Dirt
Jan 30, 2014 17:37:08 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Jan 30, 2014 17:37:08 GMT -5
Cambridge, MA
“This is NOT really a good time for me...”
The voice of Malcolm Drake seems faint as it twists in the blustery winter wind that blows through Cambridge, Massachusetts. Drake stands beside the dumpster out behind The People's Republik; his hair is its usual unkempt mess and his leather jacket, hoodie and jeans are in typical disarray. But noticeably absent are the ubiquitous Mid-Atlantic Tag Team Championship and IGNITE 24/7 Extreme Championship belts that he carries.
Drake slumps against the dumpster, running his hands vigorously over his face and through his hair. His eyes are bloodshot, outlined with thick purple bags. He carries the stubble of several days untouched by a razor's edge.
“Yes,” Drake starts in a panicky tone and rushed cadence, “The Murder walked into Battleground in Pittsburgh. Yes, we made short work of a makeshift team of false idols. Yes, we ran roughshod over Chris Q, the FGA Heavyweight Champion. And yes... we proved once again that The Murder is the most dominant force in professional wrestling today. But no... this is not a good FUCKING time for me.”
Drake mule kicks the side of the dumpster with his heavy black combat boots. The clanging sound echoes through the metal container.
“There are something that don't stay where you put them. There's some skeletons that don't stay buried. There's some demons that don't stay conquered. There's always something... something that comes along to try to SNATCH any inkling of success or happiness I can manage to wrap my fingers around. There are nuances that don't stay DEAD...”
Drake's breaths are labored as he lurches forward, leaning on his knees. Between pants he forces out, “... like the Usual Suspects. How many times does this make? How many times does the point have to be made? The only thing you should suspect from Chris Tryon and Jason Marx is a “B-minus” effort and their receipt of a savage blood-letting. The Usual Suspects are just that... usual. Ordinary. Insignificant. They say that I am crazy, but the definition of insanity to do the same thing over and over and over again, expecting a different result. How many times does The Murder have to put you down? How many times do we need to establish our dominance? How many bones do we have to break for you to crawl back under the rock you slithered out from? TELL ME!”
“Tell me, because I will GLADLY oblige you. You see I've got... bigger... problems than the Usual – fucking – Suspects. You'd think I'd be happy returning to my hometown the conquering champion that I am, but NO. No... What I need is a reprieve. What I need is a distraction. What I need... is a scapegoat. I need a punching bag. I need target practice. I need two miserable, useless excuses for men to slide into the ring with me and be returned to the dust. I need bones to break and flesh to pick. And as sick and fucking tired as I am of seeing Chris Tryon and Jason Marx... they'll do just fine.”
Drake forces a smirk before spitting on the pavement.
“Memento mori.”
*********
Pittsburgh, PA.
A 24-hour diner. The name's not important, you know the type of place. Everything looks faded from the years of grease and smoke from the stoves caked on the walls and furniture. Where $10 feeds three for breakfast and the coffee comes in industrial-sized cans that might be army surplus from several wars ago.
Two men sit in a booth, staring into their coffee. One older, one younger. Both haggard and silent.
“Malcolm Drake,” the older man says, “Malcolm Drake, Malcolm Drakowski... it was that far of stretch. When I first heard it, it sounded like your name. So I went digging and I found you.”
“You found me,” the younger man responds in a sheepish voice.
“I did. After that it was just figuring out your schedule and trying to get a hold of you. And there you were on that bridge as I drove by; like fate was shining a spotlight right on you.”
There is a long silence that hangs in the air. The younger man simply continues to stare into the deep black swirling liquid inside his mug. The older man breaks the silence again.
“Seems like it was meant to be, right? … Son?”
Dishes cling and patrons chatter with waitresses, but silence envelopes the booth like a powerful fingers of strangling hands. Beneath a mane of blond-hair-turned-white, the pale blue eyes of the older man search the younger for an answer. The younger man continues to stare down at his drink. The steam rises and twists in the air.
