Left For Dead
Nov 20, 2014 11:59:07 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Nov 20, 2014 11:59:07 GMT -5
Secausus, New Jersey.
Two nights previous, the Meadowlands Expo Center played host to a DVD taping of Frontier Grappling Arts. The dust has long since settled, and the combatants have moved on. Either back to their homes across the country and world, or onward to Jersey City; host for the Three Year Anniversary Show. That's the way the life works, you arrive, you perform, and you leave. Take nothing and leave nothing behind, except fading memories and the smell of sweat and blood slowly dissipating into the atmosphere. Done, done, and on to the next one.
Some try to set down roots, start families, be normal. Inevitably, they fail. The rest are nomads, wandering from city to city, coupling however briefly with the other futile wanderers like themselves. Some mad hope at tasting that bit of freedom that comes with surrender. It's why they crave that spotlight; white and hot. A substitute, a surrogate for what they can never touch. Touch it for a moment, and then on to the next one.
Secausus Animal Shelter is small, almost too small to even notice. A squat, square building on nondescript bricks painted a nondescript beige on a nondescript street. The sign is simple, black text on a white background. No pictures of animals, just the name. The railing up the three steps to the door has rusted off it's mooring, and lists slightly to the left from pressure exerted on long after it ceased to serve any function. The glass front door is covered with the hand-prints of passers-through, neglected.
Another print joins them with the tingling of a small bell above the door; the hand meaty and pale, knuckles gnarred, scarred, and bent. As the door slides open, a black leash wraps around the frame. It is thin and black, and twisted with effort. The business end is attached to a dog, no more than twenty pounds, whose lineage is that of two mutts finding solace in a dirty New Jersey alleyway. His body is stout and muscular, with short hair of black and tan and splotches of white. His ears flop up and down as he bounds around, his tail – and its abnormal crook – wagging frantically. His tongue, too big for his mouth, dangles out as he doubles back to face the other end of the leash... held by Malcolm Drake.
Drake's own lineage doesn't hold much higher pedigree; a mix of Anglo-Irish mutts himself. His hand, the one not pushing open the door, is white-knuckled around the loop at the end of the leash. His dirty-blond hair is pushed back, and his pale eyes dart between the bounding dog and any potential dangers ahead. His face is contorted – a most unnatural and unusual configuration for Drake – into a smile.
Jersey City, New Jersey.
Candlewood Suites is more than a step-up from the motels and Motor Inns that Malcolm Drake is used to frequenting; it's a quantum leap. The room boasts a queen-sized bed with linens that were purchased in this century, a flat-screen television, a small kitchen, and a private bathroom where the drains don't have to stay plugged to keep cockroaches out. It's primary perk is that it is one of the few pet-friendly hotels in Jersey City. A fact punctuated by the small ball of fur curled up at the edge of the bed, lightly snoring. It is night, and the only light in the room comes from a small lamp on the desk, next to the arm chair that seats Malcolm Drake. Drake is slouched in the chair, his head resting between the index finger and fist of his left hand with his blond hair cascading over his forehead to the tops of his eyes.
“Left for dead,” he says, muffled by the bulk of his hand, “That's what they said about him.” Drake nods towards the sleeping dog at the edge of the bed. “He was left to die with his brothers and his sisters. No food, no shelter... nothing. He's the only one they found. And they brought him in... and put him in a cage. He went from left for dead to a prisoner... a prisoner on death row.”
Drake shifts in the chair, straightening himself slightly, and as his hand slides down off his face, the lamp light catches the streams of tears running down his cheeks.
“I can relate,” he continues, “Being left for dead. Having nothing. You think it's the hunger that'll get you, but it's not. It's the cold. The cold gets inside you. Under your skin and into your bones. You don't feel cold on the outside, on the surface. You feel it inside you, from the inside out. Like... icy fingers... gripping your organs... and TWISTING them around inside you. That cold... it kills things inside you. Things like hope. And you start searching inside yourself for anything to fight it off. I... I found hate.”
Drake pushes himself up from the chair and delicately walks across the room, lowering himself gently onto the bed and grazing his fingers over the sleeping pup's head and back.
