Party's Over
May 23, 2013 19:40:23 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on May 23, 2013 19:40:23 GMT -5
White Plains, NY.
The Central Motel on Central Ave. in White Plains, NY is an low, ugly brick building across the street from a pair of run-down strip malls. Dingy off-white curtains flutter behind the panes of open windows. Inside a corner room of the second floor, the curtains are drawn tightly shut. Clothes are strewn about the room; a pair of jeans hangs over the back of green-and-yellow upholstered chair, socks sit beside the ottoman, two pairs of shoes sit near the large-back television set. One of the lamps, that should be on the end table, sits on the floor below the shattered fragments of a tacky oil painting that still hangs, crooked, on the wall. The sounds of running water stream out of the cracked-open door of the bathroom in the back of the room.
And sitting amidst the strewn bed sheets and comforters is Malcolm Drake. Drake sits on the edge of the bed with bare legs hanging over the edge, wearing nothing but a worn pair of black boxer-briefs with bits of their elastic waistband exposed. Drake's grimy blond hair hangs in matted strands as he stares down at his hands, which he presently opens and closes in slow rhythm. Fresh bruises and cuts decorate the knuckles of Drake's hands, but his eyes seem focused on the tattoo along his left forearm. From a distance the tattoo appears to be a tangle of patternless numbers, but close they appear as a running list of dates that stops at “8-15-02.”
Drake takes the index finger from his right hand and runs the tip along the date.
“My sixteenth birthday,” he says in a voice barely above a whisper before glancing up through his mess of hair, “Some people try to bury their bad memories. To forget them. They're the lucky ones. Some of us... can't forget. Some of us need that... reminder... that no matter HOW HIGH we climb, we're never, ever, ever out of reach.”
“And THAT was the lesson that YOU needed to learn, Chris Q. Did you think you were above reproach? Did you think you were untouchable? Did you think you were out of our reach? No matter how high you can climb, the Murder can spread our wings and catch you in our talons. Your PRIDE and your HUBRIS let you believe your own hype. You believed that no one wanted to FUCK... with the Big Bad.”
Drake smirks.
“Well, I want to fuck with you, Chris. To steal some of your colorful language: I want to fuck your shit up, and I have since day one when you and I walked into FGA around the same time. But unlike you, I am a patient man. I bided my time and waited. You might say that I avoid conflict with you. You'd be correct. I won't deny it. I never questioned your ability. I never questioned that you... were... dangerous. So I waited. I consolidated my power. I strengthened the Murder. I improved our position. And then... I struck.”
Drake pounds a closed fist into an open hand creating a loud “smack!” Drake looks down at his hands and grins.
“And what impact. What's left of the Big Bad now? Your STREAK is over. Your MYSTIQUE is gone. All you are now is another dangerous drunkard with a mean streak and penchant for violence. You're just like me, except... you're not as smart. All your anger and bravado... that's what's left. And what does that get you when you face someone who isn't intimidated by you? When you come up against someone who isn't afraid of you? When you look me dead in the eyes on Saturday night at Westchester County Center, in the center of the ring, in the Main Event, under the brightest lights... and see that for as violent and vicious as you think you are, you know... deep down... that I'm worse.”
“You'll come in with all your ANGER, that anger will make you reckless, and you'll make a mistake. That's when I'll strike again. And when I do it'll make you angrier, and you'll get more reckless and you'll make more mistakes. You're a simple man, Chris. An “animal,” as you like to say. Animals are stupid, instinctive beasts. Dangerous... yes... but STUPID. You can say “fuck” a lot and thump your chest and talk about how vicious you are. You can run your clap-trap and try to belittle me. You can call me a failure, a disappointment, a nothing... but it's only words in the wind. Compared to me... you're the one who is nothing. Think about this: Does the FGA roster want to fight Chris Q? No... but they FEAR facing Malcolm Drake. You TALK about how vicious you are, but I'm the one who leaves the bodies in his wake.”
Drake runs his hands through his hair, giving it a tug as he clears it from his unshaven face.
“You think you're some god-like figure around FGA, but really... you're like the rest of THEM. You're playing checkers while I'm playing chess. You assume I have the same goals as the rest of the lemmings in FGA. I may not hold the title, but I hold all the POWER. Oh... but you think that's a foolish thing to say, don't you? You think that's a played-out cliché? Clichés don't become clichés without being true. Why else do YOU want the championship so badly, Chris? To prove that you're the best? I thought you already believed that about yourself. I thought you were the "Big Bad." I thought you could tear every crow of the Murder apart with your bare hands.”
