Start the Future Part II: Sins of the Father
Jun 11, 2015 10:58:21 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Jun 11, 2015 10:58:21 GMT -5
Start the Future
Part II: Sins of the Father
---------
His excuse had been a camping trip. His best friend, Dustin, had come to pick him up on Friday morning. But by 2pm, Jason Bronco was on a flight headed for Amarillo, Texas and Dustin was bellied up at bar far enough out of town that he wouldn't be recognized. The weekend had come and gone without a hitch. Despite the massive flooding in Texas, Jason's flights had come and gone without incident. When he returned on Sunday night, Dustin was waiting to pick him. Outside of Patrick McCarthy, Dustin Cruise Jr. was the only person who know the depths of his deception.
The weekend had come and gone without incident. The weekend, however, is a short period of time.
Monday. June 1, 2015.
Saints Haven Wrestling Academy. Boston, MA.
The old factory building is humming with human machinery, adding din and life to the lifeless concrete, beige walls. Two men, both in their early to mid-twenties, rush and tumble inside a frill-less wrestling ring in the center of the wide, open main expanse. The shorter of the two has a shock of wild, dirty-blond hair that follows him like a shadow as he evades the reckless, powerful swings of the burly, bearded larger man who looks comprised of equal parts hair and muscle.
Along the curtain-less apron of the ring, several other people stand watching. Two young women look on intently, occasionally glancing over at the group of three other men on the outside. Of the three man on the outside, Isaac Bronco's figure looms largest in physical stature and aura. With meaty arms crossed in front of a barreled chest, his icy blue eyes follow the blond boy's movements. Part of him hoping that the larger man will actually connect. Next to Isaac is Patrick McCarthy, younger and smaller than his counterpart but showing more wear-and-tear from a career and body that were over-extended. And finally, there is Jason Bronco, barely a man at all. Roughly as tall as McCarthy, but dwarfed in comparative demeanor. He hasn't eaten today. His eyes have bags that no eighteen-year-old should carry, and they dart furtively between the boys in the ring and the men to his left.
In the ring, the blond boy – Dustin Cruise Jr. - taunts the larger, bearded man as he ducks another furious lariat. He counts off the near-misses, "That's seven. Oh, and eight!" The bearded man's placid demeanor turns to frustration after missing a boot, and he charges after Cruise who is unprepared for the shoulder block that sends him tumbling out of the ring.
Isaac Bronco smirks. Patrick McCarthy shakes his head. Young Jason Bronco walks over to help his friend back to his feet, an act that is shrugged off by the wild-haired Cruise.
It is at this moment, a lull in the fervor and action, that they realize a phone is ringing. It's cry is distant and faint, but it's presence is clear. The elder Bronco turns towards his office to retrieve, as all eyes follow him there. A silence hangs in the air for a bit too long before McCarthy instructs the young ladies into the ring. The younger Bronco exchanges a quick glance with Cruise, and then a longer, more forlorn one with his mentor, McCarthy.
As the young women set off to start their drill, they are cut short by the sound of a slamming door. Isaac Bronco's surname has never seemed so apt as he storms like a war-horse directly over to McCarthy. With a sigh of resignation, McCarthy turns, offering no words or resistance as Bronco cold-cocks him right across the face.
One of the students lets out an audible cry of shock as McCarthy crumbles to floor in a heap. He coughs and spits. A stain of blood on the floor. Jason rushes over to help McCarthy, standing between his mentor and his father. But there is certain rage you can't dispel, you can only redirect. Betrayal is such a rage.
Isaac grips his son by the collar of his T-shirt, nearly lifting the boy off the ground before ripping downward with such violent force that Jason's shirt is split in half, nearly torn off. It is on his flesh that he bears the mark of his deception. Red and purple bruises, the shape of hands and fingers across his left pectoral. The marks of the knife-edge chops that Jason earned in his match with the Knights of Anarchy. Tell-tale signs over a tell-tale heart.
"Dad," is all the boy can muster, struggling to keep his father's gaze.
"Get out of my sight," his father responds before adding, "All of you!"
The other students snap into action, rushing to grab their gear and clothes and beat a hasty retreat. The elder Bronco casts a long look at his son. Years of shattered hopes and dreams, of anguish long and short, and emotions enumerable held in that instant... before turning his back on his boy. Isaac returns to his office, leaving only the co-conspirators behind.
McCarthy pushes himself back to his feet, holding his jaw and checking for signs of a break. He offers a half-hearted smirk to the younger Bronco.
"At least he held back," he quips. "The die is cast." And with that McCarthy pats Jason on the shoulder, grabs his bag from beside the ring and walks out of Saints Haven for the last time.
