Post by MW on Jun 14, 2023 13:20:07 GMT -5
Earlier in the week
It’s late in the evening. Welsh is staring at the square television in his shitty motel room. Antiquated, anachronistic...whatever you wanna call it. This thing shouldn’t fuckin exist. But he’s watching it...every so often he lifts his hand to change the channel only to realize he has no remote. So, rather than get up he just sits, watching more infomercials for really nifty-looking oven mits.
Welsh sighs.
Something catches his eye. It’s a mouse, nibbling on a piece of dominos pizza crust. Welsh looks down and his eyes widen a bit. The mouse is suddenly attacked and eaten by a larger mouse. Welsh keeps staring. That mouse is then attacked and eaten by a rat. Welsh continues to stare. A possum appears and kills the rat before eating it. Welsh stares. The possum finishes eating the rat and looks at Welsh...it then plays dead. Welsh stares. The possum suddenly gives birth to thirteen baby possums. Welsh nods.
"Okay, that's it."
We cut outside. Welsh is on the phone.
"Yes, this is Marcus Welsh. You got that? Penelope told me to call...said I had a room at the hotel whenever I wanted it."
Annoyed, he listens and nods very sarcastically.
"Great. Good for you. Finally. Also, I’m gonna need you to book me a flight out there."
He doesn’t like the response.
"Okay then you can be the reason why your boss or whoever Penelope is to you doesn’t get drafted into the trials...you got me?"
Pause. Silence. And then a nod.
"See? Now was that so fuckin hard?"
He hangs up and hops into the backseat of his shitty car. He lies across the seats, with hours to kill before his flight. Staring up at the roof...holes in the fabric...he laments how far he’s fallen. Unable to sleep, he pulls his phone out and stares at a picture of the Triad.
"One year. Just one year and I’ll be back to where I was...no, screw that. I’ll be higher. I’ll be unstoppable."
He takes a beat. This is not a man who ever leaves anything to chance.
"Fuck sleep. It’s for the weak, anyway."
He scrolls through his ‘Triad’ contacts. He lands on a name...it’s blurred. We can’t see it. He shoots a text off. “Hey, you up?”
The three dots begin their dance as the person on the other side begins to type. The dots cease for a moment, before continuing again before a message comes through; “This better not be what I think it is.”
Welsh hesitates for a moment. He fires back, “I figured you might be. Listen…I know there’s a lot of uncertainty about the draft right now. 23 names. Only 12 can make it and it might be embarrassing for some if they didn’t get selected. So, how would you like a guarantee from me that your name will get called on draft might.”
Welsh curses. He types quickly, 'naught.' He kicks at the door of his car. He types again, “NIGHT! Sorry, stupid autocorrect.”
“It’s still giving ‘booty call’ vibes. Try again.”
He re-reads his previous text. “She’s got a point.” He starts typing, 'I’m just looking for a you scratch my back, I…' he erases. He tries again, 'I just want to make you an offer you can’t…' He erases that. "Fuck it,” he hits call and puts the phone to his ear.
“Ugh. Why.” the female voice answers, clearly not sober. “Why are yo- If you breath the wrong way, just once, I’m going to make you sorry.”
“Look, I’m just gonna get to the point because I’m thinking you don’t realize what I’m offering. I will one hundred percent draft you on draft night, giving you an automatic spot in the Trials if…IF you guarantee that after we work in tandem to get you the Triad…that you give it to me.”
“...I have no idea what the fu-...wait. Triad. Yes. Right. Ok. But counter offer: You draft me anyway because I’m the literal shit, and you don’t get anything but the honor of saying my fucking name? How’s that? Ok buh bye.”
Welsh sits up, “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. I don’t think you understand who I am…I’m the greatest promoter of all time. I’ve made legends out of Matt Meyhu, Aidan Collins…the list goes on and on. You give me the Triad and I will make you the biggest star in this business. Guaranteed.”
“...who are Matt Collins and Aiden Meyhu? I don’t need you to make me something I already am? Tell you what; When I win the triad, you can smell the hand I held it in. Toodaloo!”
“MONEY! I can make you rich…or richer…I can make you so much money!”
“...I mean, that’s where you should have started. How much?”
“Pick a price. As much as you want. Enough money to look down on all your peers. All your rivals. And, the money you make with me…nobody can take.”
There is a long pause, before the sound of the person sitting up and stretching becomes slightly audible. “...where we meeting?”
“You like California?” a smile has stretched its way across Welsh’s face.
“No one likes California. But I’ll be there by tomorrow.”
“I look forward to working with you.”
Present Day
Welsh returns to his uniquely set up room within The Hotel California. He looks tired. Reaching into a stainless steel fridge, he pulls out a can of tonic water and mixes himself a Gin and Tonic. He takes a sip and stares at the floor, “This won’t be cheap.” He takes another sip, pausing. He pulls out his notepad and pen. “But…” he leans forward, scribbling something down before heading to the back to relax. We zoom in on the notepad.
