Post by CM Poor on May 2, 2012 8:17:11 GMT -5
Third Man In
You could cut the tension in the room with a knife. It's the type of tension you only get by putting relative polar opposites across from one another, and then initiating eye contact. It's not a complete act of unwillingness - one has called the other here tonight, but the tension grows nontheless over the festering differences between the two men who now sit opposite on another. In this corner, business as usual, the perfect picture of proper - the black suit, the gray tie, the years of experience and know how chiseled into defined lines across his weathered, aged face, with a few New York miles to boot - Xavier Pierce. And in this corner, the epitome of disrespect - ragged t-shirt, the sleeves cut off, faded blue jeans, a weathered face himself, aged beyond his years by a healthy dose of riotous upbringing, alcohol abuse, and a history of violence, all capped off with a domineering size 13 pair of Doc Marten steel toed boots, propped aimlessly up on the mahogany desk that separates the two men opposite on another. To say that David Brennan has little interest in being here tonight would be a horrid, horrid understatement.
"I'll start then, by congratulating you on a most....impressive performance tonight. Let me accentuate just how much I truly enjoyed watching you eviscerate AJ King. I can assure you, the ratings will no doubt overcompensate for the insurance premiums we'll most certainly be paying to cover Mr. King's injuries sustained this evening."
Silence. A skeptical raise of the brow, nothing more. David still glistens with the gleam of sweat trickling down his face and arms. That very moisture adheres miniscule shards of broken glass - bottles just moments earlier destroyed against the very skull of AJ King - to his skin, peppered and slattered with drying bits of blood, all unlikely belonging to him. The very last thing he wants now is to be sitting across from the very man who has taken such a promising upswing of a debut, and dropped him, a member of The New Epoch, a triad designed to destroy the very structure of this man's company, so far down the ladder, and can now, at will, call him in to such pristine executive offices to pander to him over his treatment of talent befitting the ranks AJ King. No, at this point he'd rather a shower and a beer, thanks. F*cking suits.
"I won't begin to lecture you on manners and common courtesy, but usually, a 'Thank You' might be considered a proper response to such a gushing compliment."
"F*ck you."
Pierce doesn't falter even the slightest in response to the curt response. Instead, he narrows his eyes, staring down the waffled sole of the boots precariously rested upon his desk. He follows down the legs, up the slumped torso, trying to meet the eyes of the clearly intoxicated man opposite him. David's eyes, however, are fixed far off the mark of Xavier Pierce, and are fixated, almost longingly at a matching mahogany hutch on the wall immediately to his right. Glasses, buckets of ice, and smattering of any number of fine, fast acting toxins that could easily dull the sheer agony of having found himself in such a pristine, corporate setting. What he wouldn't give to nudge his feet, just an inch or so, and kick the desk right into Pierce's lap. He'd be free then to hop up, confiscate whatever whiskey Pierce may have had in his possession, and evacuate before anyone could respond. But then, Pierce was already on track to making his life miserable, sticking him just below the ranks of the National Title contenders. Better response would to be just continuing that aggression against newcomers and no-comers, until he'd put everyone Pierce could throw at him into forced retirement. Shame. He could do it.
"I'd offer you a drink, but I think we'd both agree that you are already grossly in violation of the WFWF's wellness policy, wouldn't you say?"
"Did you actually call me here for something, or can we cut with this idle chit-chat bullsh*t so that I can go and clean AJ King off the bottom of my boots?"
"I must say I'm surprised, David. I know we haven't even been formally introduced yet, but I've had the opportunity to speak with your, shall we say, comrades in The New Epoch, and I haven't found any of them to be this difficult in person. Drakz, in particular, is most cordial whenever he..."
"That's Drakz. I'm David. Now either pour me some of that Maker's Mark to dull the pain of listening to you ramble, or cut to the f*cking chase so I can get out of here."
The lightning of opportunity strikes in Xavier's mind, and he smiles. He rises, and steps out from behind his desk, crossing to the hutch David had been eyeing, and from the glass cabinet, procures two glasses, and a bottle of Maker's Mark. A drop of ice cubes in each glass crackles as he pours the warm, brown comfort over it, and turns with each glass in hand, reapproaching the desk, placing one glass in front of his executive chair, the other never getting the opportunity to meet the desk, as it is quickyl swept up by David, and downed without warning.
