Post by Press1269 on Jul 17, 2016 4:56:48 GMT
SEAT OF POWER - Chapter 2
THE MAISON
THE MAISON
508 Frenchmen Street – New Orleans, Louisiana
7/12/2016
Press stood at the edge of the roof of Bamboula’s, a local eatery/night club located on Frenchman Street in downtown New Orleans. The venue had originally been a printing shop, but had since then been gutted and turned into a place of entertainment. It was more known for its food and drink specials than it was for its music, unlike its neighbor located right beside them.
The neon sign of The Maison cast the big man in a purple hue every time it pulsed, and if anyone had been aware of his presence below, they would have probably thought him a gargoyle ready to swoop down and snatch them up as in the stories of old. But he was no stone Gollum, but a man on a mission. The BombTrax had studied the local tabloids and free papers, and had followed a string of recent deaths in the homeless denizens of New Orleans. Most had been found in this area, some in the very service alley below him that separated Bamboula’s and The Maison.
The deaths had been attributed to natural causes, heart attack or stroke, but there was one thing that tied all of them together. They had all been males, usually between the ages of thirty to thirty-five. The police probably could have put two and two together, but because the men were deemed homeless, no one bothered to care. There were thousands of homeless roaming the streets of New Orleans, many victims of the aftermath of Katrina with no homes to return to. The government, along with private agencies, had helped many people restart their lives, but the truth was, there just wasn’t enough funds to restart the populace of an entire city. Those who already had, survived. Those who didn’t, were cast into the streets.
They made easy prey for those who stalked the night. Prey for those that he was charged to protect.
Youth had been scouting Frenchmen Street for the past couple of days, and had covered a lot of ground over the weekend. He narrowed down a few suspects that continued to show up at different haunts every night, and further calculated the list after conducting subtle introductions with his candidates. He was pretty sure he was onto something at The Maison, so he was down below, playing the part of frat boy, while Press waited on the roof, a cinder block resting beside his foot. They couldn’t be sure what kind of monster they were dealing with, but none of their targets would appreciate a block of concrete dropping from four stories up. If it didn’t stop them outright, the least it would do is slow them down. All he had to do was wait for Youth to make the confirmation, and get them in position.
He crossed his arms over his chest, and sighed heavily. Unfortunately, this type of work was a waiting game, and one that only minimally depended on him. He usually didn’t mind being on his own, especially if there was a bottle of whiskey to keep him company, but in the past few weeks he had found it becoming more and more difficult. When left to his own devices Press really only had two options. Reflection, or self-destruction. He found often he would start with one, only to quickly come to the other, and it didn’t much matter which he began with.
As of late, most of his reflections led him to Munin. He knew that he shouldn’t care, but he couldn’t help but notice how different she was towards him now. Rather, how distant. As if she had no more room for the two men in her life now that Alex Cross was back as her full time lover.
Alex Cross. The mere thought of him left a bad taste in the big man’s mouth. He didn’t really have any reason to hate Alex as much as he did other than Munin, but the truth is, that was completely out of his hands before he ever met the woman. Alex and Munin had history. It was only natural that, given their feelings for one another, that they want to reconnect and rekindle what they had almost lost. If he had the same opportunity to save what he had shared with Tammy, he wouldn’t even hesitate.
No, it wasn’t so much jealousy that fueled his anger, as much as it was Alex Cross himself. The man was arrogant, cocky, and for the most part, full of shit. He tried to play it off as if that was some character he portrayed to his friends, but Press saw through that charade. No, that arrogant cock sucker believed his own hype. Thought he was untouchable. Thought he was good enough to stand up to anyone. That is, till he wasn’t. Till he was buried in the bottom of a bottle feeling sorry for himself like the insecure little bitch that he was. He cost the promotion that Munin was trying to build when he came to the ring at WICKED#9 drunk. Could have cost Johnny Raike, or himself, an injury. Yet that didn’t spell it out for everyone. That this was a guy who couldn’t be trusted. That this was a guy who would turn to shit whatever he touched. That this was a guy that simply just wasn’t worth it.
