Post by Payne on Oct 22, 2019 20:03:43 GMT -5
Oakland Cemetery, Atlanta, GA
Saturday, 19th October
Grey clouds rolled across the midday sky as a light rain drummed rhythmically on the rich mahogany coffin balanced on our shoulders. Hundreds had gathered and they now lined the cemetery’s roadsides, pathways and verges and solemnly they watched as we inched closer to his final resting place, one well practiced step at a time.
To my right, with his arm wrapped around my shoulder and mine around his, was Donovan Carter. In front of us, Sean and Aaron Chandler and leading the way, Deandre Carter and Armani Decano. The six of us moved in perfect unison; years of working together under the helm of the man we now carried perfectly represented in this one somber moment.
As we finished our trek from the chapel to the graveside we paused respectfully and awaited our que, then carefully settled Vincent McKlayn’s casket down before the gathering crowd. The five men before me stepped toward the coffin, marked themselves with the sign of the cross and moved aside to join the amassed mourners. As I stepped up, I bowed my head, kissed my hand and touched it to the damp lid of the coffin. This was more than a goodbye to one man; this was acknowledgement that life would never again be the same.
I rejoined my wife and allowed her to embrace me. She kissed me lightly on the cheek and whispered a thanks for this final service to her father, then intertwined her fingers with mine and embraced my arm, holding herself as close to me as decorum would allow.
Armani caught my eye and nodded his head, silently gesturing across the open grave of his father. As I followed his gaze, I found myself looking at Brien Cage and Sean Logan, two long since forgotten running buddies of Mr. McKlayn and, as I scanned the graveside area, I saw many other old faces had crawled their way out of the woodwork, some more welcome that others.
Vincent McKlayn had been a well-loved public figure. He was a Second-Generation legend in the wrestling industry; especially the southern states which he had called home for the majority of his career. He was a film star, political activist, humanitarian and most recently, Presidential Candidate. His assassination had brought public outrage from all over the country, and the manhunt for his murderer had swept the world in a media frenzy. However, amongst those of us closest to him, there had been two distinct responses… Some had stepped into the sudden spotlight, using the media attention to their advantage, furthering their own goals and aspirations, while others had disappeared completely… barely even contacting the family to express their condolences. Both of these tactics were working toward the same end goal… self-preservation, and both parties were amassed here today, safe in the knowledge that an even such as this guaranteed amnesty.
See, away from the squared circle and media spotlight, the truth of the McKlayn Empire was a far less wholesome affair than most are aware. Vincent and his cohorts – The Original High Society, consisting of Deandre Carter, Sean Chandler and Kenneth Dunn – had used the wrestling promotions they worked for as a means of smuggling drugs over the border from Mexico. They had packed trucks, equipment and haulage crates with product that would, once in the United States, be unloaded and sold for huge profit. This revenue and the contacts it had provided had allowed McKlayn to carve out a seat of power unparalleled since prohibition had ended, and the four men grew rich from their endeavors. McKlayn’s Presidential Aspirations had far from curtailed this enterprise. In fact, the more power Vincent found himself in possession of, the more risks the Family had taken, rapidly expanding their turf in an attempt to cut off all other supply routes into the United States.
So, when Vincent had been assassinated, our logical conclusion had of course been that one of the rival families had decided to push back. Then, when the body of Sergeant Major Jared Stinson, A former US Army Ranger, had been discovered with a note detailing how he had assassinated Presidential Candidate Vincent McKlayn and subsequently taken his own life to avoid capture, we knew our assumptions had been correct; especially considering the Sergeant Major’s recent diagnosis of terminal cancer. A clear patsy, but one that appeased the masses and allowed us the chance to settle the matter using our own methods.
Despite the harmony of our actions today, the power vacuum caused by McKlan’s death had caused tension and unease within the family. Many of us assumed that Vincent’s logical heir would be Armani. As the eldest son and protégée to his father, he seemed a logical choice that likely would have held water had the Assassination happened a year or two ago. While Armani was sent back to the Wrestling industry in an attempt to garner public favor and cement his own legacy in the same manner his father had, Deandre Carter had been named as Vincent’s running mate for the McKlayn Presidency bid which, to many people, indicated Vincent had entrusted Carter above even his own children. Sean, Vincent’s second in command for years, became disgruntled at his exclusion from the restructuring negotiations and the perceived inaction of Decano to assert his own power, and so prepared to step into the void himself, hoping to tip the balance in his favor. The resulting tensions had seen half of the family disappear fearing for their own safety, and in the four weeks since Vincent’s death, today was the first day we had all been reunited.
