Post by CM Poor on Oct 25, 2017 20:43:30 GMT -5
"None of you understand.
I'm not locked up in here with you.
You're locked up in here with me."
David Brennan:
Open Season
"Ok, that's....that's pretty f*ckin' cool, right there."
It was a concession of pride, buying into what the suits had branded to sell.
David Brennan had never paid much mind to the numerous calls over the years, asking him to come in and review the proposed pieces of merchandise that would soon go up under a premium price point at souvenir stands throughout the country. That's not to say, of course, that they didn't just not go forward without his stamp of approval - he'd lost count of how many tool bags he'd caught out in the crowds sporting that ridiculous cross-bottled logo they'd come up with.
He just never really cared before.
In all likelihood, he'd probably have just turned another cold shoulder to this latest request to come in and have a look at what the marketing geniuses had opted to throw his name on this week, but as chance would have it, they'd finally opted to try and get a couple more dollars out of his name for, at least as far as he knew, the first time since he'd begun sharing quarters with another human being, who just happened to get to the phone first during a brief moment of indisposition.
"Ah, yes. We thought that might catch your eye."
He'd summarily rejected, in short order, a handful of shirts boasting little more than his name in bold print, peppered here and there with some manner or another of identifying adornment that they'd seemingly thrown together in some vein attempt to capture some ill conceived "spirit of his character". David wasn't interested in anything that would make him look like some two-bit lounge act over exaggerating the self-importance of their very existence.
The WFWF had enough of that going on without him signing off on a bit more of it.
"The inspiration there, humorously enough, can be owed to one of your colleagues. I think you know Frank Lynn?"
David chuckled to himself, the irony of the revolution's lone remaining holdout, who'd appeared to be entirely more invested in the commercial aspect of the movement than any real tangible change, being a mine of inspiration toward the WFWF's chief marketing strategists landing a humorous edge with the WFWF champion. That alone was motivation enough to sign on the dotted line - David could hand blow after blow to the little movement that couldn't with two balled up fists in the ring, but he couldn't wipe the smile away from his face that was garnered on the back of what it would inevitably do to the psyche of Frank Lynn, should he ever come to the realization that he was the source of inspiration for what was sure, if David's particular tastes were to be at all shared with the consuming public fan base, a top seller in no time.
"On the back..."
He flipped the test print over, laying the shirt out upon the table for David to see.
"...we've, of course, integrated your amassed collection of Championship belts."
In an instant, David's enthusiasm vanished, and he must have done a right poor job at hiding it, as he saw the faces of the team before him switch almost as quickly as his must have from marked enthusiasm to a sense of coming panic.
"C'mon, you can't have that sh*t on there."
"Well, that's sort of the crux of it all, isn't it? You holding all there is to hold?"
"And who's gonna buy the sh*t, assumin' I find myself comin' up short one of these days?"
"Is that in the cards?"
"Ain't on my docket, but c'mon, man - you gotta consider this sh*t. I ain't bankin' in just handin' one of these things over to the first taker, but if Sleater'd have her way..."
"...we'd be here considering designs for Joe Bishop's new line, right? That was your theory, was it not?"
The marketing team snapped to attention, like they'd just caught wind of a General on deck. David had to laugh - the notion was just absurd, given that he'd long declined to ever properly recognize Lila Sleater's authority, even as he was bound to abide by her rulings.
Not that it stopped him from trampling all over them at every waking turn.
As such, he saw not necessity in stifling his chuckle, even as she passed before him, eyeing the team before her before turning her attention toward the sampling of merchandise options being presented, her focus honing in on the design out of displayed lock step with the others, giving it away as the clear front runner and subject of current discussion.
Eyeing the back graphic - a miniature display of all three championships David had laid rolling claim to, she shot the champion a disapproving look, holding the shirt up as if considering a future purchase.
"You're not a tag team champion, David."
"Two sides to every story, they say."
Rolling her eyes, Sleater turned her attention back toward the shirt, flipping it over and holding it out once more, taking a good, long - almost too long, given the simplicity of the design - look at what had just moments earlier piqued David's rare, almost nonexistent sense of enthusiasm.
"DB f'n WF. Fantastic..."
The tone of contempt in her voice was too much for David to even try and stifle another snicker of amusement as she read out the words plastered upon the shirt.
Sleater sighed as she tossed the shirt down upon the others, showing little care for the elaborate display the team had prepared for David. She rolled her eyes as she turned to face David, muttering under her breathe before fully addressing him.
"Thank you, Frank Lynn."
"I'll have to send him a card."
"He's trying."
"What, and I ain't?"
There was no immediate response. Even the chief figure of authority in the WFWF, brimming with contempt for the champion though she may be, would have been hard pressed to assert that the mere fact that David was even present at the WFWF's headquarters this afternoon, much less actively engaged in the selection of his next roll out of licensed merchandise, was entirely out of step with everything that made him so detestable to begin with. She wasn't about to try and begin guessing just what it was that could have possibly driven the notoriously distant, dismissive man before her to suddenly step forth, willing and ready to become engaged in his work and, at least on the surface, playing the role she might otherwise expect of one of her champions.
These days, Sleater simply knew better than to not pick her battles.
"I suppose that remains to be seen."
"Right, right. Your latest little scheme. Gates crashin' in on that one yet?"
"There's been some interest."
"F*ckin' woodwork, I bet. Gonna take a fair shake more'n Dave Demento, you wanna get this belt off of me, y'know."
Usually, David's assertions of a mass conspiracy on the part of management to drag him back down to the depths of the card where he'd once so frequently staked his claim were more than enough to warrant a look of redundant disgust out of the WFWF's head booker and lead authority figure. It was a tired old game, one that each side was more than ready to have been done with ages ago, even if they couldn't refrain from lunging at one another's throats long enough to put it to rest - granted, a large part of said offensive had been executed, more often than not, from the champion's side of the equation.
Still, there was a silver lining to Brennan's little dig, perhaps one he hadn't quite intended upon. Nevertheless, Lila had to flash a sign of marked impression with the man before her.
"You've been keeping up."
"Be right f*ckin' stupid not to. Sh*t like this? Always some assh*le or another tryin' to get the jump. Demento? Sh*t - he's the least of my worries.
"Not when there's revenue to be made, no?"
That was, in of itself, another point in David's column. Lila'd, of course, known for some time that the brand's merchandisers would be in today, ready to present a new line of product aimed at capitalizing on Brennan's recent turn as the penultimate champion - her adamant assertions regarding the tag team titles aside, there was no denying, even on Sleater's part, that Brennan was the rightful holder of the full slate of the WFWF's actively contended championships.
What she hadn't anticipated, by any stretch of the imagination, was to find Brennan actively engaged in the process. It's customary for the superstars of the WFWF to have a say in the merchandise that'll hit the stands bearing their name, and this was hardly the team's first foray into monetizing the Brennan name, but to the best of her recollection, it was the first time David, himself, had shown any notable interest in the process.
She couldn't help feeling that something was up.
"I don't need the money, if that's what you're askin'."
"No. To be honest, I never got the impression that you did."
It was a marked understatement.
"Still...you wanna talk a raise or somethin', I ain't in much of a hurry."
Sleater sized him up. It was almost impossible to tell at times - most times, really - whether David was speaking with any sort of sincerity, at least as far as she was concerned. On the one hand, this was just the sort of comment that he'd spamntly shoot off, off hand, just to get an arbitrary dig at her. He'd made clear, on no small number of occasions, exactly how he'd come to perceive his stance in the company. To spout off some idle remark about his pay would be just the sort of thing he could mouth off, half expecting that it'd fall either on willfully deaf ears, or otherwise just fly well beyond her scope of comprehension.
On the other hand, it wouldn't exactly fall beneath David's depth of audacity to genuinely look her in the face here, presumably on the opposite side of a long fought battle of words and wits between them which she, begrudgingly, had to concede him the victor, and ask for a token of comeuppance for his troubles.
He was one tough egg to crack, that David Brennan.
"I'll let you finish up here."
