Post by CM Poor on May 18, 2017 13:05:22 GMT -5
After the Fall
This ain't over, Bishop.
Opposite Ends
Renegotiation
"How did that feel?"
I could've run you down a list of people I'd have rather seen sittin' their ass outside my locker room door before I'd come anywhere near droppin' Jason Vieira's name. I may be a hard nosed, ill spoken, straight up Southie caricature, but I ain't stupid. Guy's last run with the WFWFW went all of five minutes long, little after that whole fiasco he went and orchestrated in Japan, out of obligation to some sort of devil's deal he went and cut with Xavier Pierce outta some weird, misplaced loyalty to my old man. Look, I ain't the type to ever gone and gotten myself as deeply ingrained in the things Jack did the way most people'll figure I did, but it don't even take a couple of night classes over at Bunker Hill to know the types he used to run with. You could take yourself a blank f*ckin' canvas, and as long as you managed to convey some manner of self centered, arrogant, petty, rat-faced weasel, you'd have a portrait of any number of Jack Brennan's crew that'd make even Bob Ross envious. High praise, I know, comin' from a guy like me, but even if I never went and swore no blood oath to my old man - sharin' his DNA was bad enough, thanks - the fact stands. We can smell our own.
Vieira'd come all this way to f*ckin' gloat.
"Got that outta your system, then?"
"You really think I'd come all the way out to North Carolina just to - what? Stick it to you?"
"If the shoe fits..."
"I assure you, it doesn't."
"C'mon - you got your digs in. Don't bullsh*t me to boot. Sh*t, I was plannin' on doin' the same to you, assumin' I won."
"Neither account is particularly surprising."
Matchin' wits with this son of a b*tch can real old, real quick. Usually, his brand of sh*t just kinda rolls off the shoulder - ain't much work in disregardin' the verbal diarrhea of a guy like Vieira who figures he went and got himself outta dodge, must mean his sh*t don't stink - but god damned if I was gonna sit here and let this guy feed me another servin' of that two faced bullsh*t he tried offerin' up when I sent him and Meyer packin'. I got about as much patience for the type of guy who thinks he's gonna get the last word in before I've so much as had a chance to scrub the stink of whoever it was just spent the last twenty or so seekin' a beatin' as anyone with any sort of self respect might, and this mother f*cker thinks he's gonna up the ante and gimme a piece of his told ya so on the back of that sh*t that just went down out there?
"Get f*cked."
"Think Sleater's busy with the new champ."
Credit where credit's due.
Still wasn't an invite in.
Bold, mother f*cker.
"Thought you worked for the old man."
"That's Jack, I take it?"
"Maybe not..."
"I don't follow."
"Well, sh*t - at least Jack knew how to take a f*ckin' hint."
"Tenacity wasn't your father's strong suit."
"You here to make a f*ckin' point or what?!"
Christ almighty...
...remember that sh*t about this mother f*cker just walkin' between the f*ckin' raindrops? As sure as I'll own up to the fact that I just walked outta Joe Bishop handin' my ass up on a platter for the first time in who the f*ck even knows how long, this mother f*cker crossed the room, got himself a chair outta the corner, and just helped himself to a seat, fixin' his beady little inquisitive eyes on me, sizin' my ass up, lookin' like he still wasn't decided whether he wanted to fight me or to f*ck me.
"Are you for real with this sh*t?"
"David, it's not something I particularly care to broadcast, but I'm only human. Human are inherently weak, and for all my unabashed strengths, I'll waver every time the opportunity presents itself to leave something unfinished."
F*ck me, here we go again...
"Jesus, you're not gonna get all sentimental on me, are you?"
I didn't think it was humanly possible, but I sh*t you not, that cracked a f*ckin' smile outta the guy. Cold ass son of a b*tch Jason Vieira, hornin' in on my f*ckin' locker room, sittin' all casually like backward in a god damn foldin' chair, chucklin' to himself like some sorta idiot.
And they say I got problems...
"Sentimental? Ha, no. To be honest - and I've got no problem telling you this, as I'll wager it isn't the first time you've heard it - I don't particularly like you, David."
That's all?
"No sh*t. Well, alright. Guess you'll be goin' then."
"Still, hear me out, would you?"
Thought I already had...
"Meyer wasn't wrong, you know..."
"And look where it got him."
"Please. You're hardly going to sit there and tell me that that was at all typical of how that should have gone."
"I already said the line about the shoe."
"And I've already responded in kind. That's not the point."
"But I'm sure you're gonna get to that any f*ckin' minute now."
"Meyer is soft."
Ok. Didn't exactly expect that one.
"Typical company for you to keep?"
"I've no interest in rehashing my sentiments in regard to paying my debts. I owed Meyer a favor, but I don't think you need me to tell you that Chris Meyer's heart is too good for this business."
Sh*t.
It ain't like me to wanna give a guy like Vieira so much as an inch, never mind a f*ckin' mile, but I'd be a bit self contradictin' there if I went and tried to act like I ain't ever waxed internally about Meyer bein' one of the last honest to god 'good guys' left roamin' those halls. Thing is - and this is where Vieira was spot on - bein' a good soul and all don't do you you much in the way of favors around here. Probably why I found myself drawn to this sh*t, even if I didn't wanna be. Meyer'll find his way in the world somewhere. He can love this sh*t all he wants, but it wasn't for him between the ropes, and it ain't about to start leanin' in his favor.
"Spot better'n I'll ever be..."
"Likewise. He did you better than I imagine most people would have in his position, but moving forward? I think he'd be hard pressed to ultimately wind up doing you any favors."
"And you wouldn't?"
F*ck. He stood up. I dunno if you've ever seen this type before - arrogant, with a flair for the unnecessarily dramatic - but they got these little cues, spend enough time around 'em, that'll all but give you a f*ckin' blocking script that lays out exactly what they're about to do next. If you're careful, you can get out in front of 'em, stop 'em in their tracks with a nice, solid 'f*ck you', but let that guard down for so much as a split second?
God damn.
I just gave this f*cker his openin'.
"I know a thing or two about coming into this world with a stigma attached to you."
"C'mon...pompous piece of sh*t like you? I don't believe it."
"If you're going to blather on, I can save my breath."
"Wait, who's jokin'? I ain't got any stigmas, and you're a pompous piece of sh*t."
"You can't possibly be that dense."
"Chalk it up to genetics?"
"Always the piss. Should we start with your outright refusal to treat anything and everything with even the slightest bit of decorum, or would you prefer we dive right into your more severe vices?"
Listen to this ash*le....'vices'...
"You're still on that? I kicked that sh*t months ago."
"And yet, Ante Whitner couldn't help but bring it up."
"F*ckin' bully for Ante Whitner. Maybe go bug his ass, see if you can't convince him to sh*t or get off the pot with that little non-title of his."
That might've done it. I dunno if anyone besides me says the sh*t they say sometimes with the sole intent of breakin' a guy down to the point that he'll just f*ckin' throw in the towel, but there's another tell. Varies from person to person, but it's always accompanied by some little dramatic sigh of exasperation or some sh*t. Most people'd cue up on it and fall back if the argument was at all real to 'em.
Me? I was just tryin' to get rid of the guy.
"You don't find it at all odd that your colleagues - people you see on a fairly routine basis - still perceive you to be some closeted, violent alcoholic in spite of the fact that you blew a very public pass on a very public sobriety field test at a very, very public event broadcast live the world over in sterling, high definition?"
I mean, I just figured Ante Whitner was dumb as f*ck, but when he put it like that...
...look, I ain't the type to give two sh*ts what some loon f*ck twit pridin' himself on the fact that he's from f*ckin' Yonkers, of all places, thinks of me. Nor am I some sort of AA, helpless to resist, give yourself to god sort of emotional addict in perpetual recovery. I drank. Now I don't. F*ckin' hooray for me.
Still...people didn't catch that sh*t...?
"No."
"I'm
wasting my time here."
Almost home, kids!
"Well, sh*t, I think Whitner's just down the hall, you wanna try your luck there..."
...that should just about...
"Brennan, I've met millionaires who should be billionaires. I've met players who should be moguls. I've met runners-up who should be consigned to the history books as winners, and everywhere I look here, I see contenders who should be champions without peer. Down the line, there isn't a soul a single one of them has to blame aside from themselves, but I don't think I've met anyone so willing to get in their own way as you."
"Small bit of what I offer, y'know?"
I think you were leavin'...
"I'm going to regret this..."
Makes two of us.
"Try as I may, I just can't seem to close a door on opportunity. Your father liked to conduct business over dinner. Perhaps for old time's sake. Maybe a hearty meal will have you seeing reason a bit more clearly. Either way, I'll be here next Sunday."
He hands me a card - some joint in Boston. Never heard of it. Looks fancy - type of sh*t Jack'd be all over. Me? I wouldn't be caught dead.
Typical.
"You change your mind...let's talk."
Jesus wept, does this guy ever...wait...he's leavin'!
"If you see him...give my regards to the champion, will you?"
Hitching Up the Wagons
Doesn't work that way, Frank.
