Post by CM Poor on Aug 14, 2017 16:03:58 GMT -5
Right on time.
“Oh, David. Good. Come in. We’ve a lot of moving pieces in place now. I think we’d better – “
Nice try, Vieira.
“Save it, assh*le.”
Really? You weren’t expectin’ that one?
“You’ve heard.”
Maybe you were.
“Sure have. You’re fired, assh*le.”
'Til My Face is Pale & My Lips are Blue
Boy, do people like to f*ckin’ talk.
Now, I ain’t ever truly found myself in the sorta predicament I’ve been navigatin’ the past couple weeks, what with everything but the kitchen sink personally ridin’ on whether or not I got what it takes to walk outta Vancouver havin’ taken back what’s mine from Joe Bishop, but I’ve gotta fess up a fair bit to still bein’ a bit more’n surprised at the sheer number of people willin’ to throw in the towel on my behalf before Joe’s so much as had the chance to call me an embarrassment to his precious sport for the thousandth time or so.
I mean, have you lot just not been payin’ attention?
Settin’ aside, for a moment, the sheer f*ckin’ pedigree worth of names I’ve put to shame since the circus decided to roll back into Boston a year or so back there, I like to think I’ve made a name for myself on takin’ goat piss and handin’ in gasoline when it comes to real life, high end stakes on the line. Not the namby-pamby sorta sh*t most folk here’ll get all bent outta shape over – titles, as I feel like I’ve gone blue reiteratin’, don’t make a f*ck to me in the long run – but real life, take ‘em to the grave stakes. Each time someone’s brought a real life bit of resonance to the table, I’ve risen to the f*ckin’ challenge and then some.
Case in point? This here International Championship I’ve been luggin’ around for the past ten months or so.
The entire f*ckin’ basis of me comin’ back here to begin with was built upon the notion of drivin’ a stake into the heart of Penny Shannon’s terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day and takin’ a gift she was fixin’ to be handed and puttin’ it up for the takin’. Without gettin’ too deep into the devil or the details, I took that one rather f*ckin’ decisively, and even as my rightful shot approached, I was faced with another inordinate hurdle in that I was the one bound to earn the shot again by way of a field sobriety test.
Any guesses?
Penny Shannon couldn’t get the job done.
Ante Whitner couldn’t get the job done.
Lila Sleater couldn’t get the job done the first time, and Lucas Crowe sure as sh*t didn’t carry through.
The f*ck makes you people think Joe Bishop’s gonna be the f*ckin’ equalizer?
I get it – Bishop’s got the win. Where a legacy’s worth of top talent and former champions have tried and failed, Bishop prevailed. There’s this f*ckin’ stigma about losin’ a f*ckin’ match around here bein’ the decisive factor in determinin’ whether or not you’ll ever come back to take a bit of your pride back for yourself. I don’t f*ckin’ get that, as there ain’t ever been a fight I’ve come to before where an equalizin’ bout ain’t just been expected, but the standard by which your salt’d really be judged. All that sort ash*t tells me is that the lot of you ain’t ever been in a proper f*ckin’ scrap before steppin’ within the safety of a twenty by twenty ring. Fair enough.
But I have.
Look, I ain’t gonna sit here and tell you I’m free of fault. I’ve got myself a laundry list of shortcomings I’d be glad to copy en masse and have the lot of you pick apart letter by letter, but I’ll be god-f*ckin’-damned if I’m gonna let any of you sons of b*tches – especially some wad of asshair stuck sh*t like Frank Lynn what can’t even claim even an isolated victory over me – use the fact that Bishop got one over me as the determinate factor in callin’ this sh*t before it’s even come to pass. Come to that, of the entire flock of you still puttin’ yourselves out there as potential threats week in and week out, Bishop, by virtue of that luck of the f*ckin’ draw, is probably the only one of you with any passive business talkin’ at all.
Rest of you can get in line and talk just as soon as you’ve got somethin’ to talk about.
That just leaves you, Joe.
Look man, I’ve heard it all. I’ve heard your rabble screamin’ revolution. I’ve heard just about every last permutation you’ve been able to spit brandin’ me as everything but the poster boy of everything it is you’re lookin’ to give the ol’ heave-ho. I’ve heard your little protégé playin’ second fiddle all along the way, stringin’ along some tune about how the winds of change are blowin’ and they ain’t carryin’ even a hint of the name David f*ckin’ Brennan, in spite of the aforementioned fact that that weasel faced son of a b*tch ain’t made sh*t out of the multiple opportunities he’s had to put his money where his mouth is.
