😃Opportunities for Growth😃
Jan 31, 2021 23:29:09 GMT -5
Lissie Hope, Stuart Slane, and 1 more like this
Post by Samson Saltair on Jan 31, 2021 23:29:09 GMT -5
June 2020
It was a pleasant evening in New York – warm. The Spring had been cool and longer than expected, the low temperatures going as long as into late May. But the solstice was around the corner, and even the chilly climate of New England was beginning to give way. Even the nighttime seemed to buzz and hum with a little more activity.
With that activity, few people glanced up at the old Tammany building under renovation – and why would they? The handsome old building stood out from its surroundings in this corner of the city, a reminder of a venerable past in the city’s political pages. Still, while it was an important chapter, none would begrudge anyone of it being a less than pleasant chapter. Thus few bothered to pay much attention to old Tammany Hall as they walked past it, content to let the ghosts of old lie undisturbed.
But it was for that willful ignorance that the movement in the Hall’s top floors went unnoticed. As well as the figure in the window.
The Man in the Corduroy Jacket shuffled the dossier on his desk, his mouth pulled down in a frown of concentration as he read the papers before him.
“It’s an impressive resume to be sure. Special Forces, MI5, work abroad in Afghanistan alongside the United States. Your reputation precedes you, Mister Garvey.”
The Man in the Corduroy Jacket turned to the Big Man sitting in the seat across his desk. He was bald and had a face like a gorilla, his brow and jaw thick and heavy with what seemed to be a permanent look of disdain. His mammoth, calloused and scarred hands were folded politely in his lap, the sleeve of a white collared shirt poking out from the cuff of a navy blue sport coat. He nodded appreciatively to the compliment.
“Thank ye’, sur.”
“You’re welcome. It only begs the question…” the Man in the Corduroy Jacket paused, tapping a finger to his lips, “…what interest a former special agent and military man could possibly have with a job in Human Resources.”
“Wuz gunna ask ye sumthin’ similar me’self. I wuz recummended dis job by a friend’a mine. Good chap – known ‘im since Kosovo. Sed to cum in ‘ere an’ talk to ye – you’d be tellin’ me a lot more work an’ it ain’t writin’ disciplinary forms.”
The Man in the Corduroy Jacket smiled.
“Your friend – Mister Bentham I presume?”
The Big Man nodded.
“’iz word’s good az gold ta me. So tha’ brings me back ta my question – what’s da job akchully ‘bout?”
The two men locked eyes. The Man in the Corduroy Jacket sat back down, folding his hands together as he leaned forward on his desk.
“In time, Mister Garvey. I’d like to discuss your potential compensation first.”
“Bit uv a strange order ta dis.”
“When we get to the details of the job, I think you’ll more clearly understand. I’d like to secure your interest first.”
How are you feeling, Kyle? Not good, I imagine. Can’t say I blame you, either. It’s hard to watch all your hard work come crashing down. Still, I believe there was an old adage about laying in the bed you made. I just hope you’re feeling sleepy – we’ll help you out if not.
Can’t say this year hasn’t been the best so far, has it? You were on top of the world. Almost. The reinvention of Kyle Kemp – the unmasking of Grayson Ward, the formation of the Following, the honing of the team – was one of the biggest developments of last year. There’s certainly credit that you can take for having pulled the corpse of Dandy DiVito back into prime shape and driving Wesley to taking that final step. Up until January, it very well looked like this was just the beginning.
On paper, there is nowhere this team goes but up. Compare and contrast it to the struggling Philidor Holdings coalition at the end of the year:
But my, oh my, how things can change. And even with a weatherman, you can’t always tell which way the wind is blowing. From the top of Olympus, menacing the Man Made Gods at the end of XIII at our expense to never even having a sniff at that Glory. Your best man down and now in our sights. Kyle, you stilly arrogant bastard, you got too big for your own britches. You stuck your nose where it didn’t belong too many times.
We do not forget, nor do we forgive transgressions against us. Time has shown we have a clever method to showing back up and righting wrongs against us. Corey Black is about to learn that – when the show closes at Revolution, our revenge for his battle of attrition at XIII will have come full circle. And XIII is where this all began, isn’t it?
When Vayden was pinned by the King, we lost a battle though a war remained. That much can be seen today. But in the midst of that war, as the Man Made Gods licked their wounds and celebrated their battle, the Following intervened. Whether through arrogance or entitlement, you felt it best to step to the front of the line and to make your show of force in the aftermath of our disgrace. And so, we sent a message back your way. We sent you a message at Clash: we reminded you that your insult was not lost on us.
