Post by CM Poor on Mar 29, 2017 20:30:44 GMT -5
Conqueror
I hear 'em all.
It'd be pretty f*ckin' hard not to. Seems like everywhere I turn lately, someone else has got their drawers in a f*ckin' bunch over where I go from here. I dunno what that's all about - maybe it's some sort of human condition thing that's just leaps and bounds beyond whatever I'll ever be capable of understandin', but it's like ever since I've run dry, mother f*ckers are comin' outta the woodwork every step of the way like I need some sorta helpin' hand to find my way to tomorrow, as if all that sh*t in Pasadena was some sorta fluke and anything more than gettin' clean on the back of nothin' more than my own devices - oh, and takin' down one of the hottest f*ckin' prospects of 2016 - might somehow be the straw that breaks my brittle little back.
F*ck off.
You'll find some haughty mother f*ckers out back who'll try and tell you that they don't pay any mind to the dirt sheets or the podcasts or whatever other f*ckin' medium it is that these do nothin' nerds use to try and insert themselves into the realm of relevance with their lofty f*ckin' opinions. Guys who'll sit there and act like it's all business to them and that they ain't got time for what some grabass on the internet thinks of 'em. I ain't gonna bother namin' names - I'm sure most of you could fill in the blanks.
Point is, every last one of 'em is full of sh*t.
Look, if I'm privy to that sh*t, everyone's privy to that sh*t. And hell, why wouldn't I be? Personal jabs aside, there ain't a pud or pundit puttin' his thoughts to paper today that can deny that I'm on the hottest f*ckin' roll the WFWF's seen in ages. They'd like to f*ckin' deny it, or at the very least, be able to apply that sorta praise to anyone but me, but everyone's gotta learn sooner than later that the truth can be f*ckin' brutal, and it ain't gonna be all too long until I'm not just the face of this f*ckin' company, but I'm the only face this company f*ckin' has.
So why's everybody tryin' to barrel down my f*ckin' door like I need their f*ckin' help?
There wasn't no twelve step program that got me where I am today. You can ask half the people tryin' to horn back in on the whole David Brennan thing how well interventions have held up for me in the past. Everything you see here? Every time Lila Sleater gets to feel her spirits gettin' crushed a little more when they play back that f*ckin' dog and pony sh*t she put on tryin' to preserve Lucas Crowe's title reign? That's all on me. Maybe that's the kicker - maybe even a guy like Chris Meyer, who's probably the last honest son of a b*tch left among us, knows that there ain't a shred of credit owed to a secondary player like him who found himself unwittingly along for the ride while I went out there and made sh*t happen my own way.
That's gotta keep some of you up at night. I think, for a long time, it had become sort of a foregone conclusion that doin' sh*t my way was a one way ticket to the middle of f*ckin' nowhere. I ran one hell of run not gettin' much of f*ckin' anything done, and I think there's some of you out there that are still operatin' under that mentality, which, personally? I'm just f*ckin' fine with. Worked out well enough for Drakz and Dean, and even f*ckin' better for Lucas Crowe. The rest of you standin' in my way wanna go on figurin' David Brennan ain't the type to get sh*t done? Be my f*ckin' guest. Whatever helps you f*ckin' sleep at night.
Just don't get too comfortable.
That sorta blissful ignorance? That sh*t's gonna be short lived, and before you know it, every last one of you sons of b*tches is gonna be little more than dirt beneath my feet. See, I been hearin' a lot of sh*t lately about what it is I need to do to preserve my name or my legacy or whatever other sort of sh*t people'll try and forge into a key into your life. There's this overlyin' assumption that I guess I'm supposed to give a sh*t that my last name is Brennan now on account of my newly conceived outlook on life, or that the next step in some sort of transformation I'm supposed to endure is turnin' around my own presentation of self.
Let me spell it out for you.
If I'd have been born into the very same world, to the very same parents, beneath the very same circumstances, under all unchanged variables in this world in place shy of the existence of a f*ckin' drug in a bottle, I'd still be the same, lousy, rotten, apathetic piece of sh*t that I am today. I'm not a Brennan because I'm a piece of sh*t - I'm a piece of sh*t because I'm a f*ckin' Brennan.
The sooner you come to terms with that, the sooner you'll be able to find your own creviced place in my world.
See, I'm just about everything they say I am. Other guys out back? Those words might f*ckin' sting somethin' fierce, but me? I ain't ever seen much since in fightin' a book fulla words when I can just as soon haul off and clock the mother f*cker readin' the f*ckin' thing. While the rest of you have been sittin' back tryin' to figure out how it is one of you's gonna finally find a way to deconstruct me to the point of defeat, I've been walkin' over every last one of you, pickin' up every last piece of worth you've been droppin' along the way.
You think I give a sh*t about my name? That name conquered an entire city.
And I'm about to conquer the entire f*ckin' world.
David Brennan:
Whatever You Say I Am
Beale
I took a gamble.
I wasn't booked for Night Four. Grand scheme? Eh, I don't really care. This whole damn thing - the Grand Supreme Clusterf*ck or whatever it is - has been a whole lotta start/stop. That, much like another night off, isn't gonna chap my ass much - I ain't the one who needs the momentum here - but it's still a right f*ckin' pain in the ass to sign on for somethin' you figure's gonna afford you a fight or two, only to sit your ass at home for the duration and still find yourself comin' out on top after all's said and done.
The WFWF, ladies and gentlemen.
Still, I ain't ever been to Memphis, least, I don't think I have. Not sober, anyway.
