Post by DJS on Mar 14, 2017 20:35:27 GMT -5
Somewhere in Texas, we join a bar. A very lonely but lively bar. We can tell it's Texas, because everything is bigger somehow. There's also people in ten-gallon hats and Country music playing, so that's also a bit of a giveaway. Sat at the bar right now is a girl. The only girl here. Even though she's got her back to us, we'd recognise that red hair anywhere. She turns around, a big old grin on her face.
EMERY LAYTON:
"Ayyyyyy. You made it! How's bits? Nah, y'know, siddown a sec. I gotta share something with you here, yeah.
Slowly we move around to face her.
"So...here's a story for you. When I was a small, little Pavee girl...well, smaller than I am today I guess...I always wanted to win like a trophy. Well, a cup. Not cos it was a trophy and it was big and shiny but because I always looked at these guys winning like the world cup holding it up in the air and I thought “y'know, why don't they drink from it? I mean it's a cup. What else could you do with it?”. I was also brown haired and thought I should have red hair one day. Those were my goals when I was seven years old. I was an ambitious little thing. So, I think I achieved one--
She cuts herself off to hold up a strand of her slightly greasy red hair for everyone at home who can't see it.
“That's cool. But what about the cup? I ain't got a cup to drink from! Ah well...I guess this'll just have to do.”
She lifts her big, silver-and-leather pride and joy with a little grunt and places it on the bar, where the weight of it makes such a big plonk after which pretty much everyone in the bar looks towards her. She turns around, deer in the headlights look on her face as she lifts up her drink nodding.
“Alright lads?”
A few seconds of silence pass. No one says a single thing. A big, admittedly quite sweaty-looking man in a red, sleeveless checkered shirt looks towards her with his newspaper for a bit longer than everyone else in the place before he goes back to his paper. Em looks back to us as she puts the title on one of her shoulders and holds her drink in the other, taking a sip.
“Getting that a lot now.
It's worth getting into stinking arguments with the guys at customs just for the looks later on. No one fucks around with you when you've got a title on your shoulder and you look tired and irritable ninety-nine percent of the time. But aside from that, since winning this thing I've never realised how many people are behind me now. It's a new sensation for me, that. Like, this is the first time people have said 'oh yeah, I know Emery Layton' and meant it with good intentions. Or even known me at all! I've spent a long time just sort of drifting from company to company, match to match, not really making an impact. Union Battleground now gets to be that place where I made the impact. The place where I finally put that flag in the ground, know what I mean? First ever Trench War Champion, right here.
But we ain't in Kansas no more, Toto and I ain't leaving Oz. I got those red shoes and they can't stop dancing yet. The day I won this, I got people coming up and saying they're gonna take it from me already. You know the type of people- 'congratulations. But that reign will be short lived!'. I imagine lightning stuck straight after while they sent the tweet from their evil castle. And y'know, it's good to have ambition. Like, I have ambition. You really think my life stops at winning this thing? No, it carries on by keeping it. Having ambition's only good for something when you ain't got someone like me stood in front of it. People can threaten me all they want, and some poor little lassies might back down, but you won't find her sat in this bar talking to you right now or even in that ring when you challenge for the Trench War title.”
She knocks on the centerplate, hearing the metal tapping. No one in the bar is directly looking at her, but they can't help glance every so often.
“Desmond Masters is gonna be that first guy to find that out. Now Desmond- who I'll call Des- he's a friend to be sure. Yeah, I've met him before he made his debut. I know everyone these days. He's new to this whole business but he's cool. I think I met him in Vegas. Promise that's not as dodgy as it sounds, we literally went there for a show like two months ago. But the point is Des is new and he's fiery and he wants to prove himself. And that's grand. I love that. That's the kind of people I want challenging me for this. Fiery, hungry fighters who want what's coming to them! That's what this thing on my shoulder is! But just cos you're a good challenger doesn't mean you're a surefire winner. Everyone probably thinks you're the underdog and I got nothing to prove here but I got MORE to prove now, fella. I got a target on my back and everybody sniffing around to throw a toxic dart at it, and you're the first. I gotta make an example outta you and I gotta set the precedent here that the people who hold this title are the toughest fuckers in this place, so you can bet your arse I ain't gonna let you take what I got, I tell ya now. You're the first on that road, fella. I'm gonna change the perception of what the top title is in this place, and lemme tell ya it's gonna be this one right here.”
She stops for a sec, listening. The country music is still playing.
“But if anything else should change first, it's this music. Do I gotta keep listening to that? Really?”
BARTENDER:
“It's a juke box.”
Suddenly she turns around. The bartender, who has been washing glasses this entire time. He has a mustache. Think Tom Selleck but older.
EMERY LAYTON:
“...It is?”
BARTENDER:
“Uh huh.”
She turns to us, a winning smile.
EMERY LAYTON:
“...Well then, come with me! Lets see what we got here!”
So she does. She walks over to that old jukebox, excitedly, as she cycles through it after putting in a few coins. Now everyone is watching her.
“Lets see...oh, it's one of those ones that goes by artist. So lets see, we got...aw, no Kate Bush. That's bollocks. Ah well. Hey...tell you what though- love me a bit of Bowie!”
As she presses a button, she is obscured by a large shadow. She looks to her side. It's the man from before in the sleeveless checkered shirt, now sans newspaper.
CHECKERED-SHIRT GUY:
“I was listening'a that.”
EMERY LAYTON:
“Oh. Sorry to hear that. Some real stuff coming on in a sec, though.”
CHECKERED-SHIRT GUY:
“You better change it back or you'll be sorry.”
EMERY LAYTON:
“Er...big wrestling title on my shoulder and you're threatening me?”
CHECKERED-SHIRT GUY:
“You ain't gonna scare me off little girl. Especially people like you.”
You can hear a pin drop. She looks him up and down.
EMERY LAYTON:
“Well that's a shame cos--”
Suddenly the music changes. They both look up, as the quiet country music changes to “Lets Dance” by David Bowie. Em smiles, closing her eyes and swaying her head and clicking her finger like a metronome. Checkered-shirt just watches her, confused.
EMERY LAYTON:
“Oh man...I love this song. Don't you?”
CHECKERED-SHIRT GUY:
“What the hell is this stupid-ass shit?”
EMERY LAYTON:
“Not a fan? Huh.”
**BANG.
**
**
Em clocks him with a hard forearm smash to the face, and Mr. Checkered-Shirt falls to the ground. Bowie continues to play along. She turns around, holding her arms out.
EMERY LAYTON:
“Anyone else?! Come on. Who's next?”
No one dares move a muscle. Not even the Bartender. Em nods.
“...Cool. Drinks for everyone except that guy. On me for the rest of the night.”
And the place erupts as she takes another sip of her rum. She turns to us again as she fixes her belt and puts it around her wait.
“Laredo Energy Arena. Desmond Masters. See you there fella. Till then...I'll be right here.”
Em stands on two stools at the bar, title around her waist, dancing without a care.
The Trench War Title is on the line.
David Bowie is playing.
The night has only just begun. As far she's concerned, Emery Layton rules the world.
