Post by CM Poor on Mar 2, 2012 21:27:43 GMT -5
The Death Of David Brennan
Part II
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP
F*ck me rigid, that's unpleasant. Who sets an alarm? He sure doesn't. What a night. He turns to glare at the gleaming light of the buzzing alarm.
9:01am
American time, or Japanese time? Those are time zones right? He hates traveling. Especially across datelines. Messes with his system. Messes with his mind. It's like a bad binge, even for him, and he knows a thing or two about binges. Speaking of which, no time like the present. He's fairly certain he left a bottle right behind that alarm. Kill two birds with one stone. He shuts off the alarm and reaches for....aha, jackpot. He unscrews the black cap, and figures, may as well go full tilt.......empty. F*ck. No matter. There's a cooler around here somewhere....bedside. He reaches in, swilling his hand through the mixture of icy cold water and what's left of a few, mostly melted chunks of ice, before finally grasping his hands around a cool, glass bottle. Jackpot. Full tilt. Empty. The f*ck? He graps another -empty. And another, and another, and another. Was he still sleeping? This has got to be a nightmare - dangerous, sometimes deadly byproduct of mixing copious amounts of alcohol with international non-stops across open water. He'd become used to them by now. Really, more dreams than nightmares anymore. Hell, he just woke from one without so much as breaking a cold sweat. Really, the ones in which he didn't die were the ones that scared him more, now. This had to be one of those, because this is just terrifying. The fridge. Surely....nope. 18 bottles, capped and clear. Empty as the day they were blown.
"They're all empty, David. Every last one."
F*ck! How'd he miss that? Sure enough, across the room, seated casually as though he'd been there the whole time, was Clark Brennan. Well, sort of. Clark, like David, was a skinhead - or apparently, he used to be. Sitting there, staring back at David, he looks tired, or at least that's how David perceives it. In spite of what he'd like to believe about his superhuman abilities under the influence, perception and clarity weren't exactly his things these days. He's definitely got a full head of hair now. Goatee is still there. He's definitely tired, though. Not in a "skin gone astray" way, either. His shirt is collared, but it's not a Perry. Not a polo at all - it's got sleeves....and is that a f*cking tie?! Was his brother wearing a tie? Something is up. This is one of those chain dreams, one of the ones where you're dreaming, and you wake up, but then you're still dreaming. Something isn't right...
...David hadn't seen Clark in nearly eleven years. He was there the day David shipped out for Paris Island, and he came down for commencement, but David hadn't seen him since. Growing up, they were thick as thieves. David and Clark, the bastard sons of incomparable Jack Brennan. Bussed and bounced between Pennsylvania and the Commonwealth, commanding respect wherever they went. He never told him, but David had always looked up to Clark. The man with the plan. For a guy who had nothing, Clark had everything. Good friends, some pretty thing always wrapped around his arm, and a vision. Foresight. The one thing Clark admired more than anything was the future. Better days. For every mile of bad road they traveled, they'd put one more mile behind them en route to the yellow brick road, in Clark's eyes. While on tour, David wrote him every other day, and for the first year, Clark always wrote back. But as time wears all things, so too did Clark's letters. Mom was sick. Treatment wasn't cheap, or local. By the time David got back, he returned to nothing. Mom and Clark had moved out west to take up her treatment. Imagine spending a year or more in the desert, getting shot at from every angle in the sweltering heat, then hopping that plane, and finding the only family you've got to come home to is Jack Brennan. You'd drink too...
...and yet, here he was. Tall as the day was long, sitting in David's Tokyo high rise hotel room, staring back at him amid a sea of deliberately emptied bottles. Bottles David had gone to great lengths to get on to that god forsaken plane. He picks up a bottle and smashes it against the nightstand. He charges. They collide. Clark's back meets the wall with a defeaning thud. They don't serve High Life in the land of the rising sun. They have sake...
"I haven't seen you in eleven years, nor have I heard from you in just as long, so since we've got so little to say to each other, I'll make this brief. Five minutes ago I was sleeping as peacefully as I do these days, anxiously awaiting the chance to drift off into the ether and meet my maker, when suddenly the heart monitor becomes your idea of a big brother joke in the manner of a nine o'clock wake up call. This I'd be able to handle like any well adjusted man in my situation, but it seems someone's gone to great lengths to empty my supply, so tell me why I shouldn't gut you like a sheep and leave mom forever waiting to hear all about Japan from her favorite baby boy..."
"Because I brought him here, Davey."
What is this, a family reunion? Somehow, amid the sea of empty bottles, and the seething rage through which he charged to get to Clark, he'd managed to miss the biggest, oldest bastard of them all, hiding in the shadows.....Jack Brennan. Dad. Now he knows he's dreaming...
