I'm Gonna Have To Get My Fuckin Tangelos Aren't I? (v Bozo)
Dec 30, 2021 22:22:56 GMT -5
Downfall, Holden Ross, and 1 more like this
Post by Max f'n Daemon on Dec 30, 2021 22:22:56 GMT -5
“So…David’s steppin down as leader?” Max asks.
His phone rests against his shoulder in between it and his ear as he fills a glass of water from the kitchen tap.
“That’s…odd. Any idea what his plan is?”
Once the glass is full, he steps back to the table in the middle of the room. He sits down in the chair and takes a sip from the glass.
Clean, fresh, unfiltered water.
He sets the half-finished glass on the table with a slam.
“What the fuck do ya’ mean he’s runnin back with his dad?”
There’s a short pause as Max pays only the slightest attention to the kitchen door opening.
“He hates Jack! Why the fuck would they want ta’ do anythin together?”
Max glances over to see Paddy Conlon standing by the door waiting patiently with a focused look.
“I guess that checks out. Shit, look, I gotta go Lapis, but as soon as I can we’re havin a meetin, alright?”
Another pause.
Max hangs up the phone with no farewell.
Paddy nods his head once.
“We’ve done what we can. All you can do now is keep on doing what you’re doing. I think there’s the very slightest chance that you could walk out the winner—”
Max lets out a snort at that.
“—but I know that you can at least take him all three rounds.”
“I appreciate the confidence, Coach. Let’s just hope he isn’t pissed that he has ta’ face me,” Max says.
“You’re keeping yourself busy. Throwing yourself into the Roth Tournament while still being active in Action Wrestling is a good way to build publicity, build your name for any non-wrestling fan who’s wondering who the fuck this kid is facing McGregor.”
“That’s the plan. With the press conference set for Revolution and the official weigh-in not long after that, my next coupla' months are gonna be busy.”
There’s a pause between the two. Max finishes his water as Paddy stands there with his arms crossed.
The glass is returned to the table.
“You know…”
“There it is…” Max mutters.
“…just because a father and son are strained, badly so, doesn’t mean all hope is lost between them. I never had the best relationship with my sons, but eventually, things worked out and we came to mutually respect each other. I’ve never been prouder of them.”
Max smirks, rubbing his eyes.
“Dad and I were always close, even if I never considered him my Dad for a lot of it. But in my line of work, relationships rarely ever fully heal. Trust me, between Jack’s paranoia and David’s desire for control, whatever…alliance, I guess, they have goin here won’t last.”
Paddy shrugs, allowing the point to rest.
He turns to leave, but Max stops him once again.
“I want Doc there at ringside for my fight.”
Paddy looks over his shoulder at Max.
He searches for a moment, trying to discern the serious look on his student’s face.
Eventually, he nods.
“If that’s what you want…” he says.
“I do.”
Paddy gives a quick wave with two fingers before heading for the exit.
Once the front door has closed, the sounds of Max’s foot tapping begin to fill the kitchen.
With a groan, he stands up, approaching the fridge. He rips the door open, searching for a few moments.
He doesn’t find what he’s looking for.
He tries the cupboards and finds an equal lack of success.
Desperate, he searches under the sink, but alas, no luck.
He holds his head in his hands, lying down on the ground as he starts to shake.
The cold sweats come back.
The migraine starts to form.
He grits his teeth and clenches his left fist.
“I’m Max fuckin Daemon. I’m half demon, half angel. I don’t go through fuckin withdrawals.
I don’t sit here and fuckin sweat because I want booze or pills or Mix.
But I guess that’s the price I pay for tryin ta’ make somethin of myself for once.
Not that ya’d know what the fuck that’s like, huh Booboo?
Yeah, that’s right, Booboo, because you’re barely a fuckin clown.
You’re a fool.
Sucks, don’t it Booboo?
Ta' think ya’ have an idea of someone nailed down only for your entire idea of 'em to end up bein false?
I mean, you’re tryin ta’ ‘exorcise a demon’ here yet you’re focusin on me?
