Post by Press1269 on Jan 29, 2016 21:21:31 GMT
Press tinkered with the spark plug caught between his thumb and forefinger, gingerly placing it into its port. The task was a simple one for any mechanic, but when you had ham hocks like his, it could be tedious work. Working on the car was something he had picked up early on in his youth, his grandfather being a successful mechanic in Jacksonville. While under his watchful eye, Press had learned how to tear down and rebuild just about any American vehicle. The Pontiac was an inheritance from his grandfather, the only real thing that tied them together during his troubled past. He understood how cars worked, and that there were only a handful of things that could keep the vehicle from performing. That made it simple, and he needed simple right now. If not for that car, he might just implode.
Bad Behavior VIII was already in the record books, a relatively successful show for Evolution Wrestling, but a travesty as far as he was concerned. The BombTrax had their own plans going into the show, their own agendas, and had all but been given a green light by the Lady that had signed them two weeks ago. Yet before that plan could be executed, they had been cut off by Alfred Candy, who had handed them a script with a not so candid declaration that if they wanted to get paid, then they would see it done. This script included closing out the show by beating the hell out of Alex Cross, someone that they hadn’t been planning on tangling with at this time, and allowing the current EW Heavyweight Champion, Doctor Powerful Incorporated, to come out looking even better than he already had. During his speech, earlier in the night, the champion had made clear that he didn’t think much of the BombTrax, which would have usually earned him his second ass beating at their hands. Unfortunately, Candy’s script was clear. No one was to touch the new Champion.
Bad Behavior IX was set to take place in Sand Diego, but seeing as they had just gotten paid, they felt the need to return to Las Vegas and settle some debts. Frank was surprised when they handed him the two thousand dollars they owed him, probably disappointed in the fact that he wouldn’t be able to continue to tally up the interest. They had also bought a few supplies for the mission, and a few things for the Pontiac. All in all, they still had about two thousand dollars to their name, with the expected five thousand they would receive after Bad Behavior IX. Press was confident that after Munin had words with Alfred Candy, that things would improve on the creative front.
He was putting the spark plug caps back into place when Youth rounded the corner into the open garage door. His expression was a mask of disappointment, and Press immediately felt a knot form in his stomach.
“What?” He asked, raising an eyebrow expectantly.
Youth stuffed his hands in his pockets, and stared down at the floor as he delivered the depressing news. “Just got off the phone with Jasmine. Apparently after Bad Behavior VIII, Sam Xayachak got canned, and Munin split.”
Press stood there for a moment, his facial expressions filtering through shock, confusion, anxiousness, and finally settling on anger. “What the fuck?! Did she say why?”
Youth shook his head ‘no’, and shrugged dispassionately. “Not really….But there’s more bad news.”
Press could feel the blood rushing to his face, his neck growing tight as his teeth ground together. He made a motion with his hand for his partner to be out with it.
“They terminated our contract.” Youth said sheepishly, awaiting the tirade to come.
The big man’s eyes went wide, and he almost looked like a Warner Brother’s cartoon character. If there had been steam omitting from his ears, the scene would be complete. He opened his mouth to say something, stammered over his words, stopped, and then spun on his heel to hide his face from Youth. A million thoughts ran through his mind, but he was sure that there was no way of articulating the jumble of anger and betrayal he was feeling right now. He reached into his pocket, and produced his cell phone, quickly navigating his contacts until it came to rest on the name he was searching for, ‘Munin’. Then he pressed call.
He held the phone up to his ear and began to pace back and forth between the spaces of the garage. The phone rang several times until finally it went to voicemail. He hung up without leaving a message, and pressed call again. Same thing.
Youth stood there watching his partner and instantly knew who it was he was trying to reach. He had already tried, immediately after the phone call from Jasmine, and had already got the same thing. He knew that any moment now that phone was going to be slung across the garage, and quite frankly, they couldn’t afford it, so he decided to intervene.
The voicemail came on for a third time, and just as Press was about to pitch the phone into the far wall, Youth took hold of his wrist. Press looked down at his partner with violent eyes, but Youth just shook his head, and took the phone from the big man’s hand. Press stepped over to his work bench and slammed his fists down on the surface, everything that he’d been holding back since they had started this adventure of getting their names back on the map boiling to the surface. Even though he had commented on it a thousand times, predicted that something would go wrong, he had just started to allow himself to enjoy the moment. Just now allowed himself to relax. That was just it, though. These two men, these two warriors, would never be able to relax. There was no such thing as an easy go of it, and nothing about their lives ever would be. At the end of the day, they would die, cold and alone, without a god damn thing to show for it, and it pissed him off.
Youth knew how his friend felt, even worse, that he was guilty of being the one who had pushed them in this direction. If he had just let things continue going as they had been, then they wouldn’t be dealing with any of these feelings. They’d be broke, fulfilling their mission however they could, but without the disappointment of false hopes and broken promises. Once again, their ticket had been punched, and without either of them having a say in the matter.