“Malcolm? Aren't you going to say anything? I came all this way looking for you. I quit drinking, I quit smoking. I... I want to make amends. I want to make things right...”
The young man's eyes move from the mug to the circular scar under the knuckle of the index finger of his hand. He slowly lifts his gaze towards the older man; long, clumped strands of hair separate his eyes from his father's.
“Do you know how I got this scar?”
“What?”
“Do you know... how I got... this scar?”
“I don't remem-”
“When I was seven. You grabbed my wrist, took a lit cigarette, and pressed it into my hand.”
“Malcolm, I'm sorrry. I-”
“You're sorry?”
“Yes, I-”
“I was seven.”
“I know I was a bad fath-”
“It was my birthday.”
“I-”
“It burned.”
“Look-”
“I can still smell the stench of tobacco and blistering flesh and burning hair.”
“Malcolm, I'm sorry. I had demons. I-”
“Do you remember what you said to me? What you said when I was crying for you to stop? When I begged you to let me go?”
“...No...”
“You said, 'Quit whining and rub some dirt on it. You pussy.' Every time... every time I look down I see it. I... I know you, father. I know you like the back of my fucking hand.”
“Malcolm...”
The older man reaches out and offers a comforting touch to the younger man's scarred hand. But the younger man jerks away, pulling as far back as he can in the confines of the booth. The fear of a child is alight in his eyes. With his right hand, he snatches up cup of coffee and heaves it into the older man's face. The scalding liquid catches the older man in the chest, neck and face with a loud splash followed by the piercing screams of a burning man.
The younger man jumps from the bar and stares down at the older man writhing along the cheap, fake leather seats. His hands clawing for napkins, towels, anything. His face is already turning a bright, burning red.
“Rub some dirt on it. You pussy.”
The younger man turns his back on the screaming, shoulders past the waitress and pushes his way out into the cold winter morning.
“This is NOT really a good time for me...”
The voice of Malcolm Drake seems faint as it twists in the blustery winter wind that blows through Cambridge, Massachusetts. Drake stands beside the dumpster out behind The People's Republik; his hair is its usual unkempt mess and his leather jacket, hoodie and jeans are in typical disarray. But noticeably absent are the ubiquitous Mid-Atlantic Tag Team Championship and IGNITE 24/7 Extreme Championship belts that he carries.
Drake slumps against the dumpster, running his hands vigorously over his face and through his hair. His eyes are bloodshot, outlined with thick purple bags. He carries the stubble of several days untouched by a razor's edge.
“Yes,” Drake starts in a panicky tone and rushed cadence, “The Murder walked into Battleground in Pittsburgh. Yes, we made short work of a makeshift team of false idols. Yes, we ran roughshod over Chris Q, the FGA Heavyweight Champion. And yes... we proved once again that The Murder is the most dominant force in professional wrestling today. But no... this is not a good FUCKING time for me.”
Drake mule kicks the side of the dumpster with his heavy black combat boots. The clanging sound echoes through the metal container.
“There are something that don't stay where you put them. There's some skeletons that don't stay buried. There's some demons that don't stay conquered. There's always something... something that comes along to try to SNATCH any inkling of success or happiness I can manage to wrap my fingers around. There are nuances that don't stay DEAD...”
Drake's breaths are labored as he lurches forward, leaning on his knees. Between pants he forces out, “... like the Usual Suspects. How many times does this make? How many times does the point have to be made? The only thing you should suspect from Chris Tryon and Jason Marx is a “B-minus” effort and their receipt of a savage blood-letting. The Usual Suspects are just that... usual. Ordinary. Insignificant. They say that I am crazy, but the definition of insanity to do the same thing over and over and over again, expecting a different result. How many times does The Murder have to put you down? How many times do we need to establish our dominance? How many bones do we have to break for you to crawl back under the rock you slithered out from? TELL ME!”
