Post by lulu on Feb 11, 2021 23:59:28 GMT -5
BENEATH THE MASK
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God only knows the number of times he’s sat with his legs kicked up on a chair that feels as if it’s held together by popsicle sticks, hopes and dreams, looking up at ringside, and feeling complete and utter disgust. At least, before, the disgust was appropriate. Bloody Knuckles’ name was straight out of a comic book, but the first time you watch someone get beaten until they literally piss themselves and beg for their mother, the seriousness sinks it. Blood and brain matter are all he sees when he looks around, despite once abused and misused concrete floors having very little stains or markings, or even space in between exercise machines or training equipment.
Right now, Drago Santiago’s contempt worn on his mug like a scarlett S across his chest is visible to anyone within visual range or earshot, as the bodies crashing in the ring are definitely doing training, they’re doing combat, they’re doing sparring, they’re doing training camp things, but it’d be a fucking minute before he’d call it fighting. Sagging, weathered features across Imre’s visage give little movement, not even a raised eyebrow, to the man sitting on the other side of the table, as they watch the new blood go through exercises with their trainer. Right now, the basics: slamming and getting slammed. The wrestling ring they’re tossing around doesn’t have an odometer, unfortunately for Drago, because the scowl he’s wearing would feel more entitled if the ring could show al ninety nine thousand, nine hundred, ninety-nine miles his ass had gotten tossed around the ring before anyone cared to put a logo in the middle of it. But that is a common gripe, a common annoyance, and it continues to raise the question of why he bothers returning at all.
“Can I be completely honest for second?”
But today felt different. The ghost of Bloody Knuckles, now without giant goons blocking access to certain people having certain conversations, absent of deals made in back rooms while heads are turned to the action in the ring, sure looks like a pretty motherfucker. The finest equipment to ever fall off a truck is on each of the place’s walls. A digital clock above the door is almost a reminder of how timeless this place one felt, and a speaker playing Radio Mayak’s top 40 of whatever Moscow’s calling bangers is the theme music a ring full of six blonde haired, blue eyed bruisers in the ring absolutely pummel one another to as Drago clicks his teeth at their display.
“I think I hate you. I hate your guts.”
Almost as if his ears had just popped, Drago blinks. He couldn’t have heard that right. Imre’s gray five o clock shadow hides none of his frigid, neutral expression. He’d stated those words as if he said the sky is blue. His piercing stare is from the bluest eyes Drago’s ever seen, attached to a face only some unfortunate mother in Vladivostok had to love.
“There are handful of people who walked out of this place with their kneecaps intact, without chain wrapped around their ankle collecting them to a life of debts and favors they’d never be able to run away from, and I hate that you’re one of them.”
Even though he’d never allow himself to feel uppity enough to have something like ‘survivors guilt’ for an experienced he thanks himself for contributing to being the person he is, the statement rings home enough to get clenched fists and a slight grimace from a Santiago who takes pride in not letting anyone see something sunk into his skin. As if luck had anything to do with it. An ambulance is needed to rush the pause to the hospital, because it’s so pregnant it’s practically going into labor. A grunt from a person inside the ring landing on their back is the noise to break his hypnosis, only responding with a bored wave of the hand brushing off that comment like water down a duck’s back.
“Hell, you are fly sitting on wall. Reminding everyone of these walls’ history. Lingering like a hangover always, you..”
His eyes bore holes into the fighting in the ring. Slamming for the sake of slamming. Getting up for the sake of getting up. Tossing others to the floor as if it was something you do for the sake of saying you did it, nothing more. Pain. Imre reaches out across the table as if thinking of forcing Drago to look at him, but he draws his hand. These two do not know each other that way. This is not a meeting between acquaintances, this is a current occupant of this home trying to exorcize the demon haunting this place. Imre’s main interactions with Drago in the earlier days of this place were limited to providing the towel shoved into Drago’s mouth to bite on while a vet who owed favors tried putting the brain matter back inside of heads. Imre’s connections let him be privy to the going ons, and eventually, called him in as a staff member to make sure everyone on the up and up was as equally implicated as everyone else. He’d been the security making sure the only fights happening were the ones money was made on, he’d made sure as many people who’d partake in the betting paid up, and on multiple occasions, he’d been the person to call Drago’s number when an indisposable, indebted person was sent to collect on those who didn’t pay up. Drago never came back empty handed. That’s the single reason Imre will look the monster he helped make in the eye, despite Drago not returning the favor. With his Russian accent breaking through his words, he continues.
