[Nicolas L Blair]

 Long Beach, California

Doubletree Hotel, penthouse suite

The morning after Blaze of Glory III

*ring ring*



*ring ring*



*ring ring*

"Mmmmnnn...."  The sound of a phone ringing next to his bedside roused him from a dead sleep.  One eye popped open, taking stock of the scenery.  

Beautiful room.  Lush decoration.  Curtains drawn all but a crack, that let in a blinding shaft of light.  Particles of dust sparkled in the light as they lazily drifted downward.

*ring ring*

"Hnnnh." Still shaking off sleep, he flipped over and lunged a hand towards the offending ring, pulling the room's courtesy phone off the base and holding it up to his ear.

"'Lo."

"Good morning, sir.  This is the wake-up call you requested last night.  The time is now 8:03 a.m."

"Kay kay." He swallowed, opened both eyes and rubbed his forehead.  "Thanks."

Hanging the phone up, he groaned as he turned his body to the side, set his feet on the ground and stood up from the bed.  The silken sheets slid off of his naked body.  Stiffly, swinging his arms to get the blood flowing, he walked over to the curtains and drew them back to behold the dazzling view of the beach below.

He blinked a couple of times in the shining light of day and rubbed at his eyes with one thumb and forefinger.

"This is going to be an expensive one..." He muttered to himself before turning around to look at his hotel room in full daylight.

Wrestling gear lay crumpled in a heap at the foot of the bed.  On the side table next to the phone was a handful of documents, a pack of clove cigarettes and a lighter.  He ran his tongue over his teeth as he threw those two items into the garbage can next to the desk.

"And that's why everything tastes like an ash tray."  He found the closet, swung it open and thumbed through the black suits, leather duster coat and red ties.  "Ah, man...this is going to be a REALLY expensive one."

He flipped on the TV that faced the bed and wandered into the bathroom.  As the local weatherman droned on in the background, he flipped on the bathroom light and got a good look at himself in the mirror.  He groaned at the sight of a neat half-circle of stitches in his upper forehead, and groaned even more at the sight of his darkened, red-highlighted hair.  He turned on the water faucet and splashed himself in the face a couple of times.

"The forecast today is sunny and clear around Long Beach.  Humidity at 30%, no chance of rain until Thursday.  Classic California weather for any travelers for Spring Break..."

The TV droned on in the background as he jumped in the shower and turned it on.  Bruises on the torso, bruises on the knee.  A knot on the back of the head.  The damage inspection took nearly 20 minutes, filling the bathroom with steam.  

He stepped out of the shower, feeling less stiff, stretched and exhaled a deep breath.

"There we go!" He exclaimed, to no one in particular.  "Now I feel alive again!"

A hot shower can do wonders for a man's ability to face the day, and he turned again to look at the documents on the side table.

Ticket for a plane trip from California to Las Vegas, Nevada.  A bank statement showing an account with...a significant amount of money deposited.  A bank card.  A statement for the hotel room, showing it paid in full.  A contract, unsigned.

He looked closer at the contract.

"Sin City Wrestling, open contract, paid per appearance, non-exclusive."

Well.

That was interesting.





Checkout Time.


"Okay, looks like everything is in order and there are no additional expenses.  Here is your receipt, and I hope we see you again at the Doubletree, sir."

He smiled as he accepted the receipt, and headed towards the door.  It was just as they swung open that a sharp voice behind him gave him pause to stop.

"Nicolas Blair!  You owe me a new blouse!"

Ms. Rocky Mountains, SCW interviewer extraordinaire stood in the lobby, her roller bag behind her and her arms crossed in front of her.  She scowled slightly.

"Dressing like a slob on laundry day doesn't do a very good job of hiding your identity, Nicolas." She stomped up to him, her stilettos clicking on the brick floor. She looked him up and down, at the sweatpants and white tee shirt he was wearing, topped off with a baseball cap.  "Your blood got all over my blouse and ruined it during our interview.  That was a $300 blouse!"

"Yeah?  Jeez, I'm sorry." He smiled at her, rubbing the back of his head with one hand.  "That sounds awful.  Of course I'll make it up to you.  But hey...can you do me one favor?"

He asked while reaching into his pocket for his wallet. Rockey raised an eyebrow unamusedly.