...really, Jack is the who, the what, and the why of where David is at this very moment. Imagine, four years of your life, dedicated to protecting freedom and saving lives, and when it's all said and done, you get to come home into the open arms of Jack Brennan, who's made a lifetime out of stepping on people's freedoms and when necessary, taking their lives. Still, David gave up everything he'd had for the Cops. And now, with Clark and mom on the other side of the country, Jack was, depressingly, all he had left. And he had food. And money. And work. David worked odd jobs for Jack, shaking people down, keeping an eye on others, til Jack asked him to ice a man. David drew the line. He'd just spent four years fighting to save lives, and here was dear old dad, trying to rope him into what he called the "family business". David was out. He went his way, and Jack stayed on his. It'd be almost eight years before they saw each other again. David had found himself a new job, and somehow Jack had caught wind of it, and wanted in. They traveled together. Sized up opponents. Grew closer than they had ever been in close to thirty years. Paved quite a hot streak through the new job for those first few weeks.
Then Superbrawl happened.
Then Drakz happened.
Jack Brennan was a lot of things, but of those things he was, delicate, he wasn't. And walking in on his newfound protege, who he had followed from afar for so many years as he struggled with the bottle and recovery, to find him wallowing from his first loss at the bottle of a bottle set him off. What he hadn't bet on, however, was the fact that though he knew through secondhand information the gist of David's battle, he never saw him firsthand under the influence. He didn't know how David's mood swung. He didn't know how he could react to a maybe less than delicate delivery of the words "So....you lost". And because he didn't anticipate these things, it's unlikely he anticipated how quickly his head would meet the floor, or how many times David might stomp on the side of his skull, or how easily David might toss him about the room, were he a broken rag doll. And though he had his revenge, with the help of the looming Big Messy (and the fact that David hadn't met his total clarity with the drink just yet), it was him, really, not Drakz, that set loose one third of the terror, The New Epoch, that plagued the WFWF to this day...
...and yet, here he was. Here they were. The three patriarchs of the broken, bastard lineage of the Brennan name - Jack, Clark, and David. Just moments ago, David had been able to accept death. DEATH. The end of all being. Was this the afterlife? If that was the case, the churches had it dead wrong. This couldn't be hell. This was so much worse.
"Why don't you put down the bottle, and let your brother go, Davey?"
"...and what, let you finish the job? You can't even do this sh*t on your own, can you Jack? You gotta bring Clark into it, make a killer out of him, too? Bullsh*t! I die on my terms, god dammit, my terms!!!"
And he does as he's told - sort of. Letting go of Clark, he turns his attention, and the broken shard of glass in his hand, toward Jack. He backs him into the wall, holding him there with his forearm across Jack's throat, the bottle inches away from his face.
"So what about you? Huh? What's keeping me from gutting you, spilling your coal black innards all over the place right here, right now? I was dead just ten minutes ago, why not have you join me?"
"This isn't a dream, David! This isn't one of your alcohol induced hallucinations! There are consequences here! If you, or I die here, there's no coming back!"
"Then why are you here?! Why's he here?! For real life, this is getting pretty f*cking outlandish, wouldn't you say?!"
Just as he's about to plunge the broken shards of the shattered bottle into Jack's face, his stream of thought is interrupted by a strong arm wrapping around his throat. He drops the bottle, attempting to wrestle his attacker off, but he's too strong, and his grip is too tight. They struggle for a moment longer, before David is able to breathe in once more, the hold around his throat released. The sensation, however, is short lived, as the trade off for the hold being released is him being tossed forcefully across the room. He collides, falling into a heap amid the bed, the nightstand, and a thousand empty bottles strewn throughout the room. His head, last to land, makes a sharp connection with the edge of the wooden nightstand. It hurts. A lot. Like you'd expect. This is getting weird...
...he remembers dying. It was definitely here, in Japan. Hell of a way to go. Must be something heavier they toss in the sake. He wouldn't know. But his next concious moment was more of a blur. EMT's shouting in foreign tongues. The rain on his face. The doctors spoke English. Thank Christ. He remembers the attempted tracheotemy - it was unpleasant, but it didn't hurt. Uncomfortable, but not painful. It was his first, and he'd expected that it might hurt something fierce, what with a plastic tube being forced down your throat, but it was just...well...unpleasant. Made him sick, but it didn't hurt. Neither did dying. His heart rate plunged through the roof. He was concious enough of that - his heart pounding against his rib cage, on the verge of exploding - but no pain. It was like going to sleep. And then it was over. And then he was here. With Jack. With Clark. Empty bottles. What was this...
"This isn't a dream, David. It's real. I'm here. Jack's here. We've come to save you from yourself."
It was Clark that tossed him. He's still got it. Looks tired as sh*t, and like a goon to boot, but still tough as nails. He stares into their faces. Haggard. Tired. Concerned. And he laughs. He laughs til his cheeks burn. He laughs til his sides split, and til he's blue in the face. Save him from himself. What a riot. An intervention. These two bungholes actually staged a full fledged, plotted and planned intervention. He's laughing so hard he can hardly get the words out.
