A Pretty Bad Homecoming All in All (vs. Sicko)
Mar 8, 2019 13:46:32 GMT -5
The Anarchist, Holden Ross, and 1 more like this
Post by David Hunter on Mar 8, 2019 13:46:32 GMT -5
A poorly filtered camera phone turns on. Using one hand, David Hunter holds it up, standing under a street lamp in the wee-hours of the day on a dock sticking out into a large body of water. Dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and blue denim jeans—his usual attire for his road trips it seems—with the King of the Underground Title around his waist, he can’t help but look out at the gulf.
David takes a deep sniff, soaking in the salt in the air around him. Once his breath is satisfied, a squawk can be heard off-camera.
“Yeah, just…give me a second here,” he says.
Another squawk follows before a bird flies across the camera. David looks around at the gulf for a bit before turning towards the camera.
“Sicko talked a lot about how the Underground division is his home. Well…I find it ironic that…as I approach my match at Mass Destruction against Sicko, I, myself, am home.
Tampa, Florida.
A hot bed of retirees, Miami rejects, and a bunch of assholes. You see people from all over the country come here to party it up when the Spring Breaks at Miami won’t have ‘em. You see people live normal lives here. You see athletes come here to train in various sports. All under the sun that beats down on them.
But those people…they’re ignorant…kinda like you, Sicko.
You see, the citizens of Tampa, Florida are a perfect example of why Florida itself is a fool’s land with a fool’s inhibitions, and that’s putting it nicely. These people who live in Tampa, Florida are unaware of the dangers that lie…in the Underground.”
David turns the phone camera so that it’s facing a nearby warehouse.
“That warehouse over there…over 300,000 square feet of crates and locations, all made from the labor of men who will never be recognized. Contained inside are things that…guys like Sicko could never imagine. A lake that allows you to makes copies of yourself. Magical items that allow you to teleport, turn invisible, or go back through time. Boxes upon boxes containing proof of things that mere humans on this Earth have yet to discover.
And right at the center of it lies a laser…that allows anything that is fiction…to become reality. Good luck getting in though. Only three people have access to enter. Anybody who’s tried have found themselves forgetting it ever existed. But it’s fitting, Sicko.”
David turns the camera back to himself.
“You talk about how the Underground has grown weak. How your home has become a cesspool of poor souls who wouldn’t dare to go through hours of violence just to prove that they deserve to become royalty.
Sicko…have you lost your fucking mind?”
David takes the Underground Title off his waist, holding it up in front of him.
“I have gone through three months of nonstop violence every—single—show, and at the end of it all, I find myself with this crown as my prize. A crown I have earned. A crown I have won. A crown I have made my own.”
David puts the title on his right shoulder.
“You might think that the Underground has been sullied with guys like Razor Blade or Muscles Malone or Cory Steel or Tyler Scott, but where you find weakness, I find the same damn passion that I’ve used ever since I arrived in Pure Class Wrestling.
Razor Blade—unknown rest his soul—does not just stand idly by and take the beatings he receives every time he steps into this ring and challenge for this title. He stands toe-to-toe with whomever he is up against and gives it his everything. And yeah, I wasn’t a fan of what you did to him, but if you actually paid attention, you’d realize that I never cried, I never went beyond my condolences, and I only offered him my revenge. Why? Because the guy doesn’t need me to fight his battles for him. He might not win, but at least he has the balls to stand face-to-face with you, not attack them from behind and kidnap them.
Muscles Malone, as much as I don’t like the guy, went through just as much pain and suffering as everybody else over the years, all so he could earn just a little bit of respect. I'd like to think he got it. Even from psychos like you. But you wouldn't know about respect. Not because you're not smart enough to know what it means, but because you just don't care.
Cory Steel, the tattooed toady of the Underground, gave everything he had, went through hell and back, just to prove that he would do what it takes, no matter how fruitless it was.
Tyler Scott took me to the limit, and if Ed Lane hadn’t gone into business for himself, I have no doubt the two of us would’ve tore down the arena and every fan in it, much like you claim you will do to this division.
Sicko, you honestly and earnestly believe that the Underground is weak.
You’re fucking deluded.
While guys like Dominator walked in and held this crown for a year, guys like me or Holden or Muscles or Tyler walk in and work each and every show just so we can prove we’re the best in a division that clearly doesn’t get the respect it rightfully deserves, not even from guys like you who want to make it their own.
Seriously, how arrogant are you? You think you’re some hot-shot veteran who’s been through some shit in life. Please, I’ve been dealing with fuckers like you since I was 14. Whether it be a broad who thinks sex means power, a hunter who thinks marksmanship makes the man, or a Hawaiian dumb-ass with the power to adapt means he runs the damn universe, my answer has always been the same: you step to me, you’re risking life and limb. And I don’t care if it’s Muscles Malone in an Underground match, my best friend in a shoot-out, or my goddamn father in a wild goose chase, at the end of the day, I’ve done just as much as any veteran in the game. The only difference is that I have the youth to go even further than any of them.
Including you Sicko.
The Underground might be ‘your house’, but guess what…‘your house’ is in the middle of my kingdom. Yeah, that’s right. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m the King of the Underground. That means the entire division…is mine to command…mine to control, and while you’ve decided to take matters into your own hands, let me make it perfectly clear: a revolution rising will not stop the once and future king from seizing your land, burning down your entire village, and throwing your ass under the guillotine.
And when it’s all said and done, and your head is in my hands, above me in triumph, the only person you’ll have to blame…is yourself.
Because for all your talk, for all you assurance of victory, you’ve never faced a guy as young, as passionate, and as determined to succeed as me.
I am the son of a dumb-ass with the heart of one too. If you think a 7 foot demented clown in an ice-cream truck is enough to keep me down, than Sicko…you’re clearly more delusional than I originally thought.
