Post by Dominator / Mortimer on Feb 26, 2018 11:48:17 GMT -5
Friday 23rd February 2018 - 11.32am
Location: Residence of Horacio Mortimer, Totton, Southampton, Hampshire, England, United Kingdom
Though the sun shines as brightly and undisturbed in the clear blue sky, a bitter chill from the eastern winds pulls at the hairs on his arms. The only clouds are the ones that he forms of his own accord every him he exhales; his heightened pace produces a more continuous stream, like the steam rising from the funnel of a locomotive powered through the fossilised means of coal.
He looks at his watch. He is only two minutes late, but this was no excuse. It was always better to arrive ten minutes early than two minutes late. This was not a lesson taught to him by Horacio, but dictated by common sense stretching as far back as the years of puberty. Apprehension of the time, yet gleeful of what was to come, they merged to produce a further rush of adrenaline within Dominic’s veins.
Within another passing minute, he arrives at the doorway leading him to what could be the salvation he had been seeking. Horacio greets him by simply tapping the casing of his timepiece.
“Don’t say a word,” Dominic warns as he closes the door firmly behind him. “
“Leaves on the track?” Horacio scolds sarcastically. His jibe is ignored. Instead, Dominic kicks off his shoes and heads towards the lounge. Two cups of warm coffee sit on the decorative table in the center of the sitting room, the temperature evidently not at its optimum given the ever-so-slight contortion of Dominic’s lips as the energising beverage rinses his taste buds. “If you’d have gotten here sooner…” Horacio begins as he lowers himself into a chair, supping the contents of his own mug. The subsequent look that Dominic shoots him subdues him into silence.
“If you must know, I had to change my outside light,” Dominic states wearily. For some reason, he is not at all at ease when he says this. “It took a little longer than I anticipated,” he adds. “Besides, we are to discuss something of greater importance than maintaining the security of my own home.”
“So important that you keep me waiting? Are you trying to hold the suspense for yourself?” Horacio says with even more cynicism laced in his voice.
“Can you give it a rest?” Dominic groans. “I’m only three minutes behind schedule.”
“Three minutes and fifty two seconds, so practically four minutes,” Mortimer corrects. “But, given the extended period of time I have allowed us to have this conversation, I will give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“You’re so kind,” Dominic mutters insincerely before leaning forward, the atmosphere suddenly turning that much more serious. “So tell me,” he says, excitement hidden behind the interest of what he may find buried within the upcoming discussion, “who is ‘The Bird Man?’ And what does he have to do with everything that has gone on recently?”
“Alright,” Horacio concedes, slapping both his hands firmly against his knees in unison before pushing himself upwards onto his feet. He motions toward a nearby mahogany cabinet; a small wooden clock that looks manufactured only using two hands sits centrally on its top. So silent has the room become that the mechanical clicks, ticks and tocks of the clock seem to resonate that much louder. A tiny spherical handle of sorts protrudes from the right hand side of the transparent cover that allows sight to its hands and face. With a gentle jiggle, the miniature door is nurtured open. Carefully slipping his fingers into the base, Horacio withdraws a key so small that it would certainly not be detectable through sight alone, even with the Perspex shield protect the clock’s innards from rampant dust. “It is about time that you learned the truth,” he says after taking a deep breath having slotted the key into the lock.
“And he tells me not to keep him waiting,” Dominic whispers to himself.
“With your PCW career skyrocketing, the antagonism that Shawn wrought and The Chronological Order ever expanding, I decided to place my trust in the hands of our most loyal devotees,” Mortimer explains, unhinging a desktop that lowers down to form a writer‘s desk before reaching into it‘s innards. “I chose the four individuals who had shown the most progress and potential to assist me with some of The Order’s… background activities.” Mortimer lets out a small grin, but it quickly fades.
“Harley mentioned that there were four,” Dominic mutters quietly, contemplating the situation. “That night where I took a walk to clear my thoughts. He told me over the phone.”
“Indeed,” Mortimer rolls his eyes at this fact. “A simple slip of the tongue on his part. Naturally, I did not want to rouse your suspicion of their involvement in my plans.”
“Why not?” Dominic glowers warily.
