Post by CM Poor on Jan 15, 2017 7:22:34 GMT -5
This has never really been my story, has it?
Something like five years now, you've probably gotten more than a layman's fill of whatever the f*ck it is the rest of the world thinks of David Brennan and the things he does, and not for a minute did a one of you stop and wonder why it was you were only gettin' half the f*ckin' narrative. That's the way it goes, these sorta things. I mean, we all know one, right?
An addict?
Can't believe half the drivel o' sh*t that comes outta their mouth, on account of no discernible proof as to who it is sayin' that sh*t half the time - the sinner, or the sin? Figure as much that at least the narrators - friends, family, the people really feelin' the hurt - have got their heads on straight enough to spin the tale in a way so you can at least reconcile it enough to get to sleep at night, right?
Hang around enough folks wallowing in their own humanistic flaws, you'll find a common thread throughout the narrative wherein the recovering emerges back into the world, and outside the confines of the meetings and the counseling and all that happy horsesh*t, the center of focus that dominated the conversation for however long that person found themselves under the influence suddenly becomes taboo subject numero uno. Just like that, the side of the story that had been spun for however long it was that the listener had to discern for themselves whose words could really be taken as bond are stamped upon the tablets of time and come to be the word and gospel.
Maybe I'm just poisoned by the toxins of personal bias, but that's a whole lot of bullsh*t right there.
I'm sure if you were to go door to door and ask, you'd find yourself a whole lot of people who think they know a whole lot of everything there is to know about David Brennan's story. I ain't takin' up ventures in the business of readin' the future anytime soon, but if I had to wager a guess, ten outta ten of 'em would feed you some line or another that they got outta the mouth of an agenda driven ego like Lila Sleater, a corpse like old Jack Brennan, some holier than thou cog like my baby brother Clark, or even an opportunistic soon-to-have-been like your soon-to-be former World Champion. Academically, that's a hell of a lineup, yeah? I mean, who's gonna know a guy better than his boss, his old man, his only sibling, or his one time best friend? Sure, talk to any of them, you're sure to know all there is about this story here, right?
But who's story is it?
I knew a guy once, real pious type, right? Even that kid, for all his worldly submission to the almighty unseen, told me more than a handful of times that he'd just as soon throw all his copies of the good book upon the fire for even just five minutes to pick the big guy's brain face to face. I know he'd probably be a whole lot more appreciative to hear that maybe I'd walked away with something bigger'n that in mind, but that's what sorta stuck with me, and really, that's where we're at now, isn't it? The folks runnin' the stable, they're kinda fallin' by the wayside, as it were.
Lila Sleater showed the world just how much she knows seconds before I went out in front of the world and put an end to one of 2016's biggest stories.
Jack Brennan? Six feet under.
My kid brother has told me as much as to consider our ties formally severed, which leaves about as much room for validity as wherever old Isaac Cray is laid up.
So whose word are you gonna take for it now?
Now, I'm not much for puttin' the world on notice. I dunno, I guess that's some people's game, but for my money? That's just more an opportunity to make yourself look like an assh*le without an ounce of follow through. Leave that sh*t to your Joe Bishops or your Frank Lynns. Me? Nah, I'd rather just hit you when the time is right, take what I want, and leave you to figure out the rest, but I guess here and there, we gotta buck the sh*t that kinda makes us who we are. See, I'm not gonna step out and tell you that the world's about to see a new David Brennan or some happy go lucky, good bullsh*t like that. Ain't a whole lot a difference between me now and me however many months ago it was that I came back and resigned Ante Whitner to starting the year off still in chase outside my choice of drink. That ain't how this story goes, and seein' as I'm the one callin' the shots now, that ain't how I'm gonna tell it.
Really? That's all you need to know from here on out - I mean, outside the requisites, my kicking your ass, the beat goes on, all that.
You've heard the rumors, the hearsay, the bullsh*t, but for a second, let the intellectual vacancy take hold, and forget all that.
Sit down.
Shut up.
Are you ready for the facts?
Story time, mother f*cker.
Open House
Ok, little somethin' about me.
I don't care for surprises.
I don't know where that comes from. I had this boss once. You know how your boss'll ask you something, and some of these kids'll give him a long drawn out answer chock full of excuses when a simple 'yes' or 'no' would have sufficed? Man, he hated that sh*t, and it was the funniest thing in the world to me, 'cause this little weasel who was his second warned me about that sh*t day one, and he was the number one offender.
But I digress. Surprises? Wild cards? Unexpected visitors? Keep 'em, man. I don't like shades of gray. Black or white. Yes or no. Figure I may have gotten some of that sh*t from the aforementioned boss man. That makes sense, right? Doesn't matter. Point is, I was none too chuffed to walk up my dock one morning to find a strange car on my lot, Nat out back, bundled up against the cold, and some....kid....standing next to her, looking around bewildered as if she ain't never seen the coast before.
Sh*t - did I mention that I moved house?
Look, Boston's great, alright? Greatest city in the world, for my money. New York? F*ck right off. Downside? Too many f*ckin' people. God, people as far as the eye can see, and you stick around long enough, eighty percent of 'em come to know you by sight. I just...y'know, you run outta time for that sorta sh*t eventually. That, and the whole estate lookin' out over the oceanside, boat docked out back, tiny little town in Maine? Always been a little dream of mine. Turns out, you pick up one of them belts we're all trippin' over ourselves to get our hands on, and you get yourself a little pay day bonus.
Jack's long overdue estate sale didn't hurt matters, either.
"David, this is Anna."
Deep breath.
I'd been trying to tread lightly around Natalie. It's probably not the resolution everyone wanted, knowin' all that she put into chasin' some drunken assh*le from one end of the country to the other and all, but yeah...we weren't exactly livin' our happily ever after yet. Part of that was on me - y'know how the very best of us'll tell you that their lives under the gun of vice were a total blur, they can't remember details, all that?
It's a crock of sh*t
Sobriety doesn't come with some magic switch that just shuts off all the emotions and memories that came with the bottle by circumstance of your own actions. The brain doesn't just work that way - especially when you get there without all that AA grabass nonsense. If you're mad about something under the influence, you might very well come out on the other side still mad about that sh*t. Yeah, Nat, Clark, all them? They had the very best of intentions, I'm sure, and I ain't exactly the easiest piece of sh*t to pass, but that stunt in Japan all them years back?
Well, let's just say that sh*t sticks with you.
Now, the clarity of f*ckin' off Sleater the way I did brought with it a little more peace and understanding of where Nat was coming from, and I'd be a right f*ckin' d*ck, given our history and all, to just keep tossin' her out to her own defenses, especially while I was makin' good on all the sh*t we used to talk about movin' up here back in the day, but look, she wasn't gettin' any closer to my bed by openin' up the doors to whoever wanted to come peddle their Do-Si-Dos or whatever this kid was sellin'. Through all the fat, I moved out here to get away from people, and...
"Anna Ahriman."
...I'm sorry, what?
"No sh*t?"
Yeah, we were definitely going to have to address this front door policy.
I don't like kids. They're loud, they're messy, they're more obnoxious than me, and they're more awkward than a top billed match between Jon O'Deeves and Mowgli the Wolf Child. This one was definitely Sam's though. You could tell it in the tone of voice - all of, sh*t, maybe fourteen, fifteen, and she's sittin' their proclaimin' her name as if I'm the clown shoes for not recognizin' her right off the bat. Any other kid, I'd have probably given her fair reason to forever regret that ride up to Maine, but a name like? She wasn't up here of her own volition. This was Sam's doing - some lesson for the kid or for me or for both and he ought to know well enough to know better than that by now. Retirement must be right f*ckin' boring.
Anyone else with half a day's worth of sh*t to do would have had more an uphill climb figurin' out exactly where I went in the first place.
