Post by CM Poor on Apr 14, 2016 8:46:09 GMT -5
Prologue
"Sit down. Don't talk. Just listen.
Before we begin, let me start by saying that I'm almost certain that I'm going to come to regret this meeting in the days, weeks, and months to come. While some of my detractors may disagree to the point of certain points of anecdotal evidence serving to support their claims, I feel that one of my strong points is my ability to segregate my personal outlook on matters related to this business away from the task of navigating the decisions that have to be made on a daily basis in order to keep us afloat. That being said, I find you detestable. While we've never explicitly crossed paths until today, it is part of my duties to keep abreast of more volatile matters such as yourself, and in doing so, I've come to find you beyond recompense. You show no remorse for your actions. You're vulgar, violent beyond the means necessary to compete at a level fitting for what we do here, and that god awful smirk growing across your face even now as we speak tells me in no uncertain terms that you're completely unfazed by just how vile the aforementioned qualities paint you in the eyes of all but a very select few of your peers in the locker room, and so you'll forgive me if I don't waste any more breath on the subject.
I don't relish many of the tasks that fall in my lap as a result of my position in this company. Were it up to me, I'd be much more content to suggest that Mr. Demon try his hand at the more administrative side of things from time to time, but nevertheless, he ultimately signs my paycheck, and so when he says 'jump', I have a begrudging obligation to say 'on who?'.
I don't know whether or not it's in your nature to stay abreast of the product - I'm guessing not - but if you had, you'll have noticed an influx of new and returning talent as of late. We are, after all, a business, and like any other business, we experience both peaks and valleys, if you will, in terms of the resources at our disposal to provide the best possible show worldwide week to week. All interpersonal conflicts aside, you and your peers, the talent that steps into that ring each night? That's our bread and butter - we understand it, we're certainly not blind to it, and we make the necessary adjustments in order to assure that we can capitalize on it.
For....well, for reasons that are beyond me, you've resonated with our demographic audience during your time here. There are, of course, two sides to that coin, and for every Joshua Dean hero type that walks through that curtain that we're absolutely thrilled to put on a pedestal and have our fans get behind, there's...well, there's you. The role models we put out on stage - the Deans and the James - are nothing without lowlives like yourself that provide our heroes something to rally against. Our...'esteemed' CEO seems to embrace this notion. I simply accept it - a cost of doing business, if you will. No one wants to watch Superman and Batman clash until the end of days - eventually they want to see the heroes join forces to quell the forces of evil, and regrettably, unfortunately, and against every last iota of my better judgement, that is where you come in.
Your termination, even to me in the slightest of circumstances, was unfortunate. While I don't know exactly how much water the 'rule book' here seems to carry in consideration of the current management structure, the fact is, we have a wellness policy on the books - a set of directives that dictate an expected modicum of behavior from our talent that ensures relative freedom on our behalf with regard to certain liabilities. While we're not at all blind to the fact that substance use - on a relative scale of 'Samael Ahriman smoking Marlboro 100s' to 'whatever the hell Michael Kyzer is on this week' - exists within our locker room, you, in most unique fashion, let it gravely affect your work. Given your lack of any regard for my personal thoughts on the subject of you, I won't waste my breath going into detail about the missed shows, drunken tirades, and the corruption of what seemed like a nigh untouchable piece of talent in terms of relative goodness - if you could please stop smiling - but at the root of it, we had our cause for acting upon these gross violations, and we stand behind that decision.
With that in mind, even with as little value as I suspect your time holds, I haven't called you here today simply for the sake of verbally dragging you through the mud. Believe me when I say that my day would have been going immensely better had I not had this meeting to look forward to. The argument was recently made, however hard I fought to counter it , that if we were to make an exception for David James, why could we not explore an exception for you, given your knack for creating that dichotomy between good and downright rotten that our business so desperately thrives upon.
With your agreement, we're going to try something entirely different with you - something that my colleagues feel might just bring out the best in you, if such a thing even exists, in spite of all my warnings that we will ultimately come to regret such a decision no later than SuperBrawl if we're lucky - and that is to simply 'let you be'.
The base expectations of all our talent will continue to be held for you as well - you will appear when you are booked, you will compete in your assigned matches, and you will make every honest effort - a condition I'm sure you'll find a way to skirt - to abide by the in ring rules set forth by the company and regulated by our in ring referees. You will heed directions from all figures of authority and you will uphold all obligations that come with being an active member of our roster. Abide by these very, very basic demands, given your nature, and we will, in turn, in poor discretion and lackadaisical decision making that I must reiterate I had no part in, turn a blind eye, so to speak, to your more...defining indiscretions.
It's all there on paper. Do us a favor, would you? Just sign the damn thing and get the hell out of my office."
Return of the King
Order of Succession
"Love what you've done with the place."
Jack Brennan's high rise penthouse was something of an anomaly amid the the crime lord's vast portfolio of assets. Anyone who's seen the movies can tell you the tale of the tape - with inordinate amounts of cash serving as the foundation of his empire, Jack was more often than not wont to hold court in a more urban setting - aging dive bars, turn of the century dining rooms over a robust home cooked spread, and walks through local paths and parks that time continues to slowly cast the shadow of neglect upon. It wasn't necessarily for lack of style or flair - like most men who come into a cash flow that will, for the duration of their natural lives, be forever more than they could possibly know what to do with, Jack had a knack for expensive tastes. They'd recoil at the sight of his face, but every high end restaurant in every last corner of the city knew that dinner service always bore the potential for an unannounced visit from the eccentric mobster, and true to his reputation, there was always a table open and ready to be seated. No, Jack Brennan's reputed 'down to earth' style wasn't so much a decision of strategy, so much as it was one of comfort - south Boston ran in Jack Brennan's blood. He was old enough to likely have born the filth that once ran rampant down the Charles flowing through his veins, and it was here, among the cobblestone and brownstones, that Jack rose to prominence. Here, he was feared, not just by the neighbors, mind you, but city wide. Imagine that - a run down rat rising from nothing and staking his claim among the dirty and decrepit holding influence over the highest towers the city skyline had to offer. That's a special kind of power. That's a wield of influence you don't soon shed once you've seized it. Indeed, it was here, in the streets of Boston, that Jack Brennan became a self proclaimed god.
His arrogance notwithstanding, even Jack Brennan couldn't resist the allure of a place of prominence - his own dwelling among the city skyline from which he would look down upon his city, untouchable, as they crawled like ants beneath his feet, their every step forward allowed only because he, in his own mind's eye, allowed it to be so.
"I'd say you should, being able to opine and discuss and sh*t only on account of my say so."
It's David, now - Jack's youngest son and the only one socially depraved enough to have earned his right as the sole heir to Brennan family fortune - who sits atop the throne, in all the most literal meanings of the word. Jack had the ornate, marble seat installed some years earlier, though positioned it some distance across the room, in a corner, over looking the room rather than the real attraction here. David paid a hefty sum to have the gaudy piece of furniture moved here, mere inches away from the sitting room's picturesque floor to ceiling window, which provided the spectacular view, some fifty stories up, of the city over which Jack had sought to stare out upon. It was these little details, David always held, that kept Jack from being the true paragon of excellence in fear and intimidation he should have been. David, on the contrary, relished in it. He'd been here three, maybe four days now - the transitions between dawn and dusk somewhat lost to inconsequentiality upon him, basking in the reverence that he knew Jack never fully took for all it was worth.
"So you've finally figured it out..."
"Ain't nothin' to figure out, really."
"And you're content, then, with the presumption that you just routinely converse with the dead like it were any other Sunday?"
"F*ck me, is it Sunday already?"
"The hell're you asking me for? I can't give you an ounce of sh*t beyond whatever's in that pickled brain of yours."
"Right. Heh. What was the question again?"
"You don't find it the least bit odd - unsettling, even - to be spending your days sustained on a diet of High Lifes and...Jesus - Milano's Pizza?! Christ, almighty. Pizza and beer, David? Shooting the sh*t with the dead?!"
"You know, you're getting kinda preachy for something I'm making up as I go along."
"That so? Hpmh. Maybe I'm your conscience manifest, trying to steer you down the path of not being such a do-nothing piece of sh*t."
"That's not it. I don't really have a conscience - thanks for that, by the way.
"No, you'd just like to think you don't have a conscience. Look, David, you're a good kid and all, but you ain't never gonna have the stones it takes to be me. I mean, if you were even half the piece of sh*t I was, would you be sitting here in a drunken stupor, having a one sided conversation with yourself, filling in the blanks on the other side of the discussion with a bunch of casted self doubt on my behalf?"
He had a point there. If there was to be any non-monetary gain from Jack's passing a couple years back, David figured that with the old man sitting six feet under up the hill at Mount Cavalry, he'd have finally had a shot at a little piece and quiet. Seems like everywhere David turned in life, Jack was never gone for long, always finding his sniveling little way back into whatever the hell it was David had going on that week. Right pain in the ass he was, to be perfectly honest, but all the same, it did leave room to pause for some reflection.
