Post by lulu on Jan 8, 2021 0:00:05 GMT -5
Forest Park, Detroit, MI
Sitting on the rooftop of a lil house in the middle of nowhere, the corner of East Forest Ave and Russel St, he stares into the endless sky above. There isn't a star to be seen, but there's little surprise there. The D ain't really known for stargazing. You'd see a helicopter in this neighborhood before you'd seen Venus, and the nondescript ranch style house keeping him upright doesn't carry his weight the same way it did for him as a child, but she never fails. So much talk about a nomad breaking from the trees and stepping into the wilderness evokes such an visceral reaction, but another kid from an urban jungle ain't interesting enough for others, but he couldn't forget his origins even if he tried. With a tone as casual as could be, and as sweet as molasses, he ponders, “Who did you piss off?”
He stammers for emphasis, and shakes his head while trying to keep it from exploding. “Of all the 0-1 fighters you could’ve had your big breakout moment against, who decided to let you face the one that’d beat you into the ground and have communion with what’s left of ya’?”
“The writing’s on the wall for the story everybody wants to tell here. The technical technocrat stepping into the ring with the european juggernaut. Rustic rampage vs. Street smarts. It’s Ford vs. Ferrari, power vs. skill. Hell - you got your big break because someone saw you wrasslin’ with that big oaf that’s coming down to the ring with you, yes? You’ve got a career with a similar story. Fighting against complete animals, devoid of any real knowledge or skill, just a lil’ bit of piss and vinegar, but the reason why that’s such low-hanging fruit is because it doesn’t bear much nutrients. I want to nourish and feed you, Dexter. In between all the glimpses of that signature Swedish strength where I could see what every agent with two eyes and the ability to fog a mirror saw, was this absolutely bittersweet pill that had this GOD awful aftertaste that doesn’t work because you never really seemed like you digested it. Potential.” He wears the need to fight against his gag reflex the second he mutters the word.
Finally overcoming his body's reduction to it's baser urges, he stifles down this morning's breakfast and continues to speak out loud. “He has soooo much potential. ou wouldn’t call me sanguine because you think this is a good situation for you, but keeping up with the contrast almost hemorrhaging from the card once you get to our names, things seem a bit chilly from the other end of the spectrum.”
“For me, it was the tippy top of the mountain. Championship from whatever federation of the alphabet soup, win here, win there, accomplish this, accomplish that. You wanna’ know what words haunt me and are the ones going bump in the night in the walls of my mind?" Every ounce of his willpower goes into creating the most shrill, almost pained, overdramatic tone as Santiago practically reads the words in lights hidden in the sky.
“Saint Santiago is at the peak of his game tonight!”
At twenty one, a lil’ undersized fighter with a lil’ fuzz on his chin got to watch tapes for a match he couldn’t remember because as the doctor who also asked him if he remembered the name of the president said, he took a biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit of a risk to win his match. Every step of the way I’ve gone and made men look like boys, was the reminder that I was doing something I wasn’t supposed to be able to do. I was supposed to play to the idea of being this underdog, doing backflips and swantons and superkicks and whatever else fighters do to pander to the images of backyard wrasslin’ of their inner child. I ain’t ever had anyone to prove shit too but myself, so again and again, I proved them wrong. Santiago hit his peak with a submission? He masters the entire freakin’ fightin style to prove them wrong. They look away at what I do in the ring, finding comfort in the idea that no matter how big the train wreck, at least I can’t do any worse? I TRIPLE down on it. It started with fingers and it ends with necks! People like me don’t get shit spoonfed to them, they don’t look at us and wonder what we could really do with the proper training, they don’t watch our ‘natural strength’ with mystique and wonder, and they damn sure aren’t out here handing out contracts and opportunities because of what they think I could do if I really, really tried. Can’t be avoided, I guess.
I earned every single thing I have. I show our Creator my worship by showing how BOUNDLESS his creations are, in pushing my limit further each time I hit it. You sitting real comfortable on your haunches because you think you’re the lion in this jungle? If the rumors true, I hold no ill will or grudge against you for what I do to you in the ring, because if I were a nomad from the middle of nowhere, I’d be lost too! Who needs a Northern Star - you’re the Northern Star! All the cameras surrounding you, all the reporters wondering what this absolute freak of nature’s capable of doing, all the executives saying a silent prayer every time they speak your name, who wouldn’t overlook lil’ ol me?”