"I won't be long."
Damn right. Smart kid.
She's all business, though, I'll give her that. Before I could even begin to churn the wheels to grant her a new light on her old man, she'd retreated to her car - okay, so I must have whiffed that stab at the age - leaving me instead the opportunity to, perhaps short sightedly, shoot a less than approving glance in Nat's direction. She'd been on eggshells around me as of late - again, probably my fault - but to my surprise, for the first time in, well, ages, she shot me back that signature glare of the Collins lineage that had always stood defiant even in the face of me at my very best.
She was finally starting to snap out of it.
"Maybe a heads up, next time?"
"Mr. Brennan?"
Long since dead, kid. I work for my money.
This one was a hot sh*t.
She strolled back up the drive, head held as high as ever, looking more and more like the resident mall goth with every passing stride, Sam's WFWF Tag Team Championship slung over her shoulder as if she'd just leveled the three count against Drakz herself.
"Nope. Doesn't work that way."
"David..."
"Save it."
Was she for real?
"Dad brought this home for me. I guess he thought it'd be a new staple in our legacy, the Ahriman name..."
"Yeah, that sounds like Sam."
"...but I don't want it."
"Your old man and I took down one of the longest reigns in recent memory to get those belts."
"That's all well and good, but that's his story. I'm writing my own, and if I'm to ever hold this belt, it's going to be because of what I did in that ring, not because of my name."
"Fair enough."
Alright, so maybe I like this kid.
"What'll you suppose I do with it?"
"Not my concern. I've got a tournament to win."
Is that so?
"Is that so?"
"I'm glad to have met you, Mr. Brennan. I'll give my dad your best?"
"Why?"
She'll have missed that last part. She'd clearly wanted to be here about as much as I wanted her to be here, and before I'd even had time to toss Sam's belt over my shoulder, she'd turned on a heel and waltzed her little way down the drive and off to whatever it was that awaited her.
Those f*ckin' Ahrimans, I tell ya...
"You need a shower."
Yeah, for a second, I'd forgotten Nat was right there.
I was gonna have to work on this whole roommate thing.
"Nice to see you, too."
"Chris'll be by in about two hours. You owe him as much to not smell like the Andrea Gale when he gets here."
"Meyer?"
"Know many guys named Chris?"
"We're gonna have to set some hours of operation, you're gonna keep livin' here."
**********************************
Have you seen this sh*t?
There's a guy in town. Makes these tit f*ckin' pieces of furniture - real modern lookin' sh*t but with a sort of sensibility for the classics, y'know? It's kinda hard to describe, but real nice like. He and I've been a little back and forth since I landed in town over some sorta piece for all this gold that landed in my lap in the run up to SuperBrawl. Something that'll really make the sittin' room in the new place pop.
I'm sure as sh*t glad I ain't placed my order yet.
Turns out, Goodie Ahriman doesn't have much interest in a belt she didn't earn. Good kid. Dex might look into a lesson or two from her. I wasn't too pleased as punch to see her invite herself up for a visit, but the more I think on it, I ain't gonna turn down property that's rightfully mine by providence of forfeiture to begin with. See, the brass may not see it, but the reason I've even got one of these belts to begin with is the simple virtue of not recognizing Sleater's authority to arbitrarily strip titles away from their rightful owners without proper grounds. Frankly, I'm a little surprised, if not even a bit disappointed in my old buddy Isaac for takin' that sort of sh*t sittin' down.
Oh, well. His loss. My gain.
Now, I'm just takin' a stab here, but if I had to guess, I'd figure there's a handful of handpicked guys - and girl, apparently - already wettin' 'emselves on account of the big to do over filling the hole that Drakz can't seem to hack himself anymore. I suppose you can't blame 'em. That's a tall order for a lot of folks here, bein' thrust upon opportunity's doorstep like that. Whether you're the Dungeons and Dragons kid there tryin' to get sempai to finally take notice or Trace Demon hopin' that relevance hasn't finally passed him by, hidden away in the stack of papers he signed away his last real stake in life upon, failure isn't really an option here, 'cause after the fact, what's next? Top of the scrap heap? Bottom of the barrel?
Location don't mean sh*t in either sense.
Me? I don't need the WFWF World Championship. I'm gonna take it, 'cause why the f*ck not, but in the off chance that one of you f*ckers gets the jump on me, I'll be the only one leftover who still counts any, 'cause in case the obvious ain't thick enough to sink in, let's spell it out good and clear.
I am every other reigning WFWF Champion.
I alone stopped Lucas Crowe dead in his tracks, dousing the hottest flame to come alight in who the hell knows how many years. I pinned Drakz to the mat - one, two, three - putting an end to one of the most storied WFWF Tag Team Championship reigns in charted history, and when the devil's favorite pack a day decided to bid sweet adieu to what little he'd left behind, his burden fell to my other shoulder. You might say to yourself 'Well, David, technically Lila Sleater stripped you of those titles and the tag belts aren't really a thing anymore', and to that, I'd say exactly what I'd have expected of Drakz before he decided to lay up and show his true colors to the world at large:
Lila who?
Outside of some hamfisted ticket to the front of the line that says Ante Whitner can try his luck some other time and an invalid incapable of keepin' the spoils he earned, there isn't a WFWF Championship in existence right now that is not in my possession. Y'know, I'm even a little disappointed in that fact. I mean, the International title isn't exactly up for dispute, but as quickly as they were "stripped" from me - funny seeing as I still f*ckin' have 'em - I think I've been more than forward about my willingness to hand 'em over to anyone willin' to take 'em the old fashioned way. That's a pretty easy grab, if you ask me, and yet I'm supposed to worry about this clusterf*ck of a tournament?
I'm the only champion even in this thing. C'mon - who are you gonna place your bets on?
**********************************
This was gonna have to stop.
Nat had done good by me, givin' me the heads up on Meyer swingin' by. I can't say that I was still at all nuts over the idea - Chris had taken his ball and gone home, as far as I know, so I wasn't expectin' to talk business or anything of the sort, and between you and me, I dunno. Even after all that sh*t leadin' up to SuperBrawl, I wasn't exactly in the market for a new set of friends, and even if I were? Chris Meyer? Eh.
All the same, the heads up on Meyer was appreciated. Well done, Nat. Thing about these old turn of the century houses, though? Sound travels like a mother f*cker, and I've had opportunity to stumble in on more than my share of conversations in progress to be able to identify more than two voices goin' at a time, which meant, for those of you keepin' track at home, that I had myself another f*ckin' surprise waitin' for me downstairs. Second the water went off, the temps shot right back up. I'd know Nat's voice anywhere, even to this day, all the sh*t behind us and all. Meyer's run his mouth enough lately for the recent familiarity to still be there enough. This third guy, though? I didn't like it one bit. Forget the fact that I'm lookin' down the unexpected twice in a matter of hours now, but that vein in the front of my head really started poppin' as I stalled in place to try and hear with as much clarity as a couple of floors would allow and heard this son of a b*tch, whoever it was, droppin' his Rs to leave all but no doubt as to where he'd made his way up from. Never mind the fact that I moved ass up here to get away from people, but the specific subheadin' there specifically cited 'Boston' as something I was itchin' to leave behind for a spell.
Nat knew what was comin' a second before I said it. I'd barely hit the bottom stair and her eyes locked on mine and she already had the look of a woman woefully unprepared to brief me on the matter before I stumbled upon it myself - a stark contrast from the spark of the Collins she'd shot me as the Ahriman progeny vacated the premises just hours earlier. Almost comically, my second unwelcome houseguest of the day was situated with his back to the stair, as if he'd prepared the dramatic fashion in which he wheeled around, shootin' me the most smug, piece of sh*t look I've been shot since shuttin' the lid on Jack a couple years back.
