NoC Rp #4: Ghosts and Origins ..::Finale::..

[Holiday/Morningstar]

He hit the power button triggering the light of his phone to flash off after checking the time. Setting it down face up he turned in the stool and leaned against the bar, looking at his surroundings. The bar hadn’t changed much since the two years he had walked in, a few pool tables. Same decor at the tables and they hadn’t changed the table tops yet, instead they embraced the lewd and vulgar art scratched into their surfaces. The west side of the wall still held the same two flags as before. A large rebel flag and a black flag with words “Dark Society MC” sewn in. The light from the windows still illuminated the thick dust floating about the air and even the same overhang fixture still flickered over the back corner table. A table he had spent a lot of time at, long ago.

Bartender: *approaching from the back* Aye mate, ya might wanna find a different bar to…

Tommy Holiday spun around in the stool, looking at the man with an eyebrow raises.

Bartender: Oiy shit, I almost didn’t recognize ya ye little shit. Where in the hells have ya been?

Holiday reaches out and takes hold of the bartenders extended with a smack, giving him a firm shake.

Tommy Holiday: Getting shit together, how you been Lok?

Lok: Good to hear… good to hear. *reaches out and takes Holiday by the chin to straighten his posture up so he could get a good look in his eyes* Aye mate, you clean one now eh? Good to see… good to see. What yer poison today? You know it’s on the club.

Tommy Holiday: Aye, just a bucket of beers. Lets do some Weisers?

Lok: Of course mate, anything for the Prince. Say… what brought you in? You putting them colors back on?

Holiday shrugs.

Tommy Holiday: Couldn’t tell ya Lok. Dad said to meet him here before I leave for Minnesota.

Lok: Minnesota? What the fuck is there? A whole state of pissers, I promise ya.

Tommy Holiday: I got a big match up there Lok, fighting for others for the Top Belt of the XHF. The X-Crown Title.

Lok: Oh shit? That’s what I’m talking about mate, poetic. A crown for a Prince… now all you need is the Pres. Patch and you a King.

Lok turns to grab a tin bucket and roughly shovel a few large scoops of ice into it. He was a large man, standing right at about six foot nine with a barrel chest. His torso is covered by a black Dark Society patched vest, buttoned at the front to cover up his ink drawn skin. Both arms were very large, semi chiseled. Every inch was either covered in scars or nordic tattoos. He opens up a cooler and grabs six beer, three in each hand and slams them down into the ice. Turning he slides the bucket onto the bar and pushes it over to Holiday.

Tommy Holiday: President Patch ey? Doubt that one, I haven't flown them colors in about two years. It’d be an uproar if they patched me up like that.

Holiday pulls one of the beers out of the bucket, cracking the top of with the edge of the counter and his palm. Lifting it up he presses the cold beer up to his lips and starts taking a huge gulp, a great bit of relief from the heat that had been blistering him outside.

Lok: An uproar? Mate you forget who runs this shit? No one's ever gonna question ya pops. They know better. Anyways, I got some work to do in the back… got some cutting to do before the product goes out… ya know.

Tommy lifts the beer up and hides the frown behind the beer. Yeah, he knew what he was talking about. Cutting, filling and sealing death. The primary means of money for the Dark Society MC.

Tommy Holiday: Yeah, I feel ya Lok. I’ll hollar at ya if I need anything.

Lok: Aye, or just go get it. Short of that register, that’ll make ya lose a hand.

Tommy doesn’t respond but smiles and nods at him, holding the beer up to him for a second as if saying cheers. Lok gives him a thumbs up before turning and walking his big frame through a pair of large black curtains, leaving Holiday alone in the bar with himself and the ghosts of his past. He looks around again, his imagination almost painting holograms over the seats and corners of this room. An odd mixture of pain and happiness playing on repeat through the dank and shadowed room.

“Fuck, what am I doing back in here? I vowed I would never step foot back in here, it was these tables I would snort line after line off of. Each line drawn with a razor and erased with my nose, another line that eventually created the portrait of my death… even if it was only a death on an emotional and mental level. A death nonetheless.”

Another drink of the beer and he leaned back against the bar closing his eyes. Something he would regret as it only allowed his senses to pick of the noises of the apparitions that haunted him. The laughter, the screaming and the pleading. Many deals went down here and many baggies filled with death went into his pockets here. Many… many debtors to the club were collected here by his hands. For a second he could smell the leather of that old vest he sported, and just for a moment he could feel it’s weight hang on his shoulders. He pulls his left hand down and runs his along his side, his mind fell back into a phantom habit. For the second, he felt them. All nineteen.

Nineteen skulls sewn into the side of his old vest. Nineteen skulls that are earned within the Club and not easily. Many members don’t even earn one, much less nineteen. In his mind he pictured these nineteen skulls and then the other patch they all earned him.

“I was the youngest Enforcer of the Dark Society out of both chapters. A few thought it was because I was the Prince, The President's son. But once they started seeing those Skulls racking up, they all shut their mouths. You don’t earn them patches through big smiles and handshakes, you earn them by being the Societies right hand. The Hand that yanks teeth and breaks hands, the hand that takes that extra step most only talk about taking. Those with the skull patches grease their bikes with the blood dripping from their fingers.”