"...save me? From...haha....from myself? Hahahaha! Have you seen me? The drink didn't kill me...you couldn't kill me, even with that fat f*ck Messy holding your hand, and then I died! Actually died! And I'm still here! I'll always be here! I'm invincible!"
"YOU WERE NEVER DEAD, DAVID!"
"You were asleep. God, you're stupid sometimes. Ten minutes ago, you were asleep. We set your alarm. Barricaded ourselves in here with you. Jack and I. Dead? People don't come back to life David, and if you continue the way you're headed, you're going to wind up dead, and you won't come back either!"
"Get out of my room."
"What?"
"You heard me. Get the f*ck out of my room."
"Davey - you know me better than anyone. Would I really have flown all the way out to Tokyo f*cking Japan unless I thought that there was really some serious problem that needed solving?! Look at yourself! Your lines of reality are completely blurred out. Hell, they don't even f*cking exist to you anymore, David. We're going to get you the help you need. Get you back in your prime. Back in fighting condition."
"Get out of my room, and you owe me for the beer."
"David..."
"GET THE F*CK OUT OF MY ROOM!!!"
Clark and Jack look at each other, then back at David. David looks for a drink. Who the hell do they think they are, coming in here, emptying all his sh*t. Look at this place. There must be $100 worth of beer here, down the drain. What a waste. He pulls himself up. They're still here. Still looking back and forth from him, to each other. Back, and forth. Tired, haggard, and now lost, too. bungholes. Who the hell do they think they are?
"Plan B, Clark."
"Are you..."
"He's not going to listen to us, Clark. If you would..."
Only Clark makes to leave. He pauses on the way to the door, looking back at Jack, who remains where he stands, nodding toward him to continue, and then, Clark leaves. He reenters a moment later, following behind a girl....and what a girl. The most beautiful girl in the world...
...Back to the world. That's what they called his re-entry into society, following his nine month bout in rehab. Much like his return from the war, he came back to nothing. Not even Jack. In a desperate move, hoping to maybe reconnect with Jack on a more legal side of life, he moved to Boston. What a city. But Jack was in hiding now, on the run for crossing the wrong feds, and David was again hopelessly alone. Not even a city to call familiar. He was flying his colors high those days, hoping someone would pick him out as a kindred spirit, and invite him along. It took months, but he found himself out. A punk rock show. The best local bands you'd find in the Northeast, on the night before Thanksgiving. The drinkingest night of the year. Fan-f*cking-tastic. While the guys who invited him along stormed the stage to sing along with every word in a booze-induced flury, he sat to the back, all night, sipping expired fountain colas. Resisting temptation wasn't the hard part, but as he sat there, he remembered why it was so easy in this scene to get mixed up in a bottle. He hardly noticed her sit down at the stool next to him as he fell deeper into a haze of loud music and people watching. He probably never would have noticed, if not for her speaking to him. "Buy you a drink?" she asked. He declined of course, but that became increasingly harder to do. She was beautiful. More beautiful than anything he'd ever seen. And from that day forward, he'd found reason to wake up every day. A reason to live...
...and here she was. Natalie Collins. His Nat. If this wasn't a dream, then he'd just as soon never sleep again. Natalie would understand. He worshipped the ground she walked on, and he was her Superman...
"Hello, Nat."
"Oh, David, what's happened to you?"
What was this?! Her too?!
"What do you mean, what's happened to me?!"
"David, look at you! This isn't you! This isn't you at all!"
"Not me? This is me at my best! Nat, come here..."
"Your best? This is your best? If this is your best, what was it you gave me?"
"Have you been talking to these guys? What's wrong with you? You saw me when I left...I had nothing. We had nothing. I can give you everything now, Nat. Everything you've ever wanted."
"Except the man I love."
She's crying now, turning away. Clark wraps an arm around her, comforting her. Jack stares at the two of them, then back at David. He's bewildered. David is furious.
"You sons of bitches...."
He reaches down, snatching the nearest empty bottle he can find off the ground, and hurls it at Jack. Jack is able to dodge it just in time for it to meet the wall behind him, smashing into a thousand tiny pieces. He snatches another, lobbing this one at Clark, and inadvertently, at Natalie as well. They too, are able to avoid the projectile, but now all three of them stare at him in complete, utter, broken disbelief.
"You come here....you have the sack to come here, go through my sh*t, try and 'save me', and you bring my girl into the mix?!? You?! Who ran out on me just when I was ready to come back home?! And you, who just a month ago beat me within an inch of my life and left me for dead?! You come here, when I've finally got it all - money, power, and invincibility, and you try and take it away?! Who are any of you?!"
"Jesus...."
"Dave..."