If you attempt to raise a hand to us, we will put one of yours in the hospital. If you do put one of ours in the hospital, we will put one of yours in the morgue. When the ambulance loaded up Wesley and the doctors gave you their prognosis, I hope you thought back to the ambulance ride Graham Baker took. And if you didn’t, congratulations – our patterns aren’t subtle. But apparently our message wasn’t clear enough before, or Wesley wouldn’t be hoping he has a career after physical rehab.
Don’t be so glum; we could’ve followed up by sending you the invoice for the ring floor we put him through. It wasn’t cheap to replace.
Perhaps in that monkey brain of yours you believe this is an attempt to finally exercise the doubt that’s begun to permeate your roster like a rotten odor. Maybe you believe that in Kyle Kemp and Dandy DiVito being the first men to best us in a straight match, you can reassert the strength of your Following. This is your moment – the warrior king leading his best knight into battle to avenge their fallen brethren. The only question remains:
Heed our words: this will end at Revolution. It’s not going to end a fairytale or a dramatic refutation of Philidor’s resurgence, it’s going to end with your death knell. I’d like you to meditate on the consequences of this defeat, Kyle – I want you to understand the natural progression of events that will follow.
First, you walk back to your locker room empty handed, the judging eyes of your fellows cast upon you.
The next few days are quiet and uncomfortable. Everyone sort of stews on things, but nobody really wants to discuss the elephant in the room. It’s a devestating loss after a month of repeated punishment and humiliation.
Chase Jackson breaks the silence. He thinks about all the treatment he’s endured up until this point. He thinks about the beatings and the politicking and the fear for his membership. He thinks about everything he invested into your team – into your vision – only to watch you not fail to practice what you preach. And turns to CJ Phoenix and slips the question in his ear: what if we’re backing a losing horse?
Dandy will begin to grow restless. Or maybe he’ll grow dispirited and depressed – the last time he had to grapple with failure he sold his soul at the drop of a hat. Without Wesley here to keep him on the straight and narrow and without the belts to reassure him, he’ll slink away to find another shark to latch onto, bringing his little mercenary buddy with him.
And then there’ll be you, Kyle. All alone. Reduced once again to mediocrity. Licking your wounds while your old sire Odin Balfore holds the US Championship, finally finding success when he cut himself free of your dead weight.
“I’ll be honest wit ya – never considered a career in combat sports. Sort uv an odd request, but ah must’ say… tha’ss a nice benefits package ye offrin’.”
The Big Man’s eyes darted furatively over the papers in his grasp as he reshuffled and reread them. The Man in the Corduroy Jacket simply watched.
“We take pride in offering competitive compensation. I understand the job seems unorthodox, but I believe after your initiation and conditioning, you’ll have a much better handle not only on the requirements of the job but our designs here at Philidor Holdings.”
“I s’pose yer lookin’ fer somewun like me cuss ya need da gunz, ye?”
“Sort of. Perhaps I should elaborate now that I have your interest: our company is looking to safeguard its investments as well as maximize their potential value. We’ve a significant amount of capital tied up in our current acquisitions, and we’ll hope to aggressively grow and expand over the coming year’s time. Whenever there’s significant disruption in any given industry, there tends to be push-back: We expect that the rational actors will seek to eliminate any competition quickly before we can entrench ourselves – snuff us in the cradle, if you will.
Additionally, it goes without saying that anybody proposing such revolutionary action makes a fair number of enemies. There’s the usual suspects: competitors, regulators, politicians, and the media. There’s also a substantial number of internet activists, the loud type who generally need to be held accountable for the slander they publish and libel they spread.”
“Cunspiracy theerists?”
“Something like that. Let’s just say we value our privacy, Mister Garvey.”
The Man in the Corduroy Jacket leaned back in his chair, pausing and bringing a finger to his lips.
“Additionally… Well, I hate to sound paranoid, but in a position as delicate as ours, one can never be too careful. Corporate espionage is far too common. In the wake of Theranos and Valeant, hostile agents are all so emboldened to find the next big scoop. They occasionally get in the ears of our most impressionable staff members and – well – let’s just say we need proprietary information to remain confidential. Do you follow?”
“Loss prevenshen?”
“Yes, Mister Garvey, loss prevention. I’m glad you understand. It’s a varied skill set we require, but I do believe they’re skills you possess. So what do you say? Are we the job for the man?”
The Man in the Corduroy Jacket drew a page from his dossier and slid it across the table. Taking a pen from the holder on his desk, he extended it to the Big Man. The Big Man cautiously accepted it – after a moment of consideration, he signed his name.
“And lastly…” the Man in the Corduroy Jacket’s eyes drifted past Garvey, staring at the door behind him, “…there’s a final responsibility. Quite possibly the most important aspect of the job, and why we’ve reached out to a former special agent to offer him a position ostensibly in a corporate human resources department…”
The Man in the Corduroy Jacket rose from his desk. Garvey turned in his seat to follow the Man as he crossed the room to the door.