Drake's face twists from a smirk into a scowl.
“THEN DO IT. Stop beating your chest. Stop swearing like a child. Stop throwing your little temper tantrums like a BITCH... and do it. Come at me with all you've got and we'll see which one of us is all talk. Unless... you're afraid of another loss on your precious record. Unless you're afraid of dropping another rung on the ladder away from your precious title. Unless you're afraid that MALCOLM FUCKING DRAKE... is going to show everyone that last week wasn't a fluke, and that Chris Q is just a man... or just an animal... either way, I'll prove that you can BLEED.”
“Memento – ”
As Drake is half-way through his usual close, the door to the bathroom at the back of the room suddenly opens. Standing in the doorway, dripping wet and covered in only a thin towel is a pale, young man. The man doesn't appear more than eighteen years old, with pointy shoulders, sunken eyes and slim ribs that show through his abdomen. Bruises litter the boy's slender body; a swelling under the right eye, a discoloration on the left arm, and a pairs of long, fingernail-wide scrapes across his torso.
Drake sits motionless on the bed as the boy closely, carefully approaches. He gets halfway toward the bed before Drake rips the second lamp off the nightstand and turns and hurtles the lamp at the young man. The man ducks the majority of the lamp, catching only the cord which strikes him across the shoulder.
“GET OUT,” Drake screams, “GET THE FUCK OUT, YOU DISGUSTING FREAK!”
Drake continues to scream “get out” over and over and the boy gathers up as much of his clothes as he can, keeping the chair between himself and Drake as he maneuvers to the door and finally out of the room with Drake chasing at his heels. The young man slips out and slams the door behind him, leaving Drake alone in the room. Through his frantic movements, Drake finds himself face-to-face with his reflection in the room's mirror.
Drake, leaning with his hands on either side of the mirror, gazes up at his reflection. Examining it as if he hadn't seen himself in a long time. He smiles... before driving the point of his forehead into the center of the mirror. A loud “crash” envelopes Drake as the shards of broken glass fall to the floor. Drake, still smiling, flicks his hair back, revealing a small gash in the center of his forehead.
“Party's over. Memento... mori.”
The Central Motel on Central Ave. in White Plains, NY is an low, ugly brick building across the street from a pair of run-down strip malls. Dingy off-white curtains flutter behind the panes of open windows. Inside a corner room of the second floor, the curtains are drawn tightly shut. Clothes are strewn about the room; a pair of jeans hangs over the back of green-and-yellow upholstered chair, socks sit beside the ottoman, two pairs of shoes sit near the large-back television set. One of the lamps, that should be on the end table, sits on the floor below the shattered fragments of a tacky oil painting that still hangs, crooked, on the wall. The sounds of running water stream out of the cracked-open door of the bathroom in the back of the room.
And sitting amidst the strewn bed sheets and comforters is Malcolm Drake. Drake sits on the edge of the bed with bare legs hanging over the edge, wearing nothing but a worn pair of black boxer-briefs with bits of their elastic waistband exposed. Drake's grimy blond hair hangs in matted strands as he stares down at his hands, which he presently opens and closes in slow rhythm. Fresh bruises and cuts decorate the knuckles of Drake's hands, but his eyes seem focused on the tattoo along his left forearm. From a distance the tattoo appears to be a tangle of patternless numbers, but close they appear as a running list of dates that stops at “8-15-02.”
Drake takes the index finger from his right hand and runs the tip along the date.
“My sixteenth birthday,” he says in a voice barely above a whisper before glancing up through his mess of hair, “Some people try to bury their bad memories. To forget them. They're the lucky ones. Some of us... can't forget. Some of us need that... reminder... that no matter HOW HIGH we climb, we're never, ever, ever out of reach.”
“And THAT was the lesson that YOU needed to learn, Chris Q. Did you think you were above reproach? Did you think you were untouchable? Did you think you were out of our reach? No matter how high you can climb, the Murder can spread our wings and catch you in our talons. Your PRIDE and your HUBRIS let you believe your own hype. You believed that no one wanted to FUCK... with the Big Bad.”
Drake smirks.