"Shut the f*ck up Nat! You actually listened to these bungholes?! I thought you were better than that. I thought you were smarter than that! You'd have never associated with scum like this!"
"Scum that's trying to SAVE you David! You can call them scum?! When you run around with those f*cking drug addicts?! They're the ones that'll leave you for dead!"
"You leave them out of this! The three of us are gonna conquer the world!"
"...my God, David..."
"The f*ck do you want, run off?"
"You were right....you've died. You're truly dead."
"Clark..."
"It's alright Jack...I know what to do now. We came here 'cause mom was asking for you. She's still sick, David. She probably won't make it, but I can set her heart at ease now. I can finally tell her, with all earnesty, that David is dead."
"Yeah, you do that, sh*thead."
"Come on Nat...Jack. Our work here is done."
Finally. That could have been made a hell of a lot easier if they'd have just left when he asked them to. Some people. F*ck.
He gives them time. Enough time to have left the floor, left the lobby, hell, left the country. Then he makes his own way out. Precious little he was going to do in a room full of empty bottles that he hadn't even put the effort into draining. Sake would have to do. They have beer, you know. Japanese crap, but it does the trick. Three of them nearly got to him. Nearly got him sobered up. Couldn't let that happen. After all, he was David Brennan. He'd died, and come back. They'd see. They'd all see....
"He's coming to!"
It's still raining. Why was he lying down? That didn't make much sense. May as well stand. He sits up, swinging his legs off the bed. They stop. Not a bed. A stretcher? That doesn't make much sense. He takes a quick physical inventory. No injuries, and really, he was feeling great. Top of the world, even.
"Jesus! Sir, you shouldn't be walking like that!"
Well, no. Not with all these tubes attached to him. He makes short work of those, but those pins in his arms were really a bit inconvenient. Isn't this all a bit much? Save the stretcher for someone who needs it. Actually, bring two. You can even fill out the paperwork in advance. Two names - Mak Cross. Tabitha Owens. They need it more than he does, after all.
"Why the hell not? You don't exactly win matches on your back, pal. I've got it from here. Can I borrow a couple of those?
"The...the stretchers? Matches? You mean like fights? Sir, you're in no condition to be fighting....we....we thought for sure this would be your deathbed....where are you going?"
He stops in his tracks. What's going on here? Weren't they making a big to-do over here about the big, bad WFWF Pay Per View Extravaganza? Surely this guy would.....oh. Wait. That was rude. This guy works his ass off saving lives. He hasn't got time to....wow, that was rude.
"Aw, I'm sorry pal. I didn't mean to get you guys all worked up. Name's David. David Brennan. And I appreciate the effort, really I do, but theres...uh....there's no need. See, I've already died once before. Night like this. Awful lot like this. Anyway, I managed to beat that one. Sure I can manage this one too, but thank you, really. I mean that."
"Sir, I don't know what's going on, but you are in no condition to be moving, let alone fighting. I assure you, if you leave this place, you will die."
"What, at the hands of Owens and Cross? That's awfully generous of you. I'm sure they'd appreciate the sentiment, but ah, how exactly do you beat a man that's invincible? Not exactly an easy task. Anyway, thanks again, for all your help. I'll make sure to send some patients your way. I'm sure you'll be able to patch them up real nice. Take care!
And with that, he's off. To stardom, fame, fortune, free of the chains. There are those that would hold him down. Question his ability. Even try to take that away from him. Clark and Jack. Bastards. And they got to Natalie. The one good thing on Earth. Her loss. But that was all behind him now. Over. Done with. The David Brennan they thought they knew was dead. But this David Brennan can never die.
That's unfortunate, really. Not for him, no no, but for those now who stand in his way. Mak Cross. Another shut out from the International Championship Tournament. Like him. A lot like him. But where David took his loss and turned it into immortality, Mak Cross is likely to just turn it into another loss.
And Tabitha Owens. There's a slippery slope. The departed David Brennan, in all likelihood, would have never struck a woman, much less stepped in the ring and gone toe to toe with one. But like all good things, he's come to his end. Again, most unfortunate for Ms. Owens. About to go 0 for 2 in the midst of her big return to action. If there's a challenge here, its her. She's already faced the Epoch once before. Lost, too. What makes her think she can pull one out this time? Especially against a man bearing the gift of immortality. That's gonna be tough.
The rain stops. Good. It was a nuisance to walk in, really. And for that matter, who walks. Pausing his steps, he continues on down his path, gliding now, more than walking. Much more pleasant. Nobody seems to notice him, not even as he passes right through the door of the nearby grocer shop. That Kirin beer wasn't so bad, after all. May as well bring some back to the room. But then....hello. Jackpot. High Life. Doesn't make sense. He's pretty sure they didn't have that just yesterday when he was in here. Doesn't seem right. Could be a dream. Who knows? Who cares? If it's a dream, why wake up. Hell, it beats dying again.
