Post by Lord Hastings on May 4, 2019 22:17:34 GMT -5
As soon as the hotel room door closed, Dos Tequila Junior ceased to exist.
Michael pulled off his luchador mask and threw it onto the bed with a sigh. The novelty of wearing it everywhere he went in public, no matter what, had grown tired within six months of him embarking on his new career back in 2017. The inner conflict of being a white guy from New Jersey portraying a Mexican, especially portraying the son of someone who legitimately was a Mexican immigrant and who took so much pride in his heritage before his untimely death at the hands of the police a few years back.
Yeah, sure, Dos Tequila was Mike’s favorite back in the day, back when he’d go to all the same local gyms and armories to see him fly off the ropes in front of a couple dozen locals. And yeah, sure, he’d gotten the blessing of Tequila’s actual son, Julio, before donning the mask and the name. Not like Julio was interested in following in his dad’s footsteps anyway. Julio wanted nothing to do with the guy who abandoned his family to chase ring rats in Newark and Trenton. All that might be true, but Mike was tired of being someone else. Living someone else’s legacy.
Fact is, even the love of the business had run dry. Mike’s back hurt. His knee was fucked. The fans were pricks. Just last week he’d had to get stitches after some asshole threw a fucking rock at him during an outdoor show. Busted him up under the mask and they never even figured out which shithead it was, since no one in the crowd would narc him out. They were marks. They believed the guys were exactly what they presented themselves to be, and Mike, as a tough rudo, had those knuckle dragging xenophobes convinced he was an illegal who hated low class whites. In other words, them and their friends. Mike didn’t even speak any more Spanish than he’d learned hitting up the Taco Bell drive-thru after hours, but they didn’t know that.
“Fuck this shit. Fuck every bit of it.”
Mike sat heavily on the bed, opening the envelope the booker had handed him with a slap on the shoulder as he’d left the local brewery where they’d put on a parking lot show. Sure, let’s put on a racist act in front of a bunch of DRUNK actual racists. That sounds like a great idea.
“These goddamn grease monkeys can’t even tell the difference between a Hispanic and a dude with a tan, but they sure know how to hate the guy who acts foreign. Even if they love the high flying shit, they hate someone doing it to their corn-fed all-American doughboys. Gotta love the MAGA crowd. Fuck.”
Mike pulled out four twenty dollar bills. Eighty bucks. Eighty bucks to drive an hour, book a fleabag motel, jump off of a thrown-together ring onto asphalt, and then do it again the next day for someone else 100 miles away. Mike had more than fallen out of love with this lifestyle… he hated it. He hated every waking moment of his existence as a professional wrestler unless he was drunk or high or preferably both at the same time. But… who else was gonna hire him?
He couldn’t pass a piss test for a nine to five. He couldn’t hide the track marks on the insides of his elbows without the benefit of the shiny sleeves he wore in the ring. He was stuck and he knew it. Unless, of course, it was his lucky night.
“Only one more show until I hit the road for Indiana and that BS tournament. Let’s see if I’m gonna make it there or not…”
Mike opened the bedside drawer and tossed in the envelope with its cash. It landed right next to his gear. Not his tights. His GEAR. The spoon and the lighter. The same busted up needle he’d been hitting all week. The pills. And, next to all that, the little revolver.
He reached into the drawer and grabbed the gun. Hefted it in his hand. With a sigh he dropped his chin to his chest and spun the cylinder. Then, he put the barrel between his lips.
He paused when a moment of inspiration hit him. Who was he killing, if this was the night the bullet was in the chamber when he pulled that trigger? Was it Michael Jennings, or Dos Tequila Junior?
Mike put the mask back on. He looked in the mirror and saw everything he stopped loving months ago. Then he put the gun back into his mouth.
Click.
Guess he was going to Indiana.
Arriba.
Michael pulled off his luchador mask and threw it onto the bed with a sigh. The novelty of wearing it everywhere he went in public, no matter what, had grown tired within six months of him embarking on his new career back in 2017. The inner conflict of being a white guy from New Jersey portraying a Mexican, especially portraying the son of someone who legitimately was a Mexican immigrant and who took so much pride in his heritage before his untimely death at the hands of the police a few years back.
Yeah, sure, Dos Tequila was Mike’s favorite back in the day, back when he’d go to all the same local gyms and armories to see him fly off the ropes in front of a couple dozen locals. And yeah, sure, he’d gotten the blessing of Tequila’s actual son, Julio, before donning the mask and the name. Not like Julio was interested in following in his dad’s footsteps anyway. Julio wanted nothing to do with the guy who abandoned his family to chase ring rats in Newark and Trenton. All that might be true, but Mike was tired of being someone else. Living someone else’s legacy.
Fact is, even the love of the business had run dry. Mike’s back hurt. His knee was fucked. The fans were pricks. Just last week he’d had to get stitches after some asshole threw a fucking rock at him during an outdoor show. Busted him up under the mask and they never even figured out which shithead it was, since no one in the crowd would narc him out. They were marks. They believed the guys were exactly what they presented themselves to be, and Mike, as a tough rudo, had those knuckle dragging xenophobes convinced he was an illegal who hated low class whites. In other words, them and their friends. Mike didn’t even speak any more Spanish than he’d learned hitting up the Taco Bell drive-thru after hours, but they didn’t know that.
“Fuck this shit. Fuck every bit of it.”
Mike sat heavily on the bed, opening the envelope the booker had handed him with a slap on the shoulder as he’d left the local brewery where they’d put on a parking lot show. Sure, let’s put on a racist act in front of a bunch of DRUNK actual racists. That sounds like a great idea.
“These goddamn grease monkeys can’t even tell the difference between a Hispanic and a dude with a tan, but they sure know how to hate the guy who acts foreign. Even if they love the high flying shit, they hate someone doing it to their corn-fed all-American doughboys. Gotta love the MAGA crowd. Fuck.”
Mike pulled out four twenty dollar bills. Eighty bucks. Eighty bucks to drive an hour, book a fleabag motel, jump off of a thrown-together ring onto asphalt, and then do it again the next day for someone else 100 miles away. Mike had more than fallen out of love with this lifestyle… he hated it. He hated every waking moment of his existence as a professional wrestler unless he was drunk or high or preferably both at the same time. But… who else was gonna hire him?
He couldn’t pass a piss test for a nine to five. He couldn’t hide the track marks on the insides of his elbows without the benefit of the shiny sleeves he wore in the ring. He was stuck and he knew it. Unless, of course, it was his lucky night.
“Only one more show until I hit the road for Indiana and that BS tournament. Let’s see if I’m gonna make it there or not…”
Mike opened the bedside drawer and tossed in the envelope with its cash. It landed right next to his gear. Not his tights. His GEAR. The spoon and the lighter. The same busted up needle he’d been hitting all week. The pills. And, next to all that, the little revolver.
He reached into the drawer and grabbed the gun. Hefted it in his hand. With a sigh he dropped his chin to his chest and spun the cylinder. Then, he put the barrel between his lips.
He paused when a moment of inspiration hit him. Who was he killing, if this was the night the bullet was in the chamber when he pulled that trigger? Was it Michael Jennings, or Dos Tequila Junior?
Mike put the mask back on. He looked in the mirror and saw everything he stopped loving months ago. Then he put the gun back into his mouth.
Click.
Guess he was going to Indiana.
Arriba.