“Well, I want to fuck with you, Chris. To steal some of your colorful language: I want to fuck your shit up, and I have since day one when you and I walked into FGA around the same time. But unlike you, I am a patient man. I bided my time and waited. You might say that I avoid conflict with you. You'd be correct. I won't deny it. I never questioned your ability. I never questioned that you... were... dangerous. So I waited. I consolidated my power. I strengthened the Murder. I improved our position. And then... I struck.”
Drake pounds a closed fist into an open hand creating a loud “smack!” Drake looks down at his hands and grins.
“And what impact. What's left of the Big Bad now? Your STREAK is over. Your MYSTIQUE is gone. All you are now is another dangerous drunkard with a mean streak and penchant for violence. You're just like me, except... you're not as smart. All your anger and bravado... that's what's left. And what does that get you when you face someone who isn't intimidated by you? When you come up against someone who isn't afraid of you? When you look me dead in the eyes on Saturday night at Westchester County Center, in the center of the ring, in the Main Event, under the brightest lights... and see that for as violent and vicious as you think you are, you know... deep down... that I'm worse.”
“You'll come in with all your ANGER, that anger will make you reckless, and you'll make a mistake. That's when I'll strike again. And when I do it'll make you angrier, and you'll get more reckless and you'll make more mistakes. You're a simple man, Chris. An “animal,” as you like to say. Animals are stupid, instinctive beasts. Dangerous... yes... but STUPID. You can say “fuck” a lot and thump your chest and talk about how vicious you are. You can run your clap-trap and try to belittle me. You can call me a failure, a disappointment, a nothing... but it's only words in the wind. Compared to me... you're the one who is nothing. Think about this: Does the FGA roster want to fight Chris Q? No... but they FEAR facing Malcolm Drake. You TALK about how vicious you are, but I'm the one who leaves the bodies in his wake.”
Drake runs his hands through his hair, giving it a tug as he clears it from his unshaven face.
“You think you're some god-like figure around FGA, but really... you're like the rest of THEM. You're playing checkers while I'm playing chess. You assume I have the same goals as the rest of the lemmings in FGA. I may not hold the title, but I hold all the POWER. Oh... but you think that's a foolish thing to say, don't you? You think that's a played-out cliché? Clichés don't become clichés without being true. Why else do YOU want the championship so badly, Chris? To prove that you're the best? I thought you already believed that about yourself. I thought you were the "Big Bad." I thought you could tear every crow of the Murder apart with your bare hands.”
Drake's face twists from a smirk into a scowl.
“THEN DO IT. Stop beating your chest. Stop swearing like a child. Stop throwing your little temper tantrums like a BITCH... and do it. Come at me with all you've got and we'll see which one of us is all talk. Unless... you're afraid of another loss on your precious record. Unless you're afraid of dropping another rung on the ladder away from your precious title. Unless you're afraid that MALCOLM FUCKING DRAKE... is going to show everyone that last week wasn't a fluke, and that Chris Q is just a man... or just an animal... either way, I'll prove that you can BLEED.”
“Memento – ”
As Drake is half-way through his usual close, the door to the bathroom at the back of the room suddenly opens. Standing in the doorway, dripping wet and covered in only a thin towel is a pale, young man. The man doesn't appear more than eighteen years old, with pointy shoulders, sunken eyes and slim ribs that show through his abdomen. Bruises litter the boy's slender body; a swelling under the right eye, a discoloration on the left arm, and a pairs of long, fingernail-wide scrapes across his torso.
Drake sits motionless on the bed as the boy closely, carefully approaches. He gets halfway toward the bed before Drake rips the second lamp off the nightstand and turns and hurtles the lamp at the young man. The man ducks the majority of the lamp, catching only the cord which strikes him across the shoulder.
“GET OUT,” Drake screams, “GET THE FUCK OUT, YOU DISGUSTING FREAK!”
Drake continues to scream “get out” over and over and the boy gathers up as much of his clothes as he can, keeping the chair between himself and Drake as he maneuvers to the door and finally out of the room with Drake chasing at his heels. The young man slips out and slams the door behind him, leaving Drake alone in the room. Through his frantic movements, Drake finds himself face-to-face with his reflection in the room's mirror.
Drake, leaning with his hands on either side of the mirror, gazes up at his reflection. Examining it as if he hadn't seen himself in a long time. He smiles... before driving the point of his forehead into the center of the mirror. A loud “crash” envelopes Drake as the shards of broken glass fall to the floor. Drake, still smiling, flicks his hair back, revealing a small gash in the center of his forehead.
“Party's over. Memento... mori.”