Post by DVS on Nov 23, 2014 3:44:14 GMT -5
Frank Harmon was a friend of Dan Van Slade’s for twelve years. They were inseparable as children. Frank grew up two houses down the street from Dan’s childhood home in Missoula, Montana. They ran the neighborhood. Frank and Dan were the center of their clique, and they rotated leadership. They challenged each other. They played baseball and football together. They were an unstoppable force on and off the field.
Harmon, at six feet and built like a barbarian , led the defense of the Big Sky High School Eagles football team in sacks, tackles, interceptions, and fumble recoveries through his sophomore year. Both he and Dan started varsity as freshman. Frank was consistently aided in these feats with the assistance of one of Montana’s best high school defensive ends: Dan Van Slade. This defense also included the athleticism of linebacker Jordan Tripp, a man picked in the 2014 NFL Draft in the fifth round by the Miami Dolphins.
Tragedy came at a strange price. In the City Championship of their sophomore season there was a run play miscue that ended Frank Harmon’s hopeful football career. The rain came nonstop in Missoula that day. The Roos Field grass was a slick, wet and muddy mess. The sky was lead gray with stints of blues and yellows following a lightning strike in the distance that would send a crackle afterword. The lights shined upon Roos Field and illuminated the stage for the spectacle ahead as the weather seemed to settle.
The game hadn’t begun but the struggle came early. Dan and Frank were seen arguing in the Eagles locker room. Their issue was a mystery, but some still disregard certain truths for rumors. Many theories pointed to a woman both men had been known for courting. No matter the reason – they were at odds and this caused friction among most of the starting squad. They were a team divided at a crucial moment of their season. If they didn’t mend, and fast, then this game would be written off and the next 365 days would become torture; and, they all knew it.
Hearts raced. Roos Field was very loud. The poncho covered crowd chanted and yelled until voice boxes began to skip like broken records. Dan and Frank stood at each end of their team on the sideline. They stared across the field at a hungry Loyola Sacred Heart High School football team. Loyola’s starting running back was a 5’11”, 221 pound Tasmanian Devil senior named Brett Harmon; Frank Harmon’s cousin. Brett was the only reason Loyola was a threat to most of the opposition over four seasons. He rushed for over 5,000 yards as a four year starter to that point. It was a school record. Brett had been here before, but he still had something left to prove. It was difficult to prove anything after the previous City Championship game when he rushed for 162 yards, and 32 yards receiving, in a 42 to 38 loss to the Eagles. That alone made this game more crucial for the scorned cousin across the field. As if the pressure couldn’t be more uneasy.
The game began as it should, and both teams became muddied and bloodied over two quarters of an excruciating testament of power football. Brett Harmon rushed for an uncharacteristic 24 yards by halftime, and his young cousin Frank had tackled him five times; Dan smashed Brett behind the line three times for a total loss of six yards. The field was critical of the running back that couldn’t get his feet up enough for good coverage. The only score of the half was a thirteen yard pass to the Eagles tight end that was capable of breaking the plane for six. The score was seven-nothing Eagles with the point after going into halftime.
The second half was a different story, and a different Brett. The Loyola back ran the first play of the half for 41 yards before being pulled to the Earth by the Eagles strong safety. They’d eventually kick a field goal. That was the only story, along with Brett Harmon’s 112 total yards rushing, going into the fourth quarter. Dan and Frank had a minor altercation on the sideline when the Eagles offense couldn’t convert a crucial third down with four minutes left to play. Loyola received the ball, and their offense inched their way down the field. The Eagles defense, led by Harmon, Van Slade, and Tripp, tried ferociously to stop Loyola, but the offense kept pounding. Loyola made their way to the Eagles twenty with fourteen seconds left to play. Time was running out.
Second down, and ten yards remained for a first. The quarterback dropped back and delivered a short screen pass to Brett Harmon on the left. Brett side-stepped to the right as Eagles linebacker Jordan Tripp slid passed him. Brett charged for the wall of beasts and broke through. Dan missed his assignment, and failed to properly read the play. He spun around the right guard and reached for Harmon, but he missed. It should have been his tackle. Frank charged at his oncoming cousin. Brett tightly embraced the football and tucked it into his abdomen. Frank was like a rhinoceros, but the elements had other plans. Frank’s next step would be his last, and he slipped on the muddy grass. He had fallen face-mask first into the knee of another defender. His head violently snapped back. Both he and his team mate fell to the ground in a flop as Brett side-stepped to the left and continued successfully through the secondary and toward the end zone. Loyola would win ten to seven, and were city champions.
Frank didn’t get up. He was carted off the field on a stretcher. Broken neck.
The final play of the game was talked about for some time until the next year when Dan Van Slade and the Eagles defense pounded Loyola in a 66 to 21 romping to take back the title. What happened the year before became old news, and now the talk was about the Eagles heading to the Montana State Semi-Finals after a fantastic playoff tournament run. They were absent from the State Championship game.
Frank Harmon, the Friday night defensive phenom, now spent those nights listening to the game from a live internet stream in a wheelchair. He has yet to visit Roos Field.
Frank and Dan’s friendship faded in the summer prior to the start of the 2007 season. Frank Harmon, the athlete, was over. His life turned upside down by a terrible neck injury crippling him from the waist-down. The entire event had changed Dan Van Slade. Dan became bitter at the world around him. He began to tune out authority, and challenge the status quo. He was a man possessed with a new sense of freedom, and a profound propensity for uncontrollable aggression. This was not average aggression. Dan disregarded reactions. It became all about Dan, and only Dan. Everything else had to be destroyed, and rebuilt in Dan’s perspective.
It’s obvious that Frank realized Dan was heading in a different direction. Dan’s agenda had far more consequences than Frank could handle in his current state. Harmon and Van Slade eventually parted ways, and it ended appropriately. Harmon ignored Dan, and still does to this day. Both graduated from Big Sky, and both went to college and rightfully graduated. Frank married his high school sweetheart, who may or may not have spent a few beautiful Montana evenings under the sheets with Dan Van Slade in the summer of 2005; and Dan wanders the professional wrestling industry tooting a Mammoth’s tusk sized horn in an attempt to be the most hated man to ever prefer the sport.
It’s a dichotomy that couldn’t work in the Universe.
