Post by Dru Tha Merc on Feb 10, 2011 3:49:19 GMT -5
Dru Tha Merc looks around. This is the weirdest office he’s ever seen to say the least, strolling around as he takes another glance around he stands in front of the elevator to take him to his destiny. He breathes in slowly and takes a few moments of consideration before Tha Merc sneers and hopes in. Up the bronze elevator goes, higher and higher it raises, as the red lighting of the number turns slowly…
2…
3…
4…
5…
6…
Dru mutters something to himself. He could have sworn it was what… The ninth floor maybe? He felt a bit ambivalent about the whole thing. Now that he was no longer gonna have too long of a program with Chris Strike, a small part of him had died. He wasn’t even sure he could beat that dick to end all dicks, that Esix Cordero jackass. He had a lot of respect for Eddie Nash and yet in retrospect, he wasn’t too sure if he could beat him either.
The Gangstar felt unsure about everything. And why not? What makes a man like Josh Eagles, like Christian Kane, a man like Kid Flanagan, like all those dickbags at UWL… What makes any of those self-righteous pricks just continue to believe, and believe, and believe. Maybe it was Dru who was changing? Maybe it was Dru Dallins who was just trying to be something more and someone more who was too dangerous for anyone else to face-off against. It was possible was it not? That Dru was simply becoming too dangerous in his own head.
Then again, if anyone thought Dru was not dangerous, just go ask Daevin Dushane how dangerous he was. Now that Dru thought things through, did he really need to go talk to this Niles Markie guy about needing a manager? He had wanted help to figure out a way to get over a hump, to find that inner fire just to beat Chris Strike.
Without a long program now looming, a short slugfest, did it really matter? Did anything really matter? The camera slowly zooms in on Dru Dallins, and an inner monologue is heard from the thug, who was feeling his age wear upon him.
No longer a young thug, a stick-up kid, with other thugs and dealers, all of it seemed like the past.
Dru: (Inner Monolgoue): I was a thug once, real shit. I was a hard nigga to fuck with, to lock with and talk with. My nigga, I am part of a self-destructive culture that has no high, no low, no love, and no definition. What does a nigga do it for? What does a man do it for? The love of the game, or the love of the shame? To shame every other nigga, that’s how that shit rolls, ain’t it? My culture is self-destructive, and look at me. I find the career that is most similar to that of black culture.
Objectification of bitches.
Climbing over your man to get that pay, to hold that dough.
Not givin’ two shits or two fucks about whoever else wants to get some and roll some and do some, no matter what they think their dues be.
Smokin’ some, drinkin’ some, wildin’ with any fight you gonna find.
Where’s the dream gone? The American Dream…
Or the Nacirema nightmare?
Have mercy on me nigga, like I will have mercy on you, before we get each other.
The elevator dings to a stop. Dru just talked himself out of wanting to cause bloodshed even further. The sights and memories, they flood back to him, harshly. He is a man with a past who he can only get rid of it temporarily, with ruthless practice and dedication to the spilling of another man’s blood and causing another man pain. The streets, the ring, the business world, what do they all have in common…
Gotta climb over one man to get over every other man.
---
Passing the secretary, Dru strolled through the office of N. Markie (That’s what it said on the glass in the door) and took a seat. Niles Markie was a man of strange interest and stranger tastes. In the corner was a hookah with a large Green Lantern icon across it. There was a large poster with Lady Gaga on it… And Niles himself. Mr. Markie also seemed to take pleasure of having other pictures of himself around his office, around his Black Oak desk (it said on it, Black Oak. Seriously?)
As Dru glances at the fifteenth artist rendering of Mr. Niles Markie, this one of him slaying a dragon while making love to a curvaceous redhead, while riding a unicorn, Niles clears his throat, and straightens his tie… And pushes his sunglasses up.
Niles: Mr. Dallins. I was expecting you, and you came, as expectedly expected.
Dru: …Nigga… Who speaks like that?
