WASTE OF A MOVE, LORD MORTEMORT
We swing back around to a private area inside the CFG Bank Arena–which is what the former Baltimore Arena is actually called as of 2023–where Arthur Pleasant is casually sipping on an unidentified cocktail. He holds open an American print version of Leon Trotsky’s Stalin: An Appraisal of the Man and His Influence.
As Pleasant holds the book tightly in his hands, everyone’s phones in the building start sounding an alarm as there is Breaking News of pigs flying. (Not really, but if pigs started flying, one might conclude that our cell phones are all set up with a special alert for something as monumental as that!)
With Arthur’s head buried in the hardcover, he doesn’t even notice the Seven-Foot Siberian Silencer, Yuri Reznikov, making his way to his table.
Yuri: We have an issue.
Pleasant peers up from his book slowly as if his eyes could not avert themselves to what they were reading. Holding up a finger as if to say “Almost done…”, his eyes remain on the page until they read the last sentence of a particularly engaging paragraph.
Arthur Pleasant: You know, these fucking Trotskyists called him a visionary. But you know what? I don’t think Trotsky’s vision saw past his own narrow-minded views on anti-Stalinism. Such a troglodyte. Also, it’s quite remarkable how the bag of dicks wasn’t whacked sooner before publishing his other works. Especially that History of the Russian Revolution tripe. Fucking garbage. ANYWAY!
Upon delivering his Arthurian take on Russian literature, his eyes finally meet Yuri’s.
Arthur Pleasant: You were saying?
Yuri: Da. We have an issue. A big one.
Pleasant sighs and takes a sip of the cocktail that, after some inspecting, seems to be a Campfire Cocktail. Made with the ever-versatile Fireball whiskey with an amalgam of spices and fruits for those immediately duck-duck-go’ing the recipe. After the clickety mouth sounds of the drink sliding down his throat, Arthur exhales mightily– possibly from the strong vapors of the spices colliding with each other inside his wartorn body. “Fuckin’ EH.”, he thinks to himself as the cinnamon fumes burn a hole into his soul like those scented decorative brooms we all see en masse in the fall/July 5th.
Arthur Pleasant: Why do I feel this involves our favorite fuckface of the hour, Lord Mortemort?
Yuri: Because it does.
Arthur Pleasant: Of course, it does. I would’ve been disappointed had it been otherwise! I told Arliss we should’ve hired a heavy to serve him and not Myron.
Arliss Peters: Told me what?! What’s this about Myron?! Oh GOD… is he okay? I only hired him as a favor to one of my partners at the firm!
It’s The Provocateur’s own personal attorney and “friend”, Arliss Peters, who was slightly out of view but clearly within earshot as soon as Arthur made this statement about Myron Rightway. It was here, at the bar inside the CFG Bank Arena, two hours ago, where and when it was decided to litigate Mortimer for his actions. The masked brute clearly needed a reality check that resonated with Mort and the rest of the Gamble Amateur Society in a non-violent manner.
After all, if you want to tame the beast, it’s not always a physical game.
Yuri: Myron was just assaulted. He was carted out on a stretcher from Tony Gamble’s locker room. Bleeding pretty badly. Looked like blunt-force trauma.
Arliss Peters: Why would Tony Gamble attack Myron?
Arthur Pleasant: It wasn’t Tony. Fuckwit though he is, too, he is not quite the wit of fucks Morty is.
Wrestling’s Worst Nightmare thinks about it for a moment before continuing.
Arthur Pleasant: This was definitely Morty. Such an impetuous imbecile, that one.
Pleasant drinks the rest of his cocktail, wiping sweat from his brow created from the fireball whiskey. Grabbing the Trotsky piece he had been reading for most of the show, Pleasant looked at Mr. Zappenstein resting on his lap under the circular table. Arthur smirked, smacking the end of his favorite weapon in his hand as if he planned on using it imminently.
Arthur Pleasant: Can’t say I didn’t expect this. I think it’s time we took this to the next level, gentlemen. ARLISS!
Startled, Arliss looks as if he’s going to hyperventilate, knowing he might be next on Mortimer’s Kill List.
Arliss Peters: Y-Yes?
Arthur Pleasant: Yuri here will take you someplace safe. I wouldn’t put it past this guy to go after you next. He thinks it’ll scare me if he beats up my known associates and friends.
Yuri laughs heartily. Arliss gulps hopelessly.
Arthur Pleasant: I’ll meet you guys in a few days. I’ll let you know the time and place.
Arliss Peters: W-where are YOU going?!
Arthur Pleasant: I’m going to the hospital to see Myron. I can only assume he was taken to MedStar Union Memorial. I have some… questions. And if Mort happens to stop by? Hehe. All the better!
Yuri: Da. Poshli, Mr. Peters.
Suggesting they leave ASAFP, Yuri grabs the much smaller Arliss by his shoulder blade and forces him in a direction away from the bar. Most likely towards the exit from the arena.
Standing all by his lonesome, Pleasant looks up at the TV feed capturing everything going on fifty feet from him inside the arena. ReVival 32, as everyone else in the world sees it, is showing the replay of Jonathan-Christopher Hall scoring the impressive victory over Hayes Hanlon. Arthur stands from the table with Zappz firmly in his grip.
Throwing a “Grant” down on the table, Pleasant shakes his head, laughing at the thought of Myron taking a beating by someone much, much bigger than him.
Arthur Pleasant(Quietly, under his breath, to no one in particular): Bush league, Morty. Such a waste of a move, too. Now it’s my turn.
Humming something familiar as he walks away from the table, Pleasant twirls Mr. Zappenstein as we transition elsewhere.
Now? It’s Main Event Time!