Post by CM Poor on May 4, 2014 21:16:49 GMT -5
"Just chemicals - painkillers, alcohol - Xanax and Adderall"
"That much liquor might have killed a lesser man."
"I'll thank my lucky stars I'm not that man then."
"No, not you. You're a Brennan."
"David f*ckin' Brennan. THE Brennan."
"There's still Clark."
"P*ssy."
"He's still your brother. He still counts.
"Not if he's a b*tch."
"I don't think you're seeing my point."
"You don't get to have a point. You're dead."
"Guilty as charged - but Clark isn't conversing with the deceased.'
"He's also not sipping black and tans, sitting in your throne, looking down on your city."
"And you don't suppose that this lends validation for everything we were trying to do for you? Sitting on a dead man's estate, drinking yourself into a stupor so deep that you let yourself believe that you're shooting the sh*t with said dead man?"
"You're suggesting that we're not shooting the sh*t?"
"How would you explain it were someone to walk through that door and come upon you, red in the face, talking to yourself?"
"After beating his ass for breaking and entering? Transcendence of the planes."
"Oh, you're a f*cking medium now?"
"No.
I am a f*cking God now."
There's something about looking down on the world.
Knowing that somewhere, down there at street level, amid the mewling, puking masses, some insignificant little ant is staring right back up at you, the seething vitriol of envy piling up in the back of their throat in the form of some putrid, acidic reflex as you know they stare up in marvel and green eyed awe at the massive, towering structure before them, wondering what kind of man occupies such unnecessarily, extravagant dwellings, all for the sake of that simple pleasure of staring down at the world.
And you smile, ear to ear, in a manner that could only go appreciated by the devil himself, cold enough to make the Lord's only son shiver, as you respond.
"I do, you puke."
"Come again?"
"Sorry - the whole floor, then?"
Adam Bannister. "The Money Guy", Jack always called him. That always struck David as cruelly humorous - Adam managed all the cash flow, properties, and any other liquifiable assets under Jack Brennan's ownership, yet short of the pittance that Jack had been known to toss the way of his most vital organs in his very fluid line of work, Adam likely held very little cash of his own. Nevertheless - the consummate professional. He shared David's recent love for dark tones - the only color resonating from his otherwise imposingly black two piece was a dark purple, blink and you'd call it black button down Oxford. For whatever Bannister lacked financially, he knew what skills he brought to the table, and made certain to look the part.
"The whole floor. Observation deck, landing pad, though your father's records didn't indicate any air transport. The...ah...the throne won't be easy to remove."
The Throne. Classic Jack Brennan. It was purely an indtimidation factor - he'd had it put in nearly a decade ago. It was like something you might find in that business everyone's into now on HBO, if he hadn't put it in about ten years prior. He chuckled to himself as he turned to come upon it, situated in the center of the main room of the suite. Kyzer and Drakz would have loved this sh*t. Didn't Kyzer have one modeled after that show? It was sh*t under the city now, but he marvels at the fact that he'd never brought them here before hand. Too busy dodging the peanut intervention. Too busy playing third f*cking fiddle. The more things f*cking change.
"Why the f*ck would I want it removed?"
'I only assumed, given your...strained relationship with your father, that..."
"Assume that if your guys can get this thing moved across the room to the picture window, I'll double the pay out.'
"Consider it assumed. There is one more thing."
"Spill it."
"There was a time when I could be your father's go-to confidant regarding the financial and logistical ends of his...'unique' line of business. Given his newfound indisposition, and the current state of affairs at street level, I'm afraid this is where I must bid you my final adieu."
There it is. The million dollar question.
It often surprises the brain dead flatlines of society to find that, in spite of his rugged exterior, his penchant for the bottle, his weakness for violence, so on and so forth, that in all his back and forth, to and fro, David never actually found himself on the employed side of Jack's business ventures. Sure, he was in the fold - he bore witness to more dealings and drag outs than most people see on the silver screen in the course of a lifetime, but he was always little more than a silent, sauced witness. The great assumption was that David would inherit the 'family business' when his father made his venture toward his inevitable rejection at the pearly gates, but the truth was, that whole venture was the furthest thing from David's mind. He wanted his due inheritance, a clean break, and little more. This little weasel might have some value yet. He just needs to be lumped into the package.
"What exactly is the 'state of affairs' 30 floors down?"
"Volatile. Some were expecting you to step up, which, while the resounding concensus agreed, you have yet to do so, lighting a fire under some of your father's more...vocal associates. One in particular, fellow on his payroll up until his departure, has all but announced to the dregs of Boston's underworld that he's the rightful heir to the Brennan throne."
"But you've got the legal documents that state otherwise?"
