OD!SSEY - Part Four

[D!]

THEN

December 24th, 2005
8:55 pm
D!'s parents' house

(Lights up, and we are at a Christmas Eve dinner, with a tri-lingual family of five in the process of eating. D!, sitting alone on one broad side of the table, looks miserable in contrast to his get-up: a bright red sweater, a toque (at the table, no less, but also bright red) and a pair of stuffed antlers worn over the toque. He glumly pushes his salad course around the plate with his fork.

Across from him is his brother, B!, who we will meet an hour or so from now, and his wife . . . who we'll call L! here. On either side of the table is the father--thin, athletic, dignified, S!--and the mother--silver-haired, elegant, M!

When they first moved to Edmonton, this family didn't have a lot of money.

Things changed while D! grew up.

D! looks up and has his ears stop tuning out. L! is talking.)

L!: --but at the end of the probationary period, I'll likely be promoted to Level Two Tax Agent, just because of my qualifications.

M!: What does a Level Two Tax Agent do?

L!: Train Level One Tax Agents.

B!: (Stroking her shoulder.) Goverment work. We're set for life.

D!: (Motioning to stand up.) I'm getting a refill. (Grabs his wine glass.)

M!: No, dear, you've had enough.

D!: But--

M!: Assez, okay?

(D! pouts back into his seat.)

M!: Here's an idea: since we'e already heard from the rest of the kids (motions towards B! and L!) and have been told of their wonderful career news, maybe it can be your turn.

D!: Well, I'm usually in the news, so maybe we can skip me.

B!: NAPW M.V.P., NAPW Champion, main-evented Black Thursday in a two-out-of-three falls match . . .

L!: Of course we keep track.

M!: But you lost the Title, yes?

D!: It happens, Mom.

M!: Well, still, I think it would have been nice to have it for the Christmas photo. They should have let you keep it just one more week.

(D! grinds his teeth. B! shoots him a re-assuring look.)

S!: Have you given any thought of going back to school, Son?

D!: No. Because it doesn't interest me.

S!: Well, I don't think you should dismiss it out of hand--

M!: We are willing to pay for the tuition, you know.

D!: No. Because it doesn't interest me.

S!: Listen, hijo, you can only wrestle for so long before your body just wears out like Eddie Guerrero . . .

D!: Eddie Guerrero died of drug- and alcohol-related problems.

B!: (Mock-cheery.) More wine?

(D! glares at his brother.)

S!: Are they paying you enough for the abuse you take?

D!: You generally don't make a ton of money when you sign for your first year, but you get a bonus if you hold a title.

L!: Things were good when you were Champion?

D!: The money was fine.

M!: But you're not now.

D!: Dammit, Mom, do you work for the Rat Pack now?

M!: I don't know what that means.

B!: They're evil wrestlers, Mom.

M!: Ah.

S!: You were very good in English.

D!: Then I just would have become an English teacher, so I can train more people to become English teachers. It's kinda redundant.

S!: Well, (scoffs) if you want to keep throwing your life away and not better yourself--

B!: Nobody's saying you're throwing your life away.

D!: Huh.

S!: But what we are saying is that you can do anything you want to set your mind to, anything!

M!: You can make smarter . . . decisions.

D!: I like what I do.

S!: Also, your mother and I would like to discuss your scar.

(Everybody stops. D! breathes, then stops his hand from going up to remind himself it's there.)

S!: You should not . . . You. Should. Not. Have to spend the rest of your young life punished for someone's carelessness.

D!: Well, you're too late for that, Dad.

S!: (Looks across the room at M!, engaging her in a wordless conversation, then looks back at D!)

S!: Your mother and I are willing to pay for plastic surgery that would completely obliterate your scar.

(D! looks at him, incredulous.)

D!: But, Dad . . .

S!: We are always going to look out for you, mi hijo. Always.

D!: But . . . that's a huge expense. I'm not comfortable with . . .

S!: We have more than enough.

M!: I think we should tell everyone the news, don't you, Papa?

B!: News?

(S! looks at his children with a soft smile.)

S!: I'm quitting Public Works . . .

L!: Oh!

S!: . . . and becoming my own boss.

B!: How do you mean?

S!: Well, as we all know, Ralph Klein's going to be ending his career as Premier soon--

D!: Good.

S!: --and he's starting a legacy project, two cancer research centres, one in Edmonton, one in Calgary. (Smiles.) And I'm going to manage their construction.

B!: Holy!

M!: It's going to be a one billion dollar project, total. And your Dad's gonna manage it.

L!: One billion dollars?

B!: Like Doctor Evil?

S!: (Doing a cross-impression of Doctor Evil and The Count from Sesame Street.) One billion dollars . . . ah! ah! ah!

