Post by CM Poor on May 21, 2018 7:33:25 GMT -5
Maine State Police Troop J Barracks
Ellsworth, ME
”Mr. Brennan, thanks for stopping by. Come on in.”
This was a first, if nothing else. David Brennan had, in years past, managed to steer clear of the sort of attention that his familial name usually attracted from law enforcement. He’d built himself enough of a reputation, between his time in the Corps and his stint with the BFD, to be seen as having at least fallen a bit further from the Brennan family tree than his outward appearance might otherwise suggest. Jack would spin you a thousand different tells about what little good he felt any sort of formal authority figure did for anyone trying to make his way in the world, but David, in spite of an upbringing on the fringes of society and legal compliance, had always managed to posture himself into a position where, at least to him, the cops were always just sort of a net neutral.
None of that, of course, meant that the feeling was any sort of mutual.
Some things, he knew, just couldn’t be helped. He wasn’t dumb. He’d owned mirrors. He got it. His look, paired against his unfortunate name, spelled a basic understanding that he’d turn a few boys in blue heads when he made his way through the city. He’d find himself answering the door to them a bit more often than his neighbors, and even the most basic line of questioning - ‘seen anything funny?’ - would be shot a bit more forcefully at him than your otherwise average folk. He was a suspect by default, guilty by association. It was a nuisance akin to afternoon traffic and lines at the grocery store that he’d just fashioned himself accustomed to throughout life, enough so that being greeted at the front desk of any state police barracks with a smile and a welcome greeting was enough to throw him off his otherwise even keeled balance.
”I’ll just start by telling you this is about as far from standard procedure as it gets around these parts, but to be perfectly honest with you? We’re just out of ideas.”
The officer - Gontarz, David had ascertained from the engraving on his badge - led him into a room overlooking another, one he’d become all too familiar with, having had a federal criminal for a father. In the interrogation room, opposite the one way mirror that spanned the entirety of the furthest wall in the room, sat a figure David recognized, almost as well as the room which he occupied, though nowhere near as familiar.
Here, he looked smaller - almost vulnerable. David had only seen him before in moments of intense hostility - their first encounter in the ring at the behest of Michael Kyzer, and later, when he’d stalked David to his home here in the further reaches of Maine. Then, he’d born a look of absolute terror in his eyes, almost as if he’d been dead set upon ending David’s life, which, knowing Kyzer, was likely the goal at the time. David had felt a momentary pang of guilt upon their first meeting, having found him to be little more than a child only after he’d booted him square in the face under the presumption that he’d been some distant relative of the urchin that used to follow Kyzer around. All that, of course, quickly vanished when the child demonstrated the cunning needed to track him all the way up here, clearly painting himself as something far more twisted and advanced than a mere child, but now, that slight pang had returned.
David fancied himself to have escaped the Brennan name with a bit more humanity than the average descendent. That’s not to say that he was entirely without flaw - all the evidence is there to say overwhelmingly otherwise - but beneath it all, he was, at the very least, capable of demonstrating some degree of basic human emotion. The child sat poised, staring dead ahead at the door, not waiting for it to open so much as looking almost past it - a thousand yard stare if David had ever seen one. He looked tired. Empty. David had never had kids of his own, but he’d seen enough to know they usually shine a bit more life out of their eyes than someone closer to his own age. This child? He looked as old as Jack.
”Jesus H., you guys been feedin’ him?”
”Oh, sure. Definitely. Curtis and Thomas’ wives’ve been taking turns cooking him three squares, and he gets the same takeout as us when that isn’t on the table. No, he eats. He sleeps. Showers. Whole gamut, really. Thing is, we just don’t know what to do with him.”
”This ain’t your first abandoned kid? I mean, I seen the drop out front. Figure at least one of you’s seen somethin’ like this.”
”Sure, sure, yeah. Usually, you know, we get some sort of background - parentage or what have you, but this kid? I dunno, Mr. Brennan. If I didn’t know better, I’d tell you he’d just about fallen from the sky, and lucky you having the lawn he went and picked.”
That, of course, wasn’t the case. David knew, or at the very least, he could imagine. The kid was a charge of Michael Kyzer. It doesn’t even bear thinking on what lengths he’d likely gone to procure himself a small army of Thai children, nor what he’d done with the others, having outlived their shelf life for his means. He could dispel all of this in a moment, knowing what he knew about the man called Kyzer - if they’d believe him for even a moment. He was getting more than a fair shake here, looking the way he does and being treated the way he’d been, but even the professionalism of someone like Officer Gontarz had its limits. Think about it - set aside everything we know, for a moment, about the WFWF. Now imagine someone tells you the story of someone like Michael Kyzer, in all its vivid, gory details. Would you believe them?
Exactly.
Half the time, David wasn’t even sure himself that he hadn’t made up Michael Kyzer in some long past, booze fueled hallucination. He winced, half in pain, and half in thought that the pain itself, still emanating from his overheated, still shattered facial region, was what it constantly took to remind him that this nemesis was so very real.
”Has he talked?”
”Not well, and not much. He’s cooperative, but he ain’t got much to say - not of any substance, anyway. To be perfectly honest with you? I don’t think there is much to say. Can’t imagine the world he comes from is much to boast about.”
”Where’s that?”
”Can only guess. Sort of half the problem - without much to go on, even the state doesn’t really wanna take the kid on. Legal red tape. Bunch of bureaucratic bullsh*t, you ask me, but that’s kind of where we’re at. Barracks’ve got a mascot, and a kid in the limboest sort of limbo I’ve ever set eyes on.”
Kyzer’d relish this, David thought. Even Drakz, for all his shared depravity, might offer a sideways glance at the mere thought of Kyzer had come to know this kid, never mind giving him a temporary shelf life and then just leaving him to it in a place he wouldn’t know from Adam. That was a special sort of f*cked up - the kind you’d only get from the likes of Michael Kyzer, the kind all the self proclaimed “bottom of the barrel” types that have plagued the WFWF over the years could only dream of lowering themselves to.
David sighed an irritated, exasperated sigh.
”How’s this sh*t land on me, man?”
”You’re his only tie.”
”To what?”
”Far as I can see? Anything. I mean, if not for you, if not for what happened on your front lawn? Kid doesn’t exist, at least not to anyone else, right?”
Truer words. To add a level of depth to whatever it was that compelled Kyzer to ultimately engage in what amounted to child slave labor, in all likelihood, he’d probably already forgotten this kid - or the however many others like him that attacked David in the ring that night - even existed. Kyzer had little use for what would amount to little more than perpetual thorns in his side - it’s little wonder he’d turned to foreign children. No lay of the land and an insurmountable language barrier? The kid might as well have been a plastic straw in Kyzer’s soda - easily discarded, and readily available should he require another.
”F*ck…”
”I said about the same.”
”More’n just me and you here, right?”
”Sure, yeah. Handful of Troop J guys.”
”Alright. You’ve seen what the kid can do. Call ‘em in. I’ll try and have a word.”
David Brennan:
Godslayer
L’Enfant Prodigue
Been a long time, eh Mike?
You might be thinkin’ you went and rattled my brain a bit too hard on that point there. Probably thinkin’ to yourself ‘nah, you dumb f*ck. It ain’t been much more’n five minutes since I slipped in from behind ‘n knocked your f*ckin’ head astray when you was lookin’ the other direction’, and to that extent, you’d be right as rain, but all that? The drive-by sorta pass and a wave? C’mon, man. You and me? We go way back. That ain’t sh*t next to all you and me’ve been through together.
Nah, you and me?
We’re lookin’ at some real quality time, Mike.
See, I always feel like between the three of us, you and me’ve always kinda held the biggest distance. I mean, I get it - ain’t nobody out there gonna look at the Epoch and say that anybody but you was the real star of that f*ckin’ show - and between you and Isaac havin’ the history and all, it only stands to reason that you and me’d end up on opposite ends of the totem pole.
Fair shakes - but that was then. This is now. Times’ve changed.
You’n me? We’ve got ourselves a whole lotta catchin’ up to do.
