Post by Deleted on Aug 11, 2014 15:32:18 GMT -5
"Don't be a hero, heroes get hurt."
October 19th 2011
Nearly three years since the act, two and a half since he’d been locked away. Of course there were others but he had kept quiet, kept his head down and kept loyal. In the end he alone had spent time in the Bellamy Creek Correctional Facility for his crimes.
What had that loyalty bought him? Nothing. No visitors, not a single one over the course of his sentence. Nobody was waiting for him when he was released. No letters promising a warm homecoming. Instead a warm, humid bus ride greeted him as he walked out of those prison gates for the first time.
Freedom should have felt more liberating, Jack grumbled internally as the muggy coach chugged slowly toward Motor City. At least he had one saving grace that turned his thoughts away from pure misery; somebody was willing to offer him a job. If he’d been so lucky three years ago he probably wouldn’t be in this position now.
There were no jobs in Detroit, not even for a non-convict with a good education and a better upbringing. This twenty-nine year old, convicted for robbery and with a lack of education or decent upbringing, never had a hope of succeeding if he’d played by the rules. He’d taken a chance, a ridiculous one he thought, and followed his father’s footsteps by sending an application to Pure Class Wrestling.
Perhaps they genuinely thought he had talent, or could be moulded into something resembling a star. Or maybe they just wanted to see what a desperate man would do when put in a ring and told to fight for his supper. Whatever they thought, PCW had offered him a contract and it was that which lifted his spirits as the bus croaked uncertainly into Motown.
With what little money he had left in his pocket, Jack made his way across town to the neighbourhood of Brightmoor. After nearly three years the streets still looked the same: still degraded and grim with the effects of neglect and poverty. He hadn’t expected anything different, but the sight of his home laid to waste by urban decay was heart breaking.
Still he walked the few blocks from yet another bus stop to the place he had once called a sanctuary, but now he barely thought he could stand to look at. Its owner had stepped not a single foot inside that prison to comfort Jack during the hardest time of his life. Its owner hadn’t answered a single call that Jack had placed to ask for help once he was released. Yet Jack still found himself standing outside the beaten wooden building, rotten white paint peeling in the hard summer sun and the smell of stale gasoline coming from somewhere nearby.
The neighbourhood seemed quite today and Jack thanked his luck that none of his old acquaintances had spotted him on his return to the area, but nobody stayed still for long here so he would have to move. He went to take a step to the front door when a sounds floated toward him and stopped him in his tracks; the unmistakable sound of The Four Tops.
…with a love that will shelter you…
“Christ, you never fuckin’ change.” Immediately Jack turns from the front door and heads down the side of the house instead, to where a large barn sits behind it. The barn looks to be in worse shape than the house, a minor miracle it’s still standing, as he approaches.
I’ll be there, with a love that will see you through.
Levi Stubbs’ voice becomes clearer with each step and would have been easily audible even if the barn door hadn’t been left wide open. Jack moved closer still, wasting no time trying to make himself quiet or mask his large form; there was no mistaking him if anybody saw him now. His black hair hung past his shoulders, slick with moisture. His frame loomed over almost everybody he had ever met. His eyes burned with a ‘do not fuck with me’ aura that no normal man would be stupid enough to test.
When you feel and about to give up,
‘Cause your best just ain’t good enough.
Reaching the door Jack took a deep breath, scrunching his eyes up as if telling himself this was a stupid idea, and then walked through into the barn.
There in front of him sat a sight he had wished to forget, but now would have to get very familiar with; a wrestling ring. The ropes sagged, the mat with thick with mildew and barely bounced anymore, the posts were rusted orange… just how he remembered it. And just as he remembered the tape player, for the owner of this fine establishment didn’t care for the digital age one bit, was sat only feet from the entrance. Without a thought he walked up to the blasted old thing and reached out…
And you feel the world has grown co….
The music crackled to a halt and an alarming crash filled the room instead as a wiry black fella in the ring dropped his training partner awkwardly on his ass instead of his back, clearly distracted by the sudden silence.
“What in the name of fuck…?!” Came a shout of derision, a furious holler from the near right corner of the squared circle. The old man’s voice always had carried far and loud, Jack thought to himself as the man turned around. He was dressed in a tatty grey leisure suit, matching the colour of his handlebar moustache and fading hair that manage to hide absolutely nothing of the harsh, crumpled features of his face.
The old man stood transfixed as he looked across the barn at this monstrous intruder, neither man moving and the only noise now the whining of the tattooed latino with the shaved head, clutching his tailbone in agony. Seconds passed and nobody moved, until without moving a muscle the trainer ordered “Boys, I think we’re done for today. Get outta here.”
