Post by the Blood Oath on Jan 21, 2024 19:40:10 GMT -5
The sky seemed uninterested in the fact it was daytime. Grey clouds hid the sun with disregard, occasionally raining on the bystanders below. Adam Monday looked into the sky looking for remnants of the sun and when he didn’t find it he stepped up onto the curb and took in the red brick bar in front of him.
The Blood and Bone Bar was a dank hole that had been in the family for three generations, currently under the ruling of a fiery red headed woman who was born with a chip on her shoulder. April Monday-Jameson ruled the Blood and Bone with an iron fist. The local bar flies all agreed her temperament only added to the bar’s charm, or lack thereof.
Drawing breath to muster courage, Adam pushed the door open and stepped into the cigarette smoke and Johnny Cash bellowing “Hurt” over the jukebox.
“What have I become? My sweetest friend. Everyone I know goes away in the end,” Johnny admitted in his haunting tones.
Adam couldn’t help but snicker as the lyrics resonated in his thoughts as he crossed to the bar. Except this time it wasn’t everyone else leaving him. It was him.
“Hey, Adam, baby,” April said without looking up from the glass she was fixed on shining by hand. Something her late father had instilled in her. Attention to detail mattered, no matter what you were doing. She held it to the light to ensure she’d removed any and all scuffs from the glass. “Nice to see you, hun.”
He sat on a stool, fetching a glance down the bar at a local swigging from a pint glass and reading their newspaper. A couple sat in a booth in the middle of a joke. The woman gently brushed her mate’s forearm and hyena laughed like it was the best joke she’d heard. A first date, he presumed.
April touched his hand seeking his attention.
“Want a beer?” she asked, twisting the top off a Budweiser and placing it down before he could answer.
Adam took the beer and took a pull. The cold, amber fluid bringing him back to task at hand.
“I got news, mama,” he admitted, rolling the cool glass over his forehead.
She replied with an “Oh?” and flung the towel over her shoulder, leaning on the bar.
Adam studied her a moment. Her flame red hair pulled back in a bun. The years had been kind to her but each wrinkle etched in her face told a story of pain and struggle. She’d done everything the hard way, even coming into this world. Didn’t know her daddy for near long enough, and almost as soon as she got him she lost him. At least, that’s what it felt like. She wrestled men before wrestling men was allowed for a woman, and she had the scars to prove it. And now she’d taken over the Blood and Bone. Like her daddy did. And like his daddy before him.
“Yes ma’am. I heard back from that Thunder Pro joint.” He took another swig.
“You got in, right?”
He nodded, not showing his emotions. “Yes, ma’am. I got in.” And another swig.
She let a smile draw on her face. “That’s my boy. Another Monday tearin’ Poop up.”
Pulling the towel off her shoulder, she twisted it by her side like a lasso and flicked him on the shoulder with it. He didn’t flinch. Just smiled back at her and took another swig.
The apartment was small. And messy. The single, early twenties, male kind of messy. Protein-based microwave meal containers lay on the coffee table joined by empty store bought protein shakes and water bottles. Men’s health magazines sat in a pile beside the table, with another microwave meal skeleton holding them down. The phone on the table buzzed to life, shrieking the chorus to Bring Me the Horizon’s “Throne” in the tiny confines of the room.
Ichiro Okamoto, becoming known to the wrestling world as “Black Panda”, rubbed his eyes as it stirred him from his nap. He clicked his tongue, trying to put moisture back into his mouth and picked up the phone.
“👎😈 Asshole” spread across the screen, with the option to accept or reject the call.
The sneer which spread across his face could have killed the proverbial cat. He had nothing to say to his father. Nothing at all. Anyone that needed to know that he’d signed a contract with Thunder Pro Wrestling had already been told. He’d rang his mother and she was elated. She passed the phone to his grandfather and he grunted his approval. Ichiro liked his grandfather. He could convey so much without saying a word.
Something his father knew nothing of.
“So you can throw me to the wolves. Tomorrow I will come back leader of the whole pack,” Oli Sykes screamed from the tiny speaker with guitars and drums thrashing behind him.