It just ain’t landin’.
Aside from the likes of the never-gonna-bes, who’ve you sold?
Outside your own echo chamber, who’s buyin’ what you’re sellin’?
Apart from you and Sleater at your strings, who honestly f*ckin’ believes that you’re gonna be the one to finally rid the WFWF of David f*ckin’ Brennan?
I mean, come on – Sleater’s tried this game once before. The hooks of f*ckin’ addiction weren’t even reliable enough to do her dirty work for her. What f*ckin’ chance do you have?
You…you do realize that that’s all this is, right? For every last screed you’ve penned about the evils of the WFWF and every manifesto at your disposal paintin’ you as the revolutionary hero destined to save us all from the depths of our own depravity, you’re nothin’ more than a little corporate shill who can’t even see the puke that he’s become.
And you wanna try’n paint ME the patsy?
Go f*ck yourself.
The second Vieira pitched Sleater on the idea of Brennan/Bishop two, you became her corporate f*ckin’ champion. You became her agent of destruction, her handpicked little right hand of doom.
To the revolution, eh Joe?
Like George f*ckin’ Washington fightin’ for the crown.
You’ve spent the past year tellin’ the world what it is they want to hear, what it is they want to see, and what is is that’s wrong with the product they’ve been buyin’ into long before you arrived, and will continue to do so long after I’ve sent your ass packin’ a thousand times over.
You’re the ominous, livin’, breathin' answer to a question nobody f*ckin’ asked. You purport to do it all in the name of upheaval, change, and the betterment of the world you’ve claimed as your own, all the while actin’ unwittingly on behalf of the figurehead of the company you’ve sought to wage a one man war upon – because, really, Frank doesn’t count.
I’ll try to make you not look TOO bad in front of her.
All Those City Lights I've Grown to Know So Well
"Well, good f*cking riddance, then, I say."
Y'ever find yourself marvelin' over that friend or two? Y'know the one. You could probably go five, ten, sh*t - fifteen some odd years without so much as a word out of 'em, then one day you stumble back upon one another and it's like you ain't lost a damn step along the way?
I ain't ever really had that. Least, I never recognized it.
Not 'til now, anyway.
Truth is, I thought somebody'd be f*ckin' with me when my phone started lightin' up one Sunday afternoon, flashin' Drakz's name at me. He and I, we didn't exactly close things out on the most amicable of terms. I'll admit now that I was right f*ckin' sour around the time I started comin' round the bend outta the dark and all, and bein' that him and Dean were the first pair of mugs starin' back at me when I was feelin' a whole lotta withdrawal with nothin' to sate the cravin', I'd set my sights pretty intent on wipin' that damn grin off his face.
Got myself a pair of belts for my troubles, but gold ain't everything.
You'll hear alchys like me talk a pretty hard game about moments of clarity, wherein they recognize the existence of a problem and the need to resolve it. That's a fun little bit of insight into a much deeper, darker world, and it's rare you'll hear much about the slower, longer road outta that moment that's more often than not more clouded and grim than the path that got 'me there to start with.
I'd be pushin' just around a year myself, and it seemed like all at once, that inherent guilt that comes with f*ckin' off just about every ounce of good in your life really came crashin' in, wave after wave after wave. I hadn't been bankin' on the opportunity knockin' on my front door to go and make some matter of peace with one of the folks that I'd come to recognize had been tryin' to hoist my sorry ass up all along the way, never once tryin' to lay an ounce of guilt on me for havin' gotten there in the meantime. Normally I'd give in to instinct and just let that sh*t ring, figurin' my gut'd be right enough in assumin' somebody'd just gotten ahold of Isaac's cloud or so sh*t, but I guess sometimes, it pays to step outside that comfort zone for a moment, even on a lark.
All told, that's sorta the long and short of how I'd come to find myself in Chicago.
I'd recognize Drakz in an instant - my wits about me, I'll never forget a face. What threw me was how he'd held himself. I ain't ever had him pegged for the wistful type, and yet as I'd approached, he'd been stood down the end of some pier I figured couldn't exist in a landlock like Chicago, blankin' out over the water like he was contemplatin' the very meanin' of life or some sh*t.
To hear him speak, he was the same old Isaac Cray I'd clicked with so long ago, but something was off center.
Not bad, just...
...I dunno...
...content?