I don't give a sh*t how often you try. I don't give a f*ck how many two-bit, reader's theatre grade skits you wanna pull tryin' to insert yourself into the narrative. I don't care how many pieces of actual talent you try and hitch your wagon to and I don't care how many dead f*ckin' bodies you try and step over in your unendin' quest to try and be half the talent that you think you are.
You'll always be second best in my book, Frankie.
I gotta wonder - you seen Ante lately? Course you haven't, you laser focused son of a b*tch. Sh*t, some days I wonder if I'm as dumb as people try and say I am, and even I've gotta go slack jawed a bit over the irony of you even bein' in this match solely on account of Ante Whitner takin' up bedfellows alongside the former WFWF Champion for the time bein', but I've gotta wonder if you've even recognized your standin' as the odd man out. I mean, do the math:
David Brennan
Frank Lynn
Trace Demon
Joe Bishop
You watch Sesame Street?
I gotta assume you're lovin' this, though. Sh*t, a whole lotta circumstance has led to you steppin' up as bad luck's chief beneficiary, and the taxes are all f*ckin' paid, to boot. You don't need me to spell it out for you, but I'm gonna anyway in case you've managed to convince anyone else to subscribe to your line of thinkin': a healthy Ante Whitner's got you down the bottom of the barrel, where you belong, tryin' to sort sh*t out with the other half of the Thunderbird's coin over which is you is more qualified to possibly, maybe get a shot at gettin' a shot at gettin' a shot at my International Title.
File that under 'redundant'. You're familiar, right?
And sh*t - what luck. You just happen to be paired up along side the newest WFWF Champion!
What an opportunity!
What visibility!
What a crock of sh*t.
You don't look any brighter'n me, so the odds are stacked firmly against you bein' able to sort out of piece of good advice when it's thrown at you from a mound built upon real life experience, but Joe Bishop? He ain't gonna worry himself one way or the other with you. Sure, it's all well and good for you guys to bond over a shared assumption that you're better'n the rest of the locker room on account of naught but your presumption that you're better'n the rest of the locker room, but when push comes to shove? When the matches actually matter and the points all mean something?
Joe Bishop ain't gonna be anywhere to found.
I'd know.
Just ask Drakz.
Or Mike Kyzer.
Or Daniel Kirkbride, assumin' you can find his ass.
Point is, you're probably pissin' yourself right through, figurin' you've fallen face first over Ante's broken ass into a partnership with THE WFWF Champion.
Still don't mean sh*t.
Taggin' with Joe Bishop?
Ain't gonna make anyone give a f*ck more about you.
Ain't gonna make you a better fighter.
Ain't gonna erase the fact that you're the guy that clown shoed his way into a losin' f*ckin' effort against the tag team champions by actin' a f*ckin' fool, which - by the way - job well done.
You ever wanna see 'em sometime, I'm still in New England.
There's only so many ways to say it, Frankie - you're average, at best. Sure, it's gotta be right f*ckin' excitin' for you, the prospect of maybe pickin' up another W in your woefully embarrassin' column on the back of the fortune of bein' paired off with somebody capable of holdin' his f*ckin' own in the ring. I mean, how else are you gonna get the job done. You've demonstrated more than enough times that you're spotty, at best, at gettin' the job done for yourself, so why not try and cling to someone else's success in the hopes that some of it might rub off on your ass?
Just hope Joe doesn't get himself hurt, right?
Speakin' of which, how does that all work with your weird ass little moral compass, huh? Seems to me like one week, you're out there leadin' the charge to end Ante Whitner on account of him takin' your f*ckin' meal ticket out of the tournament a couple months back there. Now Ante's down for the count, and you're just gonna go and strap up his boots for yourself like it ain't no thing?
See, that's what I don't get about you choir boys. Guys like you, guys like Dean...you've got the f*ckin' sack to go out there and question my moral standard like I'm the f*ckin' torch bearer of wickedness and human apathy, makin' sure the right hand looks good and clean for the crowd so they might buy a couple more t-shirts, willfully oblivious to the fact that the left is wrought with filth from siftin' through the sh*t you guys do in the name of bein' on the side of good.
F*ck. Off.
I mean, sh*t - if you was any sorta consistent with your crusade, shouldn't you be knee deep in the throes of self flagellation by this point? After all, not to discount future Hall of Famer Tyson Watts or nothin', but disregardin' Tyson Watts, who would've been the one to put the spike in ol' Ante's naggin' hurt?
What makes you any better?
All this? I'm sure it comes off as a whole lotta hypocrisy - 'oh, who's he to speak on the matter of playin' circumstance in your favor'?
I'm the guy who doesn't put his halo on before he steps out the door.
I just wish I knew who you thought you were foolin'.
Soon as Dean's off the table, you've gone and yoked yourself up to Joe Bishop, who just happens to be the new face of the WFWF and a sure fire avenue for you to weasel your way into Ante's rightful spot in the main event?
Drop the act, Frankie.
You're just as bad as the rest of us.
Least some of us can hold our own in a fight.
Have you considered just....sittin' this one out?
Demon in a Bottle
"I don't like it."
I wasn't nuts about it myself.
Typical ass WFWF, man. Take whatever clusterf*ck just went and seemingly got itself all sorted out, and throw who or whatever it was that gave it any sorta pulse and divvy 'am up into a pair of tandems based on arbitrary clues as to which side of the chaotic spectrum they fall upon.
We're puttin' asses in the seats now.
Figure Ante Whitner'd have been standin' alongside Joe Bishop, assumin' they were goin' for some set of last men standin' blockbuster affair, but he went off and, f*ck, broke a nail or somethin'? Someone keeps track of this sh*t. At any rate, the WFWF's resident vacuum fill, fuuuuurious Frank Lynn found himself lucky enough to be hamfisted into a position he doesn't rightfully deserve.
S'pose he's more of a good egg than Whitner. I dunno. People figure I'm a bad guy - who can really keep track of this sh*t.
At any rate...
It would seem that I'm throwin' more vibes to the negative, as someone up top figured I'd be a shoe-in to pair up alongside a guy who I figure makes
me look like a regular f*ckin' saint in Trace Demon.
Guess that's on his birth certificate and all.
Could be worse, I s'pose.
I ain't about to sit here and brand myself a fan of the demon. Alright, I've more than owned up to the fact that, on the whole, I'm a right piece of sh*t myself. Ain't a soul out there's gonna try and argue in favor of me bein' even a halfway decent kinda guy, 'cept maybe Nat, and even she ain't soundin' too high on the up and up at this very moment. I've done outright rotten by most folks I've crossed paths with in life, ostracized the rest, and the only savin' grace is that I've been graced enough with those stand up Brennan genetics to not really give a f*ck one way or the other as to what they all think of me when it's all said and done, but Trace?
Look, I'm, at best, a recoverin' Catholic, and I ain't never had much time for the sh*t Danny used to butter his bread with, but if you put me right to it?
That guy might just be evil incarnate.
To be fair - novel concept around these parts, I know - I ain't ever spent much time around the guy. Kinda disturbin', in a way, seein' as he was the one signin' the checks for as long as he was. Still, that's kinda indicative in its own right, isn't it? Let's face it - in the WFWF, the nice guys finish last. Josh Dean'll tell you all about that one. Ain't no golden soul gonna be swimmin' around the heart of a guy with the capability to seize the reigns of the very company he works for. That's some cold blooded sh*t right there, you give it even a second's consideration.
Fair game then, even if I wasn't exactly jonesin' to work alongside the guy - or anyone, for that matter - for me to be feelin' alright about my odds, goin' up against this week's self righteous squad?
Guess it depends on who you ask.
"Don't worry about it."
"What's that, your catchphrase these days?"
"For real?C'mon, it's a rubber match. A gimme. They book this sh*t all the time. Keep the marks comin' back for - wait, what?"
"I don't know, David. Seems like anytime I've got a concern pressing enough to articulate lately, all I can get out you is a whole lot of 'don't worry about it'."
"Haaaave you considered givin' that a try?"
"Don't be an assh*le."
"C'mon, I don't ask the unreasonable of you."
"Okay, dial it back. Would it kill you, even once, to try and validate my concerns, versus writing them off as a whole lot of nothing?"
"Nothin's managed to yet."
"So?"
"Alright....what don't you like about it, Nat?"
"You're serious? I've got the floor, here?"
"All yours."
"I don't need to be aware of any conversational limits beforehand? Anything that might cut the conversation short?"
Jesus wept, woman...
"Shy of the wakin' hours you're wastin' not sayin' what's on your mind?"
"Alright..."
"So...?"
"I don't like this idea of you standing alongside Trace Demon."
Sh*t, is that all?
See? We've had our share of fights, but this girl gets me, man.
"That's it? Sh*t, I ain't much lookin' forward to it either."
"But you're still going to do it."
Wait, what?
"Shoooould I not...?"
"You don't think it's all a bit familiar?"
"What, Demon? Nah...I was s'posed to square up with him once, but I think I walked away or some sh*t."
"Okay, so not Trace Demon specifically, but Jesus, come on David.."
"Look, if you're about to ask if you gotta spell it out for me, then uh...yeah, 'cause I ain't followin'."
