Cortes/Marlowe Vs. Silvio/???

A century of Chaos.


At the start of it, they buried a prince – so I’m told. Long before I was born there was a boy. Arthur, Prince of Wales, destined to ascend to the throne and unify this island once again – like the King Arthur of old. And then he died. His brother ruled England instead. Broke with Rome, spat in the face of the Pope, packed his court with thugs from Hackney and whores from France, dressing a number of them in the finery of a queen and displaying them to the public, parading his sordid adultery to the nation he ruled.

All this from my father, of course. By the time I was born, Henry was dead – and who he fucked and who he did not was of little consequence to me. I grew up under the shadow of an invasion. We were a fragile nation, held together by a smallpox-ridden virgin Queen and her advisors. Catholics congregated in secret cellars in every city in the Kingdom, preparing for saviours from Spain. On the coasts, in Wales and Ireland, sharp-eyed boys scanned the horizons. “No fleet today!” They’d announce upon their return. “England stands another week!”


We came to love the storm, in Kent. Whenever it rained we knew we were safe. A week or more of fine weather could spell trouble. As children, none of us knew what Spaniards looked like. Only that there were many of them. At a young age, my sisters were introduced to the apothecary and told “If the Spaniards come, run to this man and buy as much hemlock as you can – no Spanish invader will despoil any of my daughters.” In any case, none of my siblings would live to adulthood. A storm cannot prevent the invaders of disease. No apothecary can defy God’s will. If there is a God.


When the Spanish finally did come, their fleet sank. I was performing Tamburlaine at the time, a playwright only because they wouldn’t allow me to become a priest. “We’ve heard a rumour.” The old men at the college informed me, bushy eyebrows raised. “That after university you intend to sail to France and ordain yourself as a priest.” It had been a joke, of course. But not one that I could explain without incriminating myself further. Meeting young men of a similar…disposition to mine had been far easier in Cambridge than it had been in Kent – but I knew that the real action was across the channel, in the Catholic church. I didn’t join the theatre purely out of love for the arts.


There was great jubilation when the Spanish invasion failed. But not from me. All that build-up and such mean reward. I’d felt the same way after my first visit to a brothel. The Cold War was far from over. It continued – in the New World, where the Spanish sought to take Nova Albion, and in Flanders, where they harassed our Protestant brothers the Dutch. We loved the Dutch, of course – and it was out of love that I was sent over to dissuade them from seeking refuge with us. “Once they see what an Englishman looks like…” My masters sniggered at me. “They’ll be forced to stay and face the Spanish.” After university I’d been blackmailed into increasingly complex service for Her Majesty’s spymasters, but the pay allowed me the wealth to jaunt with London’s theatrical elite and pretend that I was, like them, a disgraced second son of a wealthy Staffordshire grain merchant rather than the upstart son of a shoemaker.

One such landowner’s son came to London – to escape his wife and young children, I later learned. He followed me around London, begging me to help him publish his poem ‘Venus and Adonis’. It was dull, derivative of my own work and disgustingly heterosexual. “Please, I’ll do anything.” He mentioned to me more than once. He wasn’t my type. “William, you have enormous potential.” I told him. “I will introduce you to every publisher I know.” Of course, I didn’t know any, and in any case I expected to be sent abroad any day. Flanders, again. Or perhaps Portugal. And then I was stabbed.


For me, the century of chaos was over – some seven years early. Another four would pass before I saw such chaos again.

The End  

“Republican minority leader Theodore Hotley earlier today broke party lines to vote down the controversial data privacy bill as it passed through congress. The bill, which would have given tech giants such as Facebook, Google and Spearhead unprecedented access – “



Vlad turned off the television, adjusted his turtleneck and turned back to the boardroom with a reassuring smile.



“A minor setback, gentlemen. I can assure you all that Spearhead is still on course to meet our projections. The actions of this conscientious Congressman will soon be corrected – Hotley’s up for re-election soon, we’ll donate to his opponent and get him out of office. A minor, minor setback. This changes nothing.”



This changes nothing. Vlad had to keep telling himself this to stop himself from grinding his fangs behind his smile. Sabiru had promised to make him the wealthiest, most powerful man in the world. A combination of meddling time travellers and renegade Republican politicians had delayed that process, and they had made him feel very small indeed.



Spearhead was his baby, a social media tool designed to impale the internet and drain users’ data in perpetuity – and Vladislav would be damned if he allowed this grand opportunity to slip through his fingers, to see his great vision constrained by bureaucracy and regulation.



But the walls were closing in – not literally, of course, all of the walls at Spearhead’s Silicon Valley offices were made of bamboo. Bamboo which, as Vladislav opened his mouth to effusively spout his next slogans, began to shatter and splinter as a man attempted to push through.



