Post by Dominator / Mortimer on Aug 27, 2018 20:59:22 GMT -5
Thursday 23rd August 2018 - 1.37pm
Location: Salisbury Crematorium, Salisbury, England, United Kingdom
Time slows for no man; that much is true. But it does seem to have at least some discretion, permitting a period of mourning. The days and weeks felt like months and years; the same images and memories continue to pass through the minds of those who loved her like a never-ending convoy of freight trains hauling trailer after trailer of cerebral cargo through the station. Nobody could disembark and nobody could move on; such is the way when one is denied the closure that is so desperately needed in these situations.
Whoever says that it only takes a certain amount of time to recover from a bereavement clearly have not experienced such pain; like having one’s beating heart torn from their flesh by the celestial inhabitants of the afterlife themselves, leaving behind nothing but an empty hole. Some say, in these situations, that the passing of a loved one should not be a moment of sorrow, but of celebration for the life that they had cherished.
Twenty five mentally-strenuous days removed from the ill-fated altercation that resulted in Amy’s death, the time for ‘celebrating’ had finally arrived. The ceremony had been kept as private as possible. Only immediate family and the closest of friends had been invited to attend proceedings. There were no more than twenty people; many of whom Dominic had never met outside of pictures on Facebook and Instagram. Amy’s parents and her brother, Marx, were sat on the front row. Shawn joined them, a familiar infant sat on his lap. Everybody in attendance stared towards a pale wooden coffin garbed in a flowery reef that dominates the scene; the focal point of their presence.
…a view that Dominic ignored from the back of the chapel.
The service had lasted no longer than half an hour, yet Dominic had induced himself into such a deep trance that, for the first time in weeks, it felt significantly less than that. His line of sight had traversed the aisle and remained transfixed at a stained-glass window at the rear of the church beyond the altar; a multi-coloured depiction of the Virgin Mary watched over him. He could not shake the image of Amy from his head; amplified by the spectral image that the windows projected. It was as though Amy herself was present, staring down at Dominic from above.
Yet where sorrow perhaps should have been exhibited, in it’s place rested a firm level of distain. Distain towards Amy’s choice. Distain towards his location. Distain towards the whole ordeal.
The only motions he had made was to stand during hymns and sit upon their completion. Even then, he did not move his mouth nor make a sound during said songs of praise. The drone of the pipe organ that echoed grimly throughout the ceremony felt like nothing but white noise. Marx had recited a eulogy that was moving to the other mourners, but had fallen on deaf ears in The Zenith‘s case. Even the priest’s soft paraphrasing of the Holy Bible did little to stir Dominic from his transfixed glare.
One does not have to shed a tear in order to mourn. Different people react to different things in different ways. It is just one of the criteria that contributes to what makes each individual person unique.
At long last, the service came to a close.
He was the first to vacate, given his intentionally close proximity to the door leading out of the chapel which was separate from the one that they had entered. Outside, tombstones of those who had wished to be buried rather than cremated act at the lookouts that watch over the heightened mounds of grass that form graves, doubling as both a guardian and a testimony to their hosts so that their names may stand the test of time, no matter how great the attempts of moss and natural grime attempt to tarnish them.
Much to his chagrin, the first person to follow him out of the door is Shawn Metallinos. Shawn tries to make eye contact, but this action is not reciprocated. Through his peripheral vision, Dominic does notice that Dawn is no longer in his company; most likely being handed to her grandparents or her uncle, Marx. In order to distract himself for a moment, he rummages around the interior of his jacket pocket. He partially withdraws what appears to be a dog-eared white envelope, checking that it is still in his possession before sliding it out of view before it might be detected.
“That was nice service,” Shawn says awkwardly, trying to strike a conversation that Dominic can partake in on the most basic level. It is obvious from his body language that there are literally millions people in the world that he would rather share company with at this moment in time other than this man.
“Yeah,” Dominic forces himself to respond out of politeness more so than anything else. Silence may have been a less discomfited reaction than the grunt that he had just produced, but Shawn takes this retort and runs with it.
“Not too long, not too short,” he continues almost aimlessly. “I’m sure The Chronological Order can appreciate moderation more than anybody else.” Dominic senses the desperation in Shawn’s voice to reconnect. He finally rewards Shawn’s approach by meeting his look head on. He shrugs, equally as flippant as before.
“I guess,” he murmurs as more people begin to pile out of the crematorium. Uncomfortable at the prospect of any potential ear-wiggers including themselves in their conversation, Dominic takes a step further into the open towards the gate leading out onto the street. Shawn follows, almost uncertain as to whether he should continue to pursue or not.
