Seated indian-style on his living room floor, Cassidy Stewart fumbled with the cordless telephone he held propped between his cheek and shoulder, eyes squinting, brow furrowed.
“Yeah, I know, sweetheart..........”, he said into the phone as he fidgetted with the VCR’s buttons, eyes flitting from the blue television screen, back to the VCR controls. This process repeated several times, each time punctuated with the jamming of a different button. Still, the clock blinked ‘12:00AM'.
His mind was elsewhere; not on programming the clock on his VCR, and not on talking to his girlfriend. Across the country in San Diego, California, Rebecca Xavier picked up on this.
“No. Nothing’s wrong ... just trying to program this damn VCR.”, Cass explained. “I’m sorry, I really am listening.” But he wasn’t. Not fully, anyhow.
Surrendering, he got up, phone held to ear by hand now, and sat on the arm of his leather couch. As Rebecca continued to talk about her sick uncle (or was it her grandfather? Cassidy wasn’t sure), Cass’ eyes swept his somewhat depressing, dimly-lit apartment. So much in his life had changed in the last few years.
Once, what feels like eons ago, he was Cassidy Stewart - Talent Representative. Once he was one of THE premier agents in the industry. Once he was relevant. That was before his most notable client, the man who Cass would freely admit became his best friend, died in the middle of the ring. That was before Cyrus Blackshire gave up his life for a belt. Watching your friend die for a “title”, for a mark in history ... put things in perspective for Cassidy. He tried to carry on. He tried, fought even, to stay in the wrestling business, even accepting an offer from Edward Brown to become a head member of SCW’s Executive Committee. Cassidy thought that that job would be the answer to his problems, the cure to his ailments, the distraction he needed. It seemed like a fitting tribute to Cyrus. But like all good things ... his run on the committee came to an end when Brown was bought out by the Obsidian Group. The Committee was dissolved and Stewart was without a job.
For weeks, as the Obsidian Group had driven SCW into the ground, he had made dozens upon dozens of phone calls, trying to rally support (and money) to aid in Ed Brown regaining control of Superior. The whole thing went into the courts, SCW TV production was halted, and the company that had given him purpose when he needed it most was gone.
The memories still felt crisp in his mind. The clarity was frightening. Cass consciously tried to bring himself back into the phone conversation he was supposed to be participating in, and he settled down into the couch. “Uh-huh”, he answered Rebecca robotically. “I agree with you”, he says. “You were absolutely justified.”
Running a hand through his hair, Cass waited for a moment to interject...
“What did she say when you told her THAT?”, he asked, memories now put away.
Before Rebecca could answer, Cassidy was startled by a knock at his door.
“Hold that thought, baby. Someone’s here.”
He dropped the phone to his side and crossed the room. Unlatching the lock, he quickly turned the knob and opened the door.
–Cassidy felt his blood run cold.
Before him, hands clasped behind his back ... stood Max Blackshire. His long black coat dripping from the rain, his head was hung low. He quickly looked up, meeting eyes with Cassidy – and Cass’ skin crawled. Cass had a moment to catch a glimpse of a half-grin forming on Max’s face just before Stewart slammed the door in his face, taking two or three instinctive steps back.
Heart pounding in his chest like an off-beat, broken bass drum, Cassidy suddenly remembered the phone in his hand. Rebecca.
“Beck?”, he said into the phone.
Three stiff knocks at the door – Cassidy froze.
“Honey, I ... “
Three more knocks.
“I have to go ... I ... I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
One, single knock.
“No, no ... everything’s fine. Something ... urgent just came up. ... Yeah. Okay. ... you, too. Bye.” He flung the phone onto the couch, palms slick with sweat. With good reason...
There was a murderer standing outside his door.
Cassidy smoothed his hair back and stepped forward, grasping the doorknob and turning it in one fluid motion. The door creaked open and Max stood in place, arms again clasped behind his back.
“I was hoping you’d have a moment”, Max offered. His voice dripped with a kind of twisted arrogance.
“I’ve got nothing for you, Max. You should leave.”
Max nodded his head. “You’re right. I should. But I’m not going to. Not until I get what I’ve come for.”
The tension and silence mixed in the air, two combustible elements waiting for just the right catalyst.
Cassidy swallowed hard. He was looking into the eyes of the man who killed a young woman out of spite in 1998. The man who would go on to orchestrate an arson which took the life of Maggie, Cassidy’s assistant, and nearly taking Cassidy’s life as well. All the while skirting the boundaries of the law. This same man who mentally tortured and physically hounded his own brother, Cyrus, for close to a year in pursuit of “revenge”. It was the unpredictablity that scared Cassidy. Cassidy had lost count the number of times he had felt threatened by Max Blackshire, but he knew for certain that right now, at this moment ... it was the most scared he had ever been of him.
But he hid it very well.
“And just what is that, Max? ... what do you want?”, Cassidy asked, adjusting his grip on the door – ready to slam it shut on the drop of a dime, praying it would be fast enough to keep him out, because, if he couldn’t -------
“That’s simple. I want what’s MINE.”, Max flatly replied.
Cass’ eyes squinted. “Elaborate.”
