Post by CM Poor on Oct 30, 2016 7:49:42 GMT -5
Reclamation
Salt Lake City, UT
David had to chuckle to himself.
Five years ago - whenever it was that he ultimately had set out on this path he now found himself inexplicably bound to - none of this would have been all that likely to have make a f*ck to him one way or the other. He sure as sh*t would have been a fair bit more than hard pressed to have found any valid reason to meander around an arena long after the lights had come up and the screaming masses had all dispersed in every which direction, leaving behind not but the unseen, skeletal remains of the production that the WFWF puts on week in and week out. Hell, tonight was, if his newfound memory was serving him right, the first time David had seen it all from this angle himself. There was a time when he'd hardly left time in his schedule for a trip back to the locker room, often times parking his bag just beyond the curtain that separated the spectacle from reality so that - win, lose, or draw - he'd have as clear a path out of the building as possible when the dust had all settled and he'd fulfilled his obligations for the night. He was a different person then. Not necessarily better (though an argument could feasibly be made for worse). Just...different. Different intents. Different expectations.
He'd changed.
That understatement of the century was punctuated, perhaps, no better than right now, as he sat about eight rows deep in the lower bowl of an arena he couldn't name, in a city he'd have to remind himself the location of before departing. He'd made his way out here quietly. Unassumingly. No one had seemed to notice, nor care, that he'd held back when his peer among the WFWF roster had long begun making headway toward the next town along the road, and that suited his purpose tonight just fine, for as quiet and reservedly as he'd made his way to a seat out of thousands spread throughout the arena, he'd come with a purpose - one that no stagehand or production worker would stand in the way of with any degree of success. A fire had burned in his gut as the show went off the air that night, and while a month ago he might have been content to have simply laid waste to a small corner of the arena's underbelly before hastily making way all to ceremoniously out the door, those tides of change continued to roll within him, and he soon found his fists unclenched, his jaw relaxed, and - remarkably - his mind focused on a task at hand that would not rest until seen to completion, no matter the hurdles or collateral damage involved. It was, indeed, an altogether different perspective for the man who'd come to find himself synonymous with unbridled rage and contempt that manifested itself in violent, physical outbursts. He felt entirely, and at once calculating, methodical, and driven, and though he'd never lay out on the couch and spill the beans to anybody who'd like to hear the words spill from his maw, he'd be remiss to say he didn't welcome the change.
That, in of itself, would be enough for most self aware beings to recognize the wash of great change behind as the tides roll in and out, but moreover, what struck David as most peculiar and all the more jarring, was how enamored he found himself with the minutia of the tear down as the crews labored tirelessly to break down the elaborate set up that really punctuated the WFWF's shows. He'd come, initially, to do little more than to watch and to wait, eyeing the motions that seemed routine and mechanical in nature, looking for the opportunity to arise where he'd be able to slip down to the ground level, undetected, and take what was rightfully his, and yet, as the crew went about their night, he found himself so ensnared in the clutches of exactly what he wasn't quite sure - nostalgia? Perhaps - that as the crew moved to begin tearing down the ring, where mere hours earlier he'd stood in what may be, to date, the greatest victory of his career, he had to scramble down the steps in double time, lest his window of opportunity slam shut almost as quickly as it had just opened.
In the seconds that passed as he leaped sets of stairs at a time toward the arena floor, the curiosity of his intrigue in the fine details of what was happening around him was hardly lost. Every detail - the brightness of the house lights in full illumination, the uniform color of the arena's seating layout, the mechanical way in which the crew moved from place to place, striking the set in such a manner that told a tale of just how many times they'd performed the same routine - was apparent to him in such bright and vivid clarity that had never before transcended his cranial cavity. It was an appreciation for the sort of misses he'd likely encountered over the course of his five years back down that he hadn't come out of round one with, perhaps due to the institutionalized manner in which he'd gone about it all once before, or perhaps, in conjunction with the former, the indelible strength he'd seemed to have drawn from staring down death's door for the umpteenth time and coming out clean on the other side.
Whatever it was that had afforded him a renewed sense of focus, it paid off in spades as he leapt the barrier that created the divide between the arena's pitched seating and the multi-purpose floor below in seemingly slow motion, paying no mind as he'd once been required before to the motion of his feet, instead offering all directive on the ring hand who'd entered the ring moments earlier, clearing the mat of all debris - chairs, wrist tape, and most importantly, two lengths of leather hide, emblazoned from the center outward with a set each of glimmering, golden plates. No sooner had each belt been tossed aside to the arena floor to be brought back as afterthought cleanup as the crew focused their efforts on the ring itself, David was able to glide in, sight unseen once more, and in one fell swoop, collect the pair of belts in his arms, folding the adjoining straps of each over the center plate and tucking them under one arm as he exited as quickly as he'd moved in, behind the still standing curtain and into the oblivion of the back end of the arena.
It was almost too easy.
Five years ago? Right, none of this would have mattered, but as he made his way, nearly darting, rather than walking, toward his locker room, he could hardly contain his fervor for what he'd just accomplished. Slamming the locker room door behind him, he tossed on belt aside, clutching the other in both hands now free, the fluorescent light of the room pitching a blinding glare that resonated off of the golden plate before him.
His first WFWF Championship.
An hour earlier, maybe even less, Lila Sleater had stripped the title - in his eyes, little more than a ceremonious branding - from him for reasons he didn't quite yet understand nor quite frankly care for. That didn't matter. To a hundred different men, the belt clutched within his hands symbolized a hundred different things - intangible tenets of accomplishment that were neither here nor there to David. As he stared down at the title - his title - he saw but one thing glaring back at him as the belt's reflection burned a hole precariously close to his eyes:
Victory.
Sure, sure. Victory over Dean. Victory over Drakz. Victory over five years of being heralded as one of the most trying competitors to set foot inside a WFWF ring and not a damn thing to show for it but a passing rub in a meaninglessly symbolic compilation of false accolades, but, perhaps now, to David, more important than any of those (even with the certain victory over Drakz being one tough hurdle in its own right to pass up) was the inward sense of victory over himself.
It was no secret, least of all to David, that for every formidable opponent he'd squared off against over the years, not a one had done as much damage, neither physically nor psychologically, as he had to himself. To recycle a tired old trope, David was, in his very essence, the absolute embodiment of becoming one's own worst enemy, and while he knew, even now, that the road that led beyond that life was long, winding, and sure to be full obstacles along the way, the belt in his hands told more a story than a victory over a long standing thorn in his side or a decisive triumph over all other comers in a specified division of competition. It told all who'd look upon it, in varying degrees of detail give or take one's own proximity to the harrowing tale that was David's life, that the worst, for now, was far behind him, and with his most deeply rooted inner demons quelled for at least the moment, he was finally free to focus his energies on conquering all that lay before him as he'd sworn to do so long ago.
No one seemed to notice as he strolled down the halls of the arena, one belt nestled safely in his bag, the other slung triumphantly over his shoulder. F*ck 'em. He'd earned this. Even as the intangibles floated to the forefront of his mind, making the belt all but a gilded accessory there only for the ego of the braggart, he'd watched for years and years as others stood tall before him, clutching championships they did not earn and in turn did not deserve. They'd come looking for the belts - he was almost sure of that. Company property, and all that. And to his end? He'd gladly and willingly hand them over.
Just as soon as someone earned them.
Change is a funny sort of thing. It often times, as it seemed to have done now, partitions the facets of being that make us who we are into compartmentalized features that can be molded and manipulated, save for a precious few, which seem to stand the test of time, and, at least as much as David could theorize, really define us as people. The world would soon come to see a different side of David - a side that for some, may be near unrecognizable compared to the man they'd spent so much time familiarizing themselves with - but damned if, for all the changes that would seem become apparent to the world, he was going to start recognizing the authority of a mewling leech like Lila Sleater.
Some things, they say, never change.
David smirked to himself as he stepped out from the luminescent glow of the arena's innards to the quiet black of night, the private lot glowing beneath the dying hum of a scattered few aging street lamps. As he strolled past the odd assortment of cars still left behind - likely, he thought, those of the crew he'd just spent some quality time observing - a lone vehicle, segregated from the larger assortment to his right, caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Glancing sideways as he passed closer, the handwritten placard marking the spot caused him to pause, glancing around as he confirmed silently to himself, that he was very much alone, at least for now, in the private lot.
'Reserved for S. Ahriman'
Either Sam took himself on a celebratory, Brennan level pity party, or David wasn't as alone in the arena as he'd thought.
New perspectives be damned - David still wasn't on the hunt for a friend. He and Sam had been thrust into competition together as a matter of blind circumstance, and as such, at least as far as David's concerns went, Sam would be just as liable for his own standing as a tag-team champion as David intended on holding himself. Neither one of them was on track any time soon to be recognized as legitimate champions, leaving the burden of carrying that torch solely thrust upon each of their backs. That being what it was, David wasn't going to waste any sort of time tending to the standings of an unwilling partner of circumstance. Bigger fish to fry had already been dropped in the pan as SuperBrawl inched closer and closer, and while he'd be making damn sure that no one made off without his tag team championship without the fight of their lives, the belt slung across his shoulder was already well on its way to becoming little more than a stepping stone - the entire locker room had been put on short notice as David unceremoniously put a screeching halt to Drakz's unprecedented reign as tag-team champion. As bigger and blander opponents loomed on the horizon, the match at SuperBrawl was, really, at this point? Just a formality. The way David saw it, there was no need to drag along a potential liability when he'd be perfectly capable of holding onto that belt on his own. As far as Samael Ahriman was concerned, his role in David's future would only come into play in the unlikely event that he outlasted six other men to lay waste to another of Drakz's points of pride.
Still...
David wasn't one to turn a blind eye to a helping hand in a tense situation. Thirty some odd years of growing up the son of Jack Brennan in between the streets of Boston and Philadelphia are more than enough to make a man recognize the value of an extra pair of fists lobbing punches away from you as opposed to at you. In that respect, Sam had been quite the asset. Now, don't mince words - there wasn't a doubt in David's mind that, should push come to shove, he could absolutely lay waste to both Drakz and his contracted whipping boy of the month, no questions asked. That being said, he was man enough to acknowledge that having the goth in his corner didn't hurt matters any, and he sure as sh*t took more than his fair share of lumps after the fact - lumps that, while the podcasts and the dirt sheets might be perfectly content to brand par for the course of that particular stretch of road that Sam was making his way down on the way to SuperBrawl, David couldn't help but acknowledge with at least a hint of certainty might have just been meant for him, had he not allowed the bickering six behind to argue over who'd be keeping David's title warm for time being.
Glancing at his phone, and then back at the arena door as if to somehow impart upon any interested parties exactly how late it had become, David sighed, adjusting the belt over his shoulder as he tossed his bag down by the rear wheel well of what he internally hoped was a rental under Sam's name before leaning back upon the driver's side door, irritably maneuvering for several seconds to find that odd, standing sweet spot before breathing in the cool night air, hoping he wouldn't again let the newfound clarity of distractions deter him from whatever it was he'd ultimately intend to say or do to his unwitting, odd-coupled partner.
SuperBrawl:
Back From the Black
Recovery
"Now, there comes a time
in every man's life
where decisions have to be made.
Whether to toil,
to labor,
or just plain piss your days away."
Jim Landry's life was about as uninteresting and unremarkable as the day was long.
A sheet metal fabricator who'd worked in the same shop since the day he first entered the line of work at the age of nineteen, decades of quiet, drudging labor had left him all of sixty two years of age with little to show for it beyond the short grade of accomplishment that takes a temporary laborer up through the minuscule ranks to the complete lack of prestige that comes with being the chief welder in a struggling machine shop on the outskirts of some god forsaken town that society had all but forgotten. Day in and day out, he'd punch in early and clock out late, watching others he'd come up with walk away into the perceived glamor of retirement or death - whichever came first. For forty three years, Jim had afforded Hendrickson Sheet & Supply every ounce of his being, saving little time for a wife or a family or even so much as a four legged companion. The temps would often call him 'office furniture' in passing, and he'd consider a chuckle if they weren't so damn spot on - some days, he felt as though he knew the shop better than his own, modest home.
Every night, the long road home would be illuminated by little more than the luminous glare of Jim's own headlights, and for four decades, he'd swear up and down that as the last breath of life to depart the sprawling industrial complex that surrounded the grounds of HS&S, he'd never seen another living soul along the barren, darkened road that led away from the constant hum of America'a dying manufacturing industry. Not a deer, not a skunk, certainly never another human being. No, for as markedly lonely as Jim's life had been, that road, traveled sometimes six days a week for more than forty years, often times found Jim feeling his absolute loneliest.
Imagine, then, the thoughts that must have raced through his mind one rainy summer night as he made that same journey down that same road, feeling that same pang of loneliness, only for what he was certain to be his mind playing all sorts of tricks on him as the shape of a fully grown man, beaten, bloodied, and slathered in filth rolled out from the side of the road, directly into Jim's line of sight.
For weeks after the fact, Jim Landry would speak more than some who had worked alongside him their entire adult lives had ever heard him speak before as he recounted the tale down to the most minute of details - always starting with the same vivid description of quiet, lonesome normalcy being thrust into a whirlwind of activity and confusion entirely unbecoming of most nights coming off the job.
"What in the blind, blue hell..."
The tires screeched and skidded as Jim slammed and swerved to avoid barely missing what he finally recognized as he drew closer to be an actual, real life human being, though he was entirely uncertain from his initial vantage point whether or not he was to the point of living or breathing. Leaping from the cab of his truck, paying no mind to the onslaught of down pouring rain, Jim made his way across the road, shouting as he did so to be heard over the thunderous hum of the storm that had brewed around them.
"You tryin' get yourself killed, son?!"
He was certain that the man he recognized now as particularly young, at least comparatively speaking, hadn't answered, and so against all better judgement, he drew closer, against shouting over the deafening growl of the storm, peering in to try and ascertain whether there was any hope left for the man sprawled along the edge of the road.
"The hell you doin' out here anyway?! C'mon, let's get you outta the road at least!"
It seemed as though, given his proximity now, the man may have simply already been a goner by the time Jim had arrived, and he soon found himself looking aimlessly out into the dark, wondering exactly what to do next. He wasn't the type of man to carry a cell phone wherever he went, and he wasn't exactly leaping at the chance to run a dead man's pocket to alert the proper authorities, but suddenly, perhaps a trick of the wind or the rain, a faint mutter seemed to come from the ground immediately behind Jim's feet. He turned on a dime, and sure enough, the man was stirring - just barely - and as Jim leaned in to investigate, he heard the unmistakable drawl of a man's voice, his lips barely moving to match the timbre of his words.
"That...wow, that's a hell of a eulogy, Jack."
