[Session #13] Actions Speak Louder than Words
Oct 24, 2013 12:35:46 GMT -5
Post by Jerry on Oct 24, 2013 12:35:46 GMT -5
:A “Black Rose” stalked her prey in the shadows. Dallas Ramsay had owned her little piece of heaven on the outskirts of Amarillo ever since she left the sport of professional wrestling a little over a decade ago. West Texas cliental could be a rough crowd; however when your bar catered to a hodgepodge of bikers and rough necks you always had to be on high alert. Local law enforcement didn’t exactly have the best response time, and despite hiring some of the best in house security money could buy, she constantly found herself having to personally handle sticky situations to protect her female staff.:
:Her 5’9” 125lb frame didn’t seem like it packed much of a punch, yet she didn’t earn the moniker “Vixen of Violence” by playing the helpless female while she made a career of dismantling women and men in the wrestling ring. She currently had her eyes on a wannabe cowboy who had obviously had a few too many drinks. As the festive country music rose from the house band on the far stage, one of the waitresses picking up her order at the bar quivered in disgust as a hand swiftly smacked her backside. The offender laughed so hard as she turned toward him he spilled a good portion of his beer down his hideous multi-colored western shirt.:
Waitress: Asshole!
:The ruffian seemed insulted by her clear rejection of his less than gentlemanly advances and quickly grabbed her by the arm jerking her towards him.:
Man: Oh what… You arrogant little bitch, you think you’re too good for me?
: Dallas quickly engaged the situation by swiftly sliding in behind him and placing her arm tightly around his throat. Her target’s chest trembled as he unsuccessfully gasped for air. A devilish smirk appeared on her face as he let go of his victim’s arm. She calmly stated that his night was over in her slight West Texas drawl.:
Dallas: Now that’s no way to treat a lady, cowboy; ‘specially not in my place. I think your night is done… Percy, kindly show this “gentleman” to the door.
:A large bouncer made his way over to the exchange and grabbed the man by the arm. Dallas released her hold on his throat and her victim desperately inhaled the returning air rushing into his lungs. Business as usual on a Friday night in her little dive.:
Dallas: You look like you could use a break, honey. Why don’t you take five?
:The shaken waitress nodded in agreement and left the area. Dallas let out a sigh of relief and nodded toward the bartender to act like nothing had happened.:
“Still have the reflexes of a cat, I see…”
: Dallas closed her eyes and lowered her head with a smile at the sound of a familiar voice. Slowly, she turned to her right and confirmed her thoughts.:
Dallas: PETE!!!
:She ran over to the table that hosted Peter O’Brian and wrapped her arms around him as if he were a long lost love.:
O’Brian: Christ…not so hard.
:She loosened her grip slightly.:
Dallas: It’s so good to see you!
:She gave him a friendly peck on the cheek, and pulled up a chair.:
Dallas: It’s been too long, suge, what are you doin’ in this hell hole?
O’Brian: Figured I had nothing better to do than to come check up on my favorite gal.
Dallas: Oh please, you’ve had plenty of offers and you always turn me down for those naughty girls you employ up there in Seattle.
’Brian’s eyes darted away as if he were avoiding a truth that she didn’t want to hear.:
O’Brian: Errmm… Well, the truth is that it wasn’t my idea… I’m actually here because, well…
“He’s here because I had to come see you.”
: Dallas Ramsay was around 37 years old now. When she was in her prime, she would’ve been one of the most gorgeous women that you would’ve ever laid your eyes on. Even now, underneath the emerging age lines that lightly decorated her face, she’d still be a girl you’d want to tell all your friends about if you were lucky enough to take her home. Unfortunately all of that beauty quickly turned to an expression of white hot anger from the sounds of that voice. Jason Marx cautiously took a seat next to his old tag team partner.:
Marx: Dallas…
:After all these years, Marx had a glimmer of hope that she might actually be happy to see him. He quickly learned otherwise by her reaction and silence. His realization resulted in a defeated sigh.:
Marx: Damn… Maybe this was a mistake.
