Post by Michael Callahan on Nov 24, 2012 12:01:43 GMT -4
ISSUE FIVE
A Michael Callahan Graphic Novel
The icy chill of the South Precinct mortuary seems more biting than it is usually is. Maybe it's the feeling of dread as I'm lead towards someone I've been told I know that's lowered my resistances. My guide, a hairless man by the name of Dr. Carlyle is the resident mortician and as you'd expect from a man who's work dwells within the realm of the deceased, he's an extraordinarily cheery and happy man to be around. Side by side we take our first steps into Room 4 of the morgue, a room of two colours with half the wall space being dominated by standard cobalt blue tiles and the other being the coolers. Racks upon racks of the recently deceased, waiting to be cut open like a butchers delivery van.
Dr. Carlyle lead me to the table in the centre of the room and grabbed the edge of the draped blanket with both hands so he could slowly pull off the sheets. Underneath it was a gaunt, white, bony old man with a distinct handle bar moustache and side burns, almond shaped eyes slammed shut by the sleep of the dead and of course a bullet wound the size of a Christmas ham in his forehead.
Dr. Carlyle: So, can you confirm for us officially that this was the man known as Buckley Mantreaux? We have all of his papers, his deed for the Gun Shack and all that but because he has no family left we called you in as the last person that spoke to him on the footage to confirm his identity.
I took a moment to get a better look although it was entirely unnecessary to do so. I already knew it was Buckley, the handlebar had given it away. Yet I guess almost as an act of desperation, a last chance at saving him, I was hoping I'd find some distinctive feature like a war scar or a wart that Uncle Buck never had so I could distinguish him and hang onto the hope he's still alive. Sadly, I was not so fortunate. With a heavy heart, I sighed.
Michael Callahan: Yes, I can confirm that this is... this was Buckley Mantreaux.
A sad pause consumed the room as I reflected on the many happy hunting memories he'd been given thanks to the merchandising of my now murdered friend, a man who was almost like a second father to me.
Michael Callahan: Goodbye, Buck.
DEAD: Crown Jules, "Uncle Buck", Town Gunsmith (ISSUE 4)
Dr. Carlyle: Do you want to take a moment to gather yourself and say goodbye?
I opened my mouth to reply but the bare-headed, pint-sized Dr. Carlyle's razor tongue cut me off because I could even utter out a sound.
Dr. Carlyle: Then again... I hear you're in the business of walking away when the people around you are dying.
Michael Callahan: Excuse me?
Dr. Carlyle: Oh nothing. Sorry, I tend to feel at ease with people who have that same cold-blooded killer instinct that I do. My tongue tends to slip when that happens.
Michael Callahan: What the Hell are you talking about? Who do you think you are?
Dr. Carlyle: Y'know if anything, I kinda' envy you. All these years working out how people killed other people and seeing some of the weird and wonderful ways in which people die, yet I've never got to take life myself. I mean yours is a cowardly approach. You should've waited 'til she was on the verge and then smothered her with a pillow.
The straw that broke the camels back. I lost it. Lunging forward I grabbed Carlyle by the scruff of the coat and slammed him into a rack of body refrigerators, a noisy clanging as he hit it sharply.
Michael Callahan: You tell me what the FUCK you are talking about right now tiny man, or I will scalp you.
Dr. Carlyle: Now now, Mr. Killer. Don't you read the paper? I have the Seattle Times on my desk. Perhaps you should see the headline.
Michael Callahan: The Seattle Times? Last time those pissants published a story about me, they lost a legal battle because it was proven untrue and I took them to the god damn cleaners. It was a private donation that literally saved them from becoming the foundation of my media empire.
I dropped Carlyle on his ass and marched towards his desk with purpose, picking up the paper reluctantly. The headline? “CALLAHAN WON'T INSURE WIFE”, by Jonathan Edison. The first act was just a warning shot, this meant war.
Michael Callahan: Oh Good Grief. Steve-uh, Chono! I am going to-
About ready to declare my intentions to maim Steve, Carlyle cut me off quick as a shot with another one of his barbs.
Dr. Carlyle: Kill him? You're not responsible for his health insurance Michael.
Michael Callahan: You'd better learn to stay your tongue Doctor, lest someone slash it out. There's a maniac gunman on the streets taking chunks out of peoples faces. If you don't watch your mouth, you might piss off the wrong person.
Dr. Carlyle: Is that a threat?
Michael Callahan: No, it's life advice. Now get the hell back to your job before it's you on the table.
As Carlyle dusted himself off and pulled himself from the floor, I was making my way out of the morgue and back up the stairs the way I came. I'd had enough of this god forsaken place for one day and now? I had to go pay my good friend Chono a visit.
Alexander Caine: Any follow-ups on Callahan's broad in the hospital?
Jonathan Edison: Yup. We finally got a man in. She's taking visitors now. Apparently her condition is deteriorating though.
Alexander Caine: Damn. Any word from Callahan yet?