No, everyone was supposed to feel sorry for him, and maybe that’s why Press really hated him. Deep down he knew that if that had been him, no one would have given a shit, least of all Munin. The BombTrax and Munin were business. Alex Cross and Munin was/is personal. No matter how much she might deny it, or think herself above it, personal always trumps business.
But Press didn’t feel sorry for him. He had faced all manner of opponent inside the ring, and slayed all manner of creature on his mission, and there were some in both arenas that deserved redemption or destruction. Alex Cross didn’t deserve either. He deserved to be forgotten.
Press let out a sharp exhale, feeling his blood begin to boil, and decided to send his thoughts down another path.
Calvin Harris. Now there was a clear example of business that was fast approaching personal. The little pipsqueak hadn’t even given him a chance to savor his victory over CJ O’Donnell before he started running that cum guzzler he called a mouth. It was completely beyond him how this man was next in line for his championship. That’s not to say that Calvin didn’t have skill, because he does. That’s not to say that Calvin didn’t earn his spot, because he did. But what Calvin Harris continually proved every time he opened his mouth was that he didn’t have the foresight to learn from his mistakes.
That, or he was 100% delusional.
At WICKED#13 he claimed that he wasn’t like everyone else. He claimed that he wasn’t afraid of the champion. That he wouldn’t back down. It was almost comical if it hadn’t been so absurd. Who the fuck was asking him to? Just one more lesson he had to learn, when at WICKED#14, he was sent for the ride off the entrance stage. Press knew that he wouldn’t get the message even though he spelled it out for him. There’d be more shenanigans to come this show, because that’s just what men like Calvin Harris have to do. If they feel like they can’t come at you on their own, they do everything to upstage you on their way down, and the good Lord knew, Calvin was on his way down.
Movement from beneath him caught his attention, and snatched him out of his thoughts. A middle aged woman wearing a light blue sundress and a sheer shawl to match stumbled down the alley on white stilettos. Her laughter trailed up to the roof, and Press’ eyes zeroed in on her like an eagle, noticing that she wasn’t alone.
Youth followed behind her, a stupid grin plastered all over his face. Press could never tell whether this was an act or for real, and really hoped in this instance it was a work. The kid had handled Abigail’s ascension pretty well considering how close he had gotten with the apparition. Too close for the big man’s comfort, if you asked him. Yet that didn’t change the fact that Youth had changed since coming down to Louisiana, and Press was still trying to figure his partner’s new demeanor out. This wasn’t one of those times when it would be a good idea to decide to introduce alcohol into their hunting techniques.
The woman came to a stop, her heaving breasts spilling out of her dress, and her hand trailed across her collarbone seductively, indicating that this wasn’t the first time she had come into an alley with a strange man. But that didn’t make her a monster, and was the reason why they had to make certain before he made his move.
Youth moved on past her, taking her by the hand, leading her further into the alley. Leading her into a better position. Press smirked, and thought, ‘clever’. When he had her where he wanted her, he placed his hands on her hips, and she wound her arms around his neck. Press could barely make out their conversation.
“You are so hot.” Youth slurred, giving the woman a squeeze.
“Oh, my!” The woman exclaimed, tilting her head back and laughing like a lark. “I bet you say that to all the women you lure into dark alleys.”
“Hey, now,” Youth chastised. “You’re the one who lured me.”
She threw her head back and laughed, but this time it was more of a cackle, and when her head dipped back down, her eyes had shifted from their original color to an opaque blue.
“That I did.” She responded just before her eyes lit up like a flashbulb. Youth went limp in her arms, and she caught him before he could hit the ground, licking her lips with a forked tongue. She moved in to connect her lips to his with a kiss, but an unnatural noise from above her gave her pause.
She looked up just in time to see Press put the cinder block up on the edge, and then tip it over. Her face went from hungry to shock as the huge chunk of concrete hurtled the four stories straight down and smashes into her face. Her head wrenches back with an audible snap, and she collapses to the pavement along with Youth.
