*****CHECK OUT 'AFTERMATH' CD BEFORE READING*****
Press sat at the farthest corner of the bar with an empty glass and a half bottle of Jack Daniels sitting in front of him. When he started this afternoon the bottle had been full, but as time dragged on it began to diminish, little by little, much the same as his mood. The meeting with Munin hadn’t been as bad as he had expected, though why he expected it to be terrible in the first place escaped him. If someone had done what they had done, skipping out on them in their time of need, he would have been furious. He would have let loose in a barrage of cutting remarks and eventual reprisals. Hell, he would have fired them.
But he guessed that was the point. She wasn’t him, and that fact was only made more evident by her poise and professionalism. That was probably the reason why she was enjoying the rest of her Fat Tuesday with Alex Cross, and not him, other than the fact that she had no idea that he felt this strongly for her. Press had experienced a lot of emotions in his life, but cowardice wasn’t one of them. That alone was enough to nag at him, feeding this desire to be self-destructive. With that thought in mind, he grinned to no one in particular, and reached for the bottle to pour himself another.
Samedi watched this whole process from the other side of the room, wiping down the counter more out of habit than any real need. He had witnessed the meeting between The BombTrax and Munin from a distance, and although he couldn’t hear every word that was said, he could read the body language displayed by his large friend. He knew that Munin, usually a great judge of character, wasn’t without her own failings, especially when it came to matters that were obvious. Sometimes complex people spend so much time plotting, scheming, and strategizing that they miss what’s blatantly right in front of them.
He shook his head as he watched Press reach for the bottle to pour his seventh shot of the evening, and threw the towel down on the bar before making his way towards his old friend. He hoped, in the back of his mind, that Youth would be back soon to collect the big oaf in order to get him home safely. He really didn’t want to have to wrestle the bear for his keys if he decided to get unruly. If nothing else, he would hate for the vintage Pontiac to get damaged.
He smirked at the thought right as he came to stand on the other side of the counter in front of Press, and threw out his elbow to catch him as he propped up on the bar.
“What is this that you’re doing to yourself, Redeemer?”
Press looked up at the Cajun with bloodshot eyes, his fingers clumsily tracing the edges of his glass.
“This isn’t any of your concern, Bones. Now drag your sorry carcass back across this tavern, and continue wiping your counters and peddling your drinks.”
Samedi laughed at the same time he held his hand over his chest in mock indignation, completely ruining his attempt at feigning insult.
“Oh, if it were only so. If you were just a normal drunk, drowning his misery at the bottom of a bottle, and not someone that I knew from long ago. Certainly that would be more easy, Mon Ami, but alas, I am stuck with thee.”
Press eyed the dark man with a look that neither one of them could identify, before grunting, and bringing the glass up to his lips, draining the dark liquid in one long gulp. He sucked in air through his teeth as the burn ran the course from his throat down to his stomach, and he slammed the glass back down on the bar with emphasis. He looked up defiantly at the Cajun before taking the bottle and filling the glass once more. When he put the bottle back on the counter, there were only about three more cups left before it would be finished.
Samedi sighed, and shook his head again at the display.
“You know what, Mon Ami, if that’s the way you want it then who am I to stop you. Drink yourself into a stupor, and suffer the aftermath of your stupidity.” He turned to walk away, but Press’ hand shot out and caught him by the arm before he could take his first step. Sam’s baleful gaze slowly drifted down to the iron like grip on his arm, then followed the appendage to the face of its owner.
Press shrugged in mock surrender, and released his grip on the Cajun. He brought the hand up to his forehead, and rested his elbow on the counter to support the weight as Samedi turned his full attention back to the big man. He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for him, considering that Sam was one of the few people in the world that actually knew the whole story of what Press and Youth had been through. No one should have to carry that burden alone, and yet, that didn’t change the fact that he couldn’t encourage anymore interactions with Munin than had already transpired. It was bad enough that Fate had arranged their business arrangement, let alone if that relationship ever took on the personal route. Their mutual enemies would reign down chaos on everyone else, himself included, and he wasn’t afraid to admit that he’d prefer to avoid that.
“Out with it.” Samedi said, crossing his arms over his chest.
Press looked up at the Cajun with an expression that could only be described as a rejected puppy, and then shook his head.
“She hate’s me!”
Samedi raised his eyebrow in surprise, and chuckled before answering,
“She does not hate you.”
“She might as well,” Press responded, talking louder than normal the way drunk people always do.
“We disappointed her, Sam. We didn’t back her up when she needed us the most.” His voice broke a bit on that last line, and Samedi feared that his oversized friend was about to break out in tears. There was nothing worse than seeing a big man cry.
