Post by CM Poor on Apr 16, 2012 5:56:10 GMT -5
Saving David Brennan
It's easy, sometimes, to forget that David Brennan is human. After all, for anyone keeping tabs, the past few months have presented challenges that carry with them an implicit need for an approach that one might call "superhuman". Imagine yourself, fair viewer, thrust into the spotlight - a timid, social outcast, shunned by society for the simple crime of identifying yourself in such a manner that the social majority does not fully grasp the implications of. In the bags clutched in your left hand, a stalwart, headstrong desire to set them straight, to stand tall, and make them understand the difference between "skinhead" and "facist". Packed within the bags to your right? Your estranged father, waltzing back into your life and taking the wheel. And tucked into one of those tiny crevices, one of those pockets that you'd normally pack, say, a toothbrush, or some bandaids in; one of those pockets that, upon returning home, you're just as likely to pass over as you unpack, is a four year buffer between you, and the most violent battle with addiction the world has likely ever seen. Grab your bags, and hop on board. The ride's not so bad at first - you even see a couple of nice sights. But then, on any trip, there are bound to be bumps in the road. A missed bus. You lose your first match.
It's enough to drive any man to drink.
And that's where society turns down one road, and David Brennan traverses another. Society succumbs to addiction. David Brennan embraces it. Society flounders under the control of toxic substances. David Brennan flourishes. Watching these triumphs, knowing the bottle of whiskey is never more than an arm's reach away, it's easy to get lost in the notion that David Brennan is the uncanny, incomparable alcoholic. We watch the horrid things he does, the people he surrounds himself with, and the way he regards those who show the least bit of genuine care for his well being, and we get swept up in the ride. We don't see a man who suffers from a disease - we see David "The Incomparable Alcoholic" Brennan.
That's the real horror of it all - without the bottle close by, the show we've come to glue ourselves to week after week would cease to exist. There are things no one tells you about alcoholic withdrawal - they're the symptoms you can't see. The hallucinations. The voices. The nightmares. Imagine, once more if you will, being very much alone. The room to yourself. Perhaps a room you're quite content in - maybe your bedroom, or a favorite shop, or even a safe haven - a church, perhaps. As you take in the peacefulness of your solitude, you find yourself most suddenly entangled in a lively, back and forth conversation - maybe with a childhood friend who you've not seen in decades. Perhaps a long deceased relative, or a figure from history whom circumstances would render meeting a mathematical impossibility. Or perhaps, most terrifyingly, even yourself. Maybe it's you as a child, or in your more vulnerable college years, or even you several decades from now. This enigmatic partner to your conversation is most influential, and before long, you find yourself obeying their commands without question. How might your mind, fluctuating in its abilities to take in and process the world around it react when cognition takes over and begins to comprehend what's happening?
If you're any bit as human as our own David Brennan, you might just throw yourself into oncoming traffic.
It's these very hypothetical, thought provoking scenarios that bring us to the here, and the now: a most immaculate, sterile hospital room, the lights dimmed for the evening, and the mood amid the surrounding corridors most resonatingly calm. All this, however, can only survive under the mounting pressures weighed against the temporary fragility of such a situation, and is just as suddenly destroyed by a bellowing, ostensibly loud shriek of pure, unbridled terror.
"What in God's name is that?!"
"It's our John Doe, room 616!"
