Post by Eli Martin on May 3, 2020 16:00:00 GMT -5
THEN...
We open to a charming display of white sparklers kindling on-stage; the booming of heavy metal ripples from the PA, rivaling the screams of five thousand blood-thirsty attendees, spilling from the metal bleachers lining the walls and onto the floor seats which encircle the six-sided cage.
Fade to the remoteness of Eli Martin’s private room; Eli was brimming with nervous energy, as he’d spent most of the hour pacing about the floor. It wasn’t customary for Eli to be this swept up by anxiety before a big fight, but tonight was different. The empty seat nearest the door, usually occupied by his father, was a subtle reminder of that. John Thomas was put on bed rest following - what was declared a “hunting accident” by the police. No witnesses. No signs of a struggle. Makes for a likely story to anyone who happened to come across it in the morning paper over breakfast. But Eli knew better. And more importantly, he knew his Father.
This was no accident. This was a message.
A knock is pounded into his door; skepticism rearranged his features, curiosity sparkled in his eyes, but anxiety clenched his fists. Entering a secure stance, he walked cautiously to the door, reaching for the metal handle and pulling it open just enough to meet the gaze of this potential threat.
Tony DeFrank:
“Little pig, little pig...let me in.”
A sinister tone traced back to the round man from the other side of the door.
Eli Martin:
“Go to Hell.” He growls.
Goon:
“Hey, don’t be a wise guy.”
Tony DeFrank:
“That’s alright, our friend here is just a little ruffled by the unfortunate circumstances that have resulted in his Father’s condition, let's show him some compassion. You have my deepest sympathies. But don’t you dare take my kindness for weakness, boy, you may be the biggest name in this company but I jam the company - and you answer to me now. Capiche? Now, do yourself a favor and step the fuck aside. We’ve got some..‘business’ to discuss.”
After careful deliberation, Eli obliges. Opening the door for him to step through.
Tony DeFrank:
“Thank you. So gracious.” He mocks, crossing the threshold in a peacock-esque strut.
The large goons attempt to enter the room behind him, but they’re prevented from doing so.
Eli Martin:
“Not so fast. I don’t recall inviting either of you stooges in.”
They hold their boss’ gaze for a brief moment, before being instructed to back down with a subtle nod. Hesitant, they follow his orders and back out of the doorway for Eli to clasp shut. He turns in the approach of the crime lord bathing in a rage of fury, threatening his well-being by gripping his collar.
Eli Martin:
“Man, you’ve got some balls coming here. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t put a ring around your damn eye!”
Tony DeFrank:
“Because I have men monitoring your old man around the clock who are just dying to put a bullet in his head should you get another case of cold feet and renege on our agreement, that’s why.”
The ring of the death threat, simmers him, he releases his hold and takes a step back. Tony, feeling the energy in the room shift in his favor, basks in it; a twisted grin forming in his mouth.
Eli Martin:
“What kind of an agreement?”
Tony DeFrank:
“The one where you drop the belt to my guy and you and your Dad leave this business for good. Can’t have you making trouble for me down the line now, can I?”
Eli Martin:
“And if I say no?”
Tony DeFrank:
“You won’t. Give yourself some credit here, kid, you may not be the brightest bulb in the box but you ain’t crazy. And doing that would make you certifiable. I would think that by now, you realize the extent of my power in this business - in this city! I could make things very unpleasant for you and your old man if I were to be provoked.”
Another knock ensues.
Tony DeFrank:
“That must be my guy now. Send him in!”
The door opens and in steps a battle ready, Slade Fischer - navy blue trunks and sports tape around his fists and feet soles. With him, he carried an arrogance so thick it could be carved through, and an icy blue gaze that burned a hole through Eli.
Eli Martin:
“Slade Fischer, of course. Why am I not surprised?”
Slade Fischer:
Scoffs. “That’s more than likely due to the fact that you stole my Title from me. Did you think there wouldn’t be compensation for what you did?”
Eli Martin:
“Last I checked I won that bout...by submission, remember? How’s the arm by the way?”
Slade advances toward Eli, who doesn’t flinch. Mere inches away from each other they stood, daring the other to perform the initial move, but Tony intervened. Stepping between them to protect his investment in what was being dubbed the rematch of the century.
Tony DeFrank:
“Not here. Save it for the ring.”
Slade Fischer:
“You’re right. Wouldn’t want to provide our soon-to-be-former-champion with any more excuses for why he’s still holding onto something he is no longer worthy of.”
The two start for the door, but are momentarily stopped when Slade’s eye catches the glimmer of the Title in question from nearby.
Slade Fischer:
“Shine her up nice for me.”
As they make haste their exit, Eli, realizing how uncompromising a situation he’s currently in throws the empty seat across the room.
I have brushed elbows with my share of sociopaths; those who got their rocks off by making everyone around them miserable. And I, regrettably, have allowed them to run my life on occasion -- allowed them to intimidate or muscle me into complying with their nonsensical demands because I fell for their act.
