002 (Time & Circumstance) [PCW]

THE STITCHES ON THE INSIDE OF HIS WRIST pulled with every movement, sending a sharp pain up his arm. The doctor had babbled something to him about nerve damage and even as he twiddled his fingers, he wondered how he'd manage to play the guitar again. Idly, he started shaping chords, wincing with each one as he watched his reflection in the rain-streaked glass. His chin rested on his palm, supported by his right arm, which in turn was braced on the armrest. A small sigh issued from his lips, lost amid the drumming of the rain on the roof.

"Stop doing that."

He looked over at the man behind the wheel of the rental car, almost as though he'd forgotten he was there. He still was a little fuzzy on the details of how Chauncy Nottingham-Rottonbottom had ended up at the Los Angeles hospital. He didn't remember much after blacking out in the locker room after WCWF's show— he only knew that Brad Jackson had found him because that had been the man standing over his hospital bed when he'd come to.

"Doing what?" Gowan murmured, at a loss.

"Sighing like the world is about to end. It isn't, you know— despite how you feel about Shawn's demise—"

"I didn't ask you to be here," the anger was irrational, he knew but he still hadn't really forgiven him for that fight they'd had back in SAWF that had led to the dissolution of The Knights of Anarchy as a tag team.

"I'm aware," he retorted, "you've mentioned that a few times already, Lawrence. But I am here nonetheless and since you were released into my care, you don't really have a say in this matter."

Nobody would listen to him. The doctors at the hospital had swallowed Brad's story about finding him with a piece of glass in his hand, clearly having gouged up his own wrist in some vain attempt to end his life. They'd placed him on suicide watch, of all the embarrassing things to have happen. His mind kept circling, returning over and over to the same subject, like a dog returning to a puddle of its own vomit. He watched the rain slide effortlessly down the glass as the car cut a path through the deluge.

He didn't know which was worse, the idea that he may be losing his mind, or the certainty that he had caused his own brother's death. As certainly as if he had held that gun in his own hand, he was responsible. That was the reason for his discomfort now. If he could trade places, in that coffin, in the dark ground, he would— in a second. Gladly and without a real second thought. That had been the reasoning behind the pitiful attempt at self-mutilation. Well, that and perhaps another reason, physical manifestation of the pain he carried inside. Toss on a Cure CD, and a frilly shirt, he might as well be Robert Smith.

He knew the reasons; they were there, as plain as the nose on his face that he could see in the opaque reflection off the rain-silvered glass. He looked old, way old. But still, he had no recollection of actually wielding that shard of glass. He could remember the pain and something else. Euphoria. It had been like a pure rush, intoxication better than top shelf scotch. It hadn't been a blackout... not like the ones he'd had before. Nor was it a dead zone, like the memories that had faded away after ten minutes when he'd had his head injury over a year ago.

This was different, and much more frightening. Black had become white, the darkness bleeding into blinding light and he had felt free. It had been like an out of body experience, the kind of shit he expected to hear coming out of Shirley McLain's mouth. But that was how he felt— like an observer, watching the drama unfold.

He could have died. Hell, he should have died. But instead he was here, trapped inside a car for the last thirty minutes with the last person on Earth he'd expected to see again.

His hand was shaking; he could feel the tremors, the tingle of the nerves. DT's. He would endure. Two weeks now, without a drink. He'd been stone cold sober when he'd cut himself. Not that Brad had believed him for a moment. Once a drunk, always a drunk. Too easy to act the part. He'd made a promise to his brother, and when it came right down to it, Larry Gowan was a stand up guy, not the promise breaking kind.

Besides, it had been the drinking, in the first place, that had led to this entire mess. Drinking. Gambling. Debts. Death. All were nails in the same damn coffin— Shawn's. Not his. Fate was a remorseless witch. A mean, wretched, spiteful entity and Gowan was her favourite dog to kick

He didn't notice when the car came to a stop, the only sound now the rhythmic thump of the wipers. The rain slid down the window in a glassy sheet, making the world lose cohesion, melting into something as surreal as a Dali landscape. He smelled the faint scent of tobacco, and his mind dismissed it as inconsequential as he continued to brood, his stormy blue-gray eyes fastened on the view, or lack thereof.

