Post by MW on Oct 4, 2023 11:30:10 GMT -5
Look, I don’t leave my comfy confines in Key West to meet just anyone.
You think I’m getting off my kingsized bed and leaving Gregory to visit Dadbod, Glum...fuckin Roo? Nah. No way in hell.
And, as much as I admire and respect Thad, Knox, and Penelope...I’m not visiting them either. I know what they bring to the table and, more importantly, what they do not.
Nah, only people I’m leaving this house for are the ones I need a little more information on. The unfamiliar names which appear to have something resembling talent.
I made Alexander Raven a star. I made Sarah Wolf a star. I gave Stephen Stratford a platform. All three are bigger now than they were before...even if things didn’t exactly go the way I envisioned.
So now I turn toward the next series of Trials. Team Welsh will have its headliner, sure. And, given the vast depth of talent enlisted, I might even snag a second marquee name. But it’s the ones that come later...the last two picks of the draft. Those are the ones that put you over the top.
---
Research was necessary. There was unknown talent swimming around in this draft pool and I was going to find it. Just like I always do. Why? Because I am better at this job than anybody else in the game.
Edinburgh Airport appeared nicer than I expected. I was surprised to find out Edinburgh had an airport let alone one I could fly into. Given Edinburgh was a town...or city...or whatever they’re called in Scotland I wasn’t familiar with, I figured it’d be a shithole. Turns out, pretty decent.
Yes, I know my name is Welsh. Despite that, I don’t know dick about the UK. People here are too ugly and depressing to spend much time around. Give me the sun and fun of Key West all day, every day.
There was no way in hell I was going to try and pronounce my destination. So, I simply showed the name from the email Mr. Parker had sent me to the first cab driver who threw some attention my way.
“Dunfermline!” he exclaimed in that accent I won’t dare try to emulate.
He muttered some other stuff but I wasn’t really paying attention. The flight was long and strange. I don’t know how these people do it, with this weird-ass time zone. Plus, my ears were stuffed full of pressure.
It took about half an hour before we arrived at….I couldn’t even remember the name.
I got out and paid the man what he was owed with some of the currency I received at an exchange in the airport. For some reason, I thought he’d be offended when I paid him in coins but...turns out that was perfectly acceptable. I don’t know. Again, these people are fuckin’ weird.
My luggage was light or, well, non-existent. I wouldn’t be there long. My return trip was later in the evening. I just needed to meet this man. Get a good look in his eyes. Gauge the way he carried himself. Listen to the conviction in his voice. Evaluate whether or not he has what it takes to survive the upcoming Trials.
Hoisting the backpack over my shoulder, I looked for the church. This place was old. It was historic. That meant there were a lot of churches. So, I asked a seasoned gentleman passing me by. He was kind enough. And, after slowing his speech down so I could make out what he was saying, he told me I needed to head to Cairneyhill.
What. The. Fuck.
How did I get that wrong?
We’re not off to a great start, Parker. I’m taking notes.
A public transport later and I was in Cairneyhill. The church wasn’t hard to find, thankfully. I knew I was in the right place when I spotted a metallic-coloured Porsche 911 Turbo out front. Kid drove in style. That’s something I could respect.
Taking more notes.
Upon entering the church, I found a friendly priest with a flask in his hand. They sure did things differently over here.
I didn’t have to get the name out. He knew who I was and why I was there.
Nice. That’s convenient.
More notes.
He led me through the back of the church to a cemetery. I’d never been in the ‘back’ of a church before...then again I hadn’t been to church in something like thirty years. It wasn’t as exciting as I thought it’d be.
The cemetery, however, was heavy.
It’s hard to describe.
You could feel the spirits inhabiting the place. And not like Casper the friendly fucking ghost or anything stupid like that. You just knew the presence of those buried in the grounds was alive in the thick, moist air.
If I hadn’t JUST been on a literal Ghost Ship, I might have turned around.
But, having endured angry, fierce ghosts. I knew these were of a friendlier sort.
I walked forward and saw the man I’d traveled so far to judge. He stood over a particular grave, hands in his pockets, head tilted down.
He appeared to be having a private moment, so I waited. I didn’t want to be rude, not with all the spirits hanging around.
“Mr. Welsh,” the kid spoke up. Respect.
