Post by Deleted on Oct 10, 2019 15:33:31 GMT -6
From the fade in we see Our Man Nomad, and his ‘dog’ Ace, as they exit the gate of the small and most likely illegal airport that the very legal charter service Nomad hired had left them at. Alaska had proven to be a lot of things. Some good. Some bad. Most aggravating. He had a headache for the last couple of days and it was the kind that no pill can cure. There was only one way to get rid of this headache, and it was going to be with his bare fucking hands.
Removing a large envelope from his back pocket, he begins to count in a quick and angry manner. Checking accounts, while very useful, were out of the question. Anyone who was someone he wanted to avoid could use them to keep tabs on him. Freedom was a word for nothing left to lose, so said some singer. But truth be known, for him, freedom was all he had to lose. Plus a ‘dog’.
Pulling the burner phone out of his pocket, he made a call and exchanged some very hasty words with whomever was on the other end. Disconnecting the call, he slides it back into his pocket, and slaps his leg to motivate the ‘dog’ at his side.
Fading into the interior of a used car lot, we catch a glimpse of a very tan, very chubby gentleman who is picking his teeth with a business card while watching what seems to be scrambled porn. You know, the wavy, barely visible porn that used to exist between two channels. That. Standing up, he wipes some crumbs from whatever he was eating from his dark brown pants, and extends a hand for shaking, which is turned down with a sneer.
“How’re you, eh? How can I help yeh?” The man says in the most annoying canadian accent possible. “Lookin’ fer a new whip?”
“I need a car. I need a good car. And I need it today. Cash. No bullshit. You got me?”
“Well, let’s just slow it down, eh? We got some paperwork that needs doing. ‘F course.”
Slamming his hand on the desk, Nomad shows the portly bastard the wad of cash he’s ready to spend on a vehicle that will most likely die but hopefully not until he gets where he’s going. The eyes of the terribly dressed man bulge and in a flash the two men are out on the lot. An AMC pacer here, a Isuzu Amigo there, and finally, the thing that stops him dead in his tracks, a 1977 Dodge van. It’s brown paint less like a penny and more like a piece of shit shined twice, it is the automobile equivalent of a shit sandwich if our man Nomad has ever seen one.
“How much for the van?”
“Now now. That’s far more than a van. That’s a cabin. A home. Freedom of the open road without the loss of comfort! It’s got a bed, a fridge, it runs on diesel! Plus the interior is all real leather. It might need some engine work, or some other things. But you sh-“
“HOW. MUCH.” Nomad says,with a sense that he does not wish to repeat himself.
“3 large. But here’s the thing. The engine isn’t exactly...”
“...functional?”
“Legal.”
“...Show me.”
The pudgy little salesman walks our Man Nomad over tot the vehicle, and pops the hood. A bright silver light shines up at their faces, and in a moment of sheer happiness, Our man Nomad, as stoic and angry as he normally is, lets his face curl into a smile, if only for a second.
“My nephew used to work for me. Good kid. Smart as a rock. Guy came in, sold him this here. Problem is obvious. No one will touch it. Get pulled over, maybe the cop knows his shit.”
“Cop pulls me over. This is the least of my worries.”
Nomad frantically counts out a wad of bills, and slams it into the chest of the chubby mother fucker before he can utter another annoying word. Looking deep into the glossy fat white circles the bastard has for eyes, Nomad whispers for him to ‘shut up and gas it up’. Walking away, he stomps over to the sidewalk with Ace the ‘dog’ and waits. As he stares into the distance, as the dog stares up at him, his voice echoes from beyond our sight.
“Kyle. I’d love to apologize for what I’ve done. For how I’ve hurt you. I’d love to. I will not. You came looking for this and mother fucker, you found it. Should you got whatever reason, be it time or head injury, forget this lesson. Come find me. I’m not afraid to repeat myself. Verbally, or Physically.”
“I’ve got a shot at pretty much any title I choose. I’ve steam rolled over any and all of those they’ve put before with me the amount of difficulty one would expect to have against a child. I have single handedly legitimized this entire company, by putting it on my shoulders and carrying it since the moment I arrived. And with all that I’ve done, the attention that I have brought, what is my reward? What do they give me? The responsibility of listening to Shane Sparx talk.”
“Shane Sparx, a cold call low carder who struggled to get into the mid-card and has now spent the last umpteenth years of his career, trying desperatly to prove that was a mother fucking fluke. Shane is not the kind of person I should be facing. Shane is, despite how I’ve described him thus far, a solid competitor. He’s the kind of guy that in like 10, 15 years he could be at least, someone that might not be terrible at color commentary. I on the other hand, am the mother fucker with a shot at every single fucking title this place has, in his pocket, or on the books. I’ve taken on, and taken down, each and every one in this place, together or seperately, that’s worth a fuck in the ring. And what is my reward? Listening to Shane Sparx talk.”