To that end, David rises - for perhaps the first time in days - from his throne. Illuminated in the pollutive glow of the city lights, concluding that it's either very late in the evening or obscenely early in the morning, he pauses at full height to take in the view that Jack never appreciated in life before turning his attention to an assortment of bottles strewn about the base of his throne. Empty to the very last. Stumbling down to the floor level, he steps across an unseen obstacle course of obstructions in his path at ankle height, finally ambling over to a stainless steel fridge opposite the room. Hell of thing - since moving in, the ice box has never seemed to run empty, in spite of all his best efforts, and yet, he still had to navigate the treacherous landscape of the sitting room just to get his fill. Making a mental note to have it relocated, he procures two clear glass bottles from within, both for himself, mind you (he isn't stupid), popping the tops off with a wall mounted opener. Turning to take in the darkened room, all he sees is Jack, poised waiting for a response - any response - standing, well, everywhere.
"You know what I think? I think - and stop me if I'm wrong, but you won't 'cause I'm not - that if you're right, which you're not because I say you're not, and that you're some, what? Spooky manifest of my deeply rooted conscience, trying to steer me between right and wrong? If that's the case, then I'd argue with overwhelming evidence that it's pretty damn f*cked up that of all the people I've met, out of everyone who's come and gone, you'd be my moral compass."
"That? That's what you find unusual about this whole scenario? The notion of a father's concern for the well being of his own son?"
"Nah, you're absolutely right Jack. That's not weird - until it's you. Old men care about their kids, but you? You're Jack f*ckin' Brennan. There's a whole world of sh*t out there you could call whatever it was you did whenever you got your face time with me and Clark, but it ain't f*ckin' parenting. It ain't f*ckin' care, and it sure as sh*t ain't f*ckin' concern for our well being. You're a class act, premium grade, low life piece of sh*t, and you can talk all the sh*t you want about my 'good side', all them good things I tried to do, but I think it speaks volumes f*ckin' louder about me when I ain't got no one out to talk me off the edge of darkness, and for every name and face I've known, whether it's Clark, or Nat, or that Jesus kid, or whatever, I gotta make someone up to be my own little Jiminy Crickett, and I come up with you.
"That's what concerns you here..."
"Nah, what concerns me is that I've let you go on this long. If you're my f*ckin' conscience trying to steer me right, then I must be horribly f*ckin' wrong. If that's the case, I don't even know why we're having this discussion. You're beaten old man. Time for you to go.
"David..."
"Get the f*ck outta here."
Never pausing to evaluate the look on Jack's face as he punctuates his command with a defiant swig of his left crutch, David ambles back toward his seat high above the streets of Boston, passing through Jack as he does so. The glimmer of the blinding sunlight gleams just over the horizon - answering that question - as David slumps back into Jack's throne - f*ck that - HIS throne, lazily slurping from the alternating bottles as the sun slowly casts a morning glow upon David's city.
"I'm the f*cking King, now."
Conquest
"Someday, Penny, we're going to look back on this and laugh.
I mean...I will. That much is certain. People hate it, absolutely hate it, when they're proven wrong, and really, that's what this is all about, isn't it? I've heard some sh*t - I'd imagine you have, too. It's a tough stigma to break, wouldn't you say? Playing second, hell, third fiddle to the likes of Josh Dean and whatever the f*ck Christian name your boy Dave is going by these days? That's a tough break, kid. Talk about hitching up the wrong horse, huh? I mean, I don't care much for legacies, but I know that's kind of a big deal around these parts. That's gotta suck for you. In what? Ten? Maybe fifteen years, tops, when whatever little flame of relevance you still have sparking out in the storm, trying to keep itself alight finally burns out, that's what the history books are gonna read? 'Penny Shannon - the third wheel hidden in the shadow of the Saviors of Salvation'?
That sucks.
I know what you're thinking, too. Your head's already turning the wheels, however slow that may take depending on how much you've already burned up this morning, reevaluating the equation so that the roles of Dean and Dumbass are played here by a couple of 'are they or aren't they this week' junkie burnouts and the meek little nothing Penny Shannon becomes the man she's always longed to be with the casting of yours truly in the role of forever condemned to the shadows of the bigger and better.
Never heard that one before.
See, it's kind of a moot point even if it is where whatever brain cells you have left functioning at full clarity bring you, because that is the beginning, middle, and end of all there is between us that anyone paying attention could use to draw any sort of similarities, and it's one hell of a dead end road with no ease of egress when you finally decide to make the journey, Pen'.
Now, I personally don't know, nor do I much care where you stand amid all this happy horsesh*t that went down at Dark Matter, but since you were content to just sit there and let me run my mouth, 'like a b*tch', as you so eloquently put it, perhaps you'll humor me just a bit more. See, it's funny, and I know it's so hard in this, well this thing that we do, to really convey this idea because it's so foreign and unusual and altogether unheard of, really, but when you get right down to the brass tacks of it all, Pen' - it's nothing personal. If, ah, what's his nuts there, Dan Knight or whoever else he's got working his, sorry, working the stick this week were to stop me in the halls and get right up in my grill and ask me just what my thoughts are on the incomparable 'Velocity Grrrl' Penny Shannon....I 'unno. Probably shrug 'em off. Maybe offer 'em a beer - not f* ckin' likely - but nah. There's the honest to gods truth about it Pen'. Short of your name, maybe a little competitive history with your boys the Wonder Twins there? I ain't got much to say on the matter.
You're nothing to me.
And so, of course, you're probably asking yourself, if you're the diminutive piss ant on my radar that I claim you to be, why'd I bother? Why'd I step out in your moment of glory - you, the hand picked heiress to the unified International Championship, reveling in all her glory as Lila Sleater had only begun to song your praises of revelry and achievement, elevating you to the very beacon many of us, myself included, were simply convinced you'd never achieve playing puff and pass lapdog to the WFWF's favorite pretty boy faces - and turn it up on its ass? I mean, sure, there's gain involved because ultimately, by way of my own piss poor behavior, I'll be taking that SuperBrawl moment far, far away from you and leaving the legacy of Penny Shannon to become the self fulfilling prophecy of nothing that it is, but here I am, professing for the world to hear that, in the grand scheme of life, you don't matter as little to me as a petty gold belt wrapped in leather. Heh, it's kinda stupid, really, right? I ain't been much for this place lately, but there's enough Brandon Bisons and Trevor Wolfs running around out back to lay a beating on without a second thought. Hell, the dead man's golden boy is back and reportedly looking to retake the classes he somehow failed under the tutelage of Obo and Trace a couple hundred times - why rain on your parade?!
Because I can.
That there's the long and short of it, Pen', and I know that's got to sting something fierce because there's nothing worse than someone just poking you and poking you just for the sheer hell of it, no real end game in sight, but, well, there it is. Now, I won't lie and go on to say that I wasn't a little chuffed over the idea of you skipping in to my city just to sit back in relative comfort and wait for the outcome to see who you figured you'd be goin' down with come SuperBrawl, but at the end of the day, that just plays into what little framework there is that exists between me and the WFWF joining hands to cross the threshold of unholy matrimony once more. At the end of the day, the plan always involved me poking my head out and finding myself a fight when you and yours came on to my turf to roost for the night - you getting the rub just made sure I found myself a good one.
I know, I know - I coulda found myself any old Brandon Bison or Trevor Wolf or Dex or whoever and had myself a good old fashioned, one man Boston Boot Party, but Pen'? I've been down that road? The sh*t I was getting fed back in the day here? Ace Bennett? Reo Speedwagon? That's child's play sh*t, y'know? It's only so fun to stomp balls and take names until they just starting flaying wide open on the mat to accept the inevitable, but you, Pen'? Nah, you're not gonna let those big brass balls of yours get kicked around so easily, are you, hun? Nah, now that's the crux of it - those other guys? Loss is a loss, especially when ol' David Brennan is around, they practically come plannin' on it, but you?
You want this.
You need this.
This is everything in the world to you, isn't it Penny? This is your shot - your only shot - not just at some gold plates superglued to a pleather strap and anointed as some beacon of achievement in the holy blood of our savior Shawn Malakai, but at redemption.
Those shadows are dark, Penny. Did you forget your lantern when you went and hitched your wagon up to two run down mules?
In a different world, maybe in better market, the tale of the tape would be which of us would finally break free from the constraints of our past allegiances to stand tall on our own two feet and bear our name to the world, beholden to no preemptive banner which somehow serves to devalue the ones we've carried with us all our lives - would it finally stand to be 'Penny Shannon', beacon of the true and good with no room left upon the marquee for 'of the Saviors of Salvation'? Or would it be 'David Brennan', with no precedence for incorrigible behavior that would necessitate 'of The New Epoch'?
What a stupid f*ckin' question.
This story's already been written Pen' - all the world's a stage and all that happy horsesh*t. You and me? Players. I know the leaves grant you a false optimism that betrays the script that's been laid out before us Pen', but this sh*t ain't choose your own adventure - there's only one ending here, and unfortunately, you and the f*ckin' loon may just have to hold out hope that the buy rates justify a sequel, because your spotlight? The one Sleater was stupid enough to try and shine upon you before the thousands and thousands of your shrieking loyal devoted?
It's gone.
It's mine.
I've already taken it.
Because I can."
Rumors of War
"That....looked like it hurt."