Whatever was swimmin' up in that pretty little head of hers wasn't somethin' she figured I was gonna read as anything good. Her face all but gave that one away. She fidgeted in place, clearly strugglin' with the fact that one of the sharper consequences of gettin' a guy like me to come around and tryin' to play open and honest is the fact that I'm gonna expect the same in return. She's better at it than me - that whole sh*t about 'don't worry about it'? Yeah, guilty as charged.
Still, whatever she was about to drop? I guess I owed it to myself to prepare to not like it all that much.
"Sh*t....David, you don't think you've got a questionable enough history of falling in with circumstantial partners of ill repute?"
Sh*t.
If I didn't know any better, I'd figure she'd just picked that last part out of Vieira's lexicon.
Guess we're both a little more colorful than we let on.
"You're worried that I'll....what? Start runnin' rickshaw with the Demon?"
"I don't think it's an unfounded concern."
Aside from that whole flyin' solo since when the f*ck ever, right?
F*ck me rigid.
"Always gonna come back to this sh*t, isn't it?"
"David...I mean...Drakz and Kyzer...you slipped hard. This wasn't some run of the mill relapse."
"I don't think that's Demon's speed."
"Doesn't make him a good person."
"What, and I am?"
"You can be..."
"Long as I don't find myself thrust into any sorta scenario where I could maybe, possibly run the risk of treatin' myself to a consolatory drink, right?!"
F*ckin' Vieira, man. Sh*t so flowery he's gotta make himself right even in the absence of physical presence.
"It's just...you've come so far, in such short order David. I'd hate to..."
"I get it."
You could've shoved just about any old assh*le in front of me and had 'em read me the riot act about the vibe I give as it pertains to the whole demon in a bottle thing, and I'd have no problem givin' it right back to 'em sideways if the shoe fit. There ain't much in the way of unsolicited opinions I'm likely to be particularly receptive to, and even less I'd be willin' to consider actin' upon for so much as a second.
It stings when it comes from Nat though.
Don't ask me why I put this girl on the pedestal that I do. The answer to that one's probably buried somewhere down with whatever the f*ck it is she sees in me, but whatever it is...sh*t. If there's any shred of good left in some low life piece of sh*t like me, she's the one what's gonna get it out of me. I don't buy into fate or destiny much, but some things just fit too damn well to be coincidence, and if Nat's seriously got that bug up her ass, then sh*t...maybe there's somethin' to all that sh*t Vieira was talkin'.
"Sh*t's booked, though."
"So bail!"
"Bail? Heh. Did that once - on Trace, no less. Didn't pan out so hot for me."
"Without putting too fine a point on it? Up until SuperBrawl, what had?"
Point - Natalie Collins.
"You ain't wrong, but I ain't exactly leanin' toward the ol' pink slip again, assumin' I can avoid it."
"Disregarding how much bullsh*t I could call you on right there, ask yourself - do you really need it?"
"A job? Uh....yeah, usually."
"Come on, David. Look around you - you haven't hurt for money for ages. I won't lie and say I'm nuts about the fact that a bulk of it came out of liquidating whatever was left to Jack's name, but the point stands - everything we'd ever dreamed about is right here around us, paid in full with room to spare. Aside from feeding that void...what's even left for you there?"
Sh*t.
"Sh*t."
Some things bear articulatin'.
"I dunno, Nat."
"You've earned a break, wouldn't you say?"
Think someone'd be willin' to argue the point...
"Ain't exactly the type of sh*t I'm just gonna dive into, though."
"Why not?"
"Aside from the fact that we're sittin' here brewin' up a b*tch fest over my supposed problem with impulsivity? I got sh*t in the cards, Nat. You wanna push the thought in everyone's mind that I'm some flighty ass louse? Have me walk away, unannounced - just like the last time, and the time before that, and the time before that!"
"Well...damnit. Consider it, at least, won't you?"
Sure.
Might as well call open season on outside opinions.
Nat went and squeezed her piece in before I'd even had a chance to cut her off.
Might as well throw open the doors, right?
"Give it time. Got a meetin' in Boston this weekend. Wanna come?"
"A meeting?"
"Business sh*t. Figure you maybe wanna see your folks. I dunno. Either way, that's on the table. Anything else? I dunno....
See how it goes."
Deal With the Devil
Y'know, I just realized...
...I never said thanks, Trace.
I mean, it's only fittin'. Sure, you'd have been hard pressed not to - its no secret that my name alone boosted the WFWF stock significantly each time it was brought back into the fold. I dunno how that all played out for you, but I can't imagine it hurt. Sure, there were risks involved, but y'know somethin', Trace? That's what I like about you. You're a risk taker. Others in your shoes might've balked at givin' ol' David Brennan another run at the top, but you knew that somewhere, strewn about the countless empties and the stench of stale whiskey and a thousand and one 'f*ck yous', there was the natural equation guys in your position are always lookin' for - the one that would forever resolve the ratio of asses to seats.
So, seriously - for whatever personal gain probably drove you to put the ink to the well and keep those checks and renewals comin' and comin' over and again, lemme be maybe the first to say, in all earnest, thanks.
That's just me bein' honest.
Don't take that sh*t for weakness.
You and me? It would seem, through whatever forces it is you personally prescribe to puttin' our asses in the same corner of the ring, that you and I've got ourselves a common enemy. Me? I don't subscribe that 'enemy of my enemy is my friend' sh*t. Got burned enough playin' second fiddle to Mike and Isaac to know that guys like them? Guys like you?
You ain't got friends.
I'm fine with that, for what it's worth. Playin' nice ain't ever landed anybody much of anything around these parts, and I'd be remiss to think for a second that you're comin' down that ramp thinkin' anything otherwise, so I'm content, for what matters in the here and now, to resign myself to the fact that, at least until however long it takes to put Frankie and his newest adoptive mentor out to pasture, you and I simply need to coexist.
Figure, if nothin' else, there's a little common ground in makin' sure Joe Bishop doesn't lose sight of which way's up.
Just...make sure you and Joe walk outta that ring with that much in common.
I can't imagine how much getting left in the block stings. I can share the sentiment of losin' to some self righteous dip like Joe, but to have him seal the deal so that you don't even find yourself landin' in the arena?
That stings.
I've gotta figure that you're gearin' somethin' fierce to give him a refund on that one, and hey - have at it. I ain't lookin' to rack up another L on the ol' record, so whatever it takes to light the fire under your ass.
I'm sure you've seen that new piece of hardware he's luggin' around, too.
I can't imagine a scenario where that sh*t ain't just dousin' the flames of revenge with all sorts of combustibles. You, a former champion in your own right, and your history with Joe? Sh*t, that's ripe for the pickin', man. Even I kinda wanna see that sh*t.
Just don't you forget who else was on the other side of that wall.
I ain't nuts about the idea, but when it comes down to brass tacks, I got no
bones over sharin' a corner with you if it means a little redemption for the way that sh*t went down in the finals. Between the three of you, there ain't a bit of me that wants to presume anyone'd be more like to get the job done than yourself, and if we're pickin' temporary sides? Well, sh*t, I'd be dumber'n I look to think I'd be better off alongside the champ or...Christ wept...Frankie Lynn.
That all bein' said, I don't want you entertainin' the idea for a second that you and I are a) ever close to bein' anything even resemblin' friends, seein' as I know that's how you like to build your little internal harems, or b) anywhere close to bein' on the same side of the coin as far as this whole Bishop issue is concerned.
You wanna take up with one of these belts I've already got my mitts on? Fine - start the line. You wanna get you licks in on Joe for makin' you look like the two pump chump of block A? Be my guest. But don't you think for even a second that you're anywhere close to steppin' in my way over that belt of his. You and I both know that Joe's reign as champion'll ever go as far as he can avoid defendin' the damn thing, and when that day comes, there's only one guy leadin' the pack.
I like to think you're a cunning sorta guy, Trace. You don't pull the sh*t you've pulled over the years without bein' a little wise to the human condition, and all things considered, I'd be hard pressed to name myself a more well equipped guy to step into that ring and give the do-gooders a taste of how far that sh*t'll get 'em in life.
Just don't think this sh*t means anything, yeah?
Face the Nation
I was underdressed.
Jack had always had a taste for places like these - the type of joints you figure some pompous TV chef from Scotland or some sh*t'd be all about callin' home. Don't ask me why - Jack was about as high society as anyone else runnin' their ass around Dorchester. Only thing settin' him apart was loads upon loads of cash sourced from questionable ventures.
Maybe he figured there wasn't no moral obligation to how he'd spend it.
Place was definitely more Vieira's speed, I guess. I knew he had some shady sh*t hidden away in Jack's closet in his own right. Nothin' much that ever interested me to know, but sh*t - at least he could make himself presentable enough to fit in at a joint like this. Jack, even in his Sunday best, was still rockin' tweed like tomorrow'd never come even as he bowed out and said his final goodbyes.
Not that I had much room to speak.
I figured it'd be a decent enough place - warrantin' at least a collar, if nothin' else. Problem is, thirty some odd years of dressin' however the f*ck I want, save for a couple off in the service, led me to ownin' all but the collars afforded by the handful of Fred Perrys hangin' in the closet. Sharp as sh*t, but as I'd found out in short order, not exactly fine dinin' attire.
