Post by Dominator / Mortimer on Aug 26, 2019 18:28:18 GMT -5
Sunday 9th August 2019 - 4.27pm
Location: High Post Golf Club, High Post, Wiltshire, England, United Kingdom
He had passed thirteen numbered flags up to this point. The fourteenth is but mere metres away. The grass has been cut to different lengths throughout acres and acres of open land that is littered only with belts of trees and manmade sandpits. The breeze is strong, but not uncomfortable. There are several individuals congregated around random locations throughout the course. Some playing in groups, some as a duo, some even solo. They range in age. The older the player, the more integrity with which they seem to play. A quintet of youths are half-heartedly completing the hole, mocking one another at their horrendous shots, much to the chagrin of the more serious players, along with the passing Zenith.
“Watch your head on the sky, freakshow!” comes perhaps the lamest insult Dominic had ever heard in his life. He merely rolls his eyes into the back of his head, passing off the insult as juvenile delinquency. “You been standing in too much horse shit?” the youth follows up to the same amount of fanfare from his comrades and Dominic. Plenty from his friends. None from The Tyrant In Time. “Yeah, you keep walking!” the derision continues. At this point, Dominic is beyond caring. He has his eyes locked on one particular individual a few hundred yards from him, yet with every stroke of the golf ball, he moves further away. He opts to increase the pace of his stride to catch up suitably before he can tee off once more.
He hears something whistle past him at high speed, followed by some consolatory ‘oohs’ from behind him. He notices a fluorescent coloured golf ball land several feet ahead of him. The Zenith sighs. Are the youths of today so bored that they would try to bring harm on another innocent being. He lets out a chuckle. He’s a fine one to talk. He has made a living out of delivering unfathomable pain to all who oppose him. At least such assaults are sanctioned in his professional environs. This is nothing more than harrassment.
“Fore!” comes a half-hearted shout amidst a sea of giggles from his fellow players. Dominic had heard the stroke a mere split second before. The call had not even finished before The Temporal King twists, raising his outstretched palm over his face. Immediately, there is a heavy smack as the ball of resin impacts his hand, stopping it dead in its tracks. A stinging sensation spreads across the impact zone for a couple of seconds. It is not something that appears to cause any form of discomfort to The Zenith. No. He is instead taking great solace at the sheer number of unhinged jaws amidst sudden silence.
Drawing his arm back, he hurls the golf ball with all his might. It skyrockets to an altitude that exceeds the initial stroke from the inept golfer. The small gathering each follow the ball like a pack of dogs that have been forced to sit by their master. They disperse as the ball begins its descent; barrelling straight towards them. It thumps against the edge of the fairway; the curvature of the landscape combined with the force of propulsion forces it further back from where the golfers had started, straight into a thick clump of uncut grass; the rough.
Sensing that the rapscallions have been silenced, at least for a moment, Dominic continues on his path towards his chosen target; a bald headed man sporting a thick handlebar moustache readying himself for another swing. For a man whose skin sags like the burlap sack containing a monumental weight of potatoes, grain or other such cargo, he is surprisingly muscular. The bulges of his biceps rival that of The Zenith even in spite of the difference in height. They possess the same barrel-chestedness. He draws his driver behind him. His head trails unsuspectingly behind it, caught unawares by The Zenith’s presence. His concentration compromised, he knows that he has misjudged his swing the second the club meets the ball.
“Damn it!” the man scornfully yells as both he and Dominic watch the ball travel in a wayward trajectory, disappearing into a belt of trees to the left of the fairway. “You stupid bastard!” he turns to insult The Zenith as if the blame is his. “You’ve got the timing of a policeman, you have! Never around when you want one, but all over the place when you don’t need ‘em.”
“Hello Dad,” Dominic greets with the bluntness of a knife that had served in the first World War. “Good to see you too.” There is no sense of contentment upon being in his father’s company. It would not be too far of a stretch of one’s imagination for Dominic to be present purely out of necessity rather than the desire of seeing the man who had raised him from birth. Even referring to the man as ‘Dad’ had been mustered through a significant amount of aversion towards the man; a notion that is noticed instantaneously by Dominic’s father.
“You haven’t called me that in a while,” the man grunts out of surprise.