Niles: Nigga, hush. Anyway… Hello Mr. Dallins. My name is, as you can imaginatively imagine, Niles Markie. I am the greatest manager of talent since any man who came before. I’m the greatest bachelor, since Bruce Wayne with his Bachelor’s. I also have Nine-thousand, ninety-nine hundred and nine hit points, maximum charisma, maximum wisdom, intelligence, so on and so forth.
In my off-time I enjoy drinking fine wines and grape juices, on the weekends I have furries fight to the death for my amusement, and sometimes I have my personal assistants do incredibly trite, meaningless, and nearly impossible tasks that could result in death, hilarity and the occasional cold shoulder from their loved ones.
All in all, I am nothing less than the perfect man, and some people on the islands I own worship me as a God.
The Gangstar sat in distressed silence for a few moments, before rubbing his temple, his right one.
Dru: Well don’t you sound loaded. Why the fuck would you want me as a client then? I ain’t no cash cow.
Niles: Not yet, you aren’t. I want to turn you, Mr. Dallins, into a great competitor. It’s one of my few untouched accomplishments in life. Turn a wrestler into an accomplished somebody, and I think you are right up my alley… Nigga. See, I can be street. I’m not a complete ‘Carlton’.
Dru: I… Suppose. Yeah, you surely ain’t a ‘Carlton’, that’s for damn sure. How do you plan to help me?
Niles grins, and that is a grin Dru has only seen when he looks directly in the mirror while in a good mood. That is the grin of money, the grin of ruthless ruthlessness, as Niles would probably say.
Niles: Fact of the matter is, Mr. Dallins… I already have one simple solution for you. The key element that you are missing in your gangsterosity, as it were.
Dru: That would be…?
Niles: Rapping.
Dru: Rapping?
Niles: Rapping.
Dru: Rapping.
Niles: …Rapping.
The two men stare at each other for a long time. The camera pans at Dru’s disbelieving face, towards Niles’ face, covered up by disconcerting sunglasses, and a gentle bottom lip lick, before he tugs at his tie and walks to his in-office fridge. Niles takes out a bottle of Arbor Mist, tears it open and takes it straight to the head. He offers Dru a swig with a head nod, but Dru just shakes his head, The Gangstar’s lip turning a slight twist of disgust.
Dru: Nah, I’m straight. I don’t… Do Arbor Mist.
Niles: You don’t know what you are missing. It’s deliciously delicious. Entrancingly entrancing, know what I mean? It’s got that… Kick to it. You know the feeling when you have a redhead, gently, ever so gently teasing your testicles with her talented, tantalizing tongue, while a brunette… A brunette mind you, is sucking on your toes, and a fat blonde woman is riding your dick with her ginormous posterior?
That’s just a fraction of the feeling I get from an Arbor Mist.
Dru: …Nigga, what the frick are you on?!
Niles: At the moment? Cocaine. A few days ago, I had a very special stash of Snoop Dogg’s ganja. I couldn’t feel my toes. It was amazing.
Dru: So what makes you think I want to rap? I can’t rap.
Niles: You can… I heard you.
Dru: You… Heard me?
Niles slowly stands up and finishes the rest of his bottle of Arbor Mist. He pulls off his sunglasses and begins to wipe them on his silken paisley tie. As he slowly strolls past The Gangstar and stares calmly out the ninth story window, he smiles.
Niles: August, 2007… I was at a club in Montreal. You were on tour for some wrestling organization and you were at the same club. I remember you saw a couple dudes rapping, freestyling. You looked at your napkin under your drink and laughed to yourself. Then I watched you proceed to destroy each one of them.
Do you know that one of them is now a famous emcee, by the name of ‘Killer Cross’?
Dru: Wait… I beat Killer Cross in a freestyle contest?! You lyin’.
Niles: You have a mouth on you, man. A mouthy mouth, a king’s trash talking mouth. In comparison to the stuff you been saying to those boys in Pride, you can do so much worse. That’s why I want to manage you. I know a dark horse when I see him, and you are the darkest of the dark horses.
