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Black Flame Rising; vs. Tombstone (08/11/13)
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Topic Started: Jul 31 2013, 12:13 AM (164 Views)
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Eric Donavan
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Jul 31 2013, 12:13 AM
Post #1
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- Posts:
- 346
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- July 24, 2012
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”Some people hear their own inner voices with great clearness. And they live by what they hear. Such people become crazy...or they become legend.” – Jim Harrison
SUNDAY, JULY 28TH, 2013, 9:32PM TIMES UNION CENTER ALBANY, NEW YORK
The toll of the ring bell still echoes in the cavernous arena interior. The roar of the crowd is a mixture of cheers and boos though it’s a bit heavier on the latter end. Back at ringside, the monstrous Disturbed is pounding the ring apron in frustration at yet another loss while the referee is checking over a woozy-yet-conscious Adam Jones, The Good Doctor. At the announce table, Sam and Mac chat about the match’s result before starting the hype for the following contest. Life at NEW TV 67 is proceeding at the same pace it always does. For the man walking up the ramp toward the curtain which serves as a boundary between the stage and the Gorilla position, the world is moving at a different speed. He doesn’t hear the remnants of the bell, the bellows of a packed house or anything else. He sees nothing peripherally, focused wholly on the path directly ahead of him. The sweat dripping off his chiseled, scarred and tattooed frame is an irritation beneath his notice. The ache in his joints and ligaments as a result of being thrown around by Disturbed and battered by Adam Jones isn’t enough to slow his pace.
Eric Donavan stopped caring about the match the moment it was over. The fact that he now has the privilege of choosing the stipulation for his match with Bombtrack at Vindication IV is already pushed to the back of his mind. As he breaks his self-imposed trance long enough to snatch a bottle of Dasani from the nearby ice chest as he rounds the corner and heads down the hall towards the trainer’s room, the Irish Dragon has but one concern: Cole Blaze. It is a point a few steps later that someone standing in the hallway chatting with an agent happens to turn about and see Eric approaching. Her expression shows a amalgam of curiosity and intensity as she excuses herself from her clandestine conversation and calls out to him.
Isabel Marie “Eric? Hey, you got time for a few questions?”
Eric turns his head slightly as he approaches Isabel, his black eyes narrowing slightly.
Eric Donavan “Back on your old beat, Isabel?”
The hostility in Eric’s voice, general and not directed, brings a smirk-like expression to the young woman’s features. It isn’t enough to back her off.
Isabel Marie “Would it make a difference if I were? Or if perhaps I was Thumper or Johnny Bloomers? I just have a couple questions for you if you’re willing to answer them.”
His first instinct is to tell her to take a hike but it should be noted that outside his stony focus Eric is in a peculiar mood. He teeters on the razor-thin line between blatant fury and cold, silent rage. He doesn’t check his step but instead jerks his head in the direction he’s heading after taking a sip of the water.
Eric Donavan “Ask on the way to the trainer’s room.”
Isabel Marie “Fair enough.”
The heavy steps of the Irish Dragon now mingle with the high-heeled click-clack of Isabel’s own as she keeps pace despite her imposing footwear. Her eyes shift from Eric to the path periodically as she starts peppering him with queries.
Isabel Marie “So…what do you think of what happened to Alexis Jones a few weeks ago?”
Eric Donavan “…what?”
The small smile on Isabel’s face is priceless; she knew she’d get a reaction out of the Irish Dragon by asking him a question he didn’t see coming. She savors it for a few moments as Eric’s pace stalls a bit, his full attention on her now.
Isabel Marie “Weren’t expecting that, were you?”
Eric snorts quietly and moves on again, his pace a little slower now but still focused.
Eric Donavan “You want an answer or do you want to snipe at me some more?”
Isabel Marie “By all means.”
Isabel gestures casually as Eric faces forward, answering in a cold tone.
Eric Donavan “I think that RAW and his pack of rabid mongrels is nothing but a collection of cowards. It would have been a different story if they attacked someone like Jenni Taylor or even Aurelei because they are, or were, wrestlers. They can defend themselves at least a little bit against an assault like that. Alexis? She’s not an athlete. She had no place in the middle of that fight. I understand why she did what she did. But her sense of honor and devotion landed her in the hospital. It’s a shitty situation but there’s nothing to be done about it now.”
Isabel Marie “Do you think you contributed to what happened to her by walking off on Tombstone?”
Eric Donavan “Hmph.”
