S2, E9 | A One Way Ticket to Win or Go Home

\ Seattle - 1930 /
\ Wednesday, 29th October 1930 /

Peering out from around the stage’s curtain, Kenny looks into the civilised audience with contempt, knowing what they’d shown up for and what they want out of him. With a glass of ice water in his hand, the man takes a brief swig as he takes down the beverage, feeling his throat cool just as the air seems to.

In the same breath, the hairs on the man’s spine begin to rise, reacting to the chill that runs down his spine as he backs away from the divider between himself and the stage ahead, turning toward the corner he’d been told to wait patiently in. His breaths shaky and uncomfortable, the man violently swipes his head through the air as he shakes it in refusal, forcing himself to take another swig as his hand begins to tremble, a few drops running down the beard of his chin as his face pulls away from the drink too quickly.

“You’re the reason they’re here, Kenny... You are” the man sighs, spinning around to again approach the curtain, setting his sights on the crowd of people who he couldn’t find more deplorable and irritating if he tried. “You’ve got them to eat out of the palm of your hands... You control them” he whispers, equally angry and disgraced, bitter and motivated to prove a point to himself, “and he’s just going to fire you!?”

Disdainful, the man’s visage wears the judgemental scowl that he offers to the audience as his eyes take toward the men on the stage, his eyes specifically focusing on the one with the long, trench coat sat upon his shoulders. “They put a hole in the ground and you made it a cathedral... You made it a destination...” Kenny carrying his bitter expression back toward the corner of the room, “they can’t replace you.”

Quickly taking another hasty sip, Kenny sets his glass down and wipes the moist palm of his shaky hand against his slacks, approaching the seat he’d been given and collecting the envelope from it. Quickly opening the tab, the grizzled fighter slides a piece of paper with typewriting on it, names, locations, and times all scattered in various places that catch his eye, each labelling carrying the same last name that he owns.

Pulling in a deep breath to steady the rest, Kenny lets free a long sigh as he presses his eyelids shut, lifting his face toward the ceiling as he gently returns the document to the sealment that it came within. Placing his lone belonging back upon the unoccupied chair, the fighter reclaims his glass and approaches the curtain for a third time, bouncing back and forth between his ill feeling for those beyond him and the answers to the mystery of what lays just fingertips away.

Taking down the last of his water, Kenny lets the glass hang by his side as he stares out at the crowd that continues to patiently what for the address’ commencement, the central figures of the stage watching as paying customers pile into the theatre and take their seats. “Neither of them can find any better” the older fighter whispers to himself, shaking his head in refusal before turning it into a nod, assuring himself that his stance is impossible to argue against, “make them see that.”

= 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 =

Holding his stare upon the coupled hands he sits atop the table, Kenny disregards the comments made by the men to his right, their answers to a question being offered as requested. Sitting over his shoulders, the man’s longer, grey locks hang just as his head does, face halfway presented to the audience whilst the rest of his visage holds upon the conference table.

“That is why we’ve decided to put Jesse and Arthur in the position of the co-main event” Norman answers, nodding his head whilst Wilbur stares at the member of the audience who’d raised the inquiry, a discomforting grin carried through his expression. Trying not to move in lieu of his injuries, Jimmy sits upright whilst looking forward, most of his present bruises and cuts having been covered up or bandaged.

Trying to speak as little as he can muster, the unhealthy brawler keeps from swaying in his seat, the stiffened seat he takes being settled into enough that the intense waves of pain find themselves falling mute, satisfied with keeping still for the most part. “This is less about it being Jimmy versus Kenny, and it’s more about two sides at war with each other” Wilbur doubles down, leaning into the microphone with his top hat inching toward his left shoulder, “this reaches far past the issues of two men with each other.”

Paying no mind to the inquiry, Kenny continues to hold his visage toward the table’s surface, his still hands resting against the hardwood finish as his eyelids refuse to draw nearer to each other without first going nearly dry. In a world of his own, the terminated group leader sits within his own thoughts as the people around him do the speaking, his rival not being able to move smoothly enough for him to take concern over any ill-will.

