Start the Future. Part I: Born in a Long Shadow
May 28, 2015 11:01:54 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on May 28, 2015 11:01:54 GMT -5
Previously...
Bond - "So what can I do for you?"
McCarthy - "I need a favor. It's something I'd do myself if I could hold up, but..."
His voice trails off. He'd never been one to ask for help, even outmanned and outgunned.
Bond - "What is it?"
McCarthy - "There's this kid. His name's Jason. Jason Bronco."
McCarthy - "He could better than any of us, man. But he'll need help. He'll need your help..."
---------
Boston, MA.
At the end of a manicured lawn, along a sandstone pathway, lies the heavy wooden doors of a stout red-brick schoolhouse. The schoolhouse has stood in this place for over a hundred years now; growing with the generations to add wing after wing. One for the science department, another for arts, yet another for sports; it has not lost that distinctive New England character. Indeed, the high school looks like a miniature Harvard... had it not been standing long before Harvard's own hallowed halls.
It is beyond those looming wooden doors where the Great Hall lies, a relic from a former era, meticulously maintained. Line after line of wooden seats are bolted together and have almost been molded into something resembling comfortable from the generations of students who have occupied them. The Hall is long and narrow, only enough room for three columns of twenty seats across. A small balcony hangs along the back. Along the dark oak walls, interspersed between oil portraits of by-gone alumni and headmasters, tall windows allow a soft yellow light to illuminate the room and the mass of dust mites that hover in the air, attendees of yet another graduation ceremony.
The headmaster stands in heavy robes of black and crimson, ornate beyond function, as he gives closing remarks to the graduating class of 47 young men. They sit navy blazers over khakis with matching black and crimson ties. “They look younger every year,” the headmaster thinks to himself as he finishes his remarks to a polite round of applause. This will be his thirty-fifth and final graduation. The names are called, one by one, in alphabetical order by last name. All applause is saved until all 47 have received their diplomas. And then, finally, they leave these halls they entered as boys, as young men.
Once the ceremonies have concluded, the graduates and their families gather in the refectory hall for light refreshments and to bathe in the afterglow. Among them, a man of about 40 stands out from the other fathers. He is ten to twenty years their junior, with shoulders twice as wide as the most robust of his peers. He stands a head taller than most of the other people in the room, and fits snugly into a well-tailored suit that shows his physique. Isaac Bronco, a legend in the professional wrestling industry, stands beaming with pride and with his beefy right hand on the shoulder of his son, Jason.
Jason Bronco looks every inch his father's son. From the brown-black hair to the blue eyes to the hawkish nose to the impressive physique. He's shorter than his father, and more slender. His muscles down strain against the navy blazer like his father's against his suit, but he is more physically defined than most young boys on the precipice of manhood.
He fidgets. And anyone who wants to look closely can see his smile is strained. He doesn't want to be there. To his peers this graduation marks the next step of their lives. The school has a 100% matriculation rate, and most of these boys will end up in Ivy League universities like Yale and Princeton. But for Jason it means the end. The end of a long con job and of rampant deception. As he stares at the portrait on the wall of the departing headmaster, a twinge of guilt cuts into his stomach from within. He'll be a blemish on that sterling matriculation rate.
“Bowdoin,” his father's jovial and booming voice intones as he gives Jason a hearty slap on the shoulder. Isaac is talking to one of the other fathers, who turns to Jason with a smile and nod. “Good school,” the other father responds.
“Great school,” Isaac replies more out of enthusiasm than correction, “especially for someone with my DNA. You must have gotten all your smarts from your mother, Jase. Especially after all those years of your old man getting walloped over the head.”
Isaac and the other father share a laugh, as Jason forces the polite smile back onto his face. Another person he'll disappoint. Doubt creeps in from the cold shadows of his mind. It whispers in his ear, “Is it worth it?”
Jason excuses himself to use the restroom. When he vomits, all that comes out is water. He hasn't kept down solid food for two days.
