Post by Deleted on Jul 7, 2014 23:55:10 GMT -6
Silence. For two straight minutes, not a single sound can be heard in the locker room of Rocky Mountain Wrestling. An eerie silence. A silence that makes a man think. They say that silence is golden, but nothing about this silence feels so rewarding. An overweight, out-of-shape, hardly attractive and furious 27 year old Italian-American man sits on a bench in front of a row of lockers, head hung low in thought. He's somewhere in the ballpark of 250 pounds. His dark hair buzzed short, almost down to stubble. His facial hair is a 5 o'clock shadow.
He's clad in a dingy white tank top, a white bandana tied over his forehead, socks and black Vans on his feet. Completing his attire is a pair of baggy denim jean shorts. You know, the ones with the ugly white stripes down the front and the back of them as a God-awful attempt to make them look vintage. They're probably the only fresh threads he has on him, but they're soiled by a pitiful attempt at trying to be something they're not - Somewhat of a reflection of the man wearing them.
Somewhat.
The man raises his head, bold brown eyes peering up at the dirty, aging, white-colored ceiling above. Thoughts race through his mind like a movie on fast forward. He hangs his head and closes his eyes.
Scenes play out: a 14-year-old version of him walking in fear through the streets of Southeast DC towards a school bus. Moments later, he's on the bus with a group of young black kids his age. The kids taunt him and he takes a swing at one of them. They pounce him, knocking him down and kicking the shit out of him.
The scene changes quickly to that of a hospital bed, with him laid out in it after the beating that he took. An older Italian lady sits at his bedside. The woman seems to be 20 years older than what she actually is, her body malnourished and worn out from years of drug use. Her dark hair's a mess, and her attire is like that of a common street whore.
He finds himself 2 years later from that scene, threatening the woman with a baseball bat – the woman who also holds a knife towards him as they have a stand-off inside a hole-in-the-wall apartment.
The scenes just race by further at that point; he's standing on a dangerous corner of DC in the dead of night, exchanging small bags of crack rock in the form of a street handshake with a man around his age: a lanky, somewhat muscular black male whose hair is styled in dreds down to his shoulders. Their figures are illuminated by the soft glow of a Chinese restaurant sign above them.
Daylight, on the same corner with the same male, laughing and joking while the black male tries to get him in the Cobra Clutch and the Italian playfully shoves him away.
The hint of positivity quickly replaced with the Italian standing in front of the same black male who is now offering a handgun to him. The Italian stares at a Glock 9mm handgun, which he takes and tucks into the waistband of his jeans before hurrying off.
The rest just moves so fast it's almost impossible to make out. Most of it's a blur of things you might see in a mobster/gangster movie: disposing of a body in the Anacostia river, the Italian man in his 20s now snorting a hit of cocaine from his hand while the black man from earlier watches him with worry crunching his brow, a funeral on a dreary day. Then, a somewhat younger version of himself is lined up with a group of hopeful young men all standing in the middle of a wrestling ring. Matches. Matches that put him through hell. Matches that let him take years and years of aggression out on someone, legally. Matches that soon turn to focus on one man who was known as Adrenaline Rush. Matches that all lead up to this point.
He opens his eyes immediately to his present situation, finding them now fixed back on the paint-chipped ceiling above. A male voice calls out to him. "Yo, Bandana." The Italian man now known as Bandana looks over his left shoulder. "You're on." Bandana nods, taking the white bandana from his head and tying it over the lower half of his face. He rises as he begins to hear his theme music. A beat starts while a man exclaims over it, "He wears a reeeed bandana!"
Of course, the one he wears is white, but he knows in his heart it won't be after tonight. Whether it will be red from the blood of his enemy or himself remains to be seen. As he walks his way to the ring with his head held high the fans jeer, some yelling out things like "faggot" or "wigger" or "fatass." Things he has been hearing his whole life anyway. His eyes glare at his opponent, who is again the man from his thoughts; Adrenaline Rush.