I know guys out back that chase the brand wherever it goes. I dunno. Guess that works for 'em. Me? I dig the gig enough, but if I don't need to be there? I ain't gonna f*ckin' be there. I'm sure for some of the boys who've dreamed of this venture their whole pathetic little lives, there ain't a thing on the docket more invigoratin' than chasin' the ring truck wherever it goes, but I can think of a f*ck ton more enticin' ways of spendin' my time outside of some dank ass, too old arena, dodgin' Sleater's eyes around every turn.
F*ck. That.
All the same - I dunno if you've been up north lately, but we've been packin' our own brand, twenty inches deep, too boot, of "f*ck that", so Memphis, rain or shine, seemed pretty f*ckin' tit in comparison. Swing by the show, see what it is Whitner'd undoubtedly do to try and make me quiver in my Doc Martens, and then, what the hell - cross Graceland off the ol' bucket list.
I know what you're thinkin' - big whoop. You went to Memphis. Caught a show. Left the house. Congratulations, you f*ckin' reclusive slob. What's the gamble?
See, I ain't gotten out much lately, save the nights that the brass decide they wanna pitch a show with an actual f*ckin' champion in attendance. Once upon a time, I'd taken to 'the road'. Sh*t's for the birds, man. I ain't got the patience for that kinda grind anymore, so I'm pretty big into the outbound to work, home that night sorta deal. The jet helps, and I've been able to discover the untold wonders of travelin' one hundred percent solo. Let me tell you - even a taste of that sh*t? You ain't ever flyin' coach again.
Anyway, point is, I ain't the only member of my household privy to my schedule. Nat's been kind enough to gimme the space she figures I need, me bein' the right piece of sh*t that I am and havin' not given her the time of day since haulin' up here to try and sort the world out. Frankly, I'm a bit amazed she's stuck around as long as she has. If she'd have gone to the seminary, that woman'd be a certified Saint by now, if that's at all how that sh*t works. At any rate, I wasn't really lookin' to explain why I'd be vacatin' the place again for the sole sake of ditchin' that northeastern livin' for a couple of days and leavin' her to tend to whatever the f*ck was gonna fall outta the sky. That's a d*ck move, even by my admittedly low standards.
I was in a right f*ckin' bind. I was losin' my damn mind, bein' cooped up against the New England winter. I'd thrown the lone vice that once saw me through so many of those long, cold nights out the door, and I wouldn't find myself bound to the need to travel for another week or so at the rate this damn tournament was moving along at.
So I took a gamble.
If you'd have told me at the start of this tournament that the clusterf*ck it'd become would lead to me walkin' down Beale one night with the one beacon of light left in my godforsaken life, I'd have f*ckin' gone out there night one and torn Josh Dean's leg off myself.
Heh. Guess I owe him one.
"What?"
Guess I crack myself up.
"Hmm? Nothin'."
She gave me a look that told me everything I needed to know about exactly how little she was buyin' that one.
"Bullsh*t. You haven't cracked a smile, never mind a chuckle, around me in over five years. What's so funny?"
Would she appreciate the irony of all the bullsh*t that had driven us further and further....scratch that...made me act the petulant f*ckin' d*ck for five solid years bein' the thing that'd brought us closer than we'd been since that sh*t in Japan?
"I dunno. Maybe that's it..."
"Maybe that's what?"
"Nat, when's the last time we've done anything even remotely like this, huh?"
"What, did you lose count? We've never done anything like this."
"Never could. Not 'til now, anyway."
"That doesn't excuse the last five years, you know..."
"I ain't makin' excuses. Just...I dunno...it's kinda cool, right? This all startin' to pan out?"
"You're playing this one close to the chest, aren't you?"
"How do you mean?"
"Look, don't get me wrong, David. I've been just about ready to burst waiting for you to ask me along on some private little vacation to Memphis, but that's still all it is, right? I mean...does that make sense?"
It did. She got me.
I can sit here all day and tell you what a white knight shinin' armor gentlemen I was, sweepin' this girl who's chased me halfway across creation lookin' to save me from myself off her feet and whiskin' her away on some romantic excursion to one of the million and a half different places we'd dreamed of visitin' together one day, but you wouldn't believe that sh*t even if I'd painted a picture, right?
I think we're all cognizant enough of the stark f*ckin' cowardice that makes up David in real life to be able to all but skip the narrative of how 'hey, I'm goin' to Memphis, wanna come' went exactly the way it sounds. Even now, I sit here and talk about it like it's some high stakes play I went and took, and the simple fact is, I didn't even throw anything down to ride on it.
"Look, I'm sorry, Nat."
"Don't be sorry, David, just....ugh....just let me know where I stand here, you know?!"
You wanna see the ultimate b*tch out?
"Show was somethin' else though, huh?"
My god, he changes the subject! What a coward! What a b*tch! This has got to be the most yellow bellied night in our industry!
I felt right f*ckin' rotten about it, too. I figured I'd seen some museum quality deflation, lettin' Meyer know I wouldn't be lettin' him play manager goin' forward, but damn - Nat hit me right where it hurt just by the look on her face.
"Did it work?"
"Did what work?"
"The one you're tied - Whitner?"
Natalie Collins, ladies and gentlemen. Rollin' with the punches.
"What about him?"
"You are the reigning king of missed signals, aren't you?"
"Look, Nat, I'm tryin' alright? I know I've f*cked things up somethin' fierce but - "
"He was calling you out, you idiot!"
Wait just a god damn second here...
"How do you figure?"
She was gettin' frustrated now. If our life was a sitcom, Nat'd fill the role of the exasperated love interest to a f*ckin' T. I might as well have been Tim f*ckin' Allen around her.
"Jesus...look, how long did it take you to dispose of Dex? Seconds?"
"Wait, you actually watch that sh*t?"
"Shut up, David! The point is, Whitner was trying to get under your skin. You pinned Dex in seconds, flat. He tapped him out, just the same."