Delusional. The kid was delusional. Jim hadn't left in his being the time nor the patience for some crack pot, punk kid, probably drunk or high on God only knows what, but even as he contorted his face in disgust, the man in the road groaned and hacked on, reeling from whatever hallucination was playing out in his mind. Certain that this could hardly be chalked up to being his problem, Jim turned to retreat to the dry shelter of his truck, wondering for a moment why he'd bothered to delay the reprieve of the day's end just to find himself standing over some vagrant who'd clearly lost his appreciation for his own life, but a sudden gag took his attention by the throat and yanked it back in the direction of the evening's distraction - the kid had managed to roll flat on his back, and it was plainly obvious to a man like Jim, who'd lived as many years as he had, that he was choking on his own vomit. In a moment's time, he'd suffocate, drown, and die, there on the side of a road without so much as a name in the middle of the pouring rain.
As he'd come to recount his story, Jim would find himself toiling with his own bout of self questioning for some time to come, a modicum of doubt he'd never felt before in all his long, lonesome years. In that moment, as he began to recognize the gravity of the situation, his immediate thoughts had leapt back to his own self concern - getting home, getting dry, and getting some rest. In that immediate snippet of time, he would have been all but content to have left this nameless, practically faceless in the dark of the night stranger to his own defenses, had he only made it to his cab a moment sooner, shutting the door on the assumption that the kid would be drenched, sick, sad, alone, but at the very least, alive. That was an end game that Jim, that night, would have been able to live with.
All that, of course, went right out the window as the precious seconds ticked by, leaving him in a position to recognize that this young man he'd stumbled upon on what should have been any ordinary night was at a crossroads with his own mortality. Jim fancied himself he way he imagined most of those around him did - a simple, unassuming man. He was perfectly content to live within the realm of his own selfish concerns, but even he, with no family nor friend to speak of, was not so depraved as to try and reconcile another man's life on his conscience, and while he'd come to struggle with the dichotomy of his split decisions for some time to come, in that moment of crucial need, he sprang back to action, dropping to his feeble, weathered knees as quickly as his body would allow, and rolled the boy over to his side, recoiling in his own human nature as all matter of toxins spewed from the kid's mouth, his first breaths labored and gasping, before finally steadying into a tired but steady rhythm.
"Sh*t, that was beautiful Jack."
Jim breathed an exasperated sigh of mixed relief. This humanity amongst others business wasn't one he thought he'd soon be pursuing in greater leaps. Kneeling at the kid's side, he glanced around himself, hoping with some sort of empty expectation that some degree of help could be found, but he'd driven this road too many times for too many years to fool even himself. Resigning himself to the inevitable - the kid was his problem now - he slipped an arm beneath the young man's shoulder, leveraging himself as best he could, and with all his leftover might on the setting side of his life, he hoisted the kid upright, praying and cursing to every deity along the way to give the kid an ounce of strength of his own to ease the process along.
The barely two lanes of road width felt like a death march that dragged on for miles on end. It was a cold, uncomfortable truth as he dragged him alongside the passenger side of his truck - getting him into anything resembling an upright, seated position simply wasn't happening. Not here. Not now. Praying to whatever God he'd left behind some time ago for the forgiveness he'd need to atone for taking any shred of dignity the kid had left, Jim dropped the hatch of the bed, and with what he thought might be his final exertion of strength, rolled the kid into the unforgiving bed of the truck, slamming the latch behind him, and pausing to take in the cool rain as it beat down on his face.
"Ain't...sh*t...well, it ain't pretty, kid, but that's you out of the road at least."
He looked back over the side of the truck bed, wedging the kid into the corner so as to try and keep him on his side.
"Guess I been meaning to give myself a day off...
Without so much as a concerted groan in response, Jim slipped his hand beneath the kid's nose, just long enough to ensure he was still breathing. Figuring this was as good as it was going to get til he could get the two of them someplace dry, he gave a playful sort of slap to the side of the truck, hoisting himself into the cab and disappearing into the night, the only tell that either of them had ever been there being a slowly dissipating puddle of bile and vomit not even close to visible along the side of the road.
Reconciliation
"Nice place."
It was an equally casual observation and a sort of defeated concession all at once, to no one in particular. David Brennan had always held places like this - these perfect little communities, streets lined as far as the eye could see with perfect little houses, each nearly indistinguishable from the last but for an occasional palette swap for the sake of singularity - with some tinge of contempt. In truth, he knew that there wasn't anything inherently wrong with them - who was he, after all, to define another man's American dream? There were times when he even understood the appeal. He'd done enough time in the trenches of the working class to know that to some men, a little picture of infallible perfection at the end of the day was all there was left in the world to make rising with the sun worth it every morning. A younger, more naive David had even once envied the sort of guys who could spend an entire lunch hour gushing about the qualities of home that made the sort of thankless jobs that attracted his ilk worth slaving over, but time and experience had since led David to some of the more harsh realizations in life, most notably about himself, that put a sort of block in his mind, branded with the knowledge that suburban life, while to many the very picture of American life, would never suit him.
David was a city boy, through and through.
Still, he knew better than to come to a place like this looking as he had for the better part of what, by now, had felt like forever. Five years, at least. He hadn't paid much mind to something that felt as dolefully trivial as his wardrobe since he'd first started in the WFWF, which was funny, in a way, given had aesthetically important those sorts of details had been to his identity. All the same, he'd be lying if he were to say that it didn't feel somewhat redemptive, in a way - perhaps refreshing - to step out into the world in a brand new pair of boot cuts and a sharp, clean Fred Perry after so long. At thirty years old, it felt almost silly to put much stock into what was essentially a brightly colored costume used as a flag to wave in likeminded faces to surround oneself with, but damned if it didn't instill in him even just a small inkling of the sort of optimism - a far gone sort of mentality for him - that he'd last felt in the final days leading up to his WFWF debut.
Whatever thoughts prevailed in regard to his attire for the afternoon, it did serve him well, at the very least, to afford a bit of undeterred breathing room as he made his way around turns and byways, surveying the rows upon rows of cookie cutter houses lining the neighborhood at every turn in perfectly spaced intervals. Granted, he was astounded to find that, largely, he had the place to himself, so to speak. Sure, the occasional car would pass by or he'd cross paths with the odd dog walker or jogger here and there, but it would seem, given the complete lack of interaction, that either he'd erred on the proper side of caution in considering his outerwear for the day, or perhaps people on the west coast were just cut from a different grain of salt than in the northeast. Even the sun seemed to shine a bit brighter. David would be the first to tell you that he didn't know, nor did he care, the first thing about climate shifts, but he did have to crack a satisfied smirk at being able to leave his faded green bomber behind as he stepped out for a stroll through the neighborhood.
The sun. The houses. The people. It was a sort of Stepford branded watercolored picture of idealistic life that sort of rolled the eyes involuntarily of the weathered, hardened city slicker, but even he found himself simultaneously impressed and grateful to have found a conveniently placed bench situated immediately adjacent to his gut wrenching destination.
He checked the fold of paper in his pocket as he sat, confirming the number before settling in, not entirely sure whether he was mustering the gall or the courage to do what he'd come here to do today, if he even knew what it was entirely he'd come here to do. It was, indeed, a nice place - not the type of place a guy like him, dressed even as he was, had much of any business being at. He sat for god knows how long, sizing the place up, lost in thought and at times empty vacancy, staring almost as if waiting for the house itself to do something. Anything. Minutes, perhaps hours crawled by, and as David's thoughts began to creep toward getting up and walking away, leaving that chapter unfinished and at the mercy of life's great unknowns, a voice interrupted his runaway train of thought - familiar, though not entirely friendly, all the same.
"Long way from home, aren't you?"
Somehow, as his thoughts meandered away from him, a car had managed to snake its way into the driveway as he surveyed the area, which at the very least, could explain how he managed to miss someone standing immediately at his three o'clock, even if it wouldn't do any favors to convince anyone of his in tact faculties.
"Hey, Clark."
"Dare I ask what brings you my way?"
"Was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd swing by."
"Pasadena's hardly 'in the neighborhood'."
"Yeesh, you're following this sh*t now, too?"
"You could say it found its way into my life, yes. Natalie found you then, I take it?"
"Sort of."
"Heart of gold, that one. Give me a lifetime, I still think I'd be lost on what she sees in you."
David looked up, expecting to meet the piercingly judgmental glare of Clark Brennan, the only family he was certain he had left and perhaps the greatest opponent he'd ever have walking this earth, but instead they now traded empty glances as Clark stared off into the afternoon sun, almost wistfully, as he pondered what little fortune David could still be in the graces enough with anyone to behold. Hoping, however uncharacteristically it may have been, to shift the subject toward more positive topics, David averted his own eyes, glancing across the street once more toward Clark's home.
"Nice place you've got there."
"It does the trick."
"You gonna invite me in?"
He looked up as he said it, perhaps mistakenly, he now met the eyes of a man he'd last seen pinned to a wall beneath his own strength, a shattered beer bottle aimed precariously at his throat as David had waited for him to say one wrong word, informally inviting him to plunge the shards into his neck in what would have been a very real, very intentional attempt at ending his brother's life.
"No."
David knew that answer was coming before he'd even stepped off the plane. It was a perfectly understandable response. Expected. Fair, even. David hadn't done any sort of due diligence in his nor Clark's lifetime to expect anything more than a cold, unwelcome response in the presence of his, presumably, only sibling. The simple reality was that taking out a rental car and embarking on the five hour drive from the WFWF's home for the week to the Bay Area was something of an empty fool's errand, one that David himself tried with every passing mile to reconcile in his own mind. He'd never been one to seek the sort of closure or penance that most people more in touch with their inner workings might. It was more the 'David Brennan way' to bottle that sort of thing up and then bury it deep within the recesses of his psyche and save it for an evacuation of the fist on whoever was unlucky enough to cross that threshold next, and yet, as he'd stepped off the plane into California just weeks earlier for the double headed stand down south, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that, given all that was to culminate at SuperBrawl in just a few short days, there was something else left hanging on that would have to give if he was to truly 'move on' to whatever it was that stood in his way next.
"Eh. Worth a shot."
"Was it?"
"Good to see you too, bud."
"You going to spill, or do I need to start guessing?"
"Your guess is probably as good as mine."
"I'm guessing you're not here to apologize."
"Heh. Nah, probably not."
"Piece of sh*t..."
"Aw, thanks, pal. Means a lot, coming from you."
He was getting defensive, in his own way. It was really something else, this new air of clarity - recognizing things as they were happening, picking up on social cues. It would take some getting used to. For the time being, he figured, it might be better to not exasperate Clark anymore than he already had, evidenced plain as day as his brother let out a long, irritated sigh, once more doing everything in his power to avoid eye contact with the malcontent who'd just walked back into his life uninvited.
"If you're looking to be at all productive out here, you could at least go and see mom. Pretend to have even at least an ounce worth of conscience in that shell of yours."
That wasn't a bad idea, actually. In perhaps a testament to the fog that was still slowly clearing out of his mind, or maybe just in testament to what an absolute rotten bastard he'd become, David had all but let the fact that the entire reason Clark was in California to begin with was to care for their mother, the frail and ailing Deborah Sullivan. In his more conscious years, David found it suspect that she'd come out this way seeking treatment, leaving behind the east coast, wherein some of the world's finest doctors conduct their practices in the city he called home. But, really, with the odds stacked? Him. Jack. That contrast in natural light. It made sense. She could seek treatment out here that would, at the very least, parallel that which she'd receive back home, all the while reaping the benefit of a little piece of mind to help her along the way.
"Yeah? She nearby?"
"You're serious...?"
The two brothers locked eyes now, a look of disgust on Clark's face staring daggers back at the first, genuinely inquisitive look David may have contorted his facial muscles into in the better part of twenty years. It took every ounce of Clark's being to try and not give David an inch - it was that sort of behavior, he held, that allowed David to run about unchecked for as long as he had - but damned if when he finally met his brother's eyes for a good, long while, he didn't see a genuine look of inquisition into the state of their mother. Perhaps it was a dose of reality long past due for the vagrant he had to somehow begrudgingly call family. Maybe it would be the final straw to finally put David out of the world's misery. At any rate - good, bad, or ugly - he was only human, after all. If he truly wanted this, and his eyes gave every indication that he did, then Clark would lead him to that body of water, leaving David to decide whether he'd finally drink or not.
Still, the vacancy on David's face persisted, snapping Clark back to the harsh reality of the situation at hand, and almost involuntarily, he rolled his eyes about, completely at his wit's end after less than maybe five minutes in the presence of a man he'd just assumed gone forever.
"You're a complete idiot. Come on."
As he rose to follow his brother, David stalled, catching Clark's attention as they crossed the street, and with a nod of his head, indicated a car parked along the side of the road maybe a block and a half away.
"I...uh...I can drive, if you want..."
"Drive? You? Now I know you're full of sh*t. Come on - don't make me regret this any more than I already do."
Revelation
"I can't get you out of this one."
David stared nonchalantly across the desk at Chris Meyer. His agent was visibly exasperated. Road weary. Slightly unkempt. His tone of voice had drifted far and away from the resolute, amicable manner in which he'd endeared himself to such a wide swath of difficult, for lack of a better term, personalities over the years, to the point that he now spoke tersely, in a very matter-of-fact sort of way. He was done mincing words, he was done trying to tiptoe around how he actually felt, and David could sense, perhaps even with a slight tinge of guilt, that he was just about done with his term as interim handler for one David Brennan.
"I'll manage."
Chris directed his stare in a fierce snap at David, the exasperation on his face washed all but away, in its place a look of absolute incredulous shock at how David could take the news of his unwillingness to become any further involved so gracefully, without so much as a hint of contempt or reactionary rage. He'd spent the past couple of months exercising every possible avenue he'd found available to try and figure his client out, and just when he'd thought he'd found all the answers, a new set of completely different questions presented themselves, the entire situation constantly weaving more and more of a confusing thread with not so much as a slight inkling of a pattern to follow.
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
He didn't shout it. He didn't sting it with a tone of contempt or disgust. His intent was as plaintive as the glare he forced behind the words to try and permeate David'a outward appearance and get to the actual root of the man who sat comfortably at ease before him - he wasn't wondering aloud. There was no rhetoric to his question. He genuinely, and quite simply wanted to know.
"You figure that out, you'll let me know?"
"There you go again! That's what I...how can this all be such a non-issue to you? I mean, outside that door, there's more than enough guys walking the halls who'd cut off their right arm just to find themselves in a position like yours, who'd fight tooth and nail to keep that spot from getting away from them. But you? No, not you. You're content to just throw it all to the wind, so long as you get yourself a couple of good digs in at Sleater before you go."
"Look, man, I can play by a lot of rules, but I ain't about to just not say some sh*t that needs to be said on account of.....wait, what?"
"What nothing. You know what you said, David. I just hope it was worth a title shot, I really do."
"Wait...you think I'm worried about Sleater's f*ckin' power play? The f*ckin' piss test or whatever?"
