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An old haunt; Vindication #'1
Topic Started: Aug 17 2012, 02:48 AM (100 Views)
Deleted User
Deleted User

((Background here - tl;dr Dunstan left England for NEW because he refused to throw a boxing match and now there are some dangerous people who aren't big fans))


It's raining. The camera shows the bank of a large river which rushes past, swollen, in a grey city. There are traffic sounds and pedestrian sounds, all the noise of the mid-afternoon. Into the shot walks a figure in a hood, hulked up against the rain. He is out of focus for a moment.

"Summer."

The figure lights a cigarette, and as the lighter illuminates his face in the gloom, we see an unmistakeable moustache. He's not dressed in his usual expensive clothing, but it's definitely Dunstan Montgomery. He mumbles to himself as he draws on the cigarette.

"Always hated London."

He stands leaning against the concrete wall at the bank of the river, hood hiding his features, casting glances here and there. He's clearly ill at ease.

He stays silent for a moment.

A phone rings. Dunstan very quickly pulls it out and answers.

"Hello?"

A look of relief on his face.

"It's me."

...

"Don't make me say my name out loud, Mick. You know exactly who it is, and you know exactly why I'm being so fucking circumspect about the whole thing. I'm back."

...

"I'm on the north bank. The usual place. I want to come to the gym."

...

"I'm aware of that, Mick."

...

"I don't use guns."

...

"I don't use guns, Mick."

...

"Okay, I'll be there in twenty minutes. I'll come in the back."

...

"Gone soft? You have no idea. You have no bloody idea at all. I'll see you in a little while."

He hangs up the phone and walks off.


***************

We cut to a dilapidated gym with damp stains on the wall and a single, rocky-looking ring in the centre as the main focus. In the corner, Dunstan Montgomery punches a wooden beam that's supporting the roof, despite the fact that there are a few heavy bags hanging up immediately beside him. An old man enters from a side room with a dusty looking bottle of whiskey with no label.

"Is that the good stuff, Mick?"

"It is of course."

"Brilliant."

Mick pours a glass and hands it to Dunstan, then does the same for himself. They stay standing - there's nowhere to sit.

"You've got new heavy bags. You're the one who's gone soft, Mick."

"You old bastard."

"How are things here?"

"How are they? Christ above, Monty, you disappear off the face of the earth without a word of explanation after pulling some sort of trick on the bossman after fighting the Cuban, and you want me to tell YOU how things are?"

"I'm just curious."

"They're grand, Monty. Things are grand. The lads were worried about you, so they were, but they're hardy fuckers. You know yourself. They got over it. Now, where did you go? France?"

Dunstan laughs

"France? You've gone soft in the head as well, paddy. No, I didn't go to France. I went to make my fortune on the other side."

"America? Boxing?"

"Not boxing."

"You're hardly digging the fecking subways are you?"

"Not quite, Mick."

"Well you don't look like you've made much of a fortune."

"I didn't think it would be a good idea to show off too much, seeing as how I'm not particularly welcome in this part of the world any more. I've been doing well. I'm with New Era."

"What's that when it's at home?"

"Wrestling. I'm a wrestler."

"Are you, now? Fighting, anyway. You're not too far out of your element there anyway. Beating up the Yanks then, are you?"

"Yes, for the most part. I've got a match coming up though. Pay per view. Or the pre-show of a pay per view. It's called Vindication, which is quite fitting I think. It's against an Englishman. Saddington is his name."

"Never heard of him."

"Rigormortis X?"

Mick looks at Dunstan blankly.

"Well if you didn't know New Era, you wouldn't know him, I suppose. A lot of people do, though. He's a former world champion. From Wolverhampton."

"Ah, Wolverhampton. Hardy fuckers, them wolves."

"They can be. This one is. He beat me before, as a matter of fact, just about. I made my name in the fight though. I was green. First time on television."

"This is all televised?"

"Yes, Mick. It's very popular in America. It's popular here, too. Popular everywhere, in fact. There are going to be a lot of people watching this match, and I don't want to lose again."

"So you're back for a few tips, is it?"

"Tips? Mick, the only tip you ever gave me was that I was a soft English bollocks and that I wasn't in as much pain as I thought I was."

"Well I was right."

Dunstan laughs.

"You taught me well, I won't deny it. I'm not here for tips though. I just wanted to say hello. I've got a few more items on my itinerary before I go back for the big show."

"Like what?"

"Well, I'd like to visit my mother, for one thing."

"You're a good lad. Does she know where you went?"

"No."

"Jesus Christ almighty, Monty. Your own mother. She must be worried sick."

"Exactly. So I'm going to Wigan. But it just so happens that the route from London to Wigan takes me through Wolverhampton."

"So what? Are you going to sucker punch the fucker while he's drinking his tea?"

"He's not much of a tea drinker, I'd guess. He's probably in a den of vice somewhere in America snorting bath salts and talking about his tortured soul. That's exactly why I want to go to Wolverhampton. Do some research. Play some mind games."

"Mind games? Since when do you play mind games, Monty?"

"Wrestling isn't like boxing, Mick, although I'd argue that in retrospect that dead stare all your fighters cultivate is a sort of mind game in itself. I have to, as they vulgarly put it, put asses in seats. And I'm up against real competition, too. Every advantage is necessary."

"So what are you going to do?"

"You'll find out soon. Watch New Era Wrestling."

"I don't have a television."

"You're a hardy fucker yourself, Mick. Thanks for the whiskey."

"You're going?"

"I am. To tell my mother I'm not dead, and to mess with a man's home town in as many ways as I possibly can."

"That's not very manly."

"Do you know what a heel is?"

"I know what underhanded tactics are."

"A heel is someone who uses them. And I am one of those. I'm enjoying the role, actually. Anyway, here's something for the lads. Buy some punching bags."

Dunstan hands Micks a wad of cash.

"We've already got punching bags, Monty."

"Buy a television then. I'm off. It's been good. Tell no-one I came."

"As far as I know, you're already dead."

"You're as cold as ice, Mick."

"And you're still a soft English bollocks."

"We'll see."

Dunstan hands the empty whiskey glass back to Mick, pulls back up his hood and exits the gym.

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