Post by Marcus Brody Sr. on Aug 12, 2011 3:49:14 GMT
"Here is your winner, and the first ever Universal Championship Wrestling World Heavyweight Champion... "The Human Suplex Machine" Marcus Brody!"
The strong Leeds accent of Simon Jenkins echoed through the packed Hartshead Arena. It had yet to attain the UCW Arena name. UCW had made a thunderous debut with a sensational one-night tournament. Once the clichéd dust had settled, one man stood tall. Standing at 5'11" and weighing 232 lbs, thirty-two year old Marcus Brody held aloft the brand new golden red and worn out face. He'd survived through four matches to emerge as the champion. The moment he hit the Brody Plex on The Top Dog and the referee counted to three, the roof was raised. Maybe it was because he was local. Maybe it was because he's thwarted Top Dog after he cheated his way through the first round and the quarter finals, then got a bye to the final. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because he fought like a true Gladiator through the first round and the quarters before overcoming a tremendously excruciating contest with "Captain" Joe Stall to reach the final. March 1st 1990- the night that Marcus Brody became our hero.
That night had significance to another too. For our hero handed his newly won championship belt to a seventeen-year old boy in the front row. No one knew why Marcus had done such a thing or why he chose this boy. A feel-good moment, for sure. One man, however, wasn't too happy...
"What the hell!?" came a conditioned Bronx accent as our hero stepped through the curtain empty handed, with the straps on his deep blue singlet pulled down. "Why'd ya give the belt to that kid?"
"Inspiration, Sandy." retorted the eloquently spoken Mancunian Brody. The man named Sandy flared his nostrils and raised his eyebrows before snapping back.
""Inspiration?" Whatcha smokin', Brody?"
He ran a hand through his floppy black hair, shaking his head with disbelief.
"D'ya know how much it cost to get that made?"
"Not as much as you're gonna say it did. That belt was mine to keep so I can do what I please with it... And if it inspires that kid to become the greatest wrestler of all time, then I'm glad I gave it to him."
Sandy was fuming. His eyes appeared as if they were about to pop out.
"Yours to keep?! Yer crazy! The only thing yer gonna inspire that kid to do is sell it! I betcha that belt's gonna be on sale in a pawnbroker's first thing tomorrow."
"I wouldn't take that bet if I was you, Sandy," began our role model. "When we open the wrestling school next week, I assure you that Mark will be there. I've got a sixth sense for talent. Mark will be a star, I promi-"
"Marcus!" interrupted a feminine voice. Our hero turned and his face lit up into an adoring smile as an auburn haired, olive skinned lady in a figure hugging red dress approached with a royal blue pram. He warmly embraced her and planted a soft, tender kiss on her carnation pink lips.
"How's my hunky hero? I'm so proud of you, baby." Marcus' face went scarlet. The woman turned to Sandy, whose fury had transfigured itself into a smarmy grin at the sight of her. "And you must be Sandy Strachon. Nice to meet you."
She offered her hand and Sandy shook it firmly. "Nice to meet ya too. And yer...?"
"Oh, how rude of me. It's Rachel. Rachel Brody. Marcus' wife."
"Oh." Sandy's smarm melted into a forced smile. "Pleasure. I was just congratulatin' yer husband on a job well done."
"How lovely," replied Rachel. He turned back to the pram and pulled out a chubby baby wearing a tiny pale blue t-shirt and a tightly applied nappy. "Hey Marcus, there's a little someone who'd like to congratulate you too."
Our hero stroked the baby's head of mousey brown hair and planted a kiss on its forehead. The baby giggled as Rachel handed it over to Marcus, who looked into his blue eyes and smiled along with his kid.
"Hey there Junior," said our hero in a playful voice. "How's daddy's little boy?"
"S-s-suplex." replied the baby. Marcus chuckled and smiled at Sandy. "Little tyke just said his first word the other day. "Suplex," that's all he can say. Little Marcus Thomas Brody, a chip off the old block."
"Will he be a star some day, Marcus?" asked Sandy. "Ya can use that sixth sense ya say ya have."
"Of course," said our hero. "I guarantee he'll take after his dad." He placed Marcus Jr. back into his pram and addressed his radiant wife.
"Rachel, I just need to take care of something with Sandy. I'll meet you in a moment."
Rachel smiled at her husband, waved at Sandy, took the pram with Marcus Jr. and walked off down the corridor. As soon as she was gone, Sandy's forced smile faded into a frown and he continued to chastise our champion.
"How dare ya do that to our belt, Marcus! Ya know yer gonna have to pay for a new one!"
"Easy now, Sandy. You just saw my wife and son. I need to provide for them. Plus, you know the tradition with championships..."
"Tradition? Traditional wrestling makes no money anymore. ITV dropped 'World of Sport' and Bell Vue's closed down. I want to give our country somethin' new."
"Oh yeah, I forget you're British sometimes," ejaculated Marcus. "It's that acc-"
"I wasn't finished," snapped Sandy. "But yeah, somethin' new. Somethin' they've never seen before. I wanted to call UCW, "Universal Crapkicking Wrestling," ya know, but my investors wouldn't let me. Forget having too many rules like that six five-minute rounds, two pinfalls, two submissions or a knockout to finish crap of the past. I want to entertain. That no rules stuff you experienced tonight. That's the revolution of wrestling, Marcus! UCW's about doing away with tradition, and that includes the first champion getting to keep the belt."
Our hero shook his head with frustration. "Get rid of tradition? Are you serious, Sandy?"
Sandy nodded. "Yeah. And yer goin' to that pawn shop tomorrow and buyin' our belt back. I bet-"
"You sure like to bet, don't you, Sandy Strachon?"
"What have I told ya about interrupting me?"
"I'm just saying. You like betting? Then how about one?"
Sandy was confused. What on earth was his UCW Champion thinking? "Depends whatcha bettin' on."
"The belt. If it's in that pawn shop tomorrow, I'll pay for it and we totally get rid of all traditional values and turn our sport into blood money. If it's not, you find a good middle ground blending your idea with tradition, I don't owe you a penny, and first champions are allowed to keep the original belts and carry new belts. But you're so sure that young Mark'll pawn it, so you must like those odds, surely?"
Sandy's smarmy grin returned to him. He grasped Marcus Brody's hand firmly and shook it. "Deal. I like them odds. Get yer money ready, 'cause I'm gonna win this one."
"And, of course, we know who won that bet."
Over twenty-one years had passed, and our hero was admiring the original belt in a glass case above the mantlepiece of Mark's living room. Of course, it's quite well-known who Mark turned out to be- UCW Legend and FWF Hall of Famer, The Predator...
"Ho-ho!" he chuckled, before munching on a Coconut Ring and lying back on his sofa. "I still remember that night really well. I had to lie low and walk in the middle of a literal circle of friends." He clapsed his cane and pointed it at the big silver belt on our hero's lap.
"Did winning that feel as good as you imagined?"
"The Universal Championship? Apart from being attacked by Thor... Yes. Yes it did."
Predator smiled at his mentor and nodded approvingly. "Good to hear your sense of humour's coming back."
Marcus glanced down at his lap and put his wrinkled hands on the Universal Championship belt. He held it up to his face, breathed on it, and wiped it with the sleeve of his maroon cardigan. He didn't respond at all to Predator's comment.
"Pred, do you remember what I said to you when we became UCW Tag Team Champions?"
"Yyyyeeeesssss..." Predator's slow, overpronounciation and hesitant tone of voice showed his confusion, wondering what his mentor was getting at.
"We'd just defeated The Breakfast T-"
"You don't need to tell me. I know the story."