“I know things have been hard for you recently,” Shawn tries to sound as compassionate as he can, a far cry from the self-absorbed megalomaniac-like persona he had adopted just months prior, “but I want you to know that if you need anything at all from me, I’m happy to help you out. We’re all in the same boat here. I feel it’s the least I can do.”
“I appreciate the offer,” Dominic says insincerely, “but the last thing I want right now is your sympathy. I have plenty of obligations to uphold, even with everything that has happened.” He notices Shawn’s disheartened look. It is genuine; the most genuine look Dominic has ever seen from him even during the years where their friendship had reached it’s own zenith. “If anything, I suggest you focus on your own future. After all, your reliability as a human being is going to be put under great scrutiny from this point onwards, particular if you don’t seek to improve yourself and make good on your claims of righting the wrongs of recent times.”
“What do you mean by that?” Shawn asks. In unison, Dominic and Shawn turn their heads towards the buggy that secures Dawn, currently in the possession of Amy‘s parents, who are talking with some of the guests. The blissful innocence of Dawn’s youth blinds her to the tragedy that has befallen her and her family.
“She is your daughter. She is your daughter,” Dominic stifles his malcontent. “She’s barely a year old, but she’s suffered more trauma than some people a hundred times her age have throughout their entire lives.” It is at this moment that he unleashes a heavy sigh. “I can’t let her suffer anymore than she has to. We need to come to a positive understanding here, Shawn. For her sake.”
“What do you suggest?” Shawn blurts out, the uncharacteristic benevolence of The Zenith catches him completely by surprise.
“It pains me to do this, it really does,” Dominic mutters through gritted teeth, as if trying to hold back the words that he knows will break out regardless, “but I think you should speak to Mr and Mrs. Trenton and come to some sort of arrangement with them in terms of Dawn‘s custody.” Shawn lets out a gasp, but Dominic pauses only for breath. “They have been taking care of Dawn for a significant amount of time throughout the past several months and to dismiss their involvement would be an insult to them. They’ve already lost their daughter. I’m sure they do not want to lose their granddaughter as well.” Shawn immediately nods in agreement whilst letting out a flicker of a smile. This was the victory that he had wanted all along.
And yet… it felt hollow. He did not feel as though he had managed to get what he desired by outsmarting his nemesis. The bonds of their former friendship may have been shredded, but they were not completely broken. They had been hanging by a thread, but Dominic’s selflessness had weaved newfound respect into their wounded relationship like stitches closing a wound in order for it to heal.
“Listen,” Shawn says sombrely as he shamefacedly hangs his head, “I know we’ve had our differences recently and I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve acted like a jerk. I don’t want to just cut you out of Dawn’s life. You may not be her biological father, but you’ve raised her as if she were your own. And if that isn’t love, then I don’t know what is.” He makes an extremely valid point, but it is not one that Dominic is willing to consider at this stage of the mourning process.
“I just…”
“Dominic!”
Their conversation is cut short by an approaching Marx, who immediately reaches out for Dominic’s hand. A subsequent embrace catches him off guard. Of course, Marx has just as great a reason to mourn as Dominic. Amy’s brother had only been a part of her life for the past six months. They had made a strong sibling bond in that relatively short time. Dominic ensured that any time they shared was not hindered with his presence… or rather the other way around.
“I’m glad you made it,” Marx says a little shakily. “I was worried that you weren’t going to show up.” Indeed, he had arrived mere seconds after the coffin had been laid to rest on the altar-like pedestal at the front of the chapel.
“You know full well I wasn’t going to miss it,” Dominic dismisses.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” he apologises in advance, “but can I borrow Shawn for a few moments?”
“By all means,”
“It’s a shame that Horacio and Ruth couldn’t get here,” Marx remarks. It was not of surprise to him, but it could not be denied that Dominic was disheartened upon noticing that both Ruth Dillinger and Horacio Mortimer were not in attendance. Horacio’s absence was at least somewhat warranted. To The Zenith’s knowledge, The Chronological Order’s chieftain had yet to be discharged from hospital despite his road to recovery being smooth. Rather than rely on the National Health Service, Horacio had gone private. With the demand for beds in private hospitals being nowhere near as strained as the NHS, Horacio had been allowed to stay for as long as he and the doctors deemed necessary.
He had an excuse.
Ruth, on the other hand, did not.
She was there. She was there when Amy died. Debatably, it was her interference in his affairs that had contributed towards the deceased’s decision to drive to suicide. The manipulated marriage proposal, her insistence that Dominic maintain restraint even after learning the depths of Amy’s deception that she orchestrated alongside Shawn.
