Post by >V< on Aug 13, 2009 15:10:50 GMT -5
The worst part about being a rookie is, of course, the hazing. One needn't look far to see that the barbaric practice is alive and well today. Take, for example, the Dallas Cowboys training camp. Instead of doing the logical thing, and preparing themselves mentally and physically for yet another season full of crushing disappointment, the team decided to spend their time giving the rookies ridiculous haircuts. One guy had some kind of reverse mohawk or something. I saw it on Yahoo news a couple days ago, you should check it out.
Nathan Korpi: "Aaaahh…"
The Nordic Horror has just polished off the last of a six pack of Miller Lite, and sets the empty bottle next to the others. He himself has been the victim of hazing, at the hands of his so-called mentor. Things started out well enough, KvK made all sorts of promises, about how he’d take him to fame and fortune, adventure, women, all the trappings of success that every young man dreams of. Well, I guess if you’re gay and you’re dreaming of success, you probably want your pick of dudes in lieu of the women, but that’s beside the point.
The point is, Nathan Korpi feels used and unappreciated. He hasn’t had any time to himself like this in several days, and it feels pretty damn good to relax for a change.
Nate: "Whew."
He sits back in his motel room bed, resting his head against the propped-up pillow. He had intended to spend this unexpected free time mentally preparing himself for his upcoming match against the much younger yet far more experienced Australian kid, yet he’s found that he can’t focus his attention away from ruminating on the events of the past few days and weeks.
Since agreeing to become KvK’s apprentice of sorts, and signing his modest contract with GIW, he’s noticed a lack of recognition. This, of course, didn’t really bother him, for good things come to those who wait. Patience is a virtue and all of that cliché bullshit. The thing that’s really bothered him is his so-called mentor’s obvious insanity. He’d heard that a life of fame can have devastating effects to a psyche, but he’d never seen it up close and personal.
Nate: "Ah, hell..."
Giving up on the idea of mentally preparing himself for his upcoming match, he reaches for the television remote and thumbs it on. He keeps the sound muted as he turns into the vacant-eyed zombie that we all become when flipping channels on the tube. Again, his mind returns to his bitter thoughts.
Things have gotten worse in the last couple days, it seems. Ever since his new friends’ wild encounter with that baldheaded living cliché, and the injury suffered by KvK, things for Nathan Korpi have taken a humiliating turn. His tag team partner has ordered him around like an Army recruit, seemingly incapable of doing all but the most basic of things for himself. Nate has found himself having to open and hold doors for the man, light his cigars for him, all sorts of demeaning tasks. Hell, he even had to take a bag of KvK’s dirty clothes down to the motel laundromat, like he was some kind of maid. Well, fuck that shit! Momma Korpi raised a good boy, but she didn’t raise no chump. Once KvK wakes up from his coma in the next room, he’s gonna get an earful, that’s for sure. Things are gonna change, God damn it.
Nate: "Well, that didn't last long...."
His mental fist-raising oath to himself is shattered by the shrill ringing of the motel room's telephone. Why do they have to make those things with the ringer so loud? It's just a tiny little room, it's not like you have to be able to hear it from way down a hallway or something. He reaches for the phone with a sigh, sure that it's KvK again with some ridiculous demand or another.
Nate: "Hello?"
The voice on the other end of the line is familiar, yet he's surprised to find that it is in fact not that of his tor-mentor. It is a female voice, that of none other than Jezebel Saint, and she speaks with a tone of exasperation. Nate listens to the tirade, shoulders slumped, eyes half-lidded with exhausted annoyance.
Nate: "Right. I'll be there."
With a sigh, he hangs up the phone. He thumbs the power button on the television remote and tosses it aside. Apparently KvK caused some sort of scene in the suite of Salem and Jezebel Saint, and some furniture was destroyed. Wonderful. Now he's gotta go down there and try to wake the guy out of his coma, and look after him. This deal keeps getting worse by the minute, and he's not sure how much more insane bullshit he can handle. He takes a moment to mentally prepare himself, then rises from the bed and strides to the door.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hours later, he finds himself behind the wheel of a rental car. This one's a silver-hued specimen of the Abomination Reborn known as the Ford Taurus. Currently, it's one of many cars that sit idling in a line, waiting to cross the border into Mexico. Nate wipes sweat from his brow and turns to the passenger seat, where his tag team partner sits, fidgeting impatiently.
KvK: "What's taking so long? Shouldn't they be more concerned with people coming the other way?"
His dilated eyes peer out from behind a luchadore mask, this one being red with large black ovals around each of the eyeholes that extend up onto the forehead and down onto the cheeks. His facial hair sticks out from around the openings for the mouth and nose, resulting in a look akin to that of the character Rocco "The Funny Man," from the movie The Boondock Saints, only much more deranged. I never thought that was possible either, but a Deadpool luchadore mask is much crazier than a homemade ski mask. Ask anybody, they'll tell ya.
