Post by Deep Figure Value on Jun 27, 2016 12:06:17 GMT -5
"What the hell kind of stupid name is Dex?
Dex...
...Dex...
...y'ever say something' so much that the words start to sound stupid? Not the case here. Stupid name to begin with. You're a grown ass adult! Your name is Dexter! Be Dexter!
I know, I know - trivial. Petty. Whatever. But...well, that's kind of all that's left, isn't it Dexter? I mean, this is gonna be, what? Loss number three since making your triumphant return? Three losses, Dexter?! Are you okay with that?! I mean, I wouldn't be - that's f*ckin' embarrassing. Are you...are you sure you're actually THE Dex? The Dex what took the mask off of one of the most legendary names to pass through this business - and slow down, I know you took your own mask off, but I ain't talkin' about you. Didn't you...I mean...you're a former champion right? THE former champion! WFWF Heavyweight Champion! Sh*t, Dex, I ain't ever been ANY champion!
That's because I win fights. Big difference.
See, you set a new standard, whether it was your intent or not, and that, really, is what left the door wide f*ckin' open for some big ass piece of sh*t like me to come waltzin' back in.
Stop and think about that for a second, Dexter.
Everything I do is your fault.
See, your mentor, or whatever the dead guy meant to you in bed, he ain't here to take the rap for you anymore. Ha. Nah, he didn't tell you that - see, Shawn, he put that belt up on your shoulder and you figured it looked mighty nice there,but whether he didn't tell you or whether you just chose not to acknowledge it, doesn't matter - he had a date with destiny, and that belt? He weighed that sh*t down. He were still here, fine, his fault, but now?
This sh*t's on you.
See, you didn't say no, did you? Nah, who would - I mean, maybe someone with a little pride or f*ckin' integrity, but then that wouldn't be little champ Dex, would it? Nope. Shawn said he wanted you to have that title to hold and defend in his stead and you only took about a minute before thrusting that sh*t skyward and telling yourself that damn right you deserved it.
Do you remember that night, Dex?
Sure was a lot of fun, huh?
What I wanna know, and I know I'll damned sure never get an answer to this one, was whether you actually felt the value drop out from under that belt like the drizzling f*ckin' sh*ts the first time you held it up. It's almost funny, maybe if weren't so sad, to see you coming back time and time again talkin' this that and the other thing about getting 'your' title back when everyone around you, everyone who's stepped up to you since and made you taste the underside of their boots knows, right down to the funny talkin' piece of sh*t who holds it right now, that that title ain't worth the leather it's bound around.
Now, some of the guys around here, I'm sure they take a real hard line issue with you dropping trow and releasing a big ol' steaming pile of sh*t on the big bad gold that everyone wants a piece of. Hell, anyone who's anyone probably holds you in the utmost regard as the worst piece of trash to ever sully the big price so bad that the trickle down effect wound up leaving a big ol' sh*t stain all the way down from Drakz to Cameron Stone. Hell, that belt went so brown that they had to polish it right out of the history books. I'm almost envious, Dex - you've made this place look worse than even I have, and I've been TRYING.
And yet, here you are - you still talk about that belt like it's something you're ever going to see again. You still talk about Malakai as if somehow his brittle old ghost is going to come back down and haunt the champ into handing you another title reign with a big spooky asterisk beside it. The try-hards are all sitting around perfectly miffed over the fact that they're left fighting for something that's been tarnished beyond repair by the simple grace of having been wrapped around your waist, and you're still concerned with trying to open a door that's been shut, locked, killed dead, and buried six feet under in the name of cementing some sort of fantastical, non-existent legacy. Don't you get it, Dexter?
This is your legacy.
Years from now, when the history books are written and you and I are cavorting in the hell fires of paradise alongside your boy Shawn and his dearly departed offspring and anyone else who's joined us beneath the dirt by then, they're not going to headline chapters and earmark indexes under 'D' for 'Dex', but rather 'B' for 'Brennan comma David'. It's no secret that the entire WFWF locker room has been put on short notice since I've stepped back in the fray. I'm on the cusp of taking the International Championship off of Lucas Crowe, an impressively able and yet not quite good enough transitional champion, only barely unlike yourself in that there's a modicum of capability there, something you have never, and will never manage to accomplish. You're going to be resigned to sitting atop the legacy of having been a bullsh*t fake paper champion who paralleled the scorched earth triumph that defined my return with a cowering, pathetic losing streak that's embarrassing even to the likes of Trevor Wolfe, sitting by the wayside while I finally rise to the absolute top of the mountain, and just when you think that you couldn't possibly be more reviled more for tarnishing whatever legacy some people tack onto a formality defined by a couple of brass plates glued to a strap of leather, when my time arises, they're all going to look to you as the man who sunk the prestige of the championship so low that it opened the door for a man like me to take the belt by force without any regard for its merit.