“Greetings, Mr. Ritter. Greetings, Mr. Mountebank” a wealthy businessman in a suit remarks, stepping out from his seat to approach the microphone in the centre of the Commencement Theatre’s staircase, earning a pleasant reaction from the masterminds. “We’re glad to see you joining us for tonight and for the Mercer show, Mr. Dallon” Wilbur replies with a near-chuckle, nodding to the man whilst pulling back in his chair, “how can we be of assistance?”

“I was hearing rumblings that your show is gaining very elusive attendance that I was hoping you could confirm” the incredibly wealthy gentleman inquiries, prompting a smirk to deepen upon the showman’s face, “elusive attendance that could be described as rather... presidential.” Inching further out from his face, Wilbur’s chin pulls away from his upper jaw as he descends upon the microphone once more.

“There may or may not be distinguished guests at the federal level gracing us with their presence on the evening of November 29th” the showman answers with a non-answer, earning both applause and whispered banter from the crowd he addresses. Paying no mind to the shadow confirmation, Jimmy’s concerns fail to take toward those in attendance in favour of focusing on the man he sets out to dismantle one month from this evening.

Not even hearing the question, nor the response paid to it, Kenny remains glued to the palms that sit just inches apart from each other before his eyes, unable to take his mind away from what he’s part of and what awaits him. From within the audience, the three members of his group, sitting shoulder to shoulder, watch on at the trio of people beside their leader, disdain for them and the man at the opposite end of the table from their grey-haired shot caller carried in the eyes of some.

“Good evening” another audience member greets, watching the businessmen on stage nod toward him whilst the fighters remain with demeanours unchanged, “I was wondering what the nature of Jimmy Elliott’s injuries are and how they’ll affect the odds of this fight.” Looking toward the man that stands from within the crowd, Jimmy lets his employers answer the question on his behalf whilst the man who’d caused his ailments remains oddly silent two pairs of shoulders away.

“Jimmy’s injuries are nothing serious. They will be fully healed by the night of the Mercer show” Wilbur assures, shaking his head at any other notion, “the odds for the fight have not changed. Jimmy is still the betting favourite.” Slightly unsatisfied with this answer, the man within the audience remains standing at the microphone, eyes wandering toward the fighter in question before the rest of his head does.

“I want to hear Mr. Elliott say that” the crowd-goer responds, earning the full line of sight from the battered bruiser, “I’d also like to know how he could put himself in a position to sustain these injuries so closely to a fight of this magnitude. It seems rather unprofessional and irresponsible.” Looking toward the table with a grin, Jimmy fights the urge to wince at the pain that the movement of his neck brings, forcing himself to lean into the microphone with the curled lip of humour.

“Kenny House sent the members of his group to attack me outside of my church a little over a week and a half ago” Jimmy responds with a grin, earning a sudden rise in chatter amongst those in the audience. “I don’t care what you do in your free time or how much money you have. If you ever disrespect me with comments like those again, I’ll leave you a cripple” the northeast-originating ruffian warns, grimacing slightly in turning his focus toward his opponent.

“As for the fight at Mercer?” he carries on, pausing as both Wilbur and Norman pull back in their seats, affording the brawler a clear line of sight toward his adversary, “nothing is going to stop me from sending that bastard back to his family in a coffin.” Lifting just slightly, Kenny’s eyes take toward his acquaintances in the audience, looking at them with a glare of intent before setting his eyes upon the opponent in what’s to be his very final fight.

“You’ve crossed a line, and now I will too...” Jimmy declares, locking into a stare with the gentleman at the opposite end of the table, not wanting to be remiss, “I’m going to kill you at Mercer.” Hearing this and instinctively pulling his face toward the audience of various, whispered quips of awe, Kenny stays deep within the trance-like seclusion he’s sealed himself into before those that will be in attendance one month from tonight.

“Care to offer a rebuttal, Kenneth?” Wilbur inquires, briefly regaining the older gentleman’s attention before it pans back toward the audience, catching a glimpse of the four souls that place their devotion in his opponent’s corner as he stares into the sea of wealthy figureheads. In silence, the man turns his sight from one side of the crowd to the other, inspecting the faces that litter it like debris in the street after a controlled demolition.