“You had your own endeavours to focus on,” Mortimer replies, referencing the debacle with Dawn‘s abduction and Amy‘s subsequent attempt at ending her own life. The anguish that these events caused still lingered in his mind like the smoke from a fire in a windowless room. “Not to mention, you are far too valuable to risk,” he complements additionally, lifting Dominic’s spirits as signified with a smile. “I had my four chosen representatives band together to form an elite sect of The Chronological Order that I dubbed ‘The Watchmen.’”
“Watchmen?” repeats Dominic.
“A simple play on words,” Mortimer smiles satisfactorily. “I assigned them to various observatory missions, three of whom where instrumental in the renascence of Dawn. You are already familiar with Harley Weiss and Matthew Metallinos,” he explains. Dominic makes an unusual nod, bobbing his head to one side with a shrug, as if dismissing this as something that he had already figured out on his own. “As you are well aware, Harley and Matthew provided suitable support whilst recovering Dawn. We had a third man on the job, but…”
Horacio falls solemnly silent.
“I’m afraid I must admit that it was a terrible judgement call on my part,” Horacio confesses with a sigh, “yet all signs pointed towards him being a great asset, given his skill set and his history.”
“Who are you talking about?” Dominic scowls, growing a little weary of the conversation deviating away from the hard facts that he has been chasing for seemingly months on end. Horacio fumbles through some papers, withdrawing one particular record contained within a shimmering plastic sleeve before returning he remainder of the file to nestle within the cabinet. From the protective casing, he pulls out a diversity of documents, photographs and notes to present to Dominic. The Zenith grabs the base of the paperwork with on hand before holding it in front of him, the curvature of the paper keeps them rigid, stopping them from flopping backwards in surrender to gravity.
The first photograph he sees depicts a chisel-jawed man, perhaps in his early thirties, baring a relatively menacing smile. The skin around his eyes look wrinkled, as if the smile he exudes is being forced. His face is close to the lens, only the breadth of his shoulders can be seen beneath a feathery or furry collar of the jacket he is wearing.
“Marcus Verreaux-Marx,” Horacio informatively states as a form of introduction. “a former petty thief turned night watchman situated from St. Helens, near Liverpool. Originally, I believed that he sought the sanctuary of The Chronological Order to repent for previous misdeeds; for us to give him guidance into a more peaceful way of living and newfound perceiving of the world. So eager was he that he would regularly contact me directly. I mistook his enthusiasm as genuine. It was not until I researched his background in greater depth that I realised my error.” All the while, Dominic remains with a gaze transfixed at the picture. Noticing the gears of Dominic’s mind working away, he gives Dominic a look to suggest that he his keen to hear what he is thinking. “What is it?” he prompts. “Do you know him as well?”
“He’s a friend of Shawn’s,” Dominic thinks aloud. “Back when Shawn was a career criminal himself. I’ve never met him personally, but he would often sell on whatever Shawn and Matthew had stolen. It’s no wonder that they’d be in cahoots with each other.”
“I had no idea,” Horacio admits, calculating some assumptions in his own mind. Seldom are the instances where the founder of The Chronological Order is not armed with the maximum amount of statistical figures. When he is wrong about something, it shows. Evidently. His face has fallen, like the expression of a New York Giants Fan that just watched the Eagles win the SuperBowl. Somewhat sadistically, this newfound articulation of Horacio’s facial features appeases Dominic, forcing him to hold back an amused snort. “Although it does confirm my own scepticism of what transpired back in Wigan.” Dominic’s focus returns to the matter at hand.
“What scepticism?” he frowns.
“Why would Shawn go to such extraordinary lengths to conceal your daughter from you in the first place?” Horacio groans, gesturing confusion by holding his arms crookedly out to either side of him. “So Harley tells me, once you had made good your escape, Shawn did not check Dawn’s buggy even once. Harley consumed the remainder of his pint and left with no signs of suspicion being raised on Shawn’s part. Although, he did say that the manager of The Moon Under The Water had contacted him stating that Shawn had left his room in complete disarray. They even tried charging him the bill.”
“He must have known!” Dominic theorises, his face immediately turning red out of anger. “Who knows what that idiot was thinking,” he scowls, trying to formulate a logical explanation for Shawn’s wayward actions. “Perhaps he realised that raising Dawn on his own was a more laborious task than he first thought?”
