Post by Gerard Angelo on Aug 21, 2022 5:13:21 GMT -5
Gerard sat on a couch in Amelia’s flat in Chelsea. He lifted a cup to his lips, sipping on some tea. It had been a busy couple of weeks for the newly crowned World champion. His schedule had been filled with various media appearances. Between being a guest on the Late Show to throwing out the first pitch at a Dodger game, he had barely found time for anything else. Heavy lies the head that wears the crown. That’s why when Action Wrestling brass had approached him about going to London, he jumped at the chance. The company was holding a massive scouting event for prospective talent across Europe and the higher-ups thought it was good for them to lay eyes on the big belt and the guy holding it. Gerry had taken it as a way to continue his investigation. He had hit up Amelia under the guise of wanting to catch up. Though he did want to see his old friend, he knew that she wouldn’t have met him if he asked about the Ronin first after she told him bluntly to drop it. He took another sip of his tea and made a slight face. It could use more sugar.
Amelia came back into the sitting room, curling her legs up under her as she sat on the couch opposite Gerard, a large smile splitting her face.
“Forgive me for not having any biscuits, love. I wasn’t expecting company.”
“It’s fine Mel, I had a big breakfast. Plus, you’re a snack yourself,” He said teasingly. She laughed.
“Shut up you wanker,” she said, waving him off, “So tell me, what is it like being champion of the world again?”
“Busy.”
“One could imagine. Though this is the ultimate goal, was it not?”
“You’re not wrong,” he said before taking another sip of the bitter tea, “But I would like to sleep a solid eight hours once in a while.”
Amelia gave a laugh. Gerard gave her a disarming smile and decided there to ask his question.
“So Mel,” He stared at her over his teacup, “Why won’t to tell me anything about the Ronin?”
Her laughter stopped and she froze, looking over at Gerry. It was one of the very few times he’s ever seen her like that. She caught herself quickly though and gave him a glare.
“Why would I ever think anytime you come here is a social call?” she asked, clearly very annoyed, “I told you to drop it.”
“C’mon, Mel! They supposedly killed my mom! I need to know about them. Anything that could give me a clue to who hired them.”
Amelia turned her head and stared off into the distance. Gerry place his cup on the table and turned to face her fully on the couch.
“Please, Amelia. I need to know what you know. When do I ever ask you for anything?”
“All the time!” She exclaimed.
“Maybe,” he concedes, “But you’re the smartest person I know. I can’t go to anyone else with this shit.”
She continues staring off for a few more moments before she huffs and turns back to him.
“You’re lucky I can’t stay mad at you,” She said in her posh accent, “But I’m only telling you to drop it for your own good. The Ronin are among the most ruthless and efficient killers in history. Someone like you sniffing around could make them take notice and if you are deemed a threat they will take you out with little thought.”
“But who could’ve hired them?”
“I do not know but I will tell you they don’t come cheap. I shouldn’t even be talking about them right now.”
“I don't know why we can’t talk about some two-bit mercenaries. You work for fucking MI6!”
“Yes, and they are a high-level classified subject. If anyone found out I told you anything my job could be in jeopardy.”
Gerard ground his teeth. He wanted to press her more for information but he knew when it came to certain things it would be like trying to get information from the wall of the flat. He looked down at the teacup, staring at the brown liquid contained inside.
“I understand. I’m sorry, Mel.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to help you, love,” she sighed, “But I know how headstrong you can get and I would never forgive myself if something terrible happened to you.”
He didn’t say anything but he shrugged. Amelia scooted closer to him on the couch and laid a well-manicured hand on his broad shoulder.
“I’m sure your mother wouldn’t want anything to happen to you either.”
Gerard sighed but reach around, putting his hand over hers on his shoulder.
“You’re a good friend, Mel. I need to be a better one to you.”
She smiled.
“Shut up.”
=====
Clash of Champions.
I can’t even lie that’s a pretty good name for a special edition of Clash. You’re basically getting a premium live event for free on cable. The Tag titles are being defended. The Television title is on the line. The CBS Championship. An All-In preview tag match. And then the night is capped off with the United States Champion taking on the Women’s Champion in a winner take all match less than a week before those two ladies have to face each other in the All-In ladder match. I dunno how an idiot like Pasternak put together such a great card but I guess a broken clock works twice a day.
But of course, you couldn’t have it be Clash of Champions without having the one title to rule them all on the card—the World Heavyweight Championship. You know the title that has my name written across it. So of course AW has to put their biggest fucking attraction on the card against…
Uhh… lemme check my notes here…
Against “The Mad King” Jack Daniels? Ugh.
You’re really scraping the bottom of the barrel here guys. You’re really gonna throw the best to ever do it against some guy who’s still as green as the shit Jason Cashe rolls up? You already saw what Elijah Martin did to him last week. Do you think he’ll fair better against the face of the business? He belongs in OCW, not facing the champ in his second match.
This disrespect that has been coming at me in every direction since I won this damn strap is becoming very fucking tiresome.
