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Taming the Flame; vs. Disturbed and TGD (07/28/13)
Topic Started: Jul 28 2013, 01:27 AM (63 Views)
Eric Donavan
Member Avatar
Irish Dragon
[ * ]
”There is such a thing as tempting the gods. Talking too much, too soon and with too much self-satisfaction has always seemed to me a sure way to court disaster. The forces of retribution are always listening. They never sleep.” – Meg Greenfield




MONDAY, JULY 22ND, 2013, 12:02PM
HAMPTON INN
ALBANY, NEW YORK





A week removed from chaos uncompromising and we find the Irish Dragon in far better accommodations than could be provided in a roadside motel in a nameless town off the interstate. An upper-floor room at Albany’s Hampton Inn serves as the backdrop this time around and the form of Eric is immediately visible standing before the sliding glass door leading out to the modest balcony. The freshly-turned afternoon sunlight pouring in coats him in residual shadow helped along by the solid black hoodie he wears, left open in the front but with the hood up and covering his features. Hands (or at least one of them) stuffed into his jeans pockets, Eric barely moves…and that alone gives credence to the fact that even eight days later his body is still feeling the effects of going through a goddamn window.

Off-camera we can hear the sound of a door opening and closing, the latter done very carefully so as not to make much noise. Eric’s head turns slightly toward the right as a somewhat-familiar voice speaks up from behind him.


Dr. Milbury
“The front desk told me you were expecting me and handed over a key. Should I have knocked?”

The hood shifts to denote him staring down at his now-raised right hand, wrapped securely in fresh bandages. He didn’t do it any favors last time, shattering a mirror in a fit of rage. Thankfully there doesn’t seem to be another mirror close by for the moment. Eric gestures with that hand as he turns around. The view shifts to pick up from over his shoulder and his gesture, we see, points toward an armchair and a sofa nearby. Dr. Milbury takes the hint and sits in the chair while Eric walks slowly over to the sofa and lowers himself onto it. The camera scrupulously moves in such a way that we don’t get a look at the Irish Dragon’s face but the doctor isn’t so blocked. His expression gives away a mixture of concern and empathetic pain.

Dr. Milbury
“Christ! How hard did he kick you?!”

Eric’s laughter is dry, cold…makes the hairs on one’s neck stand at attention.

Eric Donavan
“I can still taste the leather.”

Dr. Milbury
“…you’re not joking, are you?”

The laughter turns into an animalistic snarl as the doctor stares at Eric, not perturbed by the noise but just a little bit put off at actually being here, hundreds of miles from home. He keeps looking around as though he expects someone to jump out from behind a door or for the place to just spontaneously combust. Eric lowers his head, breathing heavily…and after several moments of silence, growls at the doctor again.

Eric Donavan
“What are you waiting for? I didn’t shell out a thousand dollars to bring you up here to do our session so you could sit here for an hour staring at cheap artwork.”

Dr. Milbury
“Fine, fine…”

Agitation puts aside nervousness for a moment, but the doctor’s eyes shift from moment to moment as he begins the session with his patient.

Dr. Milbury
“I’m afraid to say that the progress I felt from our last session is gone. You actually showed remorse, a willingness to be better than you had been. And all it took was one bad night to bring it to a screeching halt. Are you really going to throw away all the forward motion you had made because of a few mistakes?”




SUNDAY, JULY 21ST, 2013, 9:17PM
ALBANY INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
ALBANY, NEW YORK





We fade out and cut to the night before where we see a forlorn and yawning Adam Milbury stepping into the terminal with a rolling briefcase being pulled along behind him and a garment bag hooked by his fingers and draped over his shoulder. He stops when he’s far enough past the gates that he isn’t in anyone’s way and reaches into his pocket for a note scribbled on a small piece of paper. Looking up from it and around his immediate vicinity, his brows furrow in concern until someone steps into view behind him and clears their throat. A tense shiver washes over the young psychologist before he responds without turning.

Dr. Milbury
“I don’t mind telling you that it’s a little creepy the way you do that.”

???
“You scare too easy, doctor. Someone treating a monster like the one waiting for you should be a little more hard-assed.”

The black Jack Skellington sweatshirt is in full view as the hooded figure walks up behind the doctor, the hood masking most of her features by design. Milbury turns as she approaches and releases a breath he’d been holding.