Sam uncrossed his arms and rested his elbows on the counter, leaning in close, hoping that his calm voice might stand to quieten the burly man down.
“Press, you and Youth are good men. You’ve just been out of the loop for a while. Give it time. You’ll be right as rain, I guarantee. Why, the Lady didn’t seem angry at all when she left. She was in her usual spirit, which I can attest to, as I’ve known her longer than you have. There’s no need to beat the proverbial horse.”
Press took the bottle, abandoning the glass altogether, pulled the cap and took a long deep swig from the container. He placed it back on the counter, with nothing left but a swallow or two left, and loudly whispered to the Cajun.
“She’s going out with Alesh Cross tonight. Alesh Cross!” He repeated again, more urgently. He lurched forward so that he could look Samedi directly in the eyes, and the Cajun remained still despite the horrible whiskey breath wafting into his nostrils.
Press, with glassy wide eyes, shook slightly as he continued.
“Why inn’t she here with me, right now? Huh, Sam? Fuck Alesh. That’s right, fuck ‘em. He’s a mouthy cock sucker who inn’t good enough for Moooninn.” He chuckled a bit at that, slapping the counter, and looked wildly back at Samedi the way only the impaired could.
“Moooooooooonninnnn.” He laughed again, this time harder, losing his balance from his perch on the stool, and almost dumping out into the floor. He wasn’t quite that drunk yet, as he got his feet in under him to keep from falling, but Sam could see that it was closer to the point of no return, and if that happened, he knew that the big man could be very dangerous.
“Alright, you big ox. That’s enough. Let’s get you into my office, where we can talk privately.” Samedi said, snapping his fingers for one of his male servers to attempt to help him. He hopped up on the counter, swinging his legs over to the other side, and shoved off to land right beside Press. The big man continued his drunken chortle, making sure to grab his almost empty bottle of whiskey as he was shuffled towards the area that said, ‘Employee’s Only’.
After a short detour through the kitchen, and a right at the storage closet, Samedi and his server hoisted Press over the threshold of his personal office, which included a desk, chairs, and a couch on the far wall. He sometimes slept here over the weekends rather than make the drive to and from New Orleans on Friday’s and Saturday’s, so a pillow and blanket were already arranged on the couch.
Once the big man was unceremoniously tossed onto the couch, Samedi reached into his front pocket producing a money clip full of bills, and produced a hundred for his helper.
“No one is to know of this, do you hear?”
The server curtly nodded once, snatched the c-note, and then headed for the door, closing it behind him. Samedi turned back to Press who was already laid out across the couch, the Jack Daniel’s bottle tucked under his arm. The Cajun grabbed the edge of the blanket that hung from the back, and pulled it down to fall across the big man.
Press looked up at the sudden motion, all the wildness completely gone from his demeanor.
“Why do the people we love always leave us, Sam?” He asked in a slur, tears rimming his eyes.
Samedi sighed heavily, and pulled one of the chairs in front of his desk over by the couch. He plopped down, the look of a man who had known his own story of loss.
“I do not know, Redeemer. I only know that you tread a very dangerous line. One more perilous than usual, even for one such as you. The Lady, despite being well versed in knowing how to hide them, has feelings. Of this, I assure you. You must be careful with them, Mon Ami. Guard them. Protect them. Even if they aren’t the ones you’d choose for yourself.”
Press eased back into the couch cushions, and pulled the blanket up close to his chest.
“I’m always protecting someone else, Sam. I’m afraid that there’s nobody going to be there to protect me. They always get lost.” He grumbled sleepily, turning over onto his side while the almost empty bottle rolled out into the floor. He whispered ‘lost’ one more time before beginning to snore.
Sam scooped up the bottle and set it on the desk, regarding his friend with a compassionate eye. Here in Louisiana, he was surrounded by family. His mother was just down the road at the old homestead, his brother in Baton Rouge, and a sister in Kenner. He had Bobby and his folks at The Emporium who had been with him since the establishment had opened. He even had a woman he paid visits to twice a week to appease his manly needs. Sure, he’d experienced loss. In life, everyone does at some point or another, but not like these two.
Knowing someone had departed the mortal coil for the world beyond was one thing. Knowing that they were still mortal confined to the world beyond was something else. He didn’t know Press back when he was with Tammy Lynn, but he had heard all about it from both The BombTrax at some point or another. Knowing she was out there, but not really, took a heavy toll on the big man. That’s why Samedi had taken a liking to him in the first place. Despite everything that had happened, Press was still willing to fight the good fight.
