Post by Andrew Jacobsen on Jan 26, 2013 2:30:19 GMT -6
Open on the interior of a dive bar, with Andrew Jacobsen sitting at the far end of the bar. A bottle of Heineken is in his hand, and it appears he hasn’t shaved in a week given the growth of stubble on his face. As he drains the green bottle, he motions for another one. The bartender walks over, shaking his head as he hands him another bottle.
”You look like crap, buddy.”
He shoots the bartender a dirty look, muttering under his breath as he takes one more swig of the now-empty beer.
”I know. Just give me the damn beer.”
The bartender shakes his head, handing him the beer, and Andrew takes a drink of it. He shakes his head, looking up at the TV and idly losing himself in the rambling Harbaugh brother discussion on ESPN. Andrew mutters to himself, drinking sporadically throughout.
”Dammit, what am I doing wrong…I’m just concerned for them, that’s all I’m saying…I want them to be safe, I want them to be healthy, I want them to be happy, and Ace is trouble…I’m not that friggin’ paranoid, and even if I’m being a little paranoid it’s proper. This is wrestling, for eff’s sake. Nothing is sacred…oh, ***damnit, quit rambling about the Super Bowl, nobody caaaares…”
As soon as the bottle is in his hand, he looks down and sees that it’s empty again. He signals for another one, reaching into his pockets and rifling through them for cash. As he goes to put the money on the bar, the bartender hands him the bottle and puts his hand up. Andrew blinks blankly at that, and the bartender jerks his thumb down to the end of the bar.
”Compliments of the lady.”
A confused but grinning Andrew looks down to the end of the bar, but there’s nobody there. The bartender scratches his head, walking over, and picks up something from the other end of the bar. He calls down to Andrew.
”Hey Jacobsen! She left something for you!”
He walks back down, handing him a blank business card. On the front is written “ANDREW — MEET ME AT EVERGREEN SUITES, SUITE 312 — D.” Andrew pauses, looking to the bartender, and shakes his head.
”This one’s going to have to go untouched. Have it for yourself. I’ve got something to take care of…”
Andrew stands up, leaving money on the bar to cover his tab as he walks off, a dark and determined look on his face.
”Curtis. What an unpleasant surprise. I thought they would have given me at least a week before going back to the Altar of the Whackjobs. Nevertheless, here we are. On the one side, we have Curtis D. Kanyon, the Prophet of Thor and nuttier than a can of Planters. On the other, you have the National Champion, Andrew Jacobsen. It’s almost inarguably a main-event caliber matchup in any arena. We’ve got a lot in common, Curtis. We’re both former World Champions. We both seem to not be treated with a tremendous amount of respect. And we’ve both resorted to dramatic life changes to try and buoy our careers.”
“Don’t look at me like that, Curtis. You know as well as I do that at least half the reason you turned to Thor was to try and put some wind in your sails. I’ve seen more pathetic stunts, I’ll admit. You’ve gone whole hog on this. And who knows? Maybe you did find faith. Maybe I’m grossly misrepresenting a legitimate spiritual rebirth, and I’ll be proven to be an intolerant ass when the God of Thunder himself smites me with a blow of Mjolnir. Or, more likely, you’ll probably get suicidally overconfident and I’ll be able to capitalize.”
“We’re examples of two extremes in wrestling. You’re raw, unfocused power. You’re, well…you’re a bull in a china shop, frankly. That makes me the matador. And I don’t intend to get gored by you, Curtis. I know you want this title. I understand. But I’m damn proud to be the National Champion. I intend to carry this title with the honor and respect it deserves, and represent this company as a fighting champion. You want this fight? You got it, pal. Be ready to have Hell itself come crashing down upon your head.”
“Curtis, you’re in the unenviable position of being the man in the ring opposite me in a week where I have a lot of residual frustration to work out. Between the slow descent of my best friend into infatuation with a snake, my sister’s growing obsession with the same, and me somehow alienating them with everything I say and do, I’m feeling the urge to just mutilate you. But this is a wrestling match, not an unregulated pit fight, and you’re not just some paper bull. You’re Curtis freakin’ Kanyon. The Real F’n Deal. One-half of the second-greatest tag team in NCW history. You won’t be a pushover. But make no mistake, Kanyon…I’m going to break you.”