"No, I don't think you've given it a second thought to be honest, which, if I'm honest, really does a number on your intelligence quota in the power rankings, David. You realize that she's serious about this, yes? I mean, dammit, David - I had to arrange the additional detail with the California State Police to issue the test myself. You blow a point-oh-eight out there? There won't be an International Title match, and I don't have my crystal ball right here, but if there's no International Title match at SuperBrawl, I'd be keeping an eye out for a 'future endeavors' FedEx the next day, David."
David was trying to be amicable. He was trying to not set Chris off, but dammit, he couldn't help but crack that sh*t eating grin he'd become synonymous with over the years. It soon grew to cover his whole face, and soon, David sat cradling his forehead in his right hand, trying to avoid the gaze of his agent who was clearly growing more and more agitated at David's lack of any serious take on the matter.
"Glad I could make you smile."
"My god - Chris, look, you know I think you're alright, but..."
"Do you?"
"...but you are a complete f*ckin' idiot."
"This is the thanks I get..."
"Don't be an assh*le."
"Assh*le? God, that's rich. Look, you May have fooled Ahriman, but I like to think that I know you a bit better than the be taken in by a handle full of drinking water."
"Well, look, I hate to break it to you then, but - "
"Bullsh*t."
"Alright, man. Believe whatever it is you think you need to. Been down that f*ckin' block a time or two already. What's one more?"
"You're gonna sit here and ask me to believe that you're stone cold sober?"
"Think I'm a little ways away from 'stone cold'. Sh*t doesn't just happen overnight, but I'd settle for 'dry', yeah. Little vote of confidence'd be nice, seeing as we're still 'agent/client', far as I know."
"And that business back at Horizon? That was what? More water?"
"Sure stung a fair bit more than water should, I think."
David knew the voice half a second before he'd finished his thought and had the opportunity to turn his attention toward the office door, but human conditioning took over all the same, and he glanced over, perhaps with less irritated intrigue than Chris, to see Isaac Cray, the WFWF WorldHeavyweight Champion better known the world around as Drakz, shutting the door behind him as he made his way into the conversation casually, without remorse for his sudden interruption, as if he'd belonged there there whole time.
"Drakz, if you don't mind, David and I were - "
"Plug your hole, Avalon. Champions are talking."
Chris threw up his arms in conclusive defeat as Drakz patted the world title slung safely over his should, tossing a brief, sideways glance at his old WFWF Tag Team Championship dangled over the side of the seat beside David.
"Answering the call?"
"That old thing? Please. Keep it. Call it a gift."
"Hell of a way to deliver a gift."
"In perfect Brennan fashion? The please was all mine. That does, of course, call into question the yarn you're trying to spin here, doesn't it?"
"F*ck is this, the Spanish Inquisition? And people wonder why I drank..."
"Drink."
"F*ck do you care?"
"I have a vested interest in the David Brennan story, I suppose. Our paths do intersect somewhat frequently, do they not?"
"Some things you just can't avoid."
"Always the charmer. Still, it's not particularly like me to pay much mind to - oh, what's the term these days? Locker room talk? That being said - I don't like to make a habit of visiting the same mistake twice, and I don't like to be the one to walk past the writing on the wall. If you're as confident as you seem to be that Sleater's little flex of the arms isn't the deterrent the rest of the world assumes it'll be, then I'd be remiss to think that our paths would finally diverge following the big to do this week.
"Sh*t, I didn't think I'd rattled you that much.
"Try and not flatter yourself. Sometimes seeing's just believing, as our esteemed host just pointed out - you sure were slugging them back pretty fierce for a man who's just reclaimed his seat upon the wagon."
"You two really are a couple of f*ckin' amateurs, aren't you?"
Reaching behind his seat, David yanked a bag up on to his lap, digging through an assortment of haphazardly packed clothes and toiletries before producing a single, eight ounce can of an old Brennan staple - Miller High Life. Cracking the tab open with all the familiar pop and fizz, he placed the can upon the desk, crossing his arms as he leans back, widening his eyes with an insistence at each of his interrogators, imploring either one of them to take him up on the drink.
"All yours, Avalon. This boy drinks some right piss."
"Figure you've earned a beer, right pal?"
Chris rolled his his eyes as he reached for the can, narrowing his eyes to stare daggers at Brennan over the can as he knocked it back with little hesitance, snorting and choking as the beverage met his taste buds. Slamming it back down, he wiped the spit from his mouth as he stared incredulously at David, who once more couldn't contain his own amusement as he reached for the can, bending in the sides as he clutched it and began using his other hand to pull at the lid, exerting some degree of effort before finally drawing from within the golden can a second, noticeably green can, both of which he laid back on the table for both men to behold.
"The matter, Chris? You don't like ginger ale?"
Drakz looked on curiously at Chris as he sized up the cans at the center of attention on his desk. David's eyes dances between the two of them, looking for either of them to react first.
"You mean neither of you pulled that sh*t as a kid? Christ..."
"Wasn't your old man some sort of Whitey Bulger type?"
"He'd take issue with the brand association, but in a manner of speaking, yeah."
"So what the f*ck did he care whether you were head straight or three sheets?"
"He didn't. Ma was never nuts about the idea though."
"Seems odd to think of you as having a mother."
Both men turned their attention to Chris, whose irritated demeanor had been shocked out of sight, leaving a bewildered look of disbelief on his face as the wheels churned in his head, trying to make sense or sort out of what exactly was going on.
"This isn't some parlor trick? You don't have another ace up your sleeve that you're gonna spring on me? 'Cause I've gotta be honest, David - I don't know how much more of this I can take."
"You'd be the first man on earth feelin' let down on account of a guy takin' himself a right turn, but it's the real deal. Ain't been easy but, well, there it is."
"How long?"
"Sh*t, while now...that Harambe mother f*cker, what's his name?"
"Dachs. Wait...does that mean...the night you ran off - you've spoken to - "
"No."
"Why the long con?"
"F*ck, you're still here?"
"Get used to it. Bravo, by the way, but seriously - I've been down this road before. You know that. Kyzer too, if he's to be believed at all. What exactly is it that you've gained by slugging Canada Drys wrapped in piss cans for weeks on end?"
"Honestly? I just wanted to hit you with a tall boy."
Drakz rolled his eyes, finding himself increasingly as annoyed with David's laissez faire attitude over the entire matter.
"I've got to side with Drakz on this one. You might be the only man alive who'd dive into sobriety in an attempt to ostracize people even more."
"Exactly."
"Oh, bang off. I know you better than anyone in this company. You've got about as much a game plan as Trevor Wolf did before introducing himself to the business end of an oak."
"No? Tell me, is the weight difference between two belts and one belt enough to get you a bit of a discount at the airport?"
"Again with the smartass."
"Now who's being evasive? How'd round three pan out for you, Isaac?"
"F*ck off. Don't forget I beat your ass bone dry months before you went down the rabbit hole again."
"And green as goose sh*t. You're gonna stake that claim? Really? F*ck, you're starting to sound a bit like Obo, bud."
Seizing his belt from the chair beside him, David rose to his feet, slinging the belt across his shoulder to mirror Drakz, stepping forward to meet him eye to eye. Instinctively, Chris leaped to his feet as well, ready to quell the tension and take a handful of fists to boot if things headed where they looked all but destined to turn.
"Take a seat. I think I liked you better as a louse."
"Makes sense - kept me out of your hair. I don't know who to feel worse for - you or your Detroit lackey. Suppose you've already taken the beating, for now at least."
"Come on, David, let's just call it a day..."
"Get f*cked, Meyer. Guy wants the story? I'll spin him a f*ckin' yarn. I mean, look, the past is what it is, but you know I'm pullin' for you, right?"
"I'll bet."
"Might be time to start heedin' my words, yeah? I mean, I'm one for one already, right?"
"So you'll, what? Come gunning for me once I've laid five other nothings like you to waste?"
"Ha! See - we do know each other so well, don't we? But uh, yeah. Yeah, that's pretty much the idea. I mean, a belt's a belt, win's a win, and all that, but sh*t, I don't think I'll ever need a buzz again after squarin' off against you and your lapdog there. Beatin' your ass? Waaayyyy more intoxicating. I could get hooked on that sh*t."
In a huff, Drakz turned to exit, making a quick stride across the room toward the door.
"Maybe you worry about Crowe first, lest you get ahead of yourself again, yes?"
"Why? You think he'll fare better than you did?"
Rejection
"Thought I'd see you at dad's services."
"I thought I'd see you at mom's."
The realization had settled in on David a good mile ahead of their ultimate destination. Clark wasn't taking him to some top of the line hospital or some well-to-do home wherein the most feeble and sickly can live out their waning days in peace. He'd missed that boat by more than a fair share of knots, and even before the sprawling, rolling green hills of the cemetery fell into sight, David understood in an instant what Clark had meant when he suggested that he go and visit his mother. There was always a connotation that stuck to the two of them whenever someone dared mention Jack Brennan's bastard sons - the brand alone reeked of the sort of conniving, scheming wretches that seemed to follow the Boston crime lord wherever he went - but the stigma that each of them carried unwittingly, though an informal title only among those who best knew the details of the Brennan empire, had always fit David immensely better than it ever had Clark. If the fruit of our looms bear a fifty-fifty chance of one day embodying one of two parents, then the torch of the Brennan/Sullivan union burned of two separate flames, and there was no question that when contrasting the dark of the Brennan name with that of the misguided light that defined the Sullivan bloodline, David was Jack's son through and through.
Clark was every bit their mother - irrefutably good, generous, and kind hearted. David could see how much it pained him to come here still, even as they climbed the hill where the lonesome grave of Margaret Sullivan lay beneath a well grown patch of soft, green grass. Clark had come to California for no other reason than to oversee their mother's care, and as David traipsed the world, following well in the shadow of Jack's footsteps than he'd ever cared to admit, he was conspicuously absent as his mother fell ill, struggled, and died knowing the love of but one of her two sons. It would be enough to make lesser men break down and cry, perhaps, but David was not so much above outward emotion as he was unforgivingly hardened by the understanding and acceptance that, for better or worse, give or take any small adjustments to be made on his outward person, a rotten, horrendously incorrigible piece of sh*t.
"Did you really?"
"If you're ever wondering what it takes to truly and totally give up on a person..."
"Right, right, I get it, I get it."
David stood and stared at his mother's headstone for a good, long time. It was not at all lost on him that as he stood there, by all rights obliged to acknowledge the sheer miracle that he was able to still walk the earth upright and conscious, he was, if not for six feet of separation, spending more time in the presence of his mother, who always managed to keep tabs on him, likely through Clark, than he had since he'd practically been a kid.
"She worried about you."
"Yeah, you'd mentioned."
"A lot. More than I could ever understand."
David had only just joined The New Epoch when he'd last heard from his mother - still ailing, now under the watch of Clark who'd just relocated around the same time. Like any mother whose heart of gold forbade her from ever abandoning hope for her own children, she'd become wrought with worry, certain that David had been drinking again, and had dispatched Clark to deliver the message, which he'd rebuked in all classic fashion.
"You're not serious, by the way?"
"Hmm?"
"I know it's a straw grasp at this point, but tell me you didn't actually go to Jack's in lieu of mom's, David."
"Wish I could, brother. Truth is, I didn't know."
"You didn't know?"
"I didn't know she was dead. I ain't proud of it, but there it is."
The news was more than Clark needed to hear at that point, and rather than sit there an hammer on he point, he turned to leave, double timing across the vast expanse of rolling green landscape as David trailed behind. He didn't make immediately for the car, instead opting to loiter around, perhaps in hope that the fresh fall air could help clear his mind of the course his afternoon had taken.
"So, you and Natalie, then? You're - "
"Nope."
"You're kidding."
"Afraid not. Haven't actually spoken to her since you guys stunted me in the Far East."
Clark stared at his brother, his jaw involuntarily agape as he tried to reconcile in his mind the words coming out of David's mouth.
"God, you are an idiot. Do you know how much I've put up for her to tail you across the country?!"
"Sh*t, that was you?"
"She figured I owed her."
"And you agreed."
"That's mom for you."
"Or you're just another dumbass Brennan. Still, guess I owe you a bit of thanks then, that bein' the case?"
"I think a bit more than thanks is in line, but yeah? Why's that?"
"Well, I mean, I ain't got any chips to show or nothin', but uh..."
"David, spare me. Alright? It's bad enough, me coming home to find your sorry excuse for a brother across the street staring down your home like it just challenged him to a fight or something. The least you could do is not subject me to this, here, today."
"Look, I ain't gonna sit and beg you to believe me, alright? You wanna? Fine. Cool. Point is, it's headin' that way, and it sounds like you had a hand there, even if you don't know it and I ain't done much about it yet, so thanks, alright?"
"And you're still doing...well, whatever it is you do?"
"Better now, I think. Yeah."
At this, Clark rolled his eyes, hardly able to put any interest at all behind the idea of making small talk with his vagrant waste of a brother. David followed in suit as Clark retreated within the car, signaling in all but word that he was good and ready to put a definitive end to this little charade once and for all.
"Look, seriously though. Good on you, bringin' me out here, alright? I know I'm a f*ckin' stone out there, but it meant something, even at the cost of your afternoon. You wanna get me back, I'll take care of the rest of the way for you, alright?"
Clark hesitated starting the car, grimacing as he clutched the steering wheel before turning to face David head on for the first time all afternoon, staring directly into his eyes as if that contact would somehow give his words more emphasis or meaning.
"You know what I want, David?"
"Could take a few guesses..."
"I want you to sit there, in silence, until we get back to that bench. Once we're there, I want to out of my car, without a word, wave, or a wandering look. I want you to walk away from my home, back to whatever it is that got you there in the first place, and that's the last I ever want to see of you ever again. I don't want you to call, I don't want you to apologize, and for the love of whatever sanity I've got left to see my days through, the last passing mention of your name I ever hear again had better be when you finally step off the edges of the earth and plummet to your inevitable death. That's what I want - you're to walk out of my life when we get back home, and you are, under no circumstances, to ever walk back into it for as long or as short as you live."
The words ignited a fire in Clark's eyes like David had never seen before. They'd been close once, as kids, probably out of sheer necessity, but now, David understood. It was one of those inevitables that came with once more embracing a sober way of life and mending what little damage you could - some bridges were simply burned beyond repair. Clark had every right to hate him - David would likely feel the same way about anyone who'd made an attempt on his life. Clark was too good a person to bear the Brennan name, and yet he wore it as a badge of imperfection - the conviction was there. He meant every word he said, even if David knew that somewhere, buried deep beneath layers of hate, contempt, and anguish that David himself had forged for his brother, it ate him alive to say them.
He'd done enough damage here. This wasn't some opponent willingly stepping into the ring knowing full well what they were up against. This was an unwitting victim of collateral damage that had reached his own higher than most breaking point.
"Sure, man. I can do that."
