Risky Business

Depending upon the perspective, you could look at Harley's first few months under the PRIME brand through a couple of different lenses:

1. He managed to find himself in a title match - having impressed the powers that be enough for them to assume that the reward was due.

2. ...But he lost.

1. Right, but then he rose from the ashes like a son of a bitchin' emerald apex of the Gods and, in turn, was rewarded with yet another blockbuster wrestling battle!

2. That emerald apex was Kerry Kuroyama, not Harley. Harley was the guy that was at least six whiskeys in before even entering the ring. He's a disrespectful, shit-talkin', antiquated cowboy who smells like menthol cigarettes, rubbing alcohol, and hygienic self-neglect.

1. Lalalala, buuuuut sometimes the disrespect works, right? Sure, Harley may have been… humbled a bit, but I think it's pretty evident that the best is yet to come. The Poor Whoresmen anyone?

2. Ahhh yes, a man that befriends inanimate objects, Encino Man, and another womanizing, dirty cowboy. This is a perfect environment for a clearly broken, and dysfunctional man, to surround himself in. Good job, Lightning Boy.

1. Fine! But you know what? Everything happens for a reason and Harley? He's been rolling that dice week after week, and now look at the gargantuan that he's facing this week!

2. …Who?

1. Tony Gaaaaaaamble.

2. …What the fuck are you saying right now?

1. I am saying that this is a sign. Harley has taken the gamble over and over again - and PRIME believes in the gamble.

2. Hm. I don't see it. I also don't give a shit about your metaphors.

1. Yeah? I don't think Harley gives a shit what you think.

2. Well fuck you then.

1. No, no - fuck you sir.

__________________________

If you were to find a passage into Harley's brain and then somehow manifested some sort of telekinetic investigative powers to hear how his internal interactions work, the above would be a prime example of what happens. It becomes a toss and turn, two-sided, sleepless effort that borders on schizophrenia - a tiny room filled with a bunch of angry politicians that are just itching to project their opinions against the walls and into the ears of the others that are just as triggered to do the same.

Words, like hope and failure and redemption fly around the confines of that skull like vengeful meteors frothing with flames, desiring nothing more and nothing less than to collide. Emotions, like elation, anger, and care, and carelessness wage their own cosmically cognitive war against each other - all thirsty for attention and willing to sacrifice the rest to be the best; the one that Harley Walker will pay focus to the most.

In wars like these, some things are more powerful than others - more refined, evolved, with further progress invested. For as much as Harley wants to care, his brain abandoned that emotion a long time ago. From the patterns of that subconscious neglect, the worse is always self-anticipated before the best things - before the right things.

Yet, more often than not, Harley doesn't hear those internal angry politicians trying to put value to their point of views. He doesn't pay attention to the amalgamation of words, expressions - the reminders, the look here's and look there's.

It ultimately just turns into noise.

Like a stream train plowing at full speed through one ear canal and out the other, it's overwhelming, punctual, but temporary. If he just closes his eyes and hangs the fuck on for the ride, the noise will tamper off.

Once the steam train of sounds has left the building, Harley will once again open his eyes, let out a deep, deep breath, and realize something very very important - the right choice will always be decided by the man that's somewhat in possession of that brain and all of its intricacies.

And for better or worse, that decision will always bring risk. From that risk, the traffic up there will always be a congested, bumper-to-bumper nightmare. For Harley, you either choose to wade in the wait and wallow in it for the few years you have left on this floating rock, or…

You roll the dice, and you take the fuckin' gamble.

__________________________

Hotel Leonorita Strasbourg, France Formules de Politesse!

At Harley's insistence, Sylvester booked a two-star, two-bed motel for the two of them to share during their stay in France. This was for a few different reasons: 

• Harley doesn't like to be alone for long periods of time; isolation brings back that borderline intolerable noise. 

• He is extraordinarily cheap, stuck in his ways, and has no interest in changing just for the sake of changing. 

• Lastly, lest we forget what happened when Harley decided to be himself at a previous hotel stay. The alcohol consumption erases a portion of his logic - not all of it. 