For the record, dipshit, I’m only half demon. Do your fuckin homework next time and maybe ya’d look more threatenin.
And why are ya' even focusin on me, huh?
Ya' seemed pretty goddamn intent on takin out Corey Black and we all know how that ended.
He ended up makin a return as someone more dangerous and ya' got your fuckin ass kicked all the way back ta' clown college.
Booboo indeed.
Seriously though, what did I do ta’ piss ya’ off enough ta' want ta' stalk me? Because make no mistake, this is exactly what happened. I was mindin my own business when Clowns R’ Us walked inta' my life and decided ‘hey, you know, Max deserves another win’ because that’s the only reason I can think of for ya’ ta' want ta' step on my toes.
You’re a sacrificial lamb on the way ta' me pickin up another win. I’m certainly due one.
Or maybe you’re an Odin fan? Given this is almost exactly what he did ta' get my attention (and look how that ended, Booboo), maybe you’re secretly tryin ta' mimic him? Like a Ditto?
Well shit, if that’s the case, then let me take a page outta my own book.
I’ve known clowns before, and you’re certainly not one of ‘em. I’ve ran with enough weird ass motherfuckers ta' know an actual clown when I come across one, and Col. Clownders, you don't fuckin qualify.
Where’s the funny nose? The balloons? The flower over your heart that spits water? I’m beggin ya’ ta’ wear one, give me a target.
You’re not a fuckin clown.
You’re just a sad excuse for a human bein who found somebody succeedin at life and thought ‘well fuck that guy’ so ya’ made ‘em your next opponent.
Seriously, here I am on the cusp of the biggest few months of my life, and I’m facin a goddamn clown on the season premiere of Clash while losers (to me) like Odin are the US Champion.
No fuckin justice, I swear.
What kinda clown are ya’ anyway?
The kind ta’ go ta’ kids’ birthday parties and be the Pennywise that has the colorful windowless van? Ya' would definitely fit the look, Sparkles.
Or are ya’ the kind ta’ complain about society? The kind we live in? The way it churns out slaves and blanks?
No thanks.
Or are ya' more of the Johnny Bacchus version?
Because even the shittiest takes and the shittiest humor from a guy like Johnny-boy is more entertainin, rivetin, and best of all interestin than whatever bullshit you’re tryin ta’ spin for these people.
I’ve been ramblin for a while cause I’m pretty sure my body is tryin ta’ kill me, but this is me bein 100 honest with ya’.
Shit I’ll even drop the accent for you if it makes you realize my seriousness.
Booboo, I don’t give a single fuck what beef you have with me, why you want to kick my ass, why you’re trying to exorcise me or whatever weird euphemisms or entendres you pull out of your clown car.
I don’t give a single fuck why you’re hellbent on stalking me and having this match take place.
I don’t give a single fuck why you’re trying to get my attention and retain it long enough to go through this match.
The only thing I give a single fuck about is my fight in March.
Everything in between is just filler.
And there’s nothing that pisses me off more than filler.
This company thrives off it. Placing people undeserving into matches to fill spots. Giving tile shots to people who haven’t earned it just to fill a week’s title defense.
It’s rampant.
Kinda like you.
Booboo indeed.
If you’re tryin ta' emulate Odin, congratulations, I’ll finish the job for ya’.
I might as well emulate beatin the Cruiserweights at Tokyo Fite.
Or emulate winnin the Pure Cup.
Or emulate winnin my Pure Title by beatin the fuck outta Noris Cranley ta' the point where he stopped showin up in this company.
If you’re just a clown tryin ta' be funny, ha ha, Joe Pesci, than you’re doin a shitty job of amusin me.
I’d be happy ta' show ya’ somethin amusin though ya motherfuckin mutt.
Maybe you’re just a clown who thinks that society doesn’t care because that school was society?
But if that was the case than even less people would give a fuck about ya'.
Clownt of Clownte Cristo, you have no idea who ya' are and yet ya' call me a demon? Why?
No, seriously, why?
Because I’m a half breed? Because I’m a vicious motherfucker who loves violence in its purest form?
