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Tis the Season
#NP "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" by Frank Sinatra
Locale: All Around Ottawa, Ontario
The sound of Frank Sinatra's signature voice rings through the earbuds as Tim Staggs walks up and down the streets of downtown Ottawa as the cool winds blow through. He is bundled up tightly in a faux fur lined jacket and his signature black hooded jacket, with the hood pulled tightly over his ginger hair. He looks around at the storefront windows, and all of the holiday lights and displays within. For the first time in a long time, his eyes are lit up with joy. A warm smile spreads across his face. He sticks his hands in his pockets as he looks along the tops of the buildings, the multi colored bulbs gently flashing. It is clear that the spirit of the holidays has settled in with the rather Grinch-like SCW Superstar. He walks by a man in a santa suit, ringing a bell next to a bucket. He pulls out a few wadded up bills, and places them in the bucket without hesitation. The man hands him a candy cane as he billows out heartily.
Santa: Ho, ho, ho! Merrrrrrry Christmas young lady!
Tim pauses awkwardly for a moment before he decides to let it go, walking off without acknowledgment. He twirls the candy cane around in his bare hand as the wind flicks icy air at it. He slowly unwraps the long end of the candy cane and places it between his lips before replacing his hand in his pocket. He turns the corner as something catches his eye. A small corner store with a sign that reads "Decorations Available Within!" He stops and turns into the store, pulling the door open as the bells jingle. He steps inside of what is clearly a mom and pop convenience store. He picks up a hand basket as an older woman gently greets him. He smirks and nods back at her as he walks along the first aisle. Ahead of him is an aisle of decoration, but a rumble in his stomach causes him to notice the loaf of bread to his right. He picks it up and places it in his basket as he walks along, spotting a small, cheap can of soup. Behind him in the cooler, he spots a package of luncheon meat, and he places it in the basket. Now, on to what drew his attention in the first place; Christmas decorations.
He walks past the center lane and on to the lights display. Immediately, he is hit in the face with nodes of pine, cinnamon, peppermint, and ginger. A redness enters his cheeks as he finally begins to warm up. He lifts his hood back, revealing a slight mess of red hair. He inspects the rows of cheap dollar trinkets of santa, gingerbread men, and baby Jesus. His eyes wander over to a small prelit tree, one that makes Charlie Brown's tree look bountiful and beautiful. He places it in his basket with a small garland wrap. He looks at the rest of the decorations before turning and walking toward the register. In a show of respect, he pulls one earbud out as he approaches the register. The young man at the register is donning elf ears and a matching hat over his stylish sandy blonde hair. His pierced lip gives him an alternative sort of feel, along with his black framed glasses. Tim places the basket on the counter as he begins removing his items. The man smiles as he begins ringing up the items.
Man: I never thought anyone would buy that ugly tree...
He chuckles, but Tim keeps a straight face, in a way, almost seeming offended by the comment. He looks down to read the name tag in front of him, that reads "Dominic". The woman who had greeted him smacks him upside the head as she passes buy with boxes of cigarettes. He looks back at her and rolls his eyes before returning to the task at hand.
Tim: I have a penchant for collecting things nobody wants. It's sort of my deal.
This brings an intrigued smile to the man's face as he picks up the garland, ringing it into the register, with pieces of tinsel falling out of the pathetic strand.
Dominic: It would seem so... Your accent? You're not from around here.
Tim: Nope. I'm a cornfed, midwest American. Unremarkable in every way.
Dominic: What brings you to the Great White North?
Tim shrugs his shoulders. This guy wouldn't believe him if he told him, so he diverts his eyes so not to give away any possibility that he's lying, or hiding the truth in a simply vague answer.
Tim: Business.
Dominic: You don't look like the business type, but we see all kinds around here. It's why I moved to Ottawa. And trust me, you don't look anything like your profile.
Tim raises an eyebrow as he looks back to the grinning man who continues to ring up the products on the counter. However, their conversation, and the dead nature of the business this close to closing time gives him no need to hurry the transaction.
Dominic: I meant... you don't look unremarkable at all. Sorry, that was my attempt at being a smart ass.
Tim: Pretty fucking poor, if you ask me.
Tim gives an instant laugh that lets him know he's joking. The man joins in as he leans over the counter to get a closer look at Tim. The closeness makes Tim a bit uncomfortable as he takes a step back, pretending to look at the overpriced candy in front of the register.
Dominic: Ottawa might seem boring to someone like you, but there's actually a lot of trouble to be had around here. I'm off in half an hour if you want a tour?