"Fair shakes. Was worth a shot, though, yeah?"
The hell, he says.
"You were serious..."
"Money ain't a thing, least not anymore. Doesn't mean I'm gonna say no if there's a bit more on the table."
"You know your way around, I think?"
"Well enough."
"I'm sure even you've got a personnel file somewhere around. See me when you're done. We'll talk."
Invitational
Let's get somethin' off the table right off the bat.
I'm sure everyone out there's got themselves their own little perspective about some of my more minute nuances, but if I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times.
I ain't f*ckin' stupid.
Try and consider, for a second, the fact that the same night I walked outta the buildin' with this here International Championship everyone's all the sudden got the burnin' hots for, another non-champion was crowned and bestowed with the right to step up and take his best when and wherever he decided to finally muster up the sack to do so. A quick look at the rundown here'd have you thinkin' that this latest clusterf*ck of ingenuity is just another case of stacked odds against me, what with my bein' the one everyone's about to be most concerned with knockin' the f*ck off - as if that ain't been the case right from the very get go.
Look, I may talk a little funny, but don't let yourself get lost in the weed - it ain't ever been lost on me for a single, solitary moment, that I've had a target on my f*ckin' back since day one.
So who's up?
Short answer, of course, would've every last sack out back what thinks he or she's got what it takes to finish what Philip f*ckin' Schneider couldn't muster the nuts to get done.
Long answer? Well, sh*t - I'd be here all f*ckin' month if I tried to go and run down the line of every last Bishop, Crowe, or hobo that's tried to derail the outbound outta Boston this past year and a half or so. That in of itself's a full course meal, so rather, why don't we try and trim the fat a bit before we get too caught up in the sides, shall we?
C'mon out, Frank. I ain't gonna bite.
Granted, I might smash your f*ckin' dome in, but you already knew that, right?
You're tenacious, I'll give you that.
See, we both know you're gonna be there, Frank. That there? That's a foregone conclusion, so much so that it probably borders upon false advertising to even suggest that you're only "rumored" to be headed to San Juan.
You couldn't stay away if you tried.
You've had my name in your mouth since the day you signed along the dotted line. Personally, I dunno what that's all about. Someone lesser? Eh, they might give a sh*t about what some wannabe, townie-ass f*ck from the 'burbs's got against him, but little guys swingin' upward? Sh*t, that ain't nothin' new to me. Get in line, Frank.
That's almost poetic, isn't it?
Maybe poetic ain't the right word.
See, there's all these different ways you and I could spin this little tale that you've been writin' since the jump, and, I mean...I dunno what your perspective is, but from a year plus worth of watchin' you battle it out with this chronic case of short stack syndrome, I'd bet a fair Coke that's a bit loftier'n the way I see it, because from this end? All's I see's a little kid hoppin' off a roller coaster and divin' right back into the back of the line for another f*ckin' go. It's all fun and games now, and sure he might be feelin' a little queasy at the moment, but damned if the Rush ain't worth the troubles, eh Frank?
Just a matter of if, not when, is all.
Sooner or later? You're gonna f*ckin' yack.
Maybe pathetic's the word I'm lookin' for.
See, the hypothetical child with a gut full of junk's almost endearin', in a way. I mean, no one likes kids, but he's havin' fun, and it don't hurt all that much to look at because he's just a kid and he don't know any f*ckin' better. Assumin' he boots before the day's done, we figure he'll walk away with a bit of insight into the matter - maybe it's the cotton candy, or maybe it's the ride itself, but somethin's gotta give.
Otherwise? Sh*t's gonna keep goin' sour, and that ain't no fun. Kids are f*ckin' dumb as dirt, but even they figure that sh*t out eventually.
What's your excuse?
Look, in a way, I get it. Me squarin' up against all comers? You'd be right f*ckin' stupid to shy away from that sh*t. If ever anyone was gonna have an actual, real life, conceivably plausible f*ckin' chance of knockin' my ass off, that'd about be the time, but damnit, Frank - we've done this dance, kiddo.
How many more times are you gonna trip over your own feet?
I dunno if it's me - and just from a cursory glance around the room, I'm guessin' no - but it sure ain't you, babe.
Y'know, I've been around these parts - in and out, of course - a long time, and just off the top of my head, I dunno if I can remember anyone shy of the WFWF's resident beaten horse ego Dex with a bigger sense of inflated self than you, Frankie. The power of your example is far greater'n the sh*t you say, and for my money, I can't get much past the same stack of crap that bought himself a tag team championship shot by runnin' around playin' a round of grabass for the camera like the petulant f*ckin' child from our last example. You wanna come out and talk a lofty f*ckin' game about the state of the business who is and isn't fit to the esteemed f*ckin' mold of the Bishop-Lynn Associates, then you better give me a hell of a lot more'n the big ol' stack of average you've shown the world in the interim. You've got yourself a big ol' f*ckin' mouth for a whole lot of the nothin' you've got yourself packed behind it, and if you think you're anywhere close to bein' ready to stake your claim as the sack of sh*t who's gonna come out and take this belt off my waist, then I hope to f*ckin' god that someone actually get the job done so you can maybe see for once exactly how far down the f*ckin' ladder you really are.
'Course, don't let me stop you - not verbally anyway. I know how much it eats you up, bein' told to just pack it in and call it a day, so in the spirit of open challenge and invitational opportunity and all that happy horse sh*t, I wanna flip that on it's head and offer you somethin' new, Frank.
Come on down.
F*ck, cut in line for all I care.
An idea's only as viable as the willingness to keep it alive, so go ahead - take your shot. Sh*t have another. One more for the road. Take all the time you need to figure it all out Frank, 'cause I'll tell you, it gets a little tepid after a while, winnin' as much as I do, but you?
Sh*t, I don't kickin' your ass'll ever grow old, b*tch.
"David Brennan?"
David was, by now, all too painfully aware of his stature as a figure subject to increased public recognition. Buried beneath the dregs of addiction, it was never really a matter that he'd ever given much attention to. In a way, those were simpler times, at least, as far as his willingness to dismissively wish anyone who might otherwise think to approach him in public a hearty "f*ck off" before going back to what little business he was likely attending to at the moment. At times, he had to begrudgingly remind himself that the collective benefit of his sobriety outweighed the minimal advantages that came with his once perpetual state of willful mindlessness. As such, he'd come to exercise a number of extreme cautions - afforded to him, again, in no short thanks to his recovery - to distance himself, when at all possible, from the opportunities those in his line of work frequently have to be unwillingly thrust before their adoring public for the sake of on demand entertainment. He'd moved out of a major metropolitan hub, opting for a homestead along the rocky shores of the Maine coastline. He'd eschewed public air travel, having restored his father's private jet and arranging for direct, private transport to and from any intermediate points along the way. Perhaps, most notably, he'd shied away from any media appearances outside his routine scope of work.
In six years, he'd never provided so much as a quote or comment for public consumption or commentary.
It wasn't for lack of trying - authority figures from King Kraig to Lila Sleater and everyone in between had arranged, on his behalf, media appearances from one coast to the other, placing in precarious danger their own reputations with a host of outlets, as he'd developed a bit of a reputation for simply no-showing with all certain reliability. It had become, in radio and newsprint circles, something of a joke, almost:
Oh, you've booked David Brennan?
You'll let me know if he shows, then.
Because, of course, he wouldn't. It was, in many ways, one of those things, in the realm of merchandise consulting and any other fringe expectation associated with this business, he simply couldn't be bothered with.
There was hope, at least for a fleeting moment, that all that might come to be seen as another symptom of his reliance upon substance. Those ambitions, however, were soon put to short rest when they'd just as soon find out that some things, in the end, were simply symptomatic of the condition of being David Brennan.
Even David, himself, however, would soon come to have no choice but to marvel at the slice of irony that this whole gig would soon come to a screeching halt - all as he waited on a bit of lunch, biding his time before his first amicable meeting with Lila Sleater in, well...ever.
"Hi. Lizzie Hyde. WFWF dot com."
