Post by CM Poor on Apr 11, 2014 20:32:25 GMT -5
"I think that's all of them. Terribly sorry for your loss, son."
Have you ever heard a string of words so frequently that they eventually lose all meaning? So frequently, that even the variations of said words, the tweaks, twists, turns, and little personal touches just sort of blend together in a mess of insincere, scripted, drivel that sits right at the base of your skull, where your spinal column serves as a beacon upon which you keep your head held up day in and day out, and just rots?
Have you ever felt that urge to just spew those words back in the face of the deliverer, just like the venomous spit that they are, ramming them back down the throats of every man, woman, and child who approaches you and reads from the holy script of what we're supposed to say and what we're supposed to do in this place, in this time, in this situation to make ourselves feel better by reassuring ourselves that were doing the right thing?
Have you ever fought, with every muscle, every bone, every fiber, every carbon cell that makes up your body that desire to lash out - tear them limb from limb? Crack skulls? Break bones? Draw blood? Reroute the 'pain', the 'suffering' that they think they're so eloquently easing by reciting their lines on cue?
"We're sorry."
"So sorry."
"Terrible loss."
"What a great man."
If those painstaking emotions have illicited a memory, a spark, or even a slight reaction, give yourself a little pat on the back, and sit in solidarity - SILENT solidarity, mind you, for just a moment with David Brennan.
All the world's a stage, indeed.
They say their lines, he recites his. He reacts. He smiles. He reaks of empathy...empathy and liquor. Lots and lots of liquor. Let's face it, this sort of thing is for them - not him. Were it not for those pioneers of perseverance Jack Daniels, James Beam, and lest we forget lord John Jameson, why, this day might very well resemble those urges we discussed upon arrival.
In the stead of violence, however, we're subdued by smokey southern spirits, a handle of which is inconspicuously concealed just behind David Brennan, out of sight, out of mind - only to be withdrawn upon this, a final break in the stream of well wishers and mourners, who've come this day to share in the "sorrow" (David will have none of it) that surrounds the loss of David's father Jack Brennan.
"...of course. Thank you, Father Walsh...for arranging this. All of this. I think Ja....my father would have had a right laugh at it."
"Y'know, son, I think he would have. Curious man, your father."
Oh, Christ....here we go....
That's one way of putting it."
"Ha! Right you are, my son. Right you are...many a word exists to describe Jack Brennan, but...ah. The time. While I have little doubt that we could sit here and reminisce on your father's many years, I'm afraid the Lord demands still more of me today.....Baptism."
He punctuates the final word with a hushed whisper of vitriole, hardly becoming of a man of the frock. David smirks to himself, knowing all too well the little taste of brimstone that's managed to flare up in the holiest of holy prophets, Father Anton Walsh. And as appealing as a more deitous perspective on the, shall we say "life and times"? of Jack Brennan sounds, four hours can seem like a decade when you're pandering to a stream of the self righteous and the pious. Breathe in, chin up...the final act is always the best....
"...that sounds lovely, father."
"Hmph....it does, doesn't it? If I'm honest, I hate them...but, we must show little preference to one holy sacrament over another. Come, I'll show you out."
Not so fast, Padre.
"Father...if it's all the same. I think I'd like one last bit of one on one with my...well, with Jack, if it's alright with you. We've waked more than our share of Brennans and their associates here, Father. I'm certain I know the way out by now."
The contempt for the first, most holy sacrament of the baptismal washes from the aged, warm face of Father Walsh, and he smiles that warm, welcoming, comforting smile that one might come to expect from a genuine, modest man of the Lord - all things Anton Walsh is assuredly not, but he too plays his part. He reaches out, clapping a firm hand on David's right shoulder.
"Right again, son...I'd wager you know these halls as well as the sisters and myself. Take your time, son. Give him my regards, will you?"
I'll do that...
................................................................................................................................................
It's a picturesque scene in Boston. Timeless. The kind of thing Norman Rockwell might paint a portrait of. A father and his son, packed like sardines into a crowded red line train on a sunny May afternoon. Complete strangers to all around them, but then, their story is plain as day. Dad sports a sleek pair of black sunglasses, for the moment perched atop his head, unnecessary within the darkened tunnels that twist and turn beneath the city streets, a casual Saturday pair of blue denims, and an all too familiar blue and red windbreaker, emblazoned across the chest with the logo of Boston's own hapless Red Sox. The boy, perched upon the unforgiving fiberglass seats on his knees, stares blankly out the window at the seeming nothingness of the tunnel walls flying past, and oversized Sox had haphazardly strewn upon his head. To the other passengers, it might seem hopeless to be looking for a sight amid the dank walls of Boston underground system, but he knows this stretch. He may as well have been just another passenger until the conductor utters those magic words - "Kendall/MIT - next stop, Charles MGH" - and...there it is!