"Had your father had the opportunity revisit his will, given the more recent developments between the two of you, I feel like I'd be in California right now discussing business matters with a Clark Brennan, but yes - all of Jack Brennan's liquid and liquifiables have been bequeathed to you, and you alone. Not that that'll mean a lick to the Italians, but..."
"If we can keep them at bay, you think they'll back off the assets?"
"Not without a figurehead to hold them back."
"You get everything transferred into my name. I'll take care of the hotheads. Just give me the details."
"Then I'm out."
"Oh yeah? Got yourself some prospects lined up?"
"I'll manage."
"Why don't you stick around? Keep doing what you know?"
"I'm afraid I've got little taste for the criminal scene anymore, Mr. Brennan."
"Join the club - but I could use a clear head, flying solo the way I am now. Lot of logistics in my line of work, and I'm sure you know enough to know I got a way of letting things get away from me."
"And you'll deal with the cleanup?"
"I'll deal with the cleanup."
Vinnie
"Heyheyheyhey, whoa! Whoa! You better turn your dumb a** around and walk right back out that door you son of a b*tch! I've got guns in here, motherf*cker! Don't think I won't blow a hole in your f*ckin' head!"
Vincent Cappachieti isn't exactly the most nimble specimen of athletic prowess crawling the streets of Boston, but damn if he didn't jump his own height at the sound of his front door getting kicked in. That's a sound that'll invoke a reaction out of any honest, angry, paranoid full blooded Italian what shares a fence with a pair o' micks to the left and to the right. He's a right little firecracker too, Vinnie is. That foul little mouth of his has blasted and bullsh*tted his way out of many a spot in his fifty some odd years of living on God's green Earth, but sh*t if he isn't huddled behind that lavish, fake a** leather couch of his, praying whatever brass swinging bonehead decided to invoke another lock-related expense on his front door bought that load about the arsenal of guns Vinnie knows damn well he doesn't have.
"Can it, Vincenzo. You know as well as I do that there isn't so much as a water pistol 'neath these floorboards - my father strictly forbid it."
His father? Vinnie pokes his head out just enough to try and glimpse the figure still framed by the remnants of the door he just destroyed. The glare of the invasive sunlight hides the details that might tell Vinnie everything he needed to know about just who's going to bust down a good ol' fella's door on a fine Sunday afternoon such as this, but still - there's something about that dome...
"...Davey? Dave Brennan?"
"Ah, see. I knew mama Cappachieti didn't raise no fool. Get up, Vincenzo - you're short enough as it is. Get your finest glasses and meet us in the kitchen, right?"
"Gl...hey, uh, Davey. I don' wear glasses."
I don't wear glasses, he says...
"Cups, you meatball...cups!!"
"Cups...right, right, cups. I knew that..."
Vinnie's home is small and unassuming - not by choice mind you, but Vinnie's late employer was something of an 'invisible' hand in his dictation of exactly just what you were and were not permitted to bear ownership of. Vinnie, you see, had a preference toward a more lavish style of living, but that sort of thing goes against every principle and and every law behind the concept of a low profile, and so dear Vincent was bestowed with this pre owned, humble abode - the living quarters of an entire lineage of those who've served in the management end of things. A humble home, of course, makes for humble navigation, and even though David knows the layout of this particular dwelling all too well (his surname, after all, is listed on the deed), it wouldn't take a frequent visitor to find their way to the dining area situated just off the kitchen, as David has done just now, taking a seat at one end of the modest dining table as Vinnie fumbles in the kitchen for a pair of glasses.
Finding his own way opposite David, Vinnie presents the glass tumblers, almost as if seeking his intruder's approval. David responds by procuring a fresh bottle of Jameson's Irish Whiskey, seemingly out of the ether. He places the handle upon the table, sliding it across the where Vinnie stands.
"Pour me a drink, Vincenzo. One for yourself, too."
Vinnie complies in terrified silence. The presence of a Brennan, at least an associated Brennan, never bodes well, especially with an entrance as grand and abrupt as David has just made.
Vinnie crosses to David's side, placing a full glass before him, the other waiting patronage across the table.
"Now sit."
Vinnie once again silently complies, intertwining his fingers as he places his hands upon the table. He was never quite sure how things would be moving forward, now what with Jack dead and all, but this? This was unheard of. David and Jack had been on the rocks for as long as Vinnie could remember - even during the brief period they traveled together, Vinnie knew for certain that things had never quite made it under the bridge. Jack's funeral should have been his cue - he should have bought a gun. Now he was little more than a hostage in his own home.
"How've you been, Vincenzo?"
"All things considered, Davey? I been better. Hell is it you want, anyway?"
"Don't take that tone with me, Vincenzo."
"That tone? What, you mean this tone? Look, I know you was at the parlor last week, so I'm not sure how this one slipped past you, but your father is DEAD, which means your name don't mean sh*t in this town no more, capiche?"
