Title: The Road to Recovery Chapter 5: Hard Landing
Featuring: Jacob McKail
Date: Rev 240
Location: Casablanca/Istabul/New York

“People who fly into a rage always make a bad landing.”
Will Rogers


I. Lost in a Cloud of Rage
Salle Mohamed V, Casablanca
25th February 2011

Jacob McKail stalked the backstage annexes of the Salle Mohamed V Arena like a lion waiting to pounce upon his prey; chomping at the bit to rip flesh from bone and taste warm blood upon his lips. His mind was lost. There was no reason, no logic or thought; only anger remained.

Breathing heavily, he noted event staff and security give him a wide berth as he walked by; some even went far out of their way to avoid crossing paths with him. He couldn't blame them; he must've looked like a manic. His green eyes venomously piercing a fiery hole in anything and everything that crossed his path; his fists perpetually clenched, bearing blood-red early formations of sizeable bruises; his shirt ripped and hanging off his rage-infused frame where security had to rip him free of Seymour Almasy not two minutes earlier.

He felt like screaming; he felt like letting all of the rage out before it consumed him.

“You did it,” the voice began, “didn't you?”

It came from the darkness to his left; female and not even trying masque the deep-seated undertones of shame and disgust. It could be only one person. Elle; his girlfriend and conscience.

“Yeah,” he growled, between heavy breaths.

McKail turned to face her, unable to look the woman he loved in the eye. His anger was fading, replaced by a sense of shame that only Elle knew how to instil. She was sitting on a black storage crate, her feet not touching the floor and her hands clenched around it's edge. The arena loading dock lay in the distance; quiet and unmanned as the arena staff focused upon the most significant event on their calendar; at least the most significant according the to the twelve thousand chanting fans in attendance at any rate.

“So, feel good about yourself now?” she asked, the undertones of disgust thickening. Considerably.

McKail only grunted in response, leaning back upon the cold concrete wall opposite her.

“No,” she began, reading into his response what suited her, “I didn't think so.”

Didn't mean she wasn't right though. She always was, or seemed like it. She knew him better than he knew himself; a burden she embraced, perhaps annoyingly so.

“Why didn't you tell me about this, Jake?” she asked. “Why didn't you tell me you were going to beat the living shit out of Seymour Almasy?”

“Because you would've tried talking me out of it,” McKail answered. “And...”

He allowed his words to trail off, unable or unwilling to finish the sentence; he couldn't decide which. He hoped she'd leave the matter be. He hoped she would let it go just this once. It was a slim hope at best.

“'And' what?”

McKail sighed. “And I didn't want you to see me like that.”

Elle only blinked, confused. “I don't understand. I've seen you wrestle dozens of times, hell, I've seen you just plain fight a couple of times too.”

He looked away from her and winced, as the flashes of his actions ten minutes previously ran through his mind. He had no regret of doing them, far from it, but the thought of Elle seeing him like that, like a rapid animal, scared him to his very core.

“This was different,” he told her, pushing himself up from the wall and extending his hand to her. “C'mon. Let's get the hell outta here.”

Elle knew better than to push it. “Okay, Jake. Whatever you say.”

II. Cake Box Powder Keg
Lebanon Rehab Facility, New York
5th July 2010

McKail was on edge.

It'd been two days since he'd been released from solitary and Buzz, the administrator of the Lebanon Rehab Facility, hadn't yet tried to fuck with him. But it was only a matter of time. Buzz had targeted him ever since he was admitted almost a month back and although his reasons for doing so weren't all that clear, his goal was perfectly transparent: he wanted to make McKail his yes man; he wanted to make McKail his bitch.

I don't think so, he defiantly vowed, his eyes locking onto the guard stationed at the end of the corridor. Guard Corden. McKail could see the anger buried behind behind his eyes. Corden wanted to knock him down a peg or two. The man had been running his mouth off for weeks about wanting to 'teach a so-called pro wrestler what tough really is' and the likes. That animal was just waiting for McKail to put a foot out of line, he was waiting for any of the inmates to put a foot out of line; all the guards were and they didn't even try to hide it. Seemed like Buzz had got everyone in the facility fired up.

