  _____________________
N$V: DRYDEN The last time I left you, I was having a little pow-wow with Deckett about the source of our discontent, or at least, my discontent. So far our little vendetta mission had resulted in me getting tricked by a mass murderer, Cyril Acheston, into killing an innocent man because I thought the guy had something to do with the murder of Olivia Dryden, a young girl who grew up in my legal custody. I know it gets hard to follow sometimes. I know that this shit may seem almost like a soap opera. But it’s my life. Look around, it seems everyone in F1X has crazy shit going on around them. It’s not because we’re any different than you people, sitting at home and watching our lives play out in the newspapers, in police reports, on television and posted in gossip blogs. It seems that when you’re in the spotlight like most of us are, that our lives seem to be made up of insane day after insane day. I don’t care if you believe anything I say, I know it’s the God’s honest truth. I don’t care what you think about the things I’ve done, the things I’m telling you about. I’m not trying to gain some sort of respect from you. I’m not trying to acquire your forgiveness for the things I’ve done. I’m trying to find my own penance. Back to the tale. “I see,” I say, turning towards the door. “Seth?” says Jack. My hand’s on the doorknob when he says, “Take care of him.” "And until I can get my hands on Gamble, Acheston or the Antolinni's?" I ask, my back turned to Deckett. "Keep up appearances," Jack says. "Just like always. Don't let anyone know what's going on. Put on for the world, Seth. Play your part perfectly." “Fine.” I walk out of Deckett’s office, stumped for the next step I should be taking. I hate this feeling of not having a plan. It almost feels like I’ll never make any headway in righting all these wrongs I’ve endured if there’s nothing set. I’m starting to wonder if Deckett’s just playing me like Cyril was. The only problem with that theory is I can’t come up with a single goddamn reason why he would be withholding information on the Antolinni’s on purpose. In truth, he’s probably still busy cleaning up my mess with Leonard Fritz. I admit, the idea of that guy dead, his family lost without him, and all because of me has begun to eat away at me. The only solace I find in what happened with him is that I’ve promised myself something. Once this is all over and Olivia is resting in peace, I’ll track down the Fritz’s. And I’ll offer them the justice I was denied with Olivia. I make my way out to the street outside the precinct and look up, cold rain beginning to sprinkle on my face. Just as I’m relaxing for the first time in a long while, it seems, I give a great start, scared at the sound of my own phone vibrating. I dig it out of my pocket and realize it’s my own personal line, not the phone Jack gave me. “Who the fuck is texting me at two in the fuckin’ mornin’?” I mutter to myself. I open the phone and check my messages, finding one reading: “Yo. In
yer neck of woods. Bar on Seventh and 31st. Come chill. I snap the phone shut, light a cigarette and shrug. Hailing a cab, I tell the driver to take me to the bar Shane’s at. This hour of night, I’m surprised he found a place open in the city-- bar’s tend to have closed by now. Not only that, but I’m confused as to why he would be in New York. The street’s being as empty as they are at this hour, the ride doesn’t take long. Before I have time to consider my next plan of action, I find myself outside the bar, tipping the driver. The watering hole is in a small hidey-hole of a lot-- run down, no sign of any sort, the kind of place that people like Shane and I like to frequent when shit’s getting the best of us in our lives. I walk in, and the place is pretty dark. Shadows dance on grimy walls, given life by dull lamps on the few tables in the middle of the floor. There’s just a few patrons sitting on stools at the bar, drinking their sorrows away while some mournful tune plays from the jukebox in the corner. At the end of the bar I see Shane, several empty pitchers sitting in front of him. He nods as he sees me walk in, and I make my way to his end of the pub. I sit down beside him and pour myself a drink from his pitcher, saying, “The hell you doin’ in the city, man? I thought you were off to Alaska for the week.” “Yeah,” he said. “Didn’t really do me any good though. Still can’t figure out this whole deal with Dare. Figured I might pop in the city and see you. Before we head to the funeral.” "Where is it gonna be?" I ask. "Montana," Shane says. "Missoula." “Any idea of what he was into?” I ask. “Little bit,” Shane muses while taking a big gulp from his mug. “I’m starting to get little pieces of the puzzle. Not really having much luck. What