Post by CM Poor on Mar 27, 2012 12:38:18 GMT -5
Our Great War Is A Spiritual War
"Go home. Get some rest. Stay in touch. I'll put something together, and when the time is right, we'll run it through."
"What about..."
"She'll be home by now. Caught a flight out early this morning. Keep an eye on her, but try and not get too close. We don't want to make things worse."
"Right...right...so what have you a got in mind?"
"A million different things. I'll find something that works. Call in favors if I have to. When I've got something, I'll let you know. Have a good flight. Call when you get in."
"I'll....yeah, I'll do that. Thanks Ja....dad. Thanks dad."
No Purpose or Place...
Guilt is not a very big part of David Brennan's life. It would be fair, in fact, to say that it plays no role whatsoever. Were there even a shred, even a tiny, microscopic hint on guilt or conscience in his body, he might be reluctant as he ascends the lengthy, wide, granite stone steps of this most sacred place or worship. He might smile just a little less, maybe not at all, as he winds throughout the rectory's halls, congregating with more and more birds of a feather as they all soldier on toward one common destination. And then, he might think twice, might even turn back and leave, rather than extending that confident grasp of his toward the brass door knob, holding open the door for his fellow occupants, before following them inside, shutting the door with the note taped to it that reads "Smoking Cessation Support" behind him.
No. You're not mistaken. You have never seen David Brennan with a cigarette in his hands, nor have you ever seen one pressed between his lips. And it's not for staunch denial - you and I both know that David Brennan has no problem putting his vices on display for the whole world to see. No, the cold truth of the matter is that, save for one time at the age of thirteen, under the continued pressure of his older brother Clark, David has never lit a cigarette for himself. He imagines, in all likelihood, that it wouldn't do much for him anyway. His colleagues, for lack of a better word, are most indulgent in their inhalants, but David, no, David requires something more tangible. More fluid. Something he can feel as it slowly dilutes his blood stream and conciousness, bringing him to a clarity that grants him immeasurable strength, and near invincibility.
No, unlike that character in that movie that I just KNOW you're thinking of by now, David isn't here tonight under some half assed pretense of seeing the real face of the addict's struggle in order to put his oh so first world problems in perspective. He's not here to give support, either. That would certainly be unbecoming of him, yes? Holding hands, and singing songs, and spouting off "it gets better"s in order to make a difference in someone's life. That's certainly not David Brennan's style.
I wish I could tell you, really, that David Brennan has nothing but benevolent intentions for the poor souls who come here tonight seeking refuge from the vices that cripple them, but well, you wouldn't really believe me now, would you? I didn't think so. No, fair reader, I'm afraid that for all the life riches David fancies himself in the presence of - fame, fortune, copious amounts of alcohol - the one thing he finds missing is positive reinforcement. Don't be so quick to write off his outward expression as a direct result of the poison coursing through his blood - alcohol is a depressent, after all. It takes a very disturbing combination of factors to create a living, breathing David Brennan, and to properly encourage our poor, misguided soul, we need that positive reinforcement. Recent events may remind that you that as of this moment, our little David is quite alone in the world - and don't even bring up Drakz and Michael Kyzer. Can you really picture the three of them in some sort of "You're Special, Hooray For You" circle jerk?
And so, we find David Brennan taking his seat among a sea of future cancer patients who've decided tonight, and for many nights, to try and put a curb in the path of their own self destruction. He's relaxed, at ease, as he listens to their stories. Their struggles. Today was hard, but tomorrow seems brighter. Today I slipped, please help me up. He smiles as he leans back in his chair, their stories of horror and hardships providing that much needed boost to his ego. We're feeling good now. Mighty good.
"And what about you, friend?"
"Sorry, me?
"There's no need to be shy here - we're all here to help one another. You've been quiet these past few weeks - what's your story?"
Past few WEEKS? Oh, David, you unbelieveable bastard...
"Ah, yeah...not much to say, really. I feel kinda great, to be honest! All's well over here!"
"That's wonderful news. Perhaps you could share with us how you cope with temptation. How do you react when you feel the urge to quelch that craving?"
"I...uh....well, I don't really. I don't even smoke actually. I tried it once though - wasn't for me."