"Just about. I ain't too worried about. Guy wasn't exactly doin' me any favors."
"You'll manage, I think."
Well, sh*t. There's a change of pace.
"Bet those odds in Vegas. Get yourself a couple of funny looks, but I think you'd about take the town, assumin' sh*t goes my way."
"Be quite the nest egg, yeah?"
"Way the world seems fit to bet against me? Yeah, I think you'd have yourself a decent chunk of change there."
"Amazing, how quickly they forget, isn't it?"
"Guess I'll just have to be remindin' 'em then, huh?"
"Think so. I wouldn't expect any less. We didn't exactly pick your name out of a hat, there."
"No sh*t, huh? I just figured misery loves company."
That broke the sorta pall that had settled in over us, as he let out a hearty, deep laugh entirely more reminiscent of what I’d come to associate with him over the years.
"F*cking hell, mate. You haven't lost a step, now, have you?"
Brennan curse, I guess. I might leanin' a bit heavily toward changin' my ways up a bit there, but damned if I think I'll ever be able to shake this damn smartass of mine.
"Heh. Guess not. So…Chicago, huh? That's new."
"Mm. For the time being, at least."
"Place is alright, then?"
"It suits my needs, at least, it will, I imagine. Just as soon as I figure out exactly what those are."
Y’see what I’m sayin’, man? Like, I know it’s him, right? Isaac Cray, man they call Drakz, live and in the flesh, but there’s somethin’ just…I dunno…off. It almost seems wrong – not his mood, so much, but that same damn word's the one that keeps comin’ back to mind.
Content.
Not like that’s a bad spot to be. Think I’m probably chasin’ after that a bit myself, these days, but to see him standin’ here, just altogether more subdued, laid back, at ease, whatever f*ckin’ word you wanna use to fill in the blank, well…damn, I dunno.
I guess it’s just been a while.
"Well, hey. I mean, it’s central enough, right? Bit of weight of your back, back out on the road and all?"
He chuckled.
I’ll fess right up – I’m about as dumb as dogsh*t sometimes when it comes to readin’ folk, lest I know they got themselves a tell or some sh*t like that. But Drakz? Man, he and I’d always got on just fine, but I ain’t gonna sit here and feed you some line about knowin’ that cat like the back of my hand or nothin’. He’d always had this sorta enigmatic tic that never quite let on what he was plannin’ or thinkin’.
That in mind?
I didn’t like that chuckle one bit. For some reason, still unbeknownst to me, when he crossed his arms there, never takin’ his eyes off that expanse of water out before us, and sorta looked into himself with a warm like chuckle, I knew as sure as I could claim to know anything exactly what that meant.
"Just like that, huh?"
"Got a fair bit of time over you, I think, yeah?"
Truth be told, I ain’t ever considered that. To be honest, I guess I’d sorta hit the ground runnin’ when I decided to drop in on the WFWF. Runnin’ rickshaw like that on and off for six some odd years’ll make a week feel like an eternity, I guess. Maybe it was the sort of finality everyone’d been tryin’ to peg to this rematch between me and Bishop, but I guess it just always felt like I’d sorta been around forever.
To Drakz? Sh*t.
Time’s a son of a b*tch, isn’t it?
"Damn. Last man standin’, huh?"
"I’d have told you that to be the case five years ago. Like I said, mate - we didn’t just pluck your name out of a hat, now."
F*ckin' hell.
I hadn’t come out here with any sorta expectation, but along the way, it all sorta began to sink in, how Drakz’d always been around every f*ckin’ corner, well long after the Epoch had sunk into the ground, the sorta way Jack’d haunted me right up until his heart finally did us all a favor, just with better intention. I guess you could call it a bit of an elevated expectation, but y’know how you start playin’ out scenarios in your mind, whether you’re fixin’ to do somethin’ or go off somewhere, and reality never quite jives with what you had in mind in the end? I ain’t gonna sit and b*tch about rollin’ town to town solo. Suits me just fine, but damned if I hadn’t let the prospect of maybe comin’ out here to Chicago with a bit more sense in mind than the last time we’d spoken and findin’ myself a bit of a wayward ally out back, should push come to shove.
"Not that you didn't leave us wondering there for a bit. It’s good to see you with your faculties about you."
It’s a weird way of livin’, tell you that much."
Somethin’ on my face must’ve been givin’ me away. I ain’t quite figured out keepin’ my guard up without the Captain keepin’ me in line.