:Marx slowly began to rise from his chair until she broke her silence.:
Dallas: No sense in duckin’ me now, Jason.
:He froze and slowly returned to his seat. The crafty veteran was hardly ever at a loss for words; this was one of those few times.:
Marx: Obviously that’s not my intent…
Dallas: And what exactly are your intentions here?
:Marx’s head suddenly succumbed to sharp pains as he struggled for the right words to say. Describing the scene as an awkward moment of silence would be a huge understatement.:
Marx: To make amends?
:If looks could kill, then her expression was guilty of homicide.:
Dallas: Amends? Jason, what you said and did after Casey died was unforgivable. You blamed me for his death, and then you don’t even have the respect for your “friend” to show up at his funeral?
:Marx let out an exacerbated groan in response to her sharp words.:
Marx: I was angry, Dallas; angry and confused. Blaming you for what happened was just…convenient for me. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t regret saying what I said, and even worse, failing as a friend not only to you and Pete, but also Casey for not being there at the funeral. I realize how much of a coward I was then and how much of one I’ve been since then for failing to tell you this face to face.
:The same woman who, a few moments ago, looked as though she could rip a man twice her size apart appeared to be on the verge of tears. She slowly shook her head, rejecting everything that Jason Marx just said.:
Dallas: Words… Meaningless words, Jason. You think you can let ten years pass after you kicked me in the stomach during the lowest point of my life, waltz in here like a brief autumn breeze and make everything right?
Marx: Dallas…
:She slowly stood up from her seat, refusing to look at her old friend.:
Dallas: Words and talk… They don’t make men, Jason. Your actions are what make you a man. It’s too late….
Marx: Dal---
Dallas: Get out… Get out before I have your ass thrown out.
:She began to walk away, but stopped and placed her hand on O’Brian’s shoulder.:
Dallas: You’re welcome anytime, Pete… Just make sure that next time you don’t bring any surprises with you.
:With those parting words, Dallas Ramsay left the two men at their table. Marx appeared completely dejected and frustrated with himself for allowing this situation to brew on as long as it had.:
O’Brian: I told you this was a bad idea….
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:The Ted Reeve Arena was framed in bright moonlight surrounded by stars that blanketed the night sky like sprinkled sugar. The building itself would never be seen as a wondrous feat of construction, with its worn brickwork and white wooden siding. The entrances consisted of three sets of double glass doors covered by an awning supported by four brick pillars and two cemented posts at each end. Two square lights fixed under the awning flickered in the brisk night.:
:A walkway centered in front of the middle entrance led to the inclined steps and rails that connected with the rusted metal fence that surrounded the arena. Jason Marx was leaned against the fence, wearing a black leather jacket and blue jeans, smoking one of his Camel Crush cigarettes. To his left stood his rookie student, Chris Tryon, dressed in a gray old navy pullover jacket and black Adidas windbreaker pants.:
Marx: One more chance…
:Two columns of smoke exited through his nostrils as he spoke.:
Marx: We get one more chance to prove the experts wrong and walk out of that arena as Mid-Atlantic Tag Team Champions. We’ve been here before and we failed. The difference between then and now is that there are no other variables in this match. At Above and Beyond, we entered the ring against the Murder, Bad Attitude, and Weather in a 4 way fray for those belts; so many teams, so many possible outcomes.
:Tryon nodded in agreement.:
Marx: These facts take nothing away from the victory that Dom Harter and Malcolm Drake earned that night. They were the better team…on that night. Some might accuse me of being ignorant in thinking that the results might be different this weekend, but I like our chances.
:Tryon stepped toward the camera.:
Tryon: My, how things have changed since then. As my partner so eloquently put it leading into that match, we were a team that consisted of two individuals who could never see eye to eye. Despite everybody warning him to the contrary, he placed all of his energy into hoping that we would be able to click.
