Post by "Punk" Drake Hunter on Jun 1, 2016 10:05:58 GMT -5
**EDIT: Coding is all fixed, making is much easier to read. Enjoy
---3 weeks ago---
“We’re gathered here today to celebrate the life of one Robert Alex Krossa…”
They had to say his whole fucking name.
He feels the bile rise up in his throat as the mention of his father’s name rings through his ears. A quick side glance to the person next to him sees the blank, near-bored expression of his sister; it’s nearly enough to turn his grimace into a smirk. The apprehension apparent at the honouring of such a man is astounding enough to them both; though they can both take solace in each other. There’s a squeeze at his right hand, on the other side. He feels Madison’s body ease into his, giving comforting him, reassuring the thoughts spiralling through his head. They’re like a tornado, gathering things up, only making the spiral larger and larger, though something as simple as being reminded how her hand fits into his eases his mind.
The wind continues its constant bluster, enough to be noticeable in a situation which anything other the subject would be ideal. He doesn’t close his eyes; he won’t give his father the having himself even be perceived as reflecting on the man in the casket. He belonged in there long before his inevitable arrival; the man was on borrowed time anyway.
Drake can feel the overbearing looks of his distant relatives hang on him – the kid they’d not seen since he was sixteen when he decided to up on and chase a career in professional wrestling. Then when he hit the ripe age of twenty, all they heard of him was his escapades throughout North America, the United Kingdom and Japan, where he was taking the wrestling world by storm. He supposed his uncles; frequenting their usual hellish watering holes, would brag about how they were related to the big-shot professional wrestler appearing on national TV.
All while they rotted away in their little wretched burrows, surrounding themselves with this shit.
It’s funny how much disdain he holds a particular part of an otherwise great city, in all honesty. Growing up in the suburb he did, a small little section of Eastern Melbourne filled with all matter of terrible people; from lawyers and doctors to businessmen and bankers, all engrossed with their own lives to the point where they’d willingly give up their own wives if it meant they could brag about making an extra hundred bucks.
At one point, after meeting his sister, Madison even asked exactly why he hated the place. He couldn’t give a direct answer; nor could his sister, really, it was just wretched. To live in a place so derelict of any life or excitement; in a house with abusive, horrid parents and lifeless rooms, it had an effect on the mental state of the two children. They acted out because it was the only way they could keep their sanity, and for every time they acted out, every little misdemeanour outside the strict boundaries of being a lawyer-turned-politician’s child was dealt with in a strict, business-like fashion, and then they’d just move on. Until the point where they no longer cared – partially due to their son’s slightly tangled mental state, partly because he was an arrogant little son of a bitch who didn’t give a shit about anyone other than those in his inner circle, and very much because they didn’t care about their children.
So Drake and Sara wouldn’t care about their parents. The time they spent in their home was out of necessity rather than anything else and their pledge to pursue the realm of professional wrestling – for differing reasons – was substantiated.
Now, staring at his father’s coffin, Drake was reminded all the more thoroughly of the life he left.
And to his right, and behind him, and beside him, was the new life he’d made for himself. With people who belonged at his side, who didn’t drag him down, who didn’t drain him like a parasite. His eyes turn from the thick brown tree behind the priest’s position in front of the coffin to the coffin itself, the cold, desolation of it a nice representation for the man within it.
He feels another squeeze at his hand, turns to Madison and sees her gorgeous blue eyes staring up at him, full of life and vigour and excitement. A perfect opposite; one he made for himself.
“The man was beloved by those who knew him and was a shining member of the community, serving in office on two occasions, holding a high community position as a lawyer when he wasn’t involved in politics. His influence will be missed.”
I don’t know, I’m sure the devil will have some use for the fucker.
There’s no anger, no hatred or disappointment in not being able to proudly talk about his relationship with his father. Drake even prefers it; prefers being the lone rider who went out and carved out his own club, rather than follow in the footsteps of a broken caravan. He left that a while ago; when he legally changed his name from Alexander Krossa to Drake Hunter, all but deserting the remnants of whatever dynasty his parents inherited.
The dynasty ended, that’s for sure.
Let the Hunter dynasty reign.
The poeticism of it is enough to bring a smirk to his face; one which Sara notices. She’s well aware of her brother’s ability to blank out anything happening in front of his eyes for betterment of what’s happening inside his head, she’s seen it enough times. When his eyes meet hers, the smirk becomes infectious, coming onto her face too, growing when she sees the movement of his fingers above his jacket pocket. They become visible, and he clicks them together silently.
“Wouldn’t it be cool to just click your fingers and watch the whole world burn? To be able to sit on top of that like a King…”
Drake used to say to Sara, when they were little, in something as simple as warming up for training or walking out to Trent’s house. Should anyone else have heard him, they’d have given him an astounded, somewhat fearful look, and simply move on. But she always knew what he meant; he wanted to be the King of his own kingdom, the conqueror of whatever he sets his sights in. And it was only when he reached that pinnacle; the one he sets for himself, with everything else burning in his wake that he could truly sit back, on top of the world.
The click makes her smirk, he diverts over to where she’s got her head bowed and her hands linked together in front of her, though the sincerity is questionable for anyone who can see her face: Sara never particularly enjoyed being subtle. The scowl firmly adorned by her wasn’t all that befitting to a family member’s funeral especially that of one’s father, but then few ever understood the brother and sister. And that was always the way they liked it.
“Would anyone like to say a few words?”
He sees a few of those distant relatives he can’t stand give him a look.
I can’t handle this, fuck this. Fuck him and his stupid façade of even remotely earning a burial this respectful.
Drake scoffs, pulls his jacket closer to his body, tugging at it a couple of times, before he motions to Sara and she nods, giving him a look of equal displeasure. The people around them seem stunned at their sudden movement – and departure – from the wide expanse of green in which the graves and memorials were laid. Hand wrapped around Madison’s, she seems comfortable enough with leaving with him, as he wraps an arm around her; not in some sort of comfort, but purely because he wants everyone to see what he built for himself.
“I told you that’d be a fucking stupid idea.” He says to Sara as they pass the last row of white chairs. The ceremony only had less than fifty people present, but most of them knew the Robert they thought they knew. And it was that very charade, that persona put on by a prominent politician and businessman; that caused the reaction Drake heard as he walked past the last few white plastic chairs. The raspy gasps of a few people who couldn’t possibly comprehend why the man’s son and daughter would just walk out of his memorial, the shuffling of uncomfortable feet and the Pastor’s cough as he tries to move through the slight disruption and move on, continuing his delusional rantings of Gods and afterlife.
As if everyone hadn’t kissed his arse already his entire life.
He didn’t hate his father. He hated the idea that he was a good human being, or even a decent human being. He hated being neglected when he was young for green pieces of paper. He hated the way he walked and talked; as if he was better than everyone. No, what Drake really hated was the idea that his father was better than everyone yet never actually went out to prove it. He hated when his father acted like he was better than Drake. Perhaps his ego was so ingrained in his youth, but his father had no arrogance about him, no actual talent in his fingertips. He was part of a corrupt system in which he ripped off people and manipulated his way to a nice house and fancy cars, without even having to work. He hated his entitlement. He hated his lack of personality. He hated that he was driven by greed and nothing else.
Still, I didn’t hate the man. To hate someone you have to know them.
He hears the familiar; yet long-forgotten voice ring behind him, a faint murmur along with the trod of feet; stumbling feet, uneven in their gait. He closes his eyes, as his arm wraps around Madison with more force than mere comfort. He hangs onto her as if to control himself.
“What the hell was that, huh?”
Madison turns with a spin, wanting to get out of the toxic space as much as her boyfriend. The voice behind them is female, one he grew to tune out after a while.
She’s been drinking again. Even before her husband’s funeral. That’s something, Drake thinks to himself.
“That man was your father.”
He wonders what she’d do if he actually said everything he wanted to.
“You come back for all of four days and there’s not even a hello or note of you evig…”
She’s slurring her words, trying so desperately to maintain some semblance of dignity.
Funny, I never knew she had an ounce of dignity in her whole body.
“-Even being around. You’re our fucking son and we only ever hear about you on television. What the fuck do you call that…?”
Madison looks up at him, while Sara’s back’s already turned, not wanting any part. He looks torn, wanting to let his mother have it all, all the disdain and disgust at this place. But instead he just offers one of those cold, dry smirks, a counter to her drunken, angered rage.
“No, I’m not.”
He pulls Madison close to him.
“The only reason I’m here is because there’s a ledger with a house in my name. And the only reason there’s a house in my name is because that man over there didn’t have anyone else to leave it to. I’m going to sign that piece of paper, sell it onto a keen buyer totally oblivious to all the hell that went on in it, and leave this place.”
