Damn Good Coffee/The Book of Action Wrestling
Feb 10, 2018 22:28:09 GMT -5
Gravedigger, T.F.K., and 1 more like this
Post by Dionysus on Feb 10, 2018 22:28:09 GMT -5
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I love coffee, I love tea
I love the java jive and it loves me
Coffee and tea and the java and me
A cup, a cup, a cup, a cup, a cup…
- The Ink Blots, “Java Jive”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Can I take your order, sir?”
“No, I have a complaint.”
The scene opens to a quiet coffee shop, just after the morning rush. Only a handful of people are in the store, including a man with crimson hair engrossed in a novel in front of him. There were two mugs filled with the black brew in front of him, along with a small stack of cream and sugar. Standing behind the counter was a kid no older than sixteen tending to the register, while a middle-aged man, beat red with fury, stood in front of the register, slamming his to-go cup on the counter and waving his receipt around.
“I’m sorry to hear that, what seems to be the problem?” the teenager asked politely.
“I ordered a coffee with ten pumps of vanilla,” shouted the man, “And I know for a fact this tasted like eight pumps! YOU’RE CHEATING ME OUT OF MY MONEY, AGAIN, AND I DEMAND A FULL REFUND!”
Startled, the teenager responded timidly, “O-o-of course sir. May I see the receipt?”
Grunting in reply, the customer forced the receipt into the cashier’s hand. Meanwhile, the man with red hair looked up, revealing the figure of Dionysus, professional wrester and philanthropist. He took a sip from one mug, brushing away the excess from his equally crimson beard. Dionysus shook his head; he understood an angry customer, but to get that worked up over missed flavorings…and on top of that, to be THAT critical of the flavor based on the number of pumps of vanilla? It made Dionysus feel ashamed to be in the same coffee shop.
“Sir,” the cashier responded, coming back from their records, “I’m trying to find your order, but it looks like you ordered at a different location. I can give them a call- “
“ARE YOU SAYING I’M A LIAR, BOY?!” roared the customer. “I come into this coffee shop EVERY DAY, and NOW you’re saying I didn’t today?! Are you a dropout, or just plain stupid?!”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re the same as those other little assholes, thinking you can get by in life by making a few cups of coffee and screwing the rest of us out of our hard-earned money! I bet my taxes are going into your drug habit or food stamps or whatever you little lazy shits do with my money! Do you know who I am?! I could have you fi- “
The cashier sighed loudly. “Again, I want to help, but you didn’t order this here, so I’m going to ask you to-“
The customer grabbed the cashier by the collar. “TO WHAT, ASSHOLE?! TO LEAVE, WAS THAT WHAT YOU WERE GOING TO SAY?! YOU LISTEN YOU LITTLE SHIT, YOU GIVE ME MY MONEY OR ELSE I’LL-“
The customer was interrupted by the slamming of a coffee mug behind him, followed by a chair sliding on the floor. “Are you sure you want to do that?” Dionysus asked calmly as he approached the counter, standing behind the customer.
The customer turned on him, letting go of the cashier. “Who are YOU?! The fucking manager?!"
"No."
"THEN FUCK OFF! THIS IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS!” He exclaimed, jabbing a finger into Dionysus’s chest.
“Actually, it IS my business,” Dionysus replied, smiling. “For one, you’re threatening someone over a ridiculous coffee drink. Ten pumps of vanilla, and you can tell the difference between ten pumps and eight?” Dionysus gave the man a quick look with his eyes. “If you aren’t a diabetic yet, you probably will be soon.”
“NOW LISTEN HERE, YOU- “
“Second,” Dionysus continued, batting the customer’s hand away, “I doubt this fine young man…I’m sorry,” Dionysus paused, turning towards the cashier. “What’s your name?”
“Uhh…Terrence,” the cashier replied, “But I usually go by Scout.”
“Scout, huh…good name,” Dionysus said, turning back to the customer. “I really don’t think Scout is willing to lose his job over short-changing a guy who can only drink vanilla syrup with a side of real coffee.”
“YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP, OR I’LL KICK YOUR ASS, YOU NEEDLEDICK FAGGOT!” the customer growled, before taking a swing at Dionysus. Dionysus stepped back, letting the customer get in full rotation of the swing, before grabbing the man and putting him in a sleeper hold.
“Lastly,” Dionysus listed, still calm, “You should know that I’m not someone to take a swing at. On top of that, you’re not really someone to make threats when there’s someone bigger, stronger, and generally better than you.”
“LET ME GO, YOU- “ the customer coughed out before Dionysus applied pressure, causing him to gag.
“So,” Dionysus forced while letting up on the pressure, “You have two options. You can either apologize to…Scout, right? And go on your merry way with your shitty drink and shitty personality…or…I can choke you out right here and drag you to the police station on attempted assault. Your choice.”
The customer wriggled within Dionysus’s grip, taking a bite into his arm. Sighing, Dionysus let the man go. “I’LL GET YOUR NAME, YOU SON OF A BIT- “ was all the customer could sputter before Dionysus punched the customer in the face, dropping him to the floor.
“Dionysus Albert Necurat, Dion for short. Thanks for asking,” Dion replied, still smiling. He pulled out his wallet, leaving the man a twenty-dollar bill. “That should cover your shitty drink,” he retorted, now standing over the customer, his smile faded and his appearance much more threatening. “Now get the hell out of here, before I make a threat you know I can back up, you spunk-gargling fucktrumpet.” Dion’s glare was frightening enough to scare away the customer, who scrambled to his feet before running out the door. Scout looked on in amazement. He’s had to deal with problem customers in the past, but to have someone actually threaten him? And to have this intimidatingly huge red-haired man come to his rescue? Scout had several questions he wanted to ask this man in front of him, but the only question that came to mind was:
“…Spunk…gargling…fucktrumpet?”
Dion turned to face Scout at the question. A moment of silence passed, then Dion let out a laugh. “I know; it’s the first thing I could come up with. Brilliant, huh?” he asked. "He looked like some guy I beat up in high school once for running his mouth. Don't worry about him."
Scout chuckled, embarrassed. He was unsure what to say or do at this point, though he was more relaxed after such a tense situation. “You said you were Dionysus Necurat…like the professional wrestler?”
“The very same. Though please, Scout, call me Dion.”
“Okay…Dion,” Scout replied. “I just…well, I didn’t expect a wrestler to come into this coffee shop. I’m only working here so I can start out on my own career. I'm looking at becoming a wrestler too.”
“Ah, still in training?”
“Yeah, but I’m moving along pretty quick. My trainers think I’m nearly ready for the real deal.”
Dion tilted his head, confused. “You’re going to fight Jason O’Neal?”
“…Wait, who?” Scout asked.
Dion waived the question away. “Nevermind; just a passing thought,” he said. He looked at Scout, noting his appearance; while smaller, he could tell Scout was in good physical condition. “How long have you been training for?”
“I think I’m on two years now,” Scout replied, “But no one is willing to give me an honest shot. I know what my coaches say, but-”
Dion clapped his hands together, startling Scout. “I…think I may have something for you, then. You still have that asshole’s receipt? Write down your name and email, and I’ll give you my card,” he said, digging into his wallet for the card. When he found it, Dion handed the card to Scout, as Scout slowly handed the receipt to Dion. “You should expect an email from me soon with more information.”
Scout’s eyes went wide. “You’re serious?”
“Absolutely,” Dion replied. Smiling, he went back to his book, closed it, and started toward the door. "I'll be in touch."
“Wait!” Scout shouted, “What about your coffee?”
Without looking, Dion waved back to him. “That, Scout, is damn good coffee.” Dion then left the building. Scout looked over where he sat: the two cups were still filled to the brim with now cold coffee.
…That son of a bitch didn’t even finish any of it…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“The beginning is the most important part of the work.”
― Plato, The Republic
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The scene changed to the interior of a sitting room. A fireplace burning in the background illuminated the room, including the walls lined with several books both new and old, and an exquisite leather chair set intentionally to block the view of the flames themselves. Seated in the chair was Dionysus, a bottle and glass of wine sitting on a table next to him. Dionysus sat with his legs crossed over the arm of the chair, as he read from a book lying in his hands.
