Another fucking week, another fuck loss. Well, fuck you too. I’m not in a fucking slump. Go to Hell. No, don’t say that. It ain’t fair. I’ll win this time. I’ll win this week and I’ll be on a roll. Nobody will stop me. I’ll get that god damned International Belt and it will be mine. That Joey Jackson kid doesn’t stand a chance. I’ve been around for what? Three months? Four months? I gained the National Belt from a formidable opponent, and lost it to the same man. But now, the International Belt is within my grasp. I can feel the cool metal against my fingers, the leather ‘round my waist.
Reno was right to give me that god damned match. Perhaps I’ll have a spot of luck, finally. It’s about fucking time, too. And just when I thought I was getting out of my slump. Christ. I hate tag-teaming. Especially with someone I don’t trust. If it were Morgana or Seraph… then maybe I would consider such a dastardly choice of events. I haven’t had any luck in tag team partners it seems. First it was Nikita… back-stabbing rape-victim. Then Angelica Dawson. Hell, she might as well have not have even showed up. I did most of the damned work anyway.
I was brought out of my rather turbulent musings by a knock on the door. My eyebrow rose slightly as I got to my feet from the couch. I looked through the little peep-hole, curiously. Oddly enough, there was nothing in my line of sight. Precariously, I unlocked the door and opened it. There was no one there. My first instinct was that it was some punk-kid on my floor. I looked down to the ground where a white envelope sat with my name written on the front in blue ink. A bit of a frown came to my forehead as I hunched over and picked up the letter.
My fingertips ran over the paper, feeling that it was somewhat cool and had been outside recently. I glanced up and down the hallway, curiously before closing the door to my room and moving further inside. I perched myself on the back of the sofa before purposely falling down onto the cushions, lying on my back. I stared up at the letter which I held above my head, running my fingers over each individual letters. My index finger slipped into the little crack at the top, right corner of the back of the envelope. Promptly, my finger slid across the top leaf of the envelope, breaking the flimsy paper open. I opened the paper within and began to read the blue letters:
Gwenivere,
I’m sure by now your curiosity has been sparked. You’ve always been like that. It’s been far too long since we’ve spoken, and I want to put an end to it today. If you care to know who I am, please meet me at the Castaldi’s Market and Grill at 6:30 this evening. The table will be reserved in your name.
My eyebrow raised further as I folded the paper back up and slid it back into the envelope. I tossed the envelope onto the table and stared up at the ceiling, one arm hooked behind my head, the other resting across my stomach. What a peculiar letter, I thought to myself. Indeed, my curiosity had been sparked, and I couldn’t help but get to my feet, check my watch and head for the shower.
As I stood within the shower, letting the warm water drip down my porcelain flesh, I couldn’t help but think back to that letter. It was kind of eerie at how much this “mystery” person knew about me. Obviously, he/she knew enough about me to write that letter. Or perhaps he/she was just bull-shitting and hoped I would take it the way I was. Needless to say, I was going to that restaurant. I don’t think my naturally inquisitive mind would let me not go. I would go mad, just trying to calm my investigative nature.
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I figured I was late. I ran down flight of stairs from the elevator until I arrived in the parking garage of the hotel I was staying at. I ran right for my car; a 1978 Chevrolet Corvette convertible, painted black with purple and blue fleck-paint, with a black leather soft-top. I slid into the car, starting up the engine with a loud roar that filled the entire garage. I lit a cigarette before slipping a mixed CD into the stereo. The music began to blare as I put the car in reverse, backed out and then into first. I got out onto the street and drove quickly towards the restaurant that I had scoped out earlier. My heart raced: I was going to be late.
I checked the clock on the dashboard, it’s blue letters told me it was a few minutes before 6:30. A sigh of relief passed my lips as I parked within the parking lot of Castaldi’s. I stepped out, locked my car and set the alarm. Moving inside, the maitrê de asked me if I had a reservation and what my name was. He escorted me to a table and placed the menu in front of me. I slumped down into the seat, feeling out of place suddenly. A few people knew who I was. Hell, if you looked like me, trust me, people would recognize you.
I looked at the menu, leafing through it briefly. A few people came up to me with napkins and pens. Surprised? Yes. I signed them, humoring them with light small talk and embraces. Soon, the thralls of five or so people faded away to return to their families. I, however, was still alone. I glanced nervously at my watch before ordering a shot of whiskey to calm the nerves. I glimpsed around the room, wringing my hands together in my lap. My shot came to the table. I stared at the amber-coloured liquid. It was gone just as quickly as it had arrived.
Suddenly, a hand clapped down on my shoulder from behind. I jumped slightly and glanced down at the hand. My eyes went wide. Slowly, I began to turn around. My eyes went up the arm that was clothed in a black sweater. I continued to look up until I locked eyes with the person who had called me here. Dim blue eyes stared down into my bright ones. I gasped softly, fingers curling around the arms of the chair.
“Holy shit…” My mind flashed. Should I pick up the chair I sat on and fling it at him? Or should I stab his hand with the knife in front of me? Perhaps I could go all damsel-in-distress and just throw my water in his face. I didn’t do anything. I just sat there, staring up into his eyes. My heart raced with anxiety and nervousness, my stomach clenching. “Not you… Anybody but you.” I said, pleading quietly. The man frowned softly, drawing his hand away and sitting across from me.
“Yes, Gwenivere. Me.” I winced a bit as he began to look through the menu. “Dad…?” He looked across the table at me, brow raised, much like mine did. It was way too eerie for me. “What the hell are you doing here?”
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