At the end of the night on Valentine’s Day, Montague Cervantes was standing on what some might consider even ground with the World Champion, Centurion.
Their paths through the last couple of years in UGWC had been oddly parallel. Both journeys began at Wrestlestock 2020 and, having met in the ring six times up to that point, both stood at three victories over the other. They each have secured early success with impressive singles championship runs, and now, they’d both won the Global Challenge and secured the first key of their respective years.
From a certain point of view, Centurion has had the superior voyage; the Cross Hemisphere championship is often viewed in higher prestige. Centurion was the very first Keyholder, a distinction written in stone, and it took Monty a full year to achieve the same accolade. Centurion was able to successfully complete the Conquest title run, an achievement only boasted by their mutual rival Gabriel Baal, while Montague didn’t have a single defense during his reign, despite having defeated Centurion himself to win the championship originally.
And of course, Centurion was the World Champion.
Since then, Montague has logged an additional two wins over Centurion. Looking back, winning the Global Challenge is only the latest of tournaments continually trampled over by Montague and his faction. From a different point of view, Montague is the superior competitor, and given enough time, will he dominate what he sets out to conquer.
We open up inside the Glenmore Sailing Club in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. The club is set up on the shore of the Elbow River reservoir of the same name, in the glamorous Southwestern neighborhood of the city. Throughout the week the club is open to families of all income brackets, offering affordable and, in some cases, free sailing lessons on the club vessels. Wednesday, though, is racing day, when only the most competitive owners are allowed to launch from the club.
The atmosphere in the club is different on Wednesdays; there are less tables and more pop up open bars. The wait staff uniforms have been switched from smart casual to cocktail. While the club is normally a smoke-free venue, today the interior has been sectioned off into smoking and non-smoking, with the smoking section featuring gold-plated punch-cutters, Glenmore branded portable torches, and deeply recessed crystal ashtrays.
Most of the members have gone out onto the marina to prepare their boats, and the staff rushes about to bus tumblers and empty ashtrays. There’s a bit of a stir when Montague Cervantes walks in accompanied by Jordana Andrews and Rett.
The Showman is dressed in a way that would scandalize his fellow AstroCreeps if they saw him. A light blue buttoned down Oxford shirt with a navy micro-patterned tie is tucked into pleated, sand-colored shorts with one back pocket and no hip pockets. The ensemble is covered by a yellow deep V sweater vest and set off with a pair of white Sperries. He has a Wilson Blade 98 tennis rack slung over his left shoulder.
Jordana is showing off her new cosplay, a cute lime-and-banana superhero, drawing impressed looks from the Canadian citizens observing her version of their favorite national hero. Rett toddles behind them with a post-it note pressed into the top of his head which reads ‘vaguely-relevant opponent information’.
A host rushes over to intercept the trio as they head toward the marina door, where the heaviest knot of people are gathered.
“Welcome, um,” he says by way of greeting, “are you competing today?”
“No, I don’t actually own a sailboat,” Montague admits.
“Oh, well,” the host begins to explain, “you see, on Wednesdays we only welcome our exclusive members who are competing.”
Montague and Jordana share a look of impatience.
“Yeah, I know for sure these Yale nostalgics aren’t the only people here today,” Montague reveals, smirking, “You’ve got some Crimsons and Polers tucked away in here somewhere.”
The host hesitates for a moment, leaning back and folding his hands behind his back.
“There’s an understood five thousand entry fee per pony selected,” he says more matter of factly, “Side transactions are permitted, but only once the first pony has been registered.”
Once again, the Doctor-Professor shares a conspiratorial look with his manager. Jordana nods, then Monty turns and nods to the host.
“Right this way,” he turns on a heel and leads the three of them past the marina door, through a storage room, and into a dimly lit staircase. They climb upward until the host throws open a door, gesturing for them to enter the private, rooftop bar. Montague tucks a folded bill into the host’s lapel and strides onto the roof, followed by Jordana and Rett.
The bar is filled with yuppies, barons, and magnates of every age. There isn’t an article of clothing that isn’t baroque, not one democratic voter, and not a single income is less than six figures. While the roof offers the best view of the gorgeous marina for those betting on the race, there are several other tables set up for more minor games.
“Name?” an eager voice asks. They turn to see an eager hostess holding a registration notepad on a clipboard.
