I had always thought my husband was a good man. We were never rich, but we were happy. Jason made enough money to get by and put food on the table. We were able to raise our son in peace, and that's all we wanted.
I loved my husband. I really did. And even after his trial, I tried to love him still. I couldn't. I felt betrayed. I was scared. The police had come into our house, forcing him into the car. My son had watched his father, beaten by the police, handcuffed, and taken away. They told me he someone had been attacked right outside the casino that Jason worked at. Witnesses said he was the one who attacked them.
I never really imagined Jason to be a violent man. I knew his job required him to know how to handle the situation. I never thought he would hurt someone intentionally, though. Not like that. And if that was the man he really was, did I want to be married to him? More importantly, did I want him to raise my son?
-Evelyn Slade
~~~~~~~~~~Nevada State Penitentiary~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~One Week After the Trial~~~~~~~~~~
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Evelyn Slade frowns as she presses her hand against the glass. She holds a phone to her ear, looking through the glass at her husband.
"I...I'm filing for divorce, Jason."
I can't help but to sigh aloud. It didn't surprise me, but that didn't stop the severe disappointment from sinking in.
"Don't do this, Eve."
Evelyn chokes back a few tears.
"Things aren't the same anymore, Jason."
"I thought things were going great."
"You would never come home at night, and when you did, you were hurt. Your job hurts you, but you kept doing it."
"It put food on the table."
"That isn't the point. You could have done so much more. It's just the strain, Jason. We were living from paycheck to paycheck, and you're getting too old and beat up to keep doing your job for much longer. What then? What would have happened when you finally got too banged up to work? What else could you do?"
"I'd find a way."
"It doesn't matter anyway. You finally took it too far, and now here we are. Michael needs a father, Jason. One that can take care of him. One that he doesn't have to be afraid of."
"He's not afraid of me."
"Maybe he should be."
I stare at Evelyn. I feel the stabbing pain in my chest at her words. My own son couldn't be afraid of me. Michael was smarter than that. Michael would always know I'd be there to protect him, always.
"I would never hurt our son."
I could see the tears welling up in her eyes.
"I don't know that."
I try to speak, but feel a hand on my shoulder.
"Time's up, Slade. Back to your cell."
I stare at Eve, who hangs up the phone. She looks away, covering her mouth and nose with her hand, stifling her sobs. I slowly turn away, heading back to my cell, away from Evelyn. Away from a past life.
~~~~~~~~~~Nevada State Penitentiary~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~Two Months After the Trial~~~~~~~~~~
[OFF CAMERA]
"You."
I hear the voice, but make no attempt to answer. I toss a cup in the air, watching it spin, twirl, really, hanging for a moment, some five feet above my head, before falling down, right for my face. I snatch it out of the air just before impact, and toss it up again.
"Slade!"
I catch the cup again. I pause for a moment, then toss it again.
"Slade, you're free to go."
The cup clatters to the stone floor.
"What?"
"You're free. Your lawyer made a case. Got you out."
"I don't have a lawyer."
"That's what I thought. But the warden told me you're free, so you're free. Let's move."
"I have a two year sentence. That's not possible."
"Look, are you complaining? I'll gladly shut this door right now, and you can fucking rot in here for the next ten years for all I care. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Slade."
I slowly sit up from my bed. It creaks with the shift in weight. I slowly stand, and the guard slips in, slapping handcuffs on me before guiding me out of the cell.
"That's what I thought."
He nudges me down the wall of cells. Inmates stare at me through the bars, most of them ignoring me, some of them sneering as I pass. I had tried to remain invisible during my incarceration, but it was getting increasingly difficult. People knew you, no matter who you were. Word got around. Me, I wasn't much special. Assault was hardly the most heinous crime most of them had ever seen. Most of them were surprised my sentence had been so harsh. I generally kept to myself. It was two years. After that, I'd be out.
"I still don't understand."
"You don't need to."
He opens a door, and shoves me out into the sunlight. Across the lot, I see a black limousine sitting, with a driver standing at the door. Next to him stands a portly man in a black suit, a briefcase in his hands, which are folded across his waist. The guard unlocks the cuffs, and motions towards the car.
"Go on. Get out."
I slowly take a step away. Part of me expected him to immediately tackle me to the ground, put the restraints back on, take me back to my cell. He didn't. Cautiously, I walk across the lot, towards the man with the briefcase.
"Mr. Slade! A pleasure."
"Who are you?"
"Marcus Finch. Your lawyer."
"From the state?"
"Not necessarily."
"Did my wife hire you?"
"No."
"I can't afford it."
"It's already been taken care of. You're a free man, Mr. Slade. I just ask that you take a ride with me."
The driver opens the door, motioning me inside.
"What is this?"
"A ride home."
"Something's going on here."
Finch shrugs, and smiles warmly at me. I shake my head, walking around the car.
"Thanks, but I'll take a cab."
"You know you won't be satisfied with that."