Press finally turned from his work table to face his partner, and leaned against it, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, at least we got some cash out of it. I suggest we hold onto that for as long as we can, and I’ll call Frank in the morning to see if he has any work for us.”
Youth sighed heavily, but nodded. There was nothing he could say in light of the fact that he felt this was all his fault, so he turned and made his way towards the stairs that led back up to their apartment. Press watched him go, knowing the guilt that was on his partner’s mind, but decided not to try and relieve him of it. It wouldn’t work anyways. They’d both have to find their own ways of dealing with such a shitty situation. For now, the car wouldn’t fix itself, so he stepped back over to the open hood, and set about tightening everything back up.
*****A FEW WEEKS LATER*****
Press had gone out to an apartment complex that frank owned to access how much work would need to be done to make it rentable again, while Youth rummaged through receipts at the kitchen table. He liked to try and get everything in order early for the accountant, considering tax season was right around the corner, and they needed an IRS audit like they needed a hole in the head. Not to mention the task took up some much needed space in his brain, and prevented him from dwelling on the events of the past few weeks.
Christmas had come and gone, neither of the men really feeling in a festive spirit. He had went out on his own to one of Frank’s bars, gotten too drunk, and went home with a cocktail waitress named Bridgette. Press had done what he always did around the holidays; nursed a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label and brooded. No deck the halls in this house, or eggnog by the tree. Nah, that was for the sheep that didn’t have the first clue what the pagan holiday actually represented. Besides, they didn’t have much money for such things, and probably wouldn’t have enjoyed them even if they had. It was just a sour time in the men’s lives.
Youth paused in his organizing and stapling long enough to hop up, and head over to the fridge for a cold beer. He noticed the mail sitting on the counter next to the appliance, and assumed that Press had brought it in after his morning excursion to the donut shop down the street. He scooped up the envelopes, and tossed them onto the kitchen table beside his work before flopping back down into his seat. The first envelope was the electric bill, to which he grunted, and tossed off to the side. The next two were credit card offers, which he promptly whisked into the trash. Somewhere between an advertisement for a new restaurant, and a letter from the DMV about the Pontiac’s tag, was an elegant envelope with a Japanese Lilly printed on the front. There was no return address printed in the left corner, but the words ‘New Orleans, Louisiana’ was laid over the stamp in black ink.
Once he took the envelope, and brought it closer for inspection, he could smell the faint hint of a woman’s perfume emanating from the parchment, and he recognized the sweet smell instantly. It wasn’t just any woman’s, it was from a Lady. He eagerly flipped the envelope over in his hand, and gently used his fingernail to peel the flap back. Upon opening it, he pulled out three items. Two of the items were cashier’s checks, one written out to him, the other for Press, both in the amount of fifteen hundred dollars. The final item was a postcard with an amusement park landscape washed in blue on the front, and the words ‘Pure Amusement, Purity, Louisiana’ in white across the bottom. Upon turning it over, a brief message was penned in an exquisitely tight script;
"The attack on Alex Cross was not part of the plan, but I know what led to it. In the future, remember, when push comes to shove, always side with me. I will take care of you. If you believe that, meet me in Louisiana, and I'll make it worth your while."
Respectfully,
-Munin-
He recalled the first time he had ever received a note from her, stuffed into a manila folder that contained five hundred dollars and a wrestling contract for EW. It had also been short, direct, and to the point. It had changed the direction of their destiny, if for ever so briefly. This one carried the same weight, but with none of the details and particulars.
He sat back in his chair uncertain of what to do next, all of his previous actions completely erased. On one hand, he wanted to jump for joy, start packing his bags. On the other, he wanted to rip the damn thing up, and toss it in the trash. For a brief moment, he even contemplated hiding it from his partner, who despite acting as though he had calmed down, was still as perturbed by recent events as he was.
That thought quickly escaped him, as the front door burst open, and Press bustled in. He had in his hands a few bags from Home Depot filled with paint brushes, a paint pan, and a tarp. He looked over at his partner, who sat there with a panicked expression, and holding some sort of postcard in his hand.
He paused in the doorway, staring from the postcard to his partner’s face, and then back to the postcard. “What’s that?” He asked, indicating the post card with a nod of his head.
“Um….it’s a postcard.” Youth replied dumbly, tossing the item onto the table nonchalantly.
Press’ eyes narrowed as he stepped further in and used his foot to push the door closed behind him. He dropped the bags in the corner, and stepped over to scoop up the postcard. He looked at the front side first, the picture of the amusement park, grunted, and then flipped it over to see who it was from. He scanned the words on the back, and then tossed it down onto the table, a sullen look on his face.
Silence filled the kitchen as the gears inside both men’s brains turned, rebooted, and then turned again. Finally, Press grabbed a beer from the fridge, and took a seat at the table across from Youth. The younger of the two picked up Press’ check, and tossed it over to him. At the sight of the dollar signs, the big man sighed heavily. “What do you think?”
“I think I pushed us into this mess in the first place. It’s your call this time.” Youth replied, leaning back into his seat, and taking a sip of beer.