Our hero humbly nodded as he adjusted the collar on his white polo necked shirt.
"So, yeah." Predator continued. "You told me that while it's hard to win a championship, the hardest part's actually keeping it..."
"That's right," said our hero. "I may be the Universal Champion, but now I have to keep it. Thing is, I don't know if I'm able to stay champion. I don't think I'm cut out anymore."
"Aw, come on now!" Predator groaned.
"What?" cried Marcus Brody. Predator tutted whilst twiddling his thumbs. Brody slouched back in the crinkled old brown leather of his friend's armchair. "What's the problem?"
"Your whining!" yelled the Lost Hero. "Marcus, am I going to get an earful from you every time you're in a match?"
The Hall of Famer sat up and held his cane up, pointing it at the Human Suplex Machine.
"And you don't even need to worry about defending the title yet. You're in Jealousy, damn it!"
"I know! I know I am, Pred. But I'm fifty-four in less than two months."
"And that matters, why?"
"I'm the oldest guy in the tournament. Saw some alarming stats."
"Oh?" Predator leaned forward intently, supporting his weight on his cane.
"Yeah, I checked. There's nearly twenty years between me and the next oldest."
"Benny Starr's only thirty-four? I thought he was in his forties."
"No, Jack Cool. Benny's thirty-one."
"Really? You'd have thought with the baldness that Benny would be older."
"Yeah, but it's Jack Cool I'm facing in the quarters. Benny's in the other side of the brackets."
Brody looked around nervously at the oil paintings hanging on the creamy walls around him. A cloud of doubt was growing around him.
"You've beaten him before. In the Battlefield Brawl. If you hadn't done that, you wouldn't be Universal Champion."
Marcus Brody's nervous glances changed into a blank stare focused on the fawn-coloured carpet.
"Don't forget how I beat him," he began. "I came in at the end of the match after he took some punishment. It wasn't a fair fight."
"It wasn't a fair fight when he won the UK title from me," Predator burst. "I'd have won the match if Chris Knite hadn't tripped me. Karma collects, my friend."
"What about the stipulation?" asked Brody. "All the quarter-finals are Hardcore matches."
Predator leaned back on the arm of the sofa and tapped his nose, smirkly rather smugly.
"Think of it as a UCW Rules match."
Marcus sat back, thinking back to the story he'd just told Predator. That first night in UCW with the hardcore style and the years that followed. He smiled as he reminisced about the classic matches and numerous championships in his legendary career. Then just quickly as it formed, it turned back into a frown, for one thought popped into his mind.
"I'm too old for this shit," he moaned.
"Don't give me any of that Murtaugh crap."
"But I-"
"But nothing!" Snapped Predator. "Your mind's tricking you. Age may weaken our bodies, but not until much later. You've always kept in shape. I know you have what it takes to beat Jack Cool. You've done it before. You damn well can do it again!"
"But I don't want to get complacent. No two matches are the same. That's where the young'uns went wrong the other week."
"Yeeeah, MTB was one of my picks for the-"
"You doubted me?" sighed Marcus.
"No. If you'd let me finish, I was about to say "for the final." I bet Sam Strachon £1000 on a Father versus Son final."
"Bet you he brags about that on commentary."
"Not taking that one, Marcus. I wouldn't put it past him."
"Wouldn't change my age. If I get past Jack Cool..."
"You should."
"Then I face the winner of Ross and Ritalin in the semis. Ross is thirty. Ritalin's twenty-two. I'm fifty-three. I beat Jack Cool and I go up against the winner of a match where the combined age of both guys is less than mine. And if that's not enough, it's a submission match, no less!"
"Quit moaning. You're starting to sound like Sah'ta Thor." Predator protested. He sighed with frustration, his fingers gripping tightly around the silver handle of his cane. "Who- for the record- you won that title from. Submission matches shouldn't be much of a problem for a technical master like you. Technical ability doesn't go with age. You've got experience on your side too. Just scout whoever's moves and use that technical prowess to counter them into your own submissions. Simple."
Marcus Brody sighed some more. He rested his forehead on the palm of his hand, supported by his elbow resting on his chino-adorned legs.
"There's a slight problem with that."
Not one to have his strategies criticised, Predator was baffled by his former mentor.
"Whatcha talkin' about, Marcus?" asked the curious ex-student.
"I don't have any special submissions," the ex-teacher revealed. Predator's jaw dropped. "I know some basics but I never won a match with them, just wore my opponents down."
"Then who taught MTB the MTBearhug?" quizzed Predator, whose face displayed a very puzzled expression. "I know I didn't."
"Oh yeah, I suggested the belly-to-belly suplex to bearhug combo. Bearhugs are simple, but very effective."
"Then how about using it?"
Marcus Brody shook his head.
"I can't. And you know why. The code."
Predator cursed to himself while clicking his fingers.
"Of course. It's not right to use another active guy's signature moves without permission. Then how about I let you have the Preysnatcher?"
"Thanks, but I'd rather have my own move."
The two legends sat in silence for a moment, contemplating through the catalogue of holds in their memories. They sat there, in silence for a few minutes, twiddling their thumbs, until...
"Got it!"
Predator's head turned sharply to our hero. "You have?"
"1985. I was facing some scrawny kid on the indies. I had him in a waistlock, about to hit the Brody Plex. The bell rang before I could drop him. Boy tapped out..."
"Yeah, you put that waistlock on tight."
"How does German Suplex into a reverse Bearhug sound?"
"It's simple. It's effective. It's playing to your strengths. And no one I know of uses it. Go for it!"
The Lost Heroes Commissioner grinned proudly at our hero. Had he made some progress and once again brought back his hero's confidence?
"That's all well and good, but I'm still too old. Look at these young Gladiators."
"Marcus, it's Warriors in FWF..." Predator intejected.
"Irrelevant. Jack Cool: thirty-four. "The" Ross Walker: Thirty. Ritalin: twenty-two. The Fizz: twenty-four. Dagger Dave: twenty-five. Benny Starr: thirty-one. Prozac: twenty-five. Marcus Brody: fifty-four. Hardcore Quarters, Submission Semis and an unknown final."[/color]
So much for that. The Predator still had a job ahead of him.
"Please... stop doubting yourself. Remember when I got you to come back to UCW after your knee injury? You said you were too old then too."
"I was forty-four. I'm nearly fifty-four."
"You won the UCW title when you were forty-five. You beat me to do it! And when you were forty-six, we had our legendary match. The match that made your son want to be a wrestler!"
"Don't mention him."
Predator got to his feet and made his way to Marcus, towering over him.
"Snap out of it! Have you forgotten why you're back in FWF? Why you entered this tournament? Why you're Universal Champion?"
With each pause, he whacked the base of his Marcus' seat, making our hero jump.
"What was it MTB said to you? That you're irrelevant and wouldn't succeed in 2011? What year is it?"
"2011."
His cane took aim at the Universal Championship belt.
"What's that in your lap?"
"The FWF Universal Championship."
"Who's in the Jealousy tournament?"
"Me."
"Who's not?"
"Him."
"Exactly. You're showing him that you're relevant, and that you're succeeding in 2011. And what a better way to further prove that by winning Jealousy? And let's not forget 2006."
"2006?"
"I reminded you about it last week! Shit!"
The Predator's eyes transformed into his feared glare. He held his cane up to his friend's throat as he trembled with rage. His frustration had become full blown anger.