And y’know, there’s a part of me - pretty big one, actually - that wonders whether or not that’s what all this is all about. Now, I get that you’re the WFWF’s resident f*ckin’ enigma who comes and goes as he pleases, lest anyone gets five minutes of your f*ckin’ time to figure out how that underneath it all you’re just as human as the rest of us, but I don’t think for a hot f*ckin’ minute that it’s any coincidence that you go and make your latest appearance on the back of me finally reachin’ the point that you went and talked all that post-Survivor of the Fittest sh*t about me reachin’ way back when we was kids. Now, I’ve long since come to grips with the fact that my waxin’ days here in the WFWF were just about put to paper with the sheer amount of shameless pud pullin’ people stuck my name to, but I’ll straight cop to havin’ bought your line of sh*t for a long f*ckin’ time, Mike. You seemed pretty high on the f*ckin’ idea of me bein’ in this very right spot, pretty much right off the bat. Sh*t, you predicted it yourself a handful of times after I came out clean as a whistle on the other side of Survival of the Fittest.
But that’s your big secret, isn’t it Mike?
That’s what all this is about.
‘Your Stoned Messiah’? ‘The God of F*ck’?
It’s all one big complex.
You’re just like everyone else.
Just like every other assh*le what preemptively let the words ‘David Brennan’ and ‘future World Champion’ fill the void in their filthy, gapin’ maw, you didn’t believe a line of it for a f*ckin’ second, did you? You play the part of this grandiose planner, this cunning f*ckin’ architect, but you couldn’t see much further than your own self induced fog’d let you, and you just always figured the status quo would stick, didn’t you? That why you dropped Drakz like a spent f*ckin’ needle the second he got a foothold on usurpin’ your pathetic f*ckin’ legacy, and that’s why you only show your ugly f*ckin’ mug the second anyone else runs the risk of doin’ the same.
Heh. And he says I didn’t learn nothin’.
See, you can try and paint this however you f*ckin’ want, castin’ yourself as the lovesick father back to test the mettle of his long lost, prodigal son, but in New York City?
You and me’re gonna rewrite the f*ckin’ parable, guy. You go ahead and bring your throne, Mike.
I’m comin’ home to knock you the f*ck off of it.
Wells Fargo Center
Philadelphia, PA
”I’m sorry, Mr. Brennan. I’m going to have to ask you to leave, now.”
David shot the guard a long, strained look of skeptical indignance. He held his ground, almost certain that the man before him, empowered by little more than a meaningless badge and a sidearm likely filled with pellets, would cower before the grotesque exterior that presently defined the WFWF World Champion, but to Barney Fife’s credit, he held his ground - barely. David glared at him for what must have felt like an eternity for the poor kid who off-handedly had chosen ‘law enforcement’ as a major to bring him all this way, only turning away just as he spotted the first sign of the poor kid’s jaw starting to quake.
Some battles just weren’t worth it.
Exasperated at the situation, David rested his hands on his hips, freeing up one to shoo away the Uber that had moments earlier gotten him only this far. Sighing as he took in his surroundings, he threw up his arms, somewhat half-heartedly, resigning himself to stepping off in an attempt to walk off the frustrations mounted by his seeming and sudden banishment from a WFWF host facility.
He’d barely gotten off of the ramp, ahead of even his departing driver now stuck contending with the influx of downtown traffic, when a sudden and familiar voice sent everything running out of mind for a moment, grabbing his attention with every bit of irresistible force imaginable.
”Sh*t, you too, mate?”
David had expected an entire cast of faces that might emerge when the words ‘I can’t let you in here’ had first spilled out of the hapless guard’s mouth. Lila Sleater, hammering home the order that she’d no doubt issued herself. Some schmuck cameraman, idly standing by to make sure that even such a non-confrontation would make it to the front page of the WFWF. Hell, he’d even expected that perhaps Kyzer would seize the moment to yet again bash him across the dome with some manner of blunt object.
Drakz, however?
Well, that was a fair bit unexpected.
It shouldn’t have been. Drakz had always been one of the most tenacious, unyielding individuals David had ever stumbled upon chance to meet. David had always taken a great deal of humor out of behaviors on his old friend’s part that likely spelled many nights of frustration and agony for their shared enemies. He had, however, let the situation Drakz had found himself in these past few months escape his mind, what with the whole Kyzer situation and said mind being knocked seven ways to Sunday every time he tried to pick up a foot or two.
Really, it was no wonder Drakz was here, as, in all likelihood, he’d been at just about every building, hopelessly trying to find his way in whilst David saw more and more of his frontal cortex dribble out his left nostril night after night.
As far as present company goes, he supposed it could have been worse.
”Think it was somethin’ I said?
Drakz was perched upon a concrete wall, high enough so that his feet dangled above the sloping ground that led down beneath the arena to a underground parking facility that, tonight, neither of them was seemingly good enough to enter. He bore that troublesome grin - a hallmark of his that always reminded David of a book he’d read in school about some imp type character causing all sorts of mayhem for the primaries. Drakz, of course, was the imp that could just as soon prank you as he would knock you upside the head, but it was at least a cool down to see him apparently unfazed by his denial of entry. Whatever hassle he’d had at the gate had apparently hit him not as hard this night as it had hit David.
”Fat chance. Big guy hasn’t really given you breath to say much of anything lately, has he?”
David took a seat alongside his old friend. It was a strange sort of comfort zone, knowing he could sit and converse with his former ally, in spite of any tension between them having drawn down to a light simmer, rather than having all out cooled. He chalked it up here to commonality - the likely catalyst for most of their agreeability over the years. It was almost, David thought, like old times - the two of them, side by side, barred from being admitted to a building on behalf of the chief authority figure in the WFWF. Just sub out Xavier Pierce for Lila Sleater and you’re already ninety percent of the way there.
The last ten?
Well, that was likely owed to ‘the big guy’, as Drakz had just dubbed him.
”That what brings you here?”
”It isn’t the locale, I’ll you that. Pish town, Philly”
”Well, get in line.”
”Can’t help you there, mate. Levy breaks? I’m going for it. This is just as much my fight as it is yours.”
See?
Whether or not David had lost sight of Drakz’s own personal dilemma at the moment, he’d live another forty lifetimes before he ever wiped the memory of the three of them stood off against one another in a WFWF ring. He hadn’t noticed it at the time - anyone who tells you they recognize the weight of a situation in the immediate moment is selling narratives, as far as David was concerned - but as the moment played out again and again and again over the next several month’s worth of highlight reels, it became plainly obvious that no matter how tempered matters between he and Drakz ever became, with the vitriol each held against the third, and with neither willing to offer the other the first hit, no matter what the outcome between David and Kyzer, the three of them were already on a nonstop collision course that edged closer and closer to eruption with each passing day.
Well, sh*t, I ain’t about to lay up just so you can reserve the next open table, man.”
”That right?”
”You askin’ just to ask?”
”Pretty much.”
”Might wanna get yourself a lawyer then. Sort out that whole contract thing.”
”It’s crossed my mind.”
”Ain’t gonna land between the bells otherwise.”
”As if that’s the only way to do business with Michael Kyzer.”
”Is that just a thing for you guys? Get in a buncha f*ckin’ cheap shots ‘til there ain’t nothin’ left to hit?”
”Go with what works, I say.”
”Ain’t much measure of a guy.”
”Well, we’ve all got our struggles, haven’t we?”
David had to grant a slight concession. Even amid his ever changing standing in the eyes of someone like Lila Sleater, it was a thousand times easier for him to get his hands on someone who had wronged him in a fashion that would give him recourse to strike back by the book. Drakz, rather unceremoniously, got carved up like a holiday bird and then cut from the team for his troubles. It was a plight that David, locked out here in the streets of some garbage, wannabe metro, could at least momentarily sympathize with. All signs pointed to him finally, assuming he was welcome back in, getting his just deserts a few weeks removed in New York, but Drakz had every right of claim to land a hit or two on Kyzer himself.
”Would that I had something the f*cking twat wants.”
”Which one?”
”Take your pick.”
Drakz saw it too. David had long presumed that all this - the mind games, the sneak attacks, the sudden reemergence of self-described dragons - had less to do with David the person, and altogether more to do with David, the champion. The last man standing, in many ways, of The New Epoch. He was poised here, having triumphed over Joe Bishop, to eclipse the role he’d played as third fiddle to two much more gargantuan names, and in doing so, he’d irked the ire of the man who fancied himself David’s creator.