What the jack is Daevin Duch-whatever-his-name-is, when he gets in the ring with you? Negro, have you ever watched yourself in a match? You take a life out the ring, in the ring. You threw the man through his own car window. In your words, you ‘paid that guttah-bitch what he owed’. That takes some pretentious pretension, lemme tell you. I think though, you could amp it up, but Mr. Dallins, I believe you have been lacking one simple ingredient.
Dru: …That is?
Niles calmly turns to his soon-to-be new client…
Niles: Someone to believe in your hype. Someone to actually stand by you regardless of the foolishly foolish, half-cocked and half-assed things you seem to dedicate yourself to doing for some unknown reason. I am here to offer you that type of partnership, Mr. Dallins.
…You in?
Wait… Before you answer that, just think about this. How many people turn their backs on you when you get a little insane, a little wild? How many people look at you like you are the lowest of the low, the scummiest of the scum, the stickiest to the icky. Okay, bad example. Look man, you want money. You want the glitz, the glam, the fortune, the fame. I want to be your manager. I want to help you make, so you can break… Everything else.
You see me man. Everything I have ever touched, turns to gold. I’m nothing sort of an eccentric millionare with his man-hands in many businesses, and I want to help you in your business.
Dru: …
---
Dru Dallins, clad in his wrestling attire, complete with studded bracers and jean-shorts is standing next to the business dressed Niles Markie, backstage in Pride’s arena. Alex moves slowly towards Dru Tha Merc, and clears his throat.
Alex: Excuse me… Dru Tha Merc, you have a match with-
Dru roughly rips the mic from Alex’s fingertips and stares him down before he clears his throat.
Niles slowly nods his approval, and motions for Dru to move on. Dru smiles widely, wickedly. That felt good. That felt great. That felt… Like it should have been all this time. As Alex watches the two men walk away perplexed, Niles is heard talking to Dru.
Niles: A Year-One Jack Benevolence though…? What a Duketastrophy. What kind of statement was that?
Dru: Just to make a point. Every big-name champ always starts off underestimated… Who am I to be any different nigga?
Better yet, who am I?
Niles knows the answer to that one, all too easily as he grins at his client.
Niles: A future and present threat.
---
To Be Continued…
2…
3…
4…
5…
6…
Dru mutters something to himself. He could have sworn it was what… The ninth floor maybe? He felt a bit ambivalent about the whole thing. Now that he was no longer gonna have too long of a program with Chris Strike, a small part of him had died. He wasn’t even sure he could beat that dick to end all dicks, that Esix Cordero jackass. He had a lot of respect for Eddie Nash and yet in retrospect, he wasn’t too sure if he could beat him either.
The Gangstar felt unsure about everything. And why not? What makes a man like Josh Eagles, like Christian Kane, a man like Kid Flanagan, like all those dickbags at UWL… What makes any of those self-righteous pricks just continue to believe, and believe, and believe. Maybe it was Dru who was changing? Maybe it was Dru Dallins who was just trying to be something more and someone more who was too dangerous for anyone else to face-off against. It was possible was it not? That Dru was simply becoming too dangerous in his own head.
Then again, if anyone thought Dru was not dangerous, just go ask Daevin Dushane how dangerous he was. Now that Dru thought things through, did he really need to go talk to this Niles Markie guy about needing a manager? He had wanted help to figure out a way to get over a hump, to find that inner fire just to beat Chris Strike.
Without a long program now looming, a short slugfest, did it really matter? Did anything really matter? The camera slowly zooms in on Dru Dallins, and an inner monologue is heard from the thug, who was feeling his age wear upon him.
No longer a young thug, a stick-up kid, with other thugs and dealers, all of it seemed like the past.
Dru: (Inner Monolgoue): I was a thug once, real shit. I was a hard nigga to fuck with, to lock with and talk with. My nigga, I am part of a self-destructive culture that has no high, no low, no love, and no definition. What does a nigga do it for? What does a man do it for? The love of the game, or the love of the shame? To shame every other nigga, that’s how that shit rolls, ain’t it? My culture is self-destructive, and look at me. I find the career that is most similar to that of black culture.