“Perhaps,” Mortimer somewhat agrees. “There are multiple assumptions that we can make. However, the fact of the matter is that the only possible way for Shawn to become aware of our intentions would be if he had been told. And based on your knowledge of the duo’s freindship, It is plausible that Mr. Marx is responsible for relaying this information.”
“You had Marx watch over Shawn while we were making preparations?” Dominic guesses, which is confirmed as truth by a bob of Horacio’s head.
“I believe that, in turn, Shawn has hired Marx to watch over Amy as well,” Horacio continues to elaborate. “Her dreams about ‘The Bird Man,’ they are not dreams, they are factual. Being a petty thief, he would have the skills needed to infiltrate any enclosed space. Why do you think I assigned him to follow Shawn? He is incredibly stealthy; like an owl hunting in the night, silent and deadly.” A sudden rush of dread fills Dominic. Worriedly, he retrieves his phone from his pcoket and begins scrolling through his list of contacts, prompting Mortimer to produce a light-hearted chuckle as if to ease the sudden tension. “Have no fear,” he says soothingly. “Amy and Dawn are with Matthew in a renovated part of his bunker under heavy surveillance. Mother and child are both safe there. I have additional support from other members of The Order to prevent any ill-comings toward them.”
They both stop as a buzz comes from Dominic’s pocket. Both Horacio and Dominic stare at each other pensively. It seemed that any time Dominic’s mobile phone went off recently, it would spell bad news.
It is a text message from a number that Dominic doesn’t recognise.
He reads aloud;
“NEXT TIME, IT WON’T JUST BE YOUR OUTSIDE LIGHT THAT GOES OUT. THE ROOFTOP OF SUSSEX HEIGHTS, BRIGHTON - SUNDAY 4 MARCH @ 11PM. BE THERE.”
Having peered over Dominic’s shoulder, the two speak in tandem. The very same thought crosses their minds at the same time.
“Marx.”
“For fuck’s sake!” Dominic roars. “This is the game he wants to play! Fine. I‘m sick and tired of people trying to fuck me over.” Whether this statement is solely aimed at Marx’ intimidation tactics or the amalgamation of Johnny Matthews breathing down his neck and the sheer amount of angst recent events have cause him, Dominic feels consumed by overwhelming anxiety and anger. Combine that with the notion that the PCW booking team had forced Dominator to compete in yet another fucking tag team match, a well documented abhorrent stipulation of his, was all starting to get the better of him.
He wanted to leave these thoughts behind. There was a time where, no matter what the stipulation was, no matter how dire the situation, Dominator would hide behind his self grandeur and deceptive antics to act as shroud over his own deficiencies. Over time, he had matured and waned away from this. It have proven a highly productive lesson in life, for since arriving in PCW he had been practically unstoppable. The only exception… multi-man matches.
The fact that he had the World Champion on his side put him at ease. The knowledge that they share a common enemy is also satisfying. Yet, Dominator and Kyle Shane have not always seen things eye-to-eye. Kyle was one of the few people present on… that night… the night where his worriment over the current predicament came to fruition. Kyle was a greenhorn back then. Now, he is on top of the world. Indeed, the careers of Kyle and Dominator are similar in so many aspects, it is as if they are of one mind heading into the confrontation with The Forces of Nature. Kyle knows that Dominator would not judge him based on the higher tiered belt that could have easily ended their careers, or indeed their lives, when Justin hurled it down from the rafters. But like a penny dropped from the Eiffel Tower, the only damage done was aesthetic. A little bit of polish and it was good as new.
Indeed, if there were anyone who would let their team down, it would be Tyler Scott. As harsh a criticism as it is, it is the truth. Scott is nowhere near the level of Kyle or Dominator. But, at the very least, he was trying. Tyler had been in the best form of his career as of late. Maybe it took yet another assault from behind upon The Zenith for him to realise his own capabilities. This had not gone forgotten, but should Tyler actually show the same commitment against their foes on Trauma, he may well be given a free pass… this time.