"My god, you do watch that sh*t..."
"David, if you picked up a gig hosting Bass Masters tomorrow, I'd watch Bass Masters reruns 'til I could host the damn show myself, and I've never even been fishing!"
F*ck.
I was battin' a thousand here. It's times like these when I really gotta step back and take stock of what a dumb ass f*ck I really am.
I'd done all I could, maybe a bit subconsciously but nevertheless, to drive this girl to pull a Clark on me, write me outta her life for good and put a country's distance between us so as to drive home the point, and here she was, walkin' down one of the world's most famous streets with me, all but layin' it out on the sidewalk for me to pick up. By no right should I have had any business walkin' down that street, with that girl, under those particular circumstances that night, and yet there I was, simultaneously marvelin' at the bizarre f*ckin' turns of my uniquely charmed life and once more pullin' lefts and rights tryin' to f*ck it all up all over again, when any other street brained Sully'd have the f*ckin' wherewithal to swing into the next f*ckin' spot without the 'No' illuminated in neon and make good on five f*ckin' years of indiscretion.
Instead, I just kept walkin'.
Silent.
Y'know, I get this reputation as some sorta hotheaded, run of the mouth kinda guy. I try not to give Jack too much credit for the things I've learned in life, but one thing he'd told me years ago that always stuck with me was that in this world, some people'll walk into your life completely devoid of any sorta consequence, while others'll bear all matter of consequence that life has to offer. I'd always taken that to be some sorta mantra on saddlin' up with the folks who'd bring you the most advantage outta life, which, in retrospect, is probably exactly how Jack saw it to boot. Probably could account for all the time I wasted clingin' on to Mike and Isaac's coattails, when I could've already been off drivin' them past the point of relevance, but now?
I think I was startin' to figure that sh*t out.
"So..."
It was cold. Pointed.
Let down.
Nat always carried a hint of optimism in her voice, even when she was readin' me the riot act, but now?
Sh*t, I think she was on the verge of givin' up.
"Hmm?"
"Are we just going to head back then?"
I'd like to sit here and tell you that that was the night I won back the heart of Natalie Collins, that I went and validated every sleepless night and every letdown turn she'd experienced chasin' my sorry ass down, that tomorrow would be the first day of the rest of our lives and that we'd always be able to point to that spot beneath the lights and the commotion of Beale Street, and that we'd always have Memphis whenever times turned dim, but you wouldn't believe a f*ckin' word of that if I tried, now would you?
"I dunno..."
But I did take a gamble.
"...what do you wanna do?"
Stepping Stones
I think you've got yourself a fan, Ante.
Not me of course. I don't think much of you. I know, I know - you're supposedly this hot prospect, sleeper to take the whole thing, guy to watch piece of buzz right now, and maybe it's the cells I've cooked over the years, but I just don't see it.
I mean, am I suppose to?
I'm actually kinda scratchin' my head here, tryin' to figure out how it is our paths are convergin' again the way they are. Last I remember it, you and I both made a play at rainin' on little Penny Shannon's parade - an idea I'm
gonna go ahead and take credit for, by the way, havin' made my way out there first - but only one of us left Boston that night ridin' any sorta wave of relevance. I dunno how the cogs all work out back, but I figure that sorta f*ck up'd be enough for the brass to keep you good and distanced from any sorta play at the next step forward, but f*ck - here are, huh?
They must've put some serious stock in that Golden Child Championship of yours.
Again, I may just be the contrarian outlier here, but from where I'm standin', a whole lotta people went and made a whole lotta fuss over a "championship" that don't mean a lick of sh*t when push comes to shove. I dunno if that's some sorta participation trophy brandin', taggin' that thing a championship like it's somethin' worth addin' to your page on the website or whatever, but all I can see is a warp whistle that would've made Carter Contra tight in the jock. There's this f*ckin' narrative that I, as the reigning WFWF International Champion, just in case you've forgotten, should be roundin' the corners with an eye out for you, waitin' for you to cash that thing in to take a stab at somethin' worth havin' around here. I dunno. I guess it's just another mark in the "I don't see it" column. One of us went and made a f*ckin' point - took Penny Shannon's spot atop the peckin' order, took Lucas Crowe's belt from around his waist, and yet...you're the "one to watch"?
If that's what Obo's seein', then that son of a b*tch has even lower standards than I'd ever figured.
I know a thing or two about marquee names takin' a shine to you. I ain't gonna sit here and pretend to know what Schneider's endgame is - I don't think Schneider even knows what Schneider's endgame is. For all I know, Obo's got himself a banner f*ckin' cookout lined up to kick off the summer and is lookin' for somethin' new and excitin' to stick on his kebobs. Whatever it is, you can stay as silent as you want on the matter, but don't think that everyone else out there hasn't noticed the resident sadist following you around like you're the second comin' of Percy the Panhandler.
Everyone knows that that piece of sh*t can't be trusted any further than he can be thrown, and if history's any sorta benchmark, he's one slippery motherf*cker. If I had to guess, I'd wager a bet on you not so much bein' his pick of the litter to help him bring about the second comin' of the Decayin' Society or whatever the f*ck kinda cult it was he was tryin' to put together before Scarlett f*ckin' Quinn took him to town as you are his pick -for reasons unbeknownst to me - to get his start skewerin' his way back to the top of the card. Vanity, after all, does seem to be that little flower's Achilles Heel, which kinda begs the question...
Why you?
I'm sure you've gotten the point by now, but Ante? You're nothin'. Sure, you can be a brick f*ckin' wall to guys that would otherwise never rise above their lot in life to begin with, but if the "great" Philip Schneider has pegged you as his vault to the top?Well, sh*t...
...he's got some f*ckin' nerve talkin' about steppin' stones.
