Post by Prolapsed Wrecked 'em on Aug 4, 2009 3:27:05 GMT -5
Doctor Torres’ amazing emergence in the middle of Whisky A Go Go threw Dragon into a tailspin he was never expecting. I mean, sure, he knew she was hot and always thought of bending his therapist over her desk, but did he ever actually think he’d have the possibility? After all, this woman had already drugged him and called him an asshole so many times that he was certain she’d rather put a bullet between his eyeballs than receive his throbbing manhood between her thighs. Then again, that’s why they call it “hunting.” If it were easy, it’d be something more like “shooting barrels into fish” or whatever the ridiculous saying is.
Regardless, Dragon did not receive the sweet satisfaction of drilling his therapist. Rather the contrary. This “dark side” of Dr. Torres that he had drawn out only lent itself to further and more demonic therapy sessions that Mickey Dragon surely enjoyed. After all, when dealing with a psychopath, one has to think like a psychopath from time to time. But still the questions remain about Dragon’s childhood and the horrid statement he made some weeks ago. His confession of murdering his mother twenty years ago. That would’ve made him in his teens, just before diving head first into the world of professional wrestling. What could have possessed him to bring harm to the woman who birthed him… and better yet, what would make someone like Jezebel Saint bring forth these horrid memories of his childhood in the first place?
The camera fades into a busy LA street in the southern suburb of Compton. In the foreground we see the sign of Lincoln Memorial Park, a cemetery where thousands of people have laid loved ones before and where, this afternoon, we find a precession entering the park. Led by the black hearse, dozens of cars follow, all with their lights on and the flag on the antennas. People dressed in black and gray step out of their cars as the hearse comes to rest at the top of a hill just a few hundred feet from the camera. The freshly dug grave still has the pile of earth at one side. Tactful.
A few larger men, all African American in black suits, approach the rear of the hearse as the pastor walks with the female members of the family up the hill toward the gravesite. An older woman, maybe in her mid-fifties, clutches a bible in one hand and the arm of the pastor in the other, openly weeps as “her baby” is being pulled from the hearse in the large black coffin covered in dozens of white roses. To the older woman’s left is a younger woman dressed in black with a black veil clutching two small children in each hand. Behind this family walks dozens of people away from the camera toward the gravesite.
The burial begins but is unheard. From the left side of the camera enters Mickey Dragon, dressed in a black button-down shirt with a blood red tie and black slacks above his black combat boots. His bald head is glistening in the California sun and this certainly excessive amount of clothing for such a day. Hanging from his lips is a lit cigarette that he quickly removes and exhales the cloud of toxin into the air. He stops before the camera to lean against a concrete wall separating the cemetery from the busy city street behind him. As a drop of sweat falls from his brow to the ground, he takes another long drag of the cigarette.
“I wasn’t much older than them when my father died.” Dragon says referring to the children walking with their mother. “He was a decent guy too, what I remember of him. He’d go to work, work his knuckles to the bone setting up framework for office buildings and schools and shit like that. He’d come home and my mother would always have dinner on the table fifteen minutes after he got home. Fifteen minutes would give him enough time to put his keys down, take off his boots, kiss me and my sister on the head, and ask us how our day was.”
Dragon again takes a long drag of the poison inhaling deeply and crinkling his face a bit before continuing. “Ya know, I never thought about it, but I take so much more after my mother than I do my father. I mean, he was a good man and I wonder what he thinks about the fact that his son grew up a psychotic bastard. What do you think?”
The camera spins quickly around to find the stunningly gorgeous Dr. Torres leaning against the wall with a lit cigarette pressed between her lips. Her black rimmed dark sunglasses cover her entire eye socket as well as half her forehead as she turns and looks at Dragon. “I think you need to keep talking” she snaps at him without moving the cigarette an inch. The ash falls from the end of it on its own, plummeting to the ground and exploding just to the left of her left foot which is adorned by black Steve Madden boots. “I could care less what you father thinks of you right now. I think you should give a fuck less too.”
The camera turns around again to look at Dragon who has taken another drag of his cigarette and removed a flash from… somewhere. He unscrews the top and offers some across the cameraman’s body to the doctor, who obviously brushes him off. Dragon shrugs, takes a long swig of the liquor and grimaces before shaking his head and taking another drink.
“That’s the shit” he sneers at it before screwing the top back on with his right hand. “We had a funeral not that dissimilar from this. Although, there weren’t any black people here… and it wasn’t in California… and it was raining.”
