[DrakeGreen]

 
3 A.M.


“ Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival.” –CS Lewis

November 24th, 2014 – Dr. Waldo Emerson’s Office; Las Vegas, NV – 10:15 AM

[The scene fades in to a large examination room in a doctor’s office. Sitting, legs and feet dangling, on the examination table is Drake Green. He is wearing a white t-shirt underneath an unbuttoned gray cardigan sweater that has a wide color. His jeans look a bit worn out and his continuously claps his white Chuck Taylor sneakers on the dashboard, as if impatiently waiting for the doctor to come in. He stares at the clock as the endless second tick away…

Tick…tick…tick…tick…

He replays over and over in his mind all the different ways he can react to what the doctor has to say. How should he react to finding out the results? Although he already knows the answer; he’s already received his death sentence, this is a mere confirmation of the fact. He stares at the clock.

Tick…tick…tick…tick…

What could be taking him so long? Drake had a 9:30 appointment after all. Why the fuck did doctor’s always me people wait? He thought if the doctor showed up to wrestling match and it started 45 minutes late he’d be freaking out calling everyone under the sun that he had to wait for some one else. Did he think his time was more important than Drake’s? A multi-time Champion and movie star? Clearly Dr. Waldo Emerson of Duke fame couldn’t. He stares at the clock.

Tick…tick…tick…tick…

The fear starts to set in. Drake was fine with assuming the diagnosis. He was ok with believing that he was dying because he never really confirmed it. He never took a blood test, got examined, or even actually read the symptoms and causes of ALS. He took the words that Phyllis had said to him that morning in Vegas to heart and believed every word. Stupid. Drake looks up as the door swings open and in walks Dr. Waldo Emerson. A large, fat man with a horseshoe of hair that wraps around his bald head, he walks in with confidence and a large smile.]

Emerson: Drake! Sorry if I kept you waiting. I had a crazy bitch in the other room.

[He lets out a snort of a laugh as Drake tries to force out a chuckle. Emerson sits down in a chair across the examination room from Drake and crosses his huge legs. He opens up the file and as soon as he starts reading, his smile fades.]

Emerson: Hmmm.

[Drake could feel his blood bubbling with anxiety. Why di he stop smiling? What was on that page? Drake’s impatience finally boiled over.]

Drake: Will you just fucking tell me already?!

[Emerson immediately looks up at Drake. A concerned look in his eyes as he is finally able to see how stressed Drake is.]

Emerson: Drake, are you ok?

[Drake can’t believe he’s still not giving him the test results.]

Drake: Yes. I just need to know. I need to hear it from you. I’ve made my piece with it and I just need to move on.

[Emerson shuts the file. He sets it down on the counter next to him and slants his head in Drake’s direction and then smiles again.]

Emerson: You’re fine.

Drake: What?

Emerson: You’re healthy, Drake.

Drake: But…

[He lets his confusion show.]

Drake: What about…

Emerson: Look, I don’t know about some weird cock-eyed aunt…

Drake: Stepmother.

Emerson: Whatever. You’ve got a clean bill of health. You probably want to stop piling so much booze and prescription pain killers into your body. That sure isn’t helping any.

Drake: But what about my leg? I can barely walk on it in the mornings and I have to take a shot just to get in the ring.

[The doctor stands up. He turns back to file and flips it open. He pull out an x-ray film and then walks over to the wall, sliding it on the display and then turning on the bright light behind it. He points to Drake’s thigh muscle.]

Emerson: You’ve got a lot of dead tissue and lots of scarring but it’s not hereditary and it’s not a virus or any other disease. You’ve simply just destroyed your leg on your own.

Drake: Huh…

[He can’t decide on whether to bummed that he’s hurt himself, probably permanently, or to be fantastically thrilled that he’s not actually dying.]

Drake: I did that to myself?

[Emerson shuts the light off and turns to Drake.]

Emerson: Unfortunately, yes. I see it a lot with people in your profession and other athletes.

Drake: Is there any way to fix it like physical therapy or anything?

Emerson: It’s highly unlikely that you’ll ever regrow any of the muscle tissue that you’ve lost. If you were to stop now however, there’s a chance you could stop the bleeding so to speak. You can probably avoid having to use a cane later in life.

[That last sentence hits home with Drake. In his mind when he walked into that office he thought wouldn’t be alive later in life. So the prospect of walking around with a cane had never crossed his mind.]

Drake: And if I don’t stop…if I keep wrestling.

