Stan Summers Vs. Amelia Vs. Kat Jones

The Ability Assessment



* KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK *

Footsteps moved swiftly across a carpeted floor, before the door of room 215 in the Baltimore Marriott Waterfront Hotel swung open to reveal the hulking figure of a man who almost filled the space where the door once stood.

“Must you always be such a bull in a china shop?”

The question was posed by the inhabitant of the hotel room, one Stan Summers, who stood stiff and upright by the door frame. His latest visitor, however, looked utterly at ease as he stepped across the threshold without invitation, gazing around whilst wearing a mildly amused expression.

“Well Stanley, we can’t all be as... particular as you, now can we.”

Scott Anderson, who at this point we know only via the Carnage Wrestling official website as Stan Summers’ ‘enforcer’, spoke at a surprisingly high pitch that belied his muscular frame; a frame that, on this particular day, was being enhanced and accentuated by a pair of stylish stonewashed denim jeans and a tight, white short-sleeved t-shirt. The accent was unquestionably British, but softer and almost lazier than that of his counterpart, with fewer of those proper Queen’s English inflections that were ever-present whenever Stan Summers spoke. And despite his generally intimidating appearance, his untidy shock of bright blond hair, big blue eyes and fresh-faced look could quite conceivably give the impression of an overgrown toddler on steroids.

The big man strolled around the hotel room almost as if in a daze, stopping briefly here and there to prod a perfectly-arranged ornament or poke a precisely-placed personal effect.

“Particular? What do you mean?” Stan asked, closing the door before turning around to face Scott with the makings of a frown forming across his brow.

‘The Enforcer’ looked back at him with a look of shock on his face.

“Are you serious?!” he replied, spreading his arms wide to gesture at their surroundings.

The hotel room was, to put it plainly, immaculate, and a far cry from one usually occupied by your average wrestler. It was clear that Stan Summers had spent quite some time within these four walls judging by the number of personal items and belongings adorning the room; however, everything was placed very neatly, precisely, almost unsettling so. Mobile phone, TV remote, glasses case, all lined up at perfect right angles to the surface on which they sat. On one side of the room, the sheets and duvet cover looked as if they had been smoothed to within an inch of their life, whilst across the room the curtains perfectly framed the window, sitting straight as a die – you wouldn’t be surprised if somebody had told you the distance between them had been calculated to provide optimal light saturation, and measured to the last millimetre.

This, then, was a man with an eye for detail; perhaps obsessively so.

Summers, though, seemed thoroughly unperturbed, dismissing Scott’s shock with a casual wave of the hand as he stepped swiftly but precisely over to sit at the small desk sat opposite the bed, flicking casually through a sheaf of papers affixed to the clipboard last seen inside the office of Christopher St. James.

“I don’t see what the problem is.” Stan said calmly. “There’s nothing wrong with being tidy, and having some order in your life.”

“Yeah, but there’s tidy and there’s... well...” Scott paused, clearly struggling to find the words to describe the scene surrounding him, and eventually settling for another exasperated flail of his massive arms.

The flailing was ignored.

“You should try it some time.” Stan said, in a tone clearly meant to carry dignity and gravitas, but in reality just made him sound like a pretentious prick. “You never know, if you introduced a bit more order and precision into your simple little life, you might find it becomes that much more... enriched.”

Anderson shot a look towards the back of Summers’ head, his expression halfway between annoyed and confused as he once again struggled to find the right words. In the end, he settled for a disgruntled “Pffft”, before throwing himself down onto the end of the bed.

“What did you drag me over here for anyway?” Scott posed the question to the back of Summers’ head.

The Wrestling Inspector paused for a moment, staring intently at his trusty fountain pen as he passed it from one hand to the next.

“There is... much to discuss.” he said thoughtfully.

“Is there?” Scott asked with a raise of the eyebrows. “The way I see things set up, it’s all looking pretty straightforward.”

“How so?”

“Well, you’ve pulled it off, haven’t you.” Scott spoke matter-of-factly – it was a statement, not a question. “For starters, you’ve managed to get me signed up to a Carnage Wrestling contract without so much as a job interview or a tryout match. Not a bad indication of your influence, I’d say.”

Summers tipped his head to the side and stuck his bottom lip out, wearing an expression as if to say ‘You’ve got a point there’.

“Well... I suppose we should thank our dear friend Christopher Saint James for that.”

The Enforcer screwed his face up as if a particularly unpleasant smell had wafted in through the open window. Stan’s eyes flicked briefly into Scott’s direction, his mouth curling almost absentmindedly into a satisfied smile.

“Yes, well, we shouldn’t be quite so forthcoming with our thoughts and opinions on Mister Saint James” The Inspector continued sagely. “His involvement is a necessary evil; a means to an end. We must keep him onside, at least for the time being...”

