S2, E3 | A One Way Ticket to Buying Time

\ Seattle - 1930 /
\ Wednesday, 16th July 1930 /

Collectively residing within the seats that line the theatre their showman presenter calls home, the wealthy figures of depression-stricken America gather around the stage that their friend in the trench coat stands upon. Now shown exactly what kind of spectacle the fight promoter is capable of putting on, the rich men and women that line the building’s bowl of seats howl and roar, applauding and cheering whenever necessary- invested in the product being offered to them.

Drowning out the raucous ovations and the palpable awe, Jimmy sinks further into his seat, pressing his back into the fabric-covered seats bolted to the ground. Grasping the varnished, wooden armrests to each of his sides, the man begins feeling the weight of anger and tension within his chest alleviate from him, like the weight of water gradually lessening as the heat of the air turns it into a weightless gas.

Breathing slow and prolonged breaths, the fighter watches the showman as time begins to decelerate, each motion of Wilbur’s arm appearing as if the rest of his body were hitting the brakes- moving close to a pause. Pressing his eyelids together, the brawler tries to compose himself, feeling a chill in the air run down the length of his neck, which burns hot beneath the droplets of sweat that travel down the length of his flesh.

Paying no mind to those who’d accompanied him to the theatre as they watch on at the grand lead-in the showman on stage provides, Jimmy gradually speeds away from relative consciousness, travelling halfway into a mental place of peace and serenity. Gently resting over the edge of the sides of his seat, the young man’s fingers release all of their tension and simply sit over the smooth, wooden lip.

As if falling out of his own body, Jimmy feels his weight disperse as he rests comfortably in the modest theatre chair, recently reupholstered to provide the guests that Wilbur hosts an even more preferable experience. Parting his lids once more, the fighter that waits to leave his seat until the call of his name had been uttered watches on at the continued motion of the two gentlemen atop the stage, unable to hear the deafening applause from the audience as his ears refuse it attention.

Trapped within his own head, the only sound that his isolated eardrums take into account are the muffled breaths that Jimmy pulls in and lets free from deep within his core. Every now and again, the blood that rushes through the veins in his neck will make the faintest sound of motion, returning the brawler to the moment in which his physical body still resides within.

Falling to each of his sides, the bruiser’s eyes take away from the patrolling, trench coat-wearing city conqueror and supplant themselves onto the back of his each hand. Neither trembling or swaying, Jimmy’s fingers simply remain draped over the edge of each wooden support, unable to truly be felt in a way less like the sensation of pins and needles, but something more akin to outright paralysation.

Comfortably numb to it all, Jimmy can’t help but lift his heavy eyes back toward the stage as Wilbur’s figure approaches him, blocking out one of the spotlights that sit near the back of the elevated platform and shine upon the ceiling with a detailed sketch illustrated upon it. “Ladies and gentlemen... Jimmy Elliott” the showman remarks calmly, extending a hand toward the man as he sits within his seat, snapping the trance that his fighter had been lost within.

Having already been requested to the stage amidst the spell that his opponent had endured, Kenny stands alone on one side of the table, ready to take his seat the moment his presence on the dais is no longer the only one. Suddenly returning all at once, the weight of Jimmy’s frame returns to his body as the man attempts to stand up, struggling to feel the sensation of touch within his hands and feet.

Mustering enough strength to climb out of his chair with little issue, the oddly uncomfortable fighter begins making his way toward the small set of stairs a short distance away, allowed to do so freely as Wilbur backs away, leaving way for the crowd to applaud their defiant hero. Still feeling the moisture that coats his skin roll down his neck, Jimmy fumbles his hand upward to fiddle with his tie, trying to provide the smallest amount of release by undoing it just slightly.

With his chin slightly lifted and the only one in the entire auditorium watching the state of his opponent’s posture, Kenny waits with hesitation in the place he’d been left standing, unsure that his adversary is entirely alright. Quivering, Jimmy’s bottom lip feels the harsh, gasp-like breaths leave the man’s lungs in a rush, as if every movement were both physically taxing and utterly draining.

Literally trying to put his best foot forward nonetheless, Jimmy attempts to take the first step that sits in front of him, lifting his numb leg upward awkwardly as the next four stairs remain ahead. Instinctively using his adrenaline as best as he can, the fighter’s mind thinks to act too soon for the rest of his body to catch up, lifting his second leg toward the next step before his first has any opportunity to support himself.