”I ain’t throwin’ no match…”
”I wouldn’t ask.”
”Didn’t let me finish. I ain’t throwin’ no match here, but whoever comes out of this thing? Ain’t a f*ckin’ soul out back postured enough to be next in line. Even Sleater’s gotta see that one. After Kyzer and me? Where’s your big money match?”
”Knew we kept you around for a reason.”
”Ain’t a bad chip to bargain with...”
David leapt to his feet, suddenly having found himself entirely less perturbed by his exclusion. Really, it should have never been a bother - who otherwise would turn down a night off paired with any waking excuse to spend as little time as humanly possible in the City of Brotherly Love?
”...just don’t go thinkin’ that this sh*t’s gonna be a one and done.”
The Heart of the Matter
You really think it’s gonna be that easy?
You really think that this is the end all, be all of all the sh*t you’ve been puttin’ me through?
Sh*t, brother. If you think that’s the case, you’d better hope I f*ckin’ kill you in New York City - and don’t you go thinkin’ I ain’t gonna try.
I know you pride yourself on bein’ the f*ckin’ antithesis of everything around here. If the commonality says up, you say down. If someone out back at caterin’ says they dig on turkey, you’d just as soon smash his teeth in while tellin’ him that turkey sucks, you suck, and who the f*ck asked you anyway. This f*ckin’ complex of yours has become so complex that you actually think that you’ve become somethin’ that transcends the human race, and you’re playin’ the f*ckin’ role to boot.
That’s where I come in.
The sh*t you’ve been pullin’?
The sh*t they don’t know about?
Time’s come for someone to drag your ass back down to earth, you sick son of a b*tch.
You talk a big game for a guy employin’ child labor to his f*ckin’ dirty work for him. Why don’t you tell ‘em all while you’re out there runnin’ your mouth about f*ckin’ manhood and dignity like some prepubescent f*ck who thinks talkin’ sh*t’s the fastest avenue to gettin’ his d*ck wt about how you sent your little f*ckin’ assassin boy after my family, you depraved, malignant little f*ck? Why don’t you go out there and tell the world how you even came to be the whip crackin’ ‘employer’ of a handful of f*ckin’ kids left without a name once you was done with ‘em?
C’mon, Kyzer.
You wanna instill fear?
You wanna transcend humanity?
Own up, kid.
Show ‘em who you f*ckin’ really are.
See, right now? You’re hidin’ in plain sight. I dunno how you float between the lines, nor do I much f*ckin’ care, but you’ve held the world at bay from turnin’ your ass into the next figure thrown into f*ckin’ exile over the fact that you’re a complete f*ckin’ sewer dweller by takin’ shelter beneath the public visage. The suits? The PR folk? Sleater? Far as they’ll tell, this whole thing? You’n me? This is all over a handful of sneak attacks and silly f*ckin’ mind games that have played out over the course of a few weeks for all the world to see. If I was drinkin’ a bit harder, I’d almost buy in to some hairbrained notion that this was another one of your f*ckin’ games, geared at makin’ my ass look weak enough to get all bent out of shape over the sort of sh*t I’ve spent my entire life combatin’.
Handy f*ckin’ narrative, isn’t it?
Compellin’.
Attractive.
Best of all?
Full of sh*t.
Just like you.
It’s funny, all of this just now comin’ out. It’s almost like you knew that if this were the runnin’ narrative - if they all knew that this was what this was really all about, you wouldn’t have the slightest f*ckin’ foothold.
You people think I care about this mug I call a face?
Sh*t - this nose’s been smashed more times’n me at my best.
Practically old hat by now.
Know what ain’t?
Some lowlife f*cker comin’ after my f*ckin’ home in some desperate grab aimed at holdin’ on to his fleetin’ f*ckin’ sense of relevancy. Some vile f*ckin’ tumor of a man comin’ after my f*ckin’ woman in some pitiful f*ckin’ campaign toward holdin’ on to whatever f*ckin’ spot he keeps walkin’ away from time and time again.
Kyzer, I’ve battled puke here that’d hold up in the court of public opinion better’n the sh*t you’ve pulled. Trace Demon’s got a better chance up at the pearly gates than you.
You come after my home?
You come after my woman?
You come out with the gall, after all that, to presume it’s gonna be that easy?
Sh*t.
I usually tell folk in your shoes that they’re gonna have to kill me, but in your case, b*tch?
It doesn’t f*ckin’ matter.
You’d just better hope one of us doesn’t f*ckin’ walk outta that buildin’.
You think you’re persistent?
F*ckin’ try me.
Some Time Ago…
Brennan Point
Bar Harbor, ME
David hated being right.
A sense of dread had washed over him as he’d pulled into the winding, gravel drive that led to the pull in before his rustic, oceanfront estate. He’d picked the spot deliberately, favoring the isolated, poorly lit coastline, this spot in particular which jutted out beyond the line of sight that tracked along the coastal road over the hustle and bustle of anything even remotely closer to what might otherwise be considered ‘civilization’. It was the trade off he’d longed for most of his adult life - an even swap he’d have made at any given moment, having grown weary and exhausted with the neverending hum of the city.
That isolated comfort, set back from a world that would never know this spot existed unless they’d already known, came at a cost, at least to a man as prone to always looking over his shoulder as David Brennan.
A lifetime of city living had instilled in him a sort of instinctual mistrust of darkened spots along the road. In a place like Boston, those were the spots most likely to send a leisurely nighttime stroll headed dreadfully south. It wasn’t a sense of paranoia easily outgrown, especially when you weigh the ratio of the time spent living here versus the time spent living here. David’s heart had a tendency to sink into his stomach whenever he’d come in this late, even more so when he knew that Nat was home unguarded. She was a tough little thing in her own right, thick skinned as they come, but the type of folk that might ever come looking for David here would never be the type to be deterred by a tough set of wits.
His worry was, more often than not, over nothing, which is why he blinked twice as he pulled in, his headlights perfectly illuminating the tiny, cloaked figure slowly ascending his front steps, inching unnervingly closer and closer toward his front door. Suddenly, this place was no sanctuary - just another street, littered far too sparingly with any sort of light, and this, his front yard, became just another dark spot in which even he was uncomfortably vulnerable.
The rest became all a bit of a blur.
”Those legs best be faster’n they are long!”
He crossed the lawn in what felt like no more than two, perhaps three easy strides, screeching to a halt before he collided with the farmer’s porch along the front of the estate, reaching out with his right as he turned on a heel, seizing the intruder around the throat, and with what felt like far too little effort, hurled him back toward the pull in, storming back after him as he skidded to a halt with a crunch as the lawn met gravel.
Behind him, he heard the front door swing open, his line of sight now partially illuminated from the glow of the interior light escaping, as the intruder rose, barely able to shift his robe to afford himself an unobstructed view of what he’d just wrought with his presence here before he was caught, full force, with a knee to the jaw that sent him airborne once more, falling to the ground with another sickening crunch as the crushing weight of his prey’s monstrous foot landed atop his chest, pinning him in place.
”My turf now, b*tch! All bets’re off!”
The child squirmed beneath him, not trying to escape, but certainly trying to alleviate the weight with which David had pinned him to the ground. David bent down, his right extended once more as he grabbed for the child’s head, when he found himself suddenly distracted by the unmistakable thud of another light set of dashing footsteps coming up from behind. He braced for another attack, unwilling to take his eyes off of his first catch.
”Who the f*ck sent you?!”
”David, no!”
Nat’s voice rang out, part in assertion, part in unbridled fear, a second before she caught up to him, grasping at his back aimlessly as she circled his front, posturing herself somewhat fruitlessly against him, trying to shield the boy beneath his foot from any further harm.
”David, he’s just a boy!”
”I know who he is!”
”He’s just a child!”
”I no child!”
The two of them froze in place, their attention turned in an instant toward the tiny, heavily accented voice that coughed and sputtered out of the child beneath David’s foot. Almost involuntarily, David shifted the weight off his foot, allowing the boy room to scurry out of harm’s immediate way, though he stopped short of pulling himself back to his feet, perhaps weathered to the ground, more content to sit for a moment than unwillingly extend the fight.
