Time On Our Hands - Part II
Jun 4, 2018 22:29:19 GMT -5
A Ghost in the Wind and The Anarchist like this
Post by Dominator / Mortimer on Jun 4, 2018 22:29:19 GMT -5
Friday 1st June – 08.45am
Location: Marchwood, Southampton, Hampshire, England, United Kingdom
Pensiveness consumes him. The anticipation of not knowing is always said to be worse than what one actually experiences. Given the anonymity of the caller, or even the nature of what conversation is to follow, Dominic would be forgiven for thinking in such a way.
He tries to think of the loving girl who dotes on his every breath. Even when he is focused on his career within both Pure Class Wrestling and The Chronological Order and having his time delegated to these roles over the woman he loves, she still stands by him. In return for her affection, he wants nothing more than to provide her with the best possible life that her cancer saps from her.
Sometimes, the passage of time is not as delicate as a butterfly suckling nectar from a blooming flower. Instead, it can be as brutal as a slithering slug gorging itself on the petals, pistils, stamens and all, leaving nothing but a stump at the stem’s apex.
From her darkest day, light has shone through. She has found a newfound zest for life ever since being reunited with her brother, Marx and her daughter, Dawn. Even though Shawn had yet to repent for what Seromine and Dominic can both agree on calling ‘sins,’ it would not be God’s judgement that Shawn, nor anyone else who antagonised him or his family, would incur the wrath of.
That honour belongs to The Zenith.
Maybe it is the worries of his personal life that is causing the amplification of his current distress. The lack of a response from the opposite end of the line only adds to this further, rudely so considering the manic rush they had been forced to make in order to reach the correct payphone in Marchwood; an industrialised area of Southampton.
“Is anybody there?” Dominic beckons, trying to conjure some form of reply. He lets out a sigh. He contemplates placing the handset back on the hook to disengage the call.
“Ah, Mr. Atkinson,” a robotic female voice suddenly answers him, which prompts him to press the receiver closer to his ear. Clearly, the voice is fabricated, or at least distorted through the use of a synthesiser, but it is unquestionably female. “It is a pleasure to finally talk to you.”
“Finally is right! Who is this?” Dominic immediately asks the most basic question.
“My name is currently of no importance,” the synthetic lady replies.
“I beg to differ,” Dominic retorts quickly and abrasively. “Names are powerful. One can unlock a lot of secrets simply by knowing a name.” He looks back at Horacio, the inspiration for such a quote. The Chronological Order’s founder is shaking his head rapidly with widened eyes, as if he had just uttered a profanity to The Queen of England.
“I have many secrets that I would like to keep that way,” the voice replies, surprised by Dominic’s forwardness.
“There. We’re already getting to know each other,” Dominic grins. A period of awkward silence follows. “So, uhh, what can I do for you, exactly?” he finally prompts that his attention is undivided and genuine, devoid of any further noncompliance.
“I shaln’t divulge into great detail on what we do,” she begins. “Let’s just say that we are people who make things happen for the good of mankind. We seek those with strong wills to work alongside one another to each other’s benefit. I’m surprised that Horacio has not already told you a little about us.”
“He doesn’t tell me a lot of things,” Dominic admits.
“He truly is a man of his word,” the lady comments, apparently this Is spoken more to herself rather than directly to Dominic. It was as if she had spoken over her shoulder to somebody within her own vicinity. “I am pleased that you have stuck by him for so long. Longevity and commitment are commodities that are rare to find these days.”
“I know that. Just ask my ex-wife,” Dominic chuckles sarcastically. But no acerbity and mockery in the world could prepare him for what was coming next.
“It must have been something of a shock to discover that she remarried.”
He hasn’t thought about Jen in years. Literal years! In fact, the last time he saw her was at an old X-Treme Wrestling Federation convention long before his vertigo-inducing fall at the hands of Mighty Kid. The fact that he has only just learned this now should be indifferent. And yet, he develops a pit in his stomach.
He swallows.
“H-how do you know that?” he stammers.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the robotic female apologises with the same level of sarcasm displayed by Dominic seconds prior. “I thought you would have known. Yes, she married some guy named Steven. Butcher by trade. Nice guy. Bit on the chubby side for my liking, personally. But he seems to treat her well.” Dominic has been immobilised into stunned silence. He is still in shock. He and Jen had been together for a long time. Four years, in fact. Enough time had since passed to mend broken hearts. He was happy with Amy, but that did not make the news any less of a shock. “Did you know that back in medieval times, the use of a flaming arrow originated as a means of distraction,” the woman states with a knowing chuckle. “It was soon discovered that it could be used as a more efficacious form of attack. An arrow that misses its target, impacting only wooden construct, will only cause minor superficial damage. The addition of the flame results in destruction even if it fails to mortally wound its intended target.”
