Post by CM Poor on Feb 4, 2012 10:06:51 GMT -5
The Condition Of Being David Brennan
Alcoholics - that is, by definition, those who have chosen to accept and cope with what they'll call a disease - have what is called a "moment a clarity", when, through the course of recovery, the effects of the alcohol are lifted, and for the first time since falling to the disease, they are able to think clearly without the distraction of argument and noise brought on by the drink.
Among those who have yet to experience their own personal "moment", there are the functioning alcoholics - those who have developed, through their own personal struggle with the disease, an aptitude for compartmentalizing their lives: a time to work, a time to relate, and a time to drink. Many times, the disease can go unrecognized, and therefor highly denied, as one who functions fails to fit the stereotype world view of an "alcoholic".
For a condition so wrought with terminology, symptoms, and case study, upon case study, upon case study, one might be so inclined as to devote much research and observation to the condition of being David Brennan.
A snapshot into the past few weeks of being David Brennan might deceptively cause the casual observer to "open and shut" the book on this particular case, so to speak, and consequently, would find that particular study, come this evening, sorely lacking.
To properly comprehend, it's important to understand that, for at least those present tonight, there is nothing at all "unusual" that would lend itself to this particular unique state of being David Brennan. No planets have aligned, no drastic change has befallen the Earth's atmosphere, and for the moment, there have been no notable shifts in the tectonic plates upon which our players currently stand. No, for all intents and purposes, tonight is a night not unlike any other night before it, or any to come after. To the casual viewer, something might seem off regarding the myriad that lies spread out before our subject - to his immediate left, ominious, unwatched, perfectly cut lines of some questionable substance, waiting to be drawn up the nasal line of some stricken party goer. To all ends around him, loose women of all walks, from the very high to the very, very low, in all manner of undress and compromising position. Of course, to his immediate disposal, a seemingly endless cache of the finest that the Miller Brewing Company has to offer, chased alternatingly with a just as copious supply of Tennessee's finest. At the center of it all, a decadent, most over-the-top throne, beseated by a man currently not in any state of dress or conciousness, still clung to by any number of harlots at his feet.
It's also important to understand when taking in the man who casually leans upon the bar this evening, resting his weight lightly on one elbow, clutching a clear glass bottle of amber bubbly, that he is, by all scientific and clinical definition, an alcoholic. To be much less prudent, and more forthcoming, one might call him a "raging" alcoholic. The excess to which he drinks might best be compared to the habits of a chain smoker - he cracks the next bottle before he's downed the last drop of the previous one. The strain he's put on his family is near immeasurable - not that he's noticed. In fact, when confronted with the notion of rekindling some of those damaged relationships, he'd likely be just as content to have a drink and never mind the whole thing, thanks.
To observe him, to take him in, as he takes in the decadence before him, however, paints that deceptive picture. There's not a hint of stagger as he shifts his weight to his legs to procure himself his next beer. His down to Earth, blue collar, all American brogue, while far removed from "sophisticated" never once dips into even the slightest drawl or slur. He tired, for sure. On another man, the pockets under his eyes might offer a tell-tale sign - he, however, hides it among the rest of his rugged features. The rest of his face, apart from the grin he wears tonight, is sullen and worn, barely shaven, sculpted to an edge by the things he's seen and done. His dome is a return to form. Those prior weeks of case study saw him perhaps abandoning the signature mark of the skinhead lifestyle that has embodied much of his adult life, but tonight there is not but a faint shadow of his natural, dark brown hair. His style is not as sharp as it once was, but it does the trick. He's altogether more casual in his approach than before, but through a more weathered, beaten visage, the heart of the skinhead inside still beats.
Indeed, there are those that identify as alcoholics. There are those that can be identified through study and intervention, as HFAs. And then, of course, there is David Brennan.
"All right there, then?"
