Post by Michael Callahan on Nov 21, 2012 18:13:48 GMT -4
ISSUE FOUR
A Michael Callahan Graphic Novel
Four square walls, two chairs, a table, a glass window and a single light bulb flickering from an extended wire cord that hung limply from the stone ceiling. The interrogation room of the South Precinct of Seattle's Police Department was every bit as intimidating and terrifying as it looked. Yet the three hundred pound Polynesian sat at the tape recorder with a written confession to sign appeared utterly unperturbed by the whole saga. If anything, Officer Bukowski was more afraid than he was. Locked in a room with a giant islander and nothing but a table between them, Bukowski felt his nerves start to thrum violently as he hit the Record button on the dictaphone he'd been given for the interview with a quivering finger.
All he could do was hope and pray that “Luau” didn't take a dislike to him and that if this cold blooded killer was to try and take the life of an officer as well as a harmless old coot, that Bukowski would have the presence of mind to draw his gun out and put some rounds in him before it was too late. Bukowski was anxious to start the interview but equally desiring to get over so after a momentary pause he began proceedings.
Officer Bukowski: Detainee Number 586894894, Gareth Ailani. You have been charged with the murder of Buckley “Buck” Montreaux, proprietor of the Uncle Bucky Gun Shack of which you were under his employ. We know this for certain.
A half-lie. Nothing had been confirmed yet by the tax department and it was highly unlikely Bukowski cared enough to ask.
Officer Bukowski: We've got a murder weapon.
A blatant lie this time but Bukowski took it as granted, knowing or rather expecting his colleagues to find it eventually.
Officer Bukowski: And your finger prints are ALL over it.
Bukowski is the very personification of the bad cope trope. He usually gets his convictions but whether any of these are erroneous is an issue that has yet to come to light.
Officer Bukowski: Sign the confession and you might see sunlight before you're sixty. Assuming you survive the US prison system of course. I've seen some guys go down for life sentences that would make a meal out of you. How'd you like that eh? Being someone's bitch in a cell? Because that's where you're going. How could you be so callous? Huh?! How could you kill a sixty five year old man like that? Shoot him dead in cold blood, a bullet right between his eyes. That man fought for our country. It makes me angry that I've been told to give you this, but you sign this confession and you might not rot for the rest of your-...
As Bukowski waxed his traditional patter that'd make a lesser man break within an instant, he suddenly became aware of the fact that he was the one doing all the talking both verbally and expressively. Luau had sat statuesque in his seat and stared at him with his enormous, almond-shaped, black beetle-like eyes. No smile, no fear, no guilt, no expression tugged at his tightly pursed lips. You could barely even notice his breathing.
Officer Bukowski: Are you even listening to me?! Now you listen real close. I don't think you realise how much shi-
Finally, Luau twitches. His muscular fingers reach up to the desk like a child trying to peer over a surface too high, snatching a hold of the pre-written confession on the desk filling Officer Bukowski with hope if only for a moment. His expression unchanging, Luau tears the confession in half, then quarters, then eighths 'til little remains but scraps of diced paper on the table.
Officer Bukowski: Is that it? You're denying the charges against you? Alright. So be it.
Bukowski visibly seethes in the face of Luau's defiance, fighting every urge to lash out and punch the giant square in the eyes no matter how ill-advised that may be. Bukowski pounds the desk with a clenched fist, making the microphone recorder rattle. “No, I can't lose my cool”, muses Bukowski as he switches off the microphone and stares icily at the unflinching Polynesian.
Officer Bukowski: Fine. We'll watch you rot in court, you rotting, murderous fuck. I hope you take some solace in the fact that Buckley was my friend because I'm going to take solace in hearing your screams in your prison cell you little shit. Just you wait and god damn see.
Bukowski rolled up his sleeves and stood from his seat, nothing but pure menace in the glint of his eye as he pushed the table out the way ready to vent his frustrations on the Islander. Even in the face of physical violence, Luau can not bring himself to flinch. The immense confidence from Luau doesn't seem to stir Bukowski who pulls back to slug him, only for his radio to buzz as if on que mere moments before the punch would've be thrown.
Radio: Officer 53, Officer 54. Reports of a 459 at 45 James Street, Pioneer Square. Requesting your immediate presence as we have no other officers available right now. Over.
Officer Bukowski: Copy that Radio this is Officer 53, I'm currently questioning a suspect. Is there nobody else that could go in my place? Over.
Radio: Negative Officer 53. All available officers are otherwise engaged. Call in Detective Black and resume questioning when you return to the station. Over.
Officer Bukowski: Affirmative Radio. Over and out.
