The Book of America 1.2 - We Build With Our Own Hands
Jun 7, 2020 22:28:55 GMT -5
BonnieBlue and Jubei like this
Post by america on Jun 7, 2020 22:28:55 GMT -5
If I can be honest a sec, I hate your kind.
Folks who walk up to a man seeing full well the sweat of their brow with nothing behind ‘em but half’ve a sack of horseshit thinking you can tell ‘em what they need. That you can take knowledge you dragged from a book and have it matter more than the blood seeping out’ve their own two hands.
Now I ain’t against being a thinkin’ man. Lots of the best in our country are. My boy Zaigon’s a proper champion of plans and ideas and managin’ things. And maybe you got somethin’ for them. Maybe you got a hint of a notion on how to make greatness happen in a boardroom or pissin’ round the stockmarket.
Here though?
You gonna come and teach me how to handle a ring?
Boy, I been scraping on a mat since I was a kid. Time I was in high school I was throwing guys twice your size round a ring and I only got better from there.
See you come from a different place.
Walk in here soft with a soft man’s hands.
Me?
I got a working man’s hands.
I got calluses from every time someone tried to break my grip and I’d dig the nails in to keep it.
I got scars from every time I caught someone across the face just right and split the skin.
I got the hands of an in the blood, born and raised hard workin’ American man.
So what exactly do you think you got to teach me?
Then
“SHIT!”
America heard Coach cuss from halfway across the gym. He saw some awkward looks between teachers whose rich lib mouths were a bit too sensitive for a little blue language to come from ‘em. America knew why Coach was pissed. It’d been a long drive to get to New Mexico for this out of State tournament and Brian O’Halloran just got taken down and pinned by some wimpy looking fuck from Colorado. America spit at the sight of it. His daddy needed all hands on the deck at the farm. He wasn’t gonna let some limp-dick lefty wimps send him back a loser. That wasn’t how his daddy raised him.
“John Green vs. America Jackson!”
America heard the ref call for him and he said a little prayer. He knew God was looking out for him sure as Jesus died for his sins. He put a little extra into the prayer, with a mind that he was gonna come out of this with some new sins to forgive.
Green looked like a total scrub. He had the starts of a beard that more closely resembled pubes. America knew exactly what he’d try to do. The ref called for the start of the match and Green shot on him. America caught him on the way in, cranking down on his neck with as much force as he could muster. Green managed to complete the takedown and America felt the air rush from his chest with the force of the slam. Still, he held a front chancery and managed to transition into a quarter nelson and shift the momentum, flipping his opponent onto his back. America felt Green try to turn, but he cranked hard on the neck, smothering his resistance until he heard the ref’s hand hit the mat for the count.
After the match, Coach gave him a slap on the back. Told him his daddy would be proud of a showing like that, giving these fuckin’ dem pansies a show of what a real Texas boy looked like. America watched the medics help Green up, icing his neck as he struggled to choke back tears. Disgusting. America wouldn’t let himself be weak like that. He had to be a man. To be the best.
Fuck anyone that got in his way.
You don’t belong here.
That’s what they’ll all tell you.
This is a place where the work you put in matters. Where being the best means you gotta win and keep winning until you drop. This ain’t a place for losers to come in and make their money off the backs of other people. You can’t just step in the ring with me and cash a fat check because you got your ass kicked by All American Champ America Jackson. You don’t get to have your legacy be cemented because you fill out the trivia question “Who was ten-time world champ America Jackson’s first singles opponent?” on a Twitter poll.
You wanna be somethin’ here, you gotta work for it.
And that ain’t something your kind know how to do.
Soft hands.
Soft jaws.
Weak.
You’re a thinker and a talker and that’s all well and good.
But you ain’t a worker.
And this?
This is a country built on a man’s work.
You need strong hands to build something that lasts.
America felt the breath leave him as the plane landed.
Back on American soil.
His feet hitting the tarmac felt like a hello from God.
Back from the heretic country where they worship a crown. Back and victorious in the name of God and the freedom He gave them as Americans. He had to admit, the big hosses had given them a hell of a run, but they were a team that bled American as it gets. America knew they’d win out in the end.
“Hey, America.”
An unassuming black-haired man with glasses called out to him. It took America a second to recognize him.