The distaste the thought of his father left in his mouth made him sick to his stomach. Most kids get into this industry to follow in their father’s footsteps. Be the next generation of superstar upholding the family name. But Ichiro didn’t take his father’s name. He took his mother’s. And his grandfather’s. His father’s name meant nothing to him. He didn’t want to help the world remember how great his father was inside the ring. In fact, his in-ring name is a direct slap in the face of one of his father’s own in-ring personalities.
No, Ichiro got into wrestling out of spite. Regardless of the legacy his mother and grandfather had forged before him, Ichiro was doing this to prove that there was nothing special about his father. To surpass him. Eclipse him. Make the world forget about him. Wipe his stain from the annals of wrestling.
The ringing stopped. It had reached the threshold of rings, sent straight to voicemail and Ichiro knew that even not allowing his father to speak he would still be heard. He waited for the text notification the voicemail had arrived.
Ichiro took a bottle of water from the coffee table and skolled it down, trying to wash away the bad taste his father left. Then the familiar “Ding!” of the text notification. Swiftly, Ichiro unlocked the phone and thumbed the screen to play the voicemail on speaker.
“Uh… hey there… Ichiro,” spoke his father, his Australian accent laced with the American drawl of Louisiana. “I heard about Thunder Pro. I know you don’t give a Poop but I’m proud of you. You’re doing well. I’m watching videos of you all the time.”
There was an awkward pause. Ichiro’s bottom lip quivered with anger as he waited for the voicemail to end.
“Anyways, I’m gonna try and make my way up when you finally get here. If you’re not here already. I dunno. It’d be… I guess it’d be nice to see you. Just for a minute. If you wanna…”
His father’s sigh echoed loudly in the recording.
“Okay. I better leave you to it. Uh… break a le-“. The voicemail was cut short. Ichiro swiped and pressed until the voicemail was deleted from existence. He tossed the phone on the coffee table and slumped back into his couch.
Once an asshole… always an asshole, Ichiro thought to himself snatching up his bottle of water. Pouting he curled his legs up onto the couch and scowled as he twisted open the bottle. I’ll show you one day.
The Blood and Bone Bar was a dank hole that had been in the family for three generations, currently under the ruling of a fiery red headed woman who was born with a chip on her shoulder. April Monday-Jameson ruled the Blood and Bone with an iron fist. The local bar flies all agreed her temperament only added to the bar’s charm, or lack thereof.
Drawing breath to muster courage, Adam pushed the door open and stepped into the cigarette smoke and Johnny Cash bellowing “Hurt” over the jukebox.
“What have I become? My sweetest friend. Everyone I know goes away in the end,” Johnny admitted in his haunting tones.
Adam couldn’t help but snicker as the lyrics resonated in his thoughts as he crossed to the bar. Except this time it wasn’t everyone else leaving him. It was him.
“Hey, Adam, baby,” April said without looking up from the glass she was fixed on shining by hand. Something her late father had instilled in her. Attention to detail mattered, no matter what you were doing. She held it to the light to ensure she’d removed any and all scuffs from the glass. “Nice to see you, hun.”
He sat on a stool, fetching a glance down the bar at a local swigging from a pint glass and reading their newspaper. A couple sat in a booth in the middle of a joke. The woman gently brushed her mate’s forearm and hyena laughed like it was the best joke she’d heard. A first date, he presumed.
April touched his hand seeking his attention.
“Want a beer?” she asked, twisting the top off a Budweiser and placing it down before he could answer.
Adam took the beer and took a pull. The cold, amber fluid bringing him back to task at hand.
“I got news, mama,” he admitted, rolling the cool glass over his forehead.
She replied with an “Oh?” and flung the towel over her shoulder, leaning on the bar.