about you, dude? I figured I’d find you here. Thought your little trips into the Big Apple wouldn’t become some sort of regular thing.” “Yeah, I didn’t intend on spending every free moment out here,” I say. “Been trying to figure shit out with Olivia’s thing, ya know?” “How’s that coming?” Shane asks. “About as well as your situation,” I say with a sad grin. “Got a lead though.” “Yeah?” Shane says. “Me too. Figure Till’s got something that may help me out.” “That big dopey motherfucker?” I ask. “What fuckin’ hole did he crawl out of?” Shane shrugs. “Fuck it, dude,” I say. “If you got a clue about Dare, let’s go track this motherfucker down and get some answers.” “Nah, dude,” Shane says. “I feel like this is something I should get done on my own, ya know? And besides-- if you’re making progress with your shit, I say keep at it. We need to put this stuff behind us.” I feel deflated, the idea of helping Shane had spurred something in me. If I had no idea of how to fix my problems, the prospect of helping him take care of his had given me a sense of purpose for a moment. But he was right. In any case, we were probably going to be doing some things we’d best not know, in case shit went the wrong way. We spend about an hour drinking and bullshitting. Talking about how the match at Aftershock’s gonna play out. We both halfheartedly talk about how we need to focus on that, while we both know we’d rather be taking care of shit in our real lives, away from any cameras. I end up leaving him there, slapping a hand on his back and telling him I’d catch up with him before heading back to Ohio for the show. Once outside, my personal cell phone buzzes once again, this time someone calling me. I feel tired, my muscles ache from tension and anticipation for the things I’m going to set out to do. I rub my eyes, answering the phone, ready to tell anyone on the other line to buzz the fuck off. “Whatever it is, I’m not interested,” I say into the phone. “Seth Dryden,” the voice on the other end says. “You got him, but you don’t want him right now,” I answer. “Really not in the mood to change my long distance plan or buy stock in the shit economy or whatever else it is you’re selling at this ungodly hour of the night.” “Well, I believe you might be interested in what I have for you,” says the voice with an audible smile. “Very interested.” “And what would that be, dipshit?” I say, getting angry. “The fuck you calling me for?” “I have information for you,” says the voice. “On someone named Rik Gamble.” What the fuck? “And what would that be exactly?” I say, beginning to pace up and down on the sidewalk outside of the bar. “Well, several things,” says the voice. “I know you’re interested in finding him. I know he’s been following you. And I know he’s going to be at a warehouse down at the docks off the Hudson River in about forty minutes.” I freeze for a moment, unable to say anything. Finding my voice hiding in my chest, I say, “Oh yeah? Well, Mr. Smart Guy, how do I know this isn’t a set up?” The voice on the other end laughs. “Let’s just say we have equal views on what Mr. Gamble’s fate should be. I just believe you’d have more fun taking care of him. If not, feel free to keep looking for him on your own, but trust me, you’re never going to get another opportunity like this. Goodbye, Mr. Dryden.” With that the line goes dead. I pace more, faster and faster, my blood boiling. This could obviously be some sort of set up just to get me in some isolated place. On the other hand, if this dude on the phone knew so much, he probably knew where I was right now and wouldn’t need to play around. He could just have already killed me. And even if that person was a part of the Antolinni’s and was getting me down there, that meant I could get a chance at them anyway. I debate it for a second, and then I hail a cab, telling the driver to drop me off a few blocks away from the docks. The hunt is on.
N$V: CLEMMENS
I
think I should count myself lucky, I really do. Mr. Pierce and his
Gentleman identity serve as the perfect contrast to No Cash Value. We
stand for freedom and they stand for greed. It’s easier when you know
you can truly despise your opponent. I know Calvin was excited about
coming to Fight One Xperience and doing a few jobs. He figured he could
walk in and take the United Titles from some workable opponents and he’d
be living large, a real big bad ass wrestler. Yeah.
N$V: CLEMMENS
The second I got
out of Alaska I felt my head beginning to clear. I needed a breather but
I didn’t think it through. I couldn’t battle against my questions any
longer. I needed answers. I had to find that fucken Till and end this
once and for all. I couldn’t bring Dare back but I could at least find
out what really happened. Dare was no suicide case.
