S02E01
May 3, 2013 17:45:36 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on May 3, 2013 17:45:36 GMT -5
July 2012
I had called up Saints Haven and lied about why I wouldn’t be attending any training sessions for the foreseeable future. Isaac Bronco said he understood what I was feeling and I could have time off to attend the funeral; this lie seemed easier than telling him – or telling anyone for that matter – that I would be spending the foreseeable future sat, hunched in a corner, crying, whimpering and sobbing like an infant.
Nobody needed to know that I had spent the previous evening clutching that piece of paper with thank you, my Florian written on it. That I had spent hours, tears streaming down my cheeks, reading it over and over again; three hundred and fifty four times by my closest estimation, but that I was still no closer to understanding exactly what had transpired. I understood why Elsie had to leave, that much was clear. I just couldn’t fathom the reason as to why I couldn’t have gone with her, why she had to leave me with this gaping hole in my heart.
That excuse had bought me a week. Seven days to try and piece my heart back together, to try and make it so I can go any reasonable length of time without breaking down in tears. Maybe to even be able to smile again; it seemed as if my entire reason to smile had vanished in the night and I couldn’t recall smiling, smirking, grinning or even raising the corners of my mouths since that morning. That fact saddened me further. But I returned to the academy to resume my training, which is when Boston’s Finest made their first appearance in my life; they came to Saints Haven and took me in for questioning regarding the disappearance of Elsie Webster, right in front of all my friends, fellow trainees and my trainers. They made damn sure that those who knew me knew what sort of human being they thought I was.
All through the ensuing interview I kept my promise to Elsie; I claimed to not know where she was, which was the truth. And I kept my mouth shut in regards to the real reason as to why Elsie ran away. After a day at the station I was released; Boston’s Finest warned me not to go too far because they’d be talking to me again soon.
I returned back home to my apartment that night. There was crime scene tape across Elsie’s door. The yellow and black tape I’d seen in all my favourite drama shows. Another member of Boston’s Finest posted out in the hallway, presumably to make sure I couldn’t enter Elsie’s apartment and gather any incriminating evidence. That member of Boston’s Finest never said a word about the word murderer spray painted across my door. Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face as I entered my apartment to, once again, crawl into a ball and cry away another evening.
This was a low point in my life.
That night I remembered what Elsie had said to me when I asked to go with her. To help her escape her own personal daddy. The words promising career and determination and figure to lead the way floated around in my head. They seemed to taunt me; those who knew me wanted to nothing to do with me. The grit and determination I had previously shown had been sapped from me by recent events. And the career that I could have had was fading before my eyes. If I didn’t finish my training – something which seemed less and less likely with each passing day – then I’d never get the confidence to step back into the ring again. I’d be stuck as the half-assed, unpopular wrestler who struggled in Simcoe, my reputation as a stiff worker preceding me with each booking. Is this the life Elsie had wanted for me? Surely she knew what would happen to me if she vanished in the night like she did. She had to have known that I’d be a suspect in her disappearance – the boyfriend always is – and I’d have go through this all alone.
Now and forever, those were the words Elsie had used the last time she had told me she loved me. I remember the look in her eye when she spoke, the sweet tone she used to reassure me that night as we made love for the last time.
No, she hadn’t done this to hurt me. This wasn’t a test, not by any stretch of the imagination. All of this was just what Florian would have to do to help his Jonquil escape her past. And, possibly, if Florian was successful in shouldering the burden, if he weathered the storm, maybe Jonquil would return to him. Perhaps, then, they could be together again.
There’s a moment of silence at the start of the video as I stand in an alley; dusk has passed and the area is now illuminated by street lights and the odd window where the residents have forgotten to close the blinds or curtains. And I stand there in my ash gray jeans and my black ‘The Murder’ t-shirt, leaning back against a brick wall. In the background, the sound of passing vehicles can be heard, but I don’t make a sound for nearly thirty seconds before I speak.
“What did I tell everyone?” I ask rhetorically, a sly smirk creeping onto my face as I stare wistfully into the camera. “For the longest time we have been telling Junior our plan – to eliminate his support system one piece at a time – and I think Pooler finally seeing the light and joining us counts as one less person holding his sorry ass up…” I lift the index finger of my right hand to count one. “…I told Junior that the beat down we’d make him endure would pale in comparison to anything he had been through before. And I think it’s safe to say that’s the case…” my middle finger raises as I count to two. “I told you that match would be brutal, that match would go down in the ages, never be forgotten, I told you that match would end with me and Malcolm standing over Junior’s beaten and bloodied body…” my ring finger is raised. “…and we damn well did that.”