He sees his mother’s eyes avert to Madison for a moment, glancing over her for the slightest moment, seeing how Drake holds her so closely.
“I’d introduce you two, but I don’t want to give her the displeasure. So good riddance.”
He turns and Sara waits for them, turning with a similar smirk – an eerily similar smirk, Madison thinks to herself. They may not look similar, but dig deep enough and there are those sibling similarities.
"Are you okay?"
Madison asks, though Drake's silence is a pretty stark response. He doesn't want to even dignify this place's existence. He's glad that his mother walked away feeling like the wretch she is. All he wants now is a drink.
“There’s a new burger joint on Smith Street.”
Sara says, tilting her head back and craning it in a stretch.
“Great, let’s go. I’ll call Trent.”
Good riddance is too nice for this place.
-------------------------------
---PRESENT DAY----
“So, the uncrowned Prince of NGW huh?”
There’s a bar in New York that Maddie and Drake had been to multiple times since they’d moved into their penthouse; it was the place Drake felt most comfortable late at night, the place they could both let their hair down and enjoy; well, when it wasn’t their apartment. The lights don’t so much pulse as they do flicker every now and then; the light’s there, in the background, giving off enough yellowy golden tint for two people to be able to see each other, but not much more than that. It was base décor with a dearth of any fanciness; just simpleness and a chilled out ambience. It lets he and Trent sit back and drink, and talk, and laugh, like the old days.
“There was a bar like this in Tokyo, remember?”
“You’re so going to have to be more specific than that.”
“The one near our hotel.”
Drake sips on his 12 year old whisky, on the rocks, exactly how he likes it, while Trent runs a hand through his hair, racking his brain to try and remember.
“Mate, there was a dozen bars around our hotel. That’s why we specifically chose it.”
They’d been on more than a few nights out in Tokyo. Hell, everywhere. Vegas, Melbourne, London, even under the bright lights of New York. This was in no way a new setting for them; Drake’s first big break in the USA came via New York City Championship Wrestling; he’d always identified with the big city. It’s full of life; full of people all going about their business, totally enveloped in themselves. Yet none could really compare to Drake, none possess what he has, despite their sheer numbers, their own influence in their own lives. None are the entertainer he is. None compare. Simple as that.
“The one we’d go to with Nakata and Ronin after every Kamikaze taping.”
“Oh yeah.”
“You don’t remember do you…”
“Not really, no.”
“You’ve got the weirdest fucking memory, I swear.”
“Dude, there were dozens of bars we went to with Nakata and Ronin. Some of which looked exactly the same as each other. But I’ll take your word for it, it must’ve been pretty good.”
“You know what would’ve happened if it wasn’t.”
Trent offers a little grin as he downs the rest of his drink; the remnants of the brown liquid seeping down his throat.
“’This place shit man, this place shit. Why we come here man, why?!’”
Drake says with air quotes raised, imitating a Japanese man that could only be one of the aforementioned pair.
“So you didn’t answer my question.”
“What question?”
“You’re the uncrowned prince of NGW are you?”
Drake grins, spinning the glass around on the wooden table. A waitress walks past carrying some kind of chicken or something, Drake doesn’t particularly notice the food. His eyes hover over something else rather noteworthy; she seems to notice too, offering him those flirty eyes he’s seen so many times in bars just like this.
Only they couldn’t match the flirty eyes he gets every time he sees his little blonde goddess.
“When have I ever said something that hasn’t come true?”
Drake says, that grin still spread on his face, like someone glued his lips in place. The waitress makes another pass, walking ever-slightly closer to him, which he notices with a small glance of the eyes, though his attention is still paid to his best mate.
“You want me to make a list?”
“I could just flip it back on you.”
“Could not.”
“Come on, you’ve lied to at least three women in this two mile area alone.”
“Kilometre.”
“Kilometre, same fucking thing.”
“Well-“
“I know Trent! I’m well aware.”
His eyes have that little glint in his eye, the same glint Drake grew up with, the same one he learnt to trust. He wouldn’t be where he is without Trent Omega, that’s for fucking certain. They’d both endeavoured to get out of the hell-hole as fast as possible; so when, at 16, their pro-wrestling contracts to extended to the AWA, where they had time to develop and tour with the company – before their debuts at the tender age of 18 – they jumped at the chance. They were the best fucking team on the planet. And Drake was the best fucking wrestler on the planet. They had matching arrogance, but even Omega recognised his sheer incredibly ability. Not that he’d admit it flat out; though he had told him on the off occasion; when they’d spend their nights lying in a field outside an abandoned parking lot dreaming of all sorts of fun things.
Like drinking together in New York. That was definitely one of those fun things.
Drake raises the glass, seemingly out of nowhere, but Trent’s with him on the thought pattern, raising his to the same height as the soft clink sounds around their small little table space.
“To making it to the throne and taking the throne.”
The waitress makes another pass, but Drake doesn’t take much notice as the pair down the rest of their drinks.
“I like it when you get poetic. So romantic.”
“Oh yeah, it’s so one of my strong points.”
Drake smirks, motioning to the waitress, who’s serving another table. He doesn’t give a shit, just raises the glass and motions for another one for both he and Trent.
“So, the New Generation huh?”
Trent says, fiddling with the menu. He hadn’t entered the ring since the pair’s stint in Japan months prior, though he had a familiar destination in mind.
“It’s popular, it’s shiny, and it’s ripe for the taking.”
“Makes sense. I see you’ve climbed the ranks pretty quickly too.”
“You say that like you’re surprised.”
“I’ve seen you mentally torment someone for over a year purely to get them in that ring and take their newly won World Championship, only because you can. I’ve seen you toy with your girlfriends and lay down for your stablemates. You’re not usually in this much of a hurry.”
Trent notes, looking across at his best friend. The man he’d been so many places with, the one person he knew inside and out better than anyone else. No matter how close he is to Madison, the conversation they had the other day was validation for Trent; she still doesn’t know Drake like he does. Maybe nobody ever will.
“The Age of Arrogance waits for no man.”
Spend enough time around Drake and you’d soon become accustomated to that smug face, the expression of superiority and sheer cockiness would probably get on your nerves too, should you take it the wrong way. He does it on purpose; that smug face, a face you’re so desperate to punch. When you’re desperate for something, you become reckless. When he gets under your skin, that’s when he has you. His innate arrogance is a weapon as much as it is an allure to girls like the waitress who arrives with another pair of twelve-year old Scotches, on a timely note. He merely nods in her direction, taking a look down at his drink and inspecting it. Everything Drake does is in the interest of Drake, and that’s the way Trent likes it. It’s refreshing, it’s exciting. It’s fucking great.
“I can’t believe you’re using that moniker again.”
“What? You used to say it sounded superb.”
He makes a point of iterating every letter in the last word, and Trent smirks.
“Maybe I was young and foolish.”
“That was only two years ago, how much would you have changed in two years?”
“Well I’ll have you kno-“
“And considering I’ve been with you for at least ten of those eighteen months, that question was basically rhetorical.”
Possession; they always talk like that. It’s innately built into them; everything they attempt to conquer is already theirs.
“It’s an interesting place. Weird soap opera happening at the top of the card though, everyone’s got a bit of investment in everyone else. There’s all this commotion over some chick who's got a knack for kicking people's heads off.”
“Ouch, how far’d the heads go?”
“Can you please indulge my metaphorical tongue for just a second.”
Trent always hated how much shit Drake could talk without even missing a step. He’s the king of bullshit; of making himself out to be the grandest royal of them all and everyone else out to be vile peasantry.
“Alright, fine.”
“She's not bad looking though.”
“That Jericho chick?”
“Yep.”
“She’s also with the world champion, if I’m not mistaken. Who’s made a habit out of being pretty good.”
“True.”
“You’re also in a long-term relationship with a girl you’re fucking head over heels for.”
“Also true.”
“Fair enough.”
Trent offers that grin again, Drake’s upper lips curls slightly; it’s not a conversation he could have with Madison here, not really. Most of it would be fine, but the little nuances, the stuff only evident in conversations between properly close friends, that stuff was the exclusive shit.
“Then what’ve we got…”
“Well, there’s a dude in a mask.”
“There’s always a dude in a mask. Difference is this one can wrestle.”
Drake says, taking another drink.
“And a cowboy.”
“Named Dirk.”
“Americans.”
Omega says, shaking his head.
“They’re quickly becoming parodies of themselves.”
“What else?”
“There’s an Aussie.”
“What?”
“Two of them.”
“Wait, WHAT?”
“Yep, one of them’s not bad looking either.”
