Post by Jack Levy on Jul 18, 2016 0:10:12 GMT
The day was windy. The wind could be heard gusting and whipping almost constantly, pausing only long enough for the sound of the shaking leaves on the trees surrounding him to be heard briefly, before gusting again. Jack was sitting in a rocking chair in front of a trailer that flanked a gravel driveway that extended about a hundred and fifty feet to a gravel road. Flanked on the other side of the driveway sat a log cabin farmhouse, old and vacant. Behind both the trailer and the farmhouse, in the far southwest corner of the property a barn with a roof that had fallen in years ago sat. In the northwest corner, extending along the western edge of the property, another barn sat, but was in better shape (though not much) than the former. An old car could be seen sleeping in the shadows of the latter mentioned barn, dust covering whatever color the car might have been fifty (sixty?) years ago.
This was his uncle’s property. It was a property he had grown up loving and found tranquility in just sitting and enjoying the nature that surrounded him. That was something about the country that he favored over being in a city. He spied a rabbit near the gravel road, a road in which maybe half a dozen cars had gone since he had been sitting in the rocking chair, some three hours ago.
He watched the rabbit as it kept watch, and eventually hopped out into the field on the south side. Beside him, an open can of Coors Light perspired about halfway down its silver exterior, and Jack picked it up and took a swig.
He used to mow this yard for his uncle. It was one of his favorite things to do, to get away from reality and just zone out as he listened to music while riding on the zero-turn that they had named Lieutenant Dan (for reasons he wasn’t sure).
He rocked slowly as he noted that the yard needed to be mowed, taking another gulp of his Coors Light and then tossing it forward. It hit on the edge of its base and made a metallic clang before falling to its side. It was a game his father and uncles used to play, where they tried to toss it and have it land upright. It was a game they played while they drank beer. Just a bullshit game.
He had spent the last few months in England, though he didn’t much care for it. He hadn’t even made the type of impact he had expected to make after becoming a twenty year old professional wrestler. And he continued to feel as though he were overlooked because he wasn’t the biggest guy on the roster, and had really just seemed like he was all bark and no bite to this point. He was set up in a nice house over there, but he didn’t much care for that stuff either. It was here that he felt at home: at some country farmhouse surrounded by a bean field on one side and a corn field on the other, on some road labeled by numbers and not a street name in the Midwestern part of the United States.
So he took it upon himself to sign up elsewhere to test his talents, with a company called Guerreros of Lucha, by putting his name in the mix against seven other professional athletes in a ladder match with a box up for grabs, and within that box a contract to wrestle for the GOL Rey de Reyes Championship. It was a fitting championship, since he was known as the carmesí rey in his amateur career. Well, maybe not that exactly. But the English translation (Crimson King). Though it wasn’t, it sure felt like a long time ago to him.
A gust of wind shook the trees.
Jack:
“For the second time in less than three months, I will be introduced to a group of people I’ve never met before. I don’t know much about anybody involved. I could watch footage of each of you, but what would be the point?”
He stood from the rocking chair and stretched, then yawned and made his way over to his cooler and popped the tab of another Coors Light. He leaned against one of the eight by sixes that held up the awning (fancy option for a trailer, indeed) that extended over the concrete slab that qualified for a porch in front of the trailer.
Jack:
“I don’t mean that disrespectfully. Don’t misunderstand me.”
He took a swig of his ice cold beer and exhaled with satisfaction. The front of his shirt advertised the Suicide Squad, and he wore a pair of Riggs brand carpenter jeans, despite the fact that the temperature outside was in the mid-80’s. The wind regulated a comfortable temperature.
Jack:
“What I meant by that is, this will not be a traditional match, but a ladder match with seven other unpredictable talents from all over the world, from different companies, from different backgrounds. And me? Well, I’m an American kid trying to make it big in a British promotion, at least for the moment. Hell, I’m in no place to look down on my competition. Because I haven’t even had my first taste of success. Yeah, I haven’t even won my first match yet. I’m sure many may be wondering why I’m giving everyone else more firepower to shoot my way. But, the answer to that is simple: I don’t really care.”
The leaves shivered in response. He smirked behind a pair of steel blue eyes. His hair was dyed a dark red, and it was cut somewhat short. The corn to the north of the property, where Jack began to gaze, was about waist high. Taking another drink of his beer, he strolled through the gravel towards the back of the property, his shoes crunching the tiny pebbles beneath them.
Jack:
“In this ladder match, I have everything to gain, yet nothing to lose. As cliché as that may be, it’s the truth. I’ve yet to win a match in my professional career, I’m pretty much the bottom of the barrel, and the sad thing is, I’m starting to enjoy it. Hey, these seven other individuals might be the ones laughing right now, and they’re probably wondering how the hell I even got accepted to this match. But, when they all get out-wrestled, out-fought, and out-done, by some twenty year old punk kid who hasn’t even won a match yet, who will be the last one laughing? Me. And you know what they say about he who laughs last, right?”
He stopped at the barn with the roof that had fallen in, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he surveyed it quietly. His beer can dangled from the fingertips of his right hand that folded under his left arm. He shook his head and shrugged dismissively.
Jack:
“The truth is, I don’t have a whole lot to say. I do have a whole lot I want to do. And I intend on doing it at Eternal Lucha. Maybe at the end of that ladder match, I will turn my momentum around and have something to build my career on. Maybe they’ll say… ¡Llegó el rey! ¡Llegó el carmesí rey!”