First, Lissie Hope of all people is just handed a goddamn title shot by Torture. Which caused her already undeserved ego to grow out of control where she thinks she’s just going to show up at Uprising and I’ll just hand her my fucking title because she deserves it.
Then all these nobodies in the All-In match think that if they win that little briefcase it’s a fait accompli that they are going to be the World champion as if they won’t have to rip it away from my cold, dead, hands before that would even happen.
And now this. I have to open my fucking show against a goddamn nobody. What’s up kid? Do you think beating up some half-trained vagabonds in a rinky-dink indie fed across the Atlantic makes you ready to run with the big dogs? Jack, your ass got embarrassed last week. You got knocked the fuck out with one fucking punch. I’m sure you see facing the top guy in the industry as an opportunity, as you should.
But what makes you think you stand a snowball’s chance in hell with me in that ring? You got your jaw broken by a guy that’s been here for a cup of coffee. I’m the Action Wrestling champion. I’ve beaten Hall of Famers, future Hall of Famers, and legends. The best of the best compete here, Jack, and I stand head and shoulders above them.
Yet, I am still disrespected at every turn. So this week I have to remind everyone of who I am. I guess being off a couple of weeks fucks with everyone’s memory around here. I have to remind Lissie, everyone in All-In, of why I stand here at the mountain top looking down at you all.
You are my sacrificial lamb, Jack. Another dreg who has come to my altar and must lay tribute.
I need to know one thing though.
Why the fuck does everyone need to use King or Queen as a goddamn nickname? King of this, Queen of that. It makes me want to crack your skull with a baseball bat. Like we just got done bullying Corey Black out of using that moniker and six more sprouted in its place like the fucking Lernean Hydra.
What are you the king of, Jack? An acre of dirt in Waterford? The King of giving yourself terrible nicknames?
Mad-King.
The only thing that would make you mad is if you actually showed up on Monday night.
I’m setting the fucking tone for the evening by making an example out of you.
What is a king to a god?
It won’t be all that bad though.
After I send you on your way out the door at Clash, you’ll be able to raise your booking fee on the indies since you got to step into the ring with the greatest wrestler in the world. You’ll be able to afford a bottle of your namesake to drown your fucking sorrows.
This isn’t personal either. You’re just standing in my fucking way.
Our match at Clash ends the same way it does for everyone else they put in front of me.
A Hollywood Ending.
=====
Gerard pulled his baseball cap down on his head as he exited the block of flats, walking briskly down the street. He had dropped the subject completely and spent a few hours catching up with Amelia. He was honest about wanting to be a better friend to her. He needed to be with the ones who could look past the outward shell he puts up. As the years passed, true friendship seemed to dwindle for him. Whether it was his fault or not was something he would have to discuss with a therapist in the future.
Right now Amelia wasn’t giving him the answers he needed.
So he would find someone who would.
Gerry reached into his pocket and procured his Juul. He took a rip as he walked down the sidewalk, exhaling the vapor out of his nose.
He had to go finish his appearance at the scouting event and then he had a seven-hour flight back to New York. He would find his answers but duty called.
Amelia came back into the sitting room, curling her legs up under her as she sat on the couch opposite Gerard, a large smile splitting her face.
“Forgive me for not having any biscuits, love. I wasn’t expecting company.”
“It’s fine Mel, I had a big breakfast. Plus, you’re a snack yourself,” He said teasingly. She laughed.
“Shut up you wanker,” she said, waving him off, “So tell me, what is it like being champion of the world again?”
“Busy.”
“One could imagine. Though this is the ultimate goal, was it not?”
“You’re not wrong,” he said before taking another sip of the bitter tea, “But I would like to sleep a solid eight hours once in a while.”
Amelia gave a laugh. Gerard gave her a disarming smile and decided there to ask his question.
“So Mel,” He stared at her over his teacup, “Why won’t to tell me anything about the Ronin?”
Her laughter stopped and she froze, looking over at Gerry. It was one of the very few times he’s ever seen her like that. She caught herself quickly though and gave him a glare.
“Why would I ever think anytime you come here is a social call?” she asked, clearly very annoyed, “I told you to drop it.”
“C’mon, Mel! They supposedly killed my mom! I need to know about them. Anything that could give me a clue to who hired them.”
Amelia turned her head and stared off into the distance. Gerry place his cup on the table and turned to face her fully on the couch.
“Please, Amelia. I need to know what you know. When do I ever ask you for anything?”
“All the time!” She exclaimed.
“Maybe,” he concedes, “But you’re the smartest person I know. I can’t go to anyone else with this shit.”
She continues staring off for a few more moments before she huffs and turns back to him.
“You’re lucky I can’t stay mad at you,” She said in her posh accent, “But I’m only telling you to drop it for your own good. The Ronin are among the most ruthless and efficient killers in history. Someone like you sniffing around could make them take notice and if you are deemed a threat they will take you out with little thought.”
“But who could’ve hired them?”
“I do not know but I will tell you they don’t come cheap. I shouldn’t even be talking about them right now.”
“I don't know why we can’t talk about some two-bit mercenaries. You work for fucking MI6!”