Tripping up the third and fourth stairs to the sound of the crowd’s very quick suppression of cheers, Jimmy presses his palms against the lip of the final step just ahead, barely managing to keep his face from colliding with the corner of each platform. With an eyebrow raised in curiosity of his audience’s sudden change in reaction, Wilbur turns to prized fighter with great confusion, Norman’s figure remaining standing just to the side of Kenny as he also takes notice of this odd issue.

Still acting exclusively on his impulses, Jimmy makes an effort to complete his climb to the stage, successfully carrying himself off the staircase and to solid, level ground. Letting out a quick and heavy breath, the brawler begins to correct his posture, standing upright as hastily as he can before immediately widening his eyes, feeling every pound of weight that his body carries bring itself to his head, leaving his cranium to feel like a medicine ball that he can’t muster the strength to carry.

“Ji-?” Wilbur wonders aloud instinctually, seeing the forward lean of his valiant fighter and noticing it to just be more of the same odd demeanour, drawing his concern. Completely ignoring the showman’s call as his body tilts forward, Jimmy’s eyes roll into the back of his head as every ounce of strength crumbles just as his legs do, throwing his body forward without warning.

Dropping the charade of the eccentric promoter, Wilbur hurries to the aid of his brawler just as Norman does, hearing the awful sound of a body collapsing into the wooden platform with no restraint, able to be likened to that of dropping a twenty pound bag of sand on the kitchen floor. Following a much similar approach, Cathy rushes to her husband’s aid just as their friends do, dismissing the audible awe of the crowd as the promoters hurriedly call for their paid medics standing by.

Clearly surprised at this instance as well, Kenny remains standing behind the table that he’d occupied since being brought to the stage, the bottom half of his jaw still held toward the air. With brows lifted, the older brawler turns his head toward the place within the audience that he’d emerged from, seeing a pair of unmoved and concern-lacking faces also looking in the direction of the fallen brawler.

Filled with more disdain than anything else, Arthur and Willard carry their glare toward the opposite end of the stage from their new acquaintance, also passing little care of the crowd’s bewilderment just as the rest of those on stage do. Sneakily sliding a glass bottle of pills back into his pocket, the smaller of the two men eventually frees his hands to adjust the flaps of his jacket, wanting to remain appearing professional as their friend on stage looks on.

= Seattle Noir is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and his entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward =

“I’m not sure, but his face is going to hurt for a bit after that fall he took” a man in professional wear replies, pulling his stethoscope away from the chest of the collapsed fighter. “I’m not giving up this opportunity. I want to get my hands on-!” Jimmy replies, shaking his head from one side to the other as he attempts to climb down from the examination table, only to be held back from doing so by both the fight’s promoter and his own wife.

“You’ll get your hands on Kenny, we’re just not going to have this address tonight” Wilbur responds, offering reassurance to the dissatisfied brawler who’s too light-headed to provide much of a rebuttal. “Has he been drinking tonight? He could’ve gotten a Mickey Finn” the doctor proposes, only for the gesture to be waved off by the fighter, who continues to sit with dissatisfaction, but is successfully gestured to remain seated.

“It doesn’t matter what happened, we’ll reschedule tonight’s address until next week” Norman responds, standing with his arms crossed in the doorway to the room, “he will not be allowed to drink before the address, and we’ll keep him away from the public until showtime.” Looking toward his taller, one-armed friend in silence at first, Jesse holds back his interjection as the room goes quiet, providing something pleasant enough for each of the inhabitants to accept other than himself.

“No, if yous got Micky Finned, I wanna know who’s guilty!” the bachelor of the three proclaims, stepping between Stan and Cathy to approach the well-dressed public speaker. “Yous got someone going around and drugging your fighters. There better be nobody wanting more to find out who did this than yous” Jesse states, pointing his finger in the direction of the sighing showman.

“I know I wear many different hats, but that truth doesn’t extend to my profession. I’m not a detective, Jesse” Wilbur retorts, watching as his drugged fighter’s wife gently pulls their bachelor pal away from the wealthy show-stealer. “I doubt we’d come anywhere close to finding out who’s responsible for this, but if we did manage to pull off a miracle-” the extravagant businessman explains, only to find himself interrupted by the sound of a distant voice emerging from behind Norman.