“We’ve already one man in the department. This man will be both your contemporary, your superior, and your charge. If that sounds contradictory, it’s difficult to explain, but I assure you quite intuitive after some on-the-job training.”
The Man in the Corduroy Jacket opened the door to his office and peered outside. He smiled beyond the threshold.
“You can come in.”
The door opened wider. A Dark Man entered the room, his eyes gleaming cold and malevolent from the shadows he seemed to inhabit in the hall.
“This is our newest hire to the Department, Mister Peter Garvey. Mister Garvey, I’d like you to meet Mister S̷̨̛͛̎̃͒͋̀̃̏̀̀̂̈͝͠ͅa̵̟̭̻̳͉͓͚̞̪͒̐͊̇̉͜͝͠m̶͍̱̮͖͈̯͎̞͙̩̗̮̬̼͛̃̽̽̍̑͒͛͘̚͘s̸̢̥̩͍̠̟̰̙̹̦̱͓͉̿̑́ͅo̴̧̧̳̻̮͉̭̦̥̹̅͂̀͜ṉ̸̮̱͇̟̥̩͈̒̿̒̀͑̀̂̆̚̚ ̷̦̰͇͓͖͇̼̩̦̜͓̠̆̂̑͜͠S̴͈͍̱͆̒̓͗͝a̴̢̡͉̖̻͚͎̗̙̫̮̼͙̓͌͗̓͛̓̋́̄̈́̉̈̕͘͜ͅl̷̢̳̘͍̀̇̃͗̆t̸̢̧̺͖̘̪̞̣͖̉̈́̀͆̀̚͠ả̵̛̼̗͓̦̤͌̇̾͠i̵̥͚̼̼̫͖̩͗ŗ̵͓̭͉̩͋̋̍̍̿̎̀̄̾̅̒͂̚͝͝ͅ”
Borrowed time. I’m not gonna hit you with the stereotypical “your title reign is on borrowed time” line.
We know this. Anybody with two eyes located on the front of their heads knows this. But what’s really fascinating is the borrowed time with which anything ‘good’ lasts in the hands of Dandy DiVito. From an upbringing that gave him everything he didn’t know he wanted to the career successes - atleast, in whatever form you wish to quantify it - he is able to claim within the realm of Action Wrestling.
I wonder just how much longer it will take for Kyle Kemp to realize he willingly brought a ticking time bomb into his own camp when he decided that Dandy would make a good trophy to keep in tow.
I wonder just how much longer it will take for Dandy DiVito to realize that he’s a trophy. That’s a trip when you think about it, huh? Dandy’s not exactly a face his daddy kept ready for show in the wallet. But in the closet of a puppeteer, every marionette is a fine, fuzzy trophy.
As is Dandy. So really, even with an AW World Title reign to his credit, this Tag Team Title to his credit, some headliner matches with this company...the only thing that he’s ever done that he can be proud of is join The Following.
Because everyone is proud of a trophy. Like the 45 year old dad that still shows you that Rookie Of the Year trophy from Little League Baseball.
It will be our explicit honor to crush that ‘trophy’ down to the same kind of dust that fucked up Dandy’s nostrils in the first place.
Borrowed time. On borrowed time is the inevitable implosion of The Following: Version 2. While they’ve got the gold keeping everything together, once we take THOSE TROPHIES off of your hands, then it’ll be Kyle Kemp getting sick of his latest experiments all over again. Phoenix is trying too damn hard to hang, Wesley’s sleeping, and Dandy will let daddy down one more time, this time on the White House lawn.
See, some folks can’t change. They think a switch up on scenery or a new job will do them a little good - break the pattern or whatnot. And maybe there’s a brief burst of success here or there, but then the old habits kick back in. You spend the first month of the year following your resolution: eating your vegetables, going to the gym, only drinking on weekends. But it all gets tired: you find excuses to have cheat days for Dry January, you’re just not a fan of running, and healthy food doesn’t taste good. So you slide - slide right back to being fat and lazy and stupid. And you tell yourself you just need another change of scenery or next time will be better, but we know that ain’t the case.
There’s mediocrity in your blood. It’s in your hair, sweated out through your pores, and clings to your breath. Your career has accolades by merits of its longevity, but John Thomas yaps on the radio about Karlie Nash, too. It couldn’t be your father’s genetics - he actually made something of his life. But I suppose if you’re taking after Mummy, it makes sense why you’re such an insufferable little bitch, looking for Big Daddy Kemp to take care of him.
Thing is, there’s a million disaffected, alienated masquerading rich boys just like you - the difference between you and them is you don’t got the blood or the piss to actually commit a real crime. Life in the Following has given you the discipline you so sadly seeked, but even Kemp’s guidance can’t make up for the fact you’ve been raised soft for too long. He spared the rod and spoiled the child so as not to send our little wayward rebel running right back away, but this weekend he’ll finally have to contend with the fact your Father spent a childhood placating you with an ATM card when he should’ve applied the belt.