Of course, the one thing that Dominator could take away from being booked in yet another tag match was that he would be able to get his hands on those conniving pair of buffoons; Matthews and Michaels. Michaels’ own envy of Kyle Shane mirrored Johnny’s version against Dominator, the bad blood from both parties overspill in this upcoming bout. And blood will be shed. Guaranteed. Especially if Dominator had anything to say about it. Any opportunity to wreck their shit would be grasped by The Zenith, for, unlike some of the other unfortunate souls that he had ran through over recent months, these two actually deserve it.
The one enigmatic factor in this match was Grimm, for sure. Dominator had never come face to face with Phinehas before. This would be their first encounter. To be fair, Grimm has little reason to trust The Forces Of Nature, given their ability to screw over whoever is in their path. But that is not to say that Grimm will simply look the other way. No. He’ll be out to win. For Dominator to think otherwise would spell immediate defeat. The harsh reality was that one of them would be cast aside by the other. He would be damned if it would be him. So that was final. Grimm would have to go south with The Forces of Nature as a victim of circumstance.
Horacio falls solemnly tacit as The Zenith rushes to his feet. He heads toward the coat stand, but pivots hesitantly on his heel. He sways back and forth between the seat and the coast stand, looking at his phone the entire time. He runs his free hand quickly through his beard, his breathing suddenly becomes erratic and unnerved.
“I don’t understand,” Horacio grits his teeth, frustrated by his own shortcomings, consulting his watch for support. “Is Shawn really putting him up to this? I feel responsible for these threats being made to you. I‘ll have Harley investigate Shawn‘s current whereabouts.” Rather than reach for a mobile device as his protégé had done, Mortimer motions toward a contraption far more antique; a phone with a circular dialling mechanism with holes bored above every corresponding number. Dominic shakes his head. Before Mortimer can get even a quarter of the way dialling the number he wishes to contact, he hangs up the phone.
Dominic is shaking.
“Are you alright?” Horacio asks worriedly. While the trauma of receiving such a threat affects people in a variety of ways, he had not envisioned seeing Dominic shake with such vigorousness. He tries to hide his frustration, failing. “We’ll get him back for this,” Horacio assures him, but Dominic shakes his head once more.
“It’s not that,” Dominic draws another heavy breath. “You know Sussex Heights, right?”
“It’s the 6th tallest building in the whole of England,” Horacio states, armed with the encyclopedia of trivia memorised in his brain. “But what does that have to do with…” he suddenly comes to a stop. It seems improbable that a man with such talent and build would have a reason to fear anything. He did not even show this much apprehension when Dawn was kidnapped. Rage took its place back then. But this… this was genuine fright.
Finally, all is explained.
“I’m not very good with heights,” Dominic admits, a self-loathing scowl rumbles between his lips as he speaks. In such professional environs that demand perfection, this was the one failing that he had suppressed his discontent with for so long now. Horacio steps towards Dominic, concern filling his eyes.
“This has not always been the case though, has it?” Horacio states. A frustrated look falls on his face. Not in relation to Dominic disclosing his greatest fear, but more as a result of the lack of knowledge Horacio has been able to obtain surrounding this phobia. Amongst his paperwork, he possesses many records and accounts of his client’s past. However, the one event that gave life to Dominic’s vertigo had been lost amongst the pages of history. “I’ve searched high and low,” Mortimer begins to explain, expanding on his own concerns, “but my quest has yielded no fruit. Perhaps you could enlighten me.” Dominic looks humiliated. “If you tell me, I can help you overcome your fears as I have done with so many people within The Chronological Order. You’re afraid of heights. It’s not the height that kills you. It’s not even the fall.”
“It’s the sudden stop.”
He knows that Mortimer can back up his promise. If there was one man who had taught Dominic so much, particularly since stepping foot in PCW having adopted a whole new lease on life, it was Horacio. There were times where Horacio was not always willing to unveil the full details, much like the situation with The Watchmen, but Dominic knew that Horacio’s actions were justified. If he really could help Dominic overcome his phobia… it would not only make him a better competitor, but a better man. It is a bitter pill that he must swallow, but with one almighty gulp, Dominic seems to accept this medicine.
