Author Topic: The Ides of March  (Read 568 times)

Offline Chloe Benton

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The Ides of March
« on: December 17, 2021, 06:28:54 PM »
Julius Caesar, regarded by many as Rome’s greatest general had served the empire tirelessly his entire career. The mighty leader was born into a patrician family on the 12th day of July 100 BC in the Roman capital. Some would say that given his family’s power and political influence he had wanted for nothing, but they underestimated the raging inferno of ambition that blazed within the cauldron of his belly. Through shrewd political machinations he managed to work his way from Soldier of Rome to dictator perpetuo. His life had been one of violence, from the eight years long siege of Gaul, to his famous Egyptian tryst and to quelling domestic uprisings against his claims, he became a man with a will forged in fire, wholly accustomed to bloodshed. Such a man would certainly develop many enemies over time, known and unknown.

Several seemingly innocuous incidents had taken place, leading to calls on his life by members of the senate. From a simple rejection of a gift offered by the senate, taken in severe umbrage, to refuting the tribune of Rex by his constituents and finally to his stubborn refusal to don a diadem given him by the plebs of the land and insisting it be used to honor the Roman God Jupiter through sacrifice. This final, adroit political maneuver proved a windfall to Caesar’s popularity with the citizens of Rome, much to the chagrin of the increasingly powerless senate. Finally, on the fateful day of March 15th 44 BC on the steps leading into the Theatre of Pompey the Dictator for life found himself surrounded by the billowy, flowing robes of up 60 Roman senators bearing knives and was stabbed nearly two dozen times. As he lay dying on the ornately decorated marble steps, his eyes trained on the clear sky on that cold, winter mourning he looked onto the faces of his attackers, seeing the expected and the unexpected and with the final droplets of blood pulsing from his wounds he uttered his final words,


‘Et tu Chloe?’

“I-I-I’m sorry,” Chloe nervously shifts in a plush backed black lounge chair, her body drawing a slight groan as it slides against the unwilling leather. “My m-mind was wander-wandering. C-could you repeat-repeat the question please?”

Seated across her in a matching chair, a stocky, bald, British man named Simon Miller peers briefly at his jotted down notes, smiles and nods his head. He shifts position himself, bringing his right leg up to drape it over the left. As he settles into his new pose his right foot casually shakes to the beat of an earworm while he returns to his notes.

“Sure,” he says in a warm, friendly tone. Having been advised by colleagues of the Chloe’s tendency to stutter and allow her mind to wander under questioning he had prepared himself for such moments. He continues, his glimmering baby blues making direct contact with her nervously shifting almonds. “Ever since your debut in SCW you seem to have been victimized by…” he pauses, allowing his mind to dig through the trenches of negative terminology in search of a suitably clean term, “shall we say… disaffected booking?” He prepares his case adding, “You debuted against a double black belt in martial arts. That was followed by a booking against one of the most notorious and dangerous women on the entire roster and this weekend you now find yourself going up against a woman standing six feet tall and weighing close to bloody 200 pounds in Taylor Blazer. A blind chap could see that this is not proper booking of a wrestler with your experience”.

Pondering his words Chloe allows her mind to dive into the murky depths of the questionable booking while her eyes explore the neatly appointed room. Between their respective seats a faux lion skin rug sprawls out on the varnished, wood inspired tiles which line the breadth of the 12 by 12-foot room. Metallic black floor lamps sit in opposing corners, their matching gold accents glimmering beneath white shades. Behind Simon on the far wall a What Culture Wrestling logo hangs in testament to the stewardship of the room. Drawing a breath Chloe exhales,

“I-I haven’t had m-much luck”, she says softly. “I mean I’ve h-heard p-people talking ab-bout it on s-social media and on TV, b-but I haven’t thought much on it. C-can I ask you a question Mr. Simon?”

A brief chuckle slips through his pursed lips, having been caught by surprise with the gesture of respect. “Please,” he says, thrusting his hand out. “I’m just plain old Simon, you don’t need to add the ‘mister’. Leaning back into his chair his smile brightens while pondering what sort of question she could possibly ask of him. He continues with a weak shrug of his thick shoulders.  “Normally I’m supposed to be asking the questions but hey, it’s a free country, so ask me anything you want”.

Glancing demurely down at her pink and white ‘Hare Jordan’ sneakers she nods. “Th-thank you sir. I was wonder-wondering… since you’re a wrestling man…” she pauses as her mind trips up on a stubble of words. “I-I mean journalist, maybe… c-could you tell me anything about T-Taylor Breeze?”

“Blazer,” he laughs, “her name is Taylor Blazer”.