“He doesn't have a name yet,” Drake confesses, “At the prison where they held him and were ready to kill him, they called him 'Lucky.' Lucky. When she said that – the fat, old woman – I felt that hatred inside myself again. I felt it red-hot. Burning. I wanted to grab her by her flabby jowls and stomp on her body until she fit into one of those cages. Lucky?!”
The pup stirs slightly as Drake raises his voice. He catches himself, and does his best attempt at a soothing “Shhhh.” His meaty hand moves clumsily along the dog's back; like Lenny and the rabbits.
“When I first came to FGA, I was angry but I was focused. I was a mastermind. I was winning the game while everyone else was still trying to figure out the rules. I was making checkmates, the rest of them had trouble keeping the pieces out of their drooling mouths. So... I understand why there are people who don't believe me when I say I've changed. Everything I did played into a larger plan, a scope too large for anyone else to pick up on until it was too late. I picked up wins, by hook or crook, I garnered titles, I changed the rules of the Tag Team division to suit my plans, and I left wanton destruction in my wake. So... I get it... when you don't TRUST me.”
“But I want you to look at what I've done since I've returned. I've won every match – save one – and not by cheating or interference or bending the rules. I won them fair. Hell, you can even say I beat Dom Harter since I was the first one to draw blood,” he smirks and absentmindedly runs his fingers over the scar on his forehead, still healing. “How? How am I doing it? The same way I did it last time: purpose. When I first came to FGA I didn't care how I climbed to the top, in fact, I went out of my way to bring the top down to my level by cutting legs out from underneath anyone standing higher than me. When you have a bunch of crabs in a bucket, they'll claw at each other to make sure none escape. That was me. Now my purpose has shifted. It's not about destruction any more, it's about redemption. It MATTERS now how I fight. It MATTERS how I win...”
“Cindy,” Drake says barely above a whisper, “the old me would look at you and see a laundry-list of vulnerabilities. Injuries. Concussions. And most importantly: doubt. Targets. Weaknesses. We all have them, and you're fairly adept at hiding yours behind shrugs and eye-rolls and high-pitched bravado, but you know that I can see through that. And the old me, he'd start by picking at your doubts and your fears. He'd talk about your kid and your past and he'd tried to get under your skin. He'd try to wind you up, all the while planting seeds of doubt about your abilities. He'd wait for you to over-commit in the ring and then pick your ankle, or slap your temple to ring your bell. And he'd prey on your insecurities, as a wrestler, as a woman, as a mother.”
“But,” Drake leans back slightly, “That's the old me. I still see the pretty face now. And I still see all the weaknesses and insecurities. But I'm getting better at seeing them as part of the whole. As part of a person, and person – in your case – that has taken some serious beatings and come back like the little orphan Oliver begging for more. If there's one thing I can relate to, it's taking a beating... and orphans, too, I guess. And the more I talk like this... the more I let slip about the inner workings of the once-twisted mind of Dr. Malcolm Drake... the less people view me as a threat. A threat to their spot, a threat to their titles, a threat to their health...”
Drake smirks.
“That threat was my power. Fear... was my currency. And I cashed in on it, because whether anyone wanted to admit it or not, everyone in FGA FEARED... me. How did I rise so quickly? Fear. How did I conquer so thoroughly? Fear. How did I carve up FGA so easily. Fear. Fear. FEAR. The thing is... I don't NEED you to be afraid of me anymore. I don't NEED to wind you up. I don't NEED to tear you down. I don't NEED to pick at injuries and weaknesses. The thing that got lost in all the fear and violence is the simple fact that is still true today... I'm better than you. Pound for pound, I'm the strongest man in this company. Blow for blow, I'm the toughest sonuvabitch that has ever stepped between those ropes. And thought for thought, well... in FGA I'm Einstein while the rest of you are listening to Baby Einstein cassettes.”
“Here's the thing, Cyn; you may not believe me. Dominic may not believe me. Laurel Anne Hardy may not believe me. The fans may not believe. Pope Francis may not believe me... but none of that changes the facts. And the fact is that Malcolm Drake – crazy or sane, naughty or nice, friend or foe – is the most dangerous man in Frontier Grappling Arts. And that's a fact I intended to add an exclamation point to on Saturday night.”
Drake gives a soft scratch behind the ears of his sleeping pup.