:Tryon turned his head toward Marx momentarily before returning his attention to the camera.:
Tryon: I…take all of the blame for us losing that match at Above and Beyond. I never allowed us to become a cohesive unit. My selfish actions in trying to make a name for myself at the expense of Dom Harter effectively ruined any chance of that happening.
:Tryon slightly chuckled and shook his head in disbelief.:
Tryon: It’s amazing when you think about it, isn’t it? How the hell did we get as far as we did in the Dynamic Duos tournament? We had no business being in that match with those teams. The one thing that they all had going for them, notably absent from The Usual Suspects, was that they were all one cohesive unit. Looking back on those days, we were just lucky to be able to lace our boots up that night and even get a sniff at those belts.
:Tryon paused and smirked.:
Tryon: That’s why when I heard that we were getting another shot at those titles here in Toronto I was as surprised as everybody else. It’s no secret that since Above and Beyond, Jason Marx and Chris Tryon haven’t exactly had the best track record. Marx lost at the hands of Jimmy Page, and I failed miserably in my match against Dom Harter in Dearborn. In fact, it’s been several months since either one of us have tasted victory. So you can rest assured that Drake and Pooler will label us as undeserving frauds.
:Marx flicked his cancer-stick onto the sidewalk and extinguished it with his shoe.:
Marx: Let them call us whatever they want, it won’t change the fact that on Saturday night The Murder have to enter the ring against a much different tag team than what they faced in Baltimore.
:The mention of The Murder brought an intense determination on Marx’s face.:
Marx: These men, the Murder, distort Frontier Grappling Arts with their very presence. What should be a thriving and growing independent company has been held hostage ever since their inception. Their little faction looms over everything that that we aspire to be and poisons our very ambition to achieve greatness. They haunt every member of this company, ready to crush anyone who gives them the slightest hint of competition. But that doesn’t make them immune to defeat. They’ve built their entire foundation on a philosophy of fear, chasing out talented FGA grapplers like Ryan Kidd and Pat Gordon, Jr.
:Marx turned toward Tryon and eyed him up and down.:
Marx: My partner has learned the hard way on a repeated basis that you don’t cross The Murder.
:That statement caused Tryon to momentarily shudder as the lingering effects of the repeated attacks from Drake, Pooler, and Harter seemingly returned to his mind like a long forgotten childhood nightmare.:
Tryon: I don’t need an excuse to hate the Murder. I’ve taunted Harter to his face time and time again. You can’t openly carry any kind of momentum in this company that they even remotely think might be strong enough to knock them off of their perch without facing their wrath. The only solace that I can take in those beatings is that despite everything that they have dished out over the past few months, I’m still here. Drake, Harter, and Pooler would have you believe that they’ve become fattened up by repeatedly pecking at the flesh from my bones, but I’m not dead. The Usual Suspects are not dead, and we intend to bring everything that we’ve got to this arena on Saturday night.
Marx: It’s going to be one hell of a fight and we fight it on their terms in their environment. No disqualification seemingly gives them all the advantage in the world going into this match. We’ve all seen it before, crows tend to flock together. There’s nothing holding Dom Harter back from inserting himself in this match and tipping the scales to his friends’ advantage. That’s fine. If that’s how we lose we’ll begrudgingly tip our caps to them and call them the better team. If Pooler and Drake beat us without Harter’s help, I’ll be the first one to acknowledge that they’ve outclassed us for a second time. Either way, Jason Marx and Chris Tryon will still stand defiantly with our heads high and refuse to die off like so many of the opponents that they’ve laid waste to. We can always bide our time, start at the bottom of the ladder once again and work our way back up. One way or the other, Drake and Pooler, we will always be the thorn in your side.