Not to label her as the scapegoat in all of this, but he could not help but believe that Ruth was entitled towards some of the blame. He had restrained himself because of Ruth and the impression that he wanted to make within The Black Hand. Even now, he still does not know how deep the connection between the Dillingers and The Chronological Order runs.
Deception seems to be a recurring theme through Dominic’s life at this stage.
When someone opts to take their own life, they merely leave their pain behind for other to unwillingly adopt. But when somebody’s life is taken from them in defiance of their own will, what will they have left behind? Not in a material sense of money, family, friends, properties or possessions, but rather their hopes, their dreams and their legacy. The world might never know, all resultant of another man’s avarice.
Might that be something that someone with Arsen Goodstone’s vocation ever contemplates? How many lives he might taint to supplement the monetary value of his greed? What goes through the mind of a killer during the split second between pulling the trigger and drawing blood?
The likelihood of the matter is that he wouldn’t give a fuck.
The personal connection isn’t there. For someone like Arsen Goodstone, killing a man is as indifferent as stepping on a spider or swatting a bee. Chances are that he has never suffered such a crushing blow in his entire life. Alternatively, he has suffered so many hardships that this is his level of vengeance against the world, destroying life whilst getting something that he wants in return.
If it happens to be the former, then he should prepare for weeks of pent-up anger and aggression to be thrown his way at full force. Not even the dispatch of Johnny Matthews had been enough to quench the thirst for vengeance possessed by The Zenith.
In many ways, everybody under the employ of Pure Class Wrestling could be considered as assassins. They are contractual obliged and subsequently paid to betray their ethics of modern society masked as combat for the sake of entertainment.
In that regard, The Zenith is a far more efficacious hitman than Arsen Goodstone could ever dream of being. There is a certain irony that accompanies the assassination of a hired gun; the horror experienced by the hunter when they realise that they have become the hunted.
To exist with one’s destiny shattered into a million shards at the hands of The Zenith… to live with that despair yields greater misery. In that regard, death would be a blessed release to the hapless victim who falls at his hand.
Just ask Alexa Black and Hiroshi Yukio.
Just ask Johnny Matthews.
With the sheer quantity of career-fatality’s piling up week by week, Dominator’s résumé seemingly perpetually improves. It will not be tarnished at the hands of someone as immoral and unethical as Arsen Goodstone.
With the defeat of Johnny Matthews, Dominator’s end game of becoming the longest reigning champion in PCW drawers ever closer. It is an optimistic goal, to some. However, with every passing day, the realisation that this could indeed become a reality becomes so much more vivid. Whilst Dominator seeks to cement his legacy as one of the best competitors ever to step foot in a PCW ring, Arson Goodstone will most likely still be trying to find a way to obtain a clean victory over someone who can only be described as a ‘supposed intergalactic superhero.’
What kind of hitman cannot even topple someone of such disillusion?
Whatever misconstrued obligations that Arsen has dreamt up for himself ahead of this attempted regicide, this will be one contract that he simply cannot fulfil; a mission that offers only futility and an opportunity that is destined to be missed.
Even during the darkest of times, there is a fire that burns; a never-ending flame that is ready to rage as an inferno. As such, there is a name given to the act of deliberately and criminally starting a destructive blaze of fire. They call is ‘Arson.’
“What a noble act,” a male voice states from behind him. Dominic immediately jerks his head from his fixed gaze towards nothing to notice that Marx and Shawn had moved to the location where Amy’s parents and Dawn were stood while he was spacing out. Upon noticing this, he looks towards the source of the abrupt, if not sharply dressed distraction.
“Horacio.”
“I’m feeling much better. Thanks for asking,” Horacio’s sarcasm immediately comes into play. Sure enough, Horacio has returned to the picture of health that he looked prior to Johnny Matthews’ assault. He is dressed in a suit that is near identical in material and coloration to that which Dominic wears. He is freshly shaven, even his spectacles look specially polished and cleansed for the occasion, not displaying the usual smudges and specks of skin and/or dandruff that sit on the lenses. “I trust all went well?”
“As well as it could have done, given the circumstances,” Dominic replies, ensuring he is out of earshot of anybody else. “What are you doing here anyway? I didn’t realise you were out of hospital.”
“I signed myself out this morning,” Horacio replies with a smile. “There is only so much daytime television that I can tolerate. Sitting in a hospital bed, doing nothing, restricted by casts and wires coming out of my skin, it was torture. I feel good enough in myself to resume my daily duties. Goodness knows how severely my recovery time has eaten into my routine.”
“Are you using that as an excuse for being late to the service?” Dominic chuckles. Horacio shakes his head.