He'd hardly even seen his opponent through the smoke and the sex and all that. He smiles. Come to think of it, he'd been doing a lot of that these past few weeks. It was, after all, following his less than devastating, altogether blip on the radar loss to Obo The Hobo two weeks prior, that something clicked in his head, and things began running like clockwork once more. Walking, talking, eating, and sleeping. It was like all the wonders of sobriety, with none of the headache or mounting pressure. Point of functionality? Moment of clarity? Wasn't he in the midst of a conversation?
"You disappeared on us for a minute there."
"Bathroom."
"That must have been one hell of a sh*t..."
"Needed a haircut."
Little specks of hair smear across his free hand as he drags it across his freshly shaven dome. Return to form. He smiles at his friend as he aggressively wipes his hand down the leg of his jeans to shake the stray hairs. He'd usually shower after something like that, but a party is a party, and he'd never really had the honor or desigantion of "distinguished guest". That's something worth reveling in. Admittedly, he was right out of his element here - street hardended skinhead living it up among the indulgent and the incorrigible. It'd be like bringing his new friends to one of the Allentown dives. Still, where there's beer, he's near.
"Hope you swept up - not that he'd notice."
He motions in the general direction of their beseated host, still very much embedded in a state of being....well, call it a state of being. At any rate, for the time being, he's right - he'd be very much hard pressed to notice much of anything in his current state of....yeah.
"Mescaline?"
"Could be anything. Hardly a substance running the streets today that couldn't put you in a right state, you take it in enough. How many are you on now?"
"Stopped counting sometime last week."
The two rivals laugh at this for what seems like ages. It's not that funny - it's actually horrific in its honesty, but who's paying attention. He used to pocket bottle caps and bar tabs to keep a running count, but since his reindulgence, keeping score just seemed amateurish. This reemergence, this new condition of being David Brennan, this was a higher plane of existence. He'd heard the tales of his new friends, prior to the three of them ever sharing occupations, placing themselves on pedastals of existence, walking between the raindrops amid mere mortals in their paths, driven to such great heights by the sheer overindulgence they shared, but it was only now, in this new state of being, that he truly understood, as he travels amid the smut filled room with his opponent. Where his state of inebriation might have hindered lesser men, he walks as if he and his friend are the lone guests in attendance this evening.
"And so, round 2..."
"Are you worried?"
"Are you?
He grins a stupid grin as he says it. Should he live to see another week, this will go down as the most unusual fight he'll likely ever find himself stepping into. Not even a month ago, the two of them met for the first time as nothing more than opponents - one dead set on making a comeback that was, to that point, eighteen months in the making. He was dead set on nothing more than winning. Cut a swath through a sea of competition, making a name for himself. It seems so...well....trivial now. He lost that match. That was the night. The night that set him on the path, not so much a downward spiral, given your perspective, but I suppose some might call it that, that put him where he is today. The state of David Brennan one month removed from today would not have been able to stand here, in this room, with these people, putting down drinks as fast as he could procure them, making idle chatter about a match that likely had little bearing on either of them. The end result was the same - either Drakz or himself would be stepping into the next gala of entertainment and televisionary price gouging to take on either one of two seemingly insignificant, nothing, go in without a game plan and take it all opponents. It would seem unlikely that the Trace Demon and Mak Cross were spending their night indulging in the company of one another, their minds far away from any sort of worry regarding their upcoming row.
"Until you'd mentioned it, I hadn't even given it a second thought, really..."
It really was a fight born of circumstance and respect. David has seen his share of those. Two skins find themselves in a disagreement over something menial, throw a couple of punches to let off some steam, and at the end of the day, it's back to the bar for a night of cold ones and good tunes. Drakz was about as far removed from being a skinhead as possible, and his choice in poison varied something static from David's, but that was the respect. Two guys, two entirely different guys, one common goal. One of them was going to walk away victorious, and whoever didn't was going to find himself in the other's corner in the end. Well, three guys really, when you count the as of right now incapacitated Michael Kyzer, upon whom the two friends now find themselves stumbled upon. Still in something of a state of disrepair, strewn ambly about across his rather extravagant, center of the floor throne, something sparks a signal of the best of company in his mind, as no sooner have the two opponents come across him, he opens one eye. The other joins its partner shortly, and they dart several times from Drakz, to David, back to Drakz, back to David, sizing up each man individually - not suspiciously, but more observationally. Taking in the scene.