“What about Kenny’s new friends?” Velma inquires, holding a set of papers close to her chest with crossed arms, gaining the full attention of those inside of the room. “Why would Kenny want to Micky him tonight? Wouldn’t he wait until the actual fight?” Stan questions back, struggling to find any motivation for the odd timing. “Are Kenny and his new friends still around?” Norman inquires, genuinely intrigued in getting to the bottom of this dilemma.

“They were supposed to stick around for post-address comments, but I was told they were just about to leave” Velma answers, watching Norman immediately drop his reserved posture and politely squeeze past her, venturing deeper into the building with his mind set on answers. “Who are Kenny’s new friends?” Jesse questions aloud, wanting an answer to the question that he had been refused the day prior.

“I’m under strict order by Mr. Ritter not to tell you who-” Velma begins to reply, only to be cut off by her employer’s voice. “Arthur and Willard. The big guy and his smaller friend that he brought to commencement night the other month” Wilbur interjects, shrugging his shoulders and swaying his head from one side to the other at his newest employee, “I’m sorry to steal your limelight, Velma. I’m not too bothered with discretion in light of tonight.”

“No need to apologise, sir. Most of our clientele is incredibly wealthy and there aren’t even many people betting against Jimmy in the first place” Velma assures, stepping further into the hospitable and clean sideroom. “As far as motivation, there isn’t really one present for tonight. If this were a fight night, it’d make more sense to weaken Jimmy. But not an address event” the woman carries onward, “there aren’t many suspects with adequate motivation to attempt a Micky Finn.”

“If they’re the ones who did this, I want to fight the small one that Jimmy beat a few weeks ago on the same night of the Kenny fight” Jesse remarks, calling his shot without the need for further information, drawing conclusions where they’re important. “Velma’s already told you about the ‘side versus side’ promotion, so I’m all-too-inclined to give you that fight and make it a spectacle” Wilbur responds, addressing the bachelor before redirecting his focus upon the man seated on the table.

“Go home, get rest, and keep away from Kenny and his pals” Wilbur orders, listening to the rummaging of the doctor’s hands through the set of tools he uses in his practise. “My orders to refrain from getting involved with Kenny until I say so remain in place. I will cut you out of this completely if you-” he doubles down, unable to finish his command before the professional’s patient vows his understanding.

“You don’t need to worry about m-” Jimmy responds, attempting to climb off of the table before his knees immediately give out, throwing his body into the awaiting arms of his wife and boss. Struggling to get the man back to the patient’s table, the pair remain silent to allow the ironic follow through of their brawler’s statement. “You were saying, sir?” Wilbur sarcastically replies, earning a defeated glare, the drugged bruiser fighting to regain his breath as he rolls his eyes.

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“He’ll be off his feet long enough for the address to get postponed” Arthur replies, walking behind his taller friend as their grey-haired accomplice remains to his left. “As long as I have time to do some digging on the fighters this Saturday, that’s all I need” Kenny assures, brushing shoulders with members of North America’s elite as he passes them by, allowing his new mountain of an acquaintance to lead the way through the crowd and toward the building’s front doors.

“Why not just let us get a good shot in on him instead?” Arthur questions back, unsure of the motivation behind taking such a civilised approach, “he’d be banged up well and good for your fight.” Shaking his head dismissively, Kenny stares forward and parts his lips, attempting to speak before apologising to the rich lady that he accidentally bumps into mid-step.

“Because I don’t want Jimmy hurt, I simply needed to buy more time” the grey-haired mastermind answers, squinting his eyes as he struggles to focus on the direction in which they head, surrounded by dim, mood lighting on all sides of himself. “Rota’s fighting this Saturday, and if I can get a little bit of time with him man-to-man, he might go for my plan” he continues, his each word striking his scheming partner’s bemused ear.

“Why do we need to add Rota to all of this? I thought the point of pairing up was to get rid of Jim’s numbers advantage?” Arthur questions back, keeping his head low and voice more subdued, not wanting those that they pass to overhear as the exit grows closer. “If we can add him, that’d be great. But that’s not the plan that I was talking about” Kenny corrects, drawing further puzzlement from his fellow traveller.

“You have a second plan? What for?” Arthur questions, their shared dialogue being passively overheard by the tower of a human that they follow for added leverage in splitting through the audience. “Because our alliance serves a purpose beyond the fight with Jimmy” Kenny responds, lifting one hand from his side whilst his contemporary tucks both into his pockets, the older, long-haired brawler gesturing to each of the three men in their group including himself.

