Post by CM Poor on Jul 26, 2012 20:02:50 GMT -5
"These two boots of mine
have brought me a long way.
Through rain, and sunshine,
through badlands and better days.
I've seen a thousand faces.
I'll see a thousand more
This life is a long journey -
it's not over, that's for sure."
[Now]
It all boils down to this.
A curtain. All that stands between him and the next page in the story. The hushed, darkened tones of the small production outpost just beyond the veil that the crowd of thousands will watch each and every contender step through tonight stand in stark contrast to the absolute cluster f*ck of organized chaos that otherwise fills the small little hub of activity. Push the curtain aside, one foot in front of the other, step out into the light that just barely pierces the small gaps between steel and velvet, and it's lights, camera, action baby. On this side, it's business as usual - lights, camera, action isn't any good without someone to cue 'em up. Music on point? Lights configured? Cue video. Feed Thames the her lines. She needs to be fed lines? Out there, it's all bright lights, big city. This is where the real action is.
He's already out there - Ace Bennett - just a music cue, curtain call, and a small ramp's distance separates him from a six month itch he's already managed to scratch a small handful of times, and yet, here we are again. Perhaps, it is like they say - third time's a charm. He can only hope. His armaments are handed to him from behind the production table, their source illuminated by the here haunting glow of a myriad of screens likely patched into all facets of the show. Two High Lifes and a bottle of Jack. Short of dealing with the same minor nuisances time and time again, he gets it easy - down a little drink, crack a little skull, call it a day. This stuff is second nature to him. Almost criminal to call it work, let alone pay a bastard like him to do it. These guys, tucked in their little corners of tech and illumination, these guys are the ones that make it happen. Maybe it's his buzz getting him thinking all righteous like, maybe it's just his upbringing, but he tries to come off as genuine as he receives his poisons and returns the favor with an appreciative smirk and a nod of the head. Still a part of him appreciates the value of a honest day's work. But a guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do.
Say what you'd like about the validity of everyone's role as a cog in the show, but they're all just that - cogs. One falls out, and the whole thing falls to pieces. The guy behind the desk specializes in production, and so he'll do production. The knuckle heads in black specialize in conflict evasion, and so they'll keep David Brennan away from the launching pad until it's time to go - until after his opponent has made his little way down to the ring. David Brennan specializes in cracking skulls and drinking beer, and so he'll do as such - not necessarily in that order. And the guy in the ring? The guy standing a music cue, curtain call, and a small ramp's distance from David Brennan, Doctor of Cracking Skulls and Drinking Beer? Well, he, Ace Bennett, that is, specializes - no, excels in losing.
And so, Ace Bennett will lose.
[April 22, 2012]
"Well if this isn't Ace Bennett, THEN I DON'T WANT TO BE ACE BENNETT! I will get my respect, even if it is through fear. Nobody will be able to predict my next move. I am here to do what you could never do, Malakai. I am here to get rid of what is wrong in this company. The New Epoch. The scum of society. Raider recruited me because he knew I was the man for the job! He knew that I can take care of myself. He knew that I am just a small string of wins away from finally grabbing that brass ring and claiming my rightful place at the top of the throne."
"Would you turn that sh*t off?"
"Bossman's looking for you..."
"I don't see him."
"Nah, big boss. Pierce."
"Oh, f*ck me rigid..."
The last thing David Brennan wanted, at this point, was a formal eye to eye with Xavier Pierce. Really, he'd walked through that door with his eyes all but set on a hot shower and a cold beer. He was coated, head to toe, in a dastardly combination of sweat, blood, glass, and AJ King. The sweat poured down his forehead, but did little to take with it the tiny shards of glass that littered every inch of bare skin he showed. It did, however, do at least a somewhat representable job of washing away some of the blood - none of it his - that was splattered here and there, as if he'd walked fresh out of a slasher film. Didn't do much good for what stained his shirt, though. Still, minor costs. He'd done what he'd set out to do. He cracks the top off a longneck, downing it calmly as he pulls up a folding chair, plopping down beside his brother in arms in the center of the private locker room, his eyes temporarily fixated on the small flat screen tv mounted in the corner of the room.
"Think I've got time for a shower?"
"You can keep him waiting as long as you'd like - put it off 'til next week for all I care, but if you want it to go smoothly, then no, I wouldn't bank on it."
"Well luckily for me, an opportunity has presented itself. The Survival of the Fittest Tournament. An Elimination Chamber, where the blood will flow. As everyone saw on the last Loaded, I can make the blood flow. Once I pry the WFWF Tag Team Championship from the cold, lifeless hands of Ripp Jackson and Thunder, I will be the man to come out of that chamber as the winner of the Survival of the Fittest Tournament. Give me Cam Nitta, give me Slanted, give me anyone."
"Give me a f*cking migraine, listening to this sh*t..."
"So why bother?"
"Seven "P"s, and all that..."
"Actually, you know what? I know exactly who I want to face to qualify for that match. Give me David Brennan."
"Did he just say Lincoln Dina?"
Drakz spits out the nothing that he's drinking at this point in a burst of sudden laughter. David smirks a bit, but remains altogether composed, lazy, uninterested. He downs his longneck, and only brings himself out of his chair to procure another, dragging the cooler back with him this time to save himself future trips. With Drakz still recovering from this sudden outburst, David continues to eye the television, lazily taking in Ace Bennett as he mindlessly thrashes about, accomplishing little more in David's eyes than looking like a child in a candy store who can't have his favorite treat.
"Brennan, me and you have met in that ring before, and I'll admit that you got the best of me. But don't you think that just because you hold one win over me that it makes you better than me. I am better than I have ever been, and no one, especially not scum like you, will stop me from acheving my full potential. The New Epoch needs to be stopped, and if I can take out Brennan before he takes off, then that will be step one in vanquishing the rest of the lot."
"Big 'if', there, champ..."
"When did he get a belt?"
"Figure of speech."
"Well, this changes things, wouldn't you say?"
"Sure does. Now Pierce owes me a stiff drink when I show up."
"You're not concerned?"
"Would you be? It's Ace Bennett...come on...."
"Brennan, the ball is in your court now."
David tosses aside his latest empty. With one free hand, he reaches down, grabbing at his crotch and giving it a few figurative grips. With the other, he nonchalantly flips off the television, holding his salute out in front of him good and long, as though if he dragged it out enough, Bennett might somehow become aware of the insult.