"Better bring the whole bottle.
Pierce smiles again, almost in awe, as he nods, returning to the hutch and procuring the bottle once more. He pours another glass for David, which he now sips more nursingly as the bottle is now placed before him as well, offering him a supply of comfort as Pierce takes his seat, David now at least aptly prepared for a proper meeting with the boss.
"I can tell you're not one for idle "bullsh*t", as you so eloquently called it, so I'll do my best to get right to the point, and try and keep it as casual as possible."
"...'bout f*cking time..."
"I think we'd both agree that you've had your....ups and downs, shall we say?"
"I'd agree that your booking staff sucks."
"I'd like to think I have an eye for talent, Mr. Brennan. You've certainly got it, but your consistency is all over the place."
"Hey, bossman, did you hear me? You booking staff sucks. You want to talk about consistency, look at the matches. I'm not normally one to complain, but don't pit me against guys who couldn't hold their bowels at the other end of Hollywood Honor's gun for three weeks, talk about how impressive my work is, and then pit me against Drakz and act all aghast that I've lost. And quit acting like the matches I've lost have been some big 'fall from grace' for me. Only two guys in your network here have even managed to get the fall on me."
"Three, by my count."
"Two in your network. Drakz is in mine."
"Yes, of course. Your loss to Drakz has proven beneficial to you, hasn't it? And the second one didn't really hurt, did it?"
"I'd like to think I'm on the right side of the battle lines, yes."
From his desk, Pierce procures a thin, manilla colored folder, aptly labeled "The New Epoch". From within the folder, he draws three black and white photographs, each with an attachment of handwritten notes. It isn't difficult to see, without reading specifics, even at a glance, that the attachment to David's photograph is undeniably the shortest of the three. In fact, the most noticable remark on David's sheet is a very large, black question mark below two, maybe three lines of comment at best. David pours himself another glass as Pierce pours over the notes, clasing his hands together in front of his mouth, sighing heavily.
"David, along with my eye for talent, I like to think that I have the witherwill to admit when I'm wrong, lost, or stuck, and I have no problem saying this to you now - you're right. While consistency hasn't been your forte thus far, your highs have far outweighed your lows. You've managed to chalk up a fair share of wins in your corner. You took down a former champion in only your fourth showing, and really, for someone still as new to the game as yourself, there shouldn't be much shame in losing to Phillip Schneider, Drakz, or even Mr. Elias. You're a perfectly able competitor, David. The biggest problem I've had with you that isn't related to your vices, is that before tonight, I simply couldn't quite comprehend the threat that you posed, individually."
"Take a sh*t on my rug, then swoop down and clean it up."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You said it yourself. 'I think we'd agree that you've had your ups and your downs, David. Your consistency sucks. But you're the best. Really. You're quite a threat, but you suck'. I'll be honest, with how ruthlessly you've tried to dampen what you've assured me is an incredibly promising rise to the top, I figured your tactics might be a bit less thinly veiled, so rather that plathering on with this back and forth b*llcrap you've tricked me into, I'll revert: get to the f*cking point."
Now visibly irked by Brennan's disregard for the conversation, Pierce stuffs the headshots back into the folder and files it away. He turns his attention to a pile of papers haphazardly strewn across the left side of his desk. He rifles through them for a moment, coming across one emblazoned with the WFWF Loaded insignia, followed by more handscrawled notes. He places this one atop the pile, shuffles the papers into a neat stack, and sets them down, crossing his hands in front of him and regaining his composure.
"As I'm sure you know by now, Ace Bennett has challenged you in the tournament slated for the next pay-per-view event."
"Don't try and change the subject, Pierce."
"Mr Brennan, I assure you that this matter is very much on the subject. I like to think that I'm a very accomodating individual. You feel that you've been misused, shuffled down to ranks of which you are well above the qualifications for. Ace Bennett, like many others, looks to be the one to dismantle the organization you've chosen to align yourself with. Were I to find myself in your boots, I'd call this a golden opportunity."