Max bristled for a moment, then sighed softly. “Your contacts”, he said. “I need them.”
Now Cassidy was frowning. “‘Contacts’? ... in the wrestling business? ... why do you–“
Max raised a finger to his lips. “Shhhhhh.”
Another resident of Cassidy’s Long Island apartment building slipped past Max, giving Cassidy a curious look and then continuing on. Max just smiled.
“GXW. Global X-Treme Wrestling. ...I assume you’re familiar with them?”, Max asked.
Cassidy nodded. “Of course. SCW worked closely with that promotion before Superior went under–“
Max nodded, as if to a child who won the second grade spelling bee. “That’s right, Cassidy. I need you to get me signed with them. Today.”
Cassidy shook his head dismissively. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’d help you. Even if I WANTED to, I couldn’t – there’s not a promoter in North America that would WILLINGLY sign you to their roster after some of the stunts you’ve pulled.”
Max shrugged, eyes lazily locked on Cass. “I expect you can make the suits of GXW look past my somewhat inflated reputation as a ... ‘trouble-maker’.”
Cass felt a surge of adrenaline, a rush of confidence sweep over him. “Let me ask you something, Max. Cyrus is DEAD. The reason you got back involved with wrestling to begin with ... is GONE. ... the vendetta is settled. You’re playing this game all ... by ... yourself. So WHAT are you AFTER?”
Max smiled, eyes falling to the floor for the moment.
“Cyrus IS dead, Cassidy. Just remember ... he was the ONLY thing protecting you before. Who knows... You keep running your mouth about things you don’t comprehend ... “
Max stepped closer to Cassidy, breath brushing against his face. “...you’ll find out that no one will be there to pull you out of the NEXT burning building you find yourself in.”
Blackshire stepped back, eying Cassidy from head to toe. “You’ve been as unhelpful as I anticipated.”
Knuckles white against the door knob, Cassidy stammered with his words. “Th-then why’d you even bother showing up?’
Max laughed out loud. “And miss the chance to see my late brother’s pal nearly wet himself? ... Not bloody likely.”
Max turned and started down the corridor, just as Cassidy felt a terrible weight rise from his shoulders. Max called out as he walked, “Always a pleasure, Cassidy.”
Latching both deadbolts behind him, Cassidy placed both arms on the door and leaned forward, suddenly exhausted. He watched a drip of sweat fall from his brow to the hardwood floor before finally standing upright, blood still pumping.
Again, the past had reared it’s ugly head and darkened his door step, it seemed that everywhere he turned ... there was unfinished business.
Settling down into his coach, the blinking ‘12:00AM’ glared at him intermittently, driving home that same notion.
“Yeah, I know, sweetheart..........”, he said into the phone as he fidgetted with the VCR’s buttons, eyes flitting from the blue television screen, back to the VCR controls. This process repeated several times, each time punctuated with the jamming of a different button. Still, the clock blinked ‘12:00AM'.
His mind was elsewhere; not on programming the clock on his VCR, and not on talking to his girlfriend. Across the country in San Diego, California, Rebecca Xavier picked up on this.
“No. Nothing’s wrong ... just trying to program this damn VCR.”, Cass explained. “I’m sorry, I really am listening.” But he wasn’t. Not fully, anyhow.
Surrendering, he got up, phone held to ear by hand now, and sat on the arm of his leather couch. As Rebecca continued to talk about her sick uncle (or was it her grandfather? Cassidy wasn’t sure), Cass’ eyes swept his somewhat depressing, dimly-lit apartment. So much in his life had changed in the last few years.
Once, what feels like eons ago, he was Cassidy Stewart - Talent Representative. Once he was one of THE premier agents in the industry. Once he was relevant. That was before his most notable client, the man who Cass would freely admit became his best friend, died in the middle of the ring. That was before Cyrus Blackshire gave up his life for a belt. Watching your friend die for a “title”, for a mark in history ... put things in perspective for Cassidy. He tried to carry on. He tried, fought even, to stay in the wrestling business, even accepting an offer from Edward Brown to become a head member of SCW’s Executive Committee. Cassidy thought that that job would be the answer to his problems, the cure to his ailments, the distraction he needed. It seemed like a fitting tribute to Cyrus. But like all good things ... his run on the committee came to an end when Brown was bought out by the Obsidian Group. The Committee was dissolved and Stewart was without a job.
For weeks, as the Obsidian Group had driven SCW into the ground, he had made dozens upon dozens of phone calls, trying to rally support (and money) to aid in Ed Brown regaining control of Superior. The whole thing went into the courts, SCW TV production was halted, and the company that had given him purpose when he needed it most was gone.
The memories still felt crisp in his mind. The clarity was frightening. Cass consciously tried to bring himself back into the phone conversation he was supposed to be participating in, and he settled down into the couch. “Uh-huh”, he answered Rebecca robotically. “I agree with you”, he says. “You were absolutely justified.”
Running a hand through his hair, Cass waited for a moment to interject...
“What did she say when you told her THAT?”, he asked, memories now put away.
Before Rebecca could answer, Cassidy was startled by a knock at his door.