But, that’s not to say there could never be a passing of the spirits. Dan Van Slade wrote, and still writes, to Frank for the Holidays. It became a tradition, for whatever reason, but Harmon has never replied. Frank kept all the cards in a small shoe box that he keeps in the attic rafters of his rural Montana home. There is a card with a Santa Clause receiving a lap dance from a picture-perfect stripper for Christmas 2009. The inside inscription reads:
Frank never understood why Dan became so cynical. No one knew. It happened like a star explodes in the Universe; eventually – it just happens. Then there’s the card with a melted snowman on the cover; a carrot, two pieces of coal, a wooden pipe, and a black top hat float in three puddles of water. The inscription inside reads:
This year was no different. Frank and his family spend their November in a positive way. His wife hustles to make plans and prevail in the opportunity to equally share the decisions. Franks occupies their four year old son and cleverly inserts himself into the opportune father-son moments that make his significant other’s job easier. The fact that on this day Frank received another awful Christmas card from Dan Van Slade is unnoticeable. This holiday five-by-seven had the image of a cat wearing a bow on its head and climbing out of an unwrapped, boxed present. The inscription inside looked to have been scribbled by a child; it’s barely legible:
The card was immediately disposed.
The story of Frank Harmon is that of Dan Van Slade. It was their schism that moved the plates and changed the fabric of their existence. Somewhere in that moment of clarity was the emergence of an attitude. Dan Van Slade had changed forever. It changed a lot of lives. It created a monster.
It is at this moment, at this time, that Dan Van Slade enters the Old Missoula Tavern. The door shuts behind him. The room is backlit by the neon point-of-purchase beer signs hanging in the window. The lights are turned low. There’s the smacking sound of pool balls crashing against each other, and Ozzy Osbourne’s ‘Crazy Train’ plays on the jukebox to set the mood. It doesn’t take much time for heads to turn. Van Slade buttons the bottom button on his faded black, gray and white flannel that’s tucked into a pair of worn blue jeans. His sleeves are rolled to the elbows. He raises an eyebrow, smirks, and brushes back a string of curly hair hanging down his forehead.
The bartender tilts a frosted pilsner glass at 45 degrees under the Budweiser tap. It’s a solid pour with a one-inch foam collar. The bar is well decorated for the holidays with tinsel lining the bar and stockings hanging around the large Coors Light mirror that hangs above the back bar. Poinsettias are the centerpiece of all tables, and 8 red lit candles are separated a foot apart atop the bar. The first bartender delivers the beer to another bartender who then walks to a distant table on the bar floor. Frank Harmon is parked at the table and thanks the bartender for delivering the ice cold Bud by tipping him an extra dollar. Frank hasn’t noticed the man standing in the doorway. The first bartender has, and some folks near are at standby to watch. The first bartender points at Dan and glares.
Bartender 1: "Strike me a fuckin’ believer, because I’m damn certain a ghost just entered my bar…"
The bartender is about six feet, and bulbous. He has peppered hair pulled back in a ponytail the length of his shoulder blades, and a gray beard to match. His voice is recognizable amongst a crowd with a slight southern accent mixed with a unique certain dialect only familiar to people of the Northwest United States. He wipes his hands on a white towel and then slaps the linen against the bar. He extends his arms toward Dan and turns to his bar crowd.
Bartender 1: "Ladies, and gentlemen, if I could have your attention!"
His request is demanding. The second bartender grabs a remote control and mutes the jukebox. All eyes are directed at Dan Van Slade. Conversations cease. All games hault. The bartender smiles and looks at Van Slade. Frank Harmon takes another swig of his cold brew, but his eyes are on an old friend.
Bartender 1: "I’m certain every one of you will recognize the man standing at the door of our fine establishment. And, if you don’t, then I’m goin’ to tell you this in a fuckin’ nutshell: - if a piece of shit could walk, talk and breathe God’s good air – then it just walked in."
Dan is bashful and puts his right hand over his mouth. The bartender continues the introduction and slowly paces back-and-forth behind the bar like a caged lion.
Bartender 1: "Welcome back, Danny. Welcome back."
The bartender spins around and smiles at his bar crowd. His eyes widen.
Bartender 1: "This is a very special occurrence, my friends! So, since it’s so special, it demands an incentive! Because nobody gives a rats ass about Dan Van Slade in the state of Montana – I’m going to buy everybody one round of beers, and one shot of Black Velvet, just to not give a light-speed-flying-fuck about the burden that stepped foot through that door -"
The bartender points at Van Slade, and then grabs the bottle of Black Velvet whiskey off the liquor stairs of the back bar. He raises the bottle in the air and his guests simultaneously respond. Many begin to slam their glasses onto the bar and tables. The verbiage being thrown at Dan Van Slade is a vociferous whirl wind of hate. The bartender doesn’t waste any time and generously over pours whiskey into shot glasses. He looks at Dan.
Bartender 1: "Ya’hear that, Danny? That’s the sound of your hometown tellin’ you to hit the fuckin’ bricks…"
The bar keep returns his focus to his agreement, and the crowd bum rushes the bar. The other bartender brings Ozzy Osbourne back to the ears and then returns to his job to help pour beers. Dan Van Slade yawns for a couple seconds, and then turns his attention to the rack of pool sticks that are attached to the wall next to the jukebox. Dan walks over to the rack and removes a stick, and then walks to the pool table and grabs the cue. His next steps are toward the jukebox. He grips the pool cue and then quickly raises his arm in an attempt to smash the jukebox’s screen and destroy the property. Dan stops before making the next move. His eyes catch a glimpse of the jukebox’s power cord plugged into the wall outlet. He lowers his arm and bends forward to unplug the jukebox. The music stops. All eyes are on Dan Van Slade once more. The bar is silent aside a few coughs in the distance.
Frank Harmon takes another swig of his Bud as he watches Dan drop the pool cue and grab a nearby chair. Van Slade walks the chair to the center aisle and slams it against the wooden floor. He steps onto the seat and stands tall before the crow; pool stick in hand. His eyes pan the many faces enjoying a weekend evening on the town. Each individual is unsure how to react, but they’re more than willing to stand in attention. Dan’s eyes meet Frank, and then the first bartender. He slams the bottom of the pool stick against the seat of the chair, smiles, and winks.
Dan Van Slade: "Jack…"
He smiles at the crowd. The second bartender continues to deliver beer to thirsty guests. Dan discovers Frank’s empty visage within the crowd. Harmon glares at Van Slade. Dan nods.
Dan Van Slade: "…old friends…"
Dan raises his arms and shouts.
Dan Van Slade: " I thought that it would be rather entertaining if I personally delivered a very special season’s greetings from the Van Slade family…"
The bartender laughs, takes a shot of Black Velvet and then wipes his lips.
Bartender Jack: "You brought shame to the name of such a wonderful family!"
The bartender strokes his gray beard and then crosses his arms. Van Slade smiles, and the grin widens slowly.