“And a little message for you, Jake. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave them alone. No favors, no special attention. Prove your words with your deeds. I’m so sorry that I can’t take you at face value, but you’ve made a career out of ulterior motives. Despite all you’re saying, all the protestations about being innocent…I’m calling your bluff. Prove me wrong. I dare you.”
We open on a dark office at night, looking at the back of a chair, in which is seated a figure shrouded in shadow. The door opens, and Andrew walks in, glancing around at his surroundings and flashing a small grin.
”Bit theatrical. But then, I expect you chose this for a reason. Still can’t bear to look me in the eye? I would have thought you’d get over things a long time ago. I have.”
The figure replies, zero humor in her voice as she sternly addresses him.
”I didn’t call you here to reopen old wounds. Our relationship was most successful when maintained as a strictly business one, and that’s what I intend it to be. Look on the desk.”
He glances down, seeing several manila folders laid out across the table. Each has a name printed onto the tab: KANYON, CURTIS. DANIELS, CYRUS. KINGSLEY, STEPHEN. “CAPTAIN HOWDY.” CONWAY, JACOB. DANIELSON, EMMA. His eyebrow goes up at these, particularly the last one. Andrew picks up the one for Kanyon, flipping it open. He opens his mouth to comment, but the figure cuts him off again.
”Do sit down. Make yourself comfortable. I know you’re good at that.”
He shoots the back of the chair an annoyed glare, sitting down and reading through the file. Andrew offhandedly comments as he inspects its contents.
”Not that the effort isn’t appreciated, but I know all of these people. I fail to see how a briefing is going to give me any new insight into any of them, least of all Emma. You know our history. Is there really something I’m overlooking?”
The abruptness of the reply comes as a slight shock to Andrew, whose eyes widen briefly, but otherwise he remains neutral.
”Clearly. You’re not infallible and we both know it, Jacobsen. Pushing those around you away isn’t going to stop whatever problems you have, but it will cost you valuable focus in the line of duty. That’s my sole concern. You’re losing steps you shouldn’t be.”
He cocks an eyebrow, leaning forward onto the desk and addressing the back of the chair sternly.
”Tell me why I should care what you’re telling me if you won’t even look me in the eye while you do it.”
Again, a curt and sharp reply comes, and Andrew furrows his brow as she speaks to him, quickly and tersely.
”You’ll care because you can’t afford not to. You’ll care about what I say, read what I prepare for you, follow the instructions that I give you, because you’re fighting a war on too many fronts with too few soldiers. You’re not prepared for the tempest you’re unleashing upon yourself, and you’re missing all the warning signs. Now I want you to read through those files carefully. I pulled all information I could on those three. And no, you can’t afford to ignore Danielson. She’s debatably more of a threat than the others, because you take her for granted so thoroughly. That’s complacency you can’t afford and I certainly can’t afford.”
Andrew sits back, shaking his head as he looks through the remainder of the file on Kanyon. He comments idly as he reads through the listing of the matches they’ve both taken part in.
”You know, if you wanted to speak with me that desperately, you could have just called.”
The figure spins around in the chair, face still shrouded, and slams her hands on the table, frustration evident in her voice as she snaps at Andrew, who remains unmoved.
”Dammit, is anything serious to you? You’re truly bizarre, Jacobsen. One moment you’re as dour and grim as anyone in this miserable business and the next you’re cracking one-liners as if you hadn’t a care in the world. Frankly, I’m of a mind to just walk away and let you sleep in your own bed of nails. It’s only knowing that it’s ignorance and not malice that brought me back. You mean well, Andrew. But if you keep doing what you’re doing, it’s going to lead you down a road neither of us want you going down again. Now, you know what the Church of Thor will do. You need to have a gameplan to counteract it.”
Andrew nods, tapping his temple as he stands. He gathers the rest of the folders in one hand, pausing before picking up Emma’s, and looks at the figure again.
”Don’t worry. I have a plan. And, just for the sake of formality…the next time we meet, I pick the meeting place.”
For the first time, a wry sense of humor pervades the figure’s voice as she responds, putting a hand on her hip.