"Am I going to have to make these speeches every week?! Fuck! Dragon's Dungeon, damn it! You embarrassed me on live TV! You told the world you were going to Grand Slam! You've held the Hardcore Championship! You've held the Tag Team Championship! You're the Universal Champion! You only need an event, and the World Championship! The Marcus Brody I know is a man of his word! He wouldn't have taken it when I got him fired! He'd have scratched! He's have clawed! He'd have made my life a living hell... just to prove me wrong! I know you can do it! You win Jealousy? That's your event! You win the title? That's your Grand Slam! That's 2006 douchebag me shut up! And Sandy-warped MTB proved wrong! All in one! Believe in yourself, Marcus! I did it last week, and you beat Sah'ta Thor! Cleanly! In the middle of the ring! Most of those younger guys on the roster have trouble facing him! Don't you see? The Human Suplex Machine is in there! You came back from a knee injury! You came back to UCW and won the title two more times! You were a Gladiator then! And you're a warrior now! Do you know what the name Marcus means?"
Marcus didn't say a word. He sat in the chair, absorbing everything Predator was yelling at him, his cane still pressing against Marcus' larynx. He didn't flinch. He didn't cower. He absorbed it like a man. He absorbed it like a hero. He absorbed it... like a boss! Predator took a moment to catch his breath.
"Marcus comes from the Roman God of War, Mars. Marcus, and its derivative Mark, means Warrior! That's exactly what FWF is all about! Warriors! The fans respect you! The people in the back respect you! I respect you! When I left you, I was but the learner, but now I am the master! I'm The Tournament Master! I can prepare you for Jealousy! I want to see you win Jealousy! I want to see you succeed! I want you to answer your critics! Answer your son! You can do it! I know you can!"
He pressed his cane tighter into Marcus' throat. Having sat through this bollocking, our hero had had enough. He gripped the cane and cast it aside, sending Predator falling through his coffee table. Our hero rose to his feet and stared at his belt.
"You're right. I'm Marcus Brody! FWF Universal Champion! I don't need brawn, I only need my brain and my heart."
Predator looked up from the shards of glass and splintered wood of his coffee table and a warmness was clear in his eyes. He was seventeen again, watching his hero win the UCW Championship at the inaugural Hardcore Heaven. In his eyes, old, moping, miserable, self-doubting Marcus Brody had vanished, and "The Human Suplex Machine" had taken his place.
"That's more like it! This feels like 2002! You came back from injury! You doubted yourself! You got focused! You won the title! And you can do it again! You can relive your glory days!"
Brody offered a hand to his friend, but Predator refused to take it.
"No, thanks. I miss going through tables, as crazy as it sounds. You have a chance to do what I can't do anymore. Compete for those fans. And if there's any way I can help, name it."
Our hero chuckled softly to himself, before winking at his student.
"Sure, you can tell me what the final's going to be."
"I wish I could, but Pain won't tell me. Though, knowing him, he thinks Jealousy's all about endurance too, so with the hardcore quarter finals and the submission semi finals... he might go for... actually, you have access to FWF's tape library. Go watch Jealousy Three. That's all I'm gonna tell you."
"Got it."
"And focus on durability and defence with the Advanced Class the next few days, it'll help you."
"Cheers, Pred."
Predator tried all he could to get to his feet but he couldn't. He held his hand out for his hero to help him. Being the nice guy he was, our hero reached down and got him standing. Brody held Predator up and they hugged.
"Good to see you back, man."
"Good to be back, Pred. Good to be back."
As he left Predator's shortly after, our hero had a few things running through his mind. Especially the one thing he'd kept from his favourite student for over a decade. In fact, he'd kept it from everyone. The truth was, it wasn't a knee injury that made him leave UCW in January 2001...
It was December 18th 2000. Our hero was in his eighth reign as the UCW Champion, his fifth as Intercontinental Champion, his second as Television Champion and God knows how manyth reign as Hardcore Champion. And now, had just won his seventh UCW Tag Team Championship- this time with his recently debuted protégé, The Predator.
"Kid, that was some win out there. I'm impressed."
Marcus looked over to his student as they walked down the corridors towards the locker room.
"Thanks, but it wouldn't have been possible without you."
"Don't mention it. Who taught you to hit a Lariat like that, anyway? Wasn't me."
"It wasn't. Self taught. Sure you don't need any help with those belts?"
Of course, with our hero being the UCW, Intercontinental, TV, Hardcore and now one half of the Tag Team Champions, he'd become the second person to hold every championship at the same time after Unknown. He UCW Championship was around his waist, the Intercontinental and Television belts were draped over each shoulder and the newly won Tag Team Championship was in his right hand.
"I'm sure," our hero replied. "I've got it covered."
The entered the empty locker room and made their way over to the bench at the far end, resting in front of the pewter walls found only in the UCW Arena. Marcus laid all his belts out on a table.
"Beauties, aren't they?" he proudly asked.
"What about the Hardcore title?" answered Predator.
"Oh, thanks for reminding me."
And with that, he slipped a napkin out of one of his knee pads and lay it on the mahogany table along with with every other belt. Predator held out his newly won championship and stared at the purple and gold design of the centreplate. Our hero placed a hand on his prize pupil's shoulder.
"If you think winning that's hard, try defending it. Winning the title is easy compared to keeping it. It's what separates the men from the boys."
At that moment, Sandy burst through the door and held his arms out cockily, a briefcase in his right hand.
"Brody! You won again..." came the sarcastic fake New York accent. His shades covered gaze redirected itself to Predator and his newly won belt. His smug smile materialised, and his eyebrows peeked over his sunglasses.
"Hey, Predator! Well done on yer first title. Can ya give me a moment with Marcus?"
"Sure thing, Mr. Strachon."
Predator got to his feet, took his bag and headed to the door but Sandy interrupted him with a hand on his shoulder.
"Please. Call me Sandy."
And so the future Hall of Famer continued on and walked out of the room leaving our hero alone with his boss. Sandy grabbed a chair and sat on it backwards, leaning against the back with his arms. Our hero looked on apprehensively.
"What do you want now, Sandy?"
Sandy laughed like he was an amused hyena. He settled down and took his sunglasses off, looking Marcus deep in the eyes.
"Ya know what I'm here about," he snarled. "Ya know how income's been down lately?"
"I heard. Take it you're blaming it on me again?"
Sandy nodded. Marcus stared into his boss' conniving blue eyes with anger.
"Again?! Really, Sandy!? Are you that narrow minded?"
"I wouldn't say narrow minded, Brody. More... knowledgeable of the business."
Our hero rose to his feet and stretched over the table of belts, gripping the lapels of Sandy's suit jacket with ferocity.
"Is that what wrestling is to you? A Business?!" growled Marcus. "It's a sport, you greedy bastard! Your disrespect for our great sport's sickening... The future is bleak, Sandy Strachon and it's all your fault!"
"Easy now, don'tcha jump the gun. I'm thinking about the future."
Brody's rage subsided slightly. He loosened his grip, and eventually let go of Sandy before sitting back down on his bench.
"You are?"
"Yeah. Yer student. Predator. Wasn't that the Mark ya told me about years ago?"
"That's right. I told you he'd make it."
Sandy took his sunglasses from the table and put them back on his face.
"I think he can. I think he can be the next champ. He will be the next champ, if ya know what I'm sayin'.."
"You want me to take a dive?"
Sandy grinned again, nodding like a bobblehead. He hoisted his briefcase onto the table and opened it in front of our hero, showing him wads of twenty pound notes.
"New Year's Rumble. "The Human Suplex Machine" Marcus Brody versus "The New Hero" The Predator. For the UCW Title. There's a million quid. Cash. Ya get it if ya drop the title to Predator. Face it Brody, yer too old for this shit."
"You don't believe in Predator?"