They turn the corner and after another gulp of water, Eric responds more properly.
Eric Donavan “I stood back to back with Tombstone and tried to help him fight off those scavengers. As a result, I wore his footprint on my face for two weeks. Bombtrack and Zeller threw themselves into the fracas and fat lot of good that did. My presence wouldn’t have made much difference in the matter. Alexis still would have inserted herself into the moment and she would still have left on a stretcher.”
One has to think that Isabel had a retort all planned out to throw at the Irish Dragon when he gave her a real response, but his words catch her by surprise this time. She takes a few moments to consider them, then questions him further.
Isabel Marie “So do you think Tombstone overreacted when he put you through that window?”
Stopping dead in his tracks, Eric stares down at the hard tile floor. His breathing becomes heavy, his shoulders and chest rising and falling with each breath. He glances to his thickly-taped right hand, rolls his shoulders to feel the tug of stitches and still-raw flesh…and lifts his eyes to stare straight ahead.
Eric Donavan “Tombstone did what Tombstone always does: violence is the only response he has for adversity anymore. Some people are of the mind that he would have done that to anyone who was in his path at that point, that I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. And that’s a bullshit point-of-view as far as I’m concerned. By now, it has been proven in my opinion that Tombstone puts little stock in friendship and in-ring partnerships. That marks thrice now, Isabel…THRICE…that the Butcher of Berlin has come within centimeters of crippling me. He gave me a Graveyard Shift off the turnbuckles that nearly snapped my neck, another one onto a barbed-wire sledgehammer that came close to caving in my skull and then the act of throwing me through a window like a mannequin.
And the first time, I understood and even respected his methods. I took a little pride later in knowing that he had to take it to that extreme just to beat me. The second time, I wondered just where the fuck his brain was at and I was set to question him directly on that matter. But when I got a look at my friend after what James Stall did to him, the reasons didn’t matter. All I wanted was for him to recover so that we could destroy the now-former champion. That was all that mattered to me. Not the metal chunks getting pulled out of my forehead and scalp, not losing in my first opportunity for the World Heavyweight Championship, not making a statement…nothing. I wanted my friend better so we could have vengeance together. This time…”
Isabel Marie “…this time what?”
Eric doesn’t seem to realize that he’s stopped talking. His lips are moving but no sound is coming out. Static and distortion take over the on-screen images for a moment and when it recovers things are all black and white except for Eric. Isabel has disappeared and the hallway itself has subtly changed. A familiar shape walks past Eric and a second follows in close pursuit, broader and more powerfully-built. It’s obviously Bombtrack, which makes the first shape Eric himself from a few weeks ago. Their conversation is muted but it doesn’t really matter because everyone knows the tale already.
Moments later a stretcher and a cadre of EMTs, accompanied by Tombstone himself, walk through Eric and come upon the duo standing near a window. We see it all over again, the Dark Destroyer hurling the Irish Dragon through the glass and leaving him in a pool of his own blood before barking at the medical professionals to move along with the stretcher bearing an unconscious Alexis Jones. Noisy distortion takes us back to the present where Isabel is looking at Eric a little fearfully, trying to get his attention.
Isabel Marie “Hey…earth to Eric…you there?”
Eric Donavan “This time…there won’t be a next time.”
Isabel Marie “What do you mean by that?”
Eric doesn’t respond. Instead his hand grips the half-full bottle tight before turning and winging it against the wall as hard as he can. Plastic cracks open and water sprays out, nearly dousing Isabel but in the end only smattering her with a few cold drops. Before she can draw out of her hiding place behind her own crossed arms, Eric is already moving down the hallway again. And in the interest of self-preservation, she lets him go. He passes an intersection and keeps going moments before a familiar, hooded female steps into view, looking after him.
Cut to the trainer’s room where a few wrestlers are getting checked before and after their matches. Cole Blaze is on one of the tables being checked over by a trainer. Both turn toward the door as the camera swings around to show Eric walking in and making a beeline for his friend’s side. Cole pushes himself up, waving off the doctor’s offer of assistance impatiently. He swings his legs over the side of the table and wavers a bit before Eric puts a strong hand on his shoulder.
Eric Donavan “Nice to see you awake. Still a hard-ass motherfucker, huh?”
Cole Blaze “Damn right I am. The hell happened out there?”
Eric’s expression hardens suddenly and he stares a hole through the doctor who holds up his hands as if to say he doesn’t want any trouble. Black eyes narrow sharply before Eric turns back to Cole.