“Fine. Hello Cassius,” Dominic retorts with sardonic intent.
“There it is!” Cassius snorts with a shake of his head, sliding his golf club back into its back before hauling it behind him. Dominic follows, again, out of necessity rather than a want. “And to what do I owe this pleasure?” he asks, his eyes locked on the area of the course where he thinks the ball might have landed. He could have looked towards the sky or the earth for all he cared. Anywhere but his son. In truth, the intensity of the conflict between father and son stemmed back to the days prior to Dominic’s introduction to the wrestling industry, far precending his introduction to Horacio Mortimer, the Order and the Hand.
“I’m not going to sugar-coat it,” Dominic begins, a sixth sense regarding their trepidation towards each other begins to shine through, “I need answers. And I need you to be straight with me.”
“I haven’t seen you in years, and the first thing you want to do after all this time is play a game of Q&A?” he guffaws. “I should have known that you weren’t here to check up on my personal wellbeing. I’m fine, by the way. Or rather, I was up until you showed up.”
“Believe me,” Dominic scowls, “I don’t want to be in your company any more than you do, but this is important.” The blame towards Dominic’s callousness is pointed in the direction of Cassius’ own paternal afflictions. Yes. It had been years since Father and Son had spoken to one another face-to-face. He had not even attended Amy’s funeral. He had not been there to witness his first triumph in PCW, to see the length of his reign as Underground King, as North American Champion, or even winning The Icemann Invitational Tournament. Not that Dominic cared about any of that. Daddy issues were not something that held much in terms of priority in Dominic’s life right now.
“If you’re going to try and make me join that stupid Time Cult of yours, you can forget it,” Cassius dismisses immediately, trying to see through the rough to locate his ball.
“It’s not a cult,” Dominic quickly states, but stops himself from elaborating the ideals of The Chronological Order. “I need your help, Cassius. I need you to tell me everything you know about how our family is tied to Hangtown.”
“Hangtown?” Cassius snorts. “Never heard of it.”
“I need the truth from you,” Dominic reiterates assertively. “I’ve been fed too many lies to know what is even real anymore.”
“What makes you think I‘ve ever lied to you,” Cassius snorts, lifting his whiskey tumbler to his lips once again. “All I’ve ever done is strive to provide for our family, as well as provide you with the necessary tools and skills you need to get through life.”
“Don’t suddenly start pretending that you ever gave a shit about anybody but yourself,” The Zenith glowers.
“You’re the one who came to me, remember?” Cassius retorts. “If you don’t like what I have to say, then don’t ask the questions.”
“Fine,” Dominic exhales with distain. “What do you know about The Black Hand?”
“The Black Hand?” Cassius frowns, a look of genuine confusion falls upon his face. “Never heard of them.”
“You must have done,” Dominic retorts. “I have been told that I am tied to a Bloodline that started in the halcyon days of The Black Hand’s formation. You are the only blood relative that I have. Surely you must know something?” Cassius lets out an annoyed sigh. The roll of his eyes is enough of an indication to Dominic that he is hiding something. Something significant.
“I have no knowledge of The Black Hand,” Cassius reiterates, trying to throw Dominic off the scent. Yet, he knows that no matter what he says, Dominic would not be deterred. With another heavy groan, Cassius finally relents. “Look, I can’t help you,” Cassius says apologetically and, more surprisingly, sincerely. Dominic squints his eyes, refusing to believe his father’s statement. “However,” he follows up, catching The Zenith’s attention almost immediately, “your mother had a greater understanding of their workings. She was a part of The Black Hand.”
Stacey Jane Atkinson, the woman who had birthed Dominic, had long since passed as the result of a nervous breakdown she suffered when Dominic was but a teenage boy. Dominic had been aware that his late mother had tried to fend off many demons, but never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that they might have been the result of The Black Hand. He had always blamed his father and the way that he used to treat her. Poorly. That is how he treated her.
And yet, there was an equal level of abhorrence aimed towards his mother. The fact that she would rather die than search her heart for answers, leaving Dominic to fend for himself in many ways, had been something that he had never forgiven her for. In many ways, her death bore many similarities to that of Amy, his former lover. Both had been under severe emotional distress at the times that they made their respective fateful decisions. Both yielded similar devastation.