Dr. Milbury
“The devil you know versus the devil you don’t.”

???
“So I’m a devil now?”

Dr. Milbury
“You’re an unknown commodity who has made an offer I not only find strange, but dangerous.”

???
“Then why are you here? Why did you accept my invitation?”

He doesn’t have an immediate answer for that, save to stiffen noticeably about the shoulders and torso when a pale hand is set on his shoulder when the woman enters his personal space. Her tone is almost too soft to hear, but the way black-tipped fingers clench his worn jacket and what we can see of her jaw sets…the meaning behind the words is intense.

???
“There’s nothing more you can do for him. Every time you make progress someone pushes him closer to the edge. The meltdown is coming sooner rather than later at this rate and what then? He loses everything…and you spend the next fifteen years agonizing over the one you couldn’t save.”

Adam’s head lowers and there seems to be a smile forming under the hood as we cut back…




MONDAY AFTERNOON




…to the session in progress. Eric has turned toward the doctor fully though the whole of his face is still masked.

Eric Donavan
“Calling these ‘mistakes’ is a bullshit excuse. A mistake is letting Disturbed open his mouth in front of a camera. A mistake is Adam Jones thinking for a solitary moment that Nightmare is worth anything other than destruction. THOSE are mistakes, doctor. What happened to me wasn’t a mistake.”

Dr. Milbury
“I don’t believe that. Tombstone would not have willingly assaulted you backstage if you hadn’t left him out to dry to be decimated, along with Alexis, by Fabulous Disaster.”

Eric’s left hand clenches noticeably as if he means to strike something with it. His right arm shifts a little but in the back of his mind he recognizes the ill that would come of breaking something else with a damaged claw. Dr, Milbury swallows a lump in his throat, the barest hint of a smirk on his face as he pushes on.

Dr. Milbury
“Bombtrack calling you on your actions wasn’t a mistake, either. The man is a veteran and knows right from wrong despite what some would call his simplistic look regarding the world. He has tried to get through to you, yet you resist. That’s your mistake, Eric.”

Eric Donavan
“You’re being antagonistic.”

Dr. Milbury
“Truth is not antagonism, Eric. That’s just how you take it because it isn’t to your liking.”

The doctor can call it what he wants but Eric is getting more furious by the moment. Despite that, the doctor doesn’t seem worried about it as much as he was. And so he fires another salvo…

Dr. Milbury
“And what about Tommy? Because he wants to be a part of White Noise and didn’t choose his words carefully enough, all of a sudden you’re insulted? This kid was in the same boat as you a few months ago and is looking to offer his services and you take it as an affront.”

Dr. Milbury slides his glasses off and sets them on his notebook/clipboard, looking straight at the Irish Dragon.

Dr. Milbury
“You’re just looking for a reason, Eric. I don’t think you want to let go of your rage and get better. Because this is the first time you’ve been truly motivated to do anything, purely and without reservation, in a very long time. Since just before London Brawl you’ve been a powder keg of negative emotion and fury, snapping and snarling at anyone or anything in your way. But the side effects of winning matches and impressing everyone around you with your ferocity have you hooked. You’re like a gambler who loses almost everything, wins it back and then some, then moves on to lose it all over again. It’s just another cycle but eventually you’re going to lose it all. Then where will you be?”

Eric Donavan
“I’m not losing anything. It’s being taken away from me.”

Dr. Milbury
“That’s what you keep saying. It’s a perspective like that that will be the end of you. But…I have a solution. It’s a long shot, but it’s about the only thing left to try.”

Eric turns to watch as the doctor takes a small box from his messenger bag set near the chair. From within he takes a small prism-like jewel and examines it for a moment. Sliding his glasses back on, he rubs away a few flecks of dust and debris gingerly and then shows it to Eric.

Eric Donavan
“…that?”

Dr. Milbury
“A focus. We’re going to try hypnosis.”




SATURDAY, JULY 27TH, 2013, 9:17PM
TIMES UNION CENTER
ALBANY, NEW YORK





The same hooded attire, now combined with a pair of track shorts, clothes Eric Donavan as he exits the trainer’s room backstage at the Times Union Center. Out in the arena proper the fans are roaring and booing as expecting while NEWEra puts on their bi-weekly NEW Generation broadcast. But the Irish Dragon doesn’t give any indication that he hears it. He simply closes the door with his left hand and starts off down the hallway. His right hand, we can see, is still bandaged though not as heavily. His motion seems more fluid too, making it appear as though the near-fortnight since the assault last NEW TV has given him time to heal a bit.