Not that I wasn't used to people starin' sideways to begin with.
Vieira, to his credit, at least tried to hide his contempt. He got his snide comment in, sure enough, and made certain I understood that, should things progress beyond dinner, that a suit was long past in order, but he must've wanted this sh*t to pan out. You could see him grimacin' from time to time, but he did his damndest to look past it, and steered sh*t quickly toward business.
I figure I heard half of what he said - little bit more butterin' my ass up and all that, I'm sure, but sh*t certainly hadn't cooled back home any. You could've asked me back in 2011, I figure I'd ever find myself gettin' pulled all sorts of ways doin' this sh*t for a livin'? I'd have figured you missed the bus into Danvers by a handful of stops, but no sh*t, six years on, there I was, gettin' reamed over my getup, one jackass lookin' to turn around and make me, and a soul at home hopin' I'd walk away from it all.
Where'd I stand?
F*ck...wouldn't be much of a story if I had that sh*t figured out, right?
"And where is she now?"
"Seein' her folks. Probably been a while."
"I don't do interpersonal affairs."
"I ain't askin' you to."
"Curiously, you haven't asked me much of anything."
"You seemed to be havin' so much fun hearin' your own voice..."
"A trait we share, perhaps."
F*ckin' assh*le.
"Still, I'm glad you saw reason enough to join me. I'll skip the pleasantries - I've been in your shoes...boots, if you prefer."
Again with the digs at my clothes.
"The sideways looks. The whispers in the hall. The unending doubt of behalf of the front office. You'd be hard pressed to find someone much more familiar with what it is you face on a daily basis - the sort of thing a Chris Meyer could never fully grasp."
"Bit of a drinkin' problem there?"
He stared at me blankly over the rim of his wine glass as he slowed his sip - definitely not a sore spot, but most certainly a stupid question in his eyes. What can I say? I was outta my element here. Never mind the menu boastin' sh*t I couldn't pronounce, my stickin' out like a sore thumb in my Perry and boot cuts, the waiter lookin' cross eyed at me orderin' not but a glass of water, and the fact that I'd already exhausted what little patience I had left in me gettin' raked over the coals every which way this week.
I still had no f*ckin' clue what it is this guy even wanted with me.
We'd been this way and that for months now ever since this assh*le and Meyer barged into my house after SuperBrawl, talkin' this, that, and the other about my potential. Then it was my name when I went to shoot their asses down. In all honesty, it felt like a bunch of opportunistic bullsh*t to me. Where the f*ck was this guy before I won the International Championship, right? I get it - Jack used to talk about this sh*t all the time. Money grubbin' lowlifes lookin' to make an easy buck as his stature grew and grew.
Still...
That was what? Six? Seven months ago?
Either this guy is more tenacious than Dex tryin' to weasel his way back into the picture of relevance, or he had somethin' he thought was worth sayin'.
"I won't bore you with more lip service. You know how good you are. Even Joe Bishop would be hard pressed to go out there and suggest that you're even the slightest bit less dangerous than you've been purported to be."
Guess he wasn't gonna be dignifyin' that with a response.
"So what's that got to do with you?"
Remember how Nat squirmed around a bit with the words she wasn't pleased to be sayin'?
Enter Jason Vieira - the man without a shred of fear or doubt in his plaintive, direct voice.
"You're an idiot."
Well, then.
"Sorry to have wasted your time, then..."
"Stop."
"Alll -"
"That's your problem."
Alright, maybe he had a point. I mean...
"Look, I don't follow, so yeah, maybe I'm a f*ckin' - "
"You don't know when to shut up."
Ooooh...
...heh. Yeah.
"I ain't hirin' nobody to speak for me."
"I should hope not. Nothing would spell a blow to the credibility you've built in that ring like having some washed up never-was going out and running down your opponents for you."
"Soooo..."
"What you need is someone without vacancy upstairs to navigate the business for you: Pressers. Statements. Outside affairs."
"Sleater."
"Sleater."
That....didn't sound all that bad.
I ain't been too coy about the fact that this job'd be a sh*t ton better if I didn't have to put up with the copious amounts of bullsh*t swirlin' around out back. That PR sh*t? The interviews, appearances, sh*t like that? I dunno what's got me in more hot water - the sh*t I've said personally to Sleater, or the fact that I've spent however f*ckin' long duckin' out of every last one of those.
"Think you can break her?"
"No interest. What I can do...is negotiate. Without firsthand experience, I'm willing to hazard a guess that you and Sleater don't get on."
"That's one way of puttin' it."
"A personality like yours can be a thorn in the side of someone trying to execute eight different initiatives at once. I'm sure it's a point of pride to you, but sticking in someone's craw that like that without resolve isn't the best place to be in a business like this. You find yourself constantly absorbed in trying to dispel the nuisance. I can take you off her mind."
"I don't do low profile."
"Nor should you. All of this, after all, is designed with the intent to play to your advantage. I know a bit about what goes on under the lights as well. With Whitner out of the picture for the time being, as it seems, and no discernible contender chomping at the bit to take that International Championship off of you, you stand at perhaps the most advantageous precipice in the entire organization. You still have the Tag Team belts, I understand?"
"Heh. Yeah."
"Keep them. In fact, start packing them. The world should see you for the domineering threat that you are. The International Championship around your waist, the others slung over your shoulder? Only one way to go from there."
Read my mind.
"Bishop."
"Mmm. You faltered. Big deal. It's only as much of a loss in step as you allow it to be. You'll meet him again in the ring in short order - next show, if I'm not mistaken. Don't sleep on that."
"Think Sleater'll go for that?"
"She can be made to."
"That right?"
"Just say the word."
Refunds at Point of Purchase
You got me.
Square up. I ain't afraid to own up to the fact I got my ass beat. Doesn't happen that often, so I'm sure there's some question out there pertainin' to how much of that I'm straight up willin' to own.
In short?
All of it.
Ain't no sense in holdin' back credit where credit is due. Kinda stupid really - guys here'll run their mouths 'til they're blue'n the face sh*ttin' out excuse after excuse as to why it is they had to take that long, lonesome walk out back, head held in shame while the other guy gets to put his hands up. Sure, I mean, whatever helps you sleep at night, ultimately, but sh*t - tens of thousands of people saw Joe Bishop get the best of ol' David Brennan, live in person, with who the f*ck knows how many more sittin' at home watchin' the very same spectacle play out. Ain't somethin' I'm all too willin' to let happen again, but for the time bein', take your victory lap, Joe.
You got me.
'Course, now that that's outta the way, you know I owe you a receipt.
I talked a lot of sh*t about the fights you and I have seen over the years and how they don't make a f*ck of difference when push comes to shove in that ring, and y'know somethin'?
I might've pushed that sh*t a little too far.
We're just breakin' all sorts of conventions over here.
See, what we've done - whether on the streets of Dorchester or in some, I dunno...dojo? Are they still called dojos? Well, in some whatever over in Japan, point is - none of it really matters....to a point.
I'm willin' to bet that overseas, you picked up a couple of lessons along the way - sh*t that don't matter when paired up against whoever the bookin' committee's sh*t out this week, but the kinda sh*t that makes you approach sh*t the way you do.
For you? I dunno, maybe it's discipline or self control or whatever. Somethin', at any rate, that you carry in the back of that freshly cut head of yours (and thank f*ck, Joe - Jesus Christ, that hair...) that really, as a fighter, makes you, well...you.
For my end?
I can't let sh*t go unanswered.
I mean, you have to know that, right? There's no way your mind brought you to the conclusion that you beat
me, fair and square, and that I was just gonna chalk it up and move on to the next thing, right?
Gettin' the last word? I mean, that's just kinda my thing, right?
Drakz gets to sit around in traction somewhere, watchin' me parade around with his WFWF Tag Team Championship.
Raider? Drake Elias? MIA, as it were.
Schneider's still on the table, and I don't count that forfeiture against my partner to-be here, so for the time bein'?
That just leaves you, Joe.
Just not today.
Don't get me wrong - there ain't a doubt in my mind that the odds are stacked squarely in the corner of the Demon and myself. You don't have to be a scholar of this industry to place those bets when the corner across the ring is filled with the new champion and his...well, hanger on. Tough break. By all rights, you ought to at least have the slightly more competent Ante Whitner by your side.
Tough break.
Point is, with the Demon and the other guy each stickin' their respective noses in places they don't belong, The Climb can't rightfully serve as your refund for the way sh*t played out in the finals. I think, if you're as dedicated to what it is we do as you claim to be, you'll agree that those circumstances won't do nearly enough to settle what's come to brew between you and me. Not by a long shot.
It's gotta be you and me, Joe.
One on one.
And don't think, even for a second, that a scenario exists where that title of yours ain't on the line.
If you don't buy that sh*t now, gimme some time.
I'll make you see reason.
I'll start small.
Maybe Frankie costs you your first big win in who knows how long.
Maybe I stand back and let Trace meat out some of that pent up aggression.
I don't need the pin this time around.
I'll take it when it counts.
I'm proud of you, Joe. You did the unthinkable. The impossible, really.
But this?
Sh*t.