But what’s the sense in dumping time, effort, or investment into an incorrigible waste all too content with spitting in the face of every grace and privilege he was given? How do you reform a late 20’s seven-year-old who’d shit his own pants if he was wearing the underwear his Nan bought him for Christmas? You don’t. You hire a Contra to be his babysitter and to minimize the liability that could be caused by his association with the next Waco. You hope to god that if things escalate, this chap will take the money you’ve given him as a sign to sneak your idiot son out of the backdoor before the tank drives through the wall.
Winston, you stupid bastard, you think this is going to be anything but a display of public humiliation. This is why Kemp drags you along - you’re not smart enough to chart your own course, but you’ve got an ugly enough mug to take a bullet for him without losing any value. It’s cute, really, I didn’t think a prison twink would make a serviceable bodyguard; suppose it all depends on if you want a muscle or a meat shield.
Borrowed time. Dandy’s standing in the good graces of Kyle Kemp. Kyle Kemp’s trust of Wesley’s judgement of character after recruiting this sack of underachievement who’s biggest contribution to the group effort was putting two men through a barricade. Dandy’s realization we aren’t Ryan Lockhart and will beat Chase Jackson to death with CJ Phoenix if they stick their nose where it doesn’t belong.
Why don’t you follow the example set by your teeth and just simply step aside. It’s worked for you well the last year of your career. And it’s gonna add at least a few minutes to that ticking clock of your career that’s so perilously close to Zero.
February 2021
Life at Philidor Holdings had not been like Kosovo for Peter Garvey. It hadn’t been Iraq or Afghanistan, nor had it been like MI5. It had just so happened to be a welcome change of career, one where the Big Man had thrived. Perhaps it lacked the eminent danger of the thick of a battlefield, but the stability was satisfying. Garvey enjoyed wearing suits to work, having time to indulge his weekend hobbies, and collect a steady paycheck without dodging explosives and projectiles. Sure, occasionally a Sensitivity Training was met with some resistance – not every person is initially receptive to performance reviews and disciplinary measures and sought measures to resist reeducation – but outside of a few new scrapes and cuts to his knuckles, it was relatively quiet.
Even the barrage of chair shots he’d taken at the hands of Kyle Kemp, CJ Phoenix, and Dandy DiVito hardly bothered him. All occupations involved some sort of hazard and the need for personal growth and development. It was a rare moment of weakness, but exposure therapy over the following weeks had proven effective. He hardly found the sting of metal to his head or back unpleasant.
He’d thrived in the new position, and he’d found himself rewarded handsomely. In less than a year since his acceptance of the position, he’d climbed the ladder and reaped the rewards. He’d been praised and recognized for his performance: the “Employee of the Month” plaque that hung above his desk demonstrated as much. The Big Man was proud of it – he could hardly wait to hang the AW Tag Team Championship on the space beside it.
Still, he could never quite shake the memory of that feeling he had upon the introduction of his associate. Even in the near year he’d worked with Mr. Saltair, the Big Man had never taken the opportunity to know him beyond the office. He’d read an article about Penn & Teller once – the most incredible team who hardly considered one another friends outside of work, a claim they said was to the benefit of their partnership. Garvey considered this as much for his partnership. But truthfully, he knew it wasn’t only that.
At Revolution, he’d be going back to war once again – it may not have the ear-splitting concussive volume of IEDs and bombs and machine guns, but the spirit of battle and triumph would be present. And yet, Garvey hardly considered himself fighting to defeat the Following; he understood there were greater stakes.
Kyle Kemp and Dandy DiVito had made Mister Saltair angry. Very angry. The Dark Man demanded retribution. And Garvey would be aiding him in achieving that retribution.
It was a pleasant evening in New York – warm. The Spring had been cool and longer than expected, the low temperatures going as long as into late May. But the solstice was around the corner, and even the chilly climate of New England was beginning to give way. Even the nighttime seemed to buzz and hum with a little more activity.
With that activity, few people glanced up at the old Tammany building under renovation – and why would they? The handsome old building stood out from its surroundings in this corner of the city, a reminder of a venerable past in the city’s political pages. Still, while it was an important chapter, none would begrudge anyone of it being a less than pleasant chapter. Thus few bothered to pay much attention to old Tammany Hall as they walked past it, content to let the ghosts of old lie undisturbed.
But it was for that willful ignorance that the movement in the Hall’s top floors went unnoticed. As well as the figure in the window.
The Man in the Corduroy Jacket shuffled the dossier on his desk, his mouth pulled down in a frown of concentration as he read the papers before him.