He smiles as he says it, but their faces tell the real story. This quiet, solemn, relaxed stranger, who's joined them on their personal journey on several occassions over the past several weeks doesn't even....no. It doesn't even bear thinking about. Really best if you didn't...
"You...I'm sorry?"
"Look, it's nothing personal. Really. I like you guys - a lot. I just don't happen to smoke, is all. Being here, with you guys, it really makes me feel great about myself. Unstoppable, even.
"This is a support group...."
"That's what I'm saying! Mission accomplished!"
"Sir, these people are struggling with an addiction..."
"Well, I mean, if that's what you want to call it..."
"I think you'd better leave."
"...but..."
"...if you would be so kind."
Cat's out of the bag. He can take a hint. Rising from his chair, David looks around the room, taking in the sullen faces now eyeing him with daggers and if looks could kill and all that. He smiles. Breathes in a heave of relief, like one might on the first warm day after a bitter winter, then makes for the door, patting the head of the group on the shoulder as he leaves. He's feeling mighty good about himself, now. Such nice people. So open. This is a really nice church, isn't it?
It had always sort of been there before, and you notice it, but you don't. It was old, real old. Loomed over the entire town, cast in a faded green marble. The entire building expanded backward into grayed granite, but that main steeple, the gorgeous green marble, that was the real attraction. As he makes his way into the sanctuary, milling slowly down the main aisle among the congregation pews, he gazingly admires the interior. For as old as the church looked outside, the inside was intensely pure, new, and immaculate. He'd never worshipped here - only visited when passing through town, but he could only imagine that in its prime, the congregation would shine in the liveliness of worship and praise - never really his strong suits. Taking a seat in the front most pew, he marvels up at the white statue of the lord and savior, deceased upon his cross of marble. The sun shines in through the multiple stained glass windows, giving everything a sort of heavenly color to it. He'd died and risen, but David Brennan had never visited the afterlife. He imagines, as he takes in the splendor of the immaculate altar, that it would be a lot like this.
"You're incorrigible, you know that, right?"
"I don't recall asking your opinion."
"Well, to be frank, mine's the only opinion you've got, so we're going to go with it - cool?"
"If you say so. What brings you here, anyway?
"I might ask the same of you."
"Well, you might, but I asked first."
"You've got me there. This is the only place I exist - what's your excuse?"
He has to think about that one. No excuse, really. The place is just really pretty, and he was feeling pretty good about himself at the time. Why not revel in it?
"Why are you here?"
"You keep asking that...
"Why do you gotta prey upon these people? What do you get out of that?"
"Self worth. And it's not predatory - when did you get so righteous?"
"I've always been this.....self worth? Self worth?!"
"Did I stutter?"
This was downright annoying. Not at all in step with the sort of euphoria he felt when he first tossed open those large, wooden doors at the back of the sanctuary. Trying to escape a lecture, David rises from his seat in the front pew, and begins cycling around the side walls of the sanctuary, visiting the series of bronze plaques even spaced throughout, each representing a station of the holy cross. He's at three before he realizes he's been going through them backwards. The stations weren't really what was on his mind though - save that for a more symbolic, personal crucifixion. Right now he's just trying to avoid another lecture - another repeat of...
"You saw Nat recently."
"Where'd you hear that?"
"You should have let her see me."
"She said her piece.
"Still, it would have been nice to have...
"Better change the subject."
"Still sore...right. So....self worth?"
"It doesn't come easy."
"You know all you have to do is come find me."
"Like I said - it doesn't come easy."
"So why are you still doing it?"
"What, the stations?
He's at the far most rear corner of the church now. There's just no escaping this. Where he goes, it follows. May as well endure it, in comfort. He paces down the aisle once more, this time, not pausing as he passes the front row of pews. He steps up, without so much as an honorary bow, toward the alter, running his hands along the polished, smooth marble as he passes by. He'd been here once before, in a capacity of indentured servitude, many, many years ago. In those days, he'd have taken a seat along the left side of the pulpit, from the congregations viewpoint. But now, he was something altogether different. Circling around behind the altar, he grabs in his hand a golden chalice as he passes by. Pulling a flask from his pocket, he fills the cup to the brim with a smokey, brown liquid. He pockets the flask, then takes his seat - or rather, the church leaders seat, its back high, the seat cushioned, cast, like much of the building's niceties, in brilliant white marble. He makes note of the holy idol hanging like Damocles' sword above his head, toasts the invisible congregation, and drinks.