A proud grin peaks out through the corner of his lips and he opens his eyes back up and like that the ghosts of his past fade away. He looks around the bar for a second like he is having to pull himself together, shakes his head free of some cobwebs and takes a huge gulp of his beer before spinning back around to the bar where his phone awaited him. A notification pops up on his screen, the preview reading…

“Heat for the X-Crown title rising, looking to be one of the most anticipated in years.”

He reaches down with his free hand and presses the power button again, turning the screen to black. He brings his gaze up from the phone and in front of him, locking eyes with his own reflection in the mirror. His eyes were cold, yet piercing and very little emotion resided behind them anymore but anger. Sitting the bottle down on the bar he took hold of the top of the neck, rolling the rough edge of the base around against the wood.

“I can’t help but laugh at that one, Heat rising for the X-Crown title. For the most part, the only ones heating up that thermometer would be me… and Seth. The two bitches, nothing… cold dead fish. Suzuki, at least she knows what could really be in store for the rest when they step into the tower. But, I am just one of a thousand Outlaws to step into the business. Just another Outlaw that can blot out her bright sky. To bad the little bitch will have to learn the hard way, I am the Outlaw by action not words. And no matter how bright her Sakura Sky is, she can’t see it if I cave her skull in.”

Tommy twitches his eyebrow, unamused and the least bit threatened. He continues to roll the bottle around.

“Little Miss Cthulu Rising 2019. Repeating the same boring shit. No one cares what Tommy Holiday has to say, I’ll victimize you and shove my knife into you. Bravo bitch, like a fucking broken record. Honestly, I came into this thinking I was going to be trading blows with the best in the Network. So far I have just heard the same shit repeated, just in different variations. I guess these pitiful insults are supposed to hurt my feelings or these threats scare me. Zolothach can bring her knife, I’ll use it to scrape her off my boots.”

Tommy chuckles and lifts the beer up and takes the last swing. Sitting the bottle off to the side he lets a good belch out the side of his mouth, still unamused and unthreatened.

“And 42, I just want to puke. I swear if i have to watch another Hollywood cliche sad monster trying to love video again, I will. Sure, He’s a big guy. Sure, He towers over me. Sure he… “went to the moon” and found his mom getting pounded by a second rate comedy mule. Yup. Even if he was the real monster that is being claimed, and these videos are real. He’s been weakened, beaten and still has to make the trip back to earth after the trip to the moon zapped the shit out of him. He might be a mean monster, but he’s stepping up to an Alpha. And this Alpha is going to send him out of that tower a failed experiment.”

Tommy reaches up, pulling his second beer out of the bucket and quickly cracks it open. He raises the opening up to his mouth and pauses for a second, a thought finally catching him.

“You're not a cog. Hell, you're not even the machine. You're just nothing.”

“Out of all this garbage insults thrown at me since stepping into the XHF Network, I have to admit this one made contact. Admittedly it hurt. I am… nothing. For the majority of my life I have fought and clawed to prove that Tommy Holiday was more than just a Legends son. That his surname wasn’t that ceiling he couldn’t break past, that he wasn’t just the Prince that everyone loved calling him. So yeah. Being told by, I will admit, a formidable competitor, that I was nothing… sunk me low. Good job Seth, you found a weak spot. Though, my head didn’t hang low for long. I had an epiphany…”

Holiday lifts the beer up, taking a long swing from it then sitting the bottle down with a loud clack.

“Seth Dillinger, famed blogger and champion. How many of your competitors had you slithered under their skin and up into the brain with that little blog of yours? How many competitors did you demoralize and make second guess themselves with a few keystrokes of your laptop? I would guess every one of them, that’s your shtick. You’re not bigger than I am. Not stronger. Not meaner, that that’s something you have admitted. Going into a match with the odds stacked against you has been a recurring theme defending the X-Crown, and you have come out victorious every time. Because while you may not be able to Trump your opponents physically, you do so mentally. You make your opponents question just who the fuck they really are, or if who they are is even worth putting up against the Mighty Seth Dillinger.”

He lifts the beer again, rubbing the opening against his smile for a second before lifting it and taking another drink.

“You almost got me Seth… almost. But a beautiful woman once told me, I can either Lean into the Curve or lean against it. It this regards, if I lean against it I’ll have a tree waiting for me to crash into and boom… you win. You want me to lean against the curve, that’s what all your talk has been. To manipulate Tommy Holiday into second guessing who he is. To manipulate Tommy Holiday into thinking that he needed to make a drastic change to his character to win this race, when that change would just be his brains splattering against that metaphoric tree. No Seth, I lean deep into the curve. Yes… I am Hardcore. Yes… I am an Outlaw. Yes… yes I am a mean southern boy deep from the hollar of Highbridge who’s neck has been kiss rather deeply by the sun. I am Tommy Fucking Holiday, I didn’t get to where I am being anything else. And I’ll only get further being the piece of shit I am. So fuck you and your games, I own my shit. I have more blood on my hands than you could imagine, more beer in the veins then you would care to think. Come Night of Champions Seth, you and the other three will see that I am not like the others who claimed the same things before me. I am not just talk. I crush every challenge ahead of me, no matter how large or sweet it is. Fuck you. Fuck Subject. Fuck Zolothach. And Fuck that cute little asian girl, litterally.”