The snores became louder, and Sam chuckled at the bear lying across his couch. He stood from his chair, realizing that the big man would be safe, for now, in the office. Meanwhile, he had other matters to attend to. Like a bar that was likely to spin out of control with the exuberance on display over the festive holiday. He turned and made his way out of the office, flipping the light switch off before he was fully out, and gently shut the door.
***********
When Press came awake, he was pretty sure that he could hear his heartbeat thundering inside his skull, which elicited a groan from his chapped lips. His mouth was dry with cotton mouth, and his stomach began the familiar dance that accompanied a long night of drinking. When he finally deemed it necessary to open his eyes, they were matted and covered in eye matter, and he rubbed at the edges to get rid of the mess.
When he did get them open, his initial thought was one of panic, because he had no idea where he was. He propped up abruptly on his elbows, and looked around the room in wonder. The memories began to come back to him, little by little, and he now remembered Samedi helping him into the room. The contents of their conversation last night was still a bit hazy, but they would fall into place once he was up and about.
He swung his legs over the couch so that his feet were on the floor, and pulled himself up into a full upright position. The maneuver left his body aching, and he figured that he was probably dehydrated considering he hadn’t bothered chasing his Jack with anything but more whiskey.
The room was still fairly dark, the only window had its shade pulled down, but there was a thin line of light peeking through. He decided it was time to try to stand, and the process was audible as his body popped and creaked in protest. Once on his feet, he felt a little better, the tumbling in his stomach finally easing off, and he made his way for the door.
There was no one in the kitchen as he silently passed, and he wondered if Sam had went back to New Orleans to check on The Emporium’s take from last night. He was sure that it had been a grand affair, probably even bigger than here at the park, considering it was right in the heart of the French Quarter. He grimaced a bit at the thought of New Orleans the morning after Fat Tuesday, imagining that the entire city probably resembled a frat house after a kegger.
When he pushed through the kitchen door into the main room, much to his surprise he saw Sam behind the bar, a calculator on his left, and a stack of receipts on his right, with a ledger sitting directly in front of him. He paused in his accounting long enough to look up over a pair of gold rimmed reading glasses to inspect the big man with a solemn expression.
“Feel better?” He asked, a thin smile forming at the corners of his lips.
Press grunted, and made his way around the counter to sit on the other side of the bar.
“Been worse, I guess.”
Samedi nodded, returning his eyes to line up with the glasses so that he could continue his mathematics.
“Did you get all of that out of your system?”
Press sighed, knowing that he had no right to get agitated at the civil tone he was being addressed with.
“I guess so, for now. I don’t see myself on a bender anytime soon, if that’s what you mean.”
Samedi nodded once again, seeming to be satisfied with that answer, and stood up, removing the glasses from his face. He laid them gently on the open book, and turned to his inventory of poisons, then selected a bottle with a red liquid in it. Unlike the other bottles, this one had no label, and even the bottle itself screamed ‘homemade’.
He reached under the counter producing a normal glass, and poured some of the contents into it, before setting it down in front of Press.
“Sarsaparilla. Drink. It will make you feel better.”
Press took the concoction, sniffed the glass, and then wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell. He looked up to eye the Cajun suspiciously, but the look on Samedi’s face made him realize that this wasn’t open for debate. With another heavy sigh, he clamped his fingers over his nose, and drained the glass in several measured gulps.
When the last of the liquid was past his throat, he slammed the glass down on the bar, and shuddered from the array of nefarious ingredients.
“God damn, that’s terrible!”
Samedi flashed a wicked grin, and nodded.
“Yes. A good reminder to drive home the point not to make this the norm.”
Press shuddered again, but had to admit that the Sarsaparilla was already settling everything in his body down. He was suddenly hungry, and the look that came over his face didn’t escape the Cajun’s notice.
Sam flashed a different grin, this one much more like himself, and nodded towards the kitchen.
“Why don’t I get us some breakfast started?”
Press nodded gratefully, and Sam wasted no time in making his way for the door. Before he could make it a loud banging at the double doors that exited into the park echoed through the tavern, causing both men to start, and then look in that direction. Press hopped off of his stool and made his way towards the door, while Sam leaned against the counter in curiosity.
When the latch came open Youth burst through the door, hastily closing the portal behind him, and shivering from the early morning chill.
“It’s fucking freezing out there!” He exclaimed, rubbing his arms for warmth.
Press smirked, while Samedi rolled his eyes and then continued on to the kitchen. Press and Youth made their way back to the bar, and each took a stool.