“Rett!”
The hostess snaps her gaze down with some confusion and stares at the mechanical cat. Montague and Jordana both give a very theatrical indulgent laugh.
“It’s Stevens,” he corrects, “M.”
She marks down his name on the form before continuing, “How many vessels will you be selecting today?”
“Three,” he smiles confidently.
The hostess lifts the top paper and pulls a racecard with ship names, passing to him. Montague waves it over to Jordana, who does her best to pretend to study the ship names and vital statistics, before selecting three at random. She passes the card back and the hostess nods, making a final note before looking up to beam at them.
“The race begins in about forty minutes,” she announces, “Please feel free to join any of our open tables, and enjoy yourselves!”
She rushes off while Montague surveys the floor. The rooftop club is not an out and out casino by any means, but most of the patrons are filling their time by playing casual dice games or small poker hands for $20 blind antes. Montague looks for a table with three open chairs as a waitress approaches.
“May I get you something from the bar?” she offers.
“Sidecar with Hennessy XXO,” Jordana orders first.
“And I’ll have a bottle of Weller 107 with a warm glass, please,” Montague says. “Nothing for Nellie, please.”
The waitress throws a befuddled look, not noticing Rett tottering around under a table where three pudgy seniors are playing liar’s dice. Noticing that there’s room at their table, he leads Jordana over.
A little over half an hour later, the trio has taken up a post near the balcony to prepare for the start of the race. Jordana counts their newly acquired cash with some excitement.
“You’re a better liar than I expected,” Monty admits. “Maybe I should be worried.”
She looks nonplussed as she tucks the wad of bills into her utility belt. “When have I ever lied to you?”
“I wouldn’t know, would I?” he challenges her, but with a good-natured grin. Jordana rolls her eyes.
“Are you going to bet on me against Centurion?” he asks more earnestly.
Jordana appears to mull it over, as Monty’s eyes grow wider with surprised impatience.
“Hm, I don’t know,” she narrows her eyes, “I was going to put it all on Jacky to retain.”
Monty smiles, “That’s a wise bet.”
“How many times have you beaten him now?” she asks, more seriously.
“Rett!”
“That’s right,” Montague agrees, “five times. The last five times we met.”
“No one would take the bet if I put it on you, then,” she shrugs.
“Oh, Andy has a habit of only paying attention when there’s something he cares about winning or losing,” Montague stares out over the reservoir. “This isn’t going to be a match where he allows himself to be distracted by an invitational in another company, or another hotel grand opening.”
“You sound genuinely concerned,” she observes. “Do you think you’re going to be facing a focused Centurion for the first time?”
Montague purses his lips and moves them around a bit, thinking it over.
“No,” Montague confesses, “I’ve faced that before. Once was the last time he had to defend his championship against me.”
“Monty, you had just competed in a battle royal earlier that night,” Jordana reminds him. “And he still didn’t exactly walk over you.”
“That’s true.”
“And then you later picked up the Conquest Championship over him,” she adds.
“He wasn’t defending that,” Montague amends. “It was vacant.”
“It doesn’t matter, that was after the Cross Hemisphere match. You’ve bested him every time since then.”
“I suppose it’s going to come down to how invested he is in defending the World Championship against me,” Montague concludes. “If he’s not willing to give me his undivided attention, this is going to be win number six, and the AstroCreeps will have a new crown to hold over the mundanes.”
“Centurion has known he would have to defend against you for the last five weeks,” Jordana points out. “Has he seemed very focused on you during that time?”
Montague raps the handrail they’re leaning against, “No. He hasn’t.”
“Well there you go.”
A sound like a foghorn, but a bit daintier, sounds across the marina, and the gamblers begin to move closer to the railing, surrounding the trio. Everyone leans in, and the general conversation dies down to a quiet din.
With a traditional gunshot, followed by a cheer that oscillates from the balcony to the spectators on the shores, the sailboats are off. Excited chatter begins to rise again as boats begin to vie for position, no clear leader emerging this early. The AstroCreeps only watch with detached interest as the multicolored sails drift further away from the clubhouse.
After around fifteen minutes, Jordana turns to Montague with some urgency.
“Aren’t they getting out of range?” she worries.