”Not happening. Good luck, Andrew. You’ll need it.”
He nods, turning and walking back out the door. The figure drops back into the chair, sighing and rubbing her temples with a hand as we fade to black.
”You look like crap, buddy.”
He shoots the bartender a dirty look, muttering under his breath as he takes one more swig of the now-empty beer.
”I know. Just give me the damn beer.”
The bartender shakes his head, handing him the beer, and Andrew takes a drink of it. He shakes his head, looking up at the TV and idly losing himself in the rambling Harbaugh brother discussion on ESPN. Andrew mutters to himself, drinking sporadically throughout.
”Dammit, what am I doing wrong…I’m just concerned for them, that’s all I’m saying…I want them to be safe, I want them to be healthy, I want them to be happy, and Ace is trouble…I’m not that friggin’ paranoid, and even if I’m being a little paranoid it’s proper. This is wrestling, for eff’s sake. Nothing is sacred…oh, ***damnit, quit rambling about the Super Bowl, nobody caaaares…”
As soon as the bottle is in his hand, he looks down and sees that it’s empty again. He signals for another one, reaching into his pockets and rifling through them for cash. As he goes to put the money on the bar, the bartender hands him the bottle and puts his hand up. Andrew blinks blankly at that, and the bartender jerks his thumb down to the end of the bar.
”Compliments of the lady.”
A confused but grinning Andrew looks down to the end of the bar, but there’s nobody there. The bartender scratches his head, walking over, and picks up something from the other end of the bar. He calls down to Andrew.
”Hey Jacobsen! She left something for you!”
He walks back down, handing him a blank business card. On the front is written “ANDREW — MEET ME AT EVERGREEN SUITES, SUITE 312 — D.” Andrew pauses, looking to the bartender, and shakes his head.
”This one’s going to have to go untouched. Have it for yourself. I’ve got something to take care of…”
Andrew stands up, leaving money on the bar to cover his tab as he walks off, a dark and determined look on his face.
”Curtis. What an unpleasant surprise. I thought they would have given me at least a week before going back to the Altar of the Whackjobs. Nevertheless, here we are. On the one side, we have Curtis D. Kanyon, the Prophet of Thor and nuttier than a can of Planters. On the other, you have the National Champion, Andrew Jacobsen. It’s almost inarguably a main-event caliber matchup in any arena. We’ve got a lot in common, Curtis. We’re both former World Champions. We both seem to not be treated with a tremendous amount of respect. And we’ve both resorted to dramatic life changes to try and buoy our careers.”
“Don’t look at me like that, Curtis. You know as well as I do that at least half the reason you turned to Thor was to try and put some wind in your sails. I’ve seen more pathetic stunts, I’ll admit. You’ve gone whole hog on this. And who knows? Maybe you did find faith. Maybe I’m grossly misrepresenting a legitimate spiritual rebirth, and I’ll be proven to be an intolerant ass when the God of Thunder himself smites me with a blow of Mjolnir. Or, more likely, you’ll probably get suicidally overconfident and I’ll be able to capitalize.”
“We’re examples of two extremes in wrestling. You’re raw, unfocused power. You’re, well…you’re a bull in a china shop, frankly. That makes me the matador. And I don’t intend to get gored by you, Curtis. I know you want this title. I understand. But I’m damn proud to be the National Champion. I intend to carry this title with the honor and respect it deserves, and represent this company as a fighting champion. You want this fight? You got it, pal. Be ready to have Hell itself come crashing down upon your head.”
“Curtis, you’re in the unenviable position of being the man in the ring opposite me in a week where I have a lot of residual frustration to work out. Between the slow descent of my best friend into infatuation with a snake, my sister’s growing obsession with the same, and me somehow alienating them with everything I say and do, I’m feeling the urge to just mutilate you. But this is a wrestling match, not an unregulated pit fight, and you’re not just some paper bull. You’re Curtis freakin’ Kanyon. The Real F’n Deal. One-half of the second-greatest tag team in NCW history. You won’t be a pushover. But make no mistake, Kanyon…I’m going to break you.”