Dan Van Slade: "Shame? I think you’re confused, Jack. Fame is more like it. I’ve not only brought fame to the Van Slade name, but I brought recognition and reconciliation to this God forsaken city. You all look at me as if I’m the most retched, worthless, spine-less, no-good pile of shit ever laboriously birthed in the city of Missoula. I’m loathed by the man because I tell it how I see it, and I don’t hold back. You all ask for the truth, but when it’s given you all grab the axe and start swingin’. I don’t hide from it. I don’t keep secrets. I can’t say the same about all of you…"
Dan waves the pool stick slowly from left-to-right. He’s pointing at the entire selection of bar crowd.
Dan Van Slade: "Secrets are never secrets unless they’re kept within. A secret becomes open source for information when it’s given to another individual; with-or-without confidence in the receiver. Every beautiful soul in this bar thinks they have secrets, but it’s no surprise how wrong they are."
He places the pool stick in position to act as if he’s holding a shotgun. He aims at Bartender Jack and closes his right eye. Sight is set on Jack. Dan speaks swift, and fast.
Dan Van Slade: "Bartender Jack had himself a momentous stint in the closet when he was about fourteen. He was caught pee-pee grabbin’ with the nine year old neighbor boy underneath a pine tree in the park."
He twists and aims at a random gentlemen sitting at a table on the bar floor.
Dan Van Slade: "And that nine year old neighbor boy was Pat Blanton!"
Pat Blanton, an older gentleman wearing a mostly camouflage outfit, spits a wad of chewing tobacco onto the wood floor and leaps from his chair. Three members of the crowd reach out and grab the husky man before he takes another step. He grinds his teeth at Dan Van Slade.
Pat Blanton: "You mother fuh….you sonnuva…"
Dan doesn’t care. He continues his hunt and sets his sights on another gentleman. This man was fat, bald, and very tan. He was very Italian, and wore a large gold chain around his next that rested in a bed of white chest hair. He wore a silk button up shirt that was closed mid-way and allowed a projection of chest hair to protrude through the opening.
Dan Van Slade: "Don’s restaurant closed because he fell into debt when he decided to gamble away the nightly deposits and use tip monies to aid in the underground Missoulan hooking business."
Don smirks and coldly stares at Dan.
Don: "You keep talkin’ all that shit, boy. Somebody gonna come after’ya, and when they do – they'll shove yer'head so far up ya’ass that shit’ll be the only language you’d be able to speak."
He turns and points the pool stick at an attractive young woman sitting at a bar table and surrounded by three men. She’s wearing a white v-neck hidden behind a North Face jacket, and yoga pants. Her strawberry blonde hair is pulled back in a pony tail. Her beautiful blue eyes glare through the thins of her eye-lids.
Dan Van Slade: "Maggy Davidson…oh, Maggy. I can remember when you were seven and would walk home from St. Timothy’s so innocent in your uniform. Such a sweet girl, but now that she’s 21 – buy her a shot of Jack and put a few PBR’s in her and she’ll treat your pastrami like Holy Communion."
He puts the pool stick down and is looks concerned at all the faces before him.
Dan Van Slade: "She’s seen almost every penis in this bar…and that includes you Pastor Laughlin…"
Dan points his index finger directly at a very skinny man in his early forties sitting at a table with his family. His wife turns to him with a look of shock. The Pastor turns to his significant other and begins to softly defend himself. Dan wastes no time and finishes his hunt. He aims the pool stick. Right eye closed. Sight set.
Dan Van Slade: "Frank Harmon."
Harmon takes a sip of his beer and licks his lips. He smiles and a bit of foam from his five o’clock shadow.
Dan Van Slade: "I once watched Frank shove an Oak tree twig up…"
Frank slams his beer glass against the table and it instantly shatters. He shouts.
Frank Harmon: "Enough!"
He pushes the wheels and backs away from the table. He guides the wheelchair into the crowd and stops.
Frank Harmon: "We get it, and nobody cares. I know all the same truths you know. We live with who we are every day, and most of us do a damn fine job doin’ so. You’re preachin’ to the wrong choir, son."
Dan pulls the trigger and makes the sound of a shotgun. He slowly lowers the pool stick and smiles at his old friend.
Dan Van Slade: "Oh, but I beg to differ. This ensemble is singin’ quite nice, if I do say so myself. You just keep that stern grip on those wheels, and let me do the talkin’.
Dan strokes his black chin stubble and breathes slow.
Dan Van Slade: "It’s clearly obvious that I’ve come home to stir up some shit. I didn’t intend to pass through this unscathed. This little confrontation is just a microcosm of the bigger picture. I never demanded your respect, but I would have never got it even if Frank made that play. But, he didn’t, and when it became I who led our team to success on multiple levels – it was still about how Frank should have been there. Call me selfish, I don’t mind. I busted my ass to take Big Sky further, and further. But the unfortunate side of the coin is that I was not, and will never be, Frank Harmon. He was your golden ticket to salvation."
Dan hops off the chair and kicks it aside. He skips over to the nearby empty table and leaps on top. He now stands taller, and his voice projects further.
Dan Van Slade: "That was the day I realized that God worked in a magical, and mysterious way. The consequences of my action led to a divine intervention I could have never predicted. Did I wish this pain upon Frank Harmon? No. I didn’t want Frank Harmon to lose – I wanted my team to lose. I wanted this city to lose. I wanted to watch you all sob and sulk and waste your time. Your misery was my happiness, but it obviously came with a lifelong burden. I wanted to manifest hate, and God helped me achieve it. I’ll never apologize for what happened, but I’ll always thank the Lord for giving me this righteous opportunity to shove it all back in your face."
The crowd blankly stares back, and Dan disregards all this to continue his rant.
Dan Van Slade: "My love for Missoula is like a crush that never blooms into a relationship, or an infatuation that leads to nowhere. I tried, and I try, but no matter the scale of the mountain that I climb you assholes will never give me the rightful recognition that I deserve. Missoula will be the Missoula that I perceive. I’m gonna put this city on the map, with-or-without your respect!"
The bartender seems irritated by this and throws his arms in the air.
Bartender Joe: "You’re a good-for-nothin’ Jackass!"
He shakes his head and returns to pouring shots. He wants nothing more to do with Dan Van Slade’s monologue. Dan swings the pool stick and releases it toward the wall near the jukebox. The stick smacks against the wall and Dan slams his right foot upon the table top. His face boils red, and he shouts.
Dan Van Slade: "WRONG! WRONG, WRONG – WRONG!"
This grabs the bartender’s attention. The old man slowly turns to look at Van Slade, and looks surprised by Dan’s reaction. Van Slade takes a few deep breaths and continues. A smirk crosses his face.
Dan Van Slade: "You’ve got it all wrong, but I don’t expect anything less from a closeted fruit cake."
