Post by Cormack MacNeill on Sept 27, 2014 23:30:05 GMT -5
Monday, September 22, 2014 0930 hrs
A street in Downtown Toronto, Ontario
A large black truck cruises slowly along a narrow side street, windows rolled down and the sounds of Mozart drifting out in the cool autumn air. As the camera slowly zooms in on the side of the truck the distinguished profile of james Church solidifies behind the wheel. His eyes dart between the empty road in front of him and his driver's side mirror. Each time he looks into the side mirror his face turns more and more grim, until what he sees he can stand no longer. With a deft movemt of his hand he guides the large vehicle to the curb and places it in park.
Stepping from the vehicle with a look of disdain on his handsome face, Church turns and walks the length of the truck. He leans one well dressed arm on the tailgate and glances at his watch, then the road, then his watch, then the road. With a grim smile he leans, waiting for something or someone. As the camera shifts to the right, a staggering Cormack macNeill stumbles into view. Dressed in his customary kilt and boots, this time shirtless, he stopped several metres behind the truck and leaned over, hand on his knees. Even in the cool morning air his broad torso was bathed in sweat, head shining with beaded perspiration, even his kilt looked damp enough to wring out.
Gi..g...give me a minute to catch my breath. You dd.d.d.drive too fast.
He remains there, hands on knees and panting as he struggles to regain some semblance of normal breathing patterns. James simply looked at his watch, looked at the sweaty lump of wrestler in front of him, then back at his watch.
Come now Mack, it's only 4 more miles to home. Didn't Jimmy make you train like this?
MacNeill looked up from his position and nodded slowly, straightening as he did so.
Yeah, but he left me to run on my own. I managed to duck into a pub every mile or so and take a break. This running two miles straight shit isn't good for the body ya know
Church simply smiled at that last bit, and flipped down the tailgate of the truck revealing a cooler. MacNeill's eyes lit up when he saw the cooler, but his face fell as Church pulled out a bottle of water and handed it to the husky wrestler.
Here. You need to stay hydrated. All that sweat? That's your fat crying. And trust me Mack, that's hell of a lot of crying.
Surely we can stop for a pint. There's a pub just down the r...
Church held up his hand, interrupting Cormack.
Is Jonny Fly sitting in that pub getting ready for War? Is Chelsea Armstrong? Is Steve Orbit? Is Johnny Reb? Richards? Gable? Worthy?
Cormack shook his bald head, sweat droplets flinging in all direction like a shaggy dog fresh out of the pond. A bead of sweat landed on the lapel of Church's silk suit. With a curl of his lip he quickly removed a handkerchief and blotted the stain out.
No, there not. They are training. Sparring, running, lifting weights. Training to be better. Faster. Stronger. Better. The same thing I'm trying to do with you Mack. Make you Better. You can't get better in a pub.
MacNeill slowly nodded his head, and drained the water bottle in one long pull before tossing it in the back of the truck.
I know James. I get it. Let's get back to this. Get it over with.
Church nodded with a satisfied smirk on his face and headed back to the cab of the truck.
Now that's more like it Mack. Four miles to go. You'll be done before you know it.
With a deft twist of the wrist, Church pulled the truck back onto the road and slowly began to drive, eyes on the mirror at his side. For his part, MacNeill began to jog behind at a steady pace, seemingly refreshed and invigorated by the discussion. His eyes were set in a determined stare, mouth hard above his bushy beard, the latter still dripping sweat with each stride. Church, content with his charge's new sense of determination looked down the street choosing his course as the traffic began to move the other way. A quick glance in the mirror showed MacNeill beginning to gain ground on the truck. 'Good show Mack' Church though to himself and sped up the truck a little, keeping pace with the burly jogger.
Turning back to the street, James caught a glimpse of an oncoming car, the driver clearly distracted by the sausage, bacon and eggs he was eating off a plate on the dash. Turning quickly to the right, James jumped the curb as the oncoming car scraped a long, loud strip down the driver's side door. With an angry sneer set on his face Church exited the vehicle, seeking the driver of the now stopped Buick. He strode up to the vehicle and stared in astonishment as the driver continued to eat his breakfast, oblivious the what damage he had just caused. James rapped sharply on the glass, and the driver laid down his knife and fork and rolled down his window.
Need something buddy?
