starting from scratch
Apr 5, 2020 11:49:37 GMT -5
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Grimm, The Anarchist, and 2 more like this
Post by Holden Ross on Apr 5, 2020 11:49:37 GMT -5
He sits alone in his *new* shitbox studio apartment, above a taco joint, in Greenville. It’s a roughly four hundred square foot room, with a bathroom the size of a closet containing a shower stall, toilet, and sink. The main room consists of a Murphy bed with a shot-out mattress, a window, and a counter with a sink and hotplate. He has enough room on the small counter to add a microwave or toaster oven. Maybe an old La-Z-Boy recliner count fit in the room without being too cramped along with the rocker he is currently sitting in. A blunt burns, pinched between his index and middle finger, while in the fog of cannabis his thoughts drift over the past month.
After his loss to Grimm, and the brief beating from Brenna, Holden arrived backstage to be confronted by one of the medics. In his hand was a clear plastic specimen jar and he knew they wanted his piss. Normally, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal. They know about his cannabis use but he had gotten too lax with his abuse of the pills. And the occasional bump of nose candy. Had one of his Pandæmonium brethren ratted him out? It didn’t matter now, did it?
He gave his sample, went out for dinner with Tabitha, and swore his innocence. Had she alerted the upper brass to his abuse of the pills? Throughout the meal, Holden eyed her with suspicion; was that smile she just gave him real? Again, it doesn’t matter now, does it? And after the meal he dropped her off at her home and headed for home when he was pulled over for doing eighty in a fifty-five. He failed his breathalyzer and a search of his car revealed both cocaine and pills. The police then moved on to his home and businesses.
With the trimming business shuttered, for the time being, the only thing they could bust him on was the pills, the cocaine, and the small amount of personal marijuana he had on him, but it was enough to close this club, the “Grade A Choice Cuts” club across town, seized his home, and put him behind bars. Once P.C.W. brass caught wind, Holden was suspended until a thirty day intake was completed. His second stint in rehab since joining the company. He is looking at potential jail time, he lost his home and business, and is just now able to come back to wrestling.
And Tabitha. She has left Holden and is moving on the better, greener pastures. This cramped apartment definitely doesn’t qualify as better or greener. With a sigh he stand and crosses to the window and looks down on the street below. The scent of peppers, onions, and charred beef wafts into the air. He watches as a Mexican boy, about twelve years old, kicks a soccer ball out into the empty street. Two more boys emerge from the restaurant below, about the same age, and the trio kicks the ball between them. Holden puffs on his blunt and watch the boys for a few before crossing to his bed and pulling it open. He flops onto the mattress and, listening to the boys laughing, dozes off.
He awakens the next morning to the buzzing of his phone and the smell of peppers and tripe, the makings of menudo. The carpet is rough under foot and his toe finds where the blunt fell and burnt the orange polyester fibers. A sigh and a belch escape him as he shuffles across the room and into the bathroom to relieve himself. When finished, he retrieves a fresh wife beater, a black P.C.W. t-shirt, and some fresh socks and quickly dresses himself. He grabs his red leather jacket from a bent hook in the wall next to the door and steps into the alcove at the top of a narrow stairwell. Directly across from his door is the door to apartment ”B” where the landlord, and restaurant owner lives. She’s in her early thirties, Mexican, and mother to one of the boys kicking the ball around the night before. She also is the owner, cook, and waitress of “Chayo's Taqueria.” Her name is Maria de la Rosario but “Chayo” is her nickname, and what she usually answers to.
He steps onto the sidewalk and her son, Caesar, is waiting for the bus, sipping a horchata. His eyes swell, briefly, when he sees Holden, and he tries to play it cool. He takes numerous looks over his shoulder while his thumbs furiously dance across the screen of his phone. He is obviously a fan of P.C.W., and as Holden walks past, he cant help himself, and blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.
“Iknowwhoyouare!” his voice is full of excitement and his words jumble into one, almost unrecognizable word. Holden looks back over his shoulder with his eyebrow cocked, a smirk playing at his lips.
“Who am I?” is his response.
“Holden Ross! You wrestle in Pure Class Wrestling and used to be the Underground King! I watch Trauma every week….I wish I could get the pay per views but my moms….she said they cost too much,” he shrugs. “I can’t believe it’s really you! None of my friends at school will believe it…. C-can I take a selfie with you? So my friends believe me?”
Holden shrugs and approaches the boy, dropping to a knee so he is close to the same height as the boy. Caesar beams proudly and even goes so far as to out his arm around Holden's shoulder. Holden gives a joyless grin, playing along for the boy, and tells him it’s ok to post the pic on Facebook.
“My friends are gonna be so jealous. How long are you going to be living next door to me?”
A shrug is all the boy gets in response as the school bus pulls up. The brakes squeal and once stopped, Caesar races onto the bus, the phone held aloft like a trophy and his free hand formed into a finger, pointing at Holden where he stands on the sidewalk. As the bus pulls away with windows full of young, excited faces, a woman’s voice gets his attention.
“You didn’t have to do that? If you want, I can tell him not to bother you…” it is Chayo and she is wiping her hands dry on a paper towel.