This is just the beginning, kid.
This ain't over, Bishop.
Opposite Ends
Renegotiation
"How did that feel?"
I could've run you down a list of people I'd have rather seen sittin' their ass outside my locker room door before I'd come anywhere near droppin' Jason Vieira's name. I may be a hard nosed, ill spoken, straight up Southie caricature, but I ain't stupid. Guy's last run with the WFWFW went all of five minutes long, little after that whole fiasco he went and orchestrated in Japan, out of obligation to some sort of devil's deal he went and cut with Xavier Pierce outta some weird, misplaced loyalty to my old man. Look, I ain't the type to ever gone and gotten myself as deeply ingrained in the things Jack did the way most people'll figure I did, but it don't even take a couple of night classes over at Bunker Hill to know the types he used to run with. You could take yourself a blank f*ckin' canvas, and as long as you managed to convey some manner of self centered, arrogant, petty, rat-faced weasel, you'd have a portrait of any number of Jack Brennan's crew that'd make even Bob Ross envious. High praise, I know, comin' from a guy like me, but even if I never went and swore no blood oath to my old man - sharin' his DNA was bad enough, thanks - the fact stands. We can smell our own.
Vieira'd come all this way to f*ckin' gloat.
"Got that outta your system, then?"
"You really think I'd come all the way out to North Carolina just to - what? Stick it to you?"
"If the shoe fits..."
"I assure you, it doesn't."
"C'mon - you got your digs in. Don't bullsh*t me to boot. Sh*t, I was plannin' on doin' the same to you, assumin' I won."
"Neither account is particularly surprising."
Matchin' wits with this son of a b*tch can real old, real quick. Usually, his brand of sh*t just kinda rolls off the shoulder - ain't much work in disregardin' the verbal diarrhea of a guy like Vieira who figures he went and got himself outta dodge, must mean his sh*t don't stink - but god damned if I was gonna sit here and let this guy feed me another servin' of that two faced bullsh*t he tried offerin' up when I sent him and Meyer packin'. I got about as much patience for the type of guy who thinks he's gonna get the last word in before I've so much as had a chance to scrub the stink of whoever it was just spent the last twenty or so seekin' a beatin' as anyone with any sort of self respect might, and this mother f*cker thinks he's gonna up the ante and gimme a piece of his told ya so on the back of that sh*t that just went down out there?
"Get f*cked."
"Think Sleater's busy with the new champ."
Credit where credit's due.
Still wasn't an invite in.
Bold, mother f*cker.
"Thought you worked for the old man."
"That's Jack, I take it?"
"Maybe not..."
"I don't follow."
"Well, sh*t - at least Jack knew how to take a f*ckin' hint."
"Tenacity wasn't your father's strong suit."
"You here to make a f*ckin' point or what?!"
Christ almighty...
...remember that sh*t about this mother f*cker just walkin' between the f*ckin' raindrops? As sure as I'll own up to the fact that I just walked outta Joe Bishop handin' my ass up on a platter for the first time in who the f*ck even knows how long, this mother f*cker crossed the room, got himself a chair outta the corner, and just helped himself to a seat, fixin' his beady little inquisitive eyes on me, sizin' my ass up, lookin' like he still wasn't decided whether he wanted to fight me or to f*ck me.
"Are you for real with this sh*t?"
"David, it's not something I particularly care to broadcast, but I'm only human. Human are inherently weak, and for all my unabashed strengths, I'll waver every time the opportunity presents itself to leave something unfinished."
F*ck me, here we go again...
"Jesus, you're not gonna get all sentimental on me, are you?"
I didn't think it was humanly possible, but I sh*t you not, that cracked a f*ckin' smile outta the guy. Cold ass son of a b*tch Jason Vieira, hornin' in on my f*ckin' locker room, sittin' all casually like backward in a god damn foldin' chair, chucklin' to himself like some sorta idiot.
And they say I got problems...
"Sentimental? Ha, no. To be honest - and I've got no problem telling you this, as I'll wager it isn't the first time you've heard it - I don't particularly like you, David."
That's all?
"No sh*t. Well, alright. Guess you'll be goin' then."
"Still, hear me out, would you?"
Thought I already had...
"Meyer wasn't wrong, you know..."
"And look where it got him."
"Please. You're hardly going to sit there and tell me that that was at all typical of how that should have gone."
"I already said the line about the shoe."
"And I've already responded in kind. That's not the point."
"But I'm sure you're gonna get to that any f*ckin' minute now."
"Meyer is soft."
Ok. Didn't exactly expect that one.
"Typical company for you to keep?"
"I've no interest in rehashing my sentiments in regard to paying my debts. I owed Meyer a favor, but I don't think you need me to tell you that Chris Meyer's heart is too good for this business."
Sh*t.
It ain't like me to wanna give a guy like Vieira so much as an inch, never mind a f*ckin' mile, but I'd be a bit self contradictin' there if I went and tried to act like I ain't ever waxed internally about Meyer bein' one of the last honest to god 'good guys' left roamin' those halls. Thing is - and this is where Vieira was spot on - bein' a good soul and all don't do you you much in the way of favors around here. Probably why I found myself drawn to this sh*t, even if I didn't wanna be. Meyer'll find his way in the world somewhere. He can love this sh*t all he wants, but it wasn't for him between the ropes, and it ain't about to start leanin' in his favor.
"Spot better'n I'll ever be..."
"Likewise. He did you better than I imagine most people would have in his position, but moving forward? I think he'd be hard pressed to ultimately wind up doing you any favors."
"And you wouldn't?"
F*ck. He stood up. I dunno if you've ever seen this type before - arrogant, with a flair for the unnecessarily dramatic - but they got these little cues, spend enough time around 'em, that'll all but give you a f*ckin' blocking script that lays out exactly what they're about to do next. If you're careful, you can get out in front of 'em, stop 'em in their tracks with a nice, solid 'f*ck you', but let that guard down for so much as a split second?
God damn.
I just gave this f*cker his openin'.
"I know a thing or two about coming into this world with a stigma attached to you."
"C'mon...pompous piece of sh*t like you? I don't believe it."
"If you're going to blather on, I can save my breath."
"Wait, who's jokin'? I ain't got any stigmas, and you're a pompous piece of sh*t."
"You can't possibly be that dense."
"Chalk it up to genetics?"
"Always the piss. Should we start with your outright refusal to treat anything and everything with even the slightest bit of decorum, or would you prefer we dive right into your more severe vices?"
Listen to this ash*le....'vices'...
"You're still on that? I kicked that sh*t months ago."
"And yet, Ante Whitner couldn't help but bring it up."
"F*ckin' bully for Ante Whitner. Maybe go bug his ass, see if you can't convince him to sh*t or get off the pot with that little non-title of his."
That might've done it. I dunno if anyone besides me says the sh*t they say sometimes with the sole intent of breakin' a guy down to the point that he'll just f*ckin' throw in the towel, but there's another tell. Varies from person to person, but it's always accompanied by some little dramatic sigh of exasperation or some sh*t. Most people'd cue up on it and fall back if the argument was at all real to 'em.
Me? I was just tryin' to get rid of the guy.
"You don't find it at all odd that your colleagues - people you see on a fairly routine basis - still perceive you to be some closeted, violent alcoholic in spite of the fact that you blew a very public pass on a very public sobriety field test at a very, very public event broadcast live the world over in sterling, high definition?"
I mean, I just figured Ante Whitner was dumb as f*ck, but when he put it like that...
...look, I ain't the type to give two sh*ts what some loon f*ck twit pridin' himself on the fact that he's from f*ckin' Yonkers, of all places, thinks of me. Nor am I some sort of AA, helpless to resist, give yourself to god sort of emotional addict in perpetual recovery. I drank. Now I don't. F*ckin' hooray for me.
Still...people didn't catch that sh*t...?
"No."
"I'm
wasting my time here."
Almost home, kids!
"Well, sh*t, I think Whitner's just down the hall, you wanna try your luck there..."
...that should just about...
"Brennan, I've met millionaires who should be billionaires. I've met players who should be moguls. I've met runners-up who should be consigned to the history books as winners, and everywhere I look here, I see contenders who should be champions without peer. Down the line, there isn't a soul a single one of them has to blame aside from themselves, but I don't think I've met anyone so willing to get in their own way as you."
"Small bit of what I offer, y'know?"
I think you were leavin'...
"I'm going to regret this..."
Makes two of us.
"Try as I may, I just can't seem to close a door on opportunity. Your father liked to conduct business over dinner. Perhaps for old time's sake. Maybe a hearty meal will have you seeing reason a bit more clearly. Either way, I'll be here next Sunday."
He hands me a card - some joint in Boston. Never heard of it. Looks fancy - type of sh*t Jack'd be all over. Me? I wouldn't be caught dead.
Typical.
"You change your mind...let's talk."
Jesus wept, does this guy ever...wait...he's leavin'!
"If you see him...give my regards to the champion, will you?"
Hitching Up the Wagons
Doesn't work that way, Frank.