"Better check your records. I've already snuffed Bennett out."
"I'm aware of the fact. I'm also aware of the fact, that, as you've done so yourself, Ace Bennett has recently experienced a...how shall I say...transgression of mindsets."
"Is that what you call that little hissy fit he threw on camera tonight?"
"All I'm saying is that the Ace Bennett you fought then may not necessarily be indicative of the Ace Bennett who has challenged you now. Bottom line, if you're willing to accept his request, then I'm willing to give you the opportunity to climb the ladder we've constructed with the upcoming tournament."
"Put him in line, then. Who's he behind? Dane Tombs? Pain? Daniel Sabat? Got a big comeback lined up for Lincoln Dina?"
"We were thinking Raider, actually."
"...typical."
Brennan curses under his breath, pouring himself another glass of whiskey. He downs it in a gulp, and pours another, finishing the bottle. He sips this final glass, eyeing Pierce over the rim of the glass.
"Am I to understand that you find Raider to be...not up to your level?"
"Look X, I find the entire roster that isn't named Drakz or Michael Kyzer to be not up to my level."
"Then there's no pleasing you."
"Oh I'm fine with Raider. Just like Bennett, line him up."
"Then what's so 'typical' about the situation?"
"The fact that it's a situation."
"I don't follow."
"You said you weren't going to bullsh*t me, Pierce. You know as well as I do, probably better, that Bennett and Raider are leading the charge against the New Epoch. The fact that you can sit me down and pump whiskey down my throat doesn't change the fact that it's us against the rest of you."
"And?"
David finally removes his feet from Pierce's desk. He sits upright for the first time since their meeting began, leaning in to get as close to Pierce as the desk separating them will allow.
"Cut the sh*t. I see your game. You've known the threat I pose all along, both individually, and alongside Drakz and Kyzer. So you try burying me. Stick me against AJ King this week. Maybe Tombs next week. Maybe the Grave Digger after that. Instead, what you got was one less piece of talent to book. I'll give you that, Pierce. You took one good look at King and saw the eventual drop off of your entire undercard. And so here we are now. Can't bury me? May as well try and beat me. Bennett puts the ball in your court, but that won't quite work, will it?"
"What makes you think that?"
"The fact that you've got to parlay Raider as a buffer. You and I both know that I've beaten Ace once before, and that it won't be much of a chore to do it again. But maybe, just maybe, if you send his new buddy in after me first, you can soften me up, keep me buried early before the tournament can even take off."
"Raider is a former champion, and a contender for the belt, against your good friend Michael Kyzer, no less. I'd think you'd take him as a more serious threat."
"He isn't going to win, Pierce. Not next week, and certainly not at the pay-per-view. I'll give you this - giving me Raider, letting him try and break me before I can get to Bennett, cut him down, and walk into that Chamber, you've at least tried to play a smart game."
"How do you figure?"
"You've set this up, creating your own admittance: I'm the most dangerous man you've put into this little Survival game of yours."
"Alright then. Suppose you do win the tournament, and Kyzer wins back his belt in double jeopardy. Then what? Then it's the two of you in separate corners in the same ring."
"Then you've got the worst situation you could imagine on your hands, Pierce. The New Epoch owes you a debt of gratitude - you've played this one right into our hands."
"I think you'd better leave, Mr. Brennan."
"I was just on my way out".
David rises from his chair, offering Pierce little more than a curt smirk and a nod of the head. He turns to exit, and has almost reached the door when he stops, turning on his heel, and reapproaching the bosses desk. He picks up the empty bottle of Maker's Mark, eyeing it for a moment, then turns to meet eyes with Pierce once more.
"Mind if I keep this?
"The bottle's empty, Brennan. What good is it going to do you now?"
"Exactly. No good to you now, is it? Besides, you didn't think I was going to stop cutting down the opposition, just 'cause you've bounced me back up the card, did you?"
And with this, the empty bottle grasped firmly in hand, David exits the office, leaving the CEO to consider the game he's set in motion.