Thus, much to his tight-lipped chagrin, Sylvester remained committed and followed through on entertaining Harley's desires. For as much as this may be the result of the security that Harley has given; by paying him handsomely to just be there, the root of his intentions always came down to one fact - Sylvester is a lifelong fan that was getting the opportunity to live out a fever dream, albeit a strange one. Because of that, he anticipated the inclement weather that would come with developing a relationship with someone like Harley Walker. He was fully prepared with umbrella, raincoat, and a life preserver just in case the waves got a little too carried away.

He's the businessman that is simultaneously stupid enough and wise enough to take a gamble on a guy who's lost to the house far more times than he's won. In the end, he recognizes that a guy who's willing to get punched in the face over and over and over again and is still willing to get back to see if the next one feels any differently, is the type of guy that will eventually figure out a way to evade those punches and, perhaps, give out a few for a change.

Besides, this was a week of change, as far as Sly is concerned. After having watched Kuroyama rightfully take his client down to poundtown, Sly made the first mistake of assuming that a layover week would be a healthy thing for Harley. Instead, he found himself trapped in the front row of one of the most remarkable spirals that he's ever seen a human being have.

From a memory perspective, the time between London and France looks like a leftover, soggy morning bowl of plain cheerios - melded together to form a blob of indistinction. Harley drank everything he could find, vanished off into the dimly lit foreign streets with just a pair of stained tighty-whities, went missing a handful of times, and eventually threw his friend into his gravy bowl of chaos too.

Over the last seven days, after having never taken a sip of booze in his life, Sylvester had found himself trying to match up with Harley. If he couldn't necessarily control the chaos, the only other option was to link in with it. The Poor Whoresmen haven't added a whole lot of relief from that.

Between Harley's solo adventures that he found himself tagging along for - if only for the sake of making sure his client didn't turn up face down somewhere - he was also attempting to play the wicked games that Harley's brand-new pack of rats enjoy in their spare time.

It wasn't just alcohol though. In fact, Sylvester just tripped on acid three days ago. Acid. Sly even tried his first bump of potentially cocaine and smoked enough weed to keep his hair follicles hot with THC for the next decade. Harley would say - and did say while Sly was hunkering over behind a closed hot dog concession stand crying for a childhood cat that he just recently lost - that experiences are good in moderation. The problem with that is Harley's body no longer understands moderation. It understands getting right and it will accept all forms of tender in order to get there.

Sly's body was simply asking for some water and maybe a sandwich - maybe an early morning brisk walk with a little Elton John's Rocketman playing in the background.

Zero hour, 9:00 AM And I'm gonna be hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiGGGGGGGhhhh.... as a kite by then.

Instead, it was just all of the drugs and all of the alcohol that he needs in order to hit the height level required to get on the rides that are exclusive to the Whoresman and the Whoresman only.

This all sounds terribly sad, but is it? For Sylvester, not so much. For the first time in his life, in fact, he feels alive. He's part of the cool kids, in a weird way. He never thought something like this would ever happen to him. He was the last kid on the bench, the last one to be called on, the last person to be picked on a team - last, last, last - and for once, he actually feels like he might be at least on the heels of feeling like first place again.

Inside of the dingy hotel room, there's two beds at opposite sides. Beyond the beds, a bathroom sink that's covered in dirty towels, an impressive beer bong, and at least a half dozen weed pipes. In one bed, Sylvester attempts to sleep with the tan covers completely over his head. Instead, he's staring into the white haze of a memo pad on his cell phone. It says several things, reading somewhat like an in-the-moment diary and a scheduler at the same time.

1. Time to get back into the swing of things. You had fun. It's time for business. Get your head in the game, Sly baby.
2. Fitness centers. Find them. Schedule them in advance so that it's one less thing to think about while on tour.
3. Try to convince Harley to start considering his dietary habits in an effort to get Lightning Boy back in form so that he doesn't get decimated by Tony Gamble.
4. And, it begins...

What began?

Well, there's three knocks at the front door. That's followed by that door creaking open.

"Well Gosh damn, you don't expect much when you dial a random number spraypainted on the side of a French traincar. Clementine, am'I'righ?"

If you didn't already know, Harley does whatever he wants whenever he wants.

He is going to gamble it all before he even dares consider turning away from it.

He's also unreasonably unpredictable and extraordinarily low-key about it all. At least, to a certain point. This is when the door shuts, followed by a clattering of high heels that are seemingly made out of porcelain, and then - bed springs. There's bit of a russlin', a few giggles, and then Harley gasps.