"Get out."
I recognized this smug mother f*cker probably even before he recognized me.
"Well, that went about as well as we could have expected, I think. Chris, you have my number?"
"Jason - "
- mother f*ckin' Vieira.
" - wait. Sit down."
"Stand up. Walk out."
"David, please. I asked Jason to join us here today. I was thinking - "
"You can join him, then. I'm guessin' you didn't miss the door."
"David..."
"You're in on this sh*t, too?!"
"David..."
"Does everyone wanna stop sayin' my f*ckin' name?!"
"If I may..."
Sh*t, I'm supposed to be tellin' the story here, huh?
So, if you've been with the WFWF long enough, keepin' score, all that, I probably don't need to tell you who Jason Vieira is. I ain't watched the tapes or anything, but the way they tell it, here's a guy who found himself two shakes away from the main event of SuperBrawl whatever year he came by to play, the man who would face my old buddy Mike for the top prize in the game, but for his sudden stricken condition of a terrible case of cold feet.
Guess we got more'n a few things in common, there.
I ain't gonna claim a lifelong love of what we do here enough to try and pinpoint exactly when it is I came to a familiarity with the WFWF, but if I had to take a stab, the first time it really entered my personal stratosphere was the day Jason Vieira here came to my old man lookin' to disappear. Seems he got pegged on a job he didn't do, and his ventures back into the real world - don't ask me why he picked the f*ckin' WFWF, of all places, for that pursuit - didn't exactly go according to plan. In the long and storied history of deals my dad made during his prime, Vieira's might be the crown jewel when considering the beneficiary's end result. Word is he got himself all sorts of degrees and certificates on Jack's dime, never findin' himself obligated for a cent of restitution so long as he made himself readily available to do Jack's biddin' from time to time. Jack saw it as him buildin' his own retainer from scratch. 'Course, with him feedin' the worms atop Mount Cavalry, I couldn't for the life of me figure out what the f*ck sort of business he had in my home, but, bein' the all new, all kinder, all gentler me, well - I figured I'd allow him as much as the opportunity to say his piece.
Call it a "What Would Jack Do?" sort of moment.
"...David, whatever differences we may have, you and me, I think you'd be hard pressed to disagree with the notion that I don't like to waste my own time."
"Funny way of showin' it, working for old man Brennan and all."
"No man has signed a blood deal with your father outside of the realm of desperation. Nevertheless, I like to think that I've made something out of the deeds I've had to commit for your father, and with that in mind, Mr. Meyer here came to me with a proposal that, if executed properly, should bear more fruit for all us of here than, say, our last little encounter."
"What encounter?"
Why did I get the feelin' I was being set up for another f*ckin' surprise?
At least I wasn't alone in my rancor. Almost as soon as the words escaped my mouth, Vieira swing around and shot what I can only imagine was a look of absolute admonishment toward Meyer and Nat.
"Maybe this isn't the best time to - "
"Did we not just finish discussing the importance of transparency, people?"
"Someone wanna fill me in so I can join the muster, too?"
Look, I wasn't nuts about havin' one of Jack's old flunkies within my walls, but at least to his credit, he seemed to be the only one willin' to roll me into the discussion here. It was kinda becomin' a sore spot with me as far as Meyer and, surprisingly, Nat were concerned. F*ckin' think I do the diligence of cleanin' myself up, you can afford me the courtesy of honesty. It was gonna take more than I might've thought to reel this story back in.
"How good's your memory?"
"Try me."
"Several years back, shortly before you absconded - the first time - you'll perhaps recall the walls closing in rather rapidly?"
"After that sh*t in Japan..."
"Almost immediately after. I don't relish having to be the one to unload this on you, seeing as I feel you're just starting to consider the idea of rationality, but when Ms. Collins here was unable to be the catalyst that would bring you back home from Japan, your father called in a bit of back payment on the opportunities he'd afforded me."
"No sh*t? So, what brings you by now? What'd you, miss the memo? Gave that game up."
If Vieira was expectin' a different response, he didn't show it. I don't know if the guy knew the meanin' of the word 'flinch'. My little assertion seemed to be enough to comfort him back into his seat as he gestured for me to join him. Thought I'd pass.
My house, my rules.
"My dealings, fortunately, don't usually involve cross country rat races against loused up vagrants. Thanks, in part, to your father, I've been able to build something of a base as a wealth of knowledge and resource. Hands in all sorts of places, that sort of thing. Perhaps Mr. Meyer can explain better what we're looking to do here."
Meyer coughed, like a kid in the back of class startled to sh*t after bein' called on by the teacher. Sh*t, I'd been so preoccupied by one of my dad's boys showin' up in my kitchen, I'd kinda forgotten he was there myself, for a second.
"Right, ah...well, first off - you know why I left, right David?"
"Because why wouldn't you? Nah. What chapped your ass?"
"Well, in a way? I did. You...David, you pulled off quite the feat at SuperBrawl. Forget the title, Crowe, all that. You shut a lot of people up - myself included. In that moment, the realization that I'd completely failed you in all my obligations sank in pretty heavy. Part of that was on me, but I like to think that part of it was aggravated somewhat by Lila's influence."
"C*nt."
"Fair enough. Anyway, the point is - I was unable to afford you the sort of representation you deserved as an employee of the WFWF, and so I slammed the brakes."
What a f*ckin' idiot...
"Most people'd just request a change of scenery, y'know?"
Just what I needed - the burden of another hapless soul on my conscience. Any minute now, Nat'd probably invite him to move in, and what the f*ck am I gonna say after that? No?
"Do you remember us meeting when you first signed on?"
"Not really."
"No, as I recall, you told me to 'f*ck off'."
"Sounds about right."
"All the same - I wanted the opportunity then to help you reach your full potential. Circumstances got in the way of that when we were finally paired up, but the sentiment remains the same. I'm not sure if you've noticed or not, but you're pretty damn good at this, David."
Christ, this was starting to sound like an intervention. I'd know...
"Christ, is there a point to all this?"
"The point is, you're a brand waiting to happen, David! Those pro-fighters, making their bones the way Frank Lynn used to? They'd kill for the sort of reputation we could build around you."
"You've proven in a very, very short period of time that you're capable of much more than anyone had previously given you credit for. We believe the 'missing link', so to speak, is in your presentation."
"The f*ck is that, 'my presentation'?"
Meyer and Vieira shared a look - you think they were waitin' for this? Meyer sidelined to Nat, but whatever the f*ck it is he wanted to say, she wasn't fixin' to be the one, shutting him down with that Collins glare of death and firm shake of the head. Meyer went back to Vieira, who rolled his eyes.
This guy might be more on my level than he looked. Whatever it was they needed to say, I wasn't expectin' to like it much.
"Well, what's the best way to say this?"
"You tried just sayin' it?"
If I'd still been takin' the High Life in place my mornin' cold brew, I wouldn't have been so certain this this wasn't an intervention at this point. Should've seen 'em, all lookin' at each other as if the next might have the words the one before couldn't say. I'd be lyin' if I said it wasn't gettin' on my nerves a bit, even if it was kinda funny, watchin' 'em squirm and all.
"You're abrasive."
Oh. Thanks, Nat.
"Obnoxious."
Who asked you?
"Difficult to work with."
Like you tried.
"Personal improvements aside, you're still incredibly volatile."
Hey, you already went.
"You can be a real assh*le, sometimes."
.......okay, I'll give her that.
"David, the point is, you've got an incredible knack for stepping into that ring and making a complete non-issue out of just about anyone they could possibly throw at you."
"No, wait, go back to sayin' nice things about me."
