PROMO: "The Ends"

[HollywoodSpikeJenkins 0]

What am I doing here?

 

It’s a thought that has crossed many people’s minds at some time or another. Maybe the office party got a little out of hand, maybe the night out clubbing was just a bit too drunken; regardless, alcohol is often involved in the run-up. Not tonight though, and not for many, many months beforehand. This man hasn’t touched a drop of the strong stuff for nearly a year now.

 

Seriously. What am I doing here?

 

It’s night in Johannesburg, and overhead the stars have come out to play. That in itself says something, because in most cities you can’t see the stars due to the fallout from the thousands upon thousands of lights. This part of Johannesburg is darker. There aren’t so many street lights, and by and large that’s how the locals like it.

 

‘Hollywood’ Spike Jenkins turns a corner with a degree of caution, looking about him as he does so. He’s seen a few people since he left the hustle and bustle of the city centre, but most of them have given him a wide berth. He’s not richly dressed or with any obvious signs of wealth, and that combined with the fact that even as one of the SWF’s smaller wrestlers he’s still a well-built 6’1 means that any muggers in the area won’t consider him a priority. In fact, Jenkins grimaces sourly as he readjusts the black woollen hat pulled down over his dirty blond hair, I probably look like a mugger.

 

It didn’t take him long to find out what he needed to know. A few hints, a few casual questions dropped here and there. Countries and languages may change but some things are similar the world over, and Spike’s got the feel of it coming back to him now. If his information is correct a quick cut through this alley and he should be in prime territory for what he’s seeking.

 

Is this what I’ve been brought down to?

 

The thought strikes him suddenly, almost causing him to break his stride. He’d considered what he was doing of course, even as he dropped the hints and asked the questions, but now he might only be minutes away from actually doing it the reality is starting to hit home.

 

I can’t beat Toxxic, he reminds himself, feeling the bile raised by the thought strengthen his resolve. I had my best chance yet on Smarkdown… and I couldn’t do it. Forget Ejiro interfering, forget the chain, forget that we were both hurting from Japan, forget everything - after everything that we went through together, and then all that he’s done to me since, I still couldn’t put the motherfucker away. So what have I got left to lose?

 

The line of reason makes it easier - not much, but a bit - to continue walking. Spike used to have lofty goals in life, and in his SWF career. The prospect of winning the World Title that he held up so briefly on Smarkdown as security dragged Ejiro Fasaki away from the ring has always been in his thoughts, driving him on with its golden glint. Now however his sole focus is on the British straight-edger with his stupid painted nails and his stupid spiky black hair and his stupid eyeliner and his stupid lopsided grin and his sheer stupid, stubborn, totally infuriating refusal to ever, ever lose… and it is this that means he is walking down a dark alley in South Africa at ten-thirty in the evening. He can’t be long though; he has a schedule to stick to.

 

Spike saunters out the other end of the alley, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. He was right; he’s now in the right sort of area for what he’s after, not the bright lights and security cameras and police of the main city, but one of the outlying areas. Perhaps a former village that eventually got swallowed up by the metropolis and now has its own little main street of shops and bars, a down-at-heel cousin with rusted shutters on the shop windows and litter lying everywhere, populated by a clientele who manage to be watchful without ever really looking at anyone else for too long.

 

Perfect. In a way.

 

* * * * *

 

Spike finds the man he’s after slightly further down the road. Two skinny, unsteady young men are already hurrying away from him with their hands plunged in their pockets and Jenkins approaches without any great caution, carrying on at full pace as if to go past before suddenly stopping. To any suspicious watcher it might look like he’s stopping to ask for directions.

 

“I wonder if you can help me,” Spike says in a low tone. The man looks up at him, startled. He’s not that big under the trenchcoat, Spike realises. He’s a short, rather slender man of indeterminate age and, Hollywood realises, a growing amount of apprehension at being addressed by this hulking American. Spike realises that he’s scowling and forces himself to appear a little more approachable. He disapproves of what the man does, but right now he needs this.

 

“Maybe,” the guy says, still weighing his new friend up, “it depends what you’re after…” he trails off, before his face suddenly splits in a wide grin. “Hey! You’re that guy from the wrestling show, right? The Hollywood one!” His smile grows wider as Spike marvels at the fact that the SWF has reached even the slums of South Africa… but then the grin disappears, or rather mutates into a fearful grimace. “You, er… you’re one of those no-drugs no-drink guys, aren’t you?” the man says with a nervous laugh. “Hey, I think you must be lost. Look, if you go-”

 

“I’m right where I want to be,” Spike replies, trying not to growl. With an effort, he forces himself to smile. “Look, don’t you know that wrestling is fake? The whole straight-edge thing is a gimmick.”

 

“A what?”

 

“Gimmick,” Spike repeats. “Like, something we do to make our characters more interesting? I’m not really straight-edge,” he assures the dealer, for without doubt that’s what the man is, “it’s just… it’s like I’m acting,” he finishes, praying to anyone who might be listening that the man doesn’t bolt. Seeing one of their fellows fleeing from a big American would either cause fear or anger amongst the other dealers populating the street, and either way Spike’s aim for the night would become hopeless.

 

“…OK,” the guy says, still not sure but apparently not wanting to lose a sale. “So, you’re interested in buying?”

 

“Might be,” Spike counters. “What’ve you got?” The man gives him an appraising look, then motions to the alley behind him.

 

“Hey, you wanna see the wares you’d best come in here a way where we won’t be disturbed,” he says, moving away but making sure not to turn his back to Spike. “Most people know what they want before they get here, y’know?” A thought seems to strike him, but he dismisses it. “Hey, if wrestling’s fake you wouldn’t want Angel Dust, would you? Pity,” he continues, “that stuff’s like the best painkiller ever…”

 

“Just show me what you’ve got,” Spike says, keeping his face level and following the man inside.

[The Ill One 0]

I fully expect to see Spike on a match on PCP. ...Breaking character? Fo' shame.

 

Still, nice promo.

[Ace309 0]

These are both very well-written and tell an interesting story vis a vis the way the card developed last night.

 

Required reading.

[Above Average 0]

Tom put this on my summer reading list and I liked it...