“Because the kinder, gentler Malcolm Drake... is still very much a threat.”
“Memento mori.”
Two nights previous, the Meadowlands Expo Center played host to a DVD taping of Frontier Grappling Arts. The dust has long since settled, and the combatants have moved on. Either back to their homes across the country and world, or onward to Jersey City; host for the Three Year Anniversary Show. That's the way the life works, you arrive, you perform, and you leave. Take nothing and leave nothing behind, except fading memories and the smell of sweat and blood slowly dissipating into the atmosphere. Done, done, and on to the next one.
Some try to set down roots, start families, be normal. Inevitably, they fail. The rest are nomads, wandering from city to city, coupling however briefly with the other futile wanderers like themselves. Some mad hope at tasting that bit of freedom that comes with surrender. It's why they crave that spotlight; white and hot. A substitute, a surrogate for what they can never touch. Touch it for a moment, and then on to the next one.
Secausus Animal Shelter is small, almost too small to even notice. A squat, square building on nondescript bricks painted a nondescript beige on a nondescript street. The sign is simple, black text on a white background. No pictures of animals, just the name. The railing up the three steps to the door has rusted off it's mooring, and lists slightly to the left from pressure exerted on long after it ceased to serve any function. The glass front door is covered with the hand-prints of passers-through, neglected.
Another print joins them with the tingling of a small bell above the door; the hand meaty and pale, knuckles gnarred, scarred, and bent. As the door slides open, a black leash wraps around the frame. It is thin and black, and twisted with effort. The business end is attached to a dog, no more than twenty pounds, whose lineage is that of two mutts finding solace in a dirty New Jersey alleyway. His body is stout and muscular, with short hair of black and tan and splotches of white. His ears flop up and down as he bounds around, his tail – and its abnormal crook – wagging frantically. His tongue, too big for his mouth, dangles out as he doubles back to face the other end of the leash... held by Malcolm Drake.
Drake's own lineage doesn't hold much higher pedigree; a mix of Anglo-Irish mutts himself. His hand, the one not pushing open the door, is white-knuckled around the loop at the end of the leash. His dirty-blond hair is pushed back, and his pale eyes dart between the bounding dog and any potential dangers ahead. His face is contorted – a most unnatural and unusual configuration for Drake – into a smile.
Jersey City, New Jersey.
Candlewood Suites is more than a step-up from the motels and Motor Inns that Malcolm Drake is used to frequenting; it's a quantum leap. The room boasts a queen-sized bed with linens that were purchased in this century, a flat-screen television, a small kitchen, and a private bathroom where the drains don't have to stay plugged to keep cockroaches out. It's primary perk is that it is one of the few pet-friendly hotels in Jersey City. A fact punctuated by the small ball of fur curled up at the edge of the bed, lightly snoring. It is night, and the only light in the room comes from a small lamp on the desk, next to the arm chair that seats Malcolm Drake. Drake is slouched in the chair, his head resting between the index finger and fist of his left hand with his blond hair cascading over his forehead to the tops of his eyes.
“Left for dead,” he says, muffled by the bulk of his hand, “That's what they said about him.” Drake nods towards the sleeping dog at the edge of the bed. “He was left to die with his brothers and his sisters. No food, no shelter... nothing. He's the only one they found. And they brought him in... and put him in a cage. He went from left for dead to a prisoner... a prisoner on death row.”
Drake shifts in the chair, straightening himself slightly, and as his hand slides down off his face, the lamp light catches the streams of tears running down his cheeks.
“I can relate,” he continues, “Being left for dead. Having nothing. You think it's the hunger that'll get you, but it's not. It's the cold. The cold gets inside you. Under your skin and into your bones. You don't feel cold on the outside, on the surface. You feel it inside you, from the inside out. Like... icy fingers... gripping your organs... and TWISTING them around inside you. That cold... it kills things inside you. Things like hope. And you start searching inside yourself for anything to fight it off. I... I found hate.”
Drake pushes himself up from the chair and delicately walks across the room, lowering himself gently onto the bed and grazing his fingers over the sleeping pup's head and back.
“He doesn't have a name yet,” Drake confesses, “At the prison where they held him and were ready to kill him, they called him 'Lucky.' Lucky. When she said that – the fat, old woman – I felt that hatred inside myself again. I felt it red-hot. Burning. I wanted to grab her by her flabby jowls and stomp on her body until she fit into one of those cages. Lucky?!”