The two night nurses dart down the hall, into the lion's pit - the very source of the commotion that has broken up an otherwise peaceful evening in the Emergency Care ward - to find their resident stranger, a victim of multiple vehicle collisions earlier that afternoon, wailing and thrashing violently about in his upright bed. In the eight hours since he'd been here, the staff on hand had experience no less than seven of these random outbursts. They all felt a great pity on the man - a degree of compassion paralleled only by those in their particular field. What great agony he must be in during his brief bouts of peace, that could rouse him to such terrifying heights. Aptly trained, the two caretakers dive headfirst into restraint techniques. It takes the grace of a most blessed soul to take a violent thrashing from a man who knows not what he does, rebound, and dive back in, if only to stabilize him for his own well being. Two shots of morphine slow the man's actions, but he must have been most terribly haunted this time around. Even under the increasing effect of the calming drug, he runs the risk of burning out his lungs and throat as he continues to wail in absolute, continued shrieks of duress. Another shot muffles his cries some, and gives the nurses the opening they need to apply belted leather straps to each of the man's limbs, tying him down to the protective rails on each of the fours sides of the bed. He twitches still, his eyes wide as though he's seen the fullest depths of heaven and hell, his breathing heavy and uneven, beads of cold sweat running down every inch of his face. As his two caretakers take in a moment to regain their composure, their naturally heightened scope of attention is grabbed once more by a couteous "Ahem" from the hospital room's wide open door.
The man standing before them in the open doorway is altogether...calming. He presents himself most elegantly - he's dressed in a neat, well kept, black and pinstriped suit. His hair, though maybe not like that all the time, is tonight slicked back, again well kept, and compliments his suit in a way that presents himself in an entirely non-threatening manner, despite his considerable stature and size. He carries with him a red and white cooler, appropriately marked for medical purposes. He would, in fact, likely be passed over by nearly all who make their way through the hospital as just one of the many, many medical professionals who visit on a frequent, daily basis, if not for one tiny, minute detail - the extravagant, jarring, large gold plated belt he wears around his waist. He takes in the scene before him now - two nightshift nurses, perfectly Sarah, Plain, and Tall, save for their unkempt appearances, owing to the bout they've just now found themselves recovering from, and a clearly injured, manic, yet sedated for the moment patient who himself even now is staring at their surprise visitor, his eyes wide with terror. He begins to nod, slowly at first, then more and more rapidly, and is seconds away from another outburst at his recognition of their sudden visitor, when he's cut off by the man's own voice.
"Perhaps I can be of some assistance, ladies?"
No response. He smiles. He can't help it. He does, after all, have a very perplexing presence. Put yourself in their shoes. Guy walks in, with every bit of air of professionalism, save for that giant gold belt around his waist. What's that all about, anyway?
"I hope you'll pardon my interruption. My name is Doctor Akz. I'm a....personal acquaintance of your John Doe, here. I've been sent on behalf of the practice of operate out of in hopes that I may aid your mystery patient here in his recovery."
"We...well, we appreciate your efforts Doctor....Akz, was it? However, given the nature of the patient, I hope you won't take offense to my requesting of some credentials?"
"Not at all. Here. My card. I operate out of the Kyzer Institute Of Medicinal Study. I specialize in cases such as this young man here. If you'll give us the room, I believe I may be able to make some headway."
Perfectly sated with this arrival of this seemingly accredited doctor, however arrogant his fashion tastes may peg him, the nurses exit the room. Giving them a warm smile, and even a friendly wave for good measure as they make their way out to check on the other patients in the wake of the anonymous outburst, he very quietly shuts the door behind them. His warm smiles cracks into an arrogant, evil smirk as he locks the door handle, and makes over toward the large window adjacent to the door, twisting the white metal rod hanging from the corner, shutting the blinds, obscuring all outside view of the room. The room now shrouded in total darkness, he flips a switch, and looks across to his new "patient", who wide eyes are instantly singed shut by the sudden, blinding white glare of the lights being switched on. Grabbing his cooler, and a nearby chair, the "doctor" places himself bedside by the patient, and goes to work on undoing the leather restraints holding him in place.
"Dr...dra...Drak...?"
"Easy there, mate. Try and hold it in til we get you your meds, right?"
With the patients eyes still fixed in a sort of stunned terror upon him, he reaches to his cooler and pops the lid. Rather than the preserved organ that one might expect to find encased with in, he reaches into the pile of white ice and produces a clear glass bottle, shaped rather uniquely from your "typical" container. He pops the golden, twist off cap, and the clear, amber liquid inside develops a quickly fading, distincly white, fizzy head in reaction to the sudden introduction of uncompressed air. Smirking, he passes the bottle over, handing it toward the laid up victim at his side. He eyes it with bewildered shock, almost fear, his eyes darting back and forth between the bottle, and his visitor.