“Pshaw,” Montague interjects. “Rett?”
“Rett!”
The cat, which had been pawing at a spider hanging from the railing, suddenly leaps up onto the railing and begins glaring across the water more intently than he has all day. His plastic ears begin to twitch as a series of three red dots runs from left eye to right. There’s a click as he establishes a signal connection.
Somewhere, multiple multifunction displays are suddenly going haywire. Radar screens go blank, compasses spin wildly, and actuator controls make sudden random adjustments before locking up. Frustrated pilots begin frantically tapping malfunctioning heads up displays to no avail.
Out in front, the lead cutter suddenly pulls hard to starboard and cuts across the path of a purple sloop. Gasps mix with screams from the crowd as the sloop cuts through the hull of the cutter, but they don’t have much time to recover from that shock because a schooner and a catamaran are currently clashing bow to bow, merging as if to become one ship.
All across the reservoir, keels, trampolines, amas, and masts buckle and break, crumpling and folding as the crews lose absolutely all control. It’s an utter disaster, and the boats are sinking beneath the surface of the water rapidly. Bodies are flinging themselves into the water, both from the wreckage and from the shore to attempt a rescue.
Back on the rooftop railing, the space formerly occupied by Montague, Jordana, and Rett has been filled by gaping gamblers, and the AstroCreeps are nowhere to be found.
-Lies From the Tablecloth-
We reopen inside the Glenmore Sailing Club, but much later that evening. The entire place is abandoned, the staff, proprietor, and investigators long since gone downtown to make their statements concerning the freak accident. Various theories will be postulated, including solar flares, magnetic resonance, and of course, an insurance scam perpetrated by the club owner in concert with one or more members.
Montague Cervantes, having changed into a rather expensive looking midnight blue suit, reclines on one of the downstairs barstools. His feet, now clad in shiny black Zegna XXX Oxfords, are propped on a stool next to him. Monty sips easily at a glass of Weller 107. Eventually, he turns to regard the camera.
“Anyone who recognized me when I walked in here knew to expect something tragic,” he declares. “Maybe not what, exactly, but certainly something messy.”
He reaches down to unbutton his suit coat with a sigh, and takes another sip.
“When they play back the security footage later tonight, they’ll see us walk in and, although they won’t be able to connect the catastrophe back to us, they’ll know. They’ll feel that dreadful realization,” Montague smiles as the alcohol warms him. “It’s the same sick sense of anticipation most people feel when their own name across from any AstroCreep on a card.”
He lets out a low chuckle before draining the glass and setting it on the bar. Montague stands up and sheds the jacket slowly, revealing navy suspenders over his black shirt.
“Not that most people will allow themselves to admit it,” he shrugs. “Most of our opponents go to great lengths to either ignore us, or make a grand statement about how much they don’t fear us.”
Monty rolls his eyes. “Why does everyone think we’re trying to scare them?”
The camera pulls back as the Showman begins to walk slowly forward. He shakes his head, not hiding the pity he feels for their lack of understanding. Tucking his thumbs into his suspenders, he unshoulders them one at a time and then begins to work the clips.
“Not the World Champion, though,” he raises a finger on his left hand. “He already played the ‘not afraid’ card on Ragdoll last year, to no one’s surprise, and now he’s decided to shift gears for The Doctor-Professor. I’m a problem he hopes is going to go away if he ignores me.”
Montague stretches his arms out, first one and then the other, plucking tourmaline links from his cuffs and dropping them on the floor. These are followed by the matching clip from his tie. He tsks as he begins to loosen his tie.
“That’s not only foolish,” he points out, “it completely belies the fiction he’s been selling the world since he first set his sights on Donovan Hastings. How many times have we heard Centurion paint himself as the great crusader of the overlooked and under-promoted? The Lord of Pain stood in the way of newer talent and held the door closed. Centurion made it his personal mission to wrestle the golden shovel out of the hands of the six time World Champion and spread the opportunities around.”
Monty smirks as he discards the tie on a table as he passes.
“And who were these oppressed serfs he wanted to see finally given the chance to compete for the crown?” he holds his arms out, palms upward. “Why folks like Lucy Wylde, Sebastian Everett-Bryce, Eden Morgan, and Angelica Vaughn.”
He can’t help but bark laughter this time, breaking from unbuttoning his shirt to catch his breath.