Or are ya' just graspin for straws tryin ta' reason why ya' do anythin ya' do and ya' saw my name was Daemon and thought, ‘that’d be fun, let’s call him demon instead’?
You’re a disappointment.
Booboo indeed.
Fuck off ta' wherever ya' fuck off ta' when you’re not stalkin me.
I think I’m just about pass this attack and I’d rather do anythin better with my life than waste anymore breath tryin ta' discern why the fuck ya' even are.
One more time for the road.”
Something happens.
Max narrows his eyes, staring at the ceiling above him for a few moments despite his body feeling like it’s trying to tear the skin back into the body.
He sits up slowly, looking around the kitchen.
He crawls towards the table, using both hands to reach under and grab a pair of pistols taped underneath.
Once they’re free, he reaches his feet and holds them steady.
He looks around the kitchen for a bit, eventually exiting it to stand in the entry hallway.
He hears a noise and turns around, aiming his pistols cocking them…
…right in the face of a translucent blondeT who is floating in mid-air.
“Um…” Max intelligently says because he is intelligent.
“Um…” the blonde ghost intelligently adds because she is also intelligent.
The two remain like that for a few moments until something clicks inside Max’s brain at about the same time as something clicks in the loosely fitting kimono wearing ghost with blue liquid pouring out of her mouth.
“Max? Why the fuck am I here?” she asks.
“Don’t know. Gonna take a shot and assume you’re the ghost that David kept around for a while until quite recently,” Max retorts.
“Heather,” she provides.
“Right, the Mythic Bitch.”
“Oh I’m gonna smack that omnipotent bastard the first chance I get…” she mutters.
“What?” Max asks.
“Nothing. Look, I don’t know why I’m here or what brought me here specifically, but while I’m back, the next time you see David, can you tell him—”
Just as she is about to finish her sentence, she fades away.
No peace sign. No sign at all of an exit. She just dissipates into the background like she was never there at all.
Max lowers his pistols to his side.
“Huh…”
He stands in the entry hallway like an idiot for another ten seconds before letting the pistols fall to the floor. He then heads to the stairs.
“Maybe they left the good shit upstairs…?”
His phone rests against his shoulder in between it and his ear as he fills a glass of water from the kitchen tap.
“That’s…odd. Any idea what his plan is?”
Once the glass is full, he steps back to the table in the middle of the room. He sits down in the chair and takes a sip from the glass.
Clean, fresh, unfiltered water.
He sets the half-finished glass on the table with a slam.
“What the fuck do ya’ mean he’s runnin back with his dad?”
There’s a short pause as Max pays only the slightest attention to the kitchen door opening.
“He hates Jack! Why the fuck would they want ta’ do anythin together?”
Max glances over to see Paddy Conlon standing by the door waiting patiently with a focused look.
“I guess that checks out. Shit, look, I gotta go Lapis, but as soon as I can we’re havin a meetin, alright?”
Another pause.
Max hangs up the phone with no farewell.
Paddy nods his head once.
“We’ve done what we can. All you can do now is keep on doing what you’re doing. I think there’s the very slightest chance that you could walk out the winner—”
Max lets out a snort at that.
“—but I know that you can at least take him all three rounds.”
“I appreciate the confidence, Coach. Let’s just hope he isn’t pissed that he has ta’ face me,” Max says.
“You’re keeping yourself busy. Throwing yourself into the Roth Tournament while still being active in Action Wrestling is a good way to build publicity, build your name for any non-wrestling fan who’s wondering who the fuck this kid is facing McGregor.”
“That’s the plan. With the press conference set for Revolution and the official weigh-in not long after that, my next coupla' months are gonna be busy.”
There’s a pause between the two. Max finishes his water as Paddy stands there with his arms crossed.
The glass is returned to the table.
“You know…”
“There it is…” Max mutters.
“…just because a father and son are strained, badly so, doesn’t mean all hope is lost between them. I never had the best relationship with my sons, but eventually, things worked out and we came to mutually respect each other. I’ve never been prouder of them.”