The inmates were getting pretty damned tired of random beatings whenever boredom set in too; The place was like a powder keg waiting to go off. McKail just hoped he wasn't going to be around when somebody finally lit the fuse.

The Lebanon Rehab Facility wasn't exactly your standard rehab facility. Government controlled, it offered it's 'patients' a more 'strict' approach to rehabilitation. Basically, prison inmates had the option to go there to serve out the last years of their prison sentences for all substance abuse related crimes. It had the perception of being the 'easier' option to most, but the truth was it wasn't much better than prison.

In some ways, it was worse.

It seemed to McKail that Buzz had a lot more freedom to abuse his inmates than he really should have. Maybe he gained a little more leeway with his superiors due to his obvious military background? Who knew? Who cared? Buzz'd got guys like Corden fired up so much, they wouldn't think twice about laying down a beating for anyone who looked at them funny. Seemed that so long as Buzz got his inmates clean, his superiors didn't much care whether they had a few bumps and bruises to show for it.

McKail stumbled passed Corden and headed for his room, his body littered with little aches and pains. He couldn't tell whether they were old wrestling wounds rearing their ugly head's now that the booze was no longer numbing him, or whether it was the actual imposed detox itself destroying his body. Either way, when he finally made it to his room, he gratefully slumped down on his bed. He felt muscles loosen and the grip of the mattress embrace him and allowed a long and healthy sigh.

“There you are!” The familiar voice declared.

What the fuck now? McKail silently grumbled, refocusing his attention to the door. It was Jax, his room mate, and his looked a little pissed off.

“I've been lookin' for you all over the damned place,” he said, storming into the room and heading over McKail's drawer chest. He picked up an object, looked like a cake box, and threw it on the bed for McKail to see. “That's for you...wanna explain it, son?”

McKail glared at the box questioningly. “I ain't never seen that it my damned life!” he exclaimed, peeling open the lid to take a glance inside. “Whatever the hell it is...”

It was chocolate cake. Strange, he considered. Who the hell would send me this? Don't have any family or friends to speak of, hell, nobody even knows I'm here. Regardless, he buried his finger into the thick chocolate icing and licked his fingers clear of the sugary goodness. Damned good chocolate cake at that.

“Good?” Jax asked, his words coated with venom.

“Yeah,” McKail told him, a little confused by the hostility, “want some?”

Jax leant over and slapped the lid shut, revealing a note fastened dead to the cake box. McKail leant closer to read the note �" it simply read:

Thanks for all your help,
Buzz

But that's all that was needed. McKail heard noise from the corridor and glanced up to see a number of fellow inmates already crowded in the doorway. They all obviously wanted answers he couldn't give. He didn't help Buzz with a damned thing, so it wasn't all that difficult figure out precisely what the fuck was going on.

Seems like Buzz ain't finished fuckin' with me, McKail silently concluded. The fuse is fuckin' lit now, this powder keg is gonna blow. Only question left is: can I get out of the blast radius in time?


III. Revenge is Not Enough
Istanbul, Turkey
4th March 2011

The silvery glow of moonlight pierced the elaborate Venetian blinds and danced across McKail's face as he climbed out of bed, careful not to wake Elle.

He couldn't sleep and this time it wasn't because he didn't have a bottle of Jack Daniels to gently caress him to slumber. This time he had too much rolling around in his mind; too much adrenaline still pumping through his body and too much anger resting heavy upon his heart.

It wasn't enough.

What he did to Seymour Almasy back in Casablanca wasn't enough. He wasn't fulfilled; his anger towards the man was still there despite exacting bloody vengeance and his irresistable desire to fundamentally destroy Almasy still ravaged every thought.

“What's up, hon?” Elle sleepily groaned, her eyes still shut and her position unchanged. “Shoulder giving you problems again?”