Church's nostrils flared as he stood there staring in disbelief, too angry for words. The driver, a young man with sandy blond hair, stared up at the confusing man who rapped on his window but clearly had nothing to say. With a shrug he casually began rolling his window back up again, which only served to antagonize Church even more. rapping harder on the window brought the same look from the driver.
Yeah, what it is? Can't you see I'm eating? It's rude to interrupt someone when their eati...
Church interrupts him wordlessly by pulling him out of his driver side window by the shirtfront and slamming him against the side of the car.
You hit me. Creased the side of my truck you inbred, spineless, brainless....twit! You dragged your beat-up excuse for a car across this fine vehicle and then you have the nerve, the unmitigated gall to ask me what I want?
The driver, now noticeably shorter that the 6'3" Church shrugged again and spread his arms.
Well, you interrupted my breakfast. Now my eggs are gonna get cold. I hate cold eggs. I think cold eggs makes us about even pal.
A visible line of red began creeping up James's visage, from his neck all the way up to his hairline. He pointed a finger in sandy hair's face and, his voice on the verge of becoming a shout, said
Interrupted your breakfast? You could have killed me you dolt! You could have plowed headlong into me and killed me. Not to mention my protege who was jogging behind me
Church flings his hand out behind the truck as he makes that point. The driver simply looks at him with a confused look.
What guy. It's just you and me buddy.
Church spun on his heel and pointed at nothing.
This guy....Oh Bloody Hell! Mack! Get back here! We still have training to do!
He releases the other driver, who slumps back against his car, hand rubbing his throat as Church jumps into the truck and speeds off. He watches him drive away and a grin slowly spreads on his face.
Fade out
Twenty minutes later....
Scene opens in a downtown pub. The raw red oak door in the middle of view swings open and our friend with the sandy hair strides in, eyes scanning the bar as if searching for someone. With a quick nod he moves to the back of the room, sliding into the offered seat.
I held him up for as long as I could. Now where's my money.
A envelope slid across the table, seemingly stuffed with cash, and the burly hand holding it gestured in the air.
Great job laddie. You bought me another hour of training. My kind of training. Keep! A pint of Guinness and whatever my friend here wants.
The camera pulls back to reveal Cormack MacNeill, still shirtless, sitting opposite the sandy-haired man and grinning from ear to ear.
fade out.
A street in Downtown Toronto, Ontario
A large black truck cruises slowly along a narrow side street, windows rolled down and the sounds of Mozart drifting out in the cool autumn air. As the camera slowly zooms in on the side of the truck the distinguished profile of james Church solidifies behind the wheel. His eyes dart between the empty road in front of him and his driver's side mirror. Each time he looks into the side mirror his face turns more and more grim, until what he sees he can stand no longer. With a deft movemt of his hand he guides the large vehicle to the curb and places it in park.
Stepping from the vehicle with a look of disdain on his handsome face, Church turns and walks the length of the truck. He leans one well dressed arm on the tailgate and glances at his watch, then the road, then his watch, then the road. With a grim smile he leans, waiting for something or someone. As the camera shifts to the right, a staggering Cormack macNeill stumbles into view. Dressed in his customary kilt and boots, this time shirtless, he stopped several metres behind the truck and leaned over, hand on his knees. Even in the cool morning air his broad torso was bathed in sweat, head shining with beaded perspiration, even his kilt looked damp enough to wring out.
Gi..g...give me a minute to catch my breath. You dd.d.d.drive too fast.
He remains there, hands on knees and panting as he struggles to regain some semblance of normal breathing patterns. James simply looked at his watch, looked at the sweaty lump of wrestler in front of him, then back at his watch.
Come now Mack, it's only 4 more miles to home. Didn't Jimmy make you train like this?
MacNeill looked up from his position and nodded slowly, straightening as he did so.
Yeah, but he left me to run on my own. I managed to duck into a pub every mile or so and take a break. This running two miles straight shit isn't good for the body ya know
Church simply smiled at that last bit, and flipped down the tailgate of the truck revealing a cooler. MacNeill's eyes lit up when he saw the cooler, but his face fell as Church pulled out a bottle of water and handed it to the husky wrestler.
Here. You need to stay hydrated. All that sweat? That's your fat crying. And trust me Mack, that's hell of a lot of crying.
Surely we can stop for a pint. There's a pub just down the r...
Church held up his hand, interrupting Cormack.