He smiled and gave a wink, then walked towards the other barn, where the old dusty car slept peacefully, just like a Buick 8 cylinder slept somewhere in Pennsylvania. Just as he always felt out here, he thought the car was watching him as he stalked across the yard. Just like that Buick 8 cylinder.
This was his uncle’s property. It was a property he had grown up loving and found tranquility in just sitting and enjoying the nature that surrounded him. That was something about the country that he favored over being in a city. He spied a rabbit near the gravel road, a road in which maybe half a dozen cars had gone since he had been sitting in the rocking chair, some three hours ago.
He watched the rabbit as it kept watch, and eventually hopped out into the field on the south side. Beside him, an open can of Coors Light perspired about halfway down its silver exterior, and Jack picked it up and took a swig.
He used to mow this yard for his uncle. It was one of his favorite things to do, to get away from reality and just zone out as he listened to music while riding on the zero-turn that they had named Lieutenant Dan (for reasons he wasn’t sure).
He rocked slowly as he noted that the yard needed to be mowed, taking another gulp of his Coors Light and then tossing it forward. It hit on the edge of its base and made a metallic clang before falling to its side. It was a game his father and uncles used to play, where they tried to toss it and have it land upright. It was a game they played while they drank beer. Just a bullshit game.
He had spent the last few months in England, though he didn’t much care for it. He hadn’t even made the type of impact he had expected to make after becoming a twenty year old professional wrestler. And he continued to feel as though he were overlooked because he wasn’t the biggest guy on the roster, and had really just seemed like he was all bark and no bite to this point. He was set up in a nice house over there, but he didn’t much care for that stuff either. It was here that he felt at home: at some country farmhouse surrounded by a bean field on one side and a corn field on the other, on some road labeled by numbers and not a street name in the Midwestern part of the United States.
So he took it upon himself to sign up elsewhere to test his talents, with a company called Guerreros of Lucha, by putting his name in the mix against seven other professional athletes in a ladder match with a box up for grabs, and within that box a contract to wrestle for the GOL Rey de Reyes Championship. It was a fitting championship, since he was known as the carmesí rey in his amateur career. Well, maybe not that exactly. But the English translation (Crimson King). Though it wasn’t, it sure felt like a long time ago to him.
A gust of wind shook the trees.
Jack:
“For the second time in less than three months, I will be introduced to a group of people I’ve never met before. I don’t know much about anybody involved. I could watch footage of each of you, but what would be the point?”
He stood from the rocking chair and stretched, then yawned and made his way over to his cooler and popped the tab of another Coors Light. He leaned against one of the eight by sixes that held up the awning (fancy option for a trailer, indeed) that extended over the concrete slab that qualified for a porch in front of the trailer.
Jack:
“I don’t mean that disrespectfully. Don’t misunderstand me.”
He took a swig of his ice cold beer and exhaled with satisfaction. The front of his shirt advertised the Suicide Squad, and he wore a pair of Riggs brand carpenter jeans, despite the fact that the temperature outside was in the mid-80’s. The wind regulated a comfortable temperature.
Jack:
“What I meant by that is, this will not be a traditional match, but a ladder match with seven other unpredictable talents from all over the world, from different companies, from different backgrounds. And me? Well, I’m an American kid trying to make it big in a British promotion, at least for the moment. Hell, I’m in no place to look down on my competition. Because I haven’t even had my first taste of success. Yeah, I haven’t even won my first match yet. I’m sure many may be wondering why I’m giving everyone else more firepower to shoot my way. But, the answer to that is simple: I don’t really care.”
The leaves shivered in response. He smirked behind a pair of steel blue eyes. His hair was dyed a dark red, and it was cut somewhat short. The corn to the north of the property, where Jack began to gaze, was about waist high. Taking another drink of his beer, he strolled through the gravel towards the back of the property, his shoes crunching the tiny pebbles beneath them.
Jack:
“In this ladder match, I have everything to gain, yet nothing to lose. As cliché as that may be, it’s the truth. I’ve yet to win a match in my professional career, I’m pretty much the bottom of the barrel, and the sad thing is, I’m starting to enjoy it. Hey, these seven other individuals might be the ones laughing right now, and they’re probably wondering how the hell I even got accepted to this match. But, when they all get out-wrestled, out-fought, and out-done, by some twenty year old punk kid who hasn’t even won a match yet, who will be the last one laughing? Me. And you know what they say about he who laughs last, right?”
He stopped at the barn with the roof that had fallen in, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he surveyed it quietly. His beer can dangled from the fingertips of his right hand that folded under his left arm. He shook his head and shrugged dismissively.
Jack:
“The truth is, I don’t have a whole lot to say. I do have a whole lot I want to do. And I intend on doing it at Eternal Lucha. Maybe at the end of that ladder match, I will turn my momentum around and have something to build my career on. Maybe they’ll say… ¡Llegó el rey! ¡Llegó el carmesí rey!”
He smiled and gave a wink, then walked towards the other barn, where the old dusty car slept peacefully, just like a Buick 8 cylinder slept somewhere in Pennsylvania. Just as he always felt out here, he thought the car was watching him as he stalked across the yard. Just like that Buick 8 cylinder.