"I didn't say that, I said-"
"I know what you said!" Brody barked, glaring right through Sandy's sunglasses. "I'll take the match, and if Predator beats me, then fine, I'll hand him the title but there's no way I'm tainting his career like that!"
Sandy lay the money on the table over the championship belts. He took his shades off again and flung them into the briefcase.
"Listen here. Yer like a man called Roger Murtaugh. Ya may know him from Lethal Weapon. Danny Glover plays him."
"I know the films, Sandy," our hero hissed.
"In those films, he kept admitting that he's too old. Yet he carried on doin' that shit. The first one did okay at the box office. $65 million. That first movie caused a buzz. People wanted more. They got Lethal Weapon II. More Riggs and Murtaugh. Murtaugh was still too old for this shit. They made more than double that. 147 million. Then we got a third. Slightly less. 145 mill. Even older. Then we got Lethal Weapon the other year. Murtaugh was older than ever. That movie made a lot less. The franchise got too old. People lost interest. Warner Bros. only made a hundred and thirty million on it. Adjust those figures for inflation and that's a big drop, Marcus. Yer like the Lethal Weapon franchise. People are losing interest in ya. Ya don't make us as much money anymore. Ya need to let a star be made. Ya can prove yerself right. Ya can prove that the kid ya gave the belt to is a star. Ya can make him. Ya can make yerself a lot of money. All ya have to do is take the dive. That's all ya-"
Our hero had had enough of Sandy's diatribe. He rose to his feet and flipped the table, sending it into Sandy. Sandy toppled off his chair and hit the floor. The table landed on him and the money spilled all over the concrete floor. The championship belts were strewn around. Our hero went down on one knee and leered at Sandy.
"Now YOU listen here!" he roared. "I'd never disgrace this sport with match fixing! One day you'll learn that our sport is about respect, honour and fighting the good fight! Only the shallow are in this for the money! Shallow fuckwits like you! You can keep your dirty money! And you can keep those belts! You've sullied them with your words! I'm out of here, Sandy! I quit!"
Our hero didn't even hesitate to collect his bag. He stormed out of the room, then he stormed down the corridors smashing up everything he could see before kicking down the fire doors and walking out of the UCW Arena.
He got home quicker than usual that night. He'd left his front door key at the arena so he had to go around the back. Our hero went through the garden gate to see the back door open and a suitcase waiting. There, in a salmon dress, was the tall blonde figure that was Rachel Brody. Her make-up was caked on but you could still see her scowl.
"Sandy called... He told me you quit!" she said scornfully. "How can you do this to our family, Marcus? We need the money?"
"Really?" Marcus asked indignantly. "Don't you mean YOU need the money? The money I make only ever goes on you! All those clothes. All those shoes. All that make up. Don't think I haven't noticed. So now I've left UCW you're leaving me? How shallow. The Rachel I married would never do that."
"Yeah?" Her scowl made her look ugly. Her face was screwed up along with her mind. "Well the Marcus I married had money."
"So you never loved me for me?"
"Oh please. You're not even good looking. I married you for your money."
"What about Junior? What about little Marcus?"
"I wanted a daughter!"
"So you're abandoning your little boy? The baby you nurtured for years. You treated him like an accessory, didn't you? Yeah, you did! All because you're a money-grabbing bitch?"
"Fuck off, Marcus! I'm gone!"
Rachel barged past our hero and lamped him on the head with her suitcase, sending him falling into the bushes. She climbed into her pink BMW and backed off the drive way. Marcus got to his feet and chased after her in his torn singlet.
"Rachel!" He cried. "Rachel!"
It was too late. His wife sped off as she threw her wedding ring into the road. Our hero picked up the ring and sobbed to himself. Snow began to fall and his tears were freezing up. The woman he'd loved for years had left him, and he'd been living a lie. He felt used. He'd been abandoned. But all was not lost. He could find somewhere else to wrestle. He'd heard that former UCW Gladiator Mike Farrell was looking to set up a new promotion. Perhaps he could help him. That was an idea. But then...
THUD! A car hit our hero, sending him over the bonnet and down to the tarmac. The black Jaguar screeched to a halt and two shadowy figures armed with a golf club and a cricket bat stepped out. They came over, and the beating began. They started with some kicks to the stomach before putting their weapons to use. Since our hero lived in a secluded area, no one would be aware. The beating went on a couple of minutes until the one with the golf club swung and smashed Marcus Brody's knee in. They attacked it some more. As soon as they were done, a familiar figure got out of the car and a familiar set of eyebrows met our hero's eyes.
"Sandy..." was all our fallen hero could muster.
"Now ya listen here, Marcus Brody!" snarled Sandy Strachon. "New Year's Day, yer comin' to the UCW Arena. Yer gonna make a speech about how ya got injured over Christmas and how doctors have said ya can never wrestle again. Then I'm gonna come out, and yer gonna hand over every belt to me in the middle of that ring. I'm not havin' anybody know ya walked out on me. I don't wanna have people think my product's rigged. Yer not gonna tell a soul about this. Got it? 'Cause if ya do... Ya think what my boys just did to ya is bad? They'll be back, in greater numbers, and yer gonna get a lot worse. Got it?"
Sandy wiped his shoe on our hero's face and the three men hurried into the car and drove off. As soon as they were out of sight, the front door opened. A chubby eleven year old boy in navy pyjamas emerged. The street light showed his thick mousey hair.
"Dad?" he squeaked. "Dad?" He scurried back in, and about a minute later he was out again. He ran over to his injured father as fast as his fat legs would let him. "Daaaaaaaaad!!!!!" Tears streamed down his face as he checked on his unconscious but still breathing daddy. Sirens could be heard as the boy cried.
"And that's what happened between me and Sandy. I made that speech and handed over the titles. I never told anyone until now."
Except, there was no one else there. Our hero was on his own. It was Friday 12th August 2011 and Marcus Brody was in an isolated corner of the FWF locker room, talking to his reflection. He splashed water from the wash basin onto his face and brushed his hair back with his hands. He looked into them and noticed they'd gone black from his hair dye. He turned the taps to full blast and rinsed away the dye. He glanced up into the mirror again.
"I'm not too old, am I?"
Thoughts of his conversation with Predator sprung to mind. His student's vehement words echoed through his mind. The fire in those words lit up the fire in his heart. He kept his head up and focused on his wrinkled reflection.
"You have to do this, Marcus," he said to himself. "For yourself. For all those people in Boston. For your son. You have to show him. You have to show Sandy. You have to show them that this is a sport of honour! This isn't about money or women! This is about respect! This about what's inside! Age is just a number, Marcus... You're not too old for this shit..."
He ascended from his stool and pulled up the straps on the maroon singlet. He turned away from the mirror, lay hold of the Universal Championship and strapped it around his waist. He stood proudly, like the man that became the legendary hero fans of all generartions adored.
"I'm not too old for this shit," he muttered to himself. "I'm not Roger Murtaugh. I'm "The Human Suplex Machine" Marcus Brody: FWF Universal Champion. I'll show them. I'll prove myself."
He may be old but our hero was never one to be counted out. This night would be the ultimate test for him. The Hardcore match with "Ultra" Jack Cool; the Submission match with Ritalin or "The" Ross Walker; the mystery final with Dagger Dave, The Fizz, Prozac or "Super" Benny Starr. It would be the toughest challenge for the aging hero. Could he hack it? Would he surmount the drawbacks of his age? Did he still have UCW running through his veins to get through the Quarter Finals and make his foe live up to the title of one of his songs? Would be able to not give up in the Semi Finals? Would he prove he's Ferrum enough to make it past the final? Did our hero have it in him to rule victorious and take the Golden Ticket? Could he take one step closer to that Grand Slam? We'll find out... at Jealousy!