:Tryon bit his bottom lip and shook his head in agitation at the thought of failure.:
Tryon: If there’s something else I’ve learned about The Murder over the past few months, it’s this. They’re all three tough sons of bitches, but the one thing that you can do to get under their skin is to brush yourself off, get back up and defiantly stare them down. They’re not exactly used to repeated defiance. I’ve done it, Chris Q. has done it, and the UK Dragons have done it. They might be one of the biggest bullies in the school yard, but just like all the others they’ll eventually crumble. It might not be this weekend or even next month, Drake…Pooler, but soon somebody is going to be there when you get knocked off of that perch. There’s nothing more in this world that I wouldn’t give for that to be me. If it is…fantastic, if not, I’ll be there looking right back at you, enjoying your eventual anguish.
Tryon: This weekend is going to be a tough challenge and the odds are stacked against us, but I don’t plan on walking out of this arena on Saturday night without some added weight around my waist. If there’s anything that I’ve learned from Jason Marx that I tried to ignore for so long, it’s that victories are earned…titles are earned…respect is earned. I plan on us earning all three here in Toronto. I don’t care what Bob Pooler is going to do next, and I’ll remember that I’ll die someday Drake – but that day isn’t on Saturday. You’ve built one hell of a reputation so far, now it’s time for the Usual Suspects to begin building ours.
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:Chris Tryon pressed closer to the door, attempting to make out the slightly muffled comments coming from the living room of the apartment he shared with Jason Marx.:
“Intentions are great, but wins aren’t built off of intent – everybody intends to win. Wins are achieved through talent and execution.”
:Transitioned to a different perspective, Jason Marx sat across from Peter O’Brian at the small oval dining table in the main living area. The table initially appeared to have a granite top; however upon closer inspection one would see that it was actually a printed template on particle board. Two glasses of ice were positioned in front of their owners. Marx slowly poured a bottle of Chivas Regal blended scotch into his.:
Marx: You’ve never had faith in this kid. I’m telling you that we’re on the verge of being able to accomplish something big.
’Brian scoffed in response.:
O’Brian: You keep holding onto that hope all you want, but you know as well as I do that it’s not going to happen.
Marx: Whatever happened to you? You used to have faith in me, faith in this sport, and faith in life.
’Brian stared intently at the empty glass of ice in front of him, reached over and began to pour his own glass with liquor. The ice cubes slightly rattled, melting down in size, as the room temperature liquid filled the glass.:
O’Brian: I still have faith in life, just none left in this sport. Everything about professional wrestling reeks of death. If it doesn’t physically kill you, it destroys friendships, families, and dreams.
Marx: What about us?
:Marx’s quick retort was met with hesitation as it seemed O’Brian was wrestling on whether to keep his mouth shut.:
O’Brian: What about Dallas?
:The sound of that name resulted in a slight cringe from Jason Marx – the then future wife of his now dead tag team partner, Casey Rose.:
Marx: What about her?
O’Brian: You were sure quick to ask me for my opinion on this kid, but you know as well as I do that if anybody could give you the real deal on him, it would be her.
Marx: She’d rather stab me in my sleep than ever have anything to do with me. I messed up…
’Brian angrily pounded the table with his fist causing both glasses to rattle and nearly topple over.:
O’Brian: You’re damn right you did. Where the hell do you get off blaming her for what happened to Casey? Despite what you thought, Casey was his own man, and he made his own decisions. How dare you go after the one person who cared for him more than anybody else and blame her for his death!
Marx: Look…it’s no secret that I haven’t exactly kept tabs on her and what she’s doing. If I knew where she was, I’d go try to apologize and do anything in my power to let her know that I was sincere.
O’Brian: Amarillo…
:Marx hesitated, completely understanding what O’Brian was saying, nevertheless asked for false clarification.:
Marx: What’s that?
O’Brian: She used the money from Casey’s life insurance policy to buy herself a little bar out in Amarillo. It’s not much to look at from what I hear, but I guess as long as the booze flows, the money comes in.
:Another short pause. Marx seemed in deep thought, scratching at the stubble on his jaw line.:
Marx: Fine, let’s go.