“I told everyone that either Malcolm or myself would be win the Gold Rush Rumble!” and the little finger goes up, indicating four truths so far. “And if I remember correctly, I won that! And I know what you’re all going to say – you entered the ring last – as if the luck of the draw should be held against me. As if the outcome of that match would have been any different if I’d drawn number nine or four or even number one.” I laugh. “Is it my fault that Karma had to fight for twenty-five minutes? Am I to blame that Blayze couldn’t stay in the ring long enough to face me, so I could be the one to eliminate him? Is it to be held against me that I got the luck of the draw, that I got to enter last – after a gruelling match earlier in the night, mind – and I eliminated those who stood against me, just like I said I would, and I won the Gold Rush Rumble! Me! The Tenacious Little Bastard!”
“Just like I said I would…” I hold up the four fingers on my right hand before continuing, “…four truths on one night. Four tasks we said we would complete, goals we would achieve … lets face it, there’s a reason Malcolm refers to us as the harbingers of truth and nights like that prove it to be true. So when I say that I will be leaving Ocean City as the new FGA Heavyweight Champion…” I inhale through my nostrils, that sly smirk reappearing on my face as I do so. “…you damn well better believe it!”
I begin to pace back and forth in the alley, running a hand through my hair as I speak, “That’s where you come in, Q. This is where you finally become my target. The obstacle I must clear. The opponent I must defeat. It is you who possesses the object, the title belt I desire oh so very strongly.” I run the heel of my hand down my jawline as I turn on my toes so as to face the camera once more. “The FGA Heavyweight Championship. That most prestigious of titles in this federation, the same belt once held by the likes of Tomkins, Harrison, Scott, Fairchild … and you, Q.”
“Don’t misunderstand me, I know damn well what you’re capable of in that ring. I know damn well that you are the man to beat here in FGA…” I chortle at that one, pointing to myself as I say the next line “…or one of them. I mean, do you think it’s luck that we haven’t crossed paths before now, Q? Was it fate keeping us apart? Did you ever feel we ever destined to meet one-on-one inside that squared circle?”
“How is it that in our five months together in this promotion we’ve never been in the ring with one another, have we?” I ask with a wry smirk on my face. “That wasn’t coincidence, Q.”
“And it wasn’t because I hadn’t earned a chance to go up against The Big Bad. It wasn’t because I didn’t deserve the chance to face you…” I scoff. “…Bond, Jones and Magna apparently deserved that chance, but no, that’s not it. You see, I have watched from afar as you went through everyone thrown in your path, Q. I’ve seen you steamroll through Bond, over Winchester. I’ve witnessed you decimate Junior inside that ring, not once, but twice. I’ve taken in the spectacle of you ripping Corella apart and I saw you go through Fairchild…”
I pause, staring wide-eyed down at the ground with a hand clamped over my mouth. “I saw you dethrone the self-proclaimed greatest wrestler to grace an FGA ring. The same man who wouldn’t have been the champion at that moment if we hadn’t have pulled his ass from the fire. And you did what you said you would, you pummelled him into the canvas. You beat him down like a rabid dog, Q, and it was a glorious sight to behold. It was as magnificent a spectacle as I’ve seen...”
My hand returns to cover my mouth as I continue staring down at the concrete beneath me; nervously I run that same hand through my hair and look away to one side. “But then it dawned on me. This giant of a man, this behemoth before me. The man with the FGA Heavyweight Championship around his waist. The ten match undefeated streak under his belt. And I realised that before ‘Only The Strong Survive’ I spoke one untruth.”
“You see, I said that night in Boston would be my finest hour.” I chortle. “I was wrong. For as good as that night was to me; as pleasing as it was to pound Junior’s skull in to the canvas, to watch the horror in his face as Pooler turned his back on him. As much joy as I derived from watching Blayze turn tail and run like the coward he is. As much as I treasure the memory of winning the Gold Rush Rumble, none of it – not one iota – will compare to the thrill I experience in Ocean City!”