“Sean Parker, I presume…” I moved forward, standing at his side, looking down at the grave that had him so focused. The kid spoke without looking at me or making eye contact. Normally I’d take notes but that particular grave appeared to hold meaning, and significance. And then I spied the name etched into the surprisingly well-kept stone:
David Parker
Born May 7th 1970
Died September 16th 1999
Son of Alexander and Kathryn
Brother of Butch and Diana
Father of Sean
“I was only two when he passed away. Drunk driver ran him off the road.”
I didn’t ask but okay. A long moment of silence passed between the two of us before the kid finally made eye contact. There was a hint of darkness in his face, behind his emerald green eyes.
“Aye, I’m Sean Parker. And I’m guessing, unless you’ve got a really shitty taste in vacation destinations, that you’re here about the Strength Trials? Why else would you fly across the Atlantic to come to a shitty place like this?”
Astute, with an air of self-confidence without tugging on the strings of arrogance. This kid was intriguing me more and more.
“Marcus Welsh, the industry’s greatest promoter…” I let that hang in the air to see if he cast any non-verbal aspersions my way. He did not. So, I stuck my hand out, eager to feel the quality of the handshake this kid possessed.
On target. Confident. Firm but not uncomfortable. Eye contact. So far, so good.
I considered making some kind of sarcastic remark about the climate of his home city, country, whatever you wanna refer to it as…but I bypassed the needless sarcasm. “Not to overstep, Mr. Parker, but is today some type of anniversary or…” my voice trailed off as my eyes looked back down at the tombstone. His eyes trailed up from mine, following my gaze. His eyebrows buoyed up and down a couple of times, the wryest of smiles tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Not exactly. After a big match, milestone, or if I’ve been on the road for a while, I like to come home, get away from the hustle and bustle of the States and recharge. I always come and…”
The kid looked like he was almost embarrassed by what he said next.
“…talk to him…catch him up on what I’ve done, the matches I’m having. Because I was so young when he passed I didn’t necessarily get a lot of father-son chats so, I dunno…retelling how I’ve done in my matches, titles I’ve won, my achievements… it’s almost therapeutic, y’know?”
Another long moment of silence. Damn this kid was deep. He looked back at me, turning fully away from the tombstone this time to face me.
“I know who you are, Mr Welsh. Your reputation precedes you. Given the lengths you’ve taken to locate me personally, am I right to assume, to some sort of degree, the same goes for me? No one takes a trans-Atlantic flight, a cab, a bus, and another cab out to the backside of beyond on a hunch.”
“It’s all about the TRIAD,” I looked him square in the eyes. “After all this, I’m still not sure most of you get how important this artifact is. I get it. PIC gets it. TLS gets it. Triumvirate sure as hell gets it. But until you’ve experienced its power…you just don’t know. That’s why I’m out here. This…thing has abilities you wouldn’t believe. The ability to get me everything in life I’ve ever wanted…and the same for you. I might even be able to resurrect…”
I didn’t finish. We both knew where that was going. I allowed it to breathe for a moment before continuing, “That’s why I’m here, Parker. I don’t know enough about you to decide whether or not you should or should not be drafted. But I know enough to fly out here and find out. It’s boom or bust with someone like you, kid. And I can’t leave anything to chance.”
He didn’t respond immediately. It was like the weight, the sheer gravity of my words and the meaning behind them were coming down on him and the realization was setting in. Make or break.
“Power doesn’t interest me, Mr. Welsh,” he said sternly. “I dream every day of what it would have been like to know this man…”
He gestured towards the tombstone, those emerald green eyes fixated on me.
“But that’s all it is, Mr Welsh… a dream. I’m not interested in conjuring spirits from the dead, tugging on the Red Strings of Fate or drinking from the Cauldron of Dagda for some look at a life I may have had. I lost my father, Mr. Welsh, but I did have a dad and he was there for me when no one else wasn’t.”
Red Strings of Fate? The Cauldron of Dagda? The kid knew his lore. Educated. Curiouser and curiouser. He wasn’t finished though.
“But I do understand the magnitude of what the TRIAD represents and what procuring each of those three shards means to you, to PIC and TLS. But if you wanna know why I enlisted, what drove me to throw my name into the hat amongst all those big names… Knox, Vhodka, Thad, Stratford, Cortes…all those guys? You know what I hear when people like them hear the name Sean Parker? Maybe not Thad, given I work for him, but the majority of the others…all I hear is a snort of derision or “who’s he?”and I’m sick and tired of it. Tired of being on the periphery when I know for a fact I belong front and center! I’ve been a goddamn professional wrestler for over a decade and I’m sneered at like some I’m green-as-grass rookie for saying as such, like because they haven’t heard of me that doesn’t make me worth knowing or the hard work I’ve done in years past doesn’t mean shit because they hadn’t seen it. Do you know how infuriating that is? To have my resumé, my accomplishments shat on because a select few people who just happen to have a bigger network than me haven’t heard of me.”
