Post by Deleted on Jan 19, 2014 15:06:42 GMT -5
Hats Off To Serbia
Judge Wilberforce Malevio Dugas could be found on the thirty third floor of One Shell Square in New Orleans’s Central Business District. His base of operations included a lobby, offices for himself and four active attorneys (though Dugas himself was no longer able to practice law, he did act as a “special consultant”), a common secretarial pool, a reference library, two conference rooms, an IT center, and a copy/break room. The floors were covered in a deep pile carpeting of a tannish hue, and the walls were painted an ivory white. As the firm was set in the building’s southwest corner, it had plenty of windows, making the place seem bright and airy.
The atmosphere did not make Clarice Grackle any less leery. Over a month ago, when Caleb Fourchon had said his wrestling “sponsah” was named Judge Dugas, she never once considered the possibility that the man he was referring to was one of the most infamous individuals in the history of Louisiana jurisprudence. It took some digging, but eventually she learned the truth; that the “Cajun Crippler” was managed by a group of investors that Dugas had put together years ago. Once she had discovered this information she made the decision not to pursue it any further. Judge WMD might no longer be on the bench, but in legal and financial circles his word still meant a great deal of sway. If he wanted to keep his involvement in professional wrestling on the down low, Clarice was more than happy to let him.
Only, it didn’t seem he did. At least not to her.
Earlier in the week, a special courier arrived at Wrestling Championship Headquarters with a letter for the young fact checker. The missive, dictated by Dugas himself, requested her presence at his office that Friday morning for a meeting during which employment opportunities would be discussed. Transportation, lodging, and meals would be comped by him personally.
Clarice had an inkling as to what this offer was about. In her last encounter with Caleb Fourchon, when he refused to answer questions before one of his matches unless she posed them, he made mention of a nebulous “they” monitoring her professional and private life, and that they were interested in hiring her. At the time she dismissed the statement, chalking it up as another one of Caleb’s attempts to simultaneously impress and startle her.
She was obviously wrong. And worse, Clarice had to take the trip. Her current job was ending in February; a victim of WCF’s planned restructuring of its Multimedia Division. For weeks she had been sending out resumes and begging for interviews. This was the first one that had been hand delivered to her. Not to accept it would have been foolish. So she packed her best “power suit”: a red lace button front blouse to wear under a black fish tail jacket with matching pencil skirt, and made the requisite reservations.
Judge Dugas seemed impressed with her fashion sense, “My dear, you are a vision,” he drawled after his secretary had brought him into his office, “The very model of modesty. My granddaughter, Juniper, could learn to dress like you. She goes into work every day wearing some blousy poncho looking thing, and yoga pants. Can you imagine?”
“I wouldn’t mind a job that let me dress in yoga pants,” Clarice responded truthfully as she held her hand out for the judge to shake.
Dugas smiled back. He was a large, heavyset man with squinty eyes and multiple chins. His nose bloomed with gin blossoms, and his jowls spilled out from the collar of his pinstripe shirt. He had on a bolo tie with a Fleur De Lis clasp, and black suspenders. The jacket to his grey seersucker suit was custom tailored to drape over his bulk, but still looked rumpled and unkempt.
“Well, I’m afraid what I have in mind for you will require attire a bit more bourgeoisie,” he said before ushering Clarice to the chair opposite his desk. After heaving his bulk into his own seat, he leaned back, steepled his plump fingers, and waited.
He didn’t need to wait long, “What exactly is the job, Mister Dugas?”
“We need someone to help Caleb with his media presence. The man’s a natural performer, carny folk usually are, but translating that charisma across the various broadcasting platforms can be a chore. Especially when he chooses to be uncooperative.”
Clarice had expected something along those lines, “I don’t really have any experience in that field. I was a fact checker for WCF. What you are looking for is someone with a background in advertising, or media relations.”
“Miss Grackle, what I’m looking for is someone Caleb will work with without being a churlish man child. He seems to like you, and to trust you. You have experience in the WCF, and you went to school to be a journalist. As for experience, my people tell me you’re very socially active, and help put together publicity campaigns for various pet projects you support. That's the kind of grass roots promoting I want.”
The young woman was surprised to hear the judge knew about her charity work, but made no note of it aloud. She focused instead on another issue that concerned her, “I don’t really see myself in any kind of managerial role.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t be. You’re simply here to advise Caleb, his trainer Mister Stansfield, and myself.”
“Would any of this work require me to be on camera?”
“No, my dear. Strictly behind the scenes. Your safety is assured.”
Clarice gave the judge a concerned look, “Safety?”