If there was a single vein in his forehead that wasn't throbbing, it'd be impossible to tell.
“Why wouldn’t you let it seep it, and start believing all the support wrapped around like a cocoon for the industry’s newest butterfly?
It ain’t the case.
You would never win because you’ve got the most supporters or the hottest debut. You, especially, wouldn’t win if that were the contest, because they aren’t there as you’re supporters, the fact that they’re around is the case against you. They want to see what you could do with the proper training you don’t have, and never will. They want to see what you could do with the proper motivation and ability to meet a moment you never in your life dreamed of until a youtube video turned you from just another kid in class to ‘Damn Daniel’ on the Ellen show. They watch you because they want to see if you will meet up to goals if the world were perfect and fair.
They look away from me because in this very unfair world, they know exactly what I do. Not can do - they’ve seen me take the hottest, brand-spanking new titan of the industry and beat him until he’s a bundle of nerves responding to each stick, each poke, each bend and each break I choose to give him. Every line of fans swarming to get a signature of the hot new toy is doing so knowing that hype’s gonna disappear once you’re in the grip of a man like moi.
Until Elena shook me and rattled my core, I felt as if I were sleepwalking through this business. I thank her for waking me up. Now, I must put you to sleep."
*****
From an sound recording sent from an anonymous youtube account with zero follows and one video, the clip plays with audio from Santiago's last public appearance.
[("Violence" by Grimes hits the speaker as Drago Santiago looks relieved!)
Announcer: AND HERE’S THE WINNER OF THE SHOWCASE MATCH…. DRAAAGOOOO SANTIAGOOO!!!]
Beautiful day to be a martyr, amirite?
Welcome to page one hundred of the Saint Santiago story, conveniently listed in the table of contents as the happy ending, with the white horse trotting into the sunset with his princess holding onto one arm, and the head of the slain dragon in the other. Call it overproduced Disney garbage if you really wanna’ cuz I ain’t a critic, but it’s a tale as old as time itself, told with so many narrators and in so many languages, any one person asking for credit is damn near laughable. Still, it ain’t about who did it first, it’s about who did it better.
How many can say their rendition was more epic than Saint Santiago’s? How many people can look into the eyes of those signing their checks and booking their matches and say ‘no sire, a crumb of a morsel wasn’t enough, I want my grown up portion?’ How many people can identify all the false promises, all the meaningless stages, all the pointless belts and cups and allegiances and stables and blase blase blase freakin’ blah! All the subjective politics as the rope twine being braided as it wraps around their neck, for the sole purpose of allowing us to hang ourselves when they drop the floor from underneath us? Saint Santiago made his claim, proved his merit, and stepped away when his demands weren’t met. All Santiago ever needed was one opportunity, one chance, one mistake, and he’d weave fate into a tapestry of his own design. They said no. He took their fate with him.
He’d been around the block too many times to go out kicking and screaming. He knew his worth - it’d been reflected on Revo1 and Project Honor contracts within minutes of his plans to march towards the promised lands, without much fanfare. Inklings of salt would be lost under sulfur and fire raining on the proverbial Sodom and Gomorrah, as divine retribution for their actions.
This was the happy ending.
In his departure, he’s one cigar and pistol away from serving as Johnny Silverhand’s redemption, standing over Arasaka’s burning building and basking in the blaze, but this game’s got no save point.
He was a missionary, departing from his homeland to bring enlightenment upon those without the fortune to know divinity, leaving with the clothes on his person and a fire in his lungs. Senselessly beating one another without rhyme or reason, they received his word and learned true strength. Saint Santiago gave the savages something quintessential; and by His blessing, Saint Santiago left with riches beyond his imagination. One opportunity was out of his reach, but one by one, they came. The first masqueraded as a detractor interrupting Santiago’s sermon to see if the rumors were true of a man tapping the full potential of unappreciated fighters willing to go to their extremes to gain real, tangible control of themselves, their careers, and their opponents; upon his return, his humbled expression and hushed tone confused his companion, who soon understood. Teaching his students the true blessing of His masterpiece, His creation, the human body, by ripping it open and putting it back together, turned atheists into believers!