Emerson: It’s hard to say. I don’t think it will ever come to amputation. It doesn’t seem to have that bad of a trend.

Drake: Well that’s good.

Emerson: But you will lose more functionality and it will hurt more the more you try to do with it.

Drake: So what do you suggest? You know…for the pain.

[The doctor stares at Drake with a sharp look on his face. He knows Drake is just asking for more painkillers.]

Emerson: Fine. But I’m not gonna keep giving you these, Drake. I’m not your drug dealer.

[Emerson scribbles on a pad and hands it to Drake.]

Drake: Thanks, doc. You’re the dude.

Emerson: Yeah I know.

[He grabs the file and his clipboard and opens the examination room door. Before he walks out, he turns to look at Drake.]

Emerson: I mean that though, Drake.

Drake: What’s that?

Emerson: You will have to use something to help you walk if you don’t cut back. I know you love what you do but it may be time to consider retirement; especially with the movies now. Call me if you need anything…except drugs. Call Barry for that.

[He shuts the door behind him as he leaves and as soon as he leaves, Drake lies back down on the examination table and lets out a long sigh before smiling as wide as he ever has before.]

Drake: I’m not dying.

[He starts to laugh as the scene cuts out]


”Today was the first day in a long time that I smiled. I mean really smiled. Having the constant threat of the unknown hanging over me has been tough these past few months. Losing the title made it that much worse. But today I learned there is something to live for….me. It isn’t just about that title, Sean. It isn’t just about winning. It isn’t just about beating you. It’s about living. It’s stopping for a moment and realizing that the world has so much more to offer than choking out Sean Jackson and winning back the SCW Heavyweight title. Don’t take this the wrong way, Sean. I am still going to beat you. I’m still going to choke you out and I am still going to win my title back. But…when I do…it won’t be the only thing I’ll be smiling about.”

“High Stakes IV wasn’t a fluke, Sean. I’m not gonna sit here and spit lies all over the place like you do; you won and you won fair and square. You’re the Heavyweight Champion, congratulations. That being said, it’s not going to happen again. You see, you may have won but you didn’t BEAT me. This isn’t over. Our story is probably somewhere in the middle. No matter what happens on Sunday…it will keep going. For as long as I lace up my boots no one will ever get me as excited to get in the ring than you. Sean. Something about you just gets me going…gets me pumped up to be in the ring. I like winning matches…but I love winning them against you. When I win on Sunday, when I take my title back, I will make sure you stick around for the celebration. Everyone will witness the “Mental Rapist” get his mind fucked by Drake Green. Everyone will watch you as you prove why you’re the weak link in this feud. I’ve carried you this far and I’ll finish it off on Sunday. Just do me a favor and polish up my belt for me. Pack it in your suitcase nicely and make sure it’s nice and comfortable. Let it know that it’s going home, where it belongs.”


November 25th, 2014 – Drake’s Penthouse Condo; Las Vegas, NV – 3:00 AM

[The scene fades back in inside of Drake’s bedroom. It’s dark inside the room and Drake is fast asleep inside his bed. He turns a bit in his expensive Egyptian cotton sheets as he snores just a bit. As the clock on his nightstand strikes 3:00 exactly, his phone rings.

Ring…ring…ring…

Drake shoots up. His hair a bit wild and a small bit of dry drool sits in the corner of his mouth. He wipes the drool away and then grabs his phone. He looks at the caller ID.

UNKOWN CALLER

He hits the end button on the call and falls back into his bed. He shuts his eyes again and just before he can fall back asleep, the phone rings again.

Ring…ring…ring…

Again he sits up only this time he goes right for the phone and scoops it up in an aggressive manner. He looks at the phone and lets out an annoyed grunt when he looks at the caller ID again.

UNKOWN CALLER

Figuring that if he continues to ignore the call that who ever is calling would simply keep calling, Drake reluctantly answers the phone.]

Drake: Hello?

Showtime!

Drake: Barry?

[On the other line is Drake’s friend and legal representation, super agent Barry Goldstein.]

Barry: Yeah of course it’s me.

Drake: What are you doing? It’s…

[Drake leans over to the clock, squinting.]

Drake…it’s three in the morning.

Barry: Yeah, I know. I was wondering if you could do me a favor.

Drake: Really? At three in the moring? If I called you at three in the morning and asked for a favor you’d tell me to go fuck myself. I think-

[Barry cuts him off.]

Barry: Look, Champ, if I had anyone else to call I would.

Drake: Ok, what is it?

Barry: I’m kind of in trouble…

[The scene cuts out.]