Jonathan Edison: No. Nothing.
Alexander Caine: We'll get some. Don't you worry about that for a second.
Like any good American city, Seattle has a strong Irish-American community and let's face it. Where better to go get roaring drunk after quitting a job you hate than in an Irish pub? Chono Asahara was no buck-footed mick but damned if he couldn't bring himself to down a pint of Guinness, flirt with a buxom redhead and see if “the gift of the gab” and “the luck of the Irish” was on his side. The first person Chono rang was his brother-in-law Jack Yasuda, married to his sister Rachel, a rather un Asaharan name but then Chono's parents were as cruel as they were confused. It's late night and Chono and Jack are sitting outside at the tables, necking their pints and chatting away happily.
Chono Asahara: Hehehehe, oh man, I am buzzed. I haven't been this wasted in years.
Jack Yasuda: Oh man, I know. It's good to have you back. You'd been lost in Callahan's asshole for so long I was beginning to think that you'd never come back out.
Chono Asahara: Hahahaha! Oh man, you've got jokes! Man, I-
A flame-haired hulk of a bartender peered out from the door and called out to everyone sitting outside.
Bartender: Last call!
Chono Asahara: Shit, it's 2AM already? Damn. Alright dude, gonna' take a piss. Go get me another Guinness will you?
Chono handed Yasuda ten bucks so he could get himself something as well and stood up uneasily.
Jack Yasuda: Where are you going? Bathroom is inside.
Chono Asahara: There's a drunk guy in there who's been checking me all night. I don't want him trying to touch my weiner while I unleash the pain.
Jack Yasuda: Better that than him catching you with your pants down, spread eagle in a back-alley.
Chono Asahara: Spread eagle? I'm not gonna' squat over a grid like a chick. Man, get out of here. I'll be back in ten.
Chono wobbled his way into the side-alley behind the bar, his balance shot to ribbons after the heavy night of drinking and lechery. He staggered into a second side-alley even smaller than the first but far less likely to have him seen taking a slash. Unzipping, unleashing and firing away he starts to urinate against the wall only for the worst possible person to arrive...
Michael Callahan: Hello big mouth.
Chono's heart leapt into his mouth as I stood behind him. He tried to twist round to face me after putting his junk away but I was far too sober and quick, driving a sharp fist into his kidney so he couldn't cry for help.
Chono Asahara: AGH-*ooft*
I grabbed his head and smashed it forward straight into the brick wall he'd just desecrated, cracking skull and tearing through the flesh of his forehead. By the time he'd hit the ground, he was already a mess of blood and tears with his face in the dirt and the grime below.
Michael Callahan: Thought you'd run to the press did you? Make your final buck off selling your fucking story?! HUH?! WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?! I trusted you... I trusted you with my LIFE. Do you see why I have so few friends?! Do you see why even the people I grew up with, I no longer choose to associate with?! HUH?! DO YOU FUCKING SEE?! YOU DON'T! I'm gonna' have to open your god damn eyes for you!
I reached down for a nearby glass bottle and smashed it against the brick wall to the side of me to make a shank. Then I yanked his hair back and held the broken bottle glimmering and wet just near enough his eyeball to spook the day lights out of him.
Michael Callahan: If you open your mouth... to anyone... ANYONE about my personal matters ever again, I will cut your eyes out. I will have bad men visit you in the black of night to sew shut your mouth and slit your throat so you never speak a word about MY private life to anyone again. Do you got that?! DO YOU GOT THAT?!
Steve Fukuyama: It wasn't... it wasn't me, I swear on my life!
Michael Callahan: I don't like liars Chono, I hope you know that by now! I don't tolerate flatterers, liars and traitors! Why're you lying to me?!
Steve Fukuyama: I'm not! It wasn't me, I swear!
Michael Callahan: Well WHO ELSE would it have been?! The doctors, who are bound by doctor patient confidentiality? Or you, the only other two shoes wearing hack that was there with me that day?
Steve Fukuyama: I don't know! I don't know!
Michael Callahan: Well let's just open that big brain of yours up and see what's-
Consumed by rage, driven by hatred, my blood pounding in my chest as my killer Marine instinct took over, I prepared to drive the broken bottle into the fleshy part of the back of his head but a distant shouting yanked my attention back to reality.
Jack Yasuda: Hey! Steve? You done pissing?
Michael Callahan: -hushed- You answer, you answer loud and clear and tell him to go back inside.
I could hear his footsteps. He wasn't too far away.
Jack Yasuda: Helloooooo?!
Steve Fukuyama: … uhhh... uhhh... YEAH! I'm fine Jack, don't worry. I'm just uhh... taking a dump. I couldn't hold it! When in Rome!
Jack Yasuda: Gross! I'll see you inside! HAHA! Steve, you animal!
Michael Callahan: -hushed- Really? That's the best you could come up with? Christ, you're a worse liar than you are an assistant. Maybe you are telling the truth about not ratting. Whatever you do, keep it under control because if stuff about me gets out again, I'm coming to find you. You got that?