“Agh!” The man cried as he failed to fully burst through the wall. “I’ve been bamboozled!”



A few metres to the puncture’s left, El Tocino Azul sighed and opened the door to the conference room.



“Tyrone.” He addressed the bleeding man writhing in the half-caved in bamboo wall. “There was a door right here.”



Tyrone dislodged himself from the bamboo and joined Tocino in the doorway. Tocino began reading from a piece of paper.



“Vladislav Basarab Draculesti, third of his name, Voivode of Wallachia, CEO and founder of Basarab Tech Industries and Spearhead Social Media…” Tocino turned the page. “Impaler. You are under arrest for crimes against time.”



“You should have said crimelines against timelines.” Tyrone murmured.



“You do not have to say anything in your defence, and if you do I will not understand your accent.” Tocino finished, producing a pair of glowing Time Handcuffs.



“You’ll never take me alive!” Vladislav leapt into the bamboo wall, breaking through and emerging through the other side cleanly.



“What.” Tyrone responded with an exasperated sigh.



“After him!” Tocino ordered, barking into his walkie talkie. “Marlowe! Cut him off!”



As Vladislav sprinted down the corridor, pushing aside several unpaid interns – Marlowe emerged on the other side, palms facing outwards in a gesture of peace and goodwill.



“Halt.” Marlowe said softly.



Vladislav barrelled into him, sending them both toppling to the ground. Vladislav recovered quicker, getting to his feet and dodging Marlowe’s attempts to grab his ankles. Vlad burst through the doors into the street beyond, checking behind him to see if his pursuers were close. They were not. He took a step forward into the street and was hit by a car.



“Alexa, play ‘Barracuda’” A voice said, as the door of an expensive sports car slid open.



“Now playing ‘Barracuda’ by Fergie.” A robotic voice replied.



“No – Never mind. Fuck it.” Zed Hotley stepped out on to the road, wearing extravagant sunglasses and a neck brace that read ‘Free Huey’.



Vlad attempted to rise to his knees, shielding his eyes from the sun as the silhouette walked towards him.



“Hey kid.” Zed said, removing his sunglasses and spitting out a toothpick. “How bout you hit the road?”



Scrambling out of the door at once – Marlowe, Tocino and Tyrone all tumbled out into the street. Before the Romanian Warlord/Tech Guru could react, Tocino had locked the Time Handcuffs onto Vladislav’s wrists.



Wordlessly, Zed headed back to this car. The remaining three stared at each other.



“What happens now?” Marlowe asked.



“The portal.” Tocino said.



“Hey, Zed, can we get a lift, mate?” Tyrone asked after Zed.



**

Maybe it’s the hubris talking, but sometimes –


No, it’s definitely the hubris talking. Silvio Leon is a handsome, talented young man with an enormously bright future in Carnage Wrestling. He doesn’t have an enormous amount in common with me.


I met him, briefly, once. He read my fortune. And as I watched him do it a rare feeling occurred to me. The feeling of watching someone impossibly talented go about their work. The feeling of being near someone who is world-class at something. A brush with greatness, touching a star. I felt it with Zed. I feel it with Cat. And yes, four hundred and thirty years ago when he wrote me a shitty poem based on mine – I felt it with Will Shakespeare. I knew about him what I know about Zed, Catalina and now Silvio. I knew he was destined to surpass me.


The first time, with William, I felt terrible about it. Why could destiny not have chosen me instead? Why must I be a bystander to history? Why must I be a footnote? Why, no matter how hard I try, will posterity never record me as anything more then ‘Friend of Will Shakespeare’? Later, with Zed, I felt better. His situation was so unique – and yet so similar to mine – that I couldn’t help but sympathise with him. And I knew with him what I was never sure about with Will – that beneath the bravado, Zed Hotley was a good person. Vulnerable, yes. But good. I left my envy back in 1593, I have no use for it here. I have been blessed to see sights that Shakespeare could never dream of, to meet people far more diverse and interesting than any of those I left behind. I was lucky to come here, lucky to do all of these things, and lucky to be Zed Hotley’s friend. Even luckier still to meet someone like Catalina Cortes.


And that’s the word that comes to mind when I think about Silvio Leon: Fortune. If I lose my half of the tag titles, cost Catalina her undefeated record, let Zed down – I will still feel fortunate that I made it this far. Fortunate that I got to stand across the ring from one of the greats before he became one. To be a bystander in Leon’s march to greatness, a footnote in his story – recorded by posterity as ‘Opponent of Silvio Leon’. I’m flattered that even for a moment a man like Silvio Leon will focus all of his attentions on a man like me, the son of a shoemaker, a tiny failed playwright from Kent.