“Well holy shit!” America exclaimed. “Riley Denton!” America extended a hand which Riley took with considerably less enthusiasm than it was offered. “Big fan. Loved how you kept fightin’ for the Wall when all the other cowards backed off. Showed some real guts.”
“Thanks.” Riley said. “As a Texas boy, I’m sure you’re well aware of how important it is to keep our border secure from…undesirables.”
“Hell yeah.” America replied. “So what has you callin’ out for me? I don’t see you coverin’ wrestling all that much.”
“Mr. Carter has enlisted my services.” Riley said. There was some hesitation in his voice, but America didn’t notice it. “I’ll be covering the activities of the Storm. Telling the world how even when the great American pastime is being corrupted by the socialist menace, there’s still some loyal Americans standing up for what they believe in.”
“Damn right there are.” America said. Riley almost couldn’t believe how serious his tone was.
“Anyway, you’ll be seeing me around a lot so I thought I should introduce myself. If you have some time, I’d love to get some comments on your debut win.”
“Sure thing. Just let me get a hot dog first.” America said. Riley raised an eyebrow. America shrugged. “It’s been a few days and I need to get some real food in me. All that boiled shit don’t cut it.”
Riley chuckled. This would work just fine.
I met a hundred like you.
Come here to the land of opportunity, thinking they can cut corners and take what real Americans have worked our asses off for. You call yourself a Guru of Greatness, but there ain’t a thing great about you. You’re just another louse, clinging to our genuine greatness and claiming it as your own.
Seen a thousand like you.
Sneaking ‘round, taking what belongs to us. Demanding that we give and give and give because you don’t have it in you to take for yourself. Making a bad name for everyone who comes here the right way. The good people who want to make it on their own. Who want to be American, buy American, sell American, and live American.
You’re from a world of handouts and consolation prizes.
A world where you can say some pretty words and everyone will just bow down and lick your boots before coming after me because I actually worked for what I got! Because I EARNED what I got! I put in fifteen years of blood, sweat, and tears to get here. You said some nonsense, called yourself a guru, and got in the same door.
And lost.
And lost.
And lost.
It’s an embarrassment that we’re gonna be in the same ring together.
It’s an injustice.
But ain’t no injustice that a real American can’t deal with.
You wanna come here and live off the back of my work?
I grew up on a farm son.
I know how to deal with vermin.
Folks who walk up to a man seeing full well the sweat of their brow with nothing behind ‘em but half’ve a sack of horseshit thinking you can tell ‘em what they need. That you can take knowledge you dragged from a book and have it matter more than the blood seeping out’ve their own two hands.
Now I ain’t against being a thinkin’ man. Lots of the best in our country are. My boy Zaigon’s a proper champion of plans and ideas and managin’ things. And maybe you got somethin’ for them. Maybe you got a hint of a notion on how to make greatness happen in a boardroom or pissin’ round the stockmarket.
Here though?
You gonna come and teach me how to handle a ring?
Boy, I been scraping on a mat since I was a kid. Time I was in high school I was throwing guys twice your size round a ring and I only got better from there.
See you come from a different place.
Walk in here soft with a soft man’s hands.
Me?
I got a working man’s hands.
I got calluses from every time someone tried to break my grip and I’d dig the nails in to keep it.
I got scars from every time I caught someone across the face just right and split the skin.
I got the hands of an in the blood, born and raised hard workin’ American man.
So what exactly do you think you got to teach me?
Then
“SHIT!”
America heard Coach cuss from halfway across the gym. He saw some awkward looks between teachers whose rich lib mouths were a bit too sensitive for a little blue language to come from ‘em. America knew why Coach was pissed. It’d been a long drive to get to New Mexico for this out of State tournament and Brian O’Halloran just got taken down and pinned by some wimpy looking fuck from Colorado. America spit at the sight of it. His daddy needed all hands on the deck at the farm. He wasn’t gonna let some limp-dick lefty wimps send him back a loser. That wasn’t how his daddy raised him.
“John Green vs. America Jackson!”
America heard the ref call for him and he said a little prayer. He knew God was looking out for him sure as Jesus died for his sins. He put a little extra into the prayer, with a mind that he was gonna come out of this with some new sins to forgive.