But it’s more than that. Eric moves with purpose, his back straight and his eyes forward. His arms are in motion with his steps and his pace is brisk. There’s a certain amount of residual tension brought on by pain but he is brushing it off. He even goes so far as to lift a hand in a half-wave to the few people that make the effort to greet him though he remains silent for the moment. It isn’t until he turns the corner and starts off for the locker room area that someone actually speaks to him…and they do so with a tremor in their voice.


Producer’s Assistant
“Mr. Donavan, sir? I…um…I have a message for you.”

Eric turns to the small woman dressed in a NEWEra polo shirt and trousers, her headset hanging around her neck with the wire connected to a small box on her belt. She hands him a note and then takes her leave as he looks after her. Silently he unfolds it and peruses the hastily-written piece. After a couple moments, he snorts quietly and murmurs to himself.

Eric Donavan
“The monster speaks…”

He crumples up the note and tosses it into a nearby wastebasket…and then checks his step suddenly. Down at the end of the hall is a hooded figure in black and Eric’s body language goes rigid at the mere sight of her. His arms move away from his body slightly as his fingers curl into fists but in a blink she’s gone. He rubs his eyes beneath the hood for a moment and realizes that the assistant hadn’t gone anywhere but was still standing right there in front of him, confused. She looks over her shoulder at the end of the hallway but sees nothing and turns back to Eric.

Producer’s Assistant
“…is everything all right?”

Eric Donavan
“Fine…thanks…”

Stepping past her, Eric disappears into his locker room a few doors down the hallway and shuts the door firmly.




SUNDAY NIGHT




Having moved to the airport lounge which thankfully for them was mostly deserted, Dr. Milbury sits at a booth with the hooded woman who is already speaking as we rejoin their moment.

???
“So we are in agreement, then?”

Dr. Milbury
“You realize that he is a strong-willed person, right? What if something goes wrong and I can’t contain him long enough for…”

???
“I am well aware of who and what he is. All you have to be concerned with is giving me the time I need to do what must be done and, after that, maintaining what I put in place.”

The doctor downs the contents of his glass, presumably soda based on the ice and bubbles, and signals for another as he puts the vessel down with a heavy thump.

Dr. Milbury
“I’m taking a risk here. And so are you.”

???
“Let me worry about that.”

Dr. Milbury
“You aren’t worrying about it. That’s the problem. If you slip up once…”

???
“I don’t slip, Adam. If this goes south it will be because you were too weak-willed to get the job done from your end. You don’t want a man’s self-destruction on your conscience. And you certainly don’t want to deal with me if you fail. So make it happen.”

The woman takes something out of her back pocket, lifting her lithe form off the padded seat to do so. She slides a folded yellow envelope forward, one of those bulky ones that’s lined with bubble-wrap to protect the contents. Adam looks at her curiously, then opens it and peers inside without removing the contents.

???
“Do you see now?”

After a few moments of silence, he re-applies the brackets to keep the envelope closed and puts it in his bag. As he does, the woman slides another envelope toward him…a white one, standard legal size. The doctor opens this one up and examines the official looking papers within, one of them smaller than the rest and scrawled upon in looping script.

Dr. Milbury
“All right. I’ll do it. So long as you can give me assurance that this won’t blow back on me and cause me to lose my practice.”

???
“…and?”

There’s a smile in the woman’s voice even though we cannot see it. Adam looks a little angry for a moment, then sighs and nods.

Dr. Milbury
“I’ll have my secretary fax you all the pertinent information. Expect it tomorrow morning at 8am.”

???
“Very good. Now, I suggest you get some sleep, doctor. You have a big day tomorrow.”

She rises from the table with grace and the smile fills her voice once again.

???
“We all do.”




THE PRESENT




About twenty minutes removed from when we last saw him, Eric sits on the sofa in the locker room, staring at a television that we can rightly assume has had Disturbed’s promo playing out on it. Unless our eyes are playing tricks with us, it would appear that Eric has a bit of a smirk going on based on the turn of his lips. He lifts the remote in his left hand and shuts the set off, leaning forward on the sofa and beginning to address the monster.