Instinctively, McKail gently rubbed his injured shoulder. “Nah. Ain't nothin', girl. Go back to sleep.”

Elle groggily pushed herself up from the mattress and tried to shoot him a knowing glare, but couldn't; sleep had fused her eyelids shut and the effort to break the bonds was seemingly too great. In the end she gave up, resigning to the fact she'd have to have the conversation with her eyes closed.

“It ain't over,” she began, “is it?”

“What you talkin' 'bout, girl?” McKail asked, hoping Elle was sufficiently sleepy enough to be susceptible to his less than subtle deflection.

She wasn't. “Don't do that thing where you get all defensive, Jake. I'm too damn tired for that shit.”

“No,” McKail finally admitted, “I don't think it is.”

“Jesus Christ, Jake!” she exclaimed. “What the hell is it with you? I know you love torturing yourself, but this is getting ridiculous. You kicked Seymour Almasy's ass, okay?” The more animated she got, the more sleep was wrenched from her eyelids and soon she had regained the gift of sight. “You found him backstage and tore him a new asshole. That's it. It's over.”

McKail shook his head. “That ain't enough.”

Elle blinked, her mouth agape. “That ain't enough? When will be enough, Jake?” She allowed the question to hang in the air a while to gather sufficient impact. “You wanna to kill him? Is that what you want?”

He hesitated and immediately regretted it. “Hell no, but you heard what the man said. He don't want me in PRIME, he don't think I deserve it. He's gonna attack me every chance he gets.” He thought on the subject for a while and concocted a visibly unpalatable solution. “Maybe I just gotta put him outta the game is all. Make him leave PRIME...or make him leave the business all together.”

“Jesus, Jake,” she muttered. “Are you seriously considerin' puttin' Almasy outta the business for good?”

“Hell,” he replied, “I don't know what I'm saying.”

There was silence for a time, but Elle broached the question he hoped she'd never ask.

“In that interview Almasy did last week, he mentioned something about some kid wrestler when you were workin' the independents,” she began, curious, “what was he talkin' 'bout there?”

McKail shook his head. “You don't wanna know.”

“I do,” Elle told him. “You just don't wanna tell me.”

She had a point.


IV. Rehab Battlefield
Lebanon Rehab Facility, New York
5th July 2010

“What the fuck's goin' on, McKail?” Jax questioned, his fierce gaze burning a hole in McKail's face. “What deal do you got goin' with Buzz? You spyin' on us or some shit?”

McKail shook his head. “What the fuck are you talkin' bout?”

“Don't play dumb, asshole!” Zip, one of the other inmates, shouted from the doorway. Hell, he was the doorway. His six foot five inch, muscle-bound frame filled the gap as good as any door. “Somethin's goin' on!”

“What?” McKail asked calmly, still buried within the comforting embrace of his bed. He was determined not to let himself get riled up by all this shit. He wasn't about to give this lit powder keg a short fuse; he wasn't about to play right into Buzz's hands. “What's goin' on?”

“Somthin'!” Insisted Zip.

“Yeah,” agreed another inmate, standing somewhere beyond Zip in the corridor �" McKail couldn't see who, “spill it!”

“Was it my Coke, McKail?” Jax asked. “My Coke Buzz 'found' in our room last week?”

“Oh,” McKail began, trying not to get animated, “that Coke I got put in solitary for? Makes sense don't it?”

“Yeah, that was mighty convenient,” Jax replied. “Buzz finds my Coke and you get locked away...? Was you really in solitary, McKail? Or did Buzz have you stashed somewhere all cosy like...as a reward?”

“Son of a bitch!” Zip exclaimed, pointedly clenching his fists.

“It's Buzz,” McKail told them, “he's just fuckin' with us...he's just fuckin' with me.”

“Yeah,” Jax replied, “right! Sue he is!”

“If I was workin' with Buzz,” McKail said, “why the hell would he send me a cake...with a note from him no less?”

