Post by CM Poor on Oct 6, 2011 12:43:44 GMT -5
Brotherhood
"Ready!"
"Aim!"
"Fire!"
"Ready!"
"Aim!"
"Fire!"
"Ready!"
"Aim!"
"Fire!"
Bang. Bang. Bang. Seven riflemen. Three 'fire' commands. A classic three round volley. As the smoke from the fired blanks fades quickly into the light, but steady rainfall, the brief silence is interrupted once more by the tapping roll of three snare drums, joined shortly afterward by the shrill, distinct sound of the Celtic bagpipes. The pipes prove to break not only the silence, but the stillness, as the gathered mourners begin to shuffle - some passing by the open grave, the flag-draped casket still held in place above the six foot hole, as if reluctant to take its place among the hundreds of neatly lined plots throughout the cemetery. As the small crowd begins to disperse, many sharing quick hugs and solemn goodbyes before retreating to the dry confines of their waiting vehicles, David Brennan steps forward, against the general flow of movement, toward the newly laid plot. Today, he's traded his typical attire for something altogether less jarring. A simple suit - black - and matching tie, his boots replaced a nicely shined pair of dress loafers. To have drawn that attention to himself today would have seemed disrespectful, and frankly, he wasn't in the mood. His hands clasped together in front of him, he stops, inches from the foot of the casket, and hangs his shaven head in a silent...prayer? Reflection? Lately, he wasn't sure what he believed anymore.The world was changing so quickly around him, he had barely had a silent moment to himself, and then something like this happens.
The rain picks up, growing ever steadier and louder against the surroundings of the now empty cemetery. His head still hung, David hardly even bothers to wipe away the water as it lands on his bald head, steadily streaming down into his eyes and face. Had he bothered, he may have noticed the slowly approaching, black Lincoln Towncar that had just come to a stop in the road behind him. He knew that he was no longer alone when he head the slam of the car door, and yet he kept his gaze fixed on the departed before him, even as he heard the steady slosh of footsteps approach from behind.
"Who was he?"
"His name was Collin Robinson."
"Brother of yours?"
"Mmm. We were deployed together in '03. Roomed together once we returned stateside."
2003. Eight years ago. It could have been yesterday. The harsh reality of that time and place were still so vivid in his mind. They called it "the suck", and yet, somehow, the fact that he was there with men he considered brothers convinced him that he wouldn't trade those times for anything in the world. He got out. Collin stayed in. Every man has dreams, and for him, from the Marines, would come a career as a firefighter. He'd bring the good fight home, using his talents to save lives on American soil. Collin was a career soldier. A lifer. He'd live by the Corps, and now his time had come to die by the corps. To be buried by his brothers, in the very soil he gave his life to defend.
"Come on. Let's get in the car."
David turned, and let Jack lead him under his large, black umbrella back towards the shelter of his luxury vehicle. His driver, a stoic, quiet man David had never seen before, was quick on his feet, anticipating their approach, leaping from the driver's seat to open the back door for both men, then retrieving and storing Jack's umbrella in the trunk. The sound of the falling rain was reduced to a gentle hum once they were within the confines of the car, and still, David couldn't keep his gaze from the burial plot they'd just left behind, even as the grounds crew arrived as the vehicle departed to begin Collin's descent into his final resting place. As the car picks up speed and left the cemetery far behind them, David continues to stare out beyond the drops of rain gathered on the window.
"What do you think it is that makes a man choose the path he follows in life?"
Here we go. He should have known. Jack always picked times like these to wax poetic on the ways and wills of the world. He had a flair for this type of thing - for such a cold, brutal man, he had an alarmingly warm way with words. In another world, he could have been the president.
"I don't know, Jack. How do you mean?"
"Well - what do you think it is that sets a man on a path so winding and irregular, yet all roads just circumvent around the same, straight running freeway? What makes a man so driven to identify so staunchly as a tradesman, a Marine, and a firefighter, yet retain this stern, stoic composure as a street-wise skinhead - tough, upstanding man of the world?"