David Brennan had come back to the WFWF considerably high on his own self importance and remarkably low on expectations. In his own mind, he's been given a 'hall pass' of sorts - toe the line of the bare minimum expectations, and a blind eye shall ye receive turned to all thy worldly indiscretions. That was as solid an offer as he'd ever need to do just about anything. He'd come to terms with the notion that his lifestyle would not gel with the obligations that would arise in taking his father's seat upon the hierarchy of Boston's seedy underworld, and so the alternative - that is, dissolving his own interests in the family business, ensuring that, should he choose, he'd never have to work another day in his life and in doing so, his fridge would still never run dry - was simply too much allure to resist.
As is often times noted by those lucky to live out their waning days free from the constraints of a nine to five, however, life on the slow and easy can get a touch bit boring. As little interest as he may have had in becoming the heir apparent to Jack Brennan's criminal empire, he was only human, and even he craved some sort of excitement in life, and so when the opportunity came knocking to be afforded a weekly opportunity to hit things...err, people...with no negative regard for the way he'd otherwise chosen to live out his days, well, to drive home a point - he's only human.
And what a difference, to boot. He'd done the whole return to chase the evasive chains of glory thing once before, and as is the case with so many other facets of life that involve ends and means, he found it to be more the chore than it was worth. But now? Arriving in the great white north, strolling the bowels of the arena, not a care in the world, save whether or not he could lock down a case or two of Molson Canadian? Well, sh*t - this was gonna be fun! Truthfully, he couldn't quite remember what the hell it was that brought him down this road in the first place, but if the takeaway was any indicator, it couldn't have really been all that worth two squirts of piss if this was what came with coming in expecting nothing but the opportunity to hunt down a fight - which David, of course, found a pair of, shortly after running his ever present, filter-less mouth.
Of course, he felt the eyes upon him - he always had. There was something about David Brennan that just attracted the gaze of passerby, for one reason or another. From day one, it was the stigma - no one would have known him from Adam, but for the press junkets advertising the WFWF's new skinhead acquisition, and so on that day, they all craned at the neck to get a glimpse at this anomaly they'd soon come to share the open road with. Shortly after, he found himself aligned with two of the most reviled and well known names in the industry, and again, their necks would creak to see just what kind of stench would follow a man so easily welcomed into the fold of The New Epoch.
Now, his reputation preceded him, and again the door swings open and the entire operation seems to pause, if only for a moment, to see just what it is angry, drunken David might do. Was it beer goggles, though, or did they all seem....shorter now? He'd chuckled to himself as he'd ambled down the hall, Lila Sleater's Pennybration sort of grating on the nerves as he'd made his way toward the curtain to put a stop to all that nonsense. Yes, this was all to be expected - the funny looks, the hushed gossip, hell - even Whitner clocking him from behind and tossing him off stage like the piece of trash that he was seemed perfectly normal in the grand scheme of things, but he'd never expected to wobble on back and find this mustachioed mother f*cker lying in wait.
"Y'know, it's funny - didn't feel a thing."
Drakz held his gaze, stone faced and stoic, though if David hadn't a weakness for spirits, he'd have caught the most subtle of subtle twitches of the nose as Drakz quietly assessed his former ally, quietly soaking in all there was to perceive of a man he hadn't seen in all but close to a year.
"From the smell of you, no...no, I imagine you wouldn't have."
"That's f*cked up, man."
"You know I only call them as I see them. Care to walk?"
"Rather find myself a drink."
"David..."
With a sympathetic eye that does not come with a look of mocking disdain, Drakz procures glass bottle, the label flaking as a side effect of having soaked in a cooler for some time. David eagerly accepts the gesture, turning the bottle over to check the branding before popping the cap. Schlitz. Cheap son of a b*tch. All the same, a beer's a beer, and Drakz turns to lead the way, keeping a shoulder ahead of David as he quietly ambles behind, discreetly maintaining the pace so as to not let off his guard all that much, in spite of the stingy kindness of his old friend.
"What brings you here, David?"
"I 'unno. Something to do. Being loaded and rich? Only so cool til you've only got your own sh*t to wreck. Figure I'll try my hand at someone else's."
"Penny Shannon? Really David? Figured you a touch bit better'n that."
"Eh...she's got somethin' to lose. More fun that way."
"Ah, what we wouldn't have given for a touch of that savagery back in the day."
"Get f*cked..."
"Still...the Whitner boy will likely cause some difficulty."
"Wait, who?"
"Ante Whitner? The marital aid what just threw you off a stage just now and if you don't mind me asking - how in the blue hell are we having this conversation?"
"Uh...with words?"
"With words...you always were the clever one...no, how are we, in particular you, standing here upright, conversing on the subject of f*ck all, after taking the spill that landed me among the invalids for months on end?"
It would seem that this particular thorn in Drakz side may bear a bit of an overwhelming sting, as he comes to a halt, ceasing their aimless stroll and turning to face the man who trails him at a boot's length distance. For a moment, neither man makes to continue the idle banter - Drakz adjusts the world title upon his shoulder, which he's carried this whole time because he's an arrogant and pompous sort of d*ck like that, and David swills from his left handed bottle, scouring as he comes up empty and makes for his right, tossing the first aside with an audible clink that echoes throughout the cavernous halls as he shrugs the question off.
"Jesus H...the ol' IDDQD Ale, then, is it?"
It's David now who leads off with a subtle, indifferent cock of the head. Drakz marvels at the lackadaisical show of disregard for a moment, before striding to keep up, having effectively switched positional roles with his former friend now.
"Do you ever suppose that, I don't know, maybe of you'd just eased off the liquid tit just a bit, that maybe, just maybe, you'd be in a position to take someone's pride and joy away without having to arbitrarily topple over the dreams of little girls like Penny Shannon?"
"Where's the fun in that?"
"It just seems beneath you. We both know that this title shot you're after - any title shot, really - is long overdue, but how much of that do you suppose might be your problem?"
"How much do you suppose I care? Ain't about titles, none of that. This sh*t? Penny and the boy and all that? It's just 'cause I can. Nothing to gain, nothing to lose, y'know?"
"Look, mate, you think you're going to learn me something in the ways of being all nasty like, you're barking up the wrong f*ckin' tree, but come on - this is Epoch grade sh*t, and that ship has sailed and sunk. Look how well the old ways worked out for the midget trying to stand up next to me today. That the road you're content to ride upon?"
"You're comfortable then, playing the Demon's b*tch the way you have?"
This is enough to stop Drakz in his tracks, and David can immediately sense it, turning to face the world champion, a sinister look widening across his face. He hasn't come here to make friends or rekindle old camaraderies, least of all with the ever present Isaac Cray. It might surprise the champ to learn, but even in spite of his derelict condition at the time, David has been bestowed upon, somewhere along the way, with the most unique trait of recollection, right down to the most vivid details of his most Earth shattering benders, and to that end, David is content with the notion that their relationship died a most certain and finite death in some rat house bar tucked away in one of the seediest corners of New York City over a year ago. Drakz had made his point loud and clear, and to be lectured now, in his time of triumph, having returned to the WFWF in most stellar and regal fashion to begin tearing down the walls that once constrained him, on the dichotomy of success between the two former members of the New Epoch? Well, that was more than enough to boil David's blood to degrees of no return. Hell hath no fury like a King unheralded.
"Seems to me, without your latest dog to hide behind, that belt sits around the waist of Josh Dean."
"Maybe talk when you've got yourself a title of your own there, mate."
"Pencil me in for SuperBrawl then? C'mon - you and I both know how this sh*t's gonna play out. Penny Shannon? Ante Whitner? Whoever the f*ck comes out of the little roll in the hay between the new kid and - Jesus, dare I say - Cameron f*cking Stone? That why you're here? Should I be, I dunno, looking around the corner for Kyzer these next few weeks? I know that sh*t - The New Epoch, all that - was you guys' baby, but that legacy? It's on borrowed f*ckin' time, brother. That sh*t we pulled? The games we f*ckin' played? Ain't gonna mean d*ck when the guy everyone calls the hanger on's best days come without the supportive backing of a couple of burnt out junkies on a f*ckin' power trip. That day's coming, brother, and I think that scares the ever loving sh*t outta you."
"Jesus, you ARE f*ckin' drunk, aren't you? You're gonna...what? Soil the entire legacy of The New Epoch by beating a couple of nothings, assuming you don't f*ck off back into the wild first?"
"Nah, brother. I'm gonna soil the legacy of The New Epoch by taking everything they - not we - they were never able to. Easy with the fingerprints on that belt there, huh?"
"The f*ck you care about pri-"
"What can I say? I like my sh*t to stay shiny. See you 'round, pal."
Execution
"You've got some f*ckin' stones on you, don't you?
Let me tell you somethin', Ante: I've come across some class f*ckin' stupid people in my time around here, most of 'em by sheer virtue of ballsin' up enough to go toe to toe with yours truly. I mean, you've had your odd remarkable case - your Ace Bennetts and such who figured one boot in their craw wasn't enough and willingly stepped forward with a mouth full of thank you sir, may I have another, but if my memory serves me right, and I'll admit well enough that sometimes it doesn't, I ain't never met someone with their head so far up their own ass that they come to the conclusion that coming at me from behinds falls anywhere within the realm of good ideas. You're either bold as f*ck or stupider than sh*t - I suppose both roads sorta run the same way - 'cause that sh*t is gonna get you hurt.