“And a little message for you, Jake. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave them alone. No favors, no special attention. Prove your words with your deeds. I’m so sorry that I can’t take you at face value, but you’ve made a career out of ulterior motives. Despite all you’re saying, all the protestations about being innocent…I’m calling your bluff. Prove me wrong. I dare you.”
We open on a dark office at night, looking at the back of a chair, in which is seated a figure shrouded in shadow. The door opens, and Andrew walks in, glancing around at his surroundings and flashing a small grin.
”Bit theatrical. But then, I expect you chose this for a reason. Still can’t bear to look me in the eye? I would have thought you’d get over things a long time ago. I have.”
The figure replies, zero humor in her voice as she sternly addresses him.
”I didn’t call you here to reopen old wounds. Our relationship was most successful when maintained as a strictly business one, and that’s what I intend it to be. Look on the desk.”
He glances down, seeing several manila folders laid out across the table. Each has a name printed onto the tab: KANYON, CURTIS. DANIELS, CYRUS. KINGSLEY, STEPHEN. “CAPTAIN HOWDY.” CONWAY, JACOB. DANIELSON, EMMA. His eyebrow goes up at these, particularly the last one. Andrew picks up the one for Kanyon, flipping it open. He opens his mouth to comment, but the figure cuts him off again.
”Do sit down. Make yourself comfortable. I know you’re good at that.”
He shoots the back of the chair an annoyed glare, sitting down and reading through the file. Andrew offhandedly comments as he inspects its contents.
”Not that the effort isn’t appreciated, but I know all of these people. I fail to see how a briefing is going to give me any new insight into any of them, least of all Emma. You know our history. Is there really something I’m overlooking?”
The abruptness of the reply comes as a slight shock to Andrew, whose eyes widen briefly, but otherwise he remains neutral.
”Clearly. You’re not infallible and we both know it, Jacobsen. Pushing those around you away isn’t going to stop whatever problems you have, but it will cost you valuable focus in the line of duty. That’s my sole concern. You’re losing steps you shouldn’t be.”
He cocks an eyebrow, leaning forward onto the desk and addressing the back of the chair sternly.
”Tell me why I should care what you’re telling me if you won’t even look me in the eye while you do it.”
Again, a curt and sharp reply comes, and Andrew furrows his brow as she speaks to him, quickly and tersely.
”You’ll care because you can’t afford not to. You’ll care about what I say, read what I prepare for you, follow the instructions that I give you, because you’re fighting a war on too many fronts with too few soldiers. You’re not prepared for the tempest you’re unleashing upon yourself, and you’re missing all the warning signs. Now I want you to read through those files carefully. I pulled all information I could on those three. And no, you can’t afford to ignore Danielson. She’s debatably more of a threat than the others, because you take her for granted so thoroughly. That’s complacency you can’t afford and I certainly can’t afford.”
Andrew sits back, shaking his head as he looks through the remainder of the file on Kanyon. He comments idly as he reads through the listing of the matches they’ve both taken part in.
”You know, if you wanted to speak with me that desperately, you could have just called.”
The figure spins around in the chair, face still shrouded, and slams her hands on the table, frustration evident in her voice as she snaps at Andrew, who remains unmoved.
”Dammit, is anything serious to you? You’re truly bizarre, Jacobsen. One moment you’re as dour and grim as anyone in this miserable business and the next you’re cracking one-liners as if you hadn’t a care in the world. Frankly, I’m of a mind to just walk away and let you sleep in your own bed of nails. It’s only knowing that it’s ignorance and not malice that brought me back. You mean well, Andrew. But if you keep doing what you’re doing, it’s going to lead you down a road neither of us want you going down again. Now, you know what the Church of Thor will do. You need to have a gameplan to counteract it.”
Andrew nods, tapping his temple as he stands. He gathers the rest of the folders in one hand, pausing before picking up Emma’s, and looks at the figure again.
”Don’t worry. I have a plan. And, just for the sake of formality…the next time we meet, I pick the meeting place.”
For the first time, a wry sense of humor pervades the figure’s voice as she responds, putting a hand on her hip.
”Not happening. Good luck, Andrew. You’ll need it.”
He nods, turning and walking back out the door. The figure drops back into the chair, sighing and rubbing her temples with a hand as we fade to black.