The strong Leeds accent of Simon Jenkins echoed through the packed Hartshead Arena. It had yet to attain the UCW Arena name. UCW had made a thunderous debut with a sensational one-night tournament. Once the clichéd dust had settled, one man stood tall. Standing at 5'11" and weighing 232 lbs, thirty-two year old Marcus Brody held aloft the brand new golden red and worn out face. He'd survived through four matches to emerge as the champion. The moment he hit the Brody Plex on The Top Dog and the referee counted to three, the roof was raised. Maybe it was because he was local. Maybe it was because he's thwarted Top Dog after he cheated his way through the first round and the quarter finals, then got a bye to the final. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because he fought like a true Gladiator through the first round and the quarters before overcoming a tremendously excruciating contest with "Captain" Joe Stall to reach the final. March 1st 1990- the night that Marcus Brody became our hero.
That night had significance to another too. For our hero handed his newly won championship belt to a seventeen-year old boy in the front row. No one knew why Marcus had done such a thing or why he chose this boy. A feel-good moment, for sure. One man, however, wasn't too happy...
"What the hell!?" came a conditioned Bronx accent as our hero stepped through the curtain empty handed, with the straps on his deep blue singlet pulled down. "Why'd ya give the belt to that kid?"
"Inspiration, Sandy." retorted the eloquently spoken Mancunian Brody. The man named Sandy flared his nostrils and raised his eyebrows before snapping back.
""Inspiration?" Whatcha smokin', Brody?"
He ran a hand through his floppy black hair, shaking his head with disbelief.
"D'ya know how much it cost to get that made?"
"Not as much as you're gonna say it did. That belt was mine to keep so I can do what I please with it... And if it inspires that kid to become the greatest wrestler of all time, then I'm glad I gave it to him."
Sandy was fuming. His eyes appeared as if they were about to pop out.
"Yours to keep?! Yer crazy! The only thing yer gonna inspire that kid to do is sell it! I betcha that belt's gonna be on sale in a pawnbroker's first thing tomorrow."
"I wouldn't take that bet if I was you, Sandy," began our role model. "When we open the wrestling school next week, I assure you that Mark will be there. I've got a sixth sense for talent. Mark will be a star, I promi-"
"Marcus!" interrupted a feminine voice. Our hero turned and his face lit up into an adoring smile as an auburn haired, olive skinned lady in a figure hugging red dress approached with a royal blue pram. He warmly embraced her and planted a soft, tender kiss on her carnation pink lips.
"How's my hunky hero? I'm so proud of you, baby." Marcus' face went scarlet. The woman turned to Sandy, whose fury had transfigured itself into a smarmy grin at the sight of her. "And you must be Sandy Strachon. Nice to meet you."
She offered her hand and Sandy shook it firmly. "Nice to meet ya too. And yer...?"
"Oh, how rude of me. It's Rachel. Rachel Brody. Marcus' wife."
"Oh." Sandy's smarm melted into a forced smile. "Pleasure. I was just congratulatin' yer husband on a job well done."
"How lovely," replied Rachel. He turned back to the pram and pulled out a chubby baby wearing a tiny pale blue t-shirt and a tightly applied nappy. "Hey Marcus, there's a little someone who'd like to congratulate you too."
Our hero stroked the baby's head of mousey brown hair and planted a kiss on its forehead. The baby giggled as Rachel handed it over to Marcus, who looked into his blue eyes and smiled along with his kid.
"Hey there Junior," said our hero in a playful voice. "How's daddy's little boy?"
"S-s-suplex." replied the baby. Marcus chuckled and smiled at Sandy. "Little tyke just said his first word the other day. "Suplex," that's all he can say. Little Marcus Thomas Brody, a chip off the old block."
"Will he be a star some day, Marcus?" asked Sandy. "Ya can use that sixth sense ya say ya have."
"Of course," said our hero. "I guarantee he'll take after his dad." He placed Marcus Jr. back into his pram and addressed his radiant wife.
"Rachel, I just need to take care of something with Sandy. I'll meet you in a moment."
Rachel smiled at her husband, waved at Sandy, took the pram with Marcus Jr. and walked off down the corridor. As soon as she was gone, Sandy's forced smile faded into a frown and he continued to chastise our champion.
"How dare ya do that to our belt, Marcus! Ya know yer gonna have to pay for a new one!"
"Easy now, Sandy. You just saw my wife and son. I need to provide for them. Plus, you know the tradition with championships..."
"Tradition? Traditional wrestling makes no money anymore. ITV dropped 'World of Sport' and Bell Vue's closed down. I want to give our country somethin' new."
"Oh yeah, I forget you're British sometimes," ejaculated Marcus. "It's that acc-"
"I wasn't finished," snapped Sandy. "But yeah, somethin' new. Somethin' they've never seen before. I wanted to call UCW, "Universal Crapkicking Wrestling," ya know, but my investors wouldn't let me. Forget having too many rules like that six five-minute rounds, two pinfalls, two submissions or a knockout to finish crap of the past. I want to entertain. That no rules stuff you experienced tonight. That's the revolution of wrestling, Marcus! UCW's about doing away with tradition, and that includes the first champion getting to keep the belt."
Our hero shook his head with frustration. "Get rid of tradition? Are you serious, Sandy?"
Sandy nodded. "Yeah. And yer goin' to that pawn shop tomorrow and buyin' our belt back. I bet-"
"You sure like to bet, don't you, Sandy Strachon?"
"What have I told ya about interrupting me?"
"I'm just saying. You like betting? Then how about one?"
Sandy was confused. What on earth was his UCW Champion thinking? "Depends whatcha bettin' on."
"The belt. If it's in that pawn shop tomorrow, I'll pay for it and we totally get rid of all traditional values and turn our sport into blood money. If it's not, you find a good middle ground blending your idea with tradition, I don't owe you a penny, and first champions are allowed to keep the original belts and carry new belts. But you're so sure that young Mark'll pawn it, so you must like those odds, surely?"
Sandy's smarmy grin returned to him. He grasped Marcus Brody's hand firmly and shook it. "Deal. I like them odds. Get yer money ready, 'cause I'm gonna win this one."
----------------------------------------------------------------
"And, of course, we know who won that bet."
Over twenty-one years had passed, and our hero was admiring the original belt in a glass case above the mantlepiece of Mark's living room. Of course, it's quite well-known who Mark turned out to be- UCW Legend and FWF Hall of Famer, The Predator...
"Ho-ho!" he chuckled, before munching on a Coconut Ring and lying back on his sofa. "I still remember that night really well. I had to lie low and walk in the middle of a literal circle of friends." He clapsed his cane and pointed it at the big silver belt on our hero's lap.
"Did winning that feel as good as you imagined?"
"The Universal Championship? Apart from being attacked by Thor... Yes. Yes it did."
Predator smiled at his mentor and nodded approvingly. "Good to hear your sense of humour's coming back."
Marcus glanced down at his lap and put his wrinkled hands on the Universal Championship belt. He held it up to his face, breathed on it, and wiped it with the sleeve of his maroon cardigan. He didn't respond at all to Predator's comment.
"Pred, do you remember what I said to you when we became UCW Tag Team Champions?"
"Yyyyeeeesssss..." Predator's slow, overpronounciation and hesitant tone of voice showed his confusion, wondering what his mentor was getting at.
"We'd just defeated The Breakfast T-"
"You don't need to tell me. I know the story."
Our hero humbly nodded as he adjusted the collar on his white polo necked shirt.