Tim doesn't know how to respond to this as he reaches back, rubbing the back of his head uncomfortably. He tries to come up with an excuse that lets this guy down easily, but the rather perceptive man snorts as if scoffing at this silent assertion.
Dominic: Not like that, man. I'm not coming on to you, I just...
Tim: I didn't say you were, but...
Dominic: But you were thinking it. I guess being nice is a crime in America.
Tim: Okay.
Tim says this abruptly, cutting the man off from continuing his rant. Tim smiles politely as he reaches his fist out for a bump. The man seems a little shocked as his mood reverts to the cheerful one he was previously in. He bumps fists with Tim before turning toward the register.
Dominic: Twenty-three sixty-seven is your total.
Tim: And I'm staying at the Ottawa Jail Hostel. I have to drop this stuff off first.
Tim goes to pull his wallet out as the woman comes walking by, whispering something to the younger man. He nods his head and looks back to Tim as he steps out of the way of the register for the woman to take over.
Dominic: I have to go lock the delivery door, but I'll meet you outside of the hostel in about an hour?
Tim: Sounds... good...
The man disappears as Tim opens his wallet. He pulls out a few Canadian bills, counting them to find he only has twelve dollars, and no jingles in his pockets whatsoever. The woman is not as gentle as she was when she greeted him as she sighs and looks at the crisp, clear bills.
Woman: What am I taking off then?
She aggravatedly pulls out a slip of paper from a drawer under the register and clicks a pen as her blue eyes lock onto his. He bites at his bottom lip as he studies the items on the counter. The woman rolls her eyes as she picks the tree up and starts to set it to the side. Tim holds his hand up desperately.
Tim: Wait?
The woman looks relieved, as if Tim were able to pull money out of thin air. He looks down at the items once more, and he pushes the food out of the way. He nods to her as she sighs, and begins voiding items off. She picks the money up, feeling a bit bad about her attitude, though she doesnt verbalize it. She places the items back in the basket as she looks at Tim.
Woman: The tree and garland will be eight seventy-four.
Tim places the bills in her hand, and she quickly gathers his change and hands it back to him. He places it in his pocket as he snatches up his tree and garland. Before she can even ask if he wants a bag, he is at the door, pushing it open as the bells jingle above his head. He disappears into the cold night, on the way back toward the hostel, just a few miles away. The hunger threatening to tear at his stomach makes him question whether he made the right call or not. He doesn't give in and clutch his stomach as he fights the cold to get back to the hostel. He makes it to the front steps and walks under the white arch held up by columns. He walks through the hallways, and to the second floor where he pulls a key from his pocket and opens up what looks like a jail cell... because it once was. The room is furnished with a lumpy mattress for two, a bedside table with a single desk lamp, as well as a desk, and a picture of the Ottawa skyline. He places the tree down on the desk, and fumbles with the cord for the lights before plugging them in to outlet behind the desk. He looks at the flickering white lights for a moment, and the hungry feeling in his stomach seems to fade away a bit in his mind. He gently unwraps the garland and begins stringing it up until it covers the tree adequately. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a small red box, opening it to show off a baby blue rocking horse with a brown teddy bear riding it, and a red ribbon tied around the top. In faded white lettering, it reads "Tim's First Christmas" and 1998 below it. He places it on the strongest branch he can see before taking a step back to admire it.
Still not enough, Tim looks around the room. He grabs a white towel from the edge of the bed, and he wraps it around the bottom. He reaches into his bag, fumbling through until he finds a red t-shirt. He looks at it for a second, and he tears at a small hole around the bottom. He rips it as evenly as possible until he reaches the seam, where it all tears apart to make a long red strip. He fashions it at his best until it looks somewhat like a decent red bow. He hands it up at the top of the tree, and now it meets his approval for his means. A warm hearted smile comes over his face as he reaches into the bag one last time to pull out a small box wrapped in silver paper with blue snowflake print on it. Delicate in nature, and dainty in size, it contains something very special and meaningful to him. He sets it down under the tree as the lights flicker above it, reflecting off of its surface. He closes his eyes for a moment before placing the loose earbud back into his ear, replaying the classic Christmas tune as he watches the tree. He picks up his bag and a used towel as he walks toward the door, looking back at the tree, and the gift underneath it. He exits the room to get ready for a night on the town. Before we fade out, curiosity gets the better of us as we turn to get a close up on the gift. The tag reads "To: Alexis, From: Tim, with love..."
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Some Holiday Beer, er Cheer!