Here’s the thing…Hawaiian Hardhead might be the person who raised me, but he is far from what’s running through my blood. So if you think your script is absolute down-pat, allow me to burn that shit up for ya’.
For all your talk, you’re not the champion. Sure, you might claim you’re the master, but son, even masters have to answer to somebody.
Yeah, Hawaiian Hardhead is my dad, but it only takes seeing one match for you to realize that I am a hundred times the wrestler he ever was. If you don’t see it, you don’t want to see it, because you realize that it means you might lose.
I’ve weakened the title? You mean the same title that has main evented more Traumas the last few months than before I ever graced it with my presence? That same title that—now that you’re in the match—is suddenly relegated to third in line?
You say you’re going to torch the Underground division because you don’t like what it’s become. That’s fine. I welcome the flames, because when the entire damn kingdom is on the ground in ashes, all that matters is my throne will remain standing. And on that throne I will remain sitting, still the King of the Underground.
But if you think I can’t stop you. If you think I stand zero chance. If you think you’re some all-powerful, destined messiah, sent here to PCW to ‘save’ the Underground…than Sicko…maybe it’s time to wipe off the clown make-up. Maybe it’s time to set aside the tights and boots. Maybe it’s time to sell the ice-cream truck and pick-up a nice Ferrari from the local dealer.
Because if you’re that damn sure of yourself…when you lose…you might as well retire…because you just made yourself look like the biggest fool in the history of professional wrestling.”
David suddenly stops the recording.
----------------------------------------------------
With the speech finished, David takes the SD card out of the phone. Once it has been removed, he puts it in his pocket before tossing the cell phone into the awaiting waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
David watches the phone as it sinks into the salt water.
A familiar crow soars down, landing on David’s left shoulder. The latter adjusts the championship still sitting on his right.
“Alright Qrow. If shit goes south, I want you gone, okay?” David asks.
The crow squawks a response.
“I mean it. We both know I’m walking into a trap. Once the showdown starts, I want you bolting and soaring. Go back to Remnant to avoid capture. You’ve stuck by me so far despite my…otherwise questionable decisions. The last thing I need is another ally going down because I couldn’t keep them safe.”
The crow turns towards David’s head, pecking him in the side of his head once. As David moves it away at the sharp pain, the crowd squawks one more time.
“Yeah okay, fair enough. Let’s get this shit over with. The sooner I leave this place the better.”
----------------------------------------------------
As a white, windowless van pulls up to the Dream Center of Tampa, no, it’s not a stalker here to claim children with a bunch of candy to offer.
Instead it’s just David Hunter and Qrow Branwen.
Couldn’t tell ya’ if it’s an improvement or not, but hey, we’re not here to judge people on their poor choice of vehicles.
At least not in this portion anyway.
The back of the van bursts open, with David Hunter jumping out. Wearing a black t-shirt adorned with a parody of Starry Nights featuring the color purple and a unicorn, along with his usual denim jeans, David grabs a duffel bag, placing it on his shoulder.
The van turns off. Qrow hops out of the driver’s seat, approaching David. In his hand is a blue and red lucha mask.
“Here’s that mask you wanted,” he says.
David takes it. He wastes no time and places it over his head. He velcros the bottom of it together, sealing it in place atop his head.
“Remember the plan?” Qrow asks.
David feels for the pistol in his pants pocket before adjusting the bag on his shoulder.
“Yep. You do the talking. I do the signing. I’m mute so you’re my translator. If we meet Lydia and Steph than I try not to freak the fuck out,” he says.
Qrow slaps the shoulder not containing the duffle bag.
“Good. Let’s do this. We just gotta get in, grab the Crow’s Eyes, and get the hell out,” he says.
The two of them walk side-by-side, approaching the Dream Center’s entrance. As soon as they walk in, they are greeted by an older woman standing by a table. On the table’s front is a banner that reads “Tampa Bay Wrestling Academy present The Frank Hunter Memorial Show.”
“How might I help you gentlemen today?” she asks.
David does some signing his with hands, something Qrow immediately translates.
“We’re here for the wrestling show. He’s one of the wrestlers,” he says.
David gives the woman a thumbs up.
“Well alrighty, just head on back through those doors. Stephanie and Lydia will talk to you briefly before showing you to Mr. Daemon,” she says.
Qrow lowers David’s thumbs up.
“Thank you,” the former says.
The two make their way further into the building, going through the aforementioned doors. Around the hallway are a bunch of obvious wrestlers. Some are wearing jeans, others prefer the trunks, but the one thing consistent is the amount of skin they’re all showing.
As they go further into the building, David does some hand gestures to Qrow.
“Yeah I’m kind of shocked we haven’t seen them ye—” before Qrow can finish, David slaps his right hand across his chest.
The pair stop, looking ahead to two women, one older than the other, talking to a black man in some wrestling trucks.
David and Qrow can briefly hear the end of the conversation.
“Thank you for coming Marcus. I really appreciate all you’ve done for us,” the younger woman says.
“It’s no problem Stephanie. It’s just a shame your father and brother couldn’t be here,” Marcus—the black man—says.
David, his hand still across Qrow’s chest, grips the man’s shirt into a fist.
Qrow grabs the hand, throwing it down.
“Relax,” Qrow whispers. “I’m sure she’s smart enough to not be dating somebody the age of her dad. Besides, we’re keeping a low profile, remember?”
David takes a few moments to breathe in and out. Eventually, Marcus shakes both woman’s hands before walking further into the building.
The older woman notices the two of them. She grips the younger woman’s arm before approaching the two men.
The older woman shakes hands with David and Qrow while introducing herself.
“Ah, hello there. You two must be Oscar Pine and El Silenciosa pero Mortal, was it?” she asks.
David nods his head in response. Qrow gives a side-eye to him, something he obviously avoids addressing.