“He's no bother, really.” He replies as he starts up the street, heading for the P.C.W. performance center. “Might do me some good, to have someone lookin up to me….”
“He a good boy and he really like watching lucha libre. He say Kyle Shane ees he's favorite technico…erm…good guy. And he say you ees one of the grande rudos. Uhm…bad guy?” she isn’t quite sure of her English and smile nervously.
“He's right…I’m one of the top Rudo's in the company.” Holden grins, gives her a quick wave, and starts off down the street. He walks less than a mile and ends up at “Full Throttle MMA;” it’s a gym and dojo training in multiple disciplines of martial arts. Holden has been rolling on the mats and learning Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu in hopes, not of becoming the next big mixed martial arts star, but rather, to maybe learn some other skills and moves he can transfer to the squared circle. Most of the of trainees, and all of the trainers, know who he is and why he has been off television.
A few hours later and he is back home, his muscles and joints sore, and the smells of Chayo's cooking wafting up through his window. He showers and heads downstairs for something to eat. Caesar is there, helping his mother by clearing tables when the guests are finished and washing dishes. Caesar's mood picks up some when Holden sits down to eat.
Sunday, April 5th
A home, hand-held camera opens on Holden in his living room. The footage is a little grainy, slightly tilted to the right, and the lighting isn’t the best. Behind him is a plane white wall with a black and white, upside-down, American flag. His face is scruffy, his eyes are red rimmed and bloodshot, and his hair looks as though he just woke up.
“The last time you saw me in a ring I was being jump from behind by the same woman I face in the first round of this tournament I have been so graciously allowed to compete in. Brenna. You picked the best time to get the best of me, after a brutal match with the man known as Grimm, when I was at my weakest and most battered condition. You have some brains in that thick head of yours but not much, apparently. Brains versus brawn in this match up. David versus Goliath. Unlike that graphic novel, the Bible, David won’t be winning this fight.”
He pops a blunt into his mouth and lights it with the flick of his Zippo. After exhaling a plume of smoke into the air, he mugs for the camera, and continues his rambling.
“My mentor, Seromine, is now the King of the Underground. His Kingdom, I imagine, looks like something out of a peyote induced dream as experienced by the Cheshire Cat in Wonderland. He holds the crown I rightfully should have. And I want it back. And I will have it. Patience is a virtue, a virtue I don’t have much use for. I will come for my crown, eventually, and when I do I hope He isn’t still wearing it. I will go through him like Rick James went through cocaine. I am the King of Ultraviolence and I will have my crown back!”
He takes another puff from the blunt while picking the camera up. The screen bounces around for a moment and whips around off of Holden and briefly shows a shot of his bathroom door before it cuts off. He uploads the footage to P.C.W.’s production department and while doing so, there is a knock at his door. When he opens it, there is just a plate on the floor, covered in foil. He looks down the empty stairs and the up at the closed door across the alcove and a smirk curls his lips. Caesar brought him breakfast….
After his loss to Grimm, and the brief beating from Brenna, Holden arrived backstage to be confronted by one of the medics. In his hand was a clear plastic specimen jar and he knew they wanted his piss. Normally, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal. They know about his cannabis use but he had gotten too lax with his abuse of the pills. And the occasional bump of nose candy. Had one of his Pandæmonium brethren ratted him out? It didn’t matter now, did it?
He gave his sample, went out for dinner with Tabitha, and swore his innocence. Had she alerted the upper brass to his abuse of the pills? Throughout the meal, Holden eyed her with suspicion; was that smile she just gave him real? Again, it doesn’t matter now, does it? And after the meal he dropped her off at her home and headed for home when he was pulled over for doing eighty in a fifty-five. He failed his breathalyzer and a search of his car revealed both cocaine and pills. The police then moved on to his home and businesses.
With the trimming business shuttered, for the time being, the only thing they could bust him on was the pills, the cocaine, and the small amount of personal marijuana he had on him, but it was enough to close this club, the “Grade A Choice Cuts” club across town, seized his home, and put him behind bars. Once P.C.W. brass caught wind, Holden was suspended until a thirty day intake was completed. His second stint in rehab since joining the company. He is looking at potential jail time, he lost his home and business, and is just now able to come back to wrestling.
And Tabitha. She has left Holden and is moving on the better, greener pastures. This cramped apartment definitely doesn’t qualify as better or greener. With a sigh he stand and crosses to the window and looks down on the street below. The scent of peppers, onions, and charred beef wafts into the air. He watches as a Mexican boy, about twelve years old, kicks a soccer ball out into the empty street. Two more boys emerge from the restaurant below, about the same age, and the trio kicks the ball between them. Holden puffs on his blunt and watch the boys for a few before crossing to his bed and pulling it open. He flops onto the mattress and, listening to the boys laughing, dozes off.