Dominic has to take a moment to process this newfound information. Of course it couldn’t have been Cassius who held the key. It just had to be his mother; with no means of gaining all of the information straight from the horse’s mouth.
“Tell me about her,” Dominic blurts out. Cassius throws him a dumbfounded glance. Never before had Dominic shown any interest in his mother; not since she took her life in the manner that she did. He had tried to bury the past. Yet, if there was one lesson that Horacio had taught him, it was that all of time is necessary, even that which has come to pass.
“It is far too easy to look to the future,” he could almost hear Horacio speaking to him from his subconscious. “There is no such thing as wasted time. Every moment in time is encapsulated in our memories. To discard the past is like burning every book in the world. At times, we must look to the past in order to secure our futures.”
His childhood had been less than perfect. Indeed, his most fond memory was found in the moment in time where he was able to leave his family behind in order to begin creating his own legacy. His father had been the fathering figure of a now defunct wrestling corporation; NXCW, “New Xtreme Championship Wrestling.” It was here that Dominic tasted his first morsels of success, alongside the tutelage of his childhood friends; Shawn and Matthew Metallinos. To this day, he was still friends with Matt; a former Watchmen. However, his friendship with Shawn had been well documented in it’s decline.
Shawn and Matt taught him everything they knew whilst Cassius would simply take notice from afar. Not once did he offer the man who would become The Zenith any form of encouragement, feedback or criticism. Instead, he focused on his business. So focused, in fact, that the periods of separation between him and his wife began to form cracks in their relationship. Equally though, Stacey seemed to search for her answers at the bottoms of countless empty bottles; alcoholic vices funded by her husband’s thriving company sent her on a downward spiral. Cassius did nothing to aid her rehabilitation, only antagonise it. Any time Dominic tried to intervene, he was met with violence. After several repeat altercations, Dominic simply stopped trying.
Perhaps he held accountability for his mother’s demise. He’d tried; much harder than his father ever had. But whether he had tried hard enough was a completely different matter. The same could be said for a number of different grievances that he held. The laws of probability dictate that, at some point or another, every will eventually be played out when a scenario is repeated over and over again. It just so happened, on this particular occasion, that fate chose to be at David Hunter’s side at Return To Glory. What must the odds have been? 7/1? 20/1? 100/1? One Million to One!?
It matters not to The Zenith. Unlike Hunter, he has not prepared a list of excuses. This would be the one, and only permutation that would see David Hunter triumph. Furthermore, Hunter could not call his victory decisive. It all boils down to what is fast become the norm in Pure Class Wrestling; some dodgy refereeing. If both men were to land with their arms crossing over their opponent’s, how can one determine anything but a dead heat? David Hunter can relish this victory all he likes, because he knows… he got lucky.
Permit the thought of a rematch. Even as champion, David Hunter would still be classed as a severe underdog. It shows his lack of credibility as a champion, nay, as a wrestler. Maybe that is why the booking committee deemed it reasonable to include the newly crowned Underground King; Elijah Dixon, as Dominator’s tag team partner in this contest. Both newly crowned champions still have plenty to prove, though, it is safe to assume that the man who defeated Razor Blade at Return To Glory has a partner more superior than that of the newly coronated North American champion.
All The Zenith knows is… if Elijah Dixon fails him, he’ll regret ever stepping foot in PCW.
But that regret will be held tenfold by David Hunter for the way he has besmirched The Temporal King.
Whether it was though the inflation of ego or not, David Hunter had restrained Holden Ross’ intervention until after the bell had rang. Evidently, this is to serve as a distraction tactic. In Hunter’s mind, he would deploy Holden as a deterrent in the hopes that The Temporal King’s attention would be aimed back towards him, rather than have him attend to the matter of reclaiming what is rightfully his.
Holden Ross is, and always has been, an inferior commodity. He has always been content playing second fiddle to the likes of Hunter and Seromine. How fortuitous it is for Holden that, now that David Hunter holds a title that is far beyond his reach, he can instead focus on the Underground Title uncontested. That is, of course, providing Elijah Dixon’s wave of momentum doesn’t consume him first.