My stare returns to the camera, a certain ferocity present in my eyes. “When I not only get to go toe-to-toe with The Big Bad, but I get to be the one to end his undeniably impressive undefeated streak.” I state matter-of-factly, a crooked grin upon my face. “Think of me what you will, Q, but I’m not in the same league as any man you’ve beaten so far. You haven’t got the advantage over me that you had over Bond, you haven’t got the time to get into my head. To undermine my self-confidence. No. You see, I’m riding that wave of joy and glory and pride from ‘Only The Strong Survive’ and I’m going straight to Ocean City to achieve the goal I sent myself five months ago. And in one fell swoop, one night, one moment, I get to be the man to break that streak. I get to be the man who humbles The Big Bad. I get to be the man who takes that precious championship belt from around your waist, Q…” a cackle escapes my lips as I picture that belt around my waist, in my hands, over my shoulder. The name plate reading ‘Dom Harter’ just like the ones in SCCW used to do. Singles gold has eluded me for nearly two years now, but I have the chance to end that dry spell; this thought is enough to send shivers up and down my spine.
“And you better believe that The Tenacious Little Bastard cannot be stopped, Q.” I state vehemently. “You better believe that by the end of next weekend, after Pooler has become the new FGA Pride Champion. After I have become the new FGA Heavyweight Champion. Then, when we have once again achieved the goals we have set ourselves, will FGA be ours. FGA will belong to The Murder and you, Q, are standing in the way of what we want.”
“And you have seen what happens to those who stand in the way of progress. And I trust you don’t want to fall by the wayside; you don’t want to end up strewn across the wasteland, to be carrion for the scavengers to pick apart. I trust you know what’s best for yourself, Q.”
“You can recite the list of victims as well as I can by now, right? The people who have been humbled at my feet, those who have fallen to their knees and begged for mercy. Those who have had to be scraped off the canvas at the end of the night.” I say with a sneer. “You have seen the devastation we have caused, the havoc, the chaos. You have seen the casualty list growing with each passing week and I know, deep down, you have been dreading the day when your name would appear on it…”
“That time is now.” I say coldly. “Your name, Q, has been added to that list and there is nothing you can do to change that. Nothing you can do to prevent the inevitable; your demise is as certain as the sun rising in the east or that the rivers flow to the sea. The only thing you can cling to now, the only slither of self-preservation you can hold onto for dear life is to hope and pray that this – our upcoming match – is a one off. Hope that you, Q, don’t become the next Junior.
“So right now I’m gonna give you the best advice you will ever receive.” I say with a crooked grin on my face. “When our match is done, when my hand is raised in victory and the title belt handed to me. Do not seek to regain it. Do not entertain the thought of vengeance. Let it go, Q. Admit that the better man won, congratulate me and whatever you do, do not cross The Murder…”
July 2012
I returned to Saints Haven the next morning; a new resolve to deal with whatever came my way steady within me. I walked through the doors without an ounce of self confidence, however, I was nothing more than a shell of a man at that exact moment in time.
There was a match in progress in the ring, one man I knew as Perry Martin, a hulking figure who stood over six foot six and weighed in somewhere near the two-sixty pound mark. He was a shoe in to graduate at the next possible chance; Bronco claimed he had a look about him that almost assured him, Martin, that he’d make it in the sport. That some promotions hired guys like him even if they couldn’t wrestle worth a lick and the fact that Martin could in fact wrestle, that he moved around the ring with the grace and speed of a gazelle or a cheetah could only be of benefit.
The other man I hadn’t seen before. He was clearly under six foot judging by the distance by which Martin towered over him. And he couldn’t have weighed in much over two hundred pounds if that. But as I approached the ring I watched as this man took the fight to Martin; Bronco was shouting at the smaller figure for taking liberties with his opponent; Martin was cowering, trying to run from the relentless onslaught that the smaller man was determined to unleash. I watched in awe as he delivered a roaring elbow that caught Martin on the jaw. Martin’s knees buckled and he collapsed to the mat in a heap as the trainers rushed the ring to attend to him; the smaller man sneered as Bronco glared up at him and told him to get out and never come back. That Malcolm Drake is not welcome in Saints Haven.
There was an aura present around him as he walked away from the unconscious Perry Martin, neither pride nor remorse for his actions. He, Drake, didn’t seem to care about being banished from Saints Haven – something I personally would have found to be unbearable – as he walked with that aura of self-belief, self-confidence. All of the qualities I wished I had.