"Both of 'em, actually. Turn this sh*t off. I've gotta go see a man about a crying child."
[June 9th, 2012]
It all happened so quick.
With three strikes of the bell, it was over, and the switch in his mind just clicked. Fight phase went out, hostile phase went in. He waits to act, waits til at least the first step had been initiated. With Raider down, David steps in to join the fray. While the others around him toil and writh, David stands amid it all, the lone, stoic skinhead, downing longnecks full of High Life. With little cause to let a good bottle go to waste, he hauls back, and unloads the first one with a deafening smash over the head of the incapacitated former champion.
Then he sees him.
Ace Bennett. Out cold, the most recent victim of the Kyzer Effect.
Dodging the glass now shattering off the head of Drake Elias, Brennan makes his way over the fallen figure of Ace Bennett. Isn't this the guy that was supposed to knock him off? The guy that was to break David Brennan? He hadn't so much as had the chance to knock him down. And here they were again, opposite corners of the ring, and once again, Ace is on his back.
The blood boils in David's veins, which is funny, given the sheer amount of alcohol coursing through them on a daily basis. Don't find that funny? Have you ever stuck a bottle of beer into a camp fire? Give it a try sometime - but keep your distance, because the end result is always the same.
The bottle explodes.
So too is the crushing sound of Bennett's ribs caving in under the pressure of David's two size thirteen, steel toed Doc Martens driving full force, propelled by two hundred and forty three pounds of enraged David Brennan.
It feels like hours before his cue to cease fire on the rain of blows being laid into Bennett's battered, bloody face finally comes. Brennan ambles backward, taking his place in one corner of the ring, grinning from ear to ear, in one part just from the sheer thrill of seeing this pest of an opponent lying still, deadly still, short of a few twitches to indicate his heart is still pumping, and in one part from the fact that the crowd in Seattle can't stand the fact that it was he, David Brennan, who put a stopper in the spout of Ace Bennett - the new, caged beast Ace Bennett. His body count cut short, stopping distantly shy of having any names of worth tacked on alongside Dave Demento and Randel Benjamin.
Kyzer speaks, one of his most eloquent, likely confrontational speeches, but the white noise, the deafening rage, softens his voice, like the thunderous boos emanating from the crowd, to little more than a whisper. Maybe it's the narcicist in him, maybe it's the gut instinct to act in front of the crowd, but David only finds himself cogniscant to Michael's words when he hears a familiar tone in his voice.
"This isn’t what the future of the WFWF needs to look like if it is going to thrive. It is this man."
Funny. Michael Kyzer, an outright legend in this business, a man who can, and has accomplished everything a man can in this line of work, isn't pointing at himself. Nor is he pointing at Drakz, likely the only other competitor in the building that can hold a candle to the career of Michael Kyzer. He's certainly not pointing at the incapacitated former champion Raider - heavy emphasis on incapacitated, even heavier emphasis on former. He's not pointing at Drake Elias, and he isn't even pointing at Ace Bennett. The man who was going to rise to the top. The man who would topple The New Epoch. The man who could crush the competition, save the WFWF, if only he could get his hand on one of those tag team titles. Good call, too. If the future of the WFWF looked like Ace Bennett, it'd be bloody. Broken. Battered. Useless. Accomplishing little. Accomplishing nothing. The future of the WFWF - on its back, in a pool of its own blood.
No, the future of the WFWF rests on his haunches in the corner of the ring, grinning like an idiot, nursing - no, performing open heart surgery on a bottle of Jack Daniel's Tennessee Whiskey.
"This man is a future World Champion. He is going to go into Survival of the Fittest and will come out as the next World Champion. He is the future. He is the man that this company needs to be built around."
"And you will never, ever break me.
You knocked me down, I got back up.
And you will never, ever break me.
You had your shot - you're not the one."
[Yesterday]
"You've never been one for the interview circuit..."
"I don't exactly plan on making a habit of it, either."
"Then why start now?"
"Penance, I guess..."
"Penance?"
"Of the contractual variety. Seems I'm in 'violation' of a certain 'wellness policy'. Ratings are too high to pull me off the air, but my violations are too severe to go...unnoticed, as he put it."
"Pierce?"
"Got it in one."
"That's cold, mate."
"As ice."
From the end of the uncomfortably quiet, serene lobby, a door opens. A slender, balding man, late twenties at best, steps out, dressed in a very simple black coat and tie number. His face is stoic - he eyes his subject, David, dressed in the very harsh reality of having just walked in off the street. He turns his glance then, briefly, to Drakz, dressed in a much more well tailored, much more expensive black suit, the International Title belt strapped firmly around his waist. He looks back at David, offering a curt nod, before turning back and reentering the room from which he's just emerged.
"I think that's your cue."
"My gallows number, more like."
David reluctantly rises from his seat, stepping into what amounts to a very simple meeting room. A small, simple brown table separates two easy chairs - one occupied already by the still stoic looking man who'd just beckoned him in. To get a better look at him, his face bears a unique look to it - unyieldingly unfriendly in all manner, and yet, in spite of his ever present frown, there's almost a smirk in his expression - a face within a face, as if. He is otherwise rather uniteresting to really take in - bald dome, to rival David's, and a hint of stubble, heavier around his mouth, purposely forming a well kept goatee accented by just a slight beard, fading as it climbs up his temples. Still, there's something about that face that doesn't sit well with David as he takes his seat opposite this cold looking man. Still, he can't be all that bad - while he sips from a mug that David can only assume bears some manner of coffee type drink, David has just now taken notice of a bottle of Maker's Mark placed immediately before him on the table, set just beside a small glass tumbler filled with ice. Novicaine to numb the pain, as it were.
"And what's your name?"
"If it's all the same to you, I'll be asking the questions this afternoon."
"Snide. You ARE one of Pierce's guys."
"Go with that. Your presumptions have served you as well up to this point. I, personally, won't be throwing away the lone opportunity to interview David Brennan that's likely to ever cross the lap of the collected media."
"Well, at the very least, you're kind enough to offer a bit of medication to get us both through this, so fire away, would you?"