“You sound a lot like Horacio,” Dominic breaks his silence, forcing a giggle from the woman’s mouth. “I’m assuming the two of you have some form of history?”
“Not in the manner that you and Jen once shared,” she derides once more, “but yes, we have a particular common interest. You’re a truly fascinating individual, Dominic,” the woman adds slyly with a reptilian hiss in her electronic voice. “We’ve been observing you for a long time now, even before your tenure as part of the temporal vanguard.”
“You mean The Chronological Order,” he corrects.
“I know what I said,” the lady snaps back, crackling in Dominic’s ear. “What you must realise is that you are far more than a mere cog in Horacio Mortimer’s machine. You ARE the machine. All you needed was a change of parts; a humanised M.O.T, if you will. I don’t expect you to understand at this stage, but just know that we are willing to help you, if you are willing to help us.”
“Why me?” he clenches his fists, unable to determine what is happening anymore. It is as though he is being tested by some sort of secret service.
“Like I said, we’ve been watching you for a long time. We have witnessed your downward spirals and subsequent ascensions. We know of your early career back in NXCW. You haven’t heard that acronym for some time now, right?”
“How do I know that I can trust you?” he frowns, not acknowledging the frightening attention to detail relating to his past.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you this here and now,” the woman begins mystically, “but what I can tell you is that there are two individuals who seek the greatest form of vengeance against you, though they are for two separate reasons. They are plotting against you, Dominic. With our assistance, along with Horacio’s resources, we can both eradicate anyone that we deem unworthy.”
“You’re telling me something that I already know,” Dominic answers as a means of holding his ground. His statement holds water. He could list virtually every jealous member of the PCW roster whose eyes twinkled at the prospect of dethroning him as Underground King. The crown is as much of a target as it is a prize, though a prize worth defending nonetheless. “Perhaps you could be more specific,” he adds, exhibiting just as much cunning as the nameless woman to whom he speaks.
“I think we can go one better than that,” a giggle escapes her. “I will give you ten minutes to reach the payphone outside of Ashurst Train Station. I think you will find something there that might install a little faith in us; something for you to look forward to even during the grimmest of times.” Without another word, the line goes dead.
“Wait!” Dominic feebly calls out. It is no use. The black clouds smother the morning sky like hands. A large glob of rain splashes against Dominic’s skull with the force of a falling acorn. The vigour of its fall startles Dominic. Having deduced the obvious notion that more will follow, Dominic quickly returns to Horacio’s waiting vehicle, not even putting on his seat belt before delivering his instruction with the same level of urgency demonstrated by Horacio upon his initial arrival.
“Ashurst Train Station,” he states bluntly. Horacio does not question Dominic, complying by slamming the vehicle into reverse and executing a perfect hundred and eighty degree handbrake turn before forcing the car to lurch forward. No sooner than he had entered the automobile, the rainfall becomes torrential. The tyres struggle to grip the concrete beneath the unexpected magnitude of surface water. “Surely you must know who is doing this,” Dominic says as if asking a question.
“Indeed,” Mortimer nods, “but I’m afraid I cannot disclose too many details. At least not now.” Before Dominic can produce an argumentative response, Horacio come to a stop behind a row of stationary traffic leading to a T-junction, waiting to find a suitable slot in which to join the next queue. Mortimer takes the opportunity to lean backwards between the gap between the driver’s seat he occupies and the vacant passenger seat to his left. With a whisper, Dominic is barely able to hear Horacio’s words over the pulsating rainfall that tries to pierce the roof like arrows fired from the heavens.
“They are always listening. They always have been.”
With that, Horacio returns his focus to the congestion that inches forward at a snail’s pace; the final surge of commuters have started their respective journeys at the last possible moment. He doesn’t say a word, pensively looking around the cabin of the vehicle as if looking for anything that might be out of place; a listening device or a secret camera perhaps? He is displaying the signs of paranoia that the conspiracy theorists that he has been so fast to criticise in the past would exert.
At the mercy of the circulation of passing vehicles, Dominic glances at his watch. Two minutes have already passed. Ashurst is but a mere four and a half miles from their location in Marchwood, but a ten minute deadline is especially difficult to meet. Still, even with such a deadline in place, Dominic refuses to be denied, even though he may not truly know the ramifications.
The dissention in the ranks of the self-proclaimed cult had been evident since Dominator’s first exposure to such a group. With the convenience of their respective placements within The Icemann Invitational Tournament brackets, they were destined to face one another at some point.