Press quickly made a B-line for the fire escape, and leaped over the roof taking the steps two at a time. He descended quickly, and managed to reach the alley floor just in time to see the woman, who should be dead, sit up. She removed a large corner of the concrete that broke off in her face, and tossed it off to the side, a gaping hole in her skull where her left eye and cheekbone used to be.
The one remaining eye retained its opaque blue, and what’s left of her mouth opened to emit a serpent like hiss. She arched her back, and blood spewed out of her shoulder blades as two leathery wine colored wings pop forth, and expand in a show of hostility. Her human hands snapped open, replaced by three fingered scaly claws much the same tint.
A thin smirk formed at the corner of her mouth that still worked, and she made to stalk towards the big man, who shook his head in disappointment.
The expression caused her to pause, her one good eye arching in question, just as a dagger shoots through the base of her skull and out her mouth. Her eye shot open in shock, but all she was able to do in response is gurgle, as she fell forwards, revealing Youth standing behind her with the hilt in his hand. As soon as she hit the ground her body began to smolder, until suddenly she burst into flames.
Youth stared down at her, watching as the unnatural fire danced across her flesh. Press stepped up beside him a few seconds later, and the two men wait until there’s nothing left but a pile of black soot. Even the bones are gone as Press inspected the pile with his boot.
“They always have to show off.” Press commented, drawing a look from his partner. Satisfied that there’s no remains, he finally meets Youth’s eyes. “They might stand a chance if they didn’t have to posture so much.”
Youth chuckled, and just shook his head. “Well, I’m sorry she disappointed you. I’m sure next time I’ll let her use those succubus powers to scoop out my soul.”
Press sighed, shrugged, and started walking down the alley that would dump them out on Frenchmen Street. “So how was the club?”
“Noisy. Not really my kind of scene. I prefer Bourbon Street if I’m going to hear someone sing the blues.”
“Well, The Emporium’s not far. I’m sure Bobby has some gumbo left over.”
Youth nods in agreement, and the two men step from the shadows into the neon lights without looking back. They had killed a lesser demon, saved a few poor schmucks from getting their souls sucked out, and still had time for gumbo. All in all, a good night. Wrestling and real life could wait for one more day. After all, it would still be there in the morning.
THE BOSTON CLUB
824 Canal Street – New Orleans, Louisiana
7/12/2016
The club was started in 1841 by the wealthy elitists of New Orleans, and is the third oldest club in the U.S. That’s mostly all that’s known about the men and women who make up this skull and bones like society. However, tonight it welcomes home two of its most prominent members, who plan to remind the playboys of New Orleans exactly who they owe their allegiances to.
The driver steps out onto the curb, and makes his way to the back door, lifting the handle, and pulling it open wide. Joshua Tsabo emerges first, followed by Scarlett Rayne after he extends her his hand. They both look as if they just stepped out of the 18th century, she wearing a low cut red velvet dress with an A-line skirt, while he wears a black tux, with gloves and a top hat.
The two make their way, arm in arm, up the short steps that bring them to the door, and he wraps against the wood with his knuckles. An eye level peeping door slips open, and the only thing that can be seen of the person on the other side is his eyes.
He scrutinizes the two for a moment, and then slides the peeping door closed, before the main door swings open just enough to permit them inside. As soon as they pass through the threshold, they find that the interior is a perfect temperature for this type of dress, and that the man who had previously been hidden was much larger than his eyes had foretold.
The doorman looked more like Lurch from the Adam’s Family, but wider. Everything about him screamed formidable, except for the yellow pokadotted bowtie around his neck, which bordered on comical. Neither Joshua or Scarlett chose to laugh.
They were led out of the forayer into a large room with rolling stairs, but were directed around them down a hallway that ran beside them. When they reached the door at the end of the hall the big man lifted his fist up to his mouth, and cleared his throat, before taking the handle with the other and pushing the door open.
He stepped inside, and then out of the way, as he spoke in a deep barratone voice. “Master Tsabo and the Lady Rayne.”
When Joshua and Scarlett stepped into the room they found themselves in a decent sized office, with a single male occupant sitting behind an ornate desk with stacks of papers covering its surface. The man wore a button down black shirt with an olive colored tie that matched his eyes, and his corn colored hair was pulled back into a ponytail held in place by a black ribbon.