David unseals the bottle of whiskey, pouring the first of what's sure to be many samplings over the glass of ice in front of him. The ice crackles as it makes contact with the warm, brown liquid, and David brings the glass to his lips, looking over the table, expecting his interviewer to engage in some manner of shuffling notes, preparing a pen, or even jamming record on a recording device. To his astonishment, and even further suspicion, the interviewer remains stoic - pulled up neatly to the table, his hands clasped together in front of him, resting calmly on the table's surface, never breaking his gaze from David's.
"Very well. Ace Bennett."
"Pass."
"Not an option."
"Always an option. I've been up to my ass in Ace Bennett since he crawled out of the woodwork looking to give me a run for my money, or something. Start somewhere else."
"Fine, then - Survival Of The Fittest."
"God, you're tenacious. The Ace Bennett apple doesn't fall that far from the Survival Of The Fittest tree, you know..."
"Pardon?"
"Moving AWAY from Bennett is a lot more effective when you DON'T move toward the pending fight between the two of us."
"So you're conceding then, in all likelihood, that you're going to lose then, is that it?"
"How the hell do you come to that one?"
"Well, given the circumstances presenting themselves to the winner of your bout with Ace Bennett, one might imagine you have some course of action in mind for the slew of competitors you'll be up against should you triumph over Bennett."
"For the third time."
"Of course. So do you?"
"This bottle - it's mine for the keeping?"
"Assuming you haven't consumed its entire contents prior to the end of our meeting, then yes, the remainder is yours to keep."
"There you go, then. Course of action. Problem solved."
As if to accentuate how 'done' he is with the subject, David knocks back his drink, finishing it in one fell swoop, and goes to work pouring another glass, still under the unmoving, watchful eye of his questioner.
"Anything else you need put to rest, while we're at it?"
"The New Epoch."
"Best friends a guy could ask for. Beginning of the end for the WFWF. Look, you've heard all this before. Surely for getting the first and only interview with yours truly, you'd come a little more prepared?"
"Really?"
"Really. You're running down the line with questions that read like a form script for some two bit magazine."
"Best friends a guy could ask for?"
"What? Oh, you're still on that?"
"I am asking the questions, after all."
"I didn't stutter."
"Not in the slightest, but you did seem perfectly ready to bury Drakz back around Superbrawl."
"And he took me down twice - what's the point, man? Look, not for nothing, but if this is your job - your real job, I mean - then I'd reconsider. You going to try and dig up the past every circumstantial pairing you come to interview might have? Your hero Ace Bennett doesn't even like the guy he shares a title with - now there's a story."
"Just trying to delve into your psyche a bit. Wrong line of questioning, I suppose. You're rather laissez faire about this whole business, it would seem."
"Quite. Nice word use, by the way."
"We'll move to something else, then. Tell me about Natalie Collins."
"Who the f*ck gave you that name?!"
Without reservation, David is on his feet now. Though the table still provides amble space between the two men, David still outweighs his interrogator by an easy eighty pounds. The interviewer, even at the shake of the table as David's fists bellow down upon it with his own counter question, remains calm, seated, and quiet, even in the face of the risen, angry skinhead before him.
"No? How about Clark Brennan?"
David's chest is rapidly rising and falling now, the names being lobbed at him waking some sort of sleeping beast from within. He tosses his chair aside, turning his back to his interrogator, trying to turn a blind eye to the line of questioning. Natalie, Clark, only one name left. It's little wonder he hasn't mentioned...
"Jack Brennan. What can you tell me about him?"
He closes his eye, envisioning in his mind the things he'd do, given free reign. The things he's got to hold back. The bottle's in his hands - grasped firmly by the neck, not the body. He adjusts his grip, using the opportunity to down another swig, try and drink down the things being leveled at him now. Woudln't do any good to take out on this bunghole. So far as he can ascertain, this whole thing was orchestrated by Xavier Pierce - punishment for his contempt for the rules, punishment for his role in the escapades two weeks ago at Loaded. Punishment that fell upon him, and him alone. Low man on the totem pole. High enough to be too much of an asset to withdraw from the air, but low enough to bear the brunt for The New Epoch's actions. He'd do it a thousand times over. He draws once more from his ever steadily emptying bottle. He keeps his grip steadfast around the body - wouldn't do any good to lay this one out. Best to endure - see it through - make it out and get back to where he started.
"I must say, I'm disappointed, David."
"Those names have no meaning anymore."
"No? Then why not talk it out? Dwell on the past, as it were. I was certain that little gift of mine might loosen your tongue a bit."
"Then it's not just my presumptions we'll be taking jabs at anymore, is it?"
"When you're right, you're right. It would seem that bottle is good for little else outside of tearing you apart from the ones you once held so dear."
"This interview is over."
"Hmm. Quite. I have what I need."
"You tell Pierce, the next time he wants to try and break me, come see me himself."
"I'll relay the message, I'm sure. You know the way out..."
David storms from the room, the half empty bottle of Maker's still gripped firmly within his grasp. Seeing his friend emerge from the meeting, Drakz rises to greet him, but is quickly passed by, almost in a huff, as David storms past him toward the exit.
"Well, that can't have been that bad..."
"Come on. We're leaving."
As Drakz hurries out the door to join his comrade, the interrogator back in the meeting room rises now, just to put the room back in shape. With no belongings to gather, he takes in a breath, allowing enough distance to formulate between his subject and himself, before finally exiting the room, shutting the lights and locking the door behind him. As he makes strides toward the same exit Brennan just stormed out of, he draws from his pocket a cell phone, dials a number, and stops just short of the front door to make his call.
"He's gone. No, not much out of him at all, but I still have something that may be of interest to you. When can you meet me? Good. See you then."
"I've been thinkin' 'bout something that I've left behind.
I've been dwelling on finding me some peace of mind.
I've been hopin' for goin' back to yesterday,
and I just wanted to say,
I remember all the times we had.
Just wanna tell you that they weren't all so bad..."
[October 6th, 20122]
Nat,
I don't know how much more of this I can take. Leave it to me to complain. I'm riding first class, all expenses paid (courtesy of you know who), one way en route to Louisiana. I should be there already, but I had to make a small detour.
I only got word two days ago. Collin Robinson is dead. Caught an IED, roadside. I had to make the burial - even amid all this, whatever this is. I've told you about Collin before - I think I told you about him. We roomed together before I moved back to Boston, before I met you. Actually, I think you met him once, when he came up to visit.
He was like a brother to me. Closer than Clark, anyway. Before you, if I didn't have Collin, I'd be left with...well, you know.