November 25th, 2014 – Police Station; Las Vegas, NV – 3:50 AM

[The scene fades back in inside of a police station. The walls are a bright, blinding white. A stark contrast from the large black tiles that cover the floor. The place is pretty quiet save for a radio tuned to sports talk radio playing somewhere behind the front desk. Sitting at the front desk behind triple pane bulletproof glass is a large African American police officer. He sits there with his nose in his paper work as the front door opens. In walks Drake Green, wearing a pale blue sports coat with the color turned up, his gray cardigan from earlier the previous day now buttoned up, and the same faded blue jeans and Chuck Taylor sneakers. Her hair is a mess from just waking up and his five o’clock shadow is more like a thin beard. He walks up to the officer, limping as he does, and knocks on the bulletproof glass.]

Drake: Excuse me?

[The officer looks up at Drake with an almost perturbed look on his face and says absolutely nothing. He just raises his eyebrows a bit like he is waiting for Drake to speak.]

Drake: Yes, I’m looking for Barry Goldstein?

[The officer looks at him with a look as if Drake had just interrupted the most important part of his day. The officer exhales and gets up off of his chair.]

Officer: Wait here.

[He walks to the back and Drake is left to wander the lobby a bit. He walks over to the board and sees a post of the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted. He looks over each face and laughs a bit as he reads each bio. He wonders to himself what it takes to get on the ten most wanted list. If there were any set criteria like a sliding scale of wanted-ness. He tilts his head a bit before turning around quickly when he hears a familiar voice.]

Barry: Showtime!

[Barry is wearing a tuxedo with his black bowtie open around his neck and the top bottom unbuttoned. His blonde hair a bit messy and his eyes are glossed over.]

Drake: What the hell, man?

Barry: Sorry man. You drive around with one gram of cocaine in fucking Las Vegas and you think it’d be cool. Got pulled over by the one cop who doesn’t like blow or money. What are you gonna do?

[Drake smacks him on the arm.]

Drake: Shut the fuck up. Let’s get out of here.

[Both men walk out of the building together. The head down the large front steps and Barry notices Drake using the railing and having a bit of trouble getting down the steps.]

Barry: You ok, Champ?

Drake: Yeah I’m fine. My leg is just killing me.

[Barry stops and watches him walk for a second.]

Barry: It started already hasn’t it? The ALS? How much time do you have left? Enough to do the movie? I already cashed that commission so if anything has to be paid back, your estate-

[Drake cuts Barry off.]

Drake: You can relax, Barry. I’m not dying.

Barry: Really?

Drake: Yes, really. Don’t sound so excited.

Barry: It’s just…how?

Drake: Long story.

Barry: But what about your leg?

[They get down to the bottom of the steps and get into Drake’s Range Rover. He starts the car and puts it into gear, starts driving, and then turns to Barry.]

Drake: Muscle deterioration.

Barry: How did that happen?

Drake: Beating the shit out of myself for 15 years they suspect.

Barry: Well, yeah…that’ll do it. You ok?

Drake: Yeah, I’ll be fine. Where were you tonight?

Barry: Some stupid awards dinner my partners had, so…I was stuck. You know where we can score some more coke this late at night?

[Drake’s expression on his face and he slams on the brakes.]

Drake: Are you fucking kidding me?

Barry: What?

Drake: Don’t give me that shit. You know what I’m talking about. This shit has got to stop.

[Barry has a totally confused look on his face.]

Drake: Don’t give me that look.

Barry: I just…you’ve…just..

Drake: Look; twenty-four hours ago I had a different perspective on things. I wasn’t thinking about the future. I wasn’t thinking about five years from now or three years from now or even six months from now. But now I am. You’re the only friend I’ve got, Goldstein, and I need you, man. Cut the shit.

[Barry looks at Drake for a long moment before turning slightly to his right and look straight ahead.]

Barry: Wow, Champ….I’m sorry.

Drake: Don’t be sorry. Just don’t be an asshole. Deal?

[Barry turns back to him.]

Barry: Deal.

Drake: Good.

[He starts driving forward again.]

Barry: Do you at least know a good whore house because my dic-

Drake: Dude! What did I just say?

Barry: You’re a real fucking grump tonight, huh? Let’s just go get some fucking pancakes then. You’re buying.

Drake: Yeah, it’s four o’clock in the morning…you’re buying.

Barry: Fine but if the waitress is under forty I may try to bring her into the bathroom. I’m just letting you know…

[Drake laughs as the scene fades out.