"And that is?"  She asked.

"Call me Danny?  My name's not Nicolas Blair."

[Nicolas L Blair]

 Long Beach Airport

Skyperks Lounge

"Just to be perfectly clear between us." Rocky Mountains sat at one of the Skyperks Lounge tables, sipping a rum and coke that it really should have been too early in the day to drink, but she was traveling and everything was on the company dime anyways, so what the hell.  "I invited you in here in my capacity as an interviewer for SCW, and for no other reason whatsoever."

Sitting across from her, sipping a ginger ale with a straw, the man she knew as Nicolas Blair grinned.

"Well, that's kind of what I assumed." He replied, rubbing the back of his head.  "I mean, it's a really nice gesture.  I don't travel enough to have access to the Skyperks lounge and we're both headed to Las Vegas, but I figured this was more about talking 'on the record' than a gesture of kindness."

"That's, uh, that's not what I meant." Rocky tried to explain.  "Most of the male SCW wrestlers...some of the female ones too, actually...seem to think that even the tiniest gesture of interest in them is an invitation for a date or sex."

"Pfff, seriously?" He laughed, nearly upsetting his ginger ale.  "What kind of wrestlers does SCW employ?!"

"Copious numbers of dickbags." Rocky responded dryly.  This wasn't quite going the way she'd planned.  When she'd discovered that she and Nicolas L. Blair were both heading to Las Vegas on the same flight, she'd seen a chance to sit him down and drill out some information about his history.  Maybe even get a full article about him posted up on SCW's website.  But ever since he requested that she call him 'Danny,' she'd been thrown for a loop by his change in personality.  The deliberate, snide, angry man who'd lost the match to Mark Ward, splattered his own blood on her and given her threatening looks throughout their in-shower interview seemed gone.  He was replaced by a demure, friendly guy who seemed far more interested in hearing what she had to say than giving her concrete information.

Rocky found that really annoying.

"So, I heard that SCW offered you a sweet contract last night after your match." Rocky decided to just get directly to the point and ask questions.  "Are you going to sign it?"

"Is that what this is?" 'Danny' reached into his back pocket and pulled out the rolled-up contract.  "I haven't read it over yet.  Is SCW a good fed to work for?"

"Uh....you've been working there for over a month."  Rocky replied with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah?  Well then it must be pretty good!  Headquartered in Las Vegas, right?"

"Yes.  Isn't that why you're going to Las Vegas?"

"I guess so!" He rolled the contract back up and inserted it again into his back pocket.  Rocky polished off her rum and coke and decided to try again.

"So,...'Danny.'  I know there are plenty of wrestlers who wrestle under other names...."

"My wrestling name is Daniel Hall.  They call me "Mr. Blue Sky."' Danny cut her off before she could get to her question.

"And, uh, why do they call you that?"

"Because when I get to the top turnbuckle and take off into the air, that's all you see!  Nothing but blue skies!"  He grinned.  "I get some crazy elevation on my shooting star press.  Soar right up to the heavens!"

Danny raised up an arm and twirled his fingers a few times, simulating a flip through the air before lightly slamming his hand on the table.

"And Nicolas L. Blair?"

Danny stopped smiling.

"That's not my name."

"But it's the name you wrestled under last night.  And for the last month or so, while you were feuding with Mar-"

"That's not my name.  Sorry!  But it's not."  He gave her an apologetic shrug.  "Hey, it's getting close to boarding time.  Thanks again for the invite into the lounge here, but I'd better get down to the gate.  See you around, Ms. Mountains."

He gave her another friendly smile and stood up.  Grabbing his bags, he left.  Rocky's eyes narrowed.  

That...was weird.  Frankly, working in the wrestling world, Rocky had met her share of bizarre people.  There was a lot of mental illness running rampant in the independent federations, she'd decided.  Luckily, her own personality was strong enough to roll with the insanity.  

But most guys liked wearing their crazy right out on their sleeves...probably in the hopes that the crazier they seemed, the more unnerved their opponents would be.  But none of them were this bizarrely...evasive.

Rocky Mountains decided, as she stood up and grabbed her own luggage, that if Nicolas Blair/Danny Hall/whoever decided to sign up with SCW, that she'd do some poking around of her own and figure out what was up....

