S01E02
Jan 9, 2013 16:54:47 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Jan 9, 2013 16:54:47 GMT -5
Gerard McDonough sat in his office on Friday afternoon reviewing the notes and files he had been handed by a prospective client and the police reports he had sourced. It seemed something different than most of the work he had been doing lately; women wanting to know whether their men were cheating on them, men wanting to know if their women were cheating and them, those were the jobs that filled most of Gerard McDonough’s time nowadays. Although, there was something wholly unfulfilling about confirming somebody’s infidelity, even if it did help pay the bills. So Gerard hoped that this case, that is to say solving this case, might bring him some satisfaction. It might help to fill that void in his being that has been present as of late.
Now on the wrong side of fifty years old, Gerard has been a private investigator for nearly twenty years and he had seen plenty of cases such as this before. They had been his bread and butter, his reason for living in the early part of his career. He had helped the police to solve murders, found people who had run away from home or just tried to escape from their previous lives That was, however, all before his ill fated sojourn into the illegal world of wire tapping, a crime that cost Gerard McDonough eighteen months of his life as well as his reputation. People who knew of this didn’t use Gerard anymore; there were plenty of private investigators with clean records who were just as good if not better than Gerard. Ones whose testimony in court might be worth the paper on which it’s written.
Gerard sat with an unflinching non-smile on his weathered face as he continued to browse the file. His flame red coloured hair had begun to pepper around the temples in recent years, showing his age more and more as time has gone by. He always kept it short and neat. Professional, he liked to call the style. It was just one less pain or annoyance in his life, though. The dull whirring sound of the ceiling fan above him didn’t even bother Gerard like it usually did, the pain in his lower back seemed to fade for a few moments as he looked at the mugshot of the man named as a person of interest in the disappearance of this particular young woman. A teenager with obvious rage issues and a conviction for assault. Thick black bags under his bloodshot eyes, windows into a seemingly angry soul. Versus the next photo; a beautiful young woman, much loved by those who knew her, she vanished one night last Summer never to be seen or heard from again. It was an open and shut case as far as Gerard McDonough was concerned, he just needed to gather enough evidence to help get a conviction and he could feel like he was doing something worthwhile. Gerard could feel like he was useful again. And the girl’s father was willing to pay a significant amount more than the standard suspicious spouse that made up Gerard’s usual clientele.
So it was that Gerard put down the folder and reclined in his leather swivel chair. A wry smile crept upon his face as he looked out across the city of Boston; somewhere out there in the world was a young man that Gerard was going to make pay for his crimes and that gave Gerard a feeling of satisfaction. A warm glow spread across his insides as he turned back to his desk and dialled the number listed in the file. The phone rang several times before going to the answer machine. “Mr. Webster, it’s Gerard McDonough here…” he spoke with a drawl, “Ah’ve decided to take yer case. Ah’ll be in touch again to arrange a meeting an’ get some more details from you an’, don’tcha worry none, we’ll get some justice for yer dear Elsie.”
“I had a dream last night,” I say before chuckling to myself. “Well, earlier this evening,” I add, looking up at the near pitch black sky, a few stars manage to shine through the obsidian veil and they’re bright enough to pierce the light drizzle that has begun to fall at this early hour. “It was twenty years in the future, two-thousand-thirty-three and I had been busting my ass in this sport, breaking backs, kicking in teeth and generally being the tenacious little bastard that I am for all that time.”
Montgomery Street is vacant at this hour, except for the parked cars of the local residents. But there’s not another living soul walking around. Just me and the cameraman, some poor bastard who drew the short straw when it came to picking assignments, I’m sure. The rain is falling almost in a mist as I pull my hood up, the red and black banded stripes visible due to the light on the camera. The black leather jacket I wear on top of that glistens with freshly fallen moisture.
“It was a glorious time, we had our hover boards and everything. But, in the dream, I was becoming a bit … haggard.” I snort derisively at the notion. “F###ed up, to be more accurate. I no longer had the strength I once had, my back hurt and my knees buckled when I tried to lift anything or anyone too heavy. Stamina was a thing of the past, I was gasping for air ten minutes into any match I wrestled. And the kicker, the absolute funniest f###ing thing about it, I had gotten fat around the edges. Podgy. Unsightly. In the dream, I looked in the mirror and saw an old man, a shade of my former self. I saw a crony grasping at the his former glories, trying to keep hold of them, to keep them alive.”