Gosh, Shawn must be so proud.
Consider facing facts, Dexter - time is up. The clock struck midnight on the man they called Dex back when you finally had to pony up and do something with that belt you'd been handed and, as expected, fell completely and miserably flat. You chose the easy way out, and the simple fact is, whether it's this week facing me, next week facing Wolfe, or the next week facing God knows who as you trip and stumble your way further and further down the ladder, all you've got to show for it is all you'll ever be - a joke. A no one. Not even a has been - more like a never was. The fact that you're willing to even call yourself a 'former champion' or talk about gettin' your title 'back' is more an affront to any of the tradition around these parts than I could ever hope to buck. Hell, it's a shame you ain't worth two squirts of piss in regard to gettin' anything done - otherwise I could use a guy like you at my side.
Just lie down, Dexter. Save yourself the trouble.
Lost Causes
"I'm putting you with Brennan."
The words played out over and over again like a warped, broken record playing a loop inside his head. It had been hours since Chris Meyer had been called upstairs to the office of Lila Sleater, and even as the towering headquarters of the WFWF hushed from the bustling activity of another day in the office to the silent din of those stragglers like Chris who had a fractured understanding of the phrase 'quitting time', it took all degrees of determination to try and put the tone of her voice as she handed him his latest assignment out of his mind.
As he tended to do with every 'problem' situation Sleater would tend to throw his way, Chris saw two distinct sides to this coin. On the one hand, it meant packing up and abandoning with all due haste the monotony of a nine to five, office life work day, which suited him about as neatly as a pair of slim fit jeans around the hide of Randel Benjamin. It came with the territory, this much he acknowledged, but nowhere in that understanding was there any dictation that he had to even pretend to like it.
Time and experience had taught Chris Meyer many things, not only about himself, but about the world around him and his place within it. Pulling his reading glasses from his eyes, he massaged his forehead a bit, sighing as he resigned himself to perhaps calling it a day on his meticulous preparation for his next great venture with the WFWF. Strolling over to the picturesque view laid out before him from the wide angles window of his private office, he paused at a hutch that created a decorative ledge along the minuscule windowsill, snickering to himself as he procured a framed picture of a young man - a boy, really - long, dyed black hair tousled across his eyes, doing his best to look morose and introverted and failing miserably on the back of the dopey grin that he could do nothing to restrain as he stared back at the camera.
The man named Chris Meyer who found himself, perhaps as a side effect of his own self immolation into his work, longing if only for a split second for days that had long since passed him by was a far cry from the boy who'd first come to the WFWF under the guise of Chris Avalon - at least, he'd hoped he was. He liked to think that now, years after coming to grips with the self realization that while his passion for the industry could probably stand on its own two feet unmatched by that of any other man, his worth, which would one day dictate the impact he yearned to leave on professional wrestling, was exponentially increased when put to task outside the confines of a twenty by twenty playing field. It was a tough pill to swallow, and to his own credit, Chris would be the first to tell you that he did not exactly handle the acceptance of his in ring shortcomings with the greatest of dignity. Anyone who comes to cross paths with this industry will tell you that some impassibly dark roads lie ahead, and Chris soon found himself faced with the life altering decision to allow himself to be defined by a gradual fall from grace that would put an irreparable distance between himself and a passion that had been a hallmark of his character since he was six years old, or to take the circumstances by the reins and steer his own destiny toward one that would ultimately, with any shred of luck, allow him to never work a day in his life as he pursued opportunities still tangentially connected to the only thing he'd ever loved.
In his new role with the company, Chris had found a new spark for the passion he feared dead, destroyed by the agonizing crush of realization that in ring back performance may have not been his forte. As a talent relation agent, he was afforded the newfound opportunity to work with rookie prospects, honing their skills to one day achieve the goals that he himself never fully realized. Internal disputes and problematic scenarios found their way to his desk on a routine basis, and in his workings with the talent that draws the masses to the WFWF, he found himself able to hurdle past the shortcomings that had come dangerously close to defining his exit from the public eye, projecting his passion into his work and upon others in so that come the end of the day, he could step back and recognize a visible and tangible impact that he'd impressed upon the only line of work he'd ever wished to pursue.