"Vincenzo..."
"And that's another thing! Would you stop calling me 'Vincenzo' That ain't my given name, and you ain't got dad around to hide behind using it no more, so knock it the f*ck off!"
Vinnie's words dive right back down his throat as David rises from across the table, tossing the entire thing aside to stride right up to Vinnie, who himself has risen from his seat and begun backing away, all the bravado he'd just spewed reduced to mortal terror as he stares up at his departed employer's imposing heir apparent.
"I'm the one who's giving out names now, Vincenzo, and I say your name is Vincenzo. Now, if you're ready to talk business, then sit down, and shut up."
It's like an invisible force - Brennan says it, Vinnie does it. Jump - how high? Sh*t - what color? David remains standing as Vinnie sinks back into his seat like a small child, practically cowering as he stares up at David, dreadfully anticipating whatever is next to come.
"Attaboy, Vincenzo. You're out."
"Ou....f*ck you mean I'm out."
"Tone, Vincenzo. You're out. Call it a demotion. I don't like your style. Never have - I dunno what mama Capaccheti cooked my father up to make him give you the spot he did, but I'm not big on marinara myself, so you're done."
"It's gravy, you mick f*ck. So what, you come here, bust down my door, bark at me like you're the spam Jack now, just to cut me loose. The f*ck they putting in potatoes these days?!"
"Let's try and keep the rest of your furniture grounded, shall we Vincenzo? I told you to call it a demotion, and no, I didn't just come here for it. I came to give you this.
Again, from seemingly nowhere at all, David procures a large black duffel bag, dropping it at Vinnie's feet with a deafening thud. Yeesh - the whiskey, now this bag - how does Vinnie keep missing these details.
"What the hell is that?"
"Why don't you take a look? Call it a chunk of hush money."
Vinnie cautiously reaches for the zipper, drawing the bag open. A blinking red light draws his gaze in closer, as he pulls the mouth of the bag apart to better view the contents within. Upon further inspection, his gaze darts back up to David's arrogant smirk. Vinnie's eyes are now wide with terror as the realization of what lays before his feet sets in.
"Is...is that a f*ckin' bomb?!"
"Here's what's going to happen, Vincenzo. Everyone in this city knows you were knockin' at the Feds' door, getting ready to turn states on my father and blow his whole damn empire sky high, all on account o' you gettin' a little skittish, so here's the set. You're gonna move on down from managing things for a while, on account o' me not caring much for you. I'm a smart guy though, Vincenzo, and you know a fair bit too much to just be cut loose, so I'm gonna keep you around. You get to stay in God's country here. You'll hang on to the house, and you'll live a quiet, unassuming, normal to them life. You know the saying, the hills have eyes? These streets have now got eyes, ears, and a god damned nose. You stay on the straight and narrow, and every once in a while you get to run a job for me. You step off the line, so to speak, and...well, you're a smart little pot o' sauce, now, aren't you Vincenzo?"
"Christ on a cross..."
"You be good now, Vincenzo. Keep them feet planted, huh?"
Without second glance, David pats Vinnie firmly across the left shoulder, stepping over the askew dining room table as he makes for the front door. Stopping in the now barren doorframe, he surveys the damage, then calls back once more.
"And get this door fixed."
"Did he buy it?"
"Hook, line, and sinker."
"What'd you use?"
"Couple of re wrapped Duraflame logs. Super glued some wires from an old subwoofer in place. Oh, and this cheap little flashing light thing I picked up at Home Depot."
"So no real danger, then?"
"Not unless he tries to light the logs..."
"You Brennans are sick.
"Sure as sh*t. Now shut up and drive."
Business
"Would it surprise you to find that I'm not much of one for the "classics"?
Maybe that's hasty to say. Would it maybe surprise you to hear that what most people out there consider the "classics" comes across to me as putrid, vile, over processed, underwhelming, audial diarrhea?
I've always been of the opinion, and maybe this is short sighted, but f*ck you, I'm David Brennan, that you can tell a lot about a person based on what's making the regular rounds on their playlist. I've always found myself of a certain distinction in regard to what struck me on a musical front. Some'll say it's dead. Some'll call it an act.
To me, it's that much more real.
Bands like The Clash. Cocksparrer. The Bruisers. No remorse. No apologies. No regrets. Anything you want, it's all right here. They can't dance, and they sure as hell can't sing, but they'll knock your teeth out, steal your girlfriend, and piss all over your hopes and dreams.
I found out years ago.
There ain't no stairway to heaven.
I reject the notion that love is all you need.
I don't like Led Zeppelin.
I despise the f*ckin' Beatles.
I sure as sh*t don't have any love for REO f*ckin' Speedwagon.
