Valquist: War of Tomorrow (Fair)

Tapping his feet to the sound of upbeat dance tracks, waiting patiently upright at a VIP bar, Valquist enjoys a mixed fruits bottled cider. Turning his rested body, facing a glass overlook on the fourth floor of a packed casino, Val was without his prized championship. Savouring time off, the champ sat down in an empty, purple velvet booth that is pressed against a cream wall. Scrolling through his phone as he enjoys the peace, the back of Val’s neck itched as the humidity within the gambling establishment slowly rose. Taking off his brown Ted Baker jacket, Val grabbed his chequered blue formal shirt by the tip of the corner pockets and fluttered the shirt about to help cool his muscular body. As a wrestler, Val struggled keeping physically cool, his body mass and 3% body fat meant that perspiration was often a problem unless the champ took the right measures.

Ten minutes passed, with Val at ease in the club. Not approached by a single soul, this environment seemed unnatural to the Infinity national, who has never once placed a bet. Eventually, Val’s eyes are distracted upwards as a man no taller than five feet eight approaches Val’s booth, carrying a folded Visionaries World Championship in his arms by his waist. Slumping down opposite Val, chewing gum as if it’s going out of fashion, Val’s clasped hands and rigid body was a polar attraction when looking across the table to slouched, relaxed individual.

“You know what I love about this place?” the man says, upbeat as slides Val’s title across the shined, black table surface. Before Val could answer, he just smiled, allowing his company to continue his thought. “I bloody love the tragedy. I love that people come here, knowingly. Knowing that they are desperate or foolish, embracing every human flaw. Every one of these sad f*****s knows that they’re pissing on their integrity, their honour, and all that crap. I love the stench of desperation. It beats people smelling and believing their own s**t.”

“You can’t own a place like this and have a single moral fiber in your body,” Val says. “Then again, speaking from a business sense, you can’t own anything without morality.”

“That’s why I hope you’re treating that flimsy gold as such, nothing more than an object of business,” the flush man furthers. “I couldn’t care less if my name is on the casino. I’d rather not lie to myself. I’d rather just stick my middle finger down the throat of any midget or corporate bitch that dares call me out.”

Confirming that the man was Brandon Kheller, a man Val knew from his time in Infinity Wrestling, it was obvious that there was an unspoken bond of respect between the two, even if they would never be friends beyond their love of professional wrestling.

“That’s why I prefer him to you,” Kheller continues. “Yeah, yeah, we air VOW here. I’ve seen everything, and man I must admit Isis is one badass motherf****r. My people of Fair love him, even if we know he’s got black skin underneath. He just doesn’t give a s**t what he does, or who he hurts. That’s the crap I used to love commentating on with Infinity. Remember Neal Powers? I’d have loved to see that Isis and Neal throw-down in the ring.”

“Trust me, I did everything to keep Infinity alive,” Val assures. “But nothing lasts forever, and quite frankly Isis believed that it wasn’t worth his time unless others showed the same commitment. Without him, there was never going to be an Infinity.”

“He wasn’t wrong,” Kheller adds. “Half of the Infinity roster were sacks of crap that couldn’t care less if they showed. They didn’t understand the effort it took to keep that place open. My boy Jordan Casanova was the man, but getting him to care enough to show was half the problem. Wrestling’s always been a ball-bag of a sport because instead of being clinical like any other business, there has to be trust and confidence. Commitment and mutual understanding. It’s all about dealing with ego and bulls**t pride. I’m glad Infinity escaped its curse. I do miss it though, but not enough to see the city go through it all over again.”

“We can both agree on that,” Val responds with an unconvincing smile.

“You’re one of the lucky ones, Val. You weren’t aboard the ship when it was sinking.”

“But you got out,” Bad Boy reaffirms. “You got damn lucky. So damn lucky to be where you are now. Most of those Infinity guys, they drowned under the weight of failure. So if we see that on Sunday you get beat by that punk, you’ll never be allowed near Fair City ever again. Imitation is not a form of flattery, and that Casanova English couldn’t hold a candle to the messes we’ve been through. He’s got the attitude of a new born puppy compared to what everyone here has gone through.”