Though it had been some time since Chris had actively engaged life on the road, he was perfectly familiar with what Sleater referred to more often than not as "The Brennan Problem". The logic behind how the suits had managed to get themselves right back into this mess baffled Chris on too many levels to even begin trying to comprehend. It wasn't unusual for a talent to be cut loose over the volatility that tends to come with substance abuse issues and brought back into the fold once those matters had been resolved, but Brennan looked no better today than he had the day that he was handed his walking papers. It wasn't the first time corporate had run a cattle drive of sorts in fleshing out the roster with a healthy batch of new and returning faces, but anyone of sound mind and reason could see that Brennan was anything but healthy, both internally and to the environments he occupied.
"Why Brennan?"
"Do you really need to ask?"
"Rhetorically, yes. Not to put too fine a point on it, but, put simply? We could do better.
That was the crux of it for Chris, as far as David Brennan was concerned. He'd watched Brennan with great interest, initially. The talent pool of the WFWF is held in place by something of a revolving door - new faces come and go almost weekly - and so it sparks great interest when someone arrives displaying such natural, unfettered talent such as Brennan did upon first arrival. In a stroke of what would become sheer irony, given his eventual assignment, Chris had actually gone to the front office and formally requested the opportunity to work with him when he'd first arrived, only to be rejected himself - not by the relations department, but rather Brennan himself, who, in his own words, had his own agenda, with no intent to stay any longer than he needed, and would prefer to travel alone, thank you. The rest of Brennan's story, as they say, is history.
And thus, Chris Meyer was left go about his business, operating and silently observing from the sidelines as one of the single most raw and incomparable talents went about his way, aligning himself with malcontents that would serve little to no favor in advancing his career, all the while succumbing to vices, encouraged likely by their influence, that would slowly chip away at all hope of Brennan ever realizing his true potential.
"Brennan's on a crash course with one of our upper card champions..."
"...a course you put him on..."
"...shut up. I need you in place to keep him from going nuclear."
"Has he not?"
"He's two for two without trying to kill anyone. I'd like to try and keep that record going if at all possible. We've only just brought Dex back into the fold, after all.
Returning to his desk, a fresh glass of Perrier in hand, Chris sat himself down a bit more casually, glancing at the desk clock just beyond a stack of papers - his dossier on his newly indentured charge.
12:01 AM
Fantastic work, Chris. Here's to another eighteen hour day.
He sipped his sparkling water lazily, the other hand idly trying to make sense of all the to-do scattered across his workspace. In the morning - well, later that morning - he'd catch a flight out to Minneapolis in an attempt to rendezvous with Brennan.
He sighed. Irritably.
What was it that Sleater was hoping to get out of sticking him with the likes of a degenerate vagrant who's made perfectly clear his desires to work with or be mentored by anyone outside the circle of filth that shares little more commonality than a series of roll of the dice vices with him? Five or so years ago? He probably could have really gotten something out of the guy - a real raw bit of talent that just needed a push in the right direction. A fair bit of guidance, maybe a smattering of positive reinforcement. He was, after all, the talk of the town upon arrival - it was the opinion of just about everyone not named David Brennan that he'd land himself in the main event picture in under a year.
Of course he'd come with a drinking problem.
Why wouldn't he?
Brennan had everything that Chris had, along with everything that he'd lacked - those intangible, unteachable traits that, in absentia, send men clamoring for some other position in the industry to hang on to that lifelong dream of doing something - anything - to stay tied to the business they've spent their whole lives dreaming of having an influence on. He was next to untouchable in the ring - not technically sound, but beastly with his strikes, unyielding in his threshold for pain. He could tear his opponents down just as well in the ring as he could on the mic. He had a look - completely absent of any sort of tradition or convention, that could stare a man into submission at the very sight of him. With a little finesse, a little fine tuning, David Brennan, by all rights, could take the top spot of the company by sheer, brute force, leaving a trail of scorched earth in his wake and a gaggle of onlookers in absolute awe, asking themselves as he held the belt high 'Drakz who?'
And he squandered it.
Money was what had brought David Brennan to first set foot in the ring - Chris had managed to ascertain that much from his earlier conversations with the man before everything had gone to hell. He had no delusions of grandeur then. No life long desire to become a professional wrestler. He'd simply fallen on hard times and had found an avenue with which he thought he could use his natural affinity for a fight to earn a little scrap and offer up a better shot at life for him and his girlfriend. If things had gone according to Brennan's plans, he'd be departing just as quickly as he'd arrived. Chris knew better then - he'd acquiesced to David's wishes to be left alone, but he knew. One way or the other, this business gets its hooks in you, and try as you may, there's sometimes simply no going back once you're in.
