a long drive east | un largo viaje hacia el este
Jul 31, 2019 15:13:20 GMT -5
BonnieBlue, Howie, and 5 more like this
Post by Christian Guillen on Jul 31, 2019 15:13:20 GMT -5
a long drive east | un largo viaje hacia el este
vs. Smith Jones vs. Fuckin’ A
Monday Night Metal S01/E06
vs. Smith Jones vs. Fuckin’ A
Monday Night Metal S01/E06
Interstate-40, the third longest interstate in the United States, stretched near across the entire country. Running from North Carolina to California, the interstate ran through major cities along the way, while providing a direct route for someone to hit the road and continue until they decided they had reached their final destination or until they reached the end of the road. Most long-haul traffic across the long interstate included eighteen wheelers, carrying their cargo (or heading to pick up more cargo at their next stop), tourists on vacation who didn’t pony up the money to take a flight, or, in this particular case, someone looking for a new beginning.
This particular stretch of eastbound I-40 settled underneath a pitch black sky, illuminated only by the distant cold light of the stars overhead and the streetlights posted every ten car lengths or so. The streetlights gave off just enough light to pool beneath them, like small islands to which the drivers hopped between, as if they were boats on the ocean seeking safe haven from the infinite sprawl of the ocean. Driving through these particular islands of light was a small red pick-up truck, worn down with years of use, the deeper, darker red-brown of rust appearing beneath the coat of red that had covered the truck.
If this were a transfer truck, or a ship gliding between islands, a cargo manifest would be needed to provide that the goods inside of the vehicle matched what was legally supposed to be there. Obviously this pick-up truck was not a cargo haul, yet if a Bill of Lading would need to be drawn up, it would read simply: Cargo - 1 person, looking for a way out, luggage, mostly training gear. That’s it. That’s all that the driver, Christian Guillen needed on his long journey east.
I remember the first time I stepped foot into a professional wrestling ring. The lights were bright, man. So fucking bright. I felt my stomach doing more flips than the lucha across from me, shit was like Cirque du Soleil, turning and turning until I would empty out whatever shit I ate for lunch on the front row. But my brother, man, he was solid. Solid as a fucking rock. I remember looking over at him, as we marched down to the ring to the hardcore theme that bingo hall company gave us as a theme, and he was smiling. It wasn’t the smile of the horca either, it was a small of a man fucking happy.
We climbed into the ring, him underneath the bottom rope and me over the top rope. Even though we were twins, I was always the bigger of us. The youngest, by about half an hour, yet still the biggest. The tricks the world plays on us, right? The referee announced us, announced the other team of luchas, asked us which one of us wanted to take the first bell and which wanted to be the tag-man. I’ll never forget this part. You know how, when you look at a bright light for too long, then you close your eyes and the shit is burned on the back of your eyelids? Almost like your eyes can’t let that image go, that the pain of that flare branded you in a way you don’t understand? That’s exactly how this moment is to me. I can close my eyes any time. In the morning working out, eating lunch, taking a shower, before I close my eyes to go to sleep, I still see it. I still smell it. I still hear it. Guillermo, my brother, looked at me, eyes looking like he had the fever, smile wide as a fucking skull, and he told me “A mí la muerte me pela los dientes”. Death can’t do anything to me.
Christian had been traveling for miles upon miles, hours upon hours, at this point. Starting some time around mid-afternoon, traveling east from Sante Fe, which would run him straight to Fort Worth. It was a long drive, hundreds of miles, but it was one that he, and this same pick-up truck, had traveled more than once. Texas had become a hotbed for small, independent wrestling promotions, though it hadn’t yet received the notice that cities like Chicago or Philadelphia had. Sure, there were dead zones, like Corpus Christi, but in places like Dallas/Fort Worth, Austin, and even the rodeo-crazed town of San Antonio. Texans fucking loved their wrestling.
In fact, they loved their wrestling much in the same way that they loved their food, Mexican-inspired, with the heat of the Texas sun, and the bite of a desert rattlesnake. It was in Texas that Christian and Guillermo had really started to break into their own before they decided to enlist. If there’s one thing that Texas loves more than wrestling and Mexican food, it’s the American flag and the poor souls who die at the feet of it.
The thought of Guillermo came back like a thunderclap to Christian’s mind, much like it always did. His brother had been his best friend, but he was also more than that. He was Christian’s fucking hero. A legend. Christian gave him his wrestling nickname, “El Mito”. The Legend. The Myth. Everything about Guillermo was larger than life, his personality, his in-ring ability, and his selflessness, allowing him to truly be a myth in the eyes of Christian.