You know how much of a hair across the a** it is to get jumped from behind by some loony bat f*ckin' son of a b*tch you ain't ever even met? I don't know what sort of game it is you're playin' at, Ante, but if I were a betting man, I'd harbor a guess that you didn't learn that sh*t from mutual acquaintances.
Yeah.
Him.
Now I know the story as far as you playin' your royal flush of stupid and how Lady Luck fell to her knees before you that night - search me how you pulled that one off - but the whole notion of how you managed to spend any sort of time puffin' off of Kyzer's pipe and not come away with the common sense of mind to not interrupt me when I'm interrupting people completely betrays any sort of logical thought I can put behind it. Sure, I've never been some paragon of logic short of however much sense it makes to stuff a steel toe down your throat, but come on - did you really come off of his needle and figure you were some exception to the rule?
I dunno, man. Maybe that sh*t gets inside your head - it's doing a right f*ckin' job of screwin' our buddy Penny up to the point that she figures her old flame toppled the Hobo formerly known as Obo, she may as well be able to do the same to the guy that lil' Scarlett was one of THREE F*CKIN' PEOPLE it took to replace. Guess it makes sense to figure, what with you bein' the guy what got the jump on the 'God of F*ck' - really took him for a ride - that hey, the New Epoch's third man? Pssh, walk in the park, yeah?
Doesn't always work that way.
Let's ask ourselves something, Ante - what did the New Epoch accomplish? No, really - aside from high jacking a couple of shows and spending the majority of our time positively plastered, which I'd have wound up f*ckin' doing anyway, why was that collective, those three guys, held in such a regard that there'd be any draw for a guy like you - a nothing, a no one - to latch on to a guy like Kyzer? I mean, short of the needle dangling out of his arm when you first crossed paths, what sort of allure was there to make you stop and think, if that's within the realm of possibility, 'hmm, yeah. This seems smart'? Was there really something there, something shiny and mysterious that caught your simple little mind and dragged you in so he could spend a little time with his fist up your ass like the puppet that you are, that you fancied yourself poised to gain? Did it come true? Things work out for you? Or was the legend of Michael Kyzer just that - a f*ckin' legend.
Now I can't let your association with the junkie f*ck be too much an indictment on your character - after all, we've both taken that ride, and I'm sure for a whole mess of similar reasons. Reputations are a b*tch around here, and they have this real nasty habit of preceding the folks that most often stand behind 'em, and I dunno - maybe that's where you conjured up this bold ass idea to dip your balls in a coating of brass and try and get the jump on me from behind - after all, you bested the guy only a handful of proud, happy few have managed to best. What's the third chair, junior representative, whipping boy b*tch of the New Epoch gonna put up between you and your shot at the next rung up on the ladder?
You didn't learn sh*t, did you?
Find yourself a mirror, Ante. Take a good hard look - really delve in, try and get past those dead, downwind, under-bred eyes of yours to get to the real meat and potatoes or piss and vinegar or whatever the hell it is coursing through those veins that makes you the best, and f*ckin' mercifully to the rest of a civilized society, only Ante Whitner there is. Sit back, and just stare - we've established that you're pretty capable of vacant gazing - and let the wheels start to turn. It's gonna go slow at first, you're only Ante Whitner, but stick with it. Once the gears start clicking, let everything start to soak in, and ask yourself:
'Where did it get me?'
'What do I have to show for it?'
'Who have I managed to impress?'
Nowhere
Nothing
No one.
See, Ante, to me, an experience - good, bad, or ugly - is only as valuable as what you come out on the other side with. Can you really, really stand tall, chin out, eyes vacant, and say that anything you've done here is at all a valid benchmark for the argument that you might have a fighting chance at leaving Boston in one piece? I mean, look at you - you're something like the world's longest reigning National Champion, and the only reason you're getting a foothold on the next step up is because they're scrapping that sh*t - don't let the nice new coat of 'unified' paint fool you - in favor a title with a bit more prestige.
And even then?
They figured Penny Shannon, whose collective title reigns rival only mine, which if that don't make you feel like sh*t, nothing will, was more suited to take a shot at that newly minted title than the only man walking the halls with any claim to boast any sort of longevity based ties to the matter.
And even then?
They let some lowlife, knock down, drag out piece of sh*t like me literally sh*t talk his way into throwing up a few barriers and making sure Penny had a few more knots to tie in her balls before toking her way into the big time.
And even then?
I couldn't give two sh*ts and a f*ck about the title! I mean, doesn't that just sting?! Here you are - the afterthought of the afterthought - and you're trailing two steps behind a burnout who can't even ride her ex's residual high into some manner of relevance and a louse who's been MIA for the better part of, what? A year?! Even with you going AWOL like a little boy who's just kicked his favorite red ball over Mr. Myrtle's back fence and is too much of a b*tch to just go and get it back like any other human being would do, you've fallen into depths of obscurity even I can't begin to fathom, and I might qualify for a solo hall of fame induction on the back of my record breaking comings and goings alone!
God - you really suck, don't you Ante?
That's all there could be to it - we joke all the time, the kids that couldn't hack it - your Andrew Carters or whoever the f*ck else - but you're right there with him, aren't you Ante? I mean, the world guns after taking the strap off the longest reigning National Champion in WFWF history, and a rook's the one to knock you off your throne?! You lose A match - one, singular, uno - and you're about as valid to the booking committee as Lincoln Dina, and you want to come after me?
That's one special kind of stupid, Ante, but when it's all said and done, I'm gonna owe you, I think.
See, I love to sit and listen to everybody around here line and long for their glory days and the drive that brings them here and how they're going to lay it all out in the ring. It's such a pile or horsesh*t. I'm the only one honest enough out of the whole batch to tell you that I keep coming back here time and time again 'cause, frankly? I have a whole lot of fun kicking the sh*t out of people. Out in the streets? They lock your ass up for that, but climb in between a couple of ropes and do it in the ol' twenty by twenty? Well, sh*t, now you're a workin' man. You can't argue with that kind of deal. And the perks! My god, the perks. Penny Shannon, bless her little heart, has got the heart of a gladiator and has kicked and scratched and clawed her way to this very moment, where she's been deemed the chosen one, the gilded child, the sole competitor who's done and seen enough to even be considered a contender for the International Championship, and all it took was someone with the stones enough to tell her, and Lila Sleater, and all those fans chanting her name that the whole lot of them're full of sh*t, and all the sudden her meal ticket's in dire straits! Now...and get this, this is the real funny part...she HAD it. Absolutely had it, and now she's got to come to Boston - MY city - and get her ass kicked all across the parquet just for the privilege of losing it!
And there's you, Ante. That must have really put a hair across your ass, someone as unaccomplished and volatile and flighty as me just coming in and fixin' the odds in my favor, really, just for the hell of it. Hell, I know it did - even stupider than stupid wouldn't come up with that stunt you pulled at Dark Matter without something chapping your ass first. You had an audible to call and you blew it hard. You know you've got to pay for that, and that that sh*t's coming at one hell of a premium, right? It's bad enough that when they were handing out draws, you wound up being you - you've got to carry that and all the unremarkable bullsh*t that comes with it from the cradle to the grave, but now you've got to get your ass kicked, too? I mean, the real kinda knock down, drag out, leave you bleedin' out a face that only mama Whitner could love ass kickin' like you see in the movies and sh*t?
Make no mistake, Ante - the time has come to pay for your actions. I'm a lot of things - three sheets, a scumbag, a low life, a King - all the sh*t they say? I ain't gonna argue it, but above all else, I'm the kinda guy you don't want to be striking from behind. That's the type of sh*t bound to get you hurt, and you just cut yourself to the front of the line, Ante. There's some guys you can get away with that sh*t on. You hit 'em from behind, cost 'em a match, maybe a little of the ol' glory they find themselves after, and yeah, maybe you've got yourself a match next week. No fuss, no muss.
I'm not one of those guys.
That's a pretty poster we found ourselves on, you, me, and Penny, yeah? Looks all nice, gonna sell some tickets I'm sure, but don't be fooled, Ante - this isn't a match you've got yourself booked into. This isn't an opportunity at regaining your standing as a champion in the WFWF - that opportunity never existed for you just as it doesn't exist for Penny there, because neither one of you even fell into the running the minute I opened my big mouth. That ship sailed. The date has been set, time and place, for your appointment in the gallows, Ante. The only legacy you'll leave behind will be weak, unseen, and disregarded, because while I'd like to believe that the image of the dent alterations I'm about to perform alongside Doc Marten would serve as a deterrent example to any who might come after you, the simple fact is there'll always be someone stupid as you who thinks they're gonna get the edge on me by starting the fight anywhere but face to face. For years, people will come to remember the ass kickin' you got dealt in Boston, Massachusetts, but the crux of all that?
It ain't gonna make a lick of difference.
Your legacy will be the image of a man beaten, battered, and broken in the the agony of brutal, unyielding defeat.
And it's all going to be in vain.
That sucks, man.