The conflicting avarice of both men is sure to spill over into the realms of treason, be it during or after the final bell has been tolled. Given the vocal nature of Seromine’s grievances against the man he had taken under his wing, it would not be surprising.
Indeed, the very night that saw Dominator’s inauguration as Underground King, Gabriel’s jealous, spiteful and outright sinful nature perverted him into trying to blindside the new ruler. His wicked intentions, fuelled by emotions that would make Lucifer grin from ear to ear, inevitably spelt his own demise.
Dominator remembers. Gabriel remembers. Hell, even Pepperidge Farm remembers.
The initial attack was thwarted and was followed up by an emphatic defeat at the hands of the King that stamped Dominator’s name as one that should be treated with respect. His ability to go toe to toe and defeat one of the federation’s best seems to have long since been repressed by those who do not want to admit The Zenith’s credibility as a threat to their own successes.
Gabriel is a lost sheep, conflicted by what is right and what is wrong. From both standpoints, his justification is that his devotion and praise belongs to Seromine. It is why he wants to surpass him, but it is also why he wants to kneel before him. It will only be the spur of the moment that determines whether we see the crucifixion of Gabriel or the resurrection of Rick Majors.
But when faced with the immovable object that is The Zenith, there will be no ‘second coming.’
Having placed himself on a pedestal that apparently surpasses that of any deity, the notion that Seromine has a dedicated following is truly laughable. Given that a generation opts to pass time by oralling consuming Tide Pods and snorting condoms, it isn’t too far a stretch of the imagination to consider that there are indeed individuals out there who have nothing better to do other than follow the inane ramblings of a contradictory zealot.
Dominator does not command respect. He earns it. And like him or hate him, there is much to be said about the way The Zenith operates in comparison to Seromine. He has a literal army behind him to do his bidding. And, make no mistake, there are people pulling strings and offering guidance in Dominator’s favour as well. What is undeniable is that Dominator has accomplished his feats through his own merit when it comes to in-ring supremacy.
That is not to detract from the collection that is gathering dust in Phinehas’ trophy cabinet. There seems to be a general consensus about those who deem themselves superior that the position of Underground King is a detrimental representation of their abilities. How can that be the case when the day may come that somebody manages to dethrone the King who has brought it such prestige; the longest reign King since its inception.
There is a very real prospect that The Zenith could exchange his Underground Crown for a shot at an unsuspecting Kyle Shane or Justin “Stormm” Michaels through the simple passing of a piece of paper. It is an option that he would like to have at his disposal; an added bonus to the main reason contributing to his desire to win.
Seromine’s motive for victory is solely to promote his own ego, particularly with his wife apparently watching his every move like a succubus. It is truly a conundrum to decipher which is the lesser of two evils between the husband and wife. Gabriel’s reasoning lies within the realms of providing the ultimate insult to the man who has held him back for so long. As for Grimm, the rationalisation of his success might lie in the quest to stay relevant amidst the rise of younger, more dynamic talents; the likes of Kyle Shane and The Zenith himself.
It is no secret as to why Dominator has the drive to emerge as the victor of The Icemann Invitational Tournament. The championship opportunity, combined with the adoration and respect earned by finding attainment in such a prestigious setting would be the obvious choices. But with his pockets feeling even thinner than they have ever been, the pressure to support his family has felt worse than any scenario that the Pure Class Wrestling roster has been able to supply him with up to this point in time. If money is the root of all evil, then consider The Zenith as a devil to oppose gods.
With their defeat nigh, each of the three remaining semi-finals will come to understand that their efforts have been a complete waste of their time. Dominator will fight with more gusto and passion than he has ever fought with before. This is not about keeping his Underground Crown. This is not even about maintaining an untarnished record. This is not even about his future…
…but the future of his dying partner and defenceless child.
Times have changed. It is time for a new champion to surpass all who preceded him and carve their name into history. And who better to have their name etched in stone for all of time than the embodiment of the most powerful force in the known universe? One that stretches beyond the lifespan of any planet, any star or any galaxy?
As is to be expected, Horacio’s chaotic yet somehow well managed driving has resulted in a timely arrival in the picturesque village of Ashurst. While the train track splitting the village into two halves might be considered an eyesore, it somehow adds to the charm of the otherwise quiet little parish. Mounted on the wall, encased in an orange box-like container, the telephone is sat quietly. Dominic looks at his watch. They’ve over a minute to spare.
“I’m amazed that you didn’t get pulled over by the police, or get caught by any of the speed cameras,” Dominic impressively compliments his chauffer for the morning.