“Plato’s Republic…” Dionysus began. “It is a wonder how such a man had such great insights into the world itself. ‘The beginning is the most important part of the work…’ And Action Wrestling has certainly made its way to the beginning. We have promoted, discussed, and agreed to such a beginning, the makings of history, as we venture forth and begin a new journey…of struggle, conquest…and inevitably, triumph.”
Dionysus snapped the book shut, adjusting his position so he sat normally in the chair. Setting The Republic aside, he pulled another book from the side of his chair. “The Book of Action Wrestling…crisp, clean, untouched. Such a book should, and will, be filled with many such tales, as well as those of despair…conflict…self-doubt…and failure. Which, of course, leads to the first act. Mr. Rossi, was it? I believe I have not had the pleasure. Based on what I know, your history, to others, can be seen as impressive, when you also factor in family lineage. For myself, however, lineage and history, when it comes to a man, mean rather little. This is a new stage, a fresh start, a brand-new beginning…why dwell on the past? We have the chance to create that history, here and now. What matters to me is your ability, good sir. Whether you can stand in the ring, and face me, man to man, spirit to spirit, warrior…to gladiator.”
“You seem to be a man of action, though you would also have us believe your words are much louder. Let me be plain; I do not need to wallow in murder and decay to know how to tear through one’s soul, one’s very being. I also do not brag or boast about my own accolades or accomplishments. For me, there is only the battle, the action; indeed, it is the combination of nouns, pronouns, and verbs that will comprise The Book of Action Wrestling that I care about. I certainly could say that within one year I attained the highest title in another place, but why would that matter here? I could boast about an impressive resume, but what will that accomplish in a new land? It is akin to a customer demanding from the teller to identify them. ‘Do you know who I am?’ This is simply a question brought up by either the pompous, or those suffering from dementia. ‘Who do you think you are?’ usually follows this question, and while it is not a question you are asking, I readily assume that is what you would ask next.”
“Well, Mr. Rossi, I shall inform you of who I am. I am Dionysus Albert Necurat, the reincarnate of the god of wine and revelry, Lord of the Vine and Master of Madness…though I do not revel in madness. Rather, I use my understanding of madness as a means to protect oneself, such as one would wear a coat on a rainy day to keep dry. A healthy understanding of madness can help when it comes to understanding another’s…especially yours, Mr. Rossi. Certainly, a man who treads through the shallows of murder and decay cannot look to me as simply a mad man. Any amount of death, no matter how close you are to the victim, would drive anyone closer to the chaos. It is this where we actually have some common ground. Rather than avoid the inevitable chaos, I stride toward it, whether it is beneficial or otherwise. You, meanwhile, are willing to kill indiscriminately, whether you know the person or not. You’ve embraced the madness that comes with murder, and revel in it. Hell, your family has even made a career legacy out of it. The notable difference is that your deity will likely reserve space for you in the eternal timeout, whereas mine will share a carafe of his finest moscato in the afterlife.”
“Regardless, these words mean rather little. I am certainly not here to dissuade your lifestyle. After all, this is a choice you have lived with for years now, and why would I want to stand in the way of this? Instead, lets focus on what lies ahead for either of us, the reason the fates have put us together; The Action Wrestling World Championship. This tournament is the opportunity to not only see who is worthy of being the first to hold such a prize, but also to see who is worthy of following in pursuit of it. It also will serve to be the thrilling conclusion to the first chapter in the history of Action Wrestling. I may have taken my sweet time in returning to the white mat jungle, but it is here where I will traverse and create a new legacy, not just for myself, but for Action Wrestling as a whole. In short, Mr. Rossi, you will serve a vital function in the overall scheme of the history of this company, by being a footnote in the very first chapter of this novel. Perhaps you will rise again, at some point, but our paths will meet and quickly diverge, as I continue forward toward the main prize, while you claw your way from Hades to potentially see the glory again.”
“As for me? I will not fight from the bottom. I have worked too hard to start from squalor again. I will serve as the subject of the first chapter. I will not be a footnote in this story.” Dionysus opened the book, retrieving a pen from his jacket pocket. He raised the pen up next to his face, the book held at chest height. His lips curled into a wicked grin, clicking the pen to reveal the tip.