"You didn't answer my question."
"You....didn't answer mine."
"You're being evasive. Why do you still fight?"
"Why wouldn't I?
"You used to have a reason, or a purpose. I imagine - scratch that - I know you even once got a sense of this oh so elusive "self worth" out of it, but that's clearly not the case anymore, otherwise I don't imagine I'd find you preying upon addicts to justify your own worthless needs."
"That's cold, Obi-Wan. You really do hate me, don't you?"
"I hate what I've become. And if it seems like I'm a little too personally invested in it, it's because I'd rather not die myself just yet."
"So why do you do it, then?"
"Do what?
"The fight. You're still there, aren't you?"
"You don't sound so sure, yourself."
"What's it matter what I think?"
"Well, you're driving. And I'm losing any sort of direction, thanks to that spike you just poured into that blessed cup. Look, this is awfully back and forth, and we've not gotten any further, here. Why do you still fight?"
"Well, you know, for the same reason I come here. It's all become...bigger...I don't know. The pursuit of a purpose, a meaning, it becomes more...what's a word? Grandiose, as things become more complicated. First the fight is enough. Then you need the reconciliation, to pursure confirmation. That sort of thing."
"You're awfully philosophical for someone who can't even hear me calling out unless you come and find yourself a plenary indulgence. What makes things so complicated that you need more than the fight now?"
"I think you know the answer to that one, and I think you're intentionally holding out on me."
"So what's next, then, in your holy quest for the ultimate self penance?"
"Drake Elias."
"He sounds like a God damned yuppie."
The more they drift apart, the more they think alike. As if to commemorate this sudden fusion of thought, the conversation is interrupted by a mid-pitch, consonant chord from the all too familiar pipes of the church organ. His attention stolen, David peers upward from his seat, toward the back of the room, where, just above the entry doors, a small loft juts out in between two banners, the first reading "Forgive them father...", and the second finishing "...for they know not what they do". Between them, the little old lady, primary organist at the church, has just sat down to run through her numbers for the coming mass.
"Can she see us?"
"She can, but she won't."
"He's European."
"Is she? It's a very pretty number."
"I meant Elias. Isn't it supposed to be me who gets distracted easily?"
"We've all got our weaknesses. Is that all you know about him?"
"Cage fighter. European. Calls himself 'The Avatar'"
"Oh, that's rich.
"He probably is, too."
"You're one to talk.
"Come again?"
"Booze ain't cheap, and it...
"...complicates things."
There it goes again. This is getting weird.
"Now you're talking."
"I'm not so sure I am."
"David, I remember a time when I didn't have room for distractions and complications. I had Jack, and that was distracting enough, I thought. We broke down once, on the way to one of the earlier shows - Superbrawl, actually. Alternator blew, the belt snapped and coiled around the tensioner, and I let myself get distracted. Jack tried reeling me in. You're...ah...well, living proof that I let things get complicated. Jack tried to be that compass. Early on, it felt...manipulative....
...predatory...
...exactly. But he always pointed me straight. I never lost a match until that night, against your buddy Drakz.
"What happened then?"
"I don't know. That's when you took over. The point is, I didn't need distractions to make me feel good about myself. I had a system - Jack'd point me down the road, and fact that we could crush these bugs like Drake Elias, the prospect of crushing the scum like Drakz that used to hold us down, kick us around, that was our self worth."
"Why do you gotta rip on my friends like that?"
"Drakz is scum. He's not your friend. He certainly never would have been mine. Neither would Kyzer. If I were still driving, Drake Elias would have just been another bump in the road toward taking down Drakz, and Kyzer, and whatever other sucker they would have found in your place to fill out this pathetic little "New Epoch" of theirs. I didn't need any additional prey in my hunt for purpose - I had it all laid out for me."
"It must be nice to be so well adjusted. What would you have me do?"
"For starters? Get rid of your drink."
