March 11, 2008, 10:35 p.m.
The headlights pulled into the small alcove he typically
used to park his truck, and I smiled as they, and the vehicle they belonged to,
shut off. Knowing him like I did, I knew
he was going to be here for at least overnight, maybe longer. It was time to get to work. Picking up my cell phone, I once again
thanked whatever deity was listening that even here, I got decent reception and
enough signal for my phone to function.
My eyes never wavered out the window as I dialed ten numbers and held
the phone to my ear.
A gruff voice answered, “Yeah?”
“It’s time. You
know what to do.”
“Right.” Hearing
the call disconnect, I continued to watch as he made his way in the darkness to
the cabin he stayed in, undeterred by the near-freezing temperature. I had eyes and ears in many places, and I had
heard that, should he be victorious, he would be getting a shot at the NLW
Champion, Xavier Lux.
I was determined to not let that happen. If I had to resort to mental games to achieve
that, then so be it. I wasn’t going to
allow him any sort of happiness, if I--and the guy I was doing this with--had
our way. And if he managed to pull out a
win regardless…well, there was always plan B.
The End of Nowhere
March 12, 2008, 6:45 a.m.
He sat on the old, weathered rock near the front of his
cabin, his breath a milky white in the darkness as the skies to the east turned
to fire. The events of the last two-plus
days were finally falling into place for him, and that elusive feeling of
accomplishment was starting to show itself.
But there was no time for that now; he had another big match coming up.
Did he think it was coincidence that after the last
Uprising, he was chosen to face the now-former Anarchy X champion? Or was it Mario’s idea, wanting a shot at
revenge for losing the title? In either
case, he would be ready come the 23rd, in Houston.
Maurako had something that no one else in NLW could claim--a
victory over him (although he was not the person put down for the fall). In the same vein, he had something no one
else could claim--he cost Mario the Anarchy X title. Something was going to give come Uprising,
and he would be damned to hell before he backed away from this challenge. It was going to be a war--Mario’s power
against his technical assault. But this
was a war he was bound and determined to win.
By this point, the sun had finally crested over the horizon,
giving the landscape that eerie red glow that early mornings and late evenings
always brought. Without moving, his eyes
shifted to the other building on the property.
He could see movement from within, and sighed deeply. Having her come back into his life so
suddenly was not something he had thought was going to happen. So far, though, she had done basically what
he had expected of her, and for that he was grateful. He had a feeling that there was more to her
than what he could sense, but without proof he wasn’t going to bring any
accusations to bear. As long as she
stayed aloof, so too would he.
Deciding that it was finally time to do something, he got up
and began his ritual morning jog around the End of Nowhere, the repetitive
“thud” of his footfalls a percussion accompaniment to the background noise of
cars on the nearby highway as commuters tried to get to work. As he continued to move, he began to ponder
what other repercussions his role in helping the Ice Man regain the title he
never was beaten for would have. The
ramifications ran the gamut from getting his own Anarchy X title shot at some
point in the future, to Ice helping him beat Maurako, to Ice interfering once
again and costing him the match in a little over a week and a half. It was a volatile situation to say the least,
and he was determined to keep an eye on that as well.
He had completed half of his run by now, and stopped by his
hidden cache of supplies to pull out a bottle of water, mostly frozen through
thanks to the cold overnight temperature.
Taking a few small sips, he put the bottle back in its’ place before
resuming his jog. Ten minutes later, he
was passing his truck when he noted a Maryland State Police vehicle entering
the dirt-and-gravel access road. His
curiosity piqued, he stood by his truck and watched as the state trooper came
to a stop a slight distance from him. A
moment later, the door opened and the trooper spoke. “Excuse me, sir…I’m looking for one William
James Prydor.”
A cold sweat--having nothing at all to do with either the
weather or his recent exertion--threatened to break out. “I am he.
What can I do for you, Trooper?”
“Mr. Prydor, when was the last time you were at your other
residence in Baltimore?”
“I left there at just before ten last night, sir. A thirty-five minute drive or thereabouts
took me from there to here, and I’ve been here overnight. Is there a problem?”
“Sir, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but last night
your residence was vandalized. We need
you to return as soon as possible.”
This hit him with all the impact of a punch to the solar
plexus. “Vandalized? How bad is the damage?”
“Sir, I really must insist that you come back with me and
look at the damage yourself.”