Shortly after departing Kendall Square, the train emerges from beneath the city to cross the majestic Charles River - love that dirty water. What a sight to behold for such young eyes - the greatest city on God's green earth, so far as he knew it, sprawled out to seemingly no end on a clear day such as today. Far enough to one side, the eye can reach out to Charlestown and the Bunker Hill Monument. The other - their destination, just a turn and a line switch away - Kenmore Square, the Citgo sign, and Fenway Park. It's a story as old as the city itself - father and son en route to the finest ball park in the major leagues to have their hearts broken by the most damned team in history.
"Hell of a sight, isn't it, kid?"
That voice - the one that gargles gravel in the morning - cold bring all the mysticism, all the wonder of a day in the city, a day at the ballpark, to a screeching halt. Most kids took to those hallowed grounds with their dad for a day of lasting memories, but the boy...well, he had him.
"Y'know the best part about it, kid?"
It's all yours...
"It's all mine. I know it. You know it. Best of all? They know it."
He gestures to the divide of space between the two of them and the crowd. A seat on any train, after all, is something of a hot commodity on game day, but here, they have nearly half a car to themselves. Plenty of sitting space, leg room - the works. He's smug when he says it - the smile on his face reminds the boy of every last villain, scoundrel, or bad guy he'd ever seen in the movies and on TV. Other kids got father son time. He didn't suppose father son time for most kids involved an entire city that cowered in fear at the mere sight of their dad's faces.
'They know it, 'cause they know who we are, and so long as they remember who we are, this city - every last mile of it, belongs to me. Hmph. We play our cards right, maybe get you out of Hershey town, I guess, and by all rights, it'll belong to you someday, too, kid. I...well, I couldn't expect you to understand now, what with your age and all, but someday, I think you'll learn the great value of having an entire people fear the very utterance of your name, and for you to fear no man. After all, you are a Brennan, in spite of every false word your mother would have you believe otherwise.
He couldn't see the value in that, no. But he did know fear. The truth is, he was terrified of this man. Something about his "influence', his mother would say, kept her from being able to say no when he called for the boy on rare occassion. That was her greatest fear, it seemed. What would happen to her, to him, if she were to say no - and so Boston - the city that was his, became home number two, sometimes just for a day (those were long days), but others, a week. A month. A year and a half, one time. And they would do the things a father and son might do. See the sights. Take in the games (for a man who never seemed to work, so far as the boy could tell, he always managed to fetch choice seats). But there were times when he'd be passed on to 'a friend'. Those days were the longest of all. He didn't imagine these friends to have kids of their own, 'cause where his own faltered in the sense of playing dad, these friends didn't even try, and he'd be left to his own defenses.
His mother feared the unknown - what would happen if she said no, and he supposed that was it for him, too. He knew so little of this man they called his father, but the mere thought of him made the boy question the mere thought of life.
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"You can't put your arms around a memory...
Can't hoist one up in the air, either, I'd guess.
Memories - they aren't exactly gold, or shiny, or plated.
Think about the words you associate with memories - Faded. Forgotten. Old. That last one stings, but then, who are we to argue?
Y'ever notice the way the parade us dinosaurs out when it comes to these sort of things? The World Series. The Superbowl. Superbrawl. They love marching the Joe Montanas and the Troy Aikmans out for a little glimpse into years past. Hell,
my dear ol' Boston Red Sox would probably wheel out Ted Williams disembodied head if they could just get around the logistics if a clear cooler. Your WFWF brass, they really dug deep this time around - timed those comebacks just right on the road to the biggest day in our little industry.
Oh, sure - we all tell ourselves that we've got our own "agenda"...our own little purpose and place for stepping out of the shadows of our glory days into the bigger, supposedly better now. We like to pretend we're something more than a pawn in their game, a stuffed exhibit in their museum. Some of us try and keep it buried in obscurity - try and have those loyal viewers confuse our brooding introversion with the subtle but often obvious fact that even we don't know what the f*ck we're supposed to be doing here. But then, hell, some of us wear it stitched proudly upon our sleeves, for all the honest world to feel. How is anyone, in the year of our lord, 2014, supposed to have a blind's clue in a maze which side any of us old timers stand?