I don't give a sh*t how often you try. I don't give a f*ck how many two-bit, reader's theatre grade skits you wanna pull tryin' to insert yourself into the narrative. I don't care how many pieces of actual talent you try and hitch your wagon to and I don't care how many dead f*ckin' bodies you try and step over in your unendin' quest to try and be half the talent that you think you are.
You'll always be second best in my book, Frankie.
I gotta wonder - you seen Ante lately? Course you haven't, you laser focused son of a b*tch. Sh*t, some days I wonder if I'm as dumb as people try and say I am, and even I've gotta go slack jawed a bit over the irony of you even bein' in this match solely on account of Ante Whitner takin' up bedfellows alongside the former WFWF Champion for the time bein', but I've gotta wonder if you've even recognized your standin' as the odd man out. I mean, do the math:
David Brennan
Frank Lynn
Trace Demon
Joe Bishop
You watch Sesame Street?
I gotta assume you're lovin' this, though. Sh*t, a whole lotta circumstance has led to you steppin' up as bad luck's chief beneficiary, and the taxes are all f*ckin' paid, to boot. You don't need me to spell it out for you, but I'm gonna anyway in case you've managed to convince anyone else to subscribe to your line of thinkin': a healthy Ante Whitner's got you down the bottom of the barrel, where you belong, tryin' to sort sh*t out with the other half of the Thunderbird's coin over which is you is more qualified to possibly, maybe get a shot at gettin' a shot at gettin' a shot at my International Title.
File that under 'redundant'. You're familiar, right?
And sh*t - what luck. You just happen to be paired up along side the newest WFWF Champion!
What an opportunity!
What visibility!
What a crock of sh*t.
You don't look any brighter'n me, so the odds are stacked firmly against you bein' able to sort out of piece of good advice when it's thrown at you from a mound built upon real life experience, but Joe Bishop? He ain't gonna worry himself one way or the other with you. Sure, it's all well and good for you guys to bond over a shared assumption that you're better'n the rest of the locker room on account of naught but your presumption that you're better'n the rest of the locker room, but when push comes to shove? When the matches actually matter and the points all mean something?
Joe Bishop ain't gonna be anywhere to found.
I'd know.
Just ask Drakz.
Or Mike Kyzer.
Or Daniel Kirkbride, assumin' you can find his ass.
Point is, you're probably pissin' yourself right through, figurin' you've fallen face first over Ante's broken ass into a partnership with THE WFWF Champion.
Still don't mean sh*t.
Taggin' with Joe Bishop?
Ain't gonna make anyone give a f*ck more about you.
Ain't gonna make you a better fighter.
Ain't gonna erase the fact that you're the guy that clown shoed his way into a losin' f*ckin' effort against the tag team champions by actin' a f*ckin' fool, which - by the way - job well done.
You ever wanna see 'em sometime, I'm still in New England.
There's only so many ways to say it, Frankie - you're average, at best. Sure, it's gotta be right f*ckin' excitin' for you, the prospect of maybe pickin' up another W in your woefully embarrassin' column on the back of the fortune of bein' paired off with somebody capable of holdin' his f*ckin' own in the ring. I mean, how else are you gonna get the job done. You've demonstrated more than enough times that you're spotty, at best, at gettin' the job done for yourself, so why not try and cling to someone else's success in the hopes that some of it might rub off on your ass?
Just hope Joe doesn't get himself hurt, right?
Speakin' of which, how does that all work with your weird ass little moral compass, huh? Seems to me like one week, you're out there leadin' the charge to end Ante Whitner on account of him takin' your f*ckin' meal ticket out of the tournament a couple months back there. Now Ante's down for the count, and you're just gonna go and strap up his boots for yourself like it ain't no thing?
See, that's what I don't get about you choir boys. Guys like you, guys like Dean...you've got the f*ckin' sack to go out there and question my moral standard like I'm the f*ckin' torch bearer of wickedness and human apathy, makin' sure the right hand looks good and clean for the crowd so they might buy a couple more t-shirts, willfully oblivious to the fact that the left is wrought with filth from siftin' through the sh*t you guys do in the name of bein' on the side of good.
F*ck. Off.
I mean, sh*t - if you was any sorta consistent with your crusade, shouldn't you be knee deep in the throes of self flagellation by this point? After all, not to discount future Hall of Famer Tyson Watts or nothin', but disregardin' Tyson Watts, who would've been the one to put the spike in ol' Ante's naggin' hurt?
What makes you any better?
All this? I'm sure it comes off as a whole lotta hypocrisy - 'oh, who's he to speak on the matter of playin' circumstance in your favor'?
I'm the guy who doesn't put his halo on before he steps out the door.
I just wish I knew who you thought you were foolin'.
Soon as Dean's off the table, you've gone and yoked yourself up to Joe Bishop, who just happens to be the new face of the WFWF and a sure fire avenue for you to weasel your way into Ante's rightful spot in the main event?
Drop the act, Frankie.
You're just as bad as the rest of us.
Least some of us can hold our own in a fight.
Have you considered just....sittin' this one out?
Demon in a Bottle
"I don't like it."
I wasn't nuts about it myself.
Typical ass WFWF, man. Take whatever clusterf*ck just went and seemingly got itself all sorted out, and throw who or whatever it was that gave it any sorta pulse and divvy 'am up into a pair of tandems based on arbitrary clues as to which side of the chaotic spectrum they fall upon.
We're puttin' asses in the seats now.
Figure Ante Whitner'd have been standin' alongside Joe Bishop, assumin' they were goin' for some set of last men standin' blockbuster affair, but he went off and, f*ck, broke a nail or somethin'? Someone keeps track of this sh*t. At any rate, the WFWF's resident vacuum fill, fuuuuurious Frank Lynn found himself lucky enough to be hamfisted into a position he doesn't rightfully deserve.
S'pose he's more of a good egg than Whitner. I dunno. People figure I'm a bad guy - who can really keep track of this sh*t.
At any rate...
It would seem that I'm throwin' more vibes to the negative, as someone up top figured I'd be a shoe-in to pair up alongside a guy who I figure makes
me look like a regular f*ckin' saint in Trace Demon.
Guess that's on his birth certificate and all.
Could be worse, I s'pose.
I ain't about to sit here and brand myself a fan of the demon. Alright, I've more than owned up to the fact that, on the whole, I'm a right piece of sh*t myself. Ain't a soul out there's gonna try and argue in favor of me bein' even a halfway decent kinda guy, 'cept maybe Nat, and even she ain't soundin' too high on the up and up at this very moment. I've done outright rotten by most folks I've crossed paths with in life, ostracized the rest, and the only savin' grace is that I've been graced enough with those stand up Brennan genetics to not really give a f*ck one way or the other as to what they all think of me when it's all said and done, but Trace?
Look, I'm, at best, a recoverin' Catholic, and I ain't never had much time for the sh*t Danny used to butter his bread with, but if you put me right to it?
That guy might just be evil incarnate.
To be fair - novel concept around these parts, I know - I ain't ever spent much time around the guy. Kinda disturbin', in a way, seein' as he was the one signin' the checks for as long as he was. Still, that's kinda indicative in its own right, isn't it? Let's face it - in the WFWF, the nice guys finish last. Josh Dean'll tell you all about that one. Ain't no golden soul gonna be swimmin' around the heart of a guy with the capability to seize the reigns of the very company he works for. That's some cold blooded sh*t right there, you give it even a second's consideration.
Fair game then, even if I wasn't exactly jonesin' to work alongside the guy - or anyone, for that matter - for me to be feelin' alright about my odds, goin' up against this week's self righteous squad?
Guess it depends on who you ask.
"Don't worry about it."
"What's that, your catchphrase these days?"
"For real?C'mon, it's a rubber match. A gimme. They book this sh*t all the time. Keep the marks comin' back for - wait, what?"
"I don't know, David. Seems like anytime I've got a concern pressing enough to articulate lately, all I can get out you is a whole lot of 'don't worry about it'."
"Haaaave you considered givin' that a try?"
"Don't be an assh*le."
"C'mon, I don't ask the unreasonable of you."
"Okay, dial it back. Would it kill you, even once, to try and validate my concerns, versus writing them off as a whole lot of nothing?"
"Nothin's managed to yet."
"So?"
"Alright....what don't you like about it, Nat?"
"You're serious? I've got the floor, here?"
"All yours."
"I don't need to be aware of any conversational limits beforehand? Anything that might cut the conversation short?"
Jesus wept, woman...
"Shy of the wakin' hours you're wastin' not sayin' what's on your mind?"
"Alright..."
"So...?"
"I don't like this idea of you standing alongside Trace Demon."
Sh*t, is that all?
See? We've had our share of fights, but this girl gets me, man.
"That's it? Sh*t, I ain't much lookin' forward to it either."
"But you're still going to do it."
Wait, what?
"Shoooould I not...?"
"You don't think it's all a bit familiar?"
"What, Demon? Nah...I was s'posed to square up with him once, but I think I walked away or some sh*t."
"Okay, so not Trace Demon specifically, but Jesus, come on David.."
"Look, if you're about to ask if you gotta spell it out for me, then uh...yeah, 'cause I ain't followin'."