“It’s an impressive resume to be sure. Special Forces, MI5, work abroad in Afghanistan alongside the United States. Your reputation precedes you, Mister Garvey.”
The Man in the Corduroy Jacket turned to the Big Man sitting in the seat across his desk. He was bald and had a face like a gorilla, his brow and jaw thick and heavy with what seemed to be a permanent look of disdain. His mammoth, calloused and scarred hands were folded politely in his lap, the sleeve of a white collared shirt poking out from the cuff of a navy blue sport coat. He nodded appreciatively to the compliment.
“Thank ye’, sur.”
“You’re welcome. It only begs the question…” the Man in the Corduroy Jacket paused, tapping a finger to his lips, “…what interest a former special agent and military man could possibly have with a job in Human Resources.”
“Wuz gunna ask ye sumthin’ similar me’self. I wuz recummended dis job by a friend’a mine. Good chap – known ‘im since Kosovo. Sed to cum in ‘ere an’ talk to ye – you’d be tellin’ me a lot more work an’ it ain’t writin’ disciplinary forms.”
The Man in the Corduroy Jacket smiled.
“Your friend – Mister Bentham I presume?”
The Big Man nodded.
“’iz word’s good az gold ta me. So tha’ brings me back ta my question – what’s da job akchully ‘bout?”
The two men locked eyes. The Man in the Corduroy Jacket sat back down, folding his hands together as he leaned forward on his desk.
“In time, Mister Garvey. I’d like to discuss your potential compensation first.”
“Bit uv a strange order ta dis.”
“When we get to the details of the job, I think you’ll more clearly understand. I’d like to secure your interest first.”
How are you feeling, Kyle? Not good, I imagine. Can’t say I blame you, either. It’s hard to watch all your hard work come crashing down. Still, I believe there was an old adage about laying in the bed you made. I just hope you’re feeling sleepy – we’ll help you out if not.
Can’t say this year hasn’t been the best so far, has it? You were on top of the world. Almost. The reinvention of Kyle Kemp – the unmasking of Grayson Ward, the formation of the Following, the honing of the team – was one of the biggest developments of last year. There’s certainly credit that you can take for having pulled the corpse of Dandy DiVito back into prime shape and driving Wesley to taking that final step. Up until January, it very well looked like this was just the beginning.
-The Tag Titles
-Hot new prospect in CJ Phoenix recruited
-Wesley barely losing Wrestler of the Year
On paper, there is nowhere this team goes but up. Compare and contrast it to the struggling Philidor Holdings coalition at the end of the year:
-Vayden is gone
-Shaw is cucked time and time again by Corey Black
-Ash Blake has lost the TV Title
But my, oh my, how things can change. And even with a weatherman, you can’t always tell which way the wind is blowing. From the top of Olympus, menacing the Man Made Gods at the end of XIII at our expense to never even having a sniff at that Glory. Your best man down and now in our sights. Kyle, you stilly arrogant bastard, you got too big for your own britches. You stuck your nose where it didn’t belong too many times.
You didn’t realize what you messed with. But you will now.
We do not forget, nor do we forgive transgressions against us. Time has shown we have a clever method to showing back up and righting wrongs against us. Corey Black is about to learn that – when the show closes at Revolution, our revenge for his battle of attrition at XIII will have come full circle. And XIII is where this all began, isn’t it?
If you believed this was merely for those belts around your waists, you’d be sorely mistaken. That you happen to be Tag Champions is immaterial, but a decidedly welcome bonus.
When Vayden was pinned by the King, we lost a battle though a war remained. That much can be seen today. But in the midst of that war, as the Man Made Gods licked their wounds and celebrated their battle, the Following intervened. Whether through arrogance or entitlement, you felt it best to step to the front of the line and to make your show of force in the aftermath of our disgrace. And so, we sent a message back your way. We sent you a message at Clash: we reminded you that your insult was not lost on us.
Nonetheless, this could’ve been a much simpler affair than it has been.
But you didn’t allow it to be.
You raised the stakes.
But you didn’t allow it to be.
You raised the stakes.
If you attempt to raise a hand to us, we will put one of yours in the hospital. If you do put one of ours in the hospital, we will put one of yours in the morgue. When the ambulance loaded up Wesley and the doctors gave you their prognosis, I hope you thought back to the ambulance ride Graham Baker took. And if you didn’t, congratulations – our patterns aren’t subtle. But apparently our message wasn’t clear enough before, or Wesley wouldn’t be hoping he has a career after physical rehab.
Don’t be so glum; we could’ve followed up by sending you the invoice for the ring floor we put him through. It wasn’t cheap to replace.