Adam studied her a moment. Her flame red hair pulled back in a bun. The years had been kind to her but each wrinkle etched in her face told a story of pain and struggle. She’d done everything the hard way, even coming into this world. Didn’t know her daddy for near long enough, and almost as soon as she got him she lost him. At least, that’s what it felt like. She wrestled men before wrestling men was allowed for a woman, and she had the scars to prove it. And now she’d taken over the Blood and Bone. Like her daddy did. And like his daddy before him.
“Yes ma’am. I heard back from that Thunder Pro joint.” He took another swig.
“You got in, right?”
He nodded, not showing his emotions. “Yes, ma’am. I got in.” And another swig.
She let a smile draw on her face. “That’s my boy. Another Monday tearin’ Poop up.”
Pulling the towel off her shoulder, she twisted it by her side like a lasso and flicked him on the shoulder with it. He didn’t flinch. Just smiled back at her and took another swig.
The apartment was small. And messy. The single, early twenties, male kind of messy. Protein-based microwave meal containers lay on the coffee table joined by empty store bought protein shakes and water bottles. Men’s health magazines sat in a pile beside the table, with another microwave meal skeleton holding them down. The phone on the table buzzed to life, shrieking the chorus to Bring Me the Horizon’s “Throne” in the tiny confines of the room.
Ichiro Okamoto, becoming known to the wrestling world as “Black Panda”, rubbed his eyes as it stirred him from his nap. He clicked his tongue, trying to put moisture back into his mouth and picked up the phone.
“👎😈 Asshole” spread across the screen, with the option to accept or reject the call.
The sneer which spread across his face could have killed the proverbial cat. He had nothing to say to his father. Nothing at all. Anyone that needed to know that he’d signed a contract with Thunder Pro Wrestling had already been told. He’d rang his mother and she was elated. She passed the phone to his grandfather and he grunted his approval. Ichiro liked his grandfather. He could convey so much without saying a word.
Something his father knew nothing of.
“So you can throw me to the wolves. Tomorrow I will come back leader of the whole pack,” Oli Sykes screamed from the tiny speaker with guitars and drums thrashing behind him.
The distaste the thought of his father left in his mouth made him sick to his stomach. Most kids get into this industry to follow in their father’s footsteps. Be the next generation of superstar upholding the family name. But Ichiro didn’t take his father’s name. He took his mother’s. And his grandfather’s. His father’s name meant nothing to him. He didn’t want to help the world remember how great his father was inside the ring. In fact, his in-ring name is a direct slap in the face of one of his father’s own in-ring personalities.
No, Ichiro got into wrestling out of spite. Regardless of the legacy his mother and grandfather had forged before him, Ichiro was doing this to prove that there was nothing special about his father. To surpass him. Eclipse him. Make the world forget about him. Wipe his stain from the annals of wrestling.
The ringing stopped. It had reached the threshold of rings, sent straight to voicemail and Ichiro knew that even not allowing his father to speak he would still be heard. He waited for the text notification the voicemail had arrived.
Ichiro took a bottle of water from the coffee table and skolled it down, trying to wash away the bad taste his father left. Then the familiar “Ding!” of the text notification. Swiftly, Ichiro unlocked the phone and thumbed the screen to play the voicemail on speaker.
“Uh… hey there… Ichiro,” spoke his father, his Australian accent laced with the American drawl of Louisiana. “I heard about Thunder Pro. I know you don’t give a Poop but I’m proud of you. You’re doing well. I’m watching videos of you all the time.”
There was an awkward pause. Ichiro’s bottom lip quivered with anger as he waited for the voicemail to end.
“Anyways, I’m gonna try and make my way up when you finally get here. If you’re not here already. I dunno. It’d be… I guess it’d be nice to see you. Just for a minute. If you wanna…”
His father’s sigh echoed loudly in the recording.
“Okay. I better leave you to it. Uh… break a le-“. The voicemail was cut short. Ichiro swiped and pressed until the voicemail was deleted from existence. He tossed the phone on the coffee table and slumped back into his couch.
Once an asshole… always an asshole, Ichiro thought to himself snatching up his bottle of water. Pouting he curled his legs up onto the couch and scowled as he twisted open the bottle. I’ll show you one day.