One became two, two became four, and the rest is history. Each clash in the ring emboldened them; and each false God twisted and warped into an image of his creation solidified their wildest dreams. ‘Exactly how much is one-hundred and eighty pounds’, asked the man detractors were addicted to labeling ‘undersized’, to his supporters, days before putting all one-hundred and eighty pounds into stamping bone into dust. ‘What do they say about those who point at others and covet’, he’d ask, before laying hands on their arm and leaving them without the ability to point at anyone but themselves.
Warmth rests in Judas’ heart as others evoke his legacy, TWISTING the dagger a little further each time they get someone to accept their lies of strength and stature determining the closest humans can come to freeing themselves from the chains of mortality and being truly immortal.
Preaching biology as the innate, permanent determinants of one’s fate to sell products or services to bring them to a simple-minded, narrow, rigid idea of what power means became a sin in Saint Santiago’s presence. These rigid bodies refusal to bend left provided no option but to break, week after week, as Santiago preached. Reject letting someone else decide your fate, He didn’t create incomplete products, He gave us everything we needed to be the masters of our own fate. True worship isn’t begging for an eye in the sky, a hand from above, or a hero from above to save you - it’s taking your life by the reigns and daring anyone to test your grip. We’re all made in His image - so something as superficial as size or stature is trite and trivial. . For weeks, he changed the landscape each time he stepped between the ropes and dared anyone to test his belief. For months, he preached independence and freedom of thought.
You ever wonder what happens on page one-hundred and one? After the ride into the sunset, after the prince carries the princess over the threshold, and after the happily ever after blends into the mundane?
For Saint Santiago, he could almost hear the pages turning with two words; ‘What’s next?’
A cold splash of water to the face would be less jarring. Months of teaching felt like sand in someone else’s bottle, as it’s been turned upside down and the clock’s restarted. Jam-packed flights began feeling claustrophobic. Times once spent in silent reflection understanding the mistakes of his youth and finding the inspiration to make sure others avoid the same mistakes were spent in hiding. The freedom to teach and educate was lost; and each phone call, each email, each messenger notification or twitter DM was a steel bar planted in the ground and creating his prison. Locked away, the mistake became evident.
Two decades of technique were passed down out of the kindness of Saint Santiago’s heart and was used in the name of the blind rampage he was sworn to stop.
He offered them independence - and they sold it as currency in exchange for power.
He offered them spiritual enlightenment and introduced them to the Good book - and his interpretation became law, among those unwilling to make it past Exodus.
Legions of the lost and disenfranchised were given an opportunity to break away from their false idols, were given a chance to break cycles serving others’ interests instead of theirs, and continue spreading enlightenment to others.
They chose not to do so.
The students hadn’t learned a damned thing. The students didn’t become the teachers, they became entitled.
They gained tools to free themselves from their false idols and replace them.
Without even a blink, bodies were left laying in their wake. All of the strength in the world, without a mind to properly wield it, in the name of ol’ Santiago. In the spirit of ‘New Year, New Me’ and putting pen to paper with Revo1 and Project Honor, Drago finally had enough. All Drago ever needed was one chance, just one opportunity, and he’d prove his worth. Detroit provided the perfect opportunity in the Leland night club, where calling the overnight crew ‘skeleton’ staff almost felt like putting it softly. Music and raucous crowds were an amazing cover for the sound of fists hitting bodies with thuds expected from a meat tenderizer and the excitement from screaming, bloodthirsty patrons watching men get years scraped off their lives each time they stepped into the center of the crowd, paced around the concrete floor, put a little cash on the line and went to work at doubling, or tripling it. Santiago fixed his error in lashing out against the first person to join his sermon, sit in his church, bastardize his words and smile in his face. No matter of teachings about breaking bodies served him in his demise. This man, Pecus, received sermons on the strength of the human body by having his body pushed to his physical limit. This teaching was his first taste of true power.
For Saint Santiago, this teaching was his second taste at power. Pecus’ teacher was a master of the body; Drago’s teacher was a master of the mind. As his responsibility as a teacher was to kill the poisonous fruits of the seeds he sowed, she had the responsibility to do the same. It was time to return home.