Dammit. He took that one hook, line, and sinker. When he wasn't opining on the trappings of the human mind, Jack could just as eloquently verbally break David down to one big convoluted pile of nothing. He knew that David had an unshakable sense of pride - David had once sat and listened to an hour long lecture on how the proud were naturally driven to the careers that he had chosen throughout his life. Proud of working with their hands, the working-class backbone of America. Proud of their country, the rich history, the opportunity to serve. Proud to take all this mentality, and give it back to their community, saving lives and helping strangers. But that wasn't the answer Jack was looking to fish out of him today. No, now that he thought about it, David knew exactly where Jack was going, and there was no sense fighting it, 'cause he'd just press on til he got his way.
"The brotherhood, Jack. The brotherhood."
"And how's that working out for you, Davey?"
"What's that.....what do you mean, Jack?"
"Let me tell you what I see, Davey. I see a tradesman who's brothers are only standing shoulder to shoulder in the unemployment line. I see a soldier traveling across the country, stopping in cemetaries around the nation to watch his brothers be lowered six feet under the ground. I see a firefighter, who's brothers all voted in favor of a bigger benefit package, at the expense of one of their own brothers' jobs - and amid them all, I see a skinhead, beaming with pride against the grain. Standing tall where the rest of the world would knock him down, and beside him? No one. Nothing. He's solitary, single - in a word? Alone."
"Is that right? And is that what you came here to do today? Did you come and get me from the funeral of one of my best friends, a man I consider a brother, just to pick me up and knock me down to size? Are we back to that again? What are you even doing here?!"
Jack looks at him, and the face he gives is as almost unreadable as his intentions here today. His eyes are pointed and fixed, staring back right into David's. His age features make his frown look forced, the kind a child would give when he doesn't get his way, but it's impossible to tell. Is he mad? Concerned? Sizing David up for the kill? How could he know this man so well, and not know him at all? When Jack finally speaks, his gravelly voice is solemn. Fatherly. Man of a thousand faces.
"I didn't come here to knock you down, Davey. I came here out of concern, however uncharacteristic of me that may be. You've lost so much in such a short amount of time, and the way I see it, you're more alone now than you've ever been. I know how you cling to all that garbage about brotherhood, and your obligatory creed to take another man's back, so long as he takes yours, but where you're at now, do you really think you're going to find anyone who's going to take your back?"
"Is this about the match? Did you really come all this way to harp on me about my match? Why do you even care? How does that concern you in the very least?"
"Davey - when I called you a "tough, upstanding man of the world", I meant every word. You're tough as nails. Your sense of honor, pride, and dignity is second to none, so much that your apple fell about as far as Newton's law would allow from your old man's tree - but your ability to keep on your toes couldn't rival that of a quadrilegic cripple. The standards that you hold yourself to don't apply to the rest of the world. They won't apply to your opponents this week, and they certainly won't apply to that partner of yours, Carter Contra. They're trying to kill you Davey."
Kill him? Could this old bastard even hear himself speak? He couldn't even fathom what the old man was saying. Here he was, making his early, relatively unremarkable way through the ranks of a professional wrestling organization, and he's sitting in the back seat of the newest model year Lincoln listening to a murderous old bastard talk about it like it's the business of the street. He couldn't take anymore.
"Stop the car."
The driver, on command, slams the brakes to a screeching halt, bringing the car to rest alongside a busy city street. David throws open the door, stepping out into the now downpouring rain. He crosses in front of the vehicle jumping up onto the sidewalk, and begins making his way away from the vehicle. Even over the pouring rain, he can hear the slam of another door, and he knows that Jack is hot on his heels. The splash of footsteps over the soaking wet concrete lets him know that Jack is right behind, as he pants breathlessly to keep up.
"Dammit, Davey, think about it! First they throw you in, trial by fire, into a match with a homicidal man who just happens to be the one colored fighter they could pit you against, and now what? They pit you against two guys cutting a path through the lower ranks of the company, and expect some kid from the city to get your back and help you hold your ground?"
"It's a tag team match, Jack! It's nothing out of the ordinary, nothing unusual, and certainly not a looming catch 22 deathtrap! Four rookies, broken into teams of two - nothing unusual!"
