The Dragon Takes Manhattan... by Rolling Nat 20s on (Most of) His Charisma Checks

“Yo’ watch where ya’ going you fuckin’ ginger-ass piece of shit.”

Daihm gets clipped by the shoulder of a gruff man in a three-piece suit swinging a massive briefcase before he stops, turns, and locks eyes.

He blinks and then sets his face in a smile.

“My mistake. Hope you have a fantastic day, sir.”

“Shove it up your ass!”

The man turns his back to the young man, dressed down in a pair of jeans, light jacket, and a wicked-looking t-shirt that says “The Dragon” in big, heavy-metal style block letters.

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it!” Daihm shouts, perhaps a little too loudly, as the business man turns around and gives him a disgusted, yet quizzical look.

Daihm stretches his cheeks into a grin, perhaps too much, as he watches and waves until the man leaves his view, quickly hobbling down the steps of the 42nd Street station

We’re all just a series of holes after all…

Daihm turns and shoves his hands in his coat pocket and begins walking in the opposite direction, a light April breeze filling his nostrils with the smell of hot dogs, pigeon shit, and garbage.

His eyes scan the bustling street.

He could have taken the subway. Or the bus. But then he’d miss the chance to experience the people, the scenery, and all the precious little–-

“Fuck you buddy!”

“Fuck YOU buddy!”

Daihm turns to watch as a taxi and bike courier are having a disagreement across the street. Something tells Daihm it’s not about mortgage rates.

“Don’t write checks your ass can’t cash, pal.”

Or maybe it is.

The courier flips the bird at the taxi driver as a bus behind the pair honks his horn, causing the pair to turn in solidarity and raise unified middle fingers to the bus driver.

Ah. Consensus.

Daihm smiles to himself and keeps walking.

The buildings seem to be getting taller.

Or maybe he’s getting shorter?

No. It’s the buildings. Definitely the buildings.

He tips his head back for a second, looking up at the massive structures of glass and steel reflecting the morning light.

And very nearly runs waist first into a stroller pushed by a woman deep in conversation on her cell phone.

“Sorry! Sorry.”

The woman doesn’t even notice. But the baby does.

The young boy turns his head around the corner of the stroller and Daihm waves.

The baby does not wave back.

Fair enough.

“PRETZELS! PIROGIS! PIZZA!”

Daihm spins around to see a man wheeling a much bigger stroller. This one for savory pastries.

“How much?”

“For what?”

Daihm blinks. He hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“What do you recommend?”

The gruff man scratches at his sides and rolls his eyes.

“Pretzel. You look like you need salt.”

Savage. Respect.

“Pretzel then.”

“Four dollars.”

Daihm reaches into his pockets and holds out a handful of coins that had been jangling loose in his pockets and begins to count.

“10 cents. 20 cents. Ooh, a quarter!”

The man shoves the pretzel at Daihm and slides the coins into a metal tin box underneath the counter and continues on, singing his siren song to anyone who will listen.

Daihm takes a bite.

It’s a good pretzel.

A really good pretzel.

“Thank you, sir!”

Too late, the pretzel man has moved on

Time for him to move on, too.

He watches as a gull lands on the railing on the edge of the Hudson.

It looks at Daihm. Then it looks at his pretzel.

“Don’t.”

The gull squawks in response, but doesn’t move.

“...don’t.”

SQUAWK!

Wait. The eyes. That beak. That sound!

“It’s you!”

Daihm picks up the pace as the gull follows. And brings its friends.

“You hold no power here Steven Seagull!”

Someone on a bench is laughing as a flock of gulls lift from their perch and begin to dive bomb toward the pretzel.

“Okay! Maybe a little power. Ouch!”

Daihm frantically shoves the remainder of the salty snack into his mouth and swallows.

SQUAWK! SQUAWK! SQUAWK!

The winged beasts retreat in defeat.

Dragon: 1, Gulls: 0

Now who's under siege. Heh. Heh. Heh.

In the distance he sees a vending machine and approaches quickly, his mouth filled with salt. And regret.

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a wallet, opening it up, flush with the perfect assortment of bills.

Sorry, Mr. Pretzel Man.

Daihm slides two bills into the machine and presses B5 for a refreshing-looking bottle of water.

The pneumatic shelf whirrs to life, jolts upward and snaps left, shaking the machine and prompting the last water bottle to tumble from its perch into the bottom of the machine with a soft ‘thunk’.

Please no. Not you too.

A young woman stops, first in concern and then to record the scene, as Daihm drops to his knees, hugging the bottom of the machine.

He presses his forehead against the glass.

"It's okay. We'll get through this together."

The woman keeps recording.

The rest of the world has already moved on.

And the revolving door moves too.

On its own.

Too fast.

