Post by CM Poor on Oct 1, 2018 14:22:39 GMT -5
30th Street Station
Philadelphia, PA
September 9, 2011
”That’s you, then.”
The train’s doors barely have the chance to settle into their open position before a herd of weary travelers begins shuffling on board, shoulder to shoulder, anxious to settle into their seats and begin the journey north. Slowly but surely, the platform, just moments earlier packed equally shoulder to shoulder, clears out, eventually leaving behind, amid those waving their goodbyes before ambling off in the opposite direction and the scattered few who lingered around to see the train off, a pair as conspicuous as the day is long, given the makeup of this morning’s crowd.
He is David Brennan - brutish, hulking, and imposing to any of the nameless, faceless that pass him by en route to their impending commute. His bald head sticks out like a sore thumb, a good head above the crowd, drawing direct attention to the rest of his stature - tattoos from head to toe, a furrowed, scowling brow, and shoulders wide enough to threaten his own potential ingress through the frame of the waiting train’s doors.
His counterpart is Natalie Collins. She stands a fair head and shoulders lower than he, but she’s every bit the conspicuous bystander in her own right. A shock of hair - today, it’s vibrant pink - is clipped tight in a bob, curling well above her shoulders, creating no elongating effect so as to truly accent the sheer difference in height between the two. She’s nestled beneath his right arm, looking up at him with a face that tells a story all its own of hesitance, anxiety, and disconcertion.
”I don’t like this.”
”Yeah, you’d mentioned.”
Numerous times over, in fact. Today was the day she’d been dreading for the better part of a month. Down on their luck and running dangerously short on ways to turn, David had signed a lucrative deal, capitalizing on his long standing willingness to speak with his fists. He was to travel, extensively, plying his newfound trade in a new town each night for public consumption. She was to return home - in the loosest sense of the word - to Boston, where she would wait out his eventual return atop the support of her parents, without whom she’d likely be able to singularly maintain a roof overhead. For weeks, she’d protested this new status quo. Admittedly, the money was good. It was unreasonably good. So much so, that if it were any other soul standing in David’s size thirteens, the decision would be a clear cut no-brainer.
Natalie, to a fault, had eyes for no other soul.
”I know I’ve harped, but it’s not just the nature of it, David…”
Natalie knew that David could fight. She’d seen it firsthand, and though she, herself, had no stomach for the sort of overt physical violence that seemed to be part and parcel for men like David desperately clinging to what little identity the city would afford them, she’d never found herself burdened with worry over the notion of David falling into a scrap he couldn’t claw his way out of. Amid her worries, in fact, she’d even caught herself once protesting, in perennial vain, the wellbeing of anyone unlucky enough to find themselves standing opposite the man who’d fallen into place as her own unwavering pillar.
No, David’s greatest enemies would never stand opposite the ring from him.
David’ greatest enemy, unchecked, was himself.
”I know.”
It was no secret between them.
When Natalie stumbled into David’s life, he’d once again found himself standing precariously close to the edge, a mere shove from once again full on over.
She’d brought him back from the brink - a fact he reminded himself of each day as he woke beside her. With Nat, as he called her, at his side, he was untouchable. She’d given him a reason to wake, a reason to fight.
A reason to live.
”Money’s too good to pass up, though.”
”At what cost, though?”
They both knew.
Unattended, David was an unparalleled host unto himself. Beyond that platform, in the absence of the woman he’d come to depend upon as his main line of support, his vulnerability knew no bounds. Out there, he’d face temptation. Loneliness. Uncertainty.
He was out there.
The two of them had set out, together, toward the new height in David’s life. The new, precarious edge lie now right before them, in the form of a platform gap. The moment Nat set foot upon that outbound train, David would once more find himself standing solely atop the support of his own two feet - pillars untested in these new and unfamiliar waters.
It was sink or swim.
The former would see him tilting head first into uncharted territory, unleashed upon the world with no restraints to hold him back.
The latter would bring them everything they’d ever dreamed.
To her, it was an unflinching, imbalanced matter of risk-reward.
To him, it was a reason to fight.
”D’you not trust me?”
She stares at him, momentarily stunned by his forward query.
”David, it’s not that I don’t, it’s just…”
”Then don’t sweat it.”
”That’s a bit of a tall order.”
”I know. We’ve been playin’ sh*t safe for so long. Survivalist instinct. Anything outside that’s gonna be a straight up shock.”
”And you don’t even have to go back home.”
”Don’t envy that, nah. But you know somethin’? I think I got this. Couple months, maybe a year? Put it all behind us. Like it didn’t even happen.”
”I wish I shared your optimism.”
”Spend enough time as low as me? Starts to look like there ain’t nowhere to go but up.”
She jumps some as a loud blast from the train’s engine signifies the impending intent to depart.
”You’re gonna wanna get goin’, though.”
”I promise you, I’m not.”
”Alright, I know - but still…”
”I know. I know.”
He pulls her close, kissing the top of her head as if it’s the only point upon her person he can reach. She gleans up, rising to her toes to return the favor, clutching him around the waist with a dead set unwillingness to let go. Finally, however, she does, stumbling with each step as she boards, unwilling to look away as he eyes her every move to her seat. She comes to the window, lowering it enough to afford them undeterred space to exchange any final pleasantries, but, not wanting to aggravate the matter any, he offers only a smile, strolling along as the train begins to roll.
”Just do me one thing?”
”Name it.”
”Try and not get hurt, would you?”
He smiles again, this time involuntarily, meeting her eyes and imploring her to return the favor just before the train accelerates, out of pace with any reasonable human, and finally, out of sight.
David Brennan:
Coda
Massachusetts General Hospital
Boston, MA
July 8, 2018
”Mrs. Brennan? Your car’s ready.”