“My excuse for being late is that somebody happened to hijack my car and drove it into a river,” Horacio scorns callously. Dominic immediately frowns. Yes, he did notice that the Volvo XC-90 that Amy had used on that fateful day did indeed belong to Horacio. How she acquired it is a question that flashes through his mind momentarily. Horacio’s continuation derails this thought. “I had to rely on a local taxi to get here. Their timekeeping skills clearly do not match to those of The Chronological Order.”
“Listen, I’m sorry about your car,” Dominic begins, “but do you have to be so blunt about it? Amy’s family is here and the last thing they need right now if to be made to feel even worse about it all.”
“Why do you suddenly care?” Horacio smiles, amused by Dominic’s amount of concern.
What Dominic says next stuns Horacio.
“I don’t!”
Unbeknowst to Shawn, Dominic’s reasons for allowing Dawn to live with her biological family were anything but selfless. In fact, if Shawn were to discover just how ulterior his motives were, he would realise that they were, in fact, totally selfish.
“Amy’s parents never were very fond of me,” Dominic admits to Horacio in hushed tones. “They always saw Shawn and Amy as a couple that would last forever. In their eyes, I wasn’t good enough for her. They’re deeply religious, you know. That’s the only reason I’ve even stepped foot in this church. If this is the way I must commemorate Amy’s life, then so be it. Of course, they believe that The Chronological Order is blasphemous to God and they despised the fact that Amy was a part of it…”
“Wait, stop, stop, stop,” Horacio cuts Dominic off. “Why are you only bringing this up now?”
“It’s just one of the countless things that have been on my mind recently,” Dominic blurts out as if it is the first answer that pops into his head. “Amy was sick, I had virtually no time to spend with her and Dawn. Any time we did share, more often than not she was too tired or poorly to do anything. It was there, constantly at the back of my mind that something might happen.
“From where I’m stood, it sounds like you’re using it as an excuse,” Horacio states with the utmost of conviction, earning a deathly glare from his client. The Zenith looms over Horacio, frowning to the point where his vision begins to blur.
“The woman I loved has just died, Horacio,” Dominic growls.
“Did you truly love her though?” Horacio ponders aloud. This was seemingly done intentionally as if solely to gauge what reaction The Zenith would produce. “Or did you simply love her as a level of one-upmanship over your rival; a trophy wife in your ongoing feud that you felt you needed to appease?”
“That is one of the most depraved and disgusting things that I’ve ever heard you say,” Dominic snarls, completely abhorred by Horacio’s sudden
“Only because they’ve come out of my mouth and not yours,” Horacio retorts. Dominic inhales, ready to produce yet another rebuttal.
“I haven’t missed you in the slightest these past few weeks,” Dominic insults his mentor in an almost immature sense of defeat.
“So I’m right then?” Horacio goads even further. “And you have the audacity to accuse me of withholding information…”
“Just shut up!” Dominic finally snaps. “You want to know the truth? Yes, it is a release. And there is a part of me that is pleased that I don’t have to deal with this situation anymore. But that doesn’t mean that it’s the right way to think. It’s selfish. I can’t use Amy’s illness to justify what I have done or how I feel,” he acknowledges.
“Exactly! There are no more excuses, Dominic,” Horacio says firmly, his hands clasped behind his back, which only further exudes his confidence. “One way or another, you wanted to vanquish all of your demons. And, even though the circumstances have been far from idyllic, Amy’s death could yet breathe new life into you. It will be her lasting impression that you may continue to carry for the rest of your days.”
“I need time.”
“I understand,” Horacio bows his head comfortingly. “But have no fear. We have plenty.”
Dominic turns in preparation to make his exit, prompted to do so as Horacio begins to walk towards the gateway leading to the street on which his vehicle is parked.
“Hey, Dominic,” a voice calls from behind. Both Horacio and Dominic turn to face Shawn, who is accompanied by Marx at his side and Dawn in his arms. “You’re coming to the wake, aren’t you?” The Zenith squints his eyes in order to deliberate this offer. He looks towards Horacio, who responds by looking at his watch. Looking back once again, he sees the expectant faces of Marx and Shawn.
Without a word, Dominic turns his back on Shawn, his stubbornness acting as the barrier that prevents any amends being made.
That is… until…
“Da-Da!”
Dominic immediately pivots on the sport, staring at a whimpering Dawn. Her face has turned red. Her bottom lip protrudes outwards, almost hanging further away from her face than her button-like nose. He hangs his head, closing his fist. This isn’t the situation he wants to be in.
“Of course we are.”
Marx lets out a smile, as does Shawn. Their grins come more out of surprise than anything else.
