Post by Michael Callahan on Nov 18, 2012 20:00:07 GMT -4
ISSUE THREE
A Michael Callahan Graphic Novel
-At the Ranch-
The mood I found myself in when I finally got home from Seattle at about nine o'clock at night could only be described as “foul spirits”. Having taken the time to be dangled over a parking lot and forced by a lunatic doctor to dial my insurance company only to learn that I can't terminate my health insurance policy without Bethany's permission because of her co-signatory status, an impossibility given she's relying on it for her treatment an her being in a coma, meant that despite attempting to condemn my wretched ex-girlfriend to death it had completely backfired. Now she was being treated on MY money and because I tried to fight against it I looked like a prime murdering scumbag.
“This day isn't going to get worse” is all I could tell myself. Steve Fukuyama was wearing one of his weak “eggshell” smiles and needless to say I was angry with him. Where was he helping me when I was dangling off a ledge?
Steve Fukuyama: More coffee sir?
Michael Callahan: No... I'll make one myself.
Steve Fukuyama: Really? I don't mind. You pay me to run your coffee for you so...
Michael Callahan: No, I pay you to be manage my affairs and keep on top of my scheduling...
I bit my lip and paused dead in my tracks, stopping myself before I lost my cool. I could feel the blood pounding in my head desperately seeking a vent. Was this worth causing a fight over? Apparently it was.
Michael Callahan: I DON'T pay you to be a sycophant, a flatterer that waits on me hand and foot and tells me what I want to hear.
Fukuyama's eyes went wide as saucers, his sensibilities offended by my bleak criticism.
Steve Fukuyama: What are you saying?!
Michael Callahan: What I'm saying Steve is that Vikki was a MUCH better assistant than you ever will be.
Steve Fukuyama: What?! No. You can't possibly mean that.
Michael Callahan: Y'know what Steve? I damn well do. You're so concerned, so afraid, so hopeful that I'll be the path to elevate you to the next level of whatever dead-end career you want that you will completely degrade yourself to appease my every whim and yet when I'm being dangled off a roof-top by a maniac doctor, where the Hell WERE you?!
Steve Fukuyama: I ran and called the cops. What the fresh Hell else was I supposed to do? Wrestle him for your leg and pull you to safety? He dangled you single handed over the deck like you were a child and you're bigger than me. He'd have thrown me about like a newborn.
Blowing off some steam on Fukuyama relieved the burden on my chest but the frazzled, torn in two look on Fukuyama's face told me that now he was biting his lip. Everyone's a god damn critic with something to say.
Steve Fukuyama: And y'know what? Like it or not, Vikki is fucking gone. She left for Baltimore, got a stable job and probably has settled down with a nice guy, not some asshole who completely shattered her heart rather than just telling her no. She may have been the better assistant but like it or no, she's not here anymore and I am. Maybe I do kiss ass a little more than I need to but your esteem is so weakly founded and you're so neurotic that if I wasn't constantly reassuring you and tending to your every whim we'd all be drowning in a hurricane of your miserable tears. Your pride is based on your last victory and God knows there haven't been too many of those of late.
Michael Callahan: I beat Kurt Noble!
Steve Fukuyama: Yeah, you stole his own finisher and cracked his skull open with a baseball bat! How very Christian of you! The Michael Callahan I used to know beat Sally Talfourd with his bare hands and choked her out with his own patented Victory Lock! That IS a commendable victory to base your pride on but right now? You're nothing!
My hands started shaking again. Was this early on-set Parkinsons? No, it was me being REALLY angry. I slammed a dent into the desk with my fist, outraged but Fukuyama's defiance.
Michael Callahan: Who're you to talk to me like this Steve?!
Steve Fukuyama: A sycophantic, coffee grabbing, career-oriented asshole according to you. And my name is NOT Steve. Steve Fukuyama? What the Hell even is that? You tell me you want someone who'll stand up to you and tell you what's what? Don't expect it from the man who right from the word go, you stripped of his dignity and refused to grant him his real birth name because, to quote the devil himself, it's “too foreign sounding”!
Michael Callahan: What?! I-
The roar of the lions engulfed the room. I was damn near knocked off my seat by Steve's explosive outburst.
Steve Fukuyama: My name is CHONO ASAHARA. My friends call me Cho but YOU can call me Chono.
Michael Callahan: I'll call you whatever the Hell I want Steve. Get out of my office. You're fired. I don't need this, I don't need you. I can make my own damn coffee, I can make my own drives to Seattle without having to stop every twenty minutes because you have a spastic bladder. I can laugh at my own brilliant jokes and most of all? I can run my own life. I did it better before you got here and I will continue to do so after you leave. Now get the hell out of my home and don't you DARE come back. You got that? Get OUT.
Steve Fukuyama: Oh don't you worry about that Mike. You won't ever see me again but let me tell you one little thing that I've been... DYING to tell you for the last three months. Y'wanna know why you'll never accomplish any of your dreams? Why you'll never be World Champion? Why you'll never be Mayor, Governor, Senator, Congressman, President? All of those things that you dream of doing?