“Are you trying to tell me something? Because I can take care of Madison no problem, you can rest assured of that.”
“No, dickhead, one of them is a girl. Emma Dylan. The other’s a champion; big unit too. Weird bloke though.”
“Name?”
“Levi Daughterty.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. Did he come out of the AWA?”
“Not that I know of. Sam would’ve probably heard of him if he did.”
“Didn’t realise there were this many Aussies in the biz.”
“Did you just say biz?”
“Sorry. So?”
“So…”
“So what’s the consensus on them?”
“Oh.” Drake says, leaning back. “It’ll be fun. Not much in the way of stopping the man who hasn’t been pinned yet, but still, it’ll be nice seeing them try.”
“Always is. What about Mr Judas?”
“I’ll get to him.”
Drake’s eyes dart across to where he notes a bit of movement; seeing another pair of eyes quickly lock onto his, then just as quickly shoot away.
“Here we go.”
“Did they look at you?”
Trent asks, obviously already knowing who the people are.
“You saw them already?”
“Yeah, they saw us when we walked in. You can always tell with them, the ones who are suddenly starstruck.”
As if directed by the perfect opportunity they don’t even know about, the trio walks over to Drake and Trent’s table with starry eyes and nervous hands. They try to start up a conversation with Drake, who keeps looking at Trent with that smug expression.
“That was always going to happen, wasn’t it?” Trent mutters, a mirrored look on his face.
“H-hi Drake. Mr. Hunter. Mr Omega. Could we trouble you for a picture and autograph?”
And the perfect opportunity presents itself. A girl walks into the bar; only short, stunning face and gorgeous blonde hair, looking around for someone. The eager fan shoves a notepad under Drake’s face; he wonders how much the piece of paper will sell for when he becomes NGW World Heavyweight champion. Social currency always depends on the here and now.
“What do you reckon?”
His head motions to Trent, head nodding in the direction of the girl that walked in. She hasn’t spotted them yet, mostly because the trio of fans were blocking anyone’s view of the two Australians, who were trying to enjoy a drink and nice night out between themselves.
Trent sees her and his grin grows even wider. She walks to the bar, not seeing Drake yet, looking to order a drink, though she’s only a few feet away from them. The annoying presence of a young dork stands between them though. Drake fiddles with the pen for a moment, as if deciding something, before he goes to write down something.
“You lads watch NGW?”
“No, but we saw your MPW World title win live! You were like our hero with the whole Age of Arrogance thing, we loved it. We haven’t watched much since, we tend to stick to the Independent stuff, the small time promotions.”
Oh, oh fucking good. That makes it all the better.
“Great. Oh, here’s some advice for you too mate.”
He doesn’t look up at the ‘fan’, or his two friends, looking supremely confident in their ability to brag about meeting two famous pro wrestlers. Instead he just writes scribbles something on the notepad and then turns, looks beyond the man – he couldn’t be older than 20 – and extends his arm to the girl at the bar.
“Hey, darling.”
Her eyes turn to a familiar voice, her face is gorgeous as ever, even in the dim light. He’s lucky; she sees him wink, already playing along with the game as soon as his eyes meet hers. They hadn’t seen NGW, so they’d totally blank who she is, though they’d certainly remember her.
“There you go.”
He hands her the notepad, giving her another wink. She opens it up, reads the inside and giggles, all the while the three dorks look dumbfounded at the turn of events.
“Oh yeah the advice, of course.”
Drake says, as if just catching his train of thought. He turns and faces them for the first time, very poignantly.
“Get better heroes.”
The trio appear to be somewhere between dumbfounded, astounded, and angry that their perfect little plan to grab a prime autograph got turned into a way of helping some dude from TV pick up a chick at the bar. That 'chick' slides in between them, sitting on Drake’s lap, bringing a drink with her.
Madison’s so good at playing the part, it’s incredible. Drake leans up and whispers something in her ear, causing her to giggle.
“Thanks for the notepad. When you tell the story to your four friends, make sure you include how I’m the one whose name you remember and you’re the ones whose names I couldn’t give a shit about.” He takes a swig of the drink in Madison’s hand. “Now fuck off.”
And with that, Drake’s grin returns, he plants a soft kiss on his girlfriend’s lips, who takes a seat beside him, and gazes across at Trent who applauds softly, laughing away.
“You know they’re going to tweet about that.”
Trent says, raising his glass to Drake’s and Madison’s in unison.
“Good, means they’ll get something out of the evening.”
------------------------------------------------
“It’s fucking freezing.”
The man on screen is a fair way away from the camera; he has to yell in the freezing New York City wind to have his voice heard from the microphone and the wind makes the background noise raspy and blustery. The man seems to be still, though the lights behind him may hide whatever subtle movements he’s making. The camera’s still; a long shot of the man standing on the other side of a rooftop; and a tall one too.
Behind him, the radiance of New York City at night shines like a thousand beacons all calling for their own little bit of attention. There’s a nice show of rooftops cascading and flowing like a children’s scattered box of Lego pieces, splattered all over the floor in a random arrangement, though there is some semblance of order to it. Really, it’s all very poetic and impressive as a backdrop, though the man in shot is the important part.
“I like it, though.”
He yells again, turning his face towards the camera. He’s clad in a black zipped up jacket, the material of it can’t be seen; he’s still merely standing near the edge of the fenced off rooftop, staring out over the New York City skyline.
Suddenly he moves again, walking towards the camera; every pace, every step as methodical and calculated as the last. His gait enforces that; the methodical nature of his personality, you can tell merely from the way he carries himself his arrogance is his pride and joy when it comes to his personality. That’s even before you get introduced to the man; Drake Hunter, when all those characters presumptions are vehemently confirmed. Arrogant doesn’t even begin to describe it; though it’s the best word, a word even the man himself loves.
“The cold is a pretty stark reminder of everything. Because I used to lie on cold, wet grass outside an abandoned parking lot with my best friend, and we did it purely because we could. Because we had dreams. We had visions of becoming the best. We wouldn’t accept anything less.”
He looks down at his shoes, then glances up at the night sky again, very reflective and sombre.
“Yeah…that’ll be the tagline of my movie. If they every make a movie about the life and times of Drake Hunter, that’d so be the opening monologue. They all have opening monologues, don’t they? That’s how those movies all work…
And suddenly the mood shifts completely, turning on its head with a few words and a cranked up grin. His posture changes; he takes one hand out of his pocket and runs it through his hair, turning his gaze to the camera as the self-satisfied, cocky smirk of Drake Hunter is evident for all to see. The lighting around him is more than adequate too, illuminating his facial expressions, making sure everyone can see him; in perfect Drake fashion.
“This, this night sky, it’s beautiful. That city, it’s beautiful. The lights, the feeling of it, it’s all beautiful. You wanna know why?”
He leans forward, as if enhancing the anticipation for the answer; and answer Drake is certain to have.
“Because the PRINCE IS ON TOP OF IT!”
He exudes an arrogant, perverse laugh as he continues to walk; keeping the same distance from the camera, instead moving around it, the camera panning to follow him, always keeping him in the centre of shot.
“They really should make a movie out of me, you know. Drake Hunter…the movie! Or maybe that’s too bland, maybe Hollywood needs some spice to it. Drake Hunter: The Arrogant One. Hmmm maybe not. How about; The Conquest of a World, Drake Hunter’s ascendancy. I like that one, that’s great. I’d go see that film, I mean.”
The way he moves, the intention and purpose with which he treats every sentence, it’s all to give the allure of sheer arrogance; and how much he embraces it.
“They could make a movie out of you, Dean.”
There’s the reference. His opponent for the week; the man for whom the promo is directed. Well, him, and all the people desperate to see Drake at his finest; in front of the camera.
“See, you’re a unique one. I know unique, I’m well aware of mental uniqueness and the power that such traits possess. See, I get you Dean. I understand you, maybe not everything you’ve been through, maybe not to your…estranged…level, but I do get you. I understand why you needed to call yourself DEATH, you and your little tag partner, hell I even saw the little swindle you pulled to get that little team off the ground. Pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes…probably. To tell you the truth, I actually needed to sift through a bunch of shit on YouTube to find it, and it wasn’t particularly breaking news at the time when I was working in the WWO winning World titles…but that’s ALL beside the point.”
He recovers from his tangent; his voice stopping and pausing following the picking up of pace as he spoke.
“The point…is that I understand. I get it. I understand why you called yourselves DEATH. I understand the tattoos; hell, I’ve even got a few of my own. I’ve got a jolly roger on my back, you know what that means? You get what that signifies? It was the crest that adorned the black flags of pirates when they roamed the seas, the scourge of those dastardly colonial powers. It represents freedom. It represents the ultimate freedom of being able to whatever the fuck you want, of telling oppression and rules and legislation and society to get fucked because they’re wrong and you’re right and you can do whatever the fuck you want.”
