Black Jack Colter versus Roscar

"Is this the spot?"

Jack Colter unfolds a flier resting on his lap and looks it over before peaking out the window. He nods at Bobby Franchise, leading the old man to remove the key from the ignition and pull a newspaper out of the center console of the vehicle. Between the 62 year-old man in the madras suit and the print media, Jack has to look around the vehicle to make sure he didn't wake up in the last millennium.

Black Jack: "What are you doing?"

With a grunt of disapproval, Bobby slowly places the newspaper onto the steering wheel.

Bobby Franchise: "Excuse me?"

Black Jack: "You're gonna stay here this entire time?"

Bobby Franchise: "You're going to need a ride, right?"

Black Jack: "Might be a while. You know how yappy drunks can be."

Jack snaps his thumb and fingers together repeatedly to emphasize his point.

Black Jack: "I'll walk."

Bobby shrugs and begins to refold the newspaper that he had just painstakingly unfolded.

Black Jack: "Look, you want to do something to help?"

Jack reaches into his jacket and pulls a manila envelope from the inner lining. He places it into Bobby's hands.

Black Jack: "Take this to the bank. Set up a trust fund for Lacey."

Bobby Franchise: "Your goddaughter? You'll need to sign--"

Black Jack: "Don't you get it? I can't be trusted with that money. I'd piss that away in an hour of boredom. It has to be you."

Franchise bobs his head in agreement, having been a first-hand witness to Colter's financial irresponsibility. He looks over the envelope, noticing it's still sealed from the day he received it at the casino.

Bobby Franchise: "It's a bit more than the 10% we agreed upon."

Bobby guffaws with a self-satisfied grin plastered across his face, but Jack doesn't even bother correcting him. He knows the old man wouldn't con him.

Black Jack: "Gotta pay all that alimony somehow."

Bobby's grin slowly fades into a thousand yard stare as Jack's words cut a little too close to home. It's Jack's turn to laugh now.

Black Jack: "Struck a chord? You got any exes down here?"

Bobby pauses and then shakes his head, almost unsure himself.

Black Jack: "Ah, so that's why you've stayed down south. Holing up from your ex-wives. Don't you have some trainees to take care of?"

Jack knows for a fact that Franchise has one particular student in Texas named Benny Stevens, but he daren't mention the name of that little leech, lest he appear at the sound of his name like a more obnoxious Beetlejuice.

Bobby Franchise: "Oh, well, you know I've taken Benny under my wing."

Jack cringes at the name, uncertain if he felt his phone buzz with a twitter notification or if that was just an intersensory word association at this point.

Bobby Franchise: "But he's not too far away."

Black Jack: "That's a bit unnerving. Maybe you could get him a gig in Japan or something."

Bobby Franchise: "Benny's already a weird kid."

That was two times. Jack would need to cut this conversation short to ensure Benny didn't Beetlejuice himself into this town.

Bobby Franchise: "You want to throw him into a culture that celebrates hentai? Imagine your twitter feed then."

With a shake of his head, Jack opens the door of the Cadillac, having had enough of this conversation at this point - the Benny Stevens of it all, the fact that a 62 year-old man knows what hentai is - all of it.

Black Jack: "Go set up that account, would you?"

Bobby Franchise: "On it."

Black Jack: "I'll have more after my fight with Roscar."

At the mention of his opponent's name, Jack is reminded of purpose today. He glances at the flier once more before stepping out of the vehicle and slamming the door behind him. Jack finds himself eyeing up the church towering over all of the surrounding buildings in the area. Bobby pulls away from the curb in the CTS as Jack makes his way toward the church. The steeple looms large above him, casting a shadow across the street and up the adjacent building. Colter stops at the bottom of a flight of concrete steps and looks up toward the crimson double doors, one of which is propped open with a brick. He hesitates for a moment before turning left and heading toward the church hall.

---

Dust particles flutter through the ray of light shining in the glass panel door opposite Jack Colter. He stares at them dancing in the air as a custodian wearing a faded navy jumpsuit cleans the floor with a push broom. The camera man edges in closer to the lone man slumped over in one of many wooden folding chairs circling the center of the room. Colter stares at the floor and rattles the ice around in the clear plastic cup in his right hand before sitting upright upon hearing the camera man's footsteps.

Black Jack: "Roscar, The Greek God."

Colter says this with a hint of derision as he squirms in the wooden folding chair, attempting to find a comfortable position. A fruitless effort.

He plucks a bronze token from his jacket pocket.

Black Jack: "Do you know what this is?"