Eric Donavan “Bombtrack sucker-punched you with some knuckle dusters.”
Cole Blaze “No shit? Ain’t that a bitch. Guess that’s the last time I do any favors for a stranger even if they claim they’re doing it for you, huh?”
Eric half-smiles but the glare in his eyes refuses to fade.
Eric Donavan “Ain’t nobody in this world can be trusted anymore these days, man.”
Cole Blaze “Not even you?”
Eric Donavan “Not even me.”
The response causes a sad look to wash over Cole’s face. It’s hard to tell if he’s disappointed or if it’s something else…but that his friend replied so smoothly to the comment without a hint of humor appears to concern him greatly. Eric cuts him off before he can reply himself, though.
Eric Donavan “You’re going to the hospital. After a hit like that you need to get properly checked out. Give me a few minutes to get my things and I’ll drive you there myself. Save you a few hundred in ambulance fees.”
Cole Blaze “Sure, man. Got nothin’ but time.”
No one in the room has noticed the entrance of the hooded woman, not even Eric whom she is now standing behind. She leans up on her tiptoes near his ear, lips parting to speak…
FRIDAY, JULY 26TH, 2013, 10:44PM UNDISCLOSED LOCATION IN NEW YORK CITY
…before the scene cuts to black and fades back in to a darkened room with a nice view of the impressive NYC skyline. The only light we have to go on is what illumination the post-sunset sky offers. The fiery colors have nearly faded, giving way to blues, purples and indigos. A dark shape paces back and forth before a glass window or door, we can’t be sure which. The shape is most certainly female, though, and speaking on a phone to someone in a stern yet beautiful tone.
??? “Excuses are not what I called to hear. You know what I expect from you and I have paid well to get it.”
There’s a pause as a quiet male voice speaks in response, cut off by a sharp retort from the woman. After hearing a few words out of her, we recognize that she is the woman who has been working recently with Dr. Milbury as pertains to Eric Donavan.
??? “You’re going to make this happen as I hired you to. The next set of shows will be happening where I am now. I have matters taken care of on my end and I expect that by this time next week you will have completed your end.”
Another response sounds though this time she lets the person finish speaking before talking back.
??? “Good. Keep me informed.”
Her pacing back and forth before the window stops, her back now turned to use as she stares out over the night-laced city.
SUNDAY NIGHT
Back at the arena, we’ve a view of the trainer’s room from down the hall, looking the same as it did minutes ago. That is, until the door is knocked open by the body of one of the trainers being thrown against it. He lands in a heap on the floor, turning shakily as he gets up to his knees but then diving out of the way as someone else comes careening out and almost collides with the wall. Yells and screams alike emanate from the room as the view starts to shake upon approach, the cameraman running toward the door.
The view he gets from inside the room isn’t a pleasant one. Eric is in a berserk rage, fighting off anyone who gets near him. The two trainers tossed out like dolls must have gotten within reach of him but they’re the only ones trying right now. The rest of the room’s inhabitants, including a few preliminary wrestlers and Cole Blaze, are in a sort of half-circle before the Irish Dragon, trying to get through to him with words lest they get hurled. Against the wall near the door, pressed as close as she can get, is the hooded woman. Her attention seems to be divided between the group of men and Eric himself.
Cole Blaze “Eric, the hell’s gotten into you, man?! You need to calm the fuck down before you hurt someone!”
Eric’s only response is a shrieked one in a different language…something along the lines of Italian or Spanish but difficult to tell in his enraged state. As Cole tries to reach out to him, Eric snarls at him and storms forward a bit, backing his friend off before backing into the corner himself. Upon seeing this, the woman presses herself as close to the wall as she can get and starts sidling along it, trying to get closer to Eric. Cole picks up on this and gives her a look out of the corner of his eye, her response being a nod. Blaze tries once again to reach his friend.
Cole Blaze “Look, I don’t know what you’re sayin’ or what’s goin’ on…but you gotta chill. Come on, Eric…this is me. Cole. You gotta trust me…there ain’t no one here after you.”
The words seem to get through to Eric a little. There’s a flash of recognition in his wide, black eyes. The woman has gotten within a few feet of him by this point, just out of his peripheral vision, and she draws something from her jeans pocket slowly. Bringing it to her lips, she yanks the cap off a loaded syringe and charges Eric before he can properly react. She plunges the needle into his arm and mashes down on the plunger, barely ducking out of the way of a wild swipe from the Irish Dragon before he realizes he’s been punctured. He blinks for a moment before dropping to a knee, yanking it out of his flesh and throwing it aside. Moments later, he slumps over, unconscious. The trainers and Cole start to move in but the woman waves them off, kneeling by the unconscious Irish Dragon and moving the sweat-soaked hair from his face.
