The Last Magician - Season 9 - Subscribers Only: Dinner!

[Sally Talfourd]

[Sally Talfourd]

The camera opens up to the evening setting into Boston. Looking down at the intersection of E Street and South Street, the camera pivots to a non-descript brownstone façade, with a simple hanging sign: o ya. As the camera pivots, we find ‘The Last Magician’ Sally Talfourd arriving, cutting a sleek figure in a low-cut maroon dressm sleeves to the elbow and hem to the thighs. She glides down the sidewalk and through to the entrance, her outfit accentuating her confident demeanour.

The door to o ya opened, and Sally stepped into the orchestrated elegance of the Boston establishment. Her presence, a controlled force, swept past the soft glow of hanging lanterns and the hushed conversations that lingered in the air. The maître d'hôtel , a man of practiced poise with a thin smile, greeted her with a slight bow.

"Good evening, madam. Do you have a reservation?" he inquired, his voice a practiced blend of courtesy and discretion.

Sally arched an eyebrow, offering a perfunctory nod. "Sally Talfourd," she replied, as if her name alone carried an unspoken authority.

Poised figure with a demeanour as polished as the restaurant's hardwood surfaces, looked back to her with a practiced smile, "Just a moment,” The maître d'hôtel checked the reservation list. “Ah, Ms. Talfourd,” Finding her name, and his eyes flickered with recognition, “Your reservation is in order. Right this way, please," he gestured toward the dimly lit interior, leading her past polished tables adorned with the simple Japanese setting.

Sally acknowledged the formality with a curt nod and followed him through. The restaurant, a cocoon of subdued opulence, embraced her with its exposed brick walls and ambient jazz notes. Her eyes, sharp and discerning, surveyed the diners, scanning for any sign of the man who was to join her in this clandestine dance.

Sally took her seat, her confidence radiating like a palpable aura. The maître d'hôtel withdrew, leaving her alone in the symphony of subtle clinks and murmurs. The anticipation was a drumbeat in her chest as she waited for the other player to enter the stage. As she settled into her seat at the reserved place at the chef’s counter, Sally's eyes scanned the room with a mix of superiority and boredom.

Her fingers drummed on the table, impatiently awaiting her dining companion. The ambiance, with its muted jazz melodies and soft lighting, seemed to mock her need for constant action. With no end to the wait in sight, Sally signalled the nearest waiter with a wave. Sally leaned back, her eyes never leaving the entrance. "Bring me a bottle of sake," she said, her voice slicing through the ambient hum, "Off the menu."

The waiter, well-versed in the secret language of o ya's hidden treasures, nodded. "Certainly, Ms. Talfourd. May I recommend the Reikyo Crystal 0? A rare choice."

Sally's eyes glittered with the satisfaction of control. "Fine."

The waiter nodded and disappeared into the depths of the restaurant, leaving Sally alone with her thoughts.

Minutes stretched like taffy, and Sally's gaze wandered to the harbour view beyond the restaurant's large windows. The city lights glittered on the water, a distant reminder of the world beyond the walls of her corporate empire. She shifted in her seat, her arrogance now mingling with a subtle undercurrent of restlessness.

It’s not the unnamed companion to break the moment but the waiter who, after a brief exchange with the unseen realm behind the scenes, returns, his expression apologetic, "I'm extremely sorry, Ms. Talfourd, but we are currently out of the Reikyo. Would you like to consider another option?"

Sally, undeterred, leaned forward, her fingers tapping rhythmically on the table. "In that case, get a bottle of Masumi Yumedono Daiginjo. Make sure it’s the 1971 Vintage. And while you’re at it, put a bottle of your Bollinger on ice for later,” Sally finally acknowledges the poor waiter with a glare from the sides of her eyes, “And if you come back again saying you don’t have either, we might have a problem.”

The waiter nodded and retreated into the shadows, leaving Sally alone once again with the unfulfilled promise of intrigue.