Silvio is, like me, a man out of time. Like me, a man made possible by the generosity and support of his friends. Like me, an outsider. But unlike me in so many other ways. So many ways that I desperately admire him for.


When Zed got injured I was alone. Silvio will never be alone. Even now, as he waits to reveal a mystery partner, I already know who it will be. Someone loyal, someone trustworthy, someone worthy of him. People have teamed with me out of pity, they will team with Silvio out of respect.


But even after hearing my fortune from the great Silvio Leon, I wouldn’t trade my life for his. I wouldn’t trade my friends for his. I wouldn’t even trade my future for his.


***


Tocino was still struggling to open the portal, he’d sent Tyrone to fetch the instruction manual.



“Please, please don’t sent me back to the Middle Ages!” Vladislav wept. “I’ll do anything!”



Some way apart from the others, Zed and Marlowe sat atop a wall.



“Poor guy.” Zed remarked, nodding at the cuffed criminal. “Do you know how bad the wi-fi is 14th century Wallachia?”



Kit snorted. “I can imagine.”



After some time, Marlowe turned to Zed and spoke to him with sincerity: “Zed, I am so glad you were sent here with me. I couldn’t have coped with all of this without you.”



Zed shrugged. “You seem to be doing fine, you’ve got a good thing going. That book deal –“



“Well, it isn’t a book deal.” Marlowe rubbed his neck. “Just a commission on a few erotic fiction pieces.”



“Still, though. Tag team champion. You and Cat make a great team.” Zed opened his mouth to say something else, but didn’t. Marlowe got the picture anyway. Better than us. 



“I know you’re going to kill it against that crazed gypsy Silvio Leon and whatever circus freak he brings with him.” Zed finished.



“I met him before.” Kit replied. “You won’t remember now. He read my fortune. You want to know what he said?”



Zed shook his head. “No. I don’t believe in fortune tellings. Went to plenty as a kid, not one of them ever told me I’d end up stuck in the year 2020 with a long-dead poet. Nothing ever works out the way it’s supposed to. Look at my brother – look at who he became because I wasn’t there. Hell, look at us.”



Zed wasn’t finished: “When we signed up and started training together it was so we could perform together – and yet we’ve only ever succeeded when we’ve been apart. Since I’ve been injured, all I’ve done is be a third wheeling mascot for your little Latina love fest. I’m not blaming you, but I’ve been talking with Tyrone and –“



“If you gave her a chance and got to know her, you’d like her too!” Marlowe exclaimed, uncharacteristically interrupting. “But you won’t give this world a chance. This world is amazing! Catalina is amazing! But you don’t try.”



“I don’t try?” Zed stood up. “Just because things have come so easy to you doesn’t mean that I’m not trying. You think I’m lazy, you think I’m some kind of bum? Acting like, like my father half the time – asking me where I’m going and who I’m going with. Do you have any idea what those Monstimal fucks did to my neck, because of –“



Marlowe puts a hand on Zed’s arm. “I know you’ve been skipping your physical therapy. I’ve known it for weeks. Zed, you’re not going to get back in the ring if you don’t put the effort in!”



“I –“ Zed began, only to be interrupted by a cough from Tocino.



“I got the portal open.” He said simply.



They threw Vlad the Impaler back from whence the came, an anomaly repaired, a timeline corrected. He cried and babbled as Tyrone pushed him to the portal.



“I’ll tell you anything. I have so much data! Politicians, celebrities – I could make you all Kings!” He tried to bargain. “Sabiru! Sabiru’s alive, I’ll tell you where he is! What he’s planning!”



They paid him no heed. He disappeared in the vortex.



Zed brushed past Marlowe. “Me next.” He said.



Marlowe hurried after him. “What? What do you mean?”



“I’m going back.” Zed didn’t turn around. “Tyrone & Tocino said I could. I’m going to fix it, do it right this time – my brother, my band, my Father – all of it.”



“But…” Marlowe stood in front of Zed. “Aren’t you happy here?”



Zed sighed. “You can…If you want…You’d like the seventies, Kit, I promise. Nobody had written anything good yet, you’d be a legend – the new Hunter Thompson.”



“But…” Marlowe didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t need to. Zed understood. But Cat.



So Marlowe let him go, pulled his coat around himself and walked home without a backwards glance. He didn’t want Zed to see him cry.



Zed walked right up to the portal. If he squinted hard enough he could make out a blurry party, the mountain of cocaine and LSD that he’d overdosed on during his final wild night in 1979. If he reached out, he’d be there. Back home. Still time to fix everything. Still time to be the older brother he should have been, to have the life he should have had.



He scratched an itch under his neck brace. He never liked to leave a job unfinished.



And so he turned around.