"He's not wrong, Mr. Brennan. I've seen the tapes. You're already well past due for so much more than you've already achieved, and you've finally shown that you have what it takes to get there, but this...this persona of yours?"
"Persona, he says. Alright? I ain't some f*ckin' Wahlberg, puttin' on a show!"
"Precisely. This company? They're not going to ever look kindly on a man like you adorning the marquee. This...tough exterior aside, your background is all the reason they need to stand in your way at every turn and pass, and rest assured, especially with this tournament of theirs, they'll find a way to do just that. A thousand people will have come before you saying that the system was rigged against them, but think for two seconds - do you really think the WFWF wants to come off of the Championship reign of Drakz and settle right into you as their new marquee star?"
Mother f*cker. He was almost makin' sense.
"We know that Anna Ahriman was already by this morning. By all rights, you're the only champ they've got right now David. That token alone should be enough to make you the sure favorite to take the whole thing."
"See, Meyer, I knew you were a smart guy..."
"So why's all the buzz around Joe Bishop?"
Well, f*ck.
I don't like to tell a guy he's right, but this wasn't the first time I've ever been warned about maybe bein' a little too off the cuff to play the game to completion. Doesn't mean it means anythin', 'specially on account of the last guy hurlin' words of warnin' in my direction makin' his home beneath the soil of some hilltop cemetery back home, but sometimes trends aren't easy to ignore, are they?
Still, I can't sit here and tell you that I was all too rearin' to get back into the business of playin' by somebody else's rules. Sh*t, I did pretty damn well for myself for a spot there, duckin' and weavin' around every turn and corner, right? Who the f*ck was Jason f*ckin' Vieira - or Chris f*ckin' Avalon, for that matter - to tell me about what it takes to get to the top of the food chain? I'm sure I've fried a couple of cells up north, but by my count, I was carryin' three more belts than the two of them combined ever managed to get their underwhelmin' paws on.
"Think about it, at any rate. I've got to be getting back home."
"Aw, but you just got here."
"David!"
"While I appreciate the thinly veiled sarcasm, I'm afraid life as a walking resource carries responsibility to a wider swath of individuals aside from yourself."
"Jacky must've loved you..."
"I like to think we had a positive business relationship. Be in touch. Mr. Meyer will give you my contacts. Hopefully our next meeting can begin a bit less tumultuously. Mr. Meyer, Ms. Collins."
"Right behind you, actually. Seriously though, David. Give it some thought. You're too good to pass up this sort of opportunity."
**********************************
I've got you all figured out.
I used to call 'em like I see 'em. This guy sucks, that guy's f*cked, that sort of thing. I guess if there's one thing that's always gonna seem off to me about the big picture without that one little piece in the middle, it's the complete lack of a second guess. I dunno if you're the imbibing type, but man, when that stuff gets its hooks in you, don't make a lick of difference whether you're right, wrong, or straight down the middle.
You just know.
It's actually a shame, in a way, that you and I didn't get to square things off in style back home, Frankie - can I call you Frankie? I mean, sh*t, even now, someone's really dropped the ball, whether you wanna pick up the missed opportunity in billing, locale, or both. Two Boston boys duking it out for that first prestigious point in the biggest, grandest, most ass backward soundin', convoluted mess of an attraction this place has ever seen? Who the f*ck booked that sh*t in Chicago? Who the f*ck skipped out on mentionin' that sh*t at all in the primer, and who the f*ck thinks that there's anything left that's gonna be able follow the sort of knock down, drag out sh*t that only two Boston boys can deliver - even if I do think that your last name is a little less family lineage and little more birthright, you proximity claimin', North Shore lookin' mother f*cker.
See, that much is evident to me. You and I, for better or worse, are about to tear Chicago a new assh*le. I know that Whitner gettin' the Golden Shower over you's been gnawin' at your innards somethin' fierce, and I know you've probably already painted this vivid, brightly colored picture of how sweet it would be to silence everyone around you by takin' a step ahead of him and offin' the International Champion. I'm sure it's been non-stop at the gym, bustin' your ass, preparin' for round one here like it's the second comin' of SuperBrawl or somethin' just to prove a f*ckin' point. Sh*t, even if you don't go one step further in this tournament - which you won't - you'll have elevated yourself that much more just by takin' ol' David Brennan down a notch. It's not a bad plan. All goes smoothly, I'm sure it'll all work out for you just fine. There's just one problem...
Me.
I've heard a lot lately about a lot of my defects - mostly the sort of sh*t that'll make people not wanna be around me. Sh*t, if that boss of ours was a fair bit smarter'n me, you'd be all but gettin' a bye this week, as I'd probably be nowhere to be found, but as it were, that ain't the case. Thing is, for all my flaws, whether you think I'm too arrogant, too loud, too unrefined, or if you just can't tell half the time whether I'm over sauced or just a product of a weird f*ckin' place to grow up, I get the job done. Do you know who the last person to get an honest jump on me was, Frankie?
It was Trace Demon.
And it was almost five f*ckin' years ago.
And I was drunk as sh*t.
Look, you've turned a lot of heads this past year, my own included. I'm not dumb enough to just f*ckin' writes guy off, especially when he's been draggin' a little ash behind him
leftover from the spark that's been drivin' him. For some f*ckin' reason, I read them dirt sheets, and just about all of 'em think you're gonna be somethin' to watch in the years to come, and I guess if you're lookin' at who's makin' the most noise, they'd have half a f*ckin' point.
Me? I ain't worried about you.
I feel like eventually I'm gonna be beatin' a dead horse over the subject, but outside of my buddy Isaac's piece of jewelry we're all 'bout to make a play for, any other accolade worth fightin' for right now is nestled safely in my corner. I've tipped all the scales otherwise overwhelmingly in my favor this year, and whereas you may have spent the year makin' a f*ck-ton of noise over there, I spent the year makin' an impact.
The night you debuted before the WFWF multiverse? I came back after two years and became the number one contender for the WFWF International Championship.
The night you and Mike f*ckin' Jette broke out your toys, put on your little children's show and goaded Josh and Isaac into givin' you a pity pull job? I pinned the WFWF International Champion...
...I don't think I need to remind you who presently has the titles you couldn't replace your toys with...
...and of course, the night you couldn't even manage to lock down the WFWF's newest, most prestigious non-title? I put an end to one of the hottest streaks in recent history and became the WFWF International Champion.
See, I dunno if anyone's told you or not, but this ain't some game of horseshoes. Almost? That doesn't f*ckin' count, and that's a lesson I'd suggest you start takin' to heart because in spite of the fact that just about everyone's got you pegged as 2016's rookie of the year, you've spent that entire time just bein' almost good enough.
To consider all those flaws I'm supposed to be worried about - I'm nothin' if I ain't honest. For whatever reason, the paint around here is mixed with a lot of 'ifs' - you'll be great 'if', 2017'll be your year 'if'.
Me? I don't particularly like that color.
See, I feel pretty qualified to paint you with a pretty broad brush, seein' as we're neighbors and all, and I've spent enough of my life in the greatest city in the world to convey a pretty clear picture of just about every last hard ass, wannabe tough guy Bostonian walkin' Mass Ave like anyone gives a f*ck, even if he's actually from Lawrence or some sh*t like that, and just like every other wannabe Mbunghole prick droppin' his hard Rs a little more'n he needs to be?
You ain't sh*t.
You're nothin'. Just another all talk, no walk, wishes he was fresh out the Dot prick who'll never even get to scratch the surface of bein' a has been on account of you already landin' the role of a never was, who couldn't even turn a personal tragedy into an ounce of gasoline enough to fuel even the tiniest spark into a f*ckin' flame.
If. Almost. Nothin'.
All that sh*t? That's why, as far as round one is concerned, I ain't too particularly worried about nothin', least of all, the prospect of if you almost beat me...