Not that David Brennan can die.
Part II
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP
F*ck me rigid, that's unpleasant. Who sets an alarm? He sure doesn't. What a night. He turns to glare at the gleaming light of the buzzing alarm.
9:01am
American time, or Japanese time? Those are time zones right? He hates traveling. Especially across datelines. Messes with his system. Messes with his mind. It's like a bad binge, even for him, and he knows a thing or two about binges. Speaking of which, no time like the present. He's fairly certain he left a bottle right behind that alarm. Kill two birds with one stone. He shuts off the alarm and reaches for....aha, jackpot. He unscrews the black cap, and figures, may as well go full tilt.......empty. F*ck. No matter. There's a cooler around here somewhere....bedside. He reaches in, swilling his hand through the mixture of icy cold water and what's left of a few, mostly melted chunks of ice, before finally grasping his hands around a cool, glass bottle. Jackpot. Full tilt. Empty. The f*ck? He graps another -empty. And another, and another, and another. Was he still sleeping? This has got to be a nightmare - dangerous, sometimes deadly byproduct of mixing copious amounts of alcohol with international non-stops across open water. He'd become used to them by now. Really, more dreams than nightmares anymore. Hell, he just woke from one without so much as breaking a cold sweat. Really, the ones in which he didn't die were the ones that scared him more, now. This had to be one of those, because this is just terrifying. The fridge. Surely....nope. 18 bottles, capped and clear. Empty as the day they were blown.
"They're all empty, David. Every last one."
F*ck! How'd he miss that? Sure enough, across the room, seated casually as though he'd been there the whole time, was Clark Brennan. Well, sort of. Clark, like David, was a skinhead - or apparently, he used to be. Sitting there, staring back at David, he looks tired, or at least that's how David perceives it. In spite of what he'd like to believe about his superhuman abilities under the influence, perception and clarity weren't exactly his things these days. He's definitely got a full head of hair now. Goatee is still there. He's definitely tired, though. Not in a "skin gone astray" way, either. His shirt is collared, but it's not a Perry. Not a polo at all - it's got sleeves....and is that a f*cking tie?! Was his brother wearing a tie? Something is up. This is one of those chain dreams, one of the ones where you're dreaming, and you wake up, but then you're still dreaming. Something isn't right...
...David hadn't seen Clark in nearly eleven years. He was there the day David shipped out for Paris Island, and he came down for commencement, but David hadn't seen him since. Growing up, they were thick as thieves. David and Clark, the bastard sons of incomparable Jack Brennan. Bussed and bounced between Pennsylvania and the Commonwealth, commanding respect wherever they went. He never told him, but David had always looked up to Clark. The man with the plan. For a guy who had nothing, Clark had everything. Good friends, some pretty thing always wrapped around his arm, and a vision. Foresight. The one thing Clark admired more than anything was the future. Better days. For every mile of bad road they traveled, they'd put one more mile behind them en route to the yellow brick road, in Clark's eyes. While on tour, David wrote him every other day, and for the first year, Clark always wrote back. But as time wears all things, so too did Clark's letters. Mom was sick. Treatment wasn't cheap, or local. By the time David got back, he returned to nothing. Mom and Clark had moved out west to take up her treatment. Imagine spending a year or more in the desert, getting shot at from every angle in the sweltering heat, then hopping that plane, and finding the only family you've got to come home to is Jack Brennan. You'd drink too...
...and yet, here he was. Tall as the day was long, sitting in David's Tokyo high rise hotel room, staring back at him amid a sea of deliberately emptied bottles. Bottles David had gone to great lengths to get on to that god forsaken plane. He picks up a bottle and smashes it against the nightstand. He charges. They collide. Clark's back meets the wall with a defeaning thud. They don't serve High Life in the land of the rising sun. They have sake...
"I haven't seen you in eleven years, nor have I heard from you in just as long, so since we've got so little to say to each other, I'll make this brief. Five minutes ago I was sleeping as peacefully as I do these days, anxiously awaiting the chance to drift off into the ether and meet my maker, when suddenly the heart monitor becomes your idea of a big brother joke in the manner of a nine o'clock wake up call. This I'd be able to handle like any well adjusted man in my situation, but it seems someone's gone to great lengths to empty my supply, so tell me why I shouldn't gut you like a sheep and leave mom forever waiting to hear all about Japan from her favorite baby boy..."
"Because I brought him here, Davey."
What is this, a family reunion? Somehow, amid the sea of empty bottles, and the seething rage through which he charged to get to Clark, he'd managed to miss the biggest, oldest bastard of them all, hiding in the shadows.....Jack Brennan. Dad. Now he knows he's dreaming...
