jwood
League Member
MEMBER INFORMATION:
Name: Josh Wood
Email Address: darkdeathrow@gmail.com, joshwood1987@hotmail.com
AIM: JoshW316 (don't laugh)
Preferred Method of Handling:(Angle/Roleplay/Hybrid/Other) Any, as long as I'm writing its all good.
Best Way to Contact you:(PM/Email/IM) PM, Email... have been known to frequent AIM
eWrestling Experience:(What have you done? Where?) Let's just say in my first fed, my wrestler was based off of one of my brother's action figures... Let's see... umm... on and off for 13 years now... shiiet Been with UTA, Dream, The Row, others I can seem to remember due to brain cell genocide.
How did you find DEFIANCE? fwrestling.com ben halkum
WRESTLER INFORMATION:
Ring Name: Dark
Nicknames: The Illustrated Man
Real Name:(if different from ring name) James Parsons
Height: 5'10"
Weight: 250 lbs
Handedness:(Right or Left) Right Handed
Looks: (A general idea of what the guy looks like. Hairstyles, etc.) Dark is an aging wrestler... he's got muscle that's turning to fat, and his face shows line's of age. The boney hand of Death has run it's fingers through his unkempt long hair, making it streaked with grey. His beard is also unkempt sprinkled pepper grey. He's got a nose only Owen Wilson could love, as its bent all out of shape. His torso is covered by a mosaic of tattoos, from the waist up, tapering off at the wrists and the neck. These he has of course from his time spent in the carnival as young man, rollin' with the Freak Show as "The Illustrated Man." Born in 1969. Yup 43 years young.
Hailing From:(This is where the character is introduced as being from) Bakersfield, California
Disposition:(Face or Heel? Neutral is not an option) Heel
Gimmick:(If not a true "gimmick", his in the ring 'persona'.) Dark is a bitter drunk. Which is not to say he goes to matches drunk, but that he drinks heavily outside of it. He's bitter because age has caught up with him, and the wrestling business has given him nothing. Titles mean jack shit in a world where Feds live and die every day. There is no glory in wrestling, only pain, and a difficulty to get out of bed to take a piss when it's all said and done. He'll cheat to win, and use any opportunity he has to gain the upper hand--whether it be to use to the ropes for a pin, or go for the quick low blow.
Ring Attire: Black jeans that have faded and become a dull grey. Simple.
Theme Music: Binge and Purge, by Clutch.
Tactics/Style:(Technical, High-Flyer, etc. But go into a bit of detail. If he's modelled after a certain 'type' of wrestler, please detail. EX: A mix of Shawn Michaels/TAZ/Benoit) Dark used to be a technical wrestler when he was younger, but now he can't hang. He resorts on his fists, which are very much like sledgehammers, though at times he has brief flashes of his technical career as a younger guy.
Strengths: Can take a punch and throw em. He's been punched in the face so long he's not afraid to take one: he knows he aint made of glass. Heightened pain threshold. Experienced enough in the ring to take shortcuts when necessary, to make up for any shortcomings.
Weaknesses: Heavy smoker. He gets winded pretty easily, and can't hang with faster/more technical wrestlers.
CHARACTER BIOGRAPHY:
The "sport," the "industry," call it what you will, creates a man like Dark, and believe me, its not a pretty sight to see. It can down right kill a man, this business, and those who are lucky enough to survive it live with the wounds for the rest of their lives.
He grew up in practically a dust bowl; Bakersfield, California, a place too dumb to realize the infertile nature of their lands, and legalize gambling like Vegas, and too stubborn to take to computers like Silicon Valley. They were the ignorant spawn of California, too far from the beauty of Hollywood and its pristine plastic package, and even farther from left-wing liberalism of Frisco. He wrestled for fame and money when he was younger, now he just does it for the money.
After a shameful stint with Death Row Wrestling, a company so horrid it enticed the hatred of Christian group The One Million Moms. The place quickly shut down, after Dark took over the company, as he's no real fed head; he's a drunk with a hatred for the business. Now he looks to Defiance in an effort to regain back some of 'the ole glory.'