“So you can look at us with angry expression, looking onto others with jealousy on mug. Being errand boy is easy compared to modern athlete, no? You were pampers, all things considered.”
Finally, Drago’s eyes break from the ring, so he can give his old ‘coworker’ an attentive sneer while judging him.
“Pampered. The word you’re searching around for there, is pampered. Pampers are nappies you put on infants. Pampered is what you accuse someone who has probably lined the walls of the gym he was raised in with blood, sweat, and tears if you really wanted to get underneath his skin.”
Tutting at some things that never change, Imre snorts.
“How does the phrase go? Walk so one can run? You crawled so this could sprint. Does Drago find nothing humbling?”
“When these walls were home, I didn’t have the foresight to think about the week coming ahead of me. All I could think about was whether or not I was havin’ Top Ramen that evening, or if I was having Maruchan, because that shit’s a SIGNIFICANT difference.”
Cutting through his puzzled expression, stumbling through his words, Imre’s finally manages to get the question out.
“How so?”
“Top ramen’s flavor selection was something else. Didn’t matter if you used a microwave or a nuclear reactor, didn’t matter if it was beef, shrimp, or chicken, Maruchan always tasted like gulping down shoestrings that’d feel like the punishment you’d deserved for letting yourself leave empty handed enough times. You know, back when this was the kind of place any idiot with brain cells to lose and a face to rearrange could frequent, before it got all shiny and spiffy with a nice coat a’ paint on it.”
His hands extend, motioning to all the shiny new toys, of which this place maintains an influx. It explains the physiques of the men in the ring, definitely.
“Suka… You are hard man to impress. So much so, it becomes unpleasant trying to do so. This is grudge, no? You return to home that fed you when you were starved and sheltered you when nowhere else would take you in, we provided. Now, you return only to skulk around and turn nose up to new talent who could go very well learning history making place possible.”
Drago’s eyes are the size of saucer plates when the words ‘new talent’ are dangled in front of him like a shiny hook. His annoyed, steady tone, cracks here or there as choosing to be intentional with his words and choosing to be as cutting as possible are no longer attainable at once.
“History’s got nothing to do with it. It’s numbers. Going from 30 fuckwits fighting in a circle for bets made before a fight and runnin’ your operation out of those currently owin’ more than they’re making was good enough for every man before Marcello. All a motherfucker has to gamble with is his body, and every Manusharov before him was polite enough to spit you out after they chewed you up. Broken kneecaps and a lesson learned. Him? Nah, that penny pinching fuck that I proudly credit with giving me the hell I could go through to toughen the hell up, gotta always have his hands in fucking everything. Yeah, money in fighting. Then money in management. Then money in show production. Now under all this aire of legitimacy… lemme guess how deep everyone in that ring is, by now? How long they’re gonna be under his thumb, yeah? I’d mock this pathetic fuck for slamming his opponent like he’s reading through the ingredients to bake a cake, but I wouldn’t fuckin’ wanna be here either if I was him.”
The him in question, fresh from his turn of putting someone on their ass, almost perks up at the mention - the svelte man barking at a respected member of staff had already earned attention that was warned to ignore and dismiss, but now it’s personal. Imre, as if feeling the energy shift in the room, lowers his tone, as if expecting Drago to follow.
“Then why return? Spite? You drink poison and hope it causes us death.”
But Drago doesn’t follow out of spite. His voice raises once more.
“Screw that! Remembering where you came from is important. I come back because apparently, I’m from a place in time that doesn’t exist anymore. I come around to get my beak wet, and leave pissed each time. The place where a gaggle of chucklefucks got bonded by fire, not because of blood or because of where they’re from, just because they could fog mirrors and raise fists… if I couldn’t walk past those doors, part of me wouldn’t think it’s real, but it is. Then you all killed it going ‘legit.’ Maybe it’s masochism. Can you imagine where I’d have learned tha-”
“Aye, Napoleon, why dontcha fuck right off back to France fore we ship you over ourselves?”