So wrapped up in his inner monologue Tommy instinctively lifts his hand up flying a big middle finger to the mirror in front of him. His lifts the beer up and drains the majority of the bottle in his fire fed hype and slings it behind the bar against the wall, the glass exploding off.

Aaron Holiday: Got damn boy, I knew ya been having some self worth issues. But that reflection ain’t gonna feel that bottle.

Tommy jumped at the sound of his father voice, completely set off that he had been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn’t hear his father's bike pull up… or the many that accompanied him. Aaron pulls a pair of black sunglasses from his face and sets it atop his bald head as a group of men, sporting very similar vests as he, files in behind him.

Biker: OH SHIT. The Prodigal Son hath returned!

A man roars out as he walks past Tommy, slapping him hard on the back of the shoulder.

Tommy Holiday: Aye… just getting wrapped up in my thoughts ya know. Getting ready for the big match tomorrow.

Aaron Holiday: No I understand boy, those days leading into a match always got me off the most… well winning aside.

Aaron pulls a beer from the bucket on the counter and cracks it open with a ring on his fingers. He sits up on the stool and leans against the bar taking a long drink. After taking a few seconds to look Tommy up and down, he lowers the bottle and tilts it at him as if it was his finger pointing.

Aaron Holiday: How you holding up? I know this is the anniversary of Dani offing herself.

Tommy shrugs, the reminder of it making him yank another beer out of the bucket and cracking it open.

Tommy Holiday: Can’t think about it, I got the tower tomorrow.

Aaron Holiday: *nodding* You know, I wish I had the money she wasted on them pills to do that. A bullet would have been much cheaper, and quicker. But, you’re wrong Tommy… you should think about it. You need to take the rage it causes, build it up real nice… then unleash it on those fucks you’re fighting. Us Holidays, we move a lot of earth with that rage ya know. We’ve broken a lot of men with anger.

Tommy closes his eyes for a second, his breathing wanting to get heavy in anger at the callous suggestion about Dani’s methods. Instead of letting his tongue lash back out at his dad, in front of twenty of his men, he drowns the words out with beer. Taking a few seconds to simmer down, he turns.

Tommy Holiday: So… what’d ya call me out to the club for?

Aaron grins, sitting the beer down on the bar.

Aaron Holiday: Well son, it’s been too long since you wore those colors. You’re aesthetic has been missing something, that Dark Society blue boy. Time for you to ride again.

Tommy reaches us and scratches his temple, turning his view away from his dad back to his reflection again.

Tommy Holiday: Dad you know why I stepped away… I cant…

Aaron Holiday: You can’t be around the drugs, I know. I don’t want you back in the drug game. Selling…. Collecting…. None of it.

Tommy just looks confused as he turns back to his dad.

Tommy Holiday: Then for what? That’s what we do. That is what an enforcer does, collect.

Aaron Holiday: I didn’t say I wanted you to be an enforcer, you’ve grown way past that.

Holiday whistles up, on cue an older man with a waist long beard stands up with a folded vest in his arms. Walking up, with a huge proud grin, hands the vest to Tommy.

Aaron Holiday: I need you for an expansion into London, a new Chapter. And a new Chapter needs a President, time for the Prince to become a King.

A chills runs throught Tommy’s body as he opens up the vest to see the patches. On one side is “Holiday” the other side the “President” patch as well as “London” beneath it. On the side were his skulls, but this time they counted 21.

Aaron Holiday: We had to update that a little bit since you been fucking people up on the Network. One for the weird Carrion fella, the other for Frostbite.

Random Biker: I CUCK’D SWAT!

One of the men yelled out, the building erupts in laughter.

Aaron Holiday: We can add four more after you win tomorrow. So, what do you say?

Tommy looks at the fest, flipping it over to look at the “Dark Society MC London” patches on the back. Lifting his head, he looks at his dad.

Tommy Holiday: No drugs, we’re not running drugs?

Aaron Holiday: No son, no drugs. We got a couple different business ventures. Some property we want to precure as well as that promotion you work for up there.

Tommy Holiday: AXW?

Aaron Holiday: Yeah, we aim to make it belong to the Society. It’s been making good money recently, especially since you have showed up.

Tommy grins, lifting the vest and swinging it around. The weight came down heavy on his shoulders, but it was like he was back home.

Tommy Holiday: Let's do this shit then pops.

Tommy reaches out, smacking his hand into his father and pulling one another into a one shoulder hug. The bar erupts with claps and cheers as all the men stand up from their seats. Aaron grabs his son by the wrist and pulls him out to the floor.

Aaron Holiday: It’s official you rank mother fuckers, The Society expands to London… and the Prince becomes a King after a long bloody road to his coronation. Now… Tommy, go to Minnesota and claim your rightful crown.

Aaron lifts his sons hand high has the crowd collapses in on them in a brotherly show of unity. The ghosts of the bar stir as the monsters they knew, has now evolved into an Apex Predator.