It takes a moment for Jason to even breath. And when he does, it comes with a torrent of vomit. All liquid. It splashes off the small pool of blood on the floor and splatters across his sneakers.
"Well, looks like your heel turn is complete," the voice is Dustin Cruise's, as he makes his way up beside his best friend. His inappropriately cheerful grin is met only with an exhausted sideways glance. Cruise shifts his tone to something more fraternal: "Come on, let's get out of here."
Cruise's 1986 Cutlass Supreme brings the two near-brothers to a McDonald's. Inside they eat their lunches in silence. They return to the car, and end up at Dustin's apartment duplex in Roxbury. The sky-blue vinyl siding is falling off in a few places where the white wooden trim is rotting. The pair sit on the back stoop, staring out at the unkempt urban jungle of weeds and plants that grows beyond the sea of spent cigarette butts littered on the ground.
Cruise burns through the last of a cigarette and adds a drop to the ocean, before offering a pat on Bronco's shoulder before returning to the house. Bronco remains on the stoop, still wearing his gym shorts, puke-stained sneakers, and a borrowed Misfits T-shirt. Several days worth of scruff adorn his chin in the form of what only a teenager might call a beard. Bronco runs his hands over his face and through is close-cropped black hair before returning them to his knees.
"The die is cast," he mumbles. Then repeats "the die is cast."
"Julius Caesar said that, when he crossed the Rubicon with an army that would invade Rome and set up one of the world's greatest empires," he pauses, "And Patrick McCarthy said it. To me. Those might be the last words I ever here from him."
The thought hangs in the air as a slight breeze sways the tallest weeds in the small fenced-in yard.
"It means that there's no going back. In Amarillo, Texas I cast my lot in with Chris Bond. I cast my die. I crossed my Rubicon. I've given up my home, my family, my friends, and any opportunity for a different kind of life for myself. College, career, ambition. When I cast those die, I cast them aside."
Bronco's eyes finally rise from the scattered cigarettes around his feet.
"On June 13th, we invade Rome."
"When I stepped into the ring in Amarillo against the Knights of Anarchy... I was scared. It's no brave thing to admit it, anyone who watched the match could see it. I was a scared kid stepping into the ring with living legends. And they beat the shit out of me. The 'phenomenon' that Jason Bronco was suppose to be? Man, clearly that was all just a load of hype and smoke. Look at this kid, getting his tits slapped off, getting tossed like a rag doll. Some legend-in-the-making, right?"
"When I stepped into that ring I should've seen an opportunity. I should've seen a moment to seize greatness. I should've seen a chance – MY chance – to live out the dream I've had since I was old enough to walk. But I didn't. All I saw was the seemingly endless list of people that I was letting down. I saw all the people I hurt by making the selfish decision to pursue my passion. I saw the look in my father's eyes that I've been fearing for months. The look I got today. In Amarillo, I wasn't fighting the Knights of Anarchy. I was fighting doubt. I was fighting myself. And it showed."
"In Amarillo, by the grace of Chris Bond I was spared. In Amarillo, I got lucky. Amarillo... was a fluke."
The word comes out of his mouth like a curse, spit with vitriol.
"The time for luck and fluke's is over now. No more boy-shit. The die is cast and I'm marching straight ahead because there's nowhere else for me to go now. I'm not much of a trash-talker; hell, I'm not even much of a talker if we're being honest, but I'll tell you what I do have: nothing. I've got absolutely nothing left in my life, which means I got nothing left to lose. I got a damned-good partner and I've got a match and that's all I need right now. That's all I WANT right now."
"That kid that got whooped around in Texas? Don't expect him in Prescott, Arizona. Hell, don't ever expect to see him again. That kid had every inch of his childhood beat out of him in that ring, and had every ounce of his innocence crushed this afternoon. The colt is gone, the Bronco is here now."
"And I'm not going to sit here and declare victory. I know what is standing across the ring from us this week. Caesar knew what was waiting for him in Rome. I know that Dexter Jacobs and Whiskey Ayano are just as big, brutal, tough and violent as the Knights of Anarchy, if not more so. I know Whiskey Dex is everyone's odds-on favorite to take this Dynamic Duos tournament. I know they're vicious. I know they see our team as a washed-up has-been and a green-as-gooseshit never-has-been. But what I KNOW and what IS aren't always the same. What everyone THINKS isn't always what HAPPENS. It is going to take everything – absolutely everything – that we have to win this match."
For the first time in as long as he can remember, Jason Bronco smiles.
"But I've got nothing left to lose. You want it all? You want everything I got? Well, you're going to get it. I gave up my future to be here. My own father's disowned me. You want to know if I'm all in, well, I'm all fucking in. The die is cast, the army's crossed, and Jason Bronco and Chris Bond are going to raze Rome and raise hell. It's time for me to burn the past to the ground..."