One after another, people of similar appearances sit shoulder to shoulder with each other, packing together like sardines despite having all the money one could ever wish for. In favour of bidding their presence toward what’s meant to be a monumental address, each well-dressed gentleman and every fashionable young woman huddle en masse just as incredibly poor individuals do when their pay has arrived at the clerk’s office, prompting an odd amusement.

“Kenneth? A response?” Norman doubles down, opening the floor to the devious brawler with a quiet advantage as he again reclaims the older fighter’s attention, but only for a moment. Eventually looking back out to the audience, Kenny sees the variety in style of facial hair within each man whilst also noticing the difference in hats atop the heads of each fair maiden, the depictions of wealth not changing the fact that they’ve gathered together in the name of lusting for spilled blood just as any pauper would.

“You all look pathetic” Kenny murmurs, close enough to the microphone for his words to be carried through the speakers with a pleasant grin on his face. To a mixture of some chuckles and mostly confusion, the audience remains in a hush for the villainous group founder to continue his remarks, unsure of what he means through his insult.

“You sit around and pretend that you’re better than me, but that doesn’t change that you’re still here. You’re no better than the poor that litter the camps just downtown” Kenny continues, further confusing those that almost all hope for clarification as to whether or not he’s serious. “I think you should redirect your ire to-” Wilbur comments with a feigned enthusiasm, extending a hand toward Jimmy before the malicious tone of his unpleasant employee cuts him off.

“If you know what’s best for you... I’d say that you should shut your fucking mouth, Wilbur” Kenny responds, watching the irritated frown that the showman wears hold firm in his direction, failing to concern the man that takes the moment to speak freely. “You’re just a freakshow with grand plans. You belong in the carnival... not in control. You speak of grandeur, but you can’t handle the responsibility of it. You don’t know when you’ve got a good thing going...” the Silver Wolf responds, speaking to a man who remains forcibly silent, “...that’s why you fired me.”

Immediately picking their internalised chatter back up, the audience speaks amongst themselves whilst the stage-occupying businessmen look toward them, unsure of what is to unfold in the wake of these comments. “You look out and see people you want to be mentioned in the same breath as, but what I see are just poor people with money. Blood-thirsty savages! No different!” Kenny proclaims, extending a hand to the mostly-aghast audience, “animals. Filthy animals rotting on the side of the road... all of them.”

“Do not disrespect our clientele, K-” Wilbur attempts to comment, only for the subject of his retort to kick his chair out and rise to his feet, shoving Norman to the side just as he does the same thing before snatching the businessman’s microphone. “Your clientele are pathetic!” Kenny shouts, bursting with rage in the face of the now also-standing showman, who reserves himself as the terminated brawler continues without pause.

“They gather around to watch people beat each other down just like the people living in that Hooverville! The only difference is that they think paying fistloads of green makes this anything more distinguished than a brawl happening in the centre of town!” the older man continues to berate, doing so whilst Jimmy remains seated, watching on without knowing what to make of any comment uttered.

“But they’re all just sitting here shoulder to shoulder. They’ve crammed themselves in here like prisoners of a labour camp! Waiting for people to beat each other to the point of near-death in the least amount of comfort you can provide! Sacrificing it in the name of combat!” Kenny continues, his enraged visage leaning only inches away from Wilbur’s irate scowl, “and they’re doing it all because of me! I’ve managed to get the richest of society to live in the quality of the poorest all just to see me!”

“They’re here to see you get what’s due” Jimmy interrupts, deciding to take his opportunity whilst presented to him, picking up Wilbur’s microphone while moving the man off to the side, getting in the face of his adversary properly. “I’ve got a man sitting in a hanger out in the crowd because of you. I’m wearing the bruises that you ordered me to have. My-” the scarred fighter comments, bringing himself to a pause as he points out toward his wife, too angered to speak at first.

With nostrils flaring, Kenny follows the direction of Jimmy’s extended finger, seeing the still-puffy face of the man’s wife where the tip guides his sight toward. “My wife wears the bruises that you ordered” the battered gentleman concludes, pulling the mic away whilst breathing heavily, trying to keep himself from escalating the address into a fight he knows will prevent him from getting what he wants, gradually setting his sights back toward the man opposite himself.