N$V: DRYDEN One more night ‘til this party starts. One more night ‘til NCV makes F1X history. On more night ‘til the Gentleman learn who runs this place. I know that this federation has only been open for all of a month and a half. But things move fast in this business, they really do. Shit moves even faster when you have No Cash Value doin’ its thing. You see, while we’ve been here all of six or seven weeks, No Cash Value has already set itself up to be the number one group in the entire company. We’ve overshadowed Superiority Complex at every turn, beating them every chance we get. Except Starr, of course, but I think we can all agree that was a mistake that was quickly rectified. We’ve proven ourselves to be at the top of the heap. And here we are, a day away from becoming the first United Champions. It really was only a matter of time, really. After Shane made history becoming the federation’s first Universal Champion, we gained steam. We saw purpose in becoming the dominant force of Fight One. And this week, we continue that march by holding the titles given out at the end of Aftershock. There’s just a couple of things in our way. Specifically, High Society and The Gentleman’s Club. The Gentleman’s Club. Sigh. What were you two hoping to accomplish in setting out in this tournament for the United Titles? Surely it wasn’t actually winning the whole damn thing. I don’t think anyone’s so stupid to believe they had a shot in hell when so many of No Cash Value’s soldiers were in the mix. This was always going to come down to one of our teams. You had to have seem that coming. The Dope Show. High Society. No Cash Value. We fucking saturated this tournament for a reason. Ya see, while Shane and I have the upmost confidence in our ability to take home the titles, it just made sense that we had more power in numbers. It was obvious that this match could have been truly amazing if all three of our teams reppin’ our crew were in the finals. Unfortunately, King and Pitt dropped the ball. Yay, seriously, fuckin’ yay. I’m so happy they did, because in the end, you two dipshits managed to find your way to the match. And if there’s anything I enjoy more than being on the top of the federation, it’s teaching jackasses like you your place in life. Your lot in this business. Adam Moore, you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. See, you’re new to this federation. And however much experience you claim to have in the business, there’s some shit you need to know about Fight One. I know you’re fucking clueless about how things work here by the words you choose to use when considering Shane and I. You call us childish. You refer to us as being immature. What you don’t know is, we’ve earned the right to act any fucking way we so choose. We’ve earned that right by taking on every single motherfucker that thinks they have what it takes to bring us down, and beating those fuckheads into the mat, laughing all the while. We may act silly sometimes, but hell, running federations? Being the top tier of fighters in a circuit? It’s just so much fuckin’ fun, we can’t help but take it lightly. You talk about our little pranks, as if they’re just acts of infantilism, when in reality those little pranks? That’s just our way of kicking motherfuckers when they’re down. See, we don’t think it’s enough to shatter ego’s and people’s pride on national television. Nah, it’s much more entertaining to watch them have to deal with the consequences of their thinking they could ever hang with our level of talent. Ya see… this shit? It may be our lives, but we sure as shit enjoy playin’ like a game. Why do you care how we act, anyway, man? What gives you the fuckin’ right to be some sort of fuckin’ babysitter for the other roster members in this federation? It’s sure as shit not your bevy of fucking achievements here. Last time I checked, you fuckheads had won a single, solitary match. Bully for you two. You think you’re hot shit because you can win one match? You remind me of another person who won a single match and was in the title scene. Yeah, people thought highly of him too. Lucas Knight thought he was destined for eternal main event status here in Fight One. He thought he was the biggest walkin’ dick in the federation since he managed to garner acclaim and fanfare after his single win too. Then what happened? He encountered No Cash Value, and just like everyone else who does, he bit the dust, hard. So yeah, here you are, one win in and already acting like you’ve got the United Titles all sewn up. But since you haven’t been here for but just a fuckin’ minute, you’ve got no clue the magnitude of what you’re facing in opponents such as Shane and I. We’ve taken care of people like you for years now. People with undeserved egos. Talking a big game. They come to us from time to time, thinking they can succeed where so few have. And every fuckin’ time, they come up short. You think you know shit since you been in the business for so long? This Sunday, you’re gonna realize you don’t know shit, motherfucker. You wanna talk down the importance of what we’ve done? Fine, go ahead. Make a fuckin’ fool of yourself to the entire company. Sure, it’s only been a month and a