His face is lit up by the moonlight, partially anyway; it brings highlight to the blonde streak of hair trickling down his face, into his eyes. He brushes them away with a finger and stops for a second.
“I wonder, how many people get you Dean? How many people would watch a movie of your life and interpret it a thousand different ways? How many would actually care about the man? Would they be distraught by the ending?”
He brings a hand up to his mouth.
“Oh! Spoilers! Shit, I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to spoil it like that. Okay, I suppose I have to now…”
He looks around, mockingly trying to avoid prying ears. Though he is comfortable in the knowledge that he is the only man on that rooftop; the only way Drake Hunter likes it.
“Dean Judas: The movie. The tale of a slightly deranged freedom-filled ravaging son of a bitch who took the wrestling world by storm…until he stepped into the ring with the greatest wrestler on the planet…and found out what it was like to have all the freedom and self-expression in the world mean the square root of jack shit. Because he couldn’t. Beat. The Punk.”
He closes his eyes, taking a big breath in.
“That fresh air, that’s reality, the reality of such an interesting, heartening tale with no happy ending. Maybe audiences will be touched by it; the story of someone who kept trying yet couldn’t beat the Prince of NGW. Maybe you even get close, maybe you see it in your fingertips, all that opportunity right there for the taking….right THERE….only for it to be taken away by a quick dagger…”
He motions a slow, upwards motion with his knee.
“Of a knee to the skull…”
And again his body is still, only the wind sounding in the frame. And again his expression changes, from mocking to deadset.
“I really do hate to be the bearer of bad news. But Judas’ tale didn’t end with a happy triumph in that book that got published several hundred years ago, and the tale of Dean Judas won’t be much happier. I mean…in the bible he was undone by someone claiming to be the King…”
Drake turns his body slightly, grabbing a hold of a steel support bar, connected to an electrical box of some description.
“At least you’ll be undone by someone with actual claim to a throne…”
Drake gives a sly wink and that grin returns. He takes it upon himself to be controversial and ruffle feathers; and the truth is his lack of loyalty to anything material; other than his own material desires, means everything is pretty much fair game.
“Hmm, so let me think…”
Back to mocking, as if he’s properly thinking about something.
“The ascendancy of Drake Hunter. I wonder if they’ll go back to my humble beginnings. As a son of a doctor and a fucking lawyer. Lawyer turned politician, too. We’ve had different upbringings, Dean, that much is certain, and yet the similarities are striking. We both strive to make something of each other DESPITE our youths. See…I hated that fucking place…”
His tone becomes resentful, as if remembering his past.
“It was toxic, it was foul. There was a stench in the air wherever you went, and I fucking despised it. This…all of this…hell, all of THIS…”
He motions to the wide expanse of New York City.
“This…I made myself. All of this. ALL OF IT. It was all ME. Nothing anyone says will ever matter because I MADE myself into a Prince. I showed the world just how good I am, just how great I am at entertaining them inside that ring and behind this camera. I showed them why they can’t live without the Punk, why secretly they crave for me to get to the top of the mountain purely so they can keep on booing me. I’m the Prince nobody likes and nobody can live without. That’s all me…and I MADE it all.”
He stops, looking up and down at the fence in front of him, between him the ledge leading to open air.
“And then there’s you, Dean.”
He grabs a hold of the fence and shakes it, looking at it, testing it.
“I know you’re probably sick of hearing about me, but every single other fucker who’s tuned into this video isn’t, so I don’t really give a shit. See, I used to suffer from pretty bad mental problems. There’s this voice, in the back of my head, that tells me to do some pretty bad stuff. It came about because I let it, because I secretly wanted it there. I love it, I crave it, that rush I get when I can feel it guiding me, directing me on my rampage…only….”
He stops, his gaze still fixed on something beyond the fence.
“Only a little while ago, it just stopped. It stopped because I didn’t want it anymore, it stopped because I stopped listening. Because I wasn’t dependent on that voice anymore. And yeah, it’s still there; I mean I’m technically diagnosed with both minor schizophrenia and Intermittent Explosive Disorder so…you know…it’s still a part of me. But here’s the thing, that little demon can control you, it can make you into a Judas…or you can make yourself into a Prince…”
He turns to face the camera again. His black jeans and black leather jacket fade into the night sky perfectly, while the lights perched atop the fence illuminate his face once again.
“After all, I’d rather rule in hell than serve in heaven. And being the Prince of hell…now that’s power. You? Well you probably belong in hell, but certainly not as a ruler. No, you’re no really fit to be Lucifer, are you? You’re a ball of chaos, just rolling around, waiting for victims to come too close. You ground people up in your little revolving sphere of knives and daggers and swords and you love the feeling when you’re pummelling someone to a pulp. I’d like to say I know the type, that I’ve seen you before, but you just seem so…anarchic. It’s impressive, in all honesty, If you knew me, the things I stood for, you’d appreciate that. See, chaos, that’s freedom. There’s nothing better than seeing chaos reign upon the world and relishing in it.”
He takes the camera on another walk again, complementing his tirade.
“But the chaos is a precursor. Because after the chaos…what’s left? Debris, rubble, nothing, really. Then you rebuild again. You let chaos reign until it’s job is done and then you climb atop that mountain of rubble and sit on your throne. Or, that’s what I do. That’s my motive. Chaos is an agent, a force, a means to an end. The END…that is ALWAYS the thing in my sights, that is exactly what I plan for. Every little thing I do…it’s for the endgame…”
He turns around, so that he’s facing the camera, but maintains the direction he was walking in, keeping his pace, just walking backwards.
“That endgame is my throne. MY. THRONE. On top of the city, on top of New Generation Wrestling, on TOP OF THE FUCKING WORLD…”
His arms spread wide, all encompassing, as if he wants everything to be his, and he stops in his tracks, planting his feet next to each other as he leans forward and grins at the camera.
“I’m the Prince of this world, Dean. I’m the man who’s going to take over and the man who’s going to sit atop that pile of rubble when all’s said and done…”
Another momentary pause.
“You…you’re just that chaos agent.”
Another pause, coupled with a long hard gaze into the camera, for dramatic effect, before he turns and starts walking again.
“You’re the uncontrollable force leaving destruction in its wake but without a proper goal. You’re the man who happily decimated a bunch of people in a battle royal and then took apart a cowboy last week, showing the world exactly the damage you could do. You’re yet to be pinned…”
He stops himself, looking up and placing a hand on his chin, as if he’s thinking about something.
“Funny…where have I heard that before….”
His eyes turn back to the camera; accompanied by that wide grin of his.
“The Prince of NGW. That’s where I’ve heard it. See…in my first showing, I beat a bunch of irrelevant morons and threw them all over the top rope. Then, then I was screwed…but we won’t talk about that. What we will talk about, is last week, when I decimated a cowboy, and to top it off, put a cocky little sod out of his misery! My knee connected with that skull so sweetly…it was like magic when his lights went out. It’s as if I flicked a switch. Oh, and I do hope you studied that very closely indeed, because it is a shocking thing to have that connection rattle your brains. And in your mental state…who the hell knows what effect it could have. I do hope you’ve got medication handy…”
He ponders something for a second, continuing on his path around the rooftop; the surrounding New York skyline maintaining its position the entire time, no matter which way you turn.
“Or maybe you don’t like the medication? Maybe it hampers you, maybe you prefer to be a ravenous, chaotic ball of fury, not giving a shit about anything other than destroying the person you’re in the ring with? I reckon I’m right. Actually, I know I’m right, because I studied you. As if you’ve not already been able to see that, I’ve seen the way you talk, the way you act, the way you wrestle. I saw what you said to Dirk, how you hoped he’d hang on a cross and, what were the words you used?”
Again, that mocking, pondering face. He so enjoys exuding that arrogance.
“’Kill your fucking career, burn it with fire…’”
He raises air quotes, putting emphasis on Dean’s words.
“Well, I could say your career will be left hanging by the neck, if you’re going for religious references. I mean, your name does all the work for me, everyone knows the story of Judas the betrayer. Such a sad story. Like Dean Judas the film; the man who had the anarchy in the world yet couldn’t stop the Punk Prince’s ascent…”
He stops, dead centre in the middle of the rooftop.
“This is my world, Dean. You’re just a rambunctious little soul who wants things to crash and burn around him in the hope enough people give you the attention you crave…”
His grin widens again, looking up to the stars.
“But then, I’m no medical professional. I'm the man you'll see in San Jose for Vendetta. What I am, really, is the Punk, the Prince, on top of the world.”