Bartender Joe slams his fists on the bar. The second bartender lunges forward and grabs Joe by the shoulders to secure him from leaping over the bar and attacking Van Slade. None of this stops Dan from his speech. He paces two steps to the right, and then two steps to the left. He smiles.
Dan Van Slade: "See – the problem with you small time folk is that you’ll never see the long run. There’s a whole other world outside these city borders. I’ve conquered most of it, and I’ll continue to conquer until you begin to drink in my honor. So, maybe I’ll never receive the respect I feel that I deserve, but if I can’t get it through honest hard work then I guess I’ll just have to take it…"
He pauses to survey the bar crowd, a sea of hate. Their eyes pierce. The air is thick with hostility. Yet, Dan has no care in the world.
Dan Van Slade: "Not only will I own most of this city in the not-so-distant future, but I’m laying claim to this lame-ass bar and I’m going to take the wreckin’ ball to it. I’m thinkin’ a night club where the beautiful people can meet, where vanity reigns supreme, and where the devious acts of outspoken people make a mockery of the natural lives of others. I’m sorry, Frank…"
He shrugs at Harmon and seems apologetic.
Dan Van Slade: "…no wheelchairs allowed."
Frank bites his tongue, and shakes his head. A man in the distance can be heard saying “whatta fuckin’ asshole…” as Dan keeps his eyes panning the crowd.
Dan Van Slade: "I’m thinkin’ that your good ole’ days have been numbered; so, go’head and drink now. Take all the free drinks ole’ Jack hands you just to ignore the onslaught. Drink to forget. Drink because it’s all you got…"
He points at himself.
Dan Van Slade: "Me? I’ve reached the pinnacle of sports entertainment through a system of dedication and self loyalty that’s greater than any man. Somethin’ the lot of you have no clue how to handle."
Harmon laughs to himself as others in the crowd tend to chuckle.
Frank Harmon: "Pinnacle? Professional wrestling? Hmph!
Dan puffs his chest out and lifts his head confidently.
Dan Van Slade: "What of it, cripple? Ya’got an issue with my success? Take it up with your cousin, or the knee of our middle linebacker…fuck it…blame God!"
He lowers his head and reveals a devious smirk. His eyes are dead-set on connecting with Frank Harmon. The only thing missing from this shoot out is the crack of a whip and a rolling tumble weed. Dan pulls the trigger first.
Dan Van Slade: "You’ll never be me. You’ll never leave that chair, and you’ll never play football. Don’t ostracize me because of your own misfortunes. Or, do it. It doesn’t matter to me. There’s plenty of my ass to kiss in the future. So, pucker up and hope I’m not gassy."
Harmon’s hands nearly rip the wheels off the chair, but some folks in the crowd were hasty enough to act first. Frank couldn’t roll far enough before being stopped. He attempts to lunge out of the chair but another man gabs him and restrains him in the chair. The man restraining Frank can be heard advising Harmon to let it go. Harmon growls and yells.
Frank Harmon: "I don’t need legs to end your life, son! I’ll part your skull with a bullet before you can even attempt to devise another crude and witty comeback."
Dan begins to slow clap. He looks flabbergasted and impressed with Frank. He stops clapping, and the trademark smirk returns.
Dan Van Slade: "That’s right, Frankie. Let it go. Walk-um…roll…passed the problem. Lucky for you – I’m a problem without a solution."
Dan’s arrogant smile seems effortless, and almost uncontrollable.
Dan Van Slade: "Wednesday night – I have a date with destiny. The Wrestling Championship Federation, single-handedly the best in the industry, booked me to participate in the tour-nayo cibernetico main event."
He’s interrupted.
Random Man: (shouting) Nobody cares!
Dan stares into the distance, but doesn’t hesitate to investigate where the comment derived. Once again, reactions mean little to Dan Van Slade, but that doesn’t mean he won’t stop to make an observation.
Dan Van Slade: "Why are you all so…so…wrong all the time? Everybody cares. Although many wouldn’t admit it – every man involved in the match, and the fans dialed in to witness what’s to come – they care. They care because peril is imminent. I’m going to clean the ring and claim victory. I’m gonna head into overdrive and run roughshod all over WCF’s plane of existence."
Dan becomes gitty, and looks to Frank Harmon.
Dan Van Slade: "Frankie, this is exactly like our favorite comic growing up when the Punisher killed the Marvel Universe. Just a heapin’ mound of flesh-upon-flesh, and there I’ll be – His Royal Deviousness – statuesque on the peak. Mediocrity defeated."
Dan does his best confident Superman pose. He turns his head to the right and his eyes dart off into the distance. He sticks his chin and chest out. His fists rest at his waist. His legs are spread apart.
He continues, but it seems he’s coming to an end.
Dan Van Slade: "I’m sure it’s no surprise to hear me say that I’ve never really been a team player. Me – me – me, and this narcissistic behavior will continue until my final breath. Chemistry was never my strong point. There are not many variables that fit well with my chemical makeup. The booking is genius, to say the least. It would have been preferable to lay waste a single opponent, but to embarrass several? Suck me sideways with delight. It’ll be a massacre. This is what happens when you put a fox in a hen house. He has chicken all night long."
Van Slade steps off the table and directs his attention to the jukebox. He leans forward and retrieves the plug and then utilizes this final moment of silence to hammer the final nail in the coffin. He turns to the bar crowd.
Dan Van Slade: "I don’t need to prove any more to make you believe I’m Missoula’s golden child. Wednesday – I’m bringin’ home the bacon, or…chicken, and the journey begins."
He blows a kiss and embraces the crowd and continues to hold the jukebox chord.
Dan Van Slade: "Happy holidays, Missoula!"
He’s centimeters from plugging in the jukebox when a sudden idea brings Dan Van Slade to a sudden hault.
Dan Van Slade: "I almost forgot!"
Dan digs in his back pocket and removes a pair of linen that he immediately tosses across the bar to his old friend. The pair of women’s panties lands in Frank’s hands. Harmon breaths heavily and unravels the under garments for all to see. He glares at Dan Van Slade’s vilifying smile.
Dan Van Slade: "I found those the other day while cleaning out my old El Camino."
Frank slowly shakes his head. His cold stare of death provides Dan with all the evidence needed to draw the conclusion that Frank understands the panties belonged to his wife long before they were ever engaged.
Dan Van Slade: "They’ve been in there for about nine years. Look familiar?"
Dan winks, and proudly grins. He’s not shy to admit.
Dan Van Slade: "I have no secrets."
The jukebox is plugged in. The chorus to the famous loner theme song by Whitesnake brings joy to the face of Dan Van Slade. The mischievous magician keeps a close watch on the bar crowd as he reverses toward the exit. A man in the background can be heard yelling “ASSHOLE!” as Dan quickly pushes himself through the door and the chorus hits.