You got this. Okay. One… two…

Daihm misses.

He’s stuck.

“Three,” he gasps.

Everyone is looking.

He flashes a thumbs up to the crowd as he inches his way forward before finally popping out of the turnstile like a spitball from a straw, tumbling forward on the linoleum floor.

Daihm leans into the roll and pushes himself up, landing on two feet with his arms outstretched as if he were a gymnast on a balance beam.

A single person claps but then stops when no one else joins in.

Door: 1. Daihm: 1. Now for the tie break-

“Mr. Ferguson.”

Daihm turns and looks over at a balding man slowly approaching in a brown tweed jacket and matching pants. He reaches into the front pocket and pulls out a gold watch with a chain on it and checks the time even though there is a massive digital clock right above his shoulder.

“Another leisurely stroll today, sir?”

The man is unamused as he pockets the watch and gestures for Daihm to follow.

His eyes scan the lobby of a building he’s been coming to every day for a year. To the left is the small reception area with sunken green velvet chairs framed in gold. Not brass. Actual gold.

A young man and woman are seated there with coffees in their hands, talking but not listening.

To his right is the reception desk. Mary is working today and is serving looks.

Daihm points his finger guns in Mary’s direction.

She fires back.

Daihm pretends to fall to the floor but is caught by his escort.

“Best not to keep your grandfather waiting, yes?”

Daihm straightens himself up, closing his jacket over his t-shirt. His voice is a whisper and his chipper expression falters ever so slightly.

“Yeah… I guess so.”

🐉 🐉 🐉

The room has an oppressive air about it as Daihm exits the elevator and approaches a massive mahogany desk with a stern looking woman behind it with curly, greying hair and wearing a flower-printed dress that looks straight out of a 1970s Better Homes and Gardens wallpaper featurette

Daihm’s eyes move past the woman to the large metallic words hanging above her head:

“Ferguson and Associates”

Without even moving her head from her computer screen the woman presses a button off to the side that clicks and lets out a tiny hissing sound.

“Your grandson is here, sir. Shall I send him in?”

Daihm fumbles a bit with his hands, but immediately drops his arms to his sides as the large green door next to the receptionist’s desk opens and there, standing in a dark blue suit and red power tie is his grandfather, Robert Lawrence Ferguson II.

Bald and with a pure white goatee, the elder Ferguson gestures for Daihm to follow, which he does.

It wasn’t the first time he had been in his grandfather’s office, but it didn’t stop him from being impressed (Intimidated?) as he followed along a plush red carpet, golden curtains hanging from a half circle of 8 french windows – three on one side, three on the other and two positioned right behind a white marble desk and reclining leather office chair.

As one of New York’s longest serving and highly sought-after antitrust attorneys, Daihm knew his grandfather didn’t personally care much for opulence, but… sometimes you need to peacock it up a bit to draw the big fish out of the pond.

He’s not sure that’s an actual saying, but it was hard to keep the wiring in his brain straight after seeing a sealed manilla envelope resting on his grandfather’s desk.

Even from a full 10 feet away he knew what was written on the front of the envelope. After all, he was the one who scribbled out the address for PRIME’s business office after his shift yesterday, shoving the envelope into the “Outgoing” bin wedged between a dozen other similar-looking envelopes holding deposition notes, case files, and invoices.

How did he find it?

Robert Lawrence Ferguson II runs his hands along the top of his desk as he walks the edge and then slides into his office chair and slides the envelope forward as Daihm cautiously approaches.

“I thought we were done with this, Daihm.”

Daihm slides the zipper further up his jacket, hiding as much of his “Dragon” t-shirt as he can.

“I… I can explain.”

“Explain what, Daihm?”

“Why you’re sneaking around behind my back?”

“Why you’re trying to throw away the opportunity I’ve given you here?”

“Why you want to… do this to yourself again?”

His grandfather’s voice does not contain any anger. Just weariness… and hurt.

“It’s been two years, pap. I cannae keep running from it forever..”

The old man’s eyebrows raise as he scoffs.

“Your past? Daihm… you’re 23 years old! You don’t have a past, what you do have is a future. Here.”

Daihm gestures around the room, his voice rising several octaves.

“Doing what? I'm no' a lawyer, pap. I don’t even have a high school diploma. You want me to be a coffee runner for the rest of my life?”

Robert Ferguson sighs and leans forward, tapping on the envelope.

“What I want is for you not to make the same mistake your miscreant of a father did when he walked into this very office 20 years ago and told me he was going to go beat people up for money.”

Daihm rolls his eyes.

“Hey! You may have a dick, but that doesn’t mean you need to be a dick.”

Daihm recoils, his face turning red.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m my father!”

“Then stop acting like him! I don’t… I don’t understand this at all! And of all the places to try and go, you want to go where he is at? After what he did to Lennox?”