A frustrated Bukowski slipped the radio back into the holster on his issue pants, turning towards Luau to see that the stone-faced behemoth was now flashing him an over-stretched grin to reveal all of his pearly whites. Bukowski damn near leapt out of his skin at the sight of the Cheshire Cat grin on Luau's face, only increasing his frustrations with him that little bit more.
Officer Bukowski; I would love nothing more than to wipe that stupid little grin off your face right now Ailani. You got lucky. Don't you worry though, I'll be back.
Silly Michael Callahan. He never did think ahead did he? He was such a reactionary, always thinking about the here and now and the immediate solutions rather than the problems that he might have to confront later on. In all fairness I probably should have given him his house key before I left for Baltimore but I was so upset, so heart-broken by it all that I hadn't even thought about it until I'd boarded the plane two days later. My key fit and turned in the front door lock just perfectly, the feeling exactly like how I remembered it. First the one click, then the second and voila, I was back at Camp Callahan once more.
Breaking in, or rather trespass wasn't usually the sort of thing that I'd do but having just deserted a business meeting and made the hour and a half drive to Kelso only to discover no one was home had left me in a very awkward position. However, I thought about it and came to the conclusion that my reasons for entering the property were good. I was here to see Michael and to set him on the right path, Graces only know that the flattering sycophant Fukuyama had filled his head with all manner of crap to get him on side. I felt a pang of guilt already for leaving Callahan with that awful usurper but remembered the way in which he'd shattered my heart into a million pieces and began questioning why I was even here in the first place.
That's when I started to explore. It didn't take me long to re familiarise myself with the house, I did after all live here once. Yet there was one part of the house I'd never seen before and the power of the battering ram of curiosity powering into my brain was immeasurable. Michael's “marital bedroom” had been off-limits right from the day I moved in but even he refused to enter after they split-up. I twisted the handle of the door, surprised to find it unlocked and slowly but surely slipped through the cracks into the forbidden zone.
Slowly, slowly, twisting, turning aaaaaand pop! The cork of the champagne bottle pangs off one of the steel lockers in the communal locker room and copious amounts of bubbly spill out the mouth of he bottle and onto the carpet below. The master of processions, Michael Callahan pours himself a glass of celebratory cris and throws it back in one before serving everybody else. The good doctor Gray warmly welcomed the luxury drink to his parched lips, the sweet mix of grape and sin washing down his dry throat like kisses from the vineyards herself. Callahan poured himself yet another glass as The GI swilled his cup around and observed the vibrant colours of the beverage he'd been poured.
Expectant eyes fell upon him from both sides, both Michael and Alexander staring intently at GI lost in his own scattered thoughts. Not until Callahan cleared his throat did he snap out of his trance.
Michael Callahan: Come on GI! It's a celebration! Aren't ya' gonna drink up?
Dr. Alexander Gray: Yeah man. Loosen up. A drink'll do you good GI. You need to take the load off after that big win against Terry Marvin and Chris Hart.
Their voices seemed vague and distant to GI, almost foreign. He didn't want to drink this alcohol. It was far too pretty to look at. He didn't want to waste it throwing it down to the pit of his stomach like a drunk. He was too enraptured with the pretty colours. The orange and the gold swirling together in a small sea of beauty completely snatched his imagination away from him, rendering the words of Gray and Callahan all but wasted upon him.
Michael Callahan: Which might I add? We rocked! I gotta' hand it to you Gray, you know how to pick 'em.
Dr. Alexander Gray: Of course I do. I'm an expert at this sort of thing. GI is loyal and as cannon-foddery a stooge as you could ever hope to have. Isn't that right GI?
The two share a hearty chuckle at GI's expense, oblivious to the fact he's just been made a mockery of by his doctor and his so-called friend. Instead, GI simply tilts the glass so the level rises slowly to the point where it's about to drip over the edge of the glass and out onto the floor below. Alexander slowly twists his hand the other way so as not to spill any.
Dr. Alexander Gray: What's the matter GI? Not in the partying spirit?
The GI: ... I don't want to drink.
Michael Callahan: Did I hear that correctly?
Dr Alexander Gray: I'm not sure. Run that by us again, a little louder?
The GI: I said I don't want to drink, sirs.
Both men chuckle nervously to one another then look back at GI, their laughter stopping when they realise he's serious. As if to fix the wax seal on the letter of refusal, GI places the champagne glass on the table and gets up to leave. The Politician and The Doctor say nothing, simply watching in stunned silence as The GI leaves the room hastily.
The head office of Seattle's favourite tabloid, The Seattle Press is usually inundated with bustling interns and journalists, people tripping over each others articles and wall to wall bickering in order to scramble together the next day's print. Yet never in ten years of Edison's career at The Press had he ever seen it quite this hectic. Not only were the usual pressures riding high on getting tomorrows paper ready to print, the phones were blowing up. Left, right and centre, journalists were getting grilled by anyone who'd bothered to complain.