I believed them when they brazenly impeded my life and spoke with the self-assurance that exacerbated my insecurities and thus often rendering me humiliated and intimidated in their presence. I bought into their performances as exhibitions of strength when they were in truth acts of cowardice..
..but no more.
If you're the type of man who has to belittle the next guy in order to feel big then you clearly aren't a man to begin with.
Men. Real men. Protect the defenseless. They stand against injustice and tyranny regardless of what it'll cost them. They commit to doing the right thing despite the unmeasured difficulties of such simply because it is the right thing to do. It doesn't take an 'accountant' to see the 'irregularities' of The Accountant concerning proof in regard to his manhood - or lack thereof.
You embarked on a return to the SFT, why? Don't know, don't really care. But you chose to sit and monitor my match of all matches. I thought nothing of it initially, but then you decided to partake in some extracurricular...activities. Granted, I'm new to this business and am still in the process of configuring how things are run; but where I come from, the act of kicking a man who's been rendered helpless is highly frowned upon. And I've got to make you pay for that.
Many nights since have I wrestled with the thought and kicked myself for not going back to help Jack Jones. But I figured it was none of my business - I didn't know of any beef or history between the two of you and from that decided that it wasn't my problem. Alas, it is. I stood witness to maltreatment and did nothing. As a result, he could have been gravely injured that night and I've got to live with that. That part rests on me. But I can make amends to him, by putting you in the same hospital room you put him in.
You think you can take me. That's obvious. But being someone who prides himself on receipts and evidence to provide further evidence, I expected you to be more logical than you're being. You say you're an 'accomplished submission wrestler' yet your work doesn't reflect such a outlandish claim. Two decades into this business and all you have to show for it is a couple maneuvers that a maggot entering his first semester in the police academy could apply expertly? You beating me with such fundamentals is the equivalent mediocrity of trying to poison a viper with its own venom. You best play to your strengths if you have aspirations of beating me because from what I've seen they come few and very far in between.
We'll see how well you can compose yourself when under the sheer pressure I'll apply to your already aching joints as I threaten to bend and snap them out of placement. But I doubt it'll amount to much. When I've gotten you in my clutches there is no composing yourself; time is of the essence and the more of it you waste the closer you arrive to permanent injury; you have two choices either reach out or tap out.
I can't wait to discover how well you fight when your opponent isn't already disabled or grounded.
As for our other adversary, if you're willing to show...you can expect the same punishment.
We open to a charming display of white sparklers kindling on-stage; the booming of heavy metal ripples from the PA, rivaling the screams of five thousand blood-thirsty attendees, spilling from the metal bleachers lining the walls and onto the floor seats which encircle the six-sided cage.
Fade to the remoteness of Eli Martin’s private room; Eli was brimming with nervous energy, as he’d spent most of the hour pacing about the floor. It wasn’t customary for Eli to be this swept up by anxiety before a big fight, but tonight was different. The empty seat nearest the door, usually occupied by his father, was a subtle reminder of that. John Thomas was put on bed rest following - what was declared a “hunting accident” by the police. No witnesses. No signs of a struggle. Makes for a likely story to anyone who happened to come across it in the morning paper over breakfast. But Eli knew better. And more importantly, he knew his Father.
This was no accident. This was a message.
A knock is pounded into his door; skepticism rearranged his features, curiosity sparkled in his eyes, but anxiety clenched his fists. Entering a secure stance, he walked cautiously to the door, reaching for the metal handle and pulling it open just enough to meet the gaze of this potential threat.
Tony DeFrank:
“Little pig, little pig...let me in.”
A sinister tone traced back to the round man from the other side of the door.
Eli Martin:
“Go to Hell.” He growls.
Goon:
“Hey, don’t be a wise guy.”
Tony DeFrank:
“That’s alright, our friend here is just a little ruffled by the unfortunate circumstances that have resulted in his Father’s condition, let's show him some compassion. You have my deepest sympathies. But don’t you dare take my kindness for weakness, boy, you may be the biggest name in this company but I jam the company - and you answer to me now. Capiche? Now, do yourself a favor and step the fuck aside. We’ve got some..‘business’ to discuss.”
After careful deliberation, Eli obliges. Opening the door for him to step through.
Tony DeFrank:
“Thank you. So gracious.” He mocks, crossing the threshold in a peacock-esque strut.
The large goons attempt to enter the room behind him, but they’re prevented from doing so.
Eli Martin:
“Not so fast. I don’t recall inviting either of you stooges in.”
They hold their boss’ gaze for a brief moment, before being instructed to back down with a subtle nod. Hesitant, they follow his orders and back out of the doorway for Eli to clasp shut. He turns in the approach of the crime lord bathing in a rage of fury, threatening his well-being by gripping his collar.
Eli Martin:
“Man, you’ve got some balls coming here. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t put a ring around your damn eye!”