He stepped towards me now, growing more animated. I stood my ground.
“You wanna know what makes me different from a thousand others? What I would bring to Team Welsh? I may not be the tallest or biggest guy in the world, Mr Welsh, but I would challenge anyone on this draft list to prove they’ve shown more strength than I have these past ten years. I had to listen to doctor after doctor tell me to forget about walking again let alone getting back in a wrestling ring!”
His chest heaved up and down. That’s more like it; THAT energy.
“Do you know what it’s like to feel the vertebrae in your spine break? It’s like when an elastic band snaps. There’s a gritty feeling, like grinding two stones together. You feel this burning sensation, like someone just pressed a red hot poker inside you. Then the cold comes, like being plunged into an ice bath. The feeling creeps down from the top to the bottom of your body. The numbness sets in… like pins and needles on steroids. You want to move your legs but you can’t, like you’re in a nightmare that you can see happening but you can’t do anything to stop it.”
Tears started forming in his eyes. I could barely make out the color of them anymore as they dripped down his cheeks. Damn…
“Have you ever shit and pissed yourself in front of 20,000 people, Mr Welsh? Ever been carried out of a wrestling ring with your gear filled with your own urine and feces? Try going through multiple, unsuccessful surgeries to try and fuse your broken vertebrae back together? No? The post-op infections, the blood transfusions? Then the wheelchair fittings… Two years I spent, confined to one of those, watching my legs and lower body fritter away like some sort of parasitic disease as the muscle mass disappeared. Having to be lifted on and off the toilet, having my arse wiped and diaper changed like a toddler…. But I persevered! I didn’t settle for that life. So I fought and I fought and I fought and I fought! Every time I was told no, I slammed the door back open and said I wasn’t accepting no for an answer. And look at me now! Yeah, my biceps may not pop when I flex them, but true strength? In here…”
He thumped his chest with a clenched fist.
“…I’ve got that in spades and then some, Mr Welsh. I’m ready for those Strength Trials. I may not have the same reasons and motivation you do for uniting those pieces but that doesn’t mean I’m not a safe bet to help you achieve it. You draft me, put your faith in what I can do and I promise you I will repay that trust in kind.”
The kid had passion. He had fight. He couldn’t see the game behind the game we were playing, but that was fine. I’d seen enough. I knew I could use his passion and fire to overwhelm and break down the competition. I wouldn't have to worry about him undermining my authority. He was in this for all the ‘right’ reasons, making him a safe and potentially successful choice.
“I admire your spirit, ki -,” I suddenly found that term offensive, so I dug out a proper replacement, “Sean. I can’t promise you anything other than an opportunity…whether it be in the ranks of the drafted or not, you’ll get your shot to show everyone what I’ve seen today…that you’ve got the strength.”
Slowly, I removed my notepad and looked him in the eye as I jotted a few things down while they remained fresh in my mind. As I wrote, I noticed the kid hadn’t taken his eyes off me.
“I will say this, Mr Welsh. Whilst I want to play my part in this and I have my own reasons, don’t think of me as an idiot. I know there’s probably a bigger play here that I’m not party to. I’ll listen to instructions but I won’t be used as a puppet or a pawn in some bigger chess game. If I am to play a part in this, I’m side-by-side with you and anyone else on Team Welsh.”
Nothing the kid had said to that point had been anything but fair. He was a straight shooter…the final note I took before tapping my pen shut and putting my precious insight into how the TRIAD Draft was going to go down in just one week safely away.
“So…I’ve got a few hours to kill before I escape the grim clutches of this old portion of the world. Wanna grab a bite to eat? Snag a drink?”
Parker’s focus returned to his father’s grave. Once again, he blocked everything out. I took a moment to receive the message.
“Right.”
There were more important things in life than kissing ass. Chasing shiny objects for materialistic goals. Sean Parker’s reason for being in that spot went above and beyond anything I could offer. It was a steadfast, impenetrable focus that I both admired and despised. So, after lingering longer than the moment remained comfortable, I turned on my heel and headed back toward the church.
“Guess I’ll head back to the airport, then. Grab a drink and get out of this shithole of a country,” I muttered under my breath.