”Wha….who are you?”
”I no here for you, b*tch!”
Any pause the boy’s voice had given David was washed away in an instant, and he lunged forward once more, held back only by Nat’s presence before him, stalling him from unleashing entirely unbridled.
”David!”
”Let him fight, b*tch!”
”Gonna shut that mouth for you!”
”If your b*tch let you! The Messiah right. You complete b*tch!”
Unnerved, David finally pushed past Nat, seizing the boy by the throat, effortlessly pulling him off the ground, and in one fell swoop, slammed him against the front of his truck, shattering the windshield in the process.
”You wanna send a message back to your f*ckin’ messiah, huh?!”
Even as he remained clutched in the grasp of David’s enormously larger hands, the boy still managed to spit putrid taunts as David toiled with exactly how to end the kid.
’Now you grow pair?! About time!”
Lifting the child airborne once more, he threw him onto the lawn, where he landed with an audible thud, though this time rising almost instantly to his feet. Shedding the robe that flowed behind him, he took up a fighting stance as David loomed down on him, ready to strike if not for Nat putting themselves between them once more.
”Nat…”
”David, he’s just a child! Let it go!”
”You let you b*tch fight all fight for you?!”
David lunged forward, held back once more by the sheer presence of his girlfriend. She looked up at him, her eyes pleading, bordering on a look he’d only seen a handful of time before, from the lowest of his low lying depths.
Quietly, he relented, his pride aching.
”Another time…”
”You - !”
He thrust his arm over Nat’s shoulder, pointing with all intent so there’d be no question in the child’s mind as to who he was addressing.
” - get lost!”
The boy, unwavered by the boom of David’s voice, only laughed.
”All this way? Ha! I going nowhere, b*tch!”
”David, no...we’ll call the cops.”
”Like b*tch!”
David fumed, not taking his eyes on the taunting child for even so much as a second.
”Get the phone. I’ll hold’m here.”
Nat took off in an instant, disappearing into the darkness. Before the child was able to react, David grabbed him by the throat once more, leaving his feet to the ground - an exercise on compassion altogether greater than any he’d shown thus far this evening - and dragged him along the grass toward the house. He ascended the stairs, the boy dragging behind him with a thunk, thunk, thunk as they passed each step, slamming the front door to stall any attempt at entry, before releasing him with a shove toward the nearest seat.
”Sit.”
In perfect response, the boy lashed out, striking David square in the nose with terrifyingly marked precision, his palm shoving the lower bridge of his nose straight upward. David recoiled, recognizing in an instant the sensation of his nose shattering beneath the force of the hit as he instinctively brought his massive hands to his face, seeing them fill with the gush of blood almost instantly.
”What the f*ck?!”
Finally, the boy did as he was asked - he sat, relaxing before David’s eyes as he looked out upon the yard with a slight smirk across his face.
”Now we even. B*tch.”
Redemption
I’m man enough to own my mistakes.
I’ve got enough to go ‘round.
I’m an alcoholic.
My predisposition toward losin’ myself at the bottom of a bottle’s seen me isolate just about every last person I’ve ever cared for in life.
I’m violent.
I’m prone to lettin’ my notoriously short temper get the best of me.
I’ve booted a small child square in the face on account of the assumption that it was just Mike Kyzer’s personal blow vendor in disguise.
And in the interest of gettin’ myself ahead, I once latched myself on to a pair of guys lookin’ to take over the world under the banner of The New Epoch.
Most folk’d look at me somewhat cross-eyed, ownin’ that as one of the many, many mistakes to’ve defined my life. There’s even a pretty strong argument in their favor. My personal stock, as a member of their ranks, grew exponentially. My name? Household. I went on to win the very first Survival of the Fittest contest to be held durin’ my tenure here, and in doin’ so, solidified the eventuality that you all see before you - David Brennan, World Champion, posted atop the WFWF with no one in sight capable of tearin’ his ass down.
Jack’d call that one hell of a return on investment. Other side of the coin, though? That old bastard’d be hard pressed to grant the end all, be all to the reward side of the equation. I come from a long, long line of weighin’ the risk-reward of every last choice you make in life, and I’ll be damned if signin’ that oath to Kyzer and company ain’t about the dumbest f*ckin’ move I’ve pulled in my years.
It’s important to own up when you f*ck up.
Anyone who’s gotten this far’d be remiss to accuse me of dwellin’ on the wrong I’ve done.
Ain’t no forward momentum in it.
Only way out is redemption.
Past couple of years’ve seen me come away from the mess I call life with a bit of a handsome new lease on the mother f*cker.
Took a while to convince y’all, but I’m stone cold sober.
Kyzer knows, so the world might as know too - the one person I’ve ever put above myself’s granted me a clean slate of forgiveness, and I start each day crossin’ myself over the fact that she’s even still around.
I’m still violent, but I try’n keep that sh*t reserved for those who most deserve it.
The fuse’s a work in progress, but even Lila Sleater’ll tell you I’m a thousand times more agreeable than the first she and I crossed paths.
I paid my dues for bootin’ that kid - let’s just leave it at that.
Best as I can tell, outta the worst of the worst? That just leaves one small matter at hand.
Kyzer.
Far as I care, I’m square with the other guy. Ain’t about to open my door to him, but in the grand scheme of things gettin’ all sorts of f*cked, Drakz is about as far down the list as the rot on my back porch and my ahtlete’s foot flarin’ up.
Gotta pick your battles.
That just leaves you, Mike.
I don’t gotta waste much breath tellin’ you how many f*ckin’ lines you’ve gone and crossed these past few months. You know all that. You relish in it.
Likewise, I ain’t gonna go too blue in the face tellin’ you how many ways I intend on f*ckin’ you up, come End Time. You’ve seen what I can do. You’ve seen it up close. Only difference’s the side of the line you’re standin’ on this time around, so there ain’t much use in preppin’ your ass for what you’ve likely been bankin’ on all along.
I mean, does anyone ever give a f*ck about the bumps in the road, anyway?
Think about anyone you know who’s over come out on the other side of adversity smellin’ like roses.
Where’d they start?
Where’d they wind up?
One extreme to the other.
How’d they get there?
Exactly.
Sure, you can offer up a canned answer, every once and again.
Counselin’.
Rehab.
That’s all just words, and ain’t a word of it’s gonna speak to the actual road anyone’s gone an traveled. All that really matters to anyone’s the startin’ line, and the finish.
Master, and apprentice.
You’d be hard pressed to wander too far outside the ranks of The New Epoch and find anyone what could tell you much about me before I fell in with your asses. Likewise, when that sh*t went belly up, I’m sure the story goes dry for a hell of a majority of the folks watchin’ at home. It’s all benchmarks to ‘em:
New Epoch.
International Champion.
Grand Cluster F*ck Invitational Finalist.
Runner-Up.
World Champion.
I’m guilty of it myself. You get lost in your own mix - ain’t much matters outside of hittin’ that next precipice, and I’ll cop to sittin’ up on this throne for a good long while tryin’ to figure out if there’s anywhere left but downhill from here.
I should’ve never counted you out.
You were always goin’ to be that next big hurdle, weren’t you Mike? I’ve said as much already - no matter how high I climbed, the plan along was for you to be waitin’ in the wings, lest I go’n eclipse anything you’ve ever done.
See, this ain’t about the world title to me. Been there, done that. You can’t take that away from me anymore’n Frank f*ckin’ Lynn can cheat me outta the fact that for the better part of a year, I was the only champion this place had. Far as I’m concerned, you can have that sh*t on the L if it means that much to you. I’ve done everything there is to do, I’ve won everything there is to win, and shy of your weasley little ass, I’ve beaten everyone there is to beat.
Manhattan Street Fight?
Madison Square Garden?
Center of the Universe?
Cook the card all you want. Play it all up.
All this?
All this is just about fixin’ the errors of the past.
I’m sure when it’s all said and done, I’ll find myself fieldin’ a thousand and one twists on the same, single question: ‘how’s it feel to have finally vanquished the devil on your back that is Michael Kyzer’, and when that happens, I’ll hand ‘em a thousand and one twists on the same, single answer:
‘Michael Kyzer who?’