It takes her a second to realize the orderly’s talkin’ to her. I can’t relate, havin’ spent the entirety of my years answerin’ to not but David, Private Brennan, or hey assh*le, but I figure it’d be right jarrin’ for just about anybody to suddenly find ‘emselves cast beneath a new banner like that. I’m able to muster a smile - sh*t still hurts just about everywhere - and she dips her a head a bit, realizin’ I’m takin’ the piss.
How’d you spend your summer vacation?
”You ready?”
I ain’t used to actin’ at the behest of others, but thanks to a f*ckin’ dragon, I ain’t exactly in the best of position to be callin’ the shots, so it’s sort of foreign to me, havin’ to gesture with a nod to indicate I’m ready to roll - literally - as opposed to just walkin’ my ass out.
We’re all learnin’ as we go here.
”Two weeks ago.”
”To the day, if you hadn’t noticed.”
That f*ckin’ dragon.
”I guess flyin’s right out.”
”Well, at least you’ve still got your wits about you. I’ve gotta run back in and grab my bag. You want a drink for the ride?”
”Am I allowed?”
”Full discharge. Best I know, the only thing you aren’t to be doing for the next few weeks is moving.”
”Sure. Surprise me.”
Great.
Out of the fryin’ pan and into the fire. I ain’t ever been a fan of hospitals to begin with, but if you put me to it, I’d have to think good’n hard to decide whether or not I hate sittin’ stagnant more.
At least the atmosphere’ll have improved.
Hospitals might just take it.
”Here. I’d say you’ve earned it.”
Dr. Pepper.
The last f*ckin’ doctor I wanna see for a millenia.
Get yourself a girl who gets you.
”You been back?”
”Have you see me leave?”
She rightfully looks at me like I’m stupid. Home’s a good four hours out. She’d have had to have been a miracle woman to have slipped that one unnoticed.
Not that she ain’t but still.
That’s a whole new lot of sh*t to mind.
”Probably be lucky to find the house still standin’.”
She grasps my hand as the car rolls out the lot, into the mix of Boston traffic.
Even on a Sunday, this city just blows goats.
”Try not to think about it. A-Wut’s been minding things. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Yeah.
She said that.
”You’re kiddin’...”
”He’s really taken to this whole ‘having a home’ thing. Give him a chance.”
F*ck me.
”Sure. Great.”
I can’t fake this sh*t, man. Not in this state.
”Be lucky to find the house still standin’.”
The Rifleman
You learn a lot, growin’ up the son of The Devil himself.
Sorry, didn’t mean to take you down a peg there so quickly, Mike, but facts is facts.
You ain’t half the evil sorta c*nt Jack Brennan was. That’s a bar so high even you’d OD before gettin’ a third of the way there.
Anyway.
I might’ve kept my distance, nothin’ quite stickin’ like a federal sentence, but there’s only so far you can stand by and watch, bein’ Boston’s born and bred personal Damien. To this day, if Jack hadn’t gone and lost the fed’s interest a few years back by bitin’ the proverbial aged bullet, I could - to this day - write the dissertation for ‘em on the who, what, when, where, why, and how of the Brennan Crime Family and tidy up the mess they’d made of the whole thing way back when they went and tapped Jack to hand over the big Italian target of the day.
Too much salt’ll going and taint the whole pot, y’know?
Figure that’s why Jack always cycled his boys. Sure, he had his stalwarts - Messy. Fitzy. This lug down the Seaport missin’ half a chromosome. - but if he had somethin’ particularly tacky stickin’ out he couldn’t afford to have stick, he’d go to the well. Loose tongues’re a hell of easier to cut free, and no one’s gonna be freely weepin’ for a guy whose only marketable skillset was of exclusive value to a guy like Jack.
Facts is facts.
Even the top of the barrel - the Fitzys, the Messys, and the absent chromosomes - would get tapped ahead of the man himself to do the messy work when push come to shove, even if it was all just for formality’s sake. Ain’t enough brains among the lot of ‘em to run an operation unto ‘emselves, so Jack always figured why bother breakin’ a sweat when the heat’ll come lookin’ his way anyway.
Smart business. Guys like him don’t stick around the fester as long as he did on account of a lack of common sense.
I ain’t meanin’ to dictate a history lesson here, but all this is to really get ahead of the inevitable line of questionin’ comin’ my way regardin’ the other half of Seaport’s missin’ chromosome what left me out to dry atop the bronzed visage of number four this past summer.
Let’s make one thing perfectly clear - I don’t care how many times the marketin’ team wants to print the words ‘Dragon Unleashed’ in big, bold, bullsh*t atop some f*ckin’ banner to sell another row - That’s mother f*cker’s always gonna be tied to a thread, and you’d have to be some sorta Schneider-f*ckin’-stupid to figure that sh*t leads to anyone but the would-be devil you know.
Guys like Messy? Melvins like Fitzy? Bridge Trolls like Seaport?
They’re still walkin’ this earth doin’ jobs because nobody’s f*ckin’ stupid enough to waste any bit of energy trickin’ ‘emselves into thinkin’ that Messy, Fitzy, or Seaport’d ever be able to muster up the charisma, the cylindrical fire, or the overarching wherewithal to put out a hit of their own volition in their own f*ckin’ interest.
In short?
I ain’t gonna waste the energy on some f*ckin’ man-dragon.
I know who you work for, Mongol.
Back to the World
The Avalon Pro-Wrestling Academy
Manchester, NH
August 11, 2018
”That’s a fair bit more’n a couple of stragglers down Frankie’s way, yeah?”
Ain’t every day I find myself starin’ out the lookin’ side of the one way glass. Come to think, last time I’d found myself on this side of the table was back when the staties had me come and get the kid.