“There is time for praises and pleasantries later,” Horacio states, still looking concerned. In truth, Dominic felt the same nauseating sensation that he did when he first picked up the phone back in Marchwood. The air feels somehow more forgiving here, despite the diesel passenger trains rumbling through the village. Even though the storm clouds linger, the rain has finally stopped. Dominic steps out of the vehicle. No sooner than he does so, the telephone begins to ring. He notices one pedestrian nearby motion towards the phone as if to answer it himself. Not tolerating any malfunction to the plan, Dominic stomps towards the phone and snatches it before they can place their fingers on the receiver.
“This is Dominic speaking,” he greets with the same uncertainty in his voice as he had done before.
“Dominic?”
He immediately recognises that cute little voice.
“Amy!?”
“Oh my God!” she exclaims. “What are you doing on the other end of the phone?”
“Talking to you,” he jokingly responds. As pleased as he is to hear from his beautiful partner, an overwhelming sense of dread washes over him. Whoever these people are had not simply been watching over Dominic, but Amy and potentially even Dawn as well. “Amy, are you alone?” he asks with an extremely stern and stoic expression within his voice as well as etched across his face.
“No, Marx is here,” she confirms. “He was going to watch Dawn for me while I went for my chemotherapy, but I found this note saying to call this number at exactly this time with this little box next to it. I was just going to do some shopping first, so I thought I’d stick around and do it afterwards, you know?”
“Amy, listen very carefully,” Dominic says as calmly as possible. “Have you moved the box at all? Do you have any idea what might be inside.” Naturally, he expects the worse, given the bizarre set of circumstances that have built up to this moment. He can hear a hollow rattle, like a small clump of wood clattering against a cardboard box maybe five times its size in volume.
“Whatever it is, it must be quite small,” she says unsurely. “Should I open it?”
“So long as you think it is safe,” he replies, trying not to make the situation sound as hazardous it could potentially be. “I’ve had something of a weird morning so far,” he adds, sparing any further details.
“I’m opening it now,” Amy replies. Dominic can hear the piercing of security tape and the subsequent tearing, following by the rubbing of cardboard flaps resonating from within the hollow confines of the box itself. “What the…” Amy gasps. All goes silent for a moment. Something clops open, as if hinged on a spring.
“Amy?”
There’s no response. All he wants is for Amy to give him some form of indication that all is well and that the package is not as dangerous as his critical and vivid imagination is telling him that it is.
“Amy, will you…”
Suddenly…
A scream! An eardrum-rupturing, almost blood curdling scream!
“AMY!?” he shouts fearfully.
“Oh my God, Dominic!” she exclaims tearfully.
“What? What is it?” Dominic cries, trying to somehow make himself heard over Amy’s bawling. She does not immediately answer his question. She is continuing to scream and cry in unison. Helpless to the situation, Dominic shoots daggers towards Horacio momentarily. “Amy!” he calls once again. Heavy panting can be heard at the other end of the line.
“I can’t believe it!” Amy cries. “Of course! Of course I will marry you!”
He freezes.
“Marry!?”
“Yes! Yes! A thousand times, yes!” she squeals. “I love you! I love you so much! Please come home soon so we can celebrate!”
“O…kay,” he hesitantly replies, only to be met by another wave deafening screams before the line goes dead on him for the second time in a twenty minute period.
Is this some kind of sick joke? Or is their butterfingered way of trying to make things better for both Dominic and Amy alike during this difficult time? And who would even do something like this? Especially after informing him that his ex-wife had now remarried. He loves Amy and that is the truth, but after going through the trauma of one failed marriage already, he really did not see himself settling down into another.
Why does everything have to be such a clusterfuck? Why can’t things be simple?
He blankly walks back towards the waiting XC-90. Having rolled the window down in order to listen in to the conversation like a live podcast, Horacio has his arms folded and is leaning against the base of the open slot where the window has receded into the door panel.
“I suppose a wedding present is in order,” Horacio says, his composure now fully returned, much to the chagrin of The Zenith. On the upside, Dominic could at least use this as another method of getting back at Shawn. As callous a reason at this may be for agreeing to wed someone in holy matrimony, it was about the one upside that he could mentally conceive. “Here,” Horacio reaches into the glove box, withdrawing an A4 ‘Jiffy Bag’ envelope; one that is lined with bubble wrap on the inside. It bulges, as if crammed full of contents. “Consider this my gift to you and Amy.”
“It says ‘do not open until Friday 8th June,’ so what gives?” Dominic frowns.
“You have eyes, don’t you?” Horacio chuckles, this time taking about out of his client’s book. Within moments, Horacio pulls out of the train station car park and back in the direction from whence they came. Dominic continues to look at the envelope like a dog with a treat balanced on its nose.