I have to imagine it's this f*ckin' disconnect that's drawn us together. This stupid f*ckin' notion that opposites attract. The powers tried it years ago when I waltzed in, and some brilliant mind thought aloud "Why don't we stick this skinhead who's already got a rough go ahead of him in a match against Randel Benjamin and see if he won't pull punches, what on account of Randy's genetic makeup and all!"
Brilliance in root, from the people that brought you the Demon Regime.
There isn't a soul alive that can sit themselves down and come up with an answer to the question of "Why should David Brennan face off against Reo Speedwagon?", in short because that's one Rubik's cube that's had its stickers mismatched to the point that it's an unsolvable, senseless cube of sh*t. They're calling this the "rebirth" of the WFWF, and with it comes all the bells and whistles one might expect from a company that's seen so many rebirths that the entity itself is starting to question it's own identity: new shows! Returning stars! New champions! New blood!
You might be saying to yourself "Well, now, David. You're not exactly a paragon of playing by the rules. What do you want, coming back an sh*tting down the throat of everything Trace Demon is trying to build?", and you'd have a valid point, were we not in the midst of some grand rebranding. How many contracts, between my coming back and this show, has Trace Demon or any one of his puppets signed into effect? The undercard of this show is jane packed with an entire league's worth of new faces...and David Brennan.
See, contrary to how I may come off, I don't think Trace Demon is a stupid guy. I think he's a c*ck stain of a human being, a sh*t streak on the drawers of history, and his mouth is just standing agape waiting for a size 13 to force its way in, but that's neither here nor there in terms of mental validity. You don't climb to the pentultimate position of power in any organization without knowing the tools that are there at your disposal to completely bury your detractors six feet under, and while I'm sure Trace would just devour the opportunity to prove me wrong, he's not going to do it in an instance here where it would prove his own shortcoming.
Surely there's a better place to bury David Brennan than a sea of newcomers, no comers, and nobodies. In an era of rebirth, what does Trace O'Semen stand to gain by locking all his newfound "talent" at the bottom of the card a pissed off, intoxicated skinhead?
This may come as no surprise to any of you, but I'm no scholar. I'm just a guy with a bad attitude and a weakness for spirits. I can't answer these questions, and in all likelihood, neither can you. There isn't a sensical reason for me and Reo Speedwagon to be warming up the crowd for the likes of Devilkiller, Kyzer's stupid f*ckin' midget, a piss poor excuse for a champion who couldn't even hold his own against Ace f*ckin' Bennett, a dead mama's boy who couldn't grasp the gold yet still get ahold of the top slot, and a shrewd, business driven goth kid who somehow lets his business decisions fall into the hands of a no name, corner store, nobody whore - not to mention the lump of dogsh*t that I scraped off of my boots at Superbrawl. I'm sure everybody missed it, pattin' themselves on the back, but I'm playing third fiddle to a guy who couldn't pull the upper hand in the opening bout!
You're probably a good kid, Reo. I dunno - not my scene. We're both in kind if a hot spot, when you think about it. I can't make any sense of it, but for whatever reason, while the world seemingly trudges on ahead of me, I'm relegated to the undercard with the likes of you and every one of your fellow newcomers. With any reason, the lot of you would be pitted against one another to see just who among you stands out from the pack. Instead, if this current path we find ourselves set out upon is any indication, one by one, you're all going to be out up against me, Trace Demon's seeking whipping boy. That's a sh*t situation for me - by all accounts I ought to be thrashing the likes of Solomon Crowe or...I dunno...Joe Bishop, or whoever the f*ck else they think has the stones to carry this company on their back. Instead I - a Survival of the Fittest winner, by proxy making me a candidate for world title contendership, and oh...not to to mention a Hall of f*ckin' Famer - get stuck laying the hurt on guys like you, Reo. And if my situation is a world of sh*t, then yours is downright f*cked.
It's nothing personal - I don't know you. To look at you, I don't get much indication that were I to get to know you I'd like you very much, but that's neither here nor there. I'm not much of a people person, so I didn't come here looking to make friends with any self professed "children of the 80s". That's on me, not you. You can keep that one with you if you'd like.
But I'm going to f*cking destroy you.
Again, nothing personal. You're what we'd call collateral damage. An innocent victim. A negative side effect. A byproduct of whatever the f*ck it is Trace Demon is trying to prove by suckering you into the ring with me.
At some point, I'd like to think that you'd be handed some manner of redemption. That you could have a Duke Steel or a Pepe le Puke or a Johnny Magnum of your very own to crush along the path that you'll need to pave to prove to our pathetic, trembling, poster child for abstinence leader that you just might be worth your f*ckin' salt.
I just don't think your road is that long. The road is paved, nice and smooth, clear skies ahead.
But it intersects with mine.