Guess I’ve got Tugarin Zmey to thank for a lack of opportunity to wind up on the other side.
”Word travels fast, I guess. I’m not going to pretend that I haven’t had more than a few long hauls blaming the commute on Frank’s about-face a while back there, but yeah, we’re definitely exceeding expectations.”
Meyer’s voice rings out with a stink of pride. A better part of me would’ve ran him over the coals for it, but in a rare show of courteous restraint, I opt instead to bite a damn hole in my tongue and let him have this one. Guy’s earned it, and that ain’t lip service - beneath us, three rings (up from two) are filled to the brim with wide eyed suckers runnin’ drills like every last step was integral to the next. Meyer’s eyes dart around like a kid’s got his hand on the cursor wavin’ it without abandon. Minutes ago, he’d run down the gamut, rattlin’ off the names and quirks of every last idiot what’s paid him a dime lookin’ to make it in this world. He was certain as we stood beside one another that somewhere down there he had a star on his hands. He was just waitin’ for the sh*t to shine.
God damn.
Chris Meyer’d finally found his callin’.
”How goes the kid?”
He points without even hesitatin’, to the boisterous loudmouth holdin’ court in the center of what he’d dubbed ‘the beginner’s ring’, tossin’ guys twice her size into the ropes like they was those old stuffed pillows shaped like Stan McMann they used to put out.
”Just waiting her turn in line.”
”They ain’t called?”
”You know the routine.”
Typical Sleater. Signs a blank check to bring in some health nut hard on for a one off while pretendin’ she can’t see the cream risin’ to the top.
”You callin’?”
”Every day. That morose looking piece of work in the center ring’s Mark Chalice. I’ve had him on board for close to six months now, figuring Lizzie was getting the call any day now. Sleater’d be bleeding me dry if Lizzie hadn’t stepped up for free.”
”She’s workin’ pro-bono?”
”Tried to talk her out of it, but she insisted. Won’t cash the checks. All she wants is to be in that ring. She’d sleep there if I’d let her.”
F*ckin’ wonder, man. It still blows my mind to this day, the folks that’re dyin’ to make this sh*t a livin’. Kids that probably’ve got a couple resumes’ worth of marketable skills to rely upon otherwise. Kids like Lizzie Hyde down there, wavin’ up at a f*ckin’ mirror as her charges amble and fall out of the ring as class comes to an end, sufficiently beaten to a pulp while she’s ready and rearin’ to go another twelve rounds. She could do anything she wants, but she figures this is what she wants most, and if it weren’t for Meyer, there wouldn’t be a soul in the world givin’ her a shake.
Then you’ve got me, who’d rather be doin’ anything but, and if my ass ain’t on a plane to some godforsaken stop on a tour of “World Domination”, I’m on the losin’ end of a bargain.
I’ve got a half a mind to call up one of the stripes here’n now and lay down for the kid. Make her Sleater’s problem by way of force.
Not that I’d exactly have to fake it to make it. The kid’s probably got more ring hours’n me under her belt these past three months.
Still my belt, though.
”School’s out?”
Meyer shoots me this half-assed little devil’s grin, like he’s been waitin’ for this moment all his life and still can’t muster the rotten to relish the moment.
”For them. You ready?”
F*ckin’ no.
Up to the Altar
Let me make one thing perfectly clear.
I don’t need to be doin’ this.
Suffice to say, I don’t much f*ckin’ like doin’ this anymore, either.
That ain’t to say I’m still here on account of somethin’ to prove.
Name me anyone left that’s the least bit f*ckin’ relevant, and I’ll tell you when and where I put their ass to the mat.
I’ve heard tell of some folk tryin’ to start and seize upon the fact that I ain’t spent much of the last year plus defendin’ the honor of this here title.
Like it’s my f*ckin’ problem that the revolvin’ door of WFWF Talent Relations ain’t churned out anyone broachin’ on even close to capable of takin’ this sh*t off of my hands.
Sit down, Frank. There ain’t a soul you can beat that’d validate that sh*t you call a win.
Just like there ain’t a soul left to put in front of me that’d be comin’ for anything more’n a feeble attempt at a receipt.
Case in point?
My latest round of takers.
Lemme ask you somethin’
The f*ck either of you think I’ve got to lose, come London?
A title?
Please. The fact that I’m the last of us to land that particular hot potato’s just a symptom of time and place. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less.
My pride?
Salt Lake City, September of twenty sixteen.
May of this year, Madison Square Garden.
My physical well being?
Sh*t - that ship sailed in Boston. Either of you wanted that, maybe you’d have stepped up yourself, ‘stead of bein’ a b*tch and lettin’ a f*ckin lurch Mongolian have all the fun.
I mean, anything else?
I almost feel bad.
The office is sellin’ this sh*t like the big payoff. The feud to end all feuds.
‘The End of an Epoch’
(F*ck me, I hope you fired whoever came up with that sh*t)
To read the materials, if you didn’t know any better, you’d figure this was the capstone on some long encompassing story of wit, will, and the implosion of an unrivaled, unstoppable force.
Forgive me for figurin’ that story’s been dead for years.
The way I see it? This sh*t’s all you, guys.
I’ve beat you, Drakz.
I’ve beat you, Kyzer.
Is there really much of a draw in a basic formality?
I mean, I’ll fight you.
I’ll probably f*ckin’ win, too. But really?
I’m just comin’ to give the lot of y’all somethin’ to remember me by.
Good Friends, Better Enemies
”Aw, you never let me have any fun!”
