The Centurion and the Celt



Patrick was piling bottles of Scottish ale in a cooler, keeping one eye on the timer atop the stove, wherein roasted a leg of lamb. On the burners simmered pots of peas, carrots and new potatoes, a tub of mint jelly cooled in the fridge and a custard pie sat on the countertop. It was to be a long awaited feast this night with his odd acquaintance, the Centurion. With the XWF archives, he’d figured out the Centurion he was to meet tonight was not the same wrestler, going by the same name, whose matches began some two or three years ago, because the moniker on the letter Patrick received six days past was Lester Wiley and not that of the newer version of the Centurion.



The one page letter described Lester’s uneventful, unhindered release from Angola and the Centurion’s plans to return to his home state of Michigan but his road would pass near Indianapolis, the city closest to where Patrick lived. The Celt had rented a spacious, spartanly appointed suite on the top floor of a building thirty miles from the city limits, still near enough to the international airport to be convenient, but far enough away from the lights for Patrick to see the stars at night. At first he wondered how Lester had found his address to send the note, but figured he’d called on one of his old contacts in the XWF who’d looked it up. The reason Lester had not simply called him directly, Patrick readily understood.



On release from federal prison, Patrick knew far too well, it is no mean feat to reestablish accounts, utilities, credit and even phone service. Lester had managed to reserve a number from his cell provider before the account was activated and he’d scrawled it across the top of his missive, asking Patrick to try the number each day until the call went through. It was only yesterday when the men spoke briefly and arranged their meeting, and now the clock indicated the determined hour grew nigh.



Promptly at eight, there was a sharp rap on Patrick’s door and he rose from the couch in front of the television to answer it. The wordless greeting was more than adequate to convey the men’s muted elation when the door opened, the wrestlers shaking hands in the warrior’s grip. “Come on in,” Patrick said, stepping aside to allow the Centurion’s entrance.



“Look at you,” Lester replied. Not out more’n eight months and set up large. How you doing, man?”



“Well enough, my friend,” Patrick replied with a grin. “And you look like a different man not wearing orange. Find the place okay?”



“No problem at all, but why you out in the sticks?”



“The sticks are peaceful and quiet, my escape from the demands of the profession. Long flights, tightly timed plane changes, cramped cabins with crying babies and unfamiliar cities at journey’s end, and that’s just in getting to the arena. I can only tolerate the inane questions from the reporters, the yammerings of my opponents and the screaming fans long enough to get through the events, knowing I will soon return to this base of tranquility.”



As they spoke, the wrestlers had made their way to the living room, Patrick returning to his seat on the couch and lester selecting a wingback chair to one side of the dark mahogany table between the couch and the television. The Centurion was rather surprised at the austere furnishings and bare walls, knowing quite well that if what had accumulated in the bank account Patrick had arranged for his one and a half percent finder’s commission wasn’t padded, The Celt was doing well enough.



“You ain’t planning on staying here long, are you?” Lester sagely pronounced, his tone indicating a statement rather than a question.



“Long enough to save up, start investing, find my perfect place in the world and then start accumulating toys, the first of those being a private plane. But all that requires my continued success. I went a little nuts with the first blush of cash, much to my chagrin, but I sobered up right quick.”



“Good head on your shoulders, then,” Lester mused. “Me? I blew everything I made as soon as it landed in my palm. All I knowed was wrestling and I can’t go back there. Wouldn’t even if’n I was a younger man without a bum shoulder. It’s a pit of viperous thieves and backstabbers in there, though I’m guessing you’ve figured that out.”



“Aye. That it be. I had a match stolen from me by some mewling stoat in a triple threat match you warned me about, pinning the git I’d rendered unconscious. That was followed by a second such event, again ending with a cover of one of my foes by another. But enough about that. What can I get you to drink? Supper’ll be up in about an hour.”



“As for that,” Lester began as he fished around in a deep coat pocket and pulled out a bottle, setting it on the table, “You usta whine about missing this stuff, so I brought us both some.” Patrick need only glance at the familiar lable and smiled. It was Glenfiddich.



After their supperover a rambling conversation touching on just about every topic under the sun, including the soon to be published second volume of John P. R. Hughes’ trilogy entitled Drakespawn, the wrestlers returned to the living room, poured themselves another scotch, and Lester got down to the real business of his visit.



“There’s a couple of things I wanted to speak to you about, but I don’t know where I should start.”



“Good news or bad?” Patrick asked.



“One’s bad news all around and the others not so bad but you might consider it bad for you until I can tell you about it.”