Y'ever find yourself thinkin' you might have been better off just tossing your own dumb ass off that stage?
"Sit down. Don't talk. Just listen.
Before we begin, let me start by saying that I'm almost certain that I'm going to come to regret this meeting in the days, weeks, and months to come. While some of my detractors may disagree to the point of certain points of anecdotal evidence serving to support their claims, I feel that one of my strong points is my ability to segregate my personal outlook on matters related to this business away from the task of navigating the decisions that have to be made on a daily basis in order to keep us afloat. That being said, I find you detestable. While we've never explicitly crossed paths until today, it is part of my duties to keep abreast of more volatile matters such as yourself, and in doing so, I've come to find you beyond recompense. You show no remorse for your actions. You're vulgar, violent beyond the means necessary to compete at a level fitting for what we do here, and that god awful smirk growing across your face even now as we speak tells me in no uncertain terms that you're completely unfazed by just how vile the aforementioned qualities paint you in the eyes of all but a very select few of your peers in the locker room, and so you'll forgive me if I don't waste any more breath on the subject.
I don't relish many of the tasks that fall in my lap as a result of my position in this company. Were it up to me, I'd be much more content to suggest that Mr. Demon try his hand at the more administrative side of things from time to time, but nevertheless, he ultimately signs my paycheck, and so when he says 'jump', I have a begrudging obligation to say 'on who?'.
I don't know whether or not it's in your nature to stay abreast of the product - I'm guessing not - but if you had, you'll have noticed an influx of new and returning talent as of late. We are, after all, a business, and like any other business, we experience both peaks and valleys, if you will, in terms of the resources at our disposal to provide the best possible show worldwide week to week. All interpersonal conflicts aside, you and your peers, the talent that steps into that ring each night? That's our bread and butter - we understand it, we're certainly not blind to it, and we make the necessary adjustments in order to assure that we can capitalize on it.
For....well, for reasons that are beyond me, you've resonated with our demographic audience during your time here. There are, of course, two sides to that coin, and for every Joshua Dean hero type that walks through that curtain that we're absolutely thrilled to put on a pedestal and have our fans get behind, there's...well, there's you. The role models we put out on stage - the Deans and the James - are nothing without lowlives like yourself that provide our heroes something to rally against. Our...'esteemed' CEO seems to embrace this notion. I simply accept it - a cost of doing business, if you will. No one wants to watch Superman and Batman clash until the end of days - eventually they want to see the heroes join forces to quell the forces of evil, and regrettably, unfortunately, and against every last iota of my better judgement, that is where you come in.
Your termination, even to me in the slightest of circumstances, was unfortunate. While I don't know exactly how much water the 'rule book' here seems to carry in consideration of the current management structure, the fact is, we have a wellness policy on the books - a set of directives that dictate an expected modicum of behavior from our talent that ensures relative freedom on our behalf with regard to certain liabilities. While we're not at all blind to the fact that substance use - on a relative scale of 'Samael Ahriman smoking Marlboro 100s' to 'whatever the hell Michael Kyzer is on this week' - exists within our locker room, you, in most unique fashion, let it gravely affect your work. Given your lack of any regard for my personal thoughts on the subject of you, I won't waste my breath going into detail about the missed shows, drunken tirades, and the corruption of what seemed like a nigh untouchable piece of talent in terms of relative goodness - if you could please stop smiling - but at the root of it, we had our cause for acting upon these gross violations, and we stand behind that decision.
With that in mind, even with as little value as I suspect your time holds, I haven't called you here today simply for the sake of verbally dragging you through the mud. Believe me when I say that my day would have been going immensely better had I not had this meeting to look forward to. The argument was recently made, however hard I fought to counter it , that if we were to make an exception for David James, why could we not explore an exception for you, given your knack for creating that dichotomy between good and downright rotten that our business so desperately thrives upon.
With your agreement, we're going to try something entirely different with you - something that my colleagues feel might just bring out the best in you, if such a thing even exists, in spite of all my warnings that we will ultimately come to regret such a decision no later than SuperBrawl if we're lucky - and that is to simply 'let you be'.
The base expectations of all our talent will continue to be held for you as well - you will appear when you are booked, you will compete in your assigned matches, and you will make every honest effort - a condition I'm sure you'll find a way to skirt - to abide by the in ring rules set forth by the company and regulated by our in ring referees. You will heed directions from all figures of authority and you will uphold all obligations that come with being an active member of our roster. Abide by these very, very basic demands, given your nature, and we will, in turn, in poor discretion and lackadaisical decision making that I must reiterate I had no part in, turn a blind eye, so to speak, to your more...defining indiscretions.
It's all there on paper. Do us a favor, would you? Just sign the damn thing and get the hell out of my office."
Return of the King
Order of Succession
"Love what you've done with the place."
Jack Brennan's high rise penthouse was something of an anomaly amid the the crime lord's vast portfolio of assets. Anyone who's seen the movies can tell you the tale of the tape - with inordinate amounts of cash serving as the foundation of his empire, Jack was more often than not wont to hold court in a more urban setting - aging dive bars, turn of the century dining rooms over a robust home cooked spread, and walks through local paths and parks that time continues to slowly cast the shadow of neglect upon. It wasn't necessarily for lack of style or flair - like most men who come into a cash flow that will, for the duration of their natural lives, be forever more than they could possibly know what to do with, Jack had a knack for expensive tastes. They'd recoil at the sight of his face, but every high end restaurant in every last corner of the city knew that dinner service always bore the potential for an unannounced visit from the eccentric mobster, and true to his reputation, there was always a table open and ready to be seated. No, Jack Brennan's reputed 'down to earth' style wasn't so much a decision of strategy, so much as it was one of comfort - south Boston ran in Jack Brennan's blood. He was old enough to likely have born the filth that once ran rampant down the Charles flowing through his veins, and it was here, among the cobblestone and brownstones, that Jack rose to prominence. Here, he was feared, not just by the neighbors, mind you, but city wide. Imagine that - a run down rat rising from nothing and staking his claim among the dirty and decrepit holding influence over the highest towers the city skyline had to offer. That's a special kind of power. That's a wield of influence you don't soon shed once you've seized it. Indeed, it was here, in the streets of Boston, that Jack Brennan became a self proclaimed god.
His arrogance notwithstanding, even Jack Brennan couldn't resist the allure of a place of prominence - his own dwelling among the city skyline from which he would look down upon his city, untouchable, as they crawled like ants beneath his feet, their every step forward allowed only because he, in his own mind's eye, allowed it to be so.
"I'd say you should, being able to opine and discuss and sh*t only on account of my say so."
It's David, now - Jack's youngest son and the only one socially depraved enough to have earned his right as the sole heir to Brennan family fortune - who sits atop the throne, in all the most literal meanings of the word. Jack had the ornate, marble seat installed some years earlier, though positioned it some distance across the room, in a corner, over looking the room rather than the real attraction here. David paid a hefty sum to have the gaudy piece of furniture moved here, mere inches away from the sitting room's picturesque floor to ceiling window, which provided the spectacular view, some fifty stories up, of the city over which Jack had sought to stare out upon. It was these little details, David always held, that kept Jack from being the true paragon of excellence in fear and intimidation he should have been. David, on the contrary, relished in it. He'd been here three, maybe four days now - the transitions between dawn and dusk somewhat lost to inconsequentiality upon him, basking in the reverence that he knew Jack never fully took for all it was worth.
"So you've finally figured it out..."
"Ain't nothin' to figure out, really."
"And you're content, then, with the presumption that you just routinely converse with the dead like it were any other Sunday?"
"F*ck me, is it Sunday already?"
"The hell're you asking me for? I can't give you an ounce of sh*t beyond whatever's in that pickled brain of yours."
"Right. Heh. What was the question again?"
"You don't find it the least bit odd - unsettling, even - to be spending your days sustained on a diet of High Lifes and...Jesus - Milano's Pizza?! Christ, almighty. Pizza and beer, David? Shooting the sh*t with the dead?!"
"You know, you're getting kinda preachy for something I'm making up as I go along."
"That so? Hpmh. Maybe I'm your conscience manifest, trying to steer you down the path of not being such a do-nothing piece of sh*t."
"That's not it. I don't really have a conscience - thanks for that, by the way.
"No, you'd just like to think you don't have a conscience. Look, David, you're a good kid and all, but you ain't never gonna have the stones it takes to be me. I mean, if you were even half the piece of sh*t I was, would you be sitting here in a drunken stupor, having a one sided conversation with yourself, filling in the blanks on the other side of the discussion with a bunch of casted self doubt on my behalf?"
He had a point there. If there was to be any non-monetary gain from Jack's passing a couple years back, David figured that with the old man sitting six feet under up the hill at Mount Cavalry, he'd have finally had a shot at a little piece and quiet. Seems like everywhere David turned in life, Jack was never gone for long, always finding his sniveling little way back into whatever the hell it was David had going on that week. Right pain in the ass he was, to be perfectly honest, but all the same, it did leave room to pause for some reflection.