---3 weeks ago---
“We’re gathered here today to celebrate the life of one Robert Alex Krossa…”
They had to say his whole fucking name.
He feels the bile rise up in his throat as the mention of his father’s name rings through his ears. A quick side glance to the person next to him sees the blank, near-bored expression of his sister; it’s nearly enough to turn his grimace into a smirk. The apprehension apparent at the honouring of such a man is astounding enough to them both; though they can both take solace in each other. There’s a squeeze at his right hand, on the other side. He feels Madison’s body ease into his, giving comforting him, reassuring the thoughts spiralling through his head. They’re like a tornado, gathering things up, only making the spiral larger and larger, though something as simple as being reminded how her hand fits into his eases his mind.
The wind continues its constant bluster, enough to be noticeable in a situation which anything other the subject would be ideal. He doesn’t close his eyes; he won’t give his father the having himself even be perceived as reflecting on the man in the casket. He belonged in there long before his inevitable arrival; the man was on borrowed time anyway.
Drake can feel the overbearing looks of his distant relatives hang on him – the kid they’d not seen since he was sixteen when he decided to up on and chase a career in professional wrestling. Then when he hit the ripe age of twenty, all they heard of him was his escapades throughout North America, the United Kingdom and Japan, where he was taking the wrestling world by storm. He supposed his uncles; frequenting their usual hellish watering holes, would brag about how they were related to the big-shot professional wrestler appearing on national TV.
All while they rotted away in their little wretched burrows, surrounding themselves with this shit.
It’s funny how much disdain he holds a particular part of an otherwise great city, in all honesty. Growing up in the suburb he did, a small little section of Eastern Melbourne filled with all matter of terrible people; from lawyers and doctors to businessmen and bankers, all engrossed with their own lives to the point where they’d willingly give up their own wives if it meant they could brag about making an extra hundred bucks.
At one point, after meeting his sister, Madison even asked exactly why he hated the place. He couldn’t give a direct answer; nor could his sister, really, it was just wretched. To live in a place so derelict of any life or excitement; in a house with abusive, horrid parents and lifeless rooms, it had an effect on the mental state of the two children. They acted out because it was the only way they could keep their sanity, and for every time they acted out, every little misdemeanour outside the strict boundaries of being a lawyer-turned-politician’s child was dealt with in a strict, business-like fashion, and then they’d just move on. Until the point where they no longer cared – partially due to their son’s slightly tangled mental state, partly because he was an arrogant little son of a bitch who didn’t give a shit about anyone other than those in his inner circle, and very much because they didn’t care about their children.
So Drake and Sara wouldn’t care about their parents. The time they spent in their home was out of necessity rather than anything else and their pledge to pursue the realm of professional wrestling – for differing reasons – was substantiated.
Now, staring at his father’s coffin, Drake was reminded all the more thoroughly of the life he left.
And to his right, and behind him, and beside him, was the new life he’d made for himself. With people who belonged at his side, who didn’t drag him down, who didn’t drain him like a parasite. His eyes turn from the thick brown tree behind the priest’s position in front of the coffin to the coffin itself, the cold, desolation of it a nice representation for the man within it.
He feels another squeeze at his hand, turns to Madison and sees her gorgeous blue eyes staring up at him, full of life and vigour and excitement. A perfect opposite; one he made for himself.
“The man was beloved by those who knew him and was a shining member of the community, serving in office on two occasions, holding a high community position as a lawyer when he wasn’t involved in politics. His influence will be missed.”
I don’t know, I’m sure the devil will have some use for the fucker.
There’s no anger, no hatred or disappointment in not being able to proudly talk about his relationship with his father. Drake even prefers it; prefers being the lone rider who went out and carved out his own club, rather than follow in the footsteps of a broken caravan. He left that a while ago; when he legally changed his name from Alexander Krossa to Drake Hunter, all but deserting the remnants of whatever dynasty his parents inherited.
The dynasty ended, that’s for sure.
Let the Hunter dynasty reign.
The poeticism of it is enough to bring a smirk to his face; one which Sara notices. She’s well aware of her brother’s ability to blank out anything happening in front of his eyes for betterment of what’s happening inside his head, she’s seen it enough times. When his eyes meet hers, the smirk becomes infectious, coming onto her face too, growing when she sees the movement of his fingers above his jacket pocket. They become visible, and he clicks them together silently.
“Wouldn’t it be cool to just click your fingers and watch the whole world burn? To be able to sit on top of that like a King…”
Drake used to say to Sara, when they were little, in something as simple as warming up for training or walking out to Trent’s house. Should anyone else have heard him, they’d have given him an astounded, somewhat fearful look, and simply move on. But she always knew what he meant; he wanted to be the King of his own kingdom, the conqueror of whatever he sets his sights in. And it was only when he reached that pinnacle; the one he sets for himself, with everything else burning in his wake that he could truly sit back, on top of the world.
The click makes her smirk, he diverts over to where she’s got her head bowed and her hands linked together in front of her, though the sincerity is questionable for anyone who can see her face: Sara never particularly enjoyed being subtle. The scowl firmly adorned by her wasn’t all that befitting to a family member’s funeral especially that of one’s father, but then few ever understood the brother and sister. And that was always the way they liked it.
“Would anyone like to say a few words?”
He sees a few of those distant relatives he can’t stand give him a look.
I can’t handle this, fuck this. Fuck him and his stupid façade of even remotely earning a burial this respectful.
Drake scoffs, pulls his jacket closer to his body, tugging at it a couple of times, before he motions to Sara and she nods, giving him a look of equal displeasure. The people around them seem stunned at their sudden movement – and departure – from the wide expanse of green in which the graves and memorials were laid. Hand wrapped around Madison’s, she seems comfortable enough with leaving with him, as he wraps an arm around her; not in some sort of comfort, but purely because he wants everyone to see what he built for himself.
“I told you that’d be a fucking stupid idea.” He says to Sara as they pass the last row of white chairs. The ceremony only had less than fifty people present, but most of them knew the Robert they thought they knew. And it was that very charade, that persona put on by a prominent politician and businessman; that caused the reaction Drake heard as he walked past the last few white plastic chairs. The raspy gasps of a few people who couldn’t possibly comprehend why the man’s son and daughter would just walk out of his memorial, the shuffling of uncomfortable feet and the Pastor’s cough as he tries to move through the slight disruption and move on, continuing his delusional rantings of Gods and afterlife.
As if everyone hadn’t kissed his arse already his entire life.
He didn’t hate his father. He hated the idea that he was a good human being, or even a decent human being. He hated being neglected when he was young for green pieces of paper. He hated the way he walked and talked; as if he was better than everyone. No, what Drake really hated was the idea that his father was better than everyone yet never actually went out to prove it. He hated when his father acted like he was better than Drake. Perhaps his ego was so ingrained in his youth, but his father had no arrogance about him, no actual talent in his fingertips. He was part of a corrupt system in which he ripped off people and manipulated his way to a nice house and fancy cars, without even having to work. He hated his entitlement. He hated his lack of personality. He hated that he was driven by greed and nothing else.
Still, I didn’t hate the man. To hate someone you have to know them.
He hears the familiar; yet long-forgotten voice ring behind him, a faint murmur along with the trod of feet; stumbling feet, uneven in their gait. He closes his eyes, as his arm wraps around Madison with more force than mere comfort. He hangs onto her as if to control himself.
“What the hell was that, huh?”
Madison turns with a spin, wanting to get out of the toxic space as much as her boyfriend. The voice behind them is female, one he grew to tune out after a while.
She’s been drinking again. Even before her husband’s funeral. That’s something, Drake thinks to himself.
“That man was your father.”
He wonders what she’d do if he actually said everything he wanted to.
“You come back for all of four days and there’s not even a hello or note of you evig…”
She’s slurring her words, trying so desperately to maintain some semblance of dignity.
Funny, I never knew she had an ounce of dignity in her whole body.
“-Even being around. You’re our fucking son and we only ever hear about you on television. What the fuck do you call that…?”
Madison looks up at him, while Sara’s back’s already turned, not wanting any part. He looks torn, wanting to let his mother have it all, all the disdain and disgust at this place. But instead he just offers one of those cold, dry smirks, a counter to her drunken, angered rage.
“No, I’m not.”
He pulls Madison close to him.
“The only reason I’m here is because there’s a ledger with a house in my name. And the only reason there’s a house in my name is because that man over there didn’t have anyone else to leave it to. I’m going to sign that piece of paper, sell it onto a keen buyer totally oblivious to all the hell that went on in it, and leave this place.”