Eric Donavan
“…that’s it, Disturbed? That’s the grand retort?”

When last he addressed his opponents, Eric was unstable at best. He’s far from 100% now but his tone is smoother and more fluid and we’ve just seen not long ago that his body is at least healing if not mostly better. The Donavan Smirk is laced into every word he says directed at Disturbed, delivering a charming-yet-searing heat to every syllable.

Eric Donavan
“A hypocrite. I didn’t know that telling you the truth would draw out such a visceral, angry reaction, Disturbed. I didn’t know it would strike that deep of a chord within that massive frame of yours. But if I had?”

Yeah, that’s definitely a smirk.

Eric Donavan
“I don’t need to alter the way I speak or choose my words any more carefully than I already do when it comes to you, big man, because apparently they’re working. You get all riled up and start yelling and spitting everywhere, trying to come back with something cerebral in the vain hopes that you’re going to put me on a mental defensive. You can call me a hypocrite and make yourself believe it. You might even bring a few low-brow fans over to your way of thinking if you say it enough times and dangle a candy bar in front of their fat faces. But what you can’t call me, Disturbed, is wrong.

Pinned you once, beat you twice. Or did you forget the former champion throwing you out on your damn head in the battle royal before Challenger Series? You can bet your ass that James Stall hasn’t because in his case that’s where the fear, where his terminal case of dracophobia, started. As for me, I watched your head collide with the mat-covered concrete and for a few moments…I dared to hope. I hoped that maybe one of those rusty screws in your brain would be knocked loose and something resembling an epiphany would happen. More fool me, I guess.”

Sitting back comfortably, his laugh more like a barking growl than anything else, Eric glances off to the side from under the hood, his head turning to emphasize such.

Eric Donavan
“You’ll never change. And there’s something to be admired about that but I simply can’t get past the utter disdain that I have for you. Even people who have tried to beat me senseless or screw me over all throughout my career, even some of them, have managed to earn some level of props from me either for their methodology or sheer guts. I think James Stall is a coward without the gumption to embrace and express his true nature, but I appreciate his in-ring skill. I think Romeo Stylez is deluding himself to the point that he can’t see the ground speeding up to meet him because he’s too wrapped up in this hero bullshit, but he did what I could not and that gives him a little of my respect. You see where I’m going here, fella?”

A sharp breath is sucked in through his nose and his teeth grate, revealed as his lips part back in a grimace-like smile.

Eric Donavan
“You don’t have that. You’re nothing but a Cro-Magnon with a violence fetish and not one redeeming fucking quality in your body…a collection of muscles and instinct with just enough neurons to form a few coherent sentences and the sense to not fucking drool on yourself. That’s what I see when I look at you, Disturbed. How’s that for different? How’s that for fresh and current?”

Eric leans forward a little again, pointing at the screen with his bandaged right hand.

Eric Donavan
“But because you brought up a few peripheral events in your vain attempt to retort, let’s put those to bed first. Wildebeest, Kevin Raines, Scotty Priest, Randy Raines…I’m sorry, do you expect me to give a fuck about any of them? Wildebeest had taken his leave in spirit if not in form from the group before you got your grubby hands on him. Scotty Priest? I fail to see where that’s any of my business. That’s Robbie’s family business. If he wanted Tombstone and I poking our noses into that, he would have asked and we would have complied. Kevin and Randy Raines? I don’t know them and thus whatever you did to them and bragged about doing to them doesn’t mean shit to me. They mean less to me than you do, Disturbed, to put things into proper perspective. As for the rest, the last person I have to justify my words or actions to is you.”

Eric shakes his head a little bit, perhaps enjoying some dark humor.

Eric Donavan
“For someone who claims I say the same thing over and over, you sure do like harping on how I couldn’t beat Stall for the gold. Hypocrite, right? Noted. So tell me…when’s the last time you beat him?”

The eye roll, the lift of the brow…it’s there even if we can’t see it.

Eric Donavan
“Didn’t fucking think so. Keep staring in that mirror, big man. You might see a scarred, indomitable powerhouse but even the peons in the stands can see the truth, the truth that wakes you up in a cold sweat every night, hoping against everything you know that it’s a dream: You’re a failure. Robbie Priest is your last chance to redeem your joke of a career and you can already feel that slipping through your fingers. You won’t even see Adam Jones or myself Sunday night…you’ll see Priest. And while you’re clawing at phantasms and screaming for justification, I’m going to put your lights out and go on to Vindication to crush a hero.”