“I, Mr. Rossi, will be writing the book.”
I love coffee, I love tea
I love the java jive and it loves me
Coffee and tea and the java and me
A cup, a cup, a cup, a cup, a cup…
- The Ink Blots, “Java Jive”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Can I take your order, sir?”
“No, I have a complaint.”
The scene opens to a quiet coffee shop, just after the morning rush. Only a handful of people are in the store, including a man with crimson hair engrossed in a novel in front of him. There were two mugs filled with the black brew in front of him, along with a small stack of cream and sugar. Standing behind the counter was a kid no older than sixteen tending to the register, while a middle-aged man, beat red with fury, stood in front of the register, slamming his to-go cup on the counter and waving his receipt around.
“I’m sorry to hear that, what seems to be the problem?” the teenager asked politely.
“I ordered a coffee with ten pumps of vanilla,” shouted the man, “And I know for a fact this tasted like eight pumps! YOU’RE CHEATING ME OUT OF MY MONEY, AGAIN, AND I DEMAND A FULL REFUND!”
Startled, the teenager responded timidly, “O-o-of course sir. May I see the receipt?”
Grunting in reply, the customer forced the receipt into the cashier’s hand. Meanwhile, the man with red hair looked up, revealing the figure of Dionysus, professional wrester and philanthropist. He took a sip from one mug, brushing away the excess from his equally crimson beard. Dionysus shook his head; he understood an angry customer, but to get that worked up over missed flavorings…and on top of that, to be THAT critical of the flavor based on the number of pumps of vanilla? It made Dionysus feel ashamed to be in the same coffee shop.
“Sir,” the cashier responded, coming back from their records, “I’m trying to find your order, but it looks like you ordered at a different location. I can give them a call- “
“ARE YOU SAYING I’M A LIAR, BOY?!” roared the customer. “I come into this coffee shop EVERY DAY, and NOW you’re saying I didn’t today?! Are you a dropout, or just plain stupid?!”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re the same as those other little assholes, thinking you can get by in life by making a few cups of coffee and screwing the rest of us out of our hard-earned money! I bet my taxes are going into your drug habit or food stamps or whatever you little lazy shits do with my money! Do you know who I am?! I could have you fi- “
The cashier sighed loudly. “Again, I want to help, but you didn’t order this here, so I’m going to ask you to-“
The customer grabbed the cashier by the collar. “TO WHAT, ASSHOLE?! TO LEAVE, WAS THAT WHAT YOU WERE GOING TO SAY?! YOU LISTEN YOU LITTLE SHIT, YOU GIVE ME MY MONEY OR ELSE I’LL-“
The customer was interrupted by the slamming of a coffee mug behind him, followed by a chair sliding on the floor. “Are you sure you want to do that?” Dionysus asked calmly as he approached the counter, standing behind the customer.
The customer turned on him, letting go of the cashier. “Who are YOU?! The fucking manager?!"
"No."
"THEN FUCK OFF! THIS IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS!” He exclaimed, jabbing a finger into Dionysus’s chest.
“Actually, it IS my business,” Dionysus replied, smiling. “For one, you’re threatening someone over a ridiculous coffee drink. Ten pumps of vanilla, and you can tell the difference between ten pumps and eight?” Dionysus gave the man a quick look with his eyes. “If you aren’t a diabetic yet, you probably will be soon.”
“NOW LISTEN HERE, YOU- “
“Second,” Dionysus continued, batting the customer’s hand away, “I doubt this fine young man…I’m sorry,” Dionysus paused, turning towards the cashier. “What’s your name?”
“Uhh…Terrence,” the cashier replied, “But I usually go by Scout.”
“Scout, huh…good name,” Dionysus said, turning back to the customer. “I really don’t think Scout is willing to lose his job over short-changing a guy who can only drink vanilla syrup with a side of real coffee.”
“YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP, OR I’LL KICK YOUR ASS, YOU NEEDLEDICK FAGGOT!” the customer growled, before taking a swing at Dionysus. Dionysus stepped back, letting the customer get in full rotation of the swing, before grabbing the man and putting him in a sleeper hold.