“A…all right. I need
to stop by my cabin and grab a couple of things and I’ll be on my way. Inform the officer in charge there that I
shall be there within the hour.”
The law enforcement officer nodded as he walked back to his
car, and it was all he could do to keep from sprinting back to the cabin to
grab what personal effects he had brought with him. He knew Baltimore wasn’t the safest of
cities, but this was the first time anything had happened to him since
acquiring property there several years ago.
Forcing the thought out of his mind, he shook his head and made his way
back to the truck. He needed to see for
himself, apparently, what had happened, and from there figure out his next
course of action.
\___(^)___/
Residence of William Prydor (Baltimore, Maryland)
March 12, 2008, 8:48 a.m.
The bright red spray paint on the white exterior of his
house was the first thing he saw as he pulled into his driveway. From where he was standing, he saw three
different state troopers looking at evidence and discussing the crime amongst
themselves. As one, they turned to him
as he exited the truck, his eyes still glued to the spray paint graffiti on the
side of his house. “What in the hell…?”
“Mr. Prydor, there’s more inside. Could you follow me please?”
Carefully, he stepped inside, and was greeted by absolute
chaos. Furniture was strewn everywhere,
with cushions sliced open and upholstery scattered about. His bookshelves had been cut to pieces, and
the books themselves ripped apart. His
television, a standard-issue model, had the picture tube busted out of it.
In the kitchen, all of the food he had in the cupboards was
opened and thrown about in every direction.
The refrigerator and freezer had been left open, spoiling what
perishable items he had in there. The
bathroom had the look (and smell) of someone who had defecated and then smeared
it on the walls--a look at the trooper accompanying him gave him the answer he
had thought. It was indeed feces smeared
on the walls of his bathroom. The
screening room he used had the screen slashed open and the projector smashed
into thousands of pieces, with all of the seats being ripped open and padding
thrown about.
But in the bedroom, things went from bad to worse. His bed had been ripped open, his box springs
smashed. His entire wardrobe was smeared
with red paint—including his wrestling attire.
Paint covered the hardwood floor of the room, and all of his possessions
were carelessly tossed about. Not
knowing what to make of the sight, he lifted his eyes to look at the wall above
the door, and froze dead in his tracks.
In the center of the wall, painted in dark red, was a symbol
he had seen a few times during his NLW stint.
While he didn’t want to draw assumptions based solely off of that, the
finger of suspicion seemed to point directly at him.
The trooper came up to him and asked, “I take it you know
that symbol, then?”
He nodded. “Yes. Three M’s, running together with many lines
coming off of each…I know this symbol.
It belongs to one ‘Marvelous’ Mario Maurako, a man I have to wrestle in
just over a week’s time.”
“Are you saying he did it, then?”
“No. It might look
like it, but I do not know for a fact.
You might want to ask him a few things though to be certain.”
The trooper nodded and walked back a few steps, leaving him
to further survey the damage.
Thankfully, he kept a few spare sets of gear in his cabin at the End of
Nowhere, so that would be unaffected…but he swore to himself that if Maurako
was the one to have caused this, then nothing short of a broken ankle would be
punishment enough for the egomaniacal jackass.
That much, he could promise.
But if by chance he wasn’t, then may the Fates help whoever
thought up this idea. He would see
things made right come hell, high water, or even Armageddon. Of that, he was certain. Turning to exit his bedroom, he saw the
symbol yet again on the far wall of the living room, as if mocking him. Narrowing his eyes, he felt that rage
threaten to consume him yet again, and pushed it to the back of his mind. There would be time enough to channel it
properly later.
And all too soon, Maurako would be repaid in spades, as his
dreams of championship immortality would crumble around him in defeat.
\___(^)___/
March 12, 2008, 1:05 p.m.
The ringing of my phone got my attention as I turned to
answer it. “Hello?”
“It is done, as requested.
He is there now looking at things.”
“Excellent,” I replied, a smile forming on my face. “I shall call once more when I need you. Not a word of this to anyone.”
“But of course, ma’am.
We shall be awaiting your next call.”
I disconnected the call, and began to chuckle. If this didn’t dishearten Will enough, I had
a few more tricks up my sleeve. I
mentally dared him to try to pin things on Maurako, knowing it would distract
him from his training as I turned back to the show I was watching. So far, things were going according to plan.
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