Post by Spartan on Sept 3, 2019 21:36:42 GMT -5
Is it early in the morning, the sun has just broken the horizon as light permeates in through the kitchen window. Tristan John Cross sits on a stool leaning over a kitchen counter, that is swept in the natural glow of morning sunshine on its black marble surface. He is wearing comfortable sweatpants, black faded to grey in colour and a white muscle shirt, adorned by the famous Gold’s gym logo. He has a pen in his hand and is scrawling away on the inside of a birthday card.Despite his mammoth ginger beard, his face displays a sadness of a man who has lost and is missing something close and dear to his heart. His hands move right to left furiously as he writes on the birthday card.
---
---
“What are you doing, brah?” Dante Jones asks as he walks into the kitchen area of his house and sees Tristan Cross closes the birthday card; it shows a frog riding an elephant and show balloons. It also indicates that it is for a sixth birthday. He places it into an envelope.
Jones is standing there is all his glory, having just got out of bed. His ripped chest and abdominals exposed. His penis hangs down his leg, Dante Jones is a well-endowed man. Tristan Cross turns to Jones as he stands there. Cross just shakes his head, as a man who has seen it all before and is not bothered by the presence of his best friends penis staring at him.
“It’s Georgia’s birthday.” Cross answers with a tinge of sadness haunting his voice as he uses his tongue to seal the envelope.
Jones nods. “That’s gotta be tough.”
“It is what it is.” Cross says, the sadness in his voice is obvious.
The tough exterior of Spartan hides the overwhelming pain of losing contact and proximity to his daughter and son. He knows it was his actions, or moreover his reactions that caused the current situation. He wishes things were different, but they aren’t so while he struggles in moments, he moves forward, hoping one day, he will do enough to change the situation.
Jones takes a seat on the counter stool next to his friend, Tristan Cross. He knowingly rests a hand on his shoulder. “Ya reckon, Penny will give your card to Gee-gee for the birthday.”
Cross shrugs, “Really. I don't know.” The tears well in his eyes.
Jones just nods for his friend, before getting back up off the stool and walking to the fridge. He opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of orange juice. “You want an OJ?” Jones asks Cross.
“Nah, I’m good.” Cross gives his envelope containing the card to his daughter a kiss on the back of it. “Dee, you think you could post this for more.”
“Course, brah, course.” Jones says as he swallows a mouthful of orange juice.
The sound of a tooting horn is heard out the front of the house.
“Guess my UBER is here.” says Cross as he stands up to the calling of his hire car.
“Have fun in Japan.” Jones says, spilling juice out of his mouth and down the front of himself.
“Yeh. Try. Hopin’ if Penny will let me talk to Georgia on her birthday.” Cross muses.
“It’s Monday, yeh.” says Jones as statement more than a question.
“Yeh, gonna call her before the show.” Cross smiles a sad smile of a father that is missing his daughter.
Cross walks out of the kitchen and down the hallway and opens the front door. “See ya, Dee.”
“Cheers, brah.” Jones puts the now empty orange juice bottle on the kitchen counter and looks down at his free penis. “Damn, I’m look good.” He says aloud, laughing to himself as he walks out of the kitchen and towards the stairs.
“Hey Babe, you awake?” he yells upstairs. “Tee’s gone and I wann fuck you hard.” he continues.
A murmuring is heard and Jones heads upstairs.
Spartan is sitting in the beige armchair of a private jet. His laid back posture gives indication of the comfort of the chair. A table is in front of him, a half-eaten meal of chicken and steamed vegetables off to the side. He is clad in a white Gold’s gym muscle top, the bottom half of his body is obscured, he strokes his giant beard of ginger glory.
“The Man”
“Well, let’s get it straight you are a man. Not sure if you are the man. Normally, people refer to the man as the guy at the top of the food chain. I’ve seen you in Alpha Pro - and one thing I can say for sure if you are not at the top of the food chain. Sure, you leach off the man who is sitting on the throne in Masuda Jubei - On a side note, thanks for the private jet, Master.”