“From the wrestlers,” Dugas gave a shrug, “I’ve seen how WCF operates. There isn’t a week that goes by that a person’s manager or valet or hanger-on isn’t put in jeopardy by a rival eager to make a statement. You have my word, Miss Grackle, you won’t be in any danger.”
The petite blonde nodded noncommittally. Sensing her apprehension, he elaborated further, “You have nothing to worry about from my client either. Caleb might be fixated on you a bit, but the man’s intentions are hardly, uh, amorous.”
Clarice felt the back of her neck grow warm, “Oh?”
“In my years of knowing Caleb, not once has he expressed a romantic notion or ardent thought towards anyone of either gender. I’m not sure he’d know what to do if he had one.”
“When you describe him like that, it’s hardly comforting,” she pointed out, “You make it sound like there’s something wrong with him.”
“Oh, there is, Miss Grackle: he was born around 20,000 years too late. Caleb Fourchon is an atavism, an evolutionary throwback. The modern world, he’s not suited for that. The man would be much happier spending his days hunting mastodons and his nights staring at the moon making up stories about what it is. But he’s stuck here, not a mammoth in sight and know- it-alls like that Neil Degrasse Tyson spoiling the mystery. Caleb’s stuck, and we’re all going to make the most of it.”
“And what does that mean for you?”
The judge grinned, “A good question.”
Rising from his chair, Dugas moved to the window behind him. He looked out into the city of New Orleans, and spoke with a proprietary tone, “I want to help bring this town back, Miss Grackle. Katrina damn near killed it. But slowly, things have improved. We’re not what we once were, surely, but we’re getting there. I want New Orleans to be the hub of the South. I want it to be the destination of choice for every tourist looking for a good time, and every business looking for a good home. Now, I’m not so foolish as to think a successful local wrestler is going to ensure those things, but it can’t hurt. A winning team provides more than just dollars for the community. It inspires. I’ve been a fan of the sport for fifty years, Miss Grackle, and I know Caleb has what it takes to be a champion. Not just the Television Title, either: but World Champion. He has all the tools. What he needs are smart, driven people to help him achieve his goals. He thinks, and I agree, you are one of those people.”
He turned back to the young woman, a slightly embarrassed smile on his florid features, “So, are you interested in joining this winning team?”
Clarice thought the speech was standard boilerplate. And, given what everyone knew about Judge Dugas’s unsavory history, a pack of lies. But what else could he have said? ‘I’m using Caleb to make money, just like you’ll be if you take the job’ was certainly more honest, but given the milieu they had chosen to perform in, that wasn’t what was needed. The first rule of wrestling was to never break kayfabe, and if Judge Dugas wanted to take on the persona of a slightly seedy sponsor who hid behind a noble motive, who was she to deny him that right?
“I think we can reach an agreement, Mister Dugas. Thanks for the offer,” the young woman replied, as she readied herself for the important part of the interview: finding the bottom line.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&
*Fortunately for us, we don’t have to sit through tedious contract negotiations. We can switch scenes, and characters, and even prose styles. Cue the stage directions and monologing.*
&&&&&&&&&&&&&
“Dat back dere is a liddle sumptin Ah got in mind fer mah match at Slam. A liddle lagniappe (1), if you will.”
*Caleb waggles a finger at the camera*
“Gonna be sooprise, dough. Y’all gonna have to wait an see.”
*He stops chiding the audience, and runs his hand through his greasy black mop of hair.*
“Onna subject of sooprises, Ah gotta come clean. Tek put up one hell of a fight last Sunday. Who knew dat peeshwank (2) haddit in him? Not me. He a scrappah, dat one. Still, Ah de one dat come away wit de win at Slam, keepin de Televishun Title where it belong, and where it gonna stay until Ah dun wit it.”
*After raking his digits through his coif, he stops to examine his long, dirt encrusted nails. Noting something that doesn’t belong under one, he gnaws at it until the mystery particle is removed.*
“Now, dis week, Ah go to Richmond and defend mah belt again. Dat fine. Dat whut it mean to be Televishun Champyuon. To wrassle every week when de stakes at dere highest. Ah ain’t fussin about dat. But dere udder considerashuns dat got me vexed.”
*Fourchon’s face becomes grim.*
“First of all, de WCF under new management. Boss Lerch back in charge. Dat innit self ain’t nuttin to booday (3) over, but fer true Ah dun like it dat we goin back to standard match rules. Ah join WCF because dere no disqualificashuns. Now, dat all at de window. Dere rools to follow. Even worse, a Televishun Champyuon kin lose dere title bah DQ.”