He cannot wait to snap his jaws and clamp down on whatever might be contained inside.
TO BE CONTINUED…
...ANOTHER TIME
Location: Marchwood, Southampton, Hampshire, England, United Kingdom
Pensiveness consumes him. The anticipation of not knowing is always said to be worse than what one actually experiences. Given the anonymity of the caller, or even the nature of what conversation is to follow, Dominic would be forgiven for thinking in such a way.
He tries to think of the loving girl who dotes on his every breath. Even when he is focused on his career within both Pure Class Wrestling and The Chronological Order and having his time delegated to these roles over the woman he loves, she still stands by him. In return for her affection, he wants nothing more than to provide her with the best possible life that her cancer saps from her.
Sometimes, the passage of time is not as delicate as a butterfly suckling nectar from a blooming flower. Instead, it can be as brutal as a slithering slug gorging itself on the petals, pistils, stamens and all, leaving nothing but a stump at the stem’s apex.
From her darkest day, light has shone through. She has found a newfound zest for life ever since being reunited with her brother, Marx and her daughter, Dawn. Even though Shawn had yet to repent for what Seromine and Dominic can both agree on calling ‘sins,’ it would not be God’s judgement that Shawn, nor anyone else who antagonised him or his family, would incur the wrath of.
That honour belongs to The Zenith.
Maybe it is the worries of his personal life that is causing the amplification of his current distress. The lack of a response from the opposite end of the line only adds to this further, rudely so considering the manic rush they had been forced to make in order to reach the correct payphone in Marchwood; an industrialised area of Southampton.
“Is anybody there?” Dominic beckons, trying to conjure some form of reply. He lets out a sigh. He contemplates placing the handset back on the hook to disengage the call.
“Ah, Mr. Atkinson,” a robotic female voice suddenly answers him, which prompts him to press the receiver closer to his ear. Clearly, the voice is fabricated, or at least distorted through the use of a synthesiser, but it is unquestionably female. “It is a pleasure to finally talk to you.”
“Finally is right! Who is this?” Dominic immediately asks the most basic question.
“My name is currently of no importance,” the synthetic lady replies.
“I beg to differ,” Dominic retorts quickly and abrasively. “Names are powerful. One can unlock a lot of secrets simply by knowing a name.” He looks back at Horacio, the inspiration for such a quote. The Chronological Order’s founder is shaking his head rapidly with widened eyes, as if he had just uttered a profanity to The Queen of England.
“I have many secrets that I would like to keep that way,” the voice replies, surprised by Dominic’s forwardness.
“There. We’re already getting to know each other,” Dominic grins. A period of awkward silence follows. “So, uhh, what can I do for you, exactly?” he finally prompts that his attention is undivided and genuine, devoid of any further noncompliance.
“I shaln’t divulge into great detail on what we do,” she begins. “Let’s just say that we are people who make things happen for the good of mankind. We seek those with strong wills to work alongside one another to each other’s benefit. I’m surprised that Horacio has not already told you a little about us.”
“He doesn’t tell me a lot of things,” Dominic admits.
“He truly is a man of his word,” the lady comments, apparently this Is spoken more to herself rather than directly to Dominic. It was as if she had spoken over her shoulder to somebody within her own vicinity. “I am pleased that you have stuck by him for so long. Longevity and commitment are commodities that are rare to find these days.”
“I know that. Just ask my ex-wife,” Dominic chuckles sarcastically. But no acerbity and mockery in the world could prepare him for what was coming next.
“It must have been something of a shock to discover that she remarried.”
He hasn’t thought about Jen in years. Literal years! In fact, the last time he saw her was at an old X-Treme Wrestling Federation convention long before his vertigo-inducing fall at the hands of Mighty Kid. The fact that he has only just learned this now should be indifferent. And yet, he develops a pit in his stomach.
He swallows.
“H-how do you know that?” he stammers.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the robotic female apologises with the same level of sarcasm displayed by Dominic seconds prior. “I thought you would have known. Yes, she married some guy named Steven. Butcher by trade. Nice guy. Bit on the chubby side for my liking, personally. But he seems to treat her well.” Dominic has been immobilised into stunned silence. He is still in shock. He and Jen had been together for a long time. Four years, in fact. Enough time had since passed to mend broken hearts. He was happy with Amy, but that did not make the news any less of a shock. “Did you know that back in medieval times, the use of a flaming arrow originated as a means of distraction,” the woman states with a knowing chuckle. “It was soon discovered that it could be used as a more efficacious form of attack. An arrow that misses its target, impacting only wooden construct, will only cause minor superficial damage. The addition of the flame results in destruction even if it fails to mortally wound its intended target.”