They didn’t argue, only removed themselves from the ring and walked away, one aiding the other as he struggled away with his broken backside. Shuffling through the door they left it unlocked and wide open, but nobody would be listening in to this conversation, the fear of punishment was too severe.
“I thought I’d see you around here sooner or later… I just banked on later.” The old man grumbled as he patted down his moustache casually. He remained in a commanding position, stood on the ring apron.
“Yeah well people get desperate when they don’t have anywhere to go, Pops. I didn’t have a lot of offers of places to stay, what with nobody giving enough fucks to come and see me… not even my own father.” Jack remained still, holding his ground a good few yards from the ring itself like a predator testing how close he could get to his prey before pouncing.
“We’re a tough family, we lived through shit harder than two years in a cushy little hotel room and didn’t need our hands held through it. I ain’t your goddamn babysitter no more, Jack.” His manner couldn’t have been more matter-of-fact. That was the measure of the man himself and his son that remained in front of him. There were no lies in this family, only hard truths spit out fast.
“Babysitter? You’re the only family I got, I thought you’d at least give me a sofa to sleep on until I could get myself back on my feet.” A note of frustration above the regular tone of stubborn resistance. Jack had fallen from favour but he at least expected a chance to climb back up to it.
“Ha!” Mr Cropper snorted, sending a puff of white hair bustling from his lip in genuine amusement. “What about Stanley, or Burrito? They were more family to you than I was before, I barely exist until you need help. Or what about that skank, Moni…”
“You watch your mouth, old man!” The line hadn’t just been crossed, it had been stomped into Jack’s face with no subtlety or lenience. Jack’s own father swatted him with insults of friends who were no longer friends and lovers who he hadn’t loved in years. He stomped forward and thrust an angry finger in the direction of his father, afraid of what might happen if his finger turned into a fist.
Giving a little smile at the anger he’d caused his kin, Mr Cropper felt a tinge of satisfaction that he’d avenged some of the shame his name had endured because of his son’s actions. “Fine, Fine! Don’t get your panties in a twist. I hear she hooked up with some fancy doctor type anyway. Guess she can’t help you anymore.”
Jack tried not to let the hurt show, but he knew a pang of anger and shame had struck his face when he heard this flippant remark, crushing a hope he had secretly tended for the term of his incarceration. His father had a point though, she wouldn’t help and it was unlikely anybody else would. “Nobody came to visit me, not one of those disloyal assholes or Monica. I got nothing, nothing but a job.”
“What son of a bitch gave your sorry ass a job?” Mr Cropper stifled another laugh, expecting to hear some petty, scrounging excuse for an occupation or a tired justification for a criminal profession.
Jack hesitate for a moment, unsure about revealing the nature of his employ to the man in front of him for very obvious reasons. The man was stood on the apron of a wrestling ring, a ring he had built his life around and had tried to force upon his own son with lack-lustre results. It would come out sooner or later though. “Pure Class Wrestling.”
“Wait, you’re going to be a wrassler?” Then came the laugh, a hacking cackle fuelled by cigarettes and whiskey that cut straight to Jack’s heart. He thought he could at least count on one person’s support in his first contest again Cory Steel and a fellow newcomer ridiculously called ‘Tha Joka’, but that support was all but forgotten now.
He’d barely come to a finish, tears welling in his eyes, when Jack spoke again in an attempt to pacify him. “I approached them, I guess they thought it’d be interesting to see what I could do.”
“Oh I bet that’s what they thought. You do remember you weren’t exactly technically gifted when I tried to teach you? You kept dropping my students on their goddamn heads.” The blind patronising tone in Mr Cropper’s voice frustrated Jack more. He wanted out of that barn, away from the musty stench of mildew and lingering dust that caked his boots already.
“I ain’t going there to do armdrags and suplexes, I’m going to beat the hell out of those big time guys. I’m going to fight.” He knew now he was on the back foot in this ill-thought confrontation and that he was saying things out of pure frustration, a childish instinct to try and defend himself and justify his choice.
“Sure you are, put that temper of yours to good use creaming some shiny haired movie star wannabe instead of sticking up bookies.” That satisfied smile was replaced by a mocking sneer at the band of wrestlers he had never been able to face. The old-school wrestler, the journeyman he had once been, was never considered in the same light at those movie-star wannabes. Some might have thought a hint of jealousy hid behind his words. More than that, though, was the bitterness and insult thrown toward his son, mocking his new life while slapping him the face for the sins of his old one.