And I'm going to f*cking kill you.
Nothin' personal."
"That much liquor might have killed a lesser man."
"I'll thank my lucky stars I'm not that man then."
"No, not you. You're a Brennan."
"David f*ckin' Brennan. THE Brennan."
"There's still Clark."
"P*ssy."
"He's still your brother. He still counts.
"Not if he's a b*tch."
"I don't think you're seeing my point."
"You don't get to have a point. You're dead."
"Guilty as charged - but Clark isn't conversing with the deceased.'
"He's also not sipping black and tans, sitting in your throne, looking down on your city."
"And you don't suppose that this lends validation for everything we were trying to do for you? Sitting on a dead man's estate, drinking yourself into a stupor so deep that you let yourself believe that you're shooting the sh*t with said dead man?"
"You're suggesting that we're not shooting the sh*t?"
"How would you explain it were someone to walk through that door and come upon you, red in the face, talking to yourself?"
"After beating his ass for breaking and entering? Transcendence of the planes."
"Oh, you're a f*cking medium now?"
"No.
I am a f*cking God now."
There's something about looking down on the world.
Knowing that somewhere, down there at street level, amid the mewling, puking masses, some insignificant little ant is staring right back up at you, the seething vitriol of envy piling up in the back of their throat in the form of some putrid, acidic reflex as you know they stare up in marvel and green eyed awe at the massive, towering structure before them, wondering what kind of man occupies such unnecessarily, extravagant dwellings, all for the sake of that simple pleasure of staring down at the world.
And you smile, ear to ear, in a manner that could only go appreciated by the devil himself, cold enough to make the Lord's only son shiver, as you respond.
"I do, you puke."
"Come again?"
"Sorry - the whole floor, then?"
Adam Bannister. "The Money Guy", Jack always called him. That always struck David as cruelly humorous - Adam managed all the cash flow, properties, and any other liquifiable assets under Jack Brennan's ownership, yet short of the pittance that Jack had been known to toss the way of his most vital organs in his very fluid line of work, Adam likely held very little cash of his own. Nevertheless - the consummate professional. He shared David's recent love for dark tones - the only color resonating from his otherwise imposingly black two piece was a dark purple, blink and you'd call it black button down Oxford. For whatever Bannister lacked financially, he knew what skills he brought to the table, and made certain to look the part.
"The whole floor. Observation deck, landing pad, though your father's records didn't indicate any air transport. The...ah...the throne won't be easy to remove."
The Throne. Classic Jack Brennan. It was purely an indtimidation factor - he'd had it put in nearly a decade ago. It was like something you might find in that business everyone's into now on HBO, if he hadn't put it in about ten years prior. He chuckled to himself as he turned to come upon it, situated in the center of the main room of the suite. Kyzer and Drakz would have loved this sh*t. Didn't Kyzer have one modeled after that show? It was sh*t under the city now, but he marvels at the fact that he'd never brought them here before hand. Too busy dodging the peanut intervention. Too busy playing third f*cking fiddle. The more things f*cking change.
"Why the f*ck would I want it removed?"
'I only assumed, given your...strained relationship with your father, that..."
"Assume that if your guys can get this thing moved across the room to the picture window, I'll double the pay out.'
"Consider it assumed. There is one more thing."
"Spill it."
"There was a time when I could be your father's go-to confidant regarding the financial and logistical ends of his...'unique' line of business. Given his newfound indisposition, and the current state of affairs at street level, I'm afraid this is where I must bid you my final adieu."
There it is. The million dollar question.
It often surprises the brain dead flatlines of society to find that, in spite of his rugged exterior, his penchant for the bottle, his weakness for violence, so on and so forth, that in all his back and forth, to and fro, David never actually found himself on the employed side of Jack's business ventures. Sure, he was in the fold - he bore witness to more dealings and drag outs than most people see on the silver screen in the course of a lifetime, but he was always little more than a silent, sauced witness. The great assumption was that David would inherit the 'family business' when his father made his venture toward his inevitable rejection at the pearly gates, but the truth was, that whole venture was the furthest thing from David's mind. He wanted his due inheritance, a clean break, and little more. This little weasel might have some value yet. He just needs to be lumped into the package.
"What exactly is the 'state of affairs' 30 floors down?"
"Volatile. Some were expecting you to step up, which, while the resounding concensus agreed, you have yet to do so, lighting a fire under some of your father's more...vocal associates. One in particular, fellow on his payroll up until his departure, has all but announced to the dregs of Boston's underworld that he's the rightful heir to the Brennan throne."
"But you've got the legal documents that state otherwise?"
"Had your father had the opportunity revisit his will, given the more recent developments between the two of you, I feel like I'd be in California right now discussing business matters with a Clark Brennan, but yes - all of Jack Brennan's liquid and liquifiables have been bequeathed to you, and you alone. Not that that'll mean a lick to the Italians, but..."