Perhaps I had found my figure to lead the way.
I had called up Saints Haven and lied about why I wouldn’t be attending any training sessions for the foreseeable future. Isaac Bronco said he understood what I was feeling and I could have time off to attend the funeral; this lie seemed easier than telling him – or telling anyone for that matter – that I would be spending the foreseeable future sat, hunched in a corner, crying, whimpering and sobbing like an infant.
Nobody needed to know that I had spent the previous evening clutching that piece of paper with thank you, my Florian written on it. That I had spent hours, tears streaming down my cheeks, reading it over and over again; three hundred and fifty four times by my closest estimation, but that I was still no closer to understanding exactly what had transpired. I understood why Elsie had to leave, that much was clear. I just couldn’t fathom the reason as to why I couldn’t have gone with her, why she had to leave me with this gaping hole in my heart.
That excuse had bought me a week. Seven days to try and piece my heart back together, to try and make it so I can go any reasonable length of time without breaking down in tears. Maybe to even be able to smile again; it seemed as if my entire reason to smile had vanished in the night and I couldn’t recall smiling, smirking, grinning or even raising the corners of my mouths since that morning. That fact saddened me further. But I returned to the academy to resume my training, which is when Boston’s Finest made their first appearance in my life; they came to Saints Haven and took me in for questioning regarding the disappearance of Elsie Webster, right in front of all my friends, fellow trainees and my trainers. They made damn sure that those who knew me knew what sort of human being they thought I was.
All through the ensuing interview I kept my promise to Elsie; I claimed to not know where she was, which was the truth. And I kept my mouth shut in regards to the real reason as to why Elsie ran away. After a day at the station I was released; Boston’s Finest warned me not to go too far because they’d be talking to me again soon.
I returned back home to my apartment that night. There was crime scene tape across Elsie’s door. The yellow and black tape I’d seen in all my favourite drama shows. Another member of Boston’s Finest posted out in the hallway, presumably to make sure I couldn’t enter Elsie’s apartment and gather any incriminating evidence. That member of Boston’s Finest never said a word about the word murderer spray painted across my door. Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face as I entered my apartment to, once again, crawl into a ball and cry away another evening.
This was a low point in my life.
That night I remembered what Elsie had said to me when I asked to go with her. To help her escape her own personal daddy. The words promising career and determination and figure to lead the way floated around in my head. They seemed to taunt me; those who knew me wanted to nothing to do with me. The grit and determination I had previously shown had been sapped from me by recent events. And the career that I could have had was fading before my eyes. If I didn’t finish my training – something which seemed less and less likely with each passing day – then I’d never get the confidence to step back into the ring again. I’d be stuck as the half-assed, unpopular wrestler who struggled in Simcoe, my reputation as a stiff worker preceding me with each booking. Is this the life Elsie had wanted for me? Surely she knew what would happen to me if she vanished in the night like she did. She had to have known that I’d be a suspect in her disappearance – the boyfriend always is – and I’d have go through this all alone.
Now and forever, those were the words Elsie had used the last time she had told me she loved me. I remember the look in her eye when she spoke, the sweet tone she used to reassure me that night as we made love for the last time.
No, she hadn’t done this to hurt me. This wasn’t a test, not by any stretch of the imagination. All of this was just what Florian would have to do to help his Jonquil escape her past. And, possibly, if Florian was successful in shouldering the burden, if he weathered the storm, maybe Jonquil would return to him. Perhaps, then, they could be together again.
There’s a moment of silence at the start of the video as I stand in an alley; dusk has passed and the area is now illuminated by street lights and the odd window where the residents have forgotten to close the blinds or curtains. And I stand there in my ash gray jeans and my black ‘The Murder’ t-shirt, leaning back against a brick wall. In the background, the sound of passing vehicles can be heard, but I don’t make a sound for nearly thirty seconds before I speak.
“What did I tell everyone?” I ask rhetorically, a sly smirk creeping onto my face as I stare wistfully into the camera. “For the longest time we have been telling Junior our plan – to eliminate his support system one piece at a time – and I think Pooler finally seeing the light and joining us counts as one less person holding his sorry ass up…” I lift the index finger of my right hand to count one. “…I told Junior that the beat down we’d make him endure would pale in comparison to anything he had been through before. And I think it’s safe to say that’s the case…” my middle finger raises as I count to two. “I told you that match would be brutal, that match would go down in the ages, never be forgotten, I told you that match would end with me and Malcolm standing over Junior’s beaten and bloodied body…” my ring finger is raised. “…and we damn well did that.”