#NP "Merry Christmas (I Don't Wanna Fight Tonight)" by The Ramones
Locale: Heart and Crown; Ottawa, Ontario, Canada
Laughter rings through the somewhat desolate streets at the wee hours of the night. We pan around to find Tim Staggs and his new buddy walking down the street, approaching the Heart and Crown bar, each with a bottle in their hand as they joke around as young, immature drunks do. They stumble upon the Irish pub, close to last call, and they decide to go inside. The man, affectionately known as Dominic turns to Tim as they enter, and their voices are almost drown out by the upbeat Celtic music, as well as the tame fight between two drunkards at the other end of the bar.
Dominic: The Irish pubs never card you, and the drink prices are dirt cheap... Just follow my lead.
Dominic walks up to the bar and leans in, saying something to the barmaid. She nods and pulls out three shot glasses, slamming them down on the bar top, followed by a clear bottle of Irish whiskey. She quickly pours the three shots, sliding one to Dominic and one to Tim. She keeps one for herself, and slams it with Tim and Dominic. Dominic hands her a few bills and then mutters something else to her.
Dominic: Ordering the house special makes them think you're a regular, and buying a shot for the barmaid erases any extra questions she may have. Concrete plan.
Tim: Maybe not concrete...
Tim holds up the next shot that is sent down his way. He smirks in a manner that lets us know that he is wasted. He clinks glasses with Dominic, each spilling a couple of drops before they send the drinks down the hatch. They simultaneously slam the shot glasses down on the counter as the barmaid quickly refills them, this time, leaving the bottle sit on the counter for the two young men. Tim wastes no time in downing his drink, and pouring another one.
Tim: Are you shhh.. *hiccup* sure you don't mind buying?
Dominic: Nah, it's the least I can do since my mom made you put back your food at the shop. She's paying for tonight, I promise you.
Tim shrugs his shoulders as Dominic takes another drink. He pours himself another shot as the two begin to sink in their chairs a bit, getting to the point of being sloppy. The celtic music playing in the pub is almost too elevated for their mood as Tim pours half of the remaining bottle into his glass, then the rest into Dominic's. He leans forward, his eyes almost swimming in his head as he grins, letting out a goofy giggle.
Dominic: I could go all night here.
Tim: Then why don't we? Can you jig?
Dominic: That seems kinda derogatory, brother.
Tim rolls his sleeve up, showing off what appears to be two family crests, broken, but fit together perfectly. On one side, the tattoo is very German in nature, a deer's head and eagle seen lightly against a black, red, and gold shield. The other side is green, white, and orange, with a celtic knot tied around a four leaf clover. Tim forcefully points to the left side, giggling again.
Tim: Not when you're mostly Irish yourself.
A hoarse chuckle is heard from behind Tim, which causes him to turn around slowly to stare at the burly brunette with green eyes, wearing a black derby hat, loose black over shirt, and a white muscle shirt. His worker boots and faded jeans give the impression that he's not exactly in the working class, yet all ten white gold rings give off the impression that he's not hurting for money either. Tim's eyes flutter a bit before he looks the man up and down, blowing hot air to make his lips flap.
Man: Mostly Irish, me pearly white arse. Don't insult the Irish like that, bowsie. Now turn back to yer fella...
A roar comes over the pub as Tim looks around, taking a minute to catch what he was referring to. Tim rolls his eyes, before placing his hand on the bar to lift himself up.
Man: I wouldn't do that. Yer pretty fecking locked, snapper.
Tim: I could only look more Irish if I was Lucky the Leprechaun. You? You're diluted. I don't know what half the shit you just said was, but you can't say "us" when you look more a mutt than an Irishman.
The man laughs, pointing to Tim, as if he were admiring the spunk. Tim nods his head as he looks back to Dominic, who closes one eye, squinting the other one. Tim goes to question it, but as he turns around, he receives a right cross that makes him loopy. He stumbles on to Dominic. However, he surprises his friend, and the entire bar by cracking him back with a left handed uppercut, followed by a right hook that sends the man face first into the bar. Tim howls out as he looks around at the rather silent bar. Dominic respond with a hearty laugh as he points at the man, joining Tim in his celebration. However, it is short lived as he tries to pull Tim toward the door.
Dominic: Come on, Timbo. This doesn't look like the place you'd want to stick around after something like that.
Tim: I'm a motherfuckin' wrest*hiccup*ler and I'll take on anyone who has a problem with what I just said. Anybody? Hmm? Anyone at all?
Tim cracks his jaw back in to place as if it was nothing. He drops his jacket and takes his shirt off, showing off his rather ripped physique, surprising many people who were tempted to take him up on his offer, making them back up again.