He awakens the next morning to the buzzing of his phone and the smell of peppers and tripe, the makings of menudo. The carpet is rough under foot and his toe finds where the blunt fell and burnt the orange polyester fibers. A sigh and a belch escape him as he shuffles across the room and into the bathroom to relieve himself. When finished, he retrieves a fresh wife beater, a black P.C.W. t-shirt, and some fresh socks and quickly dresses himself. He grabs his red leather jacket from a bent hook in the wall next to the door and steps into the alcove at the top of a narrow stairwell. Directly across from his door is the door to apartment ”B” where the landlord, and restaurant owner lives. She’s in her early thirties, Mexican, and mother to one of the boys kicking the ball around the night before. She also is the owner, cook, and waitress of “Chayo's Taqueria.” Her name is Maria de la Rosario but “Chayo” is her nickname, and what she usually answers to.
He steps onto the sidewalk and her son, Caesar, is waiting for the bus, sipping a horchata. His eyes swell, briefly, when he sees Holden, and he tries to play it cool. He takes numerous looks over his shoulder while his thumbs furiously dance across the screen of his phone. He is obviously a fan of P.C.W., and as Holden walks past, he cant help himself, and blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.
“Iknowwhoyouare!” his voice is full of excitement and his words jumble into one, almost unrecognizable word. Holden looks back over his shoulder with his eyebrow cocked, a smirk playing at his lips.
“Who am I?” is his response.
“Holden Ross! You wrestle in Pure Class Wrestling and used to be the Underground King! I watch Trauma every week….I wish I could get the pay per views but my moms….she said they cost too much,” he shrugs. “I can’t believe it’s really you! None of my friends at school will believe it…. C-can I take a selfie with you? So my friends believe me?”
Holden shrugs and approaches the boy, dropping to a knee so he is close to the same height as the boy. Caesar beams proudly and even goes so far as to out his arm around Holden's shoulder. Holden gives a joyless grin, playing along for the boy, and tells him it’s ok to post the pic on Facebook.
“My friends are gonna be so jealous. How long are you going to be living next door to me?”
A shrug is all the boy gets in response as the school bus pulls up. The brakes squeal and once stopped, Caesar races onto the bus, the phone held aloft like a trophy and his free hand formed into a finger, pointing at Holden where he stands on the sidewalk. As the bus pulls away with windows full of young, excited faces, a woman’s voice gets his attention.
“You didn’t have to do that? If you want, I can tell him not to bother you…” it is Chayo and she is wiping her hands dry on a paper towel.
“He's no bother, really.” He replies as he starts up the street, heading for the P.C.W. performance center. “Might do me some good, to have someone lookin up to me….”
“He a good boy and he really like watching lucha libre. He say Kyle Shane ees he's favorite technico…erm…good guy. And he say you ees one of the grande rudos. Uhm…bad guy?” she isn’t quite sure of her English and smile nervously.
“He's right…I’m one of the top Rudo's in the company.” Holden grins, gives her a quick wave, and starts off down the street. He walks less than a mile and ends up at “Full Throttle MMA;” it’s a gym and dojo training in multiple disciplines of martial arts. Holden has been rolling on the mats and learning Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu in hopes, not of becoming the next big mixed martial arts star, but rather, to maybe learn some other skills and moves he can transfer to the squared circle. Most of the of trainees, and all of the trainers, know who he is and why he has been off television.
A few hours later and he is back home, his muscles and joints sore, and the smells of Chayo's cooking wafting up through his window. He showers and heads downstairs for something to eat. Caesar is there, helping his mother by clearing tables when the guests are finished and washing dishes. Caesar's mood picks up some when Holden sits down to eat.
Sunday, April 5th
A home, hand-held camera opens on Holden in his living room. The footage is a little grainy, slightly tilted to the right, and the lighting isn’t the best. Behind him is a plane white wall with a black and white, upside-down, American flag. His face is scruffy, his eyes are red rimmed and bloodshot, and his hair looks as though he just woke up.
“The last time you saw me in a ring I was being jump from behind by the same woman I face in the first round of this tournament I have been so graciously allowed to compete in. Brenna. You picked the best time to get the best of me, after a brutal match with the man known as Grimm, when I was at my weakest and most battered condition. You have some brains in that thick head of yours but not much, apparently. Brains versus brawn in this match up. David versus Goliath. Unlike that graphic novel, the Bible, David won’t be winning this fight.”
He pops a blunt into his mouth and lights it with the flick of his Zippo. After exhaling a plume of smoke into the air, he mugs for the camera, and continues his rambling.
“My mentor, Seromine, is now the King of the Underground. His Kingdom, I imagine, looks like something out of a peyote induced dream as experienced by the Cheshire Cat in Wonderland. He holds the crown I rightfully should have. And I want it back. And I will have it. Patience is a virtue, a virtue I don’t have much use for. I will come for my crown, eventually, and when I do I hope He isn’t still wearing it. I will go through him like Rick James went through cocaine. I am the King of Ultraviolence and I will have my crown back!”
He takes another puff from the blunt while picking the camera up. The screen bounces around for a moment and whips around off of Holden and briefly shows a shot of his bathroom door before it cuts off. He uploads the footage to P.C.W.’s production department and while doing so, there is a knock at his door. When he opens it, there is just a plate on the floor, covered in foil. He looks down the empty stairs and the up at the closed door across the alcove and a smirk curls his lips. Caesar brought him breakfast….