Almost a whole lifetime moved in his head. Almost a whole match moves quicker. His form is slumped against the middle rope, tired and gasping heavily for air. Across the ring, his opponent does the same. One of the commentators hypes the grueling, exhausting match for all those listening, "These men have put their hearts, their lives on the line each and every night. These two who have had an animosity f---" The loud smack of a chair shot interrupts him "OOH! Adrenaline Rush just rattled Bandana's head with a chair!" The crowd erupts, cheering for Adrenaline Rush. "And another! And another! Oh God, he's busted open! Jesus! He won't stop!"
Adrenaline Rush mercilessly hits Bandana with the chair. Bandana doesn't even try to block it. The pummeling is going straight to his head like shots of liquor; a hell of a lot less refreshing, but they cause him to stagger around. Bandana soon falls to the mat and rolls around in complete agony.
Bandana hazily peers up from the mat at his opponent, who just drops the chair in a manner devoid of any emotion before collapsing against the ring ropes.
Bandana wants to get up and take his revenge.
Adrenaline Rush wants to continue beating Bandana's face into hamburger meat.
Bandana, his opponent, everyone watching at ringside, no one is sure if this is a wrestling match any longer. It changed into a horrifying street fight long before anyone realized.
Bandana counts the steps in his mind. 1... 2... 3... 4... The steps of Adrenaline Rush coming towards him. Bandana braces himself for more shots to his head, or a curb stomp. Instead, he feels the weight of Adrenaline Rush against him "Adrenaline Rush goes for the cover!" He's barely able to hear the count, but he can feel the pounding of the ref's hand against the mat.
The crowd counts along with the ref,
"ONE!
TWO!...
THREE!"
The bell sounds and a ring announcer exclaims, "YOUR WINNER OF THE MATCH! ADRENALINE RUSH... EVAAAAAN GRIFFIIIIIITH!"
A completely exhausted Evan raises his hands tiredly into the air, the ref grabbing his left hand, showing the crowd their winner - who soon moves away from the ref.
Bandana can't feel the gaze of hate laid upon him from his opponent, who nurses his ribs as he heads to the back.
Bandana can't really feel anything at all while he lay bleeding in the corner of the ring, world fading to black.
He's clad in a dingy white tank top, a white bandana tied over his forehead, socks and black Vans on his feet. Completing his attire is a pair of baggy denim jean shorts. You know, the ones with the ugly white stripes down the front and the back of them as a God-awful attempt to make them look vintage. They're probably the only fresh threads he has on him, but they're soiled by a pitiful attempt at trying to be something they're not - Somewhat of a reflection of the man wearing them.
Somewhat.
The man raises his head, bold brown eyes peering up at the dirty, aging, white-colored ceiling above. Thoughts race through his mind like a movie on fast forward. He hangs his head and closes his eyes.
Scenes play out: a 14-year-old version of him walking in fear through the streets of Southeast DC towards a school bus. Moments later, he's on the bus with a group of young black kids his age. The kids taunt him and he takes a swing at one of them. They pounce him, knocking him down and kicking the shit out of him.
The scene changes quickly to that of a hospital bed, with him laid out in it after the beating that he took. An older Italian lady sits at his bedside. The woman seems to be 20 years older than what she actually is, her body malnourished and worn out from years of drug use. Her dark hair's a mess, and her attire is like that of a common street whore.
He finds himself 2 years later from that scene, threatening the woman with a baseball bat – the woman who also holds a knife towards him as they have a stand-off inside a hole-in-the-wall apartment.
The scenes just race by further at that point; he's standing on a dangerous corner of DC in the dead of night, exchanging small bags of crack rock in the form of a street handshake with a man around his age: a lanky, somewhat muscular black male whose hair is styled in dreds down to his shoulders. Their figures are illuminated by the soft glow of a Chinese restaurant sign above them.