“But as I was saying, Allen. You leech off Masuda like a parasite sucks nutrients from a host. Being seated next to the King, doth not make you a King. If anything, it makes you a court jester. The man who there is entertain. The man who lacks anything of substance. The man who talks loud but whose words mean nothing. The man who struts around like a proud rooster who owns the chicken coop but whose actions amount to nothing. In short, you are a clown.”
“Why else do you think Masuda keeps you around. You are his entertainment. Probably, a pet project - in you, he has a specialised hired gun, to his dirty work so he doesn’t have to get his hands dirtier than he wants. If that is all want to be, then good for you. But all I ever hear from you is that you want to be king. You want to be champion. Do you think Jubei will let you take the title just because he likes you.”
“Wake up, Anderson. You’re a puppet, and he is the puppeteer. And when he is done with you will be cast into obscurity just like Chip Baskets.”
Spartan lifts himself up in his chair so he is sitting straight and no longer lounging deep in the cushion of the chair.
“The Myth”
“You could define as a traditional story, especially one concerning the early history of a people or explaining natural or social phenomenon, and typically involving supernatural beings or events. Or as I prefer - a widely held but false belief or idea.”
“Alternatively, you can take that you can take the second meaning and sum it up in two simple words.”
“Allen Anderson.”
“I’ve watched you since the day you walked through the doors of Alpha Pro Wrestling strutting a rooster, a cock if you will. Thinking that you were made to be on top. You told the stories of your successes in Japan and how you were Daddy’s golden child. How you were king of Harlem.”
“Let me you something, Al. You ain’t no Ellsworth Johnson. Hell, you’re not even a Frank Lucas. You’re just some second rate punk who has come into the toughest promotion in the world, big noting himself with stories. Telling the world, how you did this in Japan. How you did that in Harlem.”
“Well you know what, Allen. Here in Alpha Pro Wrestling you ain’t done shit. Hell, from the moment you couldn’t match your words and actions into wins you jumped on the coattails of our champion, probably hoping he would drag you somewhere successful. Hasn’t happened yet. Might happen, might not. It’s all about what you put into the ring. Making if you stopped making excuses and accusing everyone around of racism and corruption you might fucking achieve something.”
“Right, bro?”
“But then again you’re fond of re-telling stories and altering the facts and believing those lies you let emanate from your vocal cards. So may never know what Allen Anderson can really do. But one thing I am almost certain of is that your children and their children will always be making excuses for their shortcomings.”
“You’re father must be so ashamed of you.”
“Bro.”
Spartan leans forward and rests him himself on the table.
“The Legend”
“Like a myth, a legend is a story sometimes popularly regarded as historical but not authenticated. Or it’s an extremely famous or notorious person”
“Now I sorta get where you are trying to go with this, Allen. We get it - like everything that you put forth your argument lacks substance. You ain’t famous, in fact, most people who look at you wouldn’t even know who you are. And when I watch you I would say you even lack any style, and your achievements, so far, are nothing of note - so you can’t say you are notorious.”
“Which leaves me with only other thing to draw upon, calling yourself a legend. It’s redundant.”
“Much like your career.”
“So far.”
“I’m not saying you will never build yourself up to be a legend of this business. But right now, you ain’t. The way I see it, you’ve gotta earn yourself the right to be called a legend in this business. It’s not a title you can bestow upon yourself and I think I know you enough to know that you point to previous achievements in Japan and for Daddy that you’ve earnt that right. But I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again…”
“You ain’t done shit in Alpha Pro.”
“I want you to change that I really. I want you to live your dreams and be a legend. But I want you to wake the fuck up.”
“So I take my foot and shove in that big mouth of yours.”
“Take you time, Allen, tell me and tell the world your stories to the world - we have heard enough and seen enough that people know - they believe the words that comes from your lips even less than those of the boy who cried wolf.”
Spartan leans even further forward on the table.
“Harsh I know.”