Ellsworth, ME
”Mr. Brennan, thanks for stopping by. Come on in.”
This was a first, if nothing else. David Brennan had, in years past, managed to steer clear of the sort of attention that his familial name usually attracted from law enforcement. He’d built himself enough of a reputation, between his time in the Corps and his stint with the BFD, to be seen as having at least fallen a bit further from the Brennan family tree than his outward appearance might otherwise suggest. Jack would spin you a thousand different tells about what little good he felt any sort of formal authority figure did for anyone trying to make his way in the world, but David, in spite of an upbringing on the fringes of society and legal compliance, had always managed to posture himself into a position where, at least to him, the cops were always just sort of a net neutral.
None of that, of course, meant that the feeling was any sort of mutual.
Some things, he knew, just couldn’t be helped. He wasn’t dumb. He’d owned mirrors. He got it. His look, paired against his unfortunate name, spelled a basic understanding that he’d turn a few boys in blue heads when he made his way through the city. He’d find himself answering the door to them a bit more often than his neighbors, and even the most basic line of questioning - ‘seen anything funny?’ - would be shot a bit more forcefully at him than your otherwise average folk. He was a suspect by default, guilty by association. It was a nuisance akin to afternoon traffic and lines at the grocery store that he’d just fashioned himself accustomed to throughout life, enough so that being greeted at the front desk of any state police barracks with a smile and a welcome greeting was enough to throw him off his otherwise even keeled balance.
”I’ll just start by telling you this is about as far from standard procedure as it gets around these parts, but to be perfectly honest with you? We’re just out of ideas.”
The officer - Gontarz, David had ascertained from the engraving on his badge - led him into a room overlooking another, one he’d become all too familiar with, having had a federal criminal for a father. In the interrogation room, opposite the one way mirror that spanned the entirety of the furthest wall in the room, sat a figure David recognized, almost as well as the room which he occupied, though nowhere near as familiar.
Here, he looked smaller - almost vulnerable. David had only seen him before in moments of intense hostility - their first encounter in the ring at the behest of Michael Kyzer, and later, when he’d stalked David to his home here in the further reaches of Maine. Then, he’d born a look of absolute terror in his eyes, almost as if he’d been dead set upon ending David’s life, which, knowing Kyzer, was likely the goal at the time. David had felt a momentary pang of guilt upon their first meeting, having found him to be little more than a child only after he’d booted him square in the face under the presumption that he’d been some distant relative of the urchin that used to follow Kyzer around. All that, of course, quickly vanished when the child demonstrated the cunning needed to track him all the way up here, clearly painting himself as something far more twisted and advanced than a mere child, but now, that slight pang had returned.
David fancied himself to have escaped the Brennan name with a bit more humanity than the average descendent. That’s not to say that he was entirely without flaw - all the evidence is there to say overwhelmingly otherwise - but beneath it all, he was, at the very least, capable of demonstrating some degree of basic human emotion. The child sat poised, staring dead ahead at the door, not waiting for it to open so much as looking almost past it - a thousand yard stare if David had ever seen one. He looked tired. Empty. David had never had kids of his own, but he’d seen enough to know they usually shine a bit more life out of their eyes than someone closer to his own age. This child? He looked as old as Jack.
”Jesus H., you guys been feedin’ him?”
”Oh, sure. Definitely. Curtis and Thomas’ wives’ve been taking turns cooking him three squares, and he gets the same takeout as us when that isn’t on the table. No, he eats. He sleeps. Showers. Whole gamut, really. Thing is, we just don’t know what to do with him.”
”This ain’t your first abandoned kid? I mean, I seen the drop out front. Figure at least one of you’s seen somethin’ like this.”
”Sure, sure, yeah. Usually, you know, we get some sort of background - parentage or what have you, but this kid? I dunno, Mr. Brennan. If I didn’t know better, I’d tell you he’d just about fallen from the sky, and lucky you having the lawn he went and picked.”
That, of course, wasn’t the case. David knew, or at the very least, he could imagine. The kid was a charge of Michael Kyzer. It doesn’t even bear thinking on what lengths he’d likely gone to procure himself a small army of Thai children, nor what he’d done with the others, having outlived their shelf life for his means. He could dispel all of this in a moment, knowing what he knew about the man called Kyzer - if they’d believe him for even a moment. He was getting more than a fair shake here, looking the way he does and being treated the way he’d been, but even the professionalism of someone like Officer Gontarz had its limits. Think about it - set aside everything we know, for a moment, about the WFWF. Now imagine someone tells you the story of someone like Michael Kyzer, in all its vivid, gory details. Would you believe them?
Exactly.
Half the time, David wasn’t even sure himself that he hadn’t made up Michael Kyzer in some long past, booze fueled hallucination. He winced, half in pain, and half in thought that the pain itself, still emanating from his overheated, still shattered facial region, was what it constantly took to remind him that this nemesis was so very real.
”Has he talked?”
”Not well, and not much. He’s cooperative, but he ain’t got much to say - not of any substance, anyway. To be perfectly honest with you? I don’t think there is much to say. Can’t imagine the world he comes from is much to boast about.”
”Where’s that?”
”Can only guess. Sort of half the problem - without much to go on, even the state doesn’t really wanna take the kid on. Legal red tape. Bunch of bureaucratic bullsh*t, you ask me, but that’s kind of where we’re at. Barracks’ve got a mascot, and a kid in the limboest sort of limbo I’ve ever set eyes on.”
Kyzer’d relish this, David thought. Even Drakz, for all his shared depravity, might offer a sideways glance at the mere thought of Kyzer had come to know this kid, never mind giving him a temporary shelf life and then just leaving him to it in a place he wouldn’t know from Adam. That was a special sort of f*cked up - the kind you’d only get from the likes of Michael Kyzer, the kind all the self proclaimed “bottom of the barrel” types that have plagued the WFWF over the years could only dream of lowering themselves to.
David sighed an irritated, exasperated sigh.
”How’s this sh*t land on me, man?”
”You’re his only tie.”
”To what?”
”Far as I can see? Anything. I mean, if not for you, if not for what happened on your front lawn? Kid doesn’t exist, at least not to anyone else, right?”
Truer words. To add a level of depth to whatever it was that compelled Kyzer to ultimately engage in what amounted to child slave labor, in all likelihood, he’d probably already forgotten this kid - or the however many others like him that attacked David in the ring that night - even existed. Kyzer had little use for what would amount to little more than perpetual thorns in his side - it’s little wonder he’d turned to foreign children. No lay of the land and an insurmountable language barrier? The kid might as well have been a plastic straw in Kyzer’s soda - easily discarded, and readily available should he require another.
”F*ck…”
”I said about the same.”
”More’n just me and you here, right?”
”Sure, yeah. Handful of Troop J guys.”
”Alright. You’ve seen what the kid can do. Call ‘em in. I’ll try and have a word.”
David Brennan:
Godslayer
L’Enfant Prodigue
Been a long time, eh Mike?
You might be thinkin’ you went and rattled my brain a bit too hard on that point there. Probably thinkin’ to yourself ‘nah, you dumb f*ck. It ain’t been much more’n five minutes since I slipped in from behind ‘n knocked your f*ckin’ head astray when you was lookin’ the other direction’, and to that extent, you’d be right as rain, but all that? The drive-by sorta pass and a wave? C’mon, man. You and me? We go way back. That ain’t sh*t next to all you and me’ve been through together.
Nah, you and me?
We’re lookin’ at some real quality time, Mike.
See, I always feel like between the three of us, you and me’ve always kinda held the biggest distance. I mean, I get it - ain’t nobody out there gonna look at the Epoch and say that anybody but you was the real star of that f*ckin’ show - and between you and Isaac havin’ the history and all, it only stands to reason that you and me’d end up on opposite ends of the totem pole.
Fair shakes - but that was then. This is now. Times’ve changed.
You’n me? We’ve got ourselves a whole lotta catchin’ up to do.