[Nicolas L Blair]

 1986

Stampede Wrestling Show

A part of the National Wrestling Alliance

Friday Night

The Ogden Auditorium in Calgary

Women's Dressing Room

Velvet McIntyre stood in front of the mirror of the women's changing room and ran a nylon brush through her hair, ratting it up as high as she could get it.  Her friend and sometime tag team partner, Judy Martin, paced behind her, warming up for her own match.

"The money is better in Vince's WWF," Velvet informed Judy.  "But it's a complete circus.  Rock stars, MTV, celebrities all over the place.  It's ridiculous!"

"Mmm." Judy agreed, switching to lunges.  "And that bitch, Moolah, pretty much reigns like a queen.  Still, if he can pay better than Stu..."

"And at least when you're fighting Moolah, people pay attention.  Did you see who I'm facing tonight?  "The Red Menace" Iskra Yerkhov.  Another Soviet wrestler."

"Well, that Rocky movie last year, what was it?  Three?"

"Four.  Rocky Four."

"Yeah, well, just like in that movie.  Soviet performers are really trendy right now in the US.  They come over, espouse their commie morals, get booed, cash their paychecks and get to stay in the West."

"Maybe so, but this is Canada.  It's not the same.  How much of a failure must you be if you're a Soviet wrestler who can't make it in Vince McMahon's WWF?"  Velvet put the brush down, suddenly cutting herself off as the door to the women's locker room opened.  Walking in with a gear bag on one shoulder and a little boy holding onto her other hand, was Iskra Yerkhov herself.  Velvet got quiet and busied herself applying her makeup.

"Where is locker?" Iskra turned to Judy and asked, without bothering to introduce herself.  Standing nearly six feet tall, barrel-chested and with a very Russian, sullen face underneath her short, blonde fringe, it became clear that Iskra embodied the ideal of the Red Menace.  No other gimmick would have been possible to apply to her.

"It's around that corner to the left." Judy replied.  Iskra let go of the hand of the little boy.

"You stay."  She burskly informed him.  The slight boy nodded, and backed against one of the walls as Isktra went to change her clothes.

"Well, hello there!" Judy smiled at the little boy.  "We don't get many little visitors back here.  What's your name?  Mine's Judy."

"My name's Daniel!" The boy replied.  He stuck his fingers in his mouth and grinned under her attention.  "I'm four years old."

Judy gave him a reassuring smile.  "Well, it's very nice to meet you!  This is Velvet."

"Yeah, hi." Velvet waved a couple fingers at the little boy and then grabbed Judy by the arm.  "Can I talk to you for a sec?"

Velvet pulled Judy and muttered to her.

"What the hell is she doing, bringing her kid backstage?  This is no place for children."

"How should I know?" Judy countered.  "I was just trying to be friendly."

"Friendly?!  His mother's my opponent tonight!  What am I supposed to say, 'hey there little guy, I'm the one who's going to be punching your mommy in the face in a little bit?!'"

"So what do you want to do about it, complain to Stu?" Judy countered.  "There's not much I can do about it, you know!  It's not my kid, not my federation, not my responsibility!"

"Uh...." Velvet backed away from Judy and looked around the room.  "...where did he go?"

"Vostok!" Iskra returned from the locker area, wearing her bright red one-piece wrestling gear, with a hammer and sickle over one breast.  "Where is he?  Where is Niklaus?"

She turned to Velvet and Judy, her stony face showing the same piercing expression she'd had when she'd walked into the women's dressing room.  Velvet shrugged.

"Who knows?  We're not babysitters."

"I thought he said his name was Daniel?" Judy asked, but Iskra ignored the two women and burst out of the dressing room.  Her face was now as red as her outfit.

"Damn boy!  Has the devil in him!  Damn boy!"  The door slammed shut behind her as she took off through the hallways.  Judy looked at Velvet.  Velvet shrugged.

"So...should we-"

Before Judy could get any further, the lights in the arena went out.

"What the HELL?!" Velvet nearly shrieked.  Her frustration level was at its highest point.  "Who turned the lights out?"