Granted, we could talk all day and all night about the ends out means are reaching to justify, but "our" purpose doesn't exactly serve itself when our arms and legs are tied to Trace Demon's marionette strings, kinda like my old buddy Isaac, there. You ever feel like you really know someone? What makes 'em tick, what sets 'em off, what kinda toothpaste they like? Really get them? You really put the time and effort into trying to figure 'em right out, and then they pull the rug out from under you, leave you lying on your ass, and all the sudden you find that you wind up questioning everything see and hear! Heh...if I wasn't paranoid then...
I'm not exactly a betting man. I'm not going to begin and try and wax poetic on what the f*ck Obo the Hobo is trying to accomplish by joining our little prehistoric parade in the name of splendor and Superbrawl. Guy was unpredictable before he walked away, and if you ask me, I'm more than just a little responsible for the fact that he doesn't have a nice gold plate strapped around his little midsection anymore, what on account of my own little Irish goodbye and all. Just not a bridge I've come to quiet yet. I do know that, for as much as I don't care for the little short stack, the likelihood of him giving my favorite little Demon's puppet a right beating from one end of that room to another is high enough to have a guy like me feeling like he's been given a little something to look forward to. Two inconsolable bastards are going to beat the tar out of one another, and the rest of us get to sit and watch, and then trying andpick up the pieces. Y'ever count your blessings when you find yourself not in contention for the gold and the glory?
Let's you and me thank our lucky stars, Josh. Fossils we may be, we've only got little ol' each other to worry about in the here and now. Ask yourself - going forward, is anyone going to look back on the undercard of Superbrawl and chalk up a win or a loss in either of our corners as a great milestone in our careers? I mean, is anyone even really watching? Think about it - we're that match that everyone can miss if they're in the midst of a last minute beer run, or the kids need to put to bed - you did check on yours, yeah? That's kinda funny actually - the only reason we find ourselves toe to toe at this show is 'cause yours truly had the gall to interrupt the Queen of Demons' show and take a giant sh*t all over the current state of his product. No one likes it when you bring their own bullsh*t right to their front door. So, hey - David Brennan already crawled out of whatever hole he's been hiding in for the past two years. Why not dig up another artifact to stick him in the ring with since he thinks so highly of our current crop?
Problem is, Josh, I need to drop a little bit of your bullsh*t off at whatever museum you've been on display in for the past two years. Now, I chime in on Drakz and the Hobo 'cause there's history there - a time when I called one a friend and the other a prospective boot mat. But you...yeah, I don't really know you. But I'm quickly getting you, and disappointingly, I've got you pegged more on the Drakz side of things. You know why this match is happening, yeah? Lila whatsherface doesn't have much more on you and me than what the history books have to tell her. You really, really think she made this match happen of her own accord? For the good of the show? Don't look now bud, but your strings are showing. You've been put here for one purpose and one purpose only, and that's to shut me up. And you know what? I'll stick my neck where no other Solomon or Kyle Matthews will - you very well might, at least for one night.
But supposing you do? Then what? Where does a cover over David Brennan at Superbrawl leave you? I hate to keep drawing back, but if the company I once kept is any indication, you'll get churned right back into the machine. That might work for you. Proof is in the pudding - you're here for one last grab at that glory you once held. Former International Champion. One time this. Another time that. The cogs spin right, you might even get a taste - worked for one Demon puppet already, why not you?
The fallacy there, though? I've already won, win lose or draw. They haven't ever strapped a belt around my waste. My only claim to fame is the trouble I've caused and the "talent" I've scraped from the bottom of my size 13s. I don't even need to make it out of Superbrawl - we're not even there yet, and I've already accomplished everything I set out to do when I left a steaming pile of Demonsh*t in the ring at Revolution.
You came looking for gold, glamor, and glory.
I'm just looking for a fight.
...doesn't pay to try."
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It must have taken a real morbid, vengeful son of a bitch to come up with the notion of an open casket. Think about it - who among us has walked a path in life that hasn't brought us as many friends as it has enemies? Is there anything really to stop either one of them from coming and kneeling at the pulpit of our ultimate demise, wallowing in agony as they mourn the loss of a dear friend or loved one, or reveling in silent, veiled triumph, taking in the smug satisfaction that can only come from outliving an arch rival in the game of life. To mourn is to stare death in the face - the acceptance of the shut, sunken eyes, never to be locked with the eyes of a comrade again. To revel is to adhere to the adage that seeing truly is believing. They say that everyone copes with loss in their own way.
To cope in the manner of David Brennan is to dig deep, real deep, 'cause he's almost certain he packed another pint in here somewhe...jackpot!