Whether it be The Republicans growling about his unfair defamation, demanding to know a source of their hear-say headline, the Soccer-Mom leagues of Northern Seattle declaring that “Michael is a nice boy and would never do that” or indeed evenCallahan's own “people” in the Young Republicans hammering home so many different falsehoods so as to misconstrew the matter so far out of proportion and reality that it no longer became relevant, there was someone with a voice to hear on the phone that day.
Jonathan Edison: Jesus Christ! I didn't realise we'd get such a lashing for this!
Alexander Caine: Welcome to big time journalism Edison. You're in the firing line now. You better hope your source was on the money with the stuff he said about Callahan. Otherwise we're in a world of shit with the Republicans, Callahan's people, APW and the public at large. Have you had any word on the validity of this?
Edison wiped his sweat soaked brow and looked up at Caine who stood calmly behind him watching the hornets nest unfold right before his very eyes.
Jonathan Edison: We sent a man down to the hospital to try and “deliver some flowers” but he got turned away. Got told the hospital was overcrowded. You think Callahan's pay-rolling them?
The grizzled, semi-retired paparazzo howled a hearty laugh that mocked Edison's naivety as much as it did amuse himself.
Alexander Caine: You THINK Callahan is pay-rolling them? Oh my sweet boy. You have much to learn about being famous and in politics. Come on. The cranks can wait. Let's go take a ten minute break. Our call-centre in England can handle this.
Edison shrugged and followed the elderly Alexander Caine. Stroking the back of his matted hair, Edison was a little weary about all that had taken place this day and the far-reaching consequences of his article. Had he been too quick to point the finger? He'd taken every necessary legal precaution to ensure that nothing was written as concrete fact, yet his press despite being a tabloid tried to retain a consistent reputation for facts and truth rather than gossip and allegations. Edison figured that Callahan's role as a public official meant that his story fell well within the domain of “public interest”, whatever that vague catch-all term for ruining someone's life really meant.
All Edison could do was shrug and try and put it out of mind. The media was constantly coming under flak for it's print and this was yet another bout of controversy. Paper sales shot up that day thanks entirely to his cutting article. So he could at least be comfortable in the knowledge he was writing the material people wanted to read.
No visual feed. Just pure audio. The throaty purring of an engine, clearly an expensive and well-looked after car, accompanied by the sounds of whooshing oncoming traffic and the light pitter-patter of small but numerous droplets of rain hitting the wind shield over and over again. Then the sound of fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel. The lack of traffic and exterior noise would suggest that this were a country road that the recorder is driving down, a thought reinforced by the speakers first statement.
Michael Callahan: You're joining me, Michael Callahan as I drive from Seattle back to Kelso. I've just been called in...
Audible sigh.
Michael Callahan: To formally identify the body of a close friend of mine, give a statement of character on the suspected killer and reported any suspicious activity I may have seen, given that I was one of his last few customers. As you can imagine, high spirits are not the standard I'm bearing here at Fortress Callahan so you must understand this may not be the fun yet scathing little butchers shop of character assassination that you've grown accustomed to. Want to take it up with me? Swivel.
The pitch of the engine rams up dramatically, Callahan having just put his foot down on the pedal to get some extra speed out on the open road back to Kelso. Evidently angry in the way he spat his words out, Callahan said little else on the topic for he was not at liberty to discuss criminal proceedings in such a public forum.
Michael Callahan: I've been doing a lot of reminiscing and thinking back today as you would do when you've lost someone close to you. So, for a change, I'm going to ask that you all do the same and think back to an important event in your lives. I want to cast your minds back to the middle of January and reflect on one of APW's most significant events that occurred right here on Thursday nights, right here on Overdrive. For the rest of America it was another shrill week, but for Jeff's Overdrive and Michael Callahan it was the start of something truly... magical. It was the night I first appeared before an APW audience, Hell, even at an American wrestling show. It was the night that cast me into the limelight yet strangely enough... I'd never ever show my face on Overdrive again.
And boy was the anticipation staggering.
Michael Callahan: When I appeared on Survive and Conquer in an Asylum title match, flags immediately flew up. They asked me, “Michael, why appear on Overdrive and then disappear to Asylum?”. They thought it was a booking error. That they'd overestimated my abilities and according to the fans incorrectly deemed me an “Overdrive” calibre star, an assessment which is incorrect and on insulting on a multitude of levels. Yet they forget, Tampa, Florida, a predominantly Red area for Republicans like myself. I knew I'd find sympathy. Plus, superior talent or not, Overdrive is far more family friendly. I knew I could pull in a bigger audience. Once I'd got the world's attention on me, I was going to disappear to Asylum and never come back. That was always the Callahan plan. … until now.