For some men, it's the rush. The thrill of the crowd chanting your name. The pursuit of glory. The indescribable wave of everything that comes with raising the belt high above your head in a single, solitary moment of overwhelming victory.
David liked to fight, and as we'd all come to find in time, David liked to drink.
The two complimented one another nicely.
"Look, I'm not asking you to reinvent the wheel here. I'm sure down the road we can find another prospect for you to work your magic with, but until then, just keep him grounded, would you?"
"Grounded?"
"Well, relatively speaking, at least."
At his wits end, almost defeatedly, Chris half heartedly flipped the dossier on Brennan's last run on to his desk, letting it fall atop the heap of papers on his new assignment in no certain matter of organization, and swiveled to peer at the window into the dark summer night.
What do you do with a drunken sailor?
The man had been untouchable - a handful of losses over the years to, largely, a handful of names you'd come to expect them from. Drakz. Demon. Top tier guys alongside, by all rights, David was meant to compete, held back by not but his own bullheadedness and personal demons. In just two showings since tearing his ugly head once more, he'd made short work of the likes of champions and former champions alike, all the while, in all likelihood, filled to the absolute gills with all matter of spirited toxins. Next up? Another former champion. Say what you will about the man or the means - the belt found its way around his waist in the end, and that's a leg up on anything Brennan could claim, short of the fact that he'd otherwise torn a violent path through a host of former champions, and the as of recent winless next in line was, in Meyer's humble opinion, just another name on a list destined to grow and grow under Brennan's newfound drive to do whatever it is Brennan calls what it is he's been doing.
The likes of Lucas Crowe and Ante Whitner had been no match for David Brennan.
What could Chris Meyer, agent to the stars, possibly hope to get out of him?
For the first time since his waning days in the ring, Chris found himself completely and utterly lost, without recourse, and entirely uncertain about what tomorrow could bring. It wasn't an easy feeling to try and cope with - he had a reputation, not only amongst his peers but to himself as a consummate professional to whom no job was too daunting, no task insurmountable.
This was a whole new animal, and a damn shame, to boot. Five years ago, Chris could have made a world champion out of David Brennan - a real champion, mind you, born of his own talent and accomplishments, merely steered in the right direction by Chris himself. It would have been a boon and a half to David - his money troubles at the time would have been a long gone relic of the past - and dammit, he deserved it. If he could have only been convinced that he'd found his niche and that there were benefits to pursuing that calling with all due intent.
It did little to dwell on what could have been. Even now, for all the words that he was consciously aware were escaping him over just what to do about this new assignment and how to get some - hell, any - mutual benefit out of the arrangement, he remained blissfully unaware of the shifting tides that now, by the simple utterance of five small, every day words, fully envelopes him and would send him crashing along, landing wherever those waves met the shore. Tomorrow - rather, today - he'd arrive at the airport, bleary eyed and poorly rested, to travel out to the site of the WFWF's next event. He'd check in, late, in all likelihood, rushing to beat the doors, barely making it to his seat in a winded and sweat soaked hurry as the other passengers prepped themselves for takeoff, their heads turning to stare in bewildered confusion at the last minute straggler.
With any luck, he'd catch a moment of shut eye mid-flight, which of course, would leave him little opportunity to notice the bob of black hair two seats ahead of him on his connection - the hair that belonged to the quiet, unassuming girl who'd smiled in passing as she made room for him to pass. They'd depart, and upon arrival, he'd meet his company car, perhaps catch a few more moments of fleeting rest, never noticing the girl from the flight twenty feet away as she hailed a cab. It would be all but lost on him as his chauffeur and the girl's cab driver passed one another at intervals along the road, their paths diverting only upon arrival to the same location - an arena, adorned with banners advertising the night's featured event and heralding the arrival in town of the WFWF. He'd be brought around back, performers and crew only. She'd be dropped off up front, the next several hours of her day destined to be spent among the masses in line, waiting anxiously for the doors to open and the show to begin.
Two similar, but contrastingly different paths, nearly intersecting by circumstance in a connecting flight but never once crossing one another's path - humorously, in retrospect, as each would come to find themselves arriving at the same place, at the same time, in a very different pursuit for very different reasons of the very same man.