As the ceremony drew to a close and the coffin was slowly lowered into the ground, several people started to break away from the back of the pack, disappearing before the tension in the air had a chance to erupt. In that moment, I envied them their insignificance.
Armani stepped forward, his fiancée Carmen - my sister – staying close by his side. He picked up a handful of soil and lightly dropped it onto the coffin. Carmen respectfully stepped in beside him, dropping a white rose into the void. After a moment, the two moved aside and my wife squeezed my hand. Together we took several steps and paused. Her eyes were wet with tears and acting like reflecting pools for the grey turbulent skies above. Not once did she look down. After brief hesitation, she reached out a trembling hand and dropped another white rose down onto her father’s coffin. I took a handful of soil and did the same.
As we moved to the side, allowing the younger siblings, cousins and more distant members of the family to step forward and pay their final respects, Armani moved close to me and spoke in a hushed tone.
“Did you see Reynolds?” He nodded his head toward a path leading back toward the chapel. “He just left. If you hurry, you can catch him.”
I turned and looked vaguely along the path and the increasing number of people proceeding in that direction. Cautiously, I turned back to Decano. “And why would I want to catch him?”
Dwayne Reynolds had been a friend and business associate of Vincent’s before any of us were born. They had started the business together, both running the ropes in the early days of W3, until an injury forced Reynolds to retire. Vincent used this to excuse a ‘parting of ways’ with Reynolds causing a war to erupt between the two families which had spanned decades. He was here because maintaining public perception had always been the one thing that he and McKlayn had in common.
“He’s our biggest rival… if our allies plan to betray us, I don’t want to risk war on two fronts...” Decano spoke with a far away look in his eye, not allowing his subconscious mind to show his hand and expose who he was speaking of. “Tell him I want to Parley.”
“Parley?” I almost choked on the word and the shock must have been evident on my face as Decano turned to me and nodded.
“Is that a problem?” Decano’s demeanor was colder than I’d ever witnessed before. I shook my head.
“No. No problem” I clapped him on the shoulder and smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll catch him.”
I turned and pushed my way quickly though the crowd, breaking out into a run as soon as the throng had thinned out. I crossed the vast cemetery at speed, shamelessly cutting across graves and between tombs, fairly confident that the lumbering big man wouldn’t be able to reach the main gate before I did. For a large man with a pronounced limp, he had made it considerably further than I had been willing to imagine. As I closed the space, it became apparent Reynolds was not here alone. He was flanked by two equally large men in black suits and I suddenly found myself wondering why Armani had sent me without Carson or Aaron… Did this mean he doubted their loyalty… Or mine?
The Cream suit that Dwayne Reynolds wore made him a spectacle at the affair, and as I closed the last few yards, I found myself wondering how I had failed to notice him earlier. Hearing my quick approach, the two bodyguards turned on me, one reaching quickly inside his suit jacket for a noticeable bulge stashed just below his left arm. My finest Italian leather loafers failed me and I skidded on the wet grass almost spilling onto my ass or into the three men before me… Reynolds wheeled himself around, his cane suddenly discarded onto the wet grass as he reached out and seized one of my arms to prevent me from falling, while clapping his man on the chest with the other to prevent the draw of his weapon. The sheer size and speed of the man astounded me, then the shocking realization of his incredible strength crushing my bicep came. He righted me as a father would a child, before clapping me on the shoulder and dusting off my suit jacket.
“Woah! That was close kid!” He laughed a friendly laugh with absolutely zero cheer in his eyes. A chill went down my spine. “You ought to slow down, Mark. Could have a nasty accident if you fall and hit your head on one of these big ass stones!” He kicked the nearest gravestone and a perverse smile passed briefly over his lips.
“Apologies Mr. Reynolds. My name is Ma..” I froze, my hand held out in front of me like an idiot and a sudden dumbstruck look on my face as I suddenly realized he had used my name. As though reading my mind, he laughed again.