*****
The nature of the significance between understanding both body and mind are displayed on the page resting in Santiago’s grasp. The first page after the conclusion of his epic saga provides a dramatic shift and tone from the white knight in shining armor, written in the newspaper of Detroit's finest.
| FALL OF A STAR: Hometown hero ‘s homecoming glittered with blood, facing assault and battery charges for mauling in Detroit night club. |
Whoever said all press is good press hadn't seen images of themselves blown up in black and white and being mailed around their town, presented as a story without context. There was no concern for the actual story or nuance, just interpretation from ivory towers and cushy offices. Still, words from a newspaper lit with a candle are only a slap on the wrist compared to her. If there was nothing else capable of giving him the sensation of walking through the world filling shoes half as small as a child, being scorned would do it. A permanent case of small dog syndrome might be the diagnosis. Still, the bite experienced by those who would assume such a hierarchal position for them to puff up their chest, look him into his eye, and assume a position where they're capable of speaking down to him, is usually enough to discourage others from doing it twice. Yet, that made her special. In a world ruled by fear, she was an a rogue beyond control. Returning home after beginning to trot down the righteous path hurt, but laying in her arms again and staring into her warm eyes was almost worth the lashing. Killian's brilliance always shined through the muck and the fray. Soft skin, golden blonde hair, and an almost doll-like stature made her stand out as a porcelain doll buried in the dirt, the muck of the fighting circles she couldn't seem to stay away from. No matter how far she was buried, she was spotless each time she freed herself from the mess and brought one of the uncultured heathen out of the filth and taught them. She looked like a doll, but she turned these helpless, hapless people into her playthings. You wouldn't find scraping on the floor from her victims scratching at the hardwood floors ruining the hardwood floors of the the vestry, hidden away from random churchgoers begging to kneel at the alter or make a late-night confession. The walls of the room weren't lined with gold as if it were the Vatican, but four walls and stained glass windows were all her father needed to find himself when he was lost, as did her father's father, and the father before him. She'd mention this lineage frequently as her ties to her history informed her, as well as her belief, and her ability to enlighten others. The history is ingrained in the worn and ragged walls, her conservative attire, and the piping hot brew that burns Santiago's lips the first time his lips press the rim of the pale cup, before he finally drinks down the bitter, earthy taste of the Psilocybin brew to open himself up to enlightenment.
“You had one mission and missed the mark.”
“Gluttonous. As a lion among sheep, you had a promise of a full stomach for as long as you could imagine. But your hunger failed you, your students, and left you emptyhanded.
“I get it. You lust for selfish dreams and visions of heroism, and make a mockery from of our belief. There are a lucky few who teach by example...”
“But remember who you are. We aren't broken dolls waiting to be fixed.”
Without a word in retort, Drago's mind sinks into the floor.
Without a word in retort, Drago's mind sinks into the floor.