“Tell me, because I will GLADLY oblige you. You see I've got... bigger... problems than the Usual – fucking – Suspects. You'd think I'd be happy returning to my hometown the conquering champion that I am, but NO. No... What I need is a reprieve. What I need is a distraction. What I need... is a scapegoat. I need a punching bag. I need target practice. I need two miserable, useless excuses for men to slide into the ring with me and be returned to the dust. I need bones to break and flesh to pick. And as sick and fucking tired as I am of seeing Chris Tryon and Jason Marx... they'll do just fine.”
Drake forces a smirk before spitting on the pavement.
“Memento mori.”
*********
Pittsburgh, PA.
A 24-hour diner. The name's not important, you know the type of place. Everything looks faded from the years of grease and smoke from the stoves caked on the walls and furniture. Where $10 feeds three for breakfast and the coffee comes in industrial-sized cans that might be army surplus from several wars ago.
Two men sit in a booth, staring into their coffee. One older, one younger. Both haggard and silent.
“Malcolm Drake,” the older man says, “Malcolm Drake, Malcolm Drakowski... it was that far of stretch. When I first heard it, it sounded like your name. So I went digging and I found you.”
“You found me,” the younger man responds in a sheepish voice.
“I did. After that it was just figuring out your schedule and trying to get a hold of you. And there you were on that bridge as I drove by; like fate was shining a spotlight right on you.”
There is a long silence that hangs in the air. The younger man simply continues to stare into the deep black swirling liquid inside his mug. The older man breaks the silence again.
“Seems like it was meant to be, right? … Son?”
Dishes cling and patrons chatter with waitresses, but silence envelopes the booth like a powerful fingers of strangling hands. Beneath a mane of blond-hair-turned-white, the pale blue eyes of the older man search the younger for an answer. The younger man continues to stare down at his drink. The steam rises and twists in the air.
“Malcolm? Aren't you going to say anything? I came all this way looking for you. I quit drinking, I quit smoking. I... I want to make amends. I want to make things right...”
The young man's eyes move from the mug to the circular scar under the knuckle of the index finger of his hand. He slowly lifts his gaze towards the older man; long, clumped strands of hair separate his eyes from his father's.
“Do you know how I got this scar?”
“What?”
“Do you know... how I got... this scar?”
“I don't remem-”
“When I was seven. You grabbed my wrist, took a lit cigarette, and pressed it into my hand.”
“Malcolm, I'm sorrry. I-”
“You're sorry?”
“Yes, I-”
“I was seven.”
“I know I was a bad fath-”
“It was my birthday.”
“I-”
“It burned.”
“Look-”
“I can still smell the stench of tobacco and blistering flesh and burning hair.”
“Malcolm, I'm sorry. I had demons. I-”
“Do you remember what you said to me? What you said when I was crying for you to stop? When I begged you to let me go?”
“...No...”
“You said, 'Quit whining and rub some dirt on it. You pussy.' Every time... every time I look down I see it. I... I know you, father. I know you like the back of my fucking hand.”
“Malcolm...”
The older man reaches out and offers a comforting touch to the younger man's scarred hand. But the younger man jerks away, pulling as far back as he can in the confines of the booth. The fear of a child is alight in his eyes. With his right hand, he snatches up cup of coffee and heaves it into the older man's face. The scalding liquid catches the older man in the chest, neck and face with a loud splash followed by the piercing screams of a burning man.
The younger man jumps from the bar and stares down at the older man writhing along the cheap, fake leather seats. His hands clawing for napkins, towels, anything. His face is already turning a bright, burning red.
“Rub some dirt on it. You pussy.”
The younger man turns his back on the screaming, shoulders past the waitress and pushes his way out into the cold winter morning.
Not my strongest effort, but being out of the country has kinda thrown my schedule off. I wanted to get this part of the story caught up so I can keep it moving.