Over the years, I’d grow pretty accustomed to Drakz’s brand of off-color ribbin’. Guy was about as aloof as they come, even when he likely had a right bone to pick with you. Just his nature, I guess. Still, I know better’n to let my guard down any just on account of him talkin’ lightly, which is good as gold. It don’t get much higher on the guard front than havin’ just pulled the stunt I had, duckin’ out without so much as a ‘hey’ to the fumin’ head of state, and standin’ out in the ether amid the heart of Mexico City. Jack’d probably still turn in his box over me not packin’, but I don’t see any sense in addin’ an international weapons charge to the mix.
”Should’ve called ahead. Sorry, man.”
”You right should’ve stood back and let it happen, mate.”
Just like that, he’s deadly serious. If I felt his eyes on me, I’d flinch, thinkin’ he was fixin’ to cut me, but he stares straight ahead, and I’m in no rush to fuel the fire. We’ve done our share of starin’ for the night, I think. Might as well leave it to the streets.
”Bills to pay.”
”That’s pish. Sleater might be the last hopeless twat ‘round here that doesn’t figure you’re already on the outs. The f*ck are you still trying to prove?”
Got me there.
”I dunno. What’ll you hold me?”
”Josh Dean, if you’re lucky, but I figure you and I’d come content to let sleeping….well, to let things be.”
He’s still hung up on that f*ckin’ dog thing. Don’t ask me.
”Couldn’t let her have this one, man. You know that.”
”So thump her for one, why not?”
Eesh, he’s legit hot. I ain’t seen this outta him in years.
”I ain’t meant to upset you.”
”Don’t be a c*nt. You know me and him’ve got history.”
”You writin’ a Broadway show, or is it just easier to leave out the details?”
”F*ck you. You had your way with him. What, are you afraid Furious Frank might’ve pulled another fast one on you before you and I could go proper?”
There’s the Dean card, in case you were wonderin’.
”Don’t blame your shortcomings on your own ego. Ain’t a good look, even for you.”
You picked Dean to play second fiddle, not me, pal.
”Figured you’d be out hunting dragon, anyway.”
”Ain’t in season.”
”So f*ck me, then, right?”
”You could always step aside.”
”Better chance of that woman of yours arranging us a playdate, I think.”
”I’ll try not to step on your toes.”
”You do, I’ll f*cking break yours.”
”That’s fair.”
Look, it’s nothin’ personal, but c’mon.
You didn’t think I was gonna let that sh*t slide, did you?
I mean, if you did, that’s on you, and I’ll stand here and call you for the opportunistic piece of sh*t that you are. If your tilt against Kyzer was dependent on me bein’ taken outta the picture, then I put that dragon sh*t just as much on you as I do on him. I’ve come to expect the spam outta him, but you?
Sh*t, I thought there was a bit more’n that to you.
Guess you can take the boy outta the Epoch…
I know we been playin’ friendly these past few rounds, but if you needed to get to Kyzer so bad and alls that was standin’ in your way was me, you could’ve owned up to your f*ckin’ insecurities any old time you wanted to bury the whole tag team thing for good, but don’t come lookin’ on me sour when I swing back in a fight that ain’t been called yet.
Now, I figure you’n Mike are both workin’ out some sort of means to and ends on account of this bein’ a bit of a must win for the pair of you, especially now since it seems you two are gonna be settin’ the finality aside for another couple of weeks.
My bad.
But for my money? I’m just comin’ to see a man about a dragon. I know you’ve got a similar bit of beef in your stew, but don’t think I’m just gonna hand you the biggest ladle before I’ve gotten my lumps in. You ain’t my concern this time around.
That don’t mean I won’t hit you.
You wanna come at me? By all means.
Just remember the odds don’t exactly favor you when there’s a plurality involved.
Takeoffs & Landings
Boston-Logan International Airport
October 1, 2018
”I don’t like this.”
Me either. Apparently a three month layover’s a bit of a stretch for a personal usher of the skies workin’ on a per diem. To my credit, Jack arranged that sh*t way back when, but I wasn’t exactly in a position to argue when Paul needed the work and Delta came callin’.
So now, I fly business class.
”What’s once more for good luck, huh?”
”Right, assuming Kyzer hasn’t signed some other foreign national who makes his bones playing up his resemblance to mythical creatures.”
Stranger things’ve happened.
”Figure he’s done playing the resident b*tch.”
”Oh, good. He’ll just kill you himself, then.”
”Ain’t how this story ends, Nat.”
”You know, you keep saying that, and it loses meaning more and more every time.”
”We made it, didn’t we?”
”I guess I didn’t think the road would be this bumpy.”
Fair.
”Hey, I warned you on day one. Sh*t goes funny when your last name’s Brennan.”
”Great, so this is my life now.”
”’Fraid so.”
”So how does the story end?”
Ah, f*ck. I ain’t a fan of spoilers, but Boston to London’s a bit of a flight, and I figure I ain’t sleepin’ less I leave her with some sorta content to tide her over.
”C’mon…”
”Don’t ‘c’mon’ me, David…”
Heh.
”...I’m serious. What’s next? The midget drops a mirror full of smack on you and now you’ve got to square up against Kyzer to settle that?”
She ain’t pickin’ up what I’m puttin’ down.
”Look, I meant to peruse this on the ride over, just so I had my ducks in a row, but I think I get it. Why don’t you give it another look. After all, you went and helped me get it in ink.”
I slip her a stack of paper, folded three ways, just as the lady at the desk’s calling my boardin’ group. So much for the dramatic sendoff.
”That’s me, then. ‘Bout a week?”
”That’s it? That’s your grandiose ending to all of this?”
”Just look that over.”
C’mon, Nat. I’m literally gettin’ dragged away by the queue mod, here.
”What do I want with your contract?”
”Read it! I’ll see you in a week!”
Coda
Last chance, Kyzer.
What else is there even left to say?
You gonna finally kill me, or’re you just gonna live with the fact that you might be the third chair in this little orchestra?