Objectification of bitches.
Climbing over your man to get that pay, to hold that dough.
Not givin’ two shits or two fucks about whoever else wants to get some and roll some and do some, no matter what they think their dues be.
Smokin’ some, drinkin’ some, wildin’ with any fight you gonna find.
Where’s the dream gone? The American Dream…
Or the Nacirema nightmare?
Have mercy on me nigga, like I will have mercy on you, before we get each other.
The elevator dings to a stop. Dru just talked himself out of wanting to cause bloodshed even further. The sights and memories, they flood back to him, harshly. He is a man with a past who he can only get rid of it temporarily, with ruthless practice and dedication to the spilling of another man’s blood and causing another man pain. The streets, the ring, the business world, what do they all have in common…
Gotta climb over one man to get over every other man.
---
Passing the secretary, Dru strolled through the office of N. Markie (That’s what it said on the glass in the door) and took a seat. Niles Markie was a man of strange interest and stranger tastes. In the corner was a hookah with a large Green Lantern icon across it. There was a large poster with Lady Gaga on it… And Niles himself. Mr. Markie also seemed to take pleasure of having other pictures of himself around his office, around his Black Oak desk (it said on it, Black Oak. Seriously?)
As Dru glances at the fifteenth artist rendering of Mr. Niles Markie, this one of him slaying a dragon while making love to a curvaceous redhead, while riding a unicorn, Niles clears his throat, and straightens his tie… And pushes his sunglasses up.
Niles: Mr. Dallins. I was expecting you, and you came, as expectedly expected.
Dru: …Nigga… Who speaks like that?
Niles: Nigga, hush. Anyway… Hello Mr. Dallins. My name is, as you can imaginatively imagine, Niles Markie. I am the greatest manager of talent since any man who came before. I’m the greatest bachelor, since Bruce Wayne with his Bachelor’s. I also have Nine-thousand, ninety-nine hundred and nine hit points, maximum charisma, maximum wisdom, intelligence, so on and so forth.
In my off-time I enjoy drinking fine wines and grape juices, on the weekends I have furries fight to the death for my amusement, and sometimes I have my personal assistants do incredibly trite, meaningless, and nearly impossible tasks that could result in death, hilarity and the occasional cold shoulder from their loved ones.
All in all, I am nothing less than the perfect man, and some people on the islands I own worship me as a God.
The Gangstar sat in distressed silence for a few moments, before rubbing his temple, his right one.
Dru: Well don’t you sound loaded. Why the fuck would you want me as a client then? I ain’t no cash cow.
Niles: Not yet, you aren’t. I want to turn you, Mr. Dallins, into a great competitor. It’s one of my few untouched accomplishments in life. Turn a wrestler into an accomplished somebody, and I think you are right up my alley… Nigga. See, I can be street. I’m not a complete ‘Carlton’.
Dru: I… Suppose. Yeah, you surely ain’t a ‘Carlton’, that’s for damn sure. How do you plan to help me?
Niles grins, and that is a grin Dru has only seen when he looks directly in the mirror while in a good mood. That is the grin of money, the grin of ruthless ruthlessness, as Niles would probably say.
Niles: Fact of the matter is, Mr. Dallins… I already have one simple solution for you. The key element that you are missing in your gangsterosity, as it were.
Dru: That would be…?
Niles: Rapping.
Dru: Rapping?
Niles: Rapping.
Dru: Rapping.
Niles: …Rapping.
The two men stare at each other for a long time. The camera pans at Dru’s disbelieving face, towards Niles’ face, covered up by disconcerting sunglasses, and a gentle bottom lip lick, before he tugs at his tie and walks to his in-office fridge. Niles takes out a bottle of Arbor Mist, tears it open and takes it straight to the head. He offers Dru a swig with a head nod, but Dru just shakes his head, The Gangstar’s lip turning a slight twist of disgust.
Dru: Nah, I’m straight. I don’t… Do Arbor Mist.