Patrick sighed. “And it was such a fine supper. Whatever it is, as convoluted as it sounds, you came out of your way to tell me of it. Alright, Centurion. Give me the worst in hopes that which follows mitigates it.”



Lester nodded slowly, then said, “There’s a rat in the XWF.”



Patrick barked a laugh. “He has a lot of company. Bloody hell, you had me worried, but if that be your worst tiding, I shouldn’t have been.”



“You don’t understand, boy,” Lester hissed. “Somebody’s planning to annihilate the Federation or bleed it so dry it drops dead of its own accord.”



Patrick blinked. “Okay, I’m worried again. You talk, I’ll listen.”



“That’s better. Here’s the deal. There’s a few of the old guard I’m still in contact with spread through the various departments in management type positions, you know, old wrestlers that quit the ring but stayed in the business as suits. Them boys are the ones that keep the show running and they keep their eyes peeled while the bosses get all the notoriety. Anyway, they been seeing some fishy stuff of late and they’re about to go headhunting.”



“What sort of fishy stuff?” asked Patrick.



“Shorts on box office receipts, contract breaches with long standing arena vendors or outright cancellations, nuisance lawsuits piling up filed by third party contractors and venue ownerships, bank inquiries about existing and future loans and even fans claiming unsafe conditions and lack of security, all just out of the blue. The lawyers will get it worked out, eventually, but the press has got wind of the rumors from leaks within the XWF and hints of salacious gossip about the bosses and talent. Nothing’s come to print yet, but you know them vultures and they’re circling. My boys say if all this shit breaks bad, it could destroy the Federation, and that means the end of your paycheck.”



Patrick mulled over Lester’s news for a moment and replied, “Little I can do about it save make contingency plans for myself against that possibility.”



“Ahh, but there’s the next part of my news,” Lester slowly murmured. “My friends need a rat catcher or three.”



Patrick’s eyebrow rose and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Go on.”



“Seems there’s some grumblings among the talent, pot stirring that’s only adding to the unrest. My boys want a wrestler to start nosing around on the pretext that he or she is of a like mind with the disgruntled fighters and wants to see some action taken by the suits and bosses to ensure his or her gravy train stays on the rails.”



“And by he or she, you mean me.”



Lester grinned wryly. “You got it. But here’s the best news. They want me to be named your manager so I can help in this little investigation.”



Patrick laughed, a companionable derision of such a suggestion. “How is that the best news, you old coddragger.”



The Celt’s reply from Lester was a rude gesture but he went on to say, “Not only can I sleuth, I can train you. I seen all the tapes of your spars and matches and, honestly, you’re the most naturally gifted wrestler I’ve seen in a blue moon. But you ain’t accomplishing jack shit. Two sanctioned matches and no victories. Oh, you’re getting your licks in, ain’t been pinned, but you’re absorbing way too much punishment. As I see it, your trouble is that you’re fighting like you’re still wrestling around with your mates when you were a kid, reluctant to drop the hammer on friends just diddling around, with a style you claim y’all invented. Even if you did, it conforms precisely to the Saxon knight’s unarmed combat, a form I studied for years. The problem isn’t your foundation, it’s the knight generally fought on an open field. I see you working out impromptu adaptations in the ring against styles you’ve never faced, as well as your wholly made up rope work. You’ve held your own, but one slip and you’re wide open, like when that little Knightley chick kicked you out of the ring. I want to work with you to perfect your style, train you until the new adaptations are as effortless as those you have mastered so you don’t get your ass handed to you by an avoidable mistake. Besides, I get paid better when you win, you know?”



“You have the right of that,” Patrick grumbled. “Between you and taxes, I’m a pauper at the end of every month.”



“Quit whining and move to Texas or Florida. No state taxes there. So what do you say? Shall I become the squire to your knight on a quest to slay rats in the XWF and win treasure, glory and a championship belt?”



“I’ll need a bit to think on it,” Patrick hesitantly said, concerned that if he worked so closely with the Centurion, he might discover The Celt’s meddling into Druidic mysticism, a subject far too personal for him to openly proclaim. As if reading his mind, Lester asked a question too close to the mark by half.



“Oh, and what’s all this horsehockey about you being a Scottish warrior spirit reembodied from out of the past? Is it all some ploy to win over an audience from the new age occultists? That’s a mighty slim demographic that’s not getting any bigger. These days, it’s all aliens and mutant superheroes. The pagan worshipping, crystal rubbing, insense burning, naked wiccans in the woods New Age is dead, so don’t waste your time developing that in your projected persona. If it isn’t a ploy, are you just bat shit crazy? Might be important for a trainer to know about his fighter.”