Because now, The Zenith is beyond caring about undefeated streaks. Why boast about such when such a controversial loss now tarnishes his near perfect record. Instead, The Zenith shall simply look forward to inflicting the sort of pain that he is best renowned for.
“What do you want to know about her?” Cassius pips up. At this point, Dominic is not directly focused on the main reason for his question. Originally, he merely wanted to learn of the connections between his family and The Black Hand. Given how little he actually knew of his mother, any answer Cassius might give would suffice.
“I don’t know,” The Zenith shrugs. “Tell me anything you want about her. Surely, you have some fond memories?” Cassius falls silent for a moment. He feels a blot of rain land on his exposed scalp. He looks up. The clouds had gathered quickly. Mother Nature had decided that golfers should not enjoy this day. The hostility exhibited by Cassius earlier though had faded into nothing. By now, he had started to reminisce, going over a thousand different instances in his mind, trying to pick the most prevalent from his mind.
“Even though I married her, I never felt as though I never really knew her,” he says with a faraway stare. “The first time I met her, she was sat in the corner of ‘Budgie’s’ cafeteria, peering nervously over the top of a newspaper in front of a cup of coffee that had turned cold hours earlier. I could tell something wasn’t right. I went to go to speak to her, but she told me to leave her alone. I went and had my breakfast…”
“The usual? Set 7?” Dominic enquires with a grin.
“Same as always,” Cassius meets his son’s grin with one of his own. “Nonetheless, I had my breakfast and noticed she was still sat there. She hadn’t even turned the page of her paper. All I did was buy her a fresh cup of coffee, noticing her last one had gone cold. Budgie wanted to kick her out. The coffee was a means of keeping her there a bit longer, if that’s where she wanted to be. So, I went out, did my bits and pieces and realised I’d left my wallet on the counter. This was a good hour or more later. I went back, and she was still there. This time, she’d drank the coffee at least.”
“Didn’t that set off any alarm bells in your head?” Dominic frowns slightly.
“Not really,” Cassius replies with a shrug. “I ordered her another coffee. She turned to look at me, lowering the paper down for the first time. That’s when I saw her face. She had a beauty that I’d never laid eyes upon before. Her eyes glowed like a cat. The next thing I knew, I asked if there was anything I could do for her. She said she needed somewhere safe to go. I offered her my penthouse. I was still trying to build up NXCW at the time and I barely needed it. Security was tight, so whatever might have been troubling her, she would at least have some sanctuary there.”
“Rather direct of you,” Dominic chuckles.
“Like I said, I was busy forming the new federation,” Cassius continues dismissively. “Even when I did come back to the penthouse, she was ill at ease. We started talking. She told me that she’d been on the run from mercenaries of some description for months. She had no family; they’d already been slain by the assassins. Eventually, she told me of the organisation’s name; The Black Hand. I promised that I would protect her. And I did. We never heard from The Black Hand again after she moved in permanently, even though she claimed that they were still following her even years later.”
“I’m curious,” Dominic is uncertain as to whether or not he wants to open this can of worms. “What was Mother’s maiden name.” He waits with baited breath as Cassius says the answer straight off the top of his head.
“Aurelian.”
And with that, the loose ends are tied up. His suspicions had been confirmed. His mother was an Aurelian. By that logic, he too was connected to both The Chronological Order and The Black Hand by blood. The Bloodline that tied him to Hangtown was from his Mother’s side. Furthermore, this would make him somehow related to Dolores; a thought that triggers Dominic to dig further.
“And she had no surviving family at all?” grimaces Dominic, still trying to make sense of this newfound information. “Are you aware of any of her relatives whatsoever?”
“Not living,” Cassius replies solemnly. “She told me she had a brother, but that he died in a gas explosion.” Dominic’s eyes widen. Everything has fallen into place. All of the missing pieces of the puzzle have been laid out on the table. Without another word, he charges along the fairway at the pace of a sprint. “Where are you going!?” Cassius yells. “I thought we were bonding!”
“I’ll be back! I promise!” Dominic shouts back without turning his head, instead directing his attention towards his next destination; a location that he must make haste toward.
A group of youths quickly disperse like sardines as Dominic barrels through the path they make for him. However, he does find time to swipe a golf club from one of their caddies, snapping it as if it were a twig with a contented smile on his face as the call rings out from behind him.