“I told everyone that either Malcolm or myself would be win the Gold Rush Rumble!” and the little finger goes up, indicating four truths so far. “And if I remember correctly, I won that! And I know what you’re all going to say – you entered the ring last – as if the luck of the draw should be held against me. As if the outcome of that match would have been any different if I’d drawn number nine or four or even number one.” I laugh. “Is it my fault that Karma had to fight for twenty-five minutes? Am I to blame that Blayze couldn’t stay in the ring long enough to face me, so I could be the one to eliminate him? Is it to be held against me that I got the luck of the draw, that I got to enter last – after a gruelling match earlier in the night, mind – and I eliminated those who stood against me, just like I said I would, and I won the Gold Rush Rumble! Me! The Tenacious Little Bastard!”
“Just like I said I would…” I hold up the four fingers on my right hand before continuing, “…four truths on one night. Four tasks we said we would complete, goals we would achieve … lets face it, there’s a reason Malcolm refers to us as the harbingers of truth and nights like that prove it to be true. So when I say that I will be leaving Ocean City as the new FGA Heavyweight Champion…” I inhale through my nostrils, that sly smirk reappearing on my face as I do so. “…you damn well better believe it!”
I begin to pace back and forth in the alley, running a hand through my hair as I speak, “That’s where you come in, Q. This is where you finally become my target. The obstacle I must clear. The opponent I must defeat. It is you who possesses the object, the title belt I desire oh so very strongly.” I run the heel of my hand down my jawline as I turn on my toes so as to face the camera once more. “The FGA Heavyweight Championship. That most prestigious of titles in this federation, the same belt once held by the likes of Tomkins, Harrison, Scott, Fairchild … and you, Q.”
“Don’t misunderstand me, I know damn well what you’re capable of in that ring. I know damn well that you are the man to beat here in FGA…” I chortle at that one, pointing to myself as I say the next line “…or one of them. I mean, do you think it’s luck that we haven’t crossed paths before now, Q? Was it fate keeping us apart? Did you ever feel we ever destined to meet one-on-one inside that squared circle?”
“How is it that in our five months together in this promotion we’ve never been in the ring with one another, have we?” I ask with a wry smirk on my face. “That wasn’t coincidence, Q.”
“And it wasn’t because I hadn’t earned a chance to go up against The Big Bad. It wasn’t because I didn’t deserve the chance to face you…” I scoff. “…Bond, Jones and Magna apparently deserved that chance, but no, that’s not it. You see, I have watched from afar as you went through everyone thrown in your path, Q. I’ve seen you steamroll through Bond, over Winchester. I’ve witnessed you decimate Junior inside that ring, not once, but twice. I’ve taken in the spectacle of you ripping Corella apart and I saw you go through Fairchild…”
I pause, staring wide-eyed down at the ground with a hand clamped over my mouth. “I saw you dethrone the self-proclaimed greatest wrestler to grace an FGA ring. The same man who wouldn’t have been the champion at that moment if we hadn’t have pulled his ass from the fire. And you did what you said you would, you pummelled him into the canvas. You beat him down like a rabid dog, Q, and it was a glorious sight to behold. It was as magnificent a spectacle as I’ve seen...”
My hand returns to cover my mouth as I continue staring down at the concrete beneath me; nervously I run that same hand through my hair and look away to one side. “But then it dawned on me. This giant of a man, this behemoth before me. The man with the FGA Heavyweight Championship around his waist. The ten match undefeated streak under his belt. And I realised that before ‘Only The Strong Survive’ I spoke one untruth.”
“You see, I said that night in Boston would be my finest hour.” I chortle. “I was wrong. For as good as that night was to me; as pleasing as it was to pound Junior’s skull in to the canvas, to watch the horror in his face as Pooler turned his back on him. As much joy as I derived from watching Blayze turn tail and run like the coward he is. As much as I treasure the memory of winning the Gold Rush Rumble, none of it – not one iota – will compare to the thrill I experience in Ocean City!”