The pup stirs slightly as Drake raises his voice. He catches himself, and does his best attempt at a soothing “Shhhh.” His meaty hand moves clumsily along the dog's back; like Lenny and the rabbits.
“When I first came to FGA, I was angry but I was focused. I was a mastermind. I was winning the game while everyone else was still trying to figure out the rules. I was making checkmates, the rest of them had trouble keeping the pieces out of their drooling mouths. So... I understand why there are people who don't believe me when I say I've changed. Everything I did played into a larger plan, a scope too large for anyone else to pick up on until it was too late. I picked up wins, by hook or crook, I garnered titles, I changed the rules of the Tag Team division to suit my plans, and I left wanton destruction in my wake. So... I get it... when you don't TRUST me.”
“But I want you to look at what I've done since I've returned. I've won every match – save one – and not by cheating or interference or bending the rules. I won them fair. Hell, you can even say I beat Dom Harter since I was the first one to draw blood,” he smirks and absentmindedly runs his fingers over the scar on his forehead, still healing. “How? How am I doing it? The same way I did it last time: purpose. When I first came to FGA I didn't care how I climbed to the top, in fact, I went out of my way to bring the top down to my level by cutting legs out from underneath anyone standing higher than me. When you have a bunch of crabs in a bucket, they'll claw at each other to make sure none escape. That was me. Now my purpose has shifted. It's not about destruction any more, it's about redemption. It MATTERS now how I fight. It MATTERS how I win...”
“Cindy,” Drake says barely above a whisper, “the old me would look at you and see a laundry-list of vulnerabilities. Injuries. Concussions. And most importantly: doubt. Targets. Weaknesses. We all have them, and you're fairly adept at hiding yours behind shrugs and eye-rolls and high-pitched bravado, but you know that I can see through that. And the old me, he'd start by picking at your doubts and your fears. He'd talk about your kid and your past and he'd tried to get under your skin. He'd try to wind you up, all the while planting seeds of doubt about your abilities. He'd wait for you to over-commit in the ring and then pick your ankle, or slap your temple to ring your bell. And he'd prey on your insecurities, as a wrestler, as a woman, as a mother.”
“But,” Drake leans back slightly, “That's the old me. I still see the pretty face now. And I still see all the weaknesses and insecurities. But I'm getting better at seeing them as part of the whole. As part of a person, and person – in your case – that has taken some serious beatings and come back like the little orphan Oliver begging for more. If there's one thing I can relate to, it's taking a beating... and orphans, too, I guess. And the more I talk like this... the more I let slip about the inner workings of the once-twisted mind of Dr. Malcolm Drake... the less people view me as a threat. A threat to their spot, a threat to their titles, a threat to their health...”
Drake smirks.
“That threat was my power. Fear... was my currency. And I cashed in on it, because whether anyone wanted to admit it or not, everyone in FGA FEARED... me. How did I rise so quickly? Fear. How did I conquer so thoroughly? Fear. How did I carve up FGA so easily. Fear. Fear. FEAR. The thing is... I don't NEED you to be afraid of me anymore. I don't NEED to wind you up. I don't NEED to tear you down. I don't NEED to pick at injuries and weaknesses. The thing that got lost in all the fear and violence is the simple fact that is still true today... I'm better than you. Pound for pound, I'm the strongest man in this company. Blow for blow, I'm the toughest sonuvabitch that has ever stepped between those ropes. And thought for thought, well... in FGA I'm Einstein while the rest of you are listening to Baby Einstein cassettes.”
“Here's the thing, Cyn; you may not believe me. Dominic may not believe me. Laurel Anne Hardy may not believe me. The fans may not believe. Pope Francis may not believe me... but none of that changes the facts. And the fact is that Malcolm Drake – crazy or sane, naughty or nice, friend or foe – is the most dangerous man in Frontier Grappling Arts. And that's a fact I intended to add an exclamation point to on Saturday night.”
Drake gives a soft scratch behind the ears of his sleeping pup.
“Because the kinder, gentler Malcolm Drake... is still very much a threat.”
“Memento mori.”