Post by CM Poor on Oct 31, 2012 13:00:18 GMT -5
[Anything you want, it's all right here...]
October 17, 2012
Hartford, CT
"Aren't you supposed to be in Canada?"
"What?"
"I said AREN'T YOU SUPPOSED TO BE IN CANADA?!"
Even at top pitch, David struggles to hear his friend over the muddled, bass laden sounds echoing throughout the Webster Theatre. The acoustics weren't exacly top notch here. Historically, he'd only ever set foot in Connecticut on the most special of occasions. Tonight was no different. As far as Oi bands went, Stars & Stripes had never been a pinnacle favorite of his - oh sure, they had their time and place, but really, being able to hear Johnny talk without shouting over the horrid sound quality the Webster had to offer wasn't what filled David with anticipation for the end of their set. The Bruisers hadn't played out since their last reunion seven years ago - before that, it had been eight. David had missed that last opportunity seven years ago, and it would take a lot more than a piss poor sound board and Hartford, Connecticut for him to miss 'em again. He'd gone to great lengths to arrange a prime spot to catch this from, and so, gesturing for his friend to follow as the band on stage bid the fevered crowd their farewells, David began leading the way backstage.
"You don't think they just might notice that you just happen to be nowhere near Calgary tonight?"
"Don't tell me you follow that sh*t..."
"Dude, one of my oldest drinking buddies is a honest to god superstar - 'course I'm gonna watch, man. Probably the pinnacle of what any of us spirit of '96ers will wind up achieving. May as well pay attention."
Johnny Richter was a good kid. He and David did go way back. Johnny was one of the Boston skins who took David in on his little weekend excursions north, when David would feign a visit to his father in order to take in a real punk scene. In a very short amount of time, they went from being acquaintances who'd bump into each other at shows to full blown drinking buddies, as Johnny put it best. Many a lost weekend they spent together, drinking cheap beer, marathoning entire weekends packed with show after show after show. If anybody understood exactly why David longed for that five hour trip north nearly every weekend, it was Johnny.
As they grew older, and their respective paths in life took their respective directions, they lost touch, but Johnny was one of the good ones. One of the ones David could count on to be there at the drop of a hat. Wasn't going to judge him 'cause he may have "slipped" in his eyes. Wasn't going to try and help him get "help". Johnny was just a friend, and a damn good one at that. His name was the first to come to mind when David just happened upon this golden opportunity that landed them in Hartford this evening.
"Look, if you're really worried about it, you can just skip this and head to the great white north, let 'em know what's up."
"Always with the smartass...how'd you pull this anyway?"
"You said it yourself, pal. Honest to god superstar. Only helps that I'm pretty much the most recognizable skin in the country right now."
Coming eye to eye with a pair of bouncers that barely rival David in sheer size, he flashes a pair of laminated passes, and with a quick glance, David and Johnny are able to step out from the dense crowd into the much more breathable backstage. While the hustle and bustle of show prep seems all but routine to David by now, Johnny is clearly out of his element. David leads him along, past a pile of stage boxes and stack of drums, grabbing a pair of longnecks from a nearby cooler as he passes. Handing one to Johnny, David leads them along a corridor, turning only when directed by a wayfinder sign reading "STAGE" in bold, red lettering.
Coming to a halt at a curtain that David knows will lead to a stage looking out over a sea of punk rockers, hooligans, and assorted other wasted youths like his former self, David cracks their beers, standing back to allow the stage crew to move to and from, making their final preperations.
"So what, a guy like just...I dunno, calls out sick?"
"Mmm. No, I don't remember calling."
"What, you got an agent, then? Have one of those junkies you pal around with pass a message along?"
"If I'm honest Johnny, I don't think I made arrangements."
"How do figure they'll take that?"
"Don't know. Don't care...Al! Long time no see, bud!"
Al Barr, much like the backstage bouncers, has got neither the height and broad shoulders to properly dwarf a guy as big as David Brennan. David and Johnny had been following the band since their heyday as a startup in Boston, and so to happen upon the diminutive vocalist was to happen upon an old friend. A round of handshakes, how you beens, and shoulder claps leads to idle conversation as the rest of the band queues up around the area, awaiting their cue to take the stage. An uproar from the unseen crowd indicates the drowning of the houselights, and as the rest of the band makes their way to take their place on stage, Al stops to show the two tried and true skins to a better vantage point to view the show.
"Hey man, appreciate you guys coming out tonight."
"Skip my show any day of the week to catch yours, brother."
"See you after the show then?"
"You know it. Got a favor I wanna ask you, but go tear it up, huh?"
Al claps him on the shoulder, taking his place with the rest of the band as they tear into the opening chords of "American Night". As Johnny throws a fist in the air, letting out a huge whoop that calls back to their days as rotten little kids, David elbows him in the side, indicating the band on stage ripping it up, with a devilish smirk on his face.