“You sound a lot like Horacio,” Dominic breaks his silence, forcing a giggle from the woman’s mouth. “I’m assuming the two of you have some form of history?”
“Not in the manner that you and Jen once shared,” she derides once more, “but yes, we have a particular common interest. You’re a truly fascinating individual, Dominic,” the woman adds slyly with a reptilian hiss in her electronic voice. “We’ve been observing you for a long time now, even before your tenure as part of the temporal vanguard.”
“You mean The Chronological Order,” he corrects.
“I know what I said,” the lady snaps back, crackling in Dominic’s ear. “What you must realise is that you are far more than a mere cog in Horacio Mortimer’s machine. You ARE the machine. All you needed was a change of parts; a humanised M.O.T, if you will. I don’t expect you to understand at this stage, but just know that we are willing to help you, if you are willing to help us.”
“Why me?” he clenches his fists, unable to determine what is happening anymore. It is as though he is being tested by some sort of secret service.
“Like I said, we’ve been watching you for a long time. We have witnessed your downward spirals and subsequent ascensions. We know of your early career back in NXCW. You haven’t heard that acronym for some time now, right?”
“How do I know that I can trust you?” he frowns, not acknowledging the frightening attention to detail relating to his past.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you this here and now,” the woman begins mystically, “but what I can tell you is that there are two individuals who seek the greatest form of vengeance against you, though they are for two separate reasons. They are plotting against you, Dominic. With our assistance, along with Horacio’s resources, we can both eradicate anyone that we deem unworthy.”
“You’re telling me something that I already know,” Dominic answers as a means of holding his ground. His statement holds water. He could list virtually every jealous member of the PCW roster whose eyes twinkled at the prospect of dethroning him as Underground King. The crown is as much of a target as it is a prize, though a prize worth defending nonetheless. “Perhaps you could be more specific,” he adds, exhibiting just as much cunning as the nameless woman to whom he speaks.
“I think we can go one better than that,” a giggle escapes her. “I will give you ten minutes to reach the payphone outside of Ashurst Train Station. I think you will find something there that might install a little faith in us; something for you to look forward to even during the grimmest of times.” Without another word, the line goes dead.
“Wait!” Dominic feebly calls out. It is no use. The black clouds smother the morning sky like hands. A large glob of rain splashes against Dominic’s skull with the force of a falling acorn. The vigour of its fall startles Dominic. Having deduced the obvious notion that more will follow, Dominic quickly returns to Horacio’s waiting vehicle, not even putting on his seat belt before delivering his instruction with the same level of urgency demonstrated by Horacio upon his initial arrival.
“Ashurst Train Station,” he states bluntly. Horacio does not question Dominic, complying by slamming the vehicle into reverse and executing a perfect hundred and eighty degree handbrake turn before forcing the car to lurch forward. No sooner than he had entered the automobile, the rainfall becomes torrential. The tyres struggle to grip the concrete beneath the unexpected magnitude of surface water. “Surely you must know who is doing this,” Dominic says as if asking a question.
“Indeed,” Mortimer nods, “but I’m afraid I cannot disclose too many details. At least not now.” Before Dominic can produce an argumentative response, Horacio come to a stop behind a row of stationary traffic leading to a T-junction, waiting to find a suitable slot in which to join the next queue. Mortimer takes the opportunity to lean backwards between the gap between the driver’s seat he occupies and the vacant passenger seat to his left. With a whisper, Dominic is barely able to hear Horacio’s words over the pulsating rainfall that tries to pierce the roof like arrows fired from the heavens.
“They are always listening. They always have been.”
With that, Horacio returns his focus to the congestion that inches forward at a snail’s pace; the final surge of commuters have started their respective journeys at the last possible moment. He doesn’t say a word, pensively looking around the cabin of the vehicle as if looking for anything that might be out of place; a listening device or a secret camera perhaps? He is displaying the signs of paranoia that the conspiracy theorists that he has been so fast to criticise in the past would exert.
At the mercy of the circulation of passing vehicles, Dominic glances at his watch. Two minutes have already passed. Ashurst is but a mere four and a half miles from their location in Marchwood, but a ten minute deadline is especially difficult to meet. Still, even with such a deadline in place, Dominic refuses to be denied, even though he may not truly know the ramifications.
The dissention in the ranks of the self-proclaimed cult had been evident since Dominator’s first exposure to such a group. With the convenience of their respective placements within The Icemann Invitational Tournament brackets, they were destined to face one another at some point.
The conflicting avarice of both men is sure to spill over into the realms of treason, be it during or after the final bell has been tolled. Given the vocal nature of Seromine’s grievances against the man he had taken under his wing, it would not be surprising.