Next time you want to pick an alias, pick it yourself.
“My name is Lydia. This is my daughter, Stephanie,” the older woman says.
Stephanie offers her hand to both men.
“It’s nice to meet you,” she says.
Qrow shakes her hand. David, however, does so reluctantly. When the two shake hands, David remains glancing in Lydia’s direction. Stephanie notices this, but refrains from speaking on it.
“Thank you for having us on board. Frank was…always a hero of ours when we were growing up. It’s a shame what happened. I’m sorry, truly, for your loss,” Qrow says.
David does a few signings with his hands. Stephanie notices this, and narrows her eyes.
Once David is aware, he stops. Qrow translates all the same.
“Silenciosa agrees, and wants to let you know that he’s honored to—”
“—wrestle in his name. Thank you, Mr. Pine, but I can follow ASL as well,” Stephanie interrupts.
The four of them take a moment to get their bearings.
David does what he can to avoid Stephanie’s glance, his arms frozen at his side.
Qrow keeps switching his look between the two siblings.
Stephanie has her eyes locked on David, narrowed and laser-focused.
Lydia just kinda stands there, the odd-duck out.
Eventually, it’s the matriarch who claps her hands. The other three startle a bit, blinking their eyes to get back into things.
“Well then. I’d hate to keep you occupied. Through those doors right there you’ll find your opponent, Mr. Daemon. Good luck, and thank you once again,” she says.
Lydia grabs Stephanie’s arm, leading her away from the two men.
“Thank you,” Qrow says.
Placing his hand on David’s back, Qrow leads him towards the door. Qrow opens it, shoving the masked man in. Once the door is closed, Qrow glares at David, who is focused on the other person in the room.
Against a far wall, sitting in a chair and drinking from a bottle of what is clearly Jack Daniels, is a man with grayed hair. He’s wearing some black torn and tattered pants and…literally nothing else.
What gets David’s attention is the familiar red jacket hanging behind him.
Qrow turns David around, whispering some very much not sweet nothings.
“What the fuck was that?” he asks.
“I froze. It’s the first time I’ve seen them in a year, what the fuck did you expect me to do?” David asks.
“Not freeze?” Qrow.
“Well I’m sorry that I don’t want my sister dead and have…had a semi-healthy relationship with my step-mom.” David.
“I don’t want Raven dead, I just—”
“That’s not the point. Look, I’m sorry. I’ve been tripping over my dick ever since I made this stupid deal with Noxurus. Between Revy, this Wu, the goose-chase, and now seeing the two of them again, I finally just…froze up. Fuck, I need a drink.”
“I’m assuming not the shit I got in my flask?”
“Maybe. Let’s just do this, okay?”
Qrow sighs. He nods before silently motioning towards their target sitting in the chair.
“Remember what I said. Once the showdown starts, get the fuck out of here, okay? I want you at Remnant as fast as you can fly,” David says.
“I got it. Go, I’ll keep watch at the door,” Qrow says.
David nods one last time.
He turns around, making his way across the room to the…let’s go with man, I guess. Not an ‘I’m questioning their gender’ thing, more of a ‘there are so many adjectives but those still aren’t good enough’ thing.
The man in question takes another quick gulp of the Jack Daniels bottle, one of the five that are sitting on the counter to his right. Only one of them is empty. Only one.
Once the bottle is back down, the man leans forward, digging through his bag.
“You must be my opponent. Sorry about…”
He motions towards the bottles, sort of, before giving up on it and just kinda throwing his hands all around him.
“…all of this shit. Don’t worry about me wrestling drunk. I’m pretty sure I always do.”
David stares at the…man in front of him.
This…this is Max Daemon?
The man taught personally by one of the Twin Twins?
The man who David crossed two countries for?
The man who currently possesses the one thing that can help him locate the woman he’s longed to find again?
This is Max Daemon?
“Oh my god…” David mutters in muted silence.
“Holy shit, I just made a mute talk again. I knew I was good, but I didn’t think I was a miracle worker,” Max says.
“You’re Max Daemon?” David asks.
“Ah, so my legend continues,” Max says, taking a quick drink of the Jack Daniels. “Yep, that’s me. First name Max, middle name Daemon. That’s right. For all the shit I give my parents for abandoning me to an old coot when I was four and…never seeing them again, I do have to thank them for having the balls to give me Daemon as a middle name.”
David only stares at Max, his eyes widening slowly. Yes, you can see them despite the mask.
David only tilts his head slightly to his left.
“Hey, you okay there? I know I’m a fuckin stud, but I don’t swing towards dick.”
“Well then. This experience, while brief, has certainly been eye-opening for me,” David manages to utter.
“I have that effect on people. Usually woman. Hey, are you actually rockin a cave in those jeans or nah? I thought the lack of bulge was confusing.”
David takes off his mask, revealing his face to the man in front of him.
He tosses it to the side with his left hand. Using his right hand, he grabs the pistol from his pocket, pointing it at Max.
“Over 5000 miles traveled, across two countries, countless favors spent, and an annoying Japanese half-breed hunter on my ass, all to find the guy trained by one of the Twin Twins. I was expecting class, poise, or at least some form of decorum. Instead I find you. Max Daemon. A name lost in The Game by the Council in an attempt to limit your impact. A name forgotten by most who utter it. A name who I expected to have enough power to match the weight of the name. Instead, here I stand, finding nothing but the metaphorical dead pigeon…do not eat.”
Max finishes another gulp from the bottle of Jack Daniels.
“Hey, if it’s power you want, I’m sure I can provide it,” he says.
He sets the bottle back on the counter before reaching into his bag. He takes out two pistols, matching David by pointing them at him.
David merely stares back.
“I’ve gone face-to-face with a butt-ugly lizard creature. I’ve fought down armies of no-named minions and henchmen. I’ve survived having sex with a millennia old witch for almost ten years. And yet I’ve never managed to face somebody like you,” he says.