CHARACTER STATISTICS AND MOVESET
Divide 120 Points between:
POWER: 35
AGILITY:(Leaping, Air-Strike/Defense): 15
STAMINA: 15
SCIENTIFIC:(Technical/Amateur/Martial Arts Background) 15
SPEED:(Quickness in/out of the ring, moving around) 15
BRAWLING: 25
Provide a movelist as follows:
1-5: Basic Holds/Strikes/Takedowns: Punches, Bites, sideheadlock takedown, low blow, fireman's carry takedown
6-15: Wear Down/Mid-Late Match Holds: Abdominal Stretch, Chinlock, Choke Hold, head vice, suplex, german suplex, DDT, neckbreaker, hair pull slam, hip toss
16-18: Signature/Special Holds: Curb Stomp, victim face first in the bottom turnbuckle, Dark stomps em from behind
19: Set-up: Kick to the Gut
20: Finisher: Brainbuster
SAMPLE RP:
From the row... we had just finished up a show.
Down the street from the Fair Park Arena, in Birmingham, Alabama, there was an Applebee’s. Dark didn’t want to be there, but there weren’t any proper bars around. Proper bars were places that had regulars that came in every morning and drank all day, leaving early in the night before all the young douche bags perfumed with designer men’s cologne and slicked over hair came in to drink light beer and hunt for drunk pussy. Proper bars were places of despair and apathy, with dust covered tables and no windows, or if there were windows, they were so dirty the sunlight comes in brown and murky. They certainly weren’t found in restaurant chains that promoted family atmospheres and hired the dumbest stock the American Working Force had to offer.
But Dark didn’t particularly feel like walking very far, it wasn’t that his match had tired him out; on the contrary Rykor seemed to be concentrated on other things the whole time. Perhaps he had underestimated me, Dark thought. Or perhaps—certainly more likely—he was too busy thinking about Goliath. A mistake. Like the many drinks he had after the match. He knew he didn’t have enough and would soon have to go out looking for it, in a strange town he never really liked.
The second mistake was settling on Applebee’s for a drink. That was a big mistake. He had walked through the parking lot and saw the building, the red rectangular bricks with the white mortar in-between, the disgusting red, white, and green striped awnings over the windows, the green door opened invitingly, above it all, resting like a horny vulture, hung the disgusting neon sign: APPLEBEE’S; and seeing it Dark instantly shuttered. Applebee’s was everything he hated. He could already see the pink lipsticked bartender with vacant, doughy eyes and a voice reminiscent of a teenage girl. She would be too happy, too excited, too full of an enthusiasm that resulted from being too dumb to know the world was a horrible, dirty place filled with moments of great cruelty. Anyone who watched the news regularly could tell you that. She was one of those ‘Glass isn’t half full, it’s over flowing’ kind of people.
Another sign of a shitty bar. Bartenders that are too happy or subservient.
When he got to the bar he ordered a beer, the lady bartender asked him which of the big three he would like, Bud, Coors, or Miller, and promptly he instead ordered a whiskey. She then asked for his ID, which he grumbled at, for he hadn’t been carded in 10 years. When she served him his whiskey she gave him a happy-go-lucky smile which Dark returned with a distasteful frown. He turned on his stool and looked around, there were people eating and enjoying the ‘homely’ cooking. These were the people of America, the fattened swine that cared not for school budget cuts, as they hardly paid attention when they were kids and hadn’t really learned anything anyway; the imbeciles that came out every day in disgust at the lack of jobs, and then went to buy some foreign deal. Look at the fattest one, with his big neck hanging out onto his chest, wiggling like a turkey’s neck as he gobbles down some of Applebee’s finest cuisine.
Everyone seemed to be talking and enjoying themselves well enough, but then Dark noticed that some of them were stealing looks toward the door. Some had stopped eating all together, their eyes glued to whatever it was they were looking at, the food on their forks steaming in front of their empty, waiting mouths. And then Dark looked at that one point they were all looking at, that point that seemed to draw the eyes of every diner whether they wanted it to or not.