"Still figure I should be worried about Canada and Trace Demon?"
[What you call the disease, I call the remedy.]
October 18, 2012
WFWF Headquarters
"A call would have sufficed."
"I don't think it would have."
"You think me unreasonable?"
"No, I think you were way too happy to chalk up a loss on my record."
If there's anything worse than visiting Xavier Pierce in his office on the road, it's visiting Xavier Pierce in his home office. Pierce had very clearly selected the premier space in the lavish, glasswork building - if David's bearing were right, which, truth be told, they rarely were, then his office occupied the top most corner of the building, situated just above the new WFWF logo being installed on the side of the building most adjacent to the nearest highway. From here, Pierce not only figuratively positioned himself above the WFWF, so to speak, but he'd have a view as far as the eye could see of the entire state, and on a good day, state lines for miles and miles.
Plenty of bright, natural light.
At least his travelling office was stymied into a more subdued atmosphere - usually confined to the annals of some aging arena, set in a slightly more luxurious side of a backstage area that was little more than a parking garage lined with brick and corridors. The false lighting usually lent itself better to the evasion of a pounding headache. But here - there was no avoiding it here. Not the most choice cure for even a light hangover.
"You earned that, cut and dry. I am only too happy to say that I'm growing incredibly tired of you showing up on my premises smelling like the swilled bottom of a whiskey still, Mr. Brennan."
"Hey, you called me here, assh*le."
"I summoned you here to discuss your very blatant disregard for our product. Did you think you'd just blow off a top billing like that and not have to hear about it?"
"Yeah..."
Pierce exhales an agitated sigh, narrows his eyes down at the subordinate seated - no, slouched across from him, then rises from his executive seat, turning his back to David Brennan, and taking in the view, clasping his hands behind him now. Using the faint reflection in the window to keep an eye on Brennan, he speaks now to seemingly the entire state, his words, however, deflected off the glass and aimed straight for David himself.
"Mr. Brennan, you're no longer just a name and a face buried among a sea of competition. You're a contender - the top contender, in fact, for this company's most prized designation."
"Can't even look me in the eye to say it..."
Pierce ignores the jab, maintaining a now serious, dignified tone as he continues his reprimand.
"Taking into consideration this most unique position you find yourself in, I feel it is my duty, as your highest ranking superior, to inform you that there are certain standards I intend to hold top talent such as yourself to."
David digs into the inside pocket of his new black blazer, the lapel freshly adorned with a set of pins acquired the night before, and fishes out a flask. He gives the metal cannister a quick shake to ensure its contents are still intact, then aimlessly unscrews the cap, lazily sipping as he slouches in his seat, leaning his head back on the backrest of the chair.
"...that so?"
"Your most recent disregard for our...punctual schedule, aside, there is the ever present issue of your complete and total blind eye turned to our company wellness policy."
Pierce turns now to face David, and upon sight of the flask, inhales at great lengths, clearly trying to stave off a mounting outburst. He returns to his seat, pulling himself forward and clasping his hands in front of him, resting them upon the rich mahogany desk that separates the two men.
"I'm not an unobservant man, David..."
"Fooled me."
"...and I recognize superior talent when I see it."
It's David now who sits up. He takes a long, emptying swig from the flask, replacing the cap and stuffing it back in his pocket. He rolls his neck, cracking it in several places, then pulls himself forward, slumping his haunches upon the desk, in a lazy, weathered imitation of Pierce's current posture. He widens his eyes, blinks them furiously a few times, then lazily fixes them upon the CEO in front of him.
"Then recognize, Pierce, that I have got a splitting headache. It's taking every bone in my body to not hurl this hangover all over your custom made carpet, and the only thing that could possibly make a bad hangover even worse is to listen to someone like you drag on...and on...and on....so do us a favor, like I've so many times before, and get...to the f*cking....point."
"Very well, Mr. Brennan. There are forces gathering around you that will spell the end of your career."
"What, your WFWF 'Army'? Try another one..."
"Outside forces, Mr. Brennan. If you don't straighten out first, then they will get to you, and as much as I take pleasure in transgressors paying the piper for their actions, you and I have both agreed before that it would be most detrimental to me and my product to lose you. I agreed to not let you in on specifics, but my point is clear enough - straighten up, or your time here will be limited. I assume you watched the tapes?"
"I....skimmed them...."
"I'll bring you up to speed, then. Last night on Revolution, Phillip Schneider defended his title against a most promising young talent by the name of Tommy Staxx."
David maintains his slumped posture, but widens his eyes at this news.
"Are you....you gave someone my shot?! Are you f*cking kidding me?!"
"Perhaps if you wanted to be more involved, you could find the will in your body to show up to an event, yes?"
"So what, then? Obo killed another newbie? What should I care?"
"Quite the contrary. Mr. Schneider did retain his title, and so your end game is, as of yet, unchanged, but Mr. Staxx offered quite the showing. Impressive, so much, that I found myself wondering - is he simply the victim of unfortunate timing?"