Dex...
...Dex...
...y'ever say something' so much that the words start to sound stupid? Not the case here. Stupid name to begin with. You're a grown ass adult! Your name is Dexter! Be Dexter!
I know, I know - trivial. Petty. Whatever. But...well, that's kind of all that's left, isn't it Dexter? I mean, this is gonna be, what? Loss number three since making your triumphant return? Three losses, Dexter?! Are you okay with that?! I mean, I wouldn't be - that's f*ckin' embarrassing. Are you...are you sure you're actually THE Dex? The Dex what took the mask off of one of the most legendary names to pass through this business - and slow down, I know you took your own mask off, but I ain't talkin' about you. Didn't you...I mean...you're a former champion right? THE former champion! WFWF Heavyweight Champion! Sh*t, Dex, I ain't ever been ANY champion!
That's because I win fights. Big difference.
See, you set a new standard, whether it was your intent or not, and that, really, is what left the door wide f*ckin' open for some big ass piece of sh*t like me to come waltzin' back in.
Stop and think about that for a second, Dexter.
Everything I do is your fault.
See, your mentor, or whatever the dead guy meant to you in bed, he ain't here to take the rap for you anymore. Ha. Nah, he didn't tell you that - see, Shawn, he put that belt up on your shoulder and you figured it looked mighty nice there,but whether he didn't tell you or whether you just chose not to acknowledge it, doesn't matter - he had a date with destiny, and that belt? He weighed that sh*t down. He were still here, fine, his fault, but now?
This sh*t's on you.
See, you didn't say no, did you? Nah, who would - I mean, maybe someone with a little pride or f*ckin' integrity, but then that wouldn't be little champ Dex, would it? Nope. Shawn said he wanted you to have that title to hold and defend in his stead and you only took about a minute before thrusting that sh*t skyward and telling yourself that damn right you deserved it.
Do you remember that night, Dex?
Sure was a lot of fun, huh?
What I wanna know, and I know I'll damned sure never get an answer to this one, was whether you actually felt the value drop out from under that belt like the drizzling f*ckin' sh*ts the first time you held it up. It's almost funny, maybe if weren't so sad, to see you coming back time and time again talkin' this that and the other thing about getting 'your' title back when everyone around you, everyone who's stepped up to you since and made you taste the underside of their boots knows, right down to the funny talkin' piece of sh*t who holds it right now, that that title ain't worth the leather it's bound around.
Now, some of the guys around here, I'm sure they take a real hard line issue with you dropping trow and releasing a big ol' steaming pile of sh*t on the big bad gold that everyone wants a piece of. Hell, anyone who's anyone probably holds you in the utmost regard as the worst piece of trash to ever sully the big price so bad that the trickle down effect wound up leaving a big ol' sh*t stain all the way down from Drakz to Cameron Stone. Hell, that belt went so brown that they had to polish it right out of the history books. I'm almost envious, Dex - you've made this place look worse than even I have, and I've been TRYING.
And yet, here you are - you still talk about that belt like it's something you're ever going to see again. You still talk about Malakai as if somehow his brittle old ghost is going to come back down and haunt the champ into handing you another title reign with a big spooky asterisk beside it. The try-hards are all sitting around perfectly miffed over the fact that they're left fighting for something that's been tarnished beyond repair by the simple grace of having been wrapped around your waist, and you're still concerned with trying to open a door that's been shut, locked, killed dead, and buried six feet under in the name of cementing some sort of fantastical, non-existent legacy. Don't you get it, Dexter?
This is your legacy.
Years from now, when the history books are written and you and I are cavorting in the hell fires of paradise alongside your boy Shawn and his dearly departed offspring and anyone else who's joined us beneath the dirt by then, they're not going to headline chapters and earmark indexes under 'D' for 'Dex', but rather 'B' for 'Brennan comma David'. It's no secret that the entire WFWF locker room has been put on short notice since I've stepped back in the fray. I'm on the cusp of taking the International Championship off of Lucas Crowe, an impressively able and yet not quite good enough transitional champion, only barely unlike yourself in that there's a modicum of capability there, something you have never, and will never manage to accomplish. You're going to be resigned to sitting atop the legacy of having been a bullsh*t fake paper champion who paralleled the scorched earth triumph that defined my return with a cowering, pathetic losing streak that's embarrassing even to the likes of Trevor Wolfe, sitting by the wayside while I finally rise to the absolute top of the mountain, and just when you think that you couldn't possibly be more reviled more for tarnishing whatever legacy some people tack onto a formality defined by a couple of brass plates glued to a strap of leather, when my time arises, they're all going to look to you as the man who sunk the prestige of the championship so low that it opened the door for a man like me to take the belt by force without any regard for its merit.