"Drink up, would you?"
He still doesn't know what to make of all this. His eyes are now fixed upon the clear glass, the amber liquid, the perpetual upward fizzing of the carbonation. He stares for what seems like days, as condensation begins to develop on the cool glass exterior. His visitor finally reaches over, grabbing his hand, and places the bottle into his palm, forcefully grasping his fingers around it to develop a grip. The cold is a shock to the man in the bed, but a waking shock, nontheless. He very slowly, very hesitantly begins to the bring the bottle upward, toward his face.
"There we go, then. Down the hatch, eh David?"
He takes a sip. Then another. And another. Within seconds, the bottle is drained. He collapses, exasperatedly, into his bed. His eyes shut. He smiles. His breathing steadies. The tension in his limbs is gone - replaced, most regretably now with the inevitable pain that has put him here, as well as a few additional lumps that he's evidently taken throughout the course of the evening. The small miracles of alcohol. How remarkable the effects of a simple twleve fluid ounces can be. In just seconds, and a drink, the tense, neurotic, violently dangerous man who had just moments prior thrashed about in this bed has been replaced by an altogether calmer, more relaxed patient.
"....just tell me there's more...."
Drakz reaches down, and drops the entire cooler into David's lap, throwing the lid open once more.
"Do what you need. Oh, here, brought this, too."
He reaches into the inside pocket of his coat, and produces a small handle of Jack Daniels Tennessee Whiskey. David's eyes light up as he takes the bottle from Drakz, having already put away two more of the High Lifes, leaving him dangerously close to having consumed all the antineurotics he's just been prescribed. Drakz digs into his pocket once more, offering a small shot glass to his laid up friend, which David is quick to turn down. Twisting the black cap off the bottle, he's perfectly content to go to town on his own, knocking the bottle back, coming up only for air, leaving already a sizeable dent in the bottle's browned contents.
"Just what the doctor ordered, then?"
"You're a f*ckin' lifesaver."
"Brothers help each other out, and there's been a lot of talk about that swirling around lately. Had to get my kicks in while I still could."
"Talk of what?"
"Of saving David Brennan. Pulling our very own Private Ryan from the edge of the world - or...well...pushing him over, depending which side of the fence your on. I know you hit a bit of a snag in Tokyo, Brennan. How the hell did they get to you?"
"Nobody 'got to me'. What are you on about?"
"David - grown men don't just toss themselves into traffic on a whim, lest of all grown men of your particular makeup. I know well enough to know when something's spooked one of my mates. What got you?"
"Look, nothing got me. It's just some sh*t that happened. I'm past it, it's over."
"Damn well better be. Not to come off like your mother or anything, but we simply can't afford this little slump you've hit. Things are...well, things are about to change, and we need you in prime condition. You hit your stride when we first put this little motley crew together, which, seemingly, was right around the time you started...what's the word? Indulging, again, so let's replicate the factors that facilitated that, and keep you gunning. Keep drinking."
David takes another swig off the bottle of Jack. It'd be so easy to blurt out that he hadn't had but one of two drinks since coming back stateside, that he'd tossed his last sampling of whiskey down on the floor of some god forsaken church that he'd been visiting on the reg looking for answers, but then, would it? It didn't even make a shred of sense to him. Blurting it out to his brothers in the Epoch would likely have them laying the stomp on him in a days time. It'd make him look weak. And he was anything but, especially under the influence. Thank the stills for Drakz and his supply of liquid sustenance. In an hours time, those thoughts would be out of his head, and he'd hardly remember that whole f*cked up ordeal in Japan. Forget Jack. Clark. Forget...
"And for heaven's sake, try not to lose any more matches. Again, I'm not trying to get all motherly on you here, but you're good, Brennan. You're real good, otherwise, I'd have probably just left you for dead here. They've thrown you a real bone here this week, got yourself a real easy stepping stone to get your leverage back and climb right up to the top."