“So what you’re saying is that it was nothing like this” jokes Doctor Torres off-screen.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right” agrees Dragon as he slides the flask into his hip pocket. Can’t imagine how that stays cold inside his pocket, but then again, it might not be cold at all. “Anyway, my mother was a fucking wreck and our grandmother was even worse. My sister and I --”
“What’s her name anyway? Just so I can put a name to this fucking character of this story you’re telling me.” Torres interrupts as if this is some fictitious fairy tale Dragon is telling her.
“Sariah” Dragon puts bluntly.
“What is that… Jewish?”
“Yeah, but we weren’t Jewish. Crazy enough, my mother thought it was a beautiful name. In Hebrew it means ‘Princess of the Lord’” says Dragon. He flips his cigarette into the grass a few feet in front of him before continuing.“It was a sad day that day. I really don’t remember much. Crazy what you DO remember. I remember playing in the bathroom of the funeral home clogging the toilets in the men’s room simply because nobody was paying attention. Sariah did the same in the women’s room. I bet the people that worked there were pissed.”
”How did he die?”
”Fell off one of the scaffoldings at work and landed half on a truck and half off.”
”Which half landed on?”
”The left half. They say the fall didn’t kill him, though. The tough bastard laid there bleeding for a half hour before anyone found him. The wait was what killed him.” Dragon says, half-hearted into the story anymore.
By this point, the casket is being lowered into the ground and Mickey Dragon has lit another cigarette. The camera turns to Doctor Torres whose face appears to be soaking up the California sun leaning against the concrete wall. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun again, almost as if she’s able to pull the Dr. Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde act as perfectly as anyone. Her piercing have been removed and her shirt is a buttoned-down black blouse with a long black skirt above the boots. She turns and looks at Dragon.
”How old were you?” Her eyes lift upward to meet his for a second and the slightest bit of a smile escapes her lips before quickly lowering her head to the grass.
”Twelve” Dragon responds as they walk back toward the parking lot. “But the worst part wasn’t the fact that I was in middle school and suddenly became the man of the house. The worst part was how my mother took the whole thing and what happened from there.”
The reach the pavement of the parking lot just as Dragon finishes his thought. Both sets of boots begin to thud across the white-hot pavement. The only car in the parking lot is a blacked out Dodge Charger. As they approach the car, Dr. Torres pulls out a set of keys and disarms the alarm before unlocking the doors.
”So you’ve got a match this week you should be focusing for. Not planning out how you’re going to deal with old memories being dredged up.” jokes Dr. Torres as she opens the drivers side door.
”That’s just it…” Dragon begins ”Klaus has no idea what he brought on himself and his friends.”
Both doors slam shut and the camera goes black.
----Some time later-----
[The camera fades into the familiar office of Doctor Torres. The door is closed, the lights are off and the only thing illuminating the room is a few sparsely placed candles adorning the bookcase and desk in her office. She sits back in her chair with her bare feet up on the desk as Dragon lays on the couch a few feet away. Doctor Torres’s hair is now let down and her piercings are back in place. The demonic woman who appeared in the club has returned and, for whatever reason, is continuing to analyze and conduct therapy on Mickey Dragon. Around Dragon’s head is a cloud of cigarette smoke and several crushed cigarette butts on the floor next to the couch explain why. In his left hand, hanging over the back of the couch, is a lit one between his index and middle finger.]
Dragon: That was fun today… seeing someone else’s pain like that. Just a shame I didn’t inflict that one.
Doctor Torres: I’m intrigued on what you can do with the right atmosphere and toys.
Dragon: I’m intrigued on what YOU can do with the right atmosphere… and toys.
[Dragon chuckles a bit before inhaling more of the cigarette. The smoke billows into the cloud above his head and he begins to whistle after enjoying the toxin.]
Doctor Torres: So your mother was a single mother after you were twelve?
Dragon: Only thing she ever remarried was a bottle of Sauza.[/color]
Doctor Torres: Horrible choice.
Dragon: Horrible woman. She’d get hammered right after we left to school and not stop drinking until well after we went to bed. Dinner was an adventure each and every night because, depending on how deeply into the bottle she was, we were eating anything from half-cooked macaroni and cheese to downright raw eggs and flour in an attempt to make us pancakes. I learned to cook by the age of thirteen.
Doctor Torres: What can you cook?
Dragon: What do you wanna eat?