Redemption
As his truck hopped and barreled along the barren, inbound road, Jim found himself tossing sideways glances whenever opportune toward his passenger seat, watching with one eye as the kid seated beside him stared wistfully out the window, seemingly lost in thought among the miles upon miles of plainly vacant space that populated the relative quiet of the towns outside the hustle and bustle of the big (to them, at least) city. It wasn't often (read: ever) that Jim found himself with a passenger to his right, and though it clashed with his routine nature of introverted solitude, he found himself, perhaps spurned upon by the weekend of finding the intrinsic value in another human life and the inner reward reaped from putting another soul before the priority of oneself, wanting to carry on the conversation, however terse and reserved it may have been. 'Friend' was a title bestowed upon no other man by the likes of Jim Landry, and yet, as they passed along the route back into civilization, he wondered if perhaps he'd found the very sort of man he could trust with that sort of kinship in this David he'd found along the side of the road just days earlier.
"You're sure you don't wanna hit the arena first? See if your stuff's all there, or..."
David didn't respond, negatively or otherwise. Jim took that to be a resounding no. They'd discussed the issue before taking off - Jim himself was a fair bit smaller than David, and whereas he had nothing of his own to offer up, he figured the least David may have wanted would have been a change of clothes he hadn't broached death's door in just a few short nights earlier, but David was adamant that there was nothing of any resounding value he'd be lost without, that he only wanted to leave this all behind - no offense to Jim - and try and reclaim the road he'd fallen so violently far from.
"Think your plane'll have stuck around?"
"Doesn't matter."
"Nah? Envy that, I guess. I had myself a private jet'n all that, I'd be pretty sore to find it went off without me. Other things on your mind, I guess."
"Guess so."
To say that David was reserved would be an understatement. That's not to say that he was expressively talkative as he laid low back home, having spent the better part of the past couple of days sleeping off what Jim could only imagine was one hell of a hangover, but now, as they soldiered on toward David's desired destination, he'd somehow clammed up even more so, leaving Jim to only wonder exactly what it was David was headed back to.
He'd managed to get all but as much out of him over the course of a couple days - while David was perfectly cordial and polite and respective of the fact that he'd been brought into another man's home, he seemed entirely uninterested in being at all forthcoming about the more curious details of his own life. It was a strange sort of situation, boarding a perfect stranger in one's home with little more than a name and the assurance that, so long as you agreed to return the favor, he wouldn't kill you - an agreement they'd slogged through when David finally came to a good twelve hours after being plucked from the brink. Jim, himself something of a loner who preferred to left well enough alone in his own right, was happy to oblige, but he couldn't quite shake the sense that David was something more than a sodden vagrant who just happened upon his route home one night. His accent all but shouted the story that he was a fair bit away from home, even if Jim couldn't quite place it to New York or Boston, having always contended that both sides of the coin had always sounded like a pack of downtrodden goons. His face was worn, aged well beyond the 'early thirties' that David purported himself to be. Most jarring, perhaps, was just how much of a barrel this guy was - dwarfing Jim in every which direction. He'd even awoke the next morning and pondered as David remained passed out upon his sad excuse for a couch just how he mustered the strength to haul that lug into the back of his truck. Frankly, he was simply too interesting to be just another slob, and it was entirely frustrating to be in the presence of someone with such a story to tell and no certain willingness to share that experience with the world.
On their last full day together, as they sat out front of Jim's modest home at his own insistence that the clean, quiet air would give that last breath of life David needed to exhume the toxicity from his system and start anew, he finally insisted that, for all his troubles, his openness, and his agreeable nature in regard to David's demeanor, he was owed at least one detail to be plucked from David's mind and put out in the open, if for no other reason that, at least from that point on, Jim had himself become part of the story by then.
"How did you get all the way out here, anyway?"
David never broke his gaze from the sprawling fields that complimented Jim's otherwise unremarkable homestead, as if looking off in the distance for his own answer to the question. Finally, his eyes still fixed upon the land laid out before them, he spoke - more muttered, though with startling clarity.
"I ran."
"Must have a set of legs on you, runnin' that far outta Minneapolis."
David didn't respond. There didn't seem any sense - this Jim had already gone well above and beyond the call of humanity to bring David in and care for him the way he did. He seemed kind enough - simple, for certain, but not stupid. There was no way he didn't know that when he plucked David off of the street that night and brought in that he'd found a man pickled to the gills. No sense in rehashing that story. He was, himself, trying the best he could to put it out of mind.
"Hell you runnin' from, anyway?"
"That....well, that's a bit more complicated. Long."
"Weekend ain't over yet...figure I been around the block a couple more times'n you. Maybe seen some things you haven't yet."
"Heh. I dunno. I've seen some sh*t."
"Try me.."
It wasn't at all the revelation Jim had been expecting. Call them the conclusions we leap to in our minds, but Jim had pictured, just by the looks of him, something entirely more life threatening - a man he'd wronged or an old forgotten enemy. Maybe an unpaid debt. The last thing he'd expected to hear was David spin a tale, vivid in both detail and dramatic flair, that was as old as time itself and had likely endeared itself to every man what found himself drawn to the fairer sex walking god's green earth - that of the girl who loved unconditionally, and the guy who'd f*cked it all up seven ways to Sunday. It was a tale he'd heard a thousand times over in the shop, and though he fancied himself detached from most chains of human emotion, it was one that always seemed to cut deep - Jim had never had a love of his own. He simply found no use for the burden, but he wasn't absent of recognizing the void in his life that had been left vacant by his own stubborn ways. David's story, however similar it may have been to the boys' back at work, seemed to carry with it the additional pang that never came with any of the nonsense he'd been party to in the shop. David, for all his apparent shortcomings and vagrant ways, seemed uncertain that this girl - this Natalie - had any business left giving a care in the world for someone like him.
For a man he'd literally dragged out of a ditch in a puddle of his own bile, David, in that moment, even in spite of the draw that led Jim to lend a helping hand in the first place, suddenly seemed all too human, a remarkable turn given his otherwise stoic, firm nature.
"And you had no clue she was there?"
"Mmhmm. Nothing. Hadn't seen her in...sh*t, at least five years? Like I said, I figured she'd have just moved on."
"Damnedest things, women."
"Been there yourself?"
"'fraid not. You got me, in that respect, at least. Figure I'd be a little harder up than you, figurin' all that out."
He watched as David nodded, pensively staring off into the distance, momentarily lost in thought as night slowly enveloped the area around them.
"Still, if this girl, Natalie, cares enough to chase you halfway across the country...might be something worth lookin' into."
"Sure, 'til she comes home and finds me down the bottom of a bottle again or some sh*t..."
"So ditch the bottle."
"You drink?"
"Never cared for it, no."
"There you go. Easier said than done."
"Alright, so we're, what? Six or seven days in, dependin' where you wanna draw the startin' line? Why not go for eight? Or nine? I imagine you'll be chalkin' the weeks, months, and years before long...ah, if in you want to, that is. Not my call, of course."
David considered this for a good, long while. He'd been through rehabilitation before. It was, as he'd noted, no easy task, but Jim, in his own right, had something of a point. In the short time since he'd woken in a start on Jim's old couch, he'd managed to slog through close to a solid week with little more to drink than more than a few glasses of the store brand, instant iced tea his host seemed to favor so much. He, of course, wouldn't want to subsist on the steady diet of bacon, eggs, and red meat that had filled the roll of catering during his week off the grid, but nevertheless, that was one week down, all on the back of a driven necessity. If he could simply carry that down the road, well...
"Something to think about, is all. I'm turning in. Stay up if you want, just lock up? Early mornin' ahead if we're getting you back to the world before work tomorrow."
-------------------------------------
"You've had a good run, Crowe.
No, really - pat yourself on the back. I'm a firm believer in credit where credit is due, so long as it ain't misplaced. Sh*t, I had to look it up myself just to see exactly when it is you got ahold of that damn thing, and that ain't even p*ssy footin' around and tryin' to say it only counts from you slappin' the old commentator around. You've held that thing a good long while - a year, at least, by my count, which, really, is the only one in payin' any mind to.
Now, I mean - sure, you've made some bunk ass choices along the way. I don't think I need to go on and on and on again over what a sh*t f*ckin' lay it is gettin' in bed with a guy like Drakz. Sh*t, I think anybody breathin' be able to tell you what a dolt f*ckin' move it is cozyin' up to the likes of our esteemed chief executive or whatever the f*ck his title is, but whatever. I get it.
You're new crop. It's like systemic f*ckin' defect with you guys - you ain't worth two squirts of piss unless you've got a f*ckin' vet holdin' the leash makin' sure you don't get too far ahead of yourself that you're trippin' over your own assh*le. As we've just covered, I'm pretty much patient f*ckin' zero in that regard, but hey - bygones are bygones, and eventually we all grow out of our stupid, right?
Right?
How long, really, can you expect to wear that belt around your waist? Sure, confident guy like you? Might be easy to just as soon say 'forever, assh*le', but really. I don't know, personally, having not yet taken it from you, at least formally, but I have to imagine that when the best laid plans crash in on you - and I promise you, they will - that sort of burden is probably gonna be a bit more than a guy like you is able to bear all by his lonesome once the f*ckin' vultures have picked what's good off of you and left you to the roaches. See, a lot of sh*t'll get slung this way and that about a guy like me, but I like to think that, underneath it all, I'm a pretty clever guy. I may not talk pretty like some or look pretty like others, and while your mileage may vary, I'd say I've got my head screwed on pretty level, for the most part. Case in point?
I learn from my mistakes.
Now, let's be real - I'm pretty f*ckin' good at what I do. No need to remind you of that, so applicable mistakes? Well, they're gonna be far and few between, but if you wanna get all textbook about it, really get yourself a good case study? Ain't much of a better resource than these past few months, huh? I mean, chrissake, we've got a real 'mama tried' goin' here, what with the roster that's been flung at me looking for someone - anyone - to knock me off of my ladder. Has beens, never weres, and made to bes - they've tried 'em call, and the only common thread among 'em? Come on, Luke, you know this one.
1.
2.
3.
Not a win among the lot of you. I've run the gauntlet - you can look, I'll wait. Former National champions. Recently former tag-team champions - what's up, Drakz? Former world champions, and yes, Luke - even the current WFWF International Champion. Every last one of you's tried to slow this train and every last one you's had to go on back, look yourself in the mirror, and admit to yourself that you couldn't get the job done, and in the case of a guy like you? You've had to own up who even f*ckin' knows how many ways to not gettin' the job done! You've got a who's who wall that would make the president f*ckin' blush built all around you, and for all the hot streaks it got you, for whatever historical benchmarks you set, for however f*ckin' long it's kept that belt strapped around your waist?
You don't own it.
Someone else had a hand in that sh*t for you. Great, all well and good if you're out chasin' down Drakz and the boy wonder over their tag team titles - don't mind me - but in the second tier main event? F*ck off. Look, I ain't the advice dispensin' type, but I'm gonna hand you a freebie here, man to man, just on account of circumstance, alright?
You look like just as much of a nancy tryin' to lay a loss on your entourage as you do tryin' to claim a win independent of the guys proppin' you up.
Who sealed your fate way back in Boston, before you and I hardly even knew one another's name?
Me.
Who pinned your ass the first chance you and I got to cross paths?
Me.
Who got himself a taste for runnin' down winning streaks a couple weeks back and is just chompin' at the bit to do that sh*t again?
Your turn.
Now, I'm sure you've been all pedal to the metal for weeks now doin' whatever you think it is you need to prep for round two out there, and I'm sure - well, at least I'd hope - that even though you ain't shown much in the way of it yet that maybe the thought's in the back of your head that you maybe learned a thing or two there havin' a size thirteen dropped halfway down your throat and that maybe you'll find a way around whatever it is that found you on the business end of a Brennan beat down the first go 'round. Maybe you're even coming in all hot and rearin' to go, figurin' you couldn't possibly make the same f*ckin' slip twice and that you've got this sh*t in the bag.
Ha ha.
That's...well, that's actually pretty funny - 'in the bag'.
I know a thing or two about that particular locale, and Crowe - you're about as far from having this sh*t locked down as Shawn Malakai is from recapturin' last year's glory.
See, it's startin' to make the rounds. I dunno how far down the totem you are - I don't really think that much of you, to be honest - but if you haven't heard, well...let's just say things are a bit less foggy in my world these days. The mind is seein' things a bit more clearly. Oh, sh*t - here you go. Case in point? Your boy, Drakz. Let me tell you, man, that mother f*cker's been a thorn in my f*ckin' side for some time now. Mother f*cker had me over the barrel, oh and two, with not so much as a twinkle of the light at the end in sight. Odds on favorite to keep that long train runnin' and just keep on runnin' his mouth over some manufactured streak that no one could seem to lay a crack into.
Heh - bet you he never saw that sh*t comin'.
If you're...look, I dunno how the education system's servin' you these days out in Detroit, so if, uh...well, if you're not graspin' this sh*t, go on and ask your boy about his tag team championship legacy. Might get the balls rollin' or whatever it is you've got occupyin' that cranium of yours. Point is, without goin' about it too funny like or anything, you've got one of the top notch players in this f*ckin' game with an undisputed legacy of superiority over a guy like me at a couple of different stages along this path we call life all the sudden fallin' flat on his ass like last week's paper f*ckin' champion. Lotta pundits or dirt sheets or whatever he f*ck they fancy themselves these days might call that sh*t luck or a fluke or whatever, but Luke, I'm layin' it out here for you as plain as I can. I don't operate on chance. I don't operate on luck, and I sure as sh*t don't operate on the contributions of others anymore.
The guy that beat your ass with one hand while holdin' back that Nitta twerp way back whenever the f*ck that was? He ain't comin' to SuperBrawl. He ain't comin' for your title, and he ain't the one who's gonna be beatin' your ass all over Southern California. Far as I'm concerned?
He's dead.
You can train and prepare and listen to anyone slingin' whatever f*ckin' advice they or you think is gonna leave you walking outta the big time with that f*ckin' belt, and it ain't gonna mean a world of f*ckin' difference because any f*ckin' edge you might've had a few weeks back on the back of the odds that I just tank out somewhere fancy and miss the train into town is about as absent to you as that title around your waist is about to be, son. The fact of the matter is you could've been studyin' that tape for hours on end since they day you peeled yourself off the mat and let it sink in that you took a preemptive f*ckin' beatin' off the guy who was a week deep into gunnin' for you, and it ain't gonna make a world of f*ckin' difference when all the lights come up. It may not even be enough to sink in now, given whatever space you got left amid the rocks upstairs and all, but as you walk down that ramp at SuperBrawl, Luke? I really f*ckin' hope it hits you that the guy down the ring waitin' on your ass to present itself for the beatin' is unlike any you've ever faced before, and when it does, I want you to take a moment and good and acquainted with that belt of yours one last time.
You've had a good run, Crowe, but time's up.