"You’ll get there. Like learning to walk again, isn’t it?"font]
"Since when have dropped understatements that big?"
"That? That’s nothing. You should hear some of the minimalist sh*t these docs will spew."
"Back still f*ckin’ with you?"
"You name it. Back, brain, ego. I never knew one man could pack so many bruises."
"Eh, still…"
"Save the sentimentality, David. I’ve had my fun. Straight – what else, really, is there even left for me to do there?"
For starters?
"Guess I’d figured you’d wanna see that belt off of Bishop as much as anyone."
To this, he shot me a sly, almost devilish look that was altogether what one might expect outta the son of a b*tch.
"Do I ever – so don’t disappoint, hear?"
Leave it to Drakz to be the one guy not reachin’ for a scoop of dirt to toss on my career just yet.
"Would that you had told me Joe Bishop would be next in line to carry that gold…"
"You see the f*ckin’ mess you’ve left me, then?"
"Well, in either sense, it’s about damn time."
"Just in time, more like."
"Won’t hear that."
"Why the f*ck not? Everyone else seems fine and content to just call it a day for me."
"And when have you known to me to give a solitary f*ck about everyone else? Alright? The three of us? We threw more for a curve in nine short months than Joe Bishop and his cadre of hangers on have managed to swing at for the better part of a year, hear? I'll say again lad, we didn’t pull your name out of a hat, and don’t even begin to let me hear any of that garb about you being the third wheel to our success. These f*cking wanks? They’ve forgotten who came in ten months green and took an entire chamber’s worth of the heavily favored for himself. Give an old dog something worth smiling over, and remind them would you?"
I had to smile. Even with things runnin' about as calamitous as they could possibly f*ckin' muster these past few weeks, I’d found myself doin’ that a fair bit these days. I had a damn good share goin’ for myself – not bad for a thirty somethin’ alcoholic with a severe personality deficiency. Seems like every time I waltzed back into town – and long time observers’ll tell you I’ve done a fair bit of that – Drakz was at the front door, waitin’ to take stock. In my arrogance – which, hey, can you blame me – I’d always figured he was sizin’ me up. We’d had our share of clashes, and if I’d have been thinkin’ it, then he had to have known that it’d only be a matter of time before I’d finally get the jump on him. There was a time when it had been just as easy to dismiss all that as routine posturin’, and anything we’d had between us as just…well, business. It wouldn’t be outta character for the Epoch boys to keep folk around only as long as they needed ‘em – Ante Whitner can probably tell you a thing or two about that, but damned if Drakz wasn’t there every step of the way, even as I was pushin’ him further and further off my own radar. It took me too damn long to recognize that when the last beacon of good in my life in Nat kept on tryin’ and tryin’, and I damn near lost her to my own f*ckin’ selfish mindset.
I’d be right f*ckin’ stupid to toss aside the last honest to goodness friend I’d probably have the livin’ days left to claim.
"See how it goes, I guess. I finally lock this sh* t down, am I gonna need to be lookin’ over my shoulder, lest you decide to up and change you mind?"
"Me? Ha. No, lad. Isn’t me you’ll want to be worrying about, you get your rugged little mitts on that belt."
"F*ck the belt – means that much to him, Bishop can f*ckin’ have it for all I care at this point. Sh*t, got three more at home, he really needs ‘em."
I was half playin’, but a sullen sorta look had washed over Drakz face, and he suddenly looked altogether more serious than I think I’d ever seen him look before.
"No, mate. Not Bishop."
"What…you don’t mean…"
He nodded, slowly, almost as if he needed to see through the motion that it was sinkin’ in.
"Afraid so. Win, lose, or draw – you don’t really think he’s just going to let you walk off like that, do you?"
As Long as I Live
This is it, Joe.
No more talkin'.
No lookin' back.
Time to put your money where your mouth is.
You've been handpicked to be the force that finally drives David Brennan out of the WFWF once and for all.
Do you think you can do it?
Moreover, do you think you have what it takes?
My father ran rickshaw over the city of Boston for the better part of thirty six years. He died in twenty fourteen, havin' never faced so much as a hearin' for probable cause.
I ain't my father.
Far from it.
Whatever downgraded opinion you may hold of me would pale in comparison to even a fraction of the sh*t my father'd done.
But I still bleed Brennan.
We're only human.
We stumble.
We fall.
But in the end?
We're untouchable.
I ask again -
Do you think you have what it takes, Joe?
You wanna drive me outta town?