...really, Jack is the who, the what, and the why of where David is at this very moment. Imagine, four years of your life, dedicated to protecting freedom and saving lives, and when it's all said and done, you get to come home into the open arms of Jack Brennan, who's made a lifetime out of stepping on people's freedoms and when necessary, taking their lives. Still, David gave up everything he'd had for the Cops. And now, with Clark and mom on the other side of the country, Jack was, depressingly, all he had left. And he had food. And money. And work. David worked odd jobs for Jack, shaking people down, keeping an eye on others, til Jack asked him to ice a man. David drew the line. He'd just spent four years fighting to save lives, and here was dear old dad, trying to rope him into what he called the "family business". David was out. He went his way, and Jack stayed on his. It'd be almost eight years before they saw each other again. David had found himself a new job, and somehow Jack had caught wind of it, and wanted in. They traveled together. Sized up opponents. Grew closer than they had ever been in close to thirty years. Paved quite a hot streak through the new job for those first few weeks.
Then Superbrawl happened.
Then Drakz happened.
Jack Brennan was a lot of things, but of those things he was, delicate, he wasn't. And walking in on his newfound protege, who he had followed from afar for so many years as he struggled with the bottle and recovery, to find him wallowing from his first loss at the bottle of a bottle set him off. What he hadn't bet on, however, was the fact that though he knew through secondhand information the gist of David's battle, he never saw him firsthand under the influence. He didn't know how David's mood swung. He didn't know how he could react to a maybe less than delicate delivery of the words "So....you lost". And because he didn't anticipate these things, it's unlikely he anticipated how quickly his head would meet the floor, or how many times David might stomp on the side of his skull, or how easily David might toss him about the room, were he a broken rag doll. And though he had his revenge, with the help of the looming Big Messy (and the fact that David hadn't met his total clarity with the drink just yet), it was him, really, not Drakz, that set loose one third of the terror, The New Epoch, that plagued the WFWF to this day...
...and yet, here he was. Here they were. The three patriarchs of the broken, bastard lineage of the Brennan name - Jack, Clark, and David. Just moments ago, David had been able to accept death. DEATH. The end of all being. Was this the afterlife? If that was the case, the churches had it dead wrong. This couldn't be hell. This was so much worse.
"Why don't you put down the bottle, and let your brother go, Davey?"
"...and what, let you finish the job? You can't even do this sh*t on your own, can you Jack? You gotta bring Clark into it, make a killer out of him, too? Bullsh*t! I die on my terms, god dammit, my terms!!!"
And he does as he's told - sort of. Letting go of Clark, he turns his attention, and the broken shard of glass in his hand, toward Jack. He backs him into the wall, holding him there with his forearm across Jack's throat, the bottle inches away from his face.
"So what about you? Huh? What's keeping me from gutting you, spilling your coal black innards all over the place right here, right now? I was dead just ten minutes ago, why not have you join me?"
"This isn't a dream, David! This isn't one of your alcohol induced hallucinations! There are consequences here! If you, or I die here, there's no coming back!"
"Then why are you here?! Why's he here?! For real life, this is getting pretty f*cking outlandish, wouldn't you say?!"
Just as he's about to plunge the broken shards of the shattered bottle into Jack's face, his stream of thought is interrupted by a strong arm wrapping around his throat. He drops the bottle, attempting to wrestle his attacker off, but he's too strong, and his grip is too tight. They struggle for a moment longer, before David is able to breathe in once more, the hold around his throat released. The sensation, however, is short lived, as the trade off for the hold being released is him being tossed forcefully across the room. He collides, falling into a heap amid the bed, the nightstand, and a thousand empty bottles strewn throughout the room. His head, last to land, makes a sharp connection with the edge of the wooden nightstand. It hurts. A lot. Like you'd expect. This is getting weird...
...he remembers dying. It was definitely here, in Japan. Hell of a way to go. Must be something heavier they toss in the sake. He wouldn't know. But his next concious moment was more of a blur. EMT's shouting in foreign tongues. The rain on his face. The doctors spoke English. Thank Christ. He remembers the attempted tracheotemy - it was unpleasant, but it didn't hurt. Uncomfortable, but not painful. It was his first, and he'd expected that it might hurt something fierce, what with a plastic tube being forced down your throat, but it was just...well...unpleasant. Made him sick, but it didn't hurt. Neither did dying. His heart rate plunged through the roof. He was concious enough of that - his heart pounding against his rib cage, on the verge of exploding - but no pain. It was like going to sleep. And then it was over. And then he was here. With Jack. With Clark. Empty bottles. What was this...
"This isn't a dream, David. It's real. I'm here. Jack's here. We've come to save you from yourself."
It was Clark that tossed him. He's still got it. Looks tired as sh*t, and like a goon to boot, but still tough as nails. He stares into their faces. Haggard. Tired. Concerned. And he laughs. He laughs til his cheeks burn. He laughs til his sides split, and til he's blue in the face. Save him from himself. What a riot. An intervention. These two bungholes actually staged a full fledged, plotted and planned intervention. He's laughing so hard he can hardly get the words out.