Harmon, at six feet and built like a barbarian , led the defense of the Big Sky High School Eagles football team in sacks, tackles, interceptions, and fumble recoveries through his sophomore year. Both he and Dan started varsity as freshman. Frank was consistently aided in these feats with the assistance of one of Montana’s best high school defensive ends: Dan Van Slade. This defense also included the athleticism of linebacker Jordan Tripp, a man picked in the 2014 NFL Draft in the fifth round by the Miami Dolphins.
Tragedy came at a strange price. In the City Championship of their sophomore season there was a run play miscue that ended Frank Harmon’s hopeful football career. The rain came nonstop in Missoula that day. The Roos Field grass was a slick, wet and muddy mess. The sky was lead gray with stints of blues and yellows following a lightning strike in the distance that would send a crackle afterword. The lights shined upon Roos Field and illuminated the stage for the spectacle ahead as the weather seemed to settle.
The game hadn’t begun but the struggle came early. Dan and Frank were seen arguing in the Eagles locker room. Their issue was a mystery, but some still disregard certain truths for rumors. Many theories pointed to a woman both men had been known for courting. No matter the reason – they were at odds and this caused friction among most of the starting squad. They were a team divided at a crucial moment of their season. If they didn’t mend, and fast, then this game would be written off and the next 365 days would become torture; and, they all knew it.
Hearts raced. Roos Field was very loud. The poncho covered crowd chanted and yelled until voice boxes began to skip like broken records. Dan and Frank stood at each end of their team on the sideline. They stared across the field at a hungry Loyola Sacred Heart High School football team. Loyola’s starting running back was a 5’11”, 221 pound Tasmanian Devil senior named Brett Harmon; Frank Harmon’s cousin. Brett was the only reason Loyola was a threat to most of the opposition over four seasons. He rushed for over 5,000 yards as a four year starter to that point. It was a school record. Brett had been here before, but he still had something left to prove. It was difficult to prove anything after the previous City Championship game when he rushed for 162 yards, and 32 yards receiving, in a 42 to 38 loss to the Eagles. That alone made this game more crucial for the scorned cousin across the field. As if the pressure couldn’t be more uneasy.
The game began as it should, and both teams became muddied and bloodied over two quarters of an excruciating testament of power football. Brett Harmon rushed for an uncharacteristic 24 yards by halftime, and his young cousin Frank had tackled him five times; Dan smashed Brett behind the line three times for a total loss of six yards. The field was critical of the running back that couldn’t get his feet up enough for good coverage. The only score of the half was a thirteen yard pass to the Eagles tight end that was capable of breaking the plane for six. The score was seven-nothing Eagles with the point after going into halftime.
The second half was a different story, and a different Brett. The Loyola back ran the first play of the half for 41 yards before being pulled to the Earth by the Eagles strong safety. They’d eventually kick a field goal. That was the only story, along with Brett Harmon’s 112 total yards rushing, going into the fourth quarter. Dan and Frank had a minor altercation on the sideline when the Eagles offense couldn’t convert a crucial third down with four minutes left to play. Loyola received the ball, and their offense inched their way down the field. The Eagles defense, led by Harmon, Van Slade, and Tripp, tried ferociously to stop Loyola, but the offense kept pounding. Loyola made their way to the Eagles twenty with fourteen seconds left to play. Time was running out.
Second down, and ten yards remained for a first. The quarterback dropped back and delivered a short screen pass to Brett Harmon on the left. Brett side-stepped to the right as Eagles linebacker Jordan Tripp slid passed him. Brett charged for the wall of beasts and broke through. Dan missed his assignment, and failed to properly read the play. He spun around the right guard and reached for Harmon, but he missed. It should have been his tackle. Frank charged at his oncoming cousin. Brett tightly embraced the football and tucked it into his abdomen. Frank was like a rhinoceros, but the elements had other plans. Frank’s next step would be his last, and he slipped on the muddy grass. He had fallen face-mask first into the knee of another defender. His head violently snapped back. Both he and his team mate fell to the ground in a flop as Brett side-stepped to the left and continued successfully through the secondary and toward the end zone. Loyola would win ten to seven, and were city champions.
Frank didn’t get up. He was carted off the field on a stretcher. Broken neck.
The final play of the game was talked about for some time until the next year when Dan Van Slade and the Eagles defense pounded Loyola in a 66 to 21 romping to take back the title. What happened the year before became old news, and now the talk was about the Eagles heading to the Montana State Semi-Finals after a fantastic playoff tournament run. They were absent from the State Championship game.
Frank Harmon, the Friday night defensive phenom, now spent those nights listening to the game from a live internet stream in a wheelchair. He has yet to visit Roos Field.
Frank and Dan’s friendship faded in the summer prior to the start of the 2007 season. Frank Harmon, the athlete, was over. His life turned upside down by a terrible neck injury crippling him from the waist-down. The entire event had changed Dan Van Slade. Dan became bitter at the world around him. He began to tune out authority, and challenge the status quo. He was a man possessed with a new sense of freedom, and a profound propensity for uncontrollable aggression. This was not average aggression. Dan disregarded reactions. It became all about Dan, and only Dan. Everything else had to be destroyed, and rebuilt in Dan’s perspective.
It’s obvious that Frank realized Dan was heading in a different direction. Dan’s agenda had far more consequences than Frank could handle in his current state. Harmon and Van Slade eventually parted ways, and it ended appropriately. Harmon ignored Dan, and still does to this day. Both graduated from Big Sky, and both went to college and rightfully graduated. Frank married his high school sweetheart, who may or may not have spent a few beautiful Montana evenings under the sheets with Dan Van Slade in the summer of 2005; and Dan wanders the professional wrestling industry tooting a Mammoth’s tusk sized horn in an attempt to be the most hated man to ever prefer the sport.
It’s a dichotomy that couldn’t work in the Universe.
But, that’s not to say there could never be a passing of the spirits. Dan Van Slade wrote, and still writes, to Frank for the Holidays. It became a tradition, for whatever reason, but Harmon has never replied. Frank kept all the cards in a small shoe box that he keeps in the attic rafters of his rural Montana home. There is a card with a Santa Clause receiving a lap dance from a picture-perfect stripper for Christmas 2009. The inside inscription reads:
Being naughty is also very nice! “Hope ya use this money to buy ya a lap dance! Take your crippled ass to the club and get some titties rubbed in your face. Maybe some nipple tassels will bring back your football career?” Signed, D.V.S. |
A snowman in Miami. Miamerry Christmas! “Eh’yo, Frankie, I’m down here in Miami getting’ my knob polished by Brazilian tens. How’s Missoula? How’s the family? How’s your football career?” Signed, Daniel P.S., “Ever thought about murder ball?” |
Every card contained a $100 bill.