“So where the hell have you been?” Press asked, a look of suspicion clear on his face.
“Well, I fell asleep up in the plantation house.” Youth replied, running his fingers through his long dark hair.
“I had some company, but it looks like she jetted sometime in the night.”
Press chuckled, and flashed a grin.
“You sly dog.”
Youth gave a look of indignation, and sat back in his seat with his hand over his chest.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. It was a matter taking place between two consenting adults. No need to make it crass.”
Press smirked at the reply, waving it off with his hand to avoid the details.
“So between your gallivanting and your love making, did you ever get a chance to figure out what you wanted to say to Alex Cross?”
“Oh, yeah,” Youth answered, shrugging his shoulders with an expression of disinterest.
“Promo’s already up on the webpage. No worries. Did you figure out what you wanted to say to Alex Cross?”
Press shot Youth a dangerous glance, and then settled back in disapproval.
“That was a low blow.” He stated matter-of-factly.
Youth threw his hands up in surrender, and slapped his partner on the shoulder.
“I’m just messing with you, big guy. He’s half the man you are…” Youth paused, a slight grin forming on his face.
“Literally.”
Press shook his head indignantly.
“I don’t even know why I bother with you. When your dick falls off from crotch rot, don’t come running to me to take you to the hospital.”
Youth laughed, and banged his fist on the counter, yelling towards the kitchen.
“HEY! Can we get some service in here?”
Samedi stuck his head through the door, waving a spatula with some egg still on the edge.
“Don’t come in here starting your shit after the night I just had with this lummox.” He roared, slipping back into the kitchen before his eggs burned. Both men could still hear him complaining through the door, and they began to chuckle under their breath.
“No good cracker ass bastards. Why does he bother with him? Why do I bother with either of them?!?”
By the time Sam came through the kitchen again, he had carried a tray with three plates full of eggs, bacon, and left over cornbread from the night before. There was a carafe of Orange Juice also, which he sat down first, in front of the men. He plopped two plates down, eyeing both of them in irritation, and the third he set off to the side for himself. He produced three glasses from beneath the counter, abandoned the tray, and poured himself a glass of O.J. before sitting down in front of his plate.
As Sam began to lift the first forkful of eggs into his mouth, he noticed out of the corner of his eye the two other men in the room staring at him. He threw the fork down to the plate, and regarded them in disdain.
“What now?” he asked through gritted teeth.
Press and Youth exchanged a glance between them, and then continued with their observation. Youth allowed a faint smile, before responding to the surly Cajun’s question.
“We’ve just never seen you eat anything before. I always thought you just conjured up sustenance through some spell or something.”
The two men guffawed, while Samedi grabbed his fork, and took a huge scoop full of eggs and shoveled into his mouth scornfully. The laughter, however, was infectious, and before long all three were chuckling as they enjoyed their breakfast. When everything was finished, Press and Youth helped Samedi clear the counter, and even did the dishes so that everything would be fresh for when the doors opened to the public. They thanked the Cajun for his hospitality and friendship, and then made their way back to the Red Roof Inn to take in a much needed nap.
*****YOUTH’S ADVENTURE IN THE PARK IS FORTHCOMING*****
Press arrived at the park the next day, well rested, and in better spirits. He had viewed Hungry Jack’s response to him, and decided that it was time to go to work. There wasn’t any room left for jokes involving canned biscuits. This had turned serious. And if that’s how Jack Swanson wanted to be taken, then the big man was more than willing to oblige.
Once he was in a booth, and the cameras were rolling, he crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned against the wall.
“Jack Swanson, upon reviewing my last promo, and admittedly not being as agitated, I’ve had some time to reflect. I think we’d both agree that maybe I treated you a little unfairly. Maybe even looked past you a bit, went right for the throat about your gimmick and your background. Hell, man, I compared you to a can of biscuits cause they bare the same name.”
Press shrugs, a slight smile forming at the memory.
“You see, Jack, that’s how easy it is to make a mistake in this business. I forgot the basic foundation that Youth and I tried to lay out from the very beginning. Some members of the roster have this notion that The BombTrax are just here to administer chaos, beating the hell out of whoever gets in our way. And as true as that sentiment is, we’ve also been tasked with another important job. We bring credibility to the organization due to our long history in this business.”
Press nodded, easing from the wall to step forward.