He’s in the middle of a sentence with enough sarcasm in his tone it’d be practically dripping from his fangs like venom when the fighter he motioned to earlier circled the ring against the advice of the trainer, and approached the duo closely enough to put a hand on Drago’s shoulder to get his attention. Immediately aware of the fact that he’s sitting down, his heart flutters, his eyes shift in a split second of panic, and Drago darts out of his seat into a standing position, and Imre’s quickly follows suit, politely turning his back to Drago and attempting to face the man who is ignoring calls to return to the ring.
“Leo, no-”
But standing a head above both Santiago and Imre, body language isn’t enough to make him halt, he powers forward to grab a handful of Santiago’s collar as if threatening to lift the pale, expressionless man from the ground.
“No, nobody walks in here mean-muggin without stepping into the ring and earning the right to act so uptight. This is a gym that makes fighters, not-”
And unlike the men in the ring training on technique and form when executing throws and grapples, Drago doesn’t remain still when held - size means nothing to a well-placed chop to the pressure point on the man’s pit of his elbow, making his arm fold just enough to no longer be straight and firm. Both hands chop upwards, hitting the elbow pit once more, to force more bending, until Drago plants his feet on the ground, twists his hips, and leverages his body to wrench on the man’s arm and force him to bend over as his arm’s twisted. One grunt is the only luxury afforded to him, as no amount of tugging or twisting gives him the escape he’s desperately looking for. His arm is a leash, and the pain threatening to shatter every joint in his wrist and elbow guide the muscle beast further down until his cheek is pressed to the cold, hard concrete Drago found himself waking up on many nights. It’s the same place this man’s skull could call a funeral home, as Drago, while keeping his death grip around that limb, slams his boot across the back of the man’s head and absolutely plants his features into the concrete! Again, and again! Growling and grunting in a feral rage, his boot is a heat-seeking missile hitting it’s target each time he’s able to curbstomp this ‘new blood’ into shattered pieces! As the other new recruits rush to interrupt, Imre’s cuts in between them - one trainee was more than they could afford to lose to overconfidence today.
Finally, release. No longer squeezing that arm as if it owes him money, in a huffing, panting frenzy, Drago looks down at the puddle of crimson spreading across the cement, along with the remnants of calcium from what were teeth only a moment ago, Drago breaks from the man in an adrenaline fueled rush.
“What.. why.. WHY?!”
Breathing in the scent of iron, Drago’s permanent scowl finally breaks as hands rub over his face, burying his mouth and nose in his hands to try containing the massive grin covering his features.
“..I got sick of feeling homesick everytime I came around. Now, this place smells like home.”
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Drago Santiago is never an early bird, but from the bowels of the 02 arena, he’s not looking for extra credit while rummaging through the boiler room. Nah, instead, he’s looking for other fun tools to add to the shopping cart of weapons he’d managed to stumble across in his search for first pickings.
“How's it supposed to go again? A scorpion asks a frog to carry him over a river. The frog, aware of what’s lingering in its future, is afraid of being stung, but the scorpion argues that if it did so, both would sink and the scorpion would drown. Reasoning prevails. The frog agrees, but midway across the river the scorpion does indeed sting the frog, dooming them both. When asked why, the scorpion points out that this is its nature."
“Sowwy. I know going on long-winded pedantic tangents might be brand infringement in this specific match, but Wikipedia isn’t asking for donations to purchase enough server space to list all my freakin’ family members, so I feel I earned the right to ramble. In making up where I’m lacking, I got this fable that keeps resting in the back of my mind while I try aiming the crosshairs where my target’s headin, instead of where he is. We build ourselves up as Gods and let others worship us like idols, but truth always parses through whatever fickle bullshit we put up to stop it. My nature? Let the fans, let the haters, let the gift horse known as Christian DeMarco speak for it. Violent, compulsive, angry, passionate, unpredictable, unrelenting, blase blah. What do I do when my history’s closing in on me like a palm to the face? I lean into it. Absorb the blow to let it land in a way favorable to you - it’s the defining characteristic built into every single pipe, every cog, and every board I jerry rigged into a bridge that’s carried me through my career. Am I a genius? A maniac? A sadist?”