You're gonna have to f*ckin' kill me.
“Oh, David. Good. Come in. We’ve a lot of moving pieces in place now. I think we’d better – “
Nice try, Vieira.
“Save it, assh*le.”
Really? You weren’t expectin’ that one?
“You’ve heard.”
Maybe you were.
“Sure have. You’re fired, assh*le.”
'Til My Face is Pale & My Lips are Blue
Boy, do people like to f*ckin’ talk.
Now, I ain’t ever truly found myself in the sorta predicament I’ve been navigatin’ the past couple weeks, what with everything but the kitchen sink personally ridin’ on whether or not I got what it takes to walk outta Vancouver havin’ taken back what’s mine from Joe Bishop, but I’ve gotta fess up a fair bit to still bein’ a bit more’n surprised at the sheer number of people willin’ to throw in the towel on my behalf before Joe’s so much as had the chance to call me an embarrassment to his precious sport for the thousandth time or so.
I mean, have you lot just not been payin’ attention?
Settin’ aside, for a moment, the sheer f*ckin’ pedigree worth of names I’ve put to shame since the circus decided to roll back into Boston a year or so back there, I like to think I’ve made a name for myself on takin’ goat piss and handin’ in gasoline when it comes to real life, high end stakes on the line. Not the namby-pamby sorta sh*t most folk here’ll get all bent outta shape over – titles, as I feel like I’ve gone blue reiteratin’, don’t make a f*ck to me in the long run – but real life, take ‘em to the grave stakes. Each time someone’s brought a real life bit of resonance to the table, I’ve risen to the f*ckin’ challenge and then some.
Case in point? This here International Championship I’ve been luggin’ around for the past ten months or so.
The entire f*ckin’ basis of me comin’ back here to begin with was built upon the notion of drivin’ a stake into the heart of Penny Shannon’s terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day and takin’ a gift she was fixin’ to be handed and puttin’ it up for the takin’. Without gettin’ too deep into the devil or the details, I took that one rather f*ckin’ decisively, and even as my rightful shot approached, I was faced with another inordinate hurdle in that I was the one bound to earn the shot again by way of a field sobriety test.
Any guesses?
Penny Shannon couldn’t get the job done.
Ante Whitner couldn’t get the job done.
Lila Sleater couldn’t get the job done the first time, and Lucas Crowe sure as sh*t didn’t carry through.
The f*ck makes you people think Joe Bishop’s gonna be the f*ckin’ equalizer?
I get it – Bishop’s got the win. Where a legacy’s worth of top talent and former champions have tried and failed, Bishop prevailed. There’s this f*ckin’ stigma about losin’ a f*ckin’ match around here bein’ the decisive factor in determinin’ whether or not you’ll ever come back to take a bit of your pride back for yourself. I don’t f*ckin’ get that, as there ain’t ever been a fight I’ve come to before where an equalizin’ bout ain’t just been expected, but the standard by which your salt’d really be judged. All that sort ash*t tells me is that the lot of you ain’t ever been in a proper f*ckin’ scrap before steppin’ within the safety of a twenty by twenty ring. Fair enough.
But I have.
Look, I ain’t gonna sit here and tell you I’m free of fault. I’ve got myself a laundry list of shortcomings I’d be glad to copy en masse and have the lot of you pick apart letter by letter, but I’ll be god-f*ckin’-damned if I’m gonna let any of you sons of b*tches – especially some wad of asshair stuck sh*t like Frank Lynn what can’t even claim even an isolated victory over me – use the fact that Bishop got one over me as the determinate factor in callin’ this sh*t before it’s even come to pass. Come to that, of the entire flock of you still puttin’ yourselves out there as potential threats week in and week out, Bishop, by virtue of that luck of the f*ckin’ draw, is probably the only one of you with any passive business talkin’ at all.
Rest of you can get in line and talk just as soon as you’ve got somethin’ to talk about.
That just leaves you, Joe.
Look man, I’ve heard it all. I’ve heard your rabble screamin’ revolution. I’ve heard just about every last permutation you’ve been able to spit brandin’ me as everything but the poster boy of everything it is you’re lookin’ to give the ol’ heave-ho. I’ve heard your little protégé playin’ second fiddle all along the way, stringin’ along some tune about how the winds of change are blowin’ and they ain’t carryin’ even a hint of the name David f*ckin’ Brennan, in spite of the aforementioned fact that that weasel faced son of a b*tch ain’t made sh*t out of the multiple opportunities he’s had to put his money where his mouth is.