“That was a rental! I’m going to lose my deposit, you asshole!”
Location: High Post Golf Club, High Post, Wiltshire, England, United Kingdom
He had passed thirteen numbered flags up to this point. The fourteenth is but mere metres away. The grass has been cut to different lengths throughout acres and acres of open land that is littered only with belts of trees and manmade sandpits. The breeze is strong, but not uncomfortable. There are several individuals congregated around random locations throughout the course. Some playing in groups, some as a duo, some even solo. They range in age. The older the player, the more integrity with which they seem to play. A quintet of youths are half-heartedly completing the hole, mocking one another at their horrendous shots, much to the chagrin of the more serious players, along with the passing Zenith.
“Watch your head on the sky, freakshow!” comes perhaps the lamest insult Dominic had ever heard in his life. He merely rolls his eyes into the back of his head, passing off the insult as juvenile delinquency. “You been standing in too much horse shit?” the youth follows up to the same amount of fanfare from his comrades and Dominic. Plenty from his friends. None from The Tyrant In Time. “Yeah, you keep walking!” the derision continues. At this point, Dominic is beyond caring. He has his eyes locked on one particular individual a few hundred yards from him, yet with every stroke of the golf ball, he moves further away. He opts to increase the pace of his stride to catch up suitably before he can tee off once more.
He hears something whistle past him at high speed, followed by some consolatory ‘oohs’ from behind him. He notices a fluorescent coloured golf ball land several feet ahead of him. The Zenith sighs. Are the youths of today so bored that they would try to bring harm on another innocent being. He lets out a chuckle. He’s a fine one to talk. He has made a living out of delivering unfathomable pain to all who oppose him. At least such assaults are sanctioned in his professional environs. This is nothing more than harrassment.
“Fore!” comes a half-hearted shout amidst a sea of giggles from his fellow players. Dominic had heard the stroke a mere split second before. The call had not even finished before The Temporal King twists, raising his outstretched palm over his face. Immediately, there is a heavy smack as the ball of resin impacts his hand, stopping it dead in its tracks. A stinging sensation spreads across the impact zone for a couple of seconds. It is not something that appears to cause any form of discomfort to The Zenith. No. He is instead taking great solace at the sheer number of unhinged jaws amidst sudden silence.
Drawing his arm back, he hurls the golf ball with all his might. It skyrockets to an altitude that exceeds the initial stroke from the inept golfer. The small gathering each follow the ball like a pack of dogs that have been forced to sit by their master. They disperse as the ball begins its descent; barrelling straight towards them. It thumps against the edge of the fairway; the curvature of the landscape combined with the force of propulsion forces it further back from where the golfers had started, straight into a thick clump of uncut grass; the rough.
Sensing that the rapscallions have been silenced, at least for a moment, Dominic continues on his path towards his chosen target; a bald headed man sporting a thick handlebar moustache readying himself for another swing. For a man whose skin sags like the burlap sack containing a monumental weight of potatoes, grain or other such cargo, he is surprisingly muscular. The bulges of his biceps rival that of The Zenith even in spite of the difference in height. They possess the same barrel-chestedness. He draws his driver behind him. His head trails unsuspectingly behind it, caught unawares by The Zenith’s presence. His concentration compromised, he knows that he has misjudged his swing the second the club meets the ball.
“Damn it!” the man scornfully yells as both he and Dominic watch the ball travel in a wayward trajectory, disappearing into a belt of trees to the left of the fairway. “You stupid bastard!” he turns to insult The Zenith as if the blame is his. “You’ve got the timing of a policeman, you have! Never around when you want one, but all over the place when you don’t need ‘em.”
“Hello Dad,” Dominic greets with the bluntness of a knife that had served in the first World War. “Good to see you too.” There is no sense of contentment upon being in his father’s company. It would not be too far of a stretch of one’s imagination for Dominic to be present purely out of necessity rather than the desire of seeing the man who had raised him from birth. Even referring to the man as ‘Dad’ had been mustered through a significant amount of aversion towards the man; a notion that is noticed instantaneously by Dominic’s father.
“You haven’t called me that in a while,” the man grunts out of surprise.
“Fine. Hello Cassius,” Dominic retorts with sardonic intent.