To that end, David rises - for perhaps the first time in days - from his throne. Illuminated in the pollutive glow of the city lights, concluding that it's either very late in the evening or obscenely early in the morning, he pauses at full height to take in the view that Jack never appreciated in life before turning his attention to an assortment of bottles strewn about the base of his throne. Empty to the very last. Stumbling down to the floor level, he steps across an unseen obstacle course of obstructions in his path at ankle height, finally ambling over to a stainless steel fridge opposite the room. Hell of thing - since moving in, the ice box has never seemed to run empty, in spite of all his best efforts, and yet, he still had to navigate the treacherous landscape of the sitting room just to get his fill. Making a mental note to have it relocated, he procures two clear glass bottles from within, both for himself, mind you (he isn't stupid), popping the tops off with a wall mounted opener. Turning to take in the darkened room, all he sees is Jack, poised waiting for a response - any response - standing, well, everywhere.
"You know what I think? I think - and stop me if I'm wrong, but you won't 'cause I'm not - that if you're right, which you're not because I say you're not, and that you're some, what? Spooky manifest of my deeply rooted conscience, trying to steer me between right and wrong? If that's the case, then I'd argue with overwhelming evidence that it's pretty damn f*cked up that of all the people I've met, out of everyone who's come and gone, you'd be my moral compass."
"That? That's what you find unusual about this whole scenario? The notion of a father's concern for the well being of his own son?"
"Nah, you're absolutely right Jack. That's not weird - until it's you. Old men care about their kids, but you? You're Jack f*ckin' Brennan. There's a whole world of sh*t out there you could call whatever it was you did whenever you got your face time with me and Clark, but it ain't f*ckin' parenting. It ain't f*ckin' care, and it sure as sh*t ain't f*ckin' concern for our well being. You're a class act, premium grade, low life piece of sh*t, and you can talk all the sh*t you want about my 'good side', all them good things I tried to do, but I think it speaks volumes f*ckin' louder about me when I ain't got no one out to talk me off the edge of darkness, and for every name and face I've known, whether it's Clark, or Nat, or that Jesus kid, or whatever, I gotta make someone up to be my own little Jiminy Crickett, and I come up with you.
"That's what concerns you here..."
"Nah, what concerns me is that I've let you go on this long. If you're my f*ckin' conscience trying to steer me right, then I must be horribly f*ckin' wrong. If that's the case, I don't even know why we're having this discussion. You're beaten old man. Time for you to go.
"David..."
"Get the f*ck outta here."
Never pausing to evaluate the look on Jack's face as he punctuates his command with a defiant swig of his left crutch, David ambles back toward his seat high above the streets of Boston, passing through Jack as he does so. The glimmer of the blinding sunlight gleams just over the horizon - answering that question - as David slumps back into Jack's throne - f*ck that - HIS throne, lazily slurping from the alternating bottles as the sun slowly casts a morning glow upon David's city.
"I'm the f*cking King, now."
Conquest
"Someday, Penny, we're going to look back on this and laugh.
I mean...I will. That much is certain. People hate it, absolutely hate it, when they're proven wrong, and really, that's what this is all about, isn't it? I've heard some sh*t - I'd imagine you have, too. It's a tough stigma to break, wouldn't you say? Playing second, hell, third fiddle to the likes of Josh Dean and whatever the f*ck Christian name your boy Dave is going by these days? That's a tough break, kid. Talk about hitching up the wrong horse, huh? I mean, I don't care much for legacies, but I know that's kind of a big deal around these parts. That's gotta suck for you. In what? Ten? Maybe fifteen years, tops, when whatever little flame of relevance you still have sparking out in the storm, trying to keep itself alight finally burns out, that's what the history books are gonna read? 'Penny Shannon - the third wheel hidden in the shadow of the Saviors of Salvation'?
That sucks.
I know what you're thinking, too. Your head's already turning the wheels, however slow that may take depending on how much you've already burned up this morning, reevaluating the equation so that the roles of Dean and Dumbass are played here by a couple of 'are they or aren't they this week' junkie burnouts and the meek little nothing Penny Shannon becomes the man she's always longed to be with the casting of yours truly in the role of forever condemned to the shadows of the bigger and better.
Never heard that one before.
See, it's kind of a moot point even if it is where whatever brain cells you have left functioning at full clarity bring you, because that is the beginning, middle, and end of all there is between us that anyone paying attention could use to draw any sort of similarities, and it's one hell of a dead end road with no ease of egress when you finally decide to make the journey, Pen'.
Now, I personally don't know, nor do I much care where you stand amid all this happy horsesh*t that went down at Dark Matter, but since you were content to just sit there and let me run my mouth, 'like a b*tch', as you so eloquently put it, perhaps you'll humor me just a bit more. See, it's funny, and I know it's so hard in this, well this thing that we do, to really convey this idea because it's so foreign and unusual and altogether unheard of, really, but when you get right down to the brass tacks of it all, Pen' - it's nothing personal. If, ah, what's his nuts there, Dan Knight or whoever else he's got working his, sorry, working the stick this week were to stop me in the halls and get right up in my grill and ask me just what my thoughts are on the incomparable 'Velocity Grrrl' Penny Shannon....I 'unno. Probably shrug 'em off. Maybe offer 'em a beer - not f* ckin' likely - but nah. There's the honest to gods truth about it Pen'. Short of your name, maybe a little competitive history with your boys the Wonder Twins there? I ain't got much to say on the matter.
You're nothing to me.
And so, of course, you're probably asking yourself, if you're the diminutive piss ant on my radar that I claim you to be, why'd I bother? Why'd I step out in your moment of glory - you, the hand picked heiress to the unified International Championship, reveling in all her glory as Lila Sleater had only begun to song your praises of revelry and achievement, elevating you to the very beacon many of us, myself included, were simply convinced you'd never achieve playing puff and pass lapdog to the WFWF's favorite pretty boy faces - and turn it up on its ass? I mean, sure, there's gain involved because ultimately, by way of my own piss poor behavior, I'll be taking that SuperBrawl moment far, far away from you and leaving the legacy of Penny Shannon to become the self fulfilling prophecy of nothing that it is, but here I am, professing for the world to hear that, in the grand scheme of life, you don't matter as little to me as a petty gold belt wrapped in leather. Heh, it's kinda stupid, really, right? I ain't been much for this place lately, but there's enough Brandon Bisons and Trevor Wolfs running around out back to lay a beating on without a second thought. Hell, the dead man's golden boy is back and reportedly looking to retake the classes he somehow failed under the tutelage of Obo and Trace a couple hundred times - why rain on your parade?!
Because I can.
That there's the long and short of it, Pen', and I know that's got to sting something fierce because there's nothing worse than someone just poking you and poking you just for the sheer hell of it, no real end game in sight, but, well, there it is. Now, I won't lie and go on to say that I wasn't a little chuffed over the idea of you skipping in to my city just to sit back in relative comfort and wait for the outcome to see who you figured you'd be goin' down with come SuperBrawl, but at the end of the day, that just plays into what little framework there is that exists between me and the WFWF joining hands to cross the threshold of unholy matrimony once more. At the end of the day, the plan always involved me poking my head out and finding myself a fight when you and yours came on to my turf to roost for the night - you getting the rub just made sure I found myself a good one.
I know, I know - I coulda found myself any old Brandon Bison or Trevor Wolf or Dex or whoever and had myself a good old fashioned, one man Boston Boot Party, but Pen'? I've been down that road? The sh*t I was getting fed back in the day here? Ace Bennett? Reo Speedwagon? That's child's play sh*t, y'know? It's only so fun to stomp balls and take names until they just starting flaying wide open on the mat to accept the inevitable, but you, Pen'? Nah, you're not gonna let those big brass balls of yours get kicked around so easily, are you, hun? Nah, now that's the crux of it - those other guys? Loss is a loss, especially when ol' David Brennan is around, they practically come plannin' on it, but you?
You want this.
You need this.
This is everything in the world to you, isn't it Penny? This is your shot - your only shot - not just at some gold plates superglued to a pleather strap and anointed as some beacon of achievement in the holy blood of our savior Shawn Malakai, but at redemption.
Those shadows are dark, Penny. Did you forget your lantern when you went and hitched your wagon up to two run down mules?
In a different world, maybe in better market, the tale of the tape would be which of us would finally break free from the constraints of our past allegiances to stand tall on our own two feet and bear our name to the world, beholden to no preemptive banner which somehow serves to devalue the ones we've carried with us all our lives - would it finally stand to be 'Penny Shannon', beacon of the true and good with no room left upon the marquee for 'of the Saviors of Salvation'? Or would it be 'David Brennan', with no precedence for incorrigible behavior that would necessitate 'of The New Epoch'?
What a stupid f*ckin' question.
This story's already been written Pen' - all the world's a stage and all that happy horsesh*t. You and me? Players. I know the leaves grant you a false optimism that betrays the script that's been laid out before us Pen', but this sh*t ain't choose your own adventure - there's only one ending here, and unfortunately, you and the f*ckin' loon may just have to hold out hope that the buy rates justify a sequel, because your spotlight? The one Sleater was stupid enough to try and shine upon you before the thousands and thousands of your shrieking loyal devoted?
It's gone.
It's mine.
I've already taken it.
Because I can."
Rumors of War
"That....looked like it hurt."