Whatever was swimmin' up in that pretty little head of hers wasn't somethin' she figured I was gonna read as anything good. Her face all but gave that one away. She fidgeted in place, clearly strugglin' with the fact that one of the sharper consequences of gettin' a guy like me to come around and tryin' to play open and honest is the fact that I'm gonna expect the same in return. She's better at it than me - that whole sh*t about 'don't worry about it'? Yeah, guilty as charged.
Still, whatever she was about to drop? I guess I owed it to myself to prepare to not like it all that much.
"Sh*t....David, you don't think you've got a questionable enough history of falling in with circumstantial partners of ill repute?"
Sh*t.
If I didn't know any better, I'd figure she'd just picked that last part out of Vieira's lexicon.
Guess we're both a little more colorful than we let on.
"You're worried that I'll....what? Start runnin' rickshaw with the Demon?"
"I don't think it's an unfounded concern."
Aside from that whole flyin' solo since when the f*ck ever, right?
F*ck me rigid.
"Always gonna come back to this sh*t, isn't it?"
"David...I mean...Drakz and Kyzer...you slipped hard. This wasn't some run of the mill relapse."
"I don't think that's Demon's speed."
"Doesn't make him a good person."
"What, and I am?"
"You can be..."
"Long as I don't find myself thrust into any sorta scenario where I could maybe, possibly run the risk of treatin' myself to a consolatory drink, right?!"
F*ckin' Vieira, man. Sh*t so flowery he's gotta make himself right even in the absence of physical presence.
"It's just...you've come so far, in such short order David. I'd hate to..."
"I get it."
You could've shoved just about any old assh*le in front of me and had 'em read me the riot act about the vibe I give as it pertains to the whole demon in a bottle thing, and I'd have no problem givin' it right back to 'em sideways if the shoe fit. There ain't much in the way of unsolicited opinions I'm likely to be particularly receptive to, and even less I'd be willin' to consider actin' upon for so much as a second.
It stings when it comes from Nat though.
Don't ask me why I put this girl on the pedestal that I do. The answer to that one's probably buried somewhere down with whatever the f*ck it is she sees in me, but whatever it is...sh*t. If there's any shred of good left in some low life piece of sh*t like me, she's the one what's gonna get it out of me. I don't buy into fate or destiny much, but some things just fit too damn well to be coincidence, and if Nat's seriously got that bug up her ass, then sh*t...maybe there's somethin' to all that sh*t Vieira was talkin'.
"Sh*t's booked, though."
"So bail!"
"Bail? Heh. Did that once - on Trace, no less. Didn't pan out so hot for me."
"Without putting too fine a point on it? Up until SuperBrawl, what had?"
Point - Natalie Collins.
"You ain't wrong, but I ain't exactly leanin' toward the ol' pink slip again, assumin' I can avoid it."
"Disregarding how much bullsh*t I could call you on right there, ask yourself - do you really need it?"
"A job? Uh....yeah, usually."
"Come on, David. Look around you - you haven't hurt for money for ages. I won't lie and say I'm nuts about the fact that a bulk of it came out of liquidating whatever was left to Jack's name, but the point stands - everything we'd ever dreamed about is right here around us, paid in full with room to spare. Aside from feeding that void...what's even left for you there?"
Sh*t.
"Sh*t."
Some things bear articulatin'.
"I dunno, Nat."
"You've earned a break, wouldn't you say?"
Think someone'd be willin' to argue the point...
"Ain't exactly the type of sh*t I'm just gonna dive into, though."
"Why not?"
"Aside from the fact that we're sittin' here brewin' up a b*tch fest over my supposed problem with impulsivity? I got sh*t in the cards, Nat. You wanna push the thought in everyone's mind that I'm some flighty ass louse? Have me walk away, unannounced - just like the last time, and the time before that, and the time before that!"
"Well...damnit. Consider it, at least, won't you?"
Sure.
Might as well call open season on outside opinions.
Nat went and squeezed her piece in before I'd even had a chance to cut her off.
Might as well throw open the doors, right?
"Give it time. Got a meetin' in Boston this weekend. Wanna come?"
"A meeting?"
"Business sh*t. Figure you maybe wanna see your folks. I dunno. Either way, that's on the table. Anything else? I dunno....
See how it goes."
Deal With the Devil
Y'know, I just realized...
...I never said thanks, Trace.
I mean, it's only fittin'. Sure, you'd have been hard pressed not to - its no secret that my name alone boosted the WFWF stock significantly each time it was brought back into the fold. I dunno how that all played out for you, but I can't imagine it hurt. Sure, there were risks involved, but y'know somethin', Trace? That's what I like about you. You're a risk taker. Others in your shoes might've balked at givin' ol' David Brennan another run at the top, but you knew that somewhere, strewn about the countless empties and the stench of stale whiskey and a thousand and one 'f*ck yous', there was the natural equation guys in your position are always lookin' for - the one that would forever resolve the ratio of asses to seats.
So, seriously - for whatever personal gain probably drove you to put the ink to the well and keep those checks and renewals comin' and comin' over and again, lemme be maybe the first to say, in all earnest, thanks.
That's just me bein' honest.
Don't take that sh*t for weakness.
You and me? It would seem, through whatever forces it is you personally prescribe to puttin' our asses in the same corner of the ring, that you and I've got ourselves a common enemy. Me? I don't subscribe that 'enemy of my enemy is my friend' sh*t. Got burned enough playin' second fiddle to Mike and Isaac to know that guys like them? Guys like you?
You ain't got friends.
I'm fine with that, for what it's worth. Playin' nice ain't ever landed anybody much of anything around these parts, and I'd be remiss to think for a second that you're comin' down that ramp thinkin' anything otherwise, so I'm content, for what matters in the here and now, to resign myself to the fact that, at least until however long it takes to put Frankie and his newest adoptive mentor out to pasture, you and I simply need to coexist.
Figure, if nothin' else, there's a little common ground in makin' sure Joe Bishop doesn't lose sight of which way's up.
Just...make sure you and Joe walk outta that ring with that much in common.
I can't imagine how much getting left in the block stings. I can share the sentiment of losin' to some self righteous dip like Joe, but to have him seal the deal so that you don't even find yourself landin' in the arena?
That stings.
I've gotta figure that you're gearin' somethin' fierce to give him a refund on that one, and hey - have at it. I ain't lookin' to rack up another L on the ol' record, so whatever it takes to light the fire under your ass.
I'm sure you've seen that new piece of hardware he's luggin' around, too.
I can't imagine a scenario where that sh*t ain't just dousin' the flames of revenge with all sorts of combustibles. You, a former champion in your own right, and your history with Joe? Sh*t, that's ripe for the pickin', man. Even I kinda wanna see that sh*t.
Just don't you forget who else was on the other side of that wall.
I ain't nuts about the idea, but when it comes down to brass tacks, I got no
bones over sharin' a corner with you if it means a little redemption for the way that sh*t went down in the finals. Between the three of you, there ain't a bit of me that wants to presume anyone'd be more like to get the job done than yourself, and if we're pickin' temporary sides? Well, sh*t, I'd be dumber'n I look to think I'd be better off alongside the champ or...Christ wept...Frankie Lynn.
That all bein' said, I don't want you entertainin' the idea for a second that you and I are a) ever close to bein' anything even resemblin' friends, seein' as I know that's how you like to build your little internal harems, or b) anywhere close to bein' on the same side of the coin as far as this whole Bishop issue is concerned.
You wanna take up with one of these belts I've already got my mitts on? Fine - start the line. You wanna get you licks in on Joe for makin' you look like the two pump chump of block A? Be my guest. But don't you think for even a second that you're anywhere close to steppin' in my way over that belt of his. You and I both know that Joe's reign as champion'll ever go as far as he can avoid defendin' the damn thing, and when that day comes, there's only one guy leadin' the pack.
I like to think you're a cunning sorta guy, Trace. You don't pull the sh*t you've pulled over the years without bein' a little wise to the human condition, and all things considered, I'd be hard pressed to name myself a more well equipped guy to step into that ring and give the do-gooders a taste of how far that sh*t'll get 'em in life.
Just don't think this sh*t means anything, yeah?
Face the Nation
I was underdressed.
Jack had always had a taste for places like these - the type of joints you figure some pompous TV chef from Scotland or some sh*t'd be all about callin' home. Don't ask me why - Jack was about as high society as anyone else runnin' their ass around Dorchester. Only thing settin' him apart was loads upon loads of cash sourced from questionable ventures.
Maybe he figured there wasn't no moral obligation to how he'd spend it.
Place was definitely more Vieira's speed, I guess. I knew he had some shady sh*t hidden away in Jack's closet in his own right. Nothin' much that ever interested me to know, but sh*t - at least he could make himself presentable enough to fit in at a joint like this. Jack, even in his Sunday best, was still rockin' tweed like tomorrow'd never come even as he bowed out and said his final goodbyes.
Not that I had much room to speak.
I figured it'd be a decent enough place - warrantin' at least a collar, if nothin' else. Problem is, thirty some odd years of dressin' however the f*ck I want, save for a couple off in the service, led me to ownin' all but the collars afforded by the handful of Fred Perrys hangin' in the closet. Sharp as sh*t, but as I'd found out in short order, not exactly fine dinin' attire.
