12.10.06 Avarice - And Ever

I: Friday, December 1, 2006, London, England

"He DOES realize that it was that idiot Kirk who booked the match AND the captains, and NOT you - doesn't he?"

He shrugs his shoulders indifferently, still sitting in bed with the Financial Times at the ready, scanning the headlines. The sunshine begins to creep in slowly through the windows of the bedroom of the Lancasters at the Estate in Wessex.

The Duchess, wearing silk negligee, sits with her laptop at a nearby reading desk, made of mahogany in the 18th century, a cup of coffee silently steaming away. She curses under her breath, her laptop logged in at olwwrestling.com.

"The guy is a fucking moron."

Lancaster ignores her comment and continues reading, taking his own cup of brew off the night stand table. He places it back in front of a picture of Edward, obscuring the picture of the little boy smiling up.

"The only thing 'Sensational' about him is his amazing capability for self-humiliation."

That got a "snort" of laughter from the Duke.

"Cherry cheesecake."

"Hmmm?"

"Behave."

"Whatever. Avar-ASS." She giggles after mimicking Vicious' titled "open letter." Lancaster rolls his eyes in quiet humour.

"But seriously you NEED to reply to this bastard. You're the goddamn champion AND the fucking Commissioner. These shit stains don't respect you at ALL."

Her propensity to curse - morning, noon, or night - and often all three - never ceased to amaze him.

"I've noticed."

"AND Tate too. This is a big match Robert. If you don't win, you'll..."

He places the newspaper down. "I'm well aware of the consequences. I of course DO want to win this match, but I'll respond to them. Just give me time."

"Reading the Financial Times no doubt will inspire you to lob some words of danger at them. 'Your careers are going to crash faster than the Nasdaq!'"

He stares. She stares back.

Her joke, an utter, abysmal failure.

"I'm going to take a shower." She gets up from the desk, leaving her coffee to sit there nearly untouched. The Duke frowns. Such a waste.

"Don't forget, don't use your vibrator in the water, it might short."

He laughs as she comes over and smacks him on top of the head.

He may be Heavyweight Champion but smacks on the head from his wife still stung like a bitch.

She casually slips out of her negligee and walks naked towards the bathroom. Her breasts bounce slightly as she did so. Even after all these years his desire for her did not wane one bit.

...that gets his mind wandering.

Heidi.

In their match a few weeks ago - he can still remember the scent of her skiin. And despite being a ring warrior, she was every ounce a woman still.

And he could see it in her eyes. She was a woman of wounds. Of hurt. Mentally in need of something.

His solution is easy.

Him.

Another thought jumps into his mind, like an intruder bursting into a house.

Ten times he must defy Him.

Adultery was one he could easily do.

...why not with her.

He can feel his pulse increase and his blood surge.

The mere thought sends his mind into a world of sexual deviancy.

Suddenly his wife could not end her shower fast enough for him.

He throws his head back and sighs audibly, tossing his newspaper to the side once and for all. The pages flutter to the ground; stock numbers, tidbits about the Chancellor of the Exchequer staring up blankly from the yellow pages.

Forcibly he gets his mind back on the matter at hand.

The Duchess was right.

He is sure she'd be thrilled to hear that. She always is.

He does have to address the scum that were undermining his rule.

And more importantly than their insubordination is their attempts to wrench the scepter from his hand, remove the crown from his head, and to displace him from the throne.

He felt threatened. Fifteen others versus him. Alone.

And he knows - no matter what promises made, what deals struck prior - he will be alone in The Match Beyond.

Then, as much as ever, he will have to rely on himself and all he has learned for the past seven years in wrestling. Using every iota of wit, guile, and strategy he can possibly muster.

But that is then.

This is now.

Words, before action.

Establish his mindset.

"Damn." The coffee on his table grew cold.

His mind flashes to a self-perpetuated image of Heidi in a black bra beckoning to him.

...cold coffee be damned.

The mood to talk to the likes of Christenson, Curtis, struck him.

He is energized. The fear is displaced by confidence.

The webcamera would suffice, followed by an email to OLW staff, to post the video online for all to see. He aligns the camera to one of the chairs in the bedroom, and then went to a bag and fished out the OLW Imperial Heavyweight Title.

His crimson robe would also suffice.

He sits in front of the camera, title resting comfortably on his lap.

It begins to record.

He looks down at the title. The microphone on the laptop picks up his breathing. It is cool, collected.

He looks back at the camera.

He smiles.

The smile vanishes.

"We know you all. Fear you not. Christenson has fallen - though we have fallen too. We have learned, and learned well. We will not make the same mistakes again.

Curtis, to whom we say, 'Welcome back,' and to whom we owe our maleficent reign. Has time healed your scars? Do you remember the blood you shed that cost you your livelihood, and drove you into exile for months?"

The right corner of his lip curls upward in a smile.

"Quinn, the dark horse. You are eager. You are hungry for this, it is almost palpable. You have come so far and now you face your ultimate challenge. Let not your thirst for victory actually leave you parched."

He lifts an arm and snaps his fingers on his right hand.

"That quickly and we can end it all for you. The Destroyer of Worlds is the Shatterer of Dreams."

He holds a hand towards the lens, palm upwards, and looks at it.

"In...in this hand we hold your collective fates. Christenson. Curtis. Tate. Yours too, Daniel."

"All."

He remains still and silent for a moment.

"Forever - and ever."

He closes his hand and tightens his grip.

His eyes glance at the camera.