"Now that hurt damn it. Slow it down baby. Let's work into all of that crazy French shit..."

Sylvester immediately shuts his phone off and tries to remain quiet. He processes the situation and starts to feel a rush of panic once he recognizes that he there's absolutely no way out of this. Through the slightest of whispers, a hiss of that panic slips through - 'what do I do, what do I do, what do I do' - but there was nothing. He would simply have to close his eyes and hide there until everything was safe.

That's difficult to do, of course, and Sly fails miserably in his attempt. In fact, the miserable failure times nearly flawlessly with the commencement of horrifying copulation. And it's strange, even to Sly's ears. There are moments where it sounds like Harley and the French Hooker might actually be fighting - growls, huffs and puffs of a man that's likely to be at the working stages of emphysema, and shrieking exclamations from our dear lady.

"Oh mon Dieu, frappe mon point G vieux fils de pute!" 

And this just gets louder, more aggressive, more French. 

"Oui oui, point G, oui!" 

Sylvester, now sedated to the sounds of Harley getting his rocks off, is now far more concerned that one of the strained springs is going to unlink at such force that someone is bound to lose their life - including, and most importantly in this case, his own. Still, the audio bath is torturous and Sly can't help but feel like he doesn't quite deserve this treatment. Then again, Harley also didn't know that he was awake.

After a couple more minutes of sounds only bears make when they're starving and sad, there was an anticlimactic climax (basically a dragged out, monotoned, gruffy uggggggggh) followed by a gap of silence. Sylvester turns his phone on - his eyes darting around while he considers whether or not this is the right time to poke his head out of the covers.

Of course it isn't - Clementine hasn't even left yet.

Sylvester returns back to his memo pad, now tossing and turning between a state of fluster and frustration.

1. Okay. Listen out for the clothes... there's the rummaging... probably clothes, right?
2. There's the clickety clack. High heels. So that was her putting her clothes on them. And maybe she wore her high heels during it? Why are you worried about what Harley prefers? Yes, high heels. Okay. Wait for the damn door.
3. Still waiting for the door. They're whispering or licking each other's ears or something. I want to die.
4. Door! Door! The door has OPENED! Come on. Get her the fuck out of here, Harley. Please.
5. There's the creaaaaaaaaak

Sylvester tosses his phone aside, sits up, and pulls the blanket away from his head.

Only to get two eyes full of Harley's ole' Johnson and Beans.

"Are you fuckin' kidding me right now, Harley?" Sylvester says as calmly as he says just about anything and pulls the cover back over his head.

"What's the problem, partnah?"

Through the muffled protection of the covers, Sylvester tries to calmy explain.

"When you insisted on us staying in the same room, I respected that a lot of this had to do with the fact that you wanted the company. I dig it, buddy. I am all there for you on that front, and you know that. That being said, I have absolutely no interest in seeing your penis and I probably have less interest in ever hearing you have intercourse again."

As the faint smell of menthol cigarette smoke starts to find its way through the burn holes on Sly's covers, Harley lets out a laugh. "Relax little man, I put the rebel back in its cage for now. He's had enough fun - and now we've got real business to tend to."

Sly trusts Harley enough to pull the covers away again.

He was also sort of suffocating, so it's out of necessity as well.

Regardless, the word "business" coming out of Harley's mouth - after the week and a half they've had - is music to his ears.

With a smile, he starts to nod his head. "Dude, I am so on board with that. It's been..." Sly lets out a giggle that could have easily been a quick cry if he really focused on it enough. "It's been a wild time over the last week. I mean, really, I appreciate you opening my eyes to a lot of things that my mother told me were the doings of the devil and his... devilers? But, I agree, it's time we start creating some momentum."

Sly catches a quick whiff of the room, subconsciously instructing him to cover his mouth and nose with his hand as sneakily as possible. Thankfully, Harley doesn't recognize that because he's too busy pulling the pillows to find the bottle of rum he tucked in there for a nightcap.

"You know, with everything that went down with Kerry - and we won't go there right now because it's a new day and all that - but I think we really need to hunker down and take these next few weeks as seriously as we possibly can."

"Shit, I can't agree with you more hoss. It's time to take the big jump."