| “So, you’re back?” From the eyes of a thirty-six year old sitting in his twenty year old eyes, this was incongruent. There’s something especially bitter about the grin haunting his memories. Marcello’s got no ill intent - a stubby bald man lurking in the backstage of a wrestling venue might not look like much compared to the talent in the ring, but they all knew the truth. Headlocks and armbars are supreme in the world of talent throughout the Palace Park gym, where young bucks from all arena the northeast ran in pursuit of their big break. Outside of the ring, the weapons didn’t draw applause, the only hot tags punched holes into flesh and the referee zipped up body bags. The line between the world between the ropes and the world outside was tangible - and right now, it was grinning like the cat that’d caught the mouse, while staring into the eyes of Nathaniel Santiago. Marcello sinks into the comfort of a chair of someone who knew to stand up when he entered the room, kicks his feet up on the desk to show off loafers likely worth more than yearly salary of anyone whose name were inside of a locked cabinet or drawer inside of the furniture, and breaths in the moment. “L-listen. I put on a showcase. I did exactly what it was that I was supposed to do. I won.” The knowing stares between their eyes says more than any words could. Without as much as a high school diploma, one slip of the tongue is the difference between checking IDs at gas stations and gettin “You ain’t told a single lie. Another day, another match, another time we get to see that ugly mug smiling from cheek to cheek as your hand gets raised. The only issue is that nobody was watching, Nate. The real beauty of my line of business is that the real earning isn’t in winning or losing, it’s in the over under. It’s the margins. Lemme break it down. I say margins and I mention work and winning and allat, because this is a business. I ain’t a heartless guy, but the honeymoon phase is up on watching the guy from Queen doing fancy chokes and shit. If there ain’t money on the table, it ain’t happening.” Fists slamming on wood as the man snaps forward and freezes Santiago in place. If he reacted as if he were in the ring, there wouldn’t be an out of the ring for him to return. “You owe me more than you’re making. If you were a horse, you’d be glue. A different kinda man would’ve beaten every penny out of ya’, til you’re like the freakin’ hedgehog!” Hysterical laughter at his own joke mutes out the tap-tap-tapping of Nate’s foot on the floor as his fists clench, his jaw locks, and dark eyes sink below. Focus on anything but the yearning for justice firing each and every breath, in and out, as if he were seconds away from his theme music hitting. “This is a business, and you aren’t bringing in cash in the ring, so let’s see if it works another way. You’re running collections. I wonder what the over under would be on that?” |
As quickly as the memories crashed onto his beaches like waves, they pull back like rip tides. Her gentle embrace keeps him from being tossed into the water.
"I.. I didn't fail. I didn't fail because I learned. The battle isn't over. As long as I can speak, I can share the story of His power."
There was no silence comparable to the silence of the room as her eyes drill holes into his skull. Her voice's softness is the sweet flavor complimenting the antifreeze.
"You didn't lose a match - you built something blasphemous. Correcting your sin and repenting is a start. You wish to lead while you're without the moral standing to ask others to follow?"
"They will follow because I don't. I erred. I screwed the pooch in a major way. I will be their leader because I am an example of what any of them could be if they learned his mercy."
"Will they forget your greed? Your lust? Your envy? Why not allow yourself to disappear?"
"I will repent until they do."
The last words before fading away seem to run on for eternity.
"I.. I didn't fail. I didn't fail because I learned. The battle isn't over. As long as I can speak, I can share the story of His power."
There was no silence comparable to the silence of the room as her eyes drill holes into his skull. Her voice's softness is the sweet flavor complimenting the antifreeze.
"You didn't lose a match - you built something blasphemous. Correcting your sin and repenting is a start. You wish to lead while you're without the moral standing to ask others to follow?"
"They will follow because I don't. I erred. I screwed the pooch in a major way. I will be their leader because I am an example of what any of them could be if they learned his mercy."
"Will they forget your greed? Your lust? Your envy? Why not allow yourself to disappear?"
"I will repent until they do."
The last words before fading away seem to run on for eternity.