“I have come to this business, and gone through this business, with authority and effectiveness that most can only dream of obtaining. I have faced the tallest, baddest, and hardest mother fuckers this business has ever presented me. I have been put through, and gone through on my own, the kind of hell that even religions wouldn’t have the balls to invent, and not once, not ever, have I backed down, have I tapped out or been afraid, or fearful of anything that anyone could ever do to me. That is, until I was told I was going to have to listen to Shane Sparx talk.”
“He’s going to, as well. He’s going to open that dirty pussy vacuum he calls a mouth, and he’s going to speak. He’s going to say a bunch of things, about me and others that everyone clearly knows isn’t true. But listen. And I know it’ll hurt, but really listen. Listen to the words he uses, fresh off a fifth grade spelling bee. Listen to the points he made, stolen from whatever rap album he listened to that day. Understand the truth about this man as he fucking presents it to you, live and unashamed. That the reason why Shane Sparx talks, is becaus that is all he’s fucking good for.”
“Talking time, Shane, is quickly coming to an end. So get those words out. String together those simplistic sentences, and make all the idiotic points you can. Because right now, this here, is a conversation. Get within arms reach, and this shits gonna be a monologue.”
Nomad watches the van pulls up to him, and he closes his eyes. The sounds the engine makes as the van vibrates from the power, his body and face relax in an almost sexual manner. Stepping inside for the first time, he sees the bed that he will sleep in. the power outlets he can plug items into. The chair that can turn around to face the table that can be lowered from the side door. The carpet on the floor smells like a decade plus of terrible mistakes and everything he touches feel greasy in a way that is less about oil and more about lube. As he wipes his hands on his pants and looks upon it all, it hits him. He has not bought a vehicle. He just bought a home. And now he’s gotta get it to Cuba.
We quickly fade away to the exterior of a very peaceful scene consisting of a rather large white building with people in what seem to be pajamas standing and sitting all around the exterior. Standing in the doorway is a man fresh from a shower, with a duffle bag in one hand, and a folder full of papers in the other. Startled, the man turns to see an older woman standing behind him. Her bright red hair pulled back into a ponytail, she latches her arm on his and walks forward with him, slowly, and cheerfully.
“So, what’s your first step?” she asks, looking at him kindly. 30 days he’s been here and it still wasn’t something he was used to.
“I’m gonna find a meeting. Get a sponsor. Stay away from old friends”
“And if you fall?”
“I’ll get back up.”
“I’m proud of you. You came in here as Spatz, a man with no future. What you leave as is Kenneth, a man who has a future, as long as he keeps it simple, doesn’t forget that its one day at a time. Take care, Kenneth.”
“Thanks.” He says, looking down at the phone in his hand. Thumbing up the mobile NEW site. He stops the scrolll on a promotional photo of NEW’s next show, being held in Havannah, Cuba, and he smiles. “I think I might even treat myself to a vacation.” he says, his eyes drawning away from the phone and peering into the distance. We fade away as he chuckles, and return to the darkness from which we came.
Removing a large envelope from his back pocket, he begins to count in a quick and angry manner. Checking accounts, while very useful, were out of the question. Anyone who was someone he wanted to avoid could use them to keep tabs on him. Freedom was a word for nothing left to lose, so said some singer. But truth be known, for him, freedom was all he had to lose. Plus a ‘dog’.
Pulling the burner phone out of his pocket, he made a call and exchanged some very hasty words with whomever was on the other end. Disconnecting the call, he slides it back into his pocket, and slaps his leg to motivate the ‘dog’ at his side.
Fading into the interior of a used car lot, we catch a glimpse of a very tan, very chubby gentleman who is picking his teeth with a business card while watching what seems to be scrambled porn. You know, the wavy, barely visible porn that used to exist between two channels. That. Standing up, he wipes some crumbs from whatever he was eating from his dark brown pants, and extends a hand for shaking, which is turned down with a sneer.
“How’re you, eh? How can I help yeh?” The man says in the most annoying canadian accent possible. “Lookin’ fer a new whip?”
“I need a car. I need a good car. And I need it today. Cash. No bullshit. You got me?”
“Well, let’s just slow it down, eh? We got some paperwork that needs doing. ‘F course.”
Slamming his hand on the desk, Nomad shows the portly bastard the wad of cash he’s ready to spend on a vehicle that will most likely die but hopefully not until he gets where he’s going. The eyes of the terribly dressed man bulge and in a flash the two men are out on the lot. An AMC pacer here, a Isuzu Amigo there, and finally, the thing that stops him dead in his tracks, a 1977 Dodge van. It’s brown paint less like a penny and more like a piece of shit shined twice, it is the automobile equivalent of a shit sandwich if our man Nomad has ever seen one.
“How much for the van?”
“Now now. That’s far more than a van. That’s a cabin. A home. Freedom of the open road without the loss of comfort! It’s got a bed, a fridge, it runs on diesel! Plus the interior is all real leather. It might need some engine work, or some other things. But you sh-“
“HOW. MUCH.” Nomad says,with a sense that he does not wish to repeat himself.
“3 large. But here’s the thing. The engine isn’t exactly...”
“...functional?”
“Legal.”
“...Show me.”