“It was Christmas Day, 2011,” he begins. “The event was the XWF’s annual yuletide pay-per-view; Xmas Xtreme. It was a day that I’ll never forget…”
TO BE CONTINUED
Location: Residence of Horacio Mortimer, Totton, Southampton, Hampshire, England, United Kingdom
Though the sun shines as brightly and undisturbed in the clear blue sky, a bitter chill from the eastern winds pulls at the hairs on his arms. The only clouds are the ones that he forms of his own accord every him he exhales; his heightened pace produces a more continuous stream, like the steam rising from the funnel of a locomotive powered through the fossilised means of coal.
He looks at his watch. He is only two minutes late, but this was no excuse. It was always better to arrive ten minutes early than two minutes late. This was not a lesson taught to him by Horacio, but dictated by common sense stretching as far back as the years of puberty. Apprehension of the time, yet gleeful of what was to come, they merged to produce a further rush of adrenaline within Dominic’s veins.
Within another passing minute, he arrives at the doorway leading him to what could be the salvation he had been seeking. Horacio greets him by simply tapping the casing of his timepiece.
“Don’t say a word,” Dominic warns as he closes the door firmly behind him. “
“Leaves on the track?” Horacio scolds sarcastically. His jibe is ignored. Instead, Dominic kicks off his shoes and heads towards the lounge. Two cups of warm coffee sit on the decorative table in the center of the sitting room, the temperature evidently not at its optimum given the ever-so-slight contortion of Dominic’s lips as the energising beverage rinses his taste buds. “If you’d have gotten here sooner…” Horacio begins as he lowers himself into a chair, supping the contents of his own mug. The subsequent look that Dominic shoots him subdues him into silence.
“If you must know, I had to change my outside light,” Dominic states wearily. For some reason, he is not at all at ease when he says this. “It took a little longer than I anticipated,” he adds. “Besides, we are to discuss something of greater importance than maintaining the security of my own home.”
“So important that you keep me waiting? Are you trying to hold the suspense for yourself?” Horacio says with even more cynicism laced in his voice.
“Can you give it a rest?” Dominic groans. “I’m only three minutes behind schedule.”
“Three minutes and fifty two seconds, so practically four minutes,” Mortimer corrects. “But, given the extended period of time I have allowed us to have this conversation, I will give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“You’re so kind,” Dominic mutters insincerely before leaning forward, the atmosphere suddenly turning that much more serious. “So tell me,” he says, excitement hidden behind the interest of what he may find buried within the upcoming discussion, “who is ‘The Bird Man?’ And what does he have to do with everything that has gone on recently?”
“Alright,” Horacio concedes, slapping both his hands firmly against his knees in unison before pushing himself upwards onto his feet. He motions toward a nearby mahogany cabinet; a small wooden clock that looks manufactured only using two hands sits centrally on its top. So silent has the room become that the mechanical clicks, ticks and tocks of the clock seem to resonate that much louder. A tiny spherical handle of sorts protrudes from the right hand side of the transparent cover that allows sight to its hands and face. With a gentle jiggle, the miniature door is nurtured open. Carefully slipping his fingers into the base, Horacio withdraws a key so small that it would certainly not be detectable through sight alone, even with the Perspex shield protect the clock’s innards from rampant dust. “It is about time that you learned the truth,” he says after taking a deep breath having slotted the key into the lock.
“And he tells me not to keep him waiting,” Dominic whispers to himself.
“With your PCW career skyrocketing, the antagonism that Shawn wrought and The Chronological Order ever expanding, I decided to place my trust in the hands of our most loyal devotees,” Mortimer explains, unhinging a desktop that lowers down to form a writer‘s desk before reaching into it‘s innards. “I chose the four individuals who had shown the most progress and potential to assist me with some of The Order’s… background activities.” Mortimer lets out a small grin, but it quickly fades.
“Harley mentioned that there were four,” Dominic mutters quietly, contemplating the situation. “That night where I took a walk to clear my thoughts. He told me over the phone.”
“Indeed,” Mortimer rolls his eyes at this fact. “A simple slip of the tongue on his part. Naturally, I did not want to rouse your suspicion of their involvement in my plans.”
“Why not?” Dominic glowers warily.