Smiling warmly upon the short handle, David wastes little time in snapping the black cap free, tilting the bottle back and letting the warm, smokey liquor slide down the back of his throat. Wiping his mouth clean, he turns to the far end of the room, eyes fixed dead ahead as he approaches the final resting vessel of Jack Brennan. He doesn't bother to kneel - prayer is not his manner. Nor does he hang his head - any sorrow vanished as the last bereaved trickled out the front door ahead of Father Walsh. Instead, he opts for another long drag off the bottle, finally letting it come to a rest at his side, the neck grasped firmly in his right fist.
"I don't know how you fooled those sons of bitches there Jack. You know, I stood here for the better part of four hours putting on my best face for every last mick you pinched, every last ginzo you f*cked, and every last pig that looked the other way on account of your old ass? Even that collection plate pickin' piece of sh*t collar knew that you'd have had a riot of a time to see that. I'll thank my lucky stars that isn't the case.
Here, let me grab a seat. Don't go anywhere, alright?
David crosses the room to a row of burgundy suede chairs, each adorned with its own personal box of tissues. Tossing one aside, he drags the chair back toward his father's casket with his free hand - his right still firmly grasped around his last handle of whiskey. It's amazing how much liquor one man can put down amid a sea of every phony the great city of Boston has to offer up in such a short window of time. He smirks as he catches his personal effects in a heap behind a table of bouquets, knowing full well the sheer amount of emptys that fill the black duffel bag he'd packed for the day.
With the back of the chair facing his father's lifeless body, David sits to face him, lazily draped over the backrest of the chair, the bottle now dangling loosely in his hands.
"Oh, good. You're still here. Not so slippery in the afterlife, I guess.
Do you remember that day you caught me on the train? Like, really remember? I'll admit, the details are a little hazy these days - you'll have to forgive my friend...ah, Jack, here for that...but there's one little thing that sticks out in my mind as worth remembering. You can thank your pal Anton back there for sparking this one, but he said something...stupid...something like 'it's the little things that best gauge the measure of a man'. Load of bullsh*t really - but then, he did pal around with the best. Anyway...that got me thinking - what's the 'little thing' short of what's resting just below that 48 waist of his that best tells the measure of Jack Brennan? And I keep coming back to that train.
It's funny, really. The last time we talked, you fed me this bullsh*t about all the best intentions you all had for me, and even through all the fog, I can still remember all this sh*t about 'saving David', and whatever sort of help you wanted me to get, and all that. But that day on that train - there's a real high point, a real tell of Jack Brennan's story on that train. What was I? Two years sober, something like that? Waste of time, really, but at the time...you know, they have the drink car, right? It could be my buddy here talking again, but I distinctly remember them opening that car for business, and you practically holding the door open for me to join you.
Now, you cut me loose on accont of the drink the first time, so I can only assume that for you to saunter back into the picture two years ago, you had to know i was at least doing...I dunno, better?
Saving David Brennan, indeed.
What's that line you always spouted? 'Fool me once..' and all that? Real original mother f*cker you were, huh? No, but really. You spent the better part of two years trying to 'fix' a problem you were trying to cause in the first place. It's only fair that you get to know I figured it all out before they shut the box on you. After all, I had to wake up one day to find out that two years of my life were all the mechanation of some sadistic old f*ck who thinks he's owed something for passing on his inferior genetics. I don't know what your end game was supposed to be, but to see you sitting there, all made up just like the living world you surrounded yourself with - well, let me tell you old man, that's a real sweet brand of victory right there. You played a real hard hand, and you nearly had me, but in the end, it's real cut and dry - I'm gonna go home and knock a few back, and you're going in the ground.
David pulls himself to his feet, aimlessly tossing his chair aside, then the pulpit, so that he's able to come right up to his father's side.
"Me and the boys - we'd never close a bar without a parting shot. One for the road, in a way of speaking, right? It only makes sense...what do they call it? Poetic justice, something like that? Anyway - we never did get to share that drink on the train. Seems only fitting, right? 'til we meet again..."
David raises his bottle in a toasting gesture, nodding with an air of arrogance to his departed father. He takes his - down the hatch, before raising the bottle again, this time level with his own narrowed eyes, to examine the contents remaining. Half a bottle. One hell of a kick, but a fair parting shot, especially for passed kin. Toasting once more, David tilts the bottle, and without hesitation, empties the remaining whiskey onto Jack's face. As the bottle spouts little more than drops, he chucks the empty into the casket, where it comes to a rest just to the right of Jack's neck. Placing one hand upon the lid of the casket, David smirks as the darkened liquid begins to run the post-mortem makeup off of Jack's ragged face.
"...rot in hell, you old bastard."
With this, David slams the casket lid shut. Turning his back, he bypasses his bag of empties as he beelines out of the narrow viewing room, throwing the double doors of the funeral parlor open as he strides out into the cool spring evening.