“But, Allen, you bought it all down upon yourself. I’m not gonna lie - I ain’t got no respect for your actions in Alpha Pro. And I ain’t got no respect for your excuses. They way I see any man or woman of any calibre accepts their consequences. Just like at Ascension, Wolf beat me because he was better.”
“Every time I see you, Allen. You are making excuses. You are claiming bias and when you don’t get what you want you chuck tantrums that any toddler would be proud of or your cheap shot people.”
“Shit, you even kidnapped a reporter, because you didn’t like how your story was being told.”
“All that - it’s weak behaviour. It ain’t no sign of strength. It’s pathetic, is what it is. It’s Chris Swenson before Dan Dexter fought back type of shit. And to top it all off - you call me out behind my back, behind a fucking keyboard.”
“You want to fight me.”
“You want to prove yourself.”
“I ain’t got no beef with that.”
“But, walk forward, walk tall - come see in the back. Confront me in the middle of the ring. Don’t spout bullshit from a fucking keyboard behind a fucking computer screen with two hundred and eighty fucking character limit.”
“That.”
“That. I ain’t gonna respect, Al.”
“But, I’m also gonna give you credit where credit is due. You have ability. That’s undoubted. Hell, in terms of raw athletic ability, you can probably much me. But, you don’t know what to do with it because you are too distracted. That I believe. If you learned to stop running your mouth and trying to look cool and actually focussed on what was happening in between those ropes - then maybe you can beat me.”
“Maybe.”
“See I don’t like you, Allen. Not right now. Won’t say ever… because that’s not my way. Everyone deserves a chance.”
“Come Jubeilation, Allen. Its win or lose, for both of us. No excuses. And for once, I don’t want to hear any from you.”
Spartan likes back into the chair and gets comfortable.
“No fucking excuses.”
---
To my darling Georgia,
It’s your birthday and I am sorry. I am sorry that I can’t be there to celebrate this wondrous day of your life with you. When you were born six years ago, it was the happiest day of my life. Things happen in life and I want you to understand that it never was and never will be your fault.
I want you smile and laugh and dance and have fun with your friends, That’s what birthdays are - Happy days. And I’m not talking about that silly show we used to watch together. AYYY!
It’s your birthday you should have your cake and eat it until you feel sick. Chocolate cake I bet. That’s what we had when I was last there to share your birthday. Maybe your mum with let you have some lollies. She never liked it when we used to sneak the lollies from the cupboard. But I won’t tell if you don’t. I loved and cherished hose little fun times we had, I can’t tell you how much I miss those times and the times when you and I would have tea together. Or how I would plait your hair and you would plait my beard.
I miss you so much my beautiful daughter.
I want to be with you on your special day, but the way things are I can’t be there but remember that you are always in my thoughts. And I love you so so much.
Be kind to your little brother, William.
Happy Birthday Gee-Gee the Beautiful Girl!
Love Daddy
xxooxx
---
“What are you doing, brah?” Dante Jones asks as he walks into the kitchen area of his house and sees Tristan Cross closes the birthday card; it shows a frog riding an elephant and show balloons. It also indicates that it is for a sixth birthday. He places it into an envelope.
Jones is standing there is all his glory, having just got out of bed. His ripped chest and abdominals exposed. His penis hangs down his leg, Dante Jones is a well-endowed man. Tristan Cross turns to Jones as he stands there. Cross just shakes his head, as a man who has seen it all before and is not bothered by the presence of his best friends penis staring at him.
“It’s Georgia’s birthday.” Cross answers with a tinge of sadness haunting his voice as he uses his tongue to seal the envelope.
Jones nods. “That’s gotta be tough.”
“It is what it is.” Cross says, the sadness in his voice is obvious.
The tough exterior of Spartan hides the overwhelming pain of losing contact and proximity to his daughter and son. He knows it was his actions, or moreover his reactions that caused the current situation. He wishes things were different, but they aren’t so while he struggles in moments, he moves forward, hoping one day, he will do enough to change the situation.