“Arthur putting his hands on my wife was you putting hands on my wife. That will not fly” Jimmy commands, recentring the tip of his finger toward the older once-labourer before pressing it into his chest, “you’ve had this coming for a-” Making contact with Kenny’s chest, the confrontational fighter throws his palms into the younger, injured rival and shoves him back, nearly taking the man off both feet in the process.

Punching the sides of his chair with each hand, Jesse fires out of his seat like a bullet from a shotgun’s barrel and lunges toward the stage hurrying to the aid of his friend whilst prompting Arthur to do the same. “Raise a hand and you’re gonna die, crumb!” the hot head at Kenny’s right hand proclaims, closing in on his side’s leader just as Jimmy’s pal does, a finger raised in the direction of his own opponent whilst the wounded church goer holds him back.

“Yeah, sit down! Listen to the cripple, prick!” Arthur prods, watching as Wilbur and Norman place themselves between the two sides as the crowd gasps in astonishment, unsure of what they’re about to witness unfold. “Gentlemen! Hey, gentlemen!” the showman proclaims in a shout, trying to get the attention of Jimmy and Jesse as Willard approaches the stage, his mountainous frame supporting those he’s chosen to align with, “I need you to settle down. You’re outnumbered and we need these fights.”

“They can bring everyone they want, it don’t matter! They’ve had this coming!” Jesse shouts, trying to push past his friend as Jimmy’s hand continues to wrap around his front, holding him at bay. “It’s three against two, you schmuck! Can’t you do the fucking math!?” Arthur howls back, amusing his imposing-frame pal whilst refusing to back down.

“Jess, it’s not worth it. We’ll get our hands on the bastards in a month” Jimmy comments, his words only overheard by the man he restrains and the showman employer just nearby, “we’ve waited this long, another month won’t...” Looking past Jesse’s head whilst he speaks, the injured fighter’s comments come to a sudden stop as his thoughts seem to fade into oblivion, looking back to the row of his friends in the audience with a widening in his stare, prompting the group’s bachelor to do much the same.

Just as the rest of the audience does, Velma partakes in the whispering of concerns and quandaries at the scene that appears to unfold, losing civility rapidly before she joins the crowd in going silent. Their smack talk falling aside just the same, Kenny’s group centres their focus on the same sight as their adversaries, quickly prompting Norman to do the same just as his showman partner proceeds.

Standing up from his seat with an intense scowl on his face, Stan gently pats the hand his wife places on his shoulder reassuringly, nodding to her as he steps forward. Unsure what to make of this display aside from commendable loyalty, the audience continues to watch as even the figures on the stage go quiet, not knowing what to make of the unhealthy visitor’s advancement.

“We’ve got it covered here, Stan. Go back to your seat and don’t-” Jimmy assures, quickly stepping past Jesse in favour of addressing his larger pal whilst approached, the recovering brawler’s feet already ascending the steps to the stage. Pulling his wounded arm over his head, Stan frees himself of the sling that drapes itself over his neck and uses his wounded arm to push Jimmy back into the frey alongside him, tired of sitting on the sidelines and waiting for what he can’t have.

“Shut up, Jim. Let’s go” Stan defies, redirecting Jimmy back toward the scene of chaos that he now occupies, surprising the businessmen that watch whilst putting the audience into a collective awe. “It’s three on three, you fuckin’ cinderdicks!” the late arrival to the confrontation shouts, leading the charge by pushing past his pals and approaching Kenny’s group, watching as Willard steps out from behind his shorter friends and meets him halfway.

Having been unable to make sense of what was unfolding, Stan’s declaration puts the crowd into an uproar, their screams of jubilation filling the theatre as both sides truly present their best fronts. Stepping back instinctually, Wilbur joins Norman in watching Jimmy and Jesse follow their much taller friend’s lead, approaching the group and getting in the faces of Kenny and Arthur respectively.

