Post by CM Poor on Jan 13, 2012 16:37:14 GMT -5
Too Late, Ride It Out
"Mom's worried."
"Tell her not to be."
"Not about the drink. She doesn't know about that, and I'm not going to be the one to tell her."
"Then what's there to worry about?"
"She heard you'd been spending time with Jack."
"Well, that's not happening any more, so all's good."
"There's still the drink."
"Don't you start, too."
"Are you going to meetings?"
"You wanna fly out here and meet me for a drink?
"Dammit, David. Call me when you're sober."
"Will do. Talk to you in four years."
Family. Funny lil' thing. He smiles to himself as he hangs up the phone, taking another long draw from his bottle, running it dry. Smile fades. He reaches off the side of the bed, tossing the lid of the styrofoam cooler he had kept bedside aside, and reaching in to the mix of icy water and steadily melting ice floating amid it. No dice. He looks across the hotel room toward the desk opposite the bed. Nothing warm. This won't do. He looks at the bedside alarm clock. 11:30pm. Cutoff time. Damn liquor commission. He could head to the hotel bar downstairs, but he'd been there once already today and had come dangerously close to killing a man. Come to think of it, any bar at all would entail a sort of human interaction that just wasn't befitting of him these past few weeks, but he wasn't about to simply go without.
The notion dawns on him about ten minutes in as he sits on the edge of the bed, taking in his surroundings. It's the sort of notion that would have just come naturally to him during his days of sobriety, but the drink adled his mind into something much more complex. Simple thoughts became scientific equations, the likes of which Will Hunting would be hard pressed to resolve. Strange town. Strange room. Hotel. Beer on the go. He was here at the behest of a new friend. Him with friends - funny that. He scours the room, for what seems like hours, before coming upon the hotel stationary, pinned to the bathroom sink with a glass of brown, southern courage, the ice cubes barely still present, floating and fading aimlessly amid the likely watered down gift. Scrawled on the stationary, barely legible through a mix of adled handwriting and a dying pen, is the number "317". It tells him enough. He pulls on a nearby t-shirt, stained with the usual mix of dirt, spam, and someone's blood - possibly his, grabs the drink, and heads out into the hall. He needs to check his own door - 737 - for directions, and then begins making his way.
A brief walk, and an uneasy on the stomach ride on the elevator later, and he finds himself now before door number 317. Even if his eyes were to fail him, he'd likely have been able to find the door without much effort. In contrast to the usual quiet of the third floor patrons, the muffled sounds of both the television, and likely fornication permeated into the hall. He knocks, his usual knock, likely destined to one day take a door off its hinges, and waits. Muffled discussion. Shuffling. He knocks again, and seconds later, the door swings open, and there, for the world to behold, stands the one, the only - Michael Kyzer. Shirtless, wearing pants that have been very plainly haphazardly tossed on at a moments notice, a rolled joint pressed between his lips. David indulges in the watered down drink in his hand, hoping to kill the thought of what he may have just interrupted.
"Come in, and make yourself at home."
He'd rather not, thanks. Still, Jack was out of the picture, and for the first time in his...career, I guess you'd say, he was alone. These new acquaintances might be his lone chance of survival - best to not be putting them off. Respect is so hard to come by these days.
Even then, the place makes David look well put together. An unfamiliar face, looking slightly less together than himself, passed out of the couch. Another unfamiliar face - a woman - laying half concious on the bed wearing only what graced her with on her birthday. Strewn about the room is all one could expect from such a scene - paraphernalia, used prophylatics, piles of powder and other obvious narcotics throughout. He shudders at the thought of the maintenance charges, and quickly downs his drink, looking for an unreachable reprieve.
"Can we go to the bar downstairs instead? I don’t want to .... err, rock the boat with what you have going on here."
The thought of human interaction is made altogether desirable, given the scene before him. He just wants...no, needs a drink, dammit. This was going to take some getting used to. He was under the impression that he'd already hit the point he'd been at years ago, but this working relationship, well this was going to require something much stronger. Kyzer tilts his head at the request, then laughs from behind the bar, fixing a drink as he speaks.
"Absolutely, my friend! Just let me get ready."
David marvels as Kyzer crouches down to level with the hotel room bar, and without hesitation kicks back four lines of...well, something. David makes to drink from his empty glass, frowning as his lips meet the dry emptiness, as Kyzer knocks his head back, wipes his nose clean (as it can be), and steps out from behind the bar, now standing stark ass naked before David.