Seein' as we've already touched on the matter, I don't figure it bears much more repeatin' who it was I went and stepped over to get where I am today, Ante. I know that you've think you've got some manner of leverage, runnin' around with your Golden Child Championship like it makes a lick of f*ckin' difference, and that I'm supposed to somehow have that in the back of my mind as if it matters, two steps removed from holdin' ever last belt this company has to f*ckin' offer, but the truth is, Ante, I'm dyin' for you to cash that sh*t in and for you to even try takin' this belt away from me. Maybe then, when I beat your ass a third time - 'cause we already know who's walkin' outta the prelim brackets - you'll get the f*ckin' hint. Maybe then, you'll stop nippin' at my heels, tryin' to make second best on everything I've done. That's been your game, hasn't it? You sucker jumped me from behind 'cause someone thought to f*ck with Penny Shannon ahead of you, you go and get yourself the world's biggest no prize the same night I put a nightcap on WFWF's hottest comeback streak in decades, and now you're gonna try and cut me in line on the way to the WFWF World Championship?
When are you gonna f*ckin' learn, son?
You can't beat me. You couldn't beat me to become the number one contender headin' into SuperBrawl, you ain't gonna beat me where nobody else in this sorry f*ckin' excuse for a bracket could, and you ain't gonna beat me whenever it is you decide you'd like to get yourself another shot at glory. Your best shot at the International Championship isn't some made up f*ckin' prize t make the rest of you feel better about your lot in life - your best odds lie in the likelihood that Sleater tries to take this one from me by force when the lights come on upstairs and she realizes she let her worst nightmare monopolize everything worth fightin' for in this two bit operation of hers.
Not that any of that worked out the last time she tried it.
The point I'm tryin' to make is, for all the hype you're generatin' - all the talk of comin' up and lurkin' around the corner, Golden Showers at the ready and Obo the f*ckin' Hobo gold clappin' at you every step of the way - I just don't see what all the fuss is about.
I mean, if you could've, you already would've - right Ante?
Conqueror, Part II
I had to smirk as I shut the slider behind me, takin' extra care to let as little of the light or the late night breeze in, not that Nat was lookin' like she'd be up and about anytime soon.
Heh.
Still got it.
If you'd have frozen time and put me on the spot just a few hours earlier down there on Beale and asked me to throw down some sorta Family Feud list of answers Nat would have in her mouth, havin' just been given reluctant reign over whatever the f*ck it is we go out and get up to next, seein' as I wasn't about to make any f*ckin' calls on my end, I could have given you about as many answers as Dex has excuses for not still bein' the champ before I ever got to, well....to that.
Just figured that wouldn't have been on her mind at the time - not that I'm complainin'.
Sure wish I could just pass the f*ck out as quick as she could, though. Maybe if I'd have just gone and gotten her when I said I would all those years back, we'd be havin' the same problem.
Doesn't matter. Nat comin' along for the ride was somethin' of a wrench in the plan to begin with - again, not complainin', just wholly unexpected. I ain't much of the type to chase the circus around when I ain't due to stick my head in the lion's mouth, but on this rare occasion, where I had, I figured I'd have, at minimum, a couple of hours up in air to sorta chew over whatever it is I may or may not have gotten outta the whole idea. Ultimately, I dunno if circumstances bore any change on the outcome and I'd be up in the air singin' and entirely different tune had I not just found myself in the throngs of a long overdue lay, but whether or not my broken dry spell had clouded my mind to whatever the f*ck may have gone on just hours earlier in that arena, only one thought raced through my mind. It seemed almost absurd to consider, at first. Even though all present evidence supported the notion, and I'd all but declared it a forgone conclusion, it still sounded weird in my head, almost as if it were somethin' in the manner of the ultimate taboo.
"F*ck, I'm really gonna win this sh*t, aren't I?."
Can you blame me?
Sure sounded right.
How the f*ck could it not? Everything that had stood in my way up until that point had been laid to waste in my wake:
Sleater. Sobriety. Penny Shannon. Ante Whitner. Lucas Crowe. Josh Dean. Drakz.
There wasn't a damn thing that had presented itself to me since makin' my way back to the WFWF that hadn't been mine for the taking. Every WFWF championship not up for grabs in some clusterf*ck of a tournament was secured firmly around my waist. The one man who'd proven to be a persistent thorn in my side since the very beginning could no longer claim unrivaled victory over me. Three former champions of varied renown and a newly crowned rookie of the year were all about to step aside and allow me to walk out of the bracket stage unscathed, and I'd just backed my way right back into the bed of a woman I, by no right, should even enjoy the company of any longer.
Was I really supposed to be concerned with whatever is the A side manages to cough up?
Seen floors down, a slap fight had broken out as a gaggle of drunks got the inevitable last call heave-ho out the front door. Been there. Done that. Everybody and their mother told me stories about how I'd spend every day of sobriety fightin' some constant battle against the temptation to go runnin' back to the bottle, that I'd never be "recovered" so much as I'd always be "recovering".
Please.
If this was the opposite side of the coin, seven floors up, lookin' down on my past while the only desirable part of it lay barren beneath the sheets with no discernible sign of regret, then sh*t - let me run for congress. I'll bring back prohibition.
Lookin' down on what had been, and what everybody figured my comin' up for air meant, it made me wonder what all the noise was on the other side about bringin' back some matter of respect or dignity to this sh*t. Play nice? That ain't gettin' anybody anywhere. Everything around me was sittin' in the palm of my hand on account of me bein' every bit the piece of sh*t the world has spent thirty some odd years makin' me out to be. If this is some sorta punishment or penance for the way I've been? Sh*t, just put it in line with everything else I've got comin' my way.