“If we stick together, we’ll have an advantage over almost every other fighter that Wilbur can throw into that cesspool of a fighting ground” the intelligent and stubborn aggressor remarks, “but I want more than to just even the odds against Jimmy. I want an advantage of my own.”

“And how exactly do you plan on doing tha-?” Arthur questions back, embracing the heat of the Pacific Northwestern night as they step through the building’s front doors, entering the sweltering evening as he’s interrupted by the grasp of a hand on his dominant arm. Torn free from his pocket with the medicine bottle in his palm, the hand of the party responsible for tonight’s early conclusion to the address is shown to the world with evidence to boot.

“Your tall friend is a lot easier to notice than you must’ve thought to think you could leave our building without being seen” Norman comments, snatching the bottle from Arthur’s hand before the criminal can be given the chance to drop it, hoping for the shattering of it into bits to be capable of exonerating him from whatever charges their employers may see fit.

“Did the three of you think you could just Micky another fighter and nothing would happen?” Norman questions aloud, prompting the ringleader of the circus that he interrogates to approach with a scowl. “If anything, you should count yourself lucky that we didn’t go through the traditional route of taking our enemy out at the knees instead” Kenny retorts, getting in the face of the slightly-shorter businessman, “we got what we wanted without Jimmy having to walk around with a black eye or a cast on his leg.”

“What exactly was it that you wanted out of tonight, Ken? What was all of this about?” Norman questions back, sliding the hand he carries the bottle with into his pocket to protect it from any action of his untrustworthy pals. “We just needed the address rescheduled to another night. You’d told us about it after you started shelling out admission” Kenny argues, defending his stance without much effect on the stone cold-faced promoter.

“So you thought that drugging one of our fighter’s drinks was going to be the smartest way to-?” Norman questions back, only to receive a scoff and interjection from the opposite party in return. “Wilbur wants to make as much money off of these fights as you do. That requires giving people a reason to show up, and what better way to do that than by using this to promote?” Kenny challenges, defying his employer and standing firm in his position.

Smiling, Norman holds back his laughter for a few seconds as he looks toward the ground, letting it leave his mouth in a subdued, yet noticeable manner. Sliding his left hand free from the slot of his pants to scratch at his skin, the businessman turns his eyes toward the departing crowd of people that, one after another, walk away with their guaranteed refund.

“I know that you and Wilbur have this affinity for Jimmy and his pals because of how much their fights drew the last time around, but I’m not going to stand around and watch the two of you play favourites with-” Kenny begins to continue, only for the weight of Norman’s hand to shove him back, cutting his words off the second that his honour and dignity are called into question.

“Do you see all of the people that you’ve just given a complete refund to?” Wilbur’s right hand man shouts, questioning his fighter aloud as some passersby take a glance in their direction, unable to see for certain what the altercation is about or who is involved, and choosing to carry on with their night. “Your actions lost us money tonight. Unlike Wilbur, I don’t care about the grandeur...” Norman proclaims, taking a step forward to occupy the space that his defiant opposition had just recently been pushed from, “...I only care about profits.”

“Don’t put your hands on him again” Arthur comments, stepping further ahead of their grey-haired leader to now step in the face of the promoter, who presents a wide smile in return. “Who’s going to stop me, you fruity gunsel?” Norman queries, meeting the man’s effort by stepping closer to him, getting in his face just as he had, “I don’t think you understand how fast I can wipe you and your entire family off of the face of the planet.”

“Step back, Arthur” Kenny remarks, extending a hand toward his teammate’s shoulder before finding defiance, the brash and brazen subordinate in this chain of command refusing to follow the orders he’s given. “No, Ken. This guy isn’t going to just get in our face and boss us around like this” Arthur responds, his valiant rebuttal to his employer backed up by the redirection of Willard’s focus, who aids in staring down Wilbur’s partner in crime.

“You mean like a boss? Because I sort of am your boss” Norman replies, unphased by the outnumbering that he faces, caring not for whatever physical altercation he may find in the present knowing what leverage he could wage in its aftermath. “I’ll say it one more time...” Arthur defiantly responds in a near-whisper, getting so close to the promoter’s face that the tips of their noses are no further than five inches apart, the loose cannon’s breath wafting over the businessman’s face.