"Ready!"
"You should....probably put on a shirt and some shoes....or something..."
Kyzer just smiles as he takes in what David has just seen, pulling up his pants, and grabbing the nearest shirt and tossing it on aimlessly.
"Minor details, my friend. You've run dry - let's get you a drink!"
As they exit the room, David makes once more for the elevator, but has to double back, as it would appear Kyzer prefers the stairs. All the better. The elevator ride from 7 to 3 was bad enough. David is adjusting to life with the drink again, but elevators were bad enough sober. Walking, on the other hand, was slowly becoming second nature. Functioning alcoholic, indeed. Functioning, brilliant, alcoholic.
Kyzer lights himself another smoke as they descend the gloomy staircase, in spite of the clearly posted "No Smoking" signs. One puff of smoke is enough to tell David that it's not just harmless tobacco he's smoking.
"Are you worried?"
"Should I be?"
"I wouldn't be. Ace Bennett is unstable. Off his pills."
"Who?"
Kyzer stops ahead of David on a mid floor landing at this, turns back, and grins a wide, stupid grin. He laughs as he turns ahead, continuing down the stairs.
"You keep impressing me, Brennan. Who, indeed.
David pauses as Kyzer puts a couple of steps distance between them. Maybe it's due to the fact that he hasn't had a drink in close to ten minutes, but he was struggling to see the humor here. Shaking it off, he continued on down the stairs, skipping a few to catch up to his new acquaintance. They finally reach the 1st floor landing, making a brief pass through the lobby (as Kyzer makes a less than brief pass at the front desk receptionist) before Michael tosses the elegant, wooden, double swinging doors of the hotel's dark, moody bar wide open with great grandeur, tossing his arms wide open as he steps through, making nothing less than a grand, attention grabbing entrance. David is relieved to see that both the bartender and patron that he encountered earlier in the day have since retired, leaving only a small crowd and a night tender to the evening shift.
"Drinks for all! Except you, you, you, you, and you..."
Each patron lets off a disapproving frown or hand gesture as Kyzer indicates each with a point of the finger, the bartender included. He leads David over to a table surrounded with rather welcoming looking chairs, tucked neatly away in a corner of the room - secluded enough to allow for some conversational privacy, but near enoguh to allow Kyzer a platform from which to continue his excessive diatribe.
"Whiskey and water, pronto! Beer?"
"High Life."
"And 8 rounds of High Life!"
For the first time all night, David smiles to himself as Kyzer barks orders to busboys and waitresses throughout the bar. Get him away from all the excess upstairs, and he's a half decent guy. David never made much habit of associating with those who's vices were more gripping than the drink, but as far as coke fiends go, Kyzer wasn't half bad. Before long, a waitress arrives with a tray filled to the brim with glasses full of ice, two bottles of Jack Daniels Tennessee Whiskey, a pitcher of water, and 16 glasses of Miller High Life. Rather than distribute the drinks across the rather small table, she opts instead for a tray stand, leaving the boys with a miniature, table side bar all their own. Kyzer gestures for David for imbibe as he lights himself another joint, animatedly speaking to his newfound enforcer.
"We, that is, this new, ah, 'coalition' of sorts, find ourselves in a most unique and opportune position, my friend. Surely, you recognize that?"
David finds himself not yet at the higher plane of thinking that Kyzer has clearly found himself upon. Rather than acknowledging or denying the man's allegation, he simply tilts the clear bottle back, relishing the fizz and liquor once more flowing through his system, and widens his eyes, non verbally asking Kyzer to continue.
"Surely, you've read your history books, and know that Drakz and myself are no strangers to power. While the course has yet to even be laid, plans yet to even be fully flourished, we three find ourselves poised in a very early, very formidable position of power."
"How so?"
"See the forest for the trees, my friend! It may come as something of a shock to you, but I am currently, and for the forseeable future, the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion!"
"Don't you have to defend the title soon? That's why we're here at this juncture, isn't it? The guy I fought last week."
"Surely, you mean the man we broke last week. Schneider's a drop in the bucket. He's seasoned - it's no wonder he gave you a bit of a runaround - but we, ah, saw to that, didn't we?"
"And me and Drakz?"
Kyzer laughs again. He takes notice of David's empty bottle, and takes it upon himself to reach out and procure another for him. A High Life of peace. How symbolic.