"Who?"
"AJ King."
"...who?"
"That's what I said, too."
"Christ, I really have fallen off, haven't I? Two weeks ago I'm coming off of Mak Cross at the pay-per-view, and now I'm fighting....who again?"
"AJ King"
"...right, whoever the f*ck AJ King is. F*ck me blind..."
As David takes this in, Drakz rises to his feet, and crosses the room, to a lone, fall aparticle board cabinet by the door. He opens the rickety door, rifling through the contents of the closet, before producing a clear, plastic garment bag. Through the plastic, David can see most of his personal effects - his black, wool coat. A black t-shirt, the sleeves torn off, the emblazoned logo of The Bruisers. It was white, last he remembered. Like his jeans, hanging from another hanger, the logo is now discolored, stained by a hard splatter of dried, red blood. If David were a betting man, he'd wager it was his own.
"Christ, I took quite a hit, didn't I?"
"That's what they say. I'm not going to remind you - not my style. What I am going to do is insist you not leave this facility wearing what I'm willing to bet is a rather assless nightgown. Hospitals, man."
He tosses the garment bag at David, allowing it to slump over him as it lands half on the bed, half off. With a curt click of the heel, Drakz turns, facing the corner, allowing David enough decency to change out the admittedly humiliating hospital garb, and into a more respectable outfit. Once he's finished, he signals to Drakz by crossing the room himself, digging his black steel toes out of the closet, and slipping them over his nasty, sweaty socks. His bones are rigid. He aches at every move, and yet, somehow, he's never felt more alive. He can feel the poisonous serum flowing through his veins once more. Slowly, effectively. In time, that golden amber and that smokey brown will soothe the pain. He's run faster, jump higher. He'll be whole again. A few days, maybe hours. Do exactly as Drakz said - replicate the factors that worked the first time. This happens to the best of all alcoholics, and David, well he is the very best of all alcoholics. Everyone tangoes with intervention. Personal struggle. Withdrawal. Victorious are those that can overcome it. Flourish, not flounder. Embrace, not succumb.
Fully dressed, David cocks his head to each side, emitting a terribly loud snap as he begins to loosen up his bones, shake out the cobwebs. Drakz sizes him up, and smirks.
"It's no wonder we keep you around Brennan. Fifteen minutes and a couple of drinks later, and you're almost as good as new. Here, follow my lead."
Drakz throws open the hospital room door, leading David out into the dimly lit corridor. No sooner had they taken but five steps, and they've caught the attention of the nightshift nurse, sitting at her post, filling out a stack of paperwork a mile high.
"Everything all right, Doctor?"
"All's well, ma'am. I'd like to thank you for your time, and hospitality. I don't believe you've met Professor Brennan? One of my fellows back at the institute. We'll be making our way, now. Pleasant evening to the both of you, then."
And before either nurse can utter a rebuttal, David finds himself shuffled down the hall, and into a waiting elevator. Drakz gives a quick jab at the glowing button reading "Lobby", stepping back as the doors slide shut, and the elevator hums to life.
"Doctor?"
"Mmhmm. Doctor Akz, of the Kyzer Institute."
"The esteemed. So...AJ King..."
"AJ King. Do us a favor, would you?"
"What's that?"
"Don't like the way they shuffled you down the line. You're part of The New Epoch. There's no reason for you to be carding below guys stepping through the ropes for the first time, so do us a favor, and make sure our friend King delivers that message backstage."
"Right, yeah. I think I can do that."
The elevator shudders as it reaches the ground level, screeching to a halt as the doors slide open, revealing a more bustling lobby than the emergency care ward they'd just now left. David follows Drakz's lead, casually sauntering through the lobby toward the exit doors, as if they owned the place. Making their way past the automatic exit doors, the two men come upon a black limousine, casually parked directly in front of the door in a side pull off that is clearly marked EMERGENCY VEHICLES ONLY. Drakz throws open the doors, indicates for David to climb in ahead of him, then steps in himself, slamming the door shut just as the car begins to roll forward, down the ramp, and off to its next destination.