??? “He’s going to be out for a while. I’ll take care of him from here…”
Cole Blaze “Nah, that’s my best friend, lady. I’ll handle this.”
The woman turns toward Cole, her body language depicting distrust and aversion, but Cole either doesn’t notice or outright ignores the signs. He moves to kneel down by his friend and to pull him up, draping an arm over his broad shoulders. Seeing that she’s not going to get through to the thick-headed Blaze, she silently acquiesces and gets Eric’s other arm, lifting him up. Eric moves with them somewhat but he’s not what you’d call super-responsive.
??? “I assume you have a car?”
Cole Blaze “Yeah. We’ll get him to a hospital till he cools off. The hell did you give him, anyway?”
The woman keeps her attention forward, speaking quietly.
??? “It was a mixture of antipsychotics and something to make him sleep. He’s going to be floating for a while and when he does pass out, he’s going to be out for a while.”
Cole Blaze “Shit…that bad, huh?”
The woman nods and Cole takes the hint that talking about it here wouldn’t be proper. We get a shot of them walking toward the parking area before the scene fades to black briefly.
MONDAY, JULY 29TH, 2013, 8:18AM OFFICE OF DR. MILBURY ASHEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA
The following day, in the office of Eric’s court-appointed psychologist, we see the doctor’s secretary, Annette, sitting at her desk typing away at her computer. The phone rings and, with more confidence in her voice than we’re used to hearing, she answers.
Annette “Dr. Milbury’s office. Mm-hmm. He what? Oh…goodness. Yes, I’ll tell the doctor immediately. Or would you like me to transfer…no? All right.”
She hangs up and quickly pages the doctor.
Annette “Doctor, I just received a call from a Veronica Mears, Eric Donavan’s lawyer. There was an incident after the recent NEWEra show up in Albany. She said a fax will be coming through shortly that you should see.”
Dr. Milbury’s Voice “Understood. Thank you, Annette.”
Our view shifts to the doctor’s office where he is standing behind his desk and gazing out the window at downtown Asheville, sipping from a steaming mug. The fax machine beeps in short order and he picks up the finished sheets as they file out. Mid-sip he reads one of them and coughs, spraying coffee all over the paper and accidentally swallowing some of the super-hot liquid. Once he regains his composure he does his best to wipe off the sheets and shuffle through them, eyes darting back and forth over the papers. The sound of his difficulty in swallowing has Annette coming into the room after a brief knock, concerned.
Annette “Doctor? Is everything all right?”
Dr. Milbury “No, Annette…no, things aren’t all right.”
The concern on the young woman’s face becomes more pronounced.
Annette “Should I see about the failsafe, sir?”
The doctor’s expression is one of a man in deep, rapid thought with his finger on the button that fires the nukes. He goes back and forth several times mentally before shaking his head.
Dr. Milbury “No. We’re just going to have to trust that the right choice was made. Go back to your desk, Annette.”
Annette “Yes, doctor.”
After the door closes, Adam goes behind his desk and takes a seat. The coffee-stained papers are spread out before him and he takes off his glasses as he sits, rubbing his eyes. Gazing down at the papers again, he mumbles to himself.
Dr. Milbury “I hope she knows what she’s doing.”
We have one dark shift…
TUESDAY, JULY 30TH, 2013, 9:59AM MEMORIAL HOSPITAL ALBANY, NEW YORK
…before coming to the following morning in Albany. The entrance area of Memorial Hospital is ever-busy but only two people within sight are of any importance to us. Eric Donavan, dressed in a charcoal gray suit with a crimson tie, his dark hair pulled back and his eyes masked by his trademark silver-framed sunglasses…and his lawyer, Veronica Mears, wearing a peach-colored skirt suit with matching heels, her long blonde hair left to hang loose over her shoulders. We don’t hear their conversation with reception but it is handled quickly and the pair starts heading for the automatic doors, their conversation only audible after the hiss of the opening passage has finished.
Veronica Mears “…can’t believe that you can’t remember anything, sugah. This is happenin’ more an’ more lately. I’m just thankin’ your lucky stars that ya didn’t wake up on the side of the interstate again…”
What we can see of Eric’s expression is stoic, his response only silence as Veronica keeps talking.
