City of Brotherly Love My Ass! (Part 1)
Jan 30, 2016 13:35:34 GMT -5
Joey Flash and Gemini Battle like this
Post by Cormack MacNeill on Jan 30, 2016 13:35:34 GMT -5
Tuesday, January 25, 2016, 2035 hrs
Houlihan's Irish Cafe, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
A long, wooden surface occupies the frame, shining dully with the gleam of an oft polished and oft abused surface. As the view slowly pulls back the wood takes shape, revealing itself to be a bar top lined with glasses filled to differing degrees with amber liquid. various rings and puddles also adorn the surface, adding to the effect of use and care well given. The view tilts upward to encompass a time-worn and well scrubbed barroom, complete with small clutches of regular customers. Men and women who look at home here, part of the furniture almost. Their rough and worn exteriors match the ambiance. Working class heroes in a working man's establishment. They sit in small groups at the bar, at scattered tables, murmuring in the good-natured way that often times can be found in places like this. Instead of punctuating the stillness of the tableau, the low talk adds to the feel, adds to the air of quiet resolve and stubborn willfulness that always permeates such a place.
The stillness is broken by an old, but still annoying bell ringing, signalling to the stoic bartender that new face was entering the bar. All eyes look to the door out of habit, turning back to their conversations in just as practiced a movement before turning their heads back to the door in a slow double take. Standing in the open door, a stiff wind blowing snow across the opening behind, creating a contrasting backdrop, stood a tall, stout man. That alone wouldn't raise an eyebrow in a place like this, as roughnecks and roustabouts are what makes places like this thrive. The double take was because of what the new customer was clad in. And what hung on his arm.
A battered leather jacket hung on his broad shoulders, the hood of a sweater poking out over top and providing a broad neck with some protection from the wind, as did the full thick beard his face was adorned with. No protection was evident for the smooth, hairless head that topped that beard, shining with a glow from the amber streetlights. What caught part of their attention was lower, the heavy black combat boots with a hint of wool sock poking out from above the tightly laced tongue. They gave way to an expanse of hirsute leg, reddish brown insulation from the biting wind swirling behind him. The fur disappeared at the knee level under the vibrant green and gold plaid kilt of what could only be Cormack MacNeill. That alone would be a sight for working class Philly on such a night, if not for the catlike grace of the figure draped across his shoulder.
Clad in a fur-lined jacket, worn but still functionable, and a skirt that showed an ample expanse of pale, lithe leg stood Isla Stennet-Smith. That alone is enough to attract all attention away from the kilted man-beast to her side. She looked around the bar, a faint smile directed to the lecherous stares, and the air moved into the pub, door slamming behind them with a loud bang that seemed to startle the crown into a resumed hubbub.
The unlikely pair move to the bar, one lumbering and one gliding and find seats. The time-worn wooden bar is matched equally by the barkeep who's lined face and brusque haircut belie a past in law enforcement. His hard stare glances over Isla, lingering at a few choice locations before settling onto the broad, bearded face of Cormack in a challenging glare learned uncounted years ago.
Some pub this is. You'd think they never saw a guy in a kilt before. I'd think twice about looking at me like that pal. I'm gonna...
The barkeep's hand slowly drifts below the bar, ostensibly to some skull cracker of a weapon he keeps there to keep mouthy brutes like this in line. With feline grace, Ilsa slides her hands onto the bar, placing one on each man's forearm, holding them in place with a surprising strength.
Boys, place nice. I apologize for my boorish friends behaviour. Can we start over fresh?
The barkeep nods his head slowly and returns his hand to the bartop. He begins to slide a stained rag across the bar distractedly as Cormack turns to Isla and receives a stare every bit as harsh as the one he received moments ago from the barkeep. He wisely breaks the stare-down by turning away and scanning the bar patrons, noting that many of them are watching this scene unfold with interest. There's no doubt that if he had leaped across the bar moments ago, not only would he have an ex-cop bashing him in the shins with a club of some sort he would also have half the bar joining in...and not on his side. With a deep breath, he turned back to the barkeep and rapped on the bar lightly.