Niles: You don’t know what you are missing. It’s deliciously delicious. Entrancingly entrancing, know what I mean? It’s got that… Kick to it. You know the feeling when you have a redhead, gently, ever so gently teasing your testicles with her talented, tantalizing tongue, while a brunette… A brunette mind you, is sucking on your toes, and a fat blonde woman is riding your dick with her ginormous posterior?
That’s just a fraction of the feeling I get from an Arbor Mist.
Dru: …Nigga, what the frick are you on?!
Niles: At the moment? Cocaine. A few days ago, I had a very special stash of Snoop Dogg’s ganja. I couldn’t feel my toes. It was amazing.
Dru: So what makes you think I want to rap? I can’t rap.
Niles: You can… I heard you.
Dru: You… Heard me?
Niles slowly stands up and finishes the rest of his bottle of Arbor Mist. He pulls off his sunglasses and begins to wipe them on his silken paisley tie. As he slowly strolls past The Gangstar and stares calmly out the ninth story window, he smiles.
Niles: August, 2007… I was at a club in Montreal. You were on tour for some wrestling organization and you were at the same club. I remember you saw a couple dudes rapping, freestyling. You looked at your napkin under your drink and laughed to yourself. Then I watched you proceed to destroy each one of them.
Do you know that one of them is now a famous emcee, by the name of ‘Killer Cross’?
Dru: Wait… I beat Killer Cross in a freestyle contest?! You lyin’.
Niles: You have a mouth on you, man. A mouthy mouth, a king’s trash talking mouth. In comparison to the stuff you been saying to those boys in Pride, you can do so much worse. That’s why I want to manage you. I know a dark horse when I see him, and you are the darkest of the dark horses.
What the jack is Daevin Duch-whatever-his-name-is, when he gets in the ring with you? Negro, have you ever watched yourself in a match? You take a life out the ring, in the ring. You threw the man through his own car window. In your words, you ‘paid that guttah-bitch what he owed’. That takes some pretentious pretension, lemme tell you. I think though, you could amp it up, but Mr. Dallins, I believe you have been lacking one simple ingredient.
Dru: …That is?
Niles calmly turns to his soon-to-be new client…
Niles: Someone to believe in your hype. Someone to actually stand by you regardless of the foolishly foolish, half-cocked and half-assed things you seem to dedicate yourself to doing for some unknown reason. I am here to offer you that type of partnership, Mr. Dallins.
…You in?
Wait… Before you answer that, just think about this. How many people turn their backs on you when you get a little insane, a little wild? How many people look at you like you are the lowest of the low, the scummiest of the scum, the stickiest to the icky. Okay, bad example. Look man, you want money. You want the glitz, the glam, the fortune, the fame. I want to be your manager. I want to help you make, so you can break… Everything else.
You see me man. Everything I have ever touched, turns to gold. I’m nothing sort of an eccentric millionare with his man-hands in many businesses, and I want to help you in your business.
Dru: …
---
Dru Dallins, clad in his wrestling attire, complete with studded bracers and jean-shorts is standing next to the business dressed Niles Markie, backstage in Pride’s arena. Alex moves slowly towards Dru Tha Merc, and clears his throat.
Alex: Excuse me… Dru Tha Merc, you have a match with-
Dru roughly rips the mic from Alex’s fingertips and stares him down before he clears his throat.
Dru: Overcast, I’m overlast, and over that,
And you can be sure of that.
Dustin, they call that nigga The “Sword of The Lord”,
Dru, they call that nigga, The “Fjord In Ya Gourd”.
Make your head-fluid pour, spill and drop,
I crack you open like a bottle of Shock Top,
I lack gwap, but what I make for in lock,
And only dick I see is my magnum cock.
I take every life, with the pure malevolence,
More underestimated than Year-One Jack Benevolence,
On a nigga’s blood like ghetto girls’ period,
Cut to the chase, make you bleed Cesarean.