Have you ever heard a string of words so frequently that they eventually lose all meaning? So frequently, that even the variations of said words, the tweaks, twists, turns, and little personal touches just sort of blend together in a mess of insincere, scripted, drivel that sits right at the base of your skull, where your spinal column serves as a beacon upon which you keep your head held up day in and day out, and just rots?
Have you ever felt that urge to just spew those words back in the face of the deliverer, just like the venomous spit that they are, ramming them back down the throats of every man, woman, and child who approaches you and reads from the holy script of what we're supposed to say and what we're supposed to do in this place, in this time, in this situation to make ourselves feel better by reassuring ourselves that were doing the right thing?
Have you ever fought, with every muscle, every bone, every fiber, every carbon cell that makes up your body that desire to lash out - tear them limb from limb? Crack skulls? Break bones? Draw blood? Reroute the 'pain', the 'suffering' that they think they're so eloquently easing by reciting their lines on cue?
"We're sorry."
"So sorry."
"Terrible loss."
"What a great man."
If those painstaking emotions have illicited a memory, a spark, or even a slight reaction, give yourself a little pat on the back, and sit in solidarity - SILENT solidarity, mind you, for just a moment with David Brennan.
All the world's a stage, indeed.
They say their lines, he recites his. He reacts. He smiles. He reaks of empathy...empathy and liquor. Lots and lots of liquor. Let's face it, this sort of thing is for them - not him. Were it not for those pioneers of perseverance Jack Daniels, James Beam, and lest we forget lord John Jameson, why, this day might very well resemble those urges we discussed upon arrival.
In the stead of violence, however, we're subdued by smokey southern spirits, a handle of which is inconspicuously concealed just behind David Brennan, out of sight, out of mind - only to be withdrawn upon this, a final break in the stream of well wishers and mourners, who've come this day to share in the "sorrow" (David will have none of it) that surrounds the loss of David's father Jack Brennan.
"...of course. Thank you, Father Walsh...for arranging this. All of this. I think Ja....my father would have had a right laugh at it."
"Y'know, son, I think he would have. Curious man, your father."
Oh, Christ....here we go....
That's one way of putting it."
"Ha! Right you are, my son. Right you are...many a word exists to describe Jack Brennan, but...ah. The time. While I have little doubt that we could sit here and reminisce on your father's many years, I'm afraid the Lord demands still more of me today.....Baptism."
He punctuates the final word with a hushed whisper of vitriole, hardly becoming of a man of the frock. David smirks to himself, knowing all too well the little taste of brimstone that's managed to flare up in the holiest of holy prophets, Father Anton Walsh. And as appealing as a more deitous perspective on the, shall we say "life and times"? of Jack Brennan sounds, four hours can seem like a decade when you're pandering to a stream of the self righteous and the pious. Breathe in, chin up...the final act is always the best....
"...that sounds lovely, father."
"Hmph....it does, doesn't it? If I'm honest, I hate them...but, we must show little preference to one holy sacrament over another. Come, I'll show you out."
Not so fast, Padre.
"Father...if it's all the same. I think I'd like one last bit of one on one with my...well, with Jack, if it's alright with you. We've waked more than our share of Brennans and their associates here, Father. I'm certain I know the way out by now."
The contempt for the first, most holy sacrament of the baptismal washes from the aged, warm face of Father Walsh, and he smiles that warm, welcoming, comforting smile that one might come to expect from a genuine, modest man of the Lord - all things Anton Walsh is assuredly not, but he too plays his part. He reaches out, clapping a firm hand on David's right shoulder.
"Right again, son...I'd wager you know these halls as well as the sisters and myself. Take your time, son. Give him my regards, will you?"
I'll do that...
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It's a picturesque scene in Boston. Timeless. The kind of thing Norman Rockwell might paint a portrait of. A father and his son, packed like sardines into a crowded red line train on a sunny May afternoon. Complete strangers to all around them, but then, their story is plain as day. Dad sports a sleek pair of black sunglasses, for the moment perched atop his head, unnecessary within the darkened tunnels that twist and turn beneath the city streets, a casual Saturday pair of blue denims, and an all too familiar blue and red windbreaker, emblazoned across the chest with the logo of Boston's own hapless Red Sox. The boy, perched upon the unforgiving fiberglass seats on his knees, stares blankly out the window at the seeming nothingness of the tunnel walls flying past, and oversized Sox had haphazardly strewn upon his head. To the other passengers, it might seem hopeless to be looking for a sight amid the dank walls of Boston underground system, but he knows this stretch. He may as well have been just another passenger until the conductor utters those magic words - "Kendall/MIT - next stop, Charles MGH" - and...there it is!