“Hold that thought, baby. Someone’s here.”
He dropped the phone to his side and crossed the room. Unlatching the lock, he quickly turned the knob and opened the door.
–Cassidy felt his blood run cold.
Before him, hands clasped behind his back ... stood Max Blackshire. His long black coat dripping from the rain, his head was hung low. He quickly looked up, meeting eyes with Cassidy – and Cass’ skin crawled. Cass had a moment to catch a glimpse of a half-grin forming on Max’s face just before Stewart slammed the door in his face, taking two or three instinctive steps back.
Heart pounding in his chest like an off-beat, broken bass drum, Cassidy suddenly remembered the phone in his hand. Rebecca.
“Beck?”, he said into the phone.
Three stiff knocks at the door – Cassidy froze.
“Honey, I ... “
Three more knocks.
“I have to go ... I ... I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
One, single knock.
“No, no ... everything’s fine. Something ... urgent just came up. ... Yeah. Okay. ... you, too. Bye.” He flung the phone onto the couch, palms slick with sweat. With good reason...
There was a murderer standing outside his door.
Cassidy smoothed his hair back and stepped forward, grasping the doorknob and turning it in one fluid motion. The door creaked open and Max stood in place, arms again clasped behind his back.
“I was hoping you’d have a moment”, Max offered. His voice dripped with a kind of twisted arrogance.
“I’ve got nothing for you, Max. You should leave.”
Max nodded his head. “You’re right. I should. But I’m not going to. Not until I get what I’ve come for.”
The tension and silence mixed in the air, two combustible elements waiting for just the right catalyst.
Cassidy swallowed hard. He was looking into the eyes of the man who killed a young woman out of spite in 1998. The man who would go on to orchestrate an arson which took the life of Maggie, Cassidy’s assistant, and nearly taking Cassidy’s life as well. All the while skirting the boundaries of the law. This same man who mentally tortured and physically hounded his own brother, Cyrus, for close to a year in pursuit of “revenge”. It was the unpredictablity that scared Cassidy. Cassidy had lost count the number of times he had felt threatened by Max Blackshire, but he knew for certain that right now, at this moment ... it was the most scared he had ever been of him.
But he hid it very well.
“And just what is that, Max? ... what do you want?”, Cassidy asked, adjusting his grip on the door – ready to slam it shut on the drop of a dime, praying it would be fast enough to keep him out, because, if he couldn’t -------
“That’s simple. I want what’s MINE.”, Max flatly replied.
Cass’ eyes squinted. “Elaborate.”
Max bristled for a moment, then sighed softly. “Your contacts”, he said. “I need them.”
Now Cassidy was frowning. “‘Contacts’? ... in the wrestling business? ... why do you–“
Max raised a finger to his lips. “Shhhhhh.”
Another resident of Cassidy’s Long Island apartment building slipped past Max, giving Cassidy a curious look and then continuing on. Max just smiled.
“GXW. Global X-Treme Wrestling. ...I assume you’re familiar with them?”, Max asked.
Cassidy nodded. “Of course. SCW worked closely with that promotion before Superior went under–“
Max nodded, as if to a child who won the second grade spelling bee. “That’s right, Cassidy. I need you to get me signed with them. Today.”
Cassidy shook his head dismissively. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’d help you. Even if I WANTED to, I couldn’t – there’s not a promoter in North America that would WILLINGLY sign you to their roster after some of the stunts you’ve pulled.”
Max shrugged, eyes lazily locked on Cass. “I expect you can make the suits of GXW look past my somewhat inflated reputation as a ... ‘trouble-maker’.”
Cass felt a surge of adrenaline, a rush of confidence sweep over him. “Let me ask you something, Max. Cyrus is DEAD. The reason you got back involved with wrestling to begin with ... is GONE. ... the vendetta is settled. You’re playing this game all ... by ... yourself. So WHAT are you AFTER?”
Max smiled, eyes falling to the floor for the moment.
“Cyrus IS dead, Cassidy. Just remember ... he was the ONLY thing protecting you before. Who knows... You keep running your mouth about things you don’t comprehend ... “
Max stepped closer to Cassidy, breath brushing against his face. “...you’ll find out that no one will be there to pull you out of the NEXT burning building you find yourself in.”
Blackshire stepped back, eying Cassidy from head to toe. “You’ve been as unhelpful as I anticipated.”
Knuckles white against the door knob, Cassidy stammered with his words. “Th-then why’d you even bother showing up?’
Max laughed out loud. “And miss the chance to see my late brother’s pal nearly wet himself? ... Not bloody likely.”
Max turned and started down the corridor, just as Cassidy felt a terrible weight rise from his shoulders. Max called out as he walked, “Always a pleasure, Cassidy.”
Latching both deadbolts behind him, Cassidy placed both arms on the door and leaned forward, suddenly exhausted. He watched a drip of sweat fall from his brow to the hardwood floor before finally standing upright, blood still pumping.
Again, the past had reared it’s ugly head and darkened his door step, it seemed that everywhere he turned ... there was unfinished business.
Settling down into his coach, the blinking ‘12:00AM’ glared at him intermittently, driving home that same notion.