I cross the Rosemary Street junction with a wan smile on my face, not looking either way before I do so and continue walking past the yew tree that grows on the grass embankment. “And I had done so much in those twenty years. I had. But then some young upstart had the nerve to tell me the truth or what he would call the truth. Some punk kid barely out of wrestling school had the balls to tell me I was past my prime. That I deserved to be out to pasture, to enjoy my retirement and leave the sport with my head held high.” Awkwardly, I lower my head and let out a slight snigger as I pass a silver Corolla parked by the side of the road, running my hand down the length of it as I go. “Instead of souring my reputation, trying to battle on when I just couldn’t. This little bitch boy had the f###ing gall to tell me that my past conquests meant nothing to him!”
“Ooh, that made me very angry.” I jest as I reach Plantation Street; a dark grey Taurus speeds past me, driving well above the speed limit, before I cross the street slowly and head towards the park. “So I reeled off all my accomplishments for this brat, listed everything I had done in the last twenty years and tried to make this punk feel about this big…” I motion with my thumb and forefinger, barely half an inch apart. “Basically I told him that I had done more in twenty years than he had in his one or two years. I listed the countries I had fought in, the stadiums and the arenas I had sold out. The cities I had visitied, the famous actresses I had f###ed and the songs that people sung about me and my glory days … And he laughed at me.” Hahahaha I bellow from the gut, doubling over as I continue hollering in hysterics. I fall over, rolling across the ground and smearing mud all across the back of my jacket before I stand back up and wipe a tear from my eye with my clean hand. There’s a few seconds of silence as I stroll across the playground area of the park to the swing.
“That punk kid told me he was going to do everything I had done, it’ll just take him some time, is all. But he’ll do it better than I did.” I say with a hint of disgust. “He’ll wrestle in more countries than me, sell out bigger arenas than I did and he’ll get his face on more posters and DVD covers than I could imagine. He’ll do all that and more, because he’s the future and I was just past it.”
“Is that what you feel like, Corella?” I ask the camera as I plant my ass firmly in the moulded plastic swing. It’s too small by a few inches, but whatever. “Are you the haggard old veteran surrounded by young punks like me, like Malcolm Drake. The F.G.A. Heavyweight Champion, AJ Fairchild, he can’t even drink legally in most of the states we visit. He takes his friends to a diner after each show so he can drink coffee. Coffee!” I repeat the word incredulously. “Does it piss you off that someone like Ryan Kidd can win ‘Breakout Star Of The Year’, that he can get such recognition in just the first year of his career? That in the first year of his career, AJ Fairchild can be at the top of the mountain you find yourself climbing.”
“My question to you, Corella, is how much did you have to lose to find yourself on the same climb as the likes of me and Malcolm – and how much do you still have to lose? There is no shame in losing to me, old timer. For you are the past, your services to the sport are appreciated but it’s time to forget the battlefield. Retire to your luxury condo and gorge yourself on your overpriced liquor. And you can watch on your grotesquely large television as Malcolm and I, we create the future of this sport, of this industry. As we craft magic from our fingertips, as we blaze a path of glory through each and every competitor that stands in our way. Because we will. One by one, people will fall and each time they do the crows will feast…”
I take a deep breathe; the wry smile I wore has grown larger so that now I’m grinning from ear to ear, laughing to myself before I speak again. “Make no mistake, Corella, your continuing down this path, this foolish endeavour you seem intent on participating in … It will end horribly for you. I have no qualms being the crow who ended your career. I’ll feel no guilt when they cart you into that ambulance at the end of the night. And when you’re laid out, strapped to that stretcher and the doctors ask you what you can remember…” I pause for a moment. “…remember that we warned you. Remember that you are–or were– the one obstacle standing between me and a possible match with the white knight, Pat Gordon Jr. You are the only thing stopping me from getting the chance to dig my talons into that pompous blowhard. That man ruined what should have been the best night of my career; the night I debuted alongside Malcolm Drake! And he ruined it!”
The smile vanishes from my face, replaced by an open mouthed snarl, contempt written across my features as my grey-blue eyes zoom from side to side, unable to focus on anything in particular. “Pat Gordon Jr. chose his path that night at ‘Final Frontier’, when he chose to play at being quixotic. When he saved that no-talent hack, Akrista O’Hare from her impending doom. He signed his death-warrant. He chose his punishment. Just like you did, Corella, when you chose to go the route you have taken. When you refused to recognise my ability, refused to acknowledge my reputation. When you lambasted me, thumbed your nose at me, called me the king of bastards.”