Shortly after departing Kendall Square, the train emerges from beneath the city to cross the majestic Charles River - love that dirty water. What a sight to behold for such young eyes - the greatest city on God's green earth, so far as he knew it, sprawled out to seemingly no end on a clear day such as today. Far enough to one side, the eye can reach out to Charlestown and the Bunker Hill Monument. The other - their destination, just a turn and a line switch away - Kenmore Square, the Citgo sign, and Fenway Park. It's a story as old as the city itself - father and son en route to the finest ball park in the major leagues to have their hearts broken by the most damned team in history.
"Hell of a sight, isn't it, kid?"
That voice - the one that gargles gravel in the morning - cold bring all the mysticism, all the wonder of a day in the city, a day at the ballpark, to a screeching halt. Most kids took to those hallowed grounds with their dad for a day of lasting memories, but the boy...well, he had him.
"Y'know the best part about it, kid?"
It's all yours...
"It's all mine. I know it. You know it. Best of all? They know it."
He gestures to the divide of space between the two of them and the crowd. A seat on any train, after all, is something of a hot commodity on game day, but here, they have nearly half a car to themselves. Plenty of sitting space, leg room - the works. He's smug when he says it - the smile on his face reminds the boy of every last villain, scoundrel, or bad guy he'd ever seen in the movies and on TV. Other kids got father son time. He didn't suppose father son time for most kids involved an entire city that cowered in fear at the mere sight of their dad's faces.
'They know it, 'cause they know who we are, and so long as they remember who we are, this city - every last mile of it, belongs to me. Hmph. We play our cards right, maybe get you out of Hershey town, I guess, and by all rights, it'll belong to you someday, too, kid. I...well, I couldn't expect you to understand now, what with your age and all, but someday, I think you'll learn the great value of having an entire people fear the very utterance of your name, and for you to fear no man. After all, you are a Brennan, in spite of every false word your mother would have you believe otherwise.
He couldn't see the value in that, no. But he did know fear. The truth is, he was terrified of this man. Something about his "influence', his mother would say, kept her from being able to say no when he called for the boy on rare occassion. That was her greatest fear, it seemed. What would happen to her, to him, if she were to say no - and so Boston - the city that was his, became home number two, sometimes just for a day (those were long days), but others, a week. A month. A year and a half, one time. And they would do the things a father and son might do. See the sights. Take in the games (for a man who never seemed to work, so far as the boy could tell, he always managed to fetch choice seats). But there were times when he'd be passed on to 'a friend'. Those days were the longest of all. He didn't imagine these friends to have kids of their own, 'cause where his own faltered in the sense of playing dad, these friends didn't even try, and he'd be left to his own defenses.
His mother feared the unknown - what would happen if she said no, and he supposed that was it for him, too. He knew so little of this man they called his father, but the mere thought of him made the boy question the mere thought of life.
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"You can't put your arms around a memory...
Can't hoist one up in the air, either, I'd guess.
Memories - they aren't exactly gold, or shiny, or plated.
Think about the words you associate with memories - Faded. Forgotten. Old. That last one stings, but then, who are we to argue?
Y'ever notice the way the parade us dinosaurs out when it comes to these sort of things? The World Series. The Superbowl. Superbrawl. They love marching the Joe Montanas and the Troy Aikmans out for a little glimpse into years past. Hell,
my dear ol' Boston Red Sox would probably wheel out Ted Williams disembodied head if they could just get around the logistics if a clear cooler. Your WFWF brass, they really dug deep this time around - timed those comebacks just right on the road to the biggest day in our little industry.
Oh, sure - we all tell ourselves that we've got our own "agenda"...our own little purpose and place for stepping out of the shadows of our glory days into the bigger, supposedly better now. We like to pretend we're something more than a pawn in their game, a stuffed exhibit in their museum. Some of us try and keep it buried in obscurity - try and have those loyal viewers confuse our brooding introversion with the subtle but often obvious fact that even we don't know what the f*ck we're supposed to be doing here. But then, hell, some of us wear it stitched proudly upon our sleeves, for all the honest world to feel. How is anyone, in the year of our lord, 2014, supposed to have a blind's clue in a maze which side any of us old timers stand?
Granted, we could talk all day and all night about the ends out means are reaching to justify, but "our" purpose doesn't exactly serve itself when our arms and legs are tied to Trace Demon's marionette strings, kinda like my old buddy Isaac, there. You ever feel like you really know someone? What makes 'em tick, what sets 'em off, what kinda toothpaste they like? Really get them? You really put the time and effort into trying to figure 'em right out, and then they pull the rug out from under you, leave you lying on your ass, and all the sudden you find that you wind up questioning everything see and hear! Heh...if I wasn't paranoid then...