Nate: "You know, they’re probably gonna be a bit concerned at your appearance there."
KvK: "Whaddaya mean?"
Nate: "I just think they’ll be curious about the intentions of a man who’s dressed like a mash-up of a Mexican wrester and a comic book character."
KvK: "No way! I'll blend right in."
Raenius: "Yeah, who goes to Mexico without a mask? You'd look like a total fuckin' tourist!"
The Resident Evil leans forward between the seats, looking at Nate through the eyeholes of his Kabuki mask. Slowly, he sits back, never taking his eyes off the Nordic Horror. He scoffs.
KvK: "No pickles!"
No pickles?! The fuck is that supposed to mean? Nate thinks, and not for the first time, about simply calling it quits. He could walk away and return to his previous life of thumping skulls in the bars of downtown Minneapolis. Of course, the pay there was much lower, and in spite of the hazing, he'd probably miss the crazy adventures. He shakes his head vigorously, clearing the thought. He'll stick it out for a few more weeks at least, maybe things will get better for him.
Nate: "So, uh...why are we going to Mexico anyway?"
KvK: "I need a cape to go with the mask, dumbass."
Nate: "A cape? Why don't you just have the GIW seamstress make you one? The boots she made for me are pretty good, I thought."
KvK: "Everybody knows that if you want to get a good quality luchadore cape, you've got to get the real deal, authentic Mexican shit. Fuck! Don't you know anything?!"
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Some time later, their ordeal at the border long behind them, the trio returns to the rented Taurus. KvK's brand new, authentically Mexican luchadore cape billows out behind him.
KvK: "Yo soy El Phantasmo!"
He draws the cape across his face with his good arm, peering over top of it like a cheap silent film villian. Man, that guy is really high right now.
Nate: "Whatever you say, boss. Can we get the hell out of here now, fellas?"
The Resident Evil adjusts his brand new, Authentically Mexican sombrero, which looks extra ridiculous on his head along with his mask.
Raenius: "Hey, Meestor. Meestor! I need those theengs that make the noise."
Down the block is a local police officer. Raenius changes course, heading his way. The cop turns to him, a confused look on his face.
Cop: "Que?"
This being Mexico, of course the police officers speak Spanish. The poor young mustachioed man tilts his head quizzically, taking in the sight of the man in the mask and sombrero, speaking to him with a horribly fake accent, shaking his hands around like a madman as he approaches.
Raenius: "Maracas, I theenk. No?"
The cop unclips his radio from his belt as Raenius comes within a few feet of him. He thumbs the transmit button and begins speaking into the radio in Spanish. He holds up a hand with the palm out, an obvious signal to Raenius to stay where he is, as the cop continues to spout his gibberish.
Raenius: "Oh, fock thees!"
Suddenly remembering that he holds a deep loathing in his heart for all authority figures, Raenius punts the cop right in the balls.
Raenius: "Have one in the nots seenyor!"
Cop: "Ay! Dios mio!"
He collapses to the pavement, clutching his wounded boys. At that moment, three other uniformed officers, doubtlessly the backup that he had been calling for on the radio, round the corner up ahead. One of them points at Raenius and shouts something in Spanish. I've pretty much already exhausted what little I remember of the language from the two semesters of it that I took way back in high school, but I'm sure it was something about 'get that guy' or 'stop in the name of the law' or another generic cop phrase like that.
Raenius: "Sheet!"
He runs off down the street, the three cops giving chase. His sombrero flies off his head as he runs, his grab to catch it a split second too late. Nathan Korpi and KvK....er, I mean El Phantasmo, stand next to the rental car and watch him go. He sprints away, disappearing around a corner up ahead.
Nate: "Should we go after him?"
El Phantasmo: "Hell no! Everybody should experience a stint in a Mexican prison sometime in their life. I guess this is his turn. Vamanos!"
With a swirl of his cape, he turns to the car and stands there waiting impatiently. Nate looks at him for a moment, then reaches for the door handle with an exasperated sigh.
Nate: "Sure hope you don't get Montezuma's Revenge. You'd want me to wipe your ass for you, wouldn't ya?"
El Phantasmo: "Don't push it, rookie...."
The two men get in the car and are quickly off, Nate driving carefully to avoid potholes. After a few moments he pulls to a stop at an intersection. He points across the way at a figure going into a bar.
Nate: "Hey, isn't that Salem?"
El Phantasmo: "Who?"
Nate: "You know, Jezebel's fuck buddy, or whatever."
El Phantasmo: "Oh, yeah. The Educated Horse. I think that was him...."
Nate: "What do you think he's..."
Just as he starts to release the brake, his inebriated passenger whips open the door and jumps out of the car. He sprints away, cape fluttering in his wake.