I'll just f*ckin' take it.
I hear 'em all.
It'd be pretty f*ckin' hard not to. Seems like everywhere I turn lately, someone else has got their drawers in a f*ckin' bunch over where I go from here. I dunno what that's all about - maybe it's some sort of human condition thing that's just leaps and bounds beyond whatever I'll ever be capable of understandin', but it's like ever since I've run dry, mother f*ckers are comin' outta the woodwork every step of the way like I need some sorta helpin' hand to find my way to tomorrow, as if all that sh*t in Pasadena was some sorta fluke and anything more than gettin' clean on the back of nothin' more than my own devices - oh, and takin' down one of the hottest f*ckin' prospects of 2016 - might somehow be the straw that breaks my brittle little back.
F*ck off.
You'll find some haughty mother f*ckers out back who'll try and tell you that they don't pay any mind to the dirt sheets or the podcasts or whatever other f*ckin' medium it is that these do nothin' nerds use to try and insert themselves into the realm of relevance with their lofty f*ckin' opinions. Guys who'll sit there and act like it's all business to them and that they ain't got time for what some grabass on the internet thinks of 'em. I ain't gonna bother namin' names - I'm sure most of you could fill in the blanks.
Point is, every last one of 'em is full of sh*t.
Look, if I'm privy to that sh*t, everyone's privy to that sh*t. And hell, why wouldn't I be? Personal jabs aside, there ain't a pud or pundit puttin' his thoughts to paper today that can deny that I'm on the hottest f*ckin' roll the WFWF's seen in ages. They'd like to f*ckin' deny it, or at the very least, be able to apply that sorta praise to anyone but me, but everyone's gotta learn sooner than later that the truth can be f*ckin' brutal, and it ain't gonna be all too long until I'm not just the face of this f*ckin' company, but I'm the only face this company f*ckin' has.
So why's everybody tryin' to barrel down my f*ckin' door like I need their f*ckin' help?
There wasn't no twelve step program that got me where I am today. You can ask half the people tryin' to horn back in on the whole David Brennan thing how well interventions have held up for me in the past. Everything you see here? Every time Lila Sleater gets to feel her spirits gettin' crushed a little more when they play back that f*ckin' dog and pony sh*t she put on tryin' to preserve Lucas Crowe's title reign? That's all on me. Maybe that's the kicker - maybe even a guy like Chris Meyer, who's probably the last honest son of a b*tch left among us, knows that there ain't a shred of credit owed to a secondary player like him who found himself unwittingly along for the ride while I went out there and made sh*t happen my own way.
That's gotta keep some of you up at night. I think, for a long time, it had become sort of a foregone conclusion that doin' sh*t my way was a one way ticket to the middle of f*ckin' nowhere. I ran one hell of run not gettin' much of f*ckin' anything done, and I think there's some of you out there that are still operatin' under that mentality, which, personally? I'm just f*ckin' fine with. Worked out well enough for Drakz and Dean, and even f*ckin' better for Lucas Crowe. The rest of you standin' in my way wanna go on figurin' David Brennan ain't the type to get sh*t done? Be my f*ckin' guest. Whatever helps you f*ckin' sleep at night.
Just don't get too comfortable.
That sorta blissful ignorance? That sh*t's gonna be short lived, and before you know it, every last one of you sons of b*tches is gonna be little more than dirt beneath my feet. See, I been hearin' a lot of sh*t lately about what it is I need to do to preserve my name or my legacy or whatever other sort of sh*t people'll try and forge into a key into your life. There's this overlyin' assumption that I guess I'm supposed to give a sh*t that my last name is Brennan now on account of my newly conceived outlook on life, or that the next step in some sort of transformation I'm supposed to endure is turnin' around my own presentation of self.
Let me spell it out for you.
If I'd have been born into the very same world, to the very same parents, beneath the very same circumstances, under all unchanged variables in this world in place shy of the existence of a f*ckin' drug in a bottle, I'd still be the same, lousy, rotten, apathetic piece of sh*t that I am today. I'm not a Brennan because I'm a piece of sh*t - I'm a piece of sh*t because I'm a f*ckin' Brennan.
The sooner you come to terms with that, the sooner you'll be able to find your own creviced place in my world.
See, I'm just about everything they say I am. Other guys out back? Those words might f*ckin' sting somethin' fierce, but me? I ain't ever seen much since in fightin' a book fulla words when I can just as soon haul off and clock the mother f*cker readin' the f*ckin' thing. While the rest of you have been sittin' back tryin' to figure out how it is one of you's gonna finally find a way to deconstruct me to the point of defeat, I've been walkin' over every last one of you, pickin' up every last piece of worth you've been droppin' along the way.
You think I give a sh*t about my name? That name conquered an entire city.
And I'm about to conquer the entire f*ckin' world.
David Brennan:
Whatever You Say I Am
Beale
I took a gamble.
I wasn't booked for Night Four. Grand scheme? Eh, I don't really care. This whole damn thing - the Grand Supreme Clusterf*ck or whatever it is - has been a whole lotta start/stop. That, much like another night off, isn't gonna chap my ass much - I ain't the one who needs the momentum here - but it's still a right f*ckin' pain in the ass to sign on for somethin' you figure's gonna afford you a fight or two, only to sit your ass at home for the duration and still find yourself comin' out on top after all's said and done.
The WFWF, ladies and gentlemen.
Still, I ain't ever been to Memphis, least, I don't think I have. Not sober, anyway.
I know guys out back that chase the brand wherever it goes. I dunno. Guess that works for 'em. Me? I dig the gig enough, but if I don't need to be there? I ain't gonna f*ckin' be there. I'm sure for some of the boys who've dreamed of this venture their whole pathetic little lives, there ain't a thing on the docket more invigoratin' than chasin' the ring truck wherever it goes, but I can think of a f*ck ton more enticin' ways of spendin' my time outside of some dank ass, too old arena, dodgin' Sleater's eyes around every turn.