...'cause I am going to beat you.
Something like five years now, you've probably gotten more than a layman's fill of whatever the f*ck it is the rest of the world thinks of David Brennan and the things he does, and not for a minute did a one of you stop and wonder why it was you were only gettin' half the f*ckin' narrative. That's the way it goes, these sorta things. I mean, we all know one, right?
An addict?
Can't believe half the drivel o' sh*t that comes outta their mouth, on account of no discernible proof as to who it is sayin' that sh*t half the time - the sinner, or the sin? Figure as much that at least the narrators - friends, family, the people really feelin' the hurt - have got their heads on straight enough to spin the tale in a way so you can at least reconcile it enough to get to sleep at night, right?
Hang around enough folks wallowing in their own humanistic flaws, you'll find a common thread throughout the narrative wherein the recovering emerges back into the world, and outside the confines of the meetings and the counseling and all that happy horsesh*t, the center of focus that dominated the conversation for however long that person found themselves under the influence suddenly becomes taboo subject numero uno. Just like that, the side of the story that had been spun for however long it was that the listener had to discern for themselves whose words could really be taken as bond are stamped upon the tablets of time and come to be the word and gospel.
Maybe I'm just poisoned by the toxins of personal bias, but that's a whole lot of bullsh*t right there.
I'm sure if you were to go door to door and ask, you'd find yourself a whole lot of people who think they know a whole lot of everything there is to know about David Brennan's story. I ain't takin' up ventures in the business of readin' the future anytime soon, but if I had to wager a guess, ten outta ten of 'em would feed you some line or another that they got outta the mouth of an agenda driven ego like Lila Sleater, a corpse like old Jack Brennan, some holier than thou cog like my baby brother Clark, or even an opportunistic soon-to-have-been like your soon-to-be former World Champion. Academically, that's a hell of a lineup, yeah? I mean, who's gonna know a guy better than his boss, his old man, his only sibling, or his one time best friend? Sure, talk to any of them, you're sure to know all there is about this story here, right?
But who's story is it?
I knew a guy once, real pious type, right? Even that kid, for all his worldly submission to the almighty unseen, told me more than a handful of times that he'd just as soon throw all his copies of the good book upon the fire for even just five minutes to pick the big guy's brain face to face. I know he'd probably be a whole lot more appreciative to hear that maybe I'd walked away with something bigger'n that in mind, but that's what sorta stuck with me, and really, that's where we're at now, isn't it? The folks runnin' the stable, they're kinda fallin' by the wayside, as it were.
Lila Sleater showed the world just how much she knows seconds before I went out in front of the world and put an end to one of 2016's biggest stories.
Jack Brennan? Six feet under.
My kid brother has told me as much as to consider our ties formally severed, which leaves about as much room for validity as wherever old Isaac Cray is laid up.
So whose word are you gonna take for it now?
Now, I'm not much for puttin' the world on notice. I dunno, I guess that's some people's game, but for my money? That's just more an opportunity to make yourself look like an assh*le without an ounce of follow through. Leave that sh*t to your Joe Bishops or your Frank Lynns. Me? Nah, I'd rather just hit you when the time is right, take what I want, and leave you to figure out the rest, but I guess here and there, we gotta buck the sh*t that kinda makes us who we are. See, I'm not gonna step out and tell you that the world's about to see a new David Brennan or some happy go lucky, good bullsh*t like that. Ain't a whole lot a difference between me now and me however many months ago it was that I came back and resigned Ante Whitner to starting the year off still in chase outside my choice of drink. That ain't how this story goes, and seein' as I'm the one callin' the shots now, that ain't how I'm gonna tell it.
Really? That's all you need to know from here on out - I mean, outside the requisites, my kicking your ass, the beat goes on, all that.
You've heard the rumors, the hearsay, the bullsh*t, but for a second, let the intellectual vacancy take hold, and forget all that.
Sit down.
Shut up.
Are you ready for the facts?
Story time, mother f*cker.
Open House
Ok, little somethin' about me.
I don't care for surprises.
I don't know where that comes from. I had this boss once. You know how your boss'll ask you something, and some of these kids'll give him a long drawn out answer chock full of excuses when a simple 'yes' or 'no' would have sufficed? Man, he hated that sh*t, and it was the funniest thing in the world to me, 'cause this little weasel who was his second warned me about that sh*t day one, and he was the number one offender.
But I digress. Surprises? Wild cards? Unexpected visitors? Keep 'em, man. I don't like shades of gray. Black or white. Yes or no. Figure I may have gotten some of that sh*t from the aforementioned boss man. That makes sense, right? Doesn't matter. Point is, I was none too chuffed to walk up my dock one morning to find a strange car on my lot, Nat out back, bundled up against the cold, and some....kid....standing next to her, looking around bewildered as if she ain't never seen the coast before.
Sh*t - did I mention that I moved house?
Look, Boston's great, alright? Greatest city in the world, for my money. New York? F*ck right off. Downside? Too many f*ckin' people. God, people as far as the eye can see, and you stick around long enough, eighty percent of 'em come to know you by sight. I just...y'know, you run outta time for that sorta sh*t eventually. That, and the whole estate lookin' out over the oceanside, boat docked out back, tiny little town in Maine? Always been a little dream of mine. Turns out, you pick up one of them belts we're all trippin' over ourselves to get our hands on, and you get yourself a little pay day bonus.
Jack's long overdue estate sale didn't hurt matters, either.
"David, this is Anna."
Deep breath.
I'd been trying to tread lightly around Natalie. It's probably not the resolution everyone wanted, knowin' all that she put into chasin' some drunken assh*le from one end of the country to the other and all, but yeah...we weren't exactly livin' our happily ever after yet. Part of that was on me - y'know how the very best of us'll tell you that their lives under the gun of vice were a total blur, they can't remember details, all that?
It's a crock of sh*t
Sobriety doesn't come with some magic switch that just shuts off all the emotions and memories that came with the bottle by circumstance of your own actions. The brain doesn't just work that way - especially when you get there without all that AA grabass nonsense. If you're mad about something under the influence, you might very well come out on the other side still mad about that sh*t. Yeah, Nat, Clark, all them? They had the very best of intentions, I'm sure, and I ain't exactly the easiest piece of sh*t to pass, but that stunt in Japan all them years back?
Well, let's just say that sh*t sticks with you.
Now, the clarity of f*ckin' off Sleater the way I did brought with it a little more peace and understanding of where Nat was coming from, and I'd be a right f*ckin' d*ck, given our history and all, to just keep tossin' her out to her own defenses, especially while I was makin' good on all the sh*t we used to talk about movin' up here back in the day, but look, she wasn't gettin' any closer to my bed by openin' up the doors to whoever wanted to come peddle their Do-Si-Dos or whatever this kid was sellin'. Through all the fat, I moved out here to get away from people, and...
"Anna Ahriman."
...I'm sorry, what?
"No sh*t?"
Yeah, we were definitely going to have to address this front door policy.
I don't like kids. They're loud, they're messy, they're more obnoxious than me, and they're more awkward than a top billed match between Jon O'Deeves and Mowgli the Wolf Child. This one was definitely Sam's though. You could tell it in the tone of voice - all of, sh*t, maybe fourteen, fifteen, and she's sittin' their proclaimin' her name as if I'm the clown shoes for not recognizin' her right off the bat. Any other kid, I'd have probably given her fair reason to forever regret that ride up to Maine, but a name like? She wasn't up here of her own volition. This was Sam's doing - some lesson for the kid or for me or for both and he ought to know well enough to know better than that by now. Retirement must be right f*ckin' boring.
Anyone else with half a day's worth of sh*t to do would have had more an uphill climb figurin' out exactly where I went in the first place.