Even as his mind quickly set to work trying to process just how badly he may have erred in stepping out for a quick bite, he had to stifle a laugh. The poor girl wore a look of adamant sincerity across her face, but that did no favors to the fact that the words had spilled from her mouth in a tone that suggested all too heavily that she'd spent the days and weeks leading up to that very moment practicing her very worst mid-evening, budget-local news anchor voice in front of a mirror.
Perhaps a hairbrush for a microphone.
She was as new at this as he was about to be.
"Dotcom do many sub shop stakeouts?"
"Ms. Sleater said you'd be out to lunch."
Sleater.
Because of course she did.
For an office tower fixated in the heart of Los Angeles, there sure isn't a hell of a lot in way of things to eat in the immediate vicinity.
For a fleeting moment, David wondered if that was by design.
"Sleater also tell you I ain't much of a laugh to talk with?"
"She implied you'd resist. She'd....well, she'd hoped in light of your upcoming contract negotiations, you might be a bit more forthcoming."
Contract negotiations.
David smirked.
That b*tch could still play ball, and David had a fair bit of a handicap, only just having arrived at the court to play.
He was almost impressed.
"So, what - d'you guys draw straws or somethin' down the web department, figure which one of you gets the sh*t gif of tryin' to crack my egg?"
She flushed, almost blatantly exasperated if not simultaneously relieved at not having to mask her frustrations anymore, having been plainly put on the spot.
This gig wasn't her first choice, either.
"I wish. 'Let the intern do it' would be a bit more accurate."
"Website's for interns? Sh*t, buncha fake news media types get their start talkin' Schneider and Kyzer?"
Her expression quickly soured.
This gig definitely wasn't her first pick.
"If you can find me a quicker route into the industry, I'm all ears."
"Wait...the industry-industry, or like, the media industry?"
"Do I look like the CNN type?"
He was beginning to like this one.
"Tried just beddin' her? Hear it worked for Demento."
"I think I'll hold on to my dignity for a bit, thanks."
"Least 'til you get a tryout and get all sorts of f*cked like the rest of us."
"Hopefully not. Until then..."
"...short end of the stick. So what's Sleater lookin' to hear?"
"You'll talk?"
"Ain't as stupid as I look, 'specially not with her tossin' that C-word around."
Looking almost impressed with herself, Lizzie dove into her bag, procuring a small recording device. Placing it on the table between them, her confidence quickly waned as she stopped to look up at David once more, almost as if she suddenly expected him to rescind the entire deal.
"You don't mind?"
"Be a d*ck f*ckin' move, expectin' you to try and take notes, what with you not bein' a journalist and me hardly speakin' English."
To this, she chuckled, before making her way back to the bag, returning with a spiral bound notebook, presumably filled to the brim with a host of questions compiled over years and years of rejected interview opportunities. David took a look sip off of his soda, signaling over his back for another.
This looked like it could take a while.
"So...an open invitational..."
"Surprise, surprise."
"Within days of the card being released, the past had already emerged from the shadows, with Dave Demento tossing his hat into the ring. What's the mentality of a man seemingly doomed to face, presumably, an encyclopedic history of the WFWF, one after the other?"
David smirked as he relaxed into his chair, staring over his nose as the girl reading the long winded question off of the page in front of her.
"You ain't gettin' credit for this, are you?"
"The staff compiled the questions. I just get to do the legwork."
"You want I should tell 'em to f*ck off on the record?"
Looking up from the paper, Lizzie shot him an irritated glance.
"Honestly? The rest of my day will probably go a whole lot easier if you'd just speak to the question."
He smirked.
This one could hang.
"Fair shakes. Mind repeatin' that one?"
"The entire WFWF roster. Past. Present. Maybe even the future? How's that playing with your mind?"
"Playing with my mind? It ain't. Like I just told Sleater maybe an hour ago - gonna take a sh*t ton more'n Dave Demento to bring this kingdom crashin' down. Someone else wants to try and fan the spark? Bring it. Odds are, I've already beat 'em once before. I ain't exactly about to shy away from doin' it again."
"So this is just another day at the office for you, then?"
"May as well be. That your question, or theirs?"
"They've got follow ups."
"F*ckin' hell..."
"Well, maybe don't go six years without a single interview. Stepping away from the unqualified variables for a moment...there has to be the presence of thought that Michael Kyzer could be planning to use this avenue as his opportunity to strike, maybe late in the game, when you're not exactly at your peak anymore. How does that factor into the equation, going into this contest?"
"You work with some right f*ckin' nerds, don't you?"
"Journalism majors. So...Kyzer?"
"Same answer."
"Bring it on?"
"He won't, but if that's how he wants to play it..."
"You don't think Kyzer will show?"
"Your question?"
There was that look again.
"Yes. Yeah. For the moment, let's just assume I'll interject if it makes for good material, okay?"
"Fair enough. So, nah. That ain't Kyzer's way."
"I suppose you would know."
"At least you know your stuff. Yeah. Sure, he could come and kick me when I'm down. Take the easy win. But that sh*t? That ain't him."
"Why not? Is there some noble pride to Michael Kyzer that's only surfaced amid his former allies?"
Salty. Former allies?
"Pfft. No. But that sh*t? It doesn't prove nothin'. Kyzer? He's all about makin' a point. He very well could be down in San Juan already, plannin' some morbid sh*t out, but he ain't comin' for the belt. Not this one, anyway."
"And if Kyzer isn't a pressing concern, one has to wonder if it even warrants going down the line."
"Got yourself a list there?"
In a rare show of concession, she turns the page over for a moment, affording David a brief look at, indeed, a who's who of just about every name he's come across since first stepping foot inside a WFWF ring.
"Aw, you ain't gonna press me for my thoughts on Carter Contra?"
"I'd probably get a better story out of asking for a breakdown on - and I can't believe I'm even saying this - Peter File."
"Is it any more a surprise than the fact that a guy named Hugh Jass made a wave in the big clusterf*ck this past year?"
"Enough to make one reconsider professions."
It's Lizzie now who leans back in her seat, arms crossed in front of her, clearly perturbed with, well, something. After a moment's pause, she reaches forward, shutting off the recorder, tossing it haphazardly back into her bag.
"Well, sh*t...that was painless. They didn't give you much to work with, huh?"
"I could write a book if I followed it to the T."
"Assumin' I give you anything worth a damn."
"This will do. They can pour enough fuel out of the Kyzer bit to get by. As it is, they've got more now than anyone else can lay claim to."
"Odd way to kick the door in."
"You aren't single, are you?"
"Single? Sh*t, nah. I mean, you can probably f*ck your way in if that's what you're thinkin', but I think that line starts outside Sleater's door."
"Eh. It was worth a shot. Figured if I could tack on a name of renown, maybe I could slither my way in."
"The Ahriman routine."
"It works."
"Assumin' you ain't too attached to your own sense of dignity or worth. The kid's full of sh*t. I ain't much of an advice dispensary, but of the short stack of folk you might wanna emulate? She ain't among 'em."
"She's got a job."
"And you don't?"
That one bought David another death glare.
"Sh*t. I can't believe I'm ownin' this, but I'd almost wish you'd go back to askin' me the questions."
"Please. Let's both save our sanity. It won't be a hard sell, claiming you up and made your exit right around the end there. Maybe what I got'll be enough for a tryout."
"The f*ck you wanna do this sh*t so bad for anyway?"
"Why? Think you've got a dot com story worth a pitch?"
"Well, sh*t, if we just chattin' , assumin' we're done talkin' Lincoln Dina...."
You Can't Handle the Truth
Look, I know I ain't much in the way of a conversationalist. I know people out there who'd rather treat 'emselves to a long walk off a short bridge than listen to me try and articulate a coherent thought. Sh*t, I know tryin' to decipher the sh*t comin' out my mouth is about as desirable and inspirin' of a task as tryin' to figure out why Joe Bishop figured he'd be the one to tell the world what is and ain't wrestlin', but for all my flaws as they relate to my skills or lack thereof as a public orator, there's one thing, through all the southie muck and f*ck you can be damned sure of.
I don't talk sh*t.