"And you think that Carter Contra is just going to look at the docket, see your name, and be fine and dandy putting his good, clean name in the same corner as the company's resident skinhead? I know that it's "not like that" and that you're just "misunderstood", but that's going to get you killed, Davey. Contra isn't going to want to associate himself with the guy that everyone may as well have already painted as Hitler's lost nephew, and when he leaves you in that corner, and I can promise you he will, you're going to be stuck taking on Shaw and Roberts by yourself. The company signing your paychecks knows that - why don't you, dammit?!"
For all his irrationality, he made valid points. He'd been a skinhead long enough to know that no one who's got a reputation to uphold wants to get caught shaking hands with one. That kind of guilt by association paints pictures of hatred, racism, and inherent evil, and those are some of the toughest labels to shake. Even still, Carter Contra was a good guy. A city kid, who'd worked for everything he had in life. A lot like David. Surely, he'd be of sound mind enough to look past the misconceptions of the vocal majority and see that David would have his back, so long as Carter had his.
"I want you to start looking at these matches of yours with more of a worldly view. I know they're just fights to you, fights to be won, but you need to see the bigger picture. Get in the car."
As they step back into the car, now soaked from their argument in the rain, David and Jack sit for the longest time in resolute silence. Last week was the first time they had seen each other in years, and their interaction was rather cordial, but this, now this was more like it. Shouting matches, neither willing to bend their resolution to let the other be right. This was the side of one another that they each knew. As the car continues on down the road, Jack reaches into the inside pocket of his blazer, procuring a legal size white envelope, miraculously still dry in spite of how soaked through Jack's coat is. Handing it to David, he calmly speaks.
"Your plane ticket. To New Orleans. I want you to get down there, and get your head in the game. Go in with your rationale, but carry with you mine. I'll be down in two days. Some things to tie up at home. You're a tough kid, Davey. I'll meet you down there, and we'll get through this one."
Davey has to laugh. He grins, for the first time today, looking down at the ticket in his hand. First class. The old bastard spared no expense.
"Would you listen to yourself? You sound like my manager. My very own Mickey to my Rocky."
At this, that devilish grin, from ear to ear, grows across Jack's face.
"Well, you know I have that way with people. Now get goin' you son of a bitch, 'cause Jacky loves ya!"
"Ready!"
"Aim!"
"Fire!"
"Ready!"
"Aim!"
"Fire!"
"Ready!"
"Aim!"
"Fire!"
Bang. Bang. Bang. Seven riflemen. Three 'fire' commands. A classic three round volley. As the smoke from the fired blanks fades quickly into the light, but steady rainfall, the brief silence is interrupted once more by the tapping roll of three snare drums, joined shortly afterward by the shrill, distinct sound of the Celtic bagpipes. The pipes prove to break not only the silence, but the stillness, as the gathered mourners begin to shuffle - some passing by the open grave, the flag-draped casket still held in place above the six foot hole, as if reluctant to take its place among the hundreds of neatly lined plots throughout the cemetery. As the small crowd begins to disperse, many sharing quick hugs and solemn goodbyes before retreating to the dry confines of their waiting vehicles, David Brennan steps forward, against the general flow of movement, toward the newly laid plot. Today, he's traded his typical attire for something altogether less jarring. A simple suit - black - and matching tie, his boots replaced a nicely shined pair of dress loafers. To have drawn that attention to himself today would have seemed disrespectful, and frankly, he wasn't in the mood. His hands clasped together in front of him, he stops, inches from the foot of the casket, and hangs his shaven head in a silent...prayer? Reflection? Lately, he wasn't sure what he believed anymore.The world was changing so quickly around him, he had barely had a silent moment to himself, and then something like this happens.
The rain picks up, growing ever steadier and louder against the surroundings of the now empty cemetery. His head still hung, David hardly even bothers to wipe away the water as it lands on his bald head, steadily streaming down into his eyes and face. Had he bothered, he may have noticed the slowly approaching, black Lincoln Towncar that had just come to a stop in the road behind him. He knew that he was no longer alone when he head the slam of the car door, and yet he kept his gaze fixed on the departed before him, even as he heard the steady slosh of footsteps approach from behind.
"Who was he?"
"His name was Collin Robinson."
"Brother of yours?"
"Mmm. We were deployed together in '03. Roomed together once we returned stateside."