Ogre tryna step to me, prolly forgot my name,
The Gangstar here, tryna protect the fame,
The Gangstar here, tryna respect the game,
The Gangstar here, tryna shut the lame.
Daevin Douchebag, tryna get his pony-up,
Suckin’ Esix Codero, tryna get his dick up.
This ain’t for The Love of Ray-J,
It’s for the love of the Floyd May,
Whether you weather my blows,
We gonna see how it goes.
They call anyone who beat me a ‘Giant Killer’,
I’mma call Ogre the ‘Garden Tiller’,
He’s a damn hoe for hoe’s sake,
With no lifeblood, nigga’s a fake.
Whether this nigga’s clippers, mower, or rake,
Gonna make his left leg like his burnt eye, a lazy gait.
Unbeknownst to every one of our sons,
Every nigga can get a fat one,
Not a roll for blunt’s word,
That’s a Orson Wells, call it ‘Rosebud’.
Ogre come to take me on, pretend youse a horror,
Lookin’ like a Bad Jason Movie, or the,
Last five minutes of Paranormal Activity,
Don’t know shit about you and still gonna be,
The Caesar-cut nigga who came out on top, Veni Vidi Vici,
I’mma be number one like the Japanese number ‘Ichi’.
You can pretend you live, three times ready,
I’mma dick around your dreams like Kreuger, Freddie.
Say hey to your dead wife, it’s about your speed,
Gonna have Ogre on my knife like Assassin’s fuckin’ CREED!
Deuces.
And you can be sure of that.
Dustin, they call that nigga The “Sword of The Lord”,
Dru, they call that nigga, The “Fjord In Ya Gourd”.
Make your head-fluid pour, spill and drop,
I crack you open like a bottle of Shock Top,
I lack gwap, but what I make for in lock,
And only dick I see is my magnum cock.
I take every life, with the pure malevolence,
More underestimated than Year-One Jack Benevolence,
On a nigga’s blood like ghetto girls’ period,
Cut to the chase, make you bleed Cesarean.
Ogre tryna step to me, prolly forgot my name,
The Gangstar here, tryna protect the fame,
The Gangstar here, tryna respect the game,
The Gangstar here, tryna shut the lame.
Daevin Douchebag, tryna get his pony-up,
Suckin’ Esix Codero, tryna get his dick up.
This ain’t for The Love of Ray-J,
It’s for the love of the Floyd May,
Whether you weather my blows,
We gonna see how it goes.
They call anyone who beat me a ‘Giant Killer’,
I’mma call Ogre the ‘Garden Tiller’,
He’s a damn hoe for hoe’s sake,
With no lifeblood, nigga’s a fake.
Whether this nigga’s clippers, mower, or rake,
Gonna make his left leg like his burnt eye, a lazy gait.
Unbeknownst to every one of our sons,
Every nigga can get a fat one,
Not a roll for blunt’s word,
That’s a Orson Wells, call it ‘Rosebud’.
Ogre come to take me on, pretend youse a horror,
Lookin’ like a Bad Jason Movie, or the,
Last five minutes of Paranormal Activity,
Don’t know shit about you and still gonna be,
The Caesar-cut nigga who came out on top, Veni Vidi Vici,
I’mma be number one like the Japanese number ‘Ichi’.
You can pretend you live, three times ready,
I’mma dick around your dreams like Kreuger, Freddie.
Say hey to your dead wife, it’s about your speed,
Gonna have Ogre on my knife like Assassin’s fuckin’ CREED!
Deuces.
Niles slowly nods his approval, and motions for Dru to move on. Dru smiles widely, wickedly. That felt good. That felt great. That felt… Like it should have been all this time. As Alex watches the two men walk away perplexed, Niles is heard talking to Dru.
Niles: A Year-One Jack Benevolence though…? What a Duketastrophy. What kind of statement was that?
Dru: Just to make a point. Every big-name champ always starts off underestimated… Who am I to be any different nigga?
Better yet, who am I?
Niles knows the answer to that one, all too easily as he grins at his client.
Niles: A future and present threat.
---
To Be Continued…