It's easy, sometimes, to forget that David Brennan is human. After all, for anyone keeping tabs, the past few months have presented challenges that carry with them an implicit need for an approach that one might call "superhuman". Imagine yourself, fair viewer, thrust into the spotlight - a timid, social outcast, shunned by society for the simple crime of identifying yourself in such a manner that the social majority does not fully grasp the implications of. In the bags clutched in your left hand, a stalwart, headstrong desire to set them straight, to stand tall, and make them understand the difference between "skinhead" and "facist". Packed within the bags to your right? Your estranged father, waltzing back into your life and taking the wheel. And tucked into one of those tiny crevices, one of those pockets that you'd normally pack, say, a toothbrush, or some bandaids in; one of those pockets that, upon returning home, you're just as likely to pass over as you unpack, is a four year buffer between you, and the most violent battle with addiction the world has likely ever seen. Grab your bags, and hop on board. The ride's not so bad at first - you even see a couple of nice sights. But then, on any trip, there are bound to be bumps in the road. A missed bus. You lose your first match.
It's enough to drive any man to drink.
And that's where society turns down one road, and David Brennan traverses another. Society succumbs to addiction. David Brennan embraces it. Society flounders under the control of toxic substances. David Brennan flourishes. Watching these triumphs, knowing the bottle of whiskey is never more than an arm's reach away, it's easy to get lost in the notion that David Brennan is the uncanny, incomparable alcoholic. We watch the horrid things he does, the people he surrounds himself with, and the way he regards those who show the least bit of genuine care for his well being, and we get swept up in the ride. We don't see a man who suffers from a disease - we see David "The Incomparable Alcoholic" Brennan.
That's the real horror of it all - without the bottle close by, the show we've come to glue ourselves to week after week would cease to exist. There are things no one tells you about alcoholic withdrawal - they're the symptoms you can't see. The hallucinations. The voices. The nightmares. Imagine, once more if you will, being very much alone. The room to yourself. Perhaps a room you're quite content in - maybe your bedroom, or a favorite shop, or even a safe haven - a church, perhaps. As you take in the peacefulness of your solitude, you find yourself most suddenly entangled in a lively, back and forth conversation - maybe with a childhood friend who you've not seen in decades. Perhaps a long deceased relative, or a figure from history whom circumstances would render meeting a mathematical impossibility. Or perhaps, most terrifyingly, even yourself. Maybe it's you as a child, or in your more vulnerable college years, or even you several decades from now. This enigmatic partner to your conversation is most influential, and before long, you find yourself obeying their commands without question. How might your mind, fluctuating in its abilities to take in and process the world around it react when cognition takes over and begins to comprehend what's happening?
If you're any bit as human as our own David Brennan, you might just throw yourself into oncoming traffic.
It's these very hypothetical, thought provoking scenarios that bring us to the here, and the now: a most immaculate, sterile hospital room, the lights dimmed for the evening, and the mood amid the surrounding corridors most resonatingly calm. All this, however, can only survive under the mounting pressures weighed against the temporary fragility of such a situation, and is just as suddenly destroyed by a bellowing, ostensibly loud shriek of pure, unbridled terror.
"What in God's name is that?!"
"It's our John Doe, room 616!"
The two night nurses dart down the hall, into the lion's pit - the very source of the commotion that has broken up an otherwise peaceful evening in the Emergency Care ward - to find their resident stranger, a victim of multiple vehicle collisions earlier that afternoon, wailing and thrashing violently about in his upright bed. In the eight hours since he'd been here, the staff on hand had experience no less than seven of these random outbursts. They all felt a great pity on the man - a degree of compassion paralleled only by those in their particular field. What great agony he must be in during his brief bouts of peace, that could rouse him to such terrifying heights. Aptly trained, the two caretakers dive headfirst into restraint techniques. It takes the grace of a most blessed soul to take a violent thrashing from a man who knows not what he does, rebound, and dive back in, if only to stabilize him for his own well being. Two shots of morphine slow the man's actions, but he must have been most terribly haunted this time around. Even under the increasing effect of the calming drug, he runs the risk of burning out his lungs and throat as he continues to wail in absolute, continued shrieks of duress. Another shot muffles his cries some, and gives the nurses the opening they need to apply belted leather straps to each of the man's limbs, tying him down to the protective rails on each of the fours sides of the bed. He twitches still, his eyes wide as though he's seen the fullest depths of heaven and hell, his breathing heavy and uneven, beads of cold sweat running down every inch of his face. As his two caretakers take in a moment to regain their composure, their naturally heightened scope of attention is grabbed once more by a couteous "Ahem" from the hospital room's wide open door.