“You had your own endeavours to focus on,” Mortimer replies, referencing the debacle with Dawn‘s abduction and Amy‘s subsequent attempt at ending her own life. The anguish that these events caused still lingered in his mind like the smoke from a fire in a windowless room. “Not to mention, you are far too valuable to risk,” he complements additionally, lifting Dominic’s spirits as signified with a smile. “I had my four chosen representatives band together to form an elite sect of The Chronological Order that I dubbed ‘The Watchmen.’”
“Watchmen?” repeats Dominic.
“A simple play on words,” Mortimer smiles satisfactorily. “I assigned them to various observatory missions, three of whom where instrumental in the renascence of Dawn. You are already familiar with Harley Weiss and Matthew Metallinos,” he explains. Dominic makes an unusual nod, bobbing his head to one side with a shrug, as if dismissing this as something that he had already figured out on his own. “As you are well aware, Harley and Matthew provided suitable support whilst recovering Dawn. We had a third man on the job, but…”
Horacio falls solemnly silent.
“I’m afraid I must admit that it was a terrible judgement call on my part,” Horacio confesses with a sigh, “yet all signs pointed towards him being a great asset, given his skill set and his history.”
“Who are you talking about?” Dominic scowls, growing a little weary of the conversation deviating away from the hard facts that he has been chasing for seemingly months on end. Horacio fumbles through some papers, withdrawing one particular record contained within a shimmering plastic sleeve before returning he remainder of the file to nestle within the cabinet. From the protective casing, he pulls out a diversity of documents, photographs and notes to present to Dominic. The Zenith grabs the base of the paperwork with on hand before holding it in front of him, the curvature of the paper keeps them rigid, stopping them from flopping backwards in surrender to gravity.
The first photograph he sees depicts a chisel-jawed man, perhaps in his early thirties, baring a relatively menacing smile. The skin around his eyes look wrinkled, as if the smile he exudes is being forced. His face is close to the lens, only the breadth of his shoulders can be seen beneath a feathery or furry collar of the jacket he is wearing.
“Marcus Verreaux-Marx,” Horacio informatively states as a form of introduction. “a former petty thief turned night watchman situated from St. Helens, near Liverpool. Originally, I believed that he sought the sanctuary of The Chronological Order to repent for previous misdeeds; for us to give him guidance into a more peaceful way of living and newfound perceiving of the world. So eager was he that he would regularly contact me directly. I mistook his enthusiasm as genuine. It was not until I researched his background in greater depth that I realised my error.” All the while, Dominic remains with a gaze transfixed at the picture. Noticing the gears of Dominic’s mind working away, he gives Dominic a look to suggest that he his keen to hear what he is thinking. “What is it?” he prompts. “Do you know him as well?”
“He’s a friend of Shawn’s,” Dominic thinks aloud. “Back when Shawn was a career criminal himself. I’ve never met him personally, but he would often sell on whatever Shawn and Matthew had stolen. It’s no wonder that they’d be in cahoots with each other.”
“I had no idea,” Horacio admits, calculating some assumptions in his own mind. Seldom are the instances where the founder of The Chronological Order is not armed with the maximum amount of statistical figures. When he is wrong about something, it shows. Evidently. His face has fallen, like the expression of a New York Giants Fan that just watched the Eagles win the SuperBowl. Somewhat sadistically, this newfound articulation of Horacio’s facial features appeases Dominic, forcing him to hold back an amused snort. “Although it does confirm my own scepticism of what transpired back in Wigan.” Dominic’s focus returns to the matter at hand.
“What scepticism?” he frowns.
“Why would Shawn go to such extraordinary lengths to conceal your daughter from you in the first place?” Horacio groans, gesturing confusion by holding his arms crookedly out to either side of him. “So Harley tells me, once you had made good your escape, Shawn did not check Dawn’s buggy even once. Harley consumed the remainder of his pint and left with no signs of suspicion being raised on Shawn’s part. Although, he did say that the manager of The Moon Under The Water had contacted him stating that Shawn had left his room in complete disarray. They even tried charging him the bill.”
“He must have known!” Dominic theorises, his face immediately turning red out of anger. “Who knows what that idiot was thinking,” he scowls, trying to formulate a logical explanation for Shawn’s wayward actions. “Perhaps he realised that raising Dawn on his own was a more laborious task than he first thought?”