Struggling around in the dark, Velvet found the door and opened it into the hallway.  The only thing illuminated was the emergency exit signs.  The red light bathed moving figures as officials, personnel and wrestlers all scrambled around, trying to figure out what was going on.

"Power outage-"

"-find the boiler room-"

"-Hart's going to have a coronary if we don't-"

"-circuit breaker's in the-"

"Jim?  Jim!" Velvet found Jim "The Anvil" Neidhart in the hallways.  His sillhouette, with the broad sholders, flat head and pointy beard, made him easiest to identify.  "What the hell's going on out here?"

"Sounds like some fuses got blown in the main power for the arena or something." Neidhart replied.  "I'm a wrestler, not an electrician."

"Ssss....shit." Velvet cursed.  "I bet Stu uses this as an excuse to not pay us."

"Break her neck."

Velvet felt an odd shiver down her spine as a whisper passed by her ear.  She turned to look at The Anvil, but he was distracted talking to Davey Boy Smith.

"Smash her face, tear her knees, break her neck." Velvet heard it again, a hushed voice hissing so quietly that only she could hear it.

"Who is that?!  Is this some kind of joke?"

"Be the hero.  Break her neck."  The voice hissed again as Velvet swung around.  She couldn't see anyone, even if the waning light of the emergency exits was nearly on top of her.  Velvet growled.

"If the light don't turn on RIGHT NOW, I am going to-"

As if on cue, suddenly the lights flickered back on.  Velvet blinked, looking at all of the other equally surprised wrestlers in the hallway.  Anvil looked at her and shrugged.

"I'll check and see if they're back on everywhere else." He informed her as he headed off down towards the seated part of the arena.  Velvet let out a long sigh.  She didn't need this extra stress in her life.  As she headed back to her locker room, she paused to give Davy Boy Smith a nasty look.  It would be just like him, the practical joker, to use a blackout as a way to pull a prank on her.  What a jerk.

"Just a brown-out?" Judy asked when Velvet got back into the women's dressing room.  She'd sensibly decided to stay in one place rather than wander around everywhere in the dark.  Velvet shook her head and sat back down at the vanity.  

"I don't know.  Some of the boys thought that some fuses got blown or something."  Normalcy resumed as Judy went back to stretching and Velvet went back to applying eyeshadow.  After a few minutes, the door opened again, and Iskra burst in, dragging a red-faced and crying little boy.  She was cursing at him in Russian.

"Вы маленький ублюдок!  Вы разрушили мою жизнь!  Я знаю то, что Вы сделали! Прекратите кричать!"  Iskra yanked on his arm, knocking the boy onto the ground.  Judy backed up and Velvet jumped to her feet.

"Hey!  Leave him alone!" Velvet shouted at the Russian.  Iskra turned and sneered at Velvet.

"Is not your affair!  Keep nose out of our business!"  The little boy sobbed and rubbed at his eyes.  Iskra yanked him up again by the arm and started dragging him around the corner to to the lockers.  Judy looked at Velvet, who looked back at her.

"You think I should go get Stu?" She asked Velvet as the sound of banging came from the other room.  Velvet growled.

"Stu's got enough on his plate dealing with that power outage and everything else."  A sharp "SLAM!" came from the locker room, and the resounding click of a padlock.  Judy gawked at the corner...neither of them moving towards it.

"Did she just...."  The sounds of pounding and cries became less and less, until there was only quiet from the other room.  Iskra, her face stoic again but still quite red, came from around the corner.

"Will be silent now.  Do not interfere.  I see you in ring." She informed Velvet, brushing past Judy on her way out of the dressing room.  After the door shut, Judy, quietly, tiptoed around the corner to the lockers.  She poked her head back at Velvet.

"She...she locked him in one of the lockers.  There's a padlock on it and everything."

Velvet looked down at her hands.  They were balled into fists.  Judy, a hand over her mouth, walked back into the main dressing room area.

"Do you think we should call the police?"

"No.  Hell no." Velvet shook her head, opening and closing her hands, feeling her nails digging into her palms.  "You know Stu doesn't want the cops wandering around backstage."

"Then....what do we do?" Judy asked, quietly.  Velvet took a deep breath and let it out again.

"I'm going to go into that ring and face her down."

"But-"

"And then I'm going to break her fucking neck."