F*ck. That.
All the same - I dunno if you've been up north lately, but we've been packin' our own brand, twenty inches deep, too boot, of "f*ck that", so Memphis, rain or shine, seemed pretty f*ckin' tit in comparison. Swing by the show, see what it is Whitner'd undoubtedly do to try and make me quiver in my Doc Martens, and then, what the hell - cross Graceland off the ol' bucket list.
I know what you're thinkin' - big whoop. You went to Memphis. Caught a show. Left the house. Congratulations, you f*ckin' reclusive slob. What's the gamble?
See, I ain't gotten out much lately, save the nights that the brass decide they wanna pitch a show with an actual f*ckin' champion in attendance. Once upon a time, I'd taken to 'the road'. Sh*t's for the birds, man. I ain't got the patience for that kinda grind anymore, so I'm pretty big into the outbound to work, home that night sorta deal. The jet helps, and I've been able to discover the untold wonders of travelin' one hundred percent solo. Let me tell you - even a taste of that sh*t? You ain't ever flyin' coach again.
Anyway, point is, I ain't the only member of my household privy to my schedule. Nat's been kind enough to gimme the space she figures I need, me bein' the right piece of sh*t that I am and havin' not given her the time of day since haulin' up here to try and sort the world out. Frankly, I'm a bit amazed she's stuck around as long as she has. If she'd have gone to the seminary, that woman'd be a certified Saint by now, if that's at all how that sh*t works. At any rate, I wasn't really lookin' to explain why I'd be vacatin' the place again for the sole sake of ditchin' that northeastern livin' for a couple of days and leavin' her to tend to whatever the f*ck was gonna fall outta the sky. That's a d*ck move, even by my admittedly low standards.
I was in a right f*ckin' bind. I was losin' my damn mind, bein' cooped up against the New England winter. I'd thrown the lone vice that once saw me through so many of those long, cold nights out the door, and I wouldn't find myself bound to the need to travel for another week or so at the rate this damn tournament was moving along at.
So I took a gamble.
If you'd have told me at the start of this tournament that the clusterf*ck it'd become would lead to me walkin' down Beale one night with the one beacon of light left in my godforsaken life, I'd have f*ckin' gone out there night one and torn Josh Dean's leg off myself.
Heh. Guess I owe him one.
"What?"
Guess I crack myself up.
"Hmm? Nothin'."
She gave me a look that told me everything I needed to know about exactly how little she was buyin' that one.
"Bullsh*t. You haven't cracked a smile, never mind a chuckle, around me in over five years. What's so funny?"
Would she appreciate the irony of all the bullsh*t that had driven us further and further....scratch that...made me act the petulant f*ckin' d*ck for five solid years bein' the thing that'd brought us closer than we'd been since that sh*t in Japan?
"I dunno. Maybe that's it..."
"Maybe that's what?"
"Nat, when's the last time we've done anything even remotely like this, huh?"
"What, did you lose count? We've never done anything like this."
"Never could. Not 'til now, anyway."
"That doesn't excuse the last five years, you know..."
"I ain't makin' excuses. Just...I dunno...it's kinda cool, right? This all startin' to pan out?"
"You're playing this one close to the chest, aren't you?"
"How do you mean?"
"Look, don't get me wrong, David. I've been just about ready to burst waiting for you to ask me along on some private little vacation to Memphis, but that's still all it is, right? I mean...does that make sense?"
It did. She got me.
I can sit here all day and tell you what a white knight shinin' armor gentlemen I was, sweepin' this girl who's chased me halfway across creation lookin' to save me from myself off her feet and whiskin' her away on some romantic excursion to one of the million and a half different places we'd dreamed of visitin' together one day, but you wouldn't believe that sh*t even if I'd painted a picture, right?
I think we're all cognizant enough of the stark f*ckin' cowardice that makes up David in real life to be able to all but skip the narrative of how 'hey, I'm goin' to Memphis, wanna come' went exactly the way it sounds. Even now, I sit here and talk about it like it's some high stakes play I went and took, and the simple fact is, I didn't even throw anything down to ride on it.
"Look, I'm sorry, Nat."
"Don't be sorry, David, just....ugh....just let me know where I stand here, you know?!"
You wanna see the ultimate b*tch out?
"Show was somethin' else though, huh?"
My god, he changes the subject! What a coward! What a b*tch! This has got to be the most yellow bellied night in our industry!
I felt right f*ckin' rotten about it, too. I figured I'd seen some museum quality deflation, lettin' Meyer know I wouldn't be lettin' him play manager goin' forward, but damn - Nat hit me right where it hurt just by the look on her face.
"Did it work?"
"Did what work?"
"The one you're tied - Whitner?"
Natalie Collins, ladies and gentlemen. Rollin' with the punches.
"What about him?"
"You are the reigning king of missed signals, aren't you?"
"Look, Nat, I'm tryin' alright? I know I've f*cked things up somethin' fierce but - "
"He was calling you out, you idiot!"
Wait just a god damn second here...
"How do you figure?"
She was gettin' frustrated now. If our life was a sitcom, Nat'd fill the role of the exasperated love interest to a f*ckin' T. I might as well have been Tim f*ckin' Allen around her.
"Jesus...look, how long did it take you to dispose of Dex? Seconds?"
"Wait, you actually watch that sh*t?"
"Shut up, David! The point is, Whitner was trying to get under your skin. You pinned Dex in seconds, flat. He tapped him out, just the same."
"My god, you do watch that sh*t..."