This year was no different. Frank and his family spend their November in a positive way. His wife hustles to make plans and prevail in the opportunity to equally share the decisions. Franks occupies their four year old son and cleverly inserts himself into the opportune father-son moments that make his significant other’s job easier. The fact that on this day Frank received another awful Christmas card from Dan Van Slade is unnoticeable. This holiday five-by-seven had the image of a cat wearing a bow on its head and climbing out of an unwrapped, boxed present. The inscription inside looked to have been scribbled by a child; it’s barely legible:
MEOWWY CHRISTMAS! “Pussy.” (Scribbled, and barely legible.) Signed, Dan P.S., “I taped a pen to my penis and wrote that. Enjoy another hundo.” |
The story of Frank Harmon is that of Dan Van Slade. It was their schism that moved the plates and changed the fabric of their existence. Somewhere in that moment of clarity was the emergence of an attitude. Dan Van Slade had changed forever. It changed a lot of lives. It created a monster.
It is at this moment, at this time, that Dan Van Slade enters the Old Missoula Tavern. The door shuts behind him. The room is backlit by the neon point-of-purchase beer signs hanging in the window. The lights are turned low. There’s the smacking sound of pool balls crashing against each other, and Ozzy Osbourne’s ‘Crazy Train’ plays on the jukebox to set the mood. It doesn’t take much time for heads to turn. Van Slade buttons the bottom button on his faded black, gray and white flannel that’s tucked into a pair of worn blue jeans. His sleeves are rolled to the elbows. He raises an eyebrow, smirks, and brushes back a string of curly hair hanging down his forehead.
The bartender tilts a frosted pilsner glass at 45 degrees under the Budweiser tap. It’s a solid pour with a one-inch foam collar. The bar is well decorated for the holidays with tinsel lining the bar and stockings hanging around the large Coors Light mirror that hangs above the back bar. Poinsettias are the centerpiece of all tables, and 8 red lit candles are separated a foot apart atop the bar. The first bartender delivers the beer to another bartender who then walks to a distant table on the bar floor. Frank Harmon is parked at the table and thanks the bartender for delivering the ice cold Bud by tipping him an extra dollar. Frank hasn’t noticed the man standing in the doorway. The first bartender has, and some folks near are at standby to watch. The first bartender points at Dan and glares.
Bartender 1: "Strike me a fuckin’ believer, because I’m damn certain a ghost just entered my bar…"
The bartender is about six feet, and bulbous. He has peppered hair pulled back in a ponytail the length of his shoulder blades, and a gray beard to match. His voice is recognizable amongst a crowd with a slight southern accent mixed with a unique certain dialect only familiar to people of the Northwest United States. He wipes his hands on a white towel and then slaps the linen against the bar. He extends his arms toward Dan and turns to his bar crowd.
Bartender 1: "Ladies, and gentlemen, if I could have your attention!"
His request is demanding. The second bartender grabs a remote control and mutes the jukebox. All eyes are directed at Dan Van Slade. Conversations cease. All games hault. The bartender smiles and looks at Van Slade. Frank Harmon takes another swig of his cold brew, but his eyes are on an old friend.
Bartender 1: "I’m certain every one of you will recognize the man standing at the door of our fine establishment. And, if you don’t, then I’m goin’ to tell you this in a fuckin’ nutshell: - if a piece of shit could walk, talk and breathe God’s good air – then it just walked in."
Dan is bashful and puts his right hand over his mouth. The bartender continues the introduction and slowly paces back-and-forth behind the bar like a caged lion.
Bartender 1: "Welcome back, Danny. Welcome back."
The bartender spins around and smiles at his bar crowd. His eyes widen.
Bartender 1: "This is a very special occurrence, my friends! So, since it’s so special, it demands an incentive! Because nobody gives a rats ass about Dan Van Slade in the state of Montana – I’m going to buy everybody one round of beers, and one shot of Black Velvet, just to not give a light-speed-flying-fuck about the burden that stepped foot through that door -"
The bartender points at Van Slade, and then grabs the bottle of Black Velvet whiskey off the liquor stairs of the back bar. He raises the bottle in the air and his guests simultaneously respond. Many begin to slam their glasses onto the bar and tables. The verbiage being thrown at Dan Van Slade is a vociferous whirl wind of hate. The bartender doesn’t waste any time and generously over pours whiskey into shot glasses. He looks at Dan.
Bartender 1: "Ya’hear that, Danny? That’s the sound of your hometown tellin’ you to hit the fuckin’ bricks…"
The bar keep returns his focus to his agreement, and the crowd bum rushes the bar. The other bartender brings Ozzy Osbourne back to the ears and then returns to his job to help pour beers. Dan Van Slade yawns for a couple seconds, and then turns his attention to the rack of pool sticks that are attached to the wall next to the jukebox. Dan walks over to the rack and removes a stick, and then walks to the pool table and grabs the cue. His next steps are toward the jukebox. He grips the pool cue and then quickly raises his arm in an attempt to smash the jukebox’s screen and destroy the property. Dan stops before making the next move. His eyes catch a glimpse of the jukebox’s power cord plugged into the wall outlet. He lowers his arm and bends forward to unplug the jukebox. The music stops. All eyes are on Dan Van Slade once more. The bar is silent aside a few coughs in the distance.
Frank Harmon takes another swig of his Bud as he watches Dan drop the pool cue and grab a nearby chair. Van Slade walks the chair to the center aisle and slams it against the wooden floor. He steps onto the seat and stands tall before the crow; pool stick in hand. His eyes pan the many faces enjoying a weekend evening on the town. Each individual is unsure how to react, but they’re more than willing to stand in attention. Dan’s eyes meet Frank, and then the first bartender. He slams the bottom of the pool stick against the seat of the chair, smiles, and winks.
Dan Van Slade: "Jack…"
He smiles at the crowd. The second bartender continues to deliver beer to thirsty guests. Dan discovers Frank’s empty visage within the crowd. Harmon glares at Van Slade. Dan nods.
Dan Van Slade: "…old friends…"
Dan raises his arms and shouts.
Dan Van Slade: " I thought that it would be rather entertaining if I personally delivered a very special season’s greetings from the Van Slade family…"
The bartender laughs, takes a shot of Black Velvet and then wipes his lips.
Bartender Jack: "You brought shame to the name of such a wonderful family!"
The bartender strokes his gray beard and then crosses his arms. Van Slade smiles, and the grin widens slowly.