“Speaking of ‘means to an end’, isn’t it about time we discussed your debut, Mister Curtain Jerker...!”

The smile slid off The Inspector’s face at this jibe, and he turned stony-faced as he addressed Anderson once more.

“Yes. Well. A preliminary match in my debut for the company is not out of the ordinary. No. Completely to be expected.”

A pause.

“And as much as I will loath sharing a ring with the two examples of major mediocrity that this federation unfortunately appears to be infested with, it will be a valuable learning experience for all.”

“You’ve done your homework though, right?” Scott asked.

The Inspector shot a withering look from over his shoulder, in the direction of Anderson, still sat at the edge of the bed.

“Naturally.” Stan replied, the pretentious tone returning at once. “The fact that I will be facing two fellow debutants makes the proper preparation that I pride myself on even more important in this instance.

“First off, we have our resident HellKat, Ms Kat Jones. A hard luck story if I ever heard one. Grew up in Cincinnati, for a start... a fate I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemies. From there, it becomes increasingly obvious that Jones is anything but a pussycat – leaves home as an angsty teenager, angry at the world, has to scrap to survive and is full of the so-called ‘street smarts’. Yet the reality? Almost twenty years on, and deep down, she’s still nothing but a short-tempered little girl who was too foolhardy to listen, too rash to stop and think, and too proud to own up to her many mistakes.

“Kat Jones’ history and personal profile paints the picture of the streetwise yet sulking superhero – or is it antihero - destined to swoop into Carnage Wrestling and save the day. Yet in reality, she is nothing but a collection of corny clichés, destined to disappear beneath the tide of sorrow and self-loathing she insists on surrounding herself with.

“Yes... Kat Jones may think she is a hard-luck story. The reality of her first, true test on Sunday night is going to make her realise just how good she’s actually had it...”

Another pause, longer this time, before Scott responded quietly.

“And Amelia...?”

Almost subconsciously, The Wrestling Inspector suddenly stood up from the desk, and drew himself up to his fullest height, bristling with obvious indignation.

“Hmph! Amelia! Or is it Mia? Or Loki? I certainly hope I haven’t been slated to wrestle a shape-shifting Norse God, but the state of this myriad of misfits, who fucking knows at this stage!

“Regardless, if she can’t figure out who she is, what chance have I got? Yes... Amelia will undoubtedly be the wildcard in this situation; the proverbial loose cannon. But as Horatio Nelson, Viscount Montgomery, and all of the other great British military leaders would be able to confirm, you cannot trust your life to a loose cannon – a faulty weapon does not win a war.

“Yes... our unpredictable little enigma, Amelia... volatile... dangerous, undoubtedly. But crucially, fatally, faulty. And like the many celebrated leaders scattered throughout the storied, celebrated history of Great Britain, I survey the proverbial battlefield, searching for that all-important flaw, that vital, hidden weakness necessary to exploit, to manipulate, in order for me to achieve victory.”

Yet again, The Inspector seemed to be acting without conscious thought; he had begun to pace a steady path, back and forth, across the length of the carpet adorning the plush hotel room. Now, though, he came to a standstill, staring out of the window and to the sunlit scene below, glassy-eyed yet determined.

“You are that flaw, Amelia. You are at that weakness. But it is not enough for me to know. No... no... you must acknowledge your flaws and your faults and your weaknesses before I can be fully satisfied. And on Sunday, at Chaos 98, you will be educated, until you fully understand that no matter how many different personalities you throw at me, you do not, cannot and will not ever match up to The Wrestling Inspector!”

“Fighting talk, I’ll give you that.”

Scott Anderson again spoke quietly, though this time in a more satisfied tone, having watched his ever-more motivated mentor with interest.

Summers turned quickly back to face the seated Anderson, looking momentarily shocked and surprised, almost as if he’d forgotten that Scott was there. He soon composed himself though, and settled back down into the seat he’d not long vacated, still looking slightly pre-occupied with the thought of inflicting defeat on the duo of debutants.

Summers stared intensely at the wall in front of him for a moment longer, before finally shaking himself fully back into the here and now, turning back to his ever-present ‘W.I.R.E.’ clipboard in a business-like manner.

“Yes. Very good.” Stan said briskly. “But we mustn’t let that distract us from the bigger picture. We have other, more important...” He lifted his clipboard aloft, having flipped it over so that the ‘W.I.R.E.’ logo was visible, and tapped it for good measure, “... more official business to take care of.”

“Oh. Yeah.” came Anderson’s rather obtuse reply. “How could I forget about you keeping an eye on CW’s ‘ultimate underdog’, Adrienne Levi? The first chapter of your investigation into this carnage, eh?”

Scott Anderson paused, thinking hard for a few moments, before continuing on.

“What exactly is it that you’ve seen in her?”