"So, yeah." Predator continued. "You told me that while it's hard to win a championship, the hardest part's actually keeping it..."
"That's right," said our hero. "I may be the Universal Champion, but now I have to keep it. Thing is, I don't know if I'm able to stay champion. I don't think I'm cut out anymore."
"Aw, come on now!" Predator groaned.
"What?" cried Marcus Brody. Predator tutted whilst twiddling his thumbs. Brody slouched back in the crinkled old brown leather of his friend's armchair. "What's the problem?"
"Your whining!" yelled the Lost Hero. "Marcus, am I going to get an earful from you every time you're in a match?"
The Hall of Famer sat up and held his cane up, pointing it at the Human Suplex Machine.
"And you don't even need to worry about defending the title yet. You're in Jealousy, damn it!"
"I know! I know I am, Pred. But I'm fifty-four in less than two months."
"And that matters, why?"
"I'm the oldest guy in the tournament. Saw some alarming stats."
"Oh?" Predator leaned forward intently, supporting his weight on his cane.
"Yeah, I checked. There's nearly twenty years between me and the next oldest."
"Benny Starr's only thirty-four? I thought he was in his forties."
"No, Jack Cool. Benny's thirty-one."
"Really? You'd have thought with the baldness that Benny would be older."
"Yeah, but it's Jack Cool I'm facing in the quarters. Benny's in the other side of the brackets."
Brody looked around nervously at the oil paintings hanging on the creamy walls around him. A cloud of doubt was growing around him.
"You've beaten him before. In the Battlefield Brawl. If you hadn't done that, you wouldn't be Universal Champion."
Marcus Brody's nervous glances changed into a blank stare focused on the fawn-coloured carpet.
"Don't forget how I beat him," he began. "I came in at the end of the match after he took some punishment. It wasn't a fair fight."
"It wasn't a fair fight when he won the UK title from me," Predator burst. "I'd have won the match if Chris Knite hadn't tripped me. Karma collects, my friend."
"What about the stipulation?" asked Brody. "All the quarter-finals are Hardcore matches."
Predator leaned back on the arm of the sofa and tapped his nose, smirkly rather smugly.
"Think of it as a UCW Rules match."
Marcus sat back, thinking back to the story he'd just told Predator. That first night in UCW with the hardcore style and the years that followed. He smiled as he reminisced about the classic matches and numerous championships in his legendary career. Then just quickly as it formed, it turned back into a frown, for one thought popped into his mind.
"I'm too old for this shit," he moaned.
"Don't give me any of that Murtaugh crap."
"But I-"
"But nothing!" Snapped Predator. "Your mind's tricking you. Age may weaken our bodies, but not until much later. You've always kept in shape. I know you have what it takes to beat Jack Cool. You've done it before. You damn well can do it again!"
"But I don't want to get complacent. No two matches are the same. That's where the young'uns went wrong the other week."
"Yeeeah, MTB was one of my picks for the-"
"You doubted me?" sighed Marcus.
"No. If you'd let me finish, I was about to say "for the final." I bet Sam Strachon £1000 on a Father versus Son final."
"Bet you he brags about that on commentary."
"Not taking that one, Marcus. I wouldn't put it past him."
"Wouldn't change my age. If I get past Jack Cool..."
"You should."
"Then I face the winner of Ross and Ritalin in the semis. Ross is thirty. Ritalin's twenty-two. I'm fifty-three. I beat Jack Cool and I go up against the winner of a match where the combined age of both guys is less than mine. And if that's not enough, it's a submission match, no less!"
"Quit moaning. You're starting to sound like Sah'ta Thor." Predator protested. He sighed with frustration, his fingers gripping tightly around the silver handle of his cane. "Who- for the record- you won that title from. Submission matches shouldn't be much of a problem for a technical master like you. Technical ability doesn't go with age. You've got experience on your side too. Just scout whoever's moves and use that technical prowess to counter them into your own submissions. Simple."
Marcus Brody sighed some more. He rested his forehead on the palm of his hand, supported by his elbow resting on his chino-adorned legs.
"There's a slight problem with that."
Not one to have his strategies criticised, Predator was baffled by his former mentor.
"Whatcha talkin' about, Marcus?" asked the curious ex-student.
"I don't have any special submissions," the ex-teacher revealed. Predator's jaw dropped. "I know some basics but I never won a match with them, just wore my opponents down."
"Then who taught MTB the MTBearhug?" quizzed Predator, whose face displayed a very puzzled expression. "I know I didn't."
"Oh yeah, I suggested the belly-to-belly suplex to bearhug combo. Bearhugs are simple, but very effective."
"Then how about using it?"
Marcus Brody shook his head.
"I can't. And you know why. The code."
Predator cursed to himself while clicking his fingers.
"Of course. It's not right to use another active guy's signature moves without permission. Then how about I let you have the Preysnatcher?"
"Thanks, but I'd rather have my own move."
The two legends sat in silence for a moment, contemplating through the catalogue of holds in their memories. They sat there, in silence for a few minutes, twiddling their thumbs, until...
"Got it!"
Predator's head turned sharply to our hero. "You have?"
"1985. I was facing some scrawny kid on the indies. I had him in a waistlock, about to hit the Brody Plex. The bell rang before I could drop him. Boy tapped out..."
"Yeah, you put that waistlock on tight."
"How does German Suplex into a reverse Bearhug sound?"
"It's simple. It's effective. It's playing to your strengths. And no one I know of uses it. Go for it!"
The Lost Heroes Commissioner grinned proudly at our hero. Had he made some progress and once again brought back his hero's confidence?
"That's all well and good, but I'm still too old. Look at these young Gladiators."
"Marcus, it's Warriors in FWF..." Predator intejected.
"Irrelevant. Jack Cool: thirty-four. "The" Ross Walker: Thirty. Ritalin: twenty-two. The Fizz: twenty-four. Dagger Dave: twenty-five. Benny Starr: thirty-one. Prozac: twenty-five. Marcus Brody: fifty-four. Hardcore Quarters, Submission Semis and an unknown final."[/color]
So much for that. The Predator still had a job ahead of him.
"Please... stop doubting yourself. Remember when I got you to come back to UCW after your knee injury? You said you were too old then too."
"I was forty-four. I'm nearly fifty-four."
"You won the UCW title when you were forty-five. You beat me to do it! And when you were forty-six, we had our legendary match. The match that made your son want to be a wrestler!"
"Don't mention him."
Predator got to his feet and made his way to Marcus, towering over him.
"Snap out of it! Have you forgotten why you're back in FWF? Why you entered this tournament? Why you're Universal Champion?"
With each pause, he whacked the base of his Marcus' seat, making our hero jump.
"What was it MTB said to you? That you're irrelevant and wouldn't succeed in 2011? What year is it?"
"2011."
His cane took aim at the Universal Championship belt.
"What's that in your lap?"
"The FWF Universal Championship."
"Who's in the Jealousy tournament?"
"Me."
"Who's not?"
"Him."
"Exactly. You're showing him that you're relevant, and that you're succeeding in 2011. And what a better way to further prove that by winning Jealousy? And let's not forget 2006."
"2006?"
"I reminded you about it last week! Shit!"
The Predator's eyes transformed into his feared glare. He held his cane up to his friend's throat as he trembled with rage. His frustration had become full blown anger.