“Mark Mitchell, yea... I know who you are!” He grinned his false friendly grin. “Relax kid, aint nothing sinister about it! You and Vinny’s boy are a Tag Team. Former Champions too! Might be out of the game but I’ve still got my finger on the pulse!”
He chuckled and graciously took his retrieved cane from his trigger-happy bodyguard.
“I apologize for not coming and offering my condolences to the Boy King in person, I know he probably expected me to kiss the ring, but this weather…” Dwayne tapped the cane against his knee “… plays havoc on this damned thing.”
His throaty laugh underlined the veiled insults and I fought back the urge to take the bait.
“No need to apologize, Mr. Reynolds. Deca… Sorry, Mr. McKlayn, was pleased to see you could make it and sends his thanks. He is only sorry he couldn’t tear himself away from his commitments to attend you personally.”
“I’m sure he does.” Reynolds grinned again. That shit eating, disingenuous grin suddenly seemed as much of a mockery as his garish suit. “And instead he sends you to… to what exactly, Mark? What is it that Mr. McKlayn wants?”
I gritted my teeth.
“Parley.” I spat the word out or else it may never have come. “If you please.”
“Parley?” The booming laugh that followed seemed the first glimpse of honesty I’d seen from the man since he caught me. “You’re lucky Vinny’s buried boy, else he’d die all over again.”
“With all due respect for the departed…” The words were like ash in my mouth. “…Vincent McKlayn isn’t in charge anymore.”
“No, guess he aint.” He smirked once more. “But then, who is? I heard there were a few contenders for the crown.”
“Eh…” Momentarily, my mask of professionalism slipped as the sound fell out and a noticeable grimace washed over my face. “The family is loyal.” I managed eventually.
“Sure it is… But to who?” He clapped me on the shoulder and smiled. “Sure! You tell the Boy King I’ll meet with him. Get him to call with the where and when’s.”
Reynolds turned to leave, one of his men following him while the other hung back to watch me. The big man was again leaning heavily on his cane, living the pretense perfectly. After a few steps he paused and, without turning back, called out “What about you, Kid? You not interested in taking a shot at the throne?”
“No.” I shook my head firmly. “I’m Armani’s man.”
“I see.” Came his reply followed by a chuckle “Good call. After all….” He started to walk away once more “Heavy is the head that wears the crown.”
Saturday, 19th October
Grey clouds rolled across the midday sky as a light rain drummed rhythmically on the rich mahogany coffin balanced on our shoulders. Hundreds had gathered and they now lined the cemetery’s roadsides, pathways and verges and solemnly they watched as we inched closer to his final resting place, one well practiced step at a time.
To my right, with his arm wrapped around my shoulder and mine around his, was Donovan Carter. In front of us, Sean and Aaron Chandler and leading the way, Deandre Carter and Armani Decano. The six of us moved in perfect unison; years of working together under the helm of the man we now carried perfectly represented in this one somber moment.
As we finished our trek from the chapel to the graveside we paused respectfully and awaited our que, then carefully settled Vincent McKlayn’s casket down before the gathering crowd. The five men before me stepped toward the coffin, marked themselves with the sign of the cross and moved aside to join the amassed mourners. As I stepped up, I bowed my head, kissed my hand and touched it to the damp lid of the coffin. This was more than a goodbye to one man; this was acknowledgement that life would never again be the same.
I rejoined my wife and allowed her to embrace me. She kissed me lightly on the cheek and whispered a thanks for this final service to her father, then intertwined her fingers with mine and embraced my arm, holding herself as close to me as decorum would allow.
Armani caught my eye and nodded his head, silently gesturing across the open grave of his father. As I followed his gaze, I found myself looking at Brien Cage and Sean Logan, two long since forgotten running buddies of Mr. McKlayn and, as I scanned the graveside area, I saw many other old faces had crawled their way out of the woodwork, some more welcome that others.
Vincent McKlayn had been a well-loved public figure. He was a Second-Generation legend in the wrestling industry; especially the southern states which he had called home for the majority of his career. He was a film star, political activist, humanitarian and most recently, Presidential Candidate. His assassination had brought public outrage from all over the country, and the manhunt for his murderer had swept the world in a media frenzy. However, amongst those of us closest to him, there had been two distinct responses… Some had stepped into the sudden spotlight, using the media attention to their advantage, furthering their own goals and aspirations, while others had disappeared completely… barely even contacting the family to express their condolences. Both of these tactics were working toward the same end goal… self-preservation, and both parties were amassed here today, safe in the knowledge that an even such as this guaranteed amnesty.