"...save me? From...haha....from myself? Hahahaha! Have you seen me? The drink didn't kill me...you couldn't kill me, even with that fat f*ck Messy holding your hand, and then I died! Actually died! And I'm still here! I'll always be here! I'm invincible!"
"YOU WERE NEVER DEAD, DAVID!"
"You were asleep. God, you're stupid sometimes. Ten minutes ago, you were asleep. We set your alarm. Barricaded ourselves in here with you. Jack and I. Dead? People don't come back to life David, and if you continue the way you're headed, you're going to wind up dead, and you won't come back either!"
"Get out of my room."
"What?"
"You heard me. Get the f*ck out of my room."
"Davey - you know me better than anyone. Would I really have flown all the way out to Tokyo f*cking Japan unless I thought that there was really some serious problem that needed solving?! Look at yourself! Your lines of reality are completely blurred out. Hell, they don't even f*cking exist to you anymore, David. We're going to get you the help you need. Get you back in your prime. Back in fighting condition."
"Get out of my room, and you owe me for the beer."
"David..."
"GET THE F*CK OUT OF MY ROOM!!!"
Clark and Jack look at each other, then back at David. David looks for a drink. Who the hell do they think they are, coming in here, emptying all his sh*t. Look at this place. There must be $100 worth of beer here, down the drain. What a waste. He pulls himself up. They're still here. Still looking back and forth from him, to each other. Back, and forth. Tired, haggard, and now lost, too. bungholes. Who the hell do they think they are?
"Plan B, Clark."
"Are you..."
"He's not going to listen to us, Clark. If you would..."
Only Clark makes to leave. He pauses on the way to the door, looking back at Jack, who remains where he stands, nodding toward him to continue, and then, Clark leaves. He reenters a moment later, following behind a girl....and what a girl. The most beautiful girl in the world...
...Back to the world. That's what they called his re-entry into society, following his nine month bout in rehab. Much like his return from the war, he came back to nothing. Not even Jack. In a desperate move, hoping to maybe reconnect with Jack on a more legal side of life, he moved to Boston. What a city. But Jack was in hiding now, on the run for crossing the wrong feds, and David was again hopelessly alone. Not even a city to call familiar. He was flying his colors high those days, hoping someone would pick him out as a kindred spirit, and invite him along. It took months, but he found himself out. A punk rock show. The best local bands you'd find in the Northeast, on the night before Thanksgiving. The drinkingest night of the year. Fan-f*cking-tastic. While the guys who invited him along stormed the stage to sing along with every word in a booze-induced flury, he sat to the back, all night, sipping expired fountain colas. Resisting temptation wasn't the hard part, but as he sat there, he remembered why it was so easy in this scene to get mixed up in a bottle. He hardly noticed her sit down at the stool next to him as he fell deeper into a haze of loud music and people watching. He probably never would have noticed, if not for her speaking to him. "Buy you a drink?" she asked. He declined of course, but that became increasingly harder to do. She was beautiful. More beautiful than anything he'd ever seen. And from that day forward, he'd found reason to wake up every day. A reason to live...
...and here she was. Natalie Collins. His Nat. If this wasn't a dream, then he'd just as soon never sleep again. Natalie would understand. He worshipped the ground she walked on, and he was her Superman...
"Hello, Nat."
"Oh, David, what's happened to you?"
What was this?! Her too?!
"What do you mean, what's happened to me?!"
"David, look at you! This isn't you! This isn't you at all!"
"Not me? This is me at my best! Nat, come here..."
"Your best? This is your best? If this is your best, what was it you gave me?"
"Have you been talking to these guys? What's wrong with you? You saw me when I left...I had nothing. We had nothing. I can give you everything now, Nat. Everything you've ever wanted."
"Except the man I love."
She's crying now, turning away. Clark wraps an arm around her, comforting her. Jack stares at the two of them, then back at David. He's bewildered. David is furious.
"You sons of bitches...."
He reaches down, snatching the nearest empty bottle he can find off the ground, and hurls it at Jack. Jack is able to dodge it just in time for it to meet the wall behind him, smashing into a thousand tiny pieces. He snatches another, lobbing this one at Clark, and inadvertently, at Natalie as well. They too, are able to avoid the projectile, but now all three of them stare at him in complete, utter, broken disbelief.
"You come here....you have the sack to come here, go through my sh*t, try and 'save me', and you bring my girl into the mix?!? You?! Who ran out on me just when I was ready to come back home?! And you, who just a month ago beat me within an inch of my life and left me for dead?! You come here, when I've finally got it all - money, power, and invincibility, and you try and take it away?! Who are any of you?!"
"Jesus...."
"Dave..."
"Shut the f*ck up Nat! You actually listened to these bungholes?! I thought you were better than that. I thought you were smarter than that! You'd have never associated with scum like this!"