"We're here."

He turned his head, looking out the window at the blurred scenery. Here? Where was... here? The words reverberated ominously, followed by a loud clap of thunder that shook the car and rattled the window.

"Here?" he gulped before continuing, his eyes still fixed on the melted world beyond the glass, "...where... is... here?"

Before Chauncy could reply, the passenger door was pulled open. Brad Jackson stood at the curb, a cigarette dangling from his lips despite the rain. "About fuckin' time you made it here."

Gowan stared up at him in confusion, a little flutter of fear in his guts. Were they going to have him committed? "Where are we?"

Jackson stepped aside, letting Gowan see his own house in San Dimas. "Home, Larry. We brought you home—" his gaze slid to Chauncy, who was rounding the back of the car, "is he drunk again? What did you stop off at a goddamn bar—"

"I did nothing of the sort!" Chauncy bristled at the insinuation, "I was simply as cautious as the inclement weather called for. I wasn't about to kill him after—"

"Hey," Gowan stood up, bracing a hand against the car door as he suddenly felt dizzy. "Can you two not talk about me like I'm not here?"

Jackson chuckled, flicking away his cigarette. "Sure, little buddy."

"Why," his voice caught, something was clearly bothering him as he chose his next words, rather carefully, "did you bring me here? I mean... my things are at the motel."

Brad shook his head, studying Larry closely, watching him squirm in an attempt to avoid that probing gaze. "Actually, they're not. They're in the trunk of my car... along with your guitar... and that crate of random shit... and a cardboard box filled with clothes. Do you always cart so much crap? And what the hell happened to that old Toyota of yours?"

"I... um..."

He cast a look at Chauncy, "see? I told you that there was something seriously wrong with him." Jax grabbed Gowan roughly by the arms, and alternately dragged and pushed him up the walkway to the shelter of the porch. The house looked the same as Larry remembered it— the white stucco and the red terracotta Spanish tile roof.

Well, almost the same, except the huge padlock on the door, and the foreclosure notice taped to the barred portal. Gowan groaned, pulling out of Brad's grip, instantly mortified. How much lower could he get...?

Brad snatched the damp paper from the door, his eyes scanning the words quickly, his forehead creasing in a frown. When he looked back up, his eyes were filled with something strange, something Gowan had never, in a million years expected to see, compassion. He handed the notice to Chauncy without a word, shaking his head. His voice was soft when he spoke, barely audible above the sound of the rain drumming on the roof. He didn't say what Gowan expected, didn't berate or rail about not being told about this.

"How bad is it?"

He considered lying, saying it was all a mistake, but he couldn't muster the imagination, or the energy. The words fell from lips that felt numb with shock. "Bad." Brad cocked his head, waiting for more, and Gowan reluctantly elaborated, adding one more word. "Very bad."

"I see." Chauncy nodded, crumpling the paper in his hand, letting his gaze fall to the contemplation of that single action. After a brief silence, he spoke again, his tone carefully neutral. "How much? How deep are you in, Lawrence?"

"A lot. I owe," He hesitated, shaking his head, he wasn't sure of the exact figure. "a lot," he concluded lamely.

"And the car?"

"They repossessed it."

"Lawrence," Chauncy's hand fell on his shoulder, "what's happened to you?"

He shook his head, staring at the water pooling on the concrete porch beneath his feet.

"You could have asked for help."

"I know." And he did. But he hadn't. End of story.

"Larry," Jackson's tone said it all, and Gowan looked up sharply, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits.

"No. I don't want your charity— either of yours. This... this is why I didn't want you here. I will fix this on my own."

"Let me do this, please, Larry—"

"Let us do this." For once, Chauncy and Brad were coexisting, not trying to murder each other.

"Is this an intervention?" Gowan's voice shook, "because I haven't had anything to drink in weeks."

"No, Lawrence," Chauncy murmured, "this is your friends, reaching out to you because we care."