You could cut the tension in the room with a knife. It's the type of tension you only get by putting relative polar opposites across from one another, and then initiating eye contact. It's not a complete act of unwillingness - one has called the other here tonight, but the tension grows nontheless over the festering differences between the two men who now sit opposite on another. In this corner, business as usual, the perfect picture of proper - the black suit, the gray tie, the years of experience and know how chiseled into defined lines across his weathered, aged face, with a few New York miles to boot - Xavier Pierce. And in this corner, the epitome of disrespect - ragged t-shirt, the sleeves cut off, faded blue jeans, a weathered face himself, aged beyond his years by a healthy dose of riotous upbringing, alcohol abuse, and a history of violence, all capped off with a domineering size 13 pair of Doc Marten steel toed boots, propped aimlessly up on the mahogany desk that separates the two men opposite on another. To say that David Brennan has little interest in being here tonight would be a horrid, horrid understatement.
"I'll start then, by congratulating you on a most....impressive performance tonight. Let me accentuate just how much I truly enjoyed watching you eviscerate AJ King. I can assure you, the ratings will no doubt overcompensate for the insurance premiums we'll most certainly be paying to cover Mr. King's injuries sustained this evening."
Silence. A skeptical raise of the brow, nothing more. David still glistens with the gleam of sweat trickling down his face and arms. That very moisture adheres miniscule shards of broken glass - bottles just moments earlier destroyed against the very skull of AJ King - to his skin, peppered and slattered with drying bits of blood, all unlikely belonging to him. The very last thing he wants now is to be sitting across from the very man who has taken such a promising upswing of a debut, and dropped him, a member of The New Epoch, a triad designed to destroy the very structure of this man's company, so far down the ladder, and can now, at will, call him in to such pristine executive offices to pander to him over his treatment of talent befitting the ranks AJ King. No, at this point he'd rather a shower and a beer, thanks. F*cking suits.
"I won't begin to lecture you on manners and common courtesy, but usually, a 'Thank You' might be considered a proper response to such a gushing compliment."
"F*ck you."
Pierce doesn't falter even the slightest in response to the curt response. Instead, he narrows his eyes, staring down the waffled sole of the boots precariously rested upon his desk. He follows down the legs, up the slumped torso, trying to meet the eyes of the clearly intoxicated man opposite him. David's eyes, however, are fixed far off the mark of Xavier Pierce, and are fixated, almost longingly at a matching mahogany hutch on the wall immediately to his right. Glasses, buckets of ice, and smattering of any number of fine, fast acting toxins that could easily dull the sheer agony of having found himself in such a pristine, corporate setting. What he wouldn't give to nudge his feet, just an inch or so, and kick the desk right into Pierce's lap. He'd be free then to hop up, confiscate whatever whiskey Pierce may have had in his possession, and evacuate before anyone could respond. But then, Pierce was already on track to making his life miserable, sticking him just below the ranks of the National Title contenders. Better response would to be just continuing that aggression against newcomers and no-comers, until he'd put everyone Pierce could throw at him into forced retirement. Shame. He could do it.
"I'd offer you a drink, but I think we'd both agree that you are already grossly in violation of the WFWF's wellness policy, wouldn't you say?"
"Did you actually call me here for something, or can we cut with this idle chit-chat bullsh*t so that I can go and clean AJ King off the bottom of my boots?"
"I must say I'm surprised, David. I know we haven't even been formally introduced yet, but I've had the opportunity to speak with your, shall we say, comrades in The New Epoch, and I haven't found any of them to be this difficult in person. Drakz, in particular, is most cordial whenever he..."
"That's Drakz. I'm David. Now either pour me some of that Maker's Mark to dull the pain of listening to you ramble, or cut to the f*cking chase so I can get out of here."
The lightning of opportunity strikes in Xavier's mind, and he smiles. He rises, and steps out from behind his desk, crossing to the hutch David had been eyeing, and from the glass cabinet, procures two glasses, and a bottle of Maker's Mark. A drop of ice cubes in each glass crackles as he pours the warm, brown comfort over it, and turns with each glass in hand, reapproaching the desk, placing one glass in front of his executive chair, the other never getting the opportunity to meet the desk, as it is quickyl swept up by David, and downed without warning.