He sees his mother’s eyes avert to Madison for a moment, glancing over her for the slightest moment, seeing how Drake holds her so closely.
“I’d introduce you two, but I don’t want to give her the displeasure. So good riddance.”
He turns and Sara waits for them, turning with a similar smirk – an eerily similar smirk, Madison thinks to herself. They may not look similar, but dig deep enough and there are those sibling similarities.
"Are you okay?"
Madison asks, though Drake's silence is a pretty stark response. He doesn't want to even dignify this place's existence. He's glad that his mother walked away feeling like the wretch she is. All he wants now is a drink.
“There’s a new burger joint on Smith Street.”
Sara says, tilting her head back and craning it in a stretch.
“Great, let’s go. I’ll call Trent.”
Good riddance is too nice for this place.
-------------------------------
---PRESENT DAY----
“So, the uncrowned Prince of NGW huh?”
There’s a bar in New York that Maddie and Drake had been to multiple times since they’d moved into their penthouse; it was the place Drake felt most comfortable late at night, the place they could both let their hair down and enjoy; well, when it wasn’t their apartment. The lights don’t so much pulse as they do flicker every now and then; the light’s there, in the background, giving off enough yellowy golden tint for two people to be able to see each other, but not much more than that. It was base décor with a dearth of any fanciness; just simpleness and a chilled out ambience. It lets he and Trent sit back and drink, and talk, and laugh, like the old days.
“There was a bar like this in Tokyo, remember?”
“You’re so going to have to be more specific than that.”
“The one near our hotel.”
Drake sips on his 12 year old whisky, on the rocks, exactly how he likes it, while Trent runs a hand through his hair, racking his brain to try and remember.
“Mate, there was a dozen bars around our hotel. That’s why we specifically chose it.”
They’d been on more than a few nights out in Tokyo. Hell, everywhere. Vegas, Melbourne, London, even under the bright lights of New York. This was in no way a new setting for them; Drake’s first big break in the USA came via New York City Championship Wrestling; he’d always identified with the big city. It’s full of life; full of people all going about their business, totally enveloped in themselves. Yet none could really compare to Drake, none possess what he has, despite their sheer numbers, their own influence in their own lives. None are the entertainer he is. None compare. Simple as that.
“The one we’d go to with Nakata and Ronin after every Kamikaze taping.”
“Oh yeah.”
“You don’t remember do you…”
“Not really, no.”
“You’ve got the weirdest fucking memory, I swear.”
“Dude, there were dozens of bars we went to with Nakata and Ronin. Some of which looked exactly the same as each other. But I’ll take your word for it, it must’ve been pretty good.”
“You know what would’ve happened if it wasn’t.”
Trent offers a little grin as he downs the rest of his drink; the remnants of the brown liquid seeping down his throat.
“’This place shit man, this place shit. Why we come here man, why?!’”
Drake says with air quotes raised, imitating a Japanese man that could only be one of the aforementioned pair.
“So you didn’t answer my question.”
“What question?”
“You’re the uncrowned prince of NGW are you?”
Drake grins, spinning the glass around on the wooden table. A waitress walks past carrying some kind of chicken or something, Drake doesn’t particularly notice the food. His eyes hover over something else rather noteworthy; she seems to notice too, offering him those flirty eyes he’s seen so many times in bars just like this.
Only they couldn’t match the flirty eyes he gets every time he sees his little blonde goddess.
“When have I ever said something that hasn’t come true?”
Drake says, that grin still spread on his face, like someone glued his lips in place. The waitress makes another pass, walking ever-slightly closer to him, which he notices with a small glance of the eyes, though his attention is still paid to his best mate.
“You want me to make a list?”
“I could just flip it back on you.”
“Could not.”
“Come on, you’ve lied to at least three women in this two mile area alone.”
“Kilometre.”
“Kilometre, same fucking thing.”
“Well-“
“I know Trent! I’m well aware.”
His eyes have that little glint in his eye, the same glint Drake grew up with, the same one he learnt to trust. He wouldn’t be where he is without Trent Omega, that’s for fucking certain. They’d both endeavoured to get out of the hell-hole as fast as possible; so when, at 16, their pro-wrestling contracts to extended to the AWA, where they had time to develop and tour with the company – before their debuts at the tender age of 18 – they jumped at the chance. They were the best fucking team on the planet. And Drake was the best fucking wrestler on the planet. They had matching arrogance, but even Omega recognised his sheer incredibly ability. Not that he’d admit it flat out; though he had told him on the off occasion; when they’d spend their nights lying in a field outside an abandoned parking lot dreaming of all sorts of fun things.
Like drinking together in New York. That was definitely one of those fun things.
Drake raises the glass, seemingly out of nowhere, but Trent’s with him on the thought pattern, raising his to the same height as the soft clink sounds around their small little table space.
“To making it to the throne and taking the throne.”
The waitress makes another pass, but Drake doesn’t take much notice as the pair down the rest of their drinks.
“I like it when you get poetic. So romantic.”
“Oh yeah, it’s so one of my strong points.”
Drake smirks, motioning to the waitress, who’s serving another table. He doesn’t give a shit, just raises the glass and motions for another one for both he and Trent.
“So, the New Generation huh?”
Trent says, fiddling with the menu. He hadn’t entered the ring since the pair’s stint in Japan months prior, though he had a familiar destination in mind.
“It’s popular, it’s shiny, and it’s ripe for the taking.”
“Makes sense. I see you’ve climbed the ranks pretty quickly too.”
“You say that like you’re surprised.”
“I’ve seen you mentally torment someone for over a year purely to get them in that ring and take their newly won World Championship, only because you can. I’ve seen you toy with your girlfriends and lay down for your stablemates. You’re not usually in this much of a hurry.”
Trent notes, looking across at his best friend. The man he’d been so many places with, the one person he knew inside and out better than anyone else. No matter how close he is to Madison, the conversation they had the other day was validation for Trent; she still doesn’t know Drake like he does. Maybe nobody ever will.
“The Age of Arrogance waits for no man.”
Spend enough time around Drake and you’d soon become accustomated to that smug face, the expression of superiority and sheer cockiness would probably get on your nerves too, should you take it the wrong way. He does it on purpose; that smug face, a face you’re so desperate to punch. When you’re desperate for something, you become reckless. When he gets under your skin, that’s when he has you. His innate arrogance is a weapon as much as it is an allure to girls like the waitress who arrives with another pair of twelve-year old Scotches, on a timely note. He merely nods in her direction, taking a look down at his drink and inspecting it. Everything Drake does is in the interest of Drake, and that’s the way Trent likes it. It’s refreshing, it’s exciting. It’s fucking great.
“I can’t believe you’re using that moniker again.”
“What? You used to say it sounded superb.”
He makes a point of iterating every letter in the last word, and Trent smirks.
“Maybe I was young and foolish.”
“That was only two years ago, how much would you have changed in two years?”
“Well I’ll have you kno-“
“And considering I’ve been with you for at least ten of those eighteen months, that question was basically rhetorical.”
Possession; they always talk like that. It’s innately built into them; everything they attempt to conquer is already theirs.
“It’s an interesting place. Weird soap opera happening at the top of the card though, everyone’s got a bit of investment in everyone else. There’s all this commotion over some chick who's got a knack for kicking people's heads off.”
“Ouch, how far’d the heads go?”
“Can you please indulge my metaphorical tongue for just a second.”
Trent always hated how much shit Drake could talk without even missing a step. He’s the king of bullshit; of making himself out to be the grandest royal of them all and everyone else out to be vile peasantry.
“Alright, fine.”
“She's not bad looking though.”
“That Jericho chick?”
“Yep.”
“She’s also with the world champion, if I’m not mistaken. Who’s made a habit out of being pretty good.”
“True.”
“You’re also in a long-term relationship with a girl you’re fucking head over heels for.”
“Also true.”
“Fair enough.”
Trent offers that grin again, Drake’s upper lips curls slightly; it’s not a conversation he could have with Madison here, not really. Most of it would be fine, but the little nuances, the stuff only evident in conversations between properly close friends, that stuff was the exclusive shit.
“Then what’ve we got…”
“Well, there’s a dude in a mask.”
“There’s always a dude in a mask. Difference is this one can wrestle.”
Drake says, taking another drink.
“And a cowboy.”
“Named Dirk.”
“Americans.”
Omega says, shaking his head.
“They’re quickly becoming parodies of themselves.”
“What else?”
“There’s an Aussie.”
“What?”
“Two of them.”
“Wait, WHAT?”
“Yep, one of them’s not bad looking either.”
“Are you trying to tell me something? Because I can take care of Madison no problem, you can rest assured of that.”