“A deal has been reached.”
It’s late in the evening. Welsh is staring at the square television in his shitty motel room. Antiquated, anachronistic...whatever you wanna call it. This thing shouldn’t fuckin exist. But he’s watching it...every so often he lifts his hand to change the channel only to realize he has no remote. So, rather than get up he just sits, watching more infomercials for really nifty-looking oven mits.
Welsh sighs.
Something catches his eye. It’s a mouse, nibbling on a piece of dominos pizza crust. Welsh looks down and his eyes widen a bit. The mouse is suddenly attacked and eaten by a larger mouse. Welsh keeps staring. That mouse is then attacked and eaten by a rat. Welsh continues to stare. A possum appears and kills the rat before eating it. Welsh stares. The possum finishes eating the rat and looks at Welsh...it then plays dead. Welsh stares. The possum suddenly gives birth to thirteen baby possums. Welsh nods.
"Okay, that's it."
We cut outside. Welsh is on the phone.
"Yes, this is Marcus Welsh. You got that? Penelope told me to call...said I had a room at the hotel whenever I wanted it."
Annoyed, he listens and nods very sarcastically.
"Great. Good for you. Finally. Also, I’m gonna need you to book me a flight out there."
He doesn’t like the response.
"Okay then you can be the reason why your boss or whoever Penelope is to you doesn’t get drafted into the trials...you got me?"
Pause. Silence. And then a nod.
"See? Now was that so fuckin hard?"
He hangs up and hops into the backseat of his shitty car. He lies across the seats, with hours to kill before his flight. Staring up at the roof...holes in the fabric...he laments how far he’s fallen. Unable to sleep, he pulls his phone out and stares at a picture of the Triad.
"One year. Just one year and I’ll be back to where I was...no, screw that. I’ll be higher. I’ll be unstoppable."
He takes a beat. This is not a man who ever leaves anything to chance.
"Fuck sleep. It’s for the weak, anyway."
He scrolls through his ‘Triad’ contacts. He lands on a name...it’s blurred. We can’t see it. He shoots a text off. “Hey, you up?”
The three dots begin their dance as the person on the other side begins to type. The dots cease for a moment, before continuing again before a message comes through; “This better not be what I think it is.”
Welsh hesitates for a moment. He fires back, “I figured you might be. Listen…I know there’s a lot of uncertainty about the draft right now. 23 names. Only 12 can make it and it might be embarrassing for some if they didn’t get selected. So, how would you like a guarantee from me that your name will get called on draft might.”
Welsh curses. He types quickly, 'naught.' He kicks at the door of his car. He types again, “NIGHT! Sorry, stupid autocorrect.”
“It’s still giving ‘booty call’ vibes. Try again.”
He re-reads his previous text. “She’s got a point.” He starts typing, 'I’m just looking for a you scratch my back, I…' he erases. He tries again, 'I just want to make you an offer you can’t…' He erases that. "Fuck it,” he hits call and puts the phone to his ear.
“Ugh. Why.” the female voice answers, clearly not sober. “Why are yo- If you breath the wrong way, just once, I’m going to make you sorry.”
“Look, I’m just gonna get to the point because I’m thinking you don’t realize what I’m offering. I will one hundred percent draft you on draft night, giving you an automatic spot in the Trials if…IF you guarantee that after we work in tandem to get you the Triad…that you give it to me.”
“...I have no idea what the fu-...wait. Triad. Yes. Right. Ok. But counter offer: You draft me anyway because I’m the literal shit, and you don’t get anything but the honor of saying my fucking name? How’s that? Ok buh bye.”
Welsh sits up, “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. I don’t think you understand who I am…I’m the greatest promoter of all time. I’ve made legends out of Matt Meyhu, Aidan Collins…the list goes on and on. You give me the Triad and I will make you the biggest star in this business. Guaranteed.”
“...who are Matt Collins and Aiden Meyhu? I don’t need you to make me something I already am? Tell you what; When I win the triad, you can smell the hand I held it in. Toodaloo!”
“MONEY! I can make you rich…or richer…I can make you so much money!”
“...I mean, that’s where you should have started. How much?”
“Pick a price. As much as you want. Enough money to look down on all your peers. All your rivals. And, the money you make with me…nobody can take.”
There is a long pause, before the sound of the person sitting up and stretching becomes slightly audible. “...where we meeting?”
“You like California?” a smile has stretched its way across Welsh’s face.
“No one likes California. But I’ll be there by tomorrow.”
“I look forward to working with you.”
Present Day
Welsh returns to his uniquely set up room within The Hotel California. He looks tired. Reaching into a stainless steel fridge, he pulls out a can of tonic water and mixes himself a Gin and Tonic. He takes a sip and stares at the floor, “This won’t be cheap.” He takes another sip, pausing. He pulls out his notepad and pen. “But…” he leans forward, scribbling something down before heading to the back to relax. We zoom in on the notepad.
“A deal has been reached.”