It just ain’t landin’.
Aside from the likes of the never-gonna-bes, who’ve you sold?
Outside your own echo chamber, who’s buyin’ what you’re sellin’?
Apart from you and Sleater at your strings, who honestly f*ckin’ believes that you’re gonna be the one to finally rid the WFWF of David f*ckin’ Brennan?
I mean, come on – Sleater’s tried this game once before. The hooks of f*ckin’ addiction weren’t even reliable enough to do her dirty work for her. What f*ckin’ chance do you have?
You…you do realize that that’s all this is, right? For every last screed you’ve penned about the evils of the WFWF and every manifesto at your disposal paintin’ you as the revolutionary hero destined to save us all from the depths of our own depravity, you’re nothin’ more than a little corporate shill who can’t even see the puke that he’s become.
And you wanna try’n paint ME the patsy?
Go f*ck yourself.
The second Vieira pitched Sleater on the idea of Brennan/Bishop two, you became her corporate f*ckin’ champion. You became her agent of destruction, her handpicked little right hand of doom.
To the revolution, eh Joe?
Like George f*ckin’ Washington fightin’ for the crown.
You’ve spent the past year tellin’ the world what it is they want to hear, what it is they want to see, and what is is that’s wrong with the product they’ve been buyin’ into long before you arrived, and will continue to do so long after I’ve sent your ass packin’ a thousand times over.
You’re the ominous, livin’, breathin' answer to a question nobody f*ckin’ asked. You purport to do it all in the name of upheaval, change, and the betterment of the world you’ve claimed as your own, all the while actin’ unwittingly on behalf of the figurehead of the company you’ve sought to wage a one man war upon – because, really, Frank doesn’t count.
I’ll try to make you not look TOO bad in front of her.
All Those City Lights I've Grown to Know So Well
"Well, good f*cking riddance, then, I say."
Y'ever find yourself marvelin' over that friend or two? Y'know the one. You could probably go five, ten, sh*t - fifteen some odd years without so much as a word out of 'em, then one day you stumble back upon one another and it's like you ain't lost a damn step along the way?
I ain't ever really had that. Least, I never recognized it.
Not 'til now, anyway.
Truth is, I thought somebody'd be f*ckin' with me when my phone started lightin' up one Sunday afternoon, flashin' Drakz's name at me. He and I, we didn't exactly close things out on the most amicable of terms. I'll admit now that I was right f*ckin' sour around the time I started comin' round the bend outta the dark and all, and bein' that him and Dean were the first pair of mugs starin' back at me when I was feelin' a whole lotta withdrawal with nothin' to sate the cravin', I'd set my sights pretty intent on wipin' that damn grin off his face.
Got myself a pair of belts for my troubles, but gold ain't everything.
You'll hear alchys like me talk a pretty hard game about moments of clarity, wherein they recognize the existence of a problem and the need to resolve it. That's a fun little bit of insight into a much deeper, darker world, and it's rare you'll hear much about the slower, longer road outta that moment that's more often than not more clouded and grim than the path that got 'me there to start with.
I'd be pushin' just around a year myself, and it seemed like all at once, that inherent guilt that comes with f*ckin' off just about every ounce of good in your life really came crashin' in, wave after wave after wave. I hadn't been bankin' on the opportunity knockin' on my front door to go and make some matter of peace with one of the folks that I'd come to recognize had been tryin' to hoist my sorry ass up all along the way, never once tryin' to lay an ounce of guilt on me for havin' gotten there in the meantime. Normally I'd give in to instinct and just let that sh*t ring, figurin' my gut'd be right enough in assumin' somebody'd just gotten ahold of Isaac's cloud or so sh*t, but I guess sometimes, it pays to step outside that comfort zone for a moment, even on a lark.
All told, that's sorta the long and short of how I'd come to find myself in Chicago.
I'd recognize Drakz in an instant - my wits about me, I'll never forget a face. What threw me was how he'd held himself. I ain't ever had him pegged for the wistful type, and yet as I'd approached, he'd been stood down the end of some pier I figured couldn't exist in a landlock like Chicago, blankin' out over the water like he was contemplatin' the very meanin' of life or some sh*t.
To hear him speak, he was the same old Isaac Cray I'd clicked with so long ago, but something was off center.
Not bad, just...
...I dunno...
...content?
"Just about. I ain't too worried about. Guy wasn't exactly doin' me any favors."