---
The view pulls back to show Welsh walking around the church to exit. Parker stands, entirely focused on that which matters most.
You think I’m getting off my kingsized bed and leaving Gregory to visit Dadbod, Glum...fuckin Roo? Nah. No way in hell.
And, as much as I admire and respect Thad, Knox, and Penelope...I’m not visiting them either. I know what they bring to the table and, more importantly, what they do not.
Nah, only people I’m leaving this house for are the ones I need a little more information on. The unfamiliar names which appear to have something resembling talent.
I made Alexander Raven a star. I made Sarah Wolf a star. I gave Stephen Stratford a platform. All three are bigger now than they were before...even if things didn’t exactly go the way I envisioned.
So now I turn toward the next series of Trials. Team Welsh will have its headliner, sure. And, given the vast depth of talent enlisted, I might even snag a second marquee name. But it’s the ones that come later...the last two picks of the draft. Those are the ones that put you over the top.
---
Research was necessary. There was unknown talent swimming around in this draft pool and I was going to find it. Just like I always do. Why? Because I am better at this job than anybody else in the game.
Edinburgh Airport appeared nicer than I expected. I was surprised to find out Edinburgh had an airport let alone one I could fly into. Given Edinburgh was a town...or city...or whatever they’re called in Scotland I wasn’t familiar with, I figured it’d be a shithole. Turns out, pretty decent.
Yes, I know my name is Welsh. Despite that, I don’t know dick about the UK. People here are too ugly and depressing to spend much time around. Give me the sun and fun of Key West all day, every day.
There was no way in hell I was going to try and pronounce my destination. So, I simply showed the name from the email Mr. Parker had sent me to the first cab driver who threw some attention my way.
“Dunfermline!” he exclaimed in that accent I won’t dare try to emulate.
He muttered some other stuff but I wasn’t really paying attention. The flight was long and strange. I don’t know how these people do it, with this weird-ass time zone. Plus, my ears were stuffed full of pressure.
It took about half an hour before we arrived at….I couldn’t even remember the name.
I got out and paid the man what he was owed with some of the currency I received at an exchange in the airport. For some reason, I thought he’d be offended when I paid him in coins but...turns out that was perfectly acceptable. I don’t know. Again, these people are fuckin’ weird.
My luggage was light or, well, non-existent. I wouldn’t be there long. My return trip was later in the evening. I just needed to meet this man. Get a good look in his eyes. Gauge the way he carried himself. Listen to the conviction in his voice. Evaluate whether or not he has what it takes to survive the upcoming Trials.
Hoisting the backpack over my shoulder, I looked for the church. This place was old. It was historic. That meant there were a lot of churches. So, I asked a seasoned gentleman passing me by. He was kind enough. And, after slowing his speech down so I could make out what he was saying, he told me I needed to head to Cairneyhill.
What. The. Fuck.
How did I get that wrong?
We’re not off to a great start, Parker. I’m taking notes.
A public transport later and I was in Cairneyhill. The church wasn’t hard to find, thankfully. I knew I was in the right place when I spotted a metallic-coloured Porsche 911 Turbo out front. Kid drove in style. That’s something I could respect.
Taking more notes.
Upon entering the church, I found a friendly priest with a flask in his hand. They sure did things differently over here.
I didn’t have to get the name out. He knew who I was and why I was there.
Nice. That’s convenient.
More notes.
He led me through the back of the church to a cemetery. I’d never been in the ‘back’ of a church before...then again I hadn’t been to church in something like thirty years. It wasn’t as exciting as I thought it’d be.
The cemetery, however, was heavy.
It’s hard to describe.
You could feel the spirits inhabiting the place. And not like Casper the friendly fucking ghost or anything stupid like that. You just knew the presence of those buried in the grounds was alive in the thick, moist air.
If I hadn’t JUST been on a literal Ghost Ship, I might have turned around.
But, having endured angry, fierce ghosts. I knew these were of a friendlier sort.
I walked forward and saw the man I’d traveled so far to judge. He stood over a particular grave, hands in his pockets, head tilted down.
He appeared to be having a private moment, so I waited. I didn’t want to be rude, not with all the spirits hanging around.
“Mr. Welsh,” the kid spoke up. Respect.
“Sean Parker, I presume…” I moved forward, standing at his side, looking down at the grave that had him so focused. The kid spoke without looking at me or making eye contact. Normally I’d take notes but that particular grave appeared to hold meaning, and significance. And then I spied the name etched into the surprisingly well-kept stone:
David Parker
Born May 7th 1970
Died September 16th 1999
Son of Alexander and Kathryn
Brother of Butch and Diana
Father of Sean
“I was only two when he passed away. Drunk driver ran him off the road.”