[Doctor Torres mulls that over for a minute, lighting a cigarette of her own. She adds to the plume of smoke in the room as she adjusts herself in the chair.]
Doctor Torres: Fish.
Dragon: Then go find a dirty lesbian.
[The doctor picks up a stapler on the edge of her desk and flings it toward the couch Dragon sits upon, drilling him in the chest. It bursts open and staples fly everywhere, causing Dragon to jump from the couch and brush himself off.]
Dragon: I should’ve seen that one coming.
Doctor Torres: Yeah, you should’ve. But, sit and keep talking, asshole.
[Dragon takes a seat on the couch and kicks the few cigarette butts away from him before continuing.]
Dragon: My mother would find so many interesting things to do when she was drunk between the time we finished dinner and did the dishes and the time we went to bed. Sometimes she would rearrange the furniture in the living room and end up putting the couch in front of the front door and the Lay-Z-Boy in front of the bathroom door. That would become a problem when she decided it was time to revisit the worm and check on her stomach acids. That’d end up on the floor more often than in a toilet bowl.[/color]
[The doctor begins to chuckle at her misfortune, almost wishing she were still alive so she could witness this great feat of stupidity.]
Dragon: Ya know, I’ve never claimed to be a good drunk. In fact, I’m a downright nasty drunk sometimes. But one thing I don’t do is vomit. It shows weakness. But sadly, that’s the one thing I wish I didn’t take from my mother. Her nasty mean streak when she drank. Most of the time she took it out on me, which I didn’t mind. Just made me beat the shit out of guys at school. Before long, I was in high school and the wrestling coach had me to deal with. My mother would find me coming home after practice smelling like teenage angst and gym mats and call me a “piece of shit” for not cooking dinner. Ya gut it out though, cuz, after all, what else do you know?
Doctor Torres: Kids are resilient as you were.
Dragon: But I was also tolerant. I’d let the woman beat on me… and beat on me… and beat on me. It really shows nowadays when my threshold for pain is higher than anyone’s ever seen. Shit, if you could’ve seen some of the shit I’ve gone through…
Doctor Torres: I have. The match in Tokyo?
Dragon: Valid example. I just put myself in the mindframe of a fourteen year old kid getting beat on by their mother and let the pain go elsewhere.
Doctor Torres: So what does this have to do with Jezebel Saint?
Dragon: See, I’m getting to that. One day, I came home from wrestling practice. I was about sixteen and finally had my freedom in my car. My younger sister, Sariah, was stuck at home with the drunkard most afternoons because of practice but I was always home right afterwards. Sometimes, we could even sneak her there so that we could come home together. But one day, coach kicked her out and told her to go home. She was about thirteen and a tiny freshman. She went home and I came home after practice…
[Dragon begins staring at the ceiling, going into some sort of trance. It’s a story he’s never told… a memory he’s long since tucked away inside his twisted mind. It’s something he never thought he’d have to delve into.]
Dragon: to find my sister beaten unconscious with my baseball bat. Her blood was on my bat and my mother sat in the recliner with her bottle and her cigarette. I walked into the living room and saw my beautiful sister bleeding and my mother chuckling and chugging. She looked up at me…
[Dragon extends his index finger to the sky with tears in his eyes.]
Dragon: “I’ll tell them YOU did this” she scowled at me. I couldn’t handle it. I picked up that baseball bat and the next thing I remember, I was standing over my mother’s dead body and my sister was screaming at me to stop. She was bleeding from her eye but was still able to grab the bat and hold me still long enough to get me to come out of the trance.
Doctor Torres: What did you see?
Dragon: Red. I saw my mother’s head bashed into the bathtub and red everywhere. I ran. I ran as fast as I could as far as I could and when my body said that I needed to stop, I ran more. I ran until I collapsed outside a gym and gained my breath. After a little while, the owner came out and found me. I told him my story and he brought me inside for something to drink. His name was Allen. I knew him as Graza and he turned out to be the man who trained me in what I do today.
Doctor Torres: Again, I still don’t see how this correlates to Jezebel Saint.
Dragon: She wants to impersonate my mom. All aspects of it. From the sweet, innocent housewife she once was, to the drunk, cigarette smoking abusive mother she became before I ended my own torture. She wants to dredge all this up? She wants to open this can of worms? This can be arranged and I can be that deranged. I hope Havyn finds solace in knowing that “mommy” isn’t all she claims to be. I hope Havyn doesn’t end up in the same situation Sariah did so many years ago. Havyn doesn’t have anyone to save her from the abusive bitch that Jezebel Saint is.