As the minutes ticked away, Sally sat in the dim-lit splendour of o ya, the sake which arrived moments later and the pending champagne symbols of transactions yet to unfold. The juxtaposition of her arrogant demeanour against the absence of her mysterious companion created a surreal tableau in the air, a delicate tension of opposing forces held in check by the confines of an upscale restaurant. The existential dance of power and secrecy had commenced, but the stage remained incomplete, waiting for the entrance of the other protagonist whose presence was the key to unravelling the absurdity of the night.

[Sally Talfourd]

The door to o ya swung open once more, and whatever light from the early evening outside is all but blocked out by the silhouette of a large man standing in the doorway. Preparing to enter a realm wholly unprepared for what he would find, the figure rolls his shoulders and adjusts his jacket, wrapping it tighter around him more for security than for warmth. Entering the room of meticulous elegance, the 'Mercenary' Mike Mercer carried himself with a raw, unapologetic energy that cut through the refined air of the restaurant. Dressed in his well-worn leather blazer and jeans, he navigated the dimly lit passage with the confidence of someone accustomed to making his own rules.

The maître d'hôtel, a man trained to recognise power in all its various forms, approached with a slight, stiff tension in his spine. He gave him a once-over, unsure of whether to comment that guests are usually dressed with a little more polish for fear of offending the ruffian and putting his own health in jeopardy.

"Good evening, sir. Do you have a reservation?"

Mike shot him a sour look, a mix of indifference towards his arrogance with just the hint of a challenge, "Michael Mercer. I'm expected. I'm looking for a woman, name's Sally Talfourd."

The maître d'hôtel nodded, discretion etched across his features.

"Of course. Ms. Talfourd has been awaiting your arrival," The gestured with an open arm and hand, "Right this way, Mister Mercer."

"Mike will do just fine ..." Mercenary smirks at the disrespect in his overly formal tone, "On second thought: Why don't you just call me sir?”

As they walked through the upscale atmosphere, Mike’s eyes darted around, absorbing the room with an unaffected curiosity. The diners, the soft music, the play of shadows - each element played a part in the symphony of the night.

Sally Talfourd, still at her place at the counter, turned her gaze toward the approaching figure. Mike’s entrance seemed to inject a new energy into the scene, an unpredictable force that lingered beneath the surface. The maître d gestured to the empty seat alongside Sally.

"Ms. Talfourd, your companion has arrived."

Mercenary’s skin crawls at the suggestion that he might be in some way Sally’s ‘companion’, but never-the-less he approached the table, his stride confident and unburdened by social niceties. The maître d'hôtel looked on disapprovingly, noting the informal attire, a silent commentary on the apparent discrepancy with o ya's high standards.

"Ms. Talfourd, Mr. Mercer," the maître d'hôtel announced with a practiced neutrality, “Mr. Mercer, Ms. Talfourd."

Sally's eyes, accustomed to discerning nuances, observed Mike’s presence without revealing any acknowledgment of surprise. More, her face read one of muted excitement, “Thanks for coming,” she said, her voice cool and unwavering, "Take a seat."

Mike nodded his acknowledgment with an undercurrent of suspicion that punctuated their brief exchange. His gaze briefly met Sally's before settling into the offered chair. The maître d'hôtel discreetly withdrew, leaving the two contrasting figures in the midst of o ya's restrained opulence. While he might look out of place, his contrast caused the Mercenary no discomfort; he was his own man in every situation and he was confident in that fact. If he stands out, it only makes him more memorable.

Sally, undeterred by his lack of formality, inclined her head with a slight smile, "Hope your trip from New York wasn’t too troubling?"

A smirk played on Mercenary's lips, "Nashville, actually. The trip itself, it didn't make an impression."

Off to the side, the waiter, sensing the unspoken dynamics, approached the table. Sally, with a glance, signalled for him to leave, "We'll order in a moment," she stated, her eyes never leaving Mercenary's.

“No, I’ll order now,” Mercenary leans over, cutting Sally off.

The waiter, halfway through leaving stops and turns his undivided attention to Mercenary, “What could I get you sir?”

“Beer.”

“Certainly, sir,” The waiter leans in, “We have Asahi Super Dry, Sapporo Reserve, Hitachino White Ale…”

Mike throws a glare the waiter's way, “Get. Me. A beer. I ain't drinkin' the label.”