"David, if you picked up a gig hosting Bass Masters tomorrow, I'd watch Bass Masters reruns 'til I could host the damn show myself, and I've never even been fishing!"
F*ck.
I was battin' a thousand here. It's times like these when I really gotta step back and take stock of what a dumb ass f*ck I really am.
I'd done all I could, maybe a bit subconsciously but nevertheless, to drive this girl to pull a Clark on me, write me outta her life for good and put a country's distance between us so as to drive home the point, and here she was, walkin' down one of the world's most famous streets with me, all but layin' it out on the sidewalk for me to pick up. By no right should I have had any business walkin' down that street, with that girl, under those particular circumstances that night, and yet there I was, simultaneously marvelin' at the bizarre f*ckin' turns of my uniquely charmed life and once more pullin' lefts and rights tryin' to f*ck it all up all over again, when any other street brained Sully'd have the f*ckin' wherewithal to swing into the next f*ckin' spot without the 'No' illuminated in neon and make good on five f*ckin' years of indiscretion.
Instead, I just kept walkin'.
Silent.
Y'know, I get this reputation as some sorta hotheaded, run of the mouth kinda guy. I try not to give Jack too much credit for the things I've learned in life, but one thing he'd told me years ago that always stuck with me was that in this world, some people'll walk into your life completely devoid of any sorta consequence, while others'll bear all matter of consequence that life has to offer. I'd always taken that to be some sorta mantra on saddlin' up with the folks who'd bring you the most advantage outta life, which, in retrospect, is probably exactly how Jack saw it to boot. Probably could account for all the time I wasted clingin' on to Mike and Isaac's coattails, when I could've already been off drivin' them past the point of relevance, but now?
I think I was startin' to figure that sh*t out.
"So..."
It was cold. Pointed.
Let down.
Nat always carried a hint of optimism in her voice, even when she was readin' me the riot act, but now?
Sh*t, I think she was on the verge of givin' up.
"Hmm?"
"Are we just going to head back then?"
I'd like to sit here and tell you that that was the night I won back the heart of Natalie Collins, that I went and validated every sleepless night and every letdown turn she'd experienced chasin' my sorry ass down, that tomorrow would be the first day of the rest of our lives and that we'd always be able to point to that spot beneath the lights and the commotion of Beale Street, and that we'd always have Memphis whenever times turned dim, but you wouldn't believe a f*ckin' word of that if I tried, now would you?
"I dunno..."
But I did take a gamble.
"...what do you wanna do?"
Stepping Stones
I think you've got yourself a fan, Ante.
Not me of course. I don't think much of you. I know, I know - you're supposedly this hot prospect, sleeper to take the whole thing, guy to watch piece of buzz right now, and maybe it's the cells I've cooked over the years, but I just don't see it.
I mean, am I suppose to?
I'm actually kinda scratchin' my head here, tryin' to figure out how it is our paths are convergin' again the way they are. Last I remember it, you and I both made a play at rainin' on little Penny Shannon's parade - an idea I'm
gonna go ahead and take credit for, by the way, havin' made my way out there first - but only one of us left Boston that night ridin' any sorta wave of relevance. I dunno how the cogs all work out back, but I figure that sorta f*ck up'd be enough for the brass to keep you good and distanced from any sorta play at the next step forward, but f*ck - here are, huh?
They must've put some serious stock in that Golden Child Championship of yours.
Again, I may just be the contrarian outlier here, but from where I'm standin', a whole lotta people went and made a whole lotta fuss over a "championship" that don't mean a lick of sh*t when push comes to shove. I dunno if that's some sorta participation trophy brandin', taggin' that thing a championship like it's somethin' worth addin' to your page on the website or whatever, but all I can see is a warp whistle that would've made Carter Contra tight in the jock. There's this f*ckin' narrative that I, as the reigning WFWF International Champion, just in case you've forgotten, should be roundin' the corners with an eye out for you, waitin' for you to cash that thing in to take a stab at somethin' worth havin' around here. I dunno. I guess it's just another mark in the "I don't see it" column. One of us went and made a f*ckin' point - took Penny Shannon's spot atop the peckin' order, took Lucas Crowe's belt from around his waist, and yet...you're the "one to watch"?
If that's what Obo's seein', then that son of a b*tch has even lower standards than I'd ever figured.
I know a thing or two about marquee names takin' a shine to you. I ain't gonna sit here and pretend to know what Schneider's endgame is - I don't think Schneider even knows what Schneider's endgame is. For all I know, Obo's got himself a banner f*ckin' cookout lined up to kick off the summer and is lookin' for somethin' new and excitin' to stick on his kebobs. Whatever it is, you can stay as silent as you want on the matter, but don't think that everyone else out there hasn't noticed the resident sadist following you around like you're the second comin' of Percy the Panhandler.
Everyone knows that that piece of sh*t can't be trusted any further than he can be thrown, and if history's any sorta benchmark, he's one slippery motherf*cker. If I had to guess, I'd wager a bet on you not so much bein' his pick of the litter to help him bring about the second comin' of the Decayin' Society or whatever the f*ck kinda cult it was he was tryin' to put together before Scarlett f*ckin' Quinn took him to town as you are his pick -for reasons unbeknownst to me - to get his start skewerin' his way back to the top of the card. Vanity, after all, does seem to be that little flower's Achilles Heel, which kinda begs the question...
Why you?
I'm sure you've gotten the point by now, but Ante? You're nothin'. Sure, you can be a brick f*ckin' wall to guys that would otherwise never rise above their lot in life to begin with, but if the "great" Philip Schneider has pegged you as his vault to the top?Well, sh*t...
...he's got some f*ckin' nerve talkin' about steppin' stones.