Indeed, the very night that saw Dominator’s inauguration as Underground King, Gabriel’s jealous, spiteful and outright sinful nature perverted him into trying to blindside the new ruler. His wicked intentions, fuelled by emotions that would make Lucifer grin from ear to ear, inevitably spelt his own demise.
Dominator remembers. Gabriel remembers. Hell, even Pepperidge Farm remembers.
The initial attack was thwarted and was followed up by an emphatic defeat at the hands of the King that stamped Dominator’s name as one that should be treated with respect. His ability to go toe to toe and defeat one of the federation’s best seems to have long since been repressed by those who do not want to admit The Zenith’s credibility as a threat to their own successes.
Gabriel is a lost sheep, conflicted by what is right and what is wrong. From both standpoints, his justification is that his devotion and praise belongs to Seromine. It is why he wants to surpass him, but it is also why he wants to kneel before him. It will only be the spur of the moment that determines whether we see the crucifixion of Gabriel or the resurrection of Rick Majors.
But when faced with the immovable object that is The Zenith, there will be no ‘second coming.’
Having placed himself on a pedestal that apparently surpasses that of any deity, the notion that Seromine has a dedicated following is truly laughable. Given that a generation opts to pass time by oralling consuming Tide Pods and snorting condoms, it isn’t too far a stretch of the imagination to consider that there are indeed individuals out there who have nothing better to do other than follow the inane ramblings of a contradictory zealot.
Dominator does not command respect. He earns it. And like him or hate him, there is much to be said about the way The Zenith operates in comparison to Seromine. He has a literal army behind him to do his bidding. And, make no mistake, there are people pulling strings and offering guidance in Dominator’s favour as well. What is undeniable is that Dominator has accomplished his feats through his own merit when it comes to in-ring supremacy.
That is not to detract from the collection that is gathering dust in Phinehas’ trophy cabinet. There seems to be a general consensus about those who deem themselves superior that the position of Underground King is a detrimental representation of their abilities. How can that be the case when the day may come that somebody manages to dethrone the King who has brought it such prestige; the longest reign King since its inception.
There is a very real prospect that The Zenith could exchange his Underground Crown for a shot at an unsuspecting Kyle Shane or Justin “Stormm” Michaels through the simple passing of a piece of paper. It is an option that he would like to have at his disposal; an added bonus to the main reason contributing to his desire to win.
Seromine’s motive for victory is solely to promote his own ego, particularly with his wife apparently watching his every move like a succubus. It is truly a conundrum to decipher which is the lesser of two evils between the husband and wife. Gabriel’s reasoning lies within the realms of providing the ultimate insult to the man who has held him back for so long. As for Grimm, the rationalisation of his success might lie in the quest to stay relevant amidst the rise of younger, more dynamic talents; the likes of Kyle Shane and The Zenith himself.
It is no secret as to why Dominator has the drive to emerge as the victor of The Icemann Invitational Tournament. The championship opportunity, combined with the adoration and respect earned by finding attainment in such a prestigious setting would be the obvious choices. But with his pockets feeling even thinner than they have ever been, the pressure to support his family has felt worse than any scenario that the Pure Class Wrestling roster has been able to supply him with up to this point in time. If money is the root of all evil, then consider The Zenith as a devil to oppose gods.
With their defeat nigh, each of the three remaining semi-finals will come to understand that their efforts have been a complete waste of their time. Dominator will fight with more gusto and passion than he has ever fought with before. This is not about keeping his Underground Crown. This is not even about maintaining an untarnished record. This is not even about his future…
…but the future of his dying partner and defenceless child.
Times have changed. It is time for a new champion to surpass all who preceded him and carve their name into history. And who better to have their name etched in stone for all of time than the embodiment of the most powerful force in the known universe? One that stretches beyond the lifespan of any planet, any star or any galaxy?
As is to be expected, Horacio’s chaotic yet somehow well managed driving has resulted in a timely arrival in the picturesque village of Ashurst. While the train track splitting the village into two halves might be considered an eyesore, it somehow adds to the charm of the otherwise quiet little parish. Mounted on the wall, encased in an orange box-like container, the telephone is sat quietly. Dominic looks at his watch. They’ve over a minute to spare.
“I’m amazed that you didn’t get pulled over by the police, or get caught by any of the speed cameras,” Dominic impressively compliments his chauffer for the morning.