He treats the question with the level of caution and hesitancy you afford to Tesco garbage cans one would light fires inside when bored. Throwing an arm up to shrug, he wears the complete apathy on his face.
“Iun give a shit, long as you gotta call me Drago dos campeonatos before you say it. Prime championship of Project Honor on one shoulder, Revo Tag team championship across the other. Kinda awkward cheesin’ next to a Strader I’d invite over for my birthday party fore’ I beat another Strader like a pinata, but them’s the brakes. They line up the pins in front of me, I knock ‘em down. I try teachin’ em why they fell as a consolation prize, because that’s my nature. My sword got sharpened by clashing with others swords, and I try returning the favor where I can. In all the grime, the muck, and the carnage, I see lessons and I teach the only way I know how. That’s my nature. I don’t have funny lil’ walls or boundaries I put up, I do what I do and I let everyone else do what they can about it.”
A click of the teeth is the period on that statement. He twirls a foot of steel chain around as he thinks.
“John. Let’s talk about your nature. So far, you come off as the type that if we give you an inch, you become a ruler. So far, the only thing dictating who you are is determined by how chilly it is in the shadow of whoever you’re standing in, amirite?”
“First, there was the perpetual underachiever, coming out of the red corner with zero successful title defenses in PH and ten thousand dramas until he’s finally been sent on his waaay… COLTON, ‘THE LAST BREATHING YET ALWAYS CHOKING OUTLAW’ SAINT! When you decided to step into his affairs after he proved how terrifying he was by… kidnapping them and letting them go, unharmed… It looked like you were just showing that this Strader has a set of balls, and even though you were still wet behind your ears in PH time, you couldn’t stand for it. Ya’know, til you decided to run off at the mouth, flapping those gums to anyone who’d hear it about supporting what he did as a matter of him /being an outlaw/, taking matters into his own hands, livin’ that mad max life with Kim as Furiousa at his side. Kiiiiiiinda funny ain’t it? You kept trynna steal Colton’s girl while walking like Colton, talking like Colton, and acting like the great value version of the loser she had. You moved after his woman, you bashed him for losing to Indy-”
All of his southern values guide his hands around his mouth, so he can quietly whisper the next part for the sake of being respectful.
“Ya’know, the guy who beat you before you mysteriously discovered that you couldn’t sign with Proving Grounds because ‘morals’.”
“Johnnyboy, who the hell are you? I ain’t trynna’ be dismissive when I ask it - but when I’m in the ring I can do things I didn’t know were possible because my mind, my heart, and my soul are one. I think, therefore I am. Iun mean to sound like a sailor but when I say I yams what I yams, and dats what I yam, but it’s my truth. You probably feel on top of the world with two dubs getting you to the finale of the Prime championship match, but you know what those two wins look like to me? They look like the instances a broken clock was right, twice a day, because others saw you for who you pretend to be. I’m built different. Drago, 24 hours a day 7 days a week. You’re comin’ back from a decade long break with all the personality and style of a turkey and cheese sandwich, but me? I”m sushi wontons with the duck sauce, I am hit the ball out of the park every time I’m at bat, because all I’m focused on is taking dudes apart. I ain’t worried about an image. I don’t want to look like an outlaw, but if I did, I’d get twenty minutes through your template before getting sick of it.”
"Step one: talk about the merits of taking matters into your own hands, the only rules that matter are the ones you get away with. Step two: put your foot in your mouth and end up with a twitter blocklist longer than the RSVPs at a Strader event. Step three: send Smokey the Bear into cardiac arrest with the number of bridges you burn behind you, from Indy Darling to Callum Walker, before step four, someone who sees you for what you are beats you not on appearance or image or twitter but on SUBSTANCE. You wanna know the funniest part?"