“I get it, I’m fucking awesome. Any other revelations or do you want to do this?” Max asks.
“Good question.”
David fires a pistol at Max’s left hand. Instead of taking the blow, he drops the pistol to the floor. Max tries to fire the one in his right hand, but David dodges, going for the bag below them.
Max reaches down just as David reaches in.
The two of them grab something at the same time.
They pull it up out of the bag, revealing an eyeglass. It looks like it was taken right out of a pirate captain’s hands, albeit shinier than one would expect it to be.
Although that probably has to do with the glowing white light that emits from the piece of hardware.
“God dammit Nappa…” David whispers to himself.
“David Hunter, I challenge you to a xiaolin showdown.”
Is that like the title of the game or just a general activity?
Let’s go with the latter. Never actually seen it written down.
“No wu. Just one-on-one, winner gets the Crow’s Eyes.”
“There’s only one eye, what the fuck was Dashi thinking?” David asks.
“Who knows what the old fuck was thinking? Or who cares? I don’t. Game is a drinking contest. First person to drink shots of whiskey and not fall off their chair wins.”
“Yeah, fine, whatever.”
“Let’s go, xiaolin showdown,” the two of the mutter in unison.
Seriously, that feels like it should be titled, but at the same time, it just feels like a thing that happens. Like rugby. You wouldn’t title rugby.
Oh, right, the showdown.
Anyway, the room changes drastically. Like, the spot the two of them were in shifts downwards. And I mean actually down. The floor literally lowers down.
Eventually, a white light appears. When it fades, Max and David are sitting at a table, a shot glass in front of them. It is magically filled with whiskey, which is a feature I’m sure many would desire if such Xiaolin magic were possible by us mere mortals and not limited to any set of ‘chosen ones.’
Lucky bastards.
“Gong ye ten pai,” both men say simultaneously.
With the game starts, the two begin to chug down shot-after-shot.
It’s like a rich-man’s college party at his parent’s mansion.
It’s like a Ron White appreciation dance with nothing but whiskey and blackjack. Actually, forget the blackjack.
It’s like a Lil John song played on repeat until one’s ears start to bleed.
Never ending shots. Glass after glass. Whiskey after whiskey. Every single piece of liquid. No drop missed. All going down the throats of both men.
It’s a solid ten minutes before either man start to feel woozy. That doesn’t stop them from continuing the never ending rain of whiskey. I’m sure the Weather Girls would be proud if they were with us today.
Not long after fifteen minutes has passed does Max pause in his drinking. He looks around, something David doesn’t notice in his continuous stream of whiskey drinking.
Seriously, the guy just won’t stop. And he doesn’t even look like he’s showing any signs of it either. Max can hold his liquor but at least he looks like he’s been through a car wash. David just looks like a Japanese businessman decided he could out-drink his boss.
Max glances around their scenario, peaking up towards the darkened area around them. The spotlight shining on just their space is all the white in the otherwise black abyss that is their surroundings.
With a smirk, Max stands up out of his chair. David notices this, slamming down his last, now empty shot glass.
A white light engulfs them. The scene changes back to its original form. They go back up, returning to the room which they both first met in.
David is wielding the Crow’s Eyes in his hands.
Max is wearing a smirk on his face, his hair still ruffled and still smelling like he took a swim in a pool filled with Jack Daniels.
A pistol is cocked and placed against the back of David’s head.
The doors behind them are opened, leaving the room to flood with various soldiers in a white, plastic uniform. They’re wearing helmets, the black tint on the front guarding their faces from view.
One other man joins the fray, wearing a trench coat and wielding a rifle. He points it at David, leaving it cocked and ready to fire.
“Hello Uncle Rick,” David says.
Rick doesn’t respond. He just stares at David. This is becoming a recurring thing. Not surprising given the circumstances but all the same.
One of the soldiers steps up, grabbing the Crow’s Eyes from David’s hands. He tries to resist it, but it doesn’t last long before his hands fall to his side.
“Put your hands on your head,” the man with the gun says.
That familiar voice echoes in his mind as he complies.
Once his hands are on his head, the pistol is removed, only to be replaced by a pair of handcuffs, wrapping themselves around his wrists.
David is led out through the doors and hallways of the Dream Center. All throughout this, Rick does not remove his sights from David’s head. The soldiers surround them, keeping a litany of curious wrestlers and stagehands back.
“David Lucas Hunter. By the order of the Council, you are to be placed under arrest for attempting to unseat the natural order, for interdimensional conflict, for crimes committed with somebody from another dimension, for colluding with someone considered an S-Rank person of evil intent, and for escaping capture from a temporarily hired source.”
“You got note cards there?” David asks.
He doesn’t get an answer.
As they are exiting the building, David spots Lydia and Stephanie, holding each other close. Stephanie is looking at David, and as they lock eyes, a silent conversation takes place. However, neither breaks, and David continues looking in her direction even after leaving the building.
What that silent conversation was is something I can't even decipher.
They approach a tinted out black car. The back door is opened, and David is turned around, coming face-to-face with the man he calls father.
“Hey Dad,” David says.
Hawaiian Hardhead looks at him only for a few seconds.
He turns to a nearby white-armored soldier.
“Get Mr. Daemon what we owe him and then lock down this place. I want some serious damage control here,” he says.
The soldier salutes Hardhead before walking back towards the building.
“Council members still hard-asses I see,” David says.
“Get in the car,” Hardhead says.
“What? Come on, can’t we talk for once? Or are you going to go off on your adventures again and leave your family to wonder? Let me tell ya', I definitely took after you on that front. Are ya' proud of me pa'?”
“Get in the fucking car.”
This time it’s said with Rick’s rifle pointed right in David’s face.