------------
In a much less affluent neighborhood, a large concrete block of a building dominates a block of one of the neighborhood's main thoroughfares. The building is largely unadorned, excepting a small sign over the main entrance. Red text on a black background:
A well-respected school in the business and sport of professional wrestling, Saints Haven has produced stand-out talents like Patrick “The Saint” McCarthy, “The Tenacious Little Bastard” Dom Harter, and the infamous Malcolm Drake. Under the tutelage of Isaac Bronco and the aforementioned Patrick McCarthy, students receive an unparalleled education in the science of wrestling. At least during business hours. But it is long after dark, and long after close. Yet inside, the lights are on...
The sound of boots pounding the canvas echo through the vast interior, moving at such a pace that they overlap the echoes and create a rolling thunder, interspersed only the the groaning of ring ropes. In the center ring, a spartan construction of black ropes over gray canvas with no skirts or decals, a blur of motion that is barely a man launches itself back and forth. On the outside, a more stationary figure looks on. Wrinkles stretch out from the corners of his pale-blue eyes, and a slight grin adorns the weathered flesh of his face. His arms are crossed in front of his chest, and crisscrossed with scars that match the large on the back of his surgically repaired neck.
The weight of the world and the passage of time have not been kind to Patrick McCarthy, but as he stands on the outside watching the young Jason Bronco bounding and rebounding at (ironically) break-neck, he can't help but smile at what he helped create. “This,” he thinks to himself, “is my greatest achievement. More than championship or match or paycheck. This... this is the closest I will ever come to having a son.”
“That should do it,” McCarthy says with only the slightest crack in his voice. The blur reforms itself into a recognizably human form, as Jason Bronco slows to a trot. His navy blazer and khakis replaced with sweat-laden T-shirt and track pants. He climbs out of the ring and perches on the apron in front of McCarthy.
“Have you heard anything from Mr. Bond?” Jason asks, his voice distinctly lacking the gravel of age. Sweet and almost a sing-song.
Patrick laughs briefly, “Don't call him that. He'll think you're making fun of him. Sincerity is not something we're used to after years of sycophants and sociopaths.”
Jason nods, his eyes attentive as if absorbing a lecture.
“Amarillo, Texas. I have your plane ticket in my office.”
“Thanks again for helping with this, Patrick. You don't know how much it means to me.”
Patrick scowls.
“Well you had best try and show me, show everyone what it means to you. This isn't a game anymore, Jason. This is the real deal. You're not playing around in here with Dustin and Cherry and Dahlia and the rest of the misfits. And Chris Bond, he can only help you so much. He can only shelter you and teach you so much. It's on you now.”
“I know...” Jason says, his voice trailing off and his eyes falling from his mentor's.
“Do you? Do you know? Do you know that your father will eventually find out? Find out not only that you went and got this gig behind his back? Find out that I helped you? Find out that you're NOT going to college? That you turned down the opportunity to be the first in his family to go? And to find out I fucking helped you lie to him? Do you know all that?!”
A long silence hangs in the air amidst the stale smell of sweat and salt. Jason can't bring himself to look his mentor in the eyes, his face is twisted and hardened, holding back the well of emotions that he's been hiding away for so long. It falls on McCarthy to break the silence. He squats down to draw Jason's eyes and places a hand on his shoulder.
“Kid, you're not the only one putting something on the line here. I'm not going to be around once your dad finds out. This is going to change everything. For all of us. For you, for me, for Isaac, for your family, for your friends, for this school. And I'm helping you put all of that on the line because I believe in you. You turned out better than I ever could've hoped for. Not just in the ring, but as a man. I'm proud of you. And I know you'll do great. Just never lose sight of all that you've left behind.”
There's a brief pause. Then the two embrace, tears now readily flowing from Jason's clenched eyes and welling in those of his mentor.
“I'll do better than great,” Jason finally says without break the embrace. “You're right about one thing...”