Like a scolded child, the waiter is off. Sally chuckles, “Yeah, they are a bit like that.”

In the quietude of o ya, two worlds collided - the calculated arrogance of Sally Talfourd and the unapologetic presence of Mercenary. As the tension lingered, the restaurant held its breath, awaiting the unfolding of a narrative guided by the absurd dance of power and secrets. The weight of the untold, held within Mercenary's enigmatic demeanour, remained an invisible force, waiting to be revealed in the course of this unconventional negotiation.

“Do you prefer the whole ‘Ms. Talfourd’ thing?” Mercenary says as his beer is delivered with silent precision by the waiter, “Or are you good with Sally?”

Sally smiles a flattering smile, bringing her face to life as she tries to capture Mike’s attention, “You can call me Sally. Call me whatever you’d like!”

The amber liquid swirled in a crystal-clear glass, releasing a subtle aroma of hops and malt that Michael appreciated like a fine wine before he took his first sip. Mercenary's fingers, calloused and unpretentious, closed around the glass, a momentary oasis of simplicity amidst the intricate dance that he and The Undisputed Champion were undertaking, "Ok then: Why did you ask me to meet you here... Champ?" Mercenary's voice, gravelly and direct, cut through the air like a blade.

[Sally Talfourd]

The silence between them was a palpable tension, like the electric charge before a storm. Sally Talfourd, a master of composure, leaned forward slightly, her eyes locking onto Mercenary's unyielding gaze. The ambient murmurs of the restaurant formed a distant backdrop to the unfolding conversation.

Mercenary leaned forward to meet her confident stare, “Well?”

Sally took a measured breath before responding, "So I obviously don't have to inform you then, Mike, that Xavier Reid is no longer the Undisputed Champion ...”

Mike chuckled at the accusation that he might not have been paying attention, "Yeah, I might have heard something about that."

“And with the new season not far away …” Sally leaned back, fingers intertwining with calculated grace in her lap, “Are you sure you don’t want to wait to talk business? We could just chat, get to know each other? Maybe after some food?”

Mercenary arched an eyebrow, his frown framed by his Fu Manchu moustache and chin beard, "I’d rather know what I’m getting into before we break bread. After all, you might've told Mister Cummerbund over there to slip something in my Ramen."

Sally chuckled in amusement, “That’s a sound philosophy,” She paused, her eyes gleaming with a glint of cunning, “Very well. Let's cut to the chase, Mike. I know you have a title shot up your sleeve after your match with Xavier. I mean...” Sally puts a flattering hand across her chest with a flourish, “It’s not like you actually beat him, but apparently a draw at Uncensored was enough.”

Mike takes a big gulp from his beer glass, “Remind me about something Sal, was your match at WrestleFest a hardcore match?”

Sally squirms in her seat, "Well, no – not exactly. But it was a triple threat,”

“So you had someone to do half the work for you then?” Mike smirks again before taking another swig, "And didn't you pin Narumi, not even the champion?"

For a flash, Sally is frustrated, before composing herself, “The point is that I won. The point is that you have a title shot, and I hold the title. So, I was wondering what your, well, what you plans were? Your intentions?”

Mercenary's eyes narrowed, a flicker of suspicion surfacing, "What's it to you, Sal? The season hasn’t even started yet. Don't tell me you're already getting nervous."

“Not at all,” Sally spits contemptuously, leaning in on the counter to mirror Mike's body language, “Because it’s MY title. You have a shot at MY title.”

A wry smile danced on Mercenary's lips. He leaned back and relaxed, satisfied to see her rattled, “So is this the build up to the conversation where, in ten minutes, you'll be suggesting that I maybe not cash in? That I not challenge you? Is this the part where you give me a better offer?”

Sally let’s out an exasperated sigh, “Well, if you want to skip every subtle nuance of our negotiation… why would you cash in on me? What would it really benefit you to blow you chance right off the bat? Why not hold off? Maybe you could use your rematch clause for the U.S. Title instead.”

Mike finishes off his beer, wiping his lips on the long sleeve of the black dress shirt beneath his jacket before squaring up with Sally, “And why would I do that, Sal?”

