[GKD]

Days have passed since Ken Davison’s assault and subsequent arrest and hospital trip were brought to a close; unfortunately the same can’t be said for that feeling of weight on his chest. The images are still fresh in his mind and flash back to him in no particular order and for no particular reason; silently staring down the creep at the bar, the bit of memory blacked on in his fit of rage, of Kyra holding his hand and looking at him in a way she never had before. The confusion as she waited beside him, the face she made when the doctor told her he was just exhausted, and the smile on her and Adina’s faces after he came backstage from his match with Señor Vinnie. Other images flash through; the look on the face of Mac Bane when he challenged him for the Sin City Wrestling World Championship, Mac was shocked, yet still… poised, like he wasn’t about to go through hell. The last time the two of them had met as foes in the ring, Mac ended up laying in a pile of splintered table, wrapped in barbed wire. The force of Mac’s body crashing through the table had at least put out the fire. But it’s the eyes he keeps coming back to. Something about Mac’s eyes that he just couldn’t figure out; he’s seen enough fury and rage over the years to know those looks … but Bane’s eyes held something different, just as they did during their last fateful encounter.

It was all there in those eyes. It was a look of respect.

Davison opens his own eyes to the waning sunlight streaking in through his bedroom window. Squinting he tries to look at the blinking neon light glaring at him from the bedside table.

”Ugh, quarter to eleven … what the hell?”

He rolls to his side, propping himself up on his elbow and looks towards the open window. Outside he can hear the gleeful sounds of children playing. The way the city was going it was nice that he had such a nice neighborhood full of friendly families. The McLaughlin’s next door had two children, Matthew and Kimberly if his memory served correctly. They were the All-American family living the American dream lifestyle. Tom McLaughlin was an investment broker and spent the majority of his time flying from the home office in Baltimore to any of the smaller satellite offices in Scranton, LaSalle and Portland. Mary, his lovely wife, was a stay-at-home mother who never had a negative thing to say about anyone. She was a pleasant woman who always had something nice to say about everyone in the neighborhood. She was known both for her love of classical literature, as well as her love for home style country cooking. Their two aforementioned children, eight and ten respectively, took part in after school activities, extracurricular sports and had active roles in their church; they were the picturesque American family. In fact, they could be the polar opposites of the Davisons. But there was much more to the McLaughlin’s than met the eye.

Davison rises off the bed and holds a hand to his face, stretching the skin as he rubs from his eyes to his chin. He cocks his head backwards as a loud pop is heard. He continues cracking his neck from side to side before he stands up. Lactic acid has built up and aches a bit when he moves, but it’s that pain that feels good … lets you know you’re alive. A few new bruises had popped up since his match against Señor Vinnie, expectedly so, one would say. Everything had gone swimmingly for the most part. Vinnie put up a hell of a lot more fight than Ken had imagined he would, but perhaps that’s because he had been used to the Underground, still adjusting to life on the surface. Still it was time to look ahead to the future, Davison thought to himself. If there was anyone outside of his wife or Mac Bane that he would rather go to war with, it was The Gothic One. There’s just something about having your own personal wrecking ball at your disposal. Stretching his muscles, Davison moves from his bedroom into the bathroom as he shifts his thinking from last night back to the McLaughlin’s and their secret lives.

There are those people in neighborhoods like this around the country. They’re the picture of normalcy and All-American goodness; for all intents and purposes they were a nuclear family living very ordinary public lives, but behind the scenes they were hiding more than their fair share of skeletons in their closets. It doesn’t take much to offset public perfection; in fact, one could say that the more ideal your family is perceived, the more your peers search for fault. The McLaughlin’s were no different; the picture of perfection as far as their neighbors are concerned, most of them, at least, but even these pillars of the community have more cracks in their foundation than the old church down on Greenmount Avenue. Matthew McLaughlin, a young man of eight, has already found himself a hobby for after school. His parents, both firm believers in living active lifestyles, have Matty signed up for a number of activities meant to broaden his mind and body. Between Pop Warner football, practicing his trumpet, lessons with his French tutor, lacrosse practice, and any of the other activities his parents have signed him up for he and his friends still have discovered a secret hobby. They meet behind the gymnasium right after school to huff paint thinner that Matty’s friend Chris steals from his father’s hardware store. It doesn’t matter that the boys have all heard the stories about Billy Tanguay, a high school kid who died a few months back from inhaling the stuff. They can be safer than he was, that’s why they never huff alone. They talk about him and through their actions are keeping his memory alive as their brain cells slowly die. Matthew doesn’t know about the blood clot forming in his brain, less than a month from now his parents will find him face down in his Frosted Mini Wheats.