“There it is!” Cassius snorts with a shake of his head, sliding his golf club back into its back before hauling it behind him. Dominic follows, again, out of necessity rather than a want. “And to what do I owe this pleasure?” he asks, his eyes locked on the area of the course where he thinks the ball might have landed. He could have looked towards the sky or the earth for all he cared. Anywhere but his son. In truth, the intensity of the conflict between father and son stemmed back to the days prior to Dominic’s introduction to the wrestling industry, far precending his introduction to Horacio Mortimer, the Order and the Hand.
“I’m not going to sugar-coat it,” Dominic begins, a sixth sense regarding their trepidation towards each other begins to shine through, “I need answers. And I need you to be straight with me.”
“I haven’t seen you in years, and the first thing you want to do after all this time is play a game of Q&A?” he guffaws. “I should have known that you weren’t here to check up on my personal wellbeing. I’m fine, by the way. Or rather, I was up until you showed up.”
“Believe me,” Dominic scowls, “I don’t want to be in your company any more than you do, but this is important.” The blame towards Dominic’s callousness is pointed in the direction of Cassius’ own paternal afflictions. Yes. It had been years since Father and Son had spoken to one another face-to-face. He had not even attended Amy’s funeral. He had not been there to witness his first triumph in PCW, to see the length of his reign as Underground King, as North American Champion, or even winning The Icemann Invitational Tournament. Not that Dominic cared about any of that. Daddy issues were not something that held much in terms of priority in Dominic’s life right now.
“If you’re going to try and make me join that stupid Time Cult of yours, you can forget it,” Cassius dismisses immediately, trying to see through the rough to locate his ball.
“It’s not a cult,” Dominic quickly states, but stops himself from elaborating the ideals of The Chronological Order. “I need your help, Cassius. I need you to tell me everything you know about how our family is tied to Hangtown.”
“Hangtown?” Cassius snorts. “Never heard of it.”
“I need the truth from you,” Dominic reiterates assertively. “I’ve been fed too many lies to know what is even real anymore.”
“What makes you think I‘ve ever lied to you,” Cassius snorts, lifting his whiskey tumbler to his lips once again. “All I’ve ever done is strive to provide for our family, as well as provide you with the necessary tools and skills you need to get through life.”
“Don’t suddenly start pretending that you ever gave a shit about anybody but yourself,” The Zenith glowers.
“You’re the one who came to me, remember?” Cassius retorts. “If you don’t like what I have to say, then don’t ask the questions.”
“Fine,” Dominic exhales with distain. “What do you know about The Black Hand?”
“The Black Hand?” Cassius frowns, a look of genuine confusion falls upon his face. “Never heard of them.”
“You must have done,” Dominic retorts. “I have been told that I am tied to a Bloodline that started in the halcyon days of The Black Hand’s formation. You are the only blood relative that I have. Surely you must know something?” Cassius lets out an annoyed sigh. The roll of his eyes is enough of an indication to Dominic that he is hiding something. Something significant.
“I have no knowledge of The Black Hand,” Cassius reiterates, trying to throw Dominic off the scent. Yet, he knows that no matter what he says, Dominic would not be deterred. With another heavy groan, Cassius finally relents. “Look, I can’t help you,” Cassius says apologetically and, more surprisingly, sincerely. Dominic squints his eyes, refusing to believe his father’s statement. “However,” he follows up, catching The Zenith’s attention almost immediately, “your mother had a greater understanding of their workings. She was a part of The Black Hand.”
Stacey Jane Atkinson, the woman who had birthed Dominic, had long since passed as the result of a nervous breakdown she suffered when Dominic was but a teenage boy. Dominic had been aware that his late mother had tried to fend off many demons, but never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that they might have been the result of The Black Hand. He had always blamed his father and the way that he used to treat her. Poorly. That is how he treated her.
And yet, there was an equal level of abhorrence aimed towards his mother. The fact that she would rather die than search her heart for answers, leaving Dominic to fend for himself in many ways, had been something that he had never forgiven her for. In many ways, her death bore many similarities to that of Amy, his former lover. Both had been under severe emotional distress at the times that they made their respective fateful decisions. Both yielded similar devastation.