David shakes his head before deciding to follow suit. A semblance of a smirk is across his face
It doesn’t matter. He’ll be out by the end of the day.
When the door is closed and the car starts driving off, David can’t help but shake his head once more.
Out the window, he spots a crow sitting atop a lamp post. Once the car is far enough, it flies away, far from the mess that David has found himself in.
David takes a deep sniff, soaking in the salt in the air around him. Once his breath is satisfied, a squawk can be heard off-camera.
“Yeah, just…give me a second here,” he says.
Another squawk follows before a bird flies across the camera. David looks around at the gulf for a bit before turning towards the camera.
“Sicko talked a lot about how the Underground division is his home. Well…I find it ironic that…as I approach my match at Mass Destruction against Sicko, I, myself, am home.
Tampa, Florida.
A hot bed of retirees, Miami rejects, and a bunch of assholes. You see people from all over the country come here to party it up when the Spring Breaks at Miami won’t have ‘em. You see people live normal lives here. You see athletes come here to train in various sports. All under the sun that beats down on them.
But those people…they’re ignorant…kinda like you, Sicko.
You see, the citizens of Tampa, Florida are a perfect example of why Florida itself is a fool’s land with a fool’s inhibitions, and that’s putting it nicely. These people who live in Tampa, Florida are unaware of the dangers that lie…in the Underground.”
David turns the phone camera so that it’s facing a nearby warehouse.
“That warehouse over there…over 300,000 square feet of crates and locations, all made from the labor of men who will never be recognized. Contained inside are things that…guys like Sicko could never imagine. A lake that allows you to makes copies of yourself. Magical items that allow you to teleport, turn invisible, or go back through time. Boxes upon boxes containing proof of things that mere humans on this Earth have yet to discover.
And right at the center of it lies a laser…that allows anything that is fiction…to become reality. Good luck getting in though. Only three people have access to enter. Anybody who’s tried have found themselves forgetting it ever existed. But it’s fitting, Sicko.”
David turns the camera back to himself.
“You talk about how the Underground has grown weak. How your home has become a cesspool of poor souls who wouldn’t dare to go through hours of violence just to prove that they deserve to become royalty.
Sicko…have you lost your fucking mind?”
David takes the Underground Title off his waist, holding it up in front of him.
“I have gone through three months of nonstop violence every—single—show, and at the end of it all, I find myself with this crown as my prize. A crown I have earned. A crown I have won. A crown I have made my own.”
David puts the title on his right shoulder.
“You might think that the Underground has been sullied with guys like Razor Blade or Muscles Malone or Cory Steel or Tyler Scott, but where you find weakness, I find the same damn passion that I’ve used ever since I arrived in Pure Class Wrestling.
Razor Blade—unknown rest his soul—does not just stand idly by and take the beatings he receives every time he steps into this ring and challenge for this title. He stands toe-to-toe with whomever he is up against and gives it his everything. And yeah, I wasn’t a fan of what you did to him, but if you actually paid attention, you’d realize that I never cried, I never went beyond my condolences, and I only offered him my revenge. Why? Because the guy doesn’t need me to fight his battles for him. He might not win, but at least he has the balls to stand face-to-face with you, not attack them from behind and kidnap them.
Muscles Malone, as much as I don’t like the guy, went through just as much pain and suffering as everybody else over the years, all so he could earn just a little bit of respect. I'd like to think he got it. Even from psychos like you. But you wouldn't know about respect. Not because you're not smart enough to know what it means, but because you just don't care.
Cory Steel, the tattooed toady of the Underground, gave everything he had, went through hell and back, just to prove that he would do what it takes, no matter how fruitless it was.
Tyler Scott took me to the limit, and if Ed Lane hadn’t gone into business for himself, I have no doubt the two of us would’ve tore down the arena and every fan in it, much like you claim you will do to this division.
Sicko, you honestly and earnestly believe that the Underground is weak.
You’re fucking deluded.
While guys like Dominator walked in and held this crown for a year, guys like me or Holden or Muscles or Tyler walk in and work each and every show just so we can prove we’re the best in a division that clearly doesn’t get the respect it rightfully deserves, not even from guys like you who want to make it their own.
Seriously, how arrogant are you? You think you’re some hot-shot veteran who’s been through some shit in life. Please, I’ve been dealing with fuckers like you since I was 14. Whether it be a broad who thinks sex means power, a hunter who thinks marksmanship makes the man, or a Hawaiian dumb-ass with the power to adapt means he runs the damn universe, my answer has always been the same: you step to me, you’re risking life and limb. And I don’t care if it’s Muscles Malone in an Underground match, my best friend in a shoot-out, or my goddamn father in a wild goose chase, at the end of the day, I’ve done just as much as any veteran in the game. The only difference is that I have the youth to go even further than any of them.
Including you Sicko.
The Underground might be ‘your house’, but guess what…‘your house’ is in the middle of my kingdom. Yeah, that’s right. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m the King of the Underground. That means the entire division…is mine to command…mine to control, and while you’ve decided to take matters into your own hands, let me make it perfectly clear: a revolution rising will not stop the once and future king from seizing your land, burning down your entire village, and throwing your ass under the guillotine.
And when it’s all said and done, and your head is in my hands, above me in triumph, the only person you’ll have to blame…is yourself.
Because for all your talk, for all you assurance of victory, you’ve never faced a guy as young, as passionate, and as determined to succeed as me.
I am the son of a dumb-ass with the heart of one too. If you think a 7 foot demented clown in an ice-cream truck is enough to keep me down, than Sicko…you’re clearly more delusional than I originally thought.
Here’s the thing…Hawaiian Hardhead might be the person who raised me, but he is far from what’s running through my blood. So if you think your script is absolute down-pat, allow me to burn that shit up for ya’.
For all your talk, you’re not the champion. Sure, you might claim you’re the master, but son, even masters have to answer to somebody.