Is Jonny Fly sitting in that pub getting ready for War? Is Chelsea Armstrong? Is Steve Orbit? Is Johnny Reb? Richards? Gable? Worthy?
Cormack shook his bald head, sweat droplets flinging in all direction like a shaggy dog fresh out of the pond. A bead of sweat landed on the lapel of Church's silk suit. With a curl of his lip he quickly removed a handkerchief and blotted the stain out.
No, there not. They are training. Sparring, running, lifting weights. Training to be better. Faster. Stronger. Better. The same thing I'm trying to do with you Mack. Make you Better. You can't get better in a pub.
MacNeill slowly nodded his head, and drained the water bottle in one long pull before tossing it in the back of the truck.
I know James. I get it. Let's get back to this. Get it over with.
Church nodded with a satisfied smirk on his face and headed back to the cab of the truck.
Now that's more like it Mack. Four miles to go. You'll be done before you know it.
With a deft twist of the wrist, Church pulled the truck back onto the road and slowly began to drive, eyes on the mirror at his side. For his part, MacNeill began to jog behind at a steady pace, seemingly refreshed and invigorated by the discussion. His eyes were set in a determined stare, mouth hard above his bushy beard, the latter still dripping sweat with each stride. Church, content with his charge's new sense of determination looked down the street choosing his course as the traffic began to move the other way. A quick glance in the mirror showed MacNeill beginning to gain ground on the truck. 'Good show Mack' Church though to himself and sped up the truck a little, keeping pace with the burly jogger.
Turning back to the street, James caught a glimpse of an oncoming car, the driver clearly distracted by the sausage, bacon and eggs he was eating off a plate on the dash. Turning quickly to the right, James jumped the curb as the oncoming car scraped a long, loud strip down the driver's side door. With an angry sneer set on his face Church exited the vehicle, seeking the driver of the now stopped Buick. He strode up to the vehicle and stared in astonishment as the driver continued to eat his breakfast, oblivious the what damage he had just caused. James rapped sharply on the glass, and the driver laid down his knife and fork and rolled down his window.
Need something buddy?
Church's nostrils flared as he stood there staring in disbelief, too angry for words. The driver, a young man with sandy blond hair, stared up at the confusing man who rapped on his window but clearly had nothing to say. With a shrug he casually began rolling his window back up again, which only served to antagonize Church even more. rapping harder on the window brought the same look from the driver.
Yeah, what it is? Can't you see I'm eating? It's rude to interrupt someone when their eati...
Church interrupts him wordlessly by pulling him out of his driver side window by the shirtfront and slamming him against the side of the car.
You hit me. Creased the side of my truck you inbred, spineless, brainless....twit! You dragged your beat-up excuse for a car across this fine vehicle and then you have the nerve, the unmitigated gall to ask me what I want?
The driver, now noticeably shorter that the 6'3" Church shrugged again and spread his arms.
Well, you interrupted my breakfast. Now my eggs are gonna get cold. I hate cold eggs. I think cold eggs makes us about even pal.
A visible line of red began creeping up James's visage, from his neck all the way up to his hairline. He pointed a finger in sandy hair's face and, his voice on the verge of becoming a shout, said
Interrupted your breakfast? You could have killed me you dolt! You could have plowed headlong into me and killed me. Not to mention my protege who was jogging behind me
Church flings his hand out behind the truck as he makes that point. The driver simply looks at him with a confused look.
What guy. It's just you and me buddy.
Church spun on his heel and pointed at nothing.
This guy....Oh Bloody Hell! Mack! Get back here! We still have training to do!
He releases the other driver, who slumps back against his car, hand rubbing his throat as Church jumps into the truck and speeds off. He watches him drive away and a grin slowly spreads on his face.
Fade out
Twenty minutes later....
Scene opens in a downtown pub. The raw red oak door in the middle of view swings open and our friend with the sandy hair strides in, eyes scanning the bar as if searching for someone. With a quick nod he moves to the back of the room, sliding into the offered seat.
I held him up for as long as I could. Now where's my money.
A envelope slid across the table, seemingly stuffed with cash, and the burly hand holding it gestured in the air.
Great job laddie. You bought me another hour of training. My kind of training. Keep! A pint of Guinness and whatever my friend here wants.
The camera pulls back to reveal Cormack MacNeill, still shirtless, sitting opposite the sandy-haired man and grinning from ear to ear.
fade out.