"...it's time for me to start the future."
Part II: Sins of the Father
---------
His excuse had been a camping trip. His best friend, Dustin, had come to pick him up on Friday morning. But by 2pm, Jason Bronco was on a flight headed for Amarillo, Texas and Dustin was bellied up at bar far enough out of town that he wouldn't be recognized. The weekend had come and gone without a hitch. Despite the massive flooding in Texas, Jason's flights had come and gone without incident. When he returned on Sunday night, Dustin was waiting to pick him. Outside of Patrick McCarthy, Dustin Cruise Jr. was the only person who know the depths of his deception.
The weekend had come and gone without incident. The weekend, however, is a short period of time.
Monday. June 1, 2015.
Saints Haven Wrestling Academy. Boston, MA.
The old factory building is humming with human machinery, adding din and life to the lifeless concrete, beige walls. Two men, both in their early to mid-twenties, rush and tumble inside a frill-less wrestling ring in the center of the wide, open main expanse. The shorter of the two has a shock of wild, dirty-blond hair that follows him like a shadow as he evades the reckless, powerful swings of the burly, bearded larger man who looks comprised of equal parts hair and muscle.
Along the curtain-less apron of the ring, several other people stand watching. Two young women look on intently, occasionally glancing over at the group of three other men on the outside. Of the three man on the outside, Isaac Bronco's figure looms largest in physical stature and aura. With meaty arms crossed in front of a barreled chest, his icy blue eyes follow the blond boy's movements. Part of him hoping that the larger man will actually connect. Next to Isaac is Patrick McCarthy, younger and smaller than his counterpart but showing more wear-and-tear from a career and body that were over-extended. And finally, there is Jason Bronco, barely a man at all. Roughly as tall as McCarthy, but dwarfed in comparative demeanor. He hasn't eaten today. His eyes have bags that no eighteen-year-old should carry, and they dart furtively between the boys in the ring and the men to his left.
In the ring, the blond boy – Dustin Cruise Jr. - taunts the larger, bearded man as he ducks another furious lariat. He counts off the near-misses, "That's seven. Oh, and eight!" The bearded man's placid demeanor turns to frustration after missing a boot, and he charges after Cruise who is unprepared for the shoulder block that sends him tumbling out of the ring.
Isaac Bronco smirks. Patrick McCarthy shakes his head. Young Jason Bronco walks over to help his friend back to his feet, an act that is shrugged off by the wild-haired Cruise.
It is at this moment, a lull in the fervor and action, that they realize a phone is ringing. It's cry is distant and faint, but it's presence is clear. The elder Bronco turns towards his office to retrieve, as all eyes follow him there. A silence hangs in the air for a bit too long before McCarthy instructs the young ladies into the ring. The younger Bronco exchanges a quick glance with Cruise, and then a longer, more forlorn one with his mentor, McCarthy.
As the young women set off to start their drill, they are cut short by the sound of a slamming door. Isaac Bronco's surname has never seemed so apt as he storms like a war-horse directly over to McCarthy. With a sigh of resignation, McCarthy turns, offering no words or resistance as Bronco cold-cocks him right across the face.
One of the students lets out an audible cry of shock as McCarthy crumbles to floor in a heap. He coughs and spits. A stain of blood on the floor. Jason rushes over to help McCarthy, standing between his mentor and his father. But there is certain rage you can't dispel, you can only redirect. Betrayal is such a rage.
Isaac grips his son by the collar of his T-shirt, nearly lifting the boy off the ground before ripping downward with such violent force that Jason's shirt is split in half, nearly torn off. It is on his flesh that he bears the mark of his deception. Red and purple bruises, the shape of hands and fingers across his left pectoral. The marks of the knife-edge chops that Jason earned in his match with the Knights of Anarchy. Tell-tale signs over a tell-tale heart.
"Dad," is all the boy can muster, struggling to keep his father's gaze.
"Get out of my sight," his father responds before adding, "All of you!"
The other students snap into action, rushing to grab their gear and clothes and beat a hasty retreat. The elder Bronco casts a long look at his son. Years of shattered hopes and dreams, of anguish long and short, and emotions enumerable held in that instant... before turning his back on his boy. Isaac returns to his office, leaving only the co-conspirators behind.
McCarthy pushes himself back to his feet, holding his jaw and checking for signs of a break. He offers a half-hearted smirk to the younger Bronco.
"At least he held back," he quips. "The die is cast." And with that McCarthy pats Jason on the shoulder, grabs his bag from beside the ring and walks out of Saints Haven for the last time.
It takes a moment for Jason to even breath. And when he does, it comes with a torrent of vomit. All liquid. It splashes off the small pool of blood on the floor and splatters across his sneakers.