Jones takes a seat on the counter stool next to his friend, Tristan Cross. He knowingly rests a hand on his shoulder. “Ya reckon, Penny will give your card to Gee-gee for the birthday.”
Cross shrugs, “Really. I don't know.” The tears well in his eyes.
Jones just nods for his friend, before getting back up off the stool and walking to the fridge. He opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of orange juice. “You want an OJ?” Jones asks Cross.
“Nah, I’m good.” Cross gives his envelope containing the card to his daughter a kiss on the back of it. “Dee, you think you could post this for more.”
“Course, brah, course.” Jones says as he swallows a mouthful of orange juice.
The sound of a tooting horn is heard out the front of the house.
“Guess my UBER is here.” says Cross as he stands up to the calling of his hire car.
“Have fun in Japan.” Jones says, spilling juice out of his mouth and down the front of himself.
“Yeh. Try. Hopin’ if Penny will let me talk to Georgia on her birthday.” Cross muses.
“It’s Monday, yeh.” says Jones as statement more than a question.
“Yeh, gonna call her before the show.” Cross smiles a sad smile of a father that is missing his daughter.
Cross walks out of the kitchen and down the hallway and opens the front door. “See ya, Dee.”
“Cheers, brah.” Jones puts the now empty orange juice bottle on the kitchen counter and looks down at his free penis. “Damn, I’m look good.” He says aloud, laughing to himself as he walks out of the kitchen and towards the stairs.
“Hey Babe, you awake?” he yells upstairs. “Tee’s gone and I wann fuck you hard.” he continues.
A murmuring is heard and Jones heads upstairs.
Spartan is sitting in the beige armchair of a private jet. His laid back posture gives indication of the comfort of the chair. A table is in front of him, a half-eaten meal of chicken and steamed vegetables off to the side. He is clad in a white Gold’s gym muscle top, the bottom half of his body is obscured, he strokes his giant beard of ginger glory.
“The Man”
“Well, let’s get it straight you are a man. Not sure if you are the man. Normally, people refer to the man as the guy at the top of the food chain. I’ve seen you in Alpha Pro - and one thing I can say for sure if you are not at the top of the food chain. Sure, you leach off the man who is sitting on the throne in Masuda Jubei - On a side note, thanks for the private jet, Master.”
“But as I was saying, Allen. You leech off Masuda like a parasite sucks nutrients from a host. Being seated next to the King, doth not make you a King. If anything, it makes you a court jester. The man who there is entertain. The man who lacks anything of substance. The man who talks loud but whose words mean nothing. The man who struts around like a proud rooster who owns the chicken coop but whose actions amount to nothing. In short, you are a clown.”
“Why else do you think Masuda keeps you around. You are his entertainment. Probably, a pet project - in you, he has a specialised hired gun, to his dirty work so he doesn’t have to get his hands dirtier than he wants. If that is all want to be, then good for you. But all I ever hear from you is that you want to be king. You want to be champion. Do you think Jubei will let you take the title just because he likes you.”
“Wake up, Anderson. You’re a puppet, and he is the puppeteer. And when he is done with you will be cast into obscurity just like Chip Baskets.”
Spartan lifts himself up in his chair so he is sitting straight and no longer lounging deep in the cushion of the chair.
“The Myth”
“You could define as a traditional story, especially one concerning the early history of a people or explaining natural or social phenomenon, and typically involving supernatural beings or events. Or as I prefer - a widely held but false belief or idea.”
“Alternatively, you can take that you can take the second meaning and sum it up in two simple words.”
“Allen Anderson.”
“I’ve watched you since the day you walked through the doors of Alpha Pro Wrestling strutting a rooster, a cock if you will. Thinking that you were made to be on top. You told the stories of your successes in Japan and how you were Daddy’s golden child. How you were king of Harlem.”
“Let me you something, Al. You ain’t no Ellsworth Johnson. Hell, you’re not even a Frank Lucas. You’re just some second rate punk who has come into the toughest promotion in the world, big noting himself with stories. Telling the world, how you did this in Japan. How you did that in Harlem.”