He does as he's told. With a flick of the wrist, he tosses aside the now half full chalice, surprised at the slight clink of the golden bronze metal on the hard, marble floor, and the splash of the whiskey as it spills out, leaving a small, discolored puddle against the pure white of the ground. He marvels for a moment at what he's done. He didn't do it out of fear of consequence, or because he was commanded to. He did it simply because, well, why wouldn't he? As if he had thought of the idea on his own.
"What just happened?"
"You took a step. Try another. Get up out of your chair, and exit the building.
Again, just as he's told. Or as he's told himself. He was used to not being in control, but this - this was unusual.
"What's next?"
"Well, you tell me...Drake Elias?"
"God damned yuppie. He's the number one contender."
"That's something...World?"
"International."
"Still something. Who's the champ?"
"Drakz."
"Now THAT'S something...still owe him a little payback..."
"He beat me, too."
"Twice, then. Now we're getting somewhere."
"We?"
"You don't think I'm gonna let you do this alone, do you? Someone's going to wind up fixing you. I imagine my methods will be a little less catastrophic than Jack's."
"He's already tried."
"Then he'll try again. We'll have to move quickly."
"Where should I begin?"
"Start with the yuppie. Beat him within an inch of his life, and see how that makes you feel. With any luck, you won't need to come back here to report on the results."
"Why are you doing this?"
"I already told you, I'm not too keen on dying just yet. But to make that work, you need to die, and don't give me that sh*t about those dreams in Japan. For now, just fight. Don't forget the struggle..."
"...don't forget the streets."
"There may be hope for you yet."
At that, David arrives at the large, wooden doors, leading out into the small foyer between the sanctuary, and the outside world. He skips the rectory halls, skips any further support groups, and steps out into the unseasonably warm air. He won't find a cab here, and so he turns up a side road, that will lead him toward a main street where, with any luck, he'll be able to hail a ride. In spite of his imposing inebriation, he fails to notice that his pocketed flask has slipped from his pocket, and remains, amid a spilled chalice and a small puddle of Tennessee whiskey, scattered on the floor of the church altar. Nothing like that could possibly phase him, as he stumbles along, humming the hymns along with the church organist as the dinstinctive sound of the pipes fades as he grows further and further from that most sacred, holy building.
"Go home. Get some rest. Stay in touch. I'll put something together, and when the time is right, we'll run it through."
"What about..."
"She'll be home by now. Caught a flight out early this morning. Keep an eye on her, but try and not get too close. We don't want to make things worse."
"Right...right...so what have you a got in mind?"
"A million different things. I'll find something that works. Call in favors if I have to. When I've got something, I'll let you know. Have a good flight. Call when you get in."
"I'll....yeah, I'll do that. Thanks Ja....dad. Thanks dad."
No Purpose or Place...
Guilt is not a very big part of David Brennan's life. It would be fair, in fact, to say that it plays no role whatsoever. Were there even a shred, even a tiny, microscopic hint on guilt or conscience in his body, he might be reluctant as he ascends the lengthy, wide, granite stone steps of this most sacred place or worship. He might smile just a little less, maybe not at all, as he winds throughout the rectory's halls, congregating with more and more birds of a feather as they all soldier on toward one common destination. And then, he might think twice, might even turn back and leave, rather than extending that confident grasp of his toward the brass door knob, holding open the door for his fellow occupants, before following them inside, shutting the door with the note taped to it that reads "Smoking Cessation Support" behind him.
No. You're not mistaken. You have never seen David Brennan with a cigarette in his hands, nor have you ever seen one pressed between his lips. And it's not for staunch denial - you and I both know that David Brennan has no problem putting his vices on display for the whole world to see. No, the cold truth of the matter is that, save for one time at the age of thirteen, under the continued pressure of his older brother Clark, David has never lit a cigarette for himself. He imagines, in all likelihood, that it wouldn't do much for him anyway. His colleagues, for lack of a better word, are most indulgent in their inhalants, but David, no, David requires something more tangible. More fluid. Something he can feel as it slowly dilutes his blood stream and conciousness, bringing him to a clarity that grants him immeasurable strength, and near invincibility.