Steve Fukuyama: Okay! Okay! I promise!
I got off him and dusted myself down, feeling a sliver of pride at having made him completely submit to my very will. I threw the bottle away only for it to shatter even more amongst a pile of trash bags then turned to look down at Steve, coughing and spluttering and clutching his ripped forehead in agony.
Michael Callahan: Oh and Steve, one more thing?
Steve Fukuyama: Y-...-cough-... Yeah?
Michael Callahan: Sweet dreams.
I bid Steve a good night and gave him the perfect night cap, a punt kick square in the teeth. Good night Mr. Fukuyama.
Just audio, no visual. It's another one of my fabulous recordings. I still had Steve's blood on my hands.
Michael Callahan: Hello constituents! It's me, Michael Callahan. Just making the drive back from Seattle and heading for the airport. It's been a late one and I've been out with new friends at a bar seeing as all my old ones were a bunch of Judases. Met some new pals, got to know some ladies. Might've even got a phone number or two. It's great being a communicator. However, being an American Hero isn't always fun and games. Sometimes you have business to take care of and on Asylum? I most definitely have business to take care of.
The tinny sounds of a moped scooter beeping as I overtake it can be heard through the recording. With blood-soaked hands, I wiped my sweaty hair away which seemed desperate to cling to my face and blur my vision.
Michael Callahan: See just this past Thursday, I made my glorious return to Overdrive in 2012 APW Turkey Bowl, the first of it's kind. And in doing so I tore it up. I made it through the first set of elimination matches, I made it to the final two of the big battle royale to win a title shot by eliminating Aubrey J. Parker and then despite having the bejesus kicked out of me? I managed to up-end Level One and eliminate him from the contest. Yet Biggs distracted the referee, allowing Level One to climb back in and throw me out again while I was celebrating. So, I've got to go confront Schmidt and make sure I get what I deserve because I'm sick and tired of representing Asylum, getting screwed over and cheated out of what I deserve. I promise you, Schmidt is going to start listening to me.
Not likely but it's nice to try and make a threat.
Michael Callahan: But that's not all. Another issue I have to deal with is the main event. Oh by the way, that's me main eventing both of our flag-ship shows within the space of a week. Just thought I'd throw that out there. This Sunday, I'm tagging with the man who stole my title shot from my grasp, despite fighting like a coward and hiding on the outside. He now gets to face Sally Talfourd at Christmas Chaos for the World Title that SHOULD be mine, a thought which makes me physically nauseous because despite having beaten both of them on a multitude of occasions, I'm having to scratch and claw my way to get anywhere near a title shot and because he plays the dishonest game, he gets to live MY dreams and MY legacy.
The idea of Phil Atken even holding the world title, nevermind his name besmirching the legacy and the record books was almost enough to make me pull into a lay-by and unload last nights lasagne. Yet I contained myself and carry on driving.
Michael Callahan: Bitter feelings aside, having Phil Atken on my team is a disability. Having anyone on my team is a disability. My track record in tag team matches is historically dreadful. All of my partners end up getting choked or pinned or somehow beaten and I'm the one that's always given the blame. The fact that they're making me tag with a man who I revile is just another slap in the face from Reginald Schmidt. Then throw in the fact that my opponents are Anthony Bailey, a no-good son of a bitch who's constant humiliations is driving me to the brink of insanity and our beloved world champion, a woman I beat twice yet am not allowed to contend for? It's getting too much.
Tension with me and Schmidt is very high. The stretched twig of peace is at melting point. I'm bursting with war, very ready to blow up in Asylum's face.
Michael Callahan: I'm getting tired of Reginald Schmidt constantly thinking he can play games with me and treat me like crap. It's time for action and a time for change. I grow weary and tired of the constant hoop-jumping game that we're playing here. I've been on the brand coming up to eleven months now and I am nowhere near contention for the world championship. I've represented our brand in inter promotional affairs, taking on all manner of challenges and never ONCE have I complained. I got on with it, I fought through it and gave it my all and this is the way they repay me?!
I punched my dashboard in rage, then bit my lip and seethed through my teeth to not let my groans of pain be picked up by recording.
Michael Callahan: This is it, Schmidt. Before I take on a gruelling tag team event, I'm having words with you and you'd better start listening because I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired. Every night, it's the same crap. I get cheated, screwed over, told no, told I'm not deserving despite the fact I'm your most consistent consummate performer. Enough is enough Schmidt. I deserve BETTER than what I'm getting. There's nobody on that roster I can't beat. Nobody more deserving than I, so brace yourself because I'm gonna' start knocking sense into that thick skull of yours... and that? That Schmidt, Sally, Bailey and Atken? That's a promise.
End Recording. Make sure you to tune into Asylum this week to see the meltdown between Michael Callahan and his enemy Reginald Schmidt and the tag main event. It'll well and truly be explosive and you don't want to miss it.