“Those poor, unfortunate souls share a combined eight World Championship reigns between them,” he says as he wipes his eyes. “Truly subjugated, that lot. But what else would we expect? ‘There was a time we killed the king. He tried to change the world too fast. Now we have got another king. He's no better than the last.’”
Montague pulls the shirt off, revealing a gold and red ringmaster jacket below.
“How can we believe his campaign promises to infuse UGWC with fresh talent when he chooses to bury or ignore the actual newer talent?” he asks. “This oligarch went from absolutely smearing Jacky Pierrot as a person, to defecating on Liam Davies entirely. Now, Let’s not mince words here; I also consider Davies to be a worthless bastard. But I’m not appearing on UGWC’s streaming network vowing to lift up the downtrodden.”
Unbuckling his belt, Montague pulls it through the lips, allowing the suspenders to fall into a messy coil on the floor. He tosses the belt down on top of them and continues walking.
“Perhaps I’m being too harsh,” he cocks his head to one side and looks up toward the ceiling. “The hero’s journey is only halfway over once he reaches The Abyss, and he can’t fulfill his calling until he has Transformed and Atoned. We’ve seen Centurion’s Abyss.”
Unbuttoning his pants, Montague drops them to uncover a pair of red slacks with gold stripes down the outside of the legs. When he steps out of the expensive dress slacks, his shiny dress shoes have been replaced by calf-high red cavalier boots. He swings to the left and steps over to a table, on which a sweating glass of iced whiskey sits. Lifting the low ball, he sips the whiskey, closing his eyes as the liquid runs down his throat.
Monty toasts the camera as he continues, “Six victories in a row with the Conquest Championship, culminating in the fifth defense on the biggest stage the company offers. Centurion finished 2021 in classic fashion, looking smooth but fiery.”
One more sip before he places the glass back on the table.
“But over the company break, something happened.”
Montague plucks a large black dinner napkin out of the air and tosses it over the glass.
“While we were enjoying our yearly vacation, Centurion had other commitments,” he reminds the audience, “and let’s just say fate wasn’t very… charitable. When Centurion returned to UGWC in January, all that swagger had evaporated. This wasn’t the same contender we remembered. Whatever happened on that cruise ship… well, it crushed him.”
The Showman slams his left palm down on top of the napkin, flattening it on the table. There’s no tell-tale shatter, no liquid suddenly spreading from beneath it. Monty lifts the napkin with a flourish, revealing nothing below it. He tucks it into the breast pocket of his jacket as he continues.
“Suddenly, the company Centurion had spent months putting down was his last hope,” he smiles evilly. “Mr. Cortinovus, with a heavy heart, staked what remained of his career on challenging Hastings.”
Pushing himself off the back of a chair, Montague begins walking toward the camera again.
“Then came the Transformation,” Montague's expression changes to one of genuine admiration. “Centurion not only fulfilled his promise to release UGWC from the tyrannical grip of Donovan Hastings by becoming the World Champion, but also rebuffed a secondary attack, dethroning him once and for all.”
The expression changes to a smirk as his tone lowers.
“But you haven’t Atoned yet,” he addresses Centurion directly. “That’s where the Doctor-Professor comes in. Now, I’m not going to stand here and pretend like every battle we’ve had hasn’t left me in pain, We’re both over forty, and other than Konrad Raab, perhaps the oldest competitors in the company. We can be mutually assured that both of us wake up the Tuesdays after our matches and take a little longer to get out of bed.”
Montague gives a shrug of surrender.
“Multiple Maniacal Massacre won’t be a walk in the park for either of us, and that’s before we start checking goals off the list,” he goes on. “You’ve beaten MacLean, Wylde, Yamazaki, and Hastings twice. You’ve completed the Conquest. You’ve even beaten Jacky, something very, very few people can brag about. The indisputable fact remains, though.”
He pulls a red top hat out of thin air.
“Since you defended your Cross Hemisphere Championship against me exactly one year ago, you haven’t beaten me. And you won’t. Your hero’s journey ends with me, Centurion. You can consider Ever Escalating Endangerment your…”
Placing the top hat on his head at a jaunty angle, then tapping it into place for good measure, he winks before breaking out into a grin.
“FINAL FANTASY”