Sorry about that buddy. You wouldn't believe the day I've had. I had to share a ride from Virginia with a guy that couldn't find his ass with two hands and a hunting dog, and a guy who was all to happy to help him look if you catch my drift.
The bartender nodded, his eyes meeting MacNeill's again and holding a stare.
You gonna buy something kid? I ain't got all day to talk. I'm busy here.
Cormack opened his mouth to reply, but wisely shut it as he felt a hand on his forearm again. He looked at Isla and she just gave him a smile and turned to the barkeep, laying a 20 on the bar and fixing him with her best megawatt smile.
We'll take two pints of Guinness please?
He turned to her with the same stony gaze, but not even a visage as set as his could resist the sparkling eyes. He shook his head as he moved to pour the glasses. he placed them on the bar and slipped the twenty into the till. He placed the change on the bartop loudly, the slam ringing through the bar and causing all conversation to stop and every head to turn their way.
Drink up, and go. We don't take to your kind around here. This is an American bar. She can stay though.
Cormack drove his fists into the bar and made to stand. Once again Ilsa placed a delicate hand on his ham-like fist and met his angry gaze with one of her own causing the big man to sit down once again. He's tough, not stupid. Ok, maybe he is. But not stupid enough to argue with a woman who knows where he sleeps. Instead Cormack wraps one meathook around the pint glass and drains it in one long swallow before slamming the glass down again and matching the barkeep's stare with one of his own. The silence hung in the air, not a sound was made, not a clinking of a glass, nor a spoken word, as the bar watched the two men try and stare each other down. Suddenly the silence was broken by a semi-drunken bleating from the back of the room.
Shit! It's Cormack MacNeill! In our little shitty bar! You know Dutchie, the fuckin rassler. That basterd what fought Pricey last year. Tough basterd thats fa'sure.
The tone of the bar changed noticeably. Even the barkeep, Dutchie by name, softened a little and refilled his pint, waving off the offer of cash from Isla. He shrugged and pointed to a sign over the bar. The sign read 'WCF every Sunday night! Wrestlers drink for free!'
Fuckin Eh honey. can we move here?
Ilsa responded with a punch to the shoulder that actually moved the big man slightly. The mouthy drunk that yelled his name by now had staggered to the bar. Dutchie made a motion for him to back off, but the guy just brushed him off.
You fightin this Sunnay in Philly right? That's why your here? Big match for the Innernashunal belt? 5 people. They shoulda called it a Fatal-Five match. Whaddya think? That would have been wicked eh?
Cormack smiled back and shook the drunks hand to a relieved expression from Isla. She turned to the bar and in one long gulp emptied her beer glass and tapped it on the bar for a refill. She received another drink, along several proposals of marriage from the regulars. One or two of them might have even been single. She shook her head to all of them with an amused smile. Meanwhile, in a corner not too far away.
You fightin your pal Caliban on Sunday, whaddya think?
Cormack, seated at a corner table and taking up most of the table with his brawny forearms shook his head.
Jordan Caliban is a buddy of mine. We broke in at the same time, got together. he knows he ever needs me, shout. I'll have his back, ya know. But Punkin. That's a different creature all together.
Whaddya mean Mack? Same guy, innit?
No, he ain't. Punkin is somethin Jordan's had kicking around in that crazy fucking Irish head of his. Guys nuts to begin with. The shit he's pulled off the top rope.. well. you wouldn't catch me doin it, that's for sure. But Punkin...that is a crazy bastard with no redeeming qualities. It's like he's all the hatred and frustration Jordan keeps inside him. Unpredictable, vicious, an asshole really.
How's dat differnt from the udder guy?