I stop, and turn around. Finch stands, still smiling.
"You walk off, you're completely entitled to do so. But if you're interested to know who got you out of prison, and why? I think you want to ride with us. You have nothing to lose, Mr. Slade."
I stare at him. I hated to admit it, but he was right. There was something very odd about the whole thing. I had managed to avoid almost my entire sentence, and this man, Finch, had something to do with it. He was offering me answers. Hesitantly, I move back to the car.
"That's the spirit."
He nods at the driver, who closes the door behind us, and circles around to the driver's seat. The limo starts off.
"So go on. Talk."
Finch smiles.
"You're to the point. He'll like that."
He reaches over to the phone, pressing a button. I hear the dial tone throughout the car, and Finch punches in a number. The phone rings a few times.
"Hello?"
"Hello, this is Marcus Finch."
"Ah, Mr. Finch! I take it our new friend is with ya?"
The voice has a thick Georgian accent. He speaks smoothly, calmly, his collected demeanor somehow putting my mind at ease.
"Mr. Slade? You here?"
I look at the phone. Finch motions for me to talk.
"Er...yeah. Hi."
"Ah, that's my boy. How you feelin', son?"
"Little shaken, I guess."
"Yeah, yeah, I imagine you would. Prison life can do that to a man. Mr. Finch, why don't you offer our esteemed guest a drink, would ya kindly?"
Finch nods, and reaches for a bottle of whiskey from the limo bar. He offers me a glass. I shake my head.
"I'll pass."
There's a brief pause.
"Don't be shy, Mr. Slade. That there's the finest drink west of the Mississippi."
"I'm okay, but thanks."
"If you insist."
"Listen, not to be rude, but who exactly are you? What's your interest in me?"
"Well, ain't that the darndest? In all the hullabaloo I forgot my manners. Son, my name is Jackson Sinclair. You may be familiar with Sinclair Holdings?"
"The new investment firm. Just opened not too long ago, right?"
"The very same. Now, I happen to be the chairman over there, and I've been looking for ah...I suppose we oughta call it 'special investments.' When I heard about your special case in the court, I couldn't bear to just sit by and do nothin'. So I pulled a few strings. I happen to be good friends with the judge, and I found a way to bust you outta that cell."
"Why?"
"Justice wasn't served, son. The only real criminals in that case were those...'corporate rats' lookin' to put you behind bars."
"So this is just a sense of justice for you?"
"I s'pose you could say that. Now I did a little bit of diggin', see, and I learned that the man pressin' charges is a man you should be quite familiar with. Man by the name of Blake Ramsey."
"My boss."
Technically, Ramsey was my boss. I answered to the chief of staff at Pharaoh's Crypt Nightclub. The club, however, like many others in Vegas, was owned and operated by the Horus Corporation, which in turn was run by Blake Ramsey.
"Now, I know this might be a bit of a difficult pill to swallow, but I have all the evidence available that says that Blake Ramsey set you up. Losing your license, gettin' yourself tossed in prison, taking your life from ya? It all circles back to that man right there."
"What's it to you? Maybe I believe you. Maybe Ramsey set me up to take a fall. What's your game? Why help me out?"
"Son, I ain't gonna lie to ya. Yeah, you got somethin' I want, I won't deny that. What you are, Mr. Slade, is an unknown. You're a man that, so far as Ramsey cares, is rottin' in a prison for the next couple years til he can get his plans sorted out. Nobody knows your face. Nobody cares who you are, and I don't say that to insult you. Anonymity can be a very powerful asset, Mr. Slade, and that's exactly what you have that I can use."
"So that's what this is about then? You're planning to use me?"
"Son, I'm a firm believer that the enemy of my enemy is my friend. I think you and I can help each other out."
"Why Ramsey?"
"Questioning the motive. You're a smart man, Mr. Slade. Alright, I'll bite. Ramsey and I are old business rivals. Normally, we manage to stay out of each other's way, conduct our own business, and everybody's happy. Lately, he's become a bigger thorn in my side than I'm willin' to allow. See, Blake's got all the money, which means he has all the power. And power? That's my kind of commodity. Now, Ramsey's got his hands dabblin' in all sorts of criminal enterprises. Gamblin' rings, prostitution, smugglin', you name it. Ramsey'll sell you out just as soon as look at ya. He cheats the system, and I think it's high time someone did somethin' ta change that. 'Sides that, he's got some prime real estate out in Vegas that I'd like to get my hands on. You're the perfect man to help me get it."
"I'm not interested in your corporate war. I didn't ask you to break me out of prison. If that's what the deal is, then you can stop the car right now, and throw me back in jail."
Sinclair chuckles at the other end.
"Now, freedom's a powerful thing, son, but it ain't the only thing I have to offer. You an' I both know that I'm a very powerful man."
"So what's in it for me?"
"Revenge, for starters. A chance to get back at the man that tried to ruin your life."
"I'm not the kind of guy for revenge."