Doctor Torres: I think she does.
Dragon: I think she does too. It starts at Sentinel with Klaus. Klaus started this shit storm and now it’s time he got what’s coming to him. The man of a thousand nicknames just gained another one. The Target.
[-black-]
Regardless, Dragon did not receive the sweet satisfaction of drilling his therapist. Rather the contrary. This “dark side” of Dr. Torres that he had drawn out only lent itself to further and more demonic therapy sessions that Mickey Dragon surely enjoyed. After all, when dealing with a psychopath, one has to think like a psychopath from time to time. But still the questions remain about Dragon’s childhood and the horrid statement he made some weeks ago. His confession of murdering his mother twenty years ago. That would’ve made him in his teens, just before diving head first into the world of professional wrestling. What could have possessed him to bring harm to the woman who birthed him… and better yet, what would make someone like Jezebel Saint bring forth these horrid memories of his childhood in the first place?
The camera fades into a busy LA street in the southern suburb of Compton. In the foreground we see the sign of Lincoln Memorial Park, a cemetery where thousands of people have laid loved ones before and where, this afternoon, we find a precession entering the park. Led by the black hearse, dozens of cars follow, all with their lights on and the flag on the antennas. People dressed in black and gray step out of their cars as the hearse comes to rest at the top of a hill just a few hundred feet from the camera. The freshly dug grave still has the pile of earth at one side. Tactful.
A few larger men, all African American in black suits, approach the rear of the hearse as the pastor walks with the female members of the family up the hill toward the gravesite. An older woman, maybe in her mid-fifties, clutches a bible in one hand and the arm of the pastor in the other, openly weeps as “her baby” is being pulled from the hearse in the large black coffin covered in dozens of white roses. To the older woman’s left is a younger woman dressed in black with a black veil clutching two small children in each hand. Behind this family walks dozens of people away from the camera toward the gravesite.
The burial begins but is unheard. From the left side of the camera enters Mickey Dragon, dressed in a black button-down shirt with a blood red tie and black slacks above his black combat boots. His bald head is glistening in the California sun and this certainly excessive amount of clothing for such a day. Hanging from his lips is a lit cigarette that he quickly removes and exhales the cloud of toxin into the air. He stops before the camera to lean against a concrete wall separating the cemetery from the busy city street behind him. As a drop of sweat falls from his brow to the ground, he takes another long drag of the cigarette.
“I wasn’t much older than them when my father died.” Dragon says referring to the children walking with their mother. “He was a decent guy too, what I remember of him. He’d go to work, work his knuckles to the bone setting up framework for office buildings and schools and shit like that. He’d come home and my mother would always have dinner on the table fifteen minutes after he got home. Fifteen minutes would give him enough time to put his keys down, take off his boots, kiss me and my sister on the head, and ask us how our day was.”
Dragon again takes a long drag of the poison inhaling deeply and crinkling his face a bit before continuing. “Ya know, I never thought about it, but I take so much more after my mother than I do my father. I mean, he was a good man and I wonder what he thinks about the fact that his son grew up a psychotic bastard. What do you think?”
The camera spins quickly around to find the stunningly gorgeous Dr. Torres leaning against the wall with a lit cigarette pressed between her lips. Her black rimmed dark sunglasses cover her entire eye socket as well as half her forehead as she turns and looks at Dragon. “I think you need to keep talking” she snaps at him without moving the cigarette an inch. The ash falls from the end of it on its own, plummeting to the ground and exploding just to the left of her left foot which is adorned by black Steve Madden boots. “I could care less what you father thinks of you right now. I think you should give a fuck less too.”
The camera turns around again to look at Dragon who has taken another drag of his cigarette and removed a flash from… somewhere. He unscrews the top and offers some across the cameraman’s body to the doctor, who obviously brushes him off. Dragon shrugs, takes a long swig of the liquor and grimaces before shaking his head and taking another drink.
“That’s the shit” he sneers at it before screwing the top back on with his right hand. “We had a funeral not that dissimilar from this. Although, there weren’t any black people here… and it wasn’t in California… and it was raining.”
“So what you’re saying is that it was nothing like this” jokes Doctor Torres off-screen.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right” agrees Dragon as he slides the flask into his hip pocket. Can’t imagine how that stays cold inside his pocket, but then again, it might not be cold at all. “Anyway, my mother was a fucking wreck and our grandmother was even worse. My sister and I --”
“What’s her name anyway? Just so I can put a name to this fucking character of this story you’re telling me.” Torres interrupts as if this is some fictitious fairy tale Dragon is telling her.