Dan Van Slade: "Shame? I think you’re confused, Jack. Fame is more like it. I’ve not only brought fame to the Van Slade name, but I brought recognition and reconciliation to this God forsaken city. You all look at me as if I’m the most retched, worthless, spine-less, no-good pile of shit ever laboriously birthed in the city of Missoula. I’m loathed by the man because I tell it how I see it, and I don’t hold back. You all ask for the truth, but when it’s given you all grab the axe and start swingin’. I don’t hide from it. I don’t keep secrets. I can’t say the same about all of you…"
Dan waves the pool stick slowly from left-to-right. He’s pointing at the entire selection of bar crowd.
Dan Van Slade: "Secrets are never secrets unless they’re kept within. A secret becomes open source for information when it’s given to another individual; with-or-without confidence in the receiver. Every beautiful soul in this bar thinks they have secrets, but it’s no surprise how wrong they are."
He places the pool stick in position to act as if he’s holding a shotgun. He aims at Bartender Jack and closes his right eye. Sight is set on Jack. Dan speaks swift, and fast.
Dan Van Slade: "Bartender Jack had himself a momentous stint in the closet when he was about fourteen. He was caught pee-pee grabbin’ with the nine year old neighbor boy underneath a pine tree in the park."
He twists and aims at a random gentlemen sitting at a table on the bar floor.
Dan Van Slade: "And that nine year old neighbor boy was Pat Blanton!"
Pat Blanton, an older gentleman wearing a mostly camouflage outfit, spits a wad of chewing tobacco onto the wood floor and leaps from his chair. Three members of the crowd reach out and grab the husky man before he takes another step. He grinds his teeth at Dan Van Slade.
Pat Blanton: "You mother fuh….you sonnuva…"
Dan doesn’t care. He continues his hunt and sets his sights on another gentleman. This man was fat, bald, and very tan. He was very Italian, and wore a large gold chain around his next that rested in a bed of white chest hair. He wore a silk button up shirt that was closed mid-way and allowed a projection of chest hair to protrude through the opening.
Dan Van Slade: "Don’s restaurant closed because he fell into debt when he decided to gamble away the nightly deposits and use tip monies to aid in the underground Missoulan hooking business."
Don smirks and coldly stares at Dan.
Don: "You keep talkin’ all that shit, boy. Somebody gonna come after’ya, and when they do – they'll shove yer'head so far up ya’ass that shit’ll be the only language you’d be able to speak."
He turns and points the pool stick at an attractive young woman sitting at a bar table and surrounded by three men. She’s wearing a white v-neck hidden behind a North Face jacket, and yoga pants. Her strawberry blonde hair is pulled back in a pony tail. Her beautiful blue eyes glare through the thins of her eye-lids.
Dan Van Slade: "Maggy Davidson…oh, Maggy. I can remember when you were seven and would walk home from St. Timothy’s so innocent in your uniform. Such a sweet girl, but now that she’s 21 – buy her a shot of Jack and put a few PBR’s in her and she’ll treat your pastrami like Holy Communion."
He puts the pool stick down and is looks concerned at all the faces before him.
Dan Van Slade: "She’s seen almost every penis in this bar…and that includes you Pastor Laughlin…"
Dan points his index finger directly at a very skinny man in his early forties sitting at a table with his family. His wife turns to him with a look of shock. The Pastor turns to his significant other and begins to softly defend himself. Dan wastes no time and finishes his hunt. He aims the pool stick. Right eye closed. Sight set.
Dan Van Slade: "Frank Harmon."
Harmon takes a sip of his beer and licks his lips. He smiles and a bit of foam from his five o’clock shadow.
Dan Van Slade: "I once watched Frank shove an Oak tree twig up…"
Frank slams his beer glass against the table and it instantly shatters. He shouts.
Frank Harmon: "Enough!"
He pushes the wheels and backs away from the table. He guides the wheelchair into the crowd and stops.
Frank Harmon: "We get it, and nobody cares. I know all the same truths you know. We live with who we are every day, and most of us do a damn fine job doin’ so. You’re preachin’ to the wrong choir, son."
Dan pulls the trigger and makes the sound of a shotgun. He slowly lowers the pool stick and smiles at his old friend.
Dan Van Slade: "Oh, but I beg to differ. This ensemble is singin’ quite nice, if I do say so myself. You just keep that stern grip on those wheels, and let me do the talkin’.
Dan strokes his black chin stubble and breathes slow.
Dan Van Slade: "It’s clearly obvious that I’ve come home to stir up some shit. I didn’t intend to pass through this unscathed. This little confrontation is just a microcosm of the bigger picture. I never demanded your respect, but I would have never got it even if Frank made that play. But, he didn’t, and when it became I who led our team to success on multiple levels – it was still about how Frank should have been there. Call me selfish, I don’t mind. I busted my ass to take Big Sky further, and further. But the unfortunate side of the coin is that I was not, and will never be, Frank Harmon. He was your golden ticket to salvation."
Dan hops off the chair and kicks it aside. He skips over to the nearby empty table and leaps on top. He now stands taller, and his voice projects further.
Dan Van Slade: "That was the day I realized that God worked in a magical, and mysterious way. The consequences of my action led to a divine intervention I could have never predicted. Did I wish this pain upon Frank Harmon? No. I didn’t want Frank Harmon to lose – I wanted my team to lose. I wanted this city to lose. I wanted to watch you all sob and sulk and waste your time. Your misery was my happiness, but it obviously came with a lifelong burden. I wanted to manifest hate, and God helped me achieve it. I’ll never apologize for what happened, but I’ll always thank the Lord for giving me this righteous opportunity to shove it all back in your face."
The crowd blankly stares back, and Dan disregards all this to continue his rant.
Dan Van Slade: "My love for Missoula is like a crush that never blooms into a relationship, or an infatuation that leads to nowhere. I tried, and I try, but no matter the scale of the mountain that I climb you assholes will never give me the rightful recognition that I deserve. Missoula will be the Missoula that I perceive. I’m gonna put this city on the map, with-or-without your respect!"
The bartender seems irritated by this and throws his arms in the air.
Bartender Joe: "You’re a good-for-nothin’ Jackass!"
He shakes his head and returns to pouring shots. He wants nothing more to do with Dan Van Slade’s monologue. Dan swings the pool stick and releases it toward the wall near the jukebox. The stick smacks against the wall and Dan slams his right foot upon the table top. His face boils red, and he shouts.
Dan Van Slade: "WRONG! WRONG, WRONG – WRONG!"
This grabs the bartender’s attention. The old man slowly turns to look at Van Slade, and looks surprised by Dan’s reaction. Van Slade takes a few deep breaths and continues. A smirk crosses his face.
Dan Van Slade: "You’ve got it all wrong, but I don’t expect anything less from a closeted fruit cake."