“The hell to this, it was a mistake coming here. I expected help from my father… there’s only a bitter old man here now, who’s forgotten that his son’s the only family he has left.” The final straw had been snapped, the line crossed too many times, and Jack had had enough. He turned, determined to find somewhere more welcoming even if it meant the streets, and walked toward the open barn-door. It had been a grave mistake to come here before his contest with Steel and ‘Tha Joka’. His mind would be swimming with hurt and self-doubt, a concoction bad for his prospects and self-control.
“80 bucks.” Came the voice from behind him, and Jack barely heard it. He was stuck on the whirlwind of anger, the fury that had cost him dearly before. If he could not remember to keep himself under control he could lose more than just a match, more than just a couple of years. In trying to manage his breathing and bring his rage back down, his ears finally began to work and he stopped in his tracks.
“What?” He didn’t know if what he heard was right, how could it have been? Just a random number called out by his insulter-general after he had all but kicked his son out of his home.
“If you’re really a big time wrassler now, the couch costs 80 bucks a week. And if you still don’t like my cooking you can buy your own damn food. You fuck up again then I don’t care if you’re my son, I’ll send you to Stanley or Burrito to beg to sleep on their floor.” Mr Cropper spoke with the same matter-of-fact attitude that he had gifted his son, one of few things he had seemingly kept from his father. He spoke to the back of his son’s head, unsure if he had been understood, or if the sincerity of the offer was masked by his bluntness enough not to sink in.
“Such a fucking humanitarian.” Jack grumbled in a rough voice, barely audible to his aging father. He walked forward again, through the door with a more relaxed swagger that confused the old man stood on the ring apron. Had he walked out on his offer of sanctuary, of a chance to set up base and build something of a life for himself again? Had he walked out on the only family he had left in this god forsaken world?
“Is that a yes?!” Old Man Cropper hollered, loud enough to echo around the rickety old barn and shake loose some long-settled dust from high up. He waited for a reply, some sort of answer or grunt of acceptance or denial. He waited nervously, wondering if he had shut the door in his only son’s face and forced him out into the cold for good. He was a reckless kid, an angry kid, but he had a right to be and he also had a right to a second chance, didn’t he?
He waited, until he heard the tell-tale creak of his back door. His son still knew he kept the key under the Lions statuette by the door and he’d let himself in. Hearing that squeak of rusty old hinges, the old man smiled again and slapped a coating of dust from the sagging ropes of his old ring.
October 19th 2011
Nearly three years since the act, two and a half since he’d been locked away. Of course there were others but he had kept quiet, kept his head down and kept loyal. In the end he alone had spent time in the Bellamy Creek Correctional Facility for his crimes.
What had that loyalty bought him? Nothing. No visitors, not a single one over the course of his sentence. Nobody was waiting for him when he was released. No letters promising a warm homecoming. Instead a warm, humid bus ride greeted him as he walked out of those prison gates for the first time.
Freedom should have felt more liberating, Jack grumbled internally as the muggy coach chugged slowly toward Motor City. At least he had one saving grace that turned his thoughts away from pure misery; somebody was willing to offer him a job. If he’d been so lucky three years ago he probably wouldn’t be in this position now.
There were no jobs in Detroit, not even for a non-convict with a good education and a better upbringing. This twenty-nine year old, convicted for robbery and with a lack of education or decent upbringing, never had a hope of succeeding if he’d played by the rules. He’d taken a chance, a ridiculous one he thought, and followed his father’s footsteps by sending an application to Pure Class Wrestling.
Perhaps they genuinely thought he had talent, or could be moulded into something resembling a star. Or maybe they just wanted to see what a desperate man would do when put in a ring and told to fight for his supper. Whatever they thought, PCW had offered him a contract and it was that which lifted his spirits as the bus croaked uncertainly into Motown.
With what little money he had left in his pocket, Jack made his way across town to the neighbourhood of Brightmoor. After nearly three years the streets still looked the same: still degraded and grim with the effects of neglect and poverty. He hadn’t expected anything different, but the sight of his home laid to waste by urban decay was heart breaking.
Still he walked the few blocks from yet another bus stop to the place he had once called a sanctuary, but now he barely thought he could stand to look at. Its owner had stepped not a single foot inside that prison to comfort Jack during the hardest time of his life. Its owner hadn’t answered a single call that Jack had placed to ask for help once he was released. Yet Jack still found himself standing outside the beaten wooden building, rotten white paint peeling in the hard summer sun and the smell of stale gasoline coming from somewhere nearby.
The neighbourhood seemed quite today and Jack thanked his luck that none of his old acquaintances had spotted him on his return to the area, but nobody stayed still for long here so he would have to move. He went to take a step to the front door when a sounds floated toward him and stopped him in his tracks; the unmistakable sound of The Four Tops.