Tim: That's what I thought. Now quit gawking so we can go back to having a good time in this establishment for the... twenty minutes we've got left.
Dominic: Tim! Look out!
He goes to pull Tim out of the way, as the man is up behind him, a switchblade in his hand as he rushes up behind Tim. The man shoves Dominic to the ground and then grabs onto the collar of Tim's shirt, holding the blade against his throat. Tim is feeling fearless in this state of mind as he simply laughs. The man doesn't have a chance to do much more as a hand reaches around with a bottle and smacks him upside the head, shattering it. Tim looks over to his left to see Connor Murphy standing there with a broken bottle in his hand and Tessa staring with a bit of a smirk on her face.
Tessa: Good 'un Con.
Tim rolls his eyes, smirking as he helps Dominic to his feet, patting Connor on the shoulder.
Tim: Thanks, Connor, but I didn't need your help. I would have kicked his bitch ass all around this bar if I had to.
Connor: Like feck you would have! He had a blade to your throat, me boyo.
Tim: I had it under control!
Tim snaps his fingers at the barmaid for another drink, but Connor runs his fingers swiftly across his throat, signalling that she'd better not. He looks over to Dominic.
Connor: Up the yard, sonny. Timbo and I need to have us a little chat here.
Tim: Yeah, yeah... teenage drinking is really bad. Pot. Kettle. Black. Thanks for the after school special, brother.
Tim tries to get another drink, but the barmaid refuses, stepping away toward another patron. Dominic looks to Tim, and then to Connor, and back to Tim.
Dominic: I'm going to run. Text me sometime before you leave.
Connor: He won't. Run along home to ma.
Tim: No, stay. We're all here for a good time, right? That's all we ever wanna do around here, right? Have drinks with our friends so we have things to brag about on Twitter while we're popping hangover pills? Cause trouble so that people pay attention to us, even just a little bit? We're living the fucking dream, Connor, and you know just as well as I do that we go back to being irrelevant and invisible as soon as the bottles stop pouring. But until then, we're kings. We're gods. So hit me with another, lovely.
Dominic feels moved by this, but one rotten glare from Connor sends him packing quickly. Tim exhales loudly as he prepares to sit back down. Connor looks to Tessa, and they both grab one of his arms, dragging him toward the exit, still shirtless. He doesn't feel the cold air hitting his body, as he still feels invincible. Tessa drapes his coat around his body, pulling it together to zip it up, all while leaning in to whisper.
Tessa: I didn't say this, but that was proper class, mate.
She smiles, but doesn't let Connor see it as she steps back to the side, giving the two men their space. Connor tries to check his anger now that they are outside of the bar, and clearer heads can prevail. He grabs onto Tim's shoulders and gives him a firm shake.
Connor: What the hell is going on with you lately? This isn't the kid who gave me a mask, and a bit of hope for a future. I don't recognize this kid.
Tim: Are you afraid I'm going to mess up our title shot? Believe me, it was a lot easier than it looked to take down Landon Axel. If you really want those worthless pieces of tinas some form of pathetic validation, then *belch* it won't be that hard...
Connor takes a hand and slaps it across Tim's face. Not just once, but a second time to make sure that Tim's drunk ass understands exactly what he's about to say. He stares into Tim's nearly vacant eyes, but he sees so much more than the outward hostility written on his face.
Connor: I'm not cracking shits over those belts, Timmy boy. I said it before, and I'll say it again. Those belts are meaningless to me. They are some sort of weak consolation prize. I care about you. You. Vix cracked me good for letting you figure things out on your own, and...
Tim: No offense, but you, and Vixen, need to mind your own fucking business.
Tim shoves Connor away with a roar that catches Tessa's attention. She starts to walk over when Connor holds a hand out, letting her know that it's okay. Tim is wobbling on his feet now as he turns to walk away. Connor spins him back around and stares him right in the eyes once more, refusing to let him walk off without hearing him out.
Connor: I did that for months on end, boyo, and you still continue to make... the wrong choices. Not just the wrong choices, but the worst possible ones. What you do, affects me too. When you unmasked Johnny before me, and now he's off acting like he's a Somebody when he's done shit all. I'm still here, fighting the fight with you. If you won't tell me what's going on in that thick skull of yours, that's fine. But don't go off getting stabbed by some fucking idiot in a crappy bar, and costing me a little brother. Not a teammate, not a friend, but a brother.
Tim has his guard up, but he can't help letting a few tears fall down his cheek. He refuses to acknowledge them, but Connor does as he takes a step back. There is no break in Tim's hard expression, or in his voice as he responds.