Philadelphia, PA
September 9, 2011
”That’s you, then.”
The train’s doors barely have the chance to settle into their open position before a herd of weary travelers begins shuffling on board, shoulder to shoulder, anxious to settle into their seats and begin the journey north. Slowly but surely, the platform, just moments earlier packed equally shoulder to shoulder, clears out, eventually leaving behind, amid those waving their goodbyes before ambling off in the opposite direction and the scattered few who lingered around to see the train off, a pair as conspicuous as the day is long, given the makeup of this morning’s crowd.
He is David Brennan - brutish, hulking, and imposing to any of the nameless, faceless that pass him by en route to their impending commute. His bald head sticks out like a sore thumb, a good head above the crowd, drawing direct attention to the rest of his stature - tattoos from head to toe, a furrowed, scowling brow, and shoulders wide enough to threaten his own potential ingress through the frame of the waiting train’s doors.
His counterpart is Natalie Collins. She stands a fair head and shoulders lower than he, but she’s every bit the conspicuous bystander in her own right. A shock of hair - today, it’s vibrant pink - is clipped tight in a bob, curling well above her shoulders, creating no elongating effect so as to truly accent the sheer difference in height between the two. She’s nestled beneath his right arm, looking up at him with a face that tells a story all its own of hesitance, anxiety, and disconcertion.
”I don’t like this.”
”Yeah, you’d mentioned.”
Numerous times over, in fact. Today was the day she’d been dreading for the better part of a month. Down on their luck and running dangerously short on ways to turn, David had signed a lucrative deal, capitalizing on his long standing willingness to speak with his fists. He was to travel, extensively, plying his newfound trade in a new town each night for public consumption. She was to return home - in the loosest sense of the word - to Boston, where she would wait out his eventual return atop the support of her parents, without whom she’d likely be able to singularly maintain a roof overhead. For weeks, she’d protested this new status quo. Admittedly, the money was good. It was unreasonably good. So much so, that if it were any other soul standing in David’s size thirteens, the decision would be a clear cut no-brainer.
Natalie, to a fault, had eyes for no other soul.
”I know I’ve harped, but it’s not just the nature of it, David…”
Natalie knew that David could fight. She’d seen it firsthand, and though she, herself, had no stomach for the sort of overt physical violence that seemed to be part and parcel for men like David desperately clinging to what little identity the city would afford them, she’d never found herself burdened with worry over the notion of David falling into a scrap he couldn’t claw his way out of. Amid her worries, in fact, she’d even caught herself once protesting, in perennial vain, the wellbeing of anyone unlucky enough to find themselves standing opposite the man who’d fallen into place as her own unwavering pillar.
No, David’s greatest enemies would never stand opposite the ring from him.
David’ greatest enemy, unchecked, was himself.
”I know.”
It was no secret between them.
When Natalie stumbled into David’s life, he’d once again found himself standing precariously close to the edge, a mere shove from once again full on over.
She’d brought him back from the brink - a fact he reminded himself of each day as he woke beside her. With Nat, as he called her, at his side, he was untouchable. She’d given him a reason to wake, a reason to fight.
A reason to live.
”Money’s too good to pass up, though.”
”At what cost, though?”
They both knew.
Unattended, David was an unparalleled host unto himself. Beyond that platform, in the absence of the woman he’d come to depend upon as his main line of support, his vulnerability knew no bounds. Out there, he’d face temptation. Loneliness. Uncertainty.
He was out there.
The two of them had set out, together, toward the new height in David’s life. The new, precarious edge lie now right before them, in the form of a platform gap. The moment Nat set foot upon that outbound train, David would once more find himself standing solely atop the support of his own two feet - pillars untested in these new and unfamiliar waters.
It was sink or swim.
The former would see him tilting head first into uncharted territory, unleashed upon the world with no restraints to hold him back.
The latter would bring them everything they’d ever dreamed.
To her, it was an unflinching, imbalanced matter of risk-reward.
To him, it was a reason to fight.
”D’you not trust me?”
She stares at him, momentarily stunned by his forward query.
”David, it’s not that I don’t, it’s just…”
”Then don’t sweat it.”
”That’s a bit of a tall order.”
”I know. We’ve been playin’ sh*t safe for so long. Survivalist instinct. Anything outside that’s gonna be a straight up shock.”
”And you don’t even have to go back home.”
”Don’t envy that, nah. But you know somethin’? I think I got this. Couple months, maybe a year? Put it all behind us. Like it didn’t even happen.”
”I wish I shared your optimism.”
”Spend enough time as low as me? Starts to look like there ain’t nowhere to go but up.”
She jumps some as a loud blast from the train’s engine signifies the impending intent to depart.
”You’re gonna wanna get goin’, though.”
”I promise you, I’m not.”
”Alright, I know - but still…”
”I know. I know.”
He pulls her close, kissing the top of her head as if it’s the only point upon her person he can reach. She gleans up, rising to her toes to return the favor, clutching him around the waist with a dead set unwillingness to let go. Finally, however, she does, stumbling with each step as she boards, unwilling to look away as he eyes her every move to her seat. She comes to the window, lowering it enough to afford them undeterred space to exchange any final pleasantries, but, not wanting to aggravate the matter any, he offers only a smile, strolling along as the train begins to roll.
”Just do me one thing?”
”Name it.”
”Try and not get hurt, would you?”
He smiles again, this time involuntarily, meeting her eyes and imploring her to return the favor just before the train accelerates, out of pace with any reasonable human, and finally, out of sight.
David Brennan:
Coda
Massachusetts General Hospital
Boston, MA
July 8, 2018
”Mrs. Brennan? Your car’s ready.”