“... I'm going to change everything.”
Bond - "So what can I do for you?"
McCarthy - "I need a favor. It's something I'd do myself if I could hold up, but..."
His voice trails off. He'd never been one to ask for help, even outmanned and outgunned.
Bond - "What is it?"
McCarthy - "There's this kid. His name's Jason. Jason Bronco."
McCarthy - "He could better than any of us, man. But he'll need help. He'll need your help..."
---------
Boston, MA.
At the end of a manicured lawn, along a sandstone pathway, lies the heavy wooden doors of a stout red-brick schoolhouse. The schoolhouse has stood in this place for over a hundred years now; growing with the generations to add wing after wing. One for the science department, another for arts, yet another for sports; it has not lost that distinctive New England character. Indeed, the high school looks like a miniature Harvard... had it not been standing long before Harvard's own hallowed halls.
It is beyond those looming wooden doors where the Great Hall lies, a relic from a former era, meticulously maintained. Line after line of wooden seats are bolted together and have almost been molded into something resembling comfortable from the generations of students who have occupied them. The Hall is long and narrow, only enough room for three columns of twenty seats across. A small balcony hangs along the back. Along the dark oak walls, interspersed between oil portraits of by-gone alumni and headmasters, tall windows allow a soft yellow light to illuminate the room and the mass of dust mites that hover in the air, attendees of yet another graduation ceremony.
The headmaster stands in heavy robes of black and crimson, ornate beyond function, as he gives closing remarks to the graduating class of 47 young men. They sit navy blazers over khakis with matching black and crimson ties. “They look younger every year,” the headmaster thinks to himself as he finishes his remarks to a polite round of applause. This will be his thirty-fifth and final graduation. The names are called, one by one, in alphabetical order by last name. All applause is saved until all 47 have received their diplomas. And then, finally, they leave these halls they entered as boys, as young men.
Once the ceremonies have concluded, the graduates and their families gather in the refectory hall for light refreshments and to bathe in the afterglow. Among them, a man of about 40 stands out from the other fathers. He is ten to twenty years their junior, with shoulders twice as wide as the most robust of his peers. He stands a head taller than most of the other people in the room, and fits snugly into a well-tailored suit that shows his physique. Isaac Bronco, a legend in the professional wrestling industry, stands beaming with pride and with his beefy right hand on the shoulder of his son, Jason.
Jason Bronco looks every inch his father's son. From the brown-black hair to the blue eyes to the hawkish nose to the impressive physique. He's shorter than his father, and more slender. His muscles down strain against the navy blazer like his father's against his suit, but he is more physically defined than most young boys on the precipice of manhood.
He fidgets. And anyone who wants to look closely can see his smile is strained. He doesn't want to be there. To his peers this graduation marks the next step of their lives. The school has a 100% matriculation rate, and most of these boys will end up in Ivy League universities like Yale and Princeton. But for Jason it means the end. The end of a long con job and of rampant deception. As he stares at the portrait on the wall of the departing headmaster, a twinge of guilt cuts into his stomach from within. He'll be a blemish on that sterling matriculation rate.
“Bowdoin,” his father's jovial and booming voice intones as he gives Jason a hearty slap on the shoulder. Isaac is talking to one of the other fathers, who turns to Jason with a smile and nod. “Good school,” the other father responds.
“Great school,” Isaac replies more out of enthusiasm than correction, “especially for someone with my DNA. You must have gotten all your smarts from your mother, Jase. Especially after all those years of your old man getting walloped over the head.”
Isaac and the other father share a laugh, as Jason forces the polite smile back onto his face. Another person he'll disappoint. Doubt creeps in from the cold shadows of his mind. It whispers in his ear, “Is it worth it?”
Jason excuses himself to use the restroom. When he vomits, all that comes out is water. He hasn't kept down solid food for two days.