"I hope you swept up.
"Not that he'd notice, he says."
"You've run dry..."
Kyzer now has his eyes fixated upon the empty bottle in David's hand. Can't very well take the whole bar with you. Before David even has a moment to take in the empty bottle that Kyzer has just observed, he finds himself face to face with a fresh one - capped, cold, and ready to go.
"...how?"
"Magic."
He slumps back into his element as he says it. Clearly, tonight has been a good night for the uncanny Michael Kyzer. Leaving him to his plateau, the two friends of concious mind and state make their way out of the room. Stopping once more at the convenient bar where David had begun his night, he procures several more bottles of High Life, stuffing them in his arms as the two opponents make headway now for some fresh air.
"Don't over do it now..."
"This? Coming from you?"
"Well, you'll want to have stock for the show. After all, any way you slice it, we're going to find ourselves with a victory to herald."
Settling in on the front steps, David cracks open two bottles, offering one to his friend seated at his side. Drakz declines, instead opting to light himself a roll of questionable substance, the smell and smoke permeating the clear, cool night sky. Winter has been unseasonably warm, seemingly everywhere that typically finds itself subject to the season's more signature conditions. Shrugging it off, David instead sets it aside for a moment later, making quick work of the drink he'd popped for himself, moving on to the one he'd offered up to the competition.
"I imagine he's already given you the skinny - the manifest destiny, the path to victory, and all that. I imagine he was in a right state of mind when he did it, too. You're not going to get that from me."
"Saves us both the trouble, then."
"You're part of this now, David. Once you're in, you're in. Stay true, and you'll be stayed true to. Cross and be crossed. You already know this. We're poised to take over the world - let's enjoy the ride, shall we?"
Drakz follows with a long drag on his joint, David swigs mecilessly from the bottle. Their reverence and the dead of the night, however, is abruptly interrupted by a sudden blast of muffled, low fi punk rock emanating from David's right pocket. Rifling his prehistoric looking phone out from his pocket, Brennan's face is briefly illuminated by the screen, flashing terribly out of sync with the muddled ringtone blasting from the minute speaker. He jabs a button on the phone with his thumb, holding it to his ear.
"Hello? Hello?! God, dammit."
"Problem?"
"Same number's been calling me for two weeks now, about every other day or so. No voices on the other line, just silence, then the line goes dead."
"Do you know the number?"
"No. Can't trace it either."
"F*ckin' kids. Some little sh*tbag fanboy's probably got ahold of your number and is passing it around the net. F*ckin' kids."
David pockets his phone once more, and reaches for his final bottle of beer. Cracking it open, he tilts his head back, and in seconds, downs the entire contents. He takes a deep breath as the bottle parts from his lips, resting the bottle at his side moments later.
"Hmph. Price of fame, I guess."
Drakz takes a long drag, extinguishing the short length of whats left of his joint, tossing the remains away from him to smolder and burn out on the walkway before them.
"Price of fame, brother."
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Elsewhere...
"You're sure it's him?"
"The number's good.
"But you're sure it's him?
"It's him, or it's someone does him real well."
"So now what?"
"We find him."
"You'll help?"
"I.....I wouldn't know where to begin looking..."
"He could be dead by the time we find him!"
"You think I don't know that?! You think this is any easier on me?!"
"This isn't easy on anyone, son."
"What...?"
".....you...."
"Hello, sweetheart."
"What the hell are you doing here?!"
"What are we all doing here, darling? We're going to save David Brennan."
I dont know good luck 