Jack holds the token up for the camera to see, before pulling his hand back in and admiring it for himself.

Black Jack: "I thought not. This is a sobriety coin. This particular one represents several years of sobriety. That may not mean a lot to you, but it means a hell of a lot to me."

Colter's voice waivers a bit before he takes the opportunity to drink some water out of his cup.

Black Jack: "Maybe you can see why your actions in that abortion of a contest at Wicked 16 pissed me off now. Or maybe you just don't give a shit. Maybe it's all indicative of a bigger problem."

Jack flips the coin with his thumb and then snatches it out of the air before seamlessly dropping it into his breast pocket.

Black Jack: "I know you've got some demons, Roscar. There's no mistaking it. I can hear it in your voice, I can see it in your eyes, and I can smell it on your breath.

I was once like you, a man with no willpower or self-control. A man with no direction."

Colter gulps back what's remaining of his drink before crushing the plastic cup in his hands and dropping on the floor. The custodian working hard on tidying the floor dies a little inside.

Black Jack: "It's hard to admit your faults. Trust me. I've been there. Living a life of iniquity and denial just like you. That was until I realized I was pissing my career away on ten dollar whiskey. That's when I decided to make a change."

Jack runs his right hand through the curls in his graying hair before sitting upright once more.

Black Jack: "So let's start being honest with one another. I'll go first. My name is Jack Colter and I am an alcoholic."

Jack leans back in the wooden folding chair and folds his arms.

Black Jack: "Doesn't seem so difficult, right? Alright, your turn, Roscar."

Colter gestures toward the chair beside him and pulls it into frame. The custodian winces as the chair screeches across the floor.

Black Jack: "See, admitting it to yourself - that's supposed to be the easy part. It's just the first hurdle into your recovery. But I can see that you're not quite ready to take a long hard look at the man in the mirror. You'll trick yourself into believing you're a functional alcoholic, even as it slowly begins to rule every aspect of your life. You're not at the point where you can address your issues, so I'm gonna do it for you, Roscar. Consider this an intervention of sorts. Not the type of intervention where your friends and family sit you down on the couch and beg you to change your ways. No, your friends don't give enough of a damn to do this for you. Did you ever stop and consider why your former tag partner Grant Bennett back-stabbed you? It's because of what you've let yourself become - a hopeless drunk.

But I want to help you, Roscar. Go ahead and consider me your sponsor. I want to give you the warning I never got. This might be painful to hear now, but you're gonna thank me when you get to be my age and still have a place to hang your hat in this business. So here goes: Roscar, you're a fucking mess. You're no Greek God. You're an embarrassing drunk with an undeserved Messiah complex. And when you say you are a badass motherfucker, I hope to Christ that's the liquor talking, because if not, your issues might be rooted a little deeper than I initially thought."

Jack taps on his temple twice with his index finger before turning it in a circle.

Black Jack: "Roscar, let me tell you, there's nothing badass about being addicted to the extent that you can't even loosen your grip on the bottle before you step into the ring. That was a complete slap in the face to me. That's an embarrassing lack of professionalism and human decency. We are no strangers. You know my history with addiction. I'm not ashamed of it; I wear it on my sleeve as a reminder of where I've been and how far I've come."

With a look of complete indignation, the custodian walks over to Colter's chair and picks up the cup with melting ice in it. Jack ignores him completely.

Black Jack: "So with all this being said, what did you actually expect to happen in that match at Wicked 16? You didn't come out to win that match. You came out to provoke me. You sabotaged that match from the hop with a cheapshot before the bell. You're gonna pay for that one, Roscar. Things are gonna get worse before they get better. Let's just say you need to start the program after Bad Moon Rising, because I suspect you're gonna need a little liquid courage to step into the ring with me after what you've done. But if the idiocy of your actions at Wicked 16 haven't seeped through that thick skull of yours yet, I only know one thing that will."

The chair creaks as Colter leans forward, almost hushed to a whisper.

Black Jack: "If you don't believe my words now, I'll teach you to believe. Are you a religious man, Roscar? Because you will be. You're gonna get real close with God at Bad Moon Rising."

Jack mockingly places his palms together and looks toward a cross on the other side of the room.

Black Jack: "I'm gonna give you some religion. You'll be on your knees praying for God to end the match. But God's not gonna answer your prayers, Roscar... I am."

Colter stands up, making a gun hand gesture toward the camera before walking off with a crooked grin. The camera stays trained on the circle of chairs while Colter walks out the glass doors. The church hall custodian is left with a gormless look drawn on his face.