"Tony Gamble."

"The Eiffel Tower."

"I'm sorry?"

Harley is sat upright again, with his bottle of rum clenched around his fist and resting on his lap.

"That's right. The Eiffel Tower."

"But... you're going against Tony Gamble in a matter of days Harley."

"Fuck that little shithead." Harley takes a gulp of his rum before placing it down on his lap. "Fuck him so much that the only thing I'm even going to take into consideration before..." Harley takes another sip. "Before I walk into that ring and smash out what little bit of value that's left in a legacy that's last way, way too long for me to still consider him an absolute strange, even as I walk through the same aisles as him... is his last name."

Sly bats his eyes, trying to do more mathematical equations and failing as quickly as he starts. "Why... are we worried about his last name?"

"Oh, I ain't worried about his last name. It's the only Goddamn thing that I'm intrigued by. In fact, it's got me in the mood to roll the dice a little bit while we're here. We can thank him for that after the match - depending upon the outcome 'course - but for now, it's going to be our tackling fuel." 

"Look Harley, we've had tons of fun. We've put ourselves through fuckin' everything. Can't we just find a fitness center, get ourselves a healthy lunch, and find some sort of fucking balance in this hedgemaze of nightmares?"

Harley takes another swig of his bottle of rum, and then takes a second to look at the label -

Before tossing it into the radiator, smashing it into a hundred different pieces.

Sly lifts his arms in panic and reacts how you would expect him to react. "Harley! What the f---what are you doing?!"

Harley gets to his feet, whose frame can feel far more daunting when it's facing you - and it definitely doesn't feel like anything that just happened was for the sake of comic relief.

"What we did? Fun? That wasn't fun. That was the fuckin' gamble. That's the thing that a guy like Tony don't know a thing about. He doesn't know how to get his sack in gear and fuckin' go for it, which may be why I don't know jack shit about him, won't know jack shit about him until I've got his head vice-locked around my arms. Well son, let me tell you something right now - I ain't in it to be forgotton. I ain't in it to fuckin' let the skin of my legacy turn leathery and discolored. Let him do that - let him play fraud to even his last name - so that a fuckin' Walker, a Whoresman, can risk it all on my worst days better than he could ever on his greatest."

Harley gets a little closer to Sly - enough to start poking his chest.

"You think these things that I've put you through is fun? This is called living. We are riskin' it all because we ain't got a clue was all is anyway. Everything you see, Tony himself sees, Myles saw, is just a material. If you're here for the sake of material, then go dig your hole and lay in it now. If you're here for the sake of livin'-"

The poking has increased has actually grown in its intensity as well.

Whether Harley realizes that or is experiencing an adrenaline block is up for debate - but Sly doesn't like it.

"Then you're here to risk it all, no matter the costs, no matter the fuckin' feats, no matter the stakes. You bear down and make whatever the challenge is your bitch."

Suddenly, a kneeling Sly smacks Harley across the face.

Yes, this has just happened - and the silence is enough to hear the blood flowing inside of you.

Then... they both start to nod.

Harley mentions it again. "Eiffel Tower?"

Sly swallows hard and closes his eyes for a moment before opening them back up. "I don't know what that means, Harley."

Harley smiles. "Maybe that's a good thing."

6 Hours Later - The Eiffel Tower - like, the top of it. 

Harley and Sly, both intoxicated, have somehow managed to reach the peak of the Eiffel Tower.

They also have bungee suits on.

This is pretty weird.

Harley, through the loudly rustling winds, screams over to Sly.

"REMEMBER WHAT I SAID HOSS. IT'S 1, 2, 3 JUMP - THEN 1, 2, 3, PULL."

Sly turns his head with the goofiest smile you've ever seen for a guy that's sitting on the highest steel ledge of one of the greatest landmarks in the world and gives a thumbs up. Still, he attempts to clarify.

"SO... LIKE... 1 2 3 AND THEN JUMP... OR 1 2 3 AND THEN JUMP ON THREE."

"WHAT'S BETTER FOR YOU?"

[Contemplation.]

"ON THREE!"

"OKAY. SHIT THIS IS NUTS. YOU ARE THE CRAZIEST FUCK I'VE EVER MET. HERE WE GO! 1, 2, 3!"