Gosh, Shawn must be so proud.
Consider facing facts, Dexter - time is up. The clock struck midnight on the man they called Dex back when you finally had to pony up and do something with that belt you'd been handed and, as expected, fell completely and miserably flat. You chose the easy way out, and the simple fact is, whether it's this week facing me, next week facing Wolfe, or the next week facing God knows who as you trip and stumble your way further and further down the ladder, all you've got to show for it is all you'll ever be - a joke. A no one. Not even a has been - more like a never was. The fact that you're willing to even call yourself a 'former champion' or talk about gettin' your title 'back' is more an affront to any of the tradition around these parts than I could ever hope to buck. Hell, it's a shame you ain't worth two squirts of piss in regard to gettin' anything done - otherwise I could use a guy like you at my side.
Just lie down, Dexter. Save yourself the trouble.
Lost Causes
"I'm putting you with Brennan."
The words played out over and over again like a warped, broken record playing a loop inside his head. It had been hours since Chris Meyer had been called upstairs to the office of Lila Sleater, and even as the towering headquarters of the WFWF hushed from the bustling activity of another day in the office to the silent din of those stragglers like Chris who had a fractured understanding of the phrase 'quitting time', it took all degrees of determination to try and put the tone of her voice as she handed him his latest assignment out of his mind.
As he tended to do with every 'problem' situation Sleater would tend to throw his way, Chris saw two distinct sides to this coin. On the one hand, it meant packing up and abandoning with all due haste the monotony of a nine to five, office life work day, which suited him about as neatly as a pair of slim fit jeans around the hide of Randel Benjamin. It came with the territory, this much he acknowledged, but nowhere in that understanding was there any dictation that he had to even pretend to like it.
Time and experience had taught Chris Meyer many things, not only about himself, but about the world around him and his place within it. Pulling his reading glasses from his eyes, he massaged his forehead a bit, sighing as he resigned himself to perhaps calling it a day on his meticulous preparation for his next great venture with the WFWF. Strolling over to the picturesque view laid out before him from the wide angles window of his private office, he paused at a hutch that created a decorative ledge along the minuscule windowsill, snickering to himself as he procured a framed picture of a young man - a boy, really - long, dyed black hair tousled across his eyes, doing his best to look morose and introverted and failing miserably on the back of the dopey grin that he could do nothing to restrain as he stared back at the camera.
The man named Chris Meyer who found himself, perhaps as a side effect of his own self immolation into his work, longing if only for a split second for days that had long since passed him by was a far cry from the boy who'd first come to the WFWF under the guise of Chris Avalon - at least, he'd hoped he was. He liked to think that now, years after coming to grips with the self realization that while his passion for the industry could probably stand on its own two feet unmatched by that of any other man, his worth, which would one day dictate the impact he yearned to leave on professional wrestling, was exponentially increased when put to task outside the confines of a twenty by twenty playing field. It was a tough pill to swallow, and to his own credit, Chris would be the first to tell you that he did not exactly handle the acceptance of his in ring shortcomings with the greatest of dignity. Anyone who comes to cross paths with this industry will tell you that some impassibly dark roads lie ahead, and Chris soon found himself faced with the life altering decision to allow himself to be defined by a gradual fall from grace that would put an irreparable distance between himself and a passion that had been a hallmark of his character since he was six years old, or to take the circumstances by the reins and steer his own destiny toward one that would ultimately, with any shred of luck, allow him to never work a day in his life as he pursued opportunities still tangentially connected to the only thing he'd ever loved.
In his new role with the company, Chris had found a new spark for the passion he feared dead, destroyed by the agonizing crush of realization that in ring back performance may have not been his forte. As a talent relation agent, he was afforded the newfound opportunity to work with rookie prospects, honing their skills to one day achieve the goals that he himself never fully realized. Internal disputes and problematic scenarios found their way to his desk on a routine basis, and in his workings with the talent that draws the masses to the WFWF, he found himself able to hurdle past the shortcomings that had come dangerously close to defining his exit from the public eye, projecting his passion into his work and upon others in so that come the end of the day, he could step back and recognize a visible and tangible impact that he'd impressed upon the only line of work he'd ever wished to pursue.