Green looked like a total scrub. He had the starts of a beard that more closely resembled pubes. America knew exactly what he’d try to do. The ref called for the start of the match and Green shot on him. America caught him on the way in, cranking down on his neck with as much force as he could muster. Green managed to complete the takedown and America felt the air rush from his chest with the force of the slam. Still, he held a front chancery and managed to transition into a quarter nelson and shift the momentum, flipping his opponent onto his back. America felt Green try to turn, but he cranked hard on the neck, smothering his resistance until he heard the ref’s hand hit the mat for the count.
After the match, Coach gave him a slap on the back. Told him his daddy would be proud of a showing like that, giving these fuckin’ dem pansies a show of what a real Texas boy looked like. America watched the medics help Green up, icing his neck as he struggled to choke back tears. Disgusting. America wouldn’t let himself be weak like that. He had to be a man. To be the best.
Fuck anyone that got in his way.
You don’t belong here.
That’s what they’ll all tell you.
This is a place where the work you put in matters. Where being the best means you gotta win and keep winning until you drop. This ain’t a place for losers to come in and make their money off the backs of other people. You can’t just step in the ring with me and cash a fat check because you got your ass kicked by All American Champ America Jackson. You don’t get to have your legacy be cemented because you fill out the trivia question “Who was ten-time world champ America Jackson’s first singles opponent?” on a Twitter poll.
You wanna be somethin’ here, you gotta work for it.
And that ain’t something your kind know how to do.
Soft hands.
Soft jaws.
Weak.
You’re a thinker and a talker and that’s all well and good.
But you ain’t a worker.
And this?
This is a country built on a man’s work.
You need strong hands to build something that lasts.
America felt the breath leave him as the plane landed.
Back on American soil.
His feet hitting the tarmac felt like a hello from God.
Back from the heretic country where they worship a crown. Back and victorious in the name of God and the freedom He gave them as Americans. He had to admit, the big hosses had given them a hell of a run, but they were a team that bled American as it gets. America knew they’d win out in the end.
“Hey, America.”
An unassuming black-haired man with glasses called out to him. It took America a second to recognize him.
“Well holy shit!” America exclaimed. “Riley Denton!” America extended a hand which Riley took with considerably less enthusiasm than it was offered. “Big fan. Loved how you kept fightin’ for the Wall when all the other cowards backed off. Showed some real guts.”
“Thanks.” Riley said. “As a Texas boy, I’m sure you’re well aware of how important it is to keep our border secure from…undesirables.”
“Hell yeah.” America replied. “So what has you callin’ out for me? I don’t see you coverin’ wrestling all that much.”
“Mr. Carter has enlisted my services.” Riley said. There was some hesitation in his voice, but America didn’t notice it. “I’ll be covering the activities of the Storm. Telling the world how even when the great American pastime is being corrupted by the socialist menace, there’s still some loyal Americans standing up for what they believe in.”
“Damn right there are.” America said. Riley almost couldn’t believe how serious his tone was.
“Anyway, you’ll be seeing me around a lot so I thought I should introduce myself. If you have some time, I’d love to get some comments on your debut win.”
“Sure thing. Just let me get a hot dog first.” America said. Riley raised an eyebrow. America shrugged. “It’s been a few days and I need to get some real food in me. All that boiled shit don’t cut it.”
Riley chuckled. This would work just fine.
I met a hundred like you.
Come here to the land of opportunity, thinking they can cut corners and take what real Americans have worked our asses off for. You call yourself a Guru of Greatness, but there ain’t a thing great about you. You’re just another louse, clinging to our genuine greatness and claiming it as your own.
Seen a thousand like you.
Sneaking ‘round, taking what belongs to us. Demanding that we give and give and give because you don’t have it in you to take for yourself. Making a bad name for everyone who comes here the right way. The good people who want to make it on their own. Who want to be American, buy American, sell American, and live American.
You’re from a world of handouts and consolation prizes.
A world where you can say some pretty words and everyone will just bow down and lick your boots before coming after me because I actually worked for what I got! Because I EARNED what I got! I put in fifteen years of blood, sweat, and tears to get here. You said some nonsense, called yourself a guru, and got in the same door.
And lost.
And lost.
And lost.
It’s an embarrassment that we’re gonna be in the same ring together.
It’s an injustice.
But ain’t no injustice that a real American can’t deal with.
You wanna come here and live off the back of my work?
I grew up on a farm son.
I know how to deal with vermin.