------------
In a much less affluent neighborhood, a large concrete block of a building dominates a block of one of the neighborhood's main thoroughfares. The building is largely unadorned, excepting a small sign over the main entrance. Red text on a black background:
Saints Haven
Professional Wrestling Academy
Professional Wrestling Academy
A well-respected school in the business and sport of professional wrestling, Saints Haven has produced stand-out talents like Patrick “The Saint” McCarthy, “The Tenacious Little Bastard” Dom Harter, and the infamous Malcolm Drake. Under the tutelage of Isaac Bronco and the aforementioned Patrick McCarthy, students receive an unparalleled education in the science of wrestling. At least during business hours. But it is long after dark, and long after close. Yet inside, the lights are on...
The sound of boots pounding the canvas echo through the vast interior, moving at such a pace that they overlap the echoes and create a rolling thunder, interspersed only the the groaning of ring ropes. In the center ring, a spartan construction of black ropes over gray canvas with no skirts or decals, a blur of motion that is barely a man launches itself back and forth. On the outside, a more stationary figure looks on. Wrinkles stretch out from the corners of his pale-blue eyes, and a slight grin adorns the weathered flesh of his face. His arms are crossed in front of his chest, and crisscrossed with scars that match the large on the back of his surgically repaired neck.
The weight of the world and the passage of time have not been kind to Patrick McCarthy, but as he stands on the outside watching the young Jason Bronco bounding and rebounding at (ironically) break-neck, he can't help but smile at what he helped create. “This,” he thinks to himself, “is my greatest achievement. More than championship or match or paycheck. This... this is the closest I will ever come to having a son.”
“That should do it,” McCarthy says with only the slightest crack in his voice. The blur reforms itself into a recognizably human form, as Jason Bronco slows to a trot. His navy blazer and khakis replaced with sweat-laden T-shirt and track pants. He climbs out of the ring and perches on the apron in front of McCarthy.
“Have you heard anything from Mr. Bond?” Jason asks, his voice distinctly lacking the gravel of age. Sweet and almost a sing-song.
Patrick laughs briefly, “Don't call him that. He'll think you're making fun of him. Sincerity is not something we're used to after years of sycophants and sociopaths.”
Jason nods, his eyes attentive as if absorbing a lecture.
“Amarillo, Texas. I have your plane ticket in my office.”
“Thanks again for helping with this, Patrick. You don't know how much it means to me.”
Patrick scowls.
“Well you had best try and show me, show everyone what it means to you. This isn't a game anymore, Jason. This is the real deal. You're not playing around in here with Dustin and Cherry and Dahlia and the rest of the misfits. And Chris Bond, he can only help you so much. He can only shelter you and teach you so much. It's on you now.”
“I know...” Jason says, his voice trailing off and his eyes falling from his mentor's.
“Do you? Do you know? Do you know that your father will eventually find out? Find out not only that you went and got this gig behind his back? Find out that I helped you? Find out that you're NOT going to college? That you turned down the opportunity to be the first in his family to go? And to find out I fucking helped you lie to him? Do you know all that?!”
A long silence hangs in the air amidst the stale smell of sweat and salt. Jason can't bring himself to look his mentor in the eyes, his face is twisted and hardened, holding back the well of emotions that he's been hiding away for so long. It falls on McCarthy to break the silence. He squats down to draw Jason's eyes and places a hand on his shoulder.
“Kid, you're not the only one putting something on the line here. I'm not going to be around once your dad finds out. This is going to change everything. For all of us. For you, for me, for Isaac, for your family, for your friends, for this school. And I'm helping you put all of that on the line because I believe in you. You turned out better than I ever could've hoped for. Not just in the ring, but as a man. I'm proud of you. And I know you'll do great. Just never lose sight of all that you've left behind.”
There's a brief pause. Then the two embrace, tears now readily flowing from Jason's clenched eyes and welling in those of his mentor.
“I'll do better than great,” Jason finally says without break the embrace. “You're right about one thing...”
“... I'm going to change everything.”