Though it had been some time since Chris had actively engaged life on the road, he was perfectly familiar with what Sleater referred to more often than not as "The Brennan Problem". The logic behind how the suits had managed to get themselves right back into this mess baffled Chris on too many levels to even begin trying to comprehend. It wasn't unusual for a talent to be cut loose over the volatility that tends to come with substance abuse issues and brought back into the fold once those matters had been resolved, but Brennan looked no better today than he had the day that he was handed his walking papers. It wasn't the first time corporate had run a cattle drive of sorts in fleshing out the roster with a healthy batch of new and returning faces, but anyone of sound mind and reason could see that Brennan was anything but healthy, both internally and to the environments he occupied.
"Why Brennan?"
"Do you really need to ask?"
"Rhetorically, yes. Not to put too fine a point on it, but, put simply? We could do better.
That was the crux of it for Chris, as far as David Brennan was concerned. He'd watched Brennan with great interest, initially. The talent pool of the WFWF is held in place by something of a revolving door - new faces come and go almost weekly - and so it sparks great interest when someone arrives displaying such natural, unfettered talent such as Brennan did upon first arrival. In a stroke of what would become sheer irony, given his eventual assignment, Chris had actually gone to the front office and formally requested the opportunity to work with him when he'd first arrived, only to be rejected himself - not by the relations department, but rather Brennan himself, who, in his own words, had his own agenda, with no intent to stay any longer than he needed, and would prefer to travel alone, thank you. The rest of Brennan's story, as they say, is history.
And thus, Chris Meyer was left go about his business, operating and silently observing from the sidelines as one of the single most raw and incomparable talents went about his way, aligning himself with malcontents that would serve little to no favor in advancing his career, all the while succumbing to vices, encouraged likely by their influence, that would slowly chip away at all hope of Brennan ever realizing his true potential.
"Brennan's on a crash course with one of our upper card champions..."
"...a course you put him on..."
"...shut up. I need you in place to keep him from going nuclear."
"Has he not?"
"He's two for two without trying to kill anyone. I'd like to try and keep that record going if at all possible. We've only just brought Dex back into the fold, after all.
Returning to his desk, a fresh glass of Perrier in hand, Chris sat himself down a bit more casually, glancing at the desk clock just beyond a stack of papers - his dossier on his newly indentured charge.
12:01 AM
Fantastic work, Chris. Here's to another eighteen hour day.
He sipped his sparkling water lazily, the other hand idly trying to make sense of all the to-do scattered across his workspace. In the morning - well, later that morning - he'd catch a flight out to Minneapolis in an attempt to rendezvous with Brennan.
He sighed. Irritably.
What was it that Sleater was hoping to get out of sticking him with the likes of a degenerate vagrant who's made perfectly clear his desires to work with or be mentored by anyone outside the circle of filth that shares little more commonality than a series of roll of the dice vices with him? Five or so years ago? He probably could have really gotten something out of the guy - a real raw bit of talent that just needed a push in the right direction. A fair bit of guidance, maybe a smattering of positive reinforcement. He was, after all, the talk of the town upon arrival - it was the opinion of just about everyone not named David Brennan that he'd land himself in the main event picture in under a year.
Of course he'd come with a drinking problem.
Why wouldn't he?
Brennan had everything that Chris had, along with everything that he'd lacked - those intangible, unteachable traits that, in absentia, send men clamoring for some other position in the industry to hang on to that lifelong dream of doing something - anything - to stay tied to the business they've spent their whole lives dreaming of having an influence on. He was next to untouchable in the ring - not technically sound, but beastly with his strikes, unyielding in his threshold for pain. He could tear his opponents down just as well in the ring as he could on the mic. He had a look - completely absent of any sort of tradition or convention, that could stare a man into submission at the very sight of him. With a little finesse, a little fine tuning, David Brennan, by all rights, could take the top spot of the company by sheer, brute force, leaving a trail of scorched earth in his wake and a gaggle of onlookers in absolute awe, asking themselves as he held the belt high 'Drakz who?'
And he squandered it.
Money was what had brought David Brennan to first set foot in the ring - Chris had managed to ascertain that much from his earlier conversations with the man before everything had gone to hell. He had no delusions of grandeur then. No life long desire to become a professional wrestler. He'd simply fallen on hard times and had found an avenue with which he thought he could use his natural affinity for a fight to earn a little scrap and offer up a better shot at life for him and his girlfriend. If things had gone according to Brennan's plans, he'd be departing just as quickly as he'd arrived. Chris knew better then - he'd acquiesced to David's wishes to be left alone, but he knew. One way or the other, this business gets its hooks in you, and try as you may, there's sometimes simply no going back once you're in.