Veronica Mears “…an’ we’re damn lucky that no one’s pressin’ charges. That wouldn’t do ya no good with the judge down in Asheville, lemme tell ya. Dr. MIlbury says he’s lookin’ into makin’ sure this don’t count against ya, which is pretty good o’ him if ya ask me considerin’ how you been to him sometimes…”
Eric Donavan “Ronnie…”
Her common nickname being spoken in that tone, even quietly, causes the Southern lady to stop her rambling and cast an uncertain eye to her client.
Veronica Mears “Hm?”
Eric Donavan “You still haven’t answered my question. What happened?”
She sighs quietly as their walk toward the parking area soon reveals Eric’s Mustang parked neatly by itself at one corner. She stops at it with him and turns to lean back against the pristine vehicle’s front quarter panel.
Veronica Mears “All I know is you were talkin’ to Cole an’ you just snapped. Some girl in black was there, they said, an’ she was the one that calmed ya down. Had to stick you with somethin’. Doctor’s said a dose like that shoulda had you out for a few days. Say she might’ve went overboard. Cole an’ her brought ya here then he had to go and she took off before anyone could ask her questions. Said ya threw a few doctors around and was snarlin’ like a pissed-off dog. Couldn’t no one get close to ya till Cole got yer attention so she could inject ya. That’s the long an’ short of it.”
Eric Donavan “Why the fuck can’t I remember any of that?!”
Having been leaning on the car’s hood above the driver’s side door with arms extended to hold him away from it, Eric pounds his fists on the roof hard enough that Ronnie flinches.
Veronica Mears “I don’t know, hon…honest ta God I don’t.”
Eric Donavan “I believe you. I ain’t mad at you about it, Ronnie. This…it’s just…the second time in as many weeks that I’ve blacked out like that and did shit I don’t remember. What…what the hell is wrong with me?”
She wants to respond with something comforting but the more she looks at Eric the more she sees someone gone but not forgotten. It’s all over her face that she’s afraid to say what’s on her mind or even to give him a reassuring comment. In the end, all she can do is put a hand lightly on his shoulder and mumble out a few words.
Veronica Mears “Nothin’ that won’t be fixed in time. Just remember what yer fightin’ for, sugah.”
Eric nods in response and turns to Ronnie.
Eric Donavan “Yeah…I guess you’re right. You go on back home. I’ll give you a call on Friday so we can go over other business.”
Ronnie nods and gives Eric’s shoulder a squeeze before walking off. We soon hear her car start up and her pull out of the parking lot. Eric turns and leans against his car with his back, arms folded over his chest as he stares toward the ground. After a few tense moments, he starts to speak.
Eric Donavan “One more time, eh? I bet you’re just itching to finish the job, Elias, aren’t you?”
To call Eric’s voice cold wouldn’t quite be accurate. It’s not emotionless, either. It’s just…distant. It is as if there’s so many emotions and sensations warring for supremacy inside his mind that he’s been left drifting in the enormity of it all. There’s a small edge in his tone, sure, but even that seems…dull.
Eric Donavan “I don’t know where the hell you’re coming from these days. Hell, I don’t know where the fuck I’M coming from anymore. One day you’re offering me support and the next you’re telling me I’m no better than Stall. One moment we’re putting the band back together to stomp some ass and the next you’re kicking me in the jaw and putting me through a fucking window. That’s the price of your friendship, Elias: blood…pain…suffering. I’ve paid that price and so has Alexis. How long will it be before Priest or someone else suffers because you lose control and make a ‘mistake’? How long…”
The further Eric gets into his comments, the harder his voice gets. Near the end it starts to crack and he has to stop for a moment to compose himself. His glasses slide up a bit as he pinches the bridge of his nose to relieve some pressure, fingertips gingerly rubbing at the corners of his eyes.
Eric Donavan “I know, I know…that wasn’t fair. We both know Alexis didn’t deserve what she got from those assholes and Priest more than has his hands full with Disturbed. Bringing his name into this doesn’t serve any purpose.”