David Brennan had come back to the WFWF considerably high on his own self importance and remarkably low on expectations. In his own mind, he's been given a 'hall pass' of sorts - toe the line of the bare minimum expectations, and a blind eye shall ye receive turned to all thy worldly indiscretions. That was as solid an offer as he'd ever need to do just about anything. He'd come to terms with the notion that his lifestyle would not gel with the obligations that would arise in taking his father's seat upon the hierarchy of Boston's seedy underworld, and so the alternative - that is, dissolving his own interests in the family business, ensuring that, should he choose, he'd never have to work another day in his life and in doing so, his fridge would still never run dry - was simply too much allure to resist.
As is often times noted by those lucky to live out their waning days free from the constraints of a nine to five, however, life on the slow and easy can get a touch bit boring. As little interest as he may have had in becoming the heir apparent to Jack Brennan's criminal empire, he was only human, and even he craved some sort of excitement in life, and so when the opportunity came knocking to be afforded a weekly opportunity to hit things...err, people...with no negative regard for the way he'd otherwise chosen to live out his days, well, to drive home a point - he's only human.
And what a difference, to boot. He'd done the whole return to chase the evasive chains of glory thing once before, and as is the case with so many other facets of life that involve ends and means, he found it to be more the chore than it was worth. But now? Arriving in the great white north, strolling the bowels of the arena, not a care in the world, save whether or not he could lock down a case or two of Molson Canadian? Well, sh*t - this was gonna be fun! Truthfully, he couldn't quite remember what the hell it was that brought him down this road in the first place, but if the takeaway was any indicator, it couldn't have really been all that worth two squirts of piss if this was what came with coming in expecting nothing but the opportunity to hunt down a fight - which David, of course, found a pair of, shortly after running his ever present, filter-less mouth.
Of course, he felt the eyes upon him - he always had. There was something about David Brennan that just attracted the gaze of passerby, for one reason or another. From day one, it was the stigma - no one would have known him from Adam, but for the press junkets advertising the WFWF's new skinhead acquisition, and so on that day, they all craned at the neck to get a glimpse at this anomaly they'd soon come to share the open road with. Shortly after, he found himself aligned with two of the most reviled and well known names in the industry, and again, their necks would creak to see just what kind of stench would follow a man so easily welcomed into the fold of The New Epoch.
Now, his reputation preceded him, and again the door swings open and the entire operation seems to pause, if only for a moment, to see just what it is angry, drunken David might do. Was it beer goggles, though, or did they all seem....shorter now? He'd chuckled to himself as he'd ambled down the hall, Lila Sleater's Pennybration sort of grating on the nerves as he'd made his way toward the curtain to put a stop to all that nonsense. Yes, this was all to be expected - the funny looks, the hushed gossip, hell - even Whitner clocking him from behind and tossing him off stage like the piece of trash that he was seemed perfectly normal in the grand scheme of things, but he'd never expected to wobble on back and find this mustachioed mother f*cker lying in wait.
"Y'know, it's funny - didn't feel a thing."
Drakz held his gaze, stone faced and stoic, though if David hadn't a weakness for spirits, he'd have caught the most subtle of subtle twitches of the nose as Drakz quietly assessed his former ally, quietly soaking in all there was to perceive of a man he hadn't seen in all but close to a year.
"From the smell of you, no...no, I imagine you wouldn't have."
"That's f*cked up, man."
"You know I only call them as I see them. Care to walk?"
"Rather find myself a drink."
"David..."
With a sympathetic eye that does not come with a look of mocking disdain, Drakz procures glass bottle, the label flaking as a side effect of having soaked in a cooler for some time. David eagerly accepts the gesture, turning the bottle over to check the branding before popping the cap. Schlitz. Cheap son of a b*tch. All the same, a beer's a beer, and Drakz turns to lead the way, keeping a shoulder ahead of David as he quietly ambles behind, discreetly maintaining the pace so as to not let off his guard all that much, in spite of the stingy kindness of his old friend.
"What brings you here, David?"
"I 'unno. Something to do. Being loaded and rich? Only so cool til you've only got your own sh*t to wreck. Figure I'll try my hand at someone else's."
"Penny Shannon? Really David? Figured you a touch bit better'n that."
"Eh...she's got somethin' to lose. More fun that way."
"Ah, what we wouldn't have given for a touch of that savagery back in the day."
"Get f*cked..."
"Still...the Whitner boy will likely cause some difficulty."
"Wait, who?"
"Ante Whitner? The marital aid what just threw you off a stage just now and if you don't mind me asking - how in the blue hell are we having this conversation?"
"Uh...with words?"
"With words...you always were the clever one...no, how are we, in particular you, standing here upright, conversing on the subject of f*ck all, after taking the spill that landed me among the invalids for months on end?"
It would seem that this particular thorn in Drakz side may bear a bit of an overwhelming sting, as he comes to a halt, ceasing their aimless stroll and turning to face the man who trails him at a boot's length distance. For a moment, neither man makes to continue the idle banter - Drakz adjusts the world title upon his shoulder, which he's carried this whole time because he's an arrogant and pompous sort of d*ck like that, and David swills from his left handed bottle, scouring as he comes up empty and makes for his right, tossing the first aside with an audible clink that echoes throughout the cavernous halls as he shrugs the question off.
"Jesus H...the ol' IDDQD Ale, then, is it?"
It's David now who leads off with a subtle, indifferent cock of the head. Drakz marvels at the lackadaisical show of disregard for a moment, before striding to keep up, having effectively switched positional roles with his former friend now.
"Do you ever suppose that, I don't know, maybe of you'd just eased off the liquid tit just a bit, that maybe, just maybe, you'd be in a position to take someone's pride and joy away without having to arbitrarily topple over the dreams of little girls like Penny Shannon?"
"Where's the fun in that?"
"It just seems beneath you. We both know that this title shot you're after - any title shot, really - is long overdue, but how much of that do you suppose might be your problem?"
"How much do you suppose I care? Ain't about titles, none of that. This sh*t? Penny and the boy and all that? It's just 'cause I can. Nothing to gain, nothing to lose, y'know?"
"Look, mate, you think you're going to learn me something in the ways of being all nasty like, you're barking up the wrong f*ckin' tree, but come on - this is Epoch grade sh*t, and that ship has sailed and sunk. Look how well the old ways worked out for the midget trying to stand up next to me today. That the road you're content to ride upon?"
"You're comfortable then, playing the Demon's b*tch the way you have?"
This is enough to stop Drakz in his tracks, and David can immediately sense it, turning to face the world champion, a sinister look widening across his face. He hasn't come here to make friends or rekindle old camaraderies, least of all with the ever present Isaac Cray. It might surprise the champ to learn, but even in spite of his derelict condition at the time, David has been bestowed upon, somewhere along the way, with the most unique trait of recollection, right down to the most vivid details of his most Earth shattering benders, and to that end, David is content with the notion that their relationship died a most certain and finite death in some rat house bar tucked away in one of the seediest corners of New York City over a year ago. Drakz had made his point loud and clear, and to be lectured now, in his time of triumph, having returned to the WFWF in most stellar and regal fashion to begin tearing down the walls that once constrained him, on the dichotomy of success between the two former members of the New Epoch? Well, that was more than enough to boil David's blood to degrees of no return. Hell hath no fury like a King unheralded.
"Seems to me, without your latest dog to hide behind, that belt sits around the waist of Josh Dean."
"Maybe talk when you've got yourself a title of your own there, mate."
"Pencil me in for SuperBrawl then? C'mon - you and I both know how this sh*t's gonna play out. Penny Shannon? Ante Whitner? Whoever the f*ck comes out of the little roll in the hay between the new kid and - Jesus, dare I say - Cameron f*cking Stone? That why you're here? Should I be, I dunno, looking around the corner for Kyzer these next few weeks? I know that sh*t - The New Epoch, all that - was you guys' baby, but that legacy? It's on borrowed f*ckin' time, brother. That sh*t we pulled? The games we f*ckin' played? Ain't gonna mean d*ck when the guy everyone calls the hanger on's best days come without the supportive backing of a couple of burnt out junkies on a f*ckin' power trip. That day's coming, brother, and I think that scares the ever loving sh*t outta you."
"Jesus, you ARE f*ckin' drunk, aren't you? You're gonna...what? Soil the entire legacy of The New Epoch by beating a couple of nothings, assuming you don't f*ck off back into the wild first?"
"Nah, brother. I'm gonna soil the legacy of The New Epoch by taking everything they - not we - they were never able to. Easy with the fingerprints on that belt there, huh?"
"The f*ck you care about pri-"
"What can I say? I like my sh*t to stay shiny. See you 'round, pal."
Execution
"You've got some f*ckin' stones on you, don't you?
Let me tell you somethin', Ante: I've come across some class f*ckin' stupid people in my time around here, most of 'em by sheer virtue of ballsin' up enough to go toe to toe with yours truly. I mean, you've had your odd remarkable case - your Ace Bennetts and such who figured one boot in their craw wasn't enough and willingly stepped forward with a mouth full of thank you sir, may I have another, but if my memory serves me right, and I'll admit well enough that sometimes it doesn't, I ain't never met someone with their head so far up their own ass that they come to the conclusion that coming at me from behinds falls anywhere within the realm of good ideas. You're either bold as f*ck or stupider than sh*t - I suppose both roads sorta run the same way - 'cause that sh*t is gonna get you hurt.