"Scum that's trying to SAVE you David! You can call them scum?! When you run around with those f*cking drug addicts?! They're the ones that'll leave you for dead!"
"You leave them out of this! The three of us are gonna conquer the world!"
"...my God, David..."
"The f*ck do you want, run off?"
"You were right....you've died. You're truly dead."
"Clark..."
"It's alright Jack...I know what to do now. We came here 'cause mom was asking for you. She's still sick, David. She probably won't make it, but I can set her heart at ease now. I can finally tell her, with all earnesty, that David is dead."
"Yeah, you do that, sh*thead."
"Come on Nat...Jack. Our work here is done."
Finally. That could have been made a hell of a lot easier if they'd have just left when he asked them to. Some people. F*ck.
He gives them time. Enough time to have left the floor, left the lobby, hell, left the country. Then he makes his own way out. Precious little he was going to do in a room full of empty bottles that he hadn't even put the effort into draining. Sake would have to do. They have beer, you know. Japanese crap, but it does the trick. Three of them nearly got to him. Nearly got him sobered up. Couldn't let that happen. After all, he was David Brennan. He'd died, and come back. They'd see. They'd all see....
"He's coming to!"
It's still raining. Why was he lying down? That didn't make much sense. May as well stand. He sits up, swinging his legs off the bed. They stop. Not a bed. A stretcher? That doesn't make much sense. He takes a quick physical inventory. No injuries, and really, he was feeling great. Top of the world, even.
"Jesus! Sir, you shouldn't be walking like that!"
Well, no. Not with all these tubes attached to him. He makes short work of those, but those pins in his arms were really a bit inconvenient. Isn't this all a bit much? Save the stretcher for someone who needs it. Actually, bring two. You can even fill out the paperwork in advance. Two names - Mak Cross. Tabitha Owens. They need it more than he does, after all.
"Why the hell not? You don't exactly win matches on your back, pal. I've got it from here. Can I borrow a couple of those?
"The...the stretchers? Matches? You mean like fights? Sir, you're in no condition to be fighting....we....we thought for sure this would be your deathbed....where are you going?"
He stops in his tracks. What's going on here? Weren't they making a big to-do over here about the big, bad WFWF Pay Per View Extravaganza? Surely this guy would.....oh. Wait. That was rude. This guy works his ass off saving lives. He hasn't got time to....wow, that was rude.
"Aw, I'm sorry pal. I didn't mean to get you guys all worked up. Name's David. David Brennan. And I appreciate the effort, really I do, but theres...uh....there's no need. See, I've already died once before. Night like this. Awful lot like this. Anyway, I managed to beat that one. Sure I can manage this one too, but thank you, really. I mean that."
"Sir, I don't know what's going on, but you are in no condition to be moving, let alone fighting. I assure you, if you leave this place, you will die."
"What, at the hands of Owens and Cross? That's awfully generous of you. I'm sure they'd appreciate the sentiment, but ah, how exactly do you beat a man that's invincible? Not exactly an easy task. Anyway, thanks again, for all your help. I'll make sure to send some patients your way. I'm sure you'll be able to patch them up real nice. Take care!
And with that, he's off. To stardom, fame, fortune, free of the chains. There are those that would hold him down. Question his ability. Even try to take that away from him. Clark and Jack. Bastards. And they got to Natalie. The one good thing on Earth. Her loss. But that was all behind him now. Over. Done with. The David Brennan they thought they knew was dead. But this David Brennan can never die.
That's unfortunate, really. Not for him, no no, but for those now who stand in his way. Mak Cross. Another shut out from the International Championship Tournament. Like him. A lot like him. But where David took his loss and turned it into immortality, Mak Cross is likely to just turn it into another loss.
And Tabitha Owens. There's a slippery slope. The departed David Brennan, in all likelihood, would have never struck a woman, much less stepped in the ring and gone toe to toe with one. But like all good things, he's come to his end. Again, most unfortunate for Ms. Owens. About to go 0 for 2 in the midst of her big return to action. If there's a challenge here, its her. She's already faced the Epoch once before. Lost, too. What makes her think she can pull one out this time? Especially against a man bearing the gift of immortality. That's gonna be tough.
The rain stops. Good. It was a nuisance to walk in, really. And for that matter, who walks. Pausing his steps, he continues on down his path, gliding now, more than walking. Much more pleasant. Nobody seems to notice him, not even as he passes right through the door of the nearby grocer shop. That Kirin beer wasn't so bad, after all. May as well bring some back to the room. But then....hello. Jackpot. High Life. Doesn't make sense. He's pretty sure they didn't have that just yesterday when he was in here. Doesn't seem right. Could be a dream. Who knows? Who cares? If it's a dream, why wake up. Hell, it beats dying again.
Not that David Brennan can die.
I dont know good luck 