Wait 'til you get a load of me."
Salt Lake City, UT
David had to chuckle to himself.
Five years ago - whenever it was that he ultimately had set out on this path he now found himself inexplicably bound to - none of this would have been all that likely to have make a f*ck to him one way or the other. He sure as sh*t would have been a fair bit more than hard pressed to have found any valid reason to meander around an arena long after the lights had come up and the screaming masses had all dispersed in every which direction, leaving behind not but the unseen, skeletal remains of the production that the WFWF puts on week in and week out. Hell, tonight was, if his newfound memory was serving him right, the first time David had seen it all from this angle himself. There was a time when he'd hardly left time in his schedule for a trip back to the locker room, often times parking his bag just beyond the curtain that separated the spectacle from reality so that - win, lose, or draw - he'd have as clear a path out of the building as possible when the dust had all settled and he'd fulfilled his obligations for the night. He was a different person then. Not necessarily better (though an argument could feasibly be made for worse). Just...different. Different intents. Different expectations.
He'd changed.
That understatement of the century was punctuated, perhaps, no better than right now, as he sat about eight rows deep in the lower bowl of an arena he couldn't name, in a city he'd have to remind himself the location of before departing. He'd made his way out here quietly. Unassumingly. No one had seemed to notice, nor care, that he'd held back when his peer among the WFWF roster had long begun making headway toward the next town along the road, and that suited his purpose tonight just fine, for as quiet and reservedly as he'd made his way to a seat out of thousands spread throughout the arena, he'd come with a purpose - one that no stagehand or production worker would stand in the way of with any degree of success. A fire had burned in his gut as the show went off the air that night, and while a month ago he might have been content to have simply laid waste to a small corner of the arena's underbelly before hastily making way all to ceremoniously out the door, those tides of change continued to roll within him, and he soon found his fists unclenched, his jaw relaxed, and - remarkably - his mind focused on a task at hand that would not rest until seen to completion, no matter the hurdles or collateral damage involved. It was, indeed, an altogether different perspective for the man who'd come to find himself synonymous with unbridled rage and contempt that manifested itself in violent, physical outbursts. He felt entirely, and at once calculating, methodical, and driven, and though he'd never lay out on the couch and spill the beans to anybody who'd like to hear the words spill from his maw, he'd be remiss to say he didn't welcome the change.
That, in of itself, would be enough for most self aware beings to recognize the wash of great change behind as the tides roll in and out, but moreover, what struck David as most peculiar and all the more jarring, was how enamored he found himself with the minutia of the tear down as the crews labored tirelessly to break down the elaborate set up that really punctuated the WFWF's shows. He'd come, initially, to do little more than to watch and to wait, eyeing the motions that seemed routine and mechanical in nature, looking for the opportunity to arise where he'd be able to slip down to the ground level, undetected, and take what was rightfully his, and yet, as the crew went about their night, he found himself so ensnared in the clutches of exactly what he wasn't quite sure - nostalgia? Perhaps - that as the crew moved to begin tearing down the ring, where mere hours earlier he'd stood in what may be, to date, the greatest victory of his career, he had to scramble down the steps in double time, lest his window of opportunity slam shut almost as quickly as it had just opened.
In the seconds that passed as he leaped sets of stairs at a time toward the arena floor, the curiosity of his intrigue in the fine details of what was happening around him was hardly lost. Every detail - the brightness of the house lights in full illumination, the uniform color of the arena's seating layout, the mechanical way in which the crew moved from place to place, striking the set in such a manner that told a tale of just how many times they'd performed the same routine - was apparent to him in such bright and vivid clarity that had never before transcended his cranial cavity. It was an appreciation for the sort of misses he'd likely encountered over the course of his five years back down that he hadn't come out of round one with, perhaps due to the institutionalized manner in which he'd gone about it all once before, or perhaps, in conjunction with the former, the indelible strength he'd seemed to have drawn from staring down death's door for the umpteenth time and coming out clean on the other side.
Whatever it was that had afforded him a renewed sense of focus, it paid off in spades as he leapt the barrier that created the divide between the arena's pitched seating and the multi-purpose floor below in seemingly slow motion, paying no mind as he'd once been required before to the motion of his feet, instead offering all directive on the ring hand who'd entered the ring moments earlier, clearing the mat of all debris - chairs, wrist tape, and most importantly, two lengths of leather hide, emblazoned from the center outward with a set each of glimmering, golden plates. No sooner had each belt been tossed aside to the arena floor to be brought back as afterthought cleanup as the crew focused their efforts on the ring itself, David was able to glide in, sight unseen once more, and in one fell swoop, collect the pair of belts in his arms, folding the adjoining straps of each over the center plate and tucking them under one arm as he exited as quickly as he'd moved in, behind the still standing curtain and into the oblivion of the back end of the arena.
It was almost too easy.
Five years ago? Right, none of this would have mattered, but as he made his way, nearly darting, rather than walking, toward his locker room, he could hardly contain his fervor for what he'd just accomplished. Slamming the locker room door behind him, he tossed on belt aside, clutching the other in both hands now free, the fluorescent light of the room pitching a blinding glare that resonated off of the golden plate before him.
His first WFWF Championship.
An hour earlier, maybe even less, Lila Sleater had stripped the title - in his eyes, little more than a ceremonious branding - from him for reasons he didn't quite yet understand nor quite frankly care for. That didn't matter. To a hundred different men, the belt clutched within his hands symbolized a hundred different things - intangible tenets of accomplishment that were neither here nor there to David. As he stared down at the title - his title - he saw but one thing glaring back at him as the belt's reflection burned a hole precariously close to his eyes:
Victory.
Sure, sure. Victory over Dean. Victory over Drakz. Victory over five years of being heralded as one of the most trying competitors to set foot inside a WFWF ring and not a damn thing to show for it but a passing rub in a meaninglessly symbolic compilation of false accolades, but, perhaps now, to David, more important than any of those (even with the certain victory over Drakz being one tough hurdle in its own right to pass up) was the inward sense of victory over himself.
It was no secret, least of all to David, that for every formidable opponent he'd squared off against over the years, not a one had done as much damage, neither physically nor psychologically, as he had to himself. To recycle a tired old trope, David was, in his very essence, the absolute embodiment of becoming one's own worst enemy, and while he knew, even now, that the road that led beyond that life was long, winding, and sure to be full obstacles along the way, the belt in his hands told more a story than a victory over a long standing thorn in his side or a decisive triumph over all other comers in a specified division of competition. It told all who'd look upon it, in varying degrees of detail give or take one's own proximity to the harrowing tale that was David's life, that the worst, for now, was far behind him, and with his most deeply rooted inner demons quelled for at least the moment, he was finally free to focus his energies on conquering all that lay before him as he'd sworn to do so long ago.
No one seemed to notice as he strolled down the halls of the arena, one belt nestled safely in his bag, the other slung triumphantly over his shoulder. F*ck 'em. He'd earned this. Even as the intangibles floated to the forefront of his mind, making the belt all but a gilded accessory there only for the ego of the braggart, he'd watched for years and years as others stood tall before him, clutching championships they did not earn and in turn did not deserve. They'd come looking for the belts - he was almost sure of that. Company property, and all that. And to his end? He'd gladly and willingly hand them over.
Just as soon as someone earned them.
Change is a funny sort of thing. It often times, as it seemed to have done now, partitions the facets of being that make us who we are into compartmentalized features that can be molded and manipulated, save for a precious few, which seem to stand the test of time, and, at least as much as David could theorize, really define us as people. The world would soon come to see a different side of David - a side that for some, may be near unrecognizable compared to the man they'd spent so much time familiarizing themselves with - but damned if, for all the changes that would seem become apparent to the world, he was going to start recognizing the authority of a mewling leech like Lila Sleater.
Some things, they say, never change.
David smirked to himself as he stepped out from the luminescent glow of the arena's innards to the quiet black of night, the private lot glowing beneath the dying hum of a scattered few aging street lamps. As he strolled past the odd assortment of cars still left behind - likely, he thought, those of the crew he'd just spent some quality time observing - a lone vehicle, segregated from the larger assortment to his right, caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Glancing sideways as he passed closer, the handwritten placard marking the spot caused him to pause, glancing around as he confirmed silently to himself, that he was very much alone, at least for now, in the private lot.
'Reserved for S. Ahriman'
Either Sam took himself on a celebratory, Brennan level pity party, or David wasn't as alone in the arena as he'd thought.
New perspectives be damned - David still wasn't on the hunt for a friend. He and Sam had been thrust into competition together as a matter of blind circumstance, and as such, at least as far as David's concerns went, Sam would be just as liable for his own standing as a tag-team champion as David intended on holding himself. Neither one of them was on track any time soon to be recognized as legitimate champions, leaving the burden of carrying that torch solely thrust upon each of their backs. That being what it was, David wasn't going to waste any sort of time tending to the standings of an unwilling partner of circumstance. Bigger fish to fry had already been dropped in the pan as SuperBrawl inched closer and closer, and while he'd be making damn sure that no one made off without his tag team championship without the fight of their lives, the belt slung across his shoulder was already well on its way to becoming little more than a stepping stone - the entire locker room had been put on short notice as David unceremoniously put a screeching halt to Drakz's unprecedented reign as tag-team champion. As bigger and blander opponents loomed on the horizon, the match at SuperBrawl was, really, at this point? Just a formality. The way David saw it, there was no need to drag along a potential liability when he'd be perfectly capable of holding onto that belt on his own. As far as Samael Ahriman was concerned, his role in David's future would only come into play in the unlikely event that he outlasted six other men to lay waste to another of Drakz's points of pride.
Still...
David wasn't one to turn a blind eye to a helping hand in a tense situation. Thirty some odd years of growing up the son of Jack Brennan in between the streets of Boston and Philadelphia are more than enough to make a man recognize the value of an extra pair of fists lobbing punches away from you as opposed to at you. In that respect, Sam had been quite the asset. Now, don't mince words - there wasn't a doubt in David's mind that, should push come to shove, he could absolutely lay waste to both Drakz and his contracted whipping boy of the month, no questions asked. That being said, he was man enough to acknowledge that having the goth in his corner didn't hurt matters any, and he sure as sh*t took more than his fair share of lumps after the fact - lumps that, while the podcasts and the dirt sheets might be perfectly content to brand par for the course of that particular stretch of road that Sam was making his way down on the way to SuperBrawl, David couldn't help but acknowledge with at least a hint of certainty might have just been meant for him, had he not allowed the bickering six behind to argue over who'd be keeping David's title warm for time being.
Glancing at his phone, and then back at the arena door as if to somehow impart upon any interested parties exactly how late it had become, David sighed, adjusting the belt over his shoulder as he tossed his bag down by the rear wheel well of what he internally hoped was a rental under Sam's name before leaning back upon the driver's side door, irritably maneuvering for several seconds to find that odd, standing sweet spot before breathing in the cool night air, hoping he wouldn't again let the newfound clarity of distractions deter him from whatever it was he'd ultimately intend to say or do to his unwitting, odd-coupled partner.
SuperBrawl:
Back From the Black
Recovery
"Now, there comes a time
in every man's life
where decisions have to be made.
Whether to toil,
to labor,
or just plain piss your days away."
Jim Landry's life was about as uninteresting and unremarkable as the day was long.
A sheet metal fabricator who'd worked in the same shop since the day he first entered the line of work at the age of nineteen, decades of quiet, drudging labor had left him all of sixty two years of age with little to show for it beyond the short grade of accomplishment that takes a temporary laborer up through the minuscule ranks to the complete lack of prestige that comes with being the chief welder in a struggling machine shop on the outskirts of some god forsaken town that society had all but forgotten. Day in and day out, he'd punch in early and clock out late, watching others he'd come up with walk away into the perceived glamor of retirement or death - whichever came first. For forty three years, Jim had afforded Hendrickson Sheet & Supply every ounce of his being, saving little time for a wife or a family or even so much as a four legged companion. The temps would often call him 'office furniture' in passing, and he'd consider a chuckle if they weren't so damn spot on - some days, he felt as though he knew the shop better than his own, modest home.
Every night, the long road home would be illuminated by little more than the luminous glare of Jim's own headlights, and for four decades, he'd swear up and down that as the last breath of life to depart the sprawling industrial complex that surrounded the grounds of HS&S, he'd never seen another living soul along the barren, darkened road that led away from the constant hum of America'a dying manufacturing industry. Not a deer, not a skunk, certainly never another human being. No, for as markedly lonely as Jim's life had been, that road, traveled sometimes six days a week for more than forty years, often times found Jim feeling his absolute loneliest.
Imagine, then, the thoughts that must have raced through his mind one rainy summer night as he made that same journey down that same road, feeling that same pang of loneliness, only for what he was certain to be his mind playing all sorts of tricks on him as the shape of a fully grown man, beaten, bloodied, and slathered in filth rolled out from the side of the road, directly into Jim's line of sight.
For weeks after the fact, Jim Landry would speak more than some who had worked alongside him their entire adult lives had ever heard him speak before as he recounted the tale down to the most minute of details - always starting with the same vivid description of quiet, lonesome normalcy being thrust into a whirlwind of activity and confusion entirely unbecoming of most nights coming off the job.
"What in the blind, blue hell..."
The tires screeched and skidded as Jim slammed and swerved to avoid barely missing what he finally recognized as he drew closer to be an actual, real life human being, though he was entirely uncertain from his initial vantage point whether or not he was to the point of living or breathing. Leaping from the cab of his truck, paying no mind to the onslaught of down pouring rain, Jim made his way across the road, shouting as he did so to be heard over the thunderous hum of the storm that had brewed around them.
"You tryin' get yourself killed, son?!"
He was certain that the man he recognized now as particularly young, at least comparatively speaking, hadn't answered, and so against all better judgement, he drew closer, against shouting over the deafening growl of the storm, peering in to try and ascertain whether there was any hope left for the man sprawled along the edge of the road.
"The hell you doin' out here anyway?! C'mon, let's get you outta the road at least!"
It seemed as though, given his proximity now, the man may have simply already been a goner by the time Jim had arrived, and he soon found himself looking aimlessly out into the dark, wondering exactly what to do next. He wasn't the type of man to carry a cell phone wherever he went, and he wasn't exactly leaping at the chance to run a dead man's pocket to alert the proper authorities, but suddenly, perhaps a trick of the wind or the rain, a faint mutter seemed to come from the ground immediately behind Jim's feet. He turned on a dime, and sure enough, the man was stirring - just barely - and as Jim leaned in to investigate, he heard the unmistakable drawl of a man's voice, his lips barely moving to match the timbre of his words.
"That...wow, that's a hell of a eulogy, Jack."