Jordan's got a personality. This thing just has one speed, overdrive. I'll tell ya, I don't know what its gonna feel like facin him. But my mind tells me to put it down for good. Kick it's head off it's puny shoulders. Maybe then, we can get Jordan back. Till then, I'm gonna make sure he doesn't get the gold. I'm gonna slow the pace, make him feel the strength of Big Mack. make him pay for what he's doin to the people around him. Hell of a girl he's got. She deserves better. I'll do what I can.
Jesus Mack, that's a tough spot. What about the others? Whaddya know about them?
Cormack drained his glass, and found it replaced with a glass filled with amber ale. He looked at it, shrugged and downed it in a single gulp.
The others huh? Let's start with the champ. Sakazaki. High-flyer like Punkin. Polished athelete. No one's seen him in a while. Sounds like he got scared, took his belt and went home. Guess what? he picked the wrong damn time to come back to the WCF. He's the same as the rets of these guys. They'll be flying through the air, flipping and twisting. Fuckin Cirque du Soleil. They all gotta land sometime. And that's when the trouble starts. Guy like Sakazaki I can snap like a twig. Slap him in a bearhug, drive him tot he mat with a Stone of Kings, or just kick his damn head off. Either way works with me.
Hey, they ain't all high-flyers. What about that sumo guy? Whaddya-call-it....Nagaspanki?
Nagaski? Fat bastard thinks his size will save him. It won't he's too slow to outrun those high-flyers, and not too damn big for me to toss around. He's what 400, 450? I've thrown caber poles that weigh more than that. Know what a caber is? Fucking telephone pole. That bastard is hard as hell to throw. If I can do that, there's no one in the Dubya that can be a bigger challenge.
What about Mr. Average?
That says it all. He's average. An everyday kinda guy. Normally I can get behind a guy like that. Just a guy making his rent money every month, just gettin by. Not all of us are millionares ya know. Just the ones that kiss every ass they can find. I'd rather take a loss on my back then get an easy oppoent from being on my knees. So Lee Roberts is a good guy, but he's in the wrong match. He'll fly, flip, and fall like the rest. He's just average, average doesn't beat Cormack MacNeill. And there isn't anyone in this match that is better than me. Some faster, some more experienced. None stronger. None tougher. None better at kicking the heads off of average wrestlers than me.
So that's it Mack? We oughta see you breeze troo for the belt?
Breeze? Not breeze. It'll be a fight. Probably one of the best on the card. Watch it. I just think when the flyers stop flying, and the sumo's stop shaking.....ol 'Mack will be standing tall and he'll have gold around his waist. Hey, that last drink wasn't bad? What was it?
Yeungling. A local beer.
Local beer? Explains why it tasted like water. Did I ever tell you how shitty American beer is?
Isla looked over from her perch at the bar and shook her head. With a resigned sigh she grabbed her purse and coat and started heading for the door. The barkeep called after her.
Where ya going darlin?
Isla stood at the door and turned on her heel to point to the back of the bar. The barkeep followed her finger and had just enough time to duck a flying chair. All hell had broken loose back there as most of the local patrons were smashing table legs, chairs, glasses, everything they could lay their hands on off of a laughing Cormack MacNeill. He grabbed the man on his left and flung him over the bar with a beefy arm, the resounding crash as his body impacted the bar glass rack. He turned around and shouted to Isla as she stood by the door.
Start the car wouldya? I'll be just a minute.
She shook her head with a smile radiating across her face and stepped outside. The crashing and shouting can be heard outside the bar, with bodies flying through the windows and rolling on the ground in a tangled heap of bloody, bruised flesh. A voice can be heard above the racket proclaiming that no ones leaving until...and that's as far as the voice gets before the door flies out from it's frame and slides several feet along the pavement. The barkeep can be seen through the open door looking around at what used to be his bar, but now is no more than kindling. Cormack steps through the now vacant doorframe and steps over the semi-conscious bodies lining the sidewalk. He reaches the curb, just as Isla pulls up in a black pickup truck. With a nod to the stunned barkeep, MacNeill climbs inside and the truck drives off. Dutchie walks to the open doorframe and stands, staring at the carnage, before walking slowly back inside and tearing down the sign above the bar.