Not that I wasn't used to people starin' sideways to begin with.
Vieira, to his credit, at least tried to hide his contempt. He got his snide comment in, sure enough, and made certain I understood that, should things progress beyond dinner, that a suit was long past in order, but he must've wanted this sh*t to pan out. You could see him grimacin' from time to time, but he did his damndest to look past it, and steered sh*t quickly toward business.
I figure I heard half of what he said - little bit more butterin' my ass up and all that, I'm sure, but sh*t certainly hadn't cooled back home any. You could've asked me back in 2011, I figure I'd ever find myself gettin' pulled all sorts of ways doin' this sh*t for a livin'? I'd have figured you missed the bus into Danvers by a handful of stops, but no sh*t, six years on, there I was, gettin' reamed over my getup, one jackass lookin' to turn around and make me, and a soul at home hopin' I'd walk away from it all.
Where'd I stand?
F*ck...wouldn't be much of a story if I had that sh*t figured out, right?
"And where is she now?"
"Seein' her folks. Probably been a while."
"I don't do interpersonal affairs."
"I ain't askin' you to."
"Curiously, you haven't asked me much of anything."
"You seemed to be havin' so much fun hearin' your own voice..."
"A trait we share, perhaps."
F*ckin' assh*le.
"Still, I'm glad you saw reason enough to join me. I'll skip the pleasantries - I've been in your shoes...boots, if you prefer."
Again with the digs at my clothes.
"The sideways looks. The whispers in the hall. The unending doubt of behalf of the front office. You'd be hard pressed to find someone much more familiar with what it is you face on a daily basis - the sort of thing a Chris Meyer could never fully grasp."
"Bit of a drinkin' problem there?"
He stared at me blankly over the rim of his wine glass as he slowed his sip - definitely not a sore spot, but most certainly a stupid question in his eyes. What can I say? I was outta my element here. Never mind the menu boastin' sh*t I couldn't pronounce, my stickin' out like a sore thumb in my Perry and boot cuts, the waiter lookin' cross eyed at me orderin' not but a glass of water, and the fact that I'd already exhausted what little patience I had left in me gettin' raked over the coals every which way this week.
I still had no f*ckin' clue what it is this guy even wanted with me.
We'd been this way and that for months now ever since this assh*le and Meyer barged into my house after SuperBrawl, talkin' this, that, and the other about my potential. Then it was my name when I went to shoot their asses down. In all honesty, it felt like a bunch of opportunistic bullsh*t to me. Where the f*ck was this guy before I won the International Championship, right? I get it - Jack used to talk about this sh*t all the time. Money grubbin' lowlifes lookin' to make an easy buck as his stature grew and grew.
Still...
That was what? Six? Seven months ago?
Either this guy is more tenacious than Dex tryin' to weasel his way back into the picture of relevance, or he had somethin' he thought was worth sayin'.
"I won't bore you with more lip service. You know how good you are. Even Joe Bishop would be hard pressed to go out there and suggest that you're even the slightest bit less dangerous than you've been purported to be."
Guess he wasn't gonna be dignifyin' that with a response.
"So what's that got to do with you?"
Remember how Nat squirmed around a bit with the words she wasn't pleased to be sayin'?
Enter Jason Vieira - the man without a shred of fear or doubt in his plaintive, direct voice.
"You're an idiot."
Well, then.
"Sorry to have wasted your time, then..."
"Stop."
"Alll -"
"That's your problem."
Alright, maybe he had a point. I mean...
"Look, I don't follow, so yeah, maybe I'm a f*ckin' - "
"You don't know when to shut up."
Ooooh...
...heh. Yeah.
"I ain't hirin' nobody to speak for me."
"I should hope not. Nothing would spell a blow to the credibility you've built in that ring like having some washed up never-was going out and running down your opponents for you."
"Soooo..."
"What you need is someone without vacancy upstairs to navigate the business for you: Pressers. Statements. Outside affairs."
"Sleater."
"Sleater."
That....didn't sound all that bad.
I ain't been too coy about the fact that this job'd be a sh*t ton better if I didn't have to put up with the copious amounts of bullsh*t swirlin' around out back. That PR sh*t? The interviews, appearances, sh*t like that? I dunno what's got me in more hot water - the sh*t I've said personally to Sleater, or the fact that I've spent however f*ckin' long duckin' out of every last one of those.
"Think you can break her?"
"No interest. What I can do...is negotiate. Without firsthand experience, I'm willing to hazard a guess that you and Sleater don't get on."
"That's one way of puttin' it."
"A personality like yours can be a thorn in the side of someone trying to execute eight different initiatives at once. I'm sure it's a point of pride to you, but sticking in someone's craw that like that without resolve isn't the best place to be in a business like this. You find yourself constantly absorbed in trying to dispel the nuisance. I can take you off her mind."
"I don't do low profile."
"Nor should you. All of this, after all, is designed with the intent to play to your advantage. I know a bit about what goes on under the lights as well. With Whitner out of the picture for the time being, as it seems, and no discernible contender chomping at the bit to take that International Championship off of you, you stand at perhaps the most advantageous precipice in the entire organization. You still have the Tag Team belts, I understand?"
"Heh. Yeah."
"Keep them. In fact, start packing them. The world should see you for the domineering threat that you are. The International Championship around your waist, the others slung over your shoulder? Only one way to go from there."
Read my mind.
"Bishop."
"Mmm. You faltered. Big deal. It's only as much of a loss in step as you allow it to be. You'll meet him again in the ring in short order - next show, if I'm not mistaken. Don't sleep on that."
"Think Sleater'll go for that?"
"She can be made to."
"That right?"
"Just say the word."
Refunds at Point of Purchase
You got me.
Square up. I ain't afraid to own up to the fact I got my ass beat. Doesn't happen that often, so I'm sure there's some question out there pertainin' to how much of that I'm straight up willin' to own.
In short?
All of it.
Ain't no sense in holdin' back credit where credit is due. Kinda stupid really - guys here'll run their mouths 'til they're blue'n the face sh*ttin' out excuse after excuse as to why it is they had to take that long, lonesome walk out back, head held in shame while the other guy gets to put his hands up. Sure, I mean, whatever helps you sleep at night, ultimately, but sh*t - tens of thousands of people saw Joe Bishop get the best of ol' David Brennan, live in person, with who the f*ck knows how many more sittin' at home watchin' the very same spectacle play out. Ain't somethin' I'm all too willin' to let happen again, but for the time bein', take your victory lap, Joe.
You got me.
'Course, now that that's outta the way, you know I owe you a receipt.
I talked a lot of sh*t about the fights you and I have seen over the years and how they don't make a f*ck of difference when push comes to shove in that ring, and y'know somethin'?
I might've pushed that sh*t a little too far.
We're just breakin' all sorts of conventions over here.
See, what we've done - whether on the streets of Dorchester or in some, I dunno...dojo? Are they still called dojos? Well, in some whatever over in Japan, point is - none of it really matters....to a point.
I'm willin' to bet that overseas, you picked up a couple of lessons along the way - sh*t that don't matter when paired up against whoever the bookin' committee's sh*t out this week, but the kinda sh*t that makes you approach sh*t the way you do.
For you? I dunno, maybe it's discipline or self control or whatever. Somethin', at any rate, that you carry in the back of that freshly cut head of yours (and thank f*ck, Joe - Jesus Christ, that hair...) that really, as a fighter, makes you, well...you.
For my end?
I can't let sh*t go unanswered.
I mean, you have to know that, right? There's no way your mind brought you to the conclusion that you beat
me, fair and square, and that I was just gonna chalk it up and move on to the next thing, right?
Gettin' the last word? I mean, that's just kinda my thing, right?
Drakz gets to sit around in traction somewhere, watchin' me parade around with his WFWF Tag Team Championship.
Raider? Drake Elias? MIA, as it were.
Schneider's still on the table, and I don't count that forfeiture against my partner to-be here, so for the time bein'?
That just leaves you, Joe.
Just not today.
Don't get me wrong - there ain't a doubt in my mind that the odds are stacked squarely in the corner of the Demon and myself. You don't have to be a scholar of this industry to place those bets when the corner across the ring is filled with the new champion and his...well, hanger on. Tough break. By all rights, you ought to at least have the slightly more competent Ante Whitner by your side.
Tough break.
Point is, with the Demon and the other guy each stickin' their respective noses in places they don't belong, The Climb can't rightfully serve as your refund for the way sh*t played out in the finals. I think, if you're as dedicated to what it is we do as you claim to be, you'll agree that those circumstances won't do nearly enough to settle what's come to brew between you and me. Not by a long shot.
It's gotta be you and me, Joe.
One on one.
And don't think, even for a second, that a scenario exists where that title of yours ain't on the line.
If you don't buy that sh*t now, gimme some time.
I'll make you see reason.
I'll start small.
Maybe Frankie costs you your first big win in who knows how long.
Maybe I stand back and let Trace meat out some of that pent up aggression.
I don't need the pin this time around.
I'll take it when it counts.
I'm proud of you, Joe. You did the unthinkable. The impossible, really.
But this?
Sh*t.
This is just the beginning, kid.
I dont know good luck 