No, unlike that character in that movie that I just KNOW you're thinking of by now, David isn't here tonight under some half assed pretense of seeing the real face of the addict's struggle in order to put his oh so first world problems in perspective. He's not here to give support, either. That would certainly be unbecoming of him, yes? Holding hands, and singing songs, and spouting off "it gets better"s in order to make a difference in someone's life. That's certainly not David Brennan's style.
I wish I could tell you, really, that David Brennan has nothing but benevolent intentions for the poor souls who come here tonight seeking refuge from the vices that cripple them, but well, you wouldn't really believe me now, would you? I didn't think so. No, fair reader, I'm afraid that for all the life riches David fancies himself in the presence of - fame, fortune, copious amounts of alcohol - the one thing he finds missing is positive reinforcement. Don't be so quick to write off his outward expression as a direct result of the poison coursing through his blood - alcohol is a depressent, after all. It takes a very disturbing combination of factors to create a living, breathing David Brennan, and to properly encourage our poor, misguided soul, we need that positive reinforcement. Recent events may remind that you that as of this moment, our little David is quite alone in the world - and don't even bring up Drakz and Michael Kyzer. Can you really picture the three of them in some sort of "You're Special, Hooray For You" circle jerk?
And so, we find David Brennan taking his seat among a sea of future cancer patients who've decided tonight, and for many nights, to try and put a curb in the path of their own self destruction. He's relaxed, at ease, as he listens to their stories. Their struggles. Today was hard, but tomorrow seems brighter. Today I slipped, please help me up. He smiles as he leans back in his chair, their stories of horror and hardships providing that much needed boost to his ego. We're feeling good now. Mighty good.
"And what about you, friend?"
"Sorry, me?
"There's no need to be shy here - we're all here to help one another. You've been quiet these past few weeks - what's your story?"
Past few WEEKS? Oh, David, you unbelieveable bastard...
"Ah, yeah...not much to say, really. I feel kinda great, to be honest! All's well over here!"
"That's wonderful news. Perhaps you could share with us how you cope with temptation. How do you react when you feel the urge to quelch that craving?"
"I...uh....well, I don't really. I don't even smoke actually. I tried it once though - wasn't for me."
He smiles as he says it, but their faces tell the real story. This quiet, solemn, relaxed stranger, who's joined them on their personal journey on several occassions over the past several weeks doesn't even....no. It doesn't even bear thinking about. Really best if you didn't...
"You...I'm sorry?"
"Look, it's nothing personal. Really. I like you guys - a lot. I just don't happen to smoke, is all. Being here, with you guys, it really makes me feel great about myself. Unstoppable, even.
"This is a support group...."
"That's what I'm saying! Mission accomplished!"
"Sir, these people are struggling with an addiction..."
"Well, I mean, if that's what you want to call it..."
"I think you'd better leave."
"...but..."
"...if you would be so kind."
Cat's out of the bag. He can take a hint. Rising from his chair, David looks around the room, taking in the sullen faces now eyeing him with daggers and if looks could kill and all that. He smiles. Breathes in a heave of relief, like one might on the first warm day after a bitter winter, then makes for the door, patting the head of the group on the shoulder as he leaves. He's feeling mighty good about himself, now. Such nice people. So open. This is a really nice church, isn't it?
It had always sort of been there before, and you notice it, but you don't. It was old, real old. Loomed over the entire town, cast in a faded green marble. The entire building expanded backward into grayed granite, but that main steeple, the gorgeous green marble, that was the real attraction. As he makes his way into the sanctuary, milling slowly down the main aisle among the congregation pews, he gazingly admires the interior. For as old as the church looked outside, the inside was intensely pure, new, and immaculate. He'd never worshipped here - only visited when passing through town, but he could only imagine that in its prime, the congregation would shine in the liveliness of worship and praise - never really his strong suits. Taking a seat in the front most pew, he marvels up at the white statue of the lord and savior, deceased upon his cross of marble. The sun shines in through the multiple stained glass windows, giving everything a sort of heavenly color to it. He'd died and risen, but David Brennan had never visited the afterlife. He imagines, as he takes in the splendor of the immaculate altar, that it would be a lot like this.
"You're incorrigible, you know that, right?"
"I don't recall asking your opinion."
"Well, to be frank, mine's the only opinion you've got, so we're going to go with it - cool?"
"If you say so. What brings you here, anyway?