Kimberly, at the tender age of ten has experienced more than girls twice her age. Due to the joys of over involved parents; Kim has always been on the go from the moment she could walk. Ballets, tap, jazz and hip hop; it didn’t matter the style – she was always involved. When she wasn’t dancing, Kim could be found playing her clarinet, practicing the piano or rehearsing lines for her next performance with the community drama troupe. She was as busy as the day was long, but it came at a price. Having recently recovered from a small bout with a stomach bug, Kimberly discovered she was behind on her usually tight schedule. She began skipping lunch at school to sneak into the girl’s room to do homework or study lines. Before long she discovered the world of dietary supplements which would help stave off the hunger pains and give her more time to focus on her work. But hungry or not, Kimberly had to sleep at some point. At least she did before her friend Heather gave her some of her mother’s pills. Kim didn’t know what they were but they were GREAT. She could take one or two and stay up for hours practicing and perfecting. She was the ideal daughter – so it will certainly be a shock for her parents to find her, two months after the tragic death of their son, lying motionless on the floor of her bedroom. An empty pill bottle will be sitting on her nightstand, the name of her friend’s mother on the label.

In less than three months the McLaughlin’s will have lost both of their children to needless tragedies. Heartbroken and grief stricken. they’ll turn to the things that have helped them before.

Friends and family?

Pfft.

The church?

HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! NO.

Tom McLaughlin will remove himself from the pain by retreating to the comfort of the apartment he keeps in Portland with a woman who he met dancing at a local strip club. With an affair that has been going on for the better part of the last year, Tom hopes to leave the pain of his ‘former life’ behind him every other weekend when he goes away again on ‘business trips’.

Mary, on the other hand, will retreat to the only place that has kept her company all these long months; the bottom of a wine bottle. Admitting that she’d rather go through life drunk and pain free then to allow the mourning process to strip her to the bones; but for Mary it’s her form of ‘medical help’ that finally ends the McLaughlin’s story. Tom, having come home to find Mary unconscious, calls 911. Upon arrival it is discovered that Mary’s blood alcohol level is nearly four times the legal limit for driving and she’s quickly rushed to the nearest hospital with alcohol poisoning. Mary slips into a coma that evening and the doctors believe that with the damage she’s caused to her system with the drinking, her chances of recovery are slim at best. Tom leaves the next morning for Portland, ready to leave his life behind him and start a new life with Brittney, the dancer from the Jade Dragon. He’ll be struck head-on by a drunk driver heading down the wrong side of the interstate. He’ll be instantly killed.

From the bathroom he can still hear the sounds of Matthew and his sister playing with the neighbors. Maybe their stories will actually have happier endings than the ones he’s envisioned – maybe. Perhaps these macabre thoughts came from Ken’s very own fears. The fears that haunted him before his defenses were shattered by a woman trying to concuss him with a bottle of Jack never truly left his psyche. Ken would never go down that road, but for some reason, he could never truly let go of picturing people in their worst case scenario. Personally and professionally, Ken himself was always prepared for the worst case scenario. That is why a loss meant nothing in the grand scheme of things.

Two handfuls of water splashing him in the face sufficiently do the job and wake him up enough to snap out of his morbid daydreaming. One hot shower and quick change later and he’s out the door and ready to head downtown for a lunch meeting with his brother Sean, who was in town on business, and a buddy of his.

Kate, the lovely female British accented voice emanating from his cell phone had instructed him that he was nearly at his destination. Two more turns to the parking garage and the restaurant was only one more block away. He enjoyed driving in the city during this time of day; the rush of the morning commute was over and now he was able to enjoy the scenery without worrying about the typical driving conditions. Two right turns and a parking spot later, Davison found himself stepping from the darkness of the garage into the blinding light of the afternoon sun. It was a cloudless sky, warm 86 degree afternoon made the perfect walking weather as he began his trek towards the restaurant. It seemed Sean had picked a Mexican restaurant. Outside of Denver, Ken found Mexican food to be more Tex Mex, but he was willing to give it a chance.

“Hola señor, how many in your party?”

Ken pulls the sunglasses from his face as he enters the restaurant. Tucking them into the neck of his t-shirt, Davison shakes his head as he smiles at the hostess.

“Hi, there are three … but I’m running a little late so they might be here already.”

He scans the restaurant behind the small glass partition for some sight of his lunch guests. Being closer to one o’clock the restaurant has several full tables but even at maximum capacity there was no way to hide his brother’s head. At six foot four, he was tall even when he’s sitting. Davison politely smiles at the hostess one more time as he passes by.

“I see them actually, grassy ass.”

He laughs to himself knowing full well his Spanish is worse than Matt Knox’s concept of contraception as he pictures these two men and how much they don’t fit in with anyone else around them. While not a stereotypical ‘Mexican’ eatery, this place was primarily frequented by those of Hispanic descent. So when you sprinkle in a man like Sean, he generally doesn’t tend to blend in as well.

Davison weaves his way through the tables, his eyes locked on Sean, who catches his sight and begins waving him over as if he had a secret of dire importance. His brother is out of his chair and pulling Ken’s out before he makes it to the table. Placing his cell phone down near his silverware, Davison takes his seat and looks across.