Tim: I'm fine. I'm just having a little fun, is all. I kind of need it right now.
Connor: Have your fun, but don't leave your head at home. You're a smart kid, so stop making such stupid decisions.
Tim holds his hand out to Connor, something he doesn't ever do to just anybody. Connor accepts it without hesitation, but pulls Tim in for a hug. Tim finally lets go of his control as he begins sobbing into his friend's shoulder. Tessa comes over and wraps an arm around him as well as they start walking down the street. Tim continues to sob as they walk, talking incoherently.
Connor: Let's go get your stuff. I think I know a place you can go for a while if you need it. Somewhere you won't be alone.
Tim slowly nods his head as they continue down the street, disappearing into the cold night air.
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Voice of the Voiceless
#NP "The Fighter" by In This Moment
Locale: Blogspot; Internet
Look mom, no hands!
Are you proud of me? I've got the biggest opportunity of my life ahead of me right now. You are reading the ramblings of one half of the future Tag Team Champions, Tim Staggs. Yes, I went out and created a blogspot, because I didn't feel like giving Guns For Hire the effort of putting out a real shoot. They aren't worth wasting a single breath on, and even though I am a wrestling purist at heart, this will have to do.
Where are you guys? Landon? You there? Hellllloooooo? We haven't heard from you in weeks. For that matter, we haven't heard from your tag team partner either. I hear that running a bar around Christmas is one of the most hectic and lucrative times of year. Maybe he's gotten held up with that. Or, maybe he's lost in his stash. You were always the one who had your shit together, so it was really surprising to have not heard at least a small piece from you last week. Has your mentor led you down the same path? Or, is the automotive repair business just booming right now? All of that snow and wintery weather you get in Texas must be hell on an engine.
Wake up, Guns For Hire... WAKE... UP!
I tell you what, if I were Drake Green, I'd be filing a complaint with the Better Business Bureau right now, or demanding my money back, because that's an even worse investment than hiring Casey Williams to be your bodyguard. Now, I will give him credit, because on paper, you both look like a worthwhile investment. You defeated The Monstimals. I would go on to say that you won a four team battle, but those teams would only hurt your case, and I don't want to weaken you too badly. When Connor and I walk into December 2 Dismember III, and effortlessly take your titles off of you, I want to at least kind of feel like we earned them.
As I said last week, we don't want these belts. They are a consolation prize, meant to bribe us into being quiet. The powers that be want us to stop pointing out the obvious flaws in the system, so they are throwing the single most dispensable belts at us. The belts that literally only one person cares about, Simon Jones. These belts have been practically meaningless since their inception. I can count on one hand, the actual teams that have held those belts. For the most part, it has been a Lethal Lottery Wonderland. My uncle Jamie and Rage. Raging Dicks as they were affectionately known off the record... were the inaugural champions, because even back then, nobody gave a shit about the belts. Sean Williams and Wyatt Peterson, Ace Baldwin and Kevin Carter, Brother Grimm and Goth, J2H and Giani Di Luca, Despayre and his replacable compadres... I mean, the list goes on and on... and on. No one cares, and that is why it is insulting to Connor and I that you want to pin these belts on us, essentially holding us down, because one cannot chase more than one title at a time. If we were fucking idiots, then maybe we wouldn't see what you guys were doing, but we do. Eyes are wide open motherfuckers...
My point is that, you have two people who openly don't give a damn about the titles, and two people who only care about the titles because they are leather straps with gold plates that say their names. Yet, they don't care enough to do their promo work. Losing this match will be difficult, because who wants to lose to a pair of lazy losers who really only have these belts because Drake Green paid them to keep Monstimals away from them? I'd rather be weighed down by ten pounds of leather and gold with a tacky nameplate than carry around the knowledge that I was beat by Landon Axel and Ethan Brody. I can only imagine that Connor feels the same way.
This match is not about titles. Hell, Connor and I might throw the belts in the trash on the way out of the building. This match is about pride. It's about making a fucking point. We are the Nobodies, but that doesn't mean that we are going to stay that way forever. One day, we are going to be Somebodies. Even if it is not next week, when we defeat Guns For Hire and bring home two more championships to The Nobodies. Even if it is not next month when we defend the titles for the first time. Even if it's not six months or a year from now. The eyes of Sin City Wrestling will be open, and people will see that we aren't so crazy after all. When one of us is holding a title that actually matters, you will be forced to hear us. But, until then, I guess those belts sitting around Landon's and Ethan's waists will have to do...
December 2 Dismember is just eight days away, boys. Get ready to tap... again...