“Perhaps,” Mortimer somewhat agrees. “There are multiple assumptions that we can make. However, the fact of the matter is that the only possible way for Shawn to become aware of our intentions would be if he had been told. And based on your knowledge of the duo’s freindship, It is plausible that Mr. Marx is responsible for relaying this information.”
“You had Marx watch over Shawn while we were making preparations?” Dominic guesses, which is confirmed as truth by a bob of Horacio’s head.
“I believe that, in turn, Shawn has hired Marx to watch over Amy as well,” Horacio continues to elaborate. “Her dreams about ‘The Bird Man,’ they are not dreams, they are factual. Being a petty thief, he would have the skills needed to infiltrate any enclosed space. Why do you think I assigned him to follow Shawn? He is incredibly stealthy; like an owl hunting in the night, silent and deadly.” A sudden rush of dread fills Dominic. Worriedly, he retrieves his phone from his pcoket and begins scrolling through his list of contacts, prompting Mortimer to produce a light-hearted chuckle as if to ease the sudden tension. “Have no fear,” he says soothingly. “Amy and Dawn are with Matthew in a renovated part of his bunker under heavy surveillance. Mother and child are both safe there. I have additional support from other members of The Order to prevent any ill-comings toward them.”
They both stop as a buzz comes from Dominic’s pocket. Both Horacio and Dominic stare at each other pensively. It seemed that any time Dominic’s mobile phone went off recently, it would spell bad news.
It is a text message from a number that Dominic doesn’t recognise.
He reads aloud;
“NEXT TIME, IT WON’T JUST BE YOUR OUTSIDE LIGHT THAT GOES OUT. THE ROOFTOP OF SUSSEX HEIGHTS, BRIGHTON - SUNDAY 4 MARCH @ 11PM. BE THERE.”
Having peered over Dominic’s shoulder, the two speak in tandem. The very same thought crosses their minds at the same time.
“Marx.”
“For fuck’s sake!” Dominic roars. “This is the game he wants to play! Fine. I‘m sick and tired of people trying to fuck me over.” Whether this statement is solely aimed at Marx’ intimidation tactics or the amalgamation of Johnny Matthews breathing down his neck and the sheer amount of angst recent events have cause him, Dominic feels consumed by overwhelming anxiety and anger. Combine that with the notion that the PCW booking team had forced Dominator to compete in yet another fucking tag team match, a well documented abhorrent stipulation of his, was all starting to get the better of him.
He wanted to leave these thoughts behind. There was a time where, no matter what the stipulation was, no matter how dire the situation, Dominator would hide behind his self grandeur and deceptive antics to act as shroud over his own deficiencies. Over time, he had matured and waned away from this. It have proven a highly productive lesson in life, for since arriving in PCW he had been practically unstoppable. The only exception… multi-man matches.
The fact that he had the World Champion on his side put him at ease. The knowledge that they share a common enemy is also satisfying. Yet, Dominator and Kyle Shane have not always seen things eye-to-eye. Kyle was one of the few people present on… that night… the night where his worriment over the current predicament came to fruition. Kyle was a greenhorn back then. Now, he is on top of the world. Indeed, the careers of Kyle and Dominator are similar in so many aspects, it is as if they are of one mind heading into the confrontation with The Forces of Nature. Kyle knows that Dominator would not judge him based on the higher tiered belt that could have easily ended their careers, or indeed their lives, when Justin hurled it down from the rafters. But like a penny dropped from the Eiffel Tower, the only damage done was aesthetic. A little bit of polish and it was good as new.
Indeed, if there were anyone who would let their team down, it would be Tyler Scott. As harsh a criticism as it is, it is the truth. Scott is nowhere near the level of Kyle or Dominator. But, at the very least, he was trying. Tyler had been in the best form of his career as of late. Maybe it took yet another assault from behind upon The Zenith for him to realise his own capabilities. This had not gone forgotten, but should Tyler actually show the same commitment against their foes on Trauma, he may well be given a free pass… this time.