"...the f*ck are you playing at Pierce?!"
"Mr. Staxx was not yet under contract at the time of your...questionable victory at 'Survival of The Fittest'. Perhaps the tide would have changed with this unknown quantity in the mix."
"Not bloody likely..."
"Nevertheless, I'd like to put a test to that theory. I've booked you to face Tommy Staxx next week on Revolution. Given the current circumstances, I'd suggest you consider showing up - fit to perform. That is all, Mr. Brennan. You are dismissed."
[Why Do We Fall?]
"You're tenacious, Staxx - I'll give you that.
Not many people would go from signing a contract to signing their life away by making that first step in between the ropes against Obo the Hobo. I mean, I would, but that's me. I guess you've got more of that - what is it? Drive? Determination? Something....whatever it is, you've got it. You seem like a good enough guy. Admirable qualities. Tenacity. Courage. Maybe not much sense of self worth, but you can work on that. That's what I'm here for.
See, if I've learned anything from this business, which I doubt I have, but maybe I'm on to something here, it's that people talk. Sh*t, no, now that you mention it, yeah...I guess I did learn something. The guys up top - Pierce, and them? They feed it. Look at me. Skinhead. Guilty. Know who they put me in my first go with? Randel Benjamin.
I know what you're thinking - who?
Yeah. Randel Benjamin. High cholesterol, low impact. Sadomasochist, something or other. Black. That's what people really noticed about him - we were both first timers, so they took the skinhead...which, by the way, the stories about my kind are greatly exaggerated...and the black guy, and put us head to head. Think people talked?
What am I getting at here? Damn. No...but yeah, they talk. And, they're probably going to look to bury you, 'cause you made the mistake of taking on Bobo right from the gate. It's stupid...not you. Him. He...he's got this aura? No - legend. Something...about him, and they think he's the best out there, 'cause he'll stick you with a kebob stick or something, drop you while you're losing blood, and that's supposed to be talent. I'm getting off track here - in spite of Lobo being whatever it is he is, they're not gonna focus on that. They're gonna focus on the new guy who tucked his balls and stepped into the ring with this idiot, and they're gonna blame you for the outcome. Big mistake, and all.
See, a good guy once gave me some advice, or told me something, or something. He wasn't really that good of a guy, come to think of it. Father of an ex, and she was a real nice thing, y'know. Beautiful, loving, God in her heart, right side of the tracks kinda girl. Don't ask me where she got off picking up a little streetrat skin like me but....yeah. He never much liked me, I think, even though he played it...thought his little girl could do better or something. Guess it rubbed off on her in the end, 'cause she's long run off with the ministry, but he told me that what we perceive as mistakes, aren't mistakes if we learn from them. Bill knew - that was his name, Bill - he knew I'd done some less than good things in my day, and maybe he was trying to fix me up for his daughter. But that stuck with me. And that's where I come in...
...see, right now, your little dance with Phildo was a mistake - 'cause you're stepping into the ring with me. You went and took my title shot while I was away. You blew it. And now you're coming after me. But I'm gonna help you along, Tom. See, I'm gonna do you the honor I couldn't be bothered to afford the Trace Demon, and I'm gonna show up for our match. No reunion shows on the horizon. Little aside - I'm going to be drunk. And I'm going to beat your a** in ways you probably still don't know possible. I'm not gonna use pencils or brillo pads or whatever Philbo is using this week. I'm just gonna use my fists and my boots - and when I'm done, then you'll know.
You'll know that this is too big for you. Too much. With any sense, and I think you've got some, 'cause remember, I think you're a good kid, you'll section eight right out and we'll just close this little chapter in your book. If not, you'll still take a good stumble down the ladder and pick yourself up among your own kind - the...I dunno...Lincoln Dinas and Demento Daves and Benja Harts of the world.
It's gonna be a rough fall. I can promise you that, but in the end, it's gonna work out Tom.
Good kid, though."
[Observe & Report]
"Observation? Observation?! What the hell good is observation going to do?!"
The three of them stood now. A level playing field, or at least it seems to her. There's something that's altogether minimalizing about being the lone person seated in a conversation. You're no longer speaking with an individual, you're speaking up to them, and, by circumstance, they down to you.
Natalie Collins would not be spoken down to. Not by them. Not after she'd gathered her wits about her, and agreed to come in on this final master plan to bring David back from the edge. Not after all she'd been through up to that point, not after that trip to Japan, not after watching her David week in, week out, crossing lines of all nature that had become little more than a hazy blur to him.