Dark saw the reason he had stayed behind in Alabama.
EL TORO.
The midget stood in the doorway, his shadow stretching out into the room like that of a child. He wore a brown sequin poncho, EL TORO in bold on the back, and horns on top of his mask. He had this performance he did for simple-minded people that liked to see midgets do silly things (frat boys, hicks, and the like) during which he would kick his feet and lower his head and charge just like a bull, and then he would pull back a part of his poncho revealing a red layering underneath, and he would play the role of the bullfighter. He would whip his poncho around stabbing at the imaginary bull with an imaginary sword, and then he would play the role of the bull again, angry and charging. It went on until the bull was eventually killed, and El Toro lay out on the ground and gave one of his best Shakespearean deaths.
It was some stupid shit beyond words, but some people liked it. To El Toro it was some very real shit, and not something to joke about. The bullfight was a metaphor for life, and don’t you ever forget it gringo. I guess when you’re only four feet tall, the whole world looks like a charging bull to you, Dark thought.
El Toro came into the restaurant, people staring as he walked to the bar. Mothers nudged children, telling them not to stare while they stared themselves. The fat man nearly choked on his chicken fingers. Toro crawled up a stool and called upon the waitress in his native tongue.
“Hey we don’t serve kids booze in here!” she said.
“Lady, he’s no kid. And I think you should watch your tone, as this man is a professional Midget Rodeo Champion.” Dark said, motioning toward El Toro. The woman seemed confused, so he continued: “Yes, 15 of them little bastards and a whole team of goats. Goats can be real wiley. Ever see 15 midgets go after a pack of goats with a bunch of lassos? Seems like it might do quite well in these parts. Wrangled a goat in 23 minutes 27 seconds flat. A record in the league. Takes em so long on account of the stubby legs they got. They make em wear cowboy boots too, which doesn’t help much.”
“Well I dunno,” the bartender said, looking at the midget with a scrupulous eye.
“He’s a grown man. He’s got a mustache for god’s sake. He’s just a midget, I assure you.”
“Oh yes, I see it now. I can tell now looking at his fingers. Sausages.”
El Toro ordered a beer, but when the waitress asked which of the big three he would prefer, Bud, Coors, or Miller, he promptly ordered a whiskey. When she asked for his ID, Dark cited how unfortunate it would be for her and the ‘great’ Applebee’s if they were to suddenly have a midget succumb to a coma right there in the middle of the restaurant due to the certain inabilities and negligence of a certain bartender, for after all, El Toro was a very sick man, and needed booze by the hour. And though this was a total lie, the woman seemed to believe it and was rather worried. She brought El Toro’s whiskey promptly, she didn’t even bother to ask for the money right away, and as he sipped his drink she stood over at the corner of the bar, biting her nails and watching him out of the corner of her eye.
“¿Porque Applebee’s, es una habatacion muy demonico?” El Toro said over his watered down drink, “Why Applebee’s, it’s a very demonic habitation?”
“Habitation!” Dark said. “I like that. They are a certain breed. Exterminate all brutes!”
“¡Extermine todas last bestias!” El Toro said. “Exterminate all brutes!”
They each took a big drink and slammed their drinks down on the bar. They were far too watered down to be enjoyed properly. Yet another sign of a shitty bar.
“Well, Toro, we’ve got a whole week to fuck around before the next event. It’s tough drifting at such a slow pace. Sometimes I feel like a pilgrim in a damn wagon train. For a man trying his best to earn his ‘cheddar’ Tim Ross is dragging it all out, nice and slow like. Perhaps he has other ventures. But once a week? What are horrid drifters and washed up drunks such as ourselves to do Toro?”
“Hable para usted,” El Toro said with a snort. “Speak for yourself.”
“I tell you what we do,” Dark said, pulling a large folded piece of paper from his pocket. He unfolded it carefully and spread it out on the bar.
“Hey now! This bar is for drinks only!”