And y’know, there’s a part of me - pretty big one, actually - that wonders whether or not that’s what all this is all about. Now, I get that you’re the WFWF’s resident f*ckin’ enigma who comes and goes as he pleases, lest anyone gets five minutes of your f*ckin’ time to figure out how that underneath it all you’re just as human as the rest of us, but I don’t think for a hot f*ckin’ minute that it’s any coincidence that you go and make your latest appearance on the back of me finally reachin’ the point that you went and talked all that post-Survivor of the Fittest sh*t about me reachin’ way back when we was kids. Now, I’ve long since come to grips with the fact that my waxin’ days here in the WFWF were just about put to paper with the sheer amount of shameless pud pullin’ people stuck my name to, but I’ll straight cop to havin’ bought your line of sh*t for a long f*ckin’ time, Mike. You seemed pretty high on the f*ckin’ idea of me bein’ in this very right spot, pretty much right off the bat. Sh*t, you predicted it yourself a handful of times after I came out clean as a whistle on the other side of Survival of the Fittest.
But that’s your big secret, isn’t it Mike?
That’s what all this is about.
‘Your Stoned Messiah’? ‘The God of F*ck’?
It’s all one big complex.
You’re just like everyone else.
Just like every other assh*le what preemptively let the words ‘David Brennan’ and ‘future World Champion’ fill the void in their filthy, gapin’ maw, you didn’t believe a line of it for a f*ckin’ second, did you? You play the part of this grandiose planner, this cunning f*ckin’ architect, but you couldn’t see much further than your own self induced fog’d let you, and you just always figured the status quo would stick, didn’t you? That why you dropped Drakz like a spent f*ckin’ needle the second he got a foothold on usurpin’ your pathetic f*ckin’ legacy, and that’s why you only show your ugly f*ckin’ mug the second anyone else runs the risk of doin’ the same.
Heh. And he says I didn’t learn nothin’.
See, you can try and paint this however you f*ckin’ want, castin’ yourself as the lovesick father back to test the mettle of his long lost, prodigal son, but in New York City?
You and me’re gonna rewrite the f*ckin’ parable, guy. You go ahead and bring your throne, Mike.
I’m comin’ home to knock you the f*ck off of it.
Wells Fargo Center
Philadelphia, PA
”I’m sorry, Mr. Brennan. I’m going to have to ask you to leave, now.”
David shot the guard a long, strained look of skeptical indignance. He held his ground, almost certain that the man before him, empowered by little more than a meaningless badge and a sidearm likely filled with pellets, would cower before the grotesque exterior that presently defined the WFWF World Champion, but to Barney Fife’s credit, he held his ground - barely. David glared at him for what must have felt like an eternity for the poor kid who off-handedly had chosen ‘law enforcement’ as a major to bring him all this way, only turning away just as he spotted the first sign of the poor kid’s jaw starting to quake.
Some battles just weren’t worth it.
Exasperated at the situation, David rested his hands on his hips, freeing up one to shoo away the Uber that had moments earlier gotten him only this far. Sighing as he took in his surroundings, he threw up his arms, somewhat half-heartedly, resigning himself to stepping off in an attempt to walk off the frustrations mounted by his seeming and sudden banishment from a WFWF host facility.
He’d barely gotten off of the ramp, ahead of even his departing driver now stuck contending with the influx of downtown traffic, when a sudden and familiar voice sent everything running out of mind for a moment, grabbing his attention with every bit of irresistible force imaginable.
”Sh*t, you too, mate?”
David had expected an entire cast of faces that might emerge when the words ‘I can’t let you in here’ had first spilled out of the hapless guard’s mouth. Lila Sleater, hammering home the order that she’d no doubt issued herself. Some schmuck cameraman, idly standing by to make sure that even such a non-confrontation would make it to the front page of the WFWF. Hell, he’d even expected that perhaps Kyzer would seize the moment to yet again bash him across the dome with some manner of blunt object.
Drakz, however?
Well, that was a fair bit unexpected.
It shouldn’t have been. Drakz had always been one of the most tenacious, unyielding individuals David had ever stumbled upon chance to meet. David had always taken a great deal of humor out of behaviors on his old friend’s part that likely spelled many nights of frustration and agony for their shared enemies. He had, however, let the situation Drakz had found himself in these past few months escape his mind, what with the whole Kyzer situation and said mind being knocked seven ways to Sunday every time he tried to pick up a foot or two.
Really, it was no wonder Drakz was here, as, in all likelihood, he’d been at just about every building, hopelessly trying to find his way in whilst David saw more and more of his frontal cortex dribble out his left nostril night after night.
As far as present company goes, he supposed it could have been worse.
”Think it was somethin’ I said?
Drakz was perched upon a concrete wall, high enough so that his feet dangled above the sloping ground that led down beneath the arena to a underground parking facility that, tonight, neither of them was seemingly good enough to enter. He bore that troublesome grin - a hallmark of his that always reminded David of a book he’d read in school about some imp type character causing all sorts of mayhem for the primaries. Drakz, of course, was the imp that could just as soon prank you as he would knock you upside the head, but it was at least a cool down to see him apparently unfazed by his denial of entry. Whatever hassle he’d had at the gate had apparently hit him not as hard this night as it had hit David.
”Fat chance. Big guy hasn’t really given you breath to say much of anything lately, has he?”
David took a seat alongside his old friend. It was a strange sort of comfort zone, knowing he could sit and converse with his former ally, in spite of any tension between them having drawn down to a light simmer, rather than having all out cooled. He chalked it up here to commonality - the likely catalyst for most of their agreeability over the years. It was almost, David thought, like old times - the two of them, side by side, barred from being admitted to a building on behalf of the chief authority figure in the WFWF. Just sub out Xavier Pierce for Lila Sleater and you’re already ninety percent of the way there.
The last ten?
Well, that was likely owed to ‘the big guy’, as Drakz had just dubbed him.
”That what brings you here?”
”It isn’t the locale, I’ll you that. Pish town, Philly”
”Well, get in line.”
”Can’t help you there, mate. Levy breaks? I’m going for it. This is just as much my fight as it is yours.”
See?
Whether or not David had lost sight of Drakz’s own personal dilemma at the moment, he’d live another forty lifetimes before he ever wiped the memory of the three of them stood off against one another in a WFWF ring. He hadn’t noticed it at the time - anyone who tells you they recognize the weight of a situation in the immediate moment is selling narratives, as far as David was concerned - but as the moment played out again and again and again over the next several month’s worth of highlight reels, it became plainly obvious that no matter how tempered matters between he and Drakz ever became, with the vitriol each held against the third, and with neither willing to offer the other the first hit, no matter what the outcome between David and Kyzer, the three of them were already on a nonstop collision course that edged closer and closer to eruption with each passing day.
Well, sh*t, I ain’t about to lay up just so you can reserve the next open table, man.”
”That right?”
”You askin’ just to ask?”
”Pretty much.”
”Might wanna get yourself a lawyer then. Sort out that whole contract thing.”
”It’s crossed my mind.”
”Ain’t gonna land between the bells otherwise.”
”As if that’s the only way to do business with Michael Kyzer.”
”Is that just a thing for you guys? Get in a buncha f*ckin’ cheap shots ‘til there ain’t nothin’ left to hit?”
”Go with what works, I say.”
”Ain’t much measure of a guy.”
”Well, we’ve all got our struggles, haven’t we?”
David had to grant a slight concession. Even amid his ever changing standing in the eyes of someone like Lila Sleater, it was a thousand times easier for him to get his hands on someone who had wronged him in a fashion that would give him recourse to strike back by the book. Drakz, rather unceremoniously, got carved up like a holiday bird and then cut from the team for his troubles. It was a plight that David, locked out here in the streets of some garbage, wannabe metro, could at least momentarily sympathize with. All signs pointed to him finally, assuming he was welcome back in, getting his just deserts a few weeks removed in New York, but Drakz had every right of claim to land a hit or two on Kyzer himself.
”Would that I had something the f*cking twat wants.”
”Which one?”
”Take your pick.”
Drakz saw it too. David had long presumed that all this - the mind games, the sneak attacks, the sudden reemergence of self-described dragons - had less to do with David the person, and altogether more to do with David, the champion. The last man standing, in many ways, of The New Epoch. He was poised here, having triumphed over Joe Bishop, to eclipse the role he’d played as third fiddle to two much more gargantuan names, and in doing so, he’d irked the ire of the man who fancied himself David’s creator.