My stare returns to the camera, a certain ferocity present in my eyes. “When I not only get to go toe-to-toe with The Big Bad, but I get to be the one to end his undeniably impressive undefeated streak.” I state matter-of-factly, a crooked grin upon my face. “Think of me what you will, Q, but I’m not in the same league as any man you’ve beaten so far. You haven’t got the advantage over me that you had over Bond, you haven’t got the time to get into my head. To undermine my self-confidence. No. You see, I’m riding that wave of joy and glory and pride from ‘Only The Strong Survive’ and I’m going straight to Ocean City to achieve the goal I sent myself five months ago. And in one fell swoop, one night, one moment, I get to be the man to break that streak. I get to be the man who humbles The Big Bad. I get to be the man who takes that precious championship belt from around your waist, Q…” a cackle escapes my lips as I picture that belt around my waist, in my hands, over my shoulder. The name plate reading ‘Dom Harter’ just like the ones in SCCW used to do. Singles gold has eluded me for nearly two years now, but I have the chance to end that dry spell; this thought is enough to send shivers up and down my spine.
“And you better believe that The Tenacious Little Bastard cannot be stopped, Q.” I state vehemently. “You better believe that by the end of next weekend, after Pooler has become the new FGA Pride Champion. After I have become the new FGA Heavyweight Champion. Then, when we have once again achieved the goals we have set ourselves, will FGA be ours. FGA will belong to The Murder and you, Q, are standing in the way of what we want.”
“And you have seen what happens to those who stand in the way of progress. And I trust you don’t want to fall by the wayside; you don’t want to end up strewn across the wasteland, to be carrion for the scavengers to pick apart. I trust you know what’s best for yourself, Q.”
“You can recite the list of victims as well as I can by now, right? The people who have been humbled at my feet, those who have fallen to their knees and begged for mercy. Those who have had to be scraped off the canvas at the end of the night.” I say with a sneer. “You have seen the devastation we have caused, the havoc, the chaos. You have seen the casualty list growing with each passing week and I know, deep down, you have been dreading the day when your name would appear on it…”
“That time is now.” I say coldly. “Your name, Q, has been added to that list and there is nothing you can do to change that. Nothing you can do to prevent the inevitable; your demise is as certain as the sun rising in the east or that the rivers flow to the sea. The only thing you can cling to now, the only slither of self-preservation you can hold onto for dear life is to hope and pray that this – our upcoming match – is a one off. Hope that you, Q, don’t become the next Junior.
“So right now I’m gonna give you the best advice you will ever receive.” I say with a crooked grin on my face. “When our match is done, when my hand is raised in victory and the title belt handed to me. Do not seek to regain it. Do not entertain the thought of vengeance. Let it go, Q. Admit that the better man won, congratulate me and whatever you do, do not cross The Murder…”
July 2012
I returned to Saints Haven the next morning; a new resolve to deal with whatever came my way steady within me. I walked through the doors without an ounce of self confidence, however, I was nothing more than a shell of a man at that exact moment in time.
There was a match in progress in the ring, one man I knew as Perry Martin, a hulking figure who stood over six foot six and weighed in somewhere near the two-sixty pound mark. He was a shoe in to graduate at the next possible chance; Bronco claimed he had a look about him that almost assured him, Martin, that he’d make it in the sport. That some promotions hired guys like him even if they couldn’t wrestle worth a lick and the fact that Martin could in fact wrestle, that he moved around the ring with the grace and speed of a gazelle or a cheetah could only be of benefit.
The other man I hadn’t seen before. He was clearly under six foot judging by the distance by which Martin towered over him. And he couldn’t have weighed in much over two hundred pounds if that. But as I approached the ring I watched as this man took the fight to Martin; Bronco was shouting at the smaller figure for taking liberties with his opponent; Martin was cowering, trying to run from the relentless onslaught that the smaller man was determined to unleash. I watched in awe as he delivered a roaring elbow that caught Martin on the jaw. Martin’s knees buckled and he collapsed to the mat in a heap as the trainers rushed the ring to attend to him; the smaller man sneered as Bronco glared up at him and told him to get out and never come back. That Malcolm Drake is not welcome in Saints Haven.
There was an aura present around him as he walked away from the unconscious Perry Martin, neither pride nor remorse for his actions. He, Drake, didn’t seem to care about being banished from Saints Haven – something I personally would have found to be unbearable – as he walked with that aura of self-belief, self-confidence. All of the qualities I wished I had.
Perhaps I had found my figure to lead the way.