Bartender Joe slams his fists on the bar. The second bartender lunges forward and grabs Joe by the shoulders to secure him from leaping over the bar and attacking Van Slade. None of this stops Dan from his speech. He paces two steps to the right, and then two steps to the left. He smiles.
Dan Van Slade: "See – the problem with you small time folk is that you’ll never see the long run. There’s a whole other world outside these city borders. I’ve conquered most of it, and I’ll continue to conquer until you begin to drink in my honor. So, maybe I’ll never receive the respect I feel that I deserve, but if I can’t get it through honest hard work then I guess I’ll just have to take it…"
He pauses to survey the bar crowd, a sea of hate. Their eyes pierce. The air is thick with hostility. Yet, Dan has no care in the world.
Dan Van Slade: "Not only will I own most of this city in the not-so-distant future, but I’m laying claim to this lame-ass bar and I’m going to take the wreckin’ ball to it. I’m thinkin’ a night club where the beautiful people can meet, where vanity reigns supreme, and where the devious acts of outspoken people make a mockery of the natural lives of others. I’m sorry, Frank…"
He shrugs at Harmon and seems apologetic.
Dan Van Slade: "…no wheelchairs allowed."
Frank bites his tongue, and shakes his head. A man in the distance can be heard saying “whatta fuckin’ asshole…” as Dan keeps his eyes panning the crowd.
Dan Van Slade: "I’m thinkin’ that your good ole’ days have been numbered; so, go’head and drink now. Take all the free drinks ole’ Jack hands you just to ignore the onslaught. Drink to forget. Drink because it’s all you got…"
He points at himself.
Dan Van Slade: "Me? I’ve reached the pinnacle of sports entertainment through a system of dedication and self loyalty that’s greater than any man. Somethin’ the lot of you have no clue how to handle."
Harmon laughs to himself as others in the crowd tend to chuckle.
Frank Harmon: "Pinnacle? Professional wrestling? Hmph!
Dan puffs his chest out and lifts his head confidently.
Dan Van Slade: "What of it, cripple? Ya’got an issue with my success? Take it up with your cousin, or the knee of our middle linebacker…fuck it…blame God!"
He lowers his head and reveals a devious smirk. His eyes are dead-set on connecting with Frank Harmon. The only thing missing from this shoot out is the crack of a whip and a rolling tumble weed. Dan pulls the trigger first.
Dan Van Slade: "You’ll never be me. You’ll never leave that chair, and you’ll never play football. Don’t ostracize me because of your own misfortunes. Or, do it. It doesn’t matter to me. There’s plenty of my ass to kiss in the future. So, pucker up and hope I’m not gassy."
Harmon’s hands nearly rip the wheels off the chair, but some folks in the crowd were hasty enough to act first. Frank couldn’t roll far enough before being stopped. He attempts to lunge out of the chair but another man gabs him and restrains him in the chair. The man restraining Frank can be heard advising Harmon to let it go. Harmon growls and yells.
Frank Harmon: "I don’t need legs to end your life, son! I’ll part your skull with a bullet before you can even attempt to devise another crude and witty comeback."
Dan begins to slow clap. He looks flabbergasted and impressed with Frank. He stops clapping, and the trademark smirk returns.
Dan Van Slade: "That’s right, Frankie. Let it go. Walk-um…roll…passed the problem. Lucky for you – I’m a problem without a solution."
Dan’s arrogant smile seems effortless, and almost uncontrollable.
Dan Van Slade: "Wednesday night – I have a date with destiny. The Wrestling Championship Federation, single-handedly the best in the industry, booked me to participate in the tour-nayo cibernetico main event."
He’s interrupted.
Random Man: (shouting) Nobody cares!
Dan stares into the distance, but doesn’t hesitate to investigate where the comment derived. Once again, reactions mean little to Dan Van Slade, but that doesn’t mean he won’t stop to make an observation.
Dan Van Slade: "Why are you all so…so…wrong all the time? Everybody cares. Although many wouldn’t admit it – every man involved in the match, and the fans dialed in to witness what’s to come – they care. They care because peril is imminent. I’m going to clean the ring and claim victory. I’m gonna head into overdrive and run roughshod all over WCF’s plane of existence."
Dan becomes gitty, and looks to Frank Harmon.
Dan Van Slade: "Frankie, this is exactly like our favorite comic growing up when the Punisher killed the Marvel Universe. Just a heapin’ mound of flesh-upon-flesh, and there I’ll be – His Royal Deviousness – statuesque on the peak. Mediocrity defeated."
Dan does his best confident Superman pose. He turns his head to the right and his eyes dart off into the distance. He sticks his chin and chest out. His fists rest at his waist. His legs are spread apart.
He continues, but it seems he’s coming to an end.
Dan Van Slade: "I’m sure it’s no surprise to hear me say that I’ve never really been a team player. Me – me – me, and this narcissistic behavior will continue until my final breath. Chemistry was never my strong point. There are not many variables that fit well with my chemical makeup. The booking is genius, to say the least. It would have been preferable to lay waste a single opponent, but to embarrass several? Suck me sideways with delight. It’ll be a massacre. This is what happens when you put a fox in a hen house. He has chicken all night long."
Van Slade steps off the table and directs his attention to the jukebox. He leans forward and retrieves the plug and then utilizes this final moment of silence to hammer the final nail in the coffin. He turns to the bar crowd.
Dan Van Slade: "I don’t need to prove any more to make you believe I’m Missoula’s golden child. Wednesday – I’m bringin’ home the bacon, or…chicken, and the journey begins."
He blows a kiss and embraces the crowd and continues to hold the jukebox chord.
Dan Van Slade: "Happy holidays, Missoula!"
He’s centimeters from plugging in the jukebox when a sudden idea brings Dan Van Slade to a sudden hault.
Dan Van Slade: "I almost forgot!"
Dan digs in his back pocket and removes a pair of linen that he immediately tosses across the bar to his old friend. The pair of women’s panties lands in Frank’s hands. Harmon breaths heavily and unravels the under garments for all to see. He glares at Dan Van Slade’s vilifying smile.
Dan Van Slade: "I found those the other day while cleaning out my old El Camino."
Frank slowly shakes his head. His cold stare of death provides Dan with all the evidence needed to draw the conclusion that Frank understands the panties belonged to his wife long before they were ever engaged.
Dan Van Slade: "They’ve been in there for about nine years. Look familiar?"
Dan winks, and proudly grins. He’s not shy to admit.
Dan Van Slade: "I have no secrets."
The jukebox is plugged in. The chorus to the famous loner theme song by Whitesnake brings joy to the face of Dan Van Slade. The mischievous magician keeps a close watch on the bar crowd as he reverses toward the exit. A man in the background can be heard yelling “ASSHOLE!” as Dan quickly pushes himself through the door and the chorus hits.