She'd heard tell, of course, of the David Brennan of old. The drunken, violent monster, who's lines of reality were a blur then, if existent at all. "The World According To David Brennan", he'd called it. A world that existed to serve his ends, and no other. He wandered through, guided only by the lure of a bottle and where he'd find his next, and adjusted circumstances as they arose to fit his needs, his moods, and his desires. Week in and week out, those words, in his voice, had come rushing back to her in a tidal wave of recollection as she watched the man they now called David Brennan - he wasn't her David, but he went by that name, nontheless - play out those very same scenarios for the world to see. Wandering through. Guided by the drink. Circumstances adjusted to suit him, and his. That man on TV wasn't David Brennan. David Brennan was not a monster.
No, for someone enduring as much as she was, Natalie Collins would not be spoken down to.
"Calm her."
"Natalie, dear, listen..."
"F*ck yourself, Jack! Why you're even at the center of this, I still haven't managed to wrap my head around. You said this guy was going to help David - that's the only reason I came, so hell or highwater, he's going to tell me exactly what's he's on about, this being 'a matter of observation'"!
"I don't recall any part of our agreement involving any sort of self justification to brash young women in a state of histrionics, Jack."
"Jason..."
"...I'll show you brash, you piece of sh*t..."
Dwarfed, though she may be by the two men who accompany her this evening, Natalie is not without spark. It takes every bit of Jack Brennan's strength to restrain her as she lunges across the table, claws drawn, looking to do something - anything - to wipe that smug look off of his face. Just as this new demon incarnate calling himself David, she'd only recently become acquainted with David's father, Jack. Up til now, he was just a character, a piece of a story David once told her, very rarely without a tint of venom in his voice. There was clearly an air of contempt held for the man who'd brought him into this world - a man who, by all of David's accounts, could just as soon take him out of it as well. Always deliberately evading specifics, David was sly to never bring up the lackeys Natalie'd simply assumed his father employed. This man, this "Jason" had to have been one of them. His unyielding, almost bored, smug expression just fanned the fire in her eyes, turned that knife a little further, drove that needle a little deeper.
Finally relenting against Jack's restraints, she allows herself to be forced back into her knocked back chair. Aiming to maintain some sort of edge, some level of control, however, she remains where she is, now angled against the two men, hunched over, resting her haunches on her knees, unwilling to bring herself back into the prone position of seatedness at the table now several feet away from her.
"In spite of Ms. Collins' outburst, if she's willing to bottle her emotions for the moment, I'd be most willing to elaborate on the rather delicate approach I've chosen to take with this particular situation."
Jack looks to Natalie, an uncharacteristically pleading look on his face that practically begs her to give this man the time of day. She responds just as visually, running her hand back through her shocking blue colored hair, before motioning with it for the quit, stone faced man to continue, gesturely giving him the floor.
"Very good. The man you know and love as David Brennan has ceased to exist. To take your approach, to go running into his arms guns ablaze with your love and devotion to saving him from himself would serve no end. Even a woman with features as striking as your own would just be a stranger to him. You yourself, along with this uncouth bastard and his other bastard son, were all instrumental in sealing that envelope."
Natalie looks to make a move, seemingly hinged on the edge of yet another outburst. She's calmed only by the simultaneous hand of Jack calmly placed upon her shoulder, and the dismissive, arrogant index finger raised by her lecturer, quickly drawn out to silence any potential objection.
"I learned, in the days leading up to our dear subject's career highlight of a match in Las Vegas, that the mere mention of any of your names is enough to set David off in a fit of rage that could likely rival your own, Ms. Collins. In hindsight, you're clearly meant for one another. Regardless, by my best guess, our last interaction likely set David off in the direction of any number of spirit peddlars on the Vegas strip, and by now, even your names are mere shadows to him. What I've proposed, and Mr. Brennan here, in a stroke of unmatched wisdom, has agreed to, is an intervention."
"That's all well and good - we've already tried it once before. Any other bright ideas?"
"I suspect that you're referring to that disaster of a charade in Japan? The very manner in which I've already mentioned you sealing your own fate in regard to your one and only's recollection of you? Ms. Collins, that was not an intervention. The three of you barged into his room after an all night bender, emptied his supply, and tried to bring him home on the cusp of one of the biggest matches of his early career. The sort of shock to the system that does draws you lucky for your own selfish reasons that you didn't put him in an early grave."
"Jason has a knack for this sort of thing, Natalie. Really, he's our last hope. All of us."
"What do you have that we don't? What's going to make this any different if we do it your way?"
"Well, not to put to fine a point on it, Ms. Collins, but an education. Masters degrees in psychology, with focus on criminal psychology and substance abuse. I've also been granted all access to the walls within which your David works. Whether or not you've been keeping us, David is one good day from being the unruly face of that company, and they'll have him locked up as tight as he wants. They supply his vice, and of the three of us, I'm the only one who can get to him. I've never been much of a salesman, Ms. Collins, but for the sake of your own intentions, I highly suggest you go with me."
"And where does Clark stand in all of this?"
"A question we'll answer soon enough, if you're prepared to play along. If you're in agreement, Ms. Collins, then I'll have you pack your bags. Our nonstop to California leaves in one hour."
