, may his soul burn in Hell for eternity.
I sit here drearily as lot after lot after lot goes to the hammer, most of which do not pique my interest whatsoever. I await lot number 334. The moment I laid eyes on it in the catalogue while I sat at home sipping my Quinta Do Noval Nacional 1997 port one evening, I knew I had to have it. It will go wonderfully in my study and with the other pieces I have accumulated. I know interest will be high in this piece: catalogue has an estimate of fifteen to twenty thousand dollars.
"Sold to the gentleman at the back, paddle number 54, for $10 000."
Some murmuring. Finally my time to shine.
"Next is lot number 334, this magnificent George II era giltwood eagle-form console table, circa 1740. It consists of a marble top with egg-and-dart moulding, whose plinth has likely been replaced, and regilt. Nevertheless this is a stunning piece and is appealing truly to the discerning buyer. I shall open the bidding at
$10 000."
I of course raise my paddle.
"Ten thousand from this gentleman, give me twelve..." He points to another man, older, likely in his 60's, who raises his paddle. The old bastard isn't going to out-do me.
"Fourteen thousand?" I raise mine again.
"Sixteen..." The other man responds still. It is war.
"Twenty thousand dollars...twenty five, thirty, thirty-five, forty, forty-five, fifty, fifty five thousand, sixty thousand dollars, sixty-five thousand, seventy..."
The other man hesitates. Come on, old man, have at me if you dare. He looks like he wants to raise his paddle again, but the older woman with him shakes her head, chastising him. God bless the old bag.
"Seventy thousand dollars...all done at seventy thousand dollars..." Down goes the mallet. I sneer gleefully at the old man who glances my way. "Sold to paddle number 72, thank you sir."
I happily sit through the rest of the auction until all the lots are gone. We are allowed to depart and I happen to bump into the gentleman with whom I engaged in our little bidding war.
"Ah, congratulations on your purchase sir," he gracefully concedes.
"Thank you, I shall enjoy it, but you certainly gave me a run for the money, as it were." Terrible pun but he laughs out of politeness.
"The old ball and chain is one you should be thanking," he forces, "but do take care."
I nod my head but hear the old man mutter something under his breath along the lines of: bloody wrestling bastard. Not terribly original, but cheeky nonetheless.
I turn around on my feet and walk towards him as he headed towards the exit. I tap him on the shoulder. He and his wife turn about.
"Madam, forgive my rudeness, but sir, may I say, fuck you."
His mouth drops agape as I force my way past him and head to pay off my newly acquired prize.
So what, I cursed off an old man. Quite right, I think, how fearless of me.
I should have smashed his bloody face in.
So much pain. So much destruction.
My copies of both The Economist and the Financial Times have been consistently overwhelmed with great quantities...excessive quantities...of both lately.
Katrina then Rita, then the earthquake in South Asia, and now a possible pandemic threatens to strike us all.
Tens of thousands of lives lost, and with this possible pandemic, millions of lives at risk. The amount of money it will take to resurrect these areas, once great towns and cities, will be astronomical.
I have had quite a few calls asking me to donate whatever cash I can spare to aid those who are suffering.
I turned them all down. I have concerns for only three people on this Earth: my wife, my son, and myself. The business of other people is simply that: their business. My own concerns are no one else's, and I intend to keep it that way.
Mercy is for the weak. And damned are those who are merciful, for they shall be defeated, whether in the ring, or in life. What I showed the world those weeks ago at the MSWA show was an unbridled lack of mercy, and utter contempt for human life. Seamus Finnegan, Daemon Curtis, Freddy Phoenix, all the other bastards who would seek to challenge my dominance should take notice of what I did to Wilde Tanke.
He pushed me to the limit, without a doubt: his skills are not and will never be questioned. But he did not finish the job. And he paid for that dearly. The Dreams of Avarice shattered his dreams, as he faded away in pain unparalleled in his career, and succumbed to unconsciousness. I left his crumpled body in the middle of the ring and walked out into the Memphis night with my wife.