Max smirks, rubbing his eyes.
“Dad and I were always close, even if I never considered him my Dad for a lot of it. But in my line of work, relationships rarely ever fully heal. Trust me, between Jack’s paranoia and David’s desire for control, whatever…alliance, I guess, they have goin here won’t last.”
Paddy shrugs, allowing the point to rest.
He turns to leave, but Max stops him once again.
“I want Doc there at ringside for my fight.”
Paddy looks over his shoulder at Max.
He searches for a moment, trying to discern the serious look on his student’s face.
Eventually, he nods.
“If that’s what you want…” he says.
“I do.”
Paddy gives a quick wave with two fingers before heading for the exit.
Once the front door has closed, the sounds of Max’s foot tapping begin to fill the kitchen.
With a groan, he stands up, approaching the fridge. He rips the door open, searching for a few moments.
He doesn’t find what he’s looking for.
He tries the cupboards and finds an equal lack of success.
Desperate, he searches under the sink, but alas, no luck.
He holds his head in his hands, lying down on the ground as he starts to shake.
The cold sweats come back.
The migraine starts to form.
He grits his teeth and clenches his left fist.
“I’m Max fuckin Daemon. I’m half demon, half angel. I don’t go through fuckin withdrawals.
I don’t sit here and fuckin sweat because I want booze or pills or Mix.
But I guess that’s the price I pay for tryin ta’ make somethin of myself for once.
Not that ya’d know what the fuck that’s like, huh Booboo?
Yeah, that’s right, Booboo, because you’re barely a fuckin clown.
You’re a fool.
Sucks, don’t it Booboo?
Ta' think ya’ have an idea of someone nailed down only for your entire idea of 'em to end up bein false?
I mean, you’re tryin ta’ ‘exorcise a demon’ here yet you’re focusin on me?
For the record, dipshit, I’m only half demon. Do your fuckin homework next time and maybe ya’d look more threatenin.
And why are ya' even focusin on me, huh?
Ya' seemed pretty goddamn intent on takin out Corey Black and we all know how that ended.
He ended up makin a return as someone more dangerous and ya' got your fuckin ass kicked all the way back ta' clown college.
Booboo indeed.
Seriously though, what did I do ta’ piss ya’ off enough ta' want ta' stalk me? Because make no mistake, this is exactly what happened. I was mindin my own business when Clowns R’ Us walked inta' my life and decided ‘hey, you know, Max deserves another win’ because that’s the only reason I can think of for ya’ ta' want ta' step on my toes.
You’re a sacrificial lamb on the way ta' me pickin up another win. I’m certainly due one.
Or maybe you’re an Odin fan? Given this is almost exactly what he did ta' get my attention (and look how that ended, Booboo), maybe you’re secretly tryin ta' mimic him? Like a Ditto?
Well shit, if that’s the case, then let me take a page outta my own book.
I’ve known clowns before, and you’re certainly not one of ‘em. I’ve ran with enough weird ass motherfuckers ta' know an actual clown when I come across one, and Col. Clownders, you don't fuckin qualify.
Where’s the funny nose? The balloons? The flower over your heart that spits water? I’m beggin ya’ ta’ wear one, give me a target.
You’re not a fuckin clown.
You’re just a sad excuse for a human bein who found somebody succeedin at life and thought ‘well fuck that guy’ so ya’ made ‘em your next opponent.
Seriously, here I am on the cusp of the biggest few months of my life, and I’m facin a goddamn clown on the season premiere of Clash while losers (to me) like Odin are the US Champion.
No fuckin justice, I swear.
What kinda clown are ya’ anyway?
The kind ta’ go ta’ kids’ birthday parties and be the Pennywise that has the colorful windowless van? Ya' would definitely fit the look, Sparkles.
Or are ya’ the kind ta’ complain about society? The kind we live in? The way it churns out slaves and blanks?
No thanks.
Or are ya' more of the Johnny Bacchus version?