"Dude, I ain’t even mad at you. I don’t blame you. How many days growing up did you wake up in a house full of Straders? Rumor has it you’re training at a Strader owned, Strader run gym. Probably pick up groceries at Strader Joes, and let the sugar rush from the candy isle fuel your adventures playin’ Tomb Strader late into the night. You make moves like a man who has been there for the people who’ve needed him so much that he doesn’t know who he is without em - and you convince others that they’re in danger because you’re going to continue fighting to make your family proud and honor the lineage, but me? Nah, I know every word out of your mouth is a bar you’re dropping around you til you’re in a prison of your own making. Mental weaknesses get unthreaded and weaved into tapestries of my own desire, and I see a blank canvas when I see you walkin’ like a Strader should, talkin’ like a Strader should, and fightin’ like a Strader should. I aimin’ not for where you are - but where you’re going, and you’re the most predictable motherfuck on this roster! Howsit go? Fate is a cruel mistress, right? Strader ain’t the Jordan of PH; he’s another guy who made the accomplishment of winning a genetic lottery fillin’ the spot made for him. Oh, another tall guy shooting hoops because that’s what a tall guy is supposed to do, right?"
"But I was never s’posed to be here, and that’s why I’m deadin’ your brand of bullshit the second it’s in front of me.“
An eye roll and fist slamming into a pipe on the wall are a couple made in heaven.
“Bitch, I do it for the rings.”
“Yeah, I might be a walkin’ embodiment of gum you scraped from the sidewalk, but least I know what I am and I don’t spend all my time trynna figure it out. I’m irritable, I’m explosive, I’m childish, I’m all the things you could think to call me, and I can live with that. I ain’t got a family name to do proud. The sky high expectations I have for myself weren’t inherited, I gave them to myself because I wanted them. My goals for the Prime Championship are deeply rooted and extremely intimate yearnings for me to position myself at the center of this roster in a way that makes me, and my teachings, inevitable. All your superficial bullshit might’ve gotten you this far, but when I’m snapping your limbs, gutting you, and treating you with all the gentleness turkeys expect at a slaughterhouse, you’ll be just another tally of people who didn’t have what it took to last against me.”
He ceases for a second. His expression shifts as he sets his mind towards the future. He cannot stop the smile from consuming his scowl.
“We’re going to fuck each other up. In this love hurts match, the only limit to how many years we take off each other’s lives is our imaginations. None of what we accomplished before this match means a single thing, and I ain’t just sayin’ that because you don’t have any accomplishments to bring up. Dickie ain’t a popular grand champion, but he’s the man with his hand on the pulse of Proving Ground’s heart, and I will be DAMNED if I let a walkin, talkin identity crisis be the person leading Fallout. Nah, this ain’t gonna’ be Keeping Up With The Straders. We ain’t gonna get to ask why a man standin’ six five, two fifty, is deciding to limit himself. Nah, the champion’s gonna be a person who hasn’t ever met a ceiling in his fuckin’ life. Fallout is the brand of no limits - and you’re just the man that’s gonna get buried underneath it. The first Grand Champion won’t be a Strader - it won’t be a Santiago, either. It’s going to be the person willing to become whoever they need to be to survive what crimes against humanities we’re going to do to one another. I mean it when I say this shit. Every person tuning into Fallout, week after week, from the nostalgic wrestling fanatics jerking themselves off because of chair shots to the head, to the children sneaking our shows when their parents ain’t watching.”
"This is not the place you go to see a carbon copy formulaic product standing at the top of this brand with corporate approved messages after means testing.”
“You will get what we give you. This brand is meant to produce the most homicidal, depraved monsters willing to make a deal with the devil and sign our humanity away at the door. An image won’t save you. A surname won’t save you. This ain’t Proving Grounds. This ain’t about doing this shit for sport. What’s a Strader or a Santiago surname mean to the type of monster willing to kill to get their hand raised at the end of it?
"Iunno, why don’t you ask me when it’s over? When I twist every finger out of the socket, when I gouge both of your eyes out, when I rip your fingernails off with my teeth, and when I try breaking your neck with a smile on my face, I’m going to tell you who I am. When I show you who I am, believe me. You won’t survive me showing you a second time. “