“Lastly,” Dionysus listed, still calm, “You should know that I’m not someone to take a swing at. On top of that, you’re not really someone to make threats when there’s someone bigger, stronger, and generally better than you.”
“LET ME GO, YOU- “ the customer coughed out before Dionysus applied pressure, causing him to gag.
“So,” Dionysus forced while letting up on the pressure, “You have two options. You can either apologize to…Scout, right? And go on your merry way with your shitty drink and shitty personality…or…I can choke you out right here and drag you to the police station on attempted assault. Your choice.”
The customer wriggled within Dionysus’s grip, taking a bite into his arm. Sighing, Dionysus let the man go. “I’LL GET YOUR NAME, YOU SON OF A BIT- “ was all the customer could sputter before Dionysus punched the customer in the face, dropping him to the floor.
“Dionysus Albert Necurat, Dion for short. Thanks for asking,” Dion replied, still smiling. He pulled out his wallet, leaving the man a twenty-dollar bill. “That should cover your shitty drink,” he retorted, now standing over the customer, his smile faded and his appearance much more threatening. “Now get the hell out of here, before I make a threat you know I can back up, you spunk-gargling fucktrumpet.” Dion’s glare was frightening enough to scare away the customer, who scrambled to his feet before running out the door. Scout looked on in amazement. He’s had to deal with problem customers in the past, but to have someone actually threaten him? And to have this intimidatingly huge red-haired man come to his rescue? Scout had several questions he wanted to ask this man in front of him, but the only question that came to mind was:
“…Spunk…gargling…fucktrumpet?”
Dion turned to face Scout at the question. A moment of silence passed, then Dion let out a laugh. “I know; it’s the first thing I could come up with. Brilliant, huh?” he asked. "He looked like some guy I beat up in high school once for running his mouth. Don't worry about him."
Scout chuckled, embarrassed. He was unsure what to say or do at this point, though he was more relaxed after such a tense situation. “You said you were Dionysus Necurat…like the professional wrestler?”
“The very same. Though please, Scout, call me Dion.”
“Okay…Dion,” Scout replied. “I just…well, I didn’t expect a wrestler to come into this coffee shop. I’m only working here so I can start out on my own career. I'm looking at becoming a wrestler too.”
“Ah, still in training?”
“Yeah, but I’m moving along pretty quick. My trainers think I’m nearly ready for the real deal.”
Dion tilted his head, confused. “You’re going to fight Jason O’Neal?”
“…Wait, who?” Scout asked.
Dion waived the question away. “Nevermind; just a passing thought,” he said. He looked at Scout, noting his appearance; while smaller, he could tell Scout was in good physical condition. “How long have you been training for?”
“I think I’m on two years now,” Scout replied, “But no one is willing to give me an honest shot. I know what my coaches say, but-”
Dion clapped his hands together, startling Scout. “I…think I may have something for you, then. You still have that asshole’s receipt? Write down your name and email, and I’ll give you my card,” he said, digging into his wallet for the card. When he found it, Dion handed the card to Scout, as Scout slowly handed the receipt to Dion. “You should expect an email from me soon with more information.”
Scout’s eyes went wide. “You’re serious?”
“Absolutely,” Dion replied. Smiling, he went back to his book, closed it, and started toward the door. "I'll be in touch."
“Wait!” Scout shouted, “What about your coffee?”
Without looking, Dion waved back to him. “That, Scout, is damn good coffee.” Dion then left the building. Scout looked over where he sat: the two cups were still filled to the brim with now cold coffee.
…That son of a bitch didn’t even finish any of it…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“The beginning is the most important part of the work.”
― Plato, The Republic
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The scene changed to the interior of a sitting room. A fireplace burning in the background illuminated the room, including the walls lined with several books both new and old, and an exquisite leather chair set intentionally to block the view of the flames themselves. Seated in the chair was Dionysus, a bottle and glass of wine sitting on a table next to him. Dionysus sat with his legs crossed over the arm of the chair, as he read from a book lying in his hands.