“Sariah” Dragon puts bluntly.
“What is that… Jewish?”
“Yeah, but we weren’t Jewish. Crazy enough, my mother thought it was a beautiful name. In Hebrew it means ‘Princess of the Lord’” says Dragon. He flips his cigarette into the grass a few feet in front of him before continuing.“It was a sad day that day. I really don’t remember much. Crazy what you DO remember. I remember playing in the bathroom of the funeral home clogging the toilets in the men’s room simply because nobody was paying attention. Sariah did the same in the women’s room. I bet the people that worked there were pissed.”
”How did he die?”
”Fell off one of the scaffoldings at work and landed half on a truck and half off.”
”Which half landed on?”
”The left half. They say the fall didn’t kill him, though. The tough bastard laid there bleeding for a half hour before anyone found him. The wait was what killed him.” Dragon says, half-hearted into the story anymore.
By this point, the casket is being lowered into the ground and Mickey Dragon has lit another cigarette. The camera turns to Doctor Torres whose face appears to be soaking up the California sun leaning against the concrete wall. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun again, almost as if she’s able to pull the Dr. Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde act as perfectly as anyone. Her piercing have been removed and her shirt is a buttoned-down black blouse with a long black skirt above the boots. She turns and looks at Dragon.
”How old were you?” Her eyes lift upward to meet his for a second and the slightest bit of a smile escapes her lips before quickly lowering her head to the grass.
”Twelve” Dragon responds as they walk back toward the parking lot. “But the worst part wasn’t the fact that I was in middle school and suddenly became the man of the house. The worst part was how my mother took the whole thing and what happened from there.”
The reach the pavement of the parking lot just as Dragon finishes his thought. Both sets of boots begin to thud across the white-hot pavement. The only car in the parking lot is a blacked out Dodge Charger. As they approach the car, Dr. Torres pulls out a set of keys and disarms the alarm before unlocking the doors.
”So you’ve got a match this week you should be focusing for. Not planning out how you’re going to deal with old memories being dredged up.” jokes Dr. Torres as she opens the drivers side door.
”That’s just it…” Dragon begins ”Klaus has no idea what he brought on himself and his friends.”
Both doors slam shut and the camera goes black.
----Some time later-----
[The camera fades into the familiar office of Doctor Torres. The door is closed, the lights are off and the only thing illuminating the room is a few sparsely placed candles adorning the bookcase and desk in her office. She sits back in her chair with her bare feet up on the desk as Dragon lays on the couch a few feet away. Doctor Torres’s hair is now let down and her piercings are back in place. The demonic woman who appeared in the club has returned and, for whatever reason, is continuing to analyze and conduct therapy on Mickey Dragon. Around Dragon’s head is a cloud of cigarette smoke and several crushed cigarette butts on the floor next to the couch explain why. In his left hand, hanging over the back of the couch, is a lit one between his index and middle finger.]
Dragon: That was fun today… seeing someone else’s pain like that. Just a shame I didn’t inflict that one.
Doctor Torres: I’m intrigued on what you can do with the right atmosphere and toys.
Dragon: I’m intrigued on what YOU can do with the right atmosphere… and toys.
[Dragon chuckles a bit before inhaling more of the cigarette. The smoke billows into the cloud above his head and he begins to whistle after enjoying the toxin.]
Doctor Torres: So your mother was a single mother after you were twelve?
Dragon: Only thing she ever remarried was a bottle of Sauza.[/color]
Doctor Torres: Horrible choice.
Dragon: Horrible woman. She’d get hammered right after we left to school and not stop drinking until well after we went to bed. Dinner was an adventure each and every night because, depending on how deeply into the bottle she was, we were eating anything from half-cooked macaroni and cheese to downright raw eggs and flour in an attempt to make us pancakes. I learned to cook by the age of thirteen.
Doctor Torres: What can you cook?
Dragon: What do you wanna eat?
[Doctor Torres mulls that over for a minute, lighting a cigarette of her own. She adds to the plume of smoke in the room as she adjusts herself in the chair.]
Doctor Torres: Fish.
Dragon: Then go find a dirty lesbian.
[The doctor picks up a stapler on the edge of her desk and flings it toward the couch Dragon sits upon, drilling him in the chest. It bursts open and staples fly everywhere, causing Dragon to jump from the couch and brush himself off.]