Since then I have waited and waited for OLW to return to active life, what with Coronation as with all CAL pay-per-views, monopolizing weeks and months of preparation time. I stand now, chomping at the bit, salivating in fact, to return once more to the ring, to finish off Finnegan's career, or if needs be, his existence.
It is regrettable that it shall not happen at this upcoming Outrage. I must deal with the two usurpers who would attempt to dislodge me from the summit of OLW, Phoenix and Curtis, and in doing so, I have been given Charles Scott to deal with. I know the former two men quite well, the latter, not so much. I have pondered a phone call soon to establish our strategy, seeing as our bout is only days away. I am cognizant of what he is capable of, and that championship around his waist clearly establishes the caliber at which he competes. We will dispose of Phoenix and Curtis and leave them at the curb side of wrestling like the proverbial rubbish that they are, and I shall thank Mr. Scott and send him on his merry way. The bloody Irishman is my priority, and after I have vanquished him, I shall take much pleasure in taking the OLW Heavyweight Championship for myself, and my wife.
The era of the Avarice Hegemony will be upon the OLW and the CAL. They should verily brace themselves, for those who do not, shall be finding mercy wanting.
In this atmosphere that I find myself in right now also, those around me, chattering away in their taylor made suits and Rolex watches, they shall find mercy wanting from me also.
In the ring I am ruthless. In the auction house, I am deadly. That much I can thank my father for, may his soul burn in Hell for eternity.
I sit here drearily as lot after lot after lot goes to the hammer, most of which do not pique my interest whatsoever. I await lot number 334. The moment I laid eyes on it in the catalogue while I sat at home sipping my Quinta Do Noval Nacional 1997 port one evening, I knew I had to have it. It will go wonderfully in my study and with the other pieces I have accumulated. I know interest will be high in this piece: catalogue has an estimate of fifteen to twenty thousand dollars.
"Sold to the gentleman at the back, paddle number 54, for $10 000."
Some murmuring. Finally my time to shine.
"Next is lot number 334, this magnificent George II era giltwood eagle-form console table, circa 1740. It consists of a marble top with egg-and-dart moulding, whose plinth has likely been replaced, and regilt. Nevertheless this is a stunning piece and is appealing truly to the discerning buyer. I shall open the bidding at
$10 000."
I of course raise my paddle.
"Ten thousand from this gentleman, give me twelve..." He points to another man, older, likely in his 60's, who raises his paddle. The old bastard isn't going to out-do me.
"Fourteen thousand?" I raise mine again.
"Sixteen..." The other man responds still. It is war.
"Twenty thousand dollars...twenty five, thirty, thirty-five, forty, forty-five, fifty, fifty five thousand, sixty thousand dollars, sixty-five thousand, seventy..."
The other man hesitates. Come on, old man, have at me if you dare. He looks like he wants to raise his paddle again, but the older woman with him shakes her head, chastising him. God bless the old bag.
"Seventy thousand dollars...all done at seventy thousand dollars..." Down goes the mallet. I sneer gleefully at the old man who glances my way. "Sold to paddle number 72, thank you sir."
I happily sit through the rest of the auction until all the lots are gone. We are allowed to depart and I happen to bump into the gentleman with whom I engaged in our little bidding war.
"Ah, congratulations on your purchase sir," he gracefully concedes.
"Thank you, I shall enjoy it, but you certainly gave me a run for the money, as it were." Terrible pun but he laughs out of politeness.
"The old ball and chain is one you should be thanking," he forces, "but do take care."
I nod my head but hear the old man mutter something under his breath along the lines of: bloody wrestling bastard. Not terribly original, but cheeky nonetheless.
I turn around on my feet and walk towards him as he headed towards the exit. I tap him on the shoulder. He and his wife turn about.
"Madam, forgive my rudeness, but sir, may I say, fuck you."
His mouth drops agape as I force my way past him and head to pay off my newly acquired prize.
So what, I cursed off an old man. Quite right, I think, how fearless of me.
I should have smashed his bloody face in.