“I-I’m sorry”.

“Don’t be!” he insists while showing her his palms. “Everybody makes mistakes. I do it all the time and that one was pretty funny. I don’t know very much about her to be honest with you, she’s fairly new to the business, like you. But what I can tell you, aside from her gigantism, is that she seems to be at home on the mat”. Rising the wrestling journo pulls his chair along as he inches closer to his interview subject, bringing himself mere inches from her. “My associates tell me that she has no qualms about cheating and has been known to bring a pair of brass knuckles to the ring from time to time but she’s pretty slick about it. She comes from Miami and wrestled in high school...,” he pauses to rifle through his notes, passing up lesser caliber bullet points on other topics in favor of researched notations on the topic at hand. “It says here she was a two-time state champion in Florida”. Setting the notes down he leans forward looking Chloe directly in the eye and, speaking softly says, “This bird is bonafide, and this is what I mean about disaffected booking. Somebody with her credentials should be starting a lot higher. It’s not fair to you and it’s not fair to her. I mean, who oversees booking here, Stevie Wonder?”

“M-Mr. Christian”, she offers the morsal nervously, her thoughts consumed with worry over possible reprisals from her temperamental boss.

“Christian Underwood, the co-owner? That’s as bad as Vince McMahon still booking WWE, and we all know how that’s been working out lately. Of all the things the owner of a national level promotion has to worry about he wants to handle the booking too?”

“I-I think so”. I-I mean I’m n-not really sure th-that it’s him b-b-booking me like this”. Her shaky attempt at damage control does little to assuage her fears. She considers the possibility that he would forget about it during the holiday break, but the kernel fails to sprout, and she quickly casts the raw morsel aside. This interview will become public record once it is aired. Anyone and everyone involved with SCW will have access to the fruit born within. “C-can you edit this p-part out, please?” She whimpers, her fluttering voice jousting her jitters to hold back a steadily cracking wall of tears. “I-I’m scared he m-might see it and and d-do something”.

“Yeah, sure”. Puzzled, Simon sets the notes down atop the well-padded arm rest and regards his subject curiously. Picking up on the quivering queues the man promptly surmises that she is frightened of him. Not just the man, but his power. Being a figurehead of one of the fastest growing promotions in the world, it stands to reason his reach would be commensurate. “A bloody Caesar complex”, he muses under his breath before turning his attention back to Chloe and the task at hand, calming her tattered nerves. “It’s a good thing I don’t have to wrestle for that dodgy chav”.

From behind an arced brow, he studies the expression of his guest, hoping she follows the breadcrumbs. Slowly her tormented visage softens to a hopeful realization.

“Y-you’re a wrestler too?” she asks.

Yes, I am”, he replies beaming. “I’ve been wrestling the indies back home in the UK off and on for about ten years now”. Leaning forward he offers a reassuring pat on the knee. “I too, have worked for, and reported on my share of disagreeable despots like your Mr. Underwood. I know exactly what you’re going through”.

“Wow, I had no idea!” Her tightly pursed lips crack through the final layers of protection, allowing a delicate smile to debut. “Is it hard, hard to do both?” She asks.

“Oh, you bet your arse!” he chirps. “It’s sort of like being Clark Kent and Superman”. Recognizing that the intended interview has flown too far off course the muscular mat man allows himself to slip into a more comfortable lane. “I see all sorts of shenanigans backstage at shows when I wrestle, but do I report on it or do I remain one of the boys?” he offers, reasoning that he could always put out a simple puff piece. But for now, he would rather get to know her better, especially after hearing the opinions on Chloe Benton from various colleagues. “Just like the movies, it’s a juggling act”.

“Wow”, a deluge of thoughts run rampant through her conscious mind, like a litter of puppies, each one begging for attention, and pawing at her with questions. Why become a writer and a wrestler, which one is more fun, and does he have any advice for a rookie? The largest of the pack manages to push through its’ siblings, making its presence known. “C-can I ask you something?”

“Sure Chloe”, he replies congenially. “We’re all friends here, ask me anything you want”.

“O-ok”, she mutters, slightly taken aback by the friendly tone in the big man’s baritone voice. “I-I-I was w-wondering if… if you m-maybe have some advice for me, s-something to help me get b-better?”

“Hmm…” He drops his head down, thoughtfully rubbing his clean-shaven cheek while considering what he could only see as a reticent plea for help. The young woman has certainly had a rough time since her debut and a part of him insists he give her the best advice he can. “Ok Chloe”, he pipes up, returning his gaze to her. “I’m going to ask you a question and I want you to be 100 percent honest with me, alright?”