Now, take heed - when I say I don't talk sh*t, I ain't tryin' to assert any sorta claim that I won't take your name and drag it through the mud down the bottom of the Charles. Sh*t, you wanna draw me a name out of a hat, I'll give you a laundry list of bad sh*t I can say about 'em without so much as thinkin' twice, and I'll back those words up 'til I'm dead in the f*ckin' grave, just so you can place a pretty little value on 'em.
Nah, when I say I don't talk sh*t, I mean that for every last ass backward thought that spills outta my f*ckin' piehole, you can be damn sure that the sh*t that's infecting the narrow tube runnin' through your f*ckin' head's the genuine article.
Put nicely?
I mean what I f*ckin' say.
Case in point?
Back when the New Epoch went all sortsa ass end up, I went runnin' on the notion of showin' the world that all that talk about me bein' the third wheel in a bike that never needed no additional support was a buncha spoonfed bullsh*t - and that's what I f*ckin' did. Anyone still holdin' that thought close to help 'em sleep at night - whether they call 'emselves Frank Lynn or Mike f*ckin' Kyzer himself - s'only foolin' 'emselves.
That bein' said, you'll forgive me if I take umbrage with the entitled f*ckin' seed of some B minus player what thinks her f*ckin' name's her rightful ticket to the big leagues sittin' on my front lawn spewin' some sh*t about makin' waves on her own f*ckin' merit.
Any of you envious, green eyed f*cks that wants to b*tch about me hoardin' all the f*ckin' loot around these parts can go talk to Anna Ahriman, assumin' any of y'all like to hear the bit-tongue bullsh*t tale of how her old man'd bequeathed his rightful claim to his half of the WFWF Tag Team championships, only for princess to take a ride up the east coast and hand that sh*t over in the name of rejected f*ckin' privilege.
Look here, kid - you wanna get on a f*ckin' mic and spew that sh*t to payin' f*ckin' customers who don't know any goddamned better, be my f*ckin' guest. Frank's designed me a shirt that'll keep my much numbers up for well after you've taken a short dive off of some pillar you figure'll make you famous and put a short f*ckin' stop to your career, so I don't much f*ckin' care what sorta image you wanna paint for yourself, but for the blessed only daughter of the Ahriman name, you've got some hefty f*ckin' balls to come out and stand on my lawn property, lookin' me in the eye with that sorta half cocked bullish*t, and then helpin' yourself to a f*ckin' stab at yours truly 'cause the door happened to be open and you figured you'd already paid some sorta blood oath, b*tch.
But I'm a level headed guy.
Maybe you said some sh*t you don't mean. Maybe you weren't thinkin' straight, rejectin' the sorta fame that'd come with takin' your old man's place at the Devil's right hand. That's a boon a lot of folk'd figure you right f*ckin' stupid to turn away, and all this back peddlin' on that behalf is you sorta tryin' to put a fix to the mistakes of your shallow ass past.
Don't you go frettin' that sh*t. What's done is done, right? Can't back down now- might as well go on through the motions, see what happens. So let's do this thing, Anna. You. Me. San Juan. I know it wasn't at the top of your list of favors way back when, but that was then. This is now.
C'mon out.
I'll make you famous, b*tch.
The Next Great War
David couldn't believe his eyes.
"No sh*t?"
"Not in the least."
"C'mon - who've I gotta kill?"
Sleater pushed the contract forward, implicitly urging him to sign it.
"David, consider this a new leaf. Color me convinced. I won't lie - you're abrasive, obnoxious, arrogant - "
"Don't forget handsome."
She recoiled, for a second, look almost as if she was about to reconsider.
"...but nevertheless, between your mere presence here today, the fact that Ms. Hyde came back to us in one piece, your maintained level of sobriety...I genuinely believe you've come to a point where you want to be here and you're willing to accept the obligations that come with it. This contract is an extension of that belief - an unprecedented act of trust, if you will."
David glanced down at the form once more, honing in on the figure before him, blinking out a couple times, almost as if the number might change before his eyes.
"No sh*t, unprecedented - is Demon even pullin' this much?"
Sleater grimaced.
"I have no say in...well, in that matter. But I do have say here. It's a concession of pride to say it, David, but you've earned this."
Reaching for a pen, David pulled the contract toward him. Giving it another once over, he put the well to the paper. Just as he'd begun to drag, he paused, looking up at the executive across the way from him.
"Something wrong?"
"Yeah, yeah...sorta..."
"David, the invitational's been booked. I assure you, there's no personal malice there..."
"Nah, not that. This f*ckin' roster though...I mean, send 'em all out...ain't that much, is there?"
"David, I'm not going to negotiate pay raises on behalf of the entire locker room with you."
"Wouldn't set you back much, but nah, f*ck that. Just listen. I'm gonna sign this sh*t. Just need one more thing in there."
"Name it."
"Gonna need to make a call. Both of us. You gotta phone we can use?"
Homecoming
By rights, I should be right f*ckin' miffed over the fact that in the best graces I've held in this place since the day we stumbled upon one another, I've been charged with seemingly immeasurable task of dispensin' of any ol' peckerhead what thinks he's got the stones to stand toe to toe and try and take somethin' I went and earned myself by virtue of tooth and f*ckin' nail. Even high atop the food chain, that's a tall f*ckin' order for anyone to try and jot down, much less with any sorta willingness to stand and take said lumps like a f*ckin' man, 'cause I know there's a whole row of you out there just waitin' for your turn to f*ckin' shine, and I know every last one you'd be about tickled f*ckin' pink were you standin' in my size thirteens.
Me? I ain't even mad, though.
I mean, look at what your handed for your troubles.
Has beens.
Never weres.
Never will bes.
(Hiya, Frank)
You've got this whole f*ckin' litany of segments worth of wannabes to pick from, but I'll tell you, my pick of the lot?
Man, it's got to be the nobodies.
I mean, you've seen the names, right?
Peter File?
Billy Broom?
My word.
Never mind the clods who found 'emselves privy to a weekend long stay overnight at the local wrestlin' camp, thinkin' they're all the sudden fit to step between the ropes to try and lace my f*ckin' boots - that's got to be just about my favorite.
We all know the type.
Somewhere in every podunk f*ckin' no-town from coast to f*ckin' coast's some school, run by some weasel f*ckin' nobody fallen out the business, lookin' to maintain some semblance of f*ckin' relevance in the business, so they're about to send out their star f*ckin' pupil, to what?
Take a stab at my f*ckin' title?
Please.
The rest of you? Lookin' on, advocatin' this sorta sh*t by your f*ckin' slack jawed silence?
Well, sh*t - don't come around here talkin' about no f*ckin' revolution, I tell you that much.
Look, I might mangle my f*ckin' words, but you ain't ever gonna catch me mincin' 'em:
No one gives a flyin' rat's f*ck what hole you went and climbed out of.
There ain't a name you could stand in front of that's gonna make me any less confident in my ability to beat your ass again and again and again.
Unless you've got a proven lot of merit weighin' down your own two feet without any sorta distance between you and the f*ckin' crutch you hobbled your ass in on, there ain't a single f*ckin' part of me that's ever gonna fix to give you even the slightest f*ckin' thought. You'd be better suited takin' the advice Frank never got through his thick f*ckin' skull and just disappearin' back into whatever f*ckin' venture dragged your haggard broken ass outta here to begin with.
I guess what I'm tryin' to say's, I dunno....welcome back, Luke.
Don't get too comfy.
To the Next Four Years
"Anything else?"
"....f*ckin' Dave Demento? Really?"
"Would you sign the f*cking contract already?"
Coda
Anyone else?
That all you've got?
I'll tell you what - y'all may not like the guy. Y'all might f*ckin' loathe him, and I ain't too fond myself, but every last one of you better be f*ckin' prayin' that Trace Demon's fixin' to find his spot in line.
You wanna put this dog down?
Sh*t, if I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times.
You're gonna have to f*ckin' kill me.
That's the only way anyone not named Brennan's walkin' outtta San Juan with this f*ckin' title.