I don't know how much longer I can do this. You were right. You're always right. There was no way this was going to work. Maybe if you were here, it'd be easier. I can't lay that on you. You've got something to hold down. And we need that money. Hell, we need this money. I just don't know what the end cost is going to be.
You're better at this than me, but writing these letters - it makes you seem a bit closer, if that makes sense. I doubt it does. Nothing does. But I'm going to keep writing you, even if just to keep myself going. I hope it does something for you, too.
I'm still going to send for you when I make it. It's close - I can feel it. The things they're saying about me - even if they're out to get me, like Jack thinks. They know they can't ignore me. I'm good. Real good. And when I finally make it, we'll be set for life. I promise you.
All my love,
David.
"So life throws you a curve,
you don't know if you'll survive.
You withdraw from yourself.
Your luck has taken a dive.
You think to yourself
'could this really be the end?'
You try to find your faith,
but it's gone like a lost friend."
"Some of the guys do their best thinking right behind this curtain..."
A stagehand told him that - moments before his cue to step out from behind that veil for the very first time. For a regular Joe Nobody who just fed cues into a headset all night, the guy had himself one hell of an astute knack for observation. He must have caught David, deep in thought, knowing that once he stepped out from behind that curtain, there was no turning back. After all, getting here wasn't exactly a cake walk in itself. There wasn't much in the way of opportunity for a skinhead in his late twenties who, despite a laundry list of service to his community and country, had experienced his own special brand of a fall from grace. As such, when you can't lean on the crutch that two tours of duty can buy you, you fall back on stature.
Natalie hated the idea. Infantile, barbaric she called it. A regular thesaurus, she could be. But even still, she couldn't deny the allure that the ad promised. The money was good - real good, by their standards. It'd be more than enough to buy themselves out of the rut they were in. A couple months of it, and they could finally pack up and head west. He could finally buy her the ring he'd promised her was coming for years. She could finally meet his mother - the one reason there was any good left in him at all. Finally attach the pieces, make sense of the mess she'd inherited called David Brennan. Finally leave everything dark behind.
The work was honest. That was a big selling point to David - to once again be earning an honest day's pay. Say what you want about the industry, but it bears more allure than shaking down cheap rats for their last dime to keep the eyes of the city off their back. For all he'd achieved in life - a decorated Marine, being regarded as a hero who'd put his own life on the line to pull others from a burning building - he considered himself, at his core, an honest guy, and working for Jack was anything but honest work. He finally got out when things turned for the worse - a sap who owed Jack the startup for his failing car garage fell behind on his payments. Jack asked David to bring the hammer down. Getting out did nothing. The guy still ate it. Just another set of hands around his throat. Every man has a breaking point.
And so, you fall back on stature. You learn the ropes - literally. You learn to fall. And you fall - again, and again, and again. With every bump he took, he kept all these things in mind. Fall. Moving west. Fall. Natalie's ring. Fall. Mom. Fall. Shedding Jack.
Leaving her behind was harder than kicking any drink. And that night, right before he stepped out from behind that curtain, right before that stagehand made that remark, he'd been caught deeply immersed in the promise he'd made just two days earlier at the airport...
"It's just for a little while."
"I can't even....I...."
"Shhh...Nat. I promise."
"When....when will I be able to see you again?"
"When I make it. Guy like me can make it in this business in no time. And when I do, I'll send for you."
"Then what? You quit?"
"No. Then we we start to live."
[Elsewhere]
"And he drank it?"
"Oh, he drank it. Rather indulgently, like you expected he would."
"And it didn't loosen his tongue?"
"Not a bit."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing we can use, anyway."
"Jason, this doesn't bode well. I entrusted this assignment to you for a reason, and now, it's looking even likelier that I'll have to..."
"I wasn't done."
"And just who the hell do you..."
"Mr. Brennan - I wasn't done."
".......go on, then."
"The girl."
"The girl?"
"He became agitated at the mere mention of her name."
"You think it's something we can use?"
"I think it's something to be considered."
"So remember when you're lying
with your back against the floor,
and someone yells 'surrender'
but you want to fight more,
just remember that feeling's gonna keep you alive,
get you over hurdles and struggles in your life."
And so, it comes to this.
A curtain and a music cue. Turn the page, and fill the blank space. To really get all worked up about it would be giving it too much credit, right? After all, what's tonight but just another step in the journey? Another path yet to be traversed. Another cog yet to be turned. Just another tiny, miniscule part of the plan.
Consider the odds - what's Ace Bennett got on you? Nothing. What have you got to prove? Nothing. To whom do you owe what in this world? No one. Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing to do but get through it. Finish - no - destroy Ace Bennett. Finish the job in the elimination chamber. Step over the fallen to rise to the top. They say it's lonely at the top. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. They never talk about the view. It's gotta be spectacular, looking down on everyone like that.
And there's no reason you can't bring your buddies.
Drakz. Michael Kyzer. To whom you owe your lone debts in life. Where others have judged you, they've stood by your side. Where others have fled at the first sign of turmoil, steadfast they've stood, ready to weather the storm. Brothers in arms, and in toxins (well, Drakz, at least). Their trust, their comraderie alone, is what has taken you this far. The others? Jack? Clark? Natalie? Mere visages of the past. Traitors, their betrayal of your trust a sin that is not to soon be forgotten. To the bottom, to the past, go their spoils. To you, and yours? The victor's spoils.
As your co-workers shed their identities, move on in age and decay, they'll talk not about the triumphs, but the journey. The long, weathered road to success. While the emphasis they'll put on it is laughable, the description holds true. No one will deny them the fact that this game we play, this fight we fight, is one long, tired, journey, and a test. A test of a man's will. A test of those he surrounds him with. A test of his want to succeed. Only the most willing, the ones who encapsulate themselves in the company of likeminded individuals, the ones who choose to forgoe waiting for victory to come their way, and instead grasp victory by the cuff of its neck and sieze it for themselves will one day find themselves revelling in that most spectacular, exclusive view from the top, looking down upon those who've resigned themselves, by nature, to the footnotes of history. The fathers. The brothers. Ex-girlfriends. Ace Bennetts.
The journey never ends - unless of course, you will it so. Down that courage. Cue that music. Step out from behind that curtain.
Start to live. Take the reigns from those who would not have it for themselves.
Sing it, Gurley.