For the agreement did not escape from Dominic’s lips…
…but Horacio’s.
Location: Salisbury Crematorium, Salisbury, England, United Kingdom
Time slows for no man; that much is true. But it does seem to have at least some discretion, permitting a period of mourning. The days and weeks felt like months and years; the same images and memories continue to pass through the minds of those who loved her like a never-ending convoy of freight trains hauling trailer after trailer of cerebral cargo through the station. Nobody could disembark and nobody could move on; such is the way when one is denied the closure that is so desperately needed in these situations.
Whoever says that it only takes a certain amount of time to recover from a bereavement clearly have not experienced such pain; like having one’s beating heart torn from their flesh by the celestial inhabitants of the afterlife themselves, leaving behind nothing but an empty hole. Some say, in these situations, that the passing of a loved one should not be a moment of sorrow, but of celebration for the life that they had cherished.
Twenty five mentally-strenuous days removed from the ill-fated altercation that resulted in Amy’s death, the time for ‘celebrating’ had finally arrived. The ceremony had been kept as private as possible. Only immediate family and the closest of friends had been invited to attend proceedings. There were no more than twenty people; many of whom Dominic had never met outside of pictures on Facebook and Instagram. Amy’s parents and her brother, Marx, were sat on the front row. Shawn joined them, a familiar infant sat on his lap. Everybody in attendance stared towards a pale wooden coffin garbed in a flowery reef that dominates the scene; the focal point of their presence.
…a view that Dominic ignored from the back of the chapel.
The service had lasted no longer than half an hour, yet Dominic had induced himself into such a deep trance that, for the first time in weeks, it felt significantly less than that. His line of sight had traversed the aisle and remained transfixed at a stained-glass window at the rear of the church beyond the altar; a multi-coloured depiction of the Virgin Mary watched over him. He could not shake the image of Amy from his head; amplified by the spectral image that the windows projected. It was as though Amy herself was present, staring down at Dominic from above.
Yet where sorrow perhaps should have been exhibited, in it’s place rested a firm level of distain. Distain towards Amy’s choice. Distain towards his location. Distain towards the whole ordeal.
The only motions he had made was to stand during hymns and sit upon their completion. Even then, he did not move his mouth nor make a sound during said songs of praise. The drone of the pipe organ that echoed grimly throughout the ceremony felt like nothing but white noise. Marx had recited a eulogy that was moving to the other mourners, but had fallen on deaf ears in The Zenith‘s case. Even the priest’s soft paraphrasing of the Holy Bible did little to stir Dominic from his transfixed glare.
One does not have to shed a tear in order to mourn. Different people react to different things in different ways. It is just one of the criteria that contributes to what makes each individual person unique.
At long last, the service came to a close.
He was the first to vacate, given his intentionally close proximity to the door leading out of the chapel which was separate from the one that they had entered. Outside, tombstones of those who had wished to be buried rather than cremated act at the lookouts that watch over the heightened mounds of grass that form graves, doubling as both a guardian and a testimony to their hosts so that their names may stand the test of time, no matter how great the attempts of moss and natural grime attempt to tarnish them.
Much to his chagrin, the first person to follow him out of the door is Shawn Metallinos. Shawn tries to make eye contact, but this action is not reciprocated. Through his peripheral vision, Dominic does notice that Dawn is no longer in his company; most likely being handed to her grandparents or her uncle, Marx. In order to distract himself for a moment, he rummages around the interior of his jacket pocket. He partially withdraws what appears to be a dog-eared white envelope, checking that it is still in his possession before sliding it out of view before it might be detected.
“That was nice service,” Shawn says awkwardly, trying to strike a conversation that Dominic can partake in on the most basic level. It is obvious from his body language that there are literally millions people in the world that he would rather share company with at this moment in time other than this man.
“Yeah,” Dominic forces himself to respond out of politeness more so than anything else. Silence may have been a less discomfited reaction than the grunt that he had just produced, but Shawn takes this retort and runs with it.
“Not too long, not too short,” he continues almost aimlessly. “I’m sure The Chronological Order can appreciate moderation more than anybody else.” Dominic senses the desperation in Shawn’s voice to reconnect. He finally rewards Shawn’s approach by meeting his look head on. He shrugs, equally as flippant as before.
“I guess,” he murmurs as more people begin to pile out of the crematorium. Uncomfortable at the prospect of any potential ear-wiggers including themselves in their conversation, Dominic takes a step further into the open towards the gate leading out onto the street. Shawn follows, almost uncertain as to whether he should continue to pursue or not.