“No, dickhead, one of them is a girl. Emma Dylan. The other’s a champion; big unit too. Weird bloke though.”
“Name?”
“Levi Daughterty.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. Did he come out of the AWA?”
“Not that I know of. Sam would’ve probably heard of him if he did.”
“Didn’t realise there were this many Aussies in the biz.”
“Did you just say biz?”
“Sorry. So?”
“So…”
“So what’s the consensus on them?”
“Oh.” Drake says, leaning back. “It’ll be fun. Not much in the way of stopping the man who hasn’t been pinned yet, but still, it’ll be nice seeing them try.”
“Always is. What about Mr Judas?”
“I’ll get to him.”
Drake’s eyes dart across to where he notes a bit of movement; seeing another pair of eyes quickly lock onto his, then just as quickly shoot away.
“Here we go.”
“Did they look at you?”
Trent asks, obviously already knowing who the people are.
“You saw them already?”
“Yeah, they saw us when we walked in. You can always tell with them, the ones who are suddenly starstruck.”
As if directed by the perfect opportunity they don’t even know about, the trio walks over to Drake and Trent’s table with starry eyes and nervous hands. They try to start up a conversation with Drake, who keeps looking at Trent with that smug expression.
“That was always going to happen, wasn’t it?” Trent mutters, a mirrored look on his face.
“H-hi Drake. Mr. Hunter. Mr Omega. Could we trouble you for a picture and autograph?”
And the perfect opportunity presents itself. A girl walks into the bar; only short, stunning face and gorgeous blonde hair, looking around for someone. The eager fan shoves a notepad under Drake’s face; he wonders how much the piece of paper will sell for when he becomes NGW World Heavyweight champion. Social currency always depends on the here and now.
“What do you reckon?”
His head motions to Trent, head nodding in the direction of the girl that walked in. She hasn’t spotted them yet, mostly because the trio of fans were blocking anyone’s view of the two Australians, who were trying to enjoy a drink and nice night out between themselves.
Trent sees her and his grin grows even wider. She walks to the bar, not seeing Drake yet, looking to order a drink, though she’s only a few feet away from them. The annoying presence of a young dork stands between them though. Drake fiddles with the pen for a moment, as if deciding something, before he goes to write down something.
“You lads watch NGW?”
“No, but we saw your MPW World title win live! You were like our hero with the whole Age of Arrogance thing, we loved it. We haven’t watched much since, we tend to stick to the Independent stuff, the small time promotions.”
Oh, oh fucking good. That makes it all the better.
“Great. Oh, here’s some advice for you too mate.”
He doesn’t look up at the ‘fan’, or his two friends, looking supremely confident in their ability to brag about meeting two famous pro wrestlers. Instead he just writes scribbles something on the notepad and then turns, looks beyond the man – he couldn’t be older than 20 – and extends his arm to the girl at the bar.
“Hey, darling.”
Her eyes turn to a familiar voice, her face is gorgeous as ever, even in the dim light. He’s lucky; she sees him wink, already playing along with the game as soon as his eyes meet hers. They hadn’t seen NGW, so they’d totally blank who she is, though they’d certainly remember her.
“There you go.”
He hands her the notepad, giving her another wink. She opens it up, reads the inside and giggles, all the while the three dorks look dumbfounded at the turn of events.
“Oh yeah the advice, of course.”
Drake says, as if just catching his train of thought. He turns and faces them for the first time, very poignantly.
“Get better heroes.”
The trio appear to be somewhere between dumbfounded, astounded, and angry that their perfect little plan to grab a prime autograph got turned into a way of helping some dude from TV pick up a chick at the bar. That 'chick' slides in between them, sitting on Drake’s lap, bringing a drink with her.
Madison’s so good at playing the part, it’s incredible. Drake leans up and whispers something in her ear, causing her to giggle.
“Thanks for the notepad. When you tell the story to your four friends, make sure you include how I’m the one whose name you remember and you’re the ones whose names I couldn’t give a shit about.” He takes a swig of the drink in Madison’s hand. “Now fuck off.”
And with that, Drake’s grin returns, he plants a soft kiss on his girlfriend’s lips, who takes a seat beside him, and gazes across at Trent who applauds softly, laughing away.
“You know they’re going to tweet about that.”
Trent says, raising his glass to Drake’s and Madison’s in unison.
“Good, means they’ll get something out of the evening.”
------------------------------------------------
---BEGIN---
“It’s fucking freezing.”
The man on screen is a fair way away from the camera; he has to yell in the freezing New York City wind to have his voice heard from the microphone and the wind makes the background noise raspy and blustery. The man seems to be still, though the lights behind him may hide whatever subtle movements he’s making. The camera’s still; a long shot of the man standing on the other side of a rooftop; and a tall one too.
Behind him, the radiance of New York City at night shines like a thousand beacons all calling for their own little bit of attention. There’s a nice show of rooftops cascading and flowing like a children’s scattered box of Lego pieces, splattered all over the floor in a random arrangement, though there is some semblance of order to it. Really, it’s all very poetic and impressive as a backdrop, though the man in shot is the important part.
“I like it, though.”
He yells again, turning his face towards the camera. He’s clad in a black zipped up jacket, the material of it can’t be seen; he’s still merely standing near the edge of the fenced off rooftop, staring out over the New York City skyline.
Suddenly he moves again, walking towards the camera; every pace, every step as methodical and calculated as the last. His gait enforces that; the methodical nature of his personality, you can tell merely from the way he carries himself his arrogance is his pride and joy when it comes to his personality. That’s even before you get introduced to the man; Drake Hunter, when all those characters presumptions are vehemently confirmed. Arrogant doesn’t even begin to describe it; though it’s the best word, a word even the man himself loves.
“The cold is a pretty stark reminder of everything. Because I used to lie on cold, wet grass outside an abandoned parking lot with my best friend, and we did it purely because we could. Because we had dreams. We had visions of becoming the best. We wouldn’t accept anything less.”
He looks down at his shoes, then glances up at the night sky again, very reflective and sombre.
“Yeah…that’ll be the tagline of my movie. If they every make a movie about the life and times of Drake Hunter, that’d so be the opening monologue. They all have opening monologues, don’t they? That’s how those movies all work…
And suddenly the mood shifts completely, turning on its head with a few words and a cranked up grin. His posture changes; he takes one hand out of his pocket and runs it through his hair, turning his gaze to the camera as the self-satisfied, cocky smirk of Drake Hunter is evident for all to see. The lighting around him is more than adequate too, illuminating his facial expressions, making sure everyone can see him; in perfect Drake fashion.
“This, this night sky, it’s beautiful. That city, it’s beautiful. The lights, the feeling of it, it’s all beautiful. You wanna know why?”
He leans forward, as if enhancing the anticipation for the answer; and answer Drake is certain to have.
“Because the PRINCE IS ON TOP OF IT!”
He exudes an arrogant, perverse laugh as he continues to walk; keeping the same distance from the camera, instead moving around it, the camera panning to follow him, always keeping him in the centre of shot.
“They really should make a movie out of me, you know. Drake Hunter…the movie! Or maybe that’s too bland, maybe Hollywood needs some spice to it. Drake Hunter: The Arrogant One. Hmmm maybe not. How about; The Conquest of a World, Drake Hunter’s ascendancy. I like that one, that’s great. I’d go see that film, I mean.”
The way he moves, the intention and purpose with which he treats every sentence, it’s all to give the allure of sheer arrogance; and how much he embraces it.
“They could make a movie out of you, Dean.”
There’s the reference. His opponent for the week; the man for whom the promo is directed. Well, him, and all the people desperate to see Drake at his finest; in front of the camera.
“See, you’re a unique one. I know unique, I’m well aware of mental uniqueness and the power that such traits possess. See, I get you Dean. I understand you, maybe not everything you’ve been through, maybe not to your…estranged…level, but I do get you. I understand why you needed to call yourself DEATH, you and your little tag partner, hell I even saw the little swindle you pulled to get that little team off the ground. Pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes…probably. To tell you the truth, I actually needed to sift through a bunch of shit on YouTube to find it, and it wasn’t particularly breaking news at the time when I was working in the WWO winning World titles…but that’s ALL beside the point.”
He recovers from his tangent; his voice stopping and pausing following the picking up of pace as he spoke.
“The point…is that I understand. I get it. I understand why you called yourselves DEATH. I understand the tattoos; hell, I’ve even got a few of my own. I’ve got a jolly roger on my back, you know what that means? You get what that signifies? It was the crest that adorned the black flags of pirates when they roamed the seas, the scourge of those dastardly colonial powers. It represents freedom. It represents the ultimate freedom of being able to whatever the fuck you want, of telling oppression and rules and legislation and society to get fucked because they’re wrong and you’re right and you can do whatever the fuck you want.”