half, but we’ve set a precedence that jackasses like you can’t possibly hope to keep up with. You wanna talk shit about how it’s been too short of a time to have a history? Hey, jerkoff, what you don’t realize is that Shane and I are fuckin’ MAKING history here, get me? So go ahead, talk about how I beat Jaxx once again last week, but he only had one good arm. But answer me this-- since when did wrestlers start falling back on pissy excuses like injuries to blame their losses for? Have we not all had to endure some sort of ailment in our careers? This business isn’t for fuckin’ pussies, man. It doesn’t matter if Jaxx had a hurt shoulder of if he just had sand in his vagina, he lossed, simple and plain. I’ve destroyed people in the ring for years now, all the while nursing injuries. Did I ever use my shattered knee or concussions as an excuse for my short comings in the ring? Of course not. Because we all have to go through that shit. We all have to deal with things in the ring that hold us back. The difference between those of us on the upper level and people like you, Moore? Those of us who stand out don’t fucking care about excuses. So let me ask you this… When you lay in the ring on Sunday night, watching history pass you by, what will your excuse be? Well, I guess you won’t be able to blame your fuckin’ suits you blabber on about. Lemme tell ya something, jagoff, I could fight in a clown suit, and I’d still be the baddest motherfucker in the ring on any given night. You talk about how you don’t have a gimmick, but have you heard yourself fuckin’ talk, dude? Wearing suits to the ring? Trying to show the public that you’re some sort of classier guy than the person across from you in the ring? You know what defines a gimmick? Nobody fuckin’ cares about some trumped up persona a fighter uses. People see right through that shit. They aren’t impressed, just like I’m not with you. I don’t care what kinda mask you need to put on in order to attempt to impress people. That schtick you’ve been selling the past two weeks? It’s still not gonna protect you from me come gametime, buddy. You’re still gonna catch a beatdown no matter if you’re wearing a fuckin’ suit or shroud. Doesn’t make a damn bit of difference to me. One thing that does matter? Insuring some piece of shit, bullshit gimmick users don’t stand anywhere near those fuckin’ United Titles. No Cash Value is here to insure some fucking prestige in Fight One. And we fully intend to see to it that those belts are around our waists come Monday morning. So keep flappin’ those jaws Moore. See if it gives you more confidence to step in the ring with people you know you can’t hold a fuckin’ candle to. ‘Cause you’re gonna need all the help you can get. Bitch.
N$V: DRYDEN Looking back at those days, some of the darkest I would endure my entire life, I wonder if it could have turned out differently. I wonder if things could have come out better in the end. I know it’s futile to consider such things. We can’t change the past. We can’t right every single sin. Some things just happened. We have to deal with them. Hindsight is fuckin’ twenty-twenty, for sure. Now when I look back, I know what probably happened. Sissy Antolinni and her son had been sitting in their penthouse in New York that afternoon, trying to figure out what to do with Rik Gamble. As it turns out, he had been following me, but they weren’t satisfied with his work. They wanted to get rid of him. Sissy sat in her opulent fuckin’ high rise and ordered her son to call up Rik that night. He told Rik that they were going to have a meeting, but it wasn’t safe to do it at their apartment. Said they thought cops had been in the place, saying that even then they could hear the clicking on the phone line meaning their lines had been tapped. They joked about the Patriot Act on the phone with him. Rik laughed, not because it was funny, but because he was scared of them. They told Rik they would meet in the place they had discussed, and they gave him a time. Then I got my phone call in the middle of the night, telling me where Rik would be. I was skeptical, but I was looking for a fight, so I went there regardless of whether it was a trap or not. I was wanting to end it that night if I could. I was going to either get Rik’s head or kill the Antolinni’s. Win-win, right? Wrong. The cab is speeding off into the night as the sky is still black, dawn’s still a few hours away. I look at the looming structures ahead of me, a couple of blocks down the street. I begin walking towards them, recognizing some of them as closed down factories, others being warehouses full of shipping containers. I stop dead, seeing my target just a few hundred feet ahead of me. Rik Gamble-- rich boy, wasted a large portion of his inheritance on a failed wrestling venture with his brother, Monty. I had no idea why he was working with the Antolinni’s, but here he is, tentatively walking down the docks towards a battered old warehouse. This wasn’t a set up after all. The voice on the other end of the phone line had apparently been telling me the truth. I slow my pace, letting him keep a good distance in front of me. I walk softly as I tread onto the wooden planks of the dock. Rik’s