O’Brian: Stop it… The only way you’d leave her place is on the receiving end of her bouncers throwing your ass out onto the parking lot.
Marx: No… this is something I have to do. Despite what your preconceived notions have told you about me – I’ve regretted that day for the rest of my life. I need this, for closure.
O’Brian: Nothing good is going to come from this…
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:Her 5’9” 125lb frame didn’t seem like it packed much of a punch, yet she didn’t earn the moniker “Vixen of Violence” by playing the helpless female while she made a career of dismantling women and men in the wrestling ring. She currently had her eyes on a wannabe cowboy who had obviously had a few too many drinks. As the festive country music rose from the house band on the far stage, one of the waitresses picking up her order at the bar quivered in disgust as a hand swiftly smacked her backside. The offender laughed so hard as she turned toward him he spilled a good portion of his beer down his hideous multi-colored western shirt.:
Waitress: Asshole!
:The ruffian seemed insulted by her clear rejection of his less than gentlemanly advances and quickly grabbed her by the arm jerking her towards him.:
Man: Oh what… You arrogant little bitch, you think you’re too good for me?
: Dallas quickly engaged the situation by swiftly sliding in behind him and placing her arm tightly around his throat. Her target’s chest trembled as he unsuccessfully gasped for air. A devilish smirk appeared on her face as he let go of his victim’s arm. She calmly stated that his night was over in her slight West Texas drawl.:
Dallas: Now that’s no way to treat a lady, cowboy; ‘specially not in my place. I think your night is done… Percy, kindly show this “gentleman” to the door.
:A large bouncer made his way over to the exchange and grabbed the man by the arm. Dallas released her hold on his throat and her victim desperately inhaled the returning air rushing into his lungs. Business as usual on a Friday night in her little dive.:
Dallas: You look like you could use a break, honey. Why don’t you take five?
:The shaken waitress nodded in agreement and left the area. Dallas let out a sigh of relief and nodded toward the bartender to act like nothing had happened.:
“Still have the reflexes of a cat, I see…”
: Dallas closed her eyes and lowered her head with a smile at the sound of a familiar voice. Slowly, she turned to her right and confirmed her thoughts.:
Dallas: PETE!!!
:She ran over to the table that hosted Peter O’Brian and wrapped her arms around him as if he were a long lost love.:
O’Brian: Christ…not so hard.
:She loosened her grip slightly.:
Dallas: It’s so good to see you!
:She gave him a friendly peck on the cheek, and pulled up a chair.:
Dallas: It’s been too long, suge, what are you doin’ in this hell hole?
O’Brian: Figured I had nothing better to do than to come check up on my favorite gal.
Dallas: Oh please, you’ve had plenty of offers and you always turn me down for those naughty girls you employ up there in Seattle.
’Brian’s eyes darted away as if he were avoiding a truth that she didn’t want to hear.:O’Brian: Errmm… Well, the truth is that it wasn’t my idea… I’m actually here because, well…
“He’s here because I had to come see you.”
: Dallas Ramsay was around 37 years old now. When she was in her prime, she would’ve been one of the most gorgeous women that you would’ve ever laid your eyes on. Even now, underneath the emerging age lines that lightly decorated her face, she’d still be a girl you’d want to tell all your friends about if you were lucky enough to take her home. Unfortunately all of that beauty quickly turned to an expression of white hot anger from the sounds of that voice. Jason Marx cautiously took a seat next to his old tag team partner.:
Marx: Dallas…
:After all these years, Marx had a glimmer of hope that she might actually be happy to see him. He quickly learned otherwise by her reaction and silence. His realization resulted in a defeated sigh.:
Marx: Damn… Maybe this was a mistake.
:Marx slowly began to rise from his chair until she broke her silence.:
Dallas: No sense in duckin’ me now, Jason.
:He froze and slowly returned to his seat. The crafty veteran was hardly ever at a loss for words; this was one of those few times.:
Marx: Obviously that’s not my intent…
Dallas: And what exactly are your intentions here?