“You might be my special guest tonight, but I’m not playing into the hands of a martyr. You know how to win, you know that your talents s**t all over your opponent, but I know what you want. You need a massive pat on the back, because you’ve been grilled about Isis. You’ve been labelled every red hot name under the sun for not being able to stick it to your opponents without his false presence. Speaking man to man, we both know what that jag-off is going to throw at you. He’s going to flop his d**k out, and say he has the bigger set of balls. He’ll use his conventional wrestling skills to pander to a live audience that loves to see a man at their intellectual level. Just loosen up, Val. You’re too tightly wound, so embrace Isis. That man doesn’t care getting on his knees and cutting the f*****s dick right off and jamming it down his own throat. Just don’t separate what I see. Two sides of the same coin.”

“That wasn’t a question,” Val says smiling, knowing that his sarcastic tone was well received by Brandon.

“Fine, I’ll feed the monkey,” Brandon says, sitting up as he pushes the World Championship into Val’s lap. “Why do you care? You’re champion. Sure, you built your care on a set of bricks made up of honourable reasons and fine acumen in the ring, but honestly, why do you care? You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do as champ. I’m sitting here a fool knowing that one of you knows the answer, but I’m not looking at him.”

“When has nobility ever won in wrestling, though? That’s why there are a million English’s at the top of the food chain, because they just don’t care. They act all nicey nice when they’re speaking just as members of the human race, but put them in character, and they’re all the same. Self-motivating assholes that are all just a different shade of diarrhea. It’s an infection of generic proportions, and sitting here challenging everything, it’s obvious that you’re not made of the same cloth. But unfortunately when it comes to that moment to sink or swim, you’ve got to get down and dirty, sink a level below and above what they know to be true for their generic characters. You won’t leave with that gold on Sunday unless you abolish the thought that you’re above English. People like that feed off the idea that the garbage coming out of their mouths actually means a damn, because it’s already been said ten million times over. Every man and woman you’ve ever come across in the ring has treated you as the exception, and has tried to drag you into the mud, face-down, so you can smell the crap covered roses. English won’t know what has hit him if it’s you that comes out of the mud, and drags him kicking and screaming in his own mess.”

“And this is the great irony of it all. You won’t be able to drag these people out of the s*****r unless English sees that you’re more than willing to dive into the mud head-first. But they need to see it as you, and not Isis. That’s when you’ll be feared, when everyone realise that you’re both equipped for the calm of the storm, and the eye of it. Quite honestly, I’m not sure that cocksucker deserves to be clean. Some people are born in their crap, and die in it, out of their own choices.”

“Then view this fight as a re-election. Fight for that second term, but do it your way. I’m just warning you, when the pressure is on, and your dirty laundry is out there, don’t be afraid to use your secret weapon as a means a stamp your authority. Force them into your ideology, because from my own experiences, people don’t budge willingly.”
"Just be Full Measures, right?"

A bouncer with a long-sleeve white t-shirt comes over to the booth and leans over, whispering into Brandon’s ear. The whole time during this brief conversation, the six foot tall, white male in his thirties, peers at Val with the championship belt as if he’s a school kid holding a plastic toy. He scowls at Val before leaving, laughing at the champ inside.

“So, you ready to put on your smile, and get this press event over and done with?”

Val steps up, leaving the remains of his cider on the polished black surface. Proudly lofting the World Championship over his shoulder the plain glass door is opened by the sneering bouncer and an eruption of cheers erupt as Valquist looks down upon thousands of cheering wrestling fans. Val lifts the title up in the air, with Brandon getting in on the action, holding up Val’s strong right arm. Val turns and winks at the disapproving, underpaid Venice beach poser, who just turns away.

Val raises the belt above his head with both arms and as he lowers the belt over his head, Val is replaced with the emergence of Isis Derrida. Isis stops lowering the belt at his waist, and as white replaces black, the applauding fans give an even greater applause as Derrida begins descending into the heart of those admiring.