far ahead of me, he’s crawling through a broken door that leads into the warehouse. Once he’s inside and out of earshot, I hurry down the walkway, eager to get to my prey. The building is huge, the broken door is on the side. I crawl through, trying to be as quiet as possible. Once inside, I find myself unable to see in the pitch dark. I stand still for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. Just as a broken office swims into my view around me, I hear Rik calling out for Sissy Antolinni. He can’t find her, even though he turns on a dull lamp that barley illuminates a few feet of space in the massive interior of the main building. I turn and hurry down a corridor that leads into the main complex-- just one huge open room. Rik is standing under the lamp, kicking a foot listlessly at an empty chair under the lamp. He pulls out a phone, undoubtedly to call the Antolinni’s and find out what the hold up is. His back turns away from me, and I see my chance. I grab up a piece of broken wood, half a two-by-four, that is laying at my feet. I rush him. “C’mon, Sissy, pick up…” Rik says to himself nervously as I trot silently up behind me. “What is going on here,” he says into the phone, no one on the other end. I break into a run for the final few feet, swinging the plank hard. It catches him in the side of the head, and his body goes limp, crashing into the floor below him. Tossing the now splintered two-by-four aside, I reach down and check his pulse. He’s alive, and I’m glad for it. I need answers, after all. I find some rope back in the office where I entered the building, and within a few minutes I have him tied to the chair that sits under the single light fixture, his head lolling on his chest as he drools. I reach in my back waistband, and I find the gun Jack gave me a couple of weeks ago. Checking the magazine, I see that it’s still full aside from the one bullet that killed Leo Fritz. Not exactly checking the strength I put into it, I tap Gamble on the forehead with the barrel of the gun. “Wake up, asshole,” I say through gritted teeth. Rik flinches, stirring from his little nap. He comes to after a moment, and his face twists in terror as he looks down and realizes what’s happening. “What!” he says. “Yeah, I thought you might be surprised to see me,” I say. Rik looks up and notices me for the first time. He looks scared, and I admit, it makes me feel mighty fuckin’ good. He shuts his eyes tight, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. He struggles against the ropes which dig into him, eliciting a scream. “You might wanna save your breath,” I say ruthlessly. “No one’s gonna hear what I’m about to do to you. No one around for miles, fuckstain.” “I didn’t do it!” Gamble yells, and suddenly I’m taken back to the moments before I shot Fritz, but I push those thoughts away. “Oh, I know you didn’t,” I say, lighting a cigarette. “I know you didn’t have shit to do with the fire, but what I do know is you’ve been working for the Antolinni’s. I know you’ve been following me. Keeping tabs on me for them.” Rik begins crying in earnest, and I have to wonder if everyone does this before they die. I blow smoke into his face saying, “Stop your fuckin’ blubbering, Gamble. What you’ve done is fucking despicable. You’re helping them fuckin’ kill me after they’ve already killed my little girl.” “You’ve got it all wrong,” Gamble replies, slouching his shoulders. I pull up the pistol and hold the barrel to his head. “That right?” I say, unconvinced by his act. “Please…” Gamble says, looking into my eyes. “Don’t make the same mistake twice, Seth. Let me explain.” “I got a call tonight,” I say. “I know you’re working for ‘em. Seems someone wants to help me take ‘em down.” “No!” Gamble says. “The person who called you? Guido sounding dude? That’s fuckin’ Joey! Joey Antolinni!” What? “Look,” Gamble says, trying to ignore the barrel pushing against his forehead, “I know what you must think. But they’re trying to get rid of me! They must have figured out I was feedin’ ‘em bullshit info, ya know? Look, they got their hooks into me, hard. I got in trouble with a casino, and the Antolinni’s bought out my debt to make me work for ‘em! They had me follow you, and I had to, otherwise they’d kill me!” I pull the barrel away from his head. “C’mon, Seth,” Gamble says. “I know we weren’t close those years ago, but have I ever done anything to hurt you? Not only that, but if I’ve been following you, and the Antollini’s still haven’t gotten a hold of you, don’t you figure I was sending him bad information?” Fuck. “Why should I trust you?” I ask. “Why shouldn’t I put a bullet in your head, dump your body in the river and go about my way just to be sure?” Rik swallows and continues, “’Cause I know where Joey is. I know where he’s gonna be tonight. I can take you to him.” “Let me go, Seth,” Rik says, his eyes drying. “And I’ll help you get the sonuvabitch.” I put the safety on the trigger. “And if you’re just leading me into a trap?” I ask. “Well, I guess you can kill me then,” Gamble answers. I begin to untie Rik. We leave the warehouse together, Rik leading me to my real goal. My real prey.
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