He looked up from his paperwork after the announcement, and a thin smile crossed his face as he rose from his seat. He crossed the room over to stand in front of Talbot, and offered his old friend a handshake.
“It’s been some time, Joshua. It’s good to see you.”
Tsabo took the man’s hand with his own, and nodded. “Andrew Kensing. That it has.”
Kensing couldn’t stop his eyes from drifting over to Scarlett, and she regarded the man with a regal air of superiority. His smile remained in place, though now it appeared forced, and he switched his hand over to Scarlett’s. She shook it, amused by the man’s obvious discomfort at her presence.
With the formalities out of the way he dismissed the large doorman and offered them a seat, returning to his place behind his desk.
“I received your message, Joshua. It can be done, but it will be costly. Especially if we’re going to take it without anyone noticing.”
“The only thing that I heard in all of that dribble is that ‘it can be done’” Scarlett replied, folding her hands in her lap, and regarding Kensing with a bemused stare.
Andrew’s lip curled back as if he were going to say something, but forced himself to bite it back before he found himself in trouble. “Yes, it can be done.”
Tsabo leaned back in his chair, an approving smile on his face. Approving because the answer was positive, and also because he noticed Kensing’s restraint. It wouldn’t do for his house to be out of order, and despite the fact that Kensing had good reason to despise Scarlett, for the time being, she was an ally. An ally that he couldn’t afford to lose.
Tsabo nodded his head towards the paperwork on the desk. “Alright, where do we begin?”
Andrew moved some of the stacks off of a larger document, and he places his finger on what appears to be a map of the New Orleans sewer system. “If we go in through the access tunnels beneath The Boston Club, we can traverse this route here,” he said, tracing a line on the map. “Then, we should be able to come right up underneath the building, and after we’re past The Priest’s wards, we’ll make a little hocus pocus of our own and gain entry. Intel suggests that there is a tenant that lives in one of the service rooms upstairs. He’s been with The Priest for a long time, and looks after things since he’s set up roots at his new venue.”
Tsabo’s eyes poured over the map, while Andrew steepled his fingers, and leaned back in his chair. “I guess I should get this out of the way.” Kensing sighed, watching Tsabo look up from the map and regard him with viper like eyes.
Andrew shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and decided it best to just spit out. “The BombTrax are here in New Orleans.”
Those viper like eyes shot open comically wide, and Scarlett coughed loudly, apparently choking on her own spit from the sudden intake of air she just took. Joshua leaned back and patted her on the shoulders, while never letting his eyes leave Kensing’s.
“And when were you planning on telling me this?”
“I just did.”
“Don’t be smug, Kensing. How long have they been here?”
“Going on six months now.”
“And you didn’t call or write?”
“I’ve been keeping tabs on them. They’re wrestling again. Working at some Amusement Park just past North Shore. They haven’t been active the entire time they’ve been here, but something happened a few weeks, and that’s changed. Now, the information is pertinent.”
“Where those two are concerned the information is ALWAYS pertinent!” Tsabo snapped, Scarlett waving him off, back under control.
She looked up at Kensing with dread clear in her expression. “Don’t tell me they have contact with The Priest.”
Kensing lowered his gaze to the floor and shook his head in dismay. “Apparently they are old friends.”
Scarlett groaned loudly, falling back into her seat and bringing her forearm up over her brow to cover her eyes dramatically. Joshua shook his head in disbelief, and stood suddenly, knocking his chair over.
“God damn it, Andrew! This could unravel everything!”
“I’ll make sure that it’s not a problem, Joshua.” Kensing said, steeling his eyes to cast little doubt. “I give you my word.”
Tsabo stared at the man for a few moments, and finally conceded by reaching down and putting his chair upright. He flopped down into his seat, and placed his hand just under his chin in thought.
“Nothing is ever easy.” He remarked calmly. “With this new information, the Emporium can wait. If our rooms are ready, Andrew, I would like to retire. I find myself suddenly drained.”