”I ain’t throwin’ no match…”
”I wouldn’t ask.”
”Didn’t let me finish. I ain’t throwin’ no match here, but whoever comes out of this thing? Ain’t a f*ckin’ soul out back postured enough to be next in line. Even Sleater’s gotta see that one. After Kyzer and me? Where’s your big money match?”
”Knew we kept you around for a reason.”
”Ain’t a bad chip to bargain with...”
David leapt to his feet, suddenly having found himself entirely less perturbed by his exclusion. Really, it should have never been a bother - who otherwise would turn down a night off paired with any waking excuse to spend as little time as humanly possible in the City of Brotherly Love?
”...just don’t go thinkin’ that this sh*t’s gonna be a one and done.”
The Heart of the Matter
You really think it’s gonna be that easy?
You really think that this is the end all, be all of all the sh*t you’ve been puttin’ me through?
Sh*t, brother. If you think that’s the case, you’d better hope I f*ckin’ kill you in New York City - and don’t you go thinkin’ I ain’t gonna try.
I know you pride yourself on bein’ the f*ckin’ antithesis of everything around here. If the commonality says up, you say down. If someone out back at caterin’ says they dig on turkey, you’d just as soon smash his teeth in while tellin’ him that turkey sucks, you suck, and who the f*ck asked you anyway. This f*ckin’ complex of yours has become so complex that you actually think that you’ve become somethin’ that transcends the human race, and you’re playin’ the f*ckin’ role to boot.
That’s where I come in.
The sh*t you’ve been pullin’?
The sh*t they don’t know about?
Time’s come for someone to drag your ass back down to earth, you sick son of a b*tch.
You talk a big game for a guy employin’ child labor to his f*ckin’ dirty work for him. Why don’t you tell ‘em all while you’re out there runnin’ your mouth about f*ckin’ manhood and dignity like some prepubescent f*ck who thinks talkin’ sh*t’s the fastest avenue to gettin’ his d*ck wt about how you sent your little f*ckin’ assassin boy after my family, you depraved, malignant little f*ck? Why don’t you go out there and tell the world how you even came to be the whip crackin’ ‘employer’ of a handful of f*ckin’ kids left without a name once you was done with ‘em?
C’mon, Kyzer.
You wanna instill fear?
You wanna transcend humanity?
Own up, kid.
Show ‘em who you f*ckin’ really are.
See, right now? You’re hidin’ in plain sight. I dunno how you float between the lines, nor do I much f*ckin’ care, but you’ve held the world at bay from turnin’ your ass into the next figure thrown into f*ckin’ exile over the fact that you’re a complete f*ckin’ sewer dweller by takin’ shelter beneath the public visage. The suits? The PR folk? Sleater? Far as they’ll tell, this whole thing? You’n me? This is all over a handful of sneak attacks and silly f*ckin’ mind games that have played out over the course of a few weeks for all the world to see. If I was drinkin’ a bit harder, I’d almost buy in to some hairbrained notion that this was another one of your f*ckin’ games, geared at makin’ my ass look weak enough to get all bent out of shape over the sort of sh*t I’ve spent my entire life combatin’.
Handy f*ckin’ narrative, isn’t it?
Compellin’.
Attractive.
Best of all?
Full of sh*t.
Just like you.
It’s funny, all of this just now comin’ out. It’s almost like you knew that if this were the runnin’ narrative - if they all knew that this was what this was really all about, you wouldn’t have the slightest f*ckin’ foothold.
You people think I care about this mug I call a face?
Sh*t - this nose’s been smashed more times’n me at my best.
Practically old hat by now.
Know what ain’t?
Some lowlife f*cker comin’ after my f*ckin’ home in some desperate grab aimed at holdin’ on to his fleetin’ f*ckin’ sense of relevancy. Some vile f*ckin’ tumor of a man comin’ after my f*ckin’ woman in some pitiful f*ckin’ campaign toward holdin’ on to whatever f*ckin’ spot he keeps walkin’ away from time and time again.
Kyzer, I’ve battled puke here that’d hold up in the court of public opinion better’n the sh*t you’ve pulled. Trace Demon’s got a better chance up at the pearly gates than you.
You come after my home?
You come after my woman?
You come out with the gall, after all that, to presume it’s gonna be that easy?
Sh*t.
I usually tell folk in your shoes that they’re gonna have to kill me, but in your case, b*tch?
It doesn’t f*ckin’ matter.
You’d just better hope one of us doesn’t f*ckin’ walk outta that buildin’.
You think you’re persistent?
F*ckin’ try me.
Some Time Ago…
Brennan Point
Bar Harbor, ME
David hated being right.
A sense of dread had washed over him as he’d pulled into the winding, gravel drive that led to the pull in before his rustic, oceanfront estate. He’d picked the spot deliberately, favoring the isolated, poorly lit coastline, this spot in particular which jutted out beyond the line of sight that tracked along the coastal road over the hustle and bustle of anything even remotely closer to what might otherwise be considered ‘civilization’. It was the trade off he’d longed for most of his adult life - an even swap he’d have made at any given moment, having grown weary and exhausted with the neverending hum of the city.
That isolated comfort, set back from a world that would never know this spot existed unless they’d already known, came at a cost, at least to a man as prone to always looking over his shoulder as David Brennan.
A lifetime of city living had instilled in him a sort of instinctual mistrust of darkened spots along the road. In a place like Boston, those were the spots most likely to send a leisurely nighttime stroll headed dreadfully south. It wasn’t a sense of paranoia easily outgrown, especially when you weigh the ratio of the time spent living here versus the time spent living here. David’s heart had a tendency to sink into his stomach whenever he’d come in this late, even more so when he knew that Nat was home unguarded. She was a tough little thing in her own right, thick skinned as they come, but the type of folk that might ever come looking for David here would never be the type to be deterred by a tough set of wits.
His worry was, more often than not, over nothing, which is why he blinked twice as he pulled in, his headlights perfectly illuminating the tiny, cloaked figure slowly ascending his front steps, inching unnervingly closer and closer toward his front door. Suddenly, this place was no sanctuary - just another street, littered far too sparingly with any sort of light, and this, his front yard, became just another dark spot in which even he was uncomfortably vulnerable.
The rest became all a bit of a blur.
”Those legs best be faster’n they are long!”
He crossed the lawn in what felt like no more than two, perhaps three easy strides, screeching to a halt before he collided with the farmer’s porch along the front of the estate, reaching out with his right as he turned on a heel, seizing the intruder around the throat, and with what felt like far too little effort, hurled him back toward the pull in, storming back after him as he skidded to a halt with a crunch as the lawn met gravel.
Behind him, he heard the front door swing open, his line of sight now partially illuminated from the glow of the interior light escaping, as the intruder rose, barely able to shift his robe to afford himself an unobstructed view of what he’d just wrought with his presence here before he was caught, full force, with a knee to the jaw that sent him airborne once more, falling to the ground with another sickening crunch as the crushing weight of his prey’s monstrous foot landed atop his chest, pinning him in place.
”My turf now, b*tch! All bets’re off!”
The child squirmed beneath him, not trying to escape, but certainly trying to alleviate the weight with which David had pinned him to the ground. David bent down, his right extended once more as he grabbed for the child’s head, when he found himself suddenly distracted by the unmistakable thud of another light set of dashing footsteps coming up from behind. He braced for another attack, unwilling to take his eyes off of his first catch.
”Who the f*ck sent you?!”
”David, no!”
Nat’s voice rang out, part in assertion, part in unbridled fear, a second before she caught up to him, grasping at his back aimlessly as she circled his front, posturing herself somewhat fruitlessly against him, trying to shield the boy beneath his foot from any further harm.
”David, he’s just a boy!”
”I know who he is!”
”He’s just a child!”
”I no child!”
The two of them froze in place, their attention turned in an instant toward the tiny, heavily accented voice that coughed and sputtered out of the child beneath David’s foot. Almost involuntarily, David shifted the weight off his foot, allowing the boy room to scurry out of harm’s immediate way, though he stopped short of pulling himself back to his feet, perhaps weathered to the ground, more content to sit for a moment than unwillingly extend the fight.
