002 [DWF]

March 30, 2017

It was an absolute dive, probably the only reason she'd chosen it was to avoid being recognized. Kasey sat on a bar-stool, slumped against the bar, obviously already halfway towards being blitzed. He spotted her easily enough through the grimy window with her flame-red mane of hair even though it was partially tamed by a messy ponytail. When he arrived at her side, he leaned over her shoulder and plucked the half-full glass of Jack from her hand, tossing it back before she had time to register the loss.

"Heeeey!" She looked confused for a split second before the man beside her registered, "you stole my damn drink, Maximus."

Max shook his head, glaring at the bartender for a few seconds even as he suppressed a shudder from the hard liquor. "You shoulda been cut off after the first beer cap you licked, Little Red."

"Oh, piss off." She stuck her tongue out childishly. "Not so sure you have the right to make that call." She turned toward the bartender. "Another, same thing as before." She took a twenty out of her purse and slid it across the bar.

Max's good hand rested atop hers, warm and comforting. "Bring two then. Misery needs a little company."

"Miserable? Who says I'm miserable?" She smiled cynically, "losing's what I do now. And what's your problem? They offered you a contract."

He nodded as he took the stool next to hers. "Funny how that goes." He kept his voice pitched low, "what with being jumped and assaulted by candy-coated chocolate."

"At least nobody laughed at you." Kasey muttered, "I could hear them. Fricken Nora and Patrick stupid Starfish think they're so great… maybe they should take on a real team when I'm not TRYING TO CARRY DEAD-"

Max shushed her, glancing around. He withdrew his hand only so that he could wrap his arm around her shoulders instead, leaning in to put his head next to hers. "So this," he nodded at the booze behind the bar, "is your best revenge? Drinking yourself blind?"

A fresh drink slid her way and she grabbed it, toasting in his direction, "cheers."

"Cheers," he mumbled, lifting his own glass up to his lips. He took a long gulp of the liquor, feeling it burn down his parched throat. Obviously this was not how he'd envisioned this little reunion going - of course he hadn't counted on her being drunk, either.

"S'wrong with you?"

The last drink had obviously sent her too far over the edge and he rested his hand over the now-empty glass, giving his head a shake as he pushed it away. "Water with a wedge of lemon. For both of us."

"Maaaaax," she wheedled, "c'moooon."

His shoulders lifted in a listless shrug. There were reasons he didn't put himself out there much and this was one of them. While he was excellent at reading situations and judging people, he was terrible at talking about feelings. "You never even asked why I'm here so what's the point in answering?"

She frowned, looking genuinely miserable. "Okay, why're you here?" She folded her hands and placed them in her lap primly, "why out of all the bars in Florida did you walk into this one?"

"Kasey, you're so dumb sometimes," he sighed, "I came here looking for you."

"What?" She looked up at him, "why? Why would you even care?"

"I uh," he stammered, busying himself with finishing off his drink, "you know. Worry."

"I didn't think you cared." She shrugged, "I don't mean that as a dig, I just," she bit her lip, "I have no clue how to finish that."

"Forget it," he bowed his head, breaking eye contact. "You want me to drive you home?"

"All the way to Miami?" She stared at him, surprised when he nodded. "Uhm, you know I'm not gonna sleep with you, right?! I'm never gonna be that drunk."

Max forced a smile, laughing as though she'd cracked the best joke ever. "Yeah, I know."


The camera reveals Max Ironside sitting on an old kitchen chair in a stairwell that looks like it's seen better days. He's wearing a red and black sweatshirt, halfway unzipped to show the old band tee he has on underneath. He's cradling his bad hand in his good one, almost like he's trying to hide it from view.

"I guess the cool place to be is in this match of mine… of ours. I didn't even know 'buying in' was a thing - must've missed that in the fine print in my excitement to have a place to call home. Not that it matters much how many people get thrown into the mix. 'The more, the merrier,' I'd say if I were trying to be clever. I might find this a little daunting if I were anyone else. See while I've been doing this thing for years now, I've never held any championships."

He pauses, shoulders twitching like he wants to shrug.

"Not really a big deal. It wasn't for a lack of desire or motivation or anything like that. I'm just not the one who springs to mind when bookerman is looking for franchise challenges. Half the reason I started using the 'One-Armed and Dangerous' moniker was because of that whole stigma in the first place. Own it before they do - best defense is a great offense and the pity from the folks who don't get it and the hatred from those who think I'm some quota-filling charity case have brought me this far so why mess with a proven formula? Both of them spur me on to places like this. My gym's just upstairs. It's a good place - good heart, good bones - even though it looks kinda wonky on the outside."

His lips quirk with a crooked smile as he lets that metaphor hang.

"Soapbox? Guess this chair'll have to do."

Max glances to the side.

"Wit? Check. Determination? Check. Time to put some mouth where my money is," he chuckles, "just kidding, Patrick. Simon says 'pile on' and the cool kids do - nahhhh. I'm just jerking your chain. We're cool and I'll do my best to stay on point since my most epic brainfarts seem to happen more frequently on the nights before wrestling shows. Maybe it's the high, that anticipation. I'm just so jazzed right now, like I'm fifteen-thousand feet in the air with a parachute strapped on, ready to jump for the first time. That tingle gets me every time and maybe that makes me come off like a little kid, like I'm not grown up enough for this song and dance number but I gotta be me."

He laughs. Shrugs. And then lets the smile return to his lips.

"I'm the underdog here, totally invisible, I know. It's the height thing, right?"

He winks.

"It's fine. I get it. They laugh, write me off. I'll be working my ass off night and day, putting in the time, modifying every goddamned thing I do so that I can hang while you throw some cash around and 'buy in' like you didn't cut a line. It's fine. I'm used to it. I know that everything I have ever done and everything I've got planned for the future is nothing. I know that outside of this circle, nobody cares how many belts I've missed out on holding. Nobody cares how many concussions, and how many stitches I've gotten. Blow me off like I'm just this invisible nothing. It's the Patrick and Heidi vendetta show and Nora's there too, why not. Don't worry about ol' crippled Max. He's just that squiggly line in the corner of your vision that you can't be bothered to think about. Blink; he'll go away."

His voice is calm although there's a thread of steel in it.

"I've heard it so many times, whispered behind hands. If you're thinking it, don't, because I swear by all that's holy, I'll make you eat those words. I will destroy them. Even if you get the jump on me. Even if someone else's hand is raised in victory, I've won. I've won because I was able to compete. On their level."

Max pauses, shaking his head.

"I don't know why you wanted in, Nora. I don't care if you're sweet on the guy or what. I don't care. Full stop. I know Patrick has more beef with Miss Thompson than Chipotle on delivery day - whatever. Let them sort that daytime drama out on some other channel. This Wednesday night… in Austin, it's gonna be the Max Ironside show. You're not gonna want to miss this one; I can guarantee it!"