“You don’t understand. If I come back empty handed, I won’t have hands for long.” Any intent of these words honing in on the intensity of the seriousness of the situation are long gone. The shrill breaking of a voice from a teen fresh out of puberty makes itself known at the worst possible time, and the lil’ pressure in his neck from looking up to make his demands doesn’t help. Reggie’s name and face were so often viewed as the visage of the happy warrior, stepping into battle like Samson with his mane of dreadlocks, towering over his opponents and turning men into ragdolls, but there ain’t much of a smile today. “You made bets. You were wrong. I’m not tryna’ be ‘that guy’, this isn’t me coming to you because you took money out of my pockets or whatever, I’m just doing my jo-” With a voice booming like thunder, one cold stare sends lightning up Nate’s spine.“You think I didn’t hear you the first time? This the usual call? Are you the guy they send before they send someone to threaten me? You just the messenger, yeah? Can you deliver the message to Marcello to politely hold my balls the next time before he decides to ride my dick about the one month I go on a cold streak and he doesn’t end up owing me? Let’s talk about a job. Don’t come back until you collect, no?” The nerves betraying Nate, keeping him on edge, saturate his expression with anxiety. “I-I don’t think that’s a good idea. For me or for you.” “If he wants to approach me on some grown man shit, then he can send a grown man. I’m the cash cow - he might as well pick up shop and crawl to the next lake or river or swamp and pray someone’s dumb enough to let that leech attach to them instead of me.” One finger, right between the breastplate, shoves Nate back a pace. “He isn’t the one busting heads. You think I give a shit about who runs what? He definitely isn’t about to come down here and do a damned thing, and unless he’s finna’ catch a body, he can’t say shit to me. Boy, tell me he sent you either as a joke, or because he thinks my lil’ girl fuckin’ LOVES the Beastie Boys. Ch-check it out, I’m finna go upside your head if you don’t get the fuck outta here.” “Wassup? You finna die tonight? The lil’ underdog shit cute, get a lil’ richer off people taking you for a joke, but you aren’t built for this shit. I ‘ve seen you fight. Don’t get bodied over grown man bidness. Put a lil bit of meat on that bird chest then we can talk. You’re ain’t ready for this.” The room went silent. Nate let out a long sigh that quivered and shakes through the staccato breathing of his body preparing himself for the moment. “...You’re right. Sorry.” One step back. He opens his mouth to speak, but when Reggie’s eyes meet his, nothing could come out. He didn’t stand a chance. His life was filled with the haves telling him, a have not, what to do. It sucked, but a rough life is better than no life at all. He was lesser. “Yeah, yeah, that’s it.” Almost reveling in the sudden awareness from others in the gym, Reggie’s eyes dart around and stamped a foot. Being in bad ways with bad people might’ve frightened some, but it only emboldened him. The weight of it all bears too heavily on Nate’s shoulders. His body begging for to attack or defend is too much. Defense wins. Live another day. His knees wobble, his chin drops, his eyes point to the floor, and he begins to sink. There wasn't a perfect anything about this. There wasn't a perfect mark for him to prove his worth, there wasn't a perfect way to go in blindly doing something he never planned on asking, and there was no perfect tool to get this done. All he could rely on were the tools he had. So both hands wrap around a stray dumbbell on the ground. He couldn’t raise eighty pounds with one hand like others could with ease, but two hands wrap around the grip and seal the deal. Either collect or run out of town for fear to his life, or make a stand and get creamed in the process. Between a rock and a hard place, he faced power on one end and he faced a modern giant on the other. That only meant that he had nothing to lose. |
Fighting against the tide pulling him back into reflection, his eyes snap open.
"I... will not... fail..."
"What's different about these new ventures? What's going to break this cycle, spiraling to your demise?"
"The thing... that'll change... is me."
Fingers clench, nails burying into his skin, grasping onto anything as he's dragged and ushered into a seat for his worst sin, the sin that started it, the sin that brought Killian's attention to him, and the sin that started the cycle of pain he couldn't free himself.
For the first time in his life, he's powerful. He is Thor, and he leaves charges flying each time he drops his hammer. Again. And again And again And again AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN Desperate gasps for air are all coming between wet squelches of metal meeting flesh and metal winning. First, to the knee. Then, to the spine. Then, to the back, the neck, and further upwards until every eye in the gym’s a witness to something horrible, but no one’s able to move to stop it. Tears pool in his eyes, fire blazes in his arms desperately pleading for him to respect his limit, but every fiber in his body knows the repercussions if he didn’t fully to commit to his crime. In shooting, winging it wasn’t enough. He had to aim for the head. Finally, release. Arms wrap around his torso, yanking him by the crimson picasso painting on his T-shirt. A loud thud from the dumbbell getting knocked to the ground is the trigger dragging him from his hypnosis just enough to mutter. “He didn’t give me another choice. He wouldn’t respect his word so I had to respect mine. I c-could’ve gotten killed because he couldn’t live up to his word! He chose this!” No amount of words stammered in an spewed frenzy could speak louder than his actions, he just wasn't sure he'd like what they'd say. |
“Despite all those years... the door to your mind is locked to me, Nathaniel. I am committed to fixing it.”
“Train the mind and your body will follow. You have such a sweet, charitable soul, but you… how’s it go? Teach a man to fish, no?”
“Bending and breaking bodies isn’t enough. Those wounds heal, and while the body memorizes, the mind forgets. What’s the next step? More self-indulgence?”
“Nah. I’d say tap, nap, or snap, but the choice ain’t there anymore. It’s mine. They will repent. They will remember.”