I'm not exactly a betting man. I'm not going to begin and try and wax poetic on what the f*ck Obo the Hobo is trying to accomplish by joining our little prehistoric parade in the name of splendor and Superbrawl. Guy was unpredictable before he walked away, and if you ask me, I'm more than just a little responsible for the fact that he doesn't have a nice gold plate strapped around his little midsection anymore, what on account of my own little Irish goodbye and all. Just not a bridge I've come to quiet yet. I do know that, for as much as I don't care for the little short stack, the likelihood of him giving my favorite little Demon's puppet a right beating from one end of that room to another is high enough to have a guy like me feeling like he's been given a little something to look forward to. Two inconsolable bastards are going to beat the tar out of one another, and the rest of us get to sit and watch, and then trying andpick up the pieces. Y'ever count your blessings when you find yourself not in contention for the gold and the glory?
Let's you and me thank our lucky stars, Josh. Fossils we may be, we've only got little ol' each other to worry about in the here and now. Ask yourself - going forward, is anyone going to look back on the undercard of Superbrawl and chalk up a win or a loss in either of our corners as a great milestone in our careers? I mean, is anyone even really watching? Think about it - we're that match that everyone can miss if they're in the midst of a last minute beer run, or the kids need to put to bed - you did check on yours, yeah? That's kinda funny actually - the only reason we find ourselves toe to toe at this show is 'cause yours truly had the gall to interrupt the Queen of Demons' show and take a giant sh*t all over the current state of his product. No one likes it when you bring their own bullsh*t right to their front door. So, hey - David Brennan already crawled out of whatever hole he's been hiding in for the past two years. Why not dig up another artifact to stick him in the ring with since he thinks so highly of our current crop?
Problem is, Josh, I need to drop a little bit of your bullsh*t off at whatever museum you've been on display in for the past two years. Now, I chime in on Drakz and the Hobo 'cause there's history there - a time when I called one a friend and the other a prospective boot mat. But you...yeah, I don't really know you. But I'm quickly getting you, and disappointingly, I've got you pegged more on the Drakz side of things. You know why this match is happening, yeah? Lila whatsherface doesn't have much more on you and me than what the history books have to tell her. You really, really think she made this match happen of her own accord? For the good of the show? Don't look now bud, but your strings are showing. You've been put here for one purpose and one purpose only, and that's to shut me up. And you know what? I'll stick my neck where no other Solomon or Kyle Matthews will - you very well might, at least for one night.
But supposing you do? Then what? Where does a cover over David Brennan at Superbrawl leave you? I hate to keep drawing back, but if the company I once kept is any indication, you'll get churned right back into the machine. That might work for you. Proof is in the pudding - you're here for one last grab at that glory you once held. Former International Champion. One time this. Another time that. The cogs spin right, you might even get a taste - worked for one Demon puppet already, why not you?
The fallacy there, though? I've already won, win lose or draw. They haven't ever strapped a belt around my waste. My only claim to fame is the trouble I've caused and the "talent" I've scraped from the bottom of my size 13s. I don't even need to make it out of Superbrawl - we're not even there yet, and I've already accomplished everything I set out to do when I left a steaming pile of Demonsh*t in the ring at Revolution.
You came looking for gold, glamor, and glory.
I'm just looking for a fight.
...doesn't pay to try."
................................................................................................................................................
It must have taken a real morbid, vengeful son of a bitch to come up with the notion of an open casket. Think about it - who among us has walked a path in life that hasn't brought us as many friends as it has enemies? Is there anything really to stop either one of them from coming and kneeling at the pulpit of our ultimate demise, wallowing in agony as they mourn the loss of a dear friend or loved one, or reveling in silent, veiled triumph, taking in the smug satisfaction that can only come from outliving an arch rival in the game of life. To mourn is to stare death in the face - the acceptance of the shut, sunken eyes, never to be locked with the eyes of a comrade again. To revel is to adhere to the adage that seeing truly is believing. They say that everyone copes with loss in their own way.
To cope in the manner of David Brennan is to dig deep, real deep, 'cause he's almost certain he packed another pint in here somewhe...jackpot!
Smiling warmly upon the short handle, David wastes little time in snapping the black cap free, tilting the bottle back and letting the warm, smokey liquor slide down the back of his throat. Wiping his mouth clean, he turns to the far end of the room, eyes fixed dead ahead as he approaches the final resting vessel of Jack Brennan. He doesn't bother to kneel - prayer is not his manner. Nor does he hang his head - any sorrow vanished as the last bereaved trickled out the front door ahead of Father Walsh. Instead, he opts for another long drag off the bottle, finally letting it come to a rest at his side, the neck grasped firmly in his right fist.