"I might ask the same of you."
"Well, you might, but I asked first."
"You've got me there. This is the only place I exist - what's your excuse?"
He has to think about that one. No excuse, really. The place is just really pretty, and he was feeling pretty good about himself at the time. Why not revel in it?
"Why are you here?"
"You keep asking that...
"Why do you gotta prey upon these people? What do you get out of that?"
"Self worth. And it's not predatory - when did you get so righteous?"
"I've always been this.....self worth? Self worth?!"
"Did I stutter?"
This was downright annoying. Not at all in step with the sort of euphoria he felt when he first tossed open those large, wooden doors at the back of the sanctuary. Trying to escape a lecture, David rises from his seat in the front pew, and begins cycling around the side walls of the sanctuary, visiting the series of bronze plaques even spaced throughout, each representing a station of the holy cross. He's at three before he realizes he's been going through them backwards. The stations weren't really what was on his mind though - save that for a more symbolic, personal crucifixion. Right now he's just trying to avoid another lecture - another repeat of...
"You saw Nat recently."
"Where'd you hear that?"
"You should have let her see me."
"She said her piece.
"Still, it would have been nice to have...
"Better change the subject."
"Still sore...right. So....self worth?"
"It doesn't come easy."
"You know all you have to do is come find me."
"Like I said - it doesn't come easy."
"So why are you still doing it?"
"What, the stations?
He's at the far most rear corner of the church now. There's just no escaping this. Where he goes, it follows. May as well endure it, in comfort. He paces down the aisle once more, this time, not pausing as he passes the front row of pews. He steps up, without so much as an honorary bow, toward the alter, running his hands along the polished, smooth marble as he passes by. He'd been here once before, in a capacity of indentured servitude, many, many years ago. In those days, he'd have taken a seat along the left side of the pulpit, from the congregations viewpoint. But now, he was something altogether different. Circling around behind the altar, he grabs in his hand a golden chalice as he passes by. Pulling a flask from his pocket, he fills the cup to the brim with a smokey, brown liquid. He pockets the flask, then takes his seat - or rather, the church leaders seat, its back high, the seat cushioned, cast, like much of the building's niceties, in brilliant white marble. He makes note of the holy idol hanging like Damocles' sword above his head, toasts the invisible congregation, and drinks.
"You didn't answer my question."
"You....didn't answer mine."
"You're being evasive. Why do you still fight?"
"Why wouldn't I?
"You used to have a reason, or a purpose. I imagine - scratch that - I know you even once got a sense of this oh so elusive "self worth" out of it, but that's clearly not the case anymore, otherwise I don't imagine I'd find you preying upon addicts to justify your own worthless needs."
"That's cold, Obi-Wan. You really do hate me, don't you?"
"I hate what I've become. And if it seems like I'm a little too personally invested in it, it's because I'd rather not die myself just yet."
"So why do you do it, then?"
"Do what?
"The fight. You're still there, aren't you?"
"You don't sound so sure, yourself."
"What's it matter what I think?"
"Well, you're driving. And I'm losing any sort of direction, thanks to that spike you just poured into that blessed cup. Look, this is awfully back and forth, and we've not gotten any further, here. Why do you still fight?"
"Well, you know, for the same reason I come here. It's all become...bigger...I don't know. The pursuit of a purpose, a meaning, it becomes more...what's a word? Grandiose, as things become more complicated. First the fight is enough. Then you need the reconciliation, to pursure confirmation. That sort of thing."
"You're awfully philosophical for someone who can't even hear me calling out unless you come and find yourself a plenary indulgence. What makes things so complicated that you need more than the fight now?"
"I think you know the answer to that one, and I think you're intentionally holding out on me."
"So what's next, then, in your holy quest for the ultimate self penance?"
"Drake Elias."
"He sounds like a God damned yuppie."
The more they drift apart, the more they think alike. As if to commemorate this sudden fusion of thought, the conversation is interrupted by a mid-pitch, consonant chord from the all too familiar pipes of the church organ. His attention stolen, David peers upward from his seat, toward the back of the room, where, just above the entry doors, a small loft juts out in between two banners, the first reading "Forgive them father...", and the second finishing "...for they know not what they do". Between them, the little old lady, primary organist at the church, has just sat down to run through her numbers for the coming mass.