"Better bring the whole bottle.
Pierce smiles again, almost in awe, as he nods, returning to the hutch and procuring the bottle once more. He pours another glass for David, which he now sips more nursingly as the bottle is now placed before him as well, offering him a supply of comfort as Pierce takes his seat, David now at least aptly prepared for a proper meeting with the boss.
"I can tell you're not one for idle "bullsh*t", as you so eloquently called it, so I'll do my best to get right to the point, and try and keep it as casual as possible."
"...'bout f*cking time..."
"I think we'd both agree that you've had your....ups and downs, shall we say?"
"I'd agree that your booking staff sucks."
"I'd like to think I have an eye for talent, Mr. Brennan. You've certainly got it, but your consistency is all over the place."
"Hey, bossman, did you hear me? You booking staff sucks. You want to talk about consistency, look at the matches. I'm not normally one to complain, but don't pit me against guys who couldn't hold their bowels at the other end of Hollywood Honor's gun for three weeks, talk about how impressive my work is, and then pit me against Drakz and act all aghast that I've lost. And quit acting like the matches I've lost have been some big 'fall from grace' for me. Only two guys in your network here have even managed to get the fall on me."
"Three, by my count."
"Two in your network. Drakz is in mine."
"Yes, of course. Your loss to Drakz has proven beneficial to you, hasn't it? And the second one didn't really hurt, did it?"
"I'd like to think I'm on the right side of the battle lines, yes."
From his desk, Pierce procures a thin, manilla colored folder, aptly labeled "The New Epoch". From within the folder, he draws three black and white photographs, each with an attachment of handwritten notes. It isn't difficult to see, without reading specifics, even at a glance, that the attachment to David's photograph is undeniably the shortest of the three. In fact, the most noticable remark on David's sheet is a very large, black question mark below two, maybe three lines of comment at best. David pours himself another glass as Pierce pours over the notes, clasing his hands together in front of his mouth, sighing heavily.
"David, along with my eye for talent, I like to think that I have the witherwill to admit when I'm wrong, lost, or stuck, and I have no problem saying this to you now - you're right. While consistency hasn't been your forte thus far, your highs have far outweighed your lows. You've managed to chalk up a fair share of wins in your corner. You took down a former champion in only your fourth showing, and really, for someone still as new to the game as yourself, there shouldn't be much shame in losing to Phillip Schneider, Drakz, or even Mr. Elias. You're a perfectly able competitor, David. The biggest problem I've had with you that isn't related to your vices, is that before tonight, I simply couldn't quite comprehend the threat that you posed, individually."
"Take a sh*t on my rug, then swoop down and clean it up."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You said it yourself. 'I think we'd agree that you've had your ups and your downs, David. Your consistency sucks. But you're the best. Really. You're quite a threat, but you suck'. I'll be honest, with how ruthlessly you've tried to dampen what you've assured me is an incredibly promising rise to the top, I figured your tactics might be a bit less thinly veiled, so rather that plathering on with this back and forth b*llcrap you've tricked me into, I'll revert: get to the f*cking point."
Now visibly irked by Brennan's disregard for the conversation, Pierce stuffs the headshots back into the folder and files it away. He turns his attention to a pile of papers haphazardly strewn across the left side of his desk. He rifles through them for a moment, coming across one emblazoned with the WFWF Loaded insignia, followed by more handscrawled notes. He places this one atop the pile, shuffles the papers into a neat stack, and sets them down, crossing his hands in front of him and regaining his composure.
"As I'm sure you know by now, Ace Bennett has challenged you in the tournament slated for the next pay-per-view event."
"Don't try and change the subject, Pierce."
"Mr Brennan, I assure you that this matter is very much on the subject. I like to think that I'm a very accomodating individual. You feel that you've been misused, shuffled down to ranks of which you are well above the qualifications for. Ace Bennett, like many others, looks to be the one to dismantle the organization you've chosen to align yourself with. Were I to find myself in your boots, I'd call this a golden opportunity."