“I know things have been hard for you recently,” Shawn tries to sound as compassionate as he can, a far cry from the self-absorbed megalomaniac-like persona he had adopted just months prior, “but I want you to know that if you need anything at all from me, I’m happy to help you out. We’re all in the same boat here. I feel it’s the least I can do.”
“I appreciate the offer,” Dominic says insincerely, “but the last thing I want right now is your sympathy. I have plenty of obligations to uphold, even with everything that has happened.” He notices Shawn’s disheartened look. It is genuine; the most genuine look Dominic has ever seen from him even during the years where their friendship had reached it’s own zenith. “If anything, I suggest you focus on your own future. After all, your reliability as a human being is going to be put under great scrutiny from this point onwards, particular if you don’t seek to improve yourself and make good on your claims of righting the wrongs of recent times.”
“What do you mean by that?” Shawn asks. In unison, Dominic and Shawn turn their heads towards the buggy that secures Dawn, currently in the possession of Amy‘s parents, who are talking with some of the guests. The blissful innocence of Dawn’s youth blinds her to the tragedy that has befallen her and her family.
“She is your daughter. She is your daughter,” Dominic stifles his malcontent. “She’s barely a year old, but she’s suffered more trauma than some people a hundred times her age have throughout their entire lives.” It is at this moment that he unleashes a heavy sigh. “I can’t let her suffer anymore than she has to. We need to come to a positive understanding here, Shawn. For her sake.”
“What do you suggest?” Shawn blurts out, the uncharacteristic benevolence of The Zenith catches him completely by surprise.
“It pains me to do this, it really does,” Dominic mutters through gritted teeth, as if trying to hold back the words that he knows will break out regardless, “but I think you should speak to Mr and Mrs. Trenton and come to some sort of arrangement with them in terms of Dawn‘s custody.” Shawn lets out a gasp, but Dominic pauses only for breath. “They have been taking care of Dawn for a significant amount of time throughout the past several months and to dismiss their involvement would be an insult to them. They’ve already lost their daughter. I’m sure they do not want to lose their granddaughter as well.” Shawn immediately nods in agreement whilst letting out a flicker of a smile. This was the victory that he had wanted all along.
And yet… it felt hollow. He did not feel as though he had managed to get what he desired by outsmarting his nemesis. The bonds of their former friendship may have been shredded, but they were not completely broken. They had been hanging by a thread, but Dominic’s selflessness had weaved newfound respect into their wounded relationship like stitches closing a wound in order for it to heal.
“Listen,” Shawn says sombrely as he shamefacedly hangs his head, “I know we’ve had our differences recently and I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve acted like a jerk. I don’t want to just cut you out of Dawn’s life. You may not be her biological father, but you’ve raised her as if she were your own. And if that isn’t love, then I don’t know what is.” He makes an extremely valid point, but it is not one that Dominic is willing to consider at this stage of the mourning process.
“I just…”
“Dominic!”
Their conversation is cut short by an approaching Marx, who immediately reaches out for Dominic’s hand. A subsequent embrace catches him off guard. Of course, Marx has just as great a reason to mourn as Dominic. Amy’s brother had only been a part of her life for the past six months. They had made a strong sibling bond in that relatively short time. Dominic ensured that any time they shared was not hindered with his presence… or rather the other way around.
“I’m glad you made it,” Marx says a little shakily. “I was worried that you weren’t going to show up.” Indeed, he had arrived mere seconds after the coffin had been laid to rest on the altar-like pedestal at the front of the chapel.
“You know full well I wasn’t going to miss it,” Dominic dismisses.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” he apologises in advance, “but can I borrow Shawn for a few moments?”
“By all means,”
“It’s a shame that Horacio and Ruth couldn’t get here,” Marx remarks. It was not of surprise to him, but it could not be denied that Dominic was disheartened upon noticing that both Ruth Dillinger and Horacio Mortimer were not in attendance. Horacio’s absence was at least somewhat warranted. To The Zenith’s knowledge, The Chronological Order’s chieftain had yet to be discharged from hospital despite his road to recovery being smooth. Rather than rely on the National Health Service, Horacio had gone private. With the demand for beds in private hospitals being nowhere near as strained as the NHS, Horacio had been allowed to stay for as long as he and the doctors deemed necessary.
He had an excuse.
Ruth, on the other hand, did not.
She was there. She was there when Amy died. Debatably, it was her interference in his affairs that had contributed towards the deceased’s decision to drive to suicide. The manipulated marriage proposal, her insistence that Dominic maintain restraint even after learning the depths of Amy’s deception that she orchestrated alongside Shawn.