And he's the only one of you with half the brass to f*ckin' do it.
I'm not locked up in here with you.
You're locked up in here with me."
David Brennan:
Open Season
"Ok, that's....that's pretty f*ckin' cool, right there."
It was a concession of pride, buying into what the suits had branded to sell.
David Brennan had never paid much mind to the numerous calls over the years, asking him to come in and review the proposed pieces of merchandise that would soon go up under a premium price point at souvenir stands throughout the country. That's not to say, of course, that they didn't just not go forward without his stamp of approval - he'd lost count of how many tool bags he'd caught out in the crowds sporting that ridiculous cross-bottled logo they'd come up with.
He just never really cared before.
In all likelihood, he'd probably have just turned another cold shoulder to this latest request to come in and have a look at what the marketing geniuses had opted to throw his name on this week, but as chance would have it, they'd finally opted to try and get a couple more dollars out of his name for, at least as far as he knew, the first time since he'd begun sharing quarters with another human being, who just happened to get to the phone first during a brief moment of indisposition.
"Ah, yes. We thought that might catch your eye."
He'd summarily rejected, in short order, a handful of shirts boasting little more than his name in bold print, peppered here and there with some manner or another of identifying adornment that they'd seemingly thrown together in some vein attempt to capture some ill conceived "spirit of his character". David wasn't interested in anything that would make him look like some two-bit lounge act over exaggerating the self-importance of their very existence.
The WFWF had enough of that going on without him signing off on a bit more of it.
"The inspiration there, humorously enough, can be owed to one of your colleagues. I think you know Frank Lynn?"
David chuckled to himself, the irony of the revolution's lone remaining holdout, who'd appeared to be entirely more invested in the commercial aspect of the movement than any real tangible change, being a mine of inspiration toward the WFWF's chief marketing strategists landing a humorous edge with the WFWF champion. That alone was motivation enough to sign on the dotted line - David could hand blow after blow to the little movement that couldn't with two balled up fists in the ring, but he couldn't wipe the smile away from his face that was garnered on the back of what it would inevitably do to the psyche of Frank Lynn, should he ever come to the realization that he was the source of inspiration for what was sure, if David's particular tastes were to be at all shared with the consuming public fan base, a top seller in no time.
"On the back..."
He flipped the test print over, laying the shirt out upon the table for David to see.
"...we've, of course, integrated your amassed collection of Championship belts."
In an instant, David's enthusiasm vanished, and he must have done a right poor job at hiding it, as he saw the faces of the team before him switch almost as quickly as his must have from marked enthusiasm to a sense of coming panic.
"C'mon, you can't have that sh*t on there."
"Well, that's sort of the crux of it all, isn't it? You holding all there is to hold?"
"And who's gonna buy the sh*t, assumin' I find myself comin' up short one of these days?"
"Is that in the cards?"
"Ain't on my docket, but c'mon, man - you gotta consider this sh*t. I ain't bankin' in just handin' one of these things over to the first taker, but if Sleater'd have her way..."
"...we'd be here considering designs for Joe Bishop's new line, right? That was your theory, was it not?"
The marketing team snapped to attention, like they'd just caught wind of a General on deck. David had to laugh - the notion was just absurd, given that he'd long declined to ever properly recognize Lila Sleater's authority, even as he was bound to abide by her rulings.
Not that it stopped him from trampling all over them at every waking turn.
As such, he saw not necessity in stifling his chuckle, even as she passed before him, eyeing the team before her before turning her attention toward the sampling of merchandise options being presented, her focus honing in on the design out of displayed lock step with the others, giving it away as the clear front runner and subject of current discussion.
Eyeing the back graphic - a miniature display of all three championships David had laid rolling claim to, she shot the champion a disapproving look, holding the shirt up as if considering a future purchase.
"You're not a tag team champion, David."
"Two sides to every story, they say."
Rolling her eyes, Sleater turned her attention back toward the shirt, flipping it over and holding it out once more, taking a good, long - almost too long, given the simplicity of the design - look at what had just moments earlier piqued David's rare, almost nonexistent sense of enthusiasm.
"DB f'n WF. Fantastic..."
The tone of contempt in her voice was too much for David to even try and stifle another snicker of amusement as she read out the words plastered upon the shirt.
Sleater sighed as she tossed the shirt down upon the others, showing little care for the elaborate display the team had prepared for David. She rolled her eyes as she turned to face David, muttering under her breathe before fully addressing him.
"Thank you, Frank Lynn."
"I'll have to send him a card."
"He's trying."
"What, and I ain't?"
There was no immediate response. Even the chief figure of authority in the WFWF, brimming with contempt for the champion though she may be, would have been hard pressed to assert that the mere fact that David was even present at the WFWF's headquarters this afternoon, much less actively engaged in the selection of his next roll out of licensed merchandise, was entirely out of step with everything that made him so detestable to begin with. She wasn't about to try and begin guessing just what it was that could have possibly driven the notoriously distant, dismissive man before her to suddenly step forth, willing and ready to become engaged in his work and, at least on the surface, playing the role she might otherwise expect of one of her champions.
These days, Sleater simply knew better than to not pick her battles.
"I suppose that remains to be seen."
"Right, right. Your latest little scheme. Gates crashin' in on that one yet?"
"There's been some interest."
"F*ckin' woodwork, I bet. Gonna take a fair shake more'n Dave Demento, you wanna get this belt off of me, y'know."
Usually, David's assertions of a mass conspiracy on the part of management to drag him back down to the depths of the card where he'd once so frequently staked his claim were more than enough to warrant a look of redundant disgust out of the WFWF's head booker and lead authority figure. It was a tired old game, one that each side was more than ready to have been done with ages ago, even if they couldn't refrain from lunging at one another's throats long enough to put it to rest - granted, a large part of said offensive had been executed, more often than not, from the champion's side of the equation.
Still, there was a silver lining to Brennan's little dig, perhaps one he hadn't quite intended upon. Nevertheless, Lila had to flash a sign of marked impression with the man before her.
"You've been keeping up."
"Be right f*ckin' stupid not to. Sh*t like this? Always some assh*le or another tryin' to get the jump. Demento? Sh*t - he's the least of my worries.
"Not when there's revenue to be made, no?"
That was, in of itself, another point in David's column. Lila'd, of course, known for some time that the brand's merchandisers would be in today, ready to present a new line of product aimed at capitalizing on Brennan's recent turn as the penultimate champion - her adamant assertions regarding the tag team titles aside, there was no denying, even on Sleater's part, that Brennan was the rightful holder of the full slate of the WFWF's actively contended championships.
What she hadn't anticipated, by any stretch of the imagination, was to find Brennan actively engaged in the process. It's customary for the superstars of the WFWF to have a say in the merchandise that'll hit the stands bearing their name, and this was hardly the team's first foray into monetizing the Brennan name, but to the best of her recollection, it was the first time David, himself, had shown any notable interest in the process.
She couldn't help feeling that something was up.
"I don't need the money, if that's what you're askin'."
"No. To be honest, I never got the impression that you did."
It was a marked understatement.
"Still...you wanna talk a raise or somethin', I ain't in much of a hurry."
Sleater sized him up. It was almost impossible to tell at times - most times, really - whether David was speaking with any sort of sincerity, at least as far as she was concerned. On the one hand, this was just the sort of comment that he'd spamntly shoot off, off hand, just to get an arbitrary dig at her. He'd made clear, on no small number of occasions, exactly how he'd come to perceive his stance in the company. To spout off some idle remark about his pay would be just the sort of thing he could mouth off, half expecting that it'd fall either on willfully deaf ears, or otherwise just fly well beyond her scope of comprehension.
On the other hand, it wouldn't exactly fall beneath David's depth of audacity to genuinely look her in the face here, presumably on the opposite side of a long fought battle of words and wits between them which she, begrudgingly, had to concede him the victor, and ask for a token of comeuppance for his troubles.
He was one tough egg to crack, that David Brennan.
"I'll let you finish up here."
"Fair shakes. Was worth a shot, though, yeah?"
The hell, he says.