El Phantasmo: "Ole!"
Nate watches him run off after Salem, then begins looking for a safe place to park the car. He pulls to the curb and kills the engine, then slowly lets his head come to rest against the steering wheel.
Nate: "Babysitting's a lot harder than I thought...."
Nathan Korpi: "Aaaahh…"
The Nordic Horror has just polished off the last of a six pack of Miller Lite, and sets the empty bottle next to the others. He himself has been the victim of hazing, at the hands of his so-called mentor. Things started out well enough, KvK made all sorts of promises, about how he’d take him to fame and fortune, adventure, women, all the trappings of success that every young man dreams of. Well, I guess if you’re gay and you’re dreaming of success, you probably want your pick of dudes in lieu of the women, but that’s beside the point.
The point is, Nathan Korpi feels used and unappreciated. He hasn’t had any time to himself like this in several days, and it feels pretty damn good to relax for a change.
Nate: "Whew."
He sits back in his motel room bed, resting his head against the propped-up pillow. He had intended to spend this unexpected free time mentally preparing himself for his upcoming match against the much younger yet far more experienced Australian kid, yet he’s found that he can’t focus his attention away from ruminating on the events of the past few days and weeks.
Since agreeing to become KvK’s apprentice of sorts, and signing his modest contract with GIW, he’s noticed a lack of recognition. This, of course, didn’t really bother him, for good things come to those who wait. Patience is a virtue and all of that cliché bullshit. The thing that’s really bothered him is his so-called mentor’s obvious insanity. He’d heard that a life of fame can have devastating effects to a psyche, but he’d never seen it up close and personal.
Nate: "Ah, hell..."
Giving up on the idea of mentally preparing himself for his upcoming match, he reaches for the television remote and thumbs it on. He keeps the sound muted as he turns into the vacant-eyed zombie that we all become when flipping channels on the tube. Again, his mind returns to his bitter thoughts.
Things have gotten worse in the last couple days, it seems. Ever since his new friends’ wild encounter with that baldheaded living cliché, and the injury suffered by KvK, things for Nathan Korpi have taken a humiliating turn. His tag team partner has ordered him around like an Army recruit, seemingly incapable of doing all but the most basic of things for himself. Nate has found himself having to open and hold doors for the man, light his cigars for him, all sorts of demeaning tasks. Hell, he even had to take a bag of KvK’s dirty clothes down to the motel laundromat, like he was some kind of maid. Well, fuck that shit! Momma Korpi raised a good boy, but she didn’t raise no chump. Once KvK wakes up from his coma in the next room, he’s gonna get an earful, that’s for sure. Things are gonna change, God damn it.
Nate: "Well, that didn't last long...."
His mental fist-raising oath to himself is shattered by the shrill ringing of the motel room's telephone. Why do they have to make those things with the ringer so loud? It's just a tiny little room, it's not like you have to be able to hear it from way down a hallway or something. He reaches for the phone with a sigh, sure that it's KvK again with some ridiculous demand or another.
Nate: "Hello?"
The voice on the other end of the line is familiar, yet he's surprised to find that it is in fact not that of his tor-mentor. It is a female voice, that of none other than Jezebel Saint, and she speaks with a tone of exasperation. Nate listens to the tirade, shoulders slumped, eyes half-lidded with exhausted annoyance.
Nate: "Right. I'll be there."
With a sigh, he hangs up the phone. He thumbs the power button on the television remote and tosses it aside. Apparently KvK caused some sort of scene in the suite of Salem and Jezebel Saint, and some furniture was destroyed. Wonderful. Now he's gotta go down there and try to wake the guy out of his coma, and look after him. This deal keeps getting worse by the minute, and he's not sure how much more insane bullshit he can handle. He takes a moment to mentally prepare himself, then rises from the bed and strides to the door.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hours later, he finds himself behind the wheel of a rental car. This one's a silver-hued specimen of the Abomination Reborn known as the Ford Taurus. Currently, it's one of many cars that sit idling in a line, waiting to cross the border into Mexico. Nate wipes sweat from his brow and turns to the passenger seat, where his tag team partner sits, fidgeting impatiently.
KvK: "What's taking so long? Shouldn't they be more concerned with people coming the other way?"
His dilated eyes peer out from behind a luchadore mask, this one being red with large black ovals around each of the eyeholes that extend up onto the forehead and down onto the cheeks. His facial hair sticks out from around the openings for the mouth and nose, resulting in a look akin to that of the character Rocco "The Funny Man," from the movie The Boondock Saints, only much more deranged. I never thought that was possible either, but a Deadpool luchadore mask is much crazier than a homemade ski mask. Ask anybody, they'll tell ya.
Nate: "You know, they’re probably gonna be a bit concerned at your appearance there."
KvK: "Whaddaya mean?"