"Well, looks like your heel turn is complete," the voice is Dustin Cruise's, as he makes his way up beside his best friend. His inappropriately cheerful grin is met only with an exhausted sideways glance. Cruise shifts his tone to something more fraternal: "Come on, let's get out of here."
Cruise's 1986 Cutlass Supreme brings the two near-brothers to a McDonald's. Inside they eat their lunches in silence. They return to the car, and end up at Dustin's apartment duplex in Roxbury. The sky-blue vinyl siding is falling off in a few places where the white wooden trim is rotting. The pair sit on the back stoop, staring out at the unkempt urban jungle of weeds and plants that grows beyond the sea of spent cigarette butts littered on the ground.
Cruise burns through the last of a cigarette and adds a drop to the ocean, before offering a pat on Bronco's shoulder before returning to the house. Bronco remains on the stoop, still wearing his gym shorts, puke-stained sneakers, and a borrowed Misfits T-shirt. Several days worth of scruff adorn his chin in the form of what only a teenager might call a beard. Bronco runs his hands over his face and through is close-cropped black hair before returning them to his knees.
"The die is cast," he mumbles. Then repeats "the die is cast."
"Julius Caesar said that, when he crossed the Rubicon with an army that would invade Rome and set up one of the world's greatest empires," he pauses, "And Patrick McCarthy said it. To me. Those might be the last words I ever here from him."
The thought hangs in the air as a slight breeze sways the tallest weeds in the small fenced-in yard.
"It means that there's no going back. In Amarillo, Texas I cast my lot in with Chris Bond. I cast my die. I crossed my Rubicon. I've given up my home, my family, my friends, and any opportunity for a different kind of life for myself. College, career, ambition. When I cast those die, I cast them aside."
Bronco's eyes finally rise from the scattered cigarettes around his feet.
"On June 13th, we invade Rome."
"When I stepped into the ring in Amarillo against the Knights of Anarchy... I was scared. It's no brave thing to admit it, anyone who watched the match could see it. I was a scared kid stepping into the ring with living legends. And they beat the shit out of me. The 'phenomenon' that Jason Bronco was suppose to be? Man, clearly that was all just a load of hype and smoke. Look at this kid, getting his tits slapped off, getting tossed like a rag doll. Some legend-in-the-making, right?"
"When I stepped into that ring I should've seen an opportunity. I should've seen a moment to seize greatness. I should've seen a chance – MY chance – to live out the dream I've had since I was old enough to walk. But I didn't. All I saw was the seemingly endless list of people that I was letting down. I saw all the people I hurt by making the selfish decision to pursue my passion. I saw the look in my father's eyes that I've been fearing for months. The look I got today. In Amarillo, I wasn't fighting the Knights of Anarchy. I was fighting doubt. I was fighting myself. And it showed."
"In Amarillo, by the grace of Chris Bond I was spared. In Amarillo, I got lucky. Amarillo... was a fluke."
The word comes out of his mouth like a curse, spit with vitriol.
"The time for luck and fluke's is over now. No more boy-shit. The die is cast and I'm marching straight ahead because there's nowhere else for me to go now. I'm not much of a trash-talker; hell, I'm not even much of a talker if we're being honest, but I'll tell you what I do have: nothing. I've got absolutely nothing left in my life, which means I got nothing left to lose. I got a damned-good partner and I've got a match and that's all I need right now. That's all I WANT right now."
"That kid that got whooped around in Texas? Don't expect him in Prescott, Arizona. Hell, don't ever expect to see him again. That kid had every inch of his childhood beat out of him in that ring, and had every ounce of his innocence crushed this afternoon. The colt is gone, the Bronco is here now."
"And I'm not going to sit here and declare victory. I know what is standing across the ring from us this week. Caesar knew what was waiting for him in Rome. I know that Dexter Jacobs and Whiskey Ayano are just as big, brutal, tough and violent as the Knights of Anarchy, if not more so. I know Whiskey Dex is everyone's odds-on favorite to take this Dynamic Duos tournament. I know they're vicious. I know they see our team as a washed-up has-been and a green-as-gooseshit never-has-been. But what I KNOW and what IS aren't always the same. What everyone THINKS isn't always what HAPPENS. It is going to take everything – absolutely everything – that we have to win this match."
For the first time in as long as he can remember, Jason Bronco smiles.
"But I've got nothing left to lose. You want it all? You want everything I got? Well, you're going to get it. I gave up my future to be here. My own father's disowned me. You want to know if I'm all in, well, I'm all fucking in. The die is cast, the army's crossed, and Jason Bronco and Chris Bond are going to raze Rome and raise hell. It's time for me to burn the past to the ground..."
"...it's time for me to start the future."