As if the address had become the actual fight itself, the audience breaks into pandemonium as the warring sides press their foreheads together, aware that any punch- as enticing as it is- will ruin what they seem to be in line for. Sending the crowd into a fit of howling cheer, the warring sides continue to confront each other whilst Wilbur pulls Norman off to the side, unable to wait for the scene to die down.

“Run over to accounts and put Stan and Jesse-versus-Arthur and Willard on the card NOW!” the showman declares, earning a nod from his partner, who storms off in favour of the building’s depths and leaves Wilbur to push through the two groups, separating them as best as he can. “Let them fight!” one very loud gentleman screams from the audience, hearing the earth shake and quiver as the unified mod’s feet slam against the ground with anticipation, the public collectively foaming at the mouth to see hands thrown as a preview of the war Mercer is set to host.

|

Stepping behind the curtain angrily, Kenny stuffs the envelope into his bag and throws it over his shoulder, the first to retreat to the backstage whilst the rest of his group follows similarly. “Don’t worry about the cripple. Willard here is gonna put him out of commission for good” Arthur comments, following after the man that leads their group as he readies himself to leave, curious about the man’s reserved demeanour.

“Kenny. Why do you look like you’ve seen a fuckin’ ghoul?” Arthur wonders aloud, watching the leader of their posse look wildly around the room without responding, “I just told you we’re gonna take care of it.”

“Where the hell is Wilbur?” Kenny asks instead, tapping his shoe along the ground as he begs the question to either member of his group, looking for a response before catching a third set of legs approaching. “I think he walked off with those fuckin’ dicks, why?” Arthur questions back, turning his body to face the direction his shot caller’s eyes venture in.

“Are you a part of this group or is this just about the pay to you?” Kenny questions aloud, stepping past Arthur and looking past Willard to the fourth wheel of their faction, the well-built gentleman’s calm demeanour and composed attitude drawing the ire of the older brawler. “The three of us were up on that stage, so where the hell were you?” the business-intent leader doubles down, wanting an answer out of the man that stands in the doorway.

“The three of you put their big guy in a hanger, and the three of you made the call to jump their boy” Rota answers with both hands tucked into his pockets, “as far as I’m concerned, I wasn’t a part of making those calls. Your problem with them isn’t my business.” With a smirk, Kenny nods his head before looking toward the room’s second exit, intent on walking off to set out for the showman.

“We make a call as a group and it’s everybody’s business. You’re either part of this group or you’re not. If you are, what we do is what you do” Kenny declares, walking past Willard to confront Rota directly, stopping a short distance from the man’s frame, “are you with us?”

Making a conscious effort not to smirk at the man’s decree, Rota looks off to the side and thinks to himself, allowed to do so by the leader that doesn’t intend on going anywhere without an answer at the very least. “Let me ask you something, Kenny. If I had told you not to attack Jimmy, what would you have done?” the group’s muscular insurance policy inquires, not needing long before the grey-haired man shakes his head with a shrug.

“Three against one. Democracy rules. We jump the bastard anyway” Kenny responds, remaining honest and to the point in his comments, only to watch as the fourth wheel shrugs himself, taking the answer as his own. “I guess you and I don’t really see eye-to-eye on how this thing is supposed to work” Rota confesses, stepping back the way he’d come with sights set on showing himself out, only for the sound of the older man’s voice to call him back like a whisper in the night amidst the presence of nothing but one’s self.

“If you’re not with us...” Kenny comments, pausing as the larger gentleman turns back, waiting to hear out the man’s claim, “...then you’re against us.” His expression unchanged, Rota stands in the doorway silently, staring at the face of the leader for a few seconds before looking back toward the hallway, nodding to himself before following through on his departure, offering not a single word as he retreats, seemingly offering the trio his conclusion.

|

“When were you going to tell us this?” Wilbur wonders aloud, standing before the apparently healthy man that uses his once-immobilised arm to hold Josephine tight. “The doctor told me to take another two weeks to do light work, but I’ll be good to go by the time Mercer comes around” Stan responds, pleasing the rest of his group with the news of his recovery, “I’m done sitting around while my friends watch those cinderdicks run around like they own the place.”