One more moment to compose himself…then…
Eric Donavan “Let’s get something straight here: I don’t expect you to understand where I’m coming from. Since James Stall put me out for two months at Bloodlust, my life has been hell. Not more so than yours or anyone else’s, but hell for me…my personal hell. You get what I’m saying, Elias? We know the story of your childhood as surely as people know my own. We’ve both been through a lot of tragedy and heartache, but look at where we are now. You have risen above a rough childhood and several trying years a young adult to become one of the top stars in NEWEra Wrestling. You’re a three-time Television Champion with an amazing winning streak under his belt and several impressive title defenses, two of which came against me. You’ve taken on the best and you’ve beaten the best. You have a stunning woman on your arm, membership in a prime stable and no limits on what you can accomplish. Those are things you should be proud of, Elias. And I’m proud of you for accomplishing them despite the obstacles in your path.”
The Irish Dragon manages a wan smile for a few moments, but it fades quickly.
Eric Donavan “You’re head and shoulders above me, and yeah, that makes me a little envious. You have everything that I don’t in this company and don’t try to get affronted with me upon hearing that, getting out of your chair and flinging my own accomplishments in my face. Just…don’t. I’m allowed to feel however I please. And that…that is how I feel. Envious. Not jealous because that’s a negative word to me. Envious. A little covetous. I want what you have, Elias. The titles, the accolades, the grandeur…the mystique. I wouldn’t turn my nose up at a good woman either if I knew they wouldn’t fuck me over behind my back, but good luck finding one like that.
And I’m not unwilling to earn any of that. You know what I can do in that ring when I’m firing on all cylinders. We’ve had three one-on-one matches and two times out of three you’ve destroyed me just like your name implies you would. You’ve seen as well what I’ve done against men like James Stall, RAW, Romeo Stylez, Disturbed…the list of names goes up and down the roster. And it could go further if we started including some ACW expatriates who are worming their way up the ranks currently. It doesn’t matter who I face, Elias: man or woman, powerhouse, high-flyer or technical master…they leave that ring knowing they faced the wrestling version of a force of nature. They wear the mark of the Irish Dragon for the rest of their career, thanking me every time they score a win because the damage I inflicted on them awakened more of their potential than they might have on their own.
I have gone unwillingly through and willfully faced hell on my way up the ranks here, and coming upon the one-year anniversary of my tenure here in NEWEra, what do I have to show for it beyond the intangibles I just alluded to? Who speaks the name of Eric Donavan as one of the greats in this company? Wrestlers who couldn’t carry my jock pass around the No Limits Championship like a hot potato and whether they’ve held it for five weeks, five days or five fucking seconds, it doesn’t matter…because they’ve held gold. They’ve felt the weight of a title belt rightfully earned in their hands and around their waists. I have not. Five title matches, five losses. It makes me sick to say it aloud. I went coast-to-coast in the London Brawl and for what? Hm?”
Once more the agitation takes over but he fights to shove it back down, to put it deep within his subconscious, as if he can’t bear to let it take over this time.
Eric Donavan “But all of that pales in comparison to the rarest prize this business has to offer: friendship. Even rarer than true respect, even more difficult to maintain than a legacy worthy of a Hall of Fame induction and tougher to keep hold of than a World Heavyweight Championship…is friendship. And for a time, I thought I had that. Friendship is what kept me going a lot of the time when I took some hard losses in the ring and was questioning whether or not I was right to re-enter the business. I admit to taking it for granted a little bit when I disappeared after Bloodlust, but I appreciated the fact that it was still there even if I didn’t know how to take it.
And then…Bombtrack stomped all over my return, opening his mouth and letting the inanity fly free. Then you lashed out against me, first verbally then physically. The upstart Zeller and his smart-ass comments, Bombtrack assaulting my friend Cole Blaze a few days ago, nights of not knowing what the fuck I’m doing or where I’m going before waking up in places I don’t recognize and…and…”
His entire body seems to shake as he draws in a harsh, hissing breath through his nose, holds it and lets it out. It’s easy to see his body tensing in that tailored suit. It gets to the point that Eric looks like he’s gonna go Incredible Hulk and tear up that thousand-dollar piece of Italian silk followed by his many-thousands-of-dollars Mustang next in a fit of non-steroidal rage.
But it doesn’t happen. After that breath he re-clips is right cuff link, adjusts his tie and runs a hand over his head to smooth back a few stray hairs. With another softer, quieter breath, he resumes.
Eric Donavan “No, that’s enough. Before I say or do something I regret, I’m going to cut it off here. Elias, I’ll see you in New York City…if not before then.”
Without another word, Eric gets into the Mustang, starts it up and drives off. The scene fades to a final black.
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Eric Donavan's Wikia Page 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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