“Fifteen Years. That’s how long Youth and I have been running the roads, chasing down fame, kicking ass, and taking names. With that history comes experience, Jack, and it’s our duty as performers here in PAW not just to get ourselves over, but to make sure that we get our opponents over as well. I mean, take the Lost Boyz for example. I hear they have a full schedule on the indy’s after just one match with us. I wouldn’t even be surprised if we didn’t see them resurface here in PAW at some point. So, Jack, I’m going to do something for you, that no one ever bothered to do for us. I’m going to give you a lesson about the wrestling business. Let’s call it, shall we say, Wrestling 101.”
Press smiles, easing down on the desk to sit upon its edge.
“Hopefully, you aren’t the only one paying attention to this, as I’ve observed several of the recent acquisitions of PAW could stand for some of this sound advice.”
He held up his finger to the camera, and continued.
“Number one. Defining the wrestling business. A lot of people out there like to view this business as a game, and it’s sort of hard to argue when you think about it. Now there are all sorts of different theories out there as to what exactly this game compares to. Some people, like Alex Cross, and others of his ilk, compare it to poker, a gambling man’s sport. But, Jack, I can almost guarantee you that if you decide that’s how you want to play, then more than likely you’re going to lose. Why? Cause in the end, the house always wins.”
Press pauses for a wicked grin before trudging on.
“Others see this game like one of those arcade jobs where you bop the gator and get tickets at the end. These guys are here for the cheap thrill of winning. They think that because they get a few victories, that they are God’s gift to wrestling, but what happens when they lose? They bitch, whine, cry, and even blame the system for all their problems. They usually don’t last long on the roster, because the idea of someone being better than them cuts so deep into their egos they can’t fucking stand it. What they fail to realize, that like the gator game, you have to put in the time and effort to keep winning tickets in order for there to be any prospect of an actual prize. Sometimes there are setbacks, but that doesn’t mean you abandon the fucking machine. Cause if you do, all you’re left with is a bunch of useless tickets that aren’t redeemable anywhere else.”
“Then there are those that think this is a talent show. They know all the moves in the world and execute them smashingly, but their personalities are paper thin. Make no mistake, Jack, this business is as much about entertainment as it is about winning matches, if not more so. You can have flawless execution in the ring, but if you don’t contribute a backstage segment, or a sneak attack every once in a while, then to put it simply, your boring. For all their efforts in the ring, nobody gives a shit, because in reality the fans aren’t here just to witness violence, but the drama that unfolds in between.”
Press smirks, shaking his head at the futility of that path.
“I, on the other hand, see this game for exactly what it is. Chess. What seems like unmitigated chaos to everyone else, is actually the strategic positioning for an all-out attack. Because, Jack, it’s not about winning all the time, it’s about winning when it fucking counts. All great generals are master chess players, because there’s not a lot of difference between Chess and War. As with most industrious things, War cost’s money. So when someone like Cross Recoba comes into the ring, and tosses you a briefcase with $20,000 in it, sometimes Its best to compromise your fabled laurels, and give them the victory for the cash. Cause, Jack, we aren’t here to win a single battle. The BombTrax are here to win the fucking war.”
The last was said in a grave tone, and Press sat back on the table, now holding up two fingers.
“Which brings me to the second part of the lesson. What do you do when your opponent has out maneuvered you, out guns you, and appears to have everything he needs to dispose of you? Sorry to say, Jack, but that’s exactly where you’re at. You respect my in ring talent, but you don’t respect me as a man. Well that’s just two fucking bad, but I’m not here to make friends, and I don’t give a shit about your respect. All I care about is that beautiful championship belt that we’re doing this dance for, and no matter what these pitiful despots want to think, I fully intend to bring it home to The BombTrax. If that means dropping you on your fucking head, then that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“You see, Jack, this isn’t one of those times to take a powder. It’s the kind of situation that requires me to do what I do so well, that reminds everybody the reason why no one has purposefully stepped in our way. Which brings me to my third, and final lesson.”
He holds up three fingers now, his eyes resembling burning orbs.
“A wrestler is only as good as what he’s selling, and what I intend to peddle to you, Jack, is unyielding pain and unbridled fury. I’m going to treat you like we’ve been at this for a while, and this is my chance to put you down for good. I’m going to put a hurting on you so bad, that you’re going to wake up the next day completely atrophied as a competitor because you never realized that there was anyone still walking the earth that could destroy you the way I’m going to destroy you. The kind of beating that only people who’ve experienced a P.O.W. camp can tell you about. Cause you might not respect my decisions as a man, Jack, but come this Thursday, you’ll find out that despite all of my failings, that I am an ‘honest’ man.”
Press stood up, bringing his hand down to his side. He smirked one final time.
“Class Dismissed.”
Fade to black.