His face is lit up by the moonlight, partially anyway; it brings highlight to the blonde streak of hair trickling down his face, into his eyes. He brushes them away with a finger and stops for a second.
“I wonder, how many people get you Dean? How many people would watch a movie of your life and interpret it a thousand different ways? How many would actually care about the man? Would they be distraught by the ending?”
He brings a hand up to his mouth.
“Oh! Spoilers! Shit, I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to spoil it like that. Okay, I suppose I have to now…”
He looks around, mockingly trying to avoid prying ears. Though he is comfortable in the knowledge that he is the only man on that rooftop; the only way Drake Hunter likes it.
“Dean Judas: The movie. The tale of a slightly deranged freedom-filled ravaging son of a bitch who took the wrestling world by storm…until he stepped into the ring with the greatest wrestler on the planet…and found out what it was like to have all the freedom and self-expression in the world mean the square root of jack shit. Because he couldn’t. Beat. The Punk.”
He closes his eyes, taking a big breath in.
“That fresh air, that’s reality, the reality of such an interesting, heartening tale with no happy ending. Maybe audiences will be touched by it; the story of someone who kept trying yet couldn’t beat the Prince of NGW. Maybe you even get close, maybe you see it in your fingertips, all that opportunity right there for the taking….right THERE….only for it to be taken away by a quick dagger…”
He motions a slow, upwards motion with his knee.
“Of a knee to the skull…”
And again his body is still, only the wind sounding in the frame. And again his expression changes, from mocking to deadset.
“I really do hate to be the bearer of bad news. But Judas’ tale didn’t end with a happy triumph in that book that got published several hundred years ago, and the tale of Dean Judas won’t be much happier. I mean…in the bible he was undone by someone claiming to be the King…”
Drake turns his body slightly, grabbing a hold of a steel support bar, connected to an electrical box of some description.
“At least you’ll be undone by someone with actual claim to a throne…”
Drake gives a sly wink and that grin returns. He takes it upon himself to be controversial and ruffle feathers; and the truth is his lack of loyalty to anything material; other than his own material desires, means everything is pretty much fair game.
“Hmm, so let me think…”
Back to mocking, as if he’s properly thinking about something.
“The ascendancy of Drake Hunter. I wonder if they’ll go back to my humble beginnings. As a son of a doctor and a fucking lawyer. Lawyer turned politician, too. We’ve had different upbringings, Dean, that much is certain, and yet the similarities are striking. We both strive to make something of each other DESPITE our youths. See…I hated that fucking place…”
His tone becomes resentful, as if remembering his past.
“It was toxic, it was foul. There was a stench in the air wherever you went, and I fucking despised it. This…all of this…hell, all of THIS…”
He motions to the wide expanse of New York City.
“This…I made myself. All of this. ALL OF IT. It was all ME. Nothing anyone says will ever matter because I MADE myself into a Prince. I showed the world just how good I am, just how great I am at entertaining them inside that ring and behind this camera. I showed them why they can’t live without the Punk, why secretly they crave for me to get to the top of the mountain purely so they can keep on booing me. I’m the Prince nobody likes and nobody can live without. That’s all me…and I MADE it all.”
He stops, looking up and down at the fence in front of him, between him the ledge leading to open air.
“And then there’s you, Dean.”
He grabs a hold of the fence and shakes it, looking at it, testing it.
“I know you’re probably sick of hearing about me, but every single other fucker who’s tuned into this video isn’t, so I don’t really give a shit. See, I used to suffer from pretty bad mental problems. There’s this voice, in the back of my head, that tells me to do some pretty bad stuff. It came about because I let it, because I secretly wanted it there. I love it, I crave it, that rush I get when I can feel it guiding me, directing me on my rampage…only….”
He stops, his gaze still fixed on something beyond the fence.
“Only a little while ago, it just stopped. It stopped because I didn’t want it anymore, it stopped because I stopped listening. Because I wasn’t dependent on that voice anymore. And yeah, it’s still there; I mean I’m technically diagnosed with both minor schizophrenia and Intermittent Explosive Disorder so…you know…it’s still a part of me. But here’s the thing, that little demon can control you, it can make you into a Judas…or you can make yourself into a Prince…”
He turns to face the camera again. His black jeans and black leather jacket fade into the night sky perfectly, while the lights perched atop the fence illuminate his face once again.
“After all, I’d rather rule in hell than serve in heaven. And being the Prince of hell…now that’s power. You? Well you probably belong in hell, but certainly not as a ruler. No, you’re no really fit to be Lucifer, are you? You’re a ball of chaos, just rolling around, waiting for victims to come too close. You ground people up in your little revolving sphere of knives and daggers and swords and you love the feeling when you’re pummelling someone to a pulp. I’d like to say I know the type, that I’ve seen you before, but you just seem so…anarchic. It’s impressive, in all honesty, If you knew me, the things I stood for, you’d appreciate that. See, chaos, that’s freedom. There’s nothing better than seeing chaos reign upon the world and relishing in it.”
He takes the camera on another walk again, complementing his tirade.
“But the chaos is a precursor. Because after the chaos…what’s left? Debris, rubble, nothing, really. Then you rebuild again. You let chaos reign until it’s job is done and then you climb atop that mountain of rubble and sit on your throne. Or, that’s what I do. That’s my motive. Chaos is an agent, a force, a means to an end. The END…that is ALWAYS the thing in my sights, that is exactly what I plan for. Every little thing I do…it’s for the endgame…”
He turns around, so that he’s facing the camera, but maintains the direction he was walking in, keeping his pace, just walking backwards.
“That endgame is my throne. MY. THRONE. On top of the city, on top of New Generation Wrestling, on TOP OF THE FUCKING WORLD…”
His arms spread wide, all encompassing, as if he wants everything to be his, and he stops in his tracks, planting his feet next to each other as he leans forward and grins at the camera.
“I’m the Prince of this world, Dean. I’m the man who’s going to take over and the man who’s going to sit atop that pile of rubble when all’s said and done…”
Another momentary pause.
“You…you’re just that chaos agent.”
Another pause, coupled with a long hard gaze into the camera, for dramatic effect, before he turns and starts walking again.
“You’re the uncontrollable force leaving destruction in its wake but without a proper goal. You’re the man who happily decimated a bunch of people in a battle royal and then took apart a cowboy last week, showing the world exactly the damage you could do. You’re yet to be pinned…”
He stops himself, looking up and placing a hand on his chin, as if he’s thinking about something.
“Funny…where have I heard that before….”
His eyes turn back to the camera; accompanied by that wide grin of his.
“The Prince of NGW. That’s where I’ve heard it. See…in my first showing, I beat a bunch of irrelevant morons and threw them all over the top rope. Then, then I was screwed…but we won’t talk about that. What we will talk about, is last week, when I decimated a cowboy, and to top it off, put a cocky little sod out of his misery! My knee connected with that skull so sweetly…it was like magic when his lights went out. It’s as if I flicked a switch. Oh, and I do hope you studied that very closely indeed, because it is a shocking thing to have that connection rattle your brains. And in your mental state…who the hell knows what effect it could have. I do hope you’ve got medication handy…”
He ponders something for a second, continuing on his path around the rooftop; the surrounding New York skyline maintaining its position the entire time, no matter which way you turn.
“Or maybe you don’t like the medication? Maybe it hampers you, maybe you prefer to be a ravenous, chaotic ball of fury, not giving a shit about anything other than destroying the person you’re in the ring with? I reckon I’m right. Actually, I know I’m right, because I studied you. As if you’ve not already been able to see that, I’ve seen the way you talk, the way you act, the way you wrestle. I saw what you said to Dirk, how you hoped he’d hang on a cross and, what were the words you used?”
Again, that mocking, pondering face. He so enjoys exuding that arrogance.
“’Kill your fucking career, burn it with fire…’”
He raises air quotes, putting emphasis on Dean’s words.
“Well, I could say your career will be left hanging by the neck, if you’re going for religious references. I mean, your name does all the work for me, everyone knows the story of Judas the betrayer. Such a sad story. Like Dean Judas the film; the man who had the anarchy in the world yet couldn’t stop the Punk Prince’s ascent…”
He stops, dead centre in the middle of the rooftop.
“This is my world, Dean. You’re just a rambunctious little soul who wants things to crash and burn around him in the hope enough people give you the attention you crave…”
His grin widens again, looking up to the stars.
“But then, I’m no medical professional. I'm the man you'll see in San Jose for Vendetta. What I am, really, is the Punk, the Prince, on top of the world.”
--END--