"It's been a long time,
it's been a long time,
it's been a long time
since I've been home."
have brought me a long way.
Through rain, and sunshine,
through badlands and better days.
I've seen a thousand faces.
I'll see a thousand more
This life is a long journey -
it's not over, that's for sure."
[Now]
It all boils down to this.
A curtain. All that stands between him and the next page in the story. The hushed, darkened tones of the small production outpost just beyond the veil that the crowd of thousands will watch each and every contender step through tonight stand in stark contrast to the absolute cluster f*ck of organized chaos that otherwise fills the small little hub of activity. Push the curtain aside, one foot in front of the other, step out into the light that just barely pierces the small gaps between steel and velvet, and it's lights, camera, action baby. On this side, it's business as usual - lights, camera, action isn't any good without someone to cue 'em up. Music on point? Lights configured? Cue video. Feed Thames the her lines. She needs to be fed lines? Out there, it's all bright lights, big city. This is where the real action is.
He's already out there - Ace Bennett - just a music cue, curtain call, and a small ramp's distance separates him from a six month itch he's already managed to scratch a small handful of times, and yet, here we are again. Perhaps, it is like they say - third time's a charm. He can only hope. His armaments are handed to him from behind the production table, their source illuminated by the here haunting glow of a myriad of screens likely patched into all facets of the show. Two High Lifes and a bottle of Jack. Short of dealing with the same minor nuisances time and time again, he gets it easy - down a little drink, crack a little skull, call it a day. This stuff is second nature to him. Almost criminal to call it work, let alone pay a bastard like him to do it. These guys, tucked in their little corners of tech and illumination, these guys are the ones that make it happen. Maybe it's his buzz getting him thinking all righteous like, maybe it's just his upbringing, but he tries to come off as genuine as he receives his poisons and returns the favor with an appreciative smirk and a nod of the head. Still a part of him appreciates the value of a honest day's work. But a guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do.
Say what you'd like about the validity of everyone's role as a cog in the show, but they're all just that - cogs. One falls out, and the whole thing falls to pieces. The guy behind the desk specializes in production, and so he'll do production. The knuckle heads in black specialize in conflict evasion, and so they'll keep David Brennan away from the launching pad until it's time to go - until after his opponent has made his little way down to the ring. David Brennan specializes in cracking skulls and drinking beer, and so he'll do as such - not necessarily in that order. And the guy in the ring? The guy standing a music cue, curtain call, and a small ramp's distance from David Brennan, Doctor of Cracking Skulls and Drinking Beer? Well, he, Ace Bennett, that is, specializes - no, excels in losing.
And so, Ace Bennett will lose.
[April 22, 2012]
"Well if this isn't Ace Bennett, THEN I DON'T WANT TO BE ACE BENNETT! I will get my respect, even if it is through fear. Nobody will be able to predict my next move. I am here to do what you could never do, Malakai. I am here to get rid of what is wrong in this company. The New Epoch. The scum of society. Raider recruited me because he knew I was the man for the job! He knew that I can take care of myself. He knew that I am just a small string of wins away from finally grabbing that brass ring and claiming my rightful place at the top of the throne."
"Would you turn that sh*t off?"
"Bossman's looking for you..."
"I don't see him."
"Nah, big boss. Pierce."
"Oh, f*ck me rigid..."
The last thing David Brennan wanted, at this point, was a formal eye to eye with Xavier Pierce. Really, he'd walked through that door with his eyes all but set on a hot shower and a cold beer. He was coated, head to toe, in a dastardly combination of sweat, blood, glass, and AJ King. The sweat poured down his forehead, but did little to take with it the tiny shards of glass that littered every inch of bare skin he showed. It did, however, do at least a somewhat representable job of washing away some of the blood - none of it his - that was splattered here and there, as if he'd walked fresh out of a slasher film. Didn't do much good for what stained his shirt, though. Still, minor costs. He'd done what he'd set out to do. He cracks the top off a longneck, downing it calmly as he pulls up a folding chair, plopping down beside his brother in arms in the center of the private locker room, his eyes temporarily fixated on the small flat screen tv mounted in the corner of the room.
"Think I've got time for a shower?"
"You can keep him waiting as long as you'd like - put it off 'til next week for all I care, but if you want it to go smoothly, then no, I wouldn't bank on it."
"Well luckily for me, an opportunity has presented itself. The Survival of the Fittest Tournament. An Elimination Chamber, where the blood will flow. As everyone saw on the last Loaded, I can make the blood flow. Once I pry the WFWF Tag Team Championship from the cold, lifeless hands of Ripp Jackson and Thunder, I will be the man to come out of that chamber as the winner of the Survival of the Fittest Tournament. Give me Cam Nitta, give me Slanted, give me anyone."
"Give me a f*cking migraine, listening to this sh*t..."
"So why bother?"
"Seven "P"s, and all that..."
"Actually, you know what? I know exactly who I want to face to qualify for that match. Give me David Brennan."
"Did he just say Lincoln Dina?"
Drakz spits out the nothing that he's drinking at this point in a burst of sudden laughter. David smirks a bit, but remains altogether composed, lazy, uninterested. He downs his longneck, and only brings himself out of his chair to procure another, dragging the cooler back with him this time to save himself future trips. With Drakz still recovering from this sudden outburst, David continues to eye the television, lazily taking in Ace Bennett as he mindlessly thrashes about, accomplishing little more in David's eyes than looking like a child in a candy store who can't have his favorite treat.
"Brennan, me and you have met in that ring before, and I'll admit that you got the best of me. But don't you think that just because you hold one win over me that it makes you better than me. I am better than I have ever been, and no one, especially not scum like you, will stop me from acheving my full potential. The New Epoch needs to be stopped, and if I can take out Brennan before he takes off, then that will be step one in vanquishing the rest of the lot."
"Big 'if', there, champ..."
"When did he get a belt?"
"Figure of speech."
"Well, this changes things, wouldn't you say?"
"Sure does. Now Pierce owes me a stiff drink when I show up."
"You're not concerned?"
"Would you be? It's Ace Bennett...come on...."
"Brennan, the ball is in your court now."
David tosses aside his latest empty. With one free hand, he reaches down, grabbing at his crotch and giving it a few figurative grips. With the other, he nonchalantly flips off the television, holding his salute out in front of him good and long, as though if he dragged it out enough, Bennett might somehow become aware of the insult.