“Plato’s Republic…” Dionysus began. “It is a wonder how such a man had such great insights into the world itself. ‘The beginning is the most important part of the work…’ And Action Wrestling has certainly made its way to the beginning. We have promoted, discussed, and agreed to such a beginning, the makings of history, as we venture forth and begin a new journey…of struggle, conquest…and inevitably, triumph.”
Dionysus snapped the book shut, adjusting his position so he sat normally in the chair. Setting The Republic aside, he pulled another book from the side of his chair. “The Book of Action Wrestling…crisp, clean, untouched. Such a book should, and will, be filled with many such tales, as well as those of despair…conflict…self-doubt…and failure. Which, of course, leads to the first act. Mr. Rossi, was it? I believe I have not had the pleasure. Based on what I know, your history, to others, can be seen as impressive, when you also factor in family lineage. For myself, however, lineage and history, when it comes to a man, mean rather little. This is a new stage, a fresh start, a brand-new beginning…why dwell on the past? We have the chance to create that history, here and now. What matters to me is your ability, good sir. Whether you can stand in the ring, and face me, man to man, spirit to spirit, warrior…to gladiator.”
“You seem to be a man of action, though you would also have us believe your words are much louder. Let me be plain; I do not need to wallow in murder and decay to know how to tear through one’s soul, one’s very being. I also do not brag or boast about my own accolades or accomplishments. For me, there is only the battle, the action; indeed, it is the combination of nouns, pronouns, and verbs that will comprise The Book of Action Wrestling that I care about. I certainly could say that within one year I attained the highest title in another place, but why would that matter here? I could boast about an impressive resume, but what will that accomplish in a new land? It is akin to a customer demanding from the teller to identify them. ‘Do you know who I am?’ This is simply a question brought up by either the pompous, or those suffering from dementia. ‘Who do you think you are?’ usually follows this question, and while it is not a question you are asking, I readily assume that is what you would ask next.”
“Well, Mr. Rossi, I shall inform you of who I am. I am Dionysus Albert Necurat, the reincarnate of the god of wine and revelry, Lord of the Vine and Master of Madness…though I do not revel in madness. Rather, I use my understanding of madness as a means to protect oneself, such as one would wear a coat on a rainy day to keep dry. A healthy understanding of madness can help when it comes to understanding another’s…especially yours, Mr. Rossi. Certainly, a man who treads through the shallows of murder and decay cannot look to me as simply a mad man. Any amount of death, no matter how close you are to the victim, would drive anyone closer to the chaos. It is this where we actually have some common ground. Rather than avoid the inevitable chaos, I stride toward it, whether it is beneficial or otherwise. You, meanwhile, are willing to kill indiscriminately, whether you know the person or not. You’ve embraced the madness that comes with murder, and revel in it. Hell, your family has even made a career legacy out of it. The notable difference is that your deity will likely reserve space for you in the eternal timeout, whereas mine will share a carafe of his finest moscato in the afterlife.”
“Regardless, these words mean rather little. I am certainly not here to dissuade your lifestyle. After all, this is a choice you have lived with for years now, and why would I want to stand in the way of this? Instead, lets focus on what lies ahead for either of us, the reason the fates have put us together; The Action Wrestling World Championship. This tournament is the opportunity to not only see who is worthy of being the first to hold such a prize, but also to see who is worthy of following in pursuit of it. It also will serve to be the thrilling conclusion to the first chapter in the history of Action Wrestling. I may have taken my sweet time in returning to the white mat jungle, but it is here where I will traverse and create a new legacy, not just for myself, but for Action Wrestling as a whole. In short, Mr. Rossi, you will serve a vital function in the overall scheme of the history of this company, by being a footnote in the very first chapter of this novel. Perhaps you will rise again, at some point, but our paths will meet and quickly diverge, as I continue forward toward the main prize, while you claw your way from Hades to potentially see the glory again.”
“As for me? I will not fight from the bottom. I have worked too hard to start from squalor again. I will serve as the subject of the first chapter. I will not be a footnote in this story.” Dionysus opened the book, retrieving a pen from his jacket pocket. He raised the pen up next to his face, the book held at chest height. His lips curled into a wicked grin, clicking the pen to reveal the tip.
“I, Mr. Rossi, will be writing the book.”