“Madam. This gentleman next to me is a foreigner. And a midget. Imagine the horrors that would come to you and the ‘great’ Applebee’s if a foreign midget happened to. . .”
“Ok!” she pleaded. “Alright, whatever!”
“Now look Toro,” Dark said.
The map was of the “Bible Belt” states, Oklahoma in particular. Routes had been traced with many different colored pens, marking where they would travel. There were also stars, happy faces, and sad faces drawn crudely on parts of the map along the routes.
“Look here, look. Oklahoma, Toro. Tornado Alley. They call it the Buckle of The Bible Belt. See these lines? These are the many routes we are to take. The stars are either: bars, titty joints, or massage parlors known to give happy endings I know of and have marked accordingly. The smiley faces are for titty joints that serve alcohol, the sad faces are for those that don’t. See?”
Toro nodded emphatically, his tongue darting out over his moustache for left over whiskey.
“I figure we’ve got a lot of time, after were done with all the places that serve booze, we’ll hit up the ones that don’t and sneak it in.” Dark took a good long thoughtful drink. “Yes Toro. This is a great adventure you are embarking on. One of great danger, fun, but most importantly it is educational. Yes, there’s no better way one can learn about a country than by appraising its women. And what better place to do that than a strip club?”
“¿Que tal el combate?” El Toro asked.
“What about the fight?” Dark echoed. “Ah yes, I forget you probably don’t know. Yes this current endeavor I have been employed to help runs its shows on the glorious internet. Do your people know of this? The Lollipop Guild? Nevermind. Scheduled for a triple threat match. All you have to do is get me there.”
“¿Y?” El Toro asked. “And?”
“And what? Pyroclastic Youth has said himself he’s much like a volcano. But to me he’s more like a teenager: he fills himself with his own angst bullshit until he suddenly bursts in a loud explosion of misdirected rage. Big whoop. Classic case. Seen it a million times. I assure you when he gets enraged, it will be FJ Tombs who will bear the brunt of it, as I plan on letting the two of them beat the snot out of one another. After all, they are young men and are looking to prove something. In their ignorance they’ll be too caught up in one another, seeing themselves to be the most dangerous threats. They won’t think any harm can come from the old man known to love his drink.
“I say so what. Mickey Mantle was a drunk. Look at what he did.”
“Mickey Mantle?” Toro asked.
“Mickey Mantle. Beisbol. But it is of no concern Toro. Nor is Pyro. He’s a simple juvenile with a penchant for vandalism. And when not playing the role of Dennis the Menace with a sling shot in his back pocket, he’s a drummer in some silly band nobody has ever heard of. There’s a reason he left Oregon so quickly, Toro. He’s a punk. He couldn’t hack it. I know Oregon, do you know Oregon, Toro?”
The midget shook his head and ordered another drink.
“Of course you don’t. I’ll have another as well. I know Oregon, and Oregon is a country where reason has lost itself in the thick forests that make up some of its parts. Oregon is where man goes to die, and nature always abides. There is a reason Pyro clipped those flowers like the juvenile he is. He did it because Oregon can swallow whole the workings of man. I’ve seen it. It’s so wet that fungus thrives in the place. I’ve seen a whole barrel of nails rust overnight in Oregon. All the way from New York, and rusted over night. I’ve seen it.
“I’ve seen mushrooms sprout out of the carcass of dead cats in a matter of hours in Oregon. Oregon winters?! Why, you’d have to live through it to really know it. It makes men. Either you endure it or you jump ship. Like this Pyro kid did. Jumped ship all the way to Japan. Oregon scared him so bad he left the WESTERN WORLD. This means something Toro. That Pacific Islander blood is doing him no good. Besides he’s a kid. Haven’t you heard the way he talks?”
Dark laughed and he and Toro enjoyed their newly refreshed drinks. The bartender had taken an interest in the conversation, though she was trying desperately to make it look like she was cleaning. Either that or she was in love with the section of the bartop she had been cleaning with a rag for the past five minutes.