“Well you know what, Allen. Here in Alpha Pro Wrestling you ain’t done shit. Hell, from the moment you couldn’t match your words and actions into wins you jumped on the coattails of our champion, probably hoping he would drag you somewhere successful. Hasn’t happened yet. Might happen, might not. It’s all about what you put into the ring. Making if you stopped making excuses and accusing everyone around of racism and corruption you might fucking achieve something.”
“Right, bro?”
“But then again you’re fond of re-telling stories and altering the facts and believing those lies you let emanate from your vocal cards. So may never know what Allen Anderson can really do. But one thing I am almost certain of is that your children and their children will always be making excuses for their shortcomings.”
“You’re father must be so ashamed of you.”
“Bro.”
Spartan leans forward and rests him himself on the table.
“The Legend”
“Like a myth, a legend is a story sometimes popularly regarded as historical but not authenticated. Or it’s an extremely famous or notorious person”
“Now I sorta get where you are trying to go with this, Allen. We get it - like everything that you put forth your argument lacks substance. You ain’t famous, in fact, most people who look at you wouldn’t even know who you are. And when I watch you I would say you even lack any style, and your achievements, so far, are nothing of note - so you can’t say you are notorious.”
“Which leaves me with only other thing to draw upon, calling yourself a legend. It’s redundant.”
“Much like your career.”
“So far.”
“I’m not saying you will never build yourself up to be a legend of this business. But right now, you ain’t. The way I see it, you’ve gotta earn yourself the right to be called a legend in this business. It’s not a title you can bestow upon yourself and I think I know you enough to know that you point to previous achievements in Japan and for Daddy that you’ve earnt that right. But I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again…”
“You ain’t done shit in Alpha Pro.”
“I want you to change that I really. I want you to live your dreams and be a legend. But I want you to wake the fuck up.”
“So I take my foot and shove in that big mouth of yours.”
“Take you time, Allen, tell me and tell the world your stories to the world - we have heard enough and seen enough that people know - they believe the words that comes from your lips even less than those of the boy who cried wolf.”
Spartan leans even further forward on the table.
“Harsh I know.”
“But, Allen, you bought it all down upon yourself. I’m not gonna lie - I ain’t got no respect for your actions in Alpha Pro. And I ain’t got no respect for your excuses. They way I see any man or woman of any calibre accepts their consequences. Just like at Ascension, Wolf beat me because he was better.”
“Every time I see you, Allen. You are making excuses. You are claiming bias and when you don’t get what you want you chuck tantrums that any toddler would be proud of or your cheap shot people.”
“Shit, you even kidnapped a reporter, because you didn’t like how your story was being told.”
“All that - it’s weak behaviour. It ain’t no sign of strength. It’s pathetic, is what it is. It’s Chris Swenson before Dan Dexter fought back type of shit. And to top it all off - you call me out behind my back, behind a fucking keyboard.”
“You want to fight me.”
“You want to prove yourself.”
“I ain’t got no beef with that.”
“But, walk forward, walk tall - come see in the back. Confront me in the middle of the ring. Don’t spout bullshit from a fucking keyboard behind a fucking computer screen with two hundred and eighty fucking character limit.”
“That.”
“That. I ain’t gonna respect, Al.”
“But, I’m also gonna give you credit where credit is due. You have ability. That’s undoubted. Hell, in terms of raw athletic ability, you can probably much me. But, you don’t know what to do with it because you are too distracted. That I believe. If you learned to stop running your mouth and trying to look cool and actually focussed on what was happening in between those ropes - then maybe you can beat me.”
“Maybe.”
“See I don’t like you, Allen. Not right now. Won’t say ever… because that’s not my way. Everyone deserves a chance.”
“Come Jubeilation, Allen. Its win or lose, for both of us. No excuses. And for once, I don’t want to hear any from you.”
Spartan likes back into the chair and gets comfortable.
“No fucking excuses.”