Delusional. The kid was delusional. Jim hadn't left in his being the time nor the patience for some crack pot, punk kid, probably drunk or high on God only knows what, but even as he contorted his face in disgust, the man in the road groaned and hacked on, reeling from whatever hallucination was playing out in his mind. Certain that this could hardly be chalked up to being his problem, Jim turned to retreat to the dry shelter of his truck, wondering for a moment why he'd bothered to delay the reprieve of the day's end just to find himself standing over some vagrant who'd clearly lost his appreciation for his own life, but a sudden gag took his attention by the throat and yanked it back in the direction of the evening's distraction - the kid had managed to roll flat on his back, and it was plainly obvious to a man like Jim, who'd lived as many years as he had, that he was choking on his own vomit. In a moment's time, he'd suffocate, drown, and die, there on the side of a road without so much as a name in the middle of the pouring rain.
As he'd come to recount his story, Jim would find himself toiling with his own bout of self questioning for some time to come, a modicum of doubt he'd never felt before in all his long, lonesome years. In that moment, as he began to recognize the gravity of the situation, his immediate thoughts had leapt back to his own self concern - getting home, getting dry, and getting some rest. In that immediate snippet of time, he would have been all but content to have left this nameless, practically faceless in the dark of the night stranger to his own defenses, had he only made it to his cab a moment sooner, shutting the door on the assumption that the kid would be drenched, sick, sad, alone, but at the very least, alive. That was an end game that Jim, that night, would have been able to live with.
All that, of course, went right out the window as the precious seconds ticked by, leaving him in a position to recognize that this young man he'd stumbled upon on what should have been any ordinary night was at a crossroads with his own mortality. Jim fancied himself he way he imagined most of those around him did - a simple, unassuming man. He was perfectly content to live within the realm of his own selfish concerns, but even he, with no family nor friend to speak of, was not so depraved as to try and reconcile another man's life on his conscience, and while he'd come to struggle with the dichotomy of his split decisions for some time to come, in that moment of crucial need, he sprang back to action, dropping to his feeble, weathered knees as quickly as his body would allow, and rolled the boy over to his side, recoiling in his own human nature as all matter of toxins spewed from the kid's mouth, his first breaths labored and gasping, before finally steadying into a tired but steady rhythm.
"Sh*t, that was beautiful Jack."
Jim breathed an exasperated sigh of mixed relief. This humanity amongst others business wasn't one he thought he'd soon be pursuing in greater leaps. Kneeling at the kid's side, he glanced around himself, hoping with some sort of empty expectation that some degree of help could be found, but he'd driven this road too many times for too many years to fool even himself. Resigning himself to the inevitable - the kid was his problem now - he slipped an arm beneath the young man's shoulder, leveraging himself as best he could, and with all his leftover might on the setting side of his life, he hoisted the kid upright, praying and cursing to every deity along the way to give the kid an ounce of strength of his own to ease the process along.
The barely two lanes of road width felt like a death march that dragged on for miles on end. It was a cold, uncomfortable truth as he dragged him alongside the passenger side of his truck - getting him into anything resembling an upright, seated position simply wasn't happening. Not here. Not now. Praying to whatever God he'd left behind some time ago for the forgiveness he'd need to atone for taking any shred of dignity the kid had left, Jim dropped the hatch of the bed, and with what he thought might be his final exertion of strength, rolled the kid into the unforgiving bed of the truck, slamming the latch behind him, and pausing to take in the cool rain as it beat down on his face.
"Ain't...sh*t...well, it ain't pretty, kid, but that's you out of the road at least."
He looked back over the side of the truck bed, wedging the kid into the corner so as to try and keep him on his side.
"Guess I been meaning to give myself a day off...
Without so much as a concerted groan in response, Jim slipped his hand beneath the kid's nose, just long enough to ensure he was still breathing. Figuring this was as good as it was going to get til he could get the two of them someplace dry, he gave a playful sort of slap to the side of the truck, hoisting himself into the cab and disappearing into the night, the only tell that either of them had ever been there being a slowly dissipating puddle of bile and vomit not even close to visible along the side of the road.
Reconciliation
"Nice place."
It was an equally casual observation and a sort of defeated concession all at once, to no one in particular. David Brennan had always held places like this - these perfect little communities, streets lined as far as the eye could see with perfect little houses, each nearly indistinguishable from the last but for an occasional palette swap for the sake of singularity - with some tinge of contempt. In truth, he knew that there wasn't anything inherently wrong with them - who was he, after all, to define another man's American dream? There were times when he even understood the appeal. He'd done enough time in the trenches of the working class to know that to some men, a little picture of infallible perfection at the end of the day was all there was left in the world to make rising with the sun worth it every morning. A younger, more naive David had even once envied the sort of guys who could spend an entire lunch hour gushing about the qualities of home that made the sort of thankless jobs that attracted his ilk worth slaving over, but time and experience had since led David to some of the more harsh realizations in life, most notably about himself, that put a sort of block in his mind, branded with the knowledge that suburban life, while to many the very picture of American life, would never suit him.
David was a city boy, through and through.
Still, he knew better than to come to a place like this looking as he had for the better part of what, by now, had felt like forever. Five years, at least. He hadn't paid much mind to something that felt as dolefully trivial as his wardrobe since he'd first started in the WFWF, which was funny, in a way, given had aesthetically important those sorts of details had been to his identity. All the same, he'd be lying if he were to say that it didn't feel somewhat redemptive, in a way - perhaps refreshing - to step out into the world in a brand new pair of boot cuts and a sharp, clean Fred Perry after so long. At thirty years old, it felt almost silly to put much stock into what was essentially a brightly colored costume used as a flag to wave in likeminded faces to surround oneself with, but damned if it didn't instill in him even just a small inkling of the sort of optimism - a far gone sort of mentality for him - that he'd last felt in the final days leading up to his WFWF debut.
Whatever thoughts prevailed in regard to his attire for the afternoon, it did serve him well, at the very least, to afford a bit of undeterred breathing room as he made his way around turns and byways, surveying the rows upon rows of cookie cutter houses lining the neighborhood at every turn in perfectly spaced intervals. Granted, he was astounded to find that, largely, he had the place to himself, so to speak. Sure, the occasional car would pass by or he'd cross paths with the odd dog walker or jogger here and there, but it would seem, given the complete lack of interaction, that either he'd erred on the proper side of caution in considering his outerwear for the day, or perhaps people on the west coast were just cut from a different grain of salt than in the northeast. Even the sun seemed to shine a bit brighter. David would be the first to tell you that he didn't know, nor did he care, the first thing about climate shifts, but he did have to crack a satisfied smirk at being able to leave his faded green bomber behind as he stepped out for a stroll through the neighborhood.
The sun. The houses. The people. It was a sort of Stepford branded watercolored picture of idealistic life that sort of rolled the eyes involuntarily of the weathered, hardened city slicker, but even he found himself simultaneously impressed and grateful to have found a conveniently placed bench situated immediately adjacent to his gut wrenching destination.
He checked the fold of paper in his pocket as he sat, confirming the number before settling in, not entirely sure whether he was mustering the gall or the courage to do what he'd come here to do today, if he even knew what it was entirely he'd come here to do. It was, indeed, a nice place - not the type of place a guy like him, dressed even as he was, had much of any business being at. He sat for god knows how long, sizing the place up, lost in thought and at times empty vacancy, staring almost as if waiting for the house itself to do something. Anything. Minutes, perhaps hours crawled by, and as David's thoughts began to creep toward getting up and walking away, leaving that chapter unfinished and at the mercy of life's great unknowns, a voice interrupted his runaway train of thought - familiar, though not entirely friendly, all the same.
"Long way from home, aren't you?"
Somehow, as his thoughts meandered away from him, a car had managed to snake its way into the driveway as he surveyed the area, which at the very least, could explain how he managed to miss someone standing immediately at his three o'clock, even if it wouldn't do any favors to convince anyone of his in tact faculties.
"Hey, Clark."
"Dare I ask what brings you my way?"
"Was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd swing by."
"Pasadena's hardly 'in the neighborhood'."
"Yeesh, you're following this sh*t now, too?"
"You could say it found its way into my life, yes. Natalie found you then, I take it?"
"Sort of."
"Heart of gold, that one. Give me a lifetime, I still think I'd be lost on what she sees in you."
David looked up, expecting to meet the piercingly judgmental glare of Clark Brennan, the only family he was certain he had left and perhaps the greatest opponent he'd ever have walking this earth, but instead they now traded empty glances as Clark stared off into the afternoon sun, almost wistfully, as he pondered what little fortune David could still be in the graces enough with anyone to behold. Hoping, however uncharacteristically it may have been, to shift the subject toward more positive topics, David averted his own eyes, glancing across the street once more toward Clark's home.
"Nice place you've got there."
"It does the trick."
"You gonna invite me in?"
He looked up as he said it, perhaps mistakenly, he now met the eyes of a man he'd last seen pinned to a wall beneath his own strength, a shattered beer bottle aimed precariously at his throat as David had waited for him to say one wrong word, informally inviting him to plunge the shards into his neck in what would have been a very real, very intentional attempt at ending his brother's life.
"No."
David knew that answer was coming before he'd even stepped off the plane. It was a perfectly understandable response. Expected. Fair, even. David hadn't done any sort of due diligence in his nor Clark's lifetime to expect anything more than a cold, unwelcome response in the presence of his, presumably, only sibling. The simple reality was that taking out a rental car and embarking on the five hour drive from the WFWF's home for the week to the Bay Area was something of an empty fool's errand, one that David himself tried with every passing mile to reconcile in his own mind. He'd never been one to seek the sort of closure or penance that most people more in touch with their inner workings might. It was more the 'David Brennan way' to bottle that sort of thing up and then bury it deep within the recesses of his psyche and save it for an evacuation of the fist on whoever was unlucky enough to cross that threshold next, and yet, as he'd stepped off the plane into California just weeks earlier for the double headed stand down south, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that, given all that was to culminate at SuperBrawl in just a few short days, there was something else left hanging on that would have to give if he was to truly 'move on' to whatever it was that stood in his way next.
"Eh. Worth a shot."
"Was it?"
"Good to see you too, bud."
"You going to spill, or do I need to start guessing?"
"Your guess is probably as good as mine."
"I'm guessing you're not here to apologize."
"Heh. Nah, probably not."
"Piece of sh*t..."
"Aw, thanks, pal. Means a lot, coming from you."
He was getting defensive, in his own way. It was really something else, this new air of clarity - recognizing things as they were happening, picking up on social cues. It would take some getting used to. For the time being, he figured, it might be better to not exasperate Clark anymore than he already had, evidenced plain as day as his brother let out a long, irritated sigh, once more doing everything in his power to avoid eye contact with the malcontent who'd just walked back into his life uninvited.
"If you're looking to be at all productive out here, you could at least go and see mom. Pretend to have even at least an ounce worth of conscience in that shell of yours."
That wasn't a bad idea, actually. In perhaps a testament to the fog that was still slowly clearing out of his mind, or maybe just in testament to what an absolute rotten bastard he'd become, David had all but let the fact that the entire reason Clark was in California to begin with was to care for their mother, the frail and ailing Deborah Sullivan. In his more conscious years, David found it suspect that she'd come out this way seeking treatment, leaving behind the east coast, wherein some of the world's finest doctors conduct their practices in the city he called home. But, really, with the odds stacked? Him. Jack. That contrast in natural light. It made sense. She could seek treatment out here that would, at the very least, parallel that which she'd receive back home, all the while reaping the benefit of a little piece of mind to help her along the way.
"Yeah? She nearby?"
"You're serious...?"
The two brothers locked eyes now, a look of disgust on Clark's face staring daggers back at the first, genuinely inquisitive look David may have contorted his facial muscles into in the better part of twenty years. It took every ounce of Clark's being to try and not give David an inch - it was that sort of behavior, he held, that allowed David to run about unchecked for as long as he had - but damned if when he finally met his brother's eyes for a good, long while, he didn't see a genuine look of inquisition into the state of their mother. Perhaps it was a dose of reality long past due for the vagrant he had to somehow begrudgingly call family. Maybe it would be the final straw to finally put David out of the world's misery. At any rate - good, bad, or ugly - he was only human, after all. If he truly wanted this, and his eyes gave every indication that he did, then Clark would lead him to that body of water, leaving David to decide whether he'd finally drink or not.
Still, the vacancy on David's face persisted, snapping Clark back to the harsh reality of the situation at hand, and almost involuntarily, he rolled his eyes about, completely at his wit's end after less than maybe five minutes in the presence of a man he'd just assumed gone forever.
"You're a complete idiot. Come on."
As he rose to follow his brother, David stalled, catching Clark's attention as they crossed the street, and with a nod of his head, indicated a car parked along the side of the road maybe a block and a half away.
"I...uh...I can drive, if you want..."
"Drive? You? Now I know you're full of sh*t. Come on - don't make me regret this any more than I already do."
Revelation
"I can't get you out of this one."
David stared nonchalantly across the desk at Chris Meyer. His agent was visibly exasperated. Road weary. Slightly unkempt. His tone of voice had drifted far and away from the resolute, amicable manner in which he'd endeared himself to such a wide swath of difficult, for lack of a better term, personalities over the years, to the point that he now spoke tersely, in a very matter-of-fact sort of way. He was done mincing words, he was done trying to tiptoe around how he actually felt, and David could sense, perhaps even with a slight tinge of guilt, that he was just about done with his term as interim handler for one David Brennan.
"I'll manage."
Chris directed his stare in a fierce snap at David, the exasperation on his face washed all but away, in its place a look of absolute incredulous shock at how David could take the news of his unwillingness to become any further involved so gracefully, without so much as a hint of contempt or reactionary rage. He'd spent the past couple of months exercising every possible avenue he'd found available to try and figure his client out, and just when he'd thought he'd found all the answers, a new set of completely different questions presented themselves, the entire situation constantly weaving more and more of a confusing thread with not so much as a slight inkling of a pattern to follow.
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
He didn't shout it. He didn't sting it with a tone of contempt or disgust. His intent was as plaintive as the glare he forced behind the words to try and permeate David'a outward appearance and get to the actual root of the man who sat comfortably at ease before him - he wasn't wondering aloud. There was no rhetoric to his question. He genuinely, and quite simply wanted to know.
"You figure that out, you'll let me know?"
"There you go again! That's what I...how can this all be such a non-issue to you? I mean, outside that door, there's more than enough guys walking the halls who'd cut off their right arm just to find themselves in a position like yours, who'd fight tooth and nail to keep that spot from getting away from them. But you? No, not you. You're content to just throw it all to the wind, so long as you get yourself a couple of good digs in at Sleater before you go."
"Look, man, I can play by a lot of rules, but I ain't about to just not say some sh*t that needs to be said on account of.....wait, what?"
"What nothing. You know what you said, David. I just hope it was worth a title shot, I really do."
"Wait...you think I'm worried about Sleater's f*ckin' power play? The f*ckin' piss test or whatever?"