"I won't be long."
Damn right. Smart kid.
She's all business, though, I'll give her that. Before I could even begin to churn the wheels to grant her a new light on her old man, she'd retreated to her car - okay, so I must have whiffed that stab at the age - leaving me instead the opportunity to, perhaps short sightedly, shoot a less than approving glance in Nat's direction. She'd been on eggshells around me as of late - again, probably my fault - but to my surprise, for the first time in, well, ages, she shot me back that signature glare of the Collins lineage that had always stood defiant even in the face of me at my very best.
She was finally starting to snap out of it.
"Maybe a heads up, next time?"
"Mr. Brennan?"
Long since dead, kid. I work for my money.
This one was a hot sh*t.
She strolled back up the drive, head held as high as ever, looking more and more like the resident mall goth with every passing stride, Sam's WFWF Tag Team Championship slung over her shoulder as if she'd just leveled the three count against Drakz herself.
"Nope. Doesn't work that way."
"David..."
"Save it."
Was she for real?
"Dad brought this home for me. I guess he thought it'd be a new staple in our legacy, the Ahriman name..."
"Yeah, that sounds like Sam."
"...but I don't want it."
"Your old man and I took down one of the longest reigns in recent memory to get those belts."
"That's all well and good, but that's his story. I'm writing my own, and if I'm to ever hold this belt, it's going to be because of what I did in that ring, not because of my name."
"Fair enough."
Alright, so maybe I like this kid.
"What'll you suppose I do with it?"
"Not my concern. I've got a tournament to win."
Is that so?
"Is that so?"
"I'm glad to have met you, Mr. Brennan. I'll give my dad your best?"
"Why?"
She'll have missed that last part. She'd clearly wanted to be here about as much as I wanted her to be here, and before I'd even had time to toss Sam's belt over my shoulder, she'd turned on a heel and waltzed her little way down the drive and off to whatever it was that awaited her.
Those f*ckin' Ahrimans, I tell ya...
"You need a shower."
Yeah, for a second, I'd forgotten Nat was right there.
I was gonna have to work on this whole roommate thing.
"Nice to see you, too."
"Chris'll be by in about two hours. You owe him as much to not smell like the Andrea Gale when he gets here."
"Meyer?"
"Know many guys named Chris?"
"We're gonna have to set some hours of operation, you're gonna keep livin' here."
**********************************
Have you seen this sh*t?
There's a guy in town. Makes these tit f*ckin' pieces of furniture - real modern lookin' sh*t but with a sort of sensibility for the classics, y'know? It's kinda hard to describe, but real nice like. He and I've been a little back and forth since I landed in town over some sorta piece for all this gold that landed in my lap in the run up to SuperBrawl. Something that'll really make the sittin' room in the new place pop.
I'm sure as sh*t glad I ain't placed my order yet.
Turns out, Goodie Ahriman doesn't have much interest in a belt she didn't earn. Good kid. Dex might look into a lesson or two from her. I wasn't too pleased as punch to see her invite herself up for a visit, but the more I think on it, I ain't gonna turn down property that's rightfully mine by providence of forfeiture to begin with. See, the brass may not see it, but the reason I've even got one of these belts to begin with is the simple virtue of not recognizing Sleater's authority to arbitrarily strip titles away from their rightful owners without proper grounds. Frankly, I'm a little surprised, if not even a bit disappointed in my old buddy Isaac for takin' that sort of sh*t sittin' down.
Oh, well. His loss. My gain.
Now, I'm just takin' a stab here, but if I had to guess, I'd figure there's a handful of handpicked guys - and girl, apparently - already wettin' 'emselves on account of the big to do over filling the hole that Drakz can't seem to hack himself anymore. I suppose you can't blame 'em. That's a tall order for a lot of folks here, bein' thrust upon opportunity's doorstep like that. Whether you're the Dungeons and Dragons kid there tryin' to get sempai to finally take notice or Trace Demon hopin' that relevance hasn't finally passed him by, hidden away in the stack of papers he signed away his last real stake in life upon, failure isn't really an option here, 'cause after the fact, what's next? Top of the scrap heap? Bottom of the barrel?
Location don't mean sh*t in either sense.
Me? I don't need the WFWF World Championship. I'm gonna take it, 'cause why the f*ck not, but in the off chance that one of you f*ckers gets the jump on me, I'll be the only one leftover who still counts any, 'cause in case the obvious ain't thick enough to sink in, let's spell it out good and clear.
I am every other reigning WFWF Champion.
I alone stopped Lucas Crowe dead in his tracks, dousing the hottest flame to come alight in who the hell knows how many years. I pinned Drakz to the mat - one, two, three - putting an end to one of the most storied WFWF Tag Team Championship reigns in charted history, and when the devil's favorite pack a day decided to bid sweet adieu to what little he'd left behind, his burden fell to my other shoulder. You might say to yourself 'Well, David, technically Lila Sleater stripped you of those titles and the tag belts aren't really a thing anymore', and to that, I'd say exactly what I'd have expected of Drakz before he decided to lay up and show his true colors to the world at large:
Lila who?
Outside of some hamfisted ticket to the front of the line that says Ante Whitner can try his luck some other time and an invalid incapable of keepin' the spoils he earned, there isn't a WFWF Championship in existence right now that is not in my possession. Y'know, I'm even a little disappointed in that fact. I mean, the International title isn't exactly up for dispute, but as quickly as they were "stripped" from me - funny seeing as I still f*ckin' have 'em - I think I've been more than forward about my willingness to hand 'em over to anyone willin' to take 'em the old fashioned way. That's a pretty easy grab, if you ask me, and yet I'm supposed to worry about this clusterf*ck of a tournament?
I'm the only champion even in this thing. C'mon - who are you gonna place your bets on?
**********************************
This was gonna have to stop.
Nat had done good by me, givin' me the heads up on Meyer swingin' by. I can't say that I was still at all nuts over the idea - Chris had taken his ball and gone home, as far as I know, so I wasn't expectin' to talk business or anything of the sort, and between you and me, I dunno. Even after all that sh*t leadin' up to SuperBrawl, I wasn't exactly in the market for a new set of friends, and even if I were? Chris Meyer? Eh.
All the same, the heads up on Meyer was appreciated. Well done, Nat. Thing about these old turn of the century houses, though? Sound travels like a mother f*cker, and I've had opportunity to stumble in on more than my share of conversations in progress to be able to identify more than two voices goin' at a time, which meant, for those of you keepin' track at home, that I had myself another f*ckin' surprise waitin' for me downstairs. Second the water went off, the temps shot right back up. I'd know Nat's voice anywhere, even to this day, all the sh*t behind us and all. Meyer's run his mouth enough lately for the recent familiarity to still be there enough. This third guy, though? I didn't like it one bit. Forget the fact that I'm lookin' down the unexpected twice in a matter of hours now, but that vein in the front of my head really started poppin' as I stalled in place to try and hear with as much clarity as a couple of floors would allow and heard this son of a b*tch, whoever it was, droppin' his Rs to leave all but no doubt as to where he'd made his way up from. Never mind the fact that I moved ass up here to get away from people, but the specific subheadin' there specifically cited 'Boston' as something I was itchin' to leave behind for a spell.
Nat knew what was comin' a second before I said it. I'd barely hit the bottom stair and her eyes locked on mine and she already had the look of a woman woefully unprepared to brief me on the matter before I stumbled upon it myself - a stark contrast from the spark of the Collins she'd shot me as the Ahriman progeny vacated the premises just hours earlier. Almost comically, my second unwelcome houseguest of the day was situated with his back to the stair, as if he'd prepared the dramatic fashion in which he wheeled around, shootin' me the most smug, piece of sh*t look I've been shot since shuttin' the lid on Jack a couple years back.