Press shook his head, “We both got ourselves into this mess. Might have been your suggestion, but I went along with it. Don’t be so hard on yourself, cause it’s not our fault. It seems the Lady still has need of us.”
“Yeah, in Louisiana. That’s a far cry from making a few shows in neighboring states. That’s halfway across the country! We could never make that kind of schedule, assuming that it’s a steady gig, and it’s actually a wrestling promotion.”
“She wouldn’t have sent it if she wasn’t serious.” Press replied, tapping his long fingers on the kitchen table. “Nah, she’s got something up her sleeve, and I intend to find out what it is.”
“So we’re going?” Youth asked, surprised.
“Not just going, moving. I think it’s time to take this party back down south. Purity is around two hours outside of New Orleans, if I remember the lay of the land, and we got friends there. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of this set up. I mean, I appreciate Frank, but this game’s old. Besides, what better place in the world to do battle with evil spirits if not in one of the most heavily voodoo populated cities? If there’s something for us to do for Munin, fine. If not, that’s fine too. At least in the South we know we can make a living.”
“Hell, Yeah!” Youth exclaimed, a wide grin forming over his face. “I love New Orleans.”
Press nodded, and leaned back in his chair, settled on the idea of having some form of direction. He wasn’t sure what the Munin had in mind for them, but the note indicated that she was just as displeased with events in EW as they had been. Obviously so for her to abandon the project, and so quickly make moves to start something new. The fact that she had used the word ‘believe’ made him think that she really wanted their trust. Furthermore, she had, up to this point, taken care of them. He had been really angry when he was unable to get ahold of her, and still wasn’t entirely sure what her angle was, but Fate had led them this far, and he saw no reason not to see where the ride took them.
“So when do we leave?” Youth asked, breaking Press away from his private musings.
“I see no reason why we shouldn’t get out of here as soon as possible. I’ll go grab some boxes and crates from the Amos’ fruit stand down the street, and we can start packing. We still have a commitment to Frank to finish that apartment, but I can get it done in a few days if you’re willing to pack everything up. Most of the furniture came with this place, so we shouldn’t have much to move. I’d say we could be on the road in three days. With the money she’s given us, plus the money we got stashed from EW, we should have enough to make it to New Orleans, and get a decent place. If nothing else, we can probably bunk with Samedi.”
Youth raised his eyebrows at the mention of the Cajun. “You think he’s forgiven us from our last visit to New Orleans?”
Press shrugged, “I don’t see him as the type to hold a grudge. Besides, how could we have known he had investments with that coven? It’s not like he mentioned it before.”
“Yeah, but that was a lot of money he lost. I wouldn’t bet on him welcoming us back in with open arms.”
“Maybe, but you know the rules of the bar. All are welcome there, it’s neutral ground.”
“Just like you know those same rules don’t apply to the establishment.”
“Fine, we won’t be bunking with him, but you damn well know we’ll have to stop in and say hello. It’s custom. You don’t come into someone else’s home turf without letting them know that you’re there.”
Youth sighed, but he nodded his agreement. Those were the rules, after all. A tentative agreement between all those who had been God touched. The term was one that held a broad spectrum of definitions. Press & Youth were Hunters, just like Jin and her boys. However, there were also those who were seers/clairvoyants, otherwise known as Oracles. There were also the practitioners, magic wielders, holy men, and despite whatever their religion or belief, they were known as Priests. Etiquette dictated that if you had previous knowledge of any of these individuals already occupying an area, then it was your duty to inform them of your presence so as not to step on any toes. It was just good for business.
Samuel, or Samedi in his circles, was a Priest. He owned a tavern in New Orleans for many years that was a safe haven for both sides of the war that raged in the background of this world. Though he claimed to be neutral, he was a good man, which meant that he tended to lean towards the side of the angels despite his conscious effort to remain in-between. Other than providing a watering hole for the supernatural, Semedi was also the foremost supplier of spell components and holy relics in the South East.
Youth ran his fingers through his dark hair, and tussled it a bit before resting his elbows on the kitchen table. “So, are we really doing this?”
“Why not?” Press answered, question for a question. “I’ve had a few weeks to process and to think, and the original reason we even started all of this wrestling talk again was because we didn’t want to end up with nothing at the end of the day. If we’re going to risk our necks, we need cash, we need stability. We need to be able to unwind every once in a while, have a life outside of the crazy we live with on a daily basis. In order to do that, in order to keep up with the mission, we have to have a regular place to hang our hat. The entire time we’ve been here in Vegas, we’ve either been on the hunt or working for Frank, just barely making ends meet. We don’t have any friends or family, outside of each other, and at least in New Orleans we know that won’t be the case. You were right about complacency a few months ago. I say we start fresh, and what better place than there.”
Youth had started smiling somewhere in the middle of Press’s monologue, nodding at the appropriate parts and getting more excited with every word. There was only two ways this move could go; really awesome, or really shitty. But that was true for almost any decision, any time, or anywhere, so the odds weren’t that bad. He coolly leaned back in his seat, and with a confident smirk on his face, asked…
“What are we waiting for? New Orleans, here we come….”