Of course, the one thing that Dominator could take away from being booked in yet another tag match was that he would be able to get his hands on those conniving pair of buffoons; Matthews and Michaels. Michaels’ own envy of Kyle Shane mirrored Johnny’s version against Dominator, the bad blood from both parties overspill in this upcoming bout. And blood will be shed. Guaranteed. Especially if Dominator had anything to say about it. Any opportunity to wreck their shit would be grasped by The Zenith, for, unlike some of the other unfortunate souls that he had ran through over recent months, these two actually deserve it.
The one enigmatic factor in this match was Grimm, for sure. Dominator had never come face to face with Phinehas before. This would be their first encounter. To be fair, Grimm has little reason to trust The Forces Of Nature, given their ability to screw over whoever is in their path. But that is not to say that Grimm will simply look the other way. No. He’ll be out to win. For Dominator to think otherwise would spell immediate defeat. The harsh reality was that one of them would be cast aside by the other. He would be damned if it would be him. So that was final. Grimm would have to go south with The Forces of Nature as a victim of circumstance.
Horacio falls solemnly tacit as The Zenith rushes to his feet. He heads toward the coat stand, but pivots hesitantly on his heel. He sways back and forth between the seat and the coast stand, looking at his phone the entire time. He runs his free hand quickly through his beard, his breathing suddenly becomes erratic and unnerved.
“I don’t understand,” Horacio grits his teeth, frustrated by his own shortcomings, consulting his watch for support. “Is Shawn really putting him up to this? I feel responsible for these threats being made to you. I‘ll have Harley investigate Shawn‘s current whereabouts.” Rather than reach for a mobile device as his protégé had done, Mortimer motions toward a contraption far more antique; a phone with a circular dialling mechanism with holes bored above every corresponding number. Dominic shakes his head. Before Mortimer can get even a quarter of the way dialling the number he wishes to contact, he hangs up the phone.
Dominic is shaking.
“Are you alright?” Horacio asks worriedly. While the trauma of receiving such a threat affects people in a variety of ways, he had not envisioned seeing Dominic shake with such vigorousness. He tries to hide his frustration, failing. “We’ll get him back for this,” Horacio assures him, but Dominic shakes his head once more.
“It’s not that,” Dominic draws another heavy breath. “You know Sussex Heights, right?”
“It’s the 6th tallest building in the whole of England,” Horacio states, armed with the encyclopedia of trivia memorised in his brain. “But what does that have to do with…” he suddenly comes to a stop. It seems improbable that a man with such talent and build would have a reason to fear anything. He did not even show this much apprehension when Dawn was kidnapped. Rage took its place back then. But this… this was genuine fright.
Finally, all is explained.
“I’m not very good with heights,” Dominic admits, a self-loathing scowl rumbles between his lips as he speaks. In such professional environs that demand perfection, this was the one failing that he had suppressed his discontent with for so long now. Horacio steps towards Dominic, concern filling his eyes.
“This has not always been the case though, has it?” Horacio states. A frustrated look falls on his face. Not in relation to Dominic disclosing his greatest fear, but more as a result of the lack of knowledge Horacio has been able to obtain surrounding this phobia. Amongst his paperwork, he possesses many records and accounts of his client’s past. However, the one event that gave life to Dominic’s vertigo had been lost amongst the pages of history. “I’ve searched high and low,” Mortimer begins to explain, expanding on his own concerns, “but my quest has yielded no fruit. Perhaps you could enlighten me.” Dominic looks humiliated. “If you tell me, I can help you overcome your fears as I have done with so many people within The Chronological Order. You’re afraid of heights. It’s not the height that kills you. It’s not even the fall.”
“It’s the sudden stop.”
He knows that Mortimer can back up his promise. If there was one man who had taught Dominic so much, particularly since stepping foot in PCW having adopted a whole new lease on life, it was Horacio. There were times where Horacio was not always willing to unveil the full details, much like the situation with The Watchmen, but Dominic knew that Horacio’s actions were justified. If he really could help Dominic overcome his phobia… it would not only make him a better competitor, but a better man. It is a bitter pill that he must swallow, but with one almighty gulp, Dominic seems to accept this medicine.
“It was Christmas Day, 2011,” he begins. “The event was the XWF’s annual yuletide pay-per-view; Xmas Xtreme. It was a day that I’ll never forget…”
TO BE CONTINUED