"If we can keep them at bay, you think they'll back off the assets?"
"Not without a figurehead to hold them back."
"You get everything transferred into my name. I'll take care of the hotheads. Just give me the details."
"Then I'm out."
"Oh yeah? Got yourself some prospects lined up?"
"I'll manage."
"Why don't you stick around? Keep doing what you know?"
"I'm afraid I've got little taste for the criminal scene anymore, Mr. Brennan."
"Join the club - but I could use a clear head, flying solo the way I am now. Lot of logistics in my line of work, and I'm sure you know enough to know I got a way of letting things get away from me."
"And you'll deal with the cleanup?"
"I'll deal with the cleanup."
Vinnie
"Heyheyheyhey, whoa! Whoa! You better turn your dumb a** around and walk right back out that door you son of a b*tch! I've got guns in here, motherf*cker! Don't think I won't blow a hole in your f*ckin' head!"
Vincent Cappachieti isn't exactly the most nimble specimen of athletic prowess crawling the streets of Boston, but damn if he didn't jump his own height at the sound of his front door getting kicked in. That's a sound that'll invoke a reaction out of any honest, angry, paranoid full blooded Italian what shares a fence with a pair o' micks to the left and to the right. He's a right little firecracker too, Vinnie is. That foul little mouth of his has blasted and bullsh*tted his way out of many a spot in his fifty some odd years of living on God's green Earth, but sh*t if he isn't huddled behind that lavish, fake a** leather couch of his, praying whatever brass swinging bonehead decided to invoke another lock-related expense on his front door bought that load about the arsenal of guns Vinnie knows damn well he doesn't have.
"Can it, Vincenzo. You know as well as I do that there isn't so much as a water pistol 'neath these floorboards - my father strictly forbid it."
His father? Vinnie pokes his head out just enough to try and glimpse the figure still framed by the remnants of the door he just destroyed. The glare of the invasive sunlight hides the details that might tell Vinnie everything he needed to know about just who's going to bust down a good ol' fella's door on a fine Sunday afternoon such as this, but still - there's something about that dome...
"...Davey? Dave Brennan?"
"Ah, see. I knew mama Cappachieti didn't raise no fool. Get up, Vincenzo - you're short enough as it is. Get your finest glasses and meet us in the kitchen, right?"
"Gl...hey, uh, Davey. I don' wear glasses."
I don't wear glasses, he says...
"Cups, you meatball...cups!!"
"Cups...right, right, cups. I knew that..."
Vinnie's home is small and unassuming - not by choice mind you, but Vinnie's late employer was something of an 'invisible' hand in his dictation of exactly just what you were and were not permitted to bear ownership of. Vinnie, you see, had a preference toward a more lavish style of living, but that sort of thing goes against every principle and and every law behind the concept of a low profile, and so dear Vincent was bestowed with this pre owned, humble abode - the living quarters of an entire lineage of those who've served in the management end of things. A humble home, of course, makes for humble navigation, and even though David knows the layout of this particular dwelling all too well (his surname, after all, is listed on the deed), it wouldn't take a frequent visitor to find their way to the dining area situated just off the kitchen, as David has done just now, taking a seat at one end of the modest dining table as Vinnie fumbles in the kitchen for a pair of glasses.
Finding his own way opposite David, Vinnie presents the glass tumblers, almost as if seeking his intruder's approval. David responds by procuring a fresh bottle of Jameson's Irish Whiskey, seemingly out of the ether. He places the handle upon the table, sliding it across the where Vinnie stands.
"Pour me a drink, Vincenzo. One for yourself, too."
Vinnie complies in terrified silence. The presence of a Brennan, at least an associated Brennan, never bodes well, especially with an entrance as grand and abrupt as David has just made.
Vinnie crosses to David's side, placing a full glass before him, the other waiting patronage across the table.
"Now sit."
Vinnie once again silently complies, intertwining his fingers as he places his hands upon the table. He was never quite sure how things would be moving forward, now what with Jack dead and all, but this? This was unheard of. David and Jack had been on the rocks for as long as Vinnie could remember - even during the brief period they traveled together, Vinnie knew for certain that things had never quite made it under the bridge. Jack's funeral should have been his cue - he should have bought a gun. Now he was little more than a hostage in his own home.
"How've you been, Vincenzo?"
"All things considered, Davey? I been better. Hell is it you want, anyway?"
"Don't take that tone with me, Vincenzo."
"That tone? What, you mean this tone? Look, I know you was at the parlor last week, so I'm not sure how this one slipped past you, but your father is DEAD, which means your name don't mean sh*t in this town no more, capiche?"
"Vincenzo..."