Gowan nodded slowly, his eyes squeezing closed against the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He could feel the world spiralling out of control, like a crazy carnival ride, with the Devil himself at the controls. Everything faded out, as gray as the clouds overhead as the wind kicked up, the rain falling harder as the skies broke open with a mighty flash of lightning, the water finally breaking, giving birth to the full intensity of the storm. He didn't realize he was falling, nor did he feel the strong arms that caught him precious seconds before his head could impact off the concrete, splitting open like a ripe melon...


Gowan awoke to the sound of rain drumming on the roof, and the sound of cars rushing by, that pleasant hiss of tires on rain-slicked pavement. He expected to find himself still in the car, rushing through the false twilight streets, with Brad behind the wheel, driving hell bent for leather like a demon... but instead, he found himself crashed out on the faded and worn sofa that occupied the living room in his house. He rubbed his eyes blearily, and dragged himself up off the couch, falling backwards as his head swam with dizziness.

The front door stood open, rain pouring down in a solid sheet beyond that portal, the source of the sound, it would seem. Rather, upon further inspection, the front door was shattered, only hanging open because it was impossible to close. Brad's version of lock picking, he presumed.

The murmur of conversation assailed his ears, barely audible over the rumble of thunder. More rain. The sky seemed to be keeping with his mood, weeping when he couldn't.

He cocked his head, listening hard, still standing before the door, trying to shut out the sound of the storm.

Like a moth to the flame, he was drawn through the room, through the arched doorway into the hall, following the sound of the voice. The door to his music room was half closed, a strip of amber light spilling out into the gloomy hallway. It would have served as a den, had the room not been cluttered with a half dozen guitars in various states of repair... and a scattering of sheet music. The heavy oak desk occupied one wall, it was a handsome antique, but it was so covered with clutter, nobody would have noticed. It was at this desk that Brad Jackson sat, feet propped up on the corner, his back to the door. He was twisting the phone cord between two fingers, his body coiled with tension.

Gowan stood there, in the doorway, feeling guilt at first, for eavesdropping. The guilt didn't last long.

"...absolutely not. Are you out of your mind, Shooter? Haven't you heard a damn thing I've said? I can't tell him that..."

He adjusted his position, the chair creaking heavily under his weight. "I don't care what Duke said! No, you LISTEN to ME, Judge... I don't care who you think you are... and I don't care if you rip up my damned contract right now. I won't tell him about that wild goose chase for the belt. What sort of sick mind games is that freak trying to pull? Shawn is dead... Larry's gone off the deep end... and he wants his GOLD back? You have to be shitting me?!"

Gowan's expression was as thunderous as the sky that poured out the rain on the Spanish tile roof, providing enough sound cover that he was able to ease the door open, slipping inside the room, still listening.

"What would you have me do, Shooter? I mean seriously? I can't tell him that... he tried to kill himself last night for pity's sake! And now you want me to tell him that Duke has offered the shot he should have... the number one contendership... to the person who can find the belt that Shawn lost? ...........I know he knows who Shawn went to see. I know he has that edge... but he's... not..."

Gowan's hand slammed down on the telephone, one finger depressing the button, breaking the connection. Brad whirled around, his feet dropping to the floor, taking a pile of papers with them. Loose sheets fluttered through the air, as the two exchanged a look, Gowan's eyes blazing with fire, while Brad's expression was shocked, and ashamed.

"I'll tell you what I'm not... I'm not deaf. I thought you were my friend, Brad... I really did. Even after all the shit, I was willing to forgive you... now, I think I'm finally seeing the light...."

Gowan raised his fist, expecting Brad to flinch, but Brad stood his ground, his expression neutral. "Hit me... if it'll make you feel any better. I'm on your side in this, Larry... I was trying to protect you!"

Gowan half turned away, raking a hand though his hair, and then he whirled back to face Brad, his fist flashing through the air with remarkable speed. One punch and Brad went down hard, tears forming in his eyes from the impact to his jaw.

"Oh, I know what you're trying to do... I've been here before. Remember? When you cost me my cruiser title? Yeah. I know what you're doing Brad... same shit, different day. I don't need you to protect me... I don't need any more of this. Yeah, I'll take your money... you OWE me that much... and then, get the hell out of my house!"