Sally turns in her chair, carefully and slowly crossing one leg over the other, “I can think of a few reasons.”

“Name one.”

“I’ll give you three,” Sally leans forward ever-so-slightly, “You couldn’t beat Xavier. And even though I pinned Narumi, in the minds of everyone I beat Him. Is that the kind of comparison you want? That’s all everyone will be talking about leading in. I know you’ve been through this kind of stuff before. You know the kind of pressure you’ll have, everyone with a mouth asking if you can really beat me if you couldn’t be better than the man I beat. You won the BORT, you’ve been US Champion … surely you know how stressful a title match with me will be?”

Mike is completely disconnected from the gravity of the moment. He waves at the waiter and points at his empty glass. With a nod, the waiter gets to work as Mike looks back to Sally, “Old argument. Old news. So, what’s your second reason? Come on Sally, impress me."

Sally’s gaze remained unwavering, despite not having a read on Mike. She sits up straight, arching her shoulder back and pushing out her front, “Well, I suppose the next thing would be: Suppose you do win. Do you want it to be at another run of the mill Rampage or Prime or whatever? Like, really? Smaller crowd, smaller stadium, less people watching. Wouldn’t you rather wait until, like, the moment the world is watching? Where the spotlight is brightest, and the crowds are the loudest? Don’t you want to wait until Stranglemania? Or better yet, for WrestleFest! Imagine the story you could tell!”

“So, you’re saying what?” Mike, despite the weight of the decision hanging in the air, flashed a crooked smile, “Wait to April, or maybe December? And then what? I should just hope that you're still the Champion and trust that maybe you'll give me my shot?”

Sally shrugs with a coy look, “That’s if you think cashing in is even the right thing …” Her voice trails off.

“Let me guess: Here comes your third reason?”

Sally, confident in her ability to navigate the treacherous waters of title shots, revealed a glimpse of vulnerability, "It's a chessboard, Mercenary, our careers. We’ve both been doing this for a long, long time. Too long, some might say. Let’s say this is your last opportunity to win the Undisputed Championship at EWC. Let’s look at two options. The first is you cash it in and are forever known as the guy who drew with an Undisputed Champion in 2023 and then waited for a new champion to win the belt and then waited, like, six months to then cash in against someone half your size, half your weight, and just banged up beyond repair.”

Sally takes a mouthful of her sake.

“On the other hand, you don’t cash in. You back yourself. You stand in front of all your fans and onlookers alike and proclaim that you’re better than that. You’re going to win your shot the right way, the proper way. You’re going to forgo that shot and win a new one this year against a champion worthy of your attention.”

Mike again raises an eyebrow, “You’re sayin' you're not worthy of my attention?”

Sally laughs, playing with her hair and pulling some loose strands behind her ear, “Depends what kind of attention. In the ring – do you really want a match with me? What will that do for you? For your career? For your fans? You’re the hitman. You take the hits for the people who can't. The little people love you. The fans, backstage, the rosters on all the brands – they want to see you climb the mountain. Struggle, strive. They want to see you in for the grind. And then, when you’re at the summit, they don’t want to see you wrestle me. They want to see you show down with another powerhouse. Another fighter! I’m just a wrestler with a few tricks at the end of my career. If this is your chance to win the premier championship at EWC … you don’t want to win it from me, do you?”

As Sally’s desperate proposals unfold within the intimate confines of o ya, the clash of personalities and ulterior motives create a symphony of intrigue. The absurd dance of power continued, with Sally Talfourd attempting to flit and flirt her way into the unpredictable Mercenary's mind to find a path that aligned with her ambitions, leaving the fate of both dancers suspended in the balance.

[Sally Talfourd]

Beer refreshed, Mike proceeds to scrape his hand over his face, finishing at the point of his chin. His brow furrows, a look of contemplation across his face. Then, taking a deliberate sip of the beer, his gaze returns to his ‘companion’, locking eyes with Sally's calculating gaze. A cloud of offense crossed his face, a subtle storm beneath the surface.

"So," Mike said, an ironic smile crossing his lips, "You want me to step away for the sake of my career and to preserve my stellar reputation?"