There’s a knock on the door as the elderly woman pokes her head in and looks at Robert and then to Daihm.

“Everything okay, sir? I heard raised voices.”

“We’re fine Jeanne. I just… it’s family business.”

The woman nods and closes the door cautiously as Daihm lowers his head, pursing his lips.

As soon as he hears the click of the latch catching Daihm mutters something under his breath.

“Excuse me?”

His grandfather’s terse voice causes Daihm to look up, eyes locked and full of passion.

“Wrestling is the family business, pap.”

Robert looks at Daihm, expression of disbelief on his face before closing his eyes and reaching up to run a hand down his face in exasperation.

“What did I do to deserve this? I lose one son, gain another, only to lose you, too.”

Daihm walks forward and places his hand on his grandfather’s, the pair of them now pressed down on the manilla envelope, their fingers barely covering the name “Lindsay Troy.”

“You’re not losing me… you’re setting me free. And besides, if there is anyone I’d trust my life with other than you? It’s her.”

Daihm taps Lindsay’s name on the envelope as Robert scoffs and pulls his hands back, turning his office chair around to face the ornate French windows overlooking midtown Manhattan.

“You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that.”

Robert’s voice is lighter, almost a laugh as Daihm’s shoulders relax.

“Well, some people usually pay a little extra for that, pap.”

A chuckle turns into a sigh as Robert Ferguson, the president of Ferguson and Associates spins back around to face his grandson. Daihm absentmindedly tucks a lock of red hair behind his ear as his eyes move from his grandfather to the envelope and back.

“What’s under your jacket, Daihm?”

Daihm’s face blushes to the point where it almost matches his hair color as he fumbles with the zipper.

“Show me.”

Daihm pulls the zipper down as the letters “AGO” appear first in bright red, orange, and yellow on the black t-shirt. Then, as his jacket opens up, the letters “D, R, and N” appear, as does a light blue luchador mask featuring intricate white lightning bolts stitched into the sides and, on the edges, wings extending outward from the side where the ears would normally be - beginning in white, but then fading into violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, and then red.

The elder Ferguson can’t help but grin at the awkward scene of his grandson, barely old enough to drink, standing in an austere corporate office with long shaggy hair, a faded jean jacket, professional wrestling t-shirt, and purple Chuck Taylor sneakers.

Robert reaches down and takes the envelope, looking over it briefly as Daihm rocks back and forth on his heels.

Then, without a word, Robert hands the envelope to Daihm and gestures for him to take it, which he does, clutching it to his chest.

“You shouldn’t mail that, Daihm.”

The young man tilts his head in confusion, looking down at the envelope.

“What do you-”

Robert reaches over and presses a red button on his desk, prompting a click and hissing sound to come out of an intercom built into his desk.

“Jeanne… are any of our competitors sponsoring PRIME when they’re in town?”

A pause.

“PRIME, sir?”

“Professional wrestling organization. They’ll be in Jersey in a couple weeks, and then New York. Arthur Ashe Stadium."

“Looking sir.”

Clacking of keys can be heard from the other end of the intercom.

“McClatchky and Sons. Looks like they’ve got some sort of exclusive contract.”

“Fix that. Make sure Ms. Troy knows that Ferguson and Associates is interested in supporting PRIME’s success. Long term.”

Robert’s eyes are staring directly into Daihm’s as he says the words.

“Yes… sir. I’ll make some calls.”

Click. Hiss.

“Pap… you don’t have to…”

“Of course I don’t. A Ferguson never does anything they have to do. They do what they need to do. What they want to do. You hear me, Daihm?”

Daihm nods.

“Yes, sir.”

“If you want this? Truly want this? Then I have two conditions.”

“Sir?”

“One. If you’re going to be representing the Ferguson name, then you better kick some ass.”

Daihm keeps his eyes on his grandfather, a smile on his face as he nods.

“And two… you have deliver this to Ms. Troy yourself. Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Robert sighs and leans back in his chair, swinging slightly from side to side, as he taps his fingers together, then looks back over at Daihm.

“Until then, though. You’re still on my clock. Now get your ass back down to the first floor and make sure our clients are taken care of.”

Daihm lowers his head to hide how much he is grinning, but nods.

“Yes, sir.”

The young man turns on his heels and makes his way to the massive green doors, grabbing the handle before looking over his shoulder and back to his grandfather.

“Thank you… sir.”

Daihm. Set. Match.

He then slides through the crack in the doors, letting it close until it shuts with a soft “click” sound.

Robert Lawrence Ferguson II leans back in his chair and looks up toward the ceiling, closing his eyes.

“Go get’em kid.”

The smile drops slightly as he opens them back up.

“…and try not to get yourself killed.”