"And that's another thing! Would you stop calling me 'Vincenzo' That ain't my given name, and you ain't got dad around to hide behind using it no more, so knock it the f*ck off!"
Vinnie's words dive right back down his throat as David rises from across the table, tossing the entire thing aside to stride right up to Vinnie, who himself has risen from his seat and begun backing away, all the bravado he'd just spewed reduced to mortal terror as he stares up at his departed employer's imposing heir apparent.
"I'm the one who's giving out names now, Vincenzo, and I say your name is Vincenzo. Now, if you're ready to talk business, then sit down, and shut up."
It's like an invisible force - Brennan says it, Vinnie does it. Jump - how high? Sh*t - what color? David remains standing as Vinnie sinks back into his seat like a small child, practically cowering as he stares up at David, dreadfully anticipating whatever is next to come.
"Attaboy, Vincenzo. You're out."
"Ou....f*ck you mean I'm out."
"Tone, Vincenzo. You're out. Call it a demotion. I don't like your style. Never have - I dunno what mama Capaccheti cooked my father up to make him give you the spot he did, but I'm not big on marinara myself, so you're done."
"It's gravy, you mick f*ck. So what, you come here, bust down my door, bark at me like you're the spam Jack now, just to cut me loose. The f*ck they putting in potatoes these days?!"
"Let's try and keep the rest of your furniture grounded, shall we Vincenzo? I told you to call it a demotion, and no, I didn't just come here for it. I came to give you this.
Again, from seemingly nowhere at all, David procures a large black duffel bag, dropping it at Vinnie's feet with a deafening thud. Yeesh - the whiskey, now this bag - how does Vinnie keep missing these details.
"What the hell is that?"
"Why don't you take a look? Call it a chunk of hush money."
Vinnie cautiously reaches for the zipper, drawing the bag open. A blinking red light draws his gaze in closer, as he pulls the mouth of the bag apart to better view the contents within. Upon further inspection, his gaze darts back up to David's arrogant smirk. Vinnie's eyes are now wide with terror as the realization of what lays before his feet sets in.
"Is...is that a f*ckin' bomb?!"
"Here's what's going to happen, Vincenzo. Everyone in this city knows you were knockin' at the Feds' door, getting ready to turn states on my father and blow his whole damn empire sky high, all on account o' you gettin' a little skittish, so here's the set. You're gonna move on down from managing things for a while, on account o' me not caring much for you. I'm a smart guy though, Vincenzo, and you know a fair bit too much to just be cut loose, so I'm gonna keep you around. You get to stay in God's country here. You'll hang on to the house, and you'll live a quiet, unassuming, normal to them life. You know the saying, the hills have eyes? These streets have now got eyes, ears, and a god damned nose. You stay on the straight and narrow, and every once in a while you get to run a job for me. You step off the line, so to speak, and...well, you're a smart little pot o' sauce, now, aren't you Vincenzo?"
"Christ on a cross..."
"You be good now, Vincenzo. Keep them feet planted, huh?"
Without second glance, David pats Vinnie firmly across the left shoulder, stepping over the askew dining room table as he makes for the front door. Stopping in the now barren doorframe, he surveys the damage, then calls back once more.
"And get this door fixed."
"Did he buy it?"
"Hook, line, and sinker."
"What'd you use?"
"Couple of re wrapped Duraflame logs. Super glued some wires from an old subwoofer in place. Oh, and this cheap little flashing light thing I picked up at Home Depot."
"So no real danger, then?"
"Not unless he tries to light the logs..."
"You Brennans are sick.
"Sure as sh*t. Now shut up and drive."
Business
"Would it surprise you to find that I'm not much of one for the "classics"?
Maybe that's hasty to say. Would it maybe surprise you to hear that what most people out there consider the "classics" comes across to me as putrid, vile, over processed, underwhelming, audial diarrhea?
I've always been of the opinion, and maybe this is short sighted, but f*ck you, I'm David Brennan, that you can tell a lot about a person based on what's making the regular rounds on their playlist. I've always found myself of a certain distinction in regard to what struck me on a musical front. Some'll say it's dead. Some'll call it an act.
To me, it's that much more real.
Bands like The Clash. Cocksparrer. The Bruisers. No remorse. No apologies. No regrets. Anything you want, it's all right here. They can't dance, and they sure as hell can't sing, but they'll knock your teeth out, steal your girlfriend, and piss all over your hopes and dreams.
I found out years ago.
There ain't no stairway to heaven.
I reject the notion that love is all you need.
I don't like Led Zeppelin.
I despise the f*ckin' Beatles.
I sure as sh*t don't have any love for REO f*ckin' Speedwagon.