I didn’t ask but okay. A long moment of silence passed between the two of us before the kid finally made eye contact. There was a hint of darkness in his face, behind his emerald green eyes.
“Aye, I’m Sean Parker. And I’m guessing, unless you’ve got a really shitty taste in vacation destinations, that you’re here about the Strength Trials? Why else would you fly across the Atlantic to come to a shitty place like this?”
Astute, with an air of self-confidence without tugging on the strings of arrogance. This kid was intriguing me more and more.
“Marcus Welsh, the industry’s greatest promoter…” I let that hang in the air to see if he cast any non-verbal aspersions my way. He did not. So, I stuck my hand out, eager to feel the quality of the handshake this kid possessed.
On target. Confident. Firm but not uncomfortable. Eye contact. So far, so good.
I considered making some kind of sarcastic remark about the climate of his home city, country, whatever you wanna refer to it as…but I bypassed the needless sarcasm. “Not to overstep, Mr. Parker, but is today some type of anniversary or…” my voice trailed off as my eyes looked back down at the tombstone. His eyes trailed up from mine, following my gaze. His eyebrows buoyed up and down a couple of times, the wryest of smiles tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Not exactly. After a big match, milestone, or if I’ve been on the road for a while, I like to come home, get away from the hustle and bustle of the States and recharge. I always come and…”
The kid looked like he was almost embarrassed by what he said next.
“…talk to him…catch him up on what I’ve done, the matches I’m having. Because I was so young when he passed I didn’t necessarily get a lot of father-son chats so, I dunno…retelling how I’ve done in my matches, titles I’ve won, my achievements… it’s almost therapeutic, y’know?”
Another long moment of silence. Damn this kid was deep. He looked back at me, turning fully away from the tombstone this time to face me.
“I know who you are, Mr Welsh. Your reputation precedes you. Given the lengths you’ve taken to locate me personally, am I right to assume, to some sort of degree, the same goes for me? No one takes a trans-Atlantic flight, a cab, a bus, and another cab out to the backside of beyond on a hunch.”
“It’s all about the TRIAD,” I looked him square in the eyes. “After all this, I’m still not sure most of you get how important this artifact is. I get it. PIC gets it. TLS gets it. Triumvirate sure as hell gets it. But until you’ve experienced its power…you just don’t know. That’s why I’m out here. This…thing has abilities you wouldn’t believe. The ability to get me everything in life I’ve ever wanted…and the same for you. I might even be able to resurrect…”
I didn’t finish. We both knew where that was going. I allowed it to breathe for a moment before continuing, “That’s why I’m here, Parker. I don’t know enough about you to decide whether or not you should or should not be drafted. But I know enough to fly out here and find out. It’s boom or bust with someone like you, kid. And I can’t leave anything to chance.”
He didn’t respond immediately. It was like the weight, the sheer gravity of my words and the meaning behind them were coming down on him and the realization was setting in. Make or break.
“Power doesn’t interest me, Mr. Welsh,” he said sternly. “I dream every day of what it would have been like to know this man…”
He gestured towards the tombstone, those emerald green eyes fixated on me.
“But that’s all it is, Mr Welsh… a dream. I’m not interested in conjuring spirits from the dead, tugging on the Red Strings of Fate or drinking from the Cauldron of Dagda for some look at a life I may have had. I lost my father, Mr. Welsh, but I did have a dad and he was there for me when no one else wasn’t.”
Red Strings of Fate? The Cauldron of Dagda? The kid knew his lore. Educated. Curiouser and curiouser. He wasn’t finished though.
“But I do understand the magnitude of what the TRIAD represents and what procuring each of those three shards means to you, to PIC and TLS. But if you wanna know why I enlisted, what drove me to throw my name into the hat amongst all those big names… Knox, Vhodka, Thad, Stratford, Cortes…all those guys? You know what I hear when people like them hear the name Sean Parker? Maybe not Thad, given I work for him, but the majority of the others…all I hear is a snort of derision or “who’s he?”and I’m sick and tired of it. Tired of being on the periphery when I know for a fact I belong front and center! I’ve been a goddamn professional wrestler for over a decade and I’m sneered at like some I’m green-as-grass rookie for saying as such, like because they haven’t heard of me that doesn’t make me worth knowing or the hard work I’ve done in years past doesn’t mean shit because they hadn’t seen it. Do you know how infuriating that is? To have my resumé, my accomplishments shat on because a select few people who just happen to have a bigger network than me haven’t heard of me.”