It takes her a second to realize the orderly’s talkin’ to her. I can’t relate, havin’ spent the entirety of my years answerin’ to not but David, Private Brennan, or hey assh*le, but I figure it’d be right jarrin’ for just about anybody to suddenly find ‘emselves cast beneath a new banner like that. I’m able to muster a smile - sh*t still hurts just about everywhere - and she dips her a head a bit, realizin’ I’m takin’ the piss.
How’d you spend your summer vacation?
”You ready?”
I ain’t used to actin’ at the behest of others, but thanks to a f*ckin’ dragon, I ain’t exactly in the best of position to be callin’ the shots, so it’s sort of foreign to me, havin’ to gesture with a nod to indicate I’m ready to roll - literally - as opposed to just walkin’ my ass out.
We’re all learnin’ as we go here.
”Two weeks ago.”
”To the day, if you hadn’t noticed.”
That f*ckin’ dragon.
”I guess flyin’s right out.”
”Well, at least you’ve still got your wits about you. I’ve gotta run back in and grab my bag. You want a drink for the ride?”
”Am I allowed?”
”Full discharge. Best I know, the only thing you aren’t to be doing for the next few weeks is moving.”
”Sure. Surprise me.”
Great.
Out of the fryin’ pan and into the fire. I ain’t ever been a fan of hospitals to begin with, but if you put me to it, I’d have to think good’n hard to decide whether or not I hate sittin’ stagnant more.
At least the atmosphere’ll have improved.
Hospitals might just take it.
”Here. I’d say you’ve earned it.”
Dr. Pepper.
The last f*ckin’ doctor I wanna see for a millenia.
Get yourself a girl who gets you.
”You been back?”
”Have you see me leave?”
She rightfully looks at me like I’m stupid. Home’s a good four hours out. She’d have had to have been a miracle woman to have slipped that one unnoticed.
Not that she ain’t but still.
That’s a whole new lot of sh*t to mind.
”Probably be lucky to find the house still standin’.”
She grasps my hand as the car rolls out the lot, into the mix of Boston traffic.
Even on a Sunday, this city just blows goats.
”Try not to think about it. A-Wut’s been minding things. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Yeah.
She said that.
”You’re kiddin’...”
”He’s really taken to this whole ‘having a home’ thing. Give him a chance.”
F*ck me.
”Sure. Great.”
I can’t fake this sh*t, man. Not in this state.
”Be lucky to find the house still standin’.”
The Rifleman
You learn a lot, growin’ up the son of The Devil himself.
Sorry, didn’t mean to take you down a peg there so quickly, Mike, but facts is facts.
You ain’t half the evil sorta c*nt Jack Brennan was. That’s a bar so high even you’d OD before gettin’ a third of the way there.
Anyway.
I might’ve kept my distance, nothin’ quite stickin’ like a federal sentence, but there’s only so far you can stand by and watch, bein’ Boston’s born and bred personal Damien. To this day, if Jack hadn’t gone and lost the fed’s interest a few years back by bitin’ the proverbial aged bullet, I could - to this day - write the dissertation for ‘em on the who, what, when, where, why, and how of the Brennan Crime Family and tidy up the mess they’d made of the whole thing way back when they went and tapped Jack to hand over the big Italian target of the day.
Too much salt’ll going and taint the whole pot, y’know?
Figure that’s why Jack always cycled his boys. Sure, he had his stalwarts - Messy. Fitzy. This lug down the Seaport missin’ half a chromosome. - but if he had somethin’ particularly tacky stickin’ out he couldn’t afford to have stick, he’d go to the well. Loose tongues’re a hell of easier to cut free, and no one’s gonna be freely weepin’ for a guy whose only marketable skillset was of exclusive value to a guy like Jack.
Facts is facts.
Even the top of the barrel - the Fitzys, the Messys, and the absent chromosomes - would get tapped ahead of the man himself to do the messy work when push come to shove, even if it was all just for formality’s sake. Ain’t enough brains among the lot of ‘em to run an operation unto ‘emselves, so Jack always figured why bother breakin’ a sweat when the heat’ll come lookin’ his way anyway.
Smart business. Guys like him don’t stick around the fester as long as he did on account of a lack of common sense.
I ain’t meanin’ to dictate a history lesson here, but all this is to really get ahead of the inevitable line of questionin’ comin’ my way regardin’ the other half of Seaport’s missin’ chromosome what left me out to dry atop the bronzed visage of number four this past summer.
Let’s make one thing perfectly clear - I don’t care how many times the marketin’ team wants to print the words ‘Dragon Unleashed’ in big, bold, bullsh*t atop some f*ckin’ banner to sell another row - That’s mother f*cker’s always gonna be tied to a thread, and you’d have to be some sorta Schneider-f*ckin’-stupid to figure that sh*t leads to anyone but the would-be devil you know.
Guys like Messy? Melvins like Fitzy? Bridge Trolls like Seaport?
They’re still walkin’ this earth doin’ jobs because nobody’s f*ckin’ stupid enough to waste any bit of energy trickin’ ‘emselves into thinkin’ that Messy, Fitzy, or Seaport’d ever be able to muster up the charisma, the cylindrical fire, or the overarching wherewithal to put out a hit of their own volition in their own f*ckin’ interest.
In short?
I ain’t gonna waste the energy on some f*ckin’ man-dragon.
I know who you work for, Mongol.
Back to the World
The Avalon Pro-Wrestling Academy
Manchester, NH
August 11, 2018
”That’s a fair bit more’n a couple of stragglers down Frankie’s way, yeah?”
Ain’t every day I find myself starin’ out the lookin’ side of the one way glass. Come to think, last time I’d found myself on this side of the table was back when the staties had me come and get the kid.