L!: I don't believe it! I can't believe it!

S!: One more project, then I can retire.

M!: Your Dad will never retire.

B!: That's great news! Isn't that great news, Bro?

(S! looks to catch his son's reaction. B! is still prompting him for an answer. The women catch the pause and look at him, expectantly.

But D! is lost for words.)

NOW

January 20th, 2006
9:02 am
NAPW Offices

(Tired but chipper, D! is strolling down the Corridor of Power. Here, outside the main offices, memorabilia is slowly starting to grow and affix itself to the walls as NAPW grows old . . . here isn't a lot of memorabilia here yet. Photographs, framed T-shirts, a giant foam Old Cadillac hanging off the ceiling. A poster catches D!'s eye, and he stops to view it.

Collaged together with Photoshop--as none of these men were ever all in the same room at the same time--are the fourteen men that first made up NAPW. D! finds himself, shoved to the background of the poster's "crowd", and notes how smackably cocky he looks. He inspects the other Superstars, realizing how little they knew about ach other back then. He sees D-X, and feels his temperature rise, just a little bit. He keeps his eyes moving . . . "The" Ravager, with an almost contemptible sneer on his face, Static, trying a little too hard to look wacky, Plague, and his one expression, giving D! too many strong memories than he'd like to deal with then.

And that's when he notices it.

He tilts his head to the side, lets the light shine on the frame differently, and definitely sees it.

There is a small, dark residue on Plague.

He cranes his neck, arcs his head, and looks around the whole of the glass front. And sure enough, he confirms what he thinks he sees--lots of faint smears over Plague, Calgary Connection, Dragon, and Viking. Bold smears. Jagged smears. Invisible to someone looking at them head on, but once seen, imposible to ignore.

Someone had Sharpied over the people who'd left. And then someone else washed the Sharpie off, but not without a faint trace left.

D! walks away from the poster, and through an open door.

He's greeted by a pleasant, middle-aged woman sitting behind a desk. Plump, thin-haired, she looks from her switchboard and greets--)

BERNICE: D! It's been too long, kiddo!

D!: Bernice! Good morning!

BERNICE: If you're looking for Winchell, he's just stepped out.

D!: Man, I never see him around here. Actually, Bernice, it's not him I'm here to see.

BERNICE: Oh?

D!: It's you.

BERNICE: (With a naughty smile.) Ohh . . .

D!: Calm down, Bernice, us wrestlers are notoriously bad providers. Listen, I have a favour to ask of you, and I really need you to come through for me.

BERNICE: Okay.

D!: I need an address.

BERNICE: Oh.

D!: I know. It's a bad scene. And if I could track him down without your help, I would. But I'm on a tight timetable, and you could help me out immensely.

BERNICE: That would be a serious breach, you know.

D!: Yes, I know.

BERNICE: And I didn't give out your address when Terry Brandon asked.

(Pause.)

D!: What!?

BERNICE: Uh-huh.

D!: Wow.

BERNICE: So as much as I'd like to help you find someone . . .

(Pause.)

D!: Predator.

BERNICE: Don't you already know how to find him?

D!: I ran into him downtown that one time. Coincidence. That's not going to happen again.

BERNICE: I'd like to help you, D!, but I can't.

D!: Say no more, Bernice, I'm sorry to impose.

BERNICE: No, it's just that he's never left an address.

D!: What?

BERNICE: He's never left one. So I literally can't give you an address.

D!: Damn it!

BERNICE: He could always come by later.

D!: No, I don't have that kind of time. I need to find him before Casino does.

BERNICE: Why would he do that?

D!: Casino's been super interested in my comings and goings. That's why I've got to get there first.

BERNICE: Well, if he does come by, you can leave him a message. Maybe even call to check if he's got it.

D!: Uh . . . tell him to meet me downtown. He'll know where. But I'm gonna check down there now, I don't know, maybe he's there, some kind of Hunt. (As he turns to leave.) Thank you, Bernice!

BERNICE: Call me anytime! It won't hurt to check!

(D! runs out of the office.)

(And then runs back in.)

D!: Oh my God. Cheque.

BERNICE: What?

D!: Cheque! Paycheque! It's the third week of the month, we all get paid!

BERNICE: Ohhh--

D!: And the office doesn't hold our cheques, so they have to be sent out!

BERNICE: So, in other words--

D!: Where does Predator's cheque get sent? He might not have a home address, but he has to get his cheque somewhere! And if it's not his home, then that's not protected!

BERNICE: (Typing frantically on her computer keyboard.) You know that's a stretch, right?

D!: I'm running low on options, Bernie.