CHRISTIAN GUILLEN
It’s been a couple of weeks since I signed my contract with Alpha. Shit has been wild since I put ink-to-paper, making it official. I was there for Showdown, I was on a podcast, I’ve been working out, I’ve been trying to keep my mind from wandering into the dark places that it has before, that it did while I fucked up my chance in Division Wrestling. Idle hands and all of that bullshit, y’know? Staying busy is the key, keeping your mind as sharp as your body, which is something that I’ve learned over the years. You can’t run to the bottle, can’t start beating yourself up mentally, and you sure as hell can’t tell into some sadist, willing to punish yourself and every other chico ‘round the block.Which leads me to my first match, my first opponents. When I heard who I was facing, I knew I shouldn’t be surprised. Hell, me and Fuckin’ A signed our contracts around the same time, have been talked about since we both signed. Fuckin’ A, the mad-man from Nevada, the desert just north of my hometown desert of New Mexico. A dude whose whole life goal is to inflict as much pain as he can, regardless of what he does to himself. I’ve faced a hundred dudes like him in the Southwest wrestling circuit, guys all over Texas wanted to make a name for themselves by jumping off of scaffolds, or hitting each other with bats, or just going batshit crazy and taking saws to their foreheads. Sure, those guys get the crowd behind them, because the crowd loves a good “near death”. But that’s all it is. They want to get near death, not actually stare muerte in the fucking eyes. They want to be violent without going all the way to the edge.
Unlike every other motherfucker in the wrestling business, I’ve actually seen death. I’ve seen what happens to the eyes when guys go crazy, when they get the real bloodlust. The eyes lose focus, like they’re looking at a TV, but it’s a million miles behind you. Then, when they die, those same eyes keep staring at something somewhere over your shoulder, but they lose focus. Almost like that same TV started playing something that didn’t want to watch and boredom just took over, but that’s not entirely it. It’s something that can’t be explained, and that’s why mother fuckers like Fuckin’ A will never actually go to that place, because they’re scared. They might bluster about, screaming like madmen, taking knives to shit, scaring women and children, but they will never go that extra mile.
One of the misconceptions about the South in the United States is that at night, the air cools off and it becomes pleasant. Unlike the desert, which does cool off significantly during the night hours, the South doesn’t tend to go that direction. The air is still heavy with humidity, breathing becomes a chore, like gasping in breaths in a hot shower. Into this wet night Christian stepped, his long hair already frizzy, but now slick with sweat and humid Southern heat. Though the pick-up had been Christian’s for going on fifteen years now, he had never truly adapted to the fact that he was bigger, much bigger, than it. Rolling his shoulders and his neck, and marched into the small convenience store to pay for his gas and an energy drink to get him through the rest of the trip.
Christian spent time making some idle chit-chat with the clerk, the type of smalltalk that happened between two strangers running into each other in the dead of night, where hours had passed since the last human interaction and possibly facing hours more until the next face-to-face. The large wrestler finally paid, filled his truck up with gas, and made his way back out onto the straight stretch of silent street that would allow him to arrive at his destination of Fort Worth, Texas. The lonely road that would take him, hopefully, to another stop before Christian finally reached his final destination. Pulling back onto the interstate, Christian noticed the sign: 145 miles to Dallas. A long way east.
CHRISTIAN GUILLEN
Of course, the loco Fuckin’ A isn’t the only person in this match. The higher-ups decided that my first match, our first match if you include the mad man, to be a triple threat match. It’s the third man in this triangle that I’m actually worried, someone who is less worried about garbage wrestling and has actually proved, not just in the Alpha ring but in companies across the globe, that he can compete at the highest level. Smith Jones. The current number one contender to Jubei for the APW World Heavyweight Championship after winning the Alpha Showdown match at Showdown. Multiple time wrestler of the week, champion in other companies, et cetera.
Look, I don’t have to run down this man’s list of accomplishments. We know what he can do. His biography is like reading a fucking who’s-who on a Wikipedia page. The man knows his business. He knows how to wrestle, to put forth the effort required to take down a single opponent, multiple opponents, it doesn’t matter. Jones can get it done. For that, I have the utmost respect for him. Respect is something that is earned, something that isn’t just handed out to every fucker on the roster. Fuckin’ A, for example, gets no respect from me, not in the ring. But Jones… He’s good. He deserves attention, and to not just be a footnote of my focus going into this week’s Monday Night Metal.
And sure, Jones has a shit ton of accolades. And he’s about to add another one to the ever-growing list: Match of the Week times four. Even though that scrambled-brain daredevil is on our match, and like the monkey wrench he is, he’ll prove to fuck up a good wrestling match, but Jones and I know our business enough to set aside the maniac and focus on what’s important: wrestling. For the fans, for the Alpha staff and crew, and to prove a point to every persona in the back. Wrestling is for the wrestlers, the technical machines, the smart and strong-willed. It’s not for glorified stuntmen.