"I don't know how you fooled those sons of bitches there Jack. You know, I stood here for the better part of four hours putting on my best face for every last mick you pinched, every last ginzo you f*cked, and every last pig that looked the other way on account of your old ass? Even that collection plate pickin' piece of sh*t collar knew that you'd have had a riot of a time to see that. I'll thank my lucky stars that isn't the case.
Here, let me grab a seat. Don't go anywhere, alright?
David crosses the room to a row of burgundy suede chairs, each adorned with its own personal box of tissues. Tossing one aside, he drags the chair back toward his father's casket with his free hand - his right still firmly grasped around his last handle of whiskey. It's amazing how much liquor one man can put down amid a sea of every phony the great city of Boston has to offer up in such a short window of time. He smirks as he catches his personal effects in a heap behind a table of bouquets, knowing full well the sheer amount of emptys that fill the black duffel bag he'd packed for the day.
With the back of the chair facing his father's lifeless body, David sits to face him, lazily draped over the backrest of the chair, the bottle now dangling loosely in his hands.
"Oh, good. You're still here. Not so slippery in the afterlife, I guess.
Do you remember that day you caught me on the train? Like, really remember? I'll admit, the details are a little hazy these days - you'll have to forgive my friend...ah, Jack, here for that...but there's one little thing that sticks out in my mind as worth remembering. You can thank your pal Anton back there for sparking this one, but he said something...stupid...something like 'it's the little things that best gauge the measure of a man'. Load of bullsh*t really - but then, he did pal around with the best. Anyway...that got me thinking - what's the 'little thing' short of what's resting just below that 48 waist of his that best tells the measure of Jack Brennan? And I keep coming back to that train.
It's funny, really. The last time we talked, you fed me this bullsh*t about all the best intentions you all had for me, and even through all the fog, I can still remember all this sh*t about 'saving David', and whatever sort of help you wanted me to get, and all that. But that day on that train - there's a real high point, a real tell of Jack Brennan's story on that train. What was I? Two years sober, something like that? Waste of time, really, but at the time...you know, they have the drink car, right? It could be my buddy here talking again, but I distinctly remember them opening that car for business, and you practically holding the door open for me to join you.
Now, you cut me loose on accont of the drink the first time, so I can only assume that for you to saunter back into the picture two years ago, you had to know i was at least doing...I dunno, better?
Saving David Brennan, indeed.
What's that line you always spouted? 'Fool me once..' and all that? Real original mother f*cker you were, huh? No, but really. You spent the better part of two years trying to 'fix' a problem you were trying to cause in the first place. It's only fair that you get to know I figured it all out before they shut the box on you. After all, I had to wake up one day to find out that two years of my life were all the mechanation of some sadistic old f*ck who thinks he's owed something for passing on his inferior genetics. I don't know what your end game was supposed to be, but to see you sitting there, all made up just like the living world you surrounded yourself with - well, let me tell you old man, that's a real sweet brand of victory right there. You played a real hard hand, and you nearly had me, but in the end, it's real cut and dry - I'm gonna go home and knock a few back, and you're going in the ground.
David pulls himself to his feet, aimlessly tossing his chair aside, then the pulpit, so that he's able to come right up to his father's side.
"Me and the boys - we'd never close a bar without a parting shot. One for the road, in a way of speaking, right? It only makes sense...what do they call it? Poetic justice, something like that? Anyway - we never did get to share that drink on the train. Seems only fitting, right? 'til we meet again..."
David raises his bottle in a toasting gesture, nodding with an air of arrogance to his departed father. He takes his - down the hatch, before raising the bottle again, this time level with his own narrowed eyes, to examine the contents remaining. Half a bottle. One hell of a kick, but a fair parting shot, especially for passed kin. Toasting once more, David tilts the bottle, and without hesitation, empties the remaining whiskey onto Jack's face. As the bottle spouts little more than drops, he chucks the empty into the casket, where it comes to a rest just to the right of Jack's neck. Placing one hand upon the lid of the casket, David smirks as the darkened liquid begins to run the post-mortem makeup off of Jack's ragged face.
"...rot in hell, you old bastard."
With this, David slams the casket lid shut. Turning his back, he bypasses his bag of empties as he beelines out of the narrow viewing room, throwing the double doors of the funeral parlor open as he strides out into the cool spring evening.
I dont know good luck 