Andrew pressed a concealed button somewhere under his desk, and in a few moments the large doorman reappeared. He received his orders dutifully, and within seconds Scarlett was already following him out of the office in a huff. Joshua got up to follow, pausing in the doorway to give Kensing one last glance.
“We will discuss this further in private, Andrew.” He said matter-of-factly, before disappearing past the door.
Kensing reached into one of his drawers, and produced a glass and a bottle of bourbon. He set the glass on the counter, uncorked the bottle, and poured himself at least three pulls. He replaced the cork, sat the bottle on the counter, and took the glass and saluted the door with a smile.
“Fuck you, Joshua.” He said to no one, before draining the glass, and then slamming it down on the desk on the sight of The Emproium.
PURE AMUSEMENT PARK
Studio Production Room – Purity, Louisiana
7/16/2016
The scene opens up inside one of the PAW Production Studio rooms with a large PAW banner in the background, and a desk in the center of the room. On the desk is a large sheet cake in a Kroger Bakery box, and party favors laid out all around. There are streamers lining the edges of the table, and blue, black, and red balloons floating at each corner.
The BombTrax suddenly step on camera, Youth putting on a party hat, and picking up a noise maker from the table, while Press walks around the desk with a cake server, and begins cutting the cake. He placed two large hunks of cake on the festive plates off to his right, and handed one to Youth, who took it, and then blew his noise maker into the lens of the camera.
Youth shrugs with a boyish grin, before attempting to explain himself. “Hi, PAW Universe, and welcome to the first ever dual party of the summer celebrating a retirement and a bar mitzvah! Up first, the retirement!”
Youth blows on his noise maker again, and spins around ridiculously before focusing back on the camera.
“Who’s retiring you might ask? Well, you see, several weeks ago at WICKED#13, me and the big guy over there were finally like, ‘enough is enough’ with this GZW Takeover. Especially after what they did to everyone’s favorite Lady, Munin, who unlike most owners, isn’t afraid to put her neck on the line in precarious situations. But you see, just cause she does that, doesn’t mean that you get to take advantage of it. Not while The BombTrax are around. But I guess when GZW decided to roll on into town and get involved in our little promotion, they didn’t bother to go over those rules that were tucked away in their complimentary welcome basket. You touch Munin, and there’s hell to pay.”
Youth holds up a wagging finger, and makes a ‘Tsk, Tsk, Tsk’ sound while shaking his head.
“Man, it’s not like that’s some new scenario. It’s been that way from the start, even way back when we were running together at carnivals In New Mexico. When shit goes awry in her business, we’re the guys she calls to play cleanup, and although she never came out and asked us to get involved here, we felt like it was our solemn duty to serve up some major league ass kicking’s to these minor league chumps. Heh-Heh-Heh….”
Youth chuckles a bit, breaking the cadence of his overall flow. He leans into the camera and holds his hand up to cover his mouth conspiratorially, a moment between him and the audience.
“To this day it cracks me up when I get to use ‘duty’ in a sentence. Doo-Dee…”
He cackles wildly, and Press looks up from the cake he’s devouring with a raised eyebrow. “Dude. Stay focused.”
Youth settles down and rolls his eyes at the big man before grinning and moving right along.
“So yeah, we gave them a real beating. We put the screws to them. We stomped a mud hole and walked it dry. We took out the trash. We sorted the men from the boys. We separated the wheat from the chaff. We took some names. We dropped some bombs. We STOMPED. DAT. ASS!”
Youth uses his finger to emphasize each word like he’s playing ‘chopsticks’ on a piano.
“Yeaaahhhh.” He shook his head disdainfully. “About that. You see, little did we know that when we decided to put that colossal payback on GZW that they would all literally decide as a collective that they had less swinging between their legs than a beef castration stall at a Texas Road House. By the time WICKED#14 was booked, we were all ready to go to the ring and give them the chance to settle the score, but unfortunately GZW had other plans. Hell, John Champa didn’t even make it to the ring to face Johnny Raike cause he wasn’t cleared to wrestle. Christ, it’s not like we shot the fucker in the knee cap. He had an ambulance to break his fall!”
Youth throws his hands out wide with a shoulder raise for emphasis.