:Marx’s head suddenly succumbed to sharp pains as he struggled for the right words to say. Describing the scene as an awkward moment of silence would be a huge understatement.:
Marx: To make amends?
:If looks could kill, then her expression was guilty of homicide.:
Dallas: Amends? Jason, what you said and did after Casey died was unforgivable. You blamed me for his death, and then you don’t even have the respect for your “friend” to show up at his funeral?
:Marx let out an exacerbated groan in response to her sharp words.:
Marx: I was angry, Dallas; angry and confused. Blaming you for what happened was just…convenient for me. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t regret saying what I said, and even worse, failing as a friend not only to you and Pete, but also Casey for not being there at the funeral. I realize how much of a coward I was then and how much of one I’ve been since then for failing to tell you this face to face.
:The same woman who, a few moments ago, looked as though she could rip a man twice her size apart appeared to be on the verge of tears. She slowly shook her head, rejecting everything that Jason Marx just said.:
Dallas: Words… Meaningless words, Jason. You think you can let ten years pass after you kicked me in the stomach during the lowest point of my life, waltz in here like a brief autumn breeze and make everything right?
Marx: Dallas…
:She slowly stood up from her seat, refusing to look at her old friend.:
Dallas: Words and talk… They don’t make men, Jason. Your actions are what make you a man. It’s too late….
Marx: Dal---
Dallas: Get out… Get out before I have your ass thrown out.
:She began to walk away, but stopped and placed her hand on O’Brian’s shoulder.:
Dallas: You’re welcome anytime, Pete… Just make sure that next time you don’t bring any surprises with you.
:With those parting words, Dallas Ramsay left the two men at their table. Marx appeared completely dejected and frustrated with himself for allowing this situation to brew on as long as it had.:
O’Brian: I told you this was a bad idea….
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:The Ted Reeve Arena was framed in bright moonlight surrounded by stars that blanketed the night sky like sprinkled sugar. The building itself would never be seen as a wondrous feat of construction, with its worn brickwork and white wooden siding. The entrances consisted of three sets of double glass doors covered by an awning supported by four brick pillars and two cemented posts at each end. Two square lights fixed under the awning flickered in the brisk night.:
:A walkway centered in front of the middle entrance led to the inclined steps and rails that connected with the rusted metal fence that surrounded the arena. Jason Marx was leaned against the fence, wearing a black leather jacket and blue jeans, smoking one of his Camel Crush cigarettes. To his left stood his rookie student, Chris Tryon, dressed in a gray old navy pullover jacket and black Adidas windbreaker pants.:
Marx: One more chance…
:Two columns of smoke exited through his nostrils as he spoke.:
Marx: We get one more chance to prove the experts wrong and walk out of that arena as Mid-Atlantic Tag Team Champions. We’ve been here before and we failed. The difference between then and now is that there are no other variables in this match. At Above and Beyond, we entered the ring against the Murder, Bad Attitude, and Weather in a 4 way fray for those belts; so many teams, so many possible outcomes.
:Tryon nodded in agreement.:
Marx: These facts take nothing away from the victory that Dom Harter and Malcolm Drake earned that night. They were the better team…on that night. Some might accuse me of being ignorant in thinking that the results might be different this weekend, but I like our chances.
:Tryon stepped toward the camera.:
Tryon: My, how things have changed since then. As my partner so eloquently put it leading into that match, we were a team that consisted of two individuals who could never see eye to eye. Despite everybody warning him to the contrary, he placed all of his energy into hoping that we would be able to click.
:Tryon turned his head toward Marx momentarily before returning his attention to the camera.:
Tryon: I…take all of the blame for us losing that match at Above and Beyond. I never allowed us to become a cohesive unit. My selfish actions in trying to make a name for myself at the expense of Dom Harter effectively ruined any chance of that happening.