"No, I don't think you've given it a second thought to be honest, which, if I'm honest, really does a number on your intelligence quota in the power rankings, David. You realize that she's serious about this, yes? I mean, dammit, David - I had to arrange the additional detail with the California State Police to issue the test myself. You blow a point-oh-eight out there? There won't be an International Title match, and I don't have my crystal ball right here, but if there's no International Title match at SuperBrawl, I'd be keeping an eye out for a 'future endeavors' FedEx the next day, David."
David was trying to be amicable. He was trying to not set Chris off, but dammit, he couldn't help but crack that sh*t eating grin he'd become synonymous with over the years. It soon grew to cover his whole face, and soon, David sat cradling his forehead in his right hand, trying to avoid the gaze of his agent who was clearly growing more and more agitated at David's lack of any serious take on the matter.
"Glad I could make you smile."
"My god - Chris, look, you know I think you're alright, but..."
"Do you?"
"...but you are a complete f*ckin' idiot."
"This is the thanks I get..."
"Don't be an assh*le."
"Assh*le? God, that's rich. Look, you May have fooled Ahriman, but I like to think that I know you a bit better than the be taken in by a handle full of drinking water."
"Well, look, I hate to break it to you then, but - "
"Bullsh*t."
"Alright, man. Believe whatever it is you think you need to. Been down that f*ckin' block a time or two already. What's one more?"
"You're gonna sit here and ask me to believe that you're stone cold sober?"
"Think I'm a little ways away from 'stone cold'. Sh*t doesn't just happen overnight, but I'd settle for 'dry', yeah. Little vote of confidence'd be nice, seeing as we're still 'agent/client', far as I know."
"And that business back at Horizon? That was what? More water?"
"Sure stung a fair bit more than water should, I think."
David knew the voice half a second before he'd finished his thought and had the opportunity to turn his attention toward the office door, but human conditioning took over all the same, and he glanced over, perhaps with less irritated intrigue than Chris, to see Isaac Cray, the WFWF WorldHeavyweight Champion better known the world around as Drakz, shutting the door behind him as he made his way into the conversation casually, without remorse for his sudden interruption, as if he'd belonged there there whole time.
"Drakz, if you don't mind, David and I were - "
"Plug your hole, Avalon. Champions are talking."
Chris threw up his arms in conclusive defeat as Drakz patted the world title slung safely over his should, tossing a brief, sideways glance at his old WFWF Tag Team Championship dangled over the side of the seat beside David.
"Answering the call?"
"That old thing? Please. Keep it. Call it a gift."
"Hell of a way to deliver a gift."
"In perfect Brennan fashion? The please was all mine. That does, of course, call into question the yarn you're trying to spin here, doesn't it?"
"F*ck is this, the Spanish Inquisition? And people wonder why I drank..."
"Drink."
"F*ck do you care?"
"I have a vested interest in the David Brennan story, I suppose. Our paths do intersect somewhat frequently, do they not?"
"Some things you just can't avoid."
"Always the charmer. Still, it's not particularly like me to pay much mind to - oh, what's the term these days? Locker room talk? That being said - I don't like to make a habit of visiting the same mistake twice, and I don't like to be the one to walk past the writing on the wall. If you're as confident as you seem to be that Sleater's little flex of the arms isn't the deterrent the rest of the world assumes it'll be, then I'd be remiss to think that our paths would finally diverge following the big to do this week.
"Sh*t, I didn't think I'd rattled you that much.
"Try and not flatter yourself. Sometimes seeing's just believing, as our esteemed host just pointed out - you sure were slugging them back pretty fierce for a man who's just reclaimed his seat upon the wagon."
"You two really are a couple of f*ckin' amateurs, aren't you?"
Reaching behind his seat, David yanked a bag up on to his lap, digging through an assortment of haphazardly packed clothes and toiletries before producing a single, eight ounce can of an old Brennan staple - Miller High Life. Cracking the tab open with all the familiar pop and fizz, he placed the can upon the desk, crossing his arms as he leans back, widening his eyes with an insistence at each of his interrogators, imploring either one of them to take him up on the drink.
"All yours, Avalon. This boy drinks some right piss."
"Figure you've earned a beer, right pal?"
Chris rolled his his eyes as he reached for the can, narrowing his eyes to stare daggers at Brennan over the can as he knocked it back with little hesitance, snorting and choking as the beverage met his taste buds. Slamming it back down, he wiped the spit from his mouth as he stared incredulously at David, who once more couldn't contain his own amusement as he reached for the can, bending in the sides as he clutched it and began using his other hand to pull at the lid, exerting some degree of effort before finally drawing from within the golden can a second, noticeably green can, both of which he laid back on the table for both men to behold.
"The matter, Chris? You don't like ginger ale?"
Drakz looked on curiously at Chris as he sized up the cans at the center of attention on his desk. David's eyes dances between the two of them, looking for either of them to react first.
"You mean neither of you pulled that sh*t as a kid? Christ..."
"Wasn't your old man some sort of Whitey Bulger type?"
"He'd take issue with the brand association, but in a manner of speaking, yeah."
"So what the f*ck did he care whether you were head straight or three sheets?"
"He didn't. Ma was never nuts about the idea though."
"Seems odd to think of you as having a mother."
Both men turned their attention to Chris, whose irritated demeanor had been shocked out of sight, leaving a bewildered look of disbelief on his face as the wheels churned in his head, trying to make sense or sort out of what exactly was going on.
"This isn't some parlor trick? You don't have another ace up your sleeve that you're gonna spring on me? 'Cause I've gotta be honest, David - I don't know how much more of this I can take."
"You'd be the first man on earth feelin' let down on account of a guy takin' himself a right turn, but it's the real deal. Ain't been easy but, well, there it is."
"How long?"
"Sh*t, while now...that Harambe mother f*cker, what's his name?"
"Dachs. Wait...does that mean...the night you ran off - you've spoken to - "
"No."
"Why the long con?"
"F*ck, you're still here?"
"Get used to it. Bravo, by the way, but seriously - I've been down this road before. You know that. Kyzer too, if he's to be believed at all. What exactly is it that you've gained by slugging Canada Drys wrapped in piss cans for weeks on end?"
"Honestly? I just wanted to hit you with a tall boy."
Drakz rolled his eyes, finding himself increasingly as annoyed with David's laissez faire attitude over the entire matter.
"I've got to side with Drakz on this one. You might be the only man alive who'd dive into sobriety in an attempt to ostracize people even more."
"Exactly."
"Oh, bang off. I know you better than anyone in this company. You've got about as much a game plan as Trevor Wolf did before introducing himself to the business end of an oak."
"No? Tell me, is the weight difference between two belts and one belt enough to get you a bit of a discount at the airport?"
"Again with the smartass."
"Now who's being evasive? How'd round three pan out for you, Isaac?"
"F*ck off. Don't forget I beat your ass bone dry months before you went down the rabbit hole again."
"And green as goose sh*t. You're gonna stake that claim? Really? F*ck, you're starting to sound a bit like Obo, bud."
Seizing his belt from the chair beside him, David rose to his feet, slinging the belt across his shoulder to mirror Drakz, stepping forward to meet him eye to eye. Instinctively, Chris leaped to his feet as well, ready to quell the tension and take a handful of fists to boot if things headed where they looked all but destined to turn.
"Take a seat. I think I liked you better as a louse."
"Makes sense - kept me out of your hair. I don't know who to feel worse for - you or your Detroit lackey. Suppose you've already taken the beating, for now at least."
"Come on, David, let's just call it a day..."
"Get f*cked, Meyer. Guy wants the story? I'll spin him a f*ckin' yarn. I mean, look, the past is what it is, but you know I'm pullin' for you, right?"
"I'll bet."
"Might be time to start heedin' my words, yeah? I mean, I'm one for one already, right?"
"So you'll, what? Come gunning for me once I've laid five other nothings like you to waste?"
"Ha! See - we do know each other so well, don't we? But uh, yeah. Yeah, that's pretty much the idea. I mean, a belt's a belt, win's a win, and all that, but sh*t, I don't think I'll ever need a buzz again after squarin' off against you and your lapdog there. Beatin' your ass? Waaayyyy more intoxicating. I could get hooked on that sh*t."
In a huff, Drakz turned to exit, making a quick stride across the room toward the door.
"Maybe you worry about Crowe first, lest you get ahead of yourself again, yes?"
"Why? You think he'll fare better than you did?"
Rejection
"Thought I'd see you at dad's services."
"I thought I'd see you at mom's."
The realization had settled in on David a good mile ahead of their ultimate destination. Clark wasn't taking him to some top of the line hospital or some well-to-do home wherein the most feeble and sickly can live out their waning days in peace. He'd missed that boat by more than a fair share of knots, and even before the sprawling, rolling green hills of the cemetery fell into sight, David understood in an instant what Clark had meant when he suggested that he go and visit his mother. There was always a connotation that stuck to the two of them whenever someone dared mention Jack Brennan's bastard sons - the brand alone reeked of the sort of conniving, scheming wretches that seemed to follow the Boston crime lord wherever he went - but the stigma that each of them carried unwittingly, though an informal title only among those who best knew the details of the Brennan empire, had always fit David immensely better than it ever had Clark. If the fruit of our looms bear a fifty-fifty chance of one day embodying one of two parents, then the torch of the Brennan/Sullivan union burned of two separate flames, and there was no question that when contrasting the dark of the Brennan name with that of the misguided light that defined the Sullivan bloodline, David was Jack's son through and through.
Clark was every bit their mother - irrefutably good, generous, and kind hearted. David could see how much it pained him to come here still, even as they climbed the hill where the lonesome grave of Margaret Sullivan lay beneath a well grown patch of soft, green grass. Clark had come to California for no other reason than to oversee their mother's care, and as David traipsed the world, following well in the shadow of Jack's footsteps than he'd ever cared to admit, he was conspicuously absent as his mother fell ill, struggled, and died knowing the love of but one of her two sons. It would be enough to make lesser men break down and cry, perhaps, but David was not so much above outward emotion as he was unforgivingly hardened by the understanding and acceptance that, for better or worse, give or take any small adjustments to be made on his outward person, a rotten, horrendously incorrigible piece of sh*t.
"Did you really?"
"If you're ever wondering what it takes to truly and totally give up on a person..."
"Right, right, I get it, I get it."
David stood and stared at his mother's headstone for a good, long time. It was not at all lost on him that as he stood there, by all rights obliged to acknowledge the sheer miracle that he was able to still walk the earth upright and conscious, he was, if not for six feet of separation, spending more time in the presence of his mother, who always managed to keep tabs on him, likely through Clark, than he had since he'd practically been a kid.
"She worried about you."
"Yeah, you'd mentioned."
"A lot. More than I could ever understand."
David had only just joined The New Epoch when he'd last heard from his mother - still ailing, now under the watch of Clark who'd just relocated around the same time. Like any mother whose heart of gold forbade her from ever abandoning hope for her own children, she'd become wrought with worry, certain that David had been drinking again, and had dispatched Clark to deliver the message, which he'd rebuked in all classic fashion.
"You're not serious, by the way?"
"Hmm?"
"I know it's a straw grasp at this point, but tell me you didn't actually go to Jack's in lieu of mom's, David."
"Wish I could, brother. Truth is, I didn't know."
"You didn't know?"
"I didn't know she was dead. I ain't proud of it, but there it is."
The news was more than Clark needed to hear at that point, and rather than sit there an hammer on he point, he turned to leave, double timing across the vast expanse of rolling green landscape as David trailed behind. He didn't make immediately for the car, instead opting to loiter around, perhaps in hope that the fresh fall air could help clear his mind of the course his afternoon had taken.
"So, you and Natalie, then? You're - "
"Nope."
"You're kidding."
"Afraid not. Haven't actually spoken to her since you guys stunted me in the Far East."
Clark stared at his brother, his jaw involuntarily agape as he tried to reconcile in his mind the words coming out of David's mouth.
"God, you are an idiot. Do you know how much I've put up for her to tail you across the country?!"
"Sh*t, that was you?"
"She figured I owed her."
"And you agreed."
"That's mom for you."
"Or you're just another dumbass Brennan. Still, guess I owe you a bit of thanks then, that bein' the case?"
"I think a bit more than thanks is in line, but yeah? Why's that?"
"Well, I mean, I ain't got any chips to show or nothin', but uh..."
"David, spare me. Alright? It's bad enough, me coming home to find your sorry excuse for a brother across the street staring down your home like it just challenged him to a fight or something. The least you could do is not subject me to this, here, today."
"Look, I ain't gonna sit and beg you to believe me, alright? You wanna? Fine. Cool. Point is, it's headin' that way, and it sounds like you had a hand there, even if you don't know it and I ain't done much about it yet, so thanks, alright?"
"And you're still doing...well, whatever it is you do?"
"Better now, I think. Yeah."
At this, Clark rolled his eyes, hardly able to put any interest at all behind the idea of making small talk with his vagrant waste of a brother. David followed in suit as Clark retreated within the car, signaling in all but word that he was good and ready to put a definitive end to this little charade once and for all.
"Look, seriously though. Good on you, bringin' me out here, alright? I know I'm a f*ckin' stone out there, but it meant something, even at the cost of your afternoon. You wanna get me back, I'll take care of the rest of the way for you, alright?"
Clark hesitated starting the car, grimacing as he clutched the steering wheel before turning to face David head on for the first time all afternoon, staring directly into his eyes as if that contact would somehow give his words more emphasis or meaning.
"You know what I want, David?"
"Could take a few guesses..."
"I want you to sit there, in silence, until we get back to that bench. Once we're there, I want to out of my car, without a word, wave, or a wandering look. I want you to walk away from my home, back to whatever it is that got you there in the first place, and that's the last I ever want to see of you ever again. I don't want you to call, I don't want you to apologize, and for the love of whatever sanity I've got left to see my days through, the last passing mention of your name I ever hear again had better be when you finally step off the edges of the earth and plummet to your inevitable death. That's what I want - you're to walk out of my life when we get back home, and you are, under no circumstances, to ever walk back into it for as long or as short as you live."
The words ignited a fire in Clark's eyes like David had never seen before. They'd been close once, as kids, probably out of sheer necessity, but now, David understood. It was one of those inevitables that came with once more embracing a sober way of life and mending what little damage you could - some bridges were simply burned beyond repair. Clark had every right to hate him - David would likely feel the same way about anyone who'd made an attempt on his life. Clark was too good a person to bear the Brennan name, and yet he wore it as a badge of imperfection - the conviction was there. He meant every word he said, even if David knew that somewhere, buried deep beneath layers of hate, contempt, and anguish that David himself had forged for his brother, it ate him alive to say them.
He'd done enough damage here. This wasn't some opponent willingly stepping into the ring knowing full well what they were up against. This was an unwitting victim of collateral damage that had reached his own higher than most breaking point.
"Sure, man. I can do that."