“You know guys, we didn’t ask for this reputation, it just sort of landed at our feet. Back in October we beat down Deus, the nastiest bitch that’s ever been, and she’s never been heard from again. Genesis Hendrix actually advanced in the PAW Championship Tournament, but the minute she saw she had to face Press, she bounced. Cross Recoba got caught disrespecting us, and now he can park right up front at the grocery store cause he’s got a handicap pass. And now, in one fell swoop, we ejected an entire fucking invading force from the airwaves of PAW!”
Youth shakes his head in disbelief, the grin never leaving his face.
“Well, GZW, here’s to a happy retirement in whatever shit show of a promotion you think is going to cater to your sorry asses.”
Youth grabs one of the plates of cake, and takes a ginormous bite, chomping loudly into the camera. He still has a mouthful of cake when he addresses the PAW universe.
“Hey, shoo do I shound like shrite now?” He asks, taking a party napkin and wiping his face before swallowing and continuing.
“If you viewers at home guessed Calvin Harris while in Jack Nomad’s locker room, then you guessed right! Now Johnny Raike, before you get all bent out of shape, realize that I’m not saying that there’s anything wrong with it, but you gotta admit, when you think of these two ass hats as partners, it’s pretty god damn hilarious!”
Youth chuckles, flashing the trademark wink.
“Which brings us to the second stage of our party, the bar mitzvah! And who’s the lucky young man of the hour? Well shit son, it has to be Calvin Harris. You see, for all the bluster, the whining, the complaining, Calvin’s been stuck over here on the sidelines campaigning to be a part of the big dance, but never being quite ready for it. That is…”
Youth lifts a halting finger.
“Until now. You see, this is a celebration of Calvin Harris finally getting put in the Big Time. Finally getting a main event spot that will surely provide fuel for the fire for what will be the greatest PAW Heavyweight Championship match that the wrestling world has ever seen! Oh…Wait. Wrong Harris.”
Youth’s grin is much more sinister, the edge of his voice turning personal.
“Jack Nomad, you’re not that far off. How does it make you feel to know that you’re getting called up to the big time only because the guy you threw in with is? Jack, we haven’t had any run-ins with each other so far, but I’ve paid attention. I’ve watched you walk through the competition, and even when you lost you didn’t much look like a loser. So when the lights came back on during The Box Office on WICKED#13, I was genuinely shocked to see you standing behind a guy like Calvin Harris. I mean, you never struck me as the kind that would play the following act. At the very least, I respected the fact that you didn’t seem to give a fuck about anyone but yourself.”
Youth shakes his head, eyes scrunched up in confusion.
“But when you throw your lot in with another guy that proves that you care. That’s what being partners, forming an alliance, is all about. Do you think for one second that if, and that’s a pretty big ‘IF’, Calvin Harris were somehow able to get his hands on the Paw Championship, that you’d get a shot at it after he’s won it? Sacrificing for the good of the team is one thing, but Jack, you’re not the sacrificing top, but you ‘ARE’ just stupid enough to get used. Chew on that for a while, and we’ll see how it tastes come Thursday when you and Calvin face off with a real bonafide ‘TEAM’”
Youth winks one last time before sliding into the background to enjoy some cake, and the PAW Heavyweight Champion steps over, sitting down on the edge of the desk. He regards the camera with a serious stare, and his dark orbs penetrate the lens.
“The bar mitzvah in Jewish culture is a coming of age celebration when a boy sheds his childishness and becomes a man. This celebration customarily comes with many gifts, often fat envelopes stuffed with cash that will help the boy along in his transition into manhood. Well, Calvin, that’s pretty much where you are, and me and Youth, well, we're those fat stacks of cash."
"I’ve seen enough psychoanalysis on television to understand the ‘fake it till you make it’ system. Behavioral therapists try to use that to help people with all sorts of emotional and anxiety disorders cope with their lives. I don’t have to spell it out for you to show you how this works, just like I shouldn’t have to tell you…”
He pauses, his top lip curling up in annoyance.