Tony DeFrank:
“Because I have men monitoring your old man around the clock who are just dying to put a bullet in his head should you get another case of cold feet and renege on our agreement, that’s why.”
The ring of the death threat, simmers him, he releases his hold and takes a step back. Tony, feeling the energy in the room shift in his favor, basks in it; a twisted grin forming in his mouth.
Eli Martin:
“What kind of an agreement?”
Tony DeFrank:
“The one where you drop the belt to my guy and you and your Dad leave this business for good. Can’t have you making trouble for me down the line now, can I?”
Eli Martin:
“And if I say no?”
Tony DeFrank:
“You won’t. Give yourself some credit here, kid, you may not be the brightest bulb in the box but you ain’t crazy. And doing that would make you certifiable. I would think that by now, you realize the extent of my power in this business - in this city! I could make things very unpleasant for you and your old man if I were to be provoked.”
Another knock ensues.
Tony DeFrank:
“That must be my guy now. Send him in!”
The door opens and in steps a battle ready, Slade Fischer - navy blue trunks and sports tape around his fists and feet soles. With him, he carried an arrogance so thick it could be carved through, and an icy blue gaze that burned a hole through Eli.
Eli Martin:
“Slade Fischer, of course. Why am I not surprised?”
Slade Fischer:
Scoffs. “That’s more than likely due to the fact that you stole my Title from me. Did you think there wouldn’t be compensation for what you did?”
Eli Martin:
“Last I checked I won that bout...by submission, remember? How’s the arm by the way?”
Slade advances toward Eli, who doesn’t flinch. Mere inches away from each other they stood, daring the other to perform the initial move, but Tony intervened. Stepping between them to protect his investment in what was being dubbed the rematch of the century.
Tony DeFrank:
“Not here. Save it for the ring.”
Slade Fischer:
“You’re right. Wouldn’t want to provide our soon-to-be-former-champion with any more excuses for why he’s still holding onto something he is no longer worthy of.”
The two start for the door, but are momentarily stopped when Slade’s eye catches the glimmer of the Title in question from nearby.
Slade Fischer:
“Shine her up nice for me.”
As they make haste their exit, Eli, realizing how uncompromising a situation he’s currently in throws the empty seat across the room.
I have brushed elbows with my share of sociopaths; those who got their rocks off by making everyone around them miserable. And I, regrettably, have allowed them to run my life on occasion -- allowed them to intimidate or muscle me into complying with their nonsensical demands because I fell for their act.
I believed them when they brazenly impeded my life and spoke with the self-assurance that exacerbated my insecurities and thus often rendering me humiliated and intimidated in their presence. I bought into their performances as exhibitions of strength when they were in truth acts of cowardice..
..but no more.
If you're the type of man who has to belittle the next guy in order to feel big then you clearly aren't a man to begin with.
Men. Real men. Protect the defenseless. They stand against injustice and tyranny regardless of what it'll cost them. They commit to doing the right thing despite the unmeasured difficulties of such simply because it is the right thing to do. It doesn't take an 'accountant' to see the 'irregularities' of The Accountant concerning proof in regard to his manhood - or lack thereof.
You embarked on a return to the SFT, why? Don't know, don't really care. But you chose to sit and monitor my match of all matches. I thought nothing of it initially, but then you decided to partake in some extracurricular...activities. Granted, I'm new to this business and am still in the process of configuring how things are run; but where I come from, the act of kicking a man who's been rendered helpless is highly frowned upon. And I've got to make you pay for that.
Many nights since have I wrestled with the thought and kicked myself for not going back to help Jack Jones. But I figured it was none of my business - I didn't know of any beef or history between the two of you and from that decided that it wasn't my problem. Alas, it is. I stood witness to maltreatment and did nothing. As a result, he could have been gravely injured that night and I've got to live with that. That part rests on me. But I can make amends to him, by putting you in the same hospital room you put him in.
You think you can take me. That's obvious. But being someone who prides himself on receipts and evidence to provide further evidence, I expected you to be more logical than you're being. You say you're an 'accomplished submission wrestler' yet your work doesn't reflect such a outlandish claim. Two decades into this business and all you have to show for it is a couple maneuvers that a maggot entering his first semester in the police academy could apply expertly? You beating me with such fundamentals is the equivalent mediocrity of trying to poison a viper with its own venom. You best play to your strengths if you have aspirations of beating me because from what I've seen they come few and very far in between.
We'll see how well you can compose yourself when under the sheer pressure I'll apply to your already aching joints as I threaten to bend and snap them out of placement. But I doubt it'll amount to much. When I've gotten you in my clutches there is no composing yourself; time is of the essence and the more of it you waste the closer you arrive to permanent injury; you have two choices either reach out or tap out.
I can't wait to discover how well you fight when your opponent isn't already disabled or grounded.
As for our other adversary, if you're willing to show...you can expect the same punishment.