2003. Eight years ago. It could have been yesterday. The harsh reality of that time and place were still so vivid in his mind. They called it "the suck", and yet, somehow, the fact that he was there with men he considered brothers convinced him that he wouldn't trade those times for anything in the world. He got out. Collin stayed in. Every man has dreams, and for him, from the Marines, would come a career as a firefighter. He'd bring the good fight home, using his talents to save lives on American soil. Collin was a career soldier. A lifer. He'd live by the Corps, and now his time had come to die by the corps. To be buried by his brothers, in the very soil he gave his life to defend.
"Come on. Let's get in the car."
David turned, and let Jack lead him under his large, black umbrella back towards the shelter of his luxury vehicle. His driver, a stoic, quiet man David had never seen before, was quick on his feet, anticipating their approach, leaping from the driver's seat to open the back door for both men, then retrieving and storing Jack's umbrella in the trunk. The sound of the falling rain was reduced to a gentle hum once they were within the confines of the car, and still, David couldn't keep his gaze from the burial plot they'd just left behind, even as the grounds crew arrived as the vehicle departed to begin Collin's descent into his final resting place. As the car picks up speed and left the cemetery far behind them, David continues to stare out beyond the drops of rain gathered on the window.
"What do you think it is that makes a man choose the path he follows in life?"
Here we go. He should have known. Jack always picked times like these to wax poetic on the ways and wills of the world. He had a flair for this type of thing - for such a cold, brutal man, he had an alarmingly warm way with words. In another world, he could have been the president.
"I don't know, Jack. How do you mean?"
"Well - what do you think it is that sets a man on a path so winding and irregular, yet all roads just circumvent around the same, straight running freeway? What makes a man so driven to identify so staunchly as a tradesman, a Marine, and a firefighter, yet retain this stern, stoic composure as a street-wise skinhead - tough, upstanding man of the world?"
Dammit. He took that one hook, line, and sinker. When he wasn't opining on the trappings of the human mind, Jack could just as eloquently verbally break David down to one big convoluted pile of nothing. He knew that David had an unshakable sense of pride - David had once sat and listened to an hour long lecture on how the proud were naturally driven to the careers that he had chosen throughout his life. Proud of working with their hands, the working-class backbone of America. Proud of their country, the rich history, the opportunity to serve. Proud to take all this mentality, and give it back to their community, saving lives and helping strangers. But that wasn't the answer Jack was looking to fish out of him today. No, now that he thought about it, David knew exactly where Jack was going, and there was no sense fighting it, 'cause he'd just press on til he got his way.
"The brotherhood, Jack. The brotherhood."
"And how's that working out for you, Davey?"
"What's that.....what do you mean, Jack?"
"Let me tell you what I see, Davey. I see a tradesman who's brothers are only standing shoulder to shoulder in the unemployment line. I see a soldier traveling across the country, stopping in cemetaries around the nation to watch his brothers be lowered six feet under the ground. I see a firefighter, who's brothers all voted in favor of a bigger benefit package, at the expense of one of their own brothers' jobs - and amid them all, I see a skinhead, beaming with pride against the grain. Standing tall where the rest of the world would knock him down, and beside him? No one. Nothing. He's solitary, single - in a word? Alone."
"Is that right? And is that what you came here to do today? Did you come and get me from the funeral of one of my best friends, a man I consider a brother, just to pick me up and knock me down to size? Are we back to that again? What are you even doing here?!"
Jack looks at him, and the face he gives is as almost unreadable as his intentions here today. His eyes are pointed and fixed, staring back right into David's. His age features make his frown look forced, the kind a child would give when he doesn't get his way, but it's impossible to tell. Is he mad? Concerned? Sizing David up for the kill? How could he know this man so well, and not know him at all? When Jack finally speaks, his gravelly voice is solemn. Fatherly. Man of a thousand faces.
"I didn't come here to knock you down, Davey. I came here out of concern, however uncharacteristic of me that may be. You've lost so much in such a short amount of time, and the way I see it, you're more alone now than you've ever been. I know how you cling to all that garbage about brotherhood, and your obligatory creed to take another man's back, so long as he takes yours, but where you're at now, do you really think you're going to find anyone who's going to take your back?"