Dominic has to take a moment to process this newfound information. Of course it couldn’t have been Cassius who held the key. It just had to be his mother; with no means of gaining all of the information straight from the horse’s mouth.
“Tell me about her,” Dominic blurts out. Cassius throws him a dumbfounded glance. Never before had Dominic shown any interest in his mother; not since she took her life in the manner that she did. He had tried to bury the past. Yet, if there was one lesson that Horacio had taught him, it was that all of time is necessary, even that which has come to pass.
“It is far too easy to look to the future,” he could almost hear Horacio speaking to him from his subconscious. “There is no such thing as wasted time. Every moment in time is encapsulated in our memories. To discard the past is like burning every book in the world. At times, we must look to the past in order to secure our futures.”
His childhood had been less than perfect. Indeed, his most fond memory was found in the moment in time where he was able to leave his family behind in order to begin creating his own legacy. His father had been the fathering figure of a now defunct wrestling corporation; NXCW, “New Xtreme Championship Wrestling.” It was here that Dominic tasted his first morsels of success, alongside the tutelage of his childhood friends; Shawn and Matthew Metallinos. To this day, he was still friends with Matt; a former Watchmen. However, his friendship with Shawn had been well documented in it’s decline.
Shawn and Matt taught him everything they knew whilst Cassius would simply take notice from afar. Not once did he offer the man who would become The Zenith any form of encouragement, feedback or criticism. Instead, he focused on his business. So focused, in fact, that the periods of separation between him and his wife began to form cracks in their relationship. Equally though, Stacey seemed to search for her answers at the bottoms of countless empty bottles; alcoholic vices funded by her husband’s thriving company sent her on a downward spiral. Cassius did nothing to aid her rehabilitation, only antagonise it. Any time Dominic tried to intervene, he was met with violence. After several repeat altercations, Dominic simply stopped trying.
Perhaps he held accountability for his mother’s demise. He’d tried; much harder than his father ever had. But whether he had tried hard enough was a completely different matter. The same could be said for a number of different grievances that he held. The laws of probability dictate that, at some point or another, every will eventually be played out when a scenario is repeated over and over again. It just so happened, on this particular occasion, that fate chose to be at David Hunter’s side at Return To Glory. What must the odds have been? 7/1? 20/1? 100/1? One Million to One!?
It matters not to The Zenith. Unlike Hunter, he has not prepared a list of excuses. This would be the one, and only permutation that would see David Hunter triumph. Furthermore, Hunter could not call his victory decisive. It all boils down to what is fast become the norm in Pure Class Wrestling; some dodgy refereeing. If both men were to land with their arms crossing over their opponent’s, how can one determine anything but a dead heat? David Hunter can relish this victory all he likes, because he knows… he got lucky.
Permit the thought of a rematch. Even as champion, David Hunter would still be classed as a severe underdog. It shows his lack of credibility as a champion, nay, as a wrestler. Maybe that is why the booking committee deemed it reasonable to include the newly crowned Underground King; Elijah Dixon, as Dominator’s tag team partner in this contest. Both newly crowned champions still have plenty to prove, though, it is safe to assume that the man who defeated Razor Blade at Return To Glory has a partner more superior than that of the newly coronated North American champion.
All The Zenith knows is… if Elijah Dixon fails him, he’ll regret ever stepping foot in PCW.
But that regret will be held tenfold by David Hunter for the way he has besmirched The Temporal King.
Whether it was though the inflation of ego or not, David Hunter had restrained Holden Ross’ intervention until after the bell had rang. Evidently, this is to serve as a distraction tactic. In Hunter’s mind, he would deploy Holden as a deterrent in the hopes that The Temporal King’s attention would be aimed back towards him, rather than have him attend to the matter of reclaiming what is rightfully his.
Holden Ross is, and always has been, an inferior commodity. He has always been content playing second fiddle to the likes of Hunter and Seromine. How fortuitous it is for Holden that, now that David Hunter holds a title that is far beyond his reach, he can instead focus on the Underground Title uncontested. That is, of course, providing Elijah Dixon’s wave of momentum doesn’t consume him first.
Because now, The Zenith is beyond caring about undefeated streaks. Why boast about such when such a controversial loss now tarnishes his near perfect record. Instead, The Zenith shall simply look forward to inflicting the sort of pain that he is best renowned for.