Not to label her as the scapegoat in all of this, but he could not help but believe that Ruth was entitled towards some of the blame. He had restrained himself because of Ruth and the impression that he wanted to make within The Black Hand. Even now, he still does not know how deep the connection between the Dillingers and The Chronological Order runs.
Deception seems to be a recurring theme through Dominic’s life at this stage.
When someone opts to take their own life, they merely leave their pain behind for other to unwillingly adopt. But when somebody’s life is taken from them in defiance of their own will, what will they have left behind? Not in a material sense of money, family, friends, properties or possessions, but rather their hopes, their dreams and their legacy. The world might never know, all resultant of another man’s avarice.
Might that be something that someone with Arsen Goodstone’s vocation ever contemplates? How many lives he might taint to supplement the monetary value of his greed? What goes through the mind of a killer during the split second between pulling the trigger and drawing blood?
The likelihood of the matter is that he wouldn’t give a fuck.
The personal connection isn’t there. For someone like Arsen Goodstone, killing a man is as indifferent as stepping on a spider or swatting a bee. Chances are that he has never suffered such a crushing blow in his entire life. Alternatively, he has suffered so many hardships that this is his level of vengeance against the world, destroying life whilst getting something that he wants in return.
If it happens to be the former, then he should prepare for weeks of pent-up anger and aggression to be thrown his way at full force. Not even the dispatch of Johnny Matthews had been enough to quench the thirst for vengeance possessed by The Zenith.
In many ways, everybody under the employ of Pure Class Wrestling could be considered as assassins. They are contractual obliged and subsequently paid to betray their ethics of modern society masked as combat for the sake of entertainment.
In that regard, The Zenith is a far more efficacious hitman than Arsen Goodstone could ever dream of being. There is a certain irony that accompanies the assassination of a hired gun; the horror experienced by the hunter when they realise that they have become the hunted.
To exist with one’s destiny shattered into a million shards at the hands of The Zenith… to live with that despair yields greater misery. In that regard, death would be a blessed release to the hapless victim who falls at his hand.
Just ask Alexa Black and Hiroshi Yukio.
Just ask Johnny Matthews.
With the sheer quantity of career-fatality’s piling up week by week, Dominator’s résumé seemingly perpetually improves. It will not be tarnished at the hands of someone as immoral and unethical as Arsen Goodstone.
With the defeat of Johnny Matthews, Dominator’s end game of becoming the longest reigning champion in PCW drawers ever closer. It is an optimistic goal, to some. However, with every passing day, the realisation that this could indeed become a reality becomes so much more vivid. Whilst Dominator seeks to cement his legacy as one of the best competitors ever to step foot in a PCW ring, Arson Goodstone will most likely still be trying to find a way to obtain a clean victory over someone who can only be described as a ‘supposed intergalactic superhero.’
What kind of hitman cannot even topple someone of such disillusion?
Whatever misconstrued obligations that Arsen has dreamt up for himself ahead of this attempted regicide, this will be one contract that he simply cannot fulfil; a mission that offers only futility and an opportunity that is destined to be missed.
Even during the darkest of times, there is a fire that burns; a never-ending flame that is ready to rage as an inferno. As such, there is a name given to the act of deliberately and criminally starting a destructive blaze of fire. They call is ‘Arson.’
“What a noble act,” a male voice states from behind him. Dominic immediately jerks his head from his fixed gaze towards nothing to notice that Marx and Shawn had moved to the location where Amy’s parents and Dawn were stood while he was spacing out. Upon noticing this, he looks towards the source of the abrupt, if not sharply dressed distraction.
“Horacio.”
“I’m feeling much better. Thanks for asking,” Horacio’s sarcasm immediately comes into play. Sure enough, Horacio has returned to the picture of health that he looked prior to Johnny Matthews’ assault. He is dressed in a suit that is near identical in material and coloration to that which Dominic wears. He is freshly shaven, even his spectacles look specially polished and cleansed for the occasion, not displaying the usual smudges and specks of skin and/or dandruff that sit on the lenses. “I trust all went well?”
“As well as it could have done, given the circumstances,” Dominic replies, ensuring he is out of earshot of anybody else. “What are you doing here anyway? I didn’t realise you were out of hospital.”
“I signed myself out this morning,” Horacio replies with a smile. “There is only so much daytime television that I can tolerate. Sitting in a hospital bed, doing nothing, restricted by casts and wires coming out of my skin, it was torture. I feel good enough in myself to resume my daily duties. Goodness knows how severely my recovery time has eaten into my routine.”
“Are you using that as an excuse for being late to the service?” Dominic chuckles. Horacio shakes his head.