“Will your arm hold up well enough against Willard? Or are we setting ourselves up for disaster by putting you up against-?” Norman proceeds to inquire, sitting in the corner of his partner’s office before being cut off. “His arm is going to be broken worse than it was all those months ago” Kenny interrupts, entering the office to the immediate rise in tension from those within it.

“I’m just being honest. Willard is not going to take it easy on you” the intruder doubles down in a calm tone, holding both hands out as a show of good faith, aware that those inside the showman’s office have the same non-violent orders as his group does. “The address is over. Leave this room and do not let me see you until-” Wilbur rebuttals, approaching the grey-haired troublemaker with fury before being forced to stop in his tracks, hearing the flick of the invasive brawler’s switchblade swipe through the air.

“I’m not leaving this office until you’ve heard what I have to say” Kenny responds, earning a groan from Norman as the man’s head leans back, shaking with disapproval as he stares toward the heavens. “It’s bold of you to assume that I don’t have a gun in my desk that I can put you down with right now” Wilbur corrects with a half-grin, too amused to keep on the enraged visage that he wears.

“Neither of us like each other, but we both know that I’ve contributed more than enough to prove that you should want to hear what I have to say” Kenny responds, offering a rejoinder that the criminal plotter fails to find much of an argument for. Keeping his thoughts to himself at first, Wilbur’s semi-lowered bottom lip insinuates that his intentions are to reply, only for its return to that of the one above to suggest he’s willing to provide the unappreciated visitor with what he asks for.

Standing side-by-side-by-side, Jimmy, Cathy, and Jesse hang by the window side of the office whilst watching the grandeur-tongued entrepreneur silently entertain the not-so-voluntary request. “You can’t deny that I know how to work that audience. You know that everything I said about them tonight was true” Kenny begins, lowering the tip of his dagger now that he’s been given the floor, returning it to his belt, “at their very hearts, they’re just the same as every scrappy, pissed off vagrant in that camp downtown.”

“What’s your point, Kenneth?” Wilbur sourly retorts, arms still hanging by each side with fingers slightly curled, wanting to close into fists whilst remaining open out of simple investment which the presenter cannot control. “You can pretend that Jimmy is the guy you’re supposed to build this around, but he means nothing to you. Put him against a nobody and no one will care to watch his fight” Kenny replies, gesturing for the showman to redirect his gaze toward the man in question.

“He doesn’t understand the crowd like I do. Put a nobody against me and I will make them care. I will make them show up” the older man doubles down, watching Wilbur’s face take toward the brawler off to his side. “He wins, I’ll give him that. But he will not make you money. He will not fill that pit with people” Kenny assures, watching every face in the room- his own included- turn toward Jimmy, “Arthur was the reason his first fight caught eyes. I’m the only reason people care about this fight now.”

“Are you suggesting that I build this empire around you instead?” Wilbur questions back, watching the unchanged expression and demeanour of his uninvited guest hold itself toward him. “I can’t trust you enough to employ you, and you want me to build everything around you?” the showman continues, struggling to find anything more than fault in the proposition levied, “how do you want me to respond to that?”

“By letting me prove that I’m worth keeping around even if it’s a pain in the ass that you force yourself to endure” Kenny answers honestly, surprising Wilbur with how easily the reply was offered. “If I lose in Mercer, you cut me off. Let me go and give me the kiss off” the Silver Wolf doubles down, pointing toward the man he’ll do battle with in four weeks time, “but if I beat the kid, you keep me on and let me take care of putting people in their seats.”

Looking toward the ground without certainty over whether or not the risk is worth the reward, Norman lifts his eyes toward the squinting lids of his partner in crime, holding out hope that he’ll make the call this time just like he did the last. Pressing his tongue against the top of his molar tooth, Wilbur veers his head toward his friend of similar wealth before looking back to his visitor, holding the stare for another few seconds before looking back.

Straight-faced, Jimmy locks eyes with Wilbur as they stand in silence, not only going without speaking, but outright refusing to utter a word. Nodding to himself with grace, the showman relocates the scruff-covered face in front of himself and lifts his chin with an intrigued glare. “You’ve got one more chance” the artiste concludes, sliding both hands into the pockets of his elongated coat, “win or go home... no other choice.”

== Seattle Noir ==