Relaxing once again with a slow exhale, Eric lifts and stares at the palm of his bandaged hand for a few moments before speaking again. He sounds a little calmer this time…which doesn’t mitigate the steely edge in his voice.

Eric Donavan
“Which brings me ‘round to The Good Doctor himself.”

The Irish Dragon releases a soulful sigh.

Eric Donavan
“In another place and another time, Adam, I would be looking forward to facing you. The first-ever confrontation between a certified NEWEra veteran and myself would be a money match for this company. Unfortunately, you find yourself sharing the same boat with Disturbed in a solitary fashion that is going to end up being the figurative death of you tomorrow night.”

He lowers his hand as well as his head, which doesn’t affect the clarity of his tone.

Eric Donavan
“Disturbed sees only Priest. You see only Nightmare. Despite my fury directed at Bombtrack, Tombstone and a few others right now, I see the two of you quite clearly. I also see the prize hanging in the balance for the winner of this three-sided battle. Maybe if I were in your place I would be thinking and feeling the same things you are toward the former North American Champion. There’s no telling and I’m not willing to let someone get close enough to me to bring it about. That lesson has already been learned many times over. Your considerable skill and ability is not to be ignored, but without your focus on me and Disturbed…it just doesn’t look good for you. Having spent my current dosage of vitriol on the unevolved part of this match, I can say that without it coming off as insulting or denigrating. It bears repeating: I don’t know you, Adam. And for some reason, that’s enough to keep me from coming at you with both verbal barrels loaded.”

Looking up again, Eric speaks one last time.

Eric Donavan
“But it won’t stop me from taking advantage of your inattention. I don’t blame you for wanting to rip Nightmare apart because honestly the little prick deserves it. I’d do it myself if he were worth my time. It’s just bad timing on your part. But look at the bright side: no matter how this match turns out, you’re still going to get your hands on the scum at Vindication. Hopefully that’s enough of a consolation prize for you, Adam. Me? I won’t do without being able to pick my method of choice to break Bombtrack. And neither you nor Disturbed will deny me that pleasure.”

The monologue ends and the scene fades to black…




MONDAY AFTERNOON




…coming up again at the session being conducted in Eric’s hotel room. We’re several minutes removed from Dr. Milbury’s revelation of his intentions but based on the relaxed posture and rhythmic breathing of the Irish Dragon seated on the couch, his arms resting on his thighs, it appears that he was successful. He lowers the crystal and exhales softly…before almost jumping out of his skin at a voice from elsewhere in the room.

???
“Easier than you thought?”

Dr. Milbury
“Mother of…! When did you get in here? Better yet, HOW did you get in here?!”

???
“I have my ways, never you mind.”

The hooded woman steps out from behind the corner and walks over to the sofa, leaning over to look at Eric who sits still as death, his breathing steady.

???
“How long do we have?”

Dr. Milbury
“An hour, maybe two. Depends on how taxing your suggestions are.”

The woman straightens up and turns to look at the doctor from beneath her hood. She draws from within her shirt a sheaf of papers.

???
“They were useful. Thank you.”

She tosses the leather-bound case to Adam, who fumbles with it but manages to catch it as she moves to sit gingerly on the edge of the coffee table, looking beneath the Dragon’s hood. She tenses for a moment when she gets sight of the face beneath but it passes swiftly. She speaks to the doctor without looking away.

???
“Get ready. This might get nasty.”

With a gulp and a nod, Dr. Milbury quickly puts a white cloth on the end table near his chair, followed by a metal tray bearing a glass vial of unidentified liquid. He places a bit of cotton, a small bottle of alcohol and a clean syringe on it as well. The woman does not watch but knows when the doctor is done, reaching her hands beneath the hood and setting them to Eric’s face. His body tenses for a moment but then stills and she smiles thinly, barely visible under her own hood.

???
“Let’s begin.”

Begin what? We aren’t sure, for at that moment the scene fades to black.
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Twitter: @NEWIrishDragon

NEW Record: 28-11-2
All-Time Record: 73-24-6

1x NEWEra World Heavyweight Champion: 11/03/13-12/15/13
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