Yeah, Hawaiian Hardhead is my dad, but it only takes seeing one match for you to realize that I am a hundred times the wrestler he ever was. If you don’t see it, you don’t want to see it, because you realize that it means you might lose.
I’ve weakened the title? You mean the same title that has main evented more Traumas the last few months than before I ever graced it with my presence? That same title that—now that you’re in the match—is suddenly relegated to third in line?
You say you’re going to torch the Underground division because you don’t like what it’s become. That’s fine. I welcome the flames, because when the entire damn kingdom is on the ground in ashes, all that matters is my throne will remain standing. And on that throne I will remain sitting, still the King of the Underground.
But if you think I can’t stop you. If you think I stand zero chance. If you think you’re some all-powerful, destined messiah, sent here to PCW to ‘save’ the Underground…than Sicko…maybe it’s time to wipe off the clown make-up. Maybe it’s time to set aside the tights and boots. Maybe it’s time to sell the ice-cream truck and pick-up a nice Ferrari from the local dealer.
Because if you’re that damn sure of yourself…when you lose…you might as well retire…because you just made yourself look like the biggest fool in the history of professional wrestling.”
David suddenly stops the recording.
----------------------------------------------------
With the speech finished, David takes the SD card out of the phone. Once it has been removed, he puts it in his pocket before tossing the cell phone into the awaiting waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
David watches the phone as it sinks into the salt water.
A familiar crow soars down, landing on David’s left shoulder. The latter adjusts the championship still sitting on his right.
“Alright Qrow. If shit goes south, I want you gone, okay?” David asks.
The crow squawks a response.
“I mean it. We both know I’m walking into a trap. Once the showdown starts, I want you bolting and soaring. Go back to Remnant to avoid capture. You’ve stuck by me so far despite my…otherwise questionable decisions. The last thing I need is another ally going down because I couldn’t keep them safe.”
The crow turns towards David’s head, pecking him in the side of his head once. As David moves it away at the sharp pain, the crowd squawks one more time.
“Yeah okay, fair enough. Let’s get this shit over with. The sooner I leave this place the better.”
----------------------------------------------------
As a white, windowless van pulls up to the Dream Center of Tampa, no, it’s not a stalker here to claim children with a bunch of candy to offer.
Instead it’s just David Hunter and Qrow Branwen.
Couldn’t tell ya’ if it’s an improvement or not, but hey, we’re not here to judge people on their poor choice of vehicles.
At least not in this portion anyway.
The back of the van bursts open, with David Hunter jumping out. Wearing a black t-shirt adorned with a parody of Starry Nights featuring the color purple and a unicorn, along with his usual denim jeans, David grabs a duffel bag, placing it on his shoulder.
The van turns off. Qrow hops out of the driver’s seat, approaching David. In his hand is a blue and red lucha mask.
“Here’s that mask you wanted,” he says.
David takes it. He wastes no time and places it over his head. He velcros the bottom of it together, sealing it in place atop his head.
“Remember the plan?” Qrow asks.
David feels for the pistol in his pants pocket before adjusting the bag on his shoulder.
“Yep. You do the talking. I do the signing. I’m mute so you’re my translator. If we meet Lydia and Steph than I try not to freak the fuck out,” he says.
Qrow slaps the shoulder not containing the duffle bag.
“Good. Let’s do this. We just gotta get in, grab the Crow’s Eyes, and get the hell out,” he says.
The two of them walk side-by-side, approaching the Dream Center’s entrance. As soon as they walk in, they are greeted by an older woman standing by a table. On the table’s front is a banner that reads “Tampa Bay Wrestling Academy present The Frank Hunter Memorial Show.”
“How might I help you gentlemen today?” she asks.
David does some signing his with hands, something Qrow immediately translates.
“We’re here for the wrestling show. He’s one of the wrestlers,” he says.
David gives the woman a thumbs up.
“Well alrighty, just head on back through those doors. Stephanie and Lydia will talk to you briefly before showing you to Mr. Daemon,” she says.
Qrow lowers David’s thumbs up.
“Thank you,” the former says.
The two make their way further into the building, going through the aforementioned doors. Around the hallway are a bunch of obvious wrestlers. Some are wearing jeans, others prefer the trunks, but the one thing consistent is the amount of skin they’re all showing.
As they go further into the building, David does some hand gestures to Qrow.
“Yeah I’m kind of shocked we haven’t seen them ye—” before Qrow can finish, David slaps his right hand across his chest.
The pair stop, looking ahead to two women, one older than the other, talking to a black man in some wrestling trucks.
David and Qrow can briefly hear the end of the conversation.
“Thank you for coming Marcus. I really appreciate all you’ve done for us,” the younger woman says.
“It’s no problem Stephanie. It’s just a shame your father and brother couldn’t be here,” Marcus—the black man—says.
David, his hand still across Qrow’s chest, grips the man’s shirt into a fist.
Qrow grabs the hand, throwing it down.
“Relax,” Qrow whispers. “I’m sure she’s smart enough to not be dating somebody the age of her dad. Besides, we’re keeping a low profile, remember?”
David takes a few moments to breathe in and out. Eventually, Marcus shakes both woman’s hands before walking further into the building.
The older woman notices the two of them. She grips the younger woman’s arm before approaching the two men.
The older woman shakes hands with David and Qrow while introducing herself.
“Ah, hello there. You two must be Oscar Pine and El Silenciosa pero Mortal, was it?” she asks.
David nods his head in response. Qrow gives a side-eye to him, something he obviously avoids addressing.
Next time you want to pick an alias, pick it yourself.
“My name is Lydia. This is my daughter, Stephanie,” the older woman says.
Stephanie offers her hand to both men.
“It’s nice to meet you,” she says.
Qrow shakes her hand. David, however, does so reluctantly. When the two shake hands, David remains glancing in Lydia’s direction. Stephanie notices this, but refrains from speaking on it.