”Wha….who are you?”
”I no here for you, b*tch!”
Any pause the boy’s voice had given David was washed away in an instant, and he lunged forward once more, held back only by Nat’s presence before him, stalling him from unleashing entirely unbridled.
”David!”
”Let him fight, b*tch!”
”Gonna shut that mouth for you!”
”If your b*tch let you! The Messiah right. You complete b*tch!”
Unnerved, David finally pushed past Nat, seizing the boy by the throat, effortlessly pulling him off the ground, and in one fell swoop, slammed him against the front of his truck, shattering the windshield in the process.
”You wanna send a message back to your f*ckin’ messiah, huh?!”
Even as he remained clutched in the grasp of David’s enormously larger hands, the boy still managed to spit putrid taunts as David toiled with exactly how to end the kid.
’Now you grow pair?! About time!”
Lifting the child airborne once more, he threw him onto the lawn, where he landed with an audible thud, though this time rising almost instantly to his feet. Shedding the robe that flowed behind him, he took up a fighting stance as David loomed down on him, ready to strike if not for Nat putting themselves between them once more.
”Nat…”
”David, he’s just a child! Let it go!”
”You let you b*tch fight all fight for you?!”
David lunged forward, held back once more by the sheer presence of his girlfriend. She looked up at him, her eyes pleading, bordering on a look he’d only seen a handful of time before, from the lowest of his low lying depths.
Quietly, he relented, his pride aching.
”Another time…”
”You - !”
He thrust his arm over Nat’s shoulder, pointing with all intent so there’d be no question in the child’s mind as to who he was addressing.
” - get lost!”
The boy, unwavered by the boom of David’s voice, only laughed.
”All this way? Ha! I going nowhere, b*tch!”
”David, no...we’ll call the cops.”
”Like b*tch!”
David fumed, not taking his eyes on the taunting child for even so much as a second.
”Get the phone. I’ll hold’m here.”
Nat took off in an instant, disappearing into the darkness. Before the child was able to react, David grabbed him by the throat once more, leaving his feet to the ground - an exercise on compassion altogether greater than any he’d shown thus far this evening - and dragged him along the grass toward the house. He ascended the stairs, the boy dragging behind him with a thunk, thunk, thunk as they passed each step, slamming the front door to stall any attempt at entry, before releasing him with a shove toward the nearest seat.
”Sit.”
In perfect response, the boy lashed out, striking David square in the nose with terrifyingly marked precision, his palm shoving the lower bridge of his nose straight upward. David recoiled, recognizing in an instant the sensation of his nose shattering beneath the force of the hit as he instinctively brought his massive hands to his face, seeing them fill with the gush of blood almost instantly.
”What the f*ck?!”
Finally, the boy did as he was asked - he sat, relaxing before David’s eyes as he looked out upon the yard with a slight smirk across his face.
”Now we even. B*tch.”
Redemption
I’m man enough to own my mistakes.
I’ve got enough to go ‘round.
I’m an alcoholic.
My predisposition toward losin’ myself at the bottom of a bottle’s seen me isolate just about every last person I’ve ever cared for in life.
I’m violent.
I’m prone to lettin’ my notoriously short temper get the best of me.
I’ve booted a small child square in the face on account of the assumption that it was just Mike Kyzer’s personal blow vendor in disguise.
And in the interest of gettin’ myself ahead, I once latched myself on to a pair of guys lookin’ to take over the world under the banner of The New Epoch.
Most folk’d look at me somewhat cross-eyed, ownin’ that as one of the many, many mistakes to’ve defined my life. There’s even a pretty strong argument in their favor. My personal stock, as a member of their ranks, grew exponentially. My name? Household. I went on to win the very first Survival of the Fittest contest to be held durin’ my tenure here, and in doin’ so, solidified the eventuality that you all see before you - David Brennan, World Champion, posted atop the WFWF with no one in sight capable of tearin’ his ass down.
Jack’d call that one hell of a return on investment. Other side of the coin, though? That old bastard’d be hard pressed to grant the end all, be all to the reward side of the equation. I come from a long, long line of weighin’ the risk-reward of every last choice you make in life, and I’ll be damned if signin’ that oath to Kyzer and company ain’t about the dumbest f*ckin’ move I’ve pulled in my years.
It’s important to own up when you f*ck up.
Anyone who’s gotten this far’d be remiss to accuse me of dwellin’ on the wrong I’ve done.
Ain’t no forward momentum in it.
Only way out is redemption.
Past couple of years’ve seen me come away from the mess I call life with a bit of a handsome new lease on the mother f*cker.
Took a while to convince y’all, but I’m stone cold sober.
Kyzer knows, so the world might as know too - the one person I’ve ever put above myself’s granted me a clean slate of forgiveness, and I start each day crossin’ myself over the fact that she’s even still around.
I’m still violent, but I try’n keep that sh*t reserved for those who most deserve it.
The fuse’s a work in progress, but even Lila Sleater’ll tell you I’m a thousand times more agreeable than the first she and I crossed paths.
I paid my dues for bootin’ that kid - let’s just leave it at that.
Best as I can tell, outta the worst of the worst? That just leaves one small matter at hand.
Kyzer.
Far as I care, I’m square with the other guy. Ain’t about to open my door to him, but in the grand scheme of things gettin’ all sorts of f*cked, Drakz is about as far down the list as the rot on my back porch and my ahtlete’s foot flarin’ up.
Gotta pick your battles.
That just leaves you, Mike.
I don’t gotta waste much breath tellin’ you how many f*ckin’ lines you’ve gone and crossed these past few months. You know all that. You relish in it.
Likewise, I ain’t gonna go too blue in the face tellin’ you how many ways I intend on f*ckin’ you up, come End Time. You’ve seen what I can do. You’ve seen it up close. Only difference’s the side of the line you’re standin’ on this time around, so there ain’t much use in preppin’ your ass for what you’ve likely been bankin’ on all along.
I mean, does anyone ever give a f*ck about the bumps in the road, anyway?
Think about anyone you know who’s over come out on the other side of adversity smellin’ like roses.
Where’d they start?
Where’d they wind up?
One extreme to the other.
How’d they get there?
Exactly.
Sure, you can offer up a canned answer, every once and again.
Counselin’.
Rehab.
That’s all just words, and ain’t a word of it’s gonna speak to the actual road anyone’s gone an traveled. All that really matters to anyone’s the startin’ line, and the finish.
Master, and apprentice.
You’d be hard pressed to wander too far outside the ranks of The New Epoch and find anyone what could tell you much about me before I fell in with your asses. Likewise, when that sh*t went belly up, I’m sure the story goes dry for a hell of a majority of the folks watchin’ at home. It’s all benchmarks to ‘em:
New Epoch.
International Champion.
Grand Cluster F*ck Invitational Finalist.
Runner-Up.
World Champion.
I’m guilty of it myself. You get lost in your own mix - ain’t much matters outside of hittin’ that next precipice, and I’ll cop to sittin’ up on this throne for a good long while tryin’ to figure out if there’s anywhere left but downhill from here.
I should’ve never counted you out.
You were always goin’ to be that next big hurdle, weren’t you Mike? I’ve said as much already - no matter how high I climbed, the plan along was for you to be waitin’ in the wings, lest I go’n eclipse anything you’ve ever done.
See, this ain’t about the world title to me. Been there, done that. You can’t take that away from me anymore’n Frank f*ckin’ Lynn can cheat me outta the fact that for the better part of a year, I was the only champion this place had. Far as I’m concerned, you can have that sh*t on the L if it means that much to you. I’ve done everything there is to do, I’ve won everything there is to win, and shy of your weasley little ass, I’ve beaten everyone there is to beat.
Manhattan Street Fight?
Madison Square Garden?
Center of the Universe?
Cook the card all you want. Play it all up.
All this?
All this is just about fixin’ the errors of the past.
I’m sure when it’s all said and done, I’ll find myself fieldin’ a thousand and one twists on the same, single question: ‘how’s it feel to have finally vanquished the devil on your back that is Michael Kyzer’, and when that happens, I’ll hand ‘em a thousand and one twists on the same, single answer:
‘Michael Kyzer who?’
I dont know good luck 
)