He stepped towards me now, growing more animated. I stood my ground.
“You wanna know what makes me different from a thousand others? What I would bring to Team Welsh? I may not be the tallest or biggest guy in the world, Mr Welsh, but I would challenge anyone on this draft list to prove they’ve shown more strength than I have these past ten years. I had to listen to doctor after doctor tell me to forget about walking again let alone getting back in a wrestling ring!”
His chest heaved up and down. That’s more like it; THAT energy.
“Do you know what it’s like to feel the vertebrae in your spine break? It’s like when an elastic band snaps. There’s a gritty feeling, like grinding two stones together. You feel this burning sensation, like someone just pressed a red hot poker inside you. Then the cold comes, like being plunged into an ice bath. The feeling creeps down from the top to the bottom of your body. The numbness sets in… like pins and needles on steroids. You want to move your legs but you can’t, like you’re in a nightmare that you can see happening but you can’t do anything to stop it.”
Tears started forming in his eyes. I could barely make out the color of them anymore as they dripped down his cheeks. Damn…
“Have you ever shit and pissed yourself in front of 20,000 people, Mr Welsh? Ever been carried out of a wrestling ring with your gear filled with your own urine and feces? Try going through multiple, unsuccessful surgeries to try and fuse your broken vertebrae back together? No? The post-op infections, the blood transfusions? Then the wheelchair fittings… Two years I spent, confined to one of those, watching my legs and lower body fritter away like some sort of parasitic disease as the muscle mass disappeared. Having to be lifted on and off the toilet, having my arse wiped and diaper changed like a toddler…. But I persevered! I didn’t settle for that life. So I fought and I fought and I fought and I fought! Every time I was told no, I slammed the door back open and said I wasn’t accepting no for an answer. And look at me now! Yeah, my biceps may not pop when I flex them, but true strength? In here…”
He thumped his chest with a clenched fist.
“…I’ve got that in spades and then some, Mr Welsh. I’m ready for those Strength Trials. I may not have the same reasons and motivation you do for uniting those pieces but that doesn’t mean I’m not a safe bet to help you achieve it. You draft me, put your faith in what I can do and I promise you I will repay that trust in kind.”
The kid had passion. He had fight. He couldn’t see the game behind the game we were playing, but that was fine. I’d seen enough. I knew I could use his passion and fire to overwhelm and break down the competition. I wouldn't have to worry about him undermining my authority. He was in this for all the ‘right’ reasons, making him a safe and potentially successful choice.
“I admire your spirit, ki -,” I suddenly found that term offensive, so I dug out a proper replacement, “Sean. I can’t promise you anything other than an opportunity…whether it be in the ranks of the drafted or not, you’ll get your shot to show everyone what I’ve seen today…that you’ve got the strength.”
Slowly, I removed my notepad and looked him in the eye as I jotted a few things down while they remained fresh in my mind. As I wrote, I noticed the kid hadn’t taken his eyes off me.
“I will say this, Mr Welsh. Whilst I want to play my part in this and I have my own reasons, don’t think of me as an idiot. I know there’s probably a bigger play here that I’m not party to. I’ll listen to instructions but I won’t be used as a puppet or a pawn in some bigger chess game. If I am to play a part in this, I’m side-by-side with you and anyone else on Team Welsh.”
Nothing the kid had said to that point had been anything but fair. He was a straight shooter…the final note I took before tapping my pen shut and putting my precious insight into how the TRIAD Draft was going to go down in just one week safely away.
“So…I’ve got a few hours to kill before I escape the grim clutches of this old portion of the world. Wanna grab a bite to eat? Snag a drink?”
Parker’s focus returned to his father’s grave. Once again, he blocked everything out. I took a moment to receive the message.
“Right.”
There were more important things in life than kissing ass. Chasing shiny objects for materialistic goals. Sean Parker’s reason for being in that spot went above and beyond anything I could offer. It was a steadfast, impenetrable focus that I both admired and despised. So, after lingering longer than the moment remained comfortable, I turned on my heel and headed back toward the church.
“Guess I’ll head back to the airport, then. Grab a drink and get out of this shithole of a country,” I muttered under my breath.
---
The view pulls back to show Welsh walking around the church to exit. Parker stands, entirely focused on that which matters most.