"Am I going to have to make these speeches every week?! Fuck! Dragon's Dungeon, damn it! You embarrassed me on live TV! You told the world you were going to Grand Slam! You've held the Hardcore Championship! You've held the Tag Team Championship! You're the Universal Champion! You only need an event, and the World Championship! The Marcus Brody I know is a man of his word! He wouldn't have taken it when I got him fired! He'd have scratched! He's have clawed! He'd have made my life a living hell... just to prove me wrong! I know you can do it! You win Jealousy? That's your event! You win the title? That's your Grand Slam! That's 2006 douchebag me shut up! And Sandy-warped MTB proved wrong! All in one! Believe in yourself, Marcus! I did it last week, and you beat Sah'ta Thor! Cleanly! In the middle of the ring! Most of those younger guys on the roster have trouble facing him! Don't you see? The Human Suplex Machine is in there! You came back from a knee injury! You came back to UCW and won the title two more times! You were a Gladiator then! And you're a warrior now! Do you know what the name Marcus means?"
Marcus didn't say a word. He sat in the chair, absorbing everything Predator was yelling at him, his cane still pressing against Marcus' larynx. He didn't flinch. He didn't cower. He absorbed it like a man. He absorbed it like a hero. He absorbed it... like a boss! Predator took a moment to catch his breath.
"Marcus comes from the Roman God of War, Mars. Marcus, and its derivative Mark, means Warrior! That's exactly what FWF is all about! Warriors! The fans respect you! The people in the back respect you! I respect you! When I left you, I was but the learner, but now I am the master! I'm The Tournament Master! I can prepare you for Jealousy! I want to see you win Jealousy! I want to see you succeed! I want you to answer your critics! Answer your son! You can do it! I know you can!"
He pressed his cane tighter into Marcus' throat. Having sat through this bollocking, our hero had had enough. He gripped the cane and cast it aside, sending Predator falling through his coffee table. Our hero rose to his feet and stared at his belt.
"You're right. I'm Marcus Brody! FWF Universal Champion! I don't need brawn, I only need my brain and my heart."
Predator looked up from the shards of glass and splintered wood of his coffee table and a warmness was clear in his eyes. He was seventeen again, watching his hero win the UCW Championship at the inaugural Hardcore Heaven. In his eyes, old, moping, miserable, self-doubting Marcus Brody had vanished, and "The Human Suplex Machine" had taken his place.
"That's more like it! This feels like 2002! You came back from injury! You doubted yourself! You got focused! You won the title! And you can do it again! You can relive your glory days!"
Brody offered a hand to his friend, but Predator refused to take it.
"No, thanks. I miss going through tables, as crazy as it sounds. You have a chance to do what I can't do anymore. Compete for those fans. And if there's any way I can help, name it."
Our hero chuckled softly to himself, before winking at his student.
"Sure, you can tell me what the final's going to be."
"I wish I could, but Pain won't tell me. Though, knowing him, he thinks Jealousy's all about endurance too, so with the hardcore quarter finals and the submission semi finals... he might go for... actually, you have access to FWF's tape library. Go watch Jealousy Three. That's all I'm gonna tell you."
"Got it."
"And focus on durability and defence with the Advanced Class the next few days, it'll help you."
"Cheers, Pred."
Predator tried all he could to get to his feet but he couldn't. He held his hand out for his hero to help him. Being the nice guy he was, our hero reached down and got him standing. Brody held Predator up and they hugged.
"Good to see you back, man."
"Good to be back, Pred. Good to be back."
As he left Predator's shortly after, our hero had a few things running through his mind. Especially the one thing he'd kept from his favourite student for over a decade. In fact, he'd kept it from everyone. The truth was, it wasn't a knee injury that made him leave UCW in January 2001...
----------------------------------------------------------------
It was December 18th 2000. Our hero was in his eighth reign as the UCW Champion, his fifth as Intercontinental Champion, his second as Television Champion and God knows how manyth reign as Hardcore Champion. And now, had just won his seventh UCW Tag Team Championship- this time with his recently debuted protégé, The Predator.
"Kid, that was some win out there. I'm impressed."
Marcus looked over to his student as they walked down the corridors towards the locker room.
"Thanks, but it wouldn't have been possible without you."
"Don't mention it. Who taught you to hit a Lariat like that, anyway? Wasn't me."
"It wasn't. Self taught. Sure you don't need any help with those belts?"
Of course, with our hero being the UCW, Intercontinental, TV, Hardcore and now one half of the Tag Team Champions, he'd become the second person to hold every championship at the same time after Unknown. He UCW Championship was around his waist, the Intercontinental and Television belts were draped over each shoulder and the newly won Tag Team Championship was in his right hand.
"I'm sure," our hero replied. "I've got it covered."
The entered the empty locker room and made their way over to the bench at the far end, resting in front of the pewter walls found only in the UCW Arena. Marcus laid all his belts out on a table.
"Beauties, aren't they?" he proudly asked.
"What about the Hardcore title?" answered Predator.
"Oh, thanks for reminding me."
And with that, he slipped a napkin out of one of his knee pads and lay it on the mahogany table along with with every other belt. Predator held out his newly won championship and stared at the purple and gold design of the centreplate. Our hero placed a hand on his prize pupil's shoulder.
"If you think winning that's hard, try defending it. Winning the title is easy compared to keeping it. It's what separates the men from the boys."
At that moment, Sandy burst through the door and held his arms out cockily, a briefcase in his right hand.
"Brody! You won again..." came the sarcastic fake New York accent. His shades covered gaze redirected itself to Predator and his newly won belt. His smug smile materialised, and his eyebrows peeked over his sunglasses.
"Hey, Predator! Well done on yer first title. Can ya give me a moment with Marcus?"
"Sure thing, Mr. Strachon."
Predator got to his feet, took his bag and headed to the door but Sandy interrupted him with a hand on his shoulder.
"Please. Call me Sandy."
And so the future Hall of Famer continued on and walked out of the room leaving our hero alone with his boss. Sandy grabbed a chair and sat on it backwards, leaning against the back with his arms. Our hero looked on apprehensively.
"What do you want now, Sandy?"
Sandy laughed like he was an amused hyena. He settled down and took his sunglasses off, looking Marcus deep in the eyes.
"Ya know what I'm here about," he snarled. "Ya know how income's been down lately?"
"I heard. Take it you're blaming it on me again?"
Sandy nodded. Marcus stared into his boss' conniving blue eyes with anger.
"Again?! Really, Sandy!? Are you that narrow minded?"
"I wouldn't say narrow minded, Brody. More... knowledgeable of the business."
Our hero rose to his feet and stretched over the table of belts, gripping the lapels of Sandy's suit jacket with ferocity.
"Is that what wrestling is to you? A Business?!" growled Marcus. "It's a sport, you greedy bastard! Your disrespect for our great sport's sickening... The future is bleak, Sandy Strachon and it's all your fault!"
"Easy now, don'tcha jump the gun. I'm thinking about the future."
Brody's rage subsided slightly. He loosened his grip, and eventually let go of Sandy before sitting back down on his bench.
"You are?"
"Yeah. Yer student. Predator. Wasn't that the Mark ya told me about years ago?"
"That's right. I told you he'd make it."
Sandy took his sunglasses from the table and put them back on his face.
"I think he can. I think he can be the next champ. He will be the next champ, if ya know what I'm sayin'.."
"You want me to take a dive?"
Sandy grinned again, nodding like a bobblehead. He hoisted his briefcase onto the table and opened it in front of our hero, showing him wads of twenty pound notes.
"New Year's Rumble. "The Human Suplex Machine" Marcus Brody versus "The New Hero" The Predator. For the UCW Title. There's a million quid. Cash. Ya get it if ya drop the title to Predator. Face it Brody, yer too old for this shit."
"You don't believe in Predator?"
"I didn't say that, I said-"
"I know what you said!" Brody barked, glaring right through Sandy's sunglasses. "I'll take the match, and if Predator beats me, then fine, I'll hand him the title but there's no way I'm tainting his career like that!"