A moment of silence before I speak up one final time, “I will pick your carcass clean, Corella.” I state without any emotion in my voice as I begin to swing back and forth. The steel chain squeaks in time with my movements; the cameraman stops recording as he realises I have nothing left to say, just as the rain ceases to fall. And it is, at this very moment, that the leaden cloud that was blocking it out glides aside, allowing the moon to appear in the night sky. And to allow me the chance to bask in its glow once more.
Now on the wrong side of fifty years old, Gerard has been a private investigator for nearly twenty years and he had seen plenty of cases such as this before. They had been his bread and butter, his reason for living in the early part of his career. He had helped the police to solve murders, found people who had run away from home or just tried to escape from their previous lives That was, however, all before his ill fated sojourn into the illegal world of wire tapping, a crime that cost Gerard McDonough eighteen months of his life as well as his reputation. People who knew of this didn’t use Gerard anymore; there were plenty of private investigators with clean records who were just as good if not better than Gerard. Ones whose testimony in court might be worth the paper on which it’s written.
Gerard sat with an unflinching non-smile on his weathered face as he continued to browse the file. His flame red coloured hair had begun to pepper around the temples in recent years, showing his age more and more as time has gone by. He always kept it short and neat. Professional, he liked to call the style. It was just one less pain or annoyance in his life, though. The dull whirring sound of the ceiling fan above him didn’t even bother Gerard like it usually did, the pain in his lower back seemed to fade for a few moments as he looked at the mugshot of the man named as a person of interest in the disappearance of this particular young woman. A teenager with obvious rage issues and a conviction for assault. Thick black bags under his bloodshot eyes, windows into a seemingly angry soul. Versus the next photo; a beautiful young woman, much loved by those who knew her, she vanished one night last Summer never to be seen or heard from again. It was an open and shut case as far as Gerard McDonough was concerned, he just needed to gather enough evidence to help get a conviction and he could feel like he was doing something worthwhile. Gerard could feel like he was useful again. And the girl’s father was willing to pay a significant amount more than the standard suspicious spouse that made up Gerard’s usual clientele.
So it was that Gerard put down the folder and reclined in his leather swivel chair. A wry smile crept upon his face as he looked out across the city of Boston; somewhere out there in the world was a young man that Gerard was going to make pay for his crimes and that gave Gerard a feeling of satisfaction. A warm glow spread across his insides as he turned back to his desk and dialled the number listed in the file. The phone rang several times before going to the answer machine. “Mr. Webster, it’s Gerard McDonough here…” he spoke with a drawl, “Ah’ve decided to take yer case. Ah’ll be in touch again to arrange a meeting an’ get some more details from you an’, don’tcha worry none, we’ll get some justice for yer dear Elsie.”
“I had a dream last night,” I say before chuckling to myself. “Well, earlier this evening,” I add, looking up at the near pitch black sky, a few stars manage to shine through the obsidian veil and they’re bright enough to pierce the light drizzle that has begun to fall at this early hour. “It was twenty years in the future, two-thousand-thirty-three and I had been busting my ass in this sport, breaking backs, kicking in teeth and generally being the tenacious little bastard that I am for all that time.”
Montgomery Street is vacant at this hour, except for the parked cars of the local residents. But there’s not another living soul walking around. Just me and the cameraman, some poor bastard who drew the short straw when it came to picking assignments, I’m sure. The rain is falling almost in a mist as I pull my hood up, the red and black banded stripes visible due to the light on the camera. The black leather jacket I wear on top of that glistens with freshly fallen moisture.
“It was a glorious time, we had our hover boards and everything. But, in the dream, I was becoming a bit … haggard.” I snort derisively at the notion. “F###ed up, to be more accurate. I no longer had the strength I once had, my back hurt and my knees buckled when I tried to lift anything or anyone too heavy. Stamina was a thing of the past, I was gasping for air ten minutes into any match I wrestled. And the kicker, the absolute funniest f###ing thing about it, I had gotten fat around the edges. Podgy. Unsightly. In the dream, I looked in the mirror and saw an old man, a shade of my former self. I saw a crony grasping at the his former glories, trying to keep hold of them, to keep them alive.”
I cross the Rosemary Street junction with a wan smile on my face, not looking either way before I do so and continue walking past the yew tree that grows on the grass embankment. “And I had done so much in those twenty years. I had. But then some young upstart had the nerve to tell me the truth or what he would call the truth. Some punk kid barely out of wrestling school had the balls to tell me I was past my prime. That I deserved to be out to pasture, to enjoy my retirement and leave the sport with my head held high.” Awkwardly, I lower my head and let out a slight snigger as I pass a silver Corolla parked by the side of the road, running my hand down the length of it as I go. “Instead of souring my reputation, trying to battle on when I just couldn’t. This little bitch boy had the f###ing gall to tell me that my past conquests meant nothing to him!”