"You were serious..."
"Money ain't a thing, least not anymore. Doesn't mean I'm gonna say no if there's a bit more on the table."
"You know your way around, I think?"
"Well enough."
"I'm sure even you've got a personnel file somewhere around. See me when you're done. We'll talk."
Invitational
Let's get somethin' off the table right off the bat.
I'm sure everyone out there's got themselves their own little perspective about some of my more minute nuances, but if I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times.
I ain't f*ckin' stupid.
Try and consider, for a second, the fact that the same night I walked outta the buildin' with this here International Championship everyone's all the sudden got the burnin' hots for, another non-champion was crowned and bestowed with the right to step up and take his best when and wherever he decided to finally muster up the sack to do so. A quick look at the rundown here'd have you thinkin' that this latest clusterf*ck of ingenuity is just another case of stacked odds against me, what with my bein' the one everyone's about to be most concerned with knockin' the f*ck off - as if that ain't been the case right from the very get go.
Look, I may talk a little funny, but don't let yourself get lost in the weed - it ain't ever been lost on me for a single, solitary moment, that I've had a target on my f*ckin' back since day one.
So who's up?
Short answer, of course, would've every last sack out back what thinks he or she's got what it takes to finish what Philip f*ckin' Schneider couldn't muster the nuts to get done.
Long answer? Well, sh*t - I'd be here all f*ckin' month if I tried to go and run down the line of every last Bishop, Crowe, or hobo that's tried to derail the outbound outta Boston this past year and a half or so. That in of itself's a full course meal, so rather, why don't we try and trim the fat a bit before we get too caught up in the sides, shall we?
C'mon out, Frank. I ain't gonna bite.
Granted, I might smash your f*ckin' dome in, but you already knew that, right?
You're tenacious, I'll give you that.
See, we both know you're gonna be there, Frank. That there? That's a foregone conclusion, so much so that it probably borders upon false advertising to even suggest that you're only "rumored" to be headed to San Juan.
You couldn't stay away if you tried.
You've had my name in your mouth since the day you signed along the dotted line. Personally, I dunno what that's all about. Someone lesser? Eh, they might give a sh*t about what some wannabe, townie-ass f*ck from the 'burbs's got against him, but little guys swingin' upward? Sh*t, that ain't nothin' new to me. Get in line, Frank.
That's almost poetic, isn't it?
Maybe poetic ain't the right word.
See, there's all these different ways you and I could spin this little tale that you've been writin' since the jump, and, I mean...I dunno what your perspective is, but from a year plus worth of watchin' you battle it out with this chronic case of short stack syndrome, I'd bet a fair Coke that's a bit loftier'n the way I see it, because from this end? All's I see's a little kid hoppin' off a roller coaster and divin' right back into the back of the line for another f*ckin' go. It's all fun and games now, and sure he might be feelin' a little queasy at the moment, but damned if the Rush ain't worth the troubles, eh Frank?
Just a matter of if, not when, is all.
Sooner or later? You're gonna f*ckin' yack.
Maybe pathetic's the word I'm lookin' for.
See, the hypothetical child with a gut full of junk's almost endearin', in a way. I mean, no one likes kids, but he's havin' fun, and it don't hurt all that much to look at because he's just a kid and he don't know any f*ckin' better. Assumin' he boots before the day's done, we figure he'll walk away with a bit of insight into the matter - maybe it's the cotton candy, or maybe it's the ride itself, but somethin's gotta give.
Otherwise? Sh*t's gonna keep goin' sour, and that ain't no fun. Kids are f*ckin' dumb as dirt, but even they figure that sh*t out eventually.
What's your excuse?
Look, in a way, I get it. Me squarin' up against all comers? You'd be right f*ckin' stupid to shy away from that sh*t. If ever anyone was gonna have an actual, real life, conceivably plausible f*ckin' chance of knockin' my ass off, that'd about be the time, but damnit, Frank - we've done this dance, kiddo.
How many more times are you gonna trip over your own feet?
I dunno if it's me - and just from a cursory glance around the room, I'm guessin' no - but it sure ain't you, babe.
Y'know, I've been around these parts - in and out, of course - a long time, and just off the top of my head, I dunno if I can remember anyone shy of the WFWF's resident beaten horse ego Dex with a bigger sense of inflated self than you, Frankie. The power of your example is far greater'n the sh*t you say, and for my money, I can't get much past the same stack of crap that bought himself a tag team championship shot by runnin' around playin' a round of grabass for the camera like the petulant f*ckin' child from our last example. You wanna come out and talk a lofty f*ckin' game about the state of the business who is and isn't fit to the esteemed f*ckin' mold of the Bishop-Lynn Associates, then you better give me a hell of a lot more'n the big ol' stack of average you've shown the world in the interim. You've got yourself a big ol' f*ckin' mouth for a whole lot of the nothin' you've got yourself packed behind it, and if you think you're anywhere close to bein' ready to stake your claim as the sack of sh*t who's gonna come out and take this belt off my waist, then I hope to f*ckin' god that someone actually get the job done so you can maybe see for once exactly how far down the f*ckin' ladder you really are.
'Course, don't let me stop you - not verbally anyway. I know how much it eats you up, bein' told to just pack it in and call it a day, so in the spirit of open challenge and invitational opportunity and all that happy horse sh*t, I wanna flip that on it's head and offer you somethin' new, Frank.
Come on down.
F*ck, cut in line for all I care.
An idea's only as viable as the willingness to keep it alive, so go ahead - take your shot. Sh*t have another. One more for the road. Take all the time you need to figure it all out Frank, 'cause I'll tell you, it gets a little tepid after a while, winnin' as much as I do, but you?
Sh*t, I don't kickin' your ass'll ever grow old, b*tch.
"David Brennan?"
David was, by now, all too painfully aware of his stature as a figure subject to increased public recognition. Buried beneath the dregs of addiction, it was never really a matter that he'd ever given much attention to. In a way, those were simpler times, at least, as far as his willingness to dismissively wish anyone who might otherwise think to approach him in public a hearty "f*ck off" before going back to what little business he was likely attending to at the moment. At times, he had to begrudgingly remind himself that the collective benefit of his sobriety outweighed the minimal advantages that came with his once perpetual state of willful mindlessness. As such, he'd come to exercise a number of extreme cautions - afforded to him, again, in no short thanks to his recovery - to distance himself, when at all possible, from the opportunities those in his line of work frequently have to be unwillingly thrust before their adoring public for the sake of on demand entertainment. He'd moved out of a major metropolitan hub, opting for a homestead along the rocky shores of the Maine coastline. He'd eschewed public air travel, having restored his father's private jet and arranging for direct, private transport to and from any intermediate points along the way. Perhaps, most notably, he'd shied away from any media appearances outside his routine scope of work.
In six years, he'd never provided so much as a quote or comment for public consumption or commentary.
It wasn't for lack of trying - authority figures from King Kraig to Lila Sleater and everyone in between had arranged, on his behalf, media appearances from one coast to the other, placing in precarious danger their own reputations with a host of outlets, as he'd developed a bit of a reputation for simply no-showing with all certain reliability. It had become, in radio and newsprint circles, something of a joke, almost:
Oh, you've booked David Brennan?
You'll let me know if he shows, then.
Because, of course, he wouldn't. It was, in many ways, one of those things, in the realm of merchandise consulting and any other fringe expectation associated with this business, he simply couldn't be bothered with.
There was hope, at least for a fleeting moment, that all that might come to be seen as another symptom of his reliance upon substance. Those ambitions, however, were soon put to short rest when they'd just as soon find out that some things, in the end, were simply symptomatic of the condition of being David Brennan.
Even David, himself, however, would soon come to have no choice but to marvel at the slice of irony that this whole gig would soon come to a screeching halt - all as he waited on a bit of lunch, biding his time before his first amicable meeting with Lila Sleater in, well...ever.
"Hi. Lizzie Hyde. WFWF dot com."