BERNICE: (Looks at her screen, in amazement.) Oh, my God. (Looks up at D!) You're right. (Smiles widely.) I don't suppose you'd enjoy a drive, would you?

LATER

January 24th, 2006
1:48 AM
Baccarat Casino

D!: Predator, Predator, Predator . . . do I feel bad about what happened?

(He nods his head.)

And was it a long time-a-coming?

(He nods his head.)

NOW

January 20th, 2006
11:40 am
Outside Devon, Alberta

(Through some country roads drives a mango PT Cruiser. Despite a powdering of snow, D! is driving quite fast. He is clutching the wheel with one hand, and alternately working a travel mug full of coffee and a road map with the other one.

D! is driving with purpose.

D! has seen the billboards.

As he takes a turn off into a wooded, thin gavel road, the sound system in the Cruiser plays a sermon set to music--

"And remember to free faraway from the unbridled, and the impudent,
the malicious, and the unlucky.
For these being full of bad demons or rays are maleficent,
and like lepers and people striken with plague,
they harm not only by touch but even by proximity and by sight." (Dig it!)

--and he shuts it off, finally finding what he was looking for. The Cruiser pulls to a stop. D! gets out and steps, crunching, into a thin layer of virgin snow.)

D!: Predator!

(He walks to the only man-made item visible, a rusty-looking mailbox on a splintered, wooden post. He scans around.)

D!: Predator!

(He gets to the mailbox, and flips it open. Empty, with no idea how long ago. A wave of panic crashes down on him--he's wasted time, precious time, and now he's too far away from the city, where anything can happen--)

D!: Stupid.

(--and Casino, Brandon and Cartwright, all meeting, plotting, taking steps to ensure that the Cage match works in Casino's favour--)

D!: Predator!!

(--and he drops, exhausted, to his knees, ready to bust into tears, lowers his head in defeat, and notices something, something hidden beneath a layer of snow.

He brushes snow away madly, and reveals a pliant, durable piece of rubber, on which is written a single word--WELCOME.)

D!: . . . funny.

(And casting a glance back to his Cruiser, he sees a solitary figure standing by it, dressed too casually for the cold . . . a black tank-top, torn jeans, a long glove, and most importantly, a silver mask.)

PREDATOR: You suck as a hunter.

D!: (Standing up.) Yeah, I was pretty much picking it up on the fly.

PREDATOR: I've been following you since you left town.

D!: I haven't seen your car.

(Pause.)

PREDATOR: Well, since you've come all this way to find me, what do you want?

D!: Joker's Wild. We've gotta talk, peanut.

PREDATOR: I will listen to you . . . but promise nothing.

D!: All right. Well, right now, I'm killing myself getting ready to face Casino for the title again.

PREDATOR: And I must steel myself to face Ravager, Technique, Thunder, Lobo, and an opponent I may have never met!

D!: For the contendership. But I'm fighting for the title.

PREDATOR: And you will win, D!, just as I hope to win my match to face you, one-on-one, and restore the glory of the NAPW World Heavyweight Title.

D!: So . . you're saying I'm going to win.

PREDATOR: Yes, of course . . . I have the utmost faith in you.

D!: Good to know.

PREDATOR: And together, D!, we are unstoppable! We do not quit, we do not die--

D!: Cool your jets, Frankenstuff. There's no "we". We teamed up, once, period. And you freakin' speared me.

PREDATOR: An easy error. It won't happen again.

D!: 'Cause we're not tagging again, Predator. I won't be a tag wrestler, and I've turned down lots of people besides you. I. Work. Alone.

PREDATOR: Fine. We will work separately if not together. Tell me, did you drive all of this way to break up with me?

(D! shivers, and it's not just the cold.)

D!: No. It's about my cage match.

PREDATOR: You would like an enforcer.

D!: Wha--NO!! Work Alone! I! Do That!

PREDATOR: Then you'd like me to soften up Casi--

D!: DAMMIT! JUST GIVE ME THE BELT, YA SLOW CHILD!

(Pause.)

PREDATOR: Pardon?

D!: My belt! The belt! The original NAPW Title!

PREDATOR: I cannot do that.

D!: BULLSHIT!

PREDATOR: Do you really think I keep it here?

D!: I've got a car.

(Pause.)

PREDATOR: When you defeat Chris Casino, I'll return the title to you, a true Champion.

D!: But I'm going to win anyways, right?

(Pause.)

D!: So give me the belt now.

PREDATOR: Your behaviour, D!, is offensive. There is no need to treat me like a threat.

D!: I'm not going to fight Chris Casino thirty minutes in a steel cage just to raise his obscene stars-and-stripes belt over my head! I'm taking the original maple leaf one, and I know you have it!