“Ooh, that made me very angry.” I jest as I reach Plantation Street; a dark grey Taurus speeds past me, driving well above the speed limit, before I cross the street slowly and head towards the park. “So I reeled off all my accomplishments for this brat, listed everything I had done in the last twenty years and tried to make this punk feel about this big…” I motion with my thumb and forefinger, barely half an inch apart. “Basically I told him that I had done more in twenty years than he had in his one or two years. I listed the countries I had fought in, the stadiums and the arenas I had sold out. The cities I had visitied, the famous actresses I had f###ed and the songs that people sung about me and my glory days … And he laughed at me.” Hahahaha I bellow from the gut, doubling over as I continue hollering in hysterics. I fall over, rolling across the ground and smearing mud all across the back of my jacket before I stand back up and wipe a tear from my eye with my clean hand. There’s a few seconds of silence as I stroll across the playground area of the park to the swing.
“That punk kid told me he was going to do everything I had done, it’ll just take him some time, is all. But he’ll do it better than I did.” I say with a hint of disgust. “He’ll wrestle in more countries than me, sell out bigger arenas than I did and he’ll get his face on more posters and DVD covers than I could imagine. He’ll do all that and more, because he’s the future and I was just past it.”
“Is that what you feel like, Corella?” I ask the camera as I plant my ass firmly in the moulded plastic swing. It’s too small by a few inches, but whatever. “Are you the haggard old veteran surrounded by young punks like me, like Malcolm Drake. The F.G.A. Heavyweight Champion, AJ Fairchild, he can’t even drink legally in most of the states we visit. He takes his friends to a diner after each show so he can drink coffee. Coffee!” I repeat the word incredulously. “Does it piss you off that someone like Ryan Kidd can win ‘Breakout Star Of The Year’, that he can get such recognition in just the first year of his career? That in the first year of his career, AJ Fairchild can be at the top of the mountain you find yourself climbing.”
“My question to you, Corella, is how much did you have to lose to find yourself on the same climb as the likes of me and Malcolm – and how much do you still have to lose? There is no shame in losing to me, old timer. For you are the past, your services to the sport are appreciated but it’s time to forget the battlefield. Retire to your luxury condo and gorge yourself on your overpriced liquor. And you can watch on your grotesquely large television as Malcolm and I, we create the future of this sport, of this industry. As we craft magic from our fingertips, as we blaze a path of glory through each and every competitor that stands in our way. Because we will. One by one, people will fall and each time they do the crows will feast…”
I take a deep breathe; the wry smile I wore has grown larger so that now I’m grinning from ear to ear, laughing to myself before I speak again. “Make no mistake, Corella, your continuing down this path, this foolish endeavour you seem intent on participating in … It will end horribly for you. I have no qualms being the crow who ended your career. I’ll feel no guilt when they cart you into that ambulance at the end of the night. And when you’re laid out, strapped to that stretcher and the doctors ask you what you can remember…” I pause for a moment. “…remember that we warned you. Remember that you are–or were– the one obstacle standing between me and a possible match with the white knight, Pat Gordon Jr. You are the only thing stopping me from getting the chance to dig my talons into that pompous blowhard. That man ruined what should have been the best night of my career; the night I debuted alongside Malcolm Drake! And he ruined it!”
The smile vanishes from my face, replaced by an open mouthed snarl, contempt written across my features as my grey-blue eyes zoom from side to side, unable to focus on anything in particular. “Pat Gordon Jr. chose his path that night at ‘Final Frontier’, when he chose to play at being quixotic. When he saved that no-talent hack, Akrista O’Hare from her impending doom. He signed his death-warrant. He chose his punishment. Just like you did, Corella, when you chose to go the route you have taken. When you refused to recognise my ability, refused to acknowledge my reputation. When you lambasted me, thumbed your nose at me, called me the king of bastards.”
A moment of silence before I speak up one final time, “I will pick your carcass clean, Corella.” I state without any emotion in my voice as I begin to swing back and forth. The steel chain squeaks in time with my movements; the cameraman stops recording as he realises I have nothing left to say, just as the rain ceases to fall. And it is, at this very moment, that the leaden cloud that was blocking it out glides aside, allowing the moon to appear in the night sky. And to allow me the chance to bask in its glow once more.