Even as his mind quickly set to work trying to process just how badly he may have erred in stepping out for a quick bite, he had to stifle a laugh. The poor girl wore a look of adamant sincerity across her face, but that did no favors to the fact that the words had spilled from her mouth in a tone that suggested all too heavily that she'd spent the days and weeks leading up to that very moment practicing her very worst mid-evening, budget-local news anchor voice in front of a mirror.
Perhaps a hairbrush for a microphone.
She was as new at this as he was about to be.
"Dotcom do many sub shop stakeouts?"
"Ms. Sleater said you'd be out to lunch."
Sleater.
Because of course she did.
For an office tower fixated in the heart of Los Angeles, there sure isn't a hell of a lot in way of things to eat in the immediate vicinity.
For a fleeting moment, David wondered if that was by design.
"Sleater also tell you I ain't much of a laugh to talk with?"
"She implied you'd resist. She'd....well, she'd hoped in light of your upcoming contract negotiations, you might be a bit more forthcoming."
Contract negotiations.
David smirked.
That b*tch could still play ball, and David had a fair bit of a handicap, only just having arrived at the court to play.
He was almost impressed.
"So, what - d'you guys draw straws or somethin' down the web department, figure which one of you gets the sh*t gif of tryin' to crack my egg?"
She flushed, almost blatantly exasperated if not simultaneously relieved at not having to mask her frustrations anymore, having been plainly put on the spot.
This gig wasn't her first choice, either.
"I wish. 'Let the intern do it' would be a bit more accurate."
"Website's for interns? Sh*t, buncha fake news media types get their start talkin' Schneider and Kyzer?"
Her expression quickly soured.
This gig definitely wasn't her first pick.
"If you can find me a quicker route into the industry, I'm all ears."
"Wait...the industry-industry, or like, the media industry?"
"Do I look like the CNN type?"
He was beginning to like this one.
"Tried just beddin' her? Hear it worked for Demento."
"I think I'll hold on to my dignity for a bit, thanks."
"Least 'til you get a tryout and get all sorts of f*cked like the rest of us."
"Hopefully not. Until then..."
"...short end of the stick. So what's Sleater lookin' to hear?"
"You'll talk?"
"Ain't as stupid as I look, 'specially not with her tossin' that C-word around."
Looking almost impressed with herself, Lizzie dove into her bag, procuring a small recording device. Placing it on the table between them, her confidence quickly waned as she stopped to look up at David once more, almost as if she suddenly expected him to rescind the entire deal.
"You don't mind?"
"Be a d*ck f*ckin' move, expectin' you to try and take notes, what with you not bein' a journalist and me hardly speakin' English."
To this, she chuckled, before making her way back to the bag, returning with a spiral bound notebook, presumably filled to the brim with a host of questions compiled over years and years of rejected interview opportunities. David took a look sip off of his soda, signaling over his back for another.
This looked like it could take a while.
"So...an open invitational..."
"Surprise, surprise."
"Within days of the card being released, the past had already emerged from the shadows, with Dave Demento tossing his hat into the ring. What's the mentality of a man seemingly doomed to face, presumably, an encyclopedic history of the WFWF, one after the other?"
David smirked as he relaxed into his chair, staring over his nose as the girl reading the long winded question off of the page in front of her.
"You ain't gettin' credit for this, are you?"
"The staff compiled the questions. I just get to do the legwork."
"You want I should tell 'em to f*ck off on the record?"
Looking up from the paper, Lizzie shot him an irritated glance.
"Honestly? The rest of my day will probably go a whole lot easier if you'd just speak to the question."
He smirked.
This one could hang.
"Fair shakes. Mind repeatin' that one?"
"The entire WFWF roster. Past. Present. Maybe even the future? How's that playing with your mind?"
"Playing with my mind? It ain't. Like I just told Sleater maybe an hour ago - gonna take a sh*t ton more'n Dave Demento to bring this kingdom crashin' down. Someone else wants to try and fan the spark? Bring it. Odds are, I've already beat 'em once before. I ain't exactly about to shy away from doin' it again."
"So this is just another day at the office for you, then?"
"May as well be. That your question, or theirs?"
"They've got follow ups."
"F*ckin' hell..."
"Well, maybe don't go six years without a single interview. Stepping away from the unqualified variables for a moment...there has to be the presence of thought that Michael Kyzer could be planning to use this avenue as his opportunity to strike, maybe late in the game, when you're not exactly at your peak anymore. How does that factor into the equation, going into this contest?"
"You work with some right f*ckin' nerds, don't you?"
"Journalism majors. So...Kyzer?"
"Same answer."
"Bring it on?"
"He won't, but if that's how he wants to play it..."
"You don't think Kyzer will show?"
"Your question?"
There was that look again.
"Yes. Yeah. For the moment, let's just assume I'll interject if it makes for good material, okay?"
"Fair enough. So, nah. That ain't Kyzer's way."
"I suppose you would know."
"At least you know your stuff. Yeah. Sure, he could come and kick me when I'm down. Take the easy win. But that sh*t? That ain't him."
"Why not? Is there some noble pride to Michael Kyzer that's only surfaced amid his former allies?"
Salty. Former allies?
"Pfft. No. But that sh*t? It doesn't prove nothin'. Kyzer? He's all about makin' a point. He very well could be down in San Juan already, plannin' some morbid sh*t out, but he ain't comin' for the belt. Not this one, anyway."
"And if Kyzer isn't a pressing concern, one has to wonder if it even warrants going down the line."
"Got yourself a list there?"
In a rare show of concession, she turns the page over for a moment, affording David a brief look at, indeed, a who's who of just about every name he's come across since first stepping foot inside a WFWF ring.
"Aw, you ain't gonna press me for my thoughts on Carter Contra?"
"I'd probably get a better story out of asking for a breakdown on - and I can't believe I'm even saying this - Peter File."
"Is it any more a surprise than the fact that a guy named Hugh Jass made a wave in the big clusterf*ck this past year?"
"Enough to make one reconsider professions."
It's Lizzie now who leans back in her seat, arms crossed in front of her, clearly perturbed with, well, something. After a moment's pause, she reaches forward, shutting off the recorder, tossing it haphazardly back into her bag.
"Well, sh*t...that was painless. They didn't give you much to work with, huh?"
"I could write a book if I followed it to the T."
"Assumin' I give you anything worth a damn."
"This will do. They can pour enough fuel out of the Kyzer bit to get by. As it is, they've got more now than anyone else can lay claim to."
"Odd way to kick the door in."
"You aren't single, are you?"
"Single? Sh*t, nah. I mean, you can probably f*ck your way in if that's what you're thinkin', but I think that line starts outside Sleater's door."
"Eh. It was worth a shot. Figured if I could tack on a name of renown, maybe I could slither my way in."
"The Ahriman routine."
"It works."
"Assumin' you ain't too attached to your own sense of dignity or worth. The kid's full of sh*t. I ain't much of an advice dispensary, but of the short stack of folk you might wanna emulate? She ain't among 'em."
"She's got a job."
"And you don't?"
That one bought David another death glare.
"Sh*t. I can't believe I'm ownin' this, but I'd almost wish you'd go back to askin' me the questions."
"Please. Let's both save our sanity. It won't be a hard sell, claiming you up and made your exit right around the end there. Maybe what I got'll be enough for a tryout."
"The f*ck you wanna do this sh*t so bad for anyway?"
"Why? Think you've got a dot com story worth a pitch?"
"Well, sh*t, if we just chattin' , assumin' we're done talkin' Lincoln Dina...."
You Can't Handle the Truth
Look, I know I ain't much in the way of a conversationalist. I know people out there who'd rather treat 'emselves to a long walk off a short bridge than listen to me try and articulate a coherent thought. Sh*t, I know tryin' to decipher the sh*t comin' out my mouth is about as desirable and inspirin' of a task as tryin' to figure out why Joe Bishop figured he'd be the one to tell the world what is and ain't wrestlin', but for all my flaws as they relate to my skills or lack thereof as a public orator, there's one thing, through all the southie muck and f*ck you can be damned sure of.
I don't talk sh*t.