Daylight, on the same corner with the same male, laughing and joking while the black male tries to get him in the Cobra Clutch and the Italian playfully shoves him away.
The hint of positivity quickly replaced with the Italian standing in front of the same black male who is now offering a handgun to him. The Italian stares at a Glock 9mm handgun, which he takes and tucks into the waistband of his jeans before hurrying off.
The rest just moves so fast it's almost impossible to make out. Most of it's a blur of things you might see in a mobster/gangster movie: disposing of a body in the Anacostia river, the Italian man in his 20s now snorting a hit of cocaine from his hand while the black man from earlier watches him with worry crunching his brow, a funeral on a dreary day. Then, a somewhat younger version of himself is lined up with a group of hopeful young men all standing in the middle of a wrestling ring. Matches. Matches that put him through hell. Matches that let him take years and years of aggression out on someone, legally. Matches that soon turn to focus on one man who was known as Adrenaline Rush. Matches that all lead up to this point.
He opens his eyes immediately to his present situation, finding them now fixed back on the paint-chipped ceiling above. A male voice calls out to him. "Yo, Bandana." The Italian man now known as Bandana looks over his left shoulder. "You're on." Bandana nods, taking the white bandana from his head and tying it over the lower half of his face. He rises as he begins to hear his theme music. A beat starts while a man exclaims over it, "He wears a reeeed bandana!"
Of course, the one he wears is white, but he knows in his heart it won't be after tonight. Whether it will be red from the blood of his enemy or himself remains to be seen. As he walks his way to the ring with his head held high the fans jeer, some yelling out things like "faggot" or "wigger" or "fatass." Things he has been hearing his whole life anyway. His eyes glare at his opponent, who is again the man from his thoughts; Adrenaline Rush.
Almost a whole lifetime moved in his head. Almost a whole match moves quicker. His form is slumped against the middle rope, tired and gasping heavily for air. Across the ring, his opponent does the same. One of the commentators hypes the grueling, exhausting match for all those listening, "These men have put their hearts, their lives on the line each and every night. These two who have had an animosity f---" The loud smack of a chair shot interrupts him "OOH! Adrenaline Rush just rattled Bandana's head with a chair!" The crowd erupts, cheering for Adrenaline Rush. "And another! And another! Oh God, he's busted open! Jesus! He won't stop!"
Adrenaline Rush mercilessly hits Bandana with the chair. Bandana doesn't even try to block it. The pummeling is going straight to his head like shots of liquor; a hell of a lot less refreshing, but they cause him to stagger around. Bandana soon falls to the mat and rolls around in complete agony.
Bandana hazily peers up from the mat at his opponent, who just drops the chair in a manner devoid of any emotion before collapsing against the ring ropes.
Bandana wants to get up and take his revenge.
Adrenaline Rush wants to continue beating Bandana's face into hamburger meat.
Bandana, his opponent, everyone watching at ringside, no one is sure if this is a wrestling match any longer. It changed into a horrifying street fight long before anyone realized.
Bandana counts the steps in his mind. 1... 2... 3... 4... The steps of Adrenaline Rush coming towards him. Bandana braces himself for more shots to his head, or a curb stomp. Instead, he feels the weight of Adrenaline Rush against him "Adrenaline Rush goes for the cover!" He's barely able to hear the count, but he can feel the pounding of the ref's hand against the mat.
The crowd counts along with the ref,
"ONE!
TWO!...
THREE!"
The bell sounds and a ring announcer exclaims, "YOUR WINNER OF THE MATCH! ADRENALINE RUSH... EVAAAAAN GRIFFIIIIIITH!"
A completely exhausted Evan raises his hands tiredly into the air, the ref grabbing his left hand, showing the crowd their winner - who soon moves away from the ref.
Bandana can't feel the gaze of hate laid upon him from his opponent, who nurses his ribs as he heads to the back.
Bandana can't really feel anything at all while he lay bleeding in the corner of the ring, world fading to black.