I have to imagine it's this f*ckin' disconnect that's drawn us together. This stupid f*ckin' notion that opposites attract. The powers tried it years ago when I waltzed in, and some brilliant mind thought aloud "Why don't we stick this skinhead who's already got a rough go ahead of him in a match against Randel Benjamin and see if he won't pull punches, what on account of Randy's genetic makeup and all!"
Brilliance in root, from the people that brought you the Demon Regime.
There isn't a soul alive that can sit themselves down and come up with an answer to the question of "Why should David Brennan face off against Reo Speedwagon?", in short because that's one Rubik's cube that's had its stickers mismatched to the point that it's an unsolvable, senseless cube of sh*t. They're calling this the "rebirth" of the WFWF, and with it comes all the bells and whistles one might expect from a company that's seen so many rebirths that the entity itself is starting to question it's own identity: new shows! Returning stars! New champions! New blood!
You might be saying to yourself "Well, now, David. You're not exactly a paragon of playing by the rules. What do you want, coming back an sh*tting down the throat of everything Trace Demon is trying to build?", and you'd have a valid point, were we not in the midst of some grand rebranding. How many contracts, between my coming back and this show, has Trace Demon or any one of his puppets signed into effect? The undercard of this show is jane packed with an entire league's worth of new faces...and David Brennan.
See, contrary to how I may come off, I don't think Trace Demon is a stupid guy. I think he's a c*ck stain of a human being, a sh*t streak on the drawers of history, and his mouth is just standing agape waiting for a size 13 to force its way in, but that's neither here nor there in terms of mental validity. You don't climb to the pentultimate position of power in any organization without knowing the tools that are there at your disposal to completely bury your detractors six feet under, and while I'm sure Trace would just devour the opportunity to prove me wrong, he's not going to do it in an instance here where it would prove his own shortcoming.
Surely there's a better place to bury David Brennan than a sea of newcomers, no comers, and nobodies. In an era of rebirth, what does Trace O'Semen stand to gain by locking all his newfound "talent" at the bottom of the card a pissed off, intoxicated skinhead?
This may come as no surprise to any of you, but I'm no scholar. I'm just a guy with a bad attitude and a weakness for spirits. I can't answer these questions, and in all likelihood, neither can you. There isn't a sensical reason for me and Reo Speedwagon to be warming up the crowd for the likes of Devilkiller, Kyzer's stupid f*ckin' midget, a piss poor excuse for a champion who couldn't even hold his own against Ace f*ckin' Bennett, a dead mama's boy who couldn't grasp the gold yet still get ahold of the top slot, and a shrewd, business driven goth kid who somehow lets his business decisions fall into the hands of a no name, corner store, nobody whore - not to mention the lump of dogsh*t that I scraped off of my boots at Superbrawl. I'm sure everybody missed it, pattin' themselves on the back, but I'm playing third fiddle to a guy who couldn't pull the upper hand in the opening bout!
You're probably a good kid, Reo. I dunno - not my scene. We're both in kind if a hot spot, when you think about it. I can't make any sense of it, but for whatever reason, while the world seemingly trudges on ahead of me, I'm relegated to the undercard with the likes of you and every one of your fellow newcomers. With any reason, the lot of you would be pitted against one another to see just who among you stands out from the pack. Instead, if this current path we find ourselves set out upon is any indication, one by one, you're all going to be out up against me, Trace Demon's seeking whipping boy. That's a sh*t situation for me - by all accounts I ought to be thrashing the likes of Solomon Crowe or...I dunno...Joe Bishop, or whoever the f*ck else they think has the stones to carry this company on their back. Instead I - a Survival of the Fittest winner, by proxy making me a candidate for world title contendership, and oh...not to to mention a Hall of f*ckin' Famer - get stuck laying the hurt on guys like you, Reo. And if my situation is a world of sh*t, then yours is downright f*cked.
It's nothing personal - I don't know you. To look at you, I don't get much indication that were I to get to know you I'd like you very much, but that's neither here nor there. I'm not much of a people person, so I didn't come here looking to make friends with any self professed "children of the 80s". That's on me, not you. You can keep that one with you if you'd like.
But I'm going to f*cking destroy you.
Again, nothing personal. You're what we'd call collateral damage. An innocent victim. A negative side effect. A byproduct of whatever the f*ck it is Trace Demon is trying to prove by suckering you into the ring with me.
At some point, I'd like to think that you'd be handed some manner of redemption. That you could have a Duke Steel or a Pepe le Puke or a Johnny Magnum of your very own to crush along the path that you'll need to pave to prove to our pathetic, trembling, poster child for abstinence leader that you just might be worth your f*ckin' salt.
I just don't think your road is that long. The road is paved, nice and smooth, clear skies ahead.
But it intersects with mine.
And I'm going to f*cking kill you.
Nothin' personal."
I dont know good luck 