Larry Gowan was bellied up to the bar, watching rain slide down the glass. He had a serious case of déjà vu even though the last time he'd been here was back in 2004 for a two-month stint, just a few weeks before Shawn's death. The staff hadn't changed over the last nine years. They greeted him with enthusiasm— the long face and the fact that he was back on TV meant they'd make some money off him tonight. They banked on guys like him falling off the wagon. He sat in the shadows, the short tumbler filled with scotch held in one hand, tight enough to break the glass. He watched the ice melt, watching it fade away and dilute the liquor. It was his third, all double-shots. He was feeling it in every fibre of his being.

It felt so bad.

Just a few short hours ago, he'd watched Lex Collins get destroyed by Matt Ford. He'd immediately sent off a text message to Hannah, offering his apologies. He'd tried to find Lex backstage but had been told that he'd disappeared ten seconds after Dr. Stabler had checked him over. By now the kid was probably headed back to Louisville to compete for PCW while he was sitting here, drowning his sorrows.

He couldn't help but feel responsible, as if in some way he'd become part of the corrupt wrestling machine. He'd never wanted that. He'd just wanted to take over for Tara Shannon so that his friend could move on to another chapter of her life. He hadn't signed on for this depraved dog and pony show.

His phone lit up, his partner's smiling face filling the screen. Heaving a sigh, he pressed the IGNORE button and looked up into the face of the bartender. The barkeep's name was Jerry. He had no idea how he managed to remember that without Chauncy's help, but the name had popped into his head as soon as he'd sat down. His two-year chip sat beside the glass on the stained wooden surface. It was dented from riding around in his pocket. There were scratches and smudges on it from his fingers— in so many ways it reminded him of that lost belt so long ago, and how he'd been manipulated into that chase by everyone around him. A so-called intervention had turned into an obsession and he'd believed that every aspect of it was real.

Tapping the edge of his glass, he sighed. He tossed it back, feeling the liquor burn and steal away his breath. It was easier to cope with the contempt he felt for himself with a few shots down the hatch. That always seemed to be the case with him.

He just couldn't say no.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, whispering the words into the glass as if he hoped the ice could transmit the sentiment to Shawn, to Lex Collins, to Chauncy and everyone else he'd failed.

He was thinking about the fake belt that he'd given back to Nathanial Duke in exchange for a title shot. He'd never been the type to cash in morality for fame. For him it had been about revenge. It had been about family and love and unholy fury— all piled on a lie.

Condensation was running over his fingers as he kept that iron grip on the glass so tight he was surprised it didn't crack.

Jerry's hand waved in his face in the bartender's version of 'these are not the droids you're looking for'. "Hey, LG?"

Nobody'd called him that in years. He flinched, feeling confused and disoriented. Why was he here? He lifted those pale blue eyes to stare at the bartender, "yeah?"

"You were a million miles away." He said with a frown, "hope everything's okay?"

Gowan shrugged, "I wasn't paying attention. I've got a lot on my mind these days."

"Figured," Jerry chuckled, tapping the edge of the glass. "You want another?"

He lifted the glass to his lips and took a long, greedy swallow. "Yeah, might as well." He managed to keep the smile on his lips, but it was cracking, already brittle, "out of the frying pan," the words came out in a coarse whisper as he took another sip.

"What?"

"Nothing," Gowan shook his head, "everything's falling apart."

"You're in the right place for that." Jerry set down another glass, pushing it towards him.

Gowan fumbled for another crumpled twenty but Jerry waved him off. "S'on me."

Even here in the bar aptly called Hell, the fame went a long way. It helped that his signed photograph was still hanging on the wall alongside some of the true greats in entertainment. "You want anything to eat before the kitchen closes?"

"I don't think so," he murmured, "I should probably get back to the hotel and get some rest."

"Where's FTW headed next?"

Gowan stared at him, completely lost. "I... I'm not sure."

"You're management and you don't know?" Jerry laughed, "maybe you should lay off the sauce—"

"Probably should," Gowan looked at him, "but then I'd probably go stark-raving mad."

"Oh—"

"Yeah. That's about what it's come to." Gowan tossed back the next drink and then peeled off a few bills, laying them on the bar-top. It was at least triple what his tab was. He didn't care. "Keep the change— it's blood money anyhow..."