"You're already coming into your own here, Brennan. Making sure there's a piece of the pie left for you, and a cold beer to wash it down! David, I can't promise you gold, only because of current circumstance, but I can promise that come next pay-per-view, well before I am once again crowned reigning champion, either you or Drakz will have your arms raised in victory as the new International champion. I only associate with top-tier talent. Brennan."
Right. The tournament. Ace Bennett. That's where he'd heard the name. Truth be told, he'd been fighting blind since he lost to his new comrade, Drakz, upon the man's return at Superbrawl. That was the night he returned to the bottle, the night storm hit, so to speak. No need to look into his opponents, that's what the ring announcer's for. She'll tell you who you're fighting.
"Right. The tournament. Ace Bennett. Suppose things go right, and I cut him down. Suppose things go right on Drakz' end, and the pay-per-view winds up with us facing each other again?"
"Then my prediction will have come true! All hail Michael Kyzer, psychic to the stars! Make no mistake - we've factored that much. This triple entente of ours is an agreement, a joint union of respect. You two have already met and were able to walk the path to where we are now. No punches pulled. If, and I wouldn't be too off to say when you two meet again for that title, it's all the same. No punches pulled. We reel that belt in, and continue the pursuit. I assure you, Drakz will be in the very same mindset."
Downing another beer, Brennan has to laugh. The exuberance. The arrogance. The constant flow of drinks and substance. No regard for the public, or their opinion. Living most of his adult life as a skinhead, David had learned a certain disregard for the court of public opinion, but never to this degree. This was something he could never have before forseen with a sober eye. But he had to feel Kyzer was right - a storm was coming. Another storm hit. Jack once told him that the company was trying to set himself up for the kill. With just one loss, David rediscovered a new perspective on the world, and with one more, he'd found himself in the eye of the storm, on a collision course with the rest of the WFWF. He pours himself a whiskey, downs it quickly, and pours another. He'd seen it all before, but never lived it. He could get used to this.
"So I see that you don’t have an embellished lifestyle..."
It's Kyzer's turn to smile. He reaches for the bottle of Jack, reaches across the table, and refills David's emptying glass.
"Of course. Why not live every day like it is your last?"
"Mom's worried."
"Tell her not to be."
"Not about the drink. She doesn't know about that, and I'm not going to be the one to tell her."
"Then what's there to worry about?"
"She heard you'd been spending time with Jack."
"Well, that's not happening any more, so all's good."
"There's still the drink."
"Don't you start, too."
"Are you going to meetings?"
"You wanna fly out here and meet me for a drink?
"Dammit, David. Call me when you're sober."
"Will do. Talk to you in four years."
Family. Funny lil' thing. He smiles to himself as he hangs up the phone, taking another long draw from his bottle, running it dry. Smile fades. He reaches off the side of the bed, tossing the lid of the styrofoam cooler he had kept bedside aside, and reaching in to the mix of icy water and steadily melting ice floating amid it. No dice. He looks across the hotel room toward the desk opposite the bed. Nothing warm. This won't do. He looks at the bedside alarm clock. 11:30pm. Cutoff time. Damn liquor commission. He could head to the hotel bar downstairs, but he'd been there once already today and had come dangerously close to killing a man. Come to think of it, any bar at all would entail a sort of human interaction that just wasn't befitting of him these past few weeks, but he wasn't about to simply go without.
The notion dawns on him about ten minutes in as he sits on the edge of the bed, taking in his surroundings. It's the sort of notion that would have just come naturally to him during his days of sobriety, but the drink adled his mind into something much more complex. Simple thoughts became scientific equations, the likes of which Will Hunting would be hard pressed to resolve. Strange town. Strange room. Hotel. Beer on the go. He was here at the behest of a new friend. Him with friends - funny that. He scours the room, for what seems like hours, before coming upon the hotel stationary, pinned to the bathroom sink with a glass of brown, southern courage, the ice cubes barely still present, floating and fading aimlessly amid the likely watered down gift. Scrawled on the stationary, barely legible through a mix of adled handwriting and a dying pen, is the number "317". It tells him enough. He pulls on a nearby t-shirt, stained with the usual mix of dirt, spam, and someone's blood - possibly his, grabs the drink, and heads out into the hall. He needs to check his own door - 737 - for directions, and then begins making his way.