“Thank you for having us on board. Frank was…always a hero of ours when we were growing up. It’s a shame what happened. I’m sorry, truly, for your loss,” Qrow says.
David does a few signings with his hands. Stephanie notices this, and narrows her eyes.
Once David is aware, he stops. Qrow translates all the same.
“Silenciosa agrees, and wants to let you know that he’s honored to—”
“—wrestle in his name. Thank you, Mr. Pine, but I can follow ASL as well,” Stephanie interrupts.
The four of them take a moment to get their bearings.
David does what he can to avoid Stephanie’s glance, his arms frozen at his side.
Qrow keeps switching his look between the two siblings.
Stephanie has her eyes locked on David, narrowed and laser-focused.
Lydia just kinda stands there, the odd-duck out.
Eventually, it’s the matriarch who claps her hands. The other three startle a bit, blinking their eyes to get back into things.
“Well then. I’d hate to keep you occupied. Through those doors right there you’ll find your opponent, Mr. Daemon. Good luck, and thank you once again,” she says.
Lydia grabs Stephanie’s arm, leading her away from the two men.
“Thank you,” Qrow says.
Placing his hand on David’s back, Qrow leads him towards the door. Qrow opens it, shoving the masked man in. Once the door is closed, Qrow glares at David, who is focused on the other person in the room.
Against a far wall, sitting in a chair and drinking from a bottle of what is clearly Jack Daniels, is a man with grayed hair. He’s wearing some black torn and tattered pants and…literally nothing else.
What gets David’s attention is the familiar red jacket hanging behind him.
Qrow turns David around, whispering some very much not sweet nothings.
“What the fuck was that?” he asks.
“I froze. It’s the first time I’ve seen them in a year, what the fuck did you expect me to do?” David asks.
“Not freeze?” Qrow.
“Well I’m sorry that I don’t want my sister dead and have…had a semi-healthy relationship with my step-mom.” David.
“I don’t want Raven dead, I just—”
“That’s not the point. Look, I’m sorry. I’ve been tripping over my dick ever since I made this stupid deal with Noxurus. Between Revy, this Wu, the goose-chase, and now seeing the two of them again, I finally just…froze up. Fuck, I need a drink.”
“I’m assuming not the shit I got in my flask?”
“Maybe. Let’s just do this, okay?”
Qrow sighs. He nods before silently motioning towards their target sitting in the chair.
“Remember what I said. Once the showdown starts, get the fuck out of here, okay? I want you at Remnant as fast as you can fly,” David says.
“I got it. Go, I’ll keep watch at the door,” Qrow says.
David nods one last time.
He turns around, making his way across the room to the…let’s go with man, I guess. Not an ‘I’m questioning their gender’ thing, more of a ‘there are so many adjectives but those still aren’t good enough’ thing.
The man in question takes another quick gulp of the Jack Daniels bottle, one of the five that are sitting on the counter to his right. Only one of them is empty. Only one.
Once the bottle is back down, the man leans forward, digging through his bag.
“You must be my opponent. Sorry about…”
He motions towards the bottles, sort of, before giving up on it and just kinda throwing his hands all around him.
“…all of this shit. Don’t worry about me wrestling drunk. I’m pretty sure I always do.”
David stares at the…man in front of him.
This…this is Max Daemon?
The man taught personally by one of the Twin Twins?
The man who David crossed two countries for?
The man who currently possesses the one thing that can help him locate the woman he’s longed to find again?
This is Max Daemon?
“Oh my god…” David mutters in muted silence.
“Holy shit, I just made a mute talk again. I knew I was good, but I didn’t think I was a miracle worker,” Max says.
“You’re Max Daemon?” David asks.
“Ah, so my legend continues,” Max says, taking a quick drink of the Jack Daniels. “Yep, that’s me. First name Max, middle name Daemon. That’s right. For all the shit I give my parents for abandoning me to an old coot when I was four and…never seeing them again, I do have to thank them for having the balls to give me Daemon as a middle name.”
David only stares at Max, his eyes widening slowly. Yes, you can see them despite the mask.
David only tilts his head slightly to his left.
“Hey, you okay there? I know I’m a fuckin stud, but I don’t swing towards dick.”
“Well then. This experience, while brief, has certainly been eye-opening for me,” David manages to utter.
“I have that effect on people. Usually woman. Hey, are you actually rockin a cave in those jeans or nah? I thought the lack of bulge was confusing.”
David takes off his mask, revealing his face to the man in front of him.
He tosses it to the side with his left hand. Using his right hand, he grabs the pistol from his pocket, pointing it at Max.
“Over 5000 miles traveled, across two countries, countless favors spent, and an annoying Japanese half-breed hunter on my ass, all to find the guy trained by one of the Twin Twins. I was expecting class, poise, or at least some form of decorum. Instead I find you. Max Daemon. A name lost in The Game by the Council in an attempt to limit your impact. A name forgotten by most who utter it. A name who I expected to have enough power to match the weight of the name. Instead, here I stand, finding nothing but the metaphorical dead pigeon…do not eat.”
Max finishes another gulp from the bottle of Jack Daniels.
“Hey, if it’s power you want, I’m sure I can provide it,” he says.
He sets the bottle back on the counter before reaching into his bag. He takes out two pistols, matching David by pointing them at him.
David merely stares back.
“I’ve gone face-to-face with a butt-ugly lizard creature. I’ve fought down armies of no-named minions and henchmen. I’ve survived having sex with a millennia old witch for almost ten years. And yet I’ve never managed to face somebody like you,” he says.
“I get it, I’m fucking awesome. Any other revelations or do you want to do this?” Max asks.
“Good question.”
David fires a pistol at Max’s left hand. Instead of taking the blow, he drops the pistol to the floor. Max tries to fire the one in his right hand, but David dodges, going for the bag below them.