“That in most of those cases it doesn’t fucking work. Because it’s a fundamental fact that just cause you say something, over and over and over to yourself, doesn’t make it true, and anyone that thinks it does, or tells you otherwise, is fucking delusional. But you know, Calvin, your delusions aren’t what piss me off. It’s the product of your delusions. The blatant disrespect and disregard for every fucking person that’s ever come before you. To stand there and witness to the crowd that you aren’t like Stevie Harris. That you aren’t like CJ O’Donnell. That you aren’t like Cross Recoba, or Hungry Jack, or any other of the men that I’ve had to put down just in order to gain what I have.”
Press spits off to the side, the bile working its way up into his mouth just thinking about it.
“Well you’re God damn right you’re not like them, because they had the guts to step up to the plate and come straight at me instead of standing on the sidelines for months JUST FUCKING TALKING ABOUT IT!”
Press screams into the camera, rage evident in his entire being.
“And for all that talk, Calvin, what was your big plan? You stumble fuck your way into an alliance with a guy who’s off chasing Shadows, and a chick who tossed in the towel one show into your master plan. Which, of course, left me all the time I needed to propel your unprotected ass right off the side of the stage. I mean God damn, you can’t script twisted up shit like that in an M. Night Shyamalan movie!”
Press chuckles, settling back down on the desk.
“No, Calvin, you aren’t like the others, but come Bad Moon Rising it’s not going to matter. Cause you will find that you have most certainly transitioned from that awkward place in a career where what you do next will define you from that moment forward. But before then, this Thursday I have a chance to continue your lessons in pain. To help prepare you for the manhood that’s to be bestowed upon you when you stand across that ring from me. And I promise you, Calvin, it is going to be educational.”
Press crosses his arms over his chest, and some of the fire seems to recede as he shakes his head.
“Jack Nomad, I hate to repeat what the kid said, but it’s a fact. I’m disappointed in you. I know that doesn’t mean dick to a guy like you, but there it is, all the same. I guess I could give you some leeway, considering you’re coming out of a bad break up. I’ve made my fair share of mistakes cause of a piece of tail, so I can sympathize. But don’t you see that you just traded in one whiny bitch for another when you hooked up with Calvin Harris? You thought ‘The Pixie’ could nag you into doing shit you weren’t used to doing, wait till this guy has you toting his bags and parking his car.”
Press smirks, looking off in the distance as if he can imagine it. He eventually returns his focus to the camera.
“But what can I say, Jack, you’ve shown your true colors. You paint the picture of the big bad monster, but the truth is you’re laying down with fucking parasites. The kind of shit eating disease that you don’t even know you have until you’re already dead. The kind that chip away at this business with their narcissism and their hubris. Go ahead, Jack, flap those gums about reputations like you don’t have one, and pretend like it doesn’t matter when people don’t validate it.”
Press shakes his head in disappointment.
“You think that because you beat on a drug addled rock star, and that you man handled a few women that THAT makes you a monster? Hell, Jack, you even had me fooled. Up until WICKED#13 I had you pegged as a real contender, someone that might be coming for this belt that could really do business, but all of that got shot to shit when you threw your lot in with that coward. Suddenly the glam just fell away, and with the illusion shattered, everyone finally saw that Jack Nomad was just like everyone else who’s tried, BUT FAILED!”
“And why did they fail, Jack? Is it because they had no talent? Is it because they had no plan? Is it because they were second string, or couldn’t cut the mustard? NO! It was because they didn’t have the one thing that you’re so proud of fucking reminding everyone that you don’t have! HEART! And THAT is what binds you and Calvin Harris together, with your bullshit declarations and the abortions you let fall from your mouths.”
Press eyes are like obsidian as he gets dangerously close to the camera, and the calmness in his voice carries the overtones of malice.
“You two are fools, but I can relate, cause in many ways so are we. Me and the Kid, we’re too stupid to know when to lay down and die, and come this Thursday, and any other fucking day after, if you plan on coming at us, be prepared to kill.”
“Because WE. WON’T. HESITATE.”
The words echo off the hall as Press steps back, and Youth stands just off behind him with a grin and a nod before the camera fades to black.
