“Steve, it wasn’t a good day, was it? ”
“No sir, it was not.”
“Some Thounsandth game, eh?”
“Perhaps, it’s time to call it a day.”
“… Those are questions for some other time Arsene.”
“I believe it is, Stevie. We had a good run, didn’t we?”
Wenger cuts him off. Swinging his arm away angrily, the scotch in the glass sloshes over his once crisp white shirt. The now iconic red tie that personified the Frenchman’s battle uniform hung loose; wrenched askew angrily during Arsene’s tirade in the locker room. He leans back into his chair. The ice clinks noisily in his glass.
The inauspicious silence hung in the air, punctured only by the breath of the two individuals in the room.
“It is no longer working, my ways, my methods. We lost again to that… that…putain salaud. again.”
Bould strides toward the locked cabinet in the far end of the room. It is a non-discript cabinet, in an office that was half drowned in Wneger’s seemingly infinite paraphernalia. The game tapes lay in an untidy heap, strewn with Wenger’s notes on games, even the table seemed to miniature file showroom.
He unlatches the lock, and pulls open the creaking wooden doors.
“What are doing Steve? Leave those things alone….”
“We were chosen to do our jobs and we agreed to do them, for better or for worse, we have our targets and we shall see them through. No comprise is acceptable. It simply is’nt our way.”
He pulls a sleek object out of the cabinet, it is death itself, imbibed in wood and steel.
“Get up Arsene, we have a job to finish and cup to win, our search for every foolish answer after we are done.”
“This is madness, the fans are against us, Gibbs is weeping the showers… Mikel was looking for shower curtain to hang himself…..”
“Some gods are baptized by love, but some others are forged in the fire of hatred. Embrace their hate, embrace their mocking stares, their foolish articles. They can never make us choose defeat, only we can do commit the blasphemy of giving up and THAT is simply not our fucking way. Get the fuck up and load the damn gun.”
“What? Pour quoi?”
“Load the gun, Arsene.”
He hands the smooth weapon into the trembling fingers fingers of the Frenchman. He hands him the the shells, they clink softly as they land on the table in front of the manager. The shell rattles against the bolt as Wenger slows steadies himself. His fingers carefully push the shell in as he pulls back the handle. The trembling has ceased. His arms slide over the stock as his fingers come to rest at the trigger guard.
“Yes, Arsene” returns the Englishman, he looks uncertainly down at his superior, his head his bowed. His eyes are closed.
“I just remembered something , Steve.”
“We need a break, don’t we Steve? I just remembered I find hunting very relaxing. But hunting is banned in England, isn’t it?
“Er, Yes…. I don’t think this is the time to discuss hunti..”
He looks up, there is a cold smile on his face, that masks the steely resolve of warrior. He is human, but he tries to be more. Now, he bears the look of a man who knows what must be done.
“What if our quarry is from the Wales?”
Catch Wenger in his killing spree, live from Ashburton Grove at March 26, 2014 1:15 AM IST. Let’s talk plans now, shall we?