Pause.
Steve Fukuyama: Because you're a nervous wreck. You hide behind a wall of cocky jibes, good ol' fashioned Americana citations and when push comes to shove, your days as a Marine but deep down you're a broken, scared, childish, vulnerable little man. You couldn't make the decisions that need to be made, to take control and run things the way they need to be run. That's why you'll never amount to anything more than just the bitter, envious, angry man who lashes out at those he relies on when he can't get his way.
Michael Callahan: I suggest... you get THE FUCK out of my house before I make the important decision as to whether or not I'm gonna' nail your motherfucking head to my mantlepiece you worthless piece of human trash. I MADE you the man you are Fukuyama. I gave you a place to stay, a wallet full of US dollars and more good memories touring with me then you could ever hope to find anywhere else with any other form of employment.
Steve Fukuyama: It's CHONO.
And with the slam of my office door he was gone from my life forever. Did I care? Absolutely not.
Michael Callahan: Pissant...
-Back in Seattle-
An old rickety building with boarded up windows and an entire myriad of yellow police tape. Two officers stand guard outside while inside an investigation is under way as to the cause of the body lying white, cold and dead in the middle of the floor with a bullet wound the size of a man's fist lying right between his eyes. He'd been killed in his own gunshop, surrounded by walls upon walls of fire arms, ammunition and explosives yet ironically none of them were responsible for his death. Whether it had been at one point hasn't been established yet but one thing is for certain. It was a high impact round that damn near obliterated his face and left an awful mess on the carpet beneath them.
Officer Bukowski: What've we got here Carlyle?
Dr. Carlyle: Well I think it's not too hard to establish that the cause of death was the gaping bullet wound in his forehead.
Officer Bukowski: Christ, what's your problem?
Dr. Carlyle: My problem is that this city is in the hands of people like you with no sense. Just machismo and a gun. This guy's carpet has more brains than Seattle Police Department. Shit like this could be avoided.
Officer Bukowski: Wow, nice one smart-ass. Any possible motive or suspect?
Dr. Carlyle: I'm not the fucking detective.
Officer Bukowski: Well I don't see anyone else here but you and the coroner so I figured maybe, you might know something Mr. Smart-Guy.
As if on que, the detective himself walked through the front entrance to join the bickering officer and the forensic scientist.
Detective Evan Black: Sorry, I was having a smoke. Officer?
Officer Bukowski: You got a motive? A killer? Anything for us Detective Black?
Detective Evan Black: Yup. We arrested his shop hand. A Hawaiian guy. Refused to say a word during his arrest. He's on his way back to the station now. It's not looking good for him. He's the only one who had keys to get in here and as far as we know? There's been no break-in. Doctor, have you ascertained a time of death?
Dr. Carlyle: Yes Detective, about half three this morning.
Officer Bukowski scowls first at Dr. Carlyle then at Detective Black, unimpressed with the double standards and preferential treatment.
Officer Bukowski: Why can't you be polite like that to me?
Dr. Carlyle: Because apart from his... discrepancies earlier this year, Detective Black has his job because of his applied smarts, solid conviction rate and a sterling reputation. Not like you who has it because you passed a physical and couldn't get a college degree.
Bukowski chuckles a piggish laugh at the not so subtle reference to Detective Black, a fine officer and lawman who's reputation had been tarnished by an incident of adultery and borderline grossly irresponsible activity. Though admittedly Evan hadn't realised the latter until it was too late.
Officer Bukowski: Heh, what was like it Detective? Fucking the chief's daughter. Has she even left high school yet? Hahahaha.
Dr. Carlyle: Gods give me strength. Get back to your post Bukowski.
Officer Bukowski: Asshole.
-Backstage at Meltdown-
It took no less than five seconds after I'd made my way back through the curtain after beating Kurt Noble for Dr. Gray to find me and rush me into a private little room backstage. He didn't even give me a chance to go shower off and lick my wounds. Just told me that I was going to get to know my “new tag partner” a little better. Anyone would be forgiven for thinking that the three of us in a dimly lit room sitting on cheap chairs surrounded by no furniture were making a political statement about the treatment of terror suspects. Mercifully though, this wasn't the case.
Dr. Alexander Gray: Now that the show is over you two can get to know one another a little better. GI, introduce yourself to Mr. Callahan.
The GI: Following orders... locking and loading... I'll man the barricade and lay down some covering fire... -mumblemumblemumble- SIR, PRIVATE ZZYZX SIR. THEY CALL ME THE GI SIR.
Dr. Alexander Gray: It's okay GI. He's just a civilian. He's not your commanding officer.
Michael Callahan: That's what you think... Hi GI. My name is Michael Callahan. I will be your friend.
I offered him my hand to shake and he stared at it like a simpleton would if you asked him to explain transcendental meditation. I looked at Gray then at GI, uneasy with the way this exchange was going.