"You'll manage, I think."
Well, sh*t. There's a change of pace.
"Bet those odds in Vegas. Get yourself a couple of funny looks, but I think you'd about take the town, assumin' sh*t goes my way."
"Be quite the nest egg, yeah?"
"Way the world seems fit to bet against me? Yeah, I think you'd have yourself a decent chunk of change there."
"Amazing, how quickly they forget, isn't it?"
"Guess I'll just have to be remindin' 'em then, huh?"
"Think so. I wouldn't expect any less. We didn't exactly pick your name out of a hat, there."
"No sh*t, huh? I just figured misery loves company."
That broke the sorta pall that had settled in over us, as he let out a hearty, deep laugh entirely more reminiscent of what I’d come to associate with him over the years.
"F*cking hell, mate. You haven't lost a step, now, have you?"
Brennan curse, I guess. I might leanin' a bit heavily toward changin' my ways up a bit there, but damned if I think I'll ever be able to shake this damn smartass of mine.
"Heh. Guess not. So…Chicago, huh? That's new."
"Mm. For the time being, at least."
"Place is alright, then?"
"It suits my needs, at least, it will, I imagine. Just as soon as I figure out exactly what those are."
Y’see what I’m sayin’, man? Like, I know it’s him, right? Isaac Cray, man they call Drakz, live and in the flesh, but there’s somethin’ just…I dunno…off. It almost seems wrong – not his mood, so much, but that same damn word's the one that keeps comin’ back to mind.
Content.
Not like that’s a bad spot to be. Think I’m probably chasin’ after that a bit myself, these days, but to see him standin’ here, just altogether more subdued, laid back, at ease, whatever f*ckin’ word you wanna use to fill in the blank, well…damn, I dunno.
I guess it’s just been a while.
"Well, hey. I mean, it’s central enough, right? Bit of weight of your back, back out on the road and all?"
He chuckled.
I’ll fess right up – I’m about as dumb as dogsh*t sometimes when it comes to readin’ folk, lest I know they got themselves a tell or some sh*t like that. But Drakz? Man, he and I’d always got on just fine, but I ain’t gonna sit here and feed you some line about knowin’ that cat like the back of my hand or nothin’. He’d always had this sorta enigmatic tic that never quite let on what he was plannin’ or thinkin’.
That in mind?
I didn’t like that chuckle one bit. For some reason, still unbeknownst to me, when he crossed his arms there, never takin’ his eyes off that expanse of water out before us, and sorta looked into himself with a warm like chuckle, I knew as sure as I could claim to know anything exactly what that meant.
"Just like that, huh?"
"Got a fair bit of time over you, I think, yeah?"
Truth be told, I ain’t ever considered that. To be honest, I guess I’d sorta hit the ground runnin’ when I decided to drop in on the WFWF. Runnin’ rickshaw like that on and off for six some odd years’ll make a week feel like an eternity, I guess. Maybe it was the sort of finality everyone’d been tryin’ to peg to this rematch between me and Bishop, but I guess it just always felt like I’d sorta been around forever.
To Drakz? Sh*t.
Time’s a son of a b*tch, isn’t it?
"Damn. Last man standin’, huh?"
"I’d have told you that to be the case five years ago. Like I said, mate - we didn’t just pluck your name out of a hat, now."
F*ckin' hell.
I hadn’t come out here with any sorta expectation, but along the way, it all sorta began to sink in, how Drakz’d always been around every f*ckin’ corner, well long after the Epoch had sunk into the ground, the sorta way Jack’d haunted me right up until his heart finally did us all a favor, just with better intention. I guess you could call it a bit of an elevated expectation, but y’know how you start playin’ out scenarios in your mind, whether you’re fixin’ to do somethin’ or go off somewhere, and reality never quite jives with what you had in mind in the end? I ain’t gonna sit and b*tch about rollin’ town to town solo. Suits me just fine, but damned if I hadn’t let the prospect of maybe comin’ out here to Chicago with a bit more sense in mind than the last time we’d spoken and findin’ myself a bit of a wayward ally out back, should push come to shove.
"Not that you didn't leave us wondering there for a bit. It’s good to see you with your faculties about you."
It’s a weird way of livin’, tell you that much."
Somethin’ on my face must’ve been givin’ me away. I ain’t quite figured out keepin’ my guard up without the Captain keepin’ me in line.
"You’ll get there. Like learning to walk again, isn’t it?"font]
"Since when have dropped understatements that big?"