“Yes, and they are a high-level classified subject. If anyone found out I told you anything my job could be in jeopardy.”
Gerard ground his teeth. He wanted to press her more for information but he knew when it came to certain things it would be like trying to get information from the wall of the flat. He looked down at the teacup, staring at the brown liquid contained inside.
“I understand. I’m sorry, Mel.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to help you, love,” she sighed, “But I know how headstrong you can get and I would never forgive myself if something terrible happened to you.”
He didn’t say anything but he shrugged. Amelia scooted closer to him on the couch and laid a well-manicured hand on his broad shoulder.
“I’m sure your mother wouldn’t want anything to happen to you either.”
Gerard sighed but reach around, putting his hand over hers on his shoulder.
“You’re a good friend, Mel. I need to be a better one to you.”
She smiled.
“Shut up.”
=====
Clash of Champions.
I can’t even lie that’s a pretty good name for a special edition of Clash. You’re basically getting a premium live event for free on cable. The Tag titles are being defended. The Television title is on the line. The CBS Championship. An All-In preview tag match. And then the night is capped off with the United States Champion taking on the Women’s Champion in a winner take all match less than a week before those two ladies have to face each other in the All-In ladder match. I dunno how an idiot like Pasternak put together such a great card but I guess a broken clock works twice a day.
But of course, you couldn’t have it be Clash of Champions without having the one title to rule them all on the card—the World Heavyweight Championship. You know the title that has my name written across it. So of course AW has to put their biggest fucking attraction on the card against…
Uhh… lemme check my notes here…
Against “The Mad King” Jack Daniels? Ugh.
You’re really scraping the bottom of the barrel here guys. You’re really gonna throw the best to ever do it against some guy who’s still as green as the shit Jason Cashe rolls up? You already saw what Elijah Martin did to him last week. Do you think he’ll fair better against the face of the business? He belongs in OCW, not facing the champ in his second match.
This disrespect that has been coming at me in every direction since I won this damn strap is becoming very fucking tiresome.
First, Lissie Hope of all people is just handed a goddamn title shot by Torture. Which caused her already undeserved ego to grow out of control where she thinks she’s just going to show up at Uprising and I’ll just hand her my fucking title because she deserves it.
Then all these nobodies in the All-In match think that if they win that little briefcase it’s a fait accompli that they are going to be the World champion as if they won’t have to rip it away from my cold, dead, hands before that would even happen.
And now this. I have to open my fucking show against a goddamn nobody. What’s up kid? Do you think beating up some half-trained vagabonds in a rinky-dink indie fed across the Atlantic makes you ready to run with the big dogs? Jack, your ass got embarrassed last week. You got knocked the fuck out with one fucking punch. I’m sure you see facing the top guy in the industry as an opportunity, as you should.
But what makes you think you stand a snowball’s chance in hell with me in that ring? You got your jaw broken by a guy that’s been here for a cup of coffee. I’m the Action Wrestling champion. I’ve beaten Hall of Famers, future Hall of Famers, and legends. The best of the best compete here, Jack, and I stand head and shoulders above them.
Yet, I am still disrespected at every turn. So this week I have to remind everyone of who I am. I guess being off a couple of weeks fucks with everyone’s memory around here. I have to remind Lissie, everyone in All-In, of why I stand here at the mountain top looking down at you all.
You are my sacrificial lamb, Jack. Another dreg who has come to my altar and must lay tribute.
I need to know one thing though.
Why the fuck does everyone need to use King or Queen as a goddamn nickname? King of this, Queen of that. It makes me want to crack your skull with a baseball bat. Like we just got done bullying Corey Black out of using that moniker and six more sprouted in its place like the fucking Lernean Hydra.
What are you the king of, Jack? An acre of dirt in Waterford? The King of giving yourself terrible nicknames?
Mad-King.
The only thing that would make you mad is if you actually showed up on Monday night.
I’m setting the fucking tone for the evening by making an example out of you.
What is a king to a god?
It won’t be all that bad though.
After I send you on your way out the door at Clash, you’ll be able to raise your booking fee on the indies since you got to step into the ring with the greatest wrestler in the world. You’ll be able to afford a bottle of your namesake to drown your fucking sorrows.
This isn’t personal either. You’re just standing in my fucking way.
Our match at Clash ends the same way it does for everyone else they put in front of me.
A Hollywood Ending.
=====
Gerard pulled his baseball cap down on his head as he exited the block of flats, walking briskly down the street. He had dropped the subject completely and spent a few hours catching up with Amelia. He was honest about wanting to be a better friend to her. He needed to be with the ones who could look past the outward shell he puts up. As the years passed, true friendship seemed to dwindle for him. Whether it was his fault or not was something he would have to discuss with a therapist in the future.
Right now Amelia wasn’t giving him the answers he needed.
So he would find someone who would.
Gerry reached into his pocket and procured his Juul. He took a rip as he walked down the sidewalk, exhaling the vapor out of his nose.
He had to go finish his appearance at the scouting event and then he had a seven-hour flight back to New York. He would find his answers but duty called.