"Better check your records. I've already snuffed Bennett out."
"I'm aware of the fact. I'm also aware of the fact, that, as you've done so yourself, Ace Bennett has recently experienced a...how shall I say...transgression of mindsets."
"Is that what you call that little hissy fit he threw on camera tonight?"
"All I'm saying is that the Ace Bennett you fought then may not necessarily be indicative of the Ace Bennett who has challenged you now. Bottom line, if you're willing to accept his request, then I'm willing to give you the opportunity to climb the ladder we've constructed with the upcoming tournament."
"Put him in line, then. Who's he behind? Dane Tombs? Pain? Daniel Sabat? Got a big comeback lined up for Lincoln Dina?"
"We were thinking Raider, actually."
"...typical."
Brennan curses under his breath, pouring himself another glass of whiskey. He downs it in a gulp, and pours another, finishing the bottle. He sips this final glass, eyeing Pierce over the rim of the glass.
"Am I to understand that you find Raider to be...not up to your level?"
"Look X, I find the entire roster that isn't named Drakz or Michael Kyzer to be not up to my level."
"Then there's no pleasing you."
"Oh I'm fine with Raider. Just like Bennett, line him up."
"Then what's so 'typical' about the situation?"
"The fact that it's a situation."
"I don't follow."
"You said you weren't going to bullsh*t me, Pierce. You know as well as I do, probably better, that Bennett and Raider are leading the charge against the New Epoch. The fact that you can sit me down and pump whiskey down my throat doesn't change the fact that it's us against the rest of you."
"And?"
David finally removes his feet from Pierce's desk. He sits upright for the first time since their meeting began, leaning in to get as close to Pierce as the desk separating them will allow.
"Cut the sh*t. I see your game. You've known the threat I pose all along, both individually, and alongside Drakz and Kyzer. So you try burying me. Stick me against AJ King this week. Maybe Tombs next week. Maybe the Grave Digger after that. Instead, what you got was one less piece of talent to book. I'll give you that, Pierce. You took one good look at King and saw the eventual drop off of your entire undercard. And so here we are now. Can't bury me? May as well try and beat me. Bennett puts the ball in your court, but that won't quite work, will it?"
"What makes you think that?"
"The fact that you've got to parlay Raider as a buffer. You and I both know that I've beaten Ace once before, and that it won't be much of a chore to do it again. But maybe, just maybe, if you send his new buddy in after me first, you can soften me up, keep me buried early before the tournament can even take off."
"Raider is a former champion, and a contender for the belt, against your good friend Michael Kyzer, no less. I'd think you'd take him as a more serious threat."
"He isn't going to win, Pierce. Not next week, and certainly not at the pay-per-view. I'll give you this - giving me Raider, letting him try and break me before I can get to Bennett, cut him down, and walk into that Chamber, you've at least tried to play a smart game."
"How do you figure?"
"You've set this up, creating your own admittance: I'm the most dangerous man you've put into this little Survival game of yours."
"Alright then. Suppose you do win the tournament, and Kyzer wins back his belt in double jeopardy. Then what? Then it's the two of you in separate corners in the same ring."
"Then you've got the worst situation you could imagine on your hands, Pierce. The New Epoch owes you a debt of gratitude - you've played this one right into our hands."
"I think you'd better leave, Mr. Brennan."
"I was just on my way out".
David rises from his chair, offering Pierce little more than a curt smirk and a nod of the head. He turns to exit, and has almost reached the door when he stops, turning on his heel, and reapproaching the bosses desk. He picks up the empty bottle of Maker's Mark, eyeing it for a moment, then turns to meet eyes with Pierce once more.
"Mind if I keep this?
"The bottle's empty, Brennan. What good is it going to do you now?"
"Exactly. No good to you now, is it? Besides, you didn't think I was going to stop cutting down the opposition, just 'cause you've bounced me back up the card, did you?"
And with this, the empty bottle grasped firmly in hand, David exits the office, leaving the CEO to consider the game he's set in motion.
I dont know good luck 