October 17, 2012
Hartford, CT
"Aren't you supposed to be in Canada?"
"What?"
"I said AREN'T YOU SUPPOSED TO BE IN CANADA?!"
Even at top pitch, David struggles to hear his friend over the muddled, bass laden sounds echoing throughout the Webster Theatre. The acoustics weren't exacly top notch here. Historically, he'd only ever set foot in Connecticut on the most special of occasions. Tonight was no different. As far as Oi bands went, Stars & Stripes had never been a pinnacle favorite of his - oh sure, they had their time and place, but really, being able to hear Johnny talk without shouting over the horrid sound quality the Webster had to offer wasn't what filled David with anticipation for the end of their set. The Bruisers hadn't played out since their last reunion seven years ago - before that, it had been eight. David had missed that last opportunity seven years ago, and it would take a lot more than a piss poor sound board and Hartford, Connecticut for him to miss 'em again. He'd gone to great lengths to arrange a prime spot to catch this from, and so, gesturing for his friend to follow as the band on stage bid the fevered crowd their farewells, David began leading the way backstage.
"You don't think they just might notice that you just happen to be nowhere near Calgary tonight?"
"Don't tell me you follow that sh*t..."
"Dude, one of my oldest drinking buddies is a honest to god superstar - 'course I'm gonna watch, man. Probably the pinnacle of what any of us spirit of '96ers will wind up achieving. May as well pay attention."
Johnny Richter was a good kid. He and David did go way back. Johnny was one of the Boston skins who took David in on his little weekend excursions north, when David would feign a visit to his father in order to take in a real punk scene. In a very short amount of time, they went from being acquaintances who'd bump into each other at shows to full blown drinking buddies, as Johnny put it best. Many a lost weekend they spent together, drinking cheap beer, marathoning entire weekends packed with show after show after show. If anybody understood exactly why David longed for that five hour trip north nearly every weekend, it was Johnny.
As they grew older, and their respective paths in life took their respective directions, they lost touch, but Johnny was one of the good ones. One of the ones David could count on to be there at the drop of a hat. Wasn't going to judge him 'cause he may have "slipped" in his eyes. Wasn't going to try and help him get "help". Johnny was just a friend, and a damn good one at that. His name was the first to come to mind when David just happened upon this golden opportunity that landed them in Hartford this evening.
"Look, if you're really worried about it, you can just skip this and head to the great white north, let 'em know what's up."
"Always with the smartass...how'd you pull this anyway?"
"You said it yourself, pal. Honest to god superstar. Only helps that I'm pretty much the most recognizable skin in the country right now."
Coming eye to eye with a pair of bouncers that barely rival David in sheer size, he flashes a pair of laminated passes, and with a quick glance, David and Johnny are able to step out from the dense crowd into the much more breathable backstage. While the hustle and bustle of show prep seems all but routine to David by now, Johnny is clearly out of his element. David leads him along, past a pile of stage boxes and stack of drums, grabbing a pair of longnecks from a nearby cooler as he passes. Handing one to Johnny, David leads them along a corridor, turning only when directed by a wayfinder sign reading "STAGE" in bold, red lettering.
Coming to a halt at a curtain that David knows will lead to a stage looking out over a sea of punk rockers, hooligans, and assorted other wasted youths like his former self, David cracks their beers, standing back to allow the stage crew to move to and from, making their final preperations.
"So what, a guy like just...I dunno, calls out sick?"
"Mmm. No, I don't remember calling."
"What, you got an agent, then? Have one of those junkies you pal around with pass a message along?"
"If I'm honest Johnny, I don't think I made arrangements."
"How do figure they'll take that?"
"Don't know. Don't care...Al! Long time no see, bud!"
Al Barr, much like the backstage bouncers, has got neither the height and broad shoulders to properly dwarf a guy as big as David Brennan. David and Johnny had been following the band since their heyday as a startup in Boston, and so to happen upon the diminutive vocalist was to happen upon an old friend. A round of handshakes, how you beens, and shoulder claps leads to idle conversation as the rest of the band queues up around the area, awaiting their cue to take the stage. An uproar from the unseen crowd indicates the drowning of the houselights, and as the rest of the band makes their way to take their place on stage, Al stops to show the two tried and true skins to a better vantage point to view the show.
"Hey man, appreciate you guys coming out tonight."
"Skip my show any day of the week to catch yours, brother."
"See you after the show then?"
"You know it. Got a favor I wanna ask you, but go tear it up, huh?"
Al claps him on the shoulder, taking his place with the rest of the band as they tear into the opening chords of "American Night". As Johnny throws a fist in the air, letting out a huge whoop that calls back to their days as rotten little kids, David elbows him in the side, indicating the band on stage ripping it up, with a devilish smirk on his face.
"Still figure I should be worried about Canada and Trace Demon?"
[What you call the disease, I call the remedy.]