Nate: "I just think they’ll be curious about the intentions of a man who’s dressed like a mash-up of a Mexican wrester and a comic book character."
KvK: "No way! I'll blend right in."
Raenius: "Yeah, who goes to Mexico without a mask? You'd look like a total fuckin' tourist!"
The Resident Evil leans forward between the seats, looking at Nate through the eyeholes of his Kabuki mask. Slowly, he sits back, never taking his eyes off the Nordic Horror. He scoffs.
KvK: "No pickles!"
No pickles?! The fuck is that supposed to mean? Nate thinks, and not for the first time, about simply calling it quits. He could walk away and return to his previous life of thumping skulls in the bars of downtown Minneapolis. Of course, the pay there was much lower, and in spite of the hazing, he'd probably miss the crazy adventures. He shakes his head vigorously, clearing the thought. He'll stick it out for a few more weeks at least, maybe things will get better for him.
Nate: "So, uh...why are we going to Mexico anyway?"
KvK: "I need a cape to go with the mask, dumbass."
Nate: "A cape? Why don't you just have the GIW seamstress make you one? The boots she made for me are pretty good, I thought."
KvK: "Everybody knows that if you want to get a good quality luchadore cape, you've got to get the real deal, authentic Mexican shit. Fuck! Don't you know anything?!"
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Some time later, their ordeal at the border long behind them, the trio returns to the rented Taurus. KvK's brand new, authentically Mexican luchadore cape billows out behind him.
KvK: "Yo soy El Phantasmo!"
He draws the cape across his face with his good arm, peering over top of it like a cheap silent film villian. Man, that guy is really high right now.
Nate: "Whatever you say, boss. Can we get the hell out of here now, fellas?"
The Resident Evil adjusts his brand new, Authentically Mexican sombrero, which looks extra ridiculous on his head along with his mask.
Raenius: "Hey, Meestor. Meestor! I need those theengs that make the noise."
Down the block is a local police officer. Raenius changes course, heading his way. The cop turns to him, a confused look on his face.
Cop: "Que?"
This being Mexico, of course the police officers speak Spanish. The poor young mustachioed man tilts his head quizzically, taking in the sight of the man in the mask and sombrero, speaking to him with a horribly fake accent, shaking his hands around like a madman as he approaches.
Raenius: "Maracas, I theenk. No?"
The cop unclips his radio from his belt as Raenius comes within a few feet of him. He thumbs the transmit button and begins speaking into the radio in Spanish. He holds up a hand with the palm out, an obvious signal to Raenius to stay where he is, as the cop continues to spout his gibberish.
Raenius: "Oh, fock thees!"
Suddenly remembering that he holds a deep loathing in his heart for all authority figures, Raenius punts the cop right in the balls.
Raenius: "Have one in the nots seenyor!"
Cop: "Ay! Dios mio!"
He collapses to the pavement, clutching his wounded boys. At that moment, three other uniformed officers, doubtlessly the backup that he had been calling for on the radio, round the corner up ahead. One of them points at Raenius and shouts something in Spanish. I've pretty much already exhausted what little I remember of the language from the two semesters of it that I took way back in high school, but I'm sure it was something about 'get that guy' or 'stop in the name of the law' or another generic cop phrase like that.
Raenius: "Sheet!"
He runs off down the street, the three cops giving chase. His sombrero flies off his head as he runs, his grab to catch it a split second too late. Nathan Korpi and KvK....er, I mean El Phantasmo, stand next to the rental car and watch him go. He sprints away, disappearing around a corner up ahead.
Nate: "Should we go after him?"
El Phantasmo: "Hell no! Everybody should experience a stint in a Mexican prison sometime in their life. I guess this is his turn. Vamanos!"
With a swirl of his cape, he turns to the car and stands there waiting impatiently. Nate looks at him for a moment, then reaches for the door handle with an exasperated sigh.
Nate: "Sure hope you don't get Montezuma's Revenge. You'd want me to wipe your ass for you, wouldn't ya?"
El Phantasmo: "Don't push it, rookie...."
The two men get in the car and are quickly off, Nate driving carefully to avoid potholes. After a few moments he pulls to a stop at an intersection. He points across the way at a figure going into a bar.
Nate: "Hey, isn't that Salem?"
El Phantasmo: "Who?"
Nate: "You know, Jezebel's fuck buddy, or whatever."
El Phantasmo: "Oh, yeah. The Educated Horse. I think that was him...."
Nate: "What do you think he's..."
Just as he starts to release the brake, his inebriated passenger whips open the door and jumps out of the car. He sprints away, cape fluttering in his wake.
El Phantasmo: "Ole!"
Nate watches him run off after Salem, then begins looking for a safe place to park the car. He pulls to the curb and kills the engine, then slowly lets his head come to rest against the steering wheel.
Nate: "Babysitting's a lot harder than I thought...."