…with a love that will shelter you…
“Christ, you never fuckin’ change.” Immediately Jack turns from the front door and heads down the side of the house instead, to where a large barn sits behind it. The barn looks to be in worse shape than the house, a minor miracle it’s still standing, as he approaches.
I’ll be there, with a love that will see you through.
Levi Stubbs’ voice becomes clearer with each step and would have been easily audible even if the barn door hadn’t been left wide open. Jack moved closer still, wasting no time trying to make himself quiet or mask his large form; there was no mistaking him if anybody saw him now. His black hair hung past his shoulders, slick with moisture. His frame loomed over almost everybody he had ever met. His eyes burned with a ‘do not fuck with me’ aura that no normal man would be stupid enough to test.
When you feel and about to give up,
‘Cause your best just ain’t good enough.
Reaching the door Jack took a deep breath, scrunching his eyes up as if telling himself this was a stupid idea, and then walked through into the barn.
There in front of him sat a sight he had wished to forget, but now would have to get very familiar with; a wrestling ring. The ropes sagged, the mat with thick with mildew and barely bounced anymore, the posts were rusted orange… just how he remembered it. And just as he remembered the tape player, for the owner of this fine establishment didn’t care for the digital age one bit, was sat only feet from the entrance. Without a thought he walked up to the blasted old thing and reached out…
And you feel the world has grown co….
The music crackled to a halt and an alarming crash filled the room instead as a wiry black fella in the ring dropped his training partner awkwardly on his ass instead of his back, clearly distracted by the sudden silence.
“What in the name of fuck…?!” Came a shout of derision, a furious holler from the near right corner of the squared circle. The old man’s voice always had carried far and loud, Jack thought to himself as the man turned around. He was dressed in a tatty grey leisure suit, matching the colour of his handlebar moustache and fading hair that manage to hide absolutely nothing of the harsh, crumpled features of his face.
The old man stood transfixed as he looked across the barn at this monstrous intruder, neither man moving and the only noise now the whining of the tattooed latino with the shaved head, clutching his tailbone in agony. Seconds passed and nobody moved, until without moving a muscle the trainer ordered “Boys, I think we’re done for today. Get outta here.”
They didn’t argue, only removed themselves from the ring and walked away, one aiding the other as he struggled away with his broken backside. Shuffling through the door they left it unlocked and wide open, but nobody would be listening in to this conversation, the fear of punishment was too severe.
“I thought I’d see you around here sooner or later… I just banked on later.” The old man grumbled as he patted down his moustache casually. He remained in a commanding position, stood on the ring apron.
“Yeah well people get desperate when they don’t have anywhere to go, Pops. I didn’t have a lot of offers of places to stay, what with nobody giving enough fucks to come and see me… not even my own father.” Jack remained still, holding his ground a good few yards from the ring itself like a predator testing how close he could get to his prey before pouncing.
“We’re a tough family, we lived through shit harder than two years in a cushy little hotel room and didn’t need our hands held through it. I ain’t your goddamn babysitter no more, Jack.” His manner couldn’t have been more matter-of-fact. That was the measure of the man himself and his son that remained in front of him. There were no lies in this family, only hard truths spit out fast.
“Babysitter? You’re the only family I got, I thought you’d at least give me a sofa to sleep on until I could get myself back on my feet.” A note of frustration above the regular tone of stubborn resistance. Jack had fallen from favour but he at least expected a chance to climb back up to it.
“Ha!” Mr Cropper snorted, sending a puff of white hair bustling from his lip in genuine amusement. “What about Stanley, or Burrito? They were more family to you than I was before, I barely exist until you need help. Or what about that skank, Moni…”
“You watch your mouth, old man!” The line hadn’t just been crossed, it had been stomped into Jack’s face with no subtlety or lenience. Jack’s own father swatted him with insults of friends who were no longer friends and lovers who he hadn’t loved in years. He stomped forward and thrust an angry finger in the direction of his father, afraid of what might happen if his finger turned into a fist.
Giving a little smile at the anger he’d caused his kin, Mr Cropper felt a tinge of satisfaction that he’d avenged some of the shame his name had endured because of his son’s actions. “Fine, Fine! Don’t get your panties in a twist. I hear she hooked up with some fancy doctor type anyway. Guess she can’t help you anymore.”
Jack tried not to let the hurt show, but he knew a pang of anger and shame had struck his face when he heard this flippant remark, crushing a hope he had secretly tended for the term of his incarceration. His father had a point though, she wouldn’t help and it was unlikely anybody else would. “Nobody came to visit me, not one of those disloyal assholes or Monica. I got nothing, nothing but a job.”