Dragon: I should’ve seen that one coming.
Doctor Torres: Yeah, you should’ve. But, sit and keep talking, asshole.
[Dragon takes a seat on the couch and kicks the few cigarette butts away from him before continuing.]
Dragon: My mother would find so many interesting things to do when she was drunk between the time we finished dinner and did the dishes and the time we went to bed. Sometimes she would rearrange the furniture in the living room and end up putting the couch in front of the front door and the Lay-Z-Boy in front of the bathroom door. That would become a problem when she decided it was time to revisit the worm and check on her stomach acids. That’d end up on the floor more often than in a toilet bowl.[/color]
[The doctor begins to chuckle at her misfortune, almost wishing she were still alive so she could witness this great feat of stupidity.]
Dragon: Ya know, I’ve never claimed to be a good drunk. In fact, I’m a downright nasty drunk sometimes. But one thing I don’t do is vomit. It shows weakness. But sadly, that’s the one thing I wish I didn’t take from my mother. Her nasty mean streak when she drank. Most of the time she took it out on me, which I didn’t mind. Just made me beat the shit out of guys at school. Before long, I was in high school and the wrestling coach had me to deal with. My mother would find me coming home after practice smelling like teenage angst and gym mats and call me a “piece of shit” for not cooking dinner. Ya gut it out though, cuz, after all, what else do you know?
Doctor Torres: Kids are resilient as you were.
Dragon: But I was also tolerant. I’d let the woman beat on me… and beat on me… and beat on me. It really shows nowadays when my threshold for pain is higher than anyone’s ever seen. Shit, if you could’ve seen some of the shit I’ve gone through…
Doctor Torres: I have. The match in Tokyo?
Dragon: Valid example. I just put myself in the mindframe of a fourteen year old kid getting beat on by their mother and let the pain go elsewhere.
Doctor Torres: So what does this have to do with Jezebel Saint?
Dragon: See, I’m getting to that. One day, I came home from wrestling practice. I was about sixteen and finally had my freedom in my car. My younger sister, Sariah, was stuck at home with the drunkard most afternoons because of practice but I was always home right afterwards. Sometimes, we could even sneak her there so that we could come home together. But one day, coach kicked her out and told her to go home. She was about thirteen and a tiny freshman. She went home and I came home after practice…
[Dragon begins staring at the ceiling, going into some sort of trance. It’s a story he’s never told… a memory he’s long since tucked away inside his twisted mind. It’s something he never thought he’d have to delve into.]
Dragon: to find my sister beaten unconscious with my baseball bat. Her blood was on my bat and my mother sat in the recliner with her bottle and her cigarette. I walked into the living room and saw my beautiful sister bleeding and my mother chuckling and chugging. She looked up at me…
[Dragon extends his index finger to the sky with tears in his eyes.]
Dragon: “I’ll tell them YOU did this” she scowled at me. I couldn’t handle it. I picked up that baseball bat and the next thing I remember, I was standing over my mother’s dead body and my sister was screaming at me to stop. She was bleeding from her eye but was still able to grab the bat and hold me still long enough to get me to come out of the trance.
Doctor Torres: What did you see?
Dragon: Red. I saw my mother’s head bashed into the bathtub and red everywhere. I ran. I ran as fast as I could as far as I could and when my body said that I needed to stop, I ran more. I ran until I collapsed outside a gym and gained my breath. After a little while, the owner came out and found me. I told him my story and he brought me inside for something to drink. His name was Allen. I knew him as Graza and he turned out to be the man who trained me in what I do today.
Doctor Torres: Again, I still don’t see how this correlates to Jezebel Saint.
Dragon: She wants to impersonate my mom. All aspects of it. From the sweet, innocent housewife she once was, to the drunk, cigarette smoking abusive mother she became before I ended my own torture. She wants to dredge all this up? She wants to open this can of worms? This can be arranged and I can be that deranged. I hope Havyn finds solace in knowing that “mommy” isn’t all she claims to be. I hope Havyn doesn’t end up in the same situation Sariah did so many years ago. Havyn doesn’t have anyone to save her from the abusive bitch that Jezebel Saint is.
Doctor Torres: I think she does.
Dragon: I think she does too. It starts at Sentinel with Klaus. Klaus started this shit storm and now it’s time he got what’s coming to him. The man of a thousand nicknames just gained another one. The Target.
[-black-]