"Both of 'em, actually. Turn this sh*t off. I've gotta go see a man about a crying child."
[June 9th, 2012]
It all happened so quick.
With three strikes of the bell, it was over, and the switch in his mind just clicked. Fight phase went out, hostile phase went in. He waits to act, waits til at least the first step had been initiated. With Raider down, David steps in to join the fray. While the others around him toil and writh, David stands amid it all, the lone, stoic skinhead, downing longnecks full of High Life. With little cause to let a good bottle go to waste, he hauls back, and unloads the first one with a deafening smash over the head of the incapacitated former champion.
Then he sees him.
Ace Bennett. Out cold, the most recent victim of the Kyzer Effect.
Dodging the glass now shattering off the head of Drake Elias, Brennan makes his way over the fallen figure of Ace Bennett. Isn't this the guy that was supposed to knock him off? The guy that was to break David Brennan? He hadn't so much as had the chance to knock him down. And here they were again, opposite corners of the ring, and once again, Ace is on his back.
The blood boils in David's veins, which is funny, given the sheer amount of alcohol coursing through them on a daily basis. Don't find that funny? Have you ever stuck a bottle of beer into a camp fire? Give it a try sometime - but keep your distance, because the end result is always the same.
The bottle explodes.
So too is the crushing sound of Bennett's ribs caving in under the pressure of David's two size thirteen, steel toed Doc Martens driving full force, propelled by two hundred and forty three pounds of enraged David Brennan.
It feels like hours before his cue to cease fire on the rain of blows being laid into Bennett's battered, bloody face finally comes. Brennan ambles backward, taking his place in one corner of the ring, grinning from ear to ear, in one part just from the sheer thrill of seeing this pest of an opponent lying still, deadly still, short of a few twitches to indicate his heart is still pumping, and in one part from the fact that the crowd in Seattle can't stand the fact that it was he, David Brennan, who put a stopper in the spout of Ace Bennett - the new, caged beast Ace Bennett. His body count cut short, stopping distantly shy of having any names of worth tacked on alongside Dave Demento and Randel Benjamin.
Kyzer speaks, one of his most eloquent, likely confrontational speeches, but the white noise, the deafening rage, softens his voice, like the thunderous boos emanating from the crowd, to little more than a whisper. Maybe it's the narcicist in him, maybe it's the gut instinct to act in front of the crowd, but David only finds himself cogniscant to Michael's words when he hears a familiar tone in his voice.
"This isn’t what the future of the WFWF needs to look like if it is going to thrive. It is this man."
Funny. Michael Kyzer, an outright legend in this business, a man who can, and has accomplished everything a man can in this line of work, isn't pointing at himself. Nor is he pointing at Drakz, likely the only other competitor in the building that can hold a candle to the career of Michael Kyzer. He's certainly not pointing at the incapacitated former champion Raider - heavy emphasis on incapacitated, even heavier emphasis on former. He's not pointing at Drake Elias, and he isn't even pointing at Ace Bennett. The man who was going to rise to the top. The man who would topple The New Epoch. The man who could crush the competition, save the WFWF, if only he could get his hand on one of those tag team titles. Good call, too. If the future of the WFWF looked like Ace Bennett, it'd be bloody. Broken. Battered. Useless. Accomplishing little. Accomplishing nothing. The future of the WFWF - on its back, in a pool of its own blood.
No, the future of the WFWF rests on his haunches in the corner of the ring, grinning like an idiot, nursing - no, performing open heart surgery on a bottle of Jack Daniel's Tennessee Whiskey.
"This man is a future World Champion. He is going to go into Survival of the Fittest and will come out as the next World Champion. He is the future. He is the man that this company needs to be built around."
"And you will never, ever break me.
You knocked me down, I got back up.
And you will never, ever break me.
You had your shot - you're not the one."
[Yesterday]
"You've never been one for the interview circuit..."
"I don't exactly plan on making a habit of it, either."
"Then why start now?"
"Penance, I guess..."
"Penance?"
"Of the contractual variety. Seems I'm in 'violation' of a certain 'wellness policy'. Ratings are too high to pull me off the air, but my violations are too severe to go...unnoticed, as he put it."
"Pierce?"
"Got it in one."
"That's cold, mate."
"As ice."
From the end of the uncomfortably quiet, serene lobby, a door opens. A slender, balding man, late twenties at best, steps out, dressed in a very simple black coat and tie number. His face is stoic - he eyes his subject, David, dressed in the very harsh reality of having just walked in off the street. He turns his glance then, briefly, to Drakz, dressed in a much more well tailored, much more expensive black suit, the International Title belt strapped firmly around his waist. He looks back at David, offering a curt nod, before turning back and reentering the room from which he's just emerged.
"I think that's your cue."
"My gallows number, more like."
David reluctantly rises from his seat, stepping into what amounts to a very simple meeting room. A small, simple brown table separates two easy chairs - one occupied already by the still stoic looking man who'd just beckoned him in. To get a better look at him, his face bears a unique look to it - unyieldingly unfriendly in all manner, and yet, in spite of his ever present frown, there's almost a smirk in his expression - a face within a face, as if. He is otherwise rather uniteresting to really take in - bald dome, to rival David's, and a hint of stubble, heavier around his mouth, purposely forming a well kept goatee accented by just a slight beard, fading as it climbs up his temples. Still, there's something about that face that doesn't sit well with David as he takes his seat opposite this cold looking man. Still, he can't be all that bad - while he sips from a mug that David can only assume bears some manner of coffee type drink, David has just now taken notice of a bottle of Maker's Mark placed immediately before him on the table, set just beside a small glass tumbler filled with ice. Novicaine to numb the pain, as it were.
"And what's your name?"
"If it's all the same to you, I'll be asking the questions this afternoon."
"Snide. You ARE one of Pierce's guys."
"Go with that. Your presumptions have served you as well up to this point. I, personally, won't be throwing away the lone opportunity to interview David Brennan that's likely to ever cross the lap of the collected media."
"Well, at the very least, you're kind enough to offer a bit of medication to get us both through this, so fire away, would you?"
David unseals the bottle of whiskey, pouring the first of what's sure to be many samplings over the glass of ice in front of him. The ice crackles as it makes contact with the warm, brown liquid, and David brings the glass to his lips, looking over the table, expecting his interviewer to engage in some manner of shuffling notes, preparing a pen, or even jamming record on a recording device. To his astonishment, and even further suspicion, the interviewer remains stoic - pulled up neatly to the table, his hands clasped together in front of him, resting calmly on the table's surface, never breaking his gaze from David's.