Perhaps in that monkey brain of yours you believe this is an attempt to finally exercise the doubt that’s begun to permeate your roster like a rotten odor. Maybe you believe that in Kyle Kemp and Dandy DiVito being the first men to best us in a straight match, you can reassert the strength of your Following. This is your moment – the warrior king leading his best knight into battle to avenge their fallen brethren. The only question remains:
When everything you stood for falls, where will you stand?
Heed our words: this will end at Revolution. It’s not going to end a fairytale or a dramatic refutation of Philidor’s resurgence, it’s going to end with your death knell. I’d like you to meditate on the consequences of this defeat, Kyle – I want you to understand the natural progression of events that will follow.
First, you walk back to your locker room empty handed, the judging eyes of your fellows cast upon you.
The next few days are quiet and uncomfortable. Everyone sort of stews on things, but nobody really wants to discuss the elephant in the room. It’s a devestating loss after a month of repeated punishment and humiliation.
Chase Jackson breaks the silence. He thinks about all the treatment he’s endured up until this point. He thinks about the beatings and the politicking and the fear for his membership. He thinks about everything he invested into your team – into your vision – only to watch you not fail to practice what you preach. And turns to CJ Phoenix and slips the question in his ear: what if we’re backing a losing horse?
Dandy will begin to grow restless. Or maybe he’ll grow dispirited and depressed – the last time he had to grapple with failure he sold his soul at the drop of a hat. Without Wesley here to keep him on the straight and narrow and without the belts to reassure him, he’ll slink away to find another shark to latch onto, bringing his little mercenary buddy with him.
And then there’ll be you, Kyle. All alone. Reduced once again to mediocrity. Licking your wounds while your old sire Odin Balfore holds the US Championship, finally finding success when he cut himself free of your dead weight.
Don’t forget: you wanted this. You made your bed, and you’re going to lie in it. And you deserve nothing less.
“I’ll be honest wit ya – never considered a career in combat sports. Sort uv an odd request, but ah must’ say… tha’ss a nice benefits package ye offrin’.”
The Big Man’s eyes darted furatively over the papers in his grasp as he reshuffled and reread them. The Man in the Corduroy Jacket simply watched.
“We take pride in offering competitive compensation. I understand the job seems unorthodox, but I believe after your initiation and conditioning, you’ll have a much better handle not only on the requirements of the job but our designs here at Philidor Holdings.”
“I s’pose yer lookin’ fer somewun like me cuss ya need da gunz, ye?”
“Sort of. Perhaps I should elaborate now that I have your interest: our company is looking to safeguard its investments as well as maximize their potential value. We’ve a significant amount of capital tied up in our current acquisitions, and we’ll hope to aggressively grow and expand over the coming year’s time. Whenever there’s significant disruption in any given industry, there tends to be push-back: We expect that the rational actors will seek to eliminate any competition quickly before we can entrench ourselves – snuff us in the cradle, if you will.
Additionally, it goes without saying that anybody proposing such revolutionary action makes a fair number of enemies. There’s the usual suspects: competitors, regulators, politicians, and the media. There’s also a substantial number of internet activists, the loud type who generally need to be held accountable for the slander they publish and libel they spread.”
“Cunspiracy theerists?”
“Something like that. Let’s just say we value our privacy, Mister Garvey.”
The Man in the Corduroy Jacket leaned back in his chair, pausing and bringing a finger to his lips.
“Additionally… Well, I hate to sound paranoid, but in a position as delicate as ours, one can never be too careful. Corporate espionage is far too common. In the wake of Theranos and Valeant, hostile agents are all so emboldened to find the next big scoop. They occasionally get in the ears of our most impressionable staff members and – well – let’s just say we need proprietary information to remain confidential. Do you follow?”
“Loss prevenshen?”
“Yes, Mister Garvey, loss prevention. I’m glad you understand. It’s a varied skill set we require, but I do believe they’re skills you possess. So what do you say? Are we the job for the man?”
The Man in the Corduroy Jacket drew a page from his dossier and slid it across the table. Taking a pen from the holder on his desk, he extended it to the Big Man. The Big Man cautiously accepted it – after a moment of consideration, he signed his name.
“And lastly…” the Man in the Corduroy Jacket’s eyes drifted past Garvey, staring at the door behind him, “…there’s a final responsibility. Quite possibly the most important aspect of the job, and why we’ve reached out to a former special agent to offer him a position ostensibly in a corporate human resources department…”
The Man in the Corduroy Jacket rose from his desk. Garvey turned in his seat to follow the Man as he crossed the room to the door.
“We’ve already one man in the department. This man will be both your contemporary, your superior, and your charge. If that sounds contradictory, it’s difficult to explain, but I assure you quite intuitive after some on-the-job training.”
The Man in the Corduroy Jacket opened the door to his office and peered outside. He smiled beyond the threshold.
“You can come in.”
The door opened wider. A Dark Man entered the room, his eyes gleaming cold and malevolent from the shadows he seemed to inhabit in the hall.