A brief walk, and an uneasy on the stomach ride on the elevator later, and he finds himself now before door number 317. Even if his eyes were to fail him, he'd likely have been able to find the door without much effort. In contrast to the usual quiet of the third floor patrons, the muffled sounds of both the television, and likely fornication permeated into the hall. He knocks, his usual knock, likely destined to one day take a door off its hinges, and waits. Muffled discussion. Shuffling. He knocks again, and seconds later, the door swings open, and there, for the world to behold, stands the one, the only - Michael Kyzer. Shirtless, wearing pants that have been very plainly haphazardly tossed on at a moments notice, a rolled joint pressed between his lips. David indulges in the watered down drink in his hand, hoping to kill the thought of what he may have just interrupted.
"Come in, and make yourself at home."
He'd rather not, thanks. Still, Jack was out of the picture, and for the first time in his...career, I guess you'd say, he was alone. These new acquaintances might be his lone chance of survival - best to not be putting them off. Respect is so hard to come by these days.
Even then, the place makes David look well put together. An unfamiliar face, looking slightly less together than himself, passed out of the couch. Another unfamiliar face - a woman - laying half concious on the bed wearing only what graced her with on her birthday. Strewn about the room is all one could expect from such a scene - paraphernalia, used prophylatics, piles of powder and other obvious narcotics throughout. He shudders at the thought of the maintenance charges, and quickly downs his drink, looking for an unreachable reprieve.
"Can we go to the bar downstairs instead? I don’t want to .... err, rock the boat with what you have going on here."
The thought of human interaction is made altogether desirable, given the scene before him. He just wants...no, needs a drink, dammit. This was going to take some getting used to. He was under the impression that he'd already hit the point he'd been at years ago, but this working relationship, well this was going to require something much stronger. Kyzer tilts his head at the request, then laughs from behind the bar, fixing a drink as he speaks.
"Absolutely, my friend! Just let me get ready."
David marvels as Kyzer crouches down to level with the hotel room bar, and without hesitation kicks back four lines of...well, something. David makes to drink from his empty glass, frowning as his lips meet the dry emptiness, as Kyzer knocks his head back, wipes his nose clean (as it can be), and steps out from behind the bar, now standing stark ass naked before David.
"Ready!"
"You should....probably put on a shirt and some shoes....or something..."
Kyzer just smiles as he takes in what David has just seen, pulling up his pants, and grabbing the nearest shirt and tossing it on aimlessly.
"Minor details, my friend. You've run dry - let's get you a drink!"
As they exit the room, David makes once more for the elevator, but has to double back, as it would appear Kyzer prefers the stairs. All the better. The elevator ride from 7 to 3 was bad enough. David is adjusting to life with the drink again, but elevators were bad enough sober. Walking, on the other hand, was slowly becoming second nature. Functioning alcoholic, indeed. Functioning, brilliant, alcoholic.
Kyzer lights himself another smoke as they descend the gloomy staircase, in spite of the clearly posted "No Smoking" signs. One puff of smoke is enough to tell David that it's not just harmless tobacco he's smoking.
"Are you worried?"
"Should I be?"
"I wouldn't be. Ace Bennett is unstable. Off his pills."
"Who?"
Kyzer stops ahead of David on a mid floor landing at this, turns back, and grins a wide, stupid grin. He laughs as he turns ahead, continuing down the stairs.
"You keep impressing me, Brennan. Who, indeed.
David pauses as Kyzer puts a couple of steps distance between them. Maybe it's due to the fact that he hasn't had a drink in close to ten minutes, but he was struggling to see the humor here. Shaking it off, he continued on down the stairs, skipping a few to catch up to his new acquaintance. They finally reach the 1st floor landing, making a brief pass through the lobby (as Kyzer makes a less than brief pass at the front desk receptionist) before Michael tosses the elegant, wooden, double swinging doors of the hotel's dark, moody bar wide open with great grandeur, tossing his arms wide open as he steps through, making nothing less than a grand, attention grabbing entrance. David is relieved to see that both the bartender and patron that he encountered earlier in the day have since retired, leaving only a small crowd and a night tender to the evening shift.
"Drinks for all! Except you, you, you, you, and you..."
Each patron lets off a disapproving frown or hand gesture as Kyzer indicates each with a point of the finger, the bartender included. He leads David over to a table surrounded with rather welcoming looking chairs, tucked neatly away in a corner of the room - secluded enough to allow for some conversational privacy, but near enoguh to allow Kyzer a platform from which to continue his excessive diatribe.