Sally, maintaining her poised façade, nodded, "In not so many words, yes? I'm seeking an agreement that is for both our benefit and means that neither of us have to start off the season a loser."

Mike leans back, fingers tapping rhythmically on the table. "Interesting proposals, all of them. But I've got my own code, Sal. I don't expect you to understand. I’ve fought tooth and nail for a chance like this. Go look at my past. I've obviously not been swayed by the fear of losing. And gaining titles hasn’t been easy."

Sally's eyes narrowed imperceptibly, her control momentarily slipping, "Mike, I promise, my intentions here are honest."

"Honest or not,” He chuckled, a sound that echoed with both amusement and skepticism, “I think we should order something to eat."

With a subtle nod and a self-satisfied smile suggesting Sally thinks she’s half-way done, she signaled the waiter to come and take their orders. Mike, relishing the opportunity to turn the tables, perused the menu with exaggerated interest. Following his friend Jay's example, he decided to order big.

"I'll have the Chef's Selection Sashimi Platter, A5 Wagyu Beef, and a bottle of your most expensive bourbon," he declared, his gaze locking onto Sally's to gauge her reaction.

Sally, aware that each item he ordered added weight to the impending bill, swallowed deeply before regaining her composure, "A man of very... select tastes. We’ll have a lot of time to work out the finer details of our agreement!"

"Let's make it a memorable meal, Sally. After all, I make my decisions best on a full stomach," Mike showed his teeth with a predatory glint in his expression. As the waiter departed, Mercenary's eyes shined with mischief, “You did get that champions bonus, right? What is it now - $750,000?”

“Uhhh, yes, something like that,” Sally waves a hand through the air, dismissing the topic.

The evening unfolded in a paradox of gastronomic indulgence and covert negotiations. Mike, relishing each bite and sip, strung Sally along with vague interest and expressions of enthused consideration. The tension in the air grew, a silent duel beneath the veneer of civility.

As the last course arrived, Mike wiped his mouth with a napkin and leaned back, his satisfied expression otherwise unreadable, "I appreciate the dinner, Miss Talfourd. But as for your offer..."

Sally leans forward, probably too close and too eager, “Yes? And?”

“I'm afraid I'm gonna have to decline,” Mike grinned, a rogue's smile playing on his lips, "Sometimes, a man's just gotta stay true to his own principles. And my principles are tellin' me that I don't plan on becoming anyone's pawn. So I'm gonna cash in, against you ... at the debut episode of Rampage in Dublin."

Sally's eyes betrayed a rising frustration, but she quickly masked it, "May I ask why?"

"Because anyone who would spend that much money on a meal just to pay for a chance not to fight me doesn't deserve to be the damn champion in the first place!" With that, Mike rose from his chair, leaving Sally with the lingering taste of rejection. He tossed a casual "Thanks for the meal" over his shoulder and strolled out, leaving the opulent confines of o ya, a symbol of defiance against the establishment.

Sally, left alone with the remnants of their extravagant feast, watched as Mike’s figure disappeared into the night. The absurdity of the evening lingered in the air, and as the waiter presented the bill, Sally's anger was unleashed. Her carefully contrived facade cracked, revealing a touch of vulnerability beneath the veneer of corporate steel. As Sally fishes around in her purse, her phone begins to vibrate. Turning it over in her hand, the screen illuminates Sally's face as she weighs up answering or not. After a swipe of the finger, she brings the phone to her ear.

"Hey ... yes, Boston ... yeah, he just left ... I tried to, yeah ... no, he didn't listen ... well, he might have listened but he didn't agree ... yeah, he did ... the first Rampage for the season ... I know ... I KNOW ..."

Some nervous looks come Sally's way as her voice rises to an above acceptable level here. Tossing a credit card into a little tray, Sally waves her hand to get the bill paid. The conversation over the phone continued throughout.

"I mean, I tried my best to convince him ... part of it was all genuine ... I feel humiliated ... he said I shouldn't be the champion ... well, he'll have his chance to prove that ... if that's what the Magic wants."

Before Sally can hang up, the casual onlooker might well have caught the tail end of the other side. 

"Very well, come back to New York. We have business to finish here."