Seein' as we've already touched on the matter, I don't figure it bears much more repeatin' who it was I went and stepped over to get where I am today, Ante. I know that you've think you've got some manner of leverage, runnin' around with your Golden Child Championship like it makes a lick of f*ckin' difference, and that I'm supposed to somehow have that in the back of my mind as if it matters, two steps removed from holdin' ever last belt this company has to f*ckin' offer, but the truth is, Ante, I'm dyin' for you to cash that sh*t in and for you to even try takin' this belt away from me. Maybe then, when I beat your ass a third time - 'cause we already know who's walkin' outta the prelim brackets - you'll get the f*ckin' hint. Maybe then, you'll stop nippin' at my heels, tryin' to make second best on everything I've done. That's been your game, hasn't it? You sucker jumped me from behind 'cause someone thought to f*ck with Penny Shannon ahead of you, you go and get yourself the world's biggest no prize the same night I put a nightcap on WFWF's hottest comeback streak in decades, and now you're gonna try and cut me in line on the way to the WFWF World Championship?
When are you gonna f*ckin' learn, son?
You can't beat me. You couldn't beat me to become the number one contender headin' into SuperBrawl, you ain't gonna beat me where nobody else in this sorry f*ckin' excuse for a bracket could, and you ain't gonna beat me whenever it is you decide you'd like to get yourself another shot at glory. Your best shot at the International Championship isn't some made up f*ckin' prize t make the rest of you feel better about your lot in life - your best odds lie in the likelihood that Sleater tries to take this one from me by force when the lights come on upstairs and she realizes she let her worst nightmare monopolize everything worth fightin' for in this two bit operation of hers.
Not that any of that worked out the last time she tried it.
The point I'm tryin' to make is, for all the hype you're generatin' - all the talk of comin' up and lurkin' around the corner, Golden Showers at the ready and Obo the f*ckin' Hobo gold clappin' at you every step of the way - I just don't see what all the fuss is about.
I mean, if you could've, you already would've - right Ante?
Conqueror, Part II
I had to smirk as I shut the slider behind me, takin' extra care to let as little of the light or the late night breeze in, not that Nat was lookin' like she'd be up and about anytime soon.
Heh.
Still got it.
If you'd have frozen time and put me on the spot just a few hours earlier down there on Beale and asked me to throw down some sorta Family Feud list of answers Nat would have in her mouth, havin' just been given reluctant reign over whatever the f*ck it is we go out and get up to next, seein' as I wasn't about to make any f*ckin' calls on my end, I could have given you about as many answers as Dex has excuses for not still bein' the champ before I ever got to, well....to that.
Just figured that wouldn't have been on her mind at the time - not that I'm complainin'.
Sure wish I could just pass the f*ck out as quick as she could, though. Maybe if I'd have just gone and gotten her when I said I would all those years back, we'd be havin' the same problem.
Doesn't matter. Nat comin' along for the ride was somethin' of a wrench in the plan to begin with - again, not complainin', just wholly unexpected. I ain't much of the type to chase the circus around when I ain't due to stick my head in the lion's mouth, but on this rare occasion, where I had, I figured I'd have, at minimum, a couple of hours up in air to sorta chew over whatever it is I may or may not have gotten outta the whole idea. Ultimately, I dunno if circumstances bore any change on the outcome and I'd be up in the air singin' and entirely different tune had I not just found myself in the throngs of a long overdue lay, but whether or not my broken dry spell had clouded my mind to whatever the f*ck may have gone on just hours earlier in that arena, only one thought raced through my mind. It seemed almost absurd to consider, at first. Even though all present evidence supported the notion, and I'd all but declared it a forgone conclusion, it still sounded weird in my head, almost as if it were somethin' in the manner of the ultimate taboo.
"F*ck, I'm really gonna win this sh*t, aren't I?."
Can you blame me?
Sure sounded right.
How the f*ck could it not? Everything that had stood in my way up until that point had been laid to waste in my wake:
Sleater. Sobriety. Penny Shannon. Ante Whitner. Lucas Crowe. Josh Dean. Drakz.
There wasn't a damn thing that had presented itself to me since makin' my way back to the WFWF that hadn't been mine for the taking. Every WFWF championship not up for grabs in some clusterf*ck of a tournament was secured firmly around my waist. The one man who'd proven to be a persistent thorn in my side since the very beginning could no longer claim unrivaled victory over me. Three former champions of varied renown and a newly crowned rookie of the year were all about to step aside and allow me to walk out of the bracket stage unscathed, and I'd just backed my way right back into the bed of a woman I, by no right, should even enjoy the company of any longer.
Was I really supposed to be concerned with whatever is the A side manages to cough up?
Seen floors down, a slap fight had broken out as a gaggle of drunks got the inevitable last call heave-ho out the front door. Been there. Done that. Everybody and their mother told me stories about how I'd spend every day of sobriety fightin' some constant battle against the temptation to go runnin' back to the bottle, that I'd never be "recovered" so much as I'd always be "recovering".
Please.
If this was the opposite side of the coin, seven floors up, lookin' down on my past while the only desirable part of it lay barren beneath the sheets with no discernible sign of regret, then sh*t - let me run for congress. I'll bring back prohibition.
Lookin' down on what had been, and what everybody figured my comin' up for air meant, it made me wonder what all the noise was on the other side about bringin' back some matter of respect or dignity to this sh*t. Play nice? That ain't gettin' anybody anywhere. Everything around me was sittin' in the palm of my hand on account of me bein' every bit the piece of sh*t the world has spent thirty some odd years makin' me out to be. If this is some sorta punishment or penance for the way I've been? Sh*t, just put it in line with everything else I've got comin' my way.
I'll just f*ckin' take it.
I dont know good luck 
