An Introduction of Sorts.
* Husani Dakarai RP for C11.
[FADE IN: Three months ago]
The dark streets of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania were usually chock full of action at this time of night. When concerned mother’s called their children back from the streets, the monsters and boogeymen that inhabited the City of Brotherly Love came out of the woodwork in droves. Bums pissed in the open as they swayed back and forth drunkenly with brown paper bags stuck firmly in one grimy fist. Dope dealers stood on the corners shouting out to customers and trying to peddle their wares to anyone that happened to walk by. Gang members lit up the night with tribal calls and gunfire as they raced up and down side streets looking for the next rival to lay to rest. Prostitutes wearing barely anything at all sashayed up and down the trash filled sidewalks; smoking cigarettes and chatting with their co-workers in between their tricks and the berating from their pimps. But tonight was different for some reason. The sweltering summer night seemed to drive everyone indoors seeking the icy solace of air conditioners and industrial sized fans. Only one man was visible on a lonely block in Philly. . .and he seemed to be screaming into what had to be the only working pay phone in the city.
HUSANI DAKARAI: “Whataya mean you got nothin’ for me, John!? Huh!? You disloyal motherfucker! How many years I done bounced drunks and idiots outta that strip club!? Damn near ten years, motherfucker! And this is how you repay me!? I just got sprung from the joint last week. I need money, John. I ain’t got a place to lay my head! I ain’t got nothin’ to eat! You want me to go out and bust some old lady in her head for her fuckin’ social security!? You wanna see me back behind bars! John, I’m beggin’ you. I’ll start at the bottom and work my way up. Hello? . . .hello?
When the Madman realized he had been hung up on he screamed out in rage, slamming the phone back onto the receiver so hard that it broke. Husani was in a bad spot. He had been released from prison with a hundred dollars and a bus ticket. And a hundred dollars didn’t last long when you needed a place to sleep and some food in your stomach. For the past week he had been staying in a cheap motel and eating sparingly, but the money still seemed to drain from his pockets like water through a sieve. Times were tough on the streets these days. The justice system is a joke. They send you to prison to make license plates for pennies day in and day out and tell you that you’ll magically become rehabilitated if you work the program. Bullshit. Prison only made Husani more animalistic. Prison gangs rule the penitentiary unless you can hold your own by yourself, and there was no doubt that at six foot eight inches tall and weighing over three hundred-fifty pounds that H.D. could do just that, but being the target of every gangbanger or tough guy trying to make a name for himself on the yard gets a little tiresome. He fought at least twice a month. He only lost twice. In one fight he damn near broke every bone in the little Spanish guy’s face. . .he spent a month in the hole for that. He’d been stabbed four times, and even had to have the blade of a homemade knife surgically removed from his side after it broke off from the dustpan handle it was attatched to. This was the life Husani lived everyday for years. Never knowing where the next hit would come from. Wondering from which young punk the next attack was coming from. It can wear on your psyche. . .it can weigh on your mind. The justice system releases a man back on the streets who is ten times worse than when he got there, and only give him a hundred dollars to start his new life. Yeah. . .the system is a joke.
So every morning Husani awoke and hit the streets looking for any kind of employment he could. He was a damn good bouncer in a previous life and made decent money doing it before his wrestling career took off. But every former employer had some half assed excuse as to why they would love to hire him back. . .they just couldn’t. A dark cloud of rejection hung over the Madman’s head. He was glad to be free. . .but being free was a lot harder than he remembered. He didn’t want to go back. He didn’t want to reoffend. But he didn’t know how much longer he could stand being broke, homeless and hungry in one of the toughest cities in America. He struggled with his demons everyday.
[FADE OUT]
[FADE IN: Present Day]
Husani Dakarai sat on a stoop on a street filled with broken down and boarded up brick row homes. He rolled an unlit black and mild cigar between his fingers as he stared absently at the goings-on in the rough Philadelphia neighborhood. It was a neighborhood where you wouldn't dare to drive your new BMW in. It was a neighborhood where you tucked your flashy jewelry unless you were prepared to fight and die for it. It was a neighborhood almost completely devoid of the white man. Husani felt right at home.
After a few moments he raked a large hand through his considerable afro before sticking the black and mild in his mouth, and with a flourish of his hand, setting the end ablaze with a match. He slowly inhaled letting the smoke roll around in his mouth before closing his eyes and exhaling the cancerous vapors. He took another hit and again blew it out. . .but this time he began to speak.
HUSANI DAKARAI: "New Era Wrestling. A new season. A new beginning. For those of you not familiar with me. . .I am the "Madman from the Motherland" Husani Dakarai. I've wrestled here. . .and I've wrestled there. I see many familiar faces, and hear names I've heard before. But none of it matters much to me. . ."
The Madman once again takes a toke of his Black & Mild before speaking.