The man standing before them in the open doorway is altogether...calming. He presents himself most elegantly - he's dressed in a neat, well kept, black and pinstriped suit. His hair, though maybe not like that all the time, is tonight slicked back, again well kept, and compliments his suit in a way that presents himself in an entirely non-threatening manner, despite his considerable stature and size. He carries with him a red and white cooler, appropriately marked for medical purposes. He would, in fact, likely be passed over by nearly all who make their way through the hospital as just one of the many, many medical professionals who visit on a frequent, daily basis, if not for one tiny, minute detail - the extravagant, jarring, large gold plated belt he wears around his waist. He takes in the scene before him now - two nightshift nurses, perfectly Sarah, Plain, and Tall, save for their unkempt appearances, owing to the bout they've just now found themselves recovering from, and a clearly injured, manic, yet sedated for the moment patient who himself even now is staring at their surprise visitor, his eyes wide with terror. He begins to nod, slowly at first, then more and more rapidly, and is seconds away from another outburst at his recognition of their sudden visitor, when he's cut off by the man's own voice.
"Perhaps I can be of some assistance, ladies?"
No response. He smiles. He can't help it. He does, after all, have a very perplexing presence. Put yourself in their shoes. Guy walks in, with every bit of air of professionalism, save for that giant gold belt around his waist. What's that all about, anyway?
"I hope you'll pardon my interruption. My name is Doctor Akz. I'm a....personal acquaintance of your John Doe, here. I've been sent on behalf of the practice of operate out of in hopes that I may aid your mystery patient here in his recovery."
"We...well, we appreciate your efforts Doctor....Akz, was it? However, given the nature of the patient, I hope you won't take offense to my requesting of some credentials?"
"Not at all. Here. My card. I operate out of the Kyzer Institute Of Medicinal Study. I specialize in cases such as this young man here. If you'll give us the room, I believe I may be able to make some headway."
Perfectly sated with this arrival of this seemingly accredited doctor, however arrogant his fashion tastes may peg him, the nurses exit the room. Giving them a warm smile, and even a friendly wave for good measure as they make their way out to check on the other patients in the wake of the anonymous outburst, he very quietly shuts the door behind them. His warm smiles cracks into an arrogant, evil smirk as he locks the door handle, and makes over toward the large window adjacent to the door, twisting the white metal rod hanging from the corner, shutting the blinds, obscuring all outside view of the room. The room now shrouded in total darkness, he flips a switch, and looks across to his new "patient", who wide eyes are instantly singed shut by the sudden, blinding white glare of the lights being switched on. Grabbing his cooler, and a nearby chair, the "doctor" places himself bedside by the patient, and goes to work on undoing the leather restraints holding him in place.
"Dr...dra...Drak...?"
"Easy there, mate. Try and hold it in til we get you your meds, right?"
With the patients eyes still fixed in a sort of stunned terror upon him, he reaches to his cooler and pops the lid. Rather than the preserved organ that one might expect to find encased with in, he reaches into the pile of white ice and produces a clear glass bottle, shaped rather uniquely from your "typical" container. He pops the golden, twist off cap, and the clear, amber liquid inside develops a quickly fading, distincly white, fizzy head in reaction to the sudden introduction of uncompressed air. Smirking, he passes the bottle over, handing it toward the laid up victim at his side. He eyes it with bewildered shock, almost fear, his eyes darting back and forth between the bottle, and his visitor.