:Tryon slightly chuckled and shook his head in disbelief.:
Tryon: It’s amazing when you think about it, isn’t it? How the hell did we get as far as we did in the Dynamic Duos tournament? We had no business being in that match with those teams. The one thing that they all had going for them, notably absent from The Usual Suspects, was that they were all one cohesive unit. Looking back on those days, we were just lucky to be able to lace our boots up that night and even get a sniff at those belts.
:Tryon paused and smirked.:
Tryon: That’s why when I heard that we were getting another shot at those titles here in Toronto I was as surprised as everybody else. It’s no secret that since Above and Beyond, Jason Marx and Chris Tryon haven’t exactly had the best track record. Marx lost at the hands of Jimmy Page, and I failed miserably in my match against Dom Harter in Dearborn. In fact, it’s been several months since either one of us have tasted victory. So you can rest assured that Drake and Pooler will label us as undeserving frauds.
:Marx flicked his cancer-stick onto the sidewalk and extinguished it with his shoe.:
Marx: Let them call us whatever they want, it won’t change the fact that on Saturday night The Murder have to enter the ring against a much different tag team than what they faced in Baltimore.
:The mention of The Murder brought an intense determination on Marx’s face.:
Marx: These men, the Murder, distort Frontier Grappling Arts with their very presence. What should be a thriving and growing independent company has been held hostage ever since their inception. Their little faction looms over everything that that we aspire to be and poisons our very ambition to achieve greatness. They haunt every member of this company, ready to crush anyone who gives them the slightest hint of competition. But that doesn’t make them immune to defeat. They’ve built their entire foundation on a philosophy of fear, chasing out talented FGA grapplers like Ryan Kidd and Pat Gordon, Jr.
:Marx turned toward Tryon and eyed him up and down.:
Marx: My partner has learned the hard way on a repeated basis that you don’t cross The Murder.
:That statement caused Tryon to momentarily shudder as the lingering effects of the repeated attacks from Drake, Pooler, and Harter seemingly returned to his mind like a long forgotten childhood nightmare.:
Tryon: I don’t need an excuse to hate the Murder. I’ve taunted Harter to his face time and time again. You can’t openly carry any kind of momentum in this company that they even remotely think might be strong enough to knock them off of their perch without facing their wrath. The only solace that I can take in those beatings is that despite everything that they have dished out over the past few months, I’m still here. Drake, Harter, and Pooler would have you believe that they’ve become fattened up by repeatedly pecking at the flesh from my bones, but I’m not dead. The Usual Suspects are not dead, and we intend to bring everything that we’ve got to this arena on Saturday night.
Marx: It’s going to be one hell of a fight and we fight it on their terms in their environment. No disqualification seemingly gives them all the advantage in the world going into this match. We’ve all seen it before, crows tend to flock together. There’s nothing holding Dom Harter back from inserting himself in this match and tipping the scales to his friends’ advantage. That’s fine. If that’s how we lose we’ll begrudgingly tip our caps to them and call them the better team. If Pooler and Drake beat us without Harter’s help, I’ll be the first one to acknowledge that they’ve outclassed us for a second time. Either way, Jason Marx and Chris Tryon will still stand defiantly with our heads high and refuse to die off like so many of the opponents that they’ve laid waste to. We can always bide our time, start at the bottom of the ladder once again and work our way back up. One way or the other, Drake and Pooler, we will always be the thorn in your side.
:Tryon bit his bottom lip and shook his head in agitation at the thought of failure.:
Tryon: If there’s something else I’ve learned about The Murder over the past few months, it’s this. They’re all three tough sons of bitches, but the one thing that you can do to get under their skin is to brush yourself off, get back up and defiantly stare them down. They’re not exactly used to repeated defiance. I’ve done it, Chris Q. has done it, and the UK Dragons have done it. They might be one of the biggest bullies in the school yard, but just like all the others they’ll eventually crumble. It might not be this weekend or even next month, Drake…Pooler, but soon somebody is going to be there when you get knocked off of that perch. There’s nothing more in this world that I wouldn’t give for that to be me. If it is…fantastic, if not, I’ll be there looking right back at you, enjoying your eventual anguish.