She nods timidly, her billowy chestnut mane bobbing in agreement.

“When you start a match, what are you thinking the moment that bell rings?”

“I-I’m not sure”, she stammers, caught off guard by the unexpected question. “It’s… it’s hard to say really. I-I mean everything is happening so fast. I know what I have to d-do, but it’s like m-my brain is… arguing with me. Do I do this, or do I do that? W-what are th-they gonna d-do? So, I go in, hoping… hoping I can hurt them early and m-maybe get lucky I-I guess”.

“I see”, he nods in understanding. “Now, let me tell you what I see...,” he pauses, rounding up his thoughts and corralling them onto his train of thought. “I see somebody who – like you said – isn’t sure what the hell to do and just goes in guns blazing, and unless you’re the bloody Road Warriors it’s just not going to work. Seeing how, unlike Animal and Hawk, you’re a lot smaller than most of your opponents, I can bloody well guarantee it. I get the image of an actor suffering from stage fright”. Gesturing to the lamps stationed in opposing corners he continues, “once those lights hit you, your whole brain goes haywire. You have ten thousand different thoughts hitting you all at once, but you can only choose one and how the hell do you do that?” Shifting into gear he taps her forearm and rolls on. “You can’t, so you have to rely on instinct”.

“B-but I do have a plan!” She protests. “I always have something in mind before the the match starts”.

“But when that bell rings…” he clasps his hands and quickly spreads his fingers in a mock explosion. “Everything goes to hell, am I right?”

“Yes,” the teen moans, sinking into her chair. “B-but what do I do? H-how d-do I fix it?”

“That’s the hard part”’ he concedes. “Mind you, I am no psychologist, but I would suggest that you need to find a way to slow everything down”.

“How?”

“I’m not really sure”, he sighs. He badly wants to help the poor, pathetic soul in front of him, but her problem appears to be beyond his level of proficiency. “What I can offer is that you have to relax before your matches; take your mind from it. Maybe you could read a book, draw, play a video game… something, anything relaxing that puts your head somewhere else”. With a shrug of his hefty shoulders, he throws his hands up. “Maybe even meditate. My point is, you can’t go beating yourself up worrying about your match for hours or days on end. It will only drive you bonkers. Once you come up with a plan, do whatever you have to do to relax. Your mind needs rest as much as your body, and don’t worry about forgetting about your game plan – your young mind won’t do that – just don’t let it consume you.” Satisfied with his response the elder grappler leans back in his seat, his smile unwavering as he studies her face for a reaction.

“Well…” Chloe’s voice tapers off, consumed by an emerging thought making a fashionably late entrance. Reviewing it her chestnut almonds brighten noticeably, and she taps the man on the hand, eager to relay the message. “I-I do like to p-play with my hair. I-it’s something I do at home all the t-time a-and it relaxes me. I don’t think of anything else while I’m doing my hair”. Her thoughtful gaze is overrun by a whimsical reverie as fond memories of times since passed frolic on the lawn of former melancholy. “I can sit there for hours”, she states excitedly. “Whipping it into different styles, coloring, teasing it and trimming it, I’m constantly messing with it. I guess you could call it a hobby”.

Looking on through slit, blue lenses Simon further studies the young woman as she regales time spent cajoling her coif into a masterpiece, caught up in the moment and allowing the world to continue without her presence. She’s onto something, he muses to himself, but another revelation makes itself known, one that stops his mind dead in its tracks…

She isn’t stuttering anymore!

That must be it, he reasons. Her safe place where she retreats to from the arduous trek of life for shelter. No longer stuttering he assumes her mind to finally be clear of debris and a clear mind..., suddenly he snaps his fingers, the impact reverberates off the smooth white walls of the room drawing Chloe’s attention from the impromptu daydream and back onto him.

“That’s it!” he announces excitedly. “Your hair is what relaxes you, your quiet place… “I wish I could say the same for myself”, he quips, slapping his bald head with a chuckle, “but alas, I don’t have any. Again, I’m no expert, but if I were you, I would make a pre-match ritual of playing with my hair. Just, don’t get too involved with it and miss your match, you know?”

“I could set an alarm or ask security to notify me or something”, she suggests.

“There you go,” he says, extending his arms as if presenting her with an unseen gift. “Get your plan in place, that’s the most important part. Plan your work then work your plan. This Christian fellow may think he’s Julius Caesar but, despite conquering the entire bleeding world even Caesar succumbed to a well-executed plan. You can show this lad that you can handle Taylor Blazer, and you won’t back down”.

“Caesar will fall this weekend!”