October 18, 2012
WFWF Headquarters
"A call would have sufficed."
"I don't think it would have."
"You think me unreasonable?"
"No, I think you were way too happy to chalk up a loss on my record."
If there's anything worse than visiting Xavier Pierce in his office on the road, it's visiting Xavier Pierce in his home office. Pierce had very clearly selected the premier space in the lavish, glasswork building - if David's bearing were right, which, truth be told, they rarely were, then his office occupied the top most corner of the building, situated just above the new WFWF logo being installed on the side of the building most adjacent to the nearest highway. From here, Pierce not only figuratively positioned himself above the WFWF, so to speak, but he'd have a view as far as the eye could see of the entire state, and on a good day, state lines for miles and miles.
Plenty of bright, natural light.
At least his travelling office was stymied into a more subdued atmosphere - usually confined to the annals of some aging arena, set in a slightly more luxurious side of a backstage area that was little more than a parking garage lined with brick and corridors. The false lighting usually lent itself better to the evasion of a pounding headache. But here - there was no avoiding it here. Not the most choice cure for even a light hangover.
"You earned that, cut and dry. I am only too happy to say that I'm growing incredibly tired of you showing up on my premises smelling like the swilled bottom of a whiskey still, Mr. Brennan."
"Hey, you called me here, assh*le."
"I summoned you here to discuss your very blatant disregard for our product. Did you think you'd just blow off a top billing like that and not have to hear about it?"
"Yeah..."
Pierce exhales an agitated sigh, narrows his eyes down at the subordinate seated - no, slouched across from him, then rises from his executive seat, turning his back to David Brennan, and taking in the view, clasping his hands behind him now. Using the faint reflection in the window to keep an eye on Brennan, he speaks now to seemingly the entire state, his words, however, deflected off the glass and aimed straight for David himself.
"Mr. Brennan, you're no longer just a name and a face buried among a sea of competition. You're a contender - the top contender, in fact, for this company's most prized designation."
"Can't even look me in the eye to say it..."
Pierce ignores the jab, maintaining a now serious, dignified tone as he continues his reprimand.
"Taking into consideration this most unique position you find yourself in, I feel it is my duty, as your highest ranking superior, to inform you that there are certain standards I intend to hold top talent such as yourself to."
David digs into the inside pocket of his new black blazer, the lapel freshly adorned with a set of pins acquired the night before, and fishes out a flask. He gives the metal cannister a quick shake to ensure its contents are still intact, then aimlessly unscrews the cap, lazily sipping as he slouches in his seat, leaning his head back on the backrest of the chair.
"...that so?"
"Your most recent disregard for our...punctual schedule, aside, there is the ever present issue of your complete and total blind eye turned to our company wellness policy."
Pierce turns now to face David, and upon sight of the flask, inhales at great lengths, clearly trying to stave off a mounting outburst. He returns to his seat, pulling himself forward and clasping his hands in front of him, resting them upon the rich mahogany desk that separates the two men.
"I'm not an unobservant man, David..."
"Fooled me."
"...and I recognize superior talent when I see it."
It's David now who sits up. He takes a long, emptying swig from the flask, replacing the cap and stuffing it back in his pocket. He rolls his neck, cracking it in several places, then pulls himself forward, slumping his haunches upon the desk, in a lazy, weathered imitation of Pierce's current posture. He widens his eyes, blinks them furiously a few times, then lazily fixes them upon the CEO in front of him.
"Then recognize, Pierce, that I have got a splitting headache. It's taking every bone in my body to not hurl this hangover all over your custom made carpet, and the only thing that could possibly make a bad hangover even worse is to listen to someone like you drag on...and on...and on....so do us a favor, like I've so many times before, and get...to the f*cking....point."
"Very well, Mr. Brennan. There are forces gathering around you that will spell the end of your career."
"What, your WFWF 'Army'? Try another one..."
"Outside forces, Mr. Brennan. If you don't straighten out first, then they will get to you, and as much as I take pleasure in transgressors paying the piper for their actions, you and I have both agreed before that it would be most detrimental to me and my product to lose you. I agreed to not let you in on specifics, but my point is clear enough - straighten up, or your time here will be limited. I assume you watched the tapes?"
"I....skimmed them...."
"I'll bring you up to speed, then. Last night on Revolution, Phillip Schneider defended his title against a most promising young talent by the name of Tommy Staxx."
David maintains his slumped posture, but widens his eyes at this news.
"Are you....you gave someone my shot?! Are you f*cking kidding me?!"
"Perhaps if you wanted to be more involved, you could find the will in your body to show up to an event, yes?"
"So what, then? Obo killed another newbie? What should I care?"
"Quite the contrary. Mr. Schneider did retain his title, and so your end game is, as of yet, unchanged, but Mr. Staxx offered quite the showing. Impressive, so much, that I found myself wondering - is he simply the victim of unfortunate timing?"