Redemption
As his truck hopped and barreled along the barren, inbound road, Jim found himself tossing sideways glances whenever opportune toward his passenger seat, watching with one eye as the kid seated beside him stared wistfully out the window, seemingly lost in thought among the miles upon miles of plainly vacant space that populated the relative quiet of the towns outside the hustle and bustle of the big (to them, at least) city. It wasn't often (read: ever) that Jim found himself with a passenger to his right, and though it clashed with his routine nature of introverted solitude, he found himself, perhaps spurned upon by the weekend of finding the intrinsic value in another human life and the inner reward reaped from putting another soul before the priority of oneself, wanting to carry on the conversation, however terse and reserved it may have been. 'Friend' was a title bestowed upon no other man by the likes of Jim Landry, and yet, as they passed along the route back into civilization, he wondered if perhaps he'd found the very sort of man he could trust with that sort of kinship in this David he'd found along the side of the road just days earlier.
"You're sure you don't wanna hit the arena first? See if your stuff's all there, or..."
David didn't respond, negatively or otherwise. Jim took that to be a resounding no. They'd discussed the issue before taking off - Jim himself was a fair bit smaller than David, and whereas he had nothing of his own to offer up, he figured the least David may have wanted would have been a change of clothes he hadn't broached death's door in just a few short nights earlier, but David was adamant that there was nothing of any resounding value he'd be lost without, that he only wanted to leave this all behind - no offense to Jim - and try and reclaim the road he'd fallen so violently far from.
"Think your plane'll have stuck around?"
"Doesn't matter."
"Nah? Envy that, I guess. I had myself a private jet'n all that, I'd be pretty sore to find it went off without me. Other things on your mind, I guess."
"Guess so."
To say that David was reserved would be an understatement. That's not to say that he was expressively talkative as he laid low back home, having spent the better part of the past couple of days sleeping off what Jim could only imagine was one hell of a hangover, but now, as they soldiered on toward David's desired destination, he'd somehow clammed up even more so, leaving Jim to only wonder exactly what it was David was headed back to.
He'd managed to get all but as much out of him over the course of a couple days - while David was perfectly cordial and polite and respective of the fact that he'd been brought into another man's home, he seemed entirely uninterested in being at all forthcoming about the more curious details of his own life. It was a strange sort of situation, boarding a perfect stranger in one's home with little more than a name and the assurance that, so long as you agreed to return the favor, he wouldn't kill you - an agreement they'd slogged through when David finally came to a good twelve hours after being plucked from the brink. Jim, himself something of a loner who preferred to left well enough alone in his own right, was happy to oblige, but he couldn't quite shake the sense that David was something more than a sodden vagrant who just happened upon his route home one night. His accent all but shouted the story that he was a fair bit away from home, even if Jim couldn't quite place it to New York or Boston, having always contended that both sides of the coin had always sounded like a pack of downtrodden goons. His face was worn, aged well beyond the 'early thirties' that David purported himself to be. Most jarring, perhaps, was just how much of a barrel this guy was - dwarfing Jim in every which direction. He'd even awoke the next morning and pondered as David remained passed out upon his sad excuse for a couch just how he mustered the strength to haul that lug into the back of his truck. Frankly, he was simply too interesting to be just another slob, and it was entirely frustrating to be in the presence of someone with such a story to tell and no certain willingness to share that experience with the world.
On their last full day together, as they sat out front of Jim's modest home at his own insistence that the clean, quiet air would give that last breath of life David needed to exhume the toxicity from his system and start anew, he finally insisted that, for all his troubles, his openness, and his agreeable nature in regard to David's demeanor, he was owed at least one detail to be plucked from David's mind and put out in the open, if for no other reason that, at least from that point on, Jim had himself become part of the story by then.
"How did you get all the way out here, anyway?"
David never broke his gaze from the sprawling fields that complimented Jim's otherwise unremarkable homestead, as if looking off in the distance for his own answer to the question. Finally, his eyes still fixed upon the land laid out before them, he spoke - more muttered, though with startling clarity.
"I ran."
"Must have a set of legs on you, runnin' that far outta Minneapolis."
David didn't respond. There didn't seem any sense - this Jim had already gone well above and beyond the call of humanity to bring David in and care for him the way he did. He seemed kind enough - simple, for certain, but not stupid. There was no way he didn't know that when he plucked David off of the street that night and brought in that he'd found a man pickled to the gills. No sense in rehashing that story. He was, himself, trying the best he could to put it out of mind.
"Hell you runnin' from, anyway?"
"That....well, that's a bit more complicated. Long."
"Weekend ain't over yet...figure I been around the block a couple more times'n you. Maybe seen some things you haven't yet."
"Heh. I dunno. I've seen some sh*t."
"Try me.."
It wasn't at all the revelation Jim had been expecting. Call them the conclusions we leap to in our minds, but Jim had pictured, just by the looks of him, something entirely more life threatening - a man he'd wronged or an old forgotten enemy. Maybe an unpaid debt. The last thing he'd expected to hear was David spin a tale, vivid in both detail and dramatic flair, that was as old as time itself and had likely endeared itself to every man what found himself drawn to the fairer sex walking god's green earth - that of the girl who loved unconditionally, and the guy who'd f*cked it all up seven ways to Sunday. It was a tale he'd heard a thousand times over in the shop, and though he fancied himself detached from most chains of human emotion, it was one that always seemed to cut deep - Jim had never had a love of his own. He simply found no use for the burden, but he wasn't absent of recognizing the void in his life that had been left vacant by his own stubborn ways. David's story, however similar it may have been to the boys' back at work, seemed to carry with it the additional pang that never came with any of the nonsense he'd been party to in the shop. David, for all his apparent shortcomings and vagrant ways, seemed uncertain that this girl - this Natalie - had any business left giving a care in the world for someone like him.
For a man he'd literally dragged out of a ditch in a puddle of his own bile, David, in that moment, even in spite of the draw that led Jim to lend a helping hand in the first place, suddenly seemed all too human, a remarkable turn given his otherwise stoic, firm nature.
"And you had no clue she was there?"
"Mmhmm. Nothing. Hadn't seen her in...sh*t, at least five years? Like I said, I figured she'd have just moved on."
"Damnedest things, women."
"Been there yourself?"
"'fraid not. You got me, in that respect, at least. Figure I'd be a little harder up than you, figurin' all that out."
He watched as David nodded, pensively staring off into the distance, momentarily lost in thought as night slowly enveloped the area around them.
"Still, if this girl, Natalie, cares enough to chase you halfway across the country...might be something worth lookin' into."
"Sure, 'til she comes home and finds me down the bottom of a bottle again or some sh*t..."
"So ditch the bottle."
"You drink?"
"Never cared for it, no."
"There you go. Easier said than done."
"Alright, so we're, what? Six or seven days in, dependin' where you wanna draw the startin' line? Why not go for eight? Or nine? I imagine you'll be chalkin' the weeks, months, and years before long...ah, if in you want to, that is. Not my call, of course."
David considered this for a good, long while. He'd been through rehabilitation before. It was, as he'd noted, no easy task, but Jim, in his own right, had something of a point. In the short time since he'd woken in a start on Jim's old couch, he'd managed to slog through close to a solid week with little more to drink than more than a few glasses of the store brand, instant iced tea his host seemed to favor so much. He, of course, wouldn't want to subsist on the steady diet of bacon, eggs, and red meat that had filled the roll of catering during his week off the grid, but nevertheless, that was one week down, all on the back of a driven necessity. If he could simply carry that down the road, well...
"Something to think about, is all. I'm turning in. Stay up if you want, just lock up? Early mornin' ahead if we're getting you back to the world before work tomorrow."
-------------------------------------
"You've had a good run, Crowe.
No, really - pat yourself on the back. I'm a firm believer in credit where credit is due, so long as it ain't misplaced. Sh*t, I had to look it up myself just to see exactly when it is you got ahold of that damn thing, and that ain't even p*ssy footin' around and tryin' to say it only counts from you slappin' the old commentator around. You've held that thing a good long while - a year, at least, by my count, which, really, is the only one in payin' any mind to.
Now, I mean - sure, you've made some bunk ass choices along the way. I don't think I need to go on and on and on again over what a sh*t f*ckin' lay it is gettin' in bed with a guy like Drakz. Sh*t, I think anybody breathin' be able to tell you what a dolt f*ckin' move it is cozyin' up to the likes of our esteemed chief executive or whatever the f*ck his title is, but whatever. I get it.
You're new crop. It's like systemic f*ckin' defect with you guys - you ain't worth two squirts of piss unless you've got a f*ckin' vet holdin' the leash makin' sure you don't get too far ahead of yourself that you're trippin' over your own assh*le. As we've just covered, I'm pretty much patient f*ckin' zero in that regard, but hey - bygones are bygones, and eventually we all grow out of our stupid, right?
Right?
How long, really, can you expect to wear that belt around your waist? Sure, confident guy like you? Might be easy to just as soon say 'forever, assh*le', but really. I don't know, personally, having not yet taken it from you, at least formally, but I have to imagine that when the best laid plans crash in on you - and I promise you, they will - that sort of burden is probably gonna be a bit more than a guy like you is able to bear all by his lonesome once the f*ckin' vultures have picked what's good off of you and left you to the roaches. See, a lot of sh*t'll get slung this way and that about a guy like me, but I like to think that, underneath it all, I'm a pretty clever guy. I may not talk pretty like some or look pretty like others, and while your mileage may vary, I'd say I've got my head screwed on pretty level, for the most part. Case in point?
I learn from my mistakes.
Now, let's be real - I'm pretty f*ckin' good at what I do. No need to remind you of that, so applicable mistakes? Well, they're gonna be far and few between, but if you wanna get all textbook about it, really get yourself a good case study? Ain't much of a better resource than these past few months, huh? I mean, chrissake, we've got a real 'mama tried' goin' here, what with the roster that's been flung at me looking for someone - anyone - to knock me off of my ladder. Has beens, never weres, and made to bes - they've tried 'em call, and the only common thread among 'em? Come on, Luke, you know this one.
1.
2.
3.
Not a win among the lot of you. I've run the gauntlet - you can look, I'll wait. Former National champions. Recently former tag-team champions - what's up, Drakz? Former world champions, and yes, Luke - even the current WFWF International Champion. Every last one of you's tried to slow this train and every last one you's had to go on back, look yourself in the mirror, and admit to yourself that you couldn't get the job done, and in the case of a guy like you? You've had to own up who even f*ckin' knows how many ways to not gettin' the job done! You've got a who's who wall that would make the president f*ckin' blush built all around you, and for all the hot streaks it got you, for whatever historical benchmarks you set, for however f*ckin' long it's kept that belt strapped around your waist?
You don't own it.
Someone else had a hand in that sh*t for you. Great, all well and good if you're out chasin' down Drakz and the boy wonder over their tag team titles - don't mind me - but in the second tier main event? F*ck off. Look, I ain't the advice dispensin' type, but I'm gonna hand you a freebie here, man to man, just on account of circumstance, alright?
You look like just as much of a nancy tryin' to lay a loss on your entourage as you do tryin' to claim a win independent of the guys proppin' you up.
Who sealed your fate way back in Boston, before you and I hardly even knew one another's name?
Me.
Who pinned your ass the first chance you and I got to cross paths?
Me.
Who got himself a taste for runnin' down winning streaks a couple weeks back and is just chompin' at the bit to do that sh*t again?
Your turn.
Now, I'm sure you've been all pedal to the metal for weeks now doin' whatever you think it is you need to prep for round two out there, and I'm sure - well, at least I'd hope - that even though you ain't shown much in the way of it yet that maybe the thought's in the back of your head that you maybe learned a thing or two there havin' a size thirteen dropped halfway down your throat and that maybe you'll find a way around whatever it is that found you on the business end of a Brennan beat down the first go 'round. Maybe you're even coming in all hot and rearin' to go, figurin' you couldn't possibly make the same f*ckin' slip twice and that you've got this sh*t in the bag.
Ha ha.
That's...well, that's actually pretty funny - 'in the bag'.
I know a thing or two about that particular locale, and Crowe - you're about as far from having this sh*t locked down as Shawn Malakai is from recapturin' last year's glory.
See, it's startin' to make the rounds. I dunno how far down the totem you are - I don't really think that much of you, to be honest - but if you haven't heard, well...let's just say things are a bit less foggy in my world these days. The mind is seein' things a bit more clearly. Oh, sh*t - here you go. Case in point? Your boy, Drakz. Let me tell you, man, that mother f*cker's been a thorn in my f*ckin' side for some time now. Mother f*cker had me over the barrel, oh and two, with not so much as a twinkle of the light at the end in sight. Odds on favorite to keep that long train runnin' and just keep on runnin' his mouth over some manufactured streak that no one could seem to lay a crack into.
Heh - bet you he never saw that sh*t comin'.
If you're...look, I dunno how the education system's servin' you these days out in Detroit, so if, uh...well, if you're not graspin' this sh*t, go on and ask your boy about his tag team championship legacy. Might get the balls rollin' or whatever it is you've got occupyin' that cranium of yours. Point is, without goin' about it too funny like or anything, you've got one of the top notch players in this f*ckin' game with an undisputed legacy of superiority over a guy like me at a couple of different stages along this path we call life all the sudden fallin' flat on his ass like last week's paper f*ckin' champion. Lotta pundits or dirt sheets or whatever he f*ck they fancy themselves these days might call that sh*t luck or a fluke or whatever, but Luke, I'm layin' it out here for you as plain as I can. I don't operate on chance. I don't operate on luck, and I sure as sh*t don't operate on the contributions of others anymore.
The guy that beat your ass with one hand while holdin' back that Nitta twerp way back whenever the f*ck that was? He ain't comin' to SuperBrawl. He ain't comin' for your title, and he ain't the one who's gonna be beatin' your ass all over Southern California. Far as I'm concerned?
He's dead.
You can train and prepare and listen to anyone slingin' whatever f*ckin' advice they or you think is gonna leave you walking outta the big time with that f*ckin' belt, and it ain't gonna mean a world of f*ckin' difference because any f*ckin' edge you might've had a few weeks back on the back of the odds that I just tank out somewhere fancy and miss the train into town is about as absent to you as that title around your waist is about to be, son. The fact of the matter is you could've been studyin' that tape for hours on end since they day you peeled yourself off the mat and let it sink in that you took a preemptive f*ckin' beatin' off the guy who was a week deep into gunnin' for you, and it ain't gonna make a world of f*ckin' difference when all the lights come up. It may not even be enough to sink in now, given whatever space you got left amid the rocks upstairs and all, but as you walk down that ramp at SuperBrawl, Luke? I really f*ckin' hope it hits you that the guy down the ring waitin' on your ass to present itself for the beatin' is unlike any you've ever faced before, and when it does, I want you to take a moment and good and acquainted with that belt of yours one last time.
You've had a good run, Crowe, but time's up.
Wait 'til you get a load of me."
I dont know good luck 