*The big man’s bronzed face becomes even more severe.*
“Which bring me to second problem. Who umpiring mah match Sunday? Steve Orbit. De man who showed me up when Ah givin Mod Deuce de choux rouge (4) and who refuse to apologize fer it. Dis clear conflict of interest. Ah know Steve Orbit got de mad on fer me, an Ah know he gonna try to give me grief Sunday.”
*Caleb holds out his hands to the audience in a beseeching gesture.*
“Why? Because Ah take from him a liddle sumptin as payback. Steve Orbit gonna try and punish me fer whut de Bible call ‘lex talionis’. An eye fer an eye. Dat wrong headed. Way Ah was raised, goin agin de Bible a sin. Dat whut you are, Steve Orbit? A sinner? Bedder not be. Because if you is, and you git cute and use yer positshun to screw me outta mah Title, yer gonna be answerin to Yer Maker not long after you be answerin to me. Unnerstand, son?”
*Fourchon folds his long, rangy arms over the back of the chair.*
“Dis bring me to mah opponent Sunday. It anudder woman. Dat okay. After de match Ah had wit Chelsea Black Armstrong Ah good wit hittin girls now. Dat sign of respect, by de way. If Ah tink you tough enuff to take a punch, Ah payin you compliment. An Serbia seem purty good. Sure, she only have one match in WCF, an de man she pin a ham and eggah, but she do it versus some strong competishun. Dat Lupus Onyx and dat Valentina Madison good at wrasslin. Dey got futures here. So do Serbia. After she lose to me.”
*Fourchon gives an uneven, jagged grin.*
“Yeah, Ah gonna beat you, Serbia. Dat goal of finally winnin a title not happenin Sunday. Mo chagren (5). Not even wit Steve Orbit backin you. Not even wit dat little chut chut (6) you try to treaten me wit. You tink Ah scaired of a straight razor, couyon (7)? Look it dese scars.”
*He shows off the numerous healed wounds that criss-cross his hands, arms and legs.*
“Ah dun git dese from cutting mahself, like you did. Ah git dese from real life monsters. A gator’s hide tear open flesh. Its tail break bones. An it bite? Dat end you. Dose de demons of mah past, Serbia. Dat de croosible Ah go tru. An you come at me wit tough talk and a razor blade? Go to bed (8)!
*He shrugs his shoulders.*
“Now, Ah ain’t gonna lie. Normally, Ah say you got small chance of beatin me Sunday. You know how to wrassle. You fast, and kin fly around dat ring good. But mah power make up fer yer hops. You gotta git close to me sumtime, Serbia, and dat when Ah wear you down. All it gonna take is one good shot to ground you. Den you mine. Whedder Ah smoosh you wit mah Lagniappe Bomb or wring you out wit mah Cocodrie Clutch, dun madder to me. An Steve Orbit not gonna madder neither. See, Ah got a special weapon, one dat gonna give me de edge, more den any razor blade or crooked referee ever could.”
*Caleb reaches off screen. When his hand comes back into frame its holding Steve Orbit’s stolen pimp hat, which he places awkwardly on his head.*
“See, bah swiping dis here lid Ah inherit Steve Orbit’s juju (9)! Ah got his speshul pimp powers! An wit dem, no woman kin stand to me! Ah invincibul.”
*Fourchon pauses, his smirk vanishing. He gives a solemn nod.*
“Ah kin sense yer doubts, Serbia. You dun believe in mah newfound mojo. Dat mistake. Steve Orbit hat give me insight. It let me read yer very soul. Watch.”
*Closing his eyes, the cajun giant begins massaging his temples while humming.*
“Yes… yes… Ah see. Serbia confused. Frustrated. She want to be feared, to be un monstre (10). But dat don’t happen when you dress like Dracula prostitute and git in Twidder fights wit sumone callin you ‘Fluffy’. Dat not how a beast do its bidness. You want dere terror? You earn it bah winnin week after week. You give people reason to stay out yer way. Den dey be scaired of you. Even if you wearin stoopid hat at de time.”
*Caleb’s eyes open and he stares at the camera blankly.*
“Sunday, you BOTH gonna learn dat.”
Notes:
(1) Lagniappe: a gift, a bonus, something extra
(2) Peeshwank: runt
(3) Booday: cry, complain
(4) choux rouge: “red ass”, to antagonize someone
(5) Mo chagren: I’m sorry.
(6) chut chut: bauble, a small item
(7) couyon: fool, idiot
(8) Go to bed!: Get out of here with that nonsense!
(9) juju: aura, using relating to a magical or mystical property
(10) un monstre: a monster