"Three years I rotted in a hellhole. One thousand and ninety-five long days I paced my cell like an animal. While the rest of you were out eating nice steaks, driving nice cars, fucking beautiful women. . .I was crammed inside a facility where you can't take a shit without someone eyeing you up. I had three years to become meaner and nastier than I ever have before. I have three years of rage ready to burst out of my chest like a cracked dam and when it finally breaks through, I will sweep through this puny company like a fucking plauge sent from God himself and destroy each and every one of you."
"Those who know of me know that I'm far from joking. My name is synonymous with destruction. . .whether it be my own or for every single toy soldier set in my path. People ask me if I'll be gunning for the top spot right away. They ask whether or not I'll be setting my sights on Fanatic and that New Era championship gold. And the short answer is no. Hell no. I don't give a single fuck about that worthless hunk of metal. I would spit on it right before I had it melted down. . .that's how much the goddamn New Era championship means to me. It sounds cliche, but believe me when I tell you. . .I'm not here to be a fan favorite. I'm not here for the accolades of my peers or my superiors. I'm not here for that piece of shit leather strap. . .I'm here to hurt people. Plain and simple."
"New Era Wrestling and its horde of victims it calls a roster are just theraputic tools for me. NEW is just an outlet for the emotion that's bottled deep in my chest. Its roster are just puppets that I can toss around, beat, break and destroy until my heart's content. Instead of robbing someone. . .I'll break Suicide's face. Instead of beating down an innocent man on the street. . .I'll break Fanatic's back. Instead of choking out some dumb whore that owes me money. . .I'll twist Damian Stone into a pretzel until he begs to be put out of his misery. I am a thug. . .plain and simple. I grew up in the concrete jungle where I was born, bred and will probably die in these streets. A silly gold belt means nothing to me. As long as the New Era executives keep lining up crash test dummies for me to anihilate, than I'll be happy and you boys can keep fighting over that piece of junk until the cows come home. You got me?"
The Madman shifted his weight and flicked the nub of his cigar into the trash laden street.
"Which brings me to my first piece if business, Edward Patton. . .Electric Edward Patton. You have the displeasure and the misfortune of becoming acquainted with me, this week, inside that ring. You are the unlucky, son of a bitch that the New ERA brass deemed appropriate to go toe to toe with the Madman in his NEW debut."
"Some might say that, Edward. Some. But surprisingly, I disagree with them. I think you're gonna get pretty lucky this week Edward. You're a rookie, right? Young kid, full of piss and vinegar. . .hell, you probably still get butterflies when your music hits and you walk down that aisle in front of all those fans who are gonna be clapping for you. Who are gonna be cheering for you. Who are just. . .gonna. . .love you. Right? You feel like you've got something to prove. . .you feel like the inexperienced locker room greenhorn. Right? Well I got a feeling Edward. I got a feeling that you're gonna make a name for yourself this week. I feel like you're gonna go viral, kid. Fans that were in the building are gonna tell their friends about you. And then their friends are gonna fire up their little hipster laptop with their ANARCHY stickers all over it and they're gonna head to YouTube and look you up. And then they're gonna tell their friends about you over Facebook and so on and so forth. . .shit, you might even become a trending topic on Twitter! Little "Electric" Eddie Patton. Fresh outta Indiana and greener than lawnmower clippings. . .a bonafide internet sensation over night!"
"But I'm afraid to say that it won't be for the reasons that you're imagining at this very moment. Nope. Not at all. You won't be famous for taking down a giant. You won't be famous for hitting your little Vertebreaker finisher on a six foot eight BEHEMOTH. And you won't be famous for pinning the "Madman from the Motherland's" shoulders to that mat, boy. Nah. You'll be known as the kid who entered the squared circle with bonafide thug. . .a motherfucking animal, and got eaten alive. I promise you Patton, from bell to fucking bell I plan to maul you like a hungry predator. I plan to stretch you in ways that your little body has never been stretched. I plan on beating you half to death and when everyone in the arena is gazing upon the carnage and mayhem that's going on in the ring. . .when the mat is slick from all the plasma leaking out of your body, when the guttural screams that are coming out of your mouth are simply unbearable to listen to any longer and every fan in the joint is on the edge of their seat hoping someone comes down to the ring to end this thing, then. . .and only then will I entertain the idea of ending your pathetic career before you can embarrass yourself any further."
"So I'll tell you what, Edward. I'm gonna give you a get out of jail free card. Do not show up to Cyberstrike. It's that simple. If you keep your lily white, narrow behind far away from Boston than maybe you'll live long enough to make something of yourself, kid. You don't want this. You don't want none of this. As of right now, you're sittin' in the path of a raging bull, and you're buried up to your neck in sand. I'm gonna hit you like a Mack truck and if you can move all ten fingers and toes by the time I get done with you. . .well, hell. . .there must really be a God."
The Madman stood up and brushed himself off before looking deep into the camera one last time.
"Heed my warning Eddie Patton. . .or everyone will bear witness to your destruction live in Boston. Beware."
[FADE OUT]