See, away from the squared circle and media spotlight, the truth of the McKlayn Empire was a far less wholesome affair than most are aware. Vincent and his cohorts – The Original High Society, consisting of Deandre Carter, Sean Chandler and Kenneth Dunn – had used the wrestling promotions they worked for as a means of smuggling drugs over the border from Mexico. They had packed trucks, equipment and haulage crates with product that would, once in the United States, be unloaded and sold for huge profit. This revenue and the contacts it had provided had allowed McKlayn to carve out a seat of power unparalleled since prohibition had ended, and the four men grew rich from their endeavors. McKlayn’s Presidential Aspirations had far from curtailed this enterprise. In fact, the more power Vincent found himself in possession of, the more risks the Family had taken, rapidly expanding their turf in an attempt to cut off all other supply routes into the United States.
So, when Vincent had been assassinated, our logical conclusion had of course been that one of the rival families had decided to push back. Then, when the body of Sergeant Major Jared Stinson, A former US Army Ranger, had been discovered with a note detailing how he had assassinated Presidential Candidate Vincent McKlayn and subsequently taken his own life to avoid capture, we knew our assumptions had been correct; especially considering the Sergeant Major’s recent diagnosis of terminal cancer. A clear patsy, but one that appeased the masses and allowed us the chance to settle the matter using our own methods.
Despite the harmony of our actions today, the power vacuum caused by McKlan’s death had caused tension and unease within the family. Many of us assumed that Vincent’s logical heir would be Armani. As the eldest son and protégée to his father, he seemed a logical choice that likely would have held water had the Assassination happened a year or two ago. While Armani was sent back to the Wrestling industry in an attempt to garner public favor and cement his own legacy in the same manner his father had, Deandre Carter had been named as Vincent’s running mate for the McKlayn Presidency bid which, to many people, indicated Vincent had entrusted Carter above even his own children. Sean, Vincent’s second in command for years, became disgruntled at his exclusion from the restructuring negotiations and the perceived inaction of Decano to assert his own power, and so prepared to step into the void himself, hoping to tip the balance in his favor. The resulting tensions had seen half of the family disappear fearing for their own safety, and in the four weeks since Vincent’s death, today was the first day we had all been reunited.
As the ceremony drew to a close and the coffin was slowly lowered into the ground, several people started to break away from the back of the pack, disappearing before the tension in the air had a chance to erupt. In that moment, I envied them their insignificance.
Armani stepped forward, his fiancée Carmen - my sister – staying close by his side. He picked up a handful of soil and lightly dropped it onto the coffin. Carmen respectfully stepped in beside him, dropping a white rose into the void. After a moment, the two moved aside and my wife squeezed my hand. Together we took several steps and paused. Her eyes were wet with tears and acting like reflecting pools for the grey turbulent skies above. Not once did she look down. After brief hesitation, she reached out a trembling hand and dropped another white rose down onto her father’s coffin. I took a handful of soil and did the same.
As we moved to the side, allowing the younger siblings, cousins and more distant members of the family to step forward and pay their final respects, Armani moved close to me and spoke in a hushed tone.
“Did you see Reynolds?” He nodded his head toward a path leading back toward the chapel. “He just left. If you hurry, you can catch him.”
I turned and looked vaguely along the path and the increasing number of people proceeding in that direction. Cautiously, I turned back to Decano. “And why would I want to catch him?”
Dwayne Reynolds had been a friend and business associate of Vincent’s before any of us were born. They had started the business together, both running the ropes in the early days of W3, until an injury forced Reynolds to retire. Vincent used this to excuse a ‘parting of ways’ with Reynolds causing a war to erupt between the two families which had spanned decades. He was here because maintaining public perception had always been the one thing that he and McKlayn had in common.
“He’s our biggest rival… if our allies plan to betray us, I don’t want to risk war on two fronts...” Decano spoke with a far away look in his eye, not allowing his subconscious mind to show his hand and expose who he was speaking of. “Tell him I want to Parley.”
“Parley?” I almost choked on the word and the shock must have been evident on my face as Decano turned to me and nodded.
“Is that a problem?” Decano’s demeanor was colder than I’d ever witnessed before. I shook my head.