Time for a history lesson.
Michael Callahan: When I first appeared at Survive and Conquer as a member of the Asylum roster, I made an impact that shook the land forever. I instilled dominance, I let them know who was in charge, I started an undefeated streak and a title reign that beat all the reigns of those before me. Now, I set foot upon Overdrive soil looking to do the first part exactly the same. Only this time, momentum is well and truly on my side. Longest reigning champion in Asylum history? Check. Hold victories over both the current champions? Yes I do. Have the tenacity and the skills and the submissions to wrench out any victory I so please? You're damn straight I do.
Callahan's skills were well known and with his increasing frustrations and anger, not only did he develop a completely untapped side of himself but he also increased the damage he dealt with his standard offence making him more dangerous in many different spectrums.
Michael Callahan: Now I know I've had a slump lately but frankly, if the last seven days are anything to go by I'm clearly back on the right track and resettling myself in after the loss of my Pro Life Championship. In the space of a week I have beaten a mentally unstable Kurt Noble with a pinfall three-count after knocking some sense into him with the best moves in my arsenal and indeed, the best moves in his[/i]. I beat Terry Marvin and Chris Hart in tag team competition with the help of my good friend The GI and I came perilously close to being in a position to yet again endanger Sally Talfourd's attention supply she desperately craves by being inches away from becoming Number One Contender. Now? Now's my chance to redeem that and win myself a title shot. It's alllll to play for.[/color][/B]
When you play the game of belts... you win... or you have to fight another contendership match. This isn't A Game of Thrones.
Michael Callahan: So this Elimination Tournament. Right off the bat, it seems impossible that I won't make it to the finals. Some might say that's a ballsy proposition but my God, will you look at the line-ups? You've got Overdrive's longest reigning champion, APW's longest reigning champion of all time in Level One, a multiple time Undisputed Champion who's been picking the shredded remains of the likes of Nick Watson out of his teeth since well, day one. You then have the CURRENT Undisputed Champion Terry Marvin and his predecessor Kurt Noble. Some may say my lack of a World or Undisputed Title run puts me in a lower class, but DO consider that I've beaten two of them and have yet to face the third when making those kinds of assertions.
Callahan did seem to forget that he will have to face his opponents eventually but that didn't matter right now. His good company to him was a sign that there'd be a clean sleep through to the finale and that nothing would stand in his way of earning the title shot, somehow.
Michael Callahan: And against who? CJ Gates? The Dakota Cowboy? The man that I BEAT in the Experts Tournament? Right, okay. Mark Mania? The Overdrive Champion? Seems legit. He beat The Boss, not many people wrestle The Boss and live to tell of it without getting some form of venereal infection. Nick Watson is a tough, catch-as-catch kinda' guy stuck in a rut and Biggs hasn't been the same since he snapped his neck like a Slim Jim and split up with his wife. If they think that they can take on the dream team of four FUTURE APW Hall of Famers, a current Experts Hall of Famer all under the stewardship of the greatest mastermind in professional wrestling? Then they're dead wrong.
Though Callahan usually deals with facts, is his assertion that he'll one day be Hall of Fame material just grandeur or a promise? Michael was usually good at keeping those.
Michael Callahan: And to everyone else in this competition? Prepare yourself. When that final bell goes and we stand toe to toe, face to face looking to end each others hopes of earning ourselves title shots? That's when you need to brace for the fights of your lives. I have come too close, worked TOO DAMN HARD for a title opportunity to have it snatched away from me now. Some of these people I'm having to tussle with for a title match haven't even been here a month, yet I'm expected to scratch and claw like everybody else?! I've paid my dues dammit, I've fought long and hard and I'm going to TAKE what's mine whether that be the easy way or the hard way, and that, THAT constituents? That's a promise.
Something was wrong. I didn't know what it was, I didn't know why I felt this way but as soon I returned home I knew something was deeply wrong. I marched straight upstairs to the master bedroom of my country bedroom, my untouched sanctuary that I'd locked away in my mind since the split and immediately realised the problem. I was not alone here. I peered through the crack of the door, into the darkness and straight away it hit me. The gulp that passed down my gullet was harder to swallow than a bullet. I could barely move, frozen with fear and paralysis.
Michael Callahan: Hi...
I didn't know whether to stay and shout or turn and flee. My body rooted itself to the floor as if the vines of the Kelso wilderness had burst through the floor to restrain me. I had no control over my body, over my feelings, over my emotions and as if on auto-pilot I slowly stepped into my bedroom and shut the door behind me. With a lock of the key, I sealed my fate for the evening...