“Toro?” Dark asked suddenly.
“¿Si?” Toro asked. “Yes?”
“What’s youtube?”
“No se.”
They sat staring into their glasses.
“
¿Y el otro?” Toro asked. “And the other?”
“The other? The Butcher’s Boy? FJ Tombs? Well he’s gonna be a star. A big star. And he plans on being a big star in Death Row,” Dark laughed. “I don’t know if he didn’t notice, but I’m a drunk, Maynard is a rat whispering psychopath, our boss is an unintelligible stereotype, Doozer, Mr. Superman, has long been getting fat on the couch, and Chance Von Crank, though the King of the Trailer Park, is still white trash. He just makes it look good. One could argue that Yoshii is the most dominate force in Death Row, only because he can sit on everyone if he wants to. Perhaps all that fishing really dulled Tombs’ brain, but I don’t see much use being the brightest star if it means being anything but blinding. Star of Death Row? That’s hardly something to put on the resume. It’s like being the manager of a grocery store. Sure you get to wear a nice shirt and tie, but you still work at a grocery store.
“But let us not forget that he is hardworking Toro. After all, he helped build his daddy’s butcher shop up. In fact, I think Mr. Tombs Sr. is the Meat King of Texas. Let us not forget this blue collar man with a Jeff Foxworthy mustache. FJ Tombs is just gonna show the whole dang world what a little blood, sweat and tears can get you, goddangit!” Dark said mockingly. After finishing his second whiskey the booze was beginning to take effect. He was begging to feel nice and warm.
“Howdy partner!” Toro said in his thick accent.
“Ha Ha yeah! Howdy partner! That’s exactly right! A little blood, sweat and tears. Yeah, that’s quite a good idea. Make them bleed, let them sweat, watch them cry.”
Dark finished his drink and they paid the bill. The bartender was especially nice, now that she saw they were leaving, and even threw in that time honored phrase of hospitality: “You all come back now, you hear?”
They staggered out of the restaurant, and outside the air was cold and sobering. Toro led the way, to a beat up read station wagon.
“Nice ride,” Dark said sarcastically. He got inside the passenger seat.
Inside the roof of the car was lined with little gondola balls and the dashboard of the car had been refurbished with fur. Dark ran his hands over the dashboard and belched. Toro got in on the driver’s side, where he sat on a stack of telephone books. The gas pedal as well as the break had been extended so his feet could reach. Toro started the car and turned on the radio. The sound of accordions came out of the cheap stereo system as a mariachi strummed his guitar rhythmically.
“I should have known,” Dark said. “Let us go!”
“¡Si!”
The car reversed and left the parking lot, turning out onto the street.
Name: Josh Wood
Email Address: darkdeathrow@gmail.com, joshwood1987@hotmail.com
AIM: JoshW316 (don't laugh)
Preferred Method of Handling:(Angle/Roleplay/Hybrid/Other) Any, as long as I'm writing its all good.
Best Way to Contact you:(PM/Email/IM) PM, Email... have been known to frequent AIM
eWrestling Experience:(What have you done? Where?) Let's just say in my first fed, my wrestler was based off of one of my brother's action figures... Let's see... umm... on and off for 13 years now... shiiet Been with UTA, Dream, The Row, others I can seem to remember due to brain cell genocide.
How did you find DEFIANCE? fwrestling.com ben halkum
WRESTLER INFORMATION:
Ring Name: Dark
Nicknames: The Illustrated Man
Real Name:(if different from ring name) James Parsons
Height: 5'10"
Weight: 250 lbs
Handedness:(Right or Left) Right Handed
Looks: (A general idea of what the guy looks like. Hairstyles, etc.) Dark is an aging wrestler... he's got muscle that's turning to fat, and his face shows line's of age. The boney hand of Death has run it's fingers through his unkempt long hair, making it streaked with grey. His beard is also unkempt sprinkled pepper grey. He's got a nose only Owen Wilson could love, as its bent all out of shape. His torso is covered by a mosaic of tattoos, from the waist up, tapering off at the wrists and the neck. These he has of course from his time spent in the carnival as young man, rollin' with the Freak Show as "The Illustrated Man." Born in 1969. Yup 43 years young.