PREDATOR: The true World Heavyweight--

D!: And it's not a WORLD title! It's not a HEAVYWEIGHT title! You can't even call it by its PROPER NAME!

PREDATOR: You will mind your tone of voice with me.

D!: And what's more, you have no right to hold that belt! I have Gone. To. Hell. To earn it. And keep it. I have retired a man over that title. Do you understand me? A hell of a wrestler, not just some comic-book junkie with a mask. You stole it from a locker. What on earth makes you believe you deserve it?

PREDATOR: And when you win your match--

D!: No! You do not call the shots, freakshow!

PREDATOR: Let's say you don't win--

D!: Gah! It's like babysitting! Anything to get out of bedtime!

PREDATOR: (Walking off, towards the woods.) Farewell, D. You are not the man I thought you were.

D!: Do not walk away from me!

(Predator ignores him, walking down further.)

D!: Get BACK here! You do NOT walk away from me!

(With the same steady pace, Predator continues.)

D!: JOSEPH! GET THE (BLEEP) BACK HERE!

(Predator stops.)

D!: Yeah, that's right. Your name is Joseph. You were kidnapped by Mirage. You were robbed of your name, force-fed Kool-Aid by a cult leader, and made to believe some bull crap prophecy.

(Predator is stock-still. D! starts running up after him.)

D!: You likely have a family, Joseph, and they're going to want to find you. But you're going to have to put this "Predator" character behind you, because that's not real--

(Predator turns around quickly, lashing out at D!, grabbing him by the throat.)

PREDATOR: You've studied Mirage's old promos. That certainly makes you crafty, D!, but it doesn't make you correct. I remember Joseph clearly. He died early in training.

D!: Then why'd ya stop, genius?

PREDATOR: Joseph . . . was my friend. You of all people should know about losing a dear friend.

(D!, furious, spits directly into Predator's mask. He instantly brings his other hand around, pops blades from the forearm bracer, and holds them to D!'s head.)

D!: So that's it, huh? That's how you're gonna do me? Is this how it's gonna go down?

(D! stares at Predator directly in the mirrored lenses, looking into his own blood-shot eyes.

A sudden motion, and the blades retract. Predator releases D! from the choke, and takes a few steps away. With his other hand, he undoes the fasteners on his glove and bracer, pulls them off of his arm, and tosses them behind him.

Both men meet up with each other, Predator with a steady stance, D! keeping his arms up and his feet moving. Steam emerges from both of their lungs and into the grey air.)

PREDATOR: I find it only sporting to warn you, D!

D!: Oh?

PREDATOR: I have fought beside you twice now.

(Predator quickly shifts into a Dragon Stance.)

PREDATOR: My style is Adaptation. I have studied your style and analyzed your weaknesses. You will not have an easy time of fighting me.

(D! unleashes a fast field-goal kick to beween Predator's legs. The Hunter folds his legs, lets out a whine, and drops to his knees.)

D!: Okay.

(BUZZ KICK. Predator topples over.

D! walks over and stands above the masked man. Predator is breathing hard in anger, but does not get up.)

D!: Namelessness, Rapid Progression, and Betrayal. That's all correct, right?

(Predator snarls.)

D!: I go by One Letter, Said Real Loud. I've worked my way up the ranks faster in my first month than anyone in the UPW. So where does that leave us, peanut?

PREDATOR: That doesn't make you what I am.

D!: No, but I've fought beside you twice already. And both times, I've come to realise that I could stand to crawl around in your head, just to see what I can learn. Adaptation.

(He starts walking back to the Cruiser.)

D!: Oh, and you're welcome.

PREDATOR: I'm welcome!?

D!: Ravager fights dirty, kid. So one shot to the jewels like that would've cost you. Now you stand a chance against that crazy bastard. Good luck.

PREDATOR: (Climbing to his feet.) Wait, D!, the belt![/color]

D!: I changed my mind.

PREDATOR: What?

D!: If you can seriously beat five men and then beat me, then you'll have earned it.

(He opens the Cruiser's door and sits inside.)

D!: But a belt without a champion is worthless, Predator. So until you do so . . . you're an overgrown child holding onto his favourite toy. Ta!

(With that, he closes the door, fires up the motor, then takes off.

Predator takes the events in, silently. He picks himself up. The air is silent, save for the Cruiser's motor running off into the distance. He walks--tenderly--back to the mailbox by the road, and looks off. No trace of D! Long gone.

He scans the sky. Not a bird. Nothing. He realizes that he is the only living thing for miles.

He stands, soundless, and ponders.

Then he lifts the welcome mat up, takes the original belt hidden underneath it, and walks off into the woods.

Lights down.)

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Predator used with permission.