"Very well. Ace Bennett."
"Pass."
"Not an option."
"Always an option. I've been up to my ass in Ace Bennett since he crawled out of the woodwork looking to give me a run for my money, or something. Start somewhere else."
"Fine, then - Survival Of The Fittest."
"God, you're tenacious. The Ace Bennett apple doesn't fall that far from the Survival Of The Fittest tree, you know..."
"Pardon?"
"Moving AWAY from Bennett is a lot more effective when you DON'T move toward the pending fight between the two of us."
"So you're conceding then, in all likelihood, that you're going to lose then, is that it?"
"How the hell do you come to that one?"
"Well, given the circumstances presenting themselves to the winner of your bout with Ace Bennett, one might imagine you have some course of action in mind for the slew of competitors you'll be up against should you triumph over Bennett."
"For the third time."
"Of course. So do you?"
"This bottle - it's mine for the keeping?"
"Assuming you haven't consumed its entire contents prior to the end of our meeting, then yes, the remainder is yours to keep."
"There you go, then. Course of action. Problem solved."
As if to accentuate how 'done' he is with the subject, David knocks back his drink, finishing it in one fell swoop, and goes to work pouring another glass, still under the unmoving, watchful eye of his questioner.
"Anything else you need put to rest, while we're at it?"
"The New Epoch."
"Best friends a guy could ask for. Beginning of the end for the WFWF. Look, you've heard all this before. Surely for getting the first and only interview with yours truly, you'd come a little more prepared?"
"Really?"
"Really. You're running down the line with questions that read like a form script for some two bit magazine."
"Best friends a guy could ask for?"
"What? Oh, you're still on that?"
"I am asking the questions, after all."
"I didn't stutter."
"Not in the slightest, but you did seem perfectly ready to bury Drakz back around Superbrawl."
"And he took me down twice - what's the point, man? Look, not for nothing, but if this is your job - your real job, I mean - then I'd reconsider. You going to try and dig up the past every circumstantial pairing you come to interview might have? Your hero Ace Bennett doesn't even like the guy he shares a title with - now there's a story."
"Just trying to delve into your psyche a bit. Wrong line of questioning, I suppose. You're rather laissez faire about this whole business, it would seem."
"Quite. Nice word use, by the way."
"We'll move to something else, then. Tell me about Natalie Collins."
"Who the f*ck gave you that name?!"
Without reservation, David is on his feet now. Though the table still provides amble space between the two men, David still outweighs his interrogator by an easy eighty pounds. The interviewer, even at the shake of the table as David's fists bellow down upon it with his own counter question, remains calm, seated, and quiet, even in the face of the risen, angry skinhead before him.
"No? How about Clark Brennan?"
David's chest is rapidly rising and falling now, the names being lobbed at him waking some sort of sleeping beast from within. He tosses his chair aside, turning his back to his interrogator, trying to turn a blind eye to the line of questioning. Natalie, Clark, only one name left. It's little wonder he hasn't mentioned...
"Jack Brennan. What can you tell me about him?"
He closes his eye, envisioning in his mind the things he'd do, given free reign. The things he's got to hold back. The bottle's in his hands - grasped firmly by the neck, not the body. He adjusts his grip, using the opportunity to down another swig, try and drink down the things being leveled at him now. Woudln't do any good to take out on this bunghole. So far as he can ascertain, this whole thing was orchestrated by Xavier Pierce - punishment for his contempt for the rules, punishment for his role in the escapades two weeks ago at Loaded. Punishment that fell upon him, and him alone. Low man on the totem pole. High enough to be too much of an asset to withdraw from the air, but low enough to bear the brunt for The New Epoch's actions. He'd do it a thousand times over. He draws once more from his ever steadily emptying bottle. He keeps his grip steadfast around the body - wouldn't do any good to lay this one out. Best to endure - see it through - make it out and get back to where he started.
"I must say, I'm disappointed, David."
"Those names have no meaning anymore."
"No? Then why not talk it out? Dwell on the past, as it were. I was certain that little gift of mine might loosen your tongue a bit."
"Then it's not just my presumptions we'll be taking jabs at anymore, is it?"
"When you're right, you're right. It would seem that bottle is good for little else outside of tearing you apart from the ones you once held so dear."
"This interview is over."
"Hmm. Quite. I have what I need."
"You tell Pierce, the next time he wants to try and break me, come see me himself."
"I'll relay the message, I'm sure. You know the way out..."
David storms from the room, the half empty bottle of Maker's still gripped firmly within his grasp. Seeing his friend emerge from the meeting, Drakz rises to greet him, but is quickly passed by, almost in a huff, as David storms past him toward the exit.
"Well, that can't have been that bad..."
"Come on. We're leaving."
As Drakz hurries out the door to join his comrade, the interrogator back in the meeting room rises now, just to put the room back in shape. With no belongings to gather, he takes in a breath, allowing enough distance to formulate between his subject and himself, before finally exiting the room, shutting the lights and locking the door behind him. As he makes strides toward the same exit Brennan just stormed out of, he draws from his pocket a cell phone, dials a number, and stops just short of the front door to make his call.
"He's gone. No, not much out of him at all, but I still have something that may be of interest to you. When can you meet me? Good. See you then."
"I've been thinkin' 'bout something that I've left behind.
I've been dwelling on finding me some peace of mind.
I've been hopin' for goin' back to yesterday,
and I just wanted to say,
I remember all the times we had.
Just wanna tell you that they weren't all so bad..."
[October 6th, 20122]
Nat,
I don't know how much more of this I can take. Leave it to me to complain. I'm riding first class, all expenses paid (courtesy of you know who), one way en route to Louisiana. I should be there already, but I had to make a small detour.
I only got word two days ago. Collin Robinson is dead. Caught an IED, roadside. I had to make the burial - even amid all this, whatever this is. I've told you about Collin before - I think I told you about him. We roomed together before I moved back to Boston, before I met you. Actually, I think you met him once, when he came up to visit.
He was like a brother to me. Closer than Clark, anyway. Before you, if I didn't have Collin, I'd be left with...well, you know.