“Well, other than the food, why’d you drag me here?”

Sunlight from the window behind his head reflects off of his bald head, but wearing his own pair of sunglasses, it doesn’t seem to affect Sean.

A waitress suddenly appears at Davison’s right elbow looking to take his drink order. Instinctively he looks around the table to see what everyone else is drinking. Sean, not surprisingly, is drinking water. Surprisingly, there’s also a Jack with no ice.

“Miss, I’d like …”

Before Ken can continue he’s cut off.

“A virgin margarita … ”

“Diet Coke, please.”

Ken is in a serious mood, wasting no time in getting down to business.

“Alright, Sean, who’s your friend and why do you want me to meet him?”

Sean smiles slyly.

“Brohan, allow me to introduce you to the future Mrs. Davison…”

“That’s the current Mrs. Davison, thank you very much,” Kyra says to Sean as she walks up behind her husband, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him on the cheek. “You were there, asshole.”

“What? Why?” Ken asks, legitimately confused.

“Because you haven’t relaxed since that attack. We worry about you, man.”

“You think I don’t see you tossing and turning at night? That’s my gimmick.”

“I’m fine and I’m dealing with it. I’m just scared of the fact that I blacked out. You heard the doctor, the dude didn’t even hit me. So why would I lose it like that? What if I do that against Mac? I’m not okay with that thought.”

“You’ve been through some shit, hun.  Of course you lost it.  But anyone with a brain sees the difference in some motherfucker coming at you in a bathroom and the man you call a brother.  There's no way you'd do anything like that to Mac.”

“She’s right, hombre. You need to just chill. Adrenaline took over.”

Maybe the two of them were right. Maybe Ken just needed to let it go. There’s still no explanation as to why Ken was automatically assuming the worst in people, such as the McLaughlin’s. There weren’t just evil thoughts. There were ‘What in the Stephen King?’ level evil thoughts. Something has to change.

1Everything about the set up is simple. “Godly” Ken Davison stands in front of a plain black backdrop wearing an orange sleeveless shirt.

“Sometimes, I enjoy a good crowd, as evidenced by the last time you saw me in front of the cameras. Sometimes, I like to let my environment speak for me. At his moment, I feel that the only appropriate thing to do is speak to the two of you, plainly and directly.”

“As one of the few men in this company that has a victory over over myself and Goth, I'm certain that Ben Jordan is feeling pretty good about himself. And that's one of the things that I really enjoy about Ben Jordan. Ben, I love your confidence. You're always telling yourself how you're a great wrestler, how you're talented, how you're gonna win... You're also a pathological liar.”

Davison takes a moment to smile, pleased at his verbal jab at the Cockney King.

“I know I usually come in here and talk up my opponents. Under normal circumstances, that is exactly what I would do. The higher your standing is in the eyes of the fans, in the eyes of the office, the better it makes me look when we beat you. However, we all know that with the size of your collective egos that won't be necessary. Because I am certain, infallibly certain, that you both will talk yourselves up and try, and try is the operative word here, to cut us down. However, you will not succeed. Look at what we've done collectively the past three months. In the last three months the only match I've lost is against the man standing next to me. In that time, that very, same man has captured the Internet Championship.”

“ We don't need to coast on our reputations reputations when our resumes speak for themselves. We don't need to walk into a company for a warm up match. We only need to show up to show up and put you down.”

Davison stops for a moment, shaking his finger at the camera knowingly.

“ Chronic Chris Page, I know what kind of chronic you think you are. But the fact of the matter is you're chronic like a disease, not Colorado's finest.  One of the first things that I saw was that you weren't seeming to be yourself lately. It's a noticeable improvement.  My biggest problem with you is that you're walking in here like you matter.. You're coming in here to try to use the Saviors, men that stand beside your friend Mac Bane each and every Kendamned week, and make an example of us? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I just don't understand your motivation here. In this business, it's so hard when you have to fight your friends, which is why this should be
easy.”

“You see, some of us don’t have to force our reputations to get the main event. But, you, Page, you walk in here thinking your the greatest thing since sliced bread. Do you know what makes you the number one fan favorite of all the time? Neither do I.”

Davison looks at the camera confidently.

“But enough of the witty rapparte. We all know who Ben Jordan is as a person. But for CCP to walk in here, to see him given this reverence against the two best men in this company is a slap in the face. Make him earn his place in the main event. Let him face people like Milo Kasey. Let's see him square off against Romano. Shit, let him have an opportunity sharing anyone else here, anyone who has spilled their blood, sweat and tears in the Sin City ring. Let him do what I did and his his place here? Not a damned thing.”

“So, let's see if the two of you can get along. Let's see if Chris Page deserves the place his reputation has given him. I have shown that I deserve every opportunity through hard work. Sunday, I'm walking into the stadium,  matching to the ring, and sending Page and Jordan back to the end of the line where they return.”

Ken crosses his throat with his finger, telling the crew to cut the feed.