"Get out."
I recognized this smug mother f*cker probably even before he recognized me.
"Well, that went about as well as we could have expected, I think. Chris, you have my number?"
"Jason - "
- mother f*ckin' Vieira.
" - wait. Sit down."
"Stand up. Walk out."
"David, please. I asked Jason to join us here today. I was thinking - "
"You can join him, then. I'm guessin' you didn't miss the door."
"David..."
"You're in on this sh*t, too?!"
"David..."
"Does everyone wanna stop sayin' my f*ckin' name?!"
"If I may..."
Sh*t, I'm supposed to be tellin' the story here, huh?
So, if you've been with the WFWF long enough, keepin' score, all that, I probably don't need to tell you who Jason Vieira is. I ain't watched the tapes or anything, but the way they tell it, here's a guy who found himself two shakes away from the main event of SuperBrawl whatever year he came by to play, the man who would face my old buddy Mike for the top prize in the game, but for his sudden stricken condition of a terrible case of cold feet.
Guess we got more'n a few things in common, there.
I ain't gonna claim a lifelong love of what we do here enough to try and pinpoint exactly when it is I came to a familiarity with the WFWF, but if I had to take a stab, the first time it really entered my personal stratosphere was the day Jason Vieira here came to my old man lookin' to disappear. Seems he got pegged on a job he didn't do, and his ventures back into the real world - don't ask me why he picked the f*ckin' WFWF, of all places, for that pursuit - didn't exactly go according to plan. In the long and storied history of deals my dad made during his prime, Vieira's might be the crown jewel when considering the beneficiary's end result. Word is he got himself all sorts of degrees and certificates on Jack's dime, never findin' himself obligated for a cent of restitution so long as he made himself readily available to do Jack's biddin' from time to time. Jack saw it as him buildin' his own retainer from scratch. 'Course, with him feedin' the worms atop Mount Cavalry, I couldn't for the life of me figure out what the f*ck sort of business he had in my home, but, bein' the all new, all kinder, all gentler me, well - I figured I'd allow him as much as the opportunity to say his piece.
Call it a "What Would Jack Do?" sort of moment.
"...David, whatever differences we may have, you and me, I think you'd be hard pressed to disagree with the notion that I don't like to waste my own time."
"Funny way of showin' it, working for old man Brennan and all."
"No man has signed a blood deal with your father outside of the realm of desperation. Nevertheless, I like to think that I've made something out of the deeds I've had to commit for your father, and with that in mind, Mr. Meyer here came to me with a proposal that, if executed properly, should bear more fruit for all us of here than, say, our last little encounter."
"What encounter?"
Why did I get the feelin' I was being set up for another f*ckin' surprise?
At least I wasn't alone in my rancor. Almost as soon as the words escaped my mouth, Vieira swing around and shot what I can only imagine was a look of absolute admonishment toward Meyer and Nat.
"Maybe this isn't the best time to - "
"Did we not just finish discussing the importance of transparency, people?"
"Someone wanna fill me in so I can join the muster, too?"
Look, I wasn't nuts about havin' one of Jack's old flunkies within my walls, but at least to his credit, he seemed to be the only one willin' to roll me into the discussion here. It was kinda becomin' a sore spot with me as far as Meyer and, surprisingly, Nat were concerned. F*ckin' think I do the diligence of cleanin' myself up, you can afford me the courtesy of honesty. It was gonna take more than I might've thought to reel this story back in.
"How good's your memory?"
"Try me."
"Several years back, shortly before you absconded - the first time - you'll perhaps recall the walls closing in rather rapidly?"
"After that sh*t in Japan..."
"Almost immediately after. I don't relish having to be the one to unload this on you, seeing as I feel you're just starting to consider the idea of rationality, but when Ms. Collins here was unable to be the catalyst that would bring you back home from Japan, your father called in a bit of back payment on the opportunities he'd afforded me."
"No sh*t? So, what brings you by now? What'd you, miss the memo? Gave that game up."
If Vieira was expectin' a different response, he didn't show it. I don't know if the guy knew the meanin' of the word 'flinch'. My little assertion seemed to be enough to comfort him back into his seat as he gestured for me to join him. Thought I'd pass.
My house, my rules.
"My dealings, fortunately, don't usually involve cross country rat races against loused up vagrants. Thanks, in part, to your father, I've been able to build something of a base as a wealth of knowledge and resource. Hands in all sorts of places, that sort of thing. Perhaps Mr. Meyer can explain better what we're looking to do here."
Meyer coughed, like a kid in the back of class startled to sh*t after bein' called on by the teacher. Sh*t, I'd been so preoccupied by one of my dad's boys showin' up in my kitchen, I'd kinda forgotten he was there myself, for a second.
"Right, ah...well, first off - you know why I left, right David?"
"Because why wouldn't you? Nah. What chapped your ass?"
"Well, in a way? I did. You...David, you pulled off quite the feat at SuperBrawl. Forget the title, Crowe, all that. You shut a lot of people up - myself included. In that moment, the realization that I'd completely failed you in all my obligations sank in pretty heavy. Part of that was on me, but I like to think that part of it was aggravated somewhat by Lila's influence."
"C*nt."
"Fair enough. Anyway, the point is - I was unable to afford you the sort of representation you deserved as an employee of the WFWF, and so I slammed the brakes."
What a f*ckin' idiot...
"Most people'd just request a change of scenery, y'know?"
Just what I needed - the burden of another hapless soul on my conscience. Any minute now, Nat'd probably invite him to move in, and what the f*ck am I gonna say after that? No?
"Do you remember us meeting when you first signed on?"
"Not really."
"No, as I recall, you told me to 'f*ck off'."
"Sounds about right."
"All the same - I wanted the opportunity then to help you reach your full potential. Circumstances got in the way of that when we were finally paired up, but the sentiment remains the same. I'm not sure if you've noticed or not, but you're pretty damn good at this, David."
Christ, this was starting to sound like an intervention. I'd know...
"Christ, is there a point to all this?"
"The point is, you're a brand waiting to happen, David! Those pro-fighters, making their bones the way Frank Lynn used to? They'd kill for the sort of reputation we could build around you."
"You've proven in a very, very short period of time that you're capable of much more than anyone had previously given you credit for. We believe the 'missing link', so to speak, is in your presentation."
"The f*ck is that, 'my presentation'?"
Meyer and Vieira shared a look - you think they were waitin' for this? Meyer sidelined to Nat, but whatever the f*ck it is he wanted to say, she wasn't fixin' to be the one, shutting him down with that Collins glare of death and firm shake of the head. Meyer went back to Vieira, who rolled his eyes.
This guy might be more on my level than he looked. Whatever it was they needed to say, I wasn't expectin' to like it much.
"Well, what's the best way to say this?"
"You tried just sayin' it?"
If I'd still been takin' the High Life in place my mornin' cold brew, I wouldn't have been so certain this this wasn't an intervention at this point. Should've seen 'em, all lookin' at each other as if the next might have the words the one before couldn't say. I'd be lyin' if I said it wasn't gettin' on my nerves a bit, even if it was kinda funny, watchin' 'em squirm and all.
"You're abrasive."
Oh. Thanks, Nat.
"Obnoxious."
Who asked you?
"Difficult to work with."
Like you tried.
"Personal improvements aside, you're still incredibly volatile."
Hey, you already went.
"You can be a real assh*le, sometimes."
.......okay, I'll give her that.
"David, the point is, you've got an incredible knack for stepping into that ring and making a complete non-issue out of just about anyone they could possibly throw at you."
"No, wait, go back to sayin' nice things about me."
"He's not wrong, Mr. Brennan. I've seen the tapes. You're already well past due for so much more than you've already achieved, and you've finally shown that you have what it takes to get there, but this...this persona of yours?"