“This is our newest hire to the Department, Mister Peter Garvey. Mister Garvey, I’d like you to meet Mister S̷̨̛͛̎̃͒͋̀̃̏̀̀̂̈͝͠ͅa̵̟̭̻̳͉͓͚̞̪͒̐͊̇̉͜͝͠m̶͍̱̮͖͈̯͎̞͙̩̗̮̬̼͛̃̽̽̍̑͒͛͘̚͘s̸̢̥̩͍̠̟̰̙̹̦̱͓͉̿̑́ͅo̴̧̧̳̻̮͉̭̦̥̹̅͂̀͜ṉ̸̮̱͇̟̥̩͈̒̿̒̀͑̀̂̆̚̚ ̷̦̰͇͓͖͇̼̩̦̜͓̠̆̂̑͜͠S̴͈͍̱͆̒̓͗͝a̴̢̡͉̖̻͚͎̗̙̫̮̼͙̓͌͗̓͛̓̋́̄̈́̉̈̕͘͜ͅl̷̢̳̘͍̀̇̃͗̆t̸̢̧̺͖̘̪̞̣͖̉̈́̀͆̀̚͠ả̵̛̼̗͓̦̤͌̇̾͠i̵̥͚̼̼̫͖̩͗ŗ̵͓̭͉̩͋̋̍̍̿̎̀̄̾̅̒͂̚͝͝ͅ”
Borrowed time. I’m not gonna hit you with the stereotypical “your title reign is on borrowed time” line.
We know this. Anybody with two eyes located on the front of their heads knows this. But what’s really fascinating is the borrowed time with which anything ‘good’ lasts in the hands of Dandy DiVito. From an upbringing that gave him everything he didn’t know he wanted to the career successes - atleast, in whatever form you wish to quantify it - he is able to claim within the realm of Action Wrestling.
I wonder just how much longer it will take for Kyle Kemp to realize he willingly brought a ticking time bomb into his own camp when he decided that Dandy would make a good trophy to keep in tow.
I wonder just how much longer it will take for Dandy DiVito to realize that he’s a trophy. That’s a trip when you think about it, huh? Dandy’s not exactly a face his daddy kept ready for show in the wallet. But in the closet of a puppeteer, every marionette is a fine, fuzzy trophy.
As is Dandy. So really, even with an AW World Title reign to his credit, this Tag Team Title to his credit, some headliner matches with this company...the only thing that he’s ever done that he can be proud of is join The Following.
Because everyone is proud of a trophy. Like the 45 year old dad that still shows you that Rookie Of the Year trophy from Little League Baseball.
It will be our explicit honor to crush that ‘trophy’ down to the same kind of dust that fucked up Dandy’s nostrils in the first place.
Borrowed time. On borrowed time is the inevitable implosion of The Following: Version 2. While they’ve got the gold keeping everything together, once we take THOSE TROPHIES off of your hands, then it’ll be Kyle Kemp getting sick of his latest experiments all over again. Phoenix is trying too damn hard to hang, Wesley’s sleeping, and Dandy will let daddy down one more time, this time on the White House lawn.
See, some folks can’t change. They think a switch up on scenery or a new job will do them a little good - break the pattern or whatnot. And maybe there’s a brief burst of success here or there, but then the old habits kick back in. You spend the first month of the year following your resolution: eating your vegetables, going to the gym, only drinking on weekends. But it all gets tired: you find excuses to have cheat days for Dry January, you’re just not a fan of running, and healthy food doesn’t taste good. So you slide - slide right back to being fat and lazy and stupid. And you tell yourself you just need another change of scenery or next time will be better, but we know that ain’t the case.
There’s mediocrity in your blood. It’s in your hair, sweated out through your pores, and clings to your breath. Your career has accolades by merits of its longevity, but John Thomas yaps on the radio about Karlie Nash, too. It couldn’t be your father’s genetics - he actually made something of his life. But I suppose if you’re taking after Mummy, it makes sense why you’re such an insufferable little bitch, looking for Big Daddy Kemp to take care of him.
Thing is, there’s a million disaffected, alienated masquerading rich boys just like you - the difference between you and them is you don’t got the blood or the piss to actually commit a real crime. Life in the Following has given you the discipline you so sadly seeked, but even Kemp’s guidance can’t make up for the fact you’ve been raised soft for too long. He spared the rod and spoiled the child so as not to send our little wayward rebel running right back away, but this weekend he’ll finally have to contend with the fact your Father spent a childhood placating you with an ATM card when he should’ve applied the belt.