Summers looked up once more, almost as if staring straight through the wall that sat just a couple of feet in front of him, and out into the void. He brought his pen up to his mouth and sucked on it with an uncomfortable intensity, considering the question, before speaking in a thoughtful, measured tone.

“To be blunt, Scott... I see a whole lot of nothing. I have, as you have quite rightly already alluded to, done my homework in regards to our latest inspection. Hmm... or should that be ‘cleanup operation’...? And what I have gleaned is that Adrienne Levi is the absolute epitome of the cesspool of mediocrity that we now find ourselves swimming in.

“Here’s an excuse for a competitor, striving, flailing and failing to mix it with a talent pool that, whilst obviously far from the cream of the crop, are way out of her league. By all accounts, she should be derided, a laughing stock, a failure. Yet look... just look at the motley crew of sycophants and do-gooders flocking to support her...!”

Another pause, Summers continuing to stare away into nothingness, before speaking again, this time in a slightly different tone; the words were being spat now, with gusto, and with venom.

“She is the worthless chaff, the dregs at the bottom of the cup. And I cannot understand the absolute fascination that half this roster seems to have with her. It is clear to me that further investigation is necessary. However, what is also clear is that she must be made an example of. Adrienne Levi will be the first example of the standards that must be met when you encounter The Wrestling Inspector, and also of the consequences that will be faced by those who do not match up to said standards...”

Summers lapsed into silence once more, a silence only punctuated by the faraway squawks of a couple of seagulls, and the rustling of a fidgety Scott Anderson. Finally, it seemed as if The Enforcer could do nothing but break the rather pregnant pause.

“Well, if you ask me, I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.” Scott said matter-of-factly. “If you’re looking to make an example, why start with such a nobody? Surely you want to make a statement by going after the company’s prize asset, not some loser who people can’t help but feel sorry for. Quite frankly, I don’t understand your fascination with her.”

With what seemed like a monumental effort, Summers snapped himself back into reality, depositing his fountain pen in his suit jacket pocket in what looked to be a well-practiced manner. He simultaneously tucked his clipboard under his arm, rose to his feet and turned to face his still-seated enforcer with surprising grace, painting a mocking smile across his features as he playfully pinched Scott’s cheek.

“And I wouldn’t expect you to understand, my little baby-faced assassin!” he said in a childish, mocking tone, raising the ire of Anderson, who swatted his hand away and scowled.

“Now come on, get yourself up.” Summers followed up, suddenly all business.

“Why? Where are we going?” Scott replied, in the manner of a child questioning a parent.

“You’re getting a bit too big for your boots. I’m not having one iota of overconfidence from you jeopardise the effort I’ve put in so far, or the huge amount of work that is still to come. It’s time for me to do what I do best.”

Scott looked up at Stan with a questioning look, into eyes that glinted with enthusiasm, and more than a little malice.

“I think it’s time, Mr. Anderson, for you to experience your first true Stan Summers Ability Assessment...!”

---

When we next catch up with the unlikely duo of Anderson & Summers, the plush interior of room 215 had been replaced by a dingy wrestling gym in what one could only describe as “the wrong side of town”. The peeling walls and faded light provided by a solitary lightbulb which hung rather sadly from the high ceiling contrasted starkly with the modern, fresh surroundings the two men had found themselves in earlier that same day. The haphazardly-placed gym equipment couldn’t have been more opposite to the surgical precision usually demanded by The Wrestling Inspector.

Yet the somewhat underwhelming surroundings had seemingly done nothing to dampen either man’s spirits – on the contrary, both men looked to be in their element. In one corner of the cavernous yet dated room, ‘The Enforcer’ Scott Anderson was hammering the shoulder press with gusto, the glint in his eye unmistakeable in spite of the sweat running down his face, the determined grimace, and the steady discoloration of the entire top half of his body.

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the room, ‘The Wrestling Inspector’ Stan Summers stood observing a young and somewhat weedy-looking trainee being put through his paces by a clearly older and savvier teacher. Summers looked utterly out of place in this environment, stood as usual in his customary suit jacket and matching trousers, his sensible spectacles perched precariously at the end of his nose.

Yet ‘it’ was there – the same look in the eye as could be seen in Scott Anderson, clearly evident as Summers eagerly absorbed every hold and counter-hold being performed. The Wrestling Inspector watched every second, pausing only to scribble down the occasional note on his black clipboard, which was naturally tucked into the crook of his left arm, as always seemed to be the way.

Scott Anderson and Stan Summers - two very different men with drastically different looks, and hugely opposing approaches; yet two men who had clearly recognised their strengths, and were doing everything they could to be masters of their chosen arts.

“Y’know, I’ve never understood how you can get so much out of just standing and... and watching.”