"That? That’s nothing. You should hear some of the minimalist sh*t these docs will spew."
"Back still f*ckin’ with you?"
"You name it. Back, brain, ego. I never knew one man could pack so many bruises."
"Eh, still…"
"Save the sentimentality, David. I’ve had my fun. Straight – what else, really, is there even left for me to do there?"
For starters?
"Guess I’d figured you’d wanna see that belt off of Bishop as much as anyone."
To this, he shot me a sly, almost devilish look that was altogether what one might expect outta the son of a b*tch.
"Do I ever – so don’t disappoint, hear?"
Leave it to Drakz to be the one guy not reachin’ for a scoop of dirt to toss on my career just yet.
"Would that you had told me Joe Bishop would be next in line to carry that gold…"
"You see the f*ckin’ mess you’ve left me, then?"
"Well, in either sense, it’s about damn time."
"Just in time, more like."
"Won’t hear that."
"Why the f*ck not? Everyone else seems fine and content to just call it a day for me."
"And when have you known to me to give a solitary f*ck about everyone else? Alright? The three of us? We threw more for a curve in nine short months than Joe Bishop and his cadre of hangers on have managed to swing at for the better part of a year, hear? I'll say again lad, we didn’t pull your name out of a hat, and don’t even begin to let me hear any of that garb about you being the third wheel to our success. These f*cking wanks? They’ve forgotten who came in ten months green and took an entire chamber’s worth of the heavily favored for himself. Give an old dog something worth smiling over, and remind them would you?"
I had to smile. Even with things runnin' about as calamitous as they could possibly f*ckin' muster these past few weeks, I’d found myself doin’ that a fair bit these days. I had a damn good share goin’ for myself – not bad for a thirty somethin’ alcoholic with a severe personality deficiency. Seems like every time I waltzed back into town – and long time observers’ll tell you I’ve done a fair bit of that – Drakz was at the front door, waitin’ to take stock. In my arrogance – which, hey, can you blame me – I’d always figured he was sizin’ me up. We’d had our share of clashes, and if I’d have been thinkin’ it, then he had to have known that it’d only be a matter of time before I’d finally get the jump on him. There was a time when it had been just as easy to dismiss all that as routine posturin’, and anything we’d had between us as just…well, business. It wouldn’t be outta character for the Epoch boys to keep folk around only as long as they needed ‘em – Ante Whitner can probably tell you a thing or two about that, but damned if Drakz wasn’t there every step of the way, even as I was pushin’ him further and further off my own radar. It took me too damn long to recognize that when the last beacon of good in my life in Nat kept on tryin’ and tryin’, and I damn near lost her to my own f*ckin’ selfish mindset.
I’d be right f*ckin’ stupid to toss aside the last honest to goodness friend I’d probably have the livin’ days left to claim.
"See how it goes, I guess. I finally lock this sh* t down, am I gonna need to be lookin’ over my shoulder, lest you decide to up and change you mind?"
"Me? Ha. No, lad. Isn’t me you’ll want to be worrying about, you get your rugged little mitts on that belt."
"F*ck the belt – means that much to him, Bishop can f*ckin’ have it for all I care at this point. Sh*t, got three more at home, he really needs ‘em."
I was half playin’, but a sullen sorta look had washed over Drakz face, and he suddenly looked altogether more serious than I think I’d ever seen him look before.
"No, mate. Not Bishop."
"What…you don’t mean…"
He nodded, slowly, almost as if he needed to see through the motion that it was sinkin’ in.
"Afraid so. Win, lose, or draw – you don’t really think he’s just going to let you walk off like that, do you?"
As Long as I Live
This is it, Joe.
No more talkin'.
No lookin' back.
Time to put your money where your mouth is.
You've been handpicked to be the force that finally drives David Brennan out of the WFWF once and for all.
Do you think you can do it?
Moreover, do you think you have what it takes?
My father ran rickshaw over the city of Boston for the better part of thirty six years. He died in twenty fourteen, havin' never faced so much as a hearin' for probable cause.
I ain't my father.
Far from it.
Whatever downgraded opinion you may hold of me would pale in comparison to even a fraction of the sh*t my father'd done.
But I still bleed Brennan.
We're only human.
We stumble.
We fall.
But in the end?
We're untouchable.
I ask again -
Do you think you have what it takes, Joe?
You wanna drive me outta town?
You're gonna have to f*ckin' kill me.
I dont know good luck 