Max reaches down just as David reaches in.
The two of them grab something at the same time.
They pull it up out of the bag, revealing an eyeglass. It looks like it was taken right out of a pirate captain’s hands, albeit shinier than one would expect it to be.
Although that probably has to do with the glowing white light that emits from the piece of hardware.
“God dammit Nappa…” David whispers to himself.
“David Hunter, I challenge you to a xiaolin showdown.”
Is that like the title of the game or just a general activity?
Let’s go with the latter. Never actually seen it written down.
“No wu. Just one-on-one, winner gets the Crow’s Eyes.”
“There’s only one eye, what the fuck was Dashi thinking?” David asks.
“Who knows what the old fuck was thinking? Or who cares? I don’t. Game is a drinking contest. First person to drink shots of whiskey and not fall off their chair wins.”
“Yeah, fine, whatever.”
“Let’s go, xiaolin showdown,” the two of the mutter in unison.
Seriously, that feels like it should be titled, but at the same time, it just feels like a thing that happens. Like rugby. You wouldn’t title rugby.
Oh, right, the showdown.
Anyway, the room changes drastically. Like, the spot the two of them were in shifts downwards. And I mean actually down. The floor literally lowers down.
Eventually, a white light appears. When it fades, Max and David are sitting at a table, a shot glass in front of them. It is magically filled with whiskey, which is a feature I’m sure many would desire if such Xiaolin magic were possible by us mere mortals and not limited to any set of ‘chosen ones.’
Lucky bastards.
“Gong ye ten pai,” both men say simultaneously.
With the game starts, the two begin to chug down shot-after-shot.
It’s like a rich-man’s college party at his parent’s mansion.
It’s like a Ron White appreciation dance with nothing but whiskey and blackjack. Actually, forget the blackjack.
It’s like a Lil John song played on repeat until one’s ears start to bleed.
Never ending shots. Glass after glass. Whiskey after whiskey. Every single piece of liquid. No drop missed. All going down the throats of both men.
It’s a solid ten minutes before either man start to feel woozy. That doesn’t stop them from continuing the never ending rain of whiskey. I’m sure the Weather Girls would be proud if they were with us today.
Not long after fifteen minutes has passed does Max pause in his drinking. He looks around, something David doesn’t notice in his continuous stream of whiskey drinking.
Seriously, the guy just won’t stop. And he doesn’t even look like he’s showing any signs of it either. Max can hold his liquor but at least he looks like he’s been through a car wash. David just looks like a Japanese businessman decided he could out-drink his boss.
Max glances around their scenario, peaking up towards the darkened area around them. The spotlight shining on just their space is all the white in the otherwise black abyss that is their surroundings.
With a smirk, Max stands up out of his chair. David notices this, slamming down his last, now empty shot glass.
A white light engulfs them. The scene changes back to its original form. They go back up, returning to the room which they both first met in.
David is wielding the Crow’s Eyes in his hands.
Max is wearing a smirk on his face, his hair still ruffled and still smelling like he took a swim in a pool filled with Jack Daniels.
A pistol is cocked and placed against the back of David’s head.
The doors behind them are opened, leaving the room to flood with various soldiers in a white, plastic uniform. They’re wearing helmets, the black tint on the front guarding their faces from view.
One other man joins the fray, wearing a trench coat and wielding a rifle. He points it at David, leaving it cocked and ready to fire.
“Hello Uncle Rick,” David says.
Rick doesn’t respond. He just stares at David. This is becoming a recurring thing. Not surprising given the circumstances but all the same.
One of the soldiers steps up, grabbing the Crow’s Eyes from David’s hands. He tries to resist it, but it doesn’t last long before his hands fall to his side.
“Put your hands on your head,” the man with the gun says.
That familiar voice echoes in his mind as he complies.
Once his hands are on his head, the pistol is removed, only to be replaced by a pair of handcuffs, wrapping themselves around his wrists.
David is led out through the doors and hallways of the Dream Center. All throughout this, Rick does not remove his sights from David’s head. The soldiers surround them, keeping a litany of curious wrestlers and stagehands back.
“David Lucas Hunter. By the order of the Council, you are to be placed under arrest for attempting to unseat the natural order, for interdimensional conflict, for crimes committed with somebody from another dimension, for colluding with someone considered an S-Rank person of evil intent, and for escaping capture from a temporarily hired source.”
“You got note cards there?” David asks.
He doesn’t get an answer.
As they are exiting the building, David spots Lydia and Stephanie, holding each other close. Stephanie is looking at David, and as they lock eyes, a silent conversation takes place. However, neither breaks, and David continues looking in her direction even after leaving the building.
What that silent conversation was is something I can't even decipher.
They approach a tinted out black car. The back door is opened, and David is turned around, coming face-to-face with the man he calls father.
“Hey Dad,” David says.
Hawaiian Hardhead looks at him only for a few seconds.
He turns to a nearby white-armored soldier.
“Get Mr. Daemon what we owe him and then lock down this place. I want some serious damage control here,” he says.
The soldier salutes Hardhead before walking back towards the building.
“Council members still hard-asses I see,” David says.
“Get in the car,” Hardhead says.
“What? Come on, can’t we talk for once? Or are you going to go off on your adventures again and leave your family to wonder? Let me tell ya', I definitely took after you on that front. Are ya' proud of me pa'?”
“Get in the fucking car.”
This time it’s said with Rick’s rifle pointed right in David’s face.
David shakes his head before deciding to follow suit. A semblance of a smirk is across his face
It doesn’t matter. He’ll be out by the end of the day.
When the door is closed and the car starts driving off, David can’t help but shake his head once more.
Out the window, he spots a crow sitting atop a lamp post. Once the car is far enough, it flies away, far from the mess that David has found himself in.