Now, take heed - when I say I don't talk sh*t, I ain't tryin' to assert any sorta claim that I won't take your name and drag it through the mud down the bottom of the Charles. Sh*t, you wanna draw me a name out of a hat, I'll give you a laundry list of bad sh*t I can say about 'em without so much as thinkin' twice, and I'll back those words up 'til I'm dead in the f*ckin' grave, just so you can place a pretty little value on 'em.
Nah, when I say I don't talk sh*t, I mean that for every last ass backward thought that spills outta my f*ckin' piehole, you can be damn sure that the sh*t that's infecting the narrow tube runnin' through your f*ckin' head's the genuine article.
Put nicely?
I mean what I f*ckin' say.
Case in point?
Back when the New Epoch went all sortsa ass end up, I went runnin' on the notion of showin' the world that all that talk about me bein' the third wheel in a bike that never needed no additional support was a buncha spoonfed bullsh*t - and that's what I f*ckin' did. Anyone still holdin' that thought close to help 'em sleep at night - whether they call 'emselves Frank Lynn or Mike f*ckin' Kyzer himself - s'only foolin' 'emselves.
That bein' said, you'll forgive me if I take umbrage with the entitled f*ckin' seed of some B minus player what thinks her f*ckin' name's her rightful ticket to the big leagues sittin' on my front lawn spewin' some sh*t about makin' waves on her own f*ckin' merit.
Any of you envious, green eyed f*cks that wants to b*tch about me hoardin' all the f*ckin' loot around these parts can go talk to Anna Ahriman, assumin' any of y'all like to hear the bit-tongue bullsh*t tale of how her old man'd bequeathed his rightful claim to his half of the WFWF Tag Team championships, only for princess to take a ride up the east coast and hand that sh*t over in the name of rejected f*ckin' privilege.
Look here, kid - you wanna get on a f*ckin' mic and spew that sh*t to payin' f*ckin' customers who don't know any goddamned better, be my f*ckin' guest. Frank's designed me a shirt that'll keep my much numbers up for well after you've taken a short dive off of some pillar you figure'll make you famous and put a short f*ckin' stop to your career, so I don't much f*ckin' care what sorta image you wanna paint for yourself, but for the blessed only daughter of the Ahriman name, you've got some hefty f*ckin' balls to come out and stand on my lawn property, lookin' me in the eye with that sorta half cocked bullish*t, and then helpin' yourself to a f*ckin' stab at yours truly 'cause the door happened to be open and you figured you'd already paid some sorta blood oath, b*tch.
But I'm a level headed guy.
Maybe you said some sh*t you don't mean. Maybe you weren't thinkin' straight, rejectin' the sorta fame that'd come with takin' your old man's place at the Devil's right hand. That's a boon a lot of folk'd figure you right f*ckin' stupid to turn away, and all this back peddlin' on that behalf is you sorta tryin' to put a fix to the mistakes of your shallow ass past.
Don't you go frettin' that sh*t. What's done is done, right? Can't back down now- might as well go on through the motions, see what happens. So let's do this thing, Anna. You. Me. San Juan. I know it wasn't at the top of your list of favors way back when, but that was then. This is now.
C'mon out.
I'll make you famous, b*tch.
The Next Great War
David couldn't believe his eyes.
"No sh*t?"
"Not in the least."
"C'mon - who've I gotta kill?"
Sleater pushed the contract forward, implicitly urging him to sign it.
"David, consider this a new leaf. Color me convinced. I won't lie - you're abrasive, obnoxious, arrogant - "
"Don't forget handsome."
She recoiled, for a second, look almost as if she was about to reconsider.
"...but nevertheless, between your mere presence here today, the fact that Ms. Hyde came back to us in one piece, your maintained level of sobriety...I genuinely believe you've come to a point where you want to be here and you're willing to accept the obligations that come with it. This contract is an extension of that belief - an unprecedented act of trust, if you will."
David glanced down at the form once more, honing in on the figure before him, blinking out a couple times, almost as if the number might change before his eyes.
"No sh*t, unprecedented - is Demon even pullin' this much?"
Sleater grimaced.
"I have no say in...well, in that matter. But I do have say here. It's a concession of pride to say it, David, but you've earned this."
Reaching for a pen, David pulled the contract toward him. Giving it another once over, he put the well to the paper. Just as he'd begun to drag, he paused, looking up at the executive across the way from him.
"Something wrong?"
"Yeah, yeah...sorta..."
"David, the invitational's been booked. I assure you, there's no personal malice there..."
"Nah, not that. This f*ckin' roster though...I mean, send 'em all out...ain't that much, is there?"
"David, I'm not going to negotiate pay raises on behalf of the entire locker room with you."
"Wouldn't set you back much, but nah, f*ck that. Just listen. I'm gonna sign this sh*t. Just need one more thing in there."
"Name it."
"Gonna need to make a call. Both of us. You gotta phone we can use?"
Homecoming
By rights, I should be right f*ckin' miffed over the fact that in the best graces I've held in this place since the day we stumbled upon one another, I've been charged with seemingly immeasurable task of dispensin' of any ol' peckerhead what thinks he's got the stones to stand toe to toe and try and take somethin' I went and earned myself by virtue of tooth and f*ckin' nail. Even high atop the food chain, that's a tall f*ckin' order for anyone to try and jot down, much less with any sorta willingness to stand and take said lumps like a f*ckin' man, 'cause I know there's a whole row of you out there just waitin' for your turn to f*ckin' shine, and I know every last one you'd be about tickled f*ckin' pink were you standin' in my size thirteens.
Me? I ain't even mad, though.
I mean, look at what your handed for your troubles.
Has beens.
Never weres.
Never will bes.
(Hiya, Frank)
You've got this whole f*ckin' litany of segments worth of wannabes to pick from, but I'll tell you, my pick of the lot?
Man, it's got to be the nobodies.
I mean, you've seen the names, right?
Peter File?
Billy Broom?
My word.
Never mind the clods who found 'emselves privy to a weekend long stay overnight at the local wrestlin' camp, thinkin' they're all the sudden fit to step between the ropes to try and lace my f*ckin' boots - that's got to be just about my favorite.
We all know the type.
Somewhere in every podunk f*ckin' no-town from coast to f*ckin' coast's some school, run by some weasel f*ckin' nobody fallen out the business, lookin' to maintain some semblance of f*ckin' relevance in the business, so they're about to send out their star f*ckin' pupil, to what?
Take a stab at my f*ckin' title?
Please.
The rest of you? Lookin' on, advocatin' this sorta sh*t by your f*ckin' slack jawed silence?
Well, sh*t - don't come around here talkin' about no f*ckin' revolution, I tell you that much.
Look, I might mangle my f*ckin' words, but you ain't ever gonna catch me mincin' 'em:
No one gives a flyin' rat's f*ck what hole you went and climbed out of.
There ain't a name you could stand in front of that's gonna make me any less confident in my ability to beat your ass again and again and again.
Unless you've got a proven lot of merit weighin' down your own two feet without any sorta distance between you and the f*ckin' crutch you hobbled your ass in on, there ain't a single f*ckin' part of me that's ever gonna fix to give you even the slightest f*ckin' thought. You'd be better suited takin' the advice Frank never got through his thick f*ckin' skull and just disappearin' back into whatever f*ckin' venture dragged your haggard broken ass outta here to begin with.
I guess what I'm tryin' to say's, I dunno....welcome back, Luke.
Don't get too comfy.
To the Next Four Years
"Anything else?"
"....f*ckin' Dave Demento? Really?"
"Would you sign the f*cking contract already?"
Coda
Anyone else?
That all you've got?
I'll tell you what - y'all may not like the guy. Y'all might f*ckin' loathe him, and I ain't too fond myself, but every last one of you better be f*ckin' prayin' that Trace Demon's fixin' to find his spot in line.
You wanna put this dog down?
Sh*t, if I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times.
You're gonna have to f*ckin' kill me.
That's the only way anyone not named Brennan's walkin' outtta San Juan with this f*ckin' title.
And he's the only one of you with half the brass to f*ckin' do it.