"...the f*ck are you playing at Pierce?!"
"Mr. Staxx was not yet under contract at the time of your...questionable victory at 'Survival of The Fittest'. Perhaps the tide would have changed with this unknown quantity in the mix."
"Not bloody likely..."
"Nevertheless, I'd like to put a test to that theory. I've booked you to face Tommy Staxx next week on Revolution. Given the current circumstances, I'd suggest you consider showing up - fit to perform. That is all, Mr. Brennan. You are dismissed."
[Why Do We Fall?]
"You're tenacious, Staxx - I'll give you that.
Not many people would go from signing a contract to signing their life away by making that first step in between the ropes against Obo the Hobo. I mean, I would, but that's me. I guess you've got more of that - what is it? Drive? Determination? Something....whatever it is, you've got it. You seem like a good enough guy. Admirable qualities. Tenacity. Courage. Maybe not much sense of self worth, but you can work on that. That's what I'm here for.
See, if I've learned anything from this business, which I doubt I have, but maybe I'm on to something here, it's that people talk. Sh*t, no, now that you mention it, yeah...I guess I did learn something. The guys up top - Pierce, and them? They feed it. Look at me. Skinhead. Guilty. Know who they put me in my first go with? Randel Benjamin.
I know what you're thinking - who?
Yeah. Randel Benjamin. High cholesterol, low impact. Sadomasochist, something or other. Black. That's what people really noticed about him - we were both first timers, so they took the skinhead...which, by the way, the stories about my kind are greatly exaggerated...and the black guy, and put us head to head. Think people talked?
What am I getting at here? Damn. No...but yeah, they talk. And, they're probably going to look to bury you, 'cause you made the mistake of taking on Bobo right from the gate. It's stupid...not you. Him. He...he's got this aura? No - legend. Something...about him, and they think he's the best out there, 'cause he'll stick you with a kebob stick or something, drop you while you're losing blood, and that's supposed to be talent. I'm getting off track here - in spite of Lobo being whatever it is he is, they're not gonna focus on that. They're gonna focus on the new guy who tucked his balls and stepped into the ring with this idiot, and they're gonna blame you for the outcome. Big mistake, and all.
See, a good guy once gave me some advice, or told me something, or something. He wasn't really that good of a guy, come to think of it. Father of an ex, and she was a real nice thing, y'know. Beautiful, loving, God in her heart, right side of the tracks kinda girl. Don't ask me where she got off picking up a little streetrat skin like me but....yeah. He never much liked me, I think, even though he played it...thought his little girl could do better or something. Guess it rubbed off on her in the end, 'cause she's long run off with the ministry, but he told me that what we perceive as mistakes, aren't mistakes if we learn from them. Bill knew - that was his name, Bill - he knew I'd done some less than good things in my day, and maybe he was trying to fix me up for his daughter. But that stuck with me. And that's where I come in...
...see, right now, your little dance with Phildo was a mistake - 'cause you're stepping into the ring with me. You went and took my title shot while I was away. You blew it. And now you're coming after me. But I'm gonna help you along, Tom. See, I'm gonna do you the honor I couldn't be bothered to afford the Trace Demon, and I'm gonna show up for our match. No reunion shows on the horizon. Little aside - I'm going to be drunk. And I'm going to beat your a** in ways you probably still don't know possible. I'm not gonna use pencils or brillo pads or whatever Philbo is using this week. I'm just gonna use my fists and my boots - and when I'm done, then you'll know.
You'll know that this is too big for you. Too much. With any sense, and I think you've got some, 'cause remember, I think you're a good kid, you'll section eight right out and we'll just close this little chapter in your book. If not, you'll still take a good stumble down the ladder and pick yourself up among your own kind - the...I dunno...Lincoln Dinas and Demento Daves and Benja Harts of the world.
It's gonna be a rough fall. I can promise you that, but in the end, it's gonna work out Tom.
Good kid, though."
[Observe & Report]
"Observation? Observation?! What the hell good is observation going to do?!"
The three of them stood now. A level playing field, or at least it seems to her. There's something that's altogether minimalizing about being the lone person seated in a conversation. You're no longer speaking with an individual, you're speaking up to them, and, by circumstance, they down to you.
Natalie Collins would not be spoken down to. Not by them. Not after she'd gathered her wits about her, and agreed to come in on this final master plan to bring David back from the edge. Not after all she'd been through up to that point, not after that trip to Japan, not after watching her David week in, week out, crossing lines of all nature that had become little more than a hazy blur to him.
She'd heard tell, of course, of the David Brennan of old. The drunken, violent monster, who's lines of reality were a blur then, if existent at all. "The World According To David Brennan", he'd called it. A world that existed to serve his ends, and no other. He wandered through, guided only by the lure of a bottle and where he'd find his next, and adjusted circumstances as they arose to fit his needs, his moods, and his desires. Week in and week out, those words, in his voice, had come rushing back to her in a tidal wave of recollection as she watched the man they now called David Brennan - he wasn't her David, but he went by that name, nontheless - play out those very same scenarios for the world to see. Wandering through. Guided by the drink. Circumstances adjusted to suit him, and his. That man on TV wasn't David Brennan. David Brennan was not a monster.