Dr. Alexander Gray: Shake his hand, GI.
He didn't just shake my hand but pulled me up out of my seat and into a single arm embrace, seemingly unfazed by the fact that I was coated in sweat which had rubbed off on his shirt.
The GI: Welcome to the platoon brother. There's no bigotry in my squad. We will fight side by side regardless of our differences.
I-... what?
Michael Callahan: But we're both... Dr. Gray. This, this man is clearly unstable. Why are you saddling me up with him?
Dr. Alexander Gray: Just trust me. He'll come out of his shell.
The GI: It's an honour to meet you sir but I'm afraid I can't stay long in your graceful company. Base Command has given me a directive to go on a reconnaissance mission for coffee and doughnuts so if you'll excuse me sir, I have a mission to complete.
Dr. Alexander Gray: Base Command is what he calls his brain, I think.
Michael Callahan: You suck as a therapist. You know that?
Dr. Alexander Gray: I worked for you, I'll work for him. Just wait and see.
I was struggling to believe that but if Gray could cure me from impending liberalism and even potentially homosexuality then I could surely put faith in his ability to take this war-torn soldier out of his war-torn soldier mentality. Though he really should stop dressing him up. It's not helping.
-Downtown Seattle...-
Vikki Lahm hadn't set foot in Seattle in quite a few months. It wasn't a city she'd particularly wanted to visit ever since her and Michael had had their falling out. Her new bosses in Baltimore however had required her to fly out on their behalf and sign a few contracts to finalise setting up a printing office out in Washington and despite her pleas they'd forced her to go anyway. With the gravel crunching underneath her feet as she made her way through the winding streets of the Emerald City, a little boy on a street corner trying to shill a newspaper caught her attention with a provocative headline.
Street Urchin: EXTRA! EXTRA! Michael Callahan tried to kill his wife!
She stopped and looked at the kid who was every bit the Oliver Twist extra, flat cap and all.
Vikki Lahm: How much kid?
Street Urchin: Fifty cents ma'am.
Vikki fished through her wallet and pulled out a ten dollar bill to hand to the kid.
Vikki Lahm: Here kid, get yourself something to eat.
Street Urchin: Thanks ma'am! Here's your paper!
Vikki carried on walking, reading the headline with a concoction of worry and intrigue brewing in her taut stomach.
REC
You can not see me, only hear me. That is because I have chosen a different media outlet this time.
Michael Callahan: So, I decided that from now on I'm going to do a weekly podcast rather than youtube videos. It's far less effort to upload audio recording of me, Michael Callahan, your duly elected wrestling representative waxing poetic about politics, wrestling or any of that other stuff that I do like cook risotto on my now syndicated TV cooking show, Cooking the Books which airs every night before Asylum on The Food Network at 3.30 Pacific time. Now first of all, I'd like to go on record and say I didn't choose to enter this tag team tournament that Meltdown is having. I didn't even choose to join a tag team. Let's get that one straight first of all.
A pregnant pause as I collect my thoughts.
Michael Callahan: So basically, my old assistant Vikki got me treated by this top-rated psychiatrist, a service which I paid for in full. Now he expects me to “repay the favour”, as if me paying him economically wasn't enough by taking stewardship of his latest patient as he engages in his wrestling career. Now I hold no quarrels with the GI, he seems like a great kid and a very capable young man if not a little troubled. What I object to is getting entered into a tag match WITHOUT MY PRIOR CONSENT with this guy and put up against two mystery opponents. So not only do I not know my tag partner but I don't know any of the people that I'm supposed to be wrestling Christ. HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO PREPARE FOR THAT?!
I chuckle slyly, an outburst wasted as I already know exactly what my answer will be.
Michael Callahan: Oh... but wait. What's that? I have an answer for everything? YOU'RE GOD DAMN RIGHT I DO. See earlier this year there was a little competition held earlier this year called the Defeat the Unknown tournament hosted by Natalie Burrows and all those circle-jerkers. It was a tournament in which nobody knew who they were facing in each round and I MADE IT TO THE GOD DAMN FINALS. I WAS THE RUNNER-UP. Do you know why I didn't win the whole damn thing?! Because I came down with the flu and had to miss the final show. The man who trained me? Danny Mainer? HE WON THE FIRST ONE THAT THEY HELD. Do you know who I beat to get to that final? OUR OWN WORLD CHAMPION SALLY TALFOURD. So Meltdown's new commissioner Alexander Duvall? Bring it on. Pit me against your two hand-picked, mask-wearing scum bag friends that you dragged from Northern California to be here. I'll take them ALL on and with my All-American credentials, I'll put their hopes to rest right off the bat!
-TBC-
(OOC NOTE: I finished it but didn't have time to put the logo's in before deadline.)
EDIT NOTE: Edited to fix my messed up coding. Sorry about that. Nothing has been changed from the actual content.