"Drink up, would you?"
He still doesn't know what to make of all this. His eyes are now fixed upon the clear glass, the amber liquid, the perpetual upward fizzing of the carbonation. He stares for what seems like days, as condensation begins to develop on the cool glass exterior. His visitor finally reaches over, grabbing his hand, and places the bottle into his palm, forcefully grasping his fingers around it to develop a grip. The cold is a shock to the man in the bed, but a waking shock, nontheless. He very slowly, very hesitantly begins to the bring the bottle upward, toward his face.
"There we go, then. Down the hatch, eh David?"
He takes a sip. Then another. And another. Within seconds, the bottle is drained. He collapses, exasperatedly, into his bed. His eyes shut. He smiles. His breathing steadies. The tension in his limbs is gone - replaced, most regretably now with the inevitable pain that has put him here, as well as a few additional lumps that he's evidently taken throughout the course of the evening. The small miracles of alcohol. How remarkable the effects of a simple twleve fluid ounces can be. In just seconds, and a drink, the tense, neurotic, violently dangerous man who had just moments prior thrashed about in this bed has been replaced by an altogether calmer, more relaxed patient.
"....just tell me there's more...."
Drakz reaches down, and drops the entire cooler into David's lap, throwing the lid open once more.
"Do what you need. Oh, here, brought this, too."
He reaches into the inside pocket of his coat, and produces a small handle of Jack Daniels Tennessee Whiskey. David's eyes light up as he takes the bottle from Drakz, having already put away two more of the High Lifes, leaving him dangerously close to having consumed all the antineurotics he's just been prescribed. Drakz digs into his pocket once more, offering a small shot glass to his laid up friend, which David is quick to turn down. Twisting the black cap off the bottle, he's perfectly content to go to town on his own, knocking the bottle back, coming up only for air, leaving already a sizeable dent in the bottle's browned contents.
"Just what the doctor ordered, then?"
"You're a f*ckin' lifesaver."
"Brothers help each other out, and there's been a lot of talk about that swirling around lately. Had to get my kicks in while I still could."
"Talk of what?"
"Of saving David Brennan. Pulling our very own Private Ryan from the edge of the world - or...well...pushing him over, depending which side of the fence your on. I know you hit a bit of a snag in Tokyo, Brennan. How the hell did they get to you?"
"Nobody 'got to me'. What are you on about?"
"David - grown men don't just toss themselves into traffic on a whim, lest of all grown men of your particular makeup. I know well enough to know when something's spooked one of my mates. What got you?"
"Look, nothing got me. It's just some sh*t that happened. I'm past it, it's over."
"Damn well better be. Not to come off like your mother or anything, but we simply can't afford this little slump you've hit. Things are...well, things are about to change, and we need you in prime condition. You hit your stride when we first put this little motley crew together, which, seemingly, was right around the time you started...what's the word? Indulging, again, so let's replicate the factors that facilitated that, and keep you gunning. Keep drinking."
David takes another swig off the bottle of Jack. It'd be so easy to blurt out that he hadn't had but one of two drinks since coming back stateside, that he'd tossed his last sampling of whiskey down on the floor of some god forsaken church that he'd been visiting on the reg looking for answers, but then, would it? It didn't even make a shred of sense to him. Blurting it out to his brothers in the Epoch would likely have them laying the stomp on him in a days time. It'd make him look weak. And he was anything but, especially under the influence. Thank the stills for Drakz and his supply of liquid sustenance. In an hours time, those thoughts would be out of his head, and he'd hardly remember that whole f*cked up ordeal in Japan. Forget Jack. Clark. Forget...
"And for heaven's sake, try not to lose any more matches. Again, I'm not trying to get all motherly on you here, but you're good, Brennan. You're real good, otherwise, I'd have probably just left you for dead here. They've thrown you a real bone here this week, got yourself a real easy stepping stone to get your leverage back and climb right up to the top."
"Who?"
"AJ King."
"...who?"