Anderson, having finished his latest set of reps and towelled off, had sidled up to where Summers was stood still drinking in every last drop of the in-ring lesson being delivered before him. The Enforcer stood alongside his mentor, arms folded and frowning slightly as he followed Stan’s gaze into the ring.

“I mean, doesn’t it get frustrating, just standing and watching?” Scott continued. “Don’t you just want to get in there and... and...” He looked around, apparently searching for the right words, but settled for simply smacking his right fist, hard and loud, into his left palm to make his point.

Summers didn’t flinch.

“Well Mr. Anderson.” Stan began slowly. “Perhaps if you had done a little more studying and observing back in the day, you might have managed to amount to something more than a lowly assistant.”

Stan turned his head to grin at Scott, who let out a noise of derision, shooting daggers back at Stan.

“Assistant! Pffft. Give over!”

“Ah. My mistake.” Stan said, turning back towards the ring, still smiling blithely to himself. “You’re right. I believe we did agree that ‘enforcer’ was the terminology we would use, certainly in public, to help maintain whatever reputation you may think you hold...”

Another turn of the head, and another pointed smile. This time it was ignored.

“Hmph. I wouldn’t worry.” Scott retorted. “If you really want my opinion - I’ve been revelling in this role ever since you... ahem... so kindly bestowed it upon me.”

The last six words were spoken in a mocking tone and accompanied by a simpering smile. This time it was Stan’s turn to do the ignoring.

“The way I see it, it’s allowed me to blossom. Doing this job allows me to do what I enjoy and what, if I do say so myself, I’m pretty damn good at.”

“Remind me... what exactly is that again?” Summers asked, continuing the banter.

“Battering anybody who stands in my way.” Scott replied bluntly.

“Ahh, yes. That’s the one. Well, it would be remiss of me not to remind you that you will need a slightly more well-rounded strategy than ‘battering whoever stands in your way’ if we’re to succeed in our latest venture.”

He gestured into the nearby training ring.

“Hence why we are here today.”

Anderson, brow furrowed, glanced once at the ring, then back at his mentor.

“You want me to be your guinea pig, your fucking punch bag?” he snarled.

Summers didn’t react, yet this just seemed to make his hulking protégé more fired up.

“Because let’s get one thing straight, Summers. Whether it’s ‘enforcer’, ‘assistant’ or ‘moron that agrees with everything you say’, I’m nobody’s punching bag. You can talk all you want about generals, about homework and about your fucking inspections all you like, but in the grand scheme of things, it means nothing. Nada. Zilch.

“Because in the cold light of day, you know and I know that there’s a list – and a pretty fucking sizeable one at that – of things that I can do better than you. And we also both know that you wouldn’t be here, today, in this position of power you wield, if it weren’t for my skills and my actions and my... my... my fucking loyalty to the process and procedure that you insist on putting us both through!

“So why not try for a bit of humility, Stan, and let’s recognise what I’m good at for a change, shall we, rather than just waxing lyrical about all that is good and great in the world of Stan Summers!”

The two stood face to face, The Enforcer’s heavy breathing the only sound breaking the silence. The trainer and trainee had slipped almost undetected out of the ring and out of the building during Anderson’s monologue, leaving just Stan and Scott stood inside the gym.

Slowly, a satisfied smile spread across the face of The Wrestling Inspector. He afforded a small nod as he looked at his motivated mentee.

“Much as I’m loath to admit it, I do so enjoy it when you get fired up.” Stan said finally. “It would be remiss of me not to thank you, Scott, for reminding us both of our respective strengths, there. Me, the master motivator and tip-top tactician; you, the loyal yet headstrong battering ram. I’ll admit, sometimes with all that we have going on, I can sometimes forget exactly why you were handpicked to assist on these assignments, and why you have persevered where others have fallen by the wayside.”

“But come.” Summers continued, gesturing for Anderson to step into the ring. “This is all well and good, but we are, to use a well-worn phrase, ‘playing the long game’. Your time will come, your victims despatched, your potential unleashed. But for that to happen, we must both be suitably prepared.”

Almost on cue, the previously departed trainer stepped back through a side door, slid under the ropes, and into the ring, as if waiting to begin the aforementioned assessment.

Scott rolled his eyes in spite of himself, but followed the trainer into the ring, muttering under his breath as he did so, just loud enough for Summers to hear:

“Always has a plan... always following process and procedure...”

The Wrestling Inspector smiled slightly, but the smile couldn’t hide the unmistakeable return of the look – that look – in his eyes, visible even behind the grey-framed glasses.

The look that highlighted that he could already tell that the process and procedure was starting to pay dividends.

The look that showed the conviction that Summers had in his plan that was slowly, steadily beginning to unfold.

And the look that demonstrated that, for all the suggestions of his obsessions with planning, process and procedure, nothing would bring Stan Summers more satisfaction than to witness... to listen... to feel fist meet flesh, first-hand.