"Can she see us?"
"She can, but she won't."
"He's European."
"Is she? It's a very pretty number."
"I meant Elias. Isn't it supposed to be me who gets distracted easily?"
"We've all got our weaknesses. Is that all you know about him?"
"Cage fighter. European. Calls himself 'The Avatar'"
"Oh, that's rich.
"He probably is, too."
"You're one to talk.
"Come again?"
"Booze ain't cheap, and it...
"...complicates things."
There it goes again. This is getting weird.
"Now you're talking."
"I'm not so sure I am."
"David, I remember a time when I didn't have room for distractions and complications. I had Jack, and that was distracting enough, I thought. We broke down once, on the way to one of the earlier shows - Superbrawl, actually. Alternator blew, the belt snapped and coiled around the tensioner, and I let myself get distracted. Jack tried reeling me in. You're...ah...well, living proof that I let things get complicated. Jack tried to be that compass. Early on, it felt...manipulative....
...predatory...
...exactly. But he always pointed me straight. I never lost a match until that night, against your buddy Drakz.
"What happened then?"
"I don't know. That's when you took over. The point is, I didn't need distractions to make me feel good about myself. I had a system - Jack'd point me down the road, and fact that we could crush these bugs like Drake Elias, the prospect of crushing the scum like Drakz that used to hold us down, kick us around, that was our self worth."
"Why do you gotta rip on my friends like that?"
"Drakz is scum. He's not your friend. He certainly never would have been mine. Neither would Kyzer. If I were still driving, Drake Elias would have just been another bump in the road toward taking down Drakz, and Kyzer, and whatever other sucker they would have found in your place to fill out this pathetic little "New Epoch" of theirs. I didn't need any additional prey in my hunt for purpose - I had it all laid out for me."
"It must be nice to be so well adjusted. What would you have me do?"
"For starters? Get rid of your drink."
He does as he's told. With a flick of the wrist, he tosses aside the now half full chalice, surprised at the slight clink of the golden bronze metal on the hard, marble floor, and the splash of the whiskey as it spills out, leaving a small, discolored puddle against the pure white of the ground. He marvels for a moment at what he's done. He didn't do it out of fear of consequence, or because he was commanded to. He did it simply because, well, why wouldn't he? As if he had thought of the idea on his own.
"What just happened?"
"You took a step. Try another. Get up out of your chair, and exit the building.
Again, just as he's told. Or as he's told himself. He was used to not being in control, but this - this was unusual.
"What's next?"
"Well, you tell me...Drake Elias?"
"God damned yuppie. He's the number one contender."
"That's something...World?"
"International."
"Still something. Who's the champ?"
"Drakz."
"Now THAT'S something...still owe him a little payback..."
"He beat me, too."
"Twice, then. Now we're getting somewhere."
"We?"
"You don't think I'm gonna let you do this alone, do you? Someone's going to wind up fixing you. I imagine my methods will be a little less catastrophic than Jack's."
"He's already tried."
"Then he'll try again. We'll have to move quickly."
"Where should I begin?"
"Start with the yuppie. Beat him within an inch of his life, and see how that makes you feel. With any luck, you won't need to come back here to report on the results."
"Why are you doing this?"
"I already told you, I'm not too keen on dying just yet. But to make that work, you need to die, and don't give me that sh*t about those dreams in Japan. For now, just fight. Don't forget the struggle..."
"...don't forget the streets."
"There may be hope for you yet."
At that, David arrives at the large, wooden doors, leading out into the small foyer between the sanctuary, and the outside world. He skips the rectory halls, skips any further support groups, and steps out into the unseasonably warm air. He won't find a cab here, and so he turns up a side road, that will lead him toward a main street where, with any luck, he'll be able to hail a ride. In spite of his imposing inebriation, he fails to notice that his pocketed flask has slipped from his pocket, and remains, amid a spilled chalice and a small puddle of Tennessee whiskey, scattered on the floor of the church altar. Nothing like that could possibly phase him, as he stumbles along, humming the hymns along with the church organist as the dinstinctive sound of the pipes fades as he grows further and further from that most sacred, holy building.
I dont know good luck 