The next bar I own...no fucking wrestlers!
Houlihan's Irish Cafe, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
A long, wooden surface occupies the frame, shining dully with the gleam of an oft polished and oft abused surface. As the view slowly pulls back the wood takes shape, revealing itself to be a bar top lined with glasses filled to differing degrees with amber liquid. various rings and puddles also adorn the surface, adding to the effect of use and care well given. The view tilts upward to encompass a time-worn and well scrubbed barroom, complete with small clutches of regular customers. Men and women who look at home here, part of the furniture almost. Their rough and worn exteriors match the ambiance. Working class heroes in a working man's establishment. They sit in small groups at the bar, at scattered tables, murmuring in the good-natured way that often times can be found in places like this. Instead of punctuating the stillness of the tableau, the low talk adds to the feel, adds to the air of quiet resolve and stubborn willfulness that always permeates such a place.
The stillness is broken by an old, but still annoying bell ringing, signalling to the stoic bartender that new face was entering the bar. All eyes look to the door out of habit, turning back to their conversations in just as practiced a movement before turning their heads back to the door in a slow double take. Standing in the open door, a stiff wind blowing snow across the opening behind, creating a contrasting backdrop, stood a tall, stout man. That alone wouldn't raise an eyebrow in a place like this, as roughnecks and roustabouts are what makes places like this thrive. The double take was because of what the new customer was clad in. And what hung on his arm.
A battered leather jacket hung on his broad shoulders, the hood of a sweater poking out over top and providing a broad neck with some protection from the wind, as did the full thick beard his face was adorned with. No protection was evident for the smooth, hairless head that topped that beard, shining with a glow from the amber streetlights. What caught part of their attention was lower, the heavy black combat boots with a hint of wool sock poking out from above the tightly laced tongue. They gave way to an expanse of hirsute leg, reddish brown insulation from the biting wind swirling behind him. The fur disappeared at the knee level under the vibrant green and gold plaid kilt of what could only be Cormack MacNeill. That alone would be a sight for working class Philly on such a night, if not for the catlike grace of the figure draped across his shoulder.
Clad in a fur-lined jacket, worn but still functionable, and a skirt that showed an ample expanse of pale, lithe leg stood Isla Stennet-Smith. That alone is enough to attract all attention away from the kilted man-beast to her side. She looked around the bar, a faint smile directed to the lecherous stares, and the air moved into the pub, door slamming behind them with a loud bang that seemed to startle the crown into a resumed hubbub.
The unlikely pair move to the bar, one lumbering and one gliding and find seats. The time-worn wooden bar is matched equally by the barkeep who's lined face and brusque haircut belie a past in law enforcement. His hard stare glances over Isla, lingering at a few choice locations before settling onto the broad, bearded face of Cormack in a challenging glare learned uncounted years ago.
Some pub this is. You'd think they never saw a guy in a kilt before. I'd think twice about looking at me like that pal. I'm gonna...
The barkeep's hand slowly drifts below the bar, ostensibly to some skull cracker of a weapon he keeps there to keep mouthy brutes like this in line. With feline grace, Ilsa slides her hands onto the bar, placing one on each man's forearm, holding them in place with a surprising strength.
Boys, place nice. I apologize for my boorish friends behaviour. Can we start over fresh?
The barkeep nods his head slowly and returns his hand to the bartop. He begins to slide a stained rag across the bar distractedly as Cormack turns to Isla and receives a stare every bit as harsh as the one he received moments ago from the barkeep. He wisely breaks the stare-down by turning away and scanning the bar patrons, noting that many of them are watching this scene unfold with interest. There's no doubt that if he had leaped across the bar moments ago, not only would he have an ex-cop bashing him in the shins with a club of some sort he would also have half the bar joining in...and not on his side. With a deep breath, he turned back to the barkeep and rapped on the bar lightly.