Guess I’ve got Tugarin Zmey to thank for a lack of opportunity to wind up on the other side.
”Word travels fast, I guess. I’m not going to pretend that I haven’t had more than a few long hauls blaming the commute on Frank’s about-face a while back there, but yeah, we’re definitely exceeding expectations.”
Meyer’s voice rings out with a stink of pride. A better part of me would’ve ran him over the coals for it, but in a rare show of courteous restraint, I opt instead to bite a damn hole in my tongue and let him have this one. Guy’s earned it, and that ain’t lip service - beneath us, three rings (up from two) are filled to the brim with wide eyed suckers runnin’ drills like every last step was integral to the next. Meyer’s eyes dart around like a kid’s got his hand on the cursor wavin’ it without abandon. Minutes ago, he’d run down the gamut, rattlin’ off the names and quirks of every last idiot what’s paid him a dime lookin’ to make it in this world. He was certain as we stood beside one another that somewhere down there he had a star on his hands. He was just waitin’ for the sh*t to shine.
God damn.
Chris Meyer’d finally found his callin’.
”How goes the kid?”
He points without even hesitatin’, to the boisterous loudmouth holdin’ court in the center of what he’d dubbed ‘the beginner’s ring’, tossin’ guys twice her size into the ropes like they was those old stuffed pillows shaped like Stan McMann they used to put out.
”Just waiting her turn in line.”
”They ain’t called?”
”You know the routine.”
Typical Sleater. Signs a blank check to bring in some health nut hard on for a one off while pretendin’ she can’t see the cream risin’ to the top.
”You callin’?”
”Every day. That morose looking piece of work in the center ring’s Mark Chalice. I’ve had him on board for close to six months now, figuring Lizzie was getting the call any day now. Sleater’d be bleeding me dry if Lizzie hadn’t stepped up for free.”
”She’s workin’ pro-bono?”
”Tried to talk her out of it, but she insisted. Won’t cash the checks. All she wants is to be in that ring. She’d sleep there if I’d let her.”
F*ckin’ wonder, man. It still blows my mind to this day, the folks that’re dyin’ to make this sh*t a livin’. Kids that probably’ve got a couple resumes’ worth of marketable skills to rely upon otherwise. Kids like Lizzie Hyde down there, wavin’ up at a f*ckin’ mirror as her charges amble and fall out of the ring as class comes to an end, sufficiently beaten to a pulp while she’s ready and rearin’ to go another twelve rounds. She could do anything she wants, but she figures this is what she wants most, and if it weren’t for Meyer, there wouldn’t be a soul in the world givin’ her a shake.
Then you’ve got me, who’d rather be doin’ anything but, and if my ass ain’t on a plane to some godforsaken stop on a tour of “World Domination”, I’m on the losin’ end of a bargain.
I’ve got a half a mind to call up one of the stripes here’n now and lay down for the kid. Make her Sleater’s problem by way of force.
Not that I’d exactly have to fake it to make it. The kid’s probably got more ring hours’n me under her belt these past three months.
Still my belt, though.
”School’s out?”
Meyer shoots me this half-assed little devil’s grin, like he’s been waitin’ for this moment all his life and still can’t muster the rotten to relish the moment.
”For them. You ready?”
F*ckin’ no.
Up to the Altar
Let me make one thing perfectly clear.
I don’t need to be doin’ this.
Suffice to say, I don’t much f*ckin’ like doin’ this anymore, either.
That ain’t to say I’m still here on account of somethin’ to prove.
Name me anyone left that’s the least bit f*ckin’ relevant, and I’ll tell you when and where I put their ass to the mat.
I’ve heard tell of some folk tryin’ to start and seize upon the fact that I ain’t spent much of the last year plus defendin’ the honor of this here title.
Like it’s my f*ckin’ problem that the revolvin’ door of WFWF Talent Relations ain’t churned out anyone broachin’ on even close to capable of takin’ this sh*t off of my hands.
Sit down, Frank. There ain’t a soul you can beat that’d validate that sh*t you call a win.
Just like there ain’t a soul left to put in front of me that’d be comin’ for anything more’n a feeble attempt at a receipt.
Case in point?
My latest round of takers.
Lemme ask you somethin’
The f*ck either of you think I’ve got to lose, come London?
A title?
Please. The fact that I’m the last of us to land that particular hot potato’s just a symptom of time and place. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less.
My pride?
Salt Lake City, September of twenty sixteen.
May of this year, Madison Square Garden.
My physical well being?
Sh*t - that ship sailed in Boston. Either of you wanted that, maybe you’d have stepped up yourself, ‘stead of bein’ a b*tch and lettin’ a f*ckin lurch Mongolian have all the fun.
I mean, anything else?
I almost feel bad.
The office is sellin’ this sh*t like the big payoff. The feud to end all feuds.
‘The End of an Epoch’
(F*ck me, I hope you fired whoever came up with that sh*t)
To read the materials, if you didn’t know any better, you’d figure this was the capstone on some long encompassing story of wit, will, and the implosion of an unrivaled, unstoppable force.
Forgive me for figurin’ that story’s been dead for years.
The way I see it? This sh*t’s all you, guys.
I’ve beat you, Drakz.
I’ve beat you, Kyzer.
Is there really much of a draw in a basic formality?
I mean, I’ll fight you.
I’ll probably f*ckin’ win, too. But really?
I’m just comin’ to give the lot of y’all somethin’ to remember me by.
Good Friends, Better Enemies
”Aw, you never let me have any fun!”