“...you aren’t going to boss us around.”

Flaring his nostrils, Norman utters not one word as he holds his defiant stare in the face of his aggressors, watching as their leader gradually gets them to back away. “Go wait in the car, I’ll be right there. Just give me a minute” Kenny interrupts, defusing the situation at hand in hopes of preventing any escalation greater than what he was anticipating the evening to hold.

Folding to their leader’s wishes, Arthur and Willard step away, continuing to scowl at the unmoved promoter as they walk toward the vehicle that now waits for them at the side of the curb. “Listen, I don’t have a problem with Jimmy. Bringing those guys over here was just a business call, and pairing up with them is the same thing” Kenny explains, gradually re-earning the full attention of the man whom his disorderly accomplices had irritated beyond the point of disrespect.

“The kid’s a good one and he’s coming from a rough background. I don’t hold ill will toward him the way he holds it for me” Kenny continues, watching as the professional opposite himself remains nearly motionless. “I needed this thing held off for a couple more days at minimum. We decided that this was better than jumping him” the older brawler explains, speaking as if he’s the civilised one in this scenario, “the kid doesn’t deserve that.”

“Do you think that makes what you did any better? Do you think that makes you come across like the good guy here?” Norman questions aloud, a deep squint carried toward the man he shakes his head at. “You brought them here, and Stanley has his arm in a hanger because of it. You’ve teamed up with them, and now Jimmy’s in the infirmary” the businessman rebukes, forcing the grey-haired criminal to bow his head in shame, “if there’s any bad guy in this scenario... it’s you.”

“My wife ran off with our kids and cut off all communication, Norman. Do you know what that does to a man?” Kenny swiftly switches topics, defending himself with whatever he sees fit to. Standing in silence as the comment goes without response, the older gentleman lifts his eyes toward the city’s night sky, trying not to speak with anger in the face of mending fences with the man whom his acquaintances had used the night to put off.

“I don’t blame the kid for that, and I don’t want to see him hurt... but he’s in my way” Kenny remarks, nodding to himself as his fingernails scratch at his stubble-covered chin. “This- the fighting stuff- is what will give me a chance at getting my kids back. Maybe it’ll give me a chance at getting my wife back” the man confesses, at least offering an explanation the promoter can find sympathies for, “I ran her off by finding more time to get to the bottom of a bottle. I can make that right now by making this work.”

“As much as I can appreciate that, I find it hard to feel sorry for someone who’s willing to step on the toes of everyone he comes across for his own interests” Norman replies, only to draw a smirk out of the older gentleman opposite himself. “Oh, come on. Norman, are we really going to pretend like you and Wilbur are doing anything different than me” Kenny rebukes, staring forward with a grin at his employer’s unchanged visage, “how many people have the two of you already walked all over to get where you are.”

“Wilbur and I haven’t even come close to stepping on the last pair of toes we’ll ever need to cross to get what we want...” Norman responds, refusing to finish his thought at that, “...but unlike you, if I were in your shoes- I wouldn’t feel sorry for myself either.” Immediately feeling defeated in the point that he looks to prove, Kenny parts his lips to disregard his intention.

“I’m not trying to get you to-” the man begins to counter, only for silence to leave his lips as his employer interrupts, cutting to the chase without offering the man the space to speak. “You’ve lost us hundreds- maybe thousands- tonight. You’ve driven away people that we can’t guarantee will come back the next time around” Norman points out, refusing to let his newly-minted troublemaker refuse any blame for the evening.

“If you want to keep setting a terrible example for your children by showing them how willing to stab people in the back their father can be- that’s fine with me” Wilbur’s right hand man concludes, returning the point of his finger to the chest of the next big show’s headliner. “But let me make myself clear... you will not lose us money ever again” Norman finishes, taking a step back as he prepares to venture back for the theatre, “the last thing that Wilbur and I need to do is cut you and your friends off because you’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

Turning away, the well-voiced investor in the fighting organisation walks off for the way he’d come, leaving the main eventer to his lonesome whilst the rest of his posse watch on from the car. Wearing a scowl accompanied by furrowed eyebrows and the tip of his tongue pressing against the roof of his mouth, Kenny watches his employer walk off as his loose hairs are blown around by the mid-summer breeze, the evening having come to a close with him receiving what he’d wished for.

== Seattle Noir ==