The pudgy little salesman walks our Man Nomad over tot the vehicle, and pops the hood. A bright silver light shines up at their faces, and in a moment of sheer happiness, Our man Nomad, as stoic and angry as he normally is, lets his face curl into a smile, if only for a second.
“My nephew used to work for me. Good kid. Smart as a rock. Guy came in, sold him this here. Problem is obvious. No one will touch it. Get pulled over, maybe the cop knows his shit.”
“Cop pulls me over. This is the least of my worries.”
Nomad frantically counts out a wad of bills, and slams it into the chest of the chubby mother fucker before he can utter another annoying word. Looking deep into the glossy fat white circles the bastard has for eyes, Nomad whispers for him to ‘shut up and gas it up’. Walking away, he stomps over to the sidewalk with Ace the ‘dog’ and waits. As he stares into the distance, as the dog stares up at him, his voice echoes from beyond our sight.
“Kyle. I’d love to apologize for what I’ve done. For how I’ve hurt you. I’d love to. I will not. You came looking for this and mother fucker, you found it. Should you got whatever reason, be it time or head injury, forget this lesson. Come find me. I’m not afraid to repeat myself. Verbally, or Physically.”
“I’ve got a shot at pretty much any title I choose. I’ve steam rolled over any and all of those they’ve put before with me the amount of difficulty one would expect to have against a child. I have single handedly legitimized this entire company, by putting it on my shoulders and carrying it since the moment I arrived. And with all that I’ve done, the attention that I have brought, what is my reward? What do they give me? The responsibility of listening to Shane Sparx talk.”
“Shane Sparx, a cold call low carder who struggled to get into the mid-card and has now spent the last umpteenth years of his career, trying desperatly to prove that was a mother fucking fluke. Shane is not the kind of person I should be facing. Shane is, despite how I’ve described him thus far, a solid competitor. He’s the kind of guy that in like 10, 15 years he could be at least, someone that might not be terrible at color commentary. I on the other hand, am the mother fucker with a shot at every single fucking title this place has, in his pocket, or on the books. I’ve taken on, and taken down, each and every one in this place, together or seperately, that’s worth a fuck in the ring. And what is my reward? Listening to Shane Sparx talk.”
“I have come to this business, and gone through this business, with authority and effectiveness that most can only dream of obtaining. I have faced the tallest, baddest, and hardest mother fuckers this business has ever presented me. I have been put through, and gone through on my own, the kind of hell that even religions wouldn’t have the balls to invent, and not once, not ever, have I backed down, have I tapped out or been afraid, or fearful of anything that anyone could ever do to me. That is, until I was told I was going to have to listen to Shane Sparx talk.”
“He’s going to, as well. He’s going to open that dirty pussy vacuum he calls a mouth, and he’s going to speak. He’s going to say a bunch of things, about me and others that everyone clearly knows isn’t true. But listen. And I know it’ll hurt, but really listen. Listen to the words he uses, fresh off a fifth grade spelling bee. Listen to the points he made, stolen from whatever rap album he listened to that day. Understand the truth about this man as he fucking presents it to you, live and unashamed. That the reason why Shane Sparx talks, is becaus that is all he’s fucking good for.”
“Talking time, Shane, is quickly coming to an end. So get those words out. String together those simplistic sentences, and make all the idiotic points you can. Because right now, this here, is a conversation. Get within arms reach, and this shits gonna be a monologue.”
Nomad watches the van pulls up to him, and he closes his eyes. The sounds the engine makes as the van vibrates from the power, his body and face relax in an almost sexual manner. Stepping inside for the first time, he sees the bed that he will sleep in. the power outlets he can plug items into. The chair that can turn around to face the table that can be lowered from the side door. The carpet on the floor smells like a decade plus of terrible mistakes and everything he touches feel greasy in a way that is less about oil and more about lube. As he wipes his hands on his pants and looks upon it all, it hits him. He has not bought a vehicle. He just bought a home. And now he’s gotta get it to Cuba.
We quickly fade away to the exterior of a very peaceful scene consisting of a rather large white building with people in what seem to be pajamas standing and sitting all around the exterior. Standing in the doorway is a man fresh from a shower, with a duffle bag in one hand, and a folder full of papers in the other. Startled, the man turns to see an older woman standing behind him. Her bright red hair pulled back into a ponytail, she latches her arm on his and walks forward with him, slowly, and cheerfully.
“So, what’s your first step?” she asks, looking at him kindly. 30 days he’s been here and it still wasn’t something he was used to.
“I’m gonna find a meeting. Get a sponsor. Stay away from old friends”
“And if you fall?”
“I’ll get back up.”
“I’m proud of you. You came in here as Spatz, a man with no future. What you leave as is Kenneth, a man who has a future, as long as he keeps it simple, doesn’t forget that its one day at a time. Take care, Kenneth.”
“Thanks.” He says, looking down at the phone in his hand. Thumbing up the mobile NEW site. He stops the scrolll on a promotional photo of NEW’s next show, being held in Havannah, Cuba, and he smiles. “I think I might even treat myself to a vacation.” he says, his eyes drawning away from the phone and peering into the distance. We fade away as he chuckles, and return to the darkness from which we came.