"Persona, he says. Alright? I ain't some f*ckin' Wahlberg, puttin' on a show!"
"Precisely. This company? They're not going to ever look kindly on a man like you adorning the marquee. This...tough exterior aside, your background is all the reason they need to stand in your way at every turn and pass, and rest assured, especially with this tournament of theirs, they'll find a way to do just that. A thousand people will have come before you saying that the system was rigged against them, but think for two seconds - do you really think the WFWF wants to come off of the Championship reign of Drakz and settle right into you as their new marquee star?"
Mother f*cker. He was almost makin' sense.
"We know that Anna Ahriman was already by this morning. By all rights, you're the only champ they've got right now David. That token alone should be enough to make you the sure favorite to take the whole thing."
"See, Meyer, I knew you were a smart guy..."
"So why's all the buzz around Joe Bishop?"
Well, f*ck.
I don't like to tell a guy he's right, but this wasn't the first time I've ever been warned about maybe bein' a little too off the cuff to play the game to completion. Doesn't mean it means anythin', 'specially on account of the last guy hurlin' words of warnin' in my direction makin' his home beneath the soil of some hilltop cemetery back home, but sometimes trends aren't easy to ignore, are they?
Still, I can't sit here and tell you that I was all too rearin' to get back into the business of playin' by somebody else's rules. Sh*t, I did pretty damn well for myself for a spot there, duckin' and weavin' around every turn and corner, right? Who the f*ck was Jason f*ckin' Vieira - or Chris f*ckin' Avalon, for that matter - to tell me about what it takes to get to the top of the food chain? I'm sure I've fried a couple of cells up north, but by my count, I was carryin' three more belts than the two of them combined ever managed to get their underwhelmin' paws on.
"Think about it, at any rate. I've got to be getting back home."
"Aw, but you just got here."
"David!"
"While I appreciate the thinly veiled sarcasm, I'm afraid life as a walking resource carries responsibility to a wider swath of individuals aside from yourself."
"Jacky must've loved you..."
"I like to think we had a positive business relationship. Be in touch. Mr. Meyer will give you my contacts. Hopefully our next meeting can begin a bit less tumultuously. Mr. Meyer, Ms. Collins."
"Right behind you, actually. Seriously though, David. Give it some thought. You're too good to pass up this sort of opportunity."
**********************************
I've got you all figured out.
I used to call 'em like I see 'em. This guy sucks, that guy's f*cked, that sort of thing. I guess if there's one thing that's always gonna seem off to me about the big picture without that one little piece in the middle, it's the complete lack of a second guess. I dunno if you're the imbibing type, but man, when that stuff gets its hooks in you, don't make a lick of difference whether you're right, wrong, or straight down the middle.
You just know.
It's actually a shame, in a way, that you and I didn't get to square things off in style back home, Frankie - can I call you Frankie? I mean, sh*t, even now, someone's really dropped the ball, whether you wanna pick up the missed opportunity in billing, locale, or both. Two Boston boys duking it out for that first prestigious point in the biggest, grandest, most ass backward soundin', convoluted mess of an attraction this place has ever seen? Who the f*ck booked that sh*t in Chicago? Who the f*ck skipped out on mentionin' that sh*t at all in the primer, and who the f*ck thinks that there's anything left that's gonna be able follow the sort of knock down, drag out sh*t that only two Boston boys can deliver - even if I do think that your last name is a little less family lineage and little more birthright, you proximity claimin', North Shore lookin' mother f*cker.
See, that much is evident to me. You and I, for better or worse, are about to tear Chicago a new assh*le. I know that Whitner gettin' the Golden Shower over you's been gnawin' at your innards somethin' fierce, and I know you've probably already painted this vivid, brightly colored picture of how sweet it would be to silence everyone around you by takin' a step ahead of him and offin' the International Champion. I'm sure it's been non-stop at the gym, bustin' your ass, preparin' for round one here like it's the second comin' of SuperBrawl or somethin' just to prove a f*ckin' point. Sh*t, even if you don't go one step further in this tournament - which you won't - you'll have elevated yourself that much more just by takin' ol' David Brennan down a notch. It's not a bad plan. All goes smoothly, I'm sure it'll all work out for you just fine. There's just one problem...
Me.
I've heard a lot lately about a lot of my defects - mostly the sort of sh*t that'll make people not wanna be around me. Sh*t, if that boss of ours was a fair bit smarter'n me, you'd be all but gettin' a bye this week, as I'd probably be nowhere to be found, but as it were, that ain't the case. Thing is, for all my flaws, whether you think I'm too arrogant, too loud, too unrefined, or if you just can't tell half the time whether I'm over sauced or just a product of a weird f*ckin' place to grow up, I get the job done. Do you know who the last person to get an honest jump on me was, Frankie?
It was Trace Demon.
And it was almost five f*ckin' years ago.
And I was drunk as sh*t.
Look, you've turned a lot of heads this past year, my own included. I'm not dumb enough to just f*ckin' writes guy off, especially when he's been draggin' a little ash behind him
leftover from the spark that's been drivin' him. For some f*ckin' reason, I read them dirt sheets, and just about all of 'em think you're gonna be somethin' to watch in the years to come, and I guess if you're lookin' at who's makin' the most noise, they'd have half a f*ckin' point.
Me? I ain't worried about you.
I feel like eventually I'm gonna be beatin' a dead horse over the subject, but outside of my buddy Isaac's piece of jewelry we're all 'bout to make a play for, any other accolade worth fightin' for right now is nestled safely in my corner. I've tipped all the scales otherwise overwhelmingly in my favor this year, and whereas you may have spent the year makin' a f*ck-ton of noise over there, I spent the year makin' an impact.
The night you debuted before the WFWF multiverse? I came back after two years and became the number one contender for the WFWF International Championship.
The night you and Mike f*ckin' Jette broke out your toys, put on your little children's show and goaded Josh and Isaac into givin' you a pity pull job? I pinned the WFWF International Champion...
...I don't think I need to remind you who presently has the titles you couldn't replace your toys with...
...and of course, the night you couldn't even manage to lock down the WFWF's newest, most prestigious non-title? I put an end to one of the hottest streaks in recent history and became the WFWF International Champion.
See, I dunno if anyone's told you or not, but this ain't some game of horseshoes. Almost? That doesn't f*ckin' count, and that's a lesson I'd suggest you start takin' to heart because in spite of the fact that just about everyone's got you pegged as 2016's rookie of the year, you've spent that entire time just bein' almost good enough.
To consider all those flaws I'm supposed to be worried about - I'm nothin' if I ain't honest. For whatever reason, the paint around here is mixed with a lot of 'ifs' - you'll be great 'if', 2017'll be your year 'if'.
Me? I don't particularly like that color.
See, I feel pretty qualified to paint you with a pretty broad brush, seein' as we're neighbors and all, and I've spent enough of my life in the greatest city in the world to convey a pretty clear picture of just about every last hard ass, wannabe tough guy Bostonian walkin' Mass Ave like anyone gives a f*ck, even if he's actually from Lawrence or some sh*t like that, and just like every other wannabe Mbunghole prick droppin' his hard Rs a little more'n he needs to be?
You ain't sh*t.
You're nothin'. Just another all talk, no walk, wishes he was fresh out the Dot prick who'll never even get to scratch the surface of bein' a has been on account of you already landin' the role of a never was, who couldn't even turn a personal tragedy into an ounce of gasoline enough to fuel even the tiniest spark into a f*ckin' flame.
If. Almost. Nothin'.
All that sh*t? That's why, as far as round one is concerned, I ain't too particularly worried about nothin', least of all, the prospect of if you almost beat me...
...'cause I am going to beat you.