Sorry about that buddy. You wouldn't believe the day I've had. I had to share a ride from Virginia with a guy that couldn't find his ass with two hands and a hunting dog, and a guy who was all to happy to help him look if you catch my drift.
The bartender nodded, his eyes meeting MacNeill's again and holding a stare.
You gonna buy something kid? I ain't got all day to talk. I'm busy here.
Cormack opened his mouth to reply, but wisely shut it as he felt a hand on his forearm again. He looked at Isla and she just gave him a smile and turned to the barkeep, laying a 20 on the bar and fixing him with her best megawatt smile.
We'll take two pints of Guinness please?
He turned to her with the same stony gaze, but not even a visage as set as his could resist the sparkling eyes. He shook his head as he moved to pour the glasses. he placed them on the bar and slipped the twenty into the till. He placed the change on the bartop loudly, the slam ringing through the bar and causing all conversation to stop and every head to turn their way.
Drink up, and go. We don't take to your kind around here. This is an American bar. She can stay though.
Cormack drove his fists into the bar and made to stand. Once again Ilsa placed a delicate hand on his ham-like fist and met his angry gaze with one of her own causing the big man to sit down once again. He's tough, not stupid. Ok, maybe he is. But not stupid enough to argue with a woman who knows where he sleeps. Instead Cormack wraps one meathook around the pint glass and drains it in one long swallow before slamming the glass down again and matching the barkeep's stare with one of his own. The silence hung in the air, not a sound was made, not a clinking of a glass, nor a spoken word, as the bar watched the two men try and stare each other down. Suddenly the silence was broken by a semi-drunken bleating from the back of the room.
Shit! It's Cormack MacNeill! In our little shitty bar! You know Dutchie, the fuckin rassler. That basterd what fought Pricey last year. Tough basterd thats fa'sure.
The tone of the bar changed noticeably. Even the barkeep, Dutchie by name, softened a little and refilled his pint, waving off the offer of cash from Isla. He shrugged and pointed to a sign over the bar. The sign read 'WCF every Sunday night! Wrestlers drink for free!'
Fuckin Eh honey. can we move here?
Ilsa responded with a punch to the shoulder that actually moved the big man slightly. The mouthy drunk that yelled his name by now had staggered to the bar. Dutchie made a motion for him to back off, but the guy just brushed him off.
You fightin this Sunnay in Philly right? That's why your here? Big match for the Innernashunal belt? 5 people. They shoulda called it a Fatal-Five match. Whaddya think? That would have been wicked eh?
Cormack smiled back and shook the drunks hand to a relieved expression from Isla. She turned to the bar and in one long gulp emptied her beer glass and tapped it on the bar for a refill. She received another drink, along several proposals of marriage from the regulars. One or two of them might have even been single. She shook her head to all of them with an amused smile. Meanwhile, in a corner not too far away.
You fightin your pal Caliban on Sunday, whaddya think?
Cormack, seated at a corner table and taking up most of the table with his brawny forearms shook his head.
Jordan Caliban is a buddy of mine. We broke in at the same time, got together. he knows he ever needs me, shout. I'll have his back, ya know. But Punkin. That's a different creature all together.
Whaddya mean Mack? Same guy, innit?
No, he ain't. Punkin is somethin Jordan's had kicking around in that crazy fucking Irish head of his. Guys nuts to begin with. The shit he's pulled off the top rope.. well. you wouldn't catch me doin it, that's for sure. But Punkin...that is a crazy bastard with no redeeming qualities. It's like he's all the hatred and frustration Jordan keeps inside him. Unpredictable, vicious, an asshole really.
How's dat differnt from the udder guy?
Jordan's got a personality. This thing just has one speed, overdrive. I'll tell ya, I don't know what its gonna feel like facin him. But my mind tells me to put it down for good. Kick it's head off it's puny shoulders. Maybe then, we can get Jordan back. Till then, I'm gonna make sure he doesn't get the gold. I'm gonna slow the pace, make him feel the strength of Big Mack. make him pay for what he's doin to the people around him. Hell of a girl he's got. She deserves better. I'll do what I can.