“There is time for praises and pleasantries later,” Horacio states, still looking concerned. In truth, Dominic felt the same nauseating sensation that he did when he first picked up the phone back in Marchwood. The air feels somehow more forgiving here, despite the diesel passenger trains rumbling through the village. Even though the storm clouds linger, the rain has finally stopped. Dominic steps out of the vehicle. No sooner than he does so, the telephone begins to ring. He notices one pedestrian nearby motion towards the phone as if to answer it himself. Not tolerating any malfunction to the plan, Dominic stomps towards the phone and snatches it before they can place their fingers on the receiver.
“This is Dominic speaking,” he greets with the same uncertainty in his voice as he had done before.
“Dominic?”
He immediately recognises that cute little voice.
“Amy!?”
“Oh my God!” she exclaims. “What are you doing on the other end of the phone?”
“Talking to you,” he jokingly responds. As pleased as he is to hear from his beautiful partner, an overwhelming sense of dread washes over him. Whoever these people are had not simply been watching over Dominic, but Amy and potentially even Dawn as well. “Amy, are you alone?” he asks with an extremely stern and stoic expression within his voice as well as etched across his face.
“No, Marx is here,” she confirms. “He was going to watch Dawn for me while I went for my chemotherapy, but I found this note saying to call this number at exactly this time with this little box next to it. I was just going to do some shopping first, so I thought I’d stick around and do it afterwards, you know?”
“Amy, listen very carefully,” Dominic says as calmly as possible. “Have you moved the box at all? Do you have any idea what might be inside.” Naturally, he expects the worse, given the bizarre set of circumstances that have built up to this moment. He can hear a hollow rattle, like a small clump of wood clattering against a cardboard box maybe five times its size in volume.
“Whatever it is, it must be quite small,” she says unsurely. “Should I open it?”
“So long as you think it is safe,” he replies, trying not to make the situation sound as hazardous it could potentially be. “I’ve had something of a weird morning so far,” he adds, sparing any further details.
“I’m opening it now,” Amy replies. Dominic can hear the piercing of security tape and the subsequent tearing, following by the rubbing of cardboard flaps resonating from within the hollow confines of the box itself. “What the…” Amy gasps. All goes silent for a moment. Something clops open, as if hinged on a spring.
“Amy?”
There’s no response. All he wants is for Amy to give him some form of indication that all is well and that the package is not as dangerous as his critical and vivid imagination is telling him that it is.
“Amy, will you…”
Suddenly…
A scream! An eardrum-rupturing, almost blood curdling scream!
“AMY!?” he shouts fearfully.
“Oh my God, Dominic!” she exclaims tearfully.
“What? What is it?” Dominic cries, trying to somehow make himself heard over Amy’s bawling. She does not immediately answer his question. She is continuing to scream and cry in unison. Helpless to the situation, Dominic shoots daggers towards Horacio momentarily. “Amy!” he calls once again. Heavy panting can be heard at the other end of the line.
“I can’t believe it!” Amy cries. “Of course! Of course I will marry you!”
He freezes.
“Marry!?”
“Yes! Yes! A thousand times, yes!” she squeals. “I love you! I love you so much! Please come home soon so we can celebrate!”
“O…kay,” he hesitantly replies, only to be met by another wave deafening screams before the line goes dead on him for the second time in a twenty minute period.
Is this some kind of sick joke? Or is their butterfingered way of trying to make things better for both Dominic and Amy alike during this difficult time? And who would even do something like this? Especially after informing him that his ex-wife had now remarried. He loves Amy and that is the truth, but after going through the trauma of one failed marriage already, he really did not see himself settling down into another.
Why does everything have to be such a clusterfuck? Why can’t things be simple?
He blankly walks back towards the waiting XC-90. Having rolled the window down in order to listen in to the conversation like a live podcast, Horacio has his arms folded and is leaning against the base of the open slot where the window has receded into the door panel.
“I suppose a wedding present is in order,” Horacio says, his composure now fully returned, much to the chagrin of The Zenith. On the upside, Dominic could at least use this as another method of getting back at Shawn. As callous a reason at this may be for agreeing to wed someone in holy matrimony, it was about the one upside that he could mentally conceive. “Here,” Horacio reaches into the glove box, withdrawing an A4 ‘Jiffy Bag’ envelope; one that is lined with bubble wrap on the inside. It bulges, as if crammed full of contents. “Consider this my gift to you and Amy.”
“It says ‘do not open until Friday 8th June,’ so what gives?” Dominic frowns.
“You have eyes, don’t you?” Horacio chuckles, this time taking about out of his client’s book. Within moments, Horacio pulls out of the train station car park and back in the direction from whence they came. Dominic continues to look at the envelope like a dog with a treat balanced on its nose.
He cannot wait to snap his jaws and clamp down on whatever might be contained inside.
TO BE CONTINUED…
...ANOTHER TIME