Tryon: This weekend is going to be a tough challenge and the odds are stacked against us, but I don’t plan on walking out of this arena on Saturday night without some added weight around my waist. If there’s anything that I’ve learned from Jason Marx that I tried to ignore for so long, it’s that victories are earned…titles are earned…respect is earned. I plan on us earning all three here in Toronto. I don’t care what Bob Pooler is going to do next, and I’ll remember that I’ll die someday Drake – but that day isn’t on Saturday. You’ve built one hell of a reputation so far, now it’s time for the Usual Suspects to begin building ours.
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:Chris Tryon pressed closer to the door, attempting to make out the slightly muffled comments coming from the living room of the apartment he shared with Jason Marx.:
“Intentions are great, but wins aren’t built off of intent – everybody intends to win. Wins are achieved through talent and execution.”
:Transitioned to a different perspective, Jason Marx sat across from Peter O’Brian at the small oval dining table in the main living area. The table initially appeared to have a granite top; however upon closer inspection one would see that it was actually a printed template on particle board. Two glasses of ice were positioned in front of their owners. Marx slowly poured a bottle of Chivas Regal blended scotch into his.:
Marx: You’ve never had faith in this kid. I’m telling you that we’re on the verge of being able to accomplish something big.
’Brian scoffed in response.:O’Brian: You keep holding onto that hope all you want, but you know as well as I do that it’s not going to happen.
Marx: Whatever happened to you? You used to have faith in me, faith in this sport, and faith in life.
’Brian stared intently at the empty glass of ice in front of him, reached over and began to pour his own glass with liquor. The ice cubes slightly rattled, melting down in size, as the room temperature liquid filled the glass.:O’Brian: I still have faith in life, just none left in this sport. Everything about professional wrestling reeks of death. If it doesn’t physically kill you, it destroys friendships, families, and dreams.
Marx: What about us?
:Marx’s quick retort was met with hesitation as it seemed O’Brian was wrestling on whether to keep his mouth shut.:
O’Brian: What about Dallas?
:The sound of that name resulted in a slight cringe from Jason Marx – the then future wife of his now dead tag team partner, Casey Rose.:
Marx: What about her?
O’Brian: You were sure quick to ask me for my opinion on this kid, but you know as well as I do that if anybody could give you the real deal on him, it would be her.
Marx: She’d rather stab me in my sleep than ever have anything to do with me. I messed up…
’Brian angrily pounded the table with his fist causing both glasses to rattle and nearly topple over.:O’Brian: You’re damn right you did. Where the hell do you get off blaming her for what happened to Casey? Despite what you thought, Casey was his own man, and he made his own decisions. How dare you go after the one person who cared for him more than anybody else and blame her for his death!
Marx: Look…it’s no secret that I haven’t exactly kept tabs on her and what she’s doing. If I knew where she was, I’d go try to apologize and do anything in my power to let her know that I was sincere.
O’Brian: Amarillo…
:Marx hesitated, completely understanding what O’Brian was saying, nevertheless asked for false clarification.:
Marx: What’s that?
O’Brian: She used the money from Casey’s life insurance policy to buy herself a little bar out in Amarillo. It’s not much to look at from what I hear, but I guess as long as the booze flows, the money comes in.
:Another short pause. Marx seemed in deep thought, scratching at the stubble on his jaw line.:
Marx: Fine, let’s go.
O’Brian: Stop it… The only way you’d leave her place is on the receiving end of her bouncers throwing your ass out onto the parking lot.
Marx: No… this is something I have to do. Despite what your preconceived notions have told you about me – I’ve regretted that day for the rest of my life. I need this, for closure.
O’Brian: Nothing good is going to come from this…
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