Jesus Mack, that's a tough spot. What about the others? Whaddya know about them?
Cormack drained his glass, and found it replaced with a glass filled with amber ale. He looked at it, shrugged and downed it in a single gulp.
The others huh? Let's start with the champ. Sakazaki. High-flyer like Punkin. Polished athelete. No one's seen him in a while. Sounds like he got scared, took his belt and went home. Guess what? he picked the wrong damn time to come back to the WCF. He's the same as the rets of these guys. They'll be flying through the air, flipping and twisting. Fuckin Cirque du Soleil. They all gotta land sometime. And that's when the trouble starts. Guy like Sakazaki I can snap like a twig. Slap him in a bearhug, drive him tot he mat with a Stone of Kings, or just kick his damn head off. Either way works with me.
Hey, they ain't all high-flyers. What about that sumo guy? Whaddya-call-it....Nagaspanki?
Nagaski? Fat bastard thinks his size will save him. It won't he's too slow to outrun those high-flyers, and not too damn big for me to toss around. He's what 400, 450? I've thrown caber poles that weigh more than that. Know what a caber is? Fucking telephone pole. That bastard is hard as hell to throw. If I can do that, there's no one in the Dubya that can be a bigger challenge.
What about Mr. Average?
That says it all. He's average. An everyday kinda guy. Normally I can get behind a guy like that. Just a guy making his rent money every month, just gettin by. Not all of us are millionares ya know. Just the ones that kiss every ass they can find. I'd rather take a loss on my back then get an easy oppoent from being on my knees. So Lee Roberts is a good guy, but he's in the wrong match. He'll fly, flip, and fall like the rest. He's just average, average doesn't beat Cormack MacNeill. And there isn't anyone in this match that is better than me. Some faster, some more experienced. None stronger. None tougher. None better at kicking the heads off of average wrestlers than me.
So that's it Mack? We oughta see you breeze troo for the belt?
Breeze? Not breeze. It'll be a fight. Probably one of the best on the card. Watch it. I just think when the flyers stop flying, and the sumo's stop shaking.....ol 'Mack will be standing tall and he'll have gold around his waist. Hey, that last drink wasn't bad? What was it?
Yeungling. A local beer.
Local beer? Explains why it tasted like water. Did I ever tell you how shitty American beer is?
Isla looked over from her perch at the bar and shook her head. With a resigned sigh she grabbed her purse and coat and started heading for the door. The barkeep called after her.
Where ya going darlin?
Isla stood at the door and turned on her heel to point to the back of the bar. The barkeep followed her finger and had just enough time to duck a flying chair. All hell had broken loose back there as most of the local patrons were smashing table legs, chairs, glasses, everything they could lay their hands on off of a laughing Cormack MacNeill. He grabbed the man on his left and flung him over the bar with a beefy arm, the resounding crash as his body impacted the bar glass rack. He turned around and shouted to Isla as she stood by the door.
Start the car wouldya? I'll be just a minute.
She shook her head with a smile radiating across her face and stepped outside. The crashing and shouting can be heard outside the bar, with bodies flying through the windows and rolling on the ground in a tangled heap of bloody, bruised flesh. A voice can be heard above the racket proclaiming that no ones leaving until...and that's as far as the voice gets before the door flies out from it's frame and slides several feet along the pavement. The barkeep can be seen through the open door looking around at what used to be his bar, but now is no more than kindling. Cormack steps through the now vacant doorframe and steps over the semi-conscious bodies lining the sidewalk. He reaches the curb, just as Isla pulls up in a black pickup truck. With a nod to the stunned barkeep, MacNeill climbs inside and the truck drives off. Dutchie walks to the open doorframe and stands, staring at the carnage, before walking slowly back inside and tearing down the sign above the bar.
The next bar I own...no fucking wrestlers!