You know how much of a hair across the a** it is to get jumped from behind by some loony bat f*ckin' son of a b*tch you ain't ever even met? I don't know what sort of game it is you're playin' at, Ante, but if I were a betting man, I'd harbor a guess that you didn't learn that sh*t from mutual acquaintances.
Yeah.
Him.
Now I know the story as far as you playin' your royal flush of stupid and how Lady Luck fell to her knees before you that night - search me how you pulled that one off - but the whole notion of how you managed to spend any sort of time puffin' off of Kyzer's pipe and not come away with the common sense of mind to not interrupt me when I'm interrupting people completely betrays any sort of logical thought I can put behind it. Sure, I've never been some paragon of logic short of however much sense it makes to stuff a steel toe down your throat, but come on - did you really come off of his needle and figure you were some exception to the rule?
I dunno, man. Maybe that sh*t gets inside your head - it's doing a right f*ckin' job of screwin' our buddy Penny up to the point that she figures her old flame toppled the Hobo formerly known as Obo, she may as well be able to do the same to the guy that lil' Scarlett was one of THREE F*CKIN' PEOPLE it took to replace. Guess it makes sense to figure, what with you bein' the guy what got the jump on the 'God of F*ck' - really took him for a ride - that hey, the New Epoch's third man? Pssh, walk in the park, yeah?
Doesn't always work that way.
Let's ask ourselves something, Ante - what did the New Epoch accomplish? No, really - aside from high jacking a couple of shows and spending the majority of our time positively plastered, which I'd have wound up f*ckin' doing anyway, why was that collective, those three guys, held in such a regard that there'd be any draw for a guy like you - a nothing, a no one - to latch on to a guy like Kyzer? I mean, short of the needle dangling out of his arm when you first crossed paths, what sort of allure was there to make you stop and think, if that's within the realm of possibility, 'hmm, yeah. This seems smart'? Was there really something there, something shiny and mysterious that caught your simple little mind and dragged you in so he could spend a little time with his fist up your ass like the puppet that you are, that you fancied yourself poised to gain? Did it come true? Things work out for you? Or was the legend of Michael Kyzer just that - a f*ckin' legend.
Now I can't let your association with the junkie f*ck be too much an indictment on your character - after all, we've both taken that ride, and I'm sure for a whole mess of similar reasons. Reputations are a b*tch around here, and they have this real nasty habit of preceding the folks that most often stand behind 'em, and I dunno - maybe that's where you conjured up this bold ass idea to dip your balls in a coating of brass and try and get the jump on me from behind - after all, you bested the guy only a handful of proud, happy few have managed to best. What's the third chair, junior representative, whipping boy b*tch of the New Epoch gonna put up between you and your shot at the next rung up on the ladder?
You didn't learn sh*t, did you?
Find yourself a mirror, Ante. Take a good hard look - really delve in, try and get past those dead, downwind, under-bred eyes of yours to get to the real meat and potatoes or piss and vinegar or whatever the hell it is coursing through those veins that makes you the best, and f*ckin' mercifully to the rest of a civilized society, only Ante Whitner there is. Sit back, and just stare - we've established that you're pretty capable of vacant gazing - and let the wheels start to turn. It's gonna go slow at first, you're only Ante Whitner, but stick with it. Once the gears start clicking, let everything start to soak in, and ask yourself:
'Where did it get me?'
'What do I have to show for it?'
'Who have I managed to impress?'
Nowhere
Nothing
No one.
See, Ante, to me, an experience - good, bad, or ugly - is only as valuable as what you come out on the other side with. Can you really, really stand tall, chin out, eyes vacant, and say that anything you've done here is at all a valid benchmark for the argument that you might have a fighting chance at leaving Boston in one piece? I mean, look at you - you're something like the world's longest reigning National Champion, and the only reason you're getting a foothold on the next step up is because they're scrapping that sh*t - don't let the nice new coat of 'unified' paint fool you - in favor a title with a bit more prestige.
And even then?
They figured Penny Shannon, whose collective title reigns rival only mine, which if that don't make you feel like sh*t, nothing will, was more suited to take a shot at that newly minted title than the only man walking the halls with any claim to boast any sort of longevity based ties to the matter.
And even then?
They let some lowlife, knock down, drag out piece of sh*t like me literally sh*t talk his way into throwing up a few barriers and making sure Penny had a few more knots to tie in her balls before toking her way into the big time.
And even then?
I couldn't give two sh*ts and a f*ck about the title! I mean, doesn't that just sting?! Here you are - the afterthought of the afterthought - and you're trailing two steps behind a burnout who can't even ride her ex's residual high into some manner of relevance and a louse who's been MIA for the better part of, what? A year?! Even with you going AWOL like a little boy who's just kicked his favorite red ball over Mr. Myrtle's back fence and is too much of a b*tch to just go and get it back like any other human being would do, you've fallen into depths of obscurity even I can't begin to fathom, and I might qualify for a solo hall of fame induction on the back of my record breaking comings and goings alone!
God - you really suck, don't you Ante?
That's all there could be to it - we joke all the time, the kids that couldn't hack it - your Andrew Carters or whoever the f*ck else - but you're right there with him, aren't you Ante? I mean, the world guns after taking the strap off the longest reigning National Champion in WFWF history, and a rook's the one to knock you off your throne?! You lose A match - one, singular, uno - and you're about as valid to the booking committee as Lincoln Dina, and you want to come after me?
That's one special kind of stupid, Ante, but when it's all said and done, I'm gonna owe you, I think.
See, I love to sit and listen to everybody around here line and long for their glory days and the drive that brings them here and how they're going to lay it all out in the ring. It's such a pile or horsesh*t. I'm the only one honest enough out of the whole batch to tell you that I keep coming back here time and time again 'cause, frankly? I have a whole lot of fun kicking the sh*t out of people. Out in the streets? They lock your ass up for that, but climb in between a couple of ropes and do it in the ol' twenty by twenty? Well, sh*t, now you're a workin' man. You can't argue with that kind of deal. And the perks! My god, the perks. Penny Shannon, bless her little heart, has got the heart of a gladiator and has kicked and scratched and clawed her way to this very moment, where she's been deemed the chosen one, the gilded child, the sole competitor who's done and seen enough to even be considered a contender for the International Championship, and all it took was someone with the stones enough to tell her, and Lila Sleater, and all those fans chanting her name that the whole lot of them're full of sh*t, and all the sudden her meal ticket's in dire straits! Now...and get this, this is the real funny part...she HAD it. Absolutely had it, and now she's got to come to Boston - MY city - and get her ass kicked all across the parquet just for the privilege of losing it!
And there's you, Ante. That must have really put a hair across your ass, someone as unaccomplished and volatile and flighty as me just coming in and fixin' the odds in my favor, really, just for the hell of it. Hell, I know it did - even stupider than stupid wouldn't come up with that stunt you pulled at Dark Matter without something chapping your ass first. You had an audible to call and you blew it hard. You know you've got to pay for that, and that that sh*t's coming at one hell of a premium, right? It's bad enough that when they were handing out draws, you wound up being you - you've got to carry that and all the unremarkable bullsh*t that comes with it from the cradle to the grave, but now you've got to get your ass kicked, too? I mean, the real kinda knock down, drag out, leave you bleedin' out a face that only mama Whitner could love ass kickin' like you see in the movies and sh*t?
Make no mistake, Ante - the time has come to pay for your actions. I'm a lot of things - three sheets, a scumbag, a low life, a King - all the sh*t they say? I ain't gonna argue it, but above all else, I'm the kinda guy you don't want to be striking from behind. That's the type of sh*t bound to get you hurt, and you just cut yourself to the front of the line, Ante. There's some guys you can get away with that sh*t on. You hit 'em from behind, cost 'em a match, maybe a little of the ol' glory they find themselves after, and yeah, maybe you've got yourself a match next week. No fuss, no muss.
I'm not one of those guys.
That's a pretty poster we found ourselves on, you, me, and Penny, yeah? Looks all nice, gonna sell some tickets I'm sure, but don't be fooled, Ante - this isn't a match you've got yourself booked into. This isn't an opportunity at regaining your standing as a champion in the WFWF - that opportunity never existed for you just as it doesn't exist for Penny there, because neither one of you even fell into the running the minute I opened my big mouth. That ship sailed. The date has been set, time and place, for your appointment in the gallows, Ante. The only legacy you'll leave behind will be weak, unseen, and disregarded, because while I'd like to believe that the image of the dent alterations I'm about to perform alongside Doc Marten would serve as a deterrent example to any who might come after you, the simple fact is there'll always be someone stupid as you who thinks they're gonna get the edge on me by starting the fight anywhere but face to face. For years, people will come to remember the ass kickin' you got dealt in Boston, Massachusetts, but the crux of all that?
It ain't gonna make a lick of difference.
Your legacy will be the image of a man beaten, battered, and broken in the the agony of brutal, unyielding defeat.
And it's all going to be in vain.
That sucks, man.
Y'ever find yourself thinkin' you might have been better off just tossing your own dumb ass off that stage?