Hailing From:(This is where the character is introduced as being from) Bakersfield, California
Disposition:(Face or Heel? Neutral is not an option) Heel
Gimmick:(If not a true "gimmick", his in the ring 'persona'.) Dark is a bitter drunk. Which is not to say he goes to matches drunk, but that he drinks heavily outside of it. He's bitter because age has caught up with him, and the wrestling business has given him nothing. Titles mean jack shit in a world where Feds live and die every day. There is no glory in wrestling, only pain, and a difficulty to get out of bed to take a piss when it's all said and done. He'll cheat to win, and use any opportunity he has to gain the upper hand--whether it be to use to the ropes for a pin, or go for the quick low blow.
Ring Attire: Black jeans that have faded and become a dull grey. Simple.
Theme Music: Binge and Purge, by Clutch.
Tactics/Style:(Technical, High-Flyer, etc. But go into a bit of detail. If he's modelled after a certain 'type' of wrestler, please detail. EX: A mix of Shawn Michaels/TAZ/Benoit) Dark used to be a technical wrestler when he was younger, but now he can't hang. He resorts on his fists, which are very much like sledgehammers, though at times he has brief flashes of his technical career as a younger guy.
Strengths: Can take a punch and throw em. He's been punched in the face so long he's not afraid to take one: he knows he aint made of glass. Heightened pain threshold. Experienced enough in the ring to take shortcuts when necessary, to make up for any shortcomings.
Weaknesses: Heavy smoker. He gets winded pretty easily, and can't hang with faster/more technical wrestlers.
CHARACTER BIOGRAPHY:
The "sport," the "industry," call it what you will, creates a man like Dark, and believe me, its not a pretty sight to see. It can down right kill a man, this business, and those who are lucky enough to survive it live with the wounds for the rest of their lives.
He grew up in practically a dust bowl; Bakersfield, California, a place too dumb to realize the infertile nature of their lands, and legalize gambling like Vegas, and too stubborn to take to computers like Silicon Valley. They were the ignorant spawn of California, too far from the beauty of Hollywood and its pristine plastic package, and even farther from left-wing liberalism of Frisco. He wrestled for fame and money when he was younger, now he just does it for the money.
After a shameful stint with Death Row Wrestling, a company so horrid it enticed the hatred of Christian group The One Million Moms. The place quickly shut down, after Dark took over the company, as he's no real fed head; he's a drunk with a hatred for the business. Now he looks to Defiance in an effort to regain back some of 'the ole glory.'
CHARACTER STATISTICS AND MOVESET
Divide 120 Points between:
POWER: 35
AGILITY:(Leaping, Air-Strike/Defense): 15
STAMINA: 15
SCIENTIFIC:(Technical/Amateur/Martial Arts Background) 15
SPEED:(Quickness in/out of the ring, moving around) 15
BRAWLING: 25
Provide a movelist as follows:
1-5: Basic Holds/Strikes/Takedowns: Punches, Bites, sideheadlock takedown, low blow, fireman's carry takedown
6-15: Wear Down/Mid-Late Match Holds: Abdominal Stretch, Chinlock, Choke Hold, head vice, suplex, german suplex, DDT, neckbreaker, hair pull slam, hip toss
16-18: Signature/Special Holds: Curb Stomp, victim face first in the bottom turnbuckle, Dark stomps em from behind
19: Set-up: Kick to the Gut
20: Finisher: Brainbuster
SAMPLE RP:
From the row... we had just finished up a show.
Down the street from the Fair Park Arena, in Birmingham, Alabama, there was an Applebee’s. Dark didn’t want to be there, but there weren’t any proper bars around. Proper bars were places that had regulars that came in every morning and drank all day, leaving early in the night before all the young douche bags perfumed with designer men’s cologne and slicked over hair came in to drink light beer and hunt for drunk pussy. Proