Post by BRADDOCK on Aug 20, 2023 0:54:00 GMT -5
Earlier this week…
The familiar buzz of a tattoo machine echoes across the shop while Braddock works on a the final shading of a backpack he has been working on all evening. This is the third session, covering up a poorly done ex-wife’s name, that had been running down his spine, with an epic image of Smaug the dragon. Just below the right kidney you can see Bilbo hauling ass while Smaug looks down on him, menace in his eyes, smoke creeping out of his nostrils, and the glow of fire in his throat, visible through his open, growling maw.
Tyler is finishing up a deep clean on his station on the opposite side of the small shop. The walls are plastered with posters of Lamb of God, Ghostemane, Hatebreed, Icepick, and even a vintage “Never Mind the Bollocks" poster Braddock purchased off eBay (with a certificate of authenticity.) Hand drawn sheets of “flash,” pre drawn designs that a customer can choose, maybe alter slightly, and have it banged out in no time, adorn the wall, as well, along with horror movie memorabilia. On a shared above Braddock's work station is a hockey goalies mask with the name “Kane Hodder" scribbled on it. The mask is in a glass case with a bulb on the ceiling dedicated specifically to it.
The door opens and a young man enters, he’s about sixteen and is wearing a pair of well worn jeans and a plain, navy blue shirt that is dotted with small holes, showing its age. The Reebok's on his feet are dirty, cracking, and in need of replacement. Clenched in his right hand is a bag from McDonalds and he uses his left hand to swipe his greasy, chin lengthen hair back out of his eyes. Tyler barely glances at him and continues to clean.
”I got that for you…want me to put it on the counter by the register?” he asks, watching with interest the work Braddock is putting in to the flesh of this stranger. Braddock stops to dip the tip of the needle into the ink well and his eyes meet the eyes of the boy. He grins, his missing front teeth sticking out like a sore thumb before returning to his work. The kid sets the bag down and takes a seat, crying his neck to watch from the other side of the counter.
Fifteen minutes later and the tattooing is finished, the customer ecstatic over how it turned out, tipped him a fifty on top of paying off all of the work. All-in-all a pretty lucrative day. He hands the kid a twenty and scoops up the bag before returning to his work station. “Bones of Baby Dolls" by Acid Bath begins as the kid exits the shop and Braddock opens the bag. He reaches in and pulls out a box and opens it. Using his fingers, he picks up a plain broiled chicken breast and chimps half of it in one bite. He lets out a deeply satisfied sigh as he chews the chicken breast. He has barely swallowed some of that first bite when he shovels in the other half of the chicken breast.
”What the fuck, man? You actin like you haven’t ate in a week! You ain’t some soccer player stuck on a mountain after a plain crash. Slow down. Enjoy it…I mean, if you can. It is McDogballs… Why the fuck are you eatin that garbage anyways?” Tyler asks while sparking the bowl on his bong.
Braddock's jaw pistons up and down, hungrily chewing his food before swallowing it in two big gulps. He picks up a bottle of water and washes the chicken down with three swallows that drain two-thirds of the bottle. The bong percent and Tyler pulls the carb, clearing the chamber, before handing it to his brother. They might bow be blood but they have had each other’s backs since the age of six.
”It’s cheap and fast…like your ex…” he says, bursting out in laughter. ”You can get a plain, broiled chicken breast for, like, three bucks! All protein, man! Can’t beat the price, either. It’s not like I’m eatin a Big Mac or some deep fried garbage…”
”Fair enough… You got a busy weekend this week, don’t you?” he asks, taking the bong back from Braddock after he takes a hit. He watches as his friend wolf’s down another chicken breast in two bites. ”I'm not givin your fat ass the Heimlich maneuver when you choke! Slow down and eat like a normal person, for Christ’s sake…”
”Fuck you…” he replies, taking a bite of a third piece of chicken.
”Fuck you!” he answers back before sucking the last of the bowl down the stem. He clears the chamber and places the glassware on the floor, under his desk, out of sight.
”Friday I’m in Vegas, workin as a bouncer at the Velvet Rabbit. Then Saturday I fly to Atlanta for U.W.L. where I’m takin on one of their Champs. It’s not for a belt but, still, he’s a big fucker and a big name there. And Sunday I’m in Fayetteville, Arkansas, for Outcast Wrestling where I’m facing that Twilight wannabe fuckin-guy.”
”And next week in D.C.?” Tyler asks, gathering his phone and keys while he prepares to leave.
”Baltimore for Outcast. I’m workin their other show against that Legion chick. She’s got a bunch of title reigns under her belt but, listenin to people in the back, she’s on the other side of the mountain as far as her career is concerned. I’m not too worried about her. I think I will walk through her like I’m walkin through the curtain when I’m headin out to the ring.”
Tyler takes a long pull from a tobacco vape and exhales a fruity cloud of vapor mist. ”What about that guy you fucked with at that last show…uhm…Donald or some shit?”
Braddock nods, knowingly. ”Donnie Harris. What about him? An amateur MMA ‘standout’ who was so good he never turned pro. I have my reasons for comin out to his match but it isn’t my problem he can’t keep his head in the game. I didn’t do a damn thing but stand there. He lost the match, not me.”
Braddock’s cell chirps and, after pushing the last bite of chicken into his mouth, he checks it. ”Fuck yeah! I bought a mask for my upcoming match in Mexico for Sin City Wrestling. When in Mexico, ya know?” he says with a chuckle.
”When in Rome, not Mexico, bud.” he says with a raised eyebrow and confusion flooding his eyes. Braddock, for his part, shrugs his meaty shoulders.
When they leave, they each go their separate ways. Tyler, off to do whatever it is when he is on his own while Braddock heads home. He spends the evening drink ice cold Pabst tallboys, smoking an occasional bowl, and watching a favorite flick from his childhood; Missing in Action Part Two.
Saturday, September 19th…
Braddock woke early and caught an Uber to the Las Vegas Airport. He had gotten maybe two hours of sleep after working security at the Las Vegas branch of the Velvet Rabbit. After work, he and a few of the girls, went out for drinks and pancakes; Braddock skipped the pancakes. He flew to Atlanta and checked in to his hotel and showered. On the flight, he caught a few more hours of sleep and is no longer dragging ass.
When he checks his phone, he finds that Mayday Patton has replied to his DM inviting her to his match at Rise, in Fayetteville. She says she will be there and is looking forward to it. A grin curls his lips reading her response. A tall blonde has always caught his eye.
He heads down to the hotel restaurant for a quick bite before his match later in the evening. A few of the suits sitting at a nearby table eye him suspiciously and, for their sins, receive both middle fingers and a stern glare. The three never look in his direction the entire rest of their stay.
While eating a bowl of chicken penne, his phone chirps, and upon checking discovers an alert that his opponent on Rise, has recorded, and posted, a promotion for their match. He hits play and, by the end, has bent the fork in his hand by just applying pressure using his thumb. After the clip ends, Braddock takes in a deep breath before letting out his sigh while slamming his fist on the table top. His glass of water spills as well as the pepper shaker. Other patrons nervously glance in his direction.
He mumbles angrily under his breath; "Of course that FUCK accuses me of using steroids....pencil necked prick..." When he looks up from his phone, a waiter (not his waiter) is nervously approaching. One look from the tattooed mound of flesh causes his false bravado to melt away like a snowball in Hell. "Gonna wring his skinny fuckin neck..." he says while pushing the bowl of pasta away in anger. When he leaves both the spoon, and butter knife, are bent up as well.
The familiar buzz of a tattoo machine echoes across the shop while Braddock works on a the final shading of a backpack he has been working on all evening. This is the third session, covering up a poorly done ex-wife’s name, that had been running down his spine, with an epic image of Smaug the dragon. Just below the right kidney you can see Bilbo hauling ass while Smaug looks down on him, menace in his eyes, smoke creeping out of his nostrils, and the glow of fire in his throat, visible through his open, growling maw.
Tyler is finishing up a deep clean on his station on the opposite side of the small shop. The walls are plastered with posters of Lamb of God, Ghostemane, Hatebreed, Icepick, and even a vintage “Never Mind the Bollocks" poster Braddock purchased off eBay (with a certificate of authenticity.) Hand drawn sheets of “flash,” pre drawn designs that a customer can choose, maybe alter slightly, and have it banged out in no time, adorn the wall, as well, along with horror movie memorabilia. On a shared above Braddock's work station is a hockey goalies mask with the name “Kane Hodder" scribbled on it. The mask is in a glass case with a bulb on the ceiling dedicated specifically to it.
The door opens and a young man enters, he’s about sixteen and is wearing a pair of well worn jeans and a plain, navy blue shirt that is dotted with small holes, showing its age. The Reebok's on his feet are dirty, cracking, and in need of replacement. Clenched in his right hand is a bag from McDonalds and he uses his left hand to swipe his greasy, chin lengthen hair back out of his eyes. Tyler barely glances at him and continues to clean.
”I got that for you…want me to put it on the counter by the register?” he asks, watching with interest the work Braddock is putting in to the flesh of this stranger. Braddock stops to dip the tip of the needle into the ink well and his eyes meet the eyes of the boy. He grins, his missing front teeth sticking out like a sore thumb before returning to his work. The kid sets the bag down and takes a seat, crying his neck to watch from the other side of the counter.
Fifteen minutes later and the tattooing is finished, the customer ecstatic over how it turned out, tipped him a fifty on top of paying off all of the work. All-in-all a pretty lucrative day. He hands the kid a twenty and scoops up the bag before returning to his work station. “Bones of Baby Dolls" by Acid Bath begins as the kid exits the shop and Braddock opens the bag. He reaches in and pulls out a box and opens it. Using his fingers, he picks up a plain broiled chicken breast and chimps half of it in one bite. He lets out a deeply satisfied sigh as he chews the chicken breast. He has barely swallowed some of that first bite when he shovels in the other half of the chicken breast.
”What the fuck, man? You actin like you haven’t ate in a week! You ain’t some soccer player stuck on a mountain after a plain crash. Slow down. Enjoy it…I mean, if you can. It is McDogballs… Why the fuck are you eatin that garbage anyways?” Tyler asks while sparking the bowl on his bong.
Braddock's jaw pistons up and down, hungrily chewing his food before swallowing it in two big gulps. He picks up a bottle of water and washes the chicken down with three swallows that drain two-thirds of the bottle. The bong percent and Tyler pulls the carb, clearing the chamber, before handing it to his brother. They might bow be blood but they have had each other’s backs since the age of six.
”It’s cheap and fast…like your ex…” he says, bursting out in laughter. ”You can get a plain, broiled chicken breast for, like, three bucks! All protein, man! Can’t beat the price, either. It’s not like I’m eatin a Big Mac or some deep fried garbage…”
”Fair enough… You got a busy weekend this week, don’t you?” he asks, taking the bong back from Braddock after he takes a hit. He watches as his friend wolf’s down another chicken breast in two bites. ”I'm not givin your fat ass the Heimlich maneuver when you choke! Slow down and eat like a normal person, for Christ’s sake…”
”Fuck you…” he replies, taking a bite of a third piece of chicken.
”Fuck you!” he answers back before sucking the last of the bowl down the stem. He clears the chamber and places the glassware on the floor, under his desk, out of sight.
”Friday I’m in Vegas, workin as a bouncer at the Velvet Rabbit. Then Saturday I fly to Atlanta for U.W.L. where I’m takin on one of their Champs. It’s not for a belt but, still, he’s a big fucker and a big name there. And Sunday I’m in Fayetteville, Arkansas, for Outcast Wrestling where I’m facing that Twilight wannabe fuckin-guy.”
”And next week in D.C.?” Tyler asks, gathering his phone and keys while he prepares to leave.
”Baltimore for Outcast. I’m workin their other show against that Legion chick. She’s got a bunch of title reigns under her belt but, listenin to people in the back, she’s on the other side of the mountain as far as her career is concerned. I’m not too worried about her. I think I will walk through her like I’m walkin through the curtain when I’m headin out to the ring.”
Tyler takes a long pull from a tobacco vape and exhales a fruity cloud of vapor mist. ”What about that guy you fucked with at that last show…uhm…Donald or some shit?”
Braddock nods, knowingly. ”Donnie Harris. What about him? An amateur MMA ‘standout’ who was so good he never turned pro. I have my reasons for comin out to his match but it isn’t my problem he can’t keep his head in the game. I didn’t do a damn thing but stand there. He lost the match, not me.”
Braddock’s cell chirps and, after pushing the last bite of chicken into his mouth, he checks it. ”Fuck yeah! I bought a mask for my upcoming match in Mexico for Sin City Wrestling. When in Mexico, ya know?” he says with a chuckle.
”When in Rome, not Mexico, bud.” he says with a raised eyebrow and confusion flooding his eyes. Braddock, for his part, shrugs his meaty shoulders.
When they leave, they each go their separate ways. Tyler, off to do whatever it is when he is on his own while Braddock heads home. He spends the evening drink ice cold Pabst tallboys, smoking an occasional bowl, and watching a favorite flick from his childhood; Missing in Action Part Two.
Saturday, September 19th…
Braddock woke early and caught an Uber to the Las Vegas Airport. He had gotten maybe two hours of sleep after working security at the Las Vegas branch of the Velvet Rabbit. After work, he and a few of the girls, went out for drinks and pancakes; Braddock skipped the pancakes. He flew to Atlanta and checked in to his hotel and showered. On the flight, he caught a few more hours of sleep and is no longer dragging ass.
When he checks his phone, he finds that Mayday Patton has replied to his DM inviting her to his match at Rise, in Fayetteville. She says she will be there and is looking forward to it. A grin curls his lips reading her response. A tall blonde has always caught his eye.
He heads down to the hotel restaurant for a quick bite before his match later in the evening. A few of the suits sitting at a nearby table eye him suspiciously and, for their sins, receive both middle fingers and a stern glare. The three never look in his direction the entire rest of their stay.
While eating a bowl of chicken penne, his phone chirps, and upon checking discovers an alert that his opponent on Rise, has recorded, and posted, a promotion for their match. He hits play and, by the end, has bent the fork in his hand by just applying pressure using his thumb. After the clip ends, Braddock takes in a deep breath before letting out his sigh while slamming his fist on the table top. His glass of water spills as well as the pepper shaker. Other patrons nervously glance in his direction.
He mumbles angrily under his breath; "Of course that FUCK accuses me of using steroids....pencil necked prick..." When he looks up from his phone, a waiter (not his waiter) is nervously approaching. One look from the tattooed mound of flesh causes his false bravado to melt away like a snowball in Hell. "Gonna wring his skinny fuckin neck..." he says while pushing the bowl of pasta away in anger. When he leaves both the spoon, and butter knife, are bent up as well.