For some men, it's the rush. The thrill of the crowd chanting your name. The pursuit of glory. The indescribable wave of everything that comes with raising the belt high above your head in a single, solitary moment of overwhelming victory.
David liked to fight, and as we'd all come to find in time, David liked to drink.
The two complimented one another nicely.
"Look, I'm not asking you to reinvent the wheel here. I'm sure down the road we can find another prospect for you to work your magic with, but until then, just keep him grounded, would you?"
"Grounded?"
"Well, relatively speaking, at least."
At his wits end, almost defeatedly, Chris half heartedly flipped the dossier on Brennan's last run on to his desk, letting it fall atop the heap of papers on his new assignment in no certain matter of organization, and swiveled to peer at the window into the dark summer night.
What do you do with a drunken sailor?
The man had been untouchable - a handful of losses over the years to, largely, a handful of names you'd come to expect them from. Drakz. Demon. Top tier guys alongside, by all rights, David was meant to compete, held back by not but his own bullheadedness and personal demons. In just two showings since tearing his ugly head once more, he'd made short work of the likes of champions and former champions alike, all the while, in all likelihood, filled to the absolute gills with all matter of spirited toxins. Next up? Another former champion. Say what you will about the man or the means - the belt found its way around his waist in the end, and that's a leg up on anything Brennan could claim, short of the fact that he'd otherwise torn a violent path through a host of former champions, and the as of recent winless next in line was, in Meyer's humble opinion, just another name on a list destined to grow and grow under Brennan's newfound drive to do whatever it is Brennan calls what it is he's been doing.
The likes of Lucas Crowe and Ante Whitner had been no match for David Brennan.
What could Chris Meyer, agent to the stars, possibly hope to get out of him?
For the first time since his waning days in the ring, Chris found himself completely and utterly lost, without recourse, and entirely uncertain about what tomorrow could bring. It wasn't an easy feeling to try and cope with - he had a reputation, not only amongst his peers but to himself as a consummate professional to whom no job was too daunting, no task insurmountable.
This was a whole new animal, and a damn shame, to boot. Five years ago, Chris could have made a world champion out of David Brennan - a real champion, mind you, born of his own talent and accomplishments, merely steered in the right direction by Chris himself. It would have been a boon and a half to David - his money troubles at the time would have been a long gone relic of the past - and dammit, he deserved it. If he could have only been convinced that he'd found his niche and that there were benefits to pursuing that calling with all due intent.
It did little to dwell on what could have been. Even now, for all the words that he was consciously aware were escaping him over just what to do about this new assignment and how to get some - hell, any - mutual benefit out of the arrangement, he remained blissfully unaware of the shifting tides that now, by the simple utterance of five small, every day words, fully envelopes him and would send him crashing along, landing wherever those waves met the shore. Tomorrow - rather, today - he'd arrive at the airport, bleary eyed and poorly rested, to travel out to the site of the WFWF's next event. He'd check in, late, in all likelihood, rushing to beat the doors, barely making it to his seat in a winded and sweat soaked hurry as the other passengers prepped themselves for takeoff, their heads turning to stare in bewildered confusion at the last minute straggler.
With any luck, he'd catch a moment of shut eye mid-flight, which of course, would leave him little opportunity to notice the bob of black hair two seats ahead of him on his connection - the hair that belonged to the quiet, unassuming girl who'd smiled in passing as she made room for him to pass. They'd depart, and upon arrival, he'd meet his company car, perhaps catch a few more moments of fleeting rest, never noticing the girl from the flight twenty feet away as she hailed a cab. It would be all but lost on him as his chauffeur and the girl's cab driver passed one another at intervals along the road, their paths diverting only upon arrival to the same location - an arena, adorned with banners advertising the night's featured event and heralding the arrival in town of the WFWF. He'd be brought around back, performers and crew only. She'd be dropped off up front, the next several hours of her day destined to be spent among the masses in line, waiting anxiously for the doors to open and the show to begin.
Two similar, but contrastingly different paths, nearly intersecting by circumstance in a connecting flight but never once crossing one another's path - humorously, in retrospect, as each would come to find themselves arriving at the same place, at the same time, in a very different pursuit for very different reasons of the very same man.
I dont know good luck 