“What son of a bitch gave your sorry ass a job?” Mr Cropper stifled another laugh, expecting to hear some petty, scrounging excuse for an occupation or a tired justification for a criminal profession.
Jack hesitate for a moment, unsure about revealing the nature of his employ to the man in front of him for very obvious reasons. The man was stood on the apron of a wrestling ring, a ring he had built his life around and had tried to force upon his own son with lack-lustre results. It would come out sooner or later though. “Pure Class Wrestling.”
“Wait, you’re going to be a wrassler?” Then came the laugh, a hacking cackle fuelled by cigarettes and whiskey that cut straight to Jack’s heart. He thought he could at least count on one person’s support in his first contest again Cory Steel and a fellow newcomer ridiculously called ‘Tha Joka’, but that support was all but forgotten now.
He’d barely come to a finish, tears welling in his eyes, when Jack spoke again in an attempt to pacify him. “I approached them, I guess they thought it’d be interesting to see what I could do.”
“Oh I bet that’s what they thought. You do remember you weren’t exactly technically gifted when I tried to teach you? You kept dropping my students on their goddamn heads.” The blind patronising tone in Mr Cropper’s voice frustrated Jack more. He wanted out of that barn, away from the musty stench of mildew and lingering dust that caked his boots already.
“I ain’t going there to do armdrags and suplexes, I’m going to beat the hell out of those big time guys. I’m going to fight.” He knew now he was on the back foot in this ill-thought confrontation and that he was saying things out of pure frustration, a childish instinct to try and defend himself and justify his choice.
“Sure you are, put that temper of yours to good use creaming some shiny haired movie star wannabe instead of sticking up bookies.” That satisfied smile was replaced by a mocking sneer at the band of wrestlers he had never been able to face. The old-school wrestler, the journeyman he had once been, was never considered in the same light at those movie-star wannabes. Some might have thought a hint of jealousy hid behind his words. More than that, though, was the bitterness and insult thrown toward his son, mocking his new life while slapping him the face for the sins of his old one.
“The hell to this, it was a mistake coming here. I expected help from my father… there’s only a bitter old man here now, who’s forgotten that his son’s the only family he has left.” The final straw had been snapped, the line crossed too many times, and Jack had had enough. He turned, determined to find somewhere more welcoming even if it meant the streets, and walked toward the open barn-door. It had been a grave mistake to come here before his contest with Steel and ‘Tha Joka’. His mind would be swimming with hurt and self-doubt, a concoction bad for his prospects and self-control.
“80 bucks.” Came the voice from behind him, and Jack barely heard it. He was stuck on the whirlwind of anger, the fury that had cost him dearly before. If he could not remember to keep himself under control he could lose more than just a match, more than just a couple of years. In trying to manage his breathing and bring his rage back down, his ears finally began to work and he stopped in his tracks.
“What?” He didn’t know if what he heard was right, how could it have been? Just a random number called out by his insulter-general after he had all but kicked his son out of his home.
“If you’re really a big time wrassler now, the couch costs 80 bucks a week. And if you still don’t like my cooking you can buy your own damn food. You fuck up again then I don’t care if you’re my son, I’ll send you to Stanley or Burrito to beg to sleep on their floor.” Mr Cropper spoke with the same matter-of-fact attitude that he had gifted his son, one of few things he had seemingly kept from his father. He spoke to the back of his son’s head, unsure if he had been understood, or if the sincerity of the offer was masked by his bluntness enough not to sink in.
“Such a fucking humanitarian.” Jack grumbled in a rough voice, barely audible to his aging father. He walked forward again, through the door with a more relaxed swagger that confused the old man stood on the ring apron. Had he walked out on his offer of sanctuary, of a chance to set up base and build something of a life for himself again? Had he walked out on the only family he had left in this god forsaken world?
“Is that a yes?!” Old Man Cropper hollered, loud enough to echo around the rickety old barn and shake loose some long-settled dust from high up. He waited for a reply, some sort of answer or grunt of acceptance or denial. He waited nervously, wondering if he had shut the door in his only son’s face and forced him out into the cold for good. He was a reckless kid, an angry kid, but he had a right to be and he also had a right to a second chance, didn’t he?
He waited, until he heard the tell-tale creak of his back door. His son still knew he kept the key under the Lions statuette by the door and he’d let himself in. Hearing that squeak of rusty old hinges, the old man smiled again and slapped a coating of dust from the sagging ropes of his old ring.