Over the years, I’d grow pretty accustomed to Drakz’s brand of off-color ribbin’. Guy was about as aloof as they come, even when he likely had a right bone to pick with you. Just his nature, I guess. Still, I know better’n to let my guard down any just on account of him talkin’ lightly, which is good as gold. It don’t get much higher on the guard front than havin’ just pulled the stunt I had, duckin’ out without so much as a ‘hey’ to the fumin’ head of state, and standin’ out in the ether amid the heart of Mexico City. Jack’d probably still turn in his box over me not packin’, but I don’t see any sense in addin’ an international weapons charge to the mix.
”Should’ve called ahead. Sorry, man.”
”You right should’ve stood back and let it happen, mate.”
Just like that, he’s deadly serious. If I felt his eyes on me, I’d flinch, thinkin’ he was fixin’ to cut me, but he stares straight ahead, and I’m in no rush to fuel the fire. We’ve done our share of starin’ for the night, I think. Might as well leave it to the streets.
”Bills to pay.”
”That’s pish. Sleater might be the last hopeless twat ‘round here that doesn’t figure you’re already on the outs. The f*ck are you still trying to prove?”
Got me there.
”I dunno. What’ll you hold me?”
”Josh Dean, if you’re lucky, but I figure you and I’d come content to let sleeping….well, to let things be.”
He’s still hung up on that f*ckin’ dog thing. Don’t ask me.
”Couldn’t let her have this one, man. You know that.”
”So thump her for one, why not?”
Eesh, he’s legit hot. I ain’t seen this outta him in years.
”I ain’t meant to upset you.”
”Don’t be a c*nt. You know me and him’ve got history.”
”You writin’ a Broadway show, or is it just easier to leave out the details?”
”F*ck you. You had your way with him. What, are you afraid Furious Frank might’ve pulled another fast one on you before you and I could go proper?”
There’s the Dean card, in case you were wonderin’.
”Don’t blame your shortcomings on your own ego. Ain’t a good look, even for you.”
You picked Dean to play second fiddle, not me, pal.
”Figured you’d be out hunting dragon, anyway.”
”Ain’t in season.”
”So f*ck me, then, right?”
”You could always step aside.”
”Better chance of that woman of yours arranging us a playdate, I think.”
”I’ll try not to step on your toes.”
”You do, I’ll f*cking break yours.”
”That’s fair.”
Look, it’s nothin’ personal, but c’mon.
You didn’t think I was gonna let that sh*t slide, did you?
I mean, if you did, that’s on you, and I’ll stand here and call you for the opportunistic piece of sh*t that you are. If your tilt against Kyzer was dependent on me bein’ taken outta the picture, then I put that dragon sh*t just as much on you as I do on him. I’ve come to expect the spam outta him, but you?
Sh*t, I thought there was a bit more’n that to you.
Guess you can take the boy outta the Epoch…
I know we been playin’ friendly these past few rounds, but if you needed to get to Kyzer so bad and alls that was standin’ in your way was me, you could’ve owned up to your f*ckin’ insecurities any old time you wanted to bury the whole tag team thing for good, but don’t come lookin’ on me sour when I swing back in a fight that ain’t been called yet.
Now, I figure you’n Mike are both workin’ out some sort of means to and ends on account of this bein’ a bit of a must win for the pair of you, especially now since it seems you two are gonna be settin’ the finality aside for another couple of weeks.
My bad.
But for my money? I’m just comin’ to see a man about a dragon. I know you’ve got a similar bit of beef in your stew, but don’t think I’m just gonna hand you the biggest ladle before I’ve gotten my lumps in. You ain’t my concern this time around.
That don’t mean I won’t hit you.
You wanna come at me? By all means.
Just remember the odds don’t exactly favor you when there’s a plurality involved.
Takeoffs & Landings
Boston-Logan International Airport
October 1, 2018
”I don’t like this.”
Me either. Apparently a three month layover’s a bit of a stretch for a personal usher of the skies workin’ on a per diem. To my credit, Jack arranged that sh*t way back when, but I wasn’t exactly in a position to argue when Paul needed the work and Delta came callin’.
So now, I fly business class.
”What’s once more for good luck, huh?”
”Right, assuming Kyzer hasn’t signed some other foreign national who makes his bones playing up his resemblance to mythical creatures.”
Stranger things’ve happened.
”Figure he’s done playing the resident b*tch.”
”Oh, good. He’ll just kill you himself, then.”
”Ain’t how this story ends, Nat.”
”You know, you keep saying that, and it loses meaning more and more every time.”
”We made it, didn’t we?”
”I guess I didn’t think the road would be this bumpy.”
Fair.
”Hey, I warned you on day one. Sh*t goes funny when your last name’s Brennan.”
”Great, so this is my life now.”
”’Fraid so.”
”So how does the story end?”
Ah, f*ck. I ain’t a fan of spoilers, but Boston to London’s a bit of a flight, and I figure I ain’t sleepin’ less I leave her with some sorta content to tide her over.
”C’mon…”
”Don’t ‘c’mon’ me, David…”
Heh.
”...I’m serious. What’s next? The midget drops a mirror full of smack on you and now you’ve got to square up against Kyzer to settle that?”
She ain’t pickin’ up what I’m puttin’ down.
”Look, I meant to peruse this on the ride over, just so I had my ducks in a row, but I think I get it. Why don’t you give it another look. After all, you went and helped me get it in ink.”
I slip her a stack of paper, folded three ways, just as the lady at the desk’s calling my boardin’ group. So much for the dramatic sendoff.
”That’s me, then. ‘Bout a week?”
”That’s it? That’s your grandiose ending to all of this?”
”Just look that over.”
C’mon, Nat. I’m literally gettin’ dragged away by the queue mod, here.
”What do I want with your contract?”
”Read it! I’ll see you in a week!”
Coda
Last chance, Kyzer.
What else is there even left to say?
You gonna finally kill me, or’re you just gonna live with the fact that you might be the third chair in this little orchestra?