"Whiskey and water, pronto! Beer?"
"High Life."
"And 8 rounds of High Life!"
For the first time all night, David smiles to himself as Kyzer barks orders to busboys and waitresses throughout the bar. Get him away from all the excess upstairs, and he's a half decent guy. David never made much habit of associating with those who's vices were more gripping than the drink, but as far as coke fiends go, Kyzer wasn't half bad. Before long, a waitress arrives with a tray filled to the brim with glasses full of ice, two bottles of Jack Daniels Tennessee Whiskey, a pitcher of water, and 16 glasses of Miller High Life. Rather than distribute the drinks across the rather small table, she opts instead for a tray stand, leaving the boys with a miniature, table side bar all their own. Kyzer gestures for David for imbibe as he lights himself another joint, animatedly speaking to his newfound enforcer.
"We, that is, this new, ah, 'coalition' of sorts, find ourselves in a most unique and opportune position, my friend. Surely, you recognize that?"
David finds himself not yet at the higher plane of thinking that Kyzer has clearly found himself upon. Rather than acknowledging or denying the man's allegation, he simply tilts the clear bottle back, relishing the fizz and liquor once more flowing through his system, and widens his eyes, non verbally asking Kyzer to continue.
"Surely, you've read your history books, and know that Drakz and myself are no strangers to power. While the course has yet to even be laid, plans yet to even be fully flourished, we three find ourselves poised in a very early, very formidable position of power."
"How so?"
"See the forest for the trees, my friend! It may come as something of a shock to you, but I am currently, and for the forseeable future, the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion!"
"Don't you have to defend the title soon? That's why we're here at this juncture, isn't it? The guy I fought last week."
"Surely, you mean the man we broke last week. Schneider's a drop in the bucket. He's seasoned - it's no wonder he gave you a bit of a runaround - but we, ah, saw to that, didn't we?"
"And me and Drakz?"
Kyzer laughs again. He takes notice of David's empty bottle, and takes it upon himself to reach out and procure another for him. A High Life of peace. How symbolic.
"You're already coming into your own here, Brennan. Making sure there's a piece of the pie left for you, and a cold beer to wash it down! David, I can't promise you gold, only because of current circumstance, but I can promise that come next pay-per-view, well before I am once again crowned reigning champion, either you or Drakz will have your arms raised in victory as the new International champion. I only associate with top-tier talent. Brennan."
Right. The tournament. Ace Bennett. That's where he'd heard the name. Truth be told, he'd been fighting blind since he lost to his new comrade, Drakz, upon the man's return at Superbrawl. That was the night he returned to the bottle, the night storm hit, so to speak. No need to look into his opponents, that's what the ring announcer's for. She'll tell you who you're fighting.
"Right. The tournament. Ace Bennett. Suppose things go right, and I cut him down. Suppose things go right on Drakz' end, and the pay-per-view winds up with us facing each other again?"
"Then my prediction will have come true! All hail Michael Kyzer, psychic to the stars! Make no mistake - we've factored that much. This triple entente of ours is an agreement, a joint union of respect. You two have already met and were able to walk the path to where we are now. No punches pulled. If, and I wouldn't be too off to say when you two meet again for that title, it's all the same. No punches pulled. We reel that belt in, and continue the pursuit. I assure you, Drakz will be in the very same mindset."
Downing another beer, Brennan has to laugh. The exuberance. The arrogance. The constant flow of drinks and substance. No regard for the public, or their opinion. Living most of his adult life as a skinhead, David had learned a certain disregard for the court of public opinion, but never to this degree. This was something he could never have before forseen with a sober eye. But he had to feel Kyzer was right - a storm was coming. Another storm hit. Jack once told him that the company was trying to set himself up for the kill. With just one loss, David rediscovered a new perspective on the world, and with one more, he'd found himself in the eye of the storm, on a collision course with the rest of the WFWF. He pours himself a whiskey, downs it quickly, and pours another. He'd seen it all before, but never lived it. He could get used to this.
"So I see that you don’t have an embellished lifestyle..."
It's Kyzer's turn to smile. He reaches for the bottle of Jack, reaches across the table, and refills David's emptying glass.
"Of course. Why not live every day like it is your last?"
I dont know good luck 