"Is this about the match? Did you really come all this way to harp on me about my match? Why do you even care? How does that concern you in the very least?"
"Davey - when I called you a "tough, upstanding man of the world", I meant every word. You're tough as nails. Your sense of honor, pride, and dignity is second to none, so much that your apple fell about as far as Newton's law would allow from your old man's tree - but your ability to keep on your toes couldn't rival that of a quadrilegic cripple. The standards that you hold yourself to don't apply to the rest of the world. They won't apply to your opponents this week, and they certainly won't apply to that partner of yours, Carter Contra. They're trying to kill you Davey."
Kill him? Could this old bastard even hear himself speak? He couldn't even fathom what the old man was saying. Here he was, making his early, relatively unremarkable way through the ranks of a professional wrestling organization, and he's sitting in the back seat of the newest model year Lincoln listening to a murderous old bastard talk about it like it's the business of the street. He couldn't take anymore.
"Stop the car."
The driver, on command, slams the brakes to a screeching halt, bringing the car to rest alongside a busy city street. David throws open the door, stepping out into the now downpouring rain. He crosses in front of the vehicle jumping up onto the sidewalk, and begins making his way away from the vehicle. Even over the pouring rain, he can hear the slam of another door, and he knows that Jack is hot on his heels. The splash of footsteps over the soaking wet concrete lets him know that Jack is right behind, as he pants breathlessly to keep up.
"Dammit, Davey, think about it! First they throw you in, trial by fire, into a match with a homicidal man who just happens to be the one colored fighter they could pit you against, and now what? They pit you against two guys cutting a path through the lower ranks of the company, and expect some kid from the city to get your back and help you hold your ground?"
"It's a tag team match, Jack! It's nothing out of the ordinary, nothing unusual, and certainly not a looming catch 22 deathtrap! Four rookies, broken into teams of two - nothing unusual!"
"And you think that Carter Contra is just going to look at the docket, see your name, and be fine and dandy putting his good, clean name in the same corner as the company's resident skinhead? I know that it's "not like that" and that you're just "misunderstood", but that's going to get you killed, Davey. Contra isn't going to want to associate himself with the guy that everyone may as well have already painted as Hitler's lost nephew, and when he leaves you in that corner, and I can promise you he will, you're going to be stuck taking on Shaw and Roberts by yourself. The company signing your paychecks knows that - why don't you, dammit?!"
For all his irrationality, he made valid points. He'd been a skinhead long enough to know that no one who's got a reputation to uphold wants to get caught shaking hands with one. That kind of guilt by association paints pictures of hatred, racism, and inherent evil, and those are some of the toughest labels to shake. Even still, Carter Contra was a good guy. A city kid, who'd worked for everything he had in life. A lot like David. Surely, he'd be of sound mind enough to look past the misconceptions of the vocal majority and see that David would have his back, so long as Carter had his.
"I want you to start looking at these matches of yours with more of a worldly view. I know they're just fights to you, fights to be won, but you need to see the bigger picture. Get in the car."
As they step back into the car, now soaked from their argument in the rain, David and Jack sit for the longest time in resolute silence. Last week was the first time they had seen each other in years, and their interaction was rather cordial, but this, now this was more like it. Shouting matches, neither willing to bend their resolution to let the other be right. This was the side of one another that they each knew. As the car continues on down the road, Jack reaches into the inside pocket of his blazer, procuring a legal size white envelope, miraculously still dry in spite of how soaked through Jack's coat is. Handing it to David, he calmly speaks.
"Your plane ticket. To New Orleans. I want you to get down there, and get your head in the game. Go in with your rationale, but carry with you mine. I'll be down in two days. Some things to tie up at home. You're a tough kid, Davey. I'll meet you down there, and we'll get through this one."
Davey has to laugh. He grins, for the first time today, looking down at the ticket in his hand. First class. The old bastard spared no expense.
"Would you listen to yourself? You sound like my manager. My very own Mickey to my Rocky."
At this, that devilish grin, from ear to ear, grows across Jack's face.
"Well, you know I have that way with people. Now get goin' you son of a bitch, 'cause Jacky loves ya!"
I dont know good luck 