They all stared back at him blankly and he realised this was precisely why he'd done it: the others were too damn stupid to question the logic of it.

“He's just tryin' to confuse us!” Jax continued after a while. He'd obviously given up trying to work out the logic behind Buzz's little gift. He had the scent of blood in his nostrils and he wasn't about to let a little thing like common sense get in the way of gouging his pound of flesh. “He's just tryin' to get in our heads!”

“Yeah!” Zip added. The rest of the rabble complied.

Seemed like they wanted a little entertainment; they wanted a little violence and they just wanted a reason �" any reason. In that case, McKail silently began, I've got the perfect reason.

“What the hell are you grinning about, McKail?” Jax asked. “What the hell's wrong with you?”

This was it. Logic had no place amongst this 'discussion' and it never did. It was still obvious to McKail that this was all Buzz's doing, but convincing the mob of such was an impossible feat. It was the backbone to the whole scheme and there was no getting past that. So McKail decided to change tactics. He didn't want it to come down to this, but it was a bed of Jax's own making.

McKail glared at him. “What're you up to, Jax?”

Jax scrunched his confused, the murmur of the mob echoed his bemusement. “What the hell are you talkin' about?”

“The note from Buzz didn't have a name on it,” McKail announced, revealing his play. “It coulda be en for either of us.”

“But I was with Jax when he found it,” Zip replied, “he said it was for you?”

McKail grinned. “Well, he would, wouldn't he?”

Jax' face turned to outrage. “What the fuck are you talkin' about? This is you, McKail! We all know you made a deal with Buzz; maybe he broke you in solitary or some shit.”

“So now, I was in solitary, huh, Jax?” McKail asked. “A little earlier on you were makin' out like I was kickin' back in the Ritz or some shit.”

Zip shot Jax an unsure look; the crowd were beginning to turn.

“And how do you figure,” McKail continued, before Jax could mount a protest, “you got busted with Coke in our room and I got punished for it? What shit did you spill about me to get your ass off the hook?”

“I-I-I-” Jax stammered, as Zip focused his anger upon him, his muscles flexing, threatening to burst free of his overhauls at the seems.

“WHAT THE HELL'S ALL THIS ABOUT?!?!” A commanding voice yelled, coming ever closer. There could be no doubt as to who was at the source of the noise. Buzz. Coming to see his handiwork first-hand, no doubt, McKail silently concluded.

He barged his way past Zip and into the room, his eyes quickly shifting between each of them. Out of the corner of his eye, McKail noticed that the throng of people had already begun to disperse, like bored children being ushered away from a broken up playground fight.

“Well?” Buzz asked. “You fuck's having the meeting of the minds or something?”

“Ain't nothin' wrong here, boss.” McKail grinned.

“Yeah,” Jax agreed, “nothin' goin' on here.”

Buzz eyed them both wearily. “You sure about that? McKail here's lookin' pretty pissed off.”

“Don't have the first clue what you're talkin' 'bout, chief,” McKail lied. “I look pissed off to you, Jax?”

Jax shook his head. “Nope. We were laughin' and jokin' before you walked in, boss.”

“Yeah,” Buzz began, looking pretty pissed off himself, “sure you were.”

McKail shot him a grin and the Facility Administrator grit his teeth, before storming out of the room. McKail allowed a false chuckle, before closing his eyes and willing the red ball of anger buried within his chest to die down.

But his meditation was spoilt almost instantly. “This ain't over, McKail,” Jax told him. “Not by a long shot.”

He'd kept his cool throughout the entire mob affair because the whole thing was orchestrated by Buzz and McKail simply didn't want to let him win - whatever victory the facility administrator would've got if this whole powder keg had been ignited. But he was under no obligation to take Jax's bullshit now that it was all over.

“Shut the fuck up, Jax,” he hissed. It felt like the rage had left from his chest and one word, just one, from Jax would be his undoing. “Just shut the fuck up.”

Luckily for both of them, Jax kept quiet.
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