Sandy lay the money on the table over the championship belts. He took his shades off again and flung them into the briefcase.
"Listen here. Yer like a man called Roger Murtaugh. Ya may know him from Lethal Weapon. Danny Glover plays him."
"I know the films, Sandy," our hero hissed.
"In those films, he kept admitting that he's too old. Yet he carried on doin' that shit. The first one did okay at the box office. $65 million. That first movie caused a buzz. People wanted more. They got Lethal Weapon II. More Riggs and Murtaugh. Murtaugh was still too old for this shit. They made more than double that. 147 million. Then we got a third. Slightly less. 145 mill. Even older. Then we got Lethal Weapon the other year. Murtaugh was older than ever. That movie made a lot less. The franchise got too old. People lost interest. Warner Bros. only made a hundred and thirty million on it. Adjust those figures for inflation and that's a big drop, Marcus. Yer like the Lethal Weapon franchise. People are losing interest in ya. Ya don't make us as much money anymore. Ya need to let a star be made. Ya can prove yerself right. Ya can prove that the kid ya gave the belt to is a star. Ya can make him. Ya can make yerself a lot of money. All ya have to do is take the dive. That's all ya-"
Our hero had had enough of Sandy's diatribe. He rose to his feet and flipped the table, sending it into Sandy. Sandy toppled off his chair and hit the floor. The table landed on him and the money spilled all over the concrete floor. The championship belts were strewn around. Our hero went down on one knee and leered at Sandy.
"Now YOU listen here!" he roared. "I'd never disgrace this sport with match fixing! One day you'll learn that our sport is about respect, honour and fighting the good fight! Only the shallow are in this for the money! Shallow fuckwits like you! You can keep your dirty money! And you can keep those belts! You've sullied them with your words! I'm out of here, Sandy! I quit!"
Our hero didn't even hesitate to collect his bag. He stormed out of the room, then he stormed down the corridors smashing up everything he could see before kicking down the fire doors and walking out of the UCW Arena.
He got home quicker than usual that night. He'd left his front door key at the arena so he had to go around the back. Our hero went through the garden gate to see the back door open and a suitcase waiting. There, in a salmon dress, was the tall blonde figure that was Rachel Brody. Her make-up was caked on but you could still see her scowl.
"Sandy called... He told me you quit!" she said scornfully. "How can you do this to our family, Marcus? We need the money?"
"Really?" Marcus asked indignantly. "Don't you mean YOU need the money? The money I make only ever goes on you! All those clothes. All those shoes. All that make up. Don't think I haven't noticed. So now I've left UCW you're leaving me? How shallow. The Rachel I married would never do that."
"Yeah?" Her scowl made her look ugly. Her face was screwed up along with her mind. "Well the Marcus I married had money."
"So you never loved me for me?"
"Oh please. You're not even good looking. I married you for your money."
"What about Junior? What about little Marcus?"
"I wanted a daughter!"
"So you're abandoning your little boy? The baby you nurtured for years. You treated him like an accessory, didn't you? Yeah, you did! All because you're a money-grabbing bitch?"
"Fuck off, Marcus! I'm gone!"
Rachel barged past our hero and lamped him on the head with her suitcase, sending him falling into the bushes. She climbed into her pink BMW and backed off the drive way. Marcus got to his feet and chased after her in his torn singlet.
"Rachel!" He cried. "Rachel!"
It was too late. His wife sped off as she threw her wedding ring into the road. Our hero picked up the ring and sobbed to himself. Snow began to fall and his tears were freezing up. The woman he'd loved for years had left him, and he'd been living a lie. He felt used. He'd been abandoned. But all was not lost. He could find somewhere else to wrestle. He'd heard that former UCW Gladiator Mike Farrell was looking to set up a new promotion. Perhaps he could help him. That was an idea. But then...
THUD! A car hit our hero, sending him over the bonnet and down to the tarmac. The black Jaguar screeched to a halt and two shadowy figures armed with a golf club and a cricket bat stepped out. They came over, and the beating began. They started with some kicks to the stomach before putting their weapons to use. Since our hero lived in a secluded area, no one would be aware. The beating went on a couple of minutes until the one with the golf club swung and smashed Marcus Brody's knee in. They attacked it some more. As soon as they were done, a familiar figure got out of the car and a familiar set of eyebrows met our hero's eyes.
"Sandy..." was all our fallen hero could muster.
"Now ya listen here, Marcus Brody!" snarled Sandy Strachon. "New Year's Day, yer comin' to the UCW Arena. Yer gonna make a speech about how ya got injured over Christmas and how doctors have said ya can never wrestle again. Then I'm gonna come out, and yer gonna hand over every belt to me in the middle of that ring. I'm not havin' anybody know ya walked out on me. I don't wanna have people think my product's rigged. Yer not gonna tell a soul about this. Got it? 'Cause if ya do... Ya think what my boys just did to ya is bad? They'll be back, in greater numbers, and yer gonna get a lot worse. Got it?"
Sandy wiped his shoe on our hero's face and the three men hurried into the car and drove off. As soon as they were out of sight, the front door opened. A chubby eleven year old boy in navy pyjamas emerged. The street light showed his thick mousey hair.
"Dad?" he squeaked. "Dad?" He scurried back in, and about a minute later he was out again. He ran over to his injured father as fast as his fat legs would let him. "Daaaaaaaaad!!!!!" Tears streamed down his face as he checked on his unconscious but still breathing daddy. Sirens could be heard as the boy cried.
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"And that's what happened between me and Sandy. I made that speech and handed over the titles. I never told anyone until now."
Except, there was no one else there. Our hero was on his own. It was Friday 12th August 2011 and Marcus Brody was in an isolated corner of the FWF locker room, talking to his reflection. He splashed water from the wash basin onto his face and brushed his hair back with his hands. He looked into them and noticed they'd gone black from his hair dye. He turned the taps to full blast and rinsed away the dye. He glanced up into the mirror again.
"I'm not too old, am I?"
Thoughts of his conversation with Predator sprung to mind. His student's vehement words echoed through his mind. The fire in those words lit up the fire in his heart. He kept his head up and focused on his wrinkled reflection.
"You have to do this, Marcus," he said to himself. "For yourself. For all those people in Boston. For your son. You have to show him. You have to show Sandy. You have to show them that this is a sport of honour! This isn't about money or women! This is about respect! This about what's inside! Age is just a number, Marcus... You're not too old for this shit..."
He ascended from his stool and pulled up the straps on the maroon singlet. He turned away from the mirror, lay hold of the Universal Championship and strapped it around his waist. He stood proudly, like the man that became the legendary hero fans of all generartions adored.
"I'm not too old for this shit," he muttered to himself. "I'm not Roger Murtaugh. I'm "The Human Suplex Machine" Marcus Brody: FWF Universal Champion. I'll show them. I'll prove myself."
He may be old but our hero was never one to be counted out. This night would be the ultimate test for him. The Hardcore match with "Ultra" Jack Cool; the Submission match with Ritalin or "The" Ross Walker; the mystery final with Dagger Dave, The Fizz, Prozac or "Super" Benny Starr. It would be the toughest challenge for the aging hero. Could he hack it? Would he surmount the drawbacks of his age? Did he still have UCW running through his veins to get through the Quarter Finals and make his foe live up to the title of one of his songs? Would be able to not give up in the Semi Finals? Would he prove he's Ferrum enough to make it past the final? Did our hero have it in him to rule victorious and take the Golden Ticket? Could he take one step closer to that Grand Slam? We'll find out... at Jealousy!