“No. No problem” I clapped him on the shoulder and smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll catch him.”
I turned and pushed my way quickly though the crowd, breaking out into a run as soon as the throng had thinned out. I crossed the vast cemetery at speed, shamelessly cutting across graves and between tombs, fairly confident that the lumbering big man wouldn’t be able to reach the main gate before I did. For a large man with a pronounced limp, he had made it considerably further than I had been willing to imagine. As I closed the space, it became apparent Reynolds was not here alone. He was flanked by two equally large men in black suits and I suddenly found myself wondering why Armani had sent me without Carson or Aaron… Did this mean he doubted their loyalty… Or mine?
The Cream suit that Dwayne Reynolds wore made him a spectacle at the affair, and as I closed the last few yards, I found myself wondering how I had failed to notice him earlier. Hearing my quick approach, the two bodyguards turned on me, one reaching quickly inside his suit jacket for a noticeable bulge stashed just below his left arm. My finest Italian leather loafers failed me and I skidded on the wet grass almost spilling onto my ass or into the three men before me… Reynolds wheeled himself around, his cane suddenly discarded onto the wet grass as he reached out and seized one of my arms to prevent me from falling, while clapping his man on the chest with the other to prevent the draw of his weapon. The sheer size and speed of the man astounded me, then the shocking realization of his incredible strength crushing my bicep came. He righted me as a father would a child, before clapping me on the shoulder and dusting off my suit jacket.
“Woah! That was close kid!” He laughed a friendly laugh with absolutely zero cheer in his eyes. A chill went down my spine. “You ought to slow down, Mark. Could have a nasty accident if you fall and hit your head on one of these big ass stones!” He kicked the nearest gravestone and a perverse smile passed briefly over his lips.
“Apologies Mr. Reynolds. My name is Ma..” I froze, my hand held out in front of me like an idiot and a sudden dumbstruck look on my face as I suddenly realized he had used my name. As though reading my mind, he laughed again.
“Mark Mitchell, yea... I know who you are!” He grinned his false friendly grin. “Relax kid, aint nothing sinister about it! You and Vinny’s boy are a Tag Team. Former Champions too! Might be out of the game but I’ve still got my finger on the pulse!”
He chuckled and graciously took his retrieved cane from his trigger-happy bodyguard.
“I apologize for not coming and offering my condolences to the Boy King in person, I know he probably expected me to kiss the ring, but this weather…” Dwayne tapped the cane against his knee “… plays havoc on this damned thing.”
His throaty laugh underlined the veiled insults and I fought back the urge to take the bait.
“No need to apologize, Mr. Reynolds. Deca… Sorry, Mr. McKlayn, was pleased to see you could make it and sends his thanks. He is only sorry he couldn’t tear himself away from his commitments to attend you personally.”
“I’m sure he does.” Reynolds grinned again. That shit eating, disingenuous grin suddenly seemed as much of a mockery as his garish suit. “And instead he sends you to… to what exactly, Mark? What is it that Mr. McKlayn wants?”
I gritted my teeth.
“Parley.” I spat the word out or else it may never have come. “If you please.”
“Parley?” The booming laugh that followed seemed the first glimpse of honesty I’d seen from the man since he caught me. “You’re lucky Vinny’s buried boy, else he’d die all over again.”
“With all due respect for the departed…” The words were like ash in my mouth. “…Vincent McKlayn isn’t in charge anymore.”
“No, guess he aint.” He smirked once more. “But then, who is? I heard there were a few contenders for the crown.”
“Eh…” Momentarily, my mask of professionalism slipped as the sound fell out and a noticeable grimace washed over my face. “The family is loyal.” I managed eventually.
“Sure it is… But to who?” He clapped me on the shoulder and smiled. “Sure! You tell the Boy King I’ll meet with him. Get him to call with the where and when’s.”
Reynolds turned to leave, one of his men following him while the other hung back to watch me. The big man was again leaning heavily on his cane, living the pretense perfectly. After a few steps he paused and, without turning back, called out “What about you, Kid? You not interested in taking a shot at the throne?”
“No.” I shook my head firmly. “I’m Armani’s man.”
“I see.” Came his reply followed by a chuckle “Good call. After all….” He started to walk away once more “Heavy is the head that wears the crown.”