“What do you want to know about her?” Cassius pips up. At this point, Dominic is not directly focused on the main reason for his question. Originally, he merely wanted to learn of the connections between his family and The Black Hand. Given how little he actually knew of his mother, any answer Cassius might give would suffice.
“I don’t know,” The Zenith shrugs. “Tell me anything you want about her. Surely, you have some fond memories?” Cassius falls silent for a moment. He feels a blot of rain land on his exposed scalp. He looks up. The clouds had gathered quickly. Mother Nature had decided that golfers should not enjoy this day. The hostility exhibited by Cassius earlier though had faded into nothing. By now, he had started to reminisce, going over a thousand different instances in his mind, trying to pick the most prevalent from his mind.
“Even though I married her, I never felt as though I never really knew her,” he says with a faraway stare. “The first time I met her, she was sat in the corner of ‘Budgie’s’ cafeteria, peering nervously over the top of a newspaper in front of a cup of coffee that had turned cold hours earlier. I could tell something wasn’t right. I went to go to speak to her, but she told me to leave her alone. I went and had my breakfast…”
“The usual? Set 7?” Dominic enquires with a grin.
“Same as always,” Cassius meets his son’s grin with one of his own. “Nonetheless, I had my breakfast and noticed she was still sat there. She hadn’t even turned the page of her paper. All I did was buy her a fresh cup of coffee, noticing her last one had gone cold. Budgie wanted to kick her out. The coffee was a means of keeping her there a bit longer, if that’s where she wanted to be. So, I went out, did my bits and pieces and realised I’d left my wallet on the counter. This was a good hour or more later. I went back, and she was still there. This time, she’d drank the coffee at least.”
“Didn’t that set off any alarm bells in your head?” Dominic frowns slightly.
“Not really,” Cassius replies with a shrug. “I ordered her another coffee. She turned to look at me, lowering the paper down for the first time. That’s when I saw her face. She had a beauty that I’d never laid eyes upon before. Her eyes glowed like a cat. The next thing I knew, I asked if there was anything I could do for her. She said she needed somewhere safe to go. I offered her my penthouse. I was still trying to build up NXCW at the time and I barely needed it. Security was tight, so whatever might have been troubling her, she would at least have some sanctuary there.”
“Rather direct of you,” Dominic chuckles.
“Like I said, I was busy forming the new federation,” Cassius continues dismissively. “Even when I did come back to the penthouse, she was ill at ease. We started talking. She told me that she’d been on the run from mercenaries of some description for months. She had no family; they’d already been slain by the assassins. Eventually, she told me of the organisation’s name; The Black Hand. I promised that I would protect her. And I did. We never heard from The Black Hand again after she moved in permanently, even though she claimed that they were still following her even years later.”
“I’m curious,” Dominic is uncertain as to whether or not he wants to open this can of worms. “What was Mother’s maiden name.” He waits with baited breath as Cassius says the answer straight off the top of his head.
“Aurelian.”
And with that, the loose ends are tied up. His suspicions had been confirmed. His mother was an Aurelian. By that logic, he too was connected to both The Chronological Order and The Black Hand by blood. The Bloodline that tied him to Hangtown was from his Mother’s side. Furthermore, this would make him somehow related to Dolores; a thought that triggers Dominic to dig further.
“And she had no surviving family at all?” grimaces Dominic, still trying to make sense of this newfound information. “Are you aware of any of her relatives whatsoever?”
“Not living,” Cassius replies solemnly. “She told me she had a brother, but that he died in a gas explosion.” Dominic’s eyes widen. Everything has fallen into place. All of the missing pieces of the puzzle have been laid out on the table. Without another word, he charges along the fairway at the pace of a sprint. “Where are you going!?” Cassius yells. “I thought we were bonding!”
“I’ll be back! I promise!” Dominic shouts back without turning his head, instead directing his attention towards his next destination; a location that he must make haste toward.
A group of youths quickly disperse like sardines as Dominic barrels through the path they make for him. However, he does find time to swipe a golf club from one of their caddies, snapping it as if it were a twig with a contented smile on his face as the call rings out from behind him.
“That was a rental! I’m going to lose my deposit, you asshole!”