No, for someone enduring as much as she was, Natalie Collins would not be spoken down to.
"Calm her."
"Natalie, dear, listen..."
"F*ck yourself, Jack! Why you're even at the center of this, I still haven't managed to wrap my head around. You said this guy was going to help David - that's the only reason I came, so hell or highwater, he's going to tell me exactly what's he's on about, this being 'a matter of observation'"!
"I don't recall any part of our agreement involving any sort of self justification to brash young women in a state of histrionics, Jack."
"Jason..."
"...I'll show you brash, you piece of sh*t..."
Dwarfed, though she may be by the two men who accompany her this evening, Natalie is not without spark. It takes every bit of Jack Brennan's strength to restrain her as she lunges across the table, claws drawn, looking to do something - anything - to wipe that smug look off of his face. Just as this new demon incarnate calling himself David, she'd only recently become acquainted with David's father, Jack. Up til now, he was just a character, a piece of a story David once told her, very rarely without a tint of venom in his voice. There was clearly an air of contempt held for the man who'd brought him into this world - a man who, by all of David's accounts, could just as soon take him out of it as well. Always deliberately evading specifics, David was sly to never bring up the lackeys Natalie'd simply assumed his father employed. This man, this "Jason" had to have been one of them. His unyielding, almost bored, smug expression just fanned the fire in her eyes, turned that knife a little further, drove that needle a little deeper.
Finally relenting against Jack's restraints, she allows herself to be forced back into her knocked back chair. Aiming to maintain some sort of edge, some level of control, however, she remains where she is, now angled against the two men, hunched over, resting her haunches on her knees, unwilling to bring herself back into the prone position of seatedness at the table now several feet away from her.
"In spite of Ms. Collins' outburst, if she's willing to bottle her emotions for the moment, I'd be most willing to elaborate on the rather delicate approach I've chosen to take with this particular situation."
Jack looks to Natalie, an uncharacteristically pleading look on his face that practically begs her to give this man the time of day. She responds just as visually, running her hand back through her shocking blue colored hair, before motioning with it for the quit, stone faced man to continue, gesturely giving him the floor.
"Very good. The man you know and love as David Brennan has ceased to exist. To take your approach, to go running into his arms guns ablaze with your love and devotion to saving him from himself would serve no end. Even a woman with features as striking as your own would just be a stranger to him. You yourself, along with this uncouth bastard and his other bastard son, were all instrumental in sealing that envelope."
Natalie looks to make a move, seemingly hinged on the edge of yet another outburst. She's calmed only by the simultaneous hand of Jack calmly placed upon her shoulder, and the dismissive, arrogant index finger raised by her lecturer, quickly drawn out to silence any potential objection.
"I learned, in the days leading up to our dear subject's career highlight of a match in Las Vegas, that the mere mention of any of your names is enough to set David off in a fit of rage that could likely rival your own, Ms. Collins. In hindsight, you're clearly meant for one another. Regardless, by my best guess, our last interaction likely set David off in the direction of any number of spirit peddlars on the Vegas strip, and by now, even your names are mere shadows to him. What I've proposed, and Mr. Brennan here, in a stroke of unmatched wisdom, has agreed to, is an intervention."
"That's all well and good - we've already tried it once before. Any other bright ideas?"
"I suspect that you're referring to that disaster of a charade in Japan? The very manner in which I've already mentioned you sealing your own fate in regard to your one and only's recollection of you? Ms. Collins, that was not an intervention. The three of you barged into his room after an all night bender, emptied his supply, and tried to bring him home on the cusp of one of the biggest matches of his early career. The sort of shock to the system that does draws you lucky for your own selfish reasons that you didn't put him in an early grave."
"Jason has a knack for this sort of thing, Natalie. Really, he's our last hope. All of us."
"What do you have that we don't? What's going to make this any different if we do it your way?"
"Well, not to put to fine a point on it, Ms. Collins, but an education. Masters degrees in psychology, with focus on criminal psychology and substance abuse. I've also been granted all access to the walls within which your David works. Whether or not you've been keeping us, David is one good day from being the unruly face of that company, and they'll have him locked up as tight as he wants. They supply his vice, and of the three of us, I'm the only one who can get to him. I've never been much of a salesman, Ms. Collins, but for the sake of your own intentions, I highly suggest you go with me."
"And where does Clark stand in all of this?"
"A question we'll answer soon enough, if you're prepared to play along. If you're in agreement, Ms. Collins, then I'll have you pack your bags. Our nonstop to California leaves in one hour."
I dont know good luck 