"That's what I said, too."
"Christ, I really have fallen off, haven't I? Two weeks ago I'm coming off of Mak Cross at the pay-per-view, and now I'm fighting....who again?"
"AJ King"
"...right, whoever the f*ck AJ King is. F*ck me blind..."
As David takes this in, Drakz rises to his feet, and crosses the room, to a lone, fall aparticle board cabinet by the door. He opens the rickety door, rifling through the contents of the closet, before producing a clear, plastic garment bag. Through the plastic, David can see most of his personal effects - his black, wool coat. A black t-shirt, the sleeves torn off, the emblazoned logo of The Bruisers. It was white, last he remembered. Like his jeans, hanging from another hanger, the logo is now discolored, stained by a hard splatter of dried, red blood. If David were a betting man, he'd wager it was his own.
"Christ, I took quite a hit, didn't I?"
"That's what they say. I'm not going to remind you - not my style. What I am going to do is insist you not leave this facility wearing what I'm willing to bet is a rather assless nightgown. Hospitals, man."
He tosses the garment bag at David, allowing it to slump over him as it lands half on the bed, half off. With a curt click of the heel, Drakz turns, facing the corner, allowing David enough decency to change out the admittedly humiliating hospital garb, and into a more respectable outfit. Once he's finished, he signals to Drakz by crossing the room himself, digging his black steel toes out of the closet, and slipping them over his nasty, sweaty socks. His bones are rigid. He aches at every move, and yet, somehow, he's never felt more alive. He can feel the poisonous serum flowing through his veins once more. Slowly, effectively. In time, that golden amber and that smokey brown will soothe the pain. He's run faster, jump higher. He'll be whole again. A few days, maybe hours. Do exactly as Drakz said - replicate the factors that worked the first time. This happens to the best of all alcoholics, and David, well he is the very best of all alcoholics. Everyone tangoes with intervention. Personal struggle. Withdrawal. Victorious are those that can overcome it. Flourish, not flounder. Embrace, not succumb.
Fully dressed, David cocks his head to each side, emitting a terribly loud snap as he begins to loosen up his bones, shake out the cobwebs. Drakz sizes him up, and smirks.
"It's no wonder we keep you around Brennan. Fifteen minutes and a couple of drinks later, and you're almost as good as new. Here, follow my lead."
Drakz throws open the hospital room door, leading David out into the dimly lit corridor. No sooner had they taken but five steps, and they've caught the attention of the nightshift nurse, sitting at her post, filling out a stack of paperwork a mile high.
"Everything all right, Doctor?"
"All's well, ma'am. I'd like to thank you for your time, and hospitality. I don't believe you've met Professor Brennan? One of my fellows back at the institute. We'll be making our way, now. Pleasant evening to the both of you, then."
And before either nurse can utter a rebuttal, David finds himself shuffled down the hall, and into a waiting elevator. Drakz gives a quick jab at the glowing button reading "Lobby", stepping back as the doors slide shut, and the elevator hums to life.
"Doctor?"
"Mmhmm. Doctor Akz, of the Kyzer Institute."
"The esteemed. So...AJ King..."
"AJ King. Do us a favor, would you?"
"What's that?"
"Don't like the way they shuffled you down the line. You're part of The New Epoch. There's no reason for you to be carding below guys stepping through the ropes for the first time, so do us a favor, and make sure our friend King delivers that message backstage."
"Right, yeah. I think I can do that."
The elevator shudders as it reaches the ground level, screeching to a halt as the doors slide open, revealing a more bustling lobby than the emergency care ward they'd just now left. David follows Drakz's lead, casually sauntering through the lobby toward the exit doors, as if they owned the place. Making their way past the automatic exit doors, the two men come upon a black limousine, casually parked directly in front of the door in a side pull off that is clearly marked EMERGENCY VEHICLES ONLY. Drakz throws open the doors, indicates for David to climb in ahead of him, then steps in himself, slamming the door shut just as the car begins to roll forward, down the ramp, and off to its next destination.
I dont know good luck 