But what’s the sense in dumping time, effort, or investment into an incorrigible waste all too content with spitting in the face of every grace and privilege he was given? How do you reform a late 20’s seven-year-old who’d shit his own pants if he was wearing the underwear his Nan bought him for Christmas? You don’t. You hire a Contra to be his babysitter and to minimize the liability that could be caused by his association with the next Waco. You hope to god that if things escalate, this chap will take the money you’ve given him as a sign to sneak your idiot son out of the backdoor before the tank drives through the wall.
Winston, you stupid bastard, you think this is going to be anything but a display of public humiliation. This is why Kemp drags you along - you’re not smart enough to chart your own course, but you’ve got an ugly enough mug to take a bullet for him without losing any value. It’s cute, really, I didn’t think a prison twink would make a serviceable bodyguard; suppose it all depends on if you want a muscle or a meat shield.
Borrowed time. Dandy’s standing in the good graces of Kyle Kemp. Kyle Kemp’s trust of Wesley’s judgement of character after recruiting this sack of underachievement who’s biggest contribution to the group effort was putting two men through a barricade. Dandy’s realization we aren’t Ryan Lockhart and will beat Chase Jackson to death with CJ Phoenix if they stick their nose where it doesn’t belong.
Why don’t you follow the example set by your teeth and just simply step aside. It’s worked for you well the last year of your career. And it’s gonna add at least a few minutes to that ticking clock of your career that’s so perilously close to Zero.
February 2021
Life at Philidor Holdings had not been like Kosovo for Peter Garvey. It hadn’t been Iraq or Afghanistan, nor had it been like MI5. It had just so happened to be a welcome change of career, one where the Big Man had thrived. Perhaps it lacked the eminent danger of the thick of a battlefield, but the stability was satisfying. Garvey enjoyed wearing suits to work, having time to indulge his weekend hobbies, and collect a steady paycheck without dodging explosives and projectiles. Sure, occasionally a Sensitivity Training was met with some resistance – not every person is initially receptive to performance reviews and disciplinary measures and sought measures to resist reeducation – but outside of a few new scrapes and cuts to his knuckles, it was relatively quiet.
Even the barrage of chair shots he’d taken at the hands of Kyle Kemp, CJ Phoenix, and Dandy DiVito hardly bothered him. All occupations involved some sort of hazard and the need for personal growth and development. It was a rare moment of weakness, but exposure therapy over the following weeks had proven effective. He hardly found the sting of metal to his head or back unpleasant.
He’d thrived in the new position, and he’d found himself rewarded handsomely. In less than a year since his acceptance of the position, he’d climbed the ladder and reaped the rewards. He’d been praised and recognized for his performance: the “Employee of the Month” plaque that hung above his desk demonstrated as much. The Big Man was proud of it – he could hardly wait to hang the AW Tag Team Championship on the space beside it.
Still, he could never quite shake the memory of that feeling he had upon the introduction of his associate. Even in the near year he’d worked with Mr. Saltair, the Big Man had never taken the opportunity to know him beyond the office. He’d read an article about Penn & Teller once – the most incredible team who hardly considered one another friends outside of work, a claim they said was to the benefit of their partnership. Garvey considered this as much for his partnership. But truthfully, he knew it wasn’t only that.
At Revolution, he’d be going back to war once again – it may not have the ear-splitting concussive volume of IEDs and bombs and machine guns, but the spirit of battle and triumph would be present. And yet, Garvey hardly considered himself fighting to defeat the Following; he understood there were greater stakes.
Kyle Kemp and Dandy DiVito had made Mister Saltair angry. Very angry. The Dark Man demanded retribution. And Garvey would be aiding him in achieving that retribution.
Because god help them all if S̷̨̛͛̎̃͒͋̀̃̏̀̀̂̈͝͠ͅa̵̟̭̻̳͉͓͚̞̪͒̐͊̇̉͜͝͠m̶͍̱̮͖͈̯͎̞͙̩̗̮̬̼͛̃̽̽̍̑͒͛͘̚͘s̸̢̥̩͍̠̟̰̙̹̦̱͓͉̿̑́ͅo̴̧̧̳̻̮͉̭̦̥̹̅͂̀͜ṉ̸̮̱͇̟̥̩͈̒̿̒̀͑̀̂̆̚̚ ̷̦̰͇͓͖͇̼̩̦̜͓̠̆̂̑͜͠S̴͈͍̱͆̒̓͗͝a̴̢̡͉̖̻͚͎̗̙̫̮̼͙̓͌͗̓͛̓̋́̄̈́̉̈̕͘͜ͅl̷̢̳̘͍̀̇̃͗̆t̸̢̧̺͖̘̪̞̣͖̉̈́̀͆̀̚͠ả̵̛̼̗͓̦̤͌̇̾͠i̵̥͚̼̼̫͖̩͗ŗ̵͓̭͉̩͋̋̍̍̿̎̀̄̾̅̒͂̚͝͝ͅ was disappointed.