"You're a respectable man, Mr. Slade, and I can appreciate that. You and I aren't so different, son. We're just a couple of honest men lookin' to make an honest buck. Alright, I'll throw out my last bargaining chip. I can get you your life back."
I pause. Sinclair could be my ticket back to my old life. With those words, I found myself agreeing with everything Sinclair was saying. Ramsey had ruined my life. Sinclair wanted to gain an edge over Ramsey, and I wanted my old life back. We each had the means to help each other out.
"I can wipe your criminal record clean. I can get you all the money ya need to get on your feet. Heck, I could even swing a court case to get you custody of your son."
I fumble with my words. Michael. Evelyn may have been lost to me, but Michael? I could never lose him. He was my only son. If Sinclair was offering to give me my life back, let me keep my boy? No price was too high.
"What would you have me do?"
"We'll worry about crossin' that bridge when we get to it. For now, we just need to worry about you. Someday, I'll have a couple of jobs I'll need done. Nothing you won't be able to handle. You do some work for me, and you can pay off your debt. But that's a later time. Do we have a deal?"
There's a chilling silence that fills the car. I nod slowly.
"Deal."
"Splendid. Now, you tell me, Mr. Slade. What is it that you want the most?"
~~~~~~~~~~PRESENT DAY~~~~~~~~~~
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The rooftop of an old apartment complex. The stones are old, with plants growing up between the cracks. Below, the dirtier part of Las Vegas goes about its daily business. At the top of the roof, Pariah sits, precariously close to the edge.
"Come on up."
The camera slowly moves closer, peering over the edge to the streets several stories below. Pariah stretches out, laying across the small stone ledge that guards the rooftop from a perilous plunge to the streets.
"Some people look at this part of the city and shake their heads. Some of them try to fix it up. Some of them lobby to bring wealth or culture or some other five dollar phrase into the mix, think we're living like peasants, that we deserve better."
Pariah snorts.
"We don't."
He flips over onto his stomach, letting his arm dangle off the roof, motioning to a homeless man pushing a shopping cart down the sidewalk.
"Every single person in this part of town has screwed up somewhere, somehow. They're addicts. They're lazy. Maybe they're just not smart enough. Maybe they were born to the wrong parents. Maybe they're unlucky. Maybe they made a mistake somewhere down the line, and they've been paying for it ever since."
Pariah visibly sneers at the last words.
"Some of us got better, and realized where we went wrong. Once you're here, though, you're here for life. There is no leaving. Getting in is simple. Getting out? Not so much."
He slowly lifts himself up to a seated position on the ledge.
"You're not familiar with this life, are you, Jay? You've got it all figured out. I know you. You're the Hollywood pretty boy. You're the man on the TV. You have all the money, all the fame. You've never known what it means to claw your way up from the bottom, have you? Tell me Mr....Stuff? Your last name is Stuff? What do you have to gain in this? Why do you do what you do?"
He smiles, looking over his shoulder, down the side of the building to the streets below.
"There are two types of men in this world, Jay. There are the men who fight to win, and men who fight so they don't lose. Men like you, they've got it all, and all they want is more. It's never enough, is it Jay? You can never leave well enough alone. Why are you here? What do you hope to gain? Why leave the movie business for wrestling? Because you're bored? Because you felt like it? Because you wanted to?"
He frowns.
"Me, though? I have everything to gain, and nothing to lose. I don't fight because I want to. I fight because I have to. I fight because I don't know anything else. I've made my choices, Jay, and the consequences of those actions have led me here, to the IWF. Can you say the same? Can you fight with the same intensity of a man who has nothing left to lose?"
Pariah slowly stands up on the ledge. He rocks precariously for a moment, holding his arms out to regain his balance. He stands for a moment, his arms outstretched, staring at the camera.
"You might ask yourself what I have that you don't. It's not something you ask often, is it? I don't have money. I don't have recognition. I'm a poor bastard with no hope, no future, and nothing to his name. Unfortunately for you, that is exactly what gives me the advantage. There is nothing you can hold over me. There is nothing you have that I want, and there is nothing you can take from me, because I don't have anything to steal. But perhaps I'm crazy. Perhaps these are the ramblings of a madman. But I haven't been wrong before. Maybe there is something to my words after all. Maybe I do know what I'm talking about. Or maybe...just maybe-"
Pariah's foot slips, and he loses his balance, falling backwards off the building. The cameraman swears loudly. He runs to the ledge, looking over it. Pariah sits, cross-legged on a window sill, two stories down. He looks up at the camera and waves casually.
"Maybe I'm just lucky."
![Jay "Hot" Stuff [vs.] Pariah Empty](https://2img.net/i/empty.gif)
Subject: Jay "Hot" Stuff [vs.] Pariah ![Jay "Hot" Stuff [vs.] Pariah I_icon_minitime](https://2img.net/s/t/15/19/06/i_icon_minitime.gif){kind=icon}
Sun Jul 21, 2013 9:29 pm