Patrick nonchalantly replied, “The former. Yeah, I know. I must need refrain from getting carried away in the moment and spewing such rubbish. I’ll work on it.”



“Outstanding. Call me in a few days when you’ve made your decision about rat catching with a new manager. How about one of them ales for the road?”



“You’re leaving? I have plenty of room.”



“Thanks for the offer, but yeah. I got a room booked about two hundred miles up the road so I can be home before it gets too late tomorrow.” The Centurion rose and smiled. “Don’t bother getting up. I’ll let myself out. Thanks for the supper and the libations and it was good getting caught up. Look forward to your call.”



Patrick watched Lester stalk down the empty hallway, like a panther, toward the front door, knowing his already complicated life had just gotten more so.



Ringside Wrapup with Steve Sayor, live radio interview, August 18, 2022



“Hey there, folks! This is Steve Sayor, your eloquent espouser of the week as it was in the wrestling world. Tonight, I begin with the dubious defender of Scottish chivalry, fresh off another fight and failure against Savannah Knightely and Angelicaa Vaughn. For all his hulking bulk, he’s lost to a pair of diminutive demons in the squared circle, the Casino Kid and the voluptuous Vaughn, in back to back matches. I’m not even sure why I’m giving air time to this deluded and deranged dilettante of craptastic Celtic combat, but let’s hear this ex con’s excuses for his pathetic performances. The mike is yours, Celt.”



“Careful there, little Stevie. You wouldn’t wish to raise my ire. As for your insulting query, I make no excuses for an unbeaten record, you yammering stoat. Have you seen me pinned? Nay. Have you seen me unable to rise from the mat after shrugging off all my opponents could muster, much of it delivered treacherously against my back? I think not. Your conjectures hold no merit and you will refrain from such slander or you will defend your words with your body. Do I make myself clear?”



“Yeah, yeah. Blame the messenger simply musing on your meager matriculation into the XWF. Here’s the fact, Jack. Your next bout pits you against Angelica once again and this time you’ll have no excuses when she obliterates you and wrestling fans won’t have to continue to endure any of your subpar performances after they scrape you off the canvas. You are unworthy to share the ring with the likes of Vaughn. Now run along, you pathetic pretender, so I can get to the real wrestlers on my program. Up next, wrestling fans, is the powerful, pretentious pugilist with his managerial maiden, the Casino Kid and…”



The microphones cracked with the sound of splintering wood and a girlish squeal, followed by a heavy thud and the astonished shouts of several voices of techs and producers in the studio. The radio signal screamed with feedback before the rumble of the Celt’s deep baritone in its Scottish brogue began its thunderous proclamation.



“Hear me, Angelica Vaughn, and despair. I had entered the battlefields of the XWF believing the codes of honor and chivalry extended to all warriors , no matter the arena. Instead, I find charlatans, cheats, vipers and craven blackguards in the ring with which I must contend, and you are the vilest of the lot, for you waste your promise in your infamy. It is lamentable that you have the skills of a warrior and none of the soul, squandering your talents like some cheap harlot when you might be a queen if you disavowed your villany. Instead, you have embraced treachery in the ring and perversion in your character, envisioning yourself as an erotic goddess worshipped by a lone sycophant that runs round your ankles yapping like some mongrel hound. You are a vane, contemptable vamp, bereft of all integrity and honor. By test of arms, in single combat, all I have spoken shall be vouchsafed in the ring when I crush you , revealing you as the soulless wight that you are. As in days of yore, I shall tear your head from your shoulders, dip it in boiling pitch and impale it on a spike above the castle gates as dire warning to all that oppose me. And your little dog, too. This be fair warning, Vaughn, and best you consider a sabbatical from the ring for the next couple of weeks lest you suffer my wroth. I hear New Zealand is lovely this time of year.”



The ear splitting thunk of the dropped microphone on the studio floor reverberated over the airwaves and Ringside Wrapup awkwardly broke into commercials about feminine itch, term life insurance, hemorrhoid cream and a trailer for Top Gun. Unfortunately, the techs forgot to kill the dropped mike and Sayor’s trembling voice was quite clear over the rejoin theme.



“That fucking Scot has lost his shit! He’s a rabid dog, frothing at the mouth. They need to lock him back up in a cage and throw away the key. Did you see that? The son of a bitch tried to kill me!” It was a moment before he saw the producer gesturing wildly, slashing a finger across his throat, when he finally got the message. It was another moment before Steve Sayor, still breathing heavily into the mike, tremulously announced his next guest.