“My excuse for being late is that somebody happened to hijack my car and drove it into a river,” Horacio scorns callously. Dominic immediately frowns. Yes, he did notice that the Volvo XC-90 that Amy had used on that fateful day did indeed belong to Horacio. How she acquired it is a question that flashes through his mind momentarily. Horacio’s continuation derails this thought. “I had to rely on a local taxi to get here. Their timekeeping skills clearly do not match to those of The Chronological Order.”
“Listen, I’m sorry about your car,” Dominic begins, “but do you have to be so blunt about it? Amy’s family is here and the last thing they need right now if to be made to feel even worse about it all.”
“Why do you suddenly care?” Horacio smiles, amused by Dominic’s amount of concern.
What Dominic says next stuns Horacio.
“I don’t!”
Unbeknowst to Shawn, Dominic’s reasons for allowing Dawn to live with her biological family were anything but selfless. In fact, if Shawn were to discover just how ulterior his motives were, he would realise that they were, in fact, totally selfish.
“Amy’s parents never were very fond of me,” Dominic admits to Horacio in hushed tones. “They always saw Shawn and Amy as a couple that would last forever. In their eyes, I wasn’t good enough for her. They’re deeply religious, you know. That’s the only reason I’ve even stepped foot in this church. If this is the way I must commemorate Amy’s life, then so be it. Of course, they believe that The Chronological Order is blasphemous to God and they despised the fact that Amy was a part of it…”
“Wait, stop, stop, stop,” Horacio cuts Dominic off. “Why are you only bringing this up now?”
“It’s just one of the countless things that have been on my mind recently,” Dominic blurts out as if it is the first answer that pops into his head. “Amy was sick, I had virtually no time to spend with her and Dawn. Any time we did share, more often than not she was too tired or poorly to do anything. It was there, constantly at the back of my mind that something might happen.
“From where I’m stood, it sounds like you’re using it as an excuse,” Horacio states with the utmost of conviction, earning a deathly glare from his client. The Zenith looms over Horacio, frowning to the point where his vision begins to blur.
“The woman I loved has just died, Horacio,” Dominic growls.
“Did you truly love her though?” Horacio ponders aloud. This was seemingly done intentionally as if solely to gauge what reaction The Zenith would produce. “Or did you simply love her as a level of one-upmanship over your rival; a trophy wife in your ongoing feud that you felt you needed to appease?”
“That is one of the most depraved and disgusting things that I’ve ever heard you say,” Dominic snarls, completely abhorred by Horacio’s sudden
“Only because they’ve come out of my mouth and not yours,” Horacio retorts. Dominic inhales, ready to produce yet another rebuttal.
“I haven’t missed you in the slightest these past few weeks,” Dominic insults his mentor in an almost immature sense of defeat.
“So I’m right then?” Horacio goads even further. “And you have the audacity to accuse me of withholding information…”
“Just shut up!” Dominic finally snaps. “You want to know the truth? Yes, it is a release. And there is a part of me that is pleased that I don’t have to deal with this situation anymore. But that doesn’t mean that it’s the right way to think. It’s selfish. I can’t use Amy’s illness to justify what I have done or how I feel,” he acknowledges.
“Exactly! There are no more excuses, Dominic,” Horacio says firmly, his hands clasped behind his back, which only further exudes his confidence. “One way or another, you wanted to vanquish all of your demons. And, even though the circumstances have been far from idyllic, Amy’s death could yet breathe new life into you. It will be her lasting impression that you may continue to carry for the rest of your days.”
“I need time.”
“I understand,” Horacio bows his head comfortingly. “But have no fear. We have plenty.”
Dominic turns in preparation to make his exit, prompted to do so as Horacio begins to walk towards the gateway leading to the street on which his vehicle is parked.
“Hey, Dominic,” a voice calls from behind. Both Horacio and Dominic turn to face Shawn, who is accompanied by Marx at his side and Dawn in his arms. “You’re coming to the wake, aren’t you?” The Zenith squints his eyes in order to deliberate this offer. He looks towards Horacio, who responds by looking at his watch. Looking back once again, he sees the expectant faces of Marx and Shawn.
Without a word, Dominic turns his back on Shawn, his stubbornness acting as the barrier that prevents any amends being made.
That is… until…
“Da-Da!”
Dominic immediately pivots on the sport, staring at a whimpering Dawn. Her face has turned red. Her bottom lip protrudes outwards, almost hanging further away from her face than her button-like nose. He hangs his head, closing his fist. This isn’t the situation he wants to be in.
“Of course we are.”
Marx lets out a smile, as does Shawn. Their grins come more out of surprise than anything else.
For the agreement did not escape from Dominic’s lips…
…but Horacio’s.