I don't know how much longer I can do this. You were right. You're always right. There was no way this was going to work. Maybe if you were here, it'd be easier. I can't lay that on you. You've got something to hold down. And we need that money. Hell, we need this money. I just don't know what the end cost is going to be.
You're better at this than me, but writing these letters - it makes you seem a bit closer, if that makes sense. I doubt it does. Nothing does. But I'm going to keep writing you, even if just to keep myself going. I hope it does something for you, too.
I'm still going to send for you when I make it. It's close - I can feel it. The things they're saying about me - even if they're out to get me, like Jack thinks. They know they can't ignore me. I'm good. Real good. And when I finally make it, we'll be set for life. I promise you.
All my love,
David.
"So life throws you a curve,
you don't know if you'll survive.
You withdraw from yourself.
Your luck has taken a dive.
You think to yourself
'could this really be the end?'
You try to find your faith,
but it's gone like a lost friend."
"Some of the guys do their best thinking right behind this curtain..."
A stagehand told him that - moments before his cue to step out from behind that veil for the very first time. For a regular Joe Nobody who just fed cues into a headset all night, the guy had himself one hell of an astute knack for observation. He must have caught David, deep in thought, knowing that once he stepped out from behind that curtain, there was no turning back. After all, getting here wasn't exactly a cake walk in itself. There wasn't much in the way of opportunity for a skinhead in his late twenties who, despite a laundry list of service to his community and country, had experienced his own special brand of a fall from grace. As such, when you can't lean on the crutch that two tours of duty can buy you, you fall back on stature.
Natalie hated the idea. Infantile, barbaric she called it. A regular thesaurus, she could be. But even still, she couldn't deny the allure that the ad promised. The money was good - real good, by their standards. It'd be more than enough to buy themselves out of the rut they were in. A couple months of it, and they could finally pack up and head west. He could finally buy her the ring he'd promised her was coming for years. She could finally meet his mother - the one reason there was any good left in him at all. Finally attach the pieces, make sense of the mess she'd inherited called David Brennan. Finally leave everything dark behind.
The work was honest. That was a big selling point to David - to once again be earning an honest day's pay. Say what you want about the industry, but it bears more allure than shaking down cheap rats for their last dime to keep the eyes of the city off their back. For all he'd achieved in life - a decorated Marine, being regarded as a hero who'd put his own life on the line to pull others from a burning building - he considered himself, at his core, an honest guy, and working for Jack was anything but honest work. He finally got out when things turned for the worse - a sap who owed Jack the startup for his failing car garage fell behind on his payments. Jack asked David to bring the hammer down. Getting out did nothing. The guy still ate it. Just another set of hands around his throat. Every man has a breaking point.
And so, you fall back on stature. You learn the ropes - literally. You learn to fall. And you fall - again, and again, and again. With every bump he took, he kept all these things in mind. Fall. Moving west. Fall. Natalie's ring. Fall. Mom. Fall. Shedding Jack.
Leaving her behind was harder than kicking any drink. And that night, right before he stepped out from behind that curtain, right before that stagehand made that remark, he'd been caught deeply immersed in the promise he'd made just two days earlier at the airport...
"It's just for a little while."
"I can't even....I...."
"Shhh...Nat. I promise."
"When....when will I be able to see you again?"
"When I make it. Guy like me can make it in this business in no time. And when I do, I'll send for you."
"Then what? You quit?"
"No. Then we we start to live."
[Elsewhere]
"And he drank it?"
"Oh, he drank it. Rather indulgently, like you expected he would."
"And it didn't loosen his tongue?"
"Not a bit."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing we can use, anyway."
"Jason, this doesn't bode well. I entrusted this assignment to you for a reason, and now, it's looking even likelier that I'll have to..."
"I wasn't done."
"And just who the hell do you..."
"Mr. Brennan - I wasn't done."
".......go on, then."
"The girl."
"The girl?"
"He became agitated at the mere mention of her name."
"You think it's something we can use?"
"I think it's something to be considered."
"So remember when you're lying
with your back against the floor,
and someone yells 'surrender'
but you want to fight more,
just remember that feeling's gonna keep you alive,
get you over hurdles and struggles in your life."
And so, it comes to this.
A curtain and a music cue. Turn the page, and fill the blank space. To really get all worked up about it would be giving it too much credit, right? After all, what's tonight but just another step in the journey? Another path yet to be traversed. Another cog yet to be turned. Just another tiny, miniscule part of the plan.
Consider the odds - what's Ace Bennett got on you? Nothing. What have you got to prove? Nothing. To whom do you owe what in this world? No one. Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing to do but get through it. Finish - no - destroy Ace Bennett. Finish the job in the elimination chamber. Step over the fallen to rise to the top. They say it's lonely at the top. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. They never talk about the view. It's gotta be spectacular, looking down on everyone like that.
And there's no reason you can't bring your buddies.
Drakz. Michael Kyzer. To whom you owe your lone debts in life. Where others have judged you, they've stood by your side. Where others have fled at the first sign of turmoil, steadfast they've stood, ready to weather the storm. Brothers in arms, and in toxins (well, Drakz, at least). Their trust, their comraderie alone, is what has taken you this far. The others? Jack? Clark? Natalie? Mere visages of the past. Traitors, their betrayal of your trust a sin that is not to soon be forgotten. To the bottom, to the past, go their spoils. To you, and yours? The victor's spoils.
As your co-workers shed their identities, move on in age and decay, they'll talk not about the triumphs, but the journey. The long, weathered road to success. While the emphasis they'll put on it is laughable, the description holds true. No one will deny them the fact that this game we play, this fight we fight, is one long, tired, journey, and a test. A test of a man's will. A test of those he surrounds him with. A test of his want to succeed. Only the most willing, the ones who encapsulate themselves in the company of likeminded individuals, the ones who choose to forgoe waiting for victory to come their way, and instead grasp victory by the cuff of its neck and sieze it for themselves will one day find themselves revelling in that most spectacular, exclusive view from the top, looking down upon those who've resigned themselves, by nature, to the footnotes of history. The fathers. The brothers. Ex-girlfriends. Ace Bennetts.
The journey never ends - unless of course, you will it so. Down that courage. Cue that music. Step out from behind that curtain.
Start to live. Take the reigns from those who would not have it for themselves.
Sing it, Gurley.
"It's been a long time,
it's been a long time,
it's been a long time
since I've been home."
I dont know good luck 