Because even the shittiest takes and the shittiest humor from a guy like Johnny-boy is more entertainin, rivetin, and best of all interestin than whatever bullshit you’re tryin ta’ spin for these people.
I’ve been ramblin for a while cause I’m pretty sure my body is tryin ta’ kill me, but this is me bein 100 honest with ya’.
Shit I’ll even drop the accent for you if it makes you realize my seriousness.
Booboo, I don’t give a single fuck what beef you have with me, why you want to kick my ass, why you’re trying to exorcise me or whatever weird euphemisms or entendres you pull out of your clown car.
I don’t give a single fuck why you’re hellbent on stalking me and having this match take place.
I don’t give a single fuck why you’re trying to get my attention and retain it long enough to go through this match.
The only thing I give a single fuck about is my fight in March.
Everything in between is just filler.
And there’s nothing that pisses me off more than filler.
This company thrives off it. Placing people undeserving into matches to fill spots. Giving tile shots to people who haven’t earned it just to fill a week’s title defense.
It’s rampant.
Kinda like you.
Booboo indeed.
If you’re tryin ta' emulate Odin, congratulations, I’ll finish the job for ya’.
I might as well emulate beatin the Cruiserweights at Tokyo Fite.
Or emulate winnin the Pure Cup.
Or emulate winnin my Pure Title by beatin the fuck outta Noris Cranley ta' the point where he stopped showin up in this company.
If you’re just a clown tryin ta' be funny, ha ha, Joe Pesci, than you’re doin a shitty job of amusin me.
I’d be happy ta' show ya’ somethin amusin though ya motherfuckin mutt.
Maybe you’re just a clown who thinks that society doesn’t care because that school was society?
But if that was the case than even less people would give a fuck about ya'.
Clownt of Clownte Cristo, you have no idea who ya' are and yet ya' call me a demon? Why?
No, seriously, why?
Because I’m a half breed? Because I’m a vicious motherfucker who loves violence in its purest form?
Or are ya' just graspin for straws tryin ta' reason why ya' do anythin ya' do and ya' saw my name was Daemon and thought, ‘that’d be fun, let’s call him demon instead’?
You’re a disappointment.
Booboo indeed.
Fuck off ta' wherever ya' fuck off ta' when you’re not stalkin me.
I think I’m just about pass this attack and I’d rather do anythin better with my life than waste anymore breath tryin ta' discern why the fuck ya' even are.
One more time for the road.”
Something happens.
Max narrows his eyes, staring at the ceiling above him for a few moments despite his body feeling like it’s trying to tear the skin back into the body.
He sits up slowly, looking around the kitchen.
He crawls towards the table, using both hands to reach under and grab a pair of pistols taped underneath.
Once they’re free, he reaches his feet and holds them steady.
He looks around the kitchen for a bit, eventually exiting it to stand in the entry hallway.
He hears a noise and turns around, aiming his pistols cocking them…
…right in the face of a translucent blondeT who is floating in mid-air.
“Um…” Max intelligently says because he is intelligent.
“Um…” the blonde ghost intelligently adds because she is also intelligent.
The two remain like that for a few moments until something clicks inside Max’s brain at about the same time as something clicks in the loosely fitting kimono wearing ghost with blue liquid pouring out of her mouth.
“Max? Why the fuck am I here?” she asks.
“Don’t know. Gonna take a shot and assume you’re the ghost that David kept around for a while until quite recently,” Max retorts.
“Heather,” she provides.
“Right, the Mythic Bitch.”
“Oh I’m gonna smack that omnipotent bastard the first chance I get…” she mutters.
“What?” Max asks.
“Nothing. Look, I don’t know why I’m here or what brought me here specifically, but while I’m back, the next time you see David, can you tell him—”
Just as she is about to finish her sentence, she fades away.
No peace sign. No sign at all of an exit. She just dissipates into the background like she was never there at all.
Max lowers his pistols to his side.
“Huh…”
He stands in the entry hallway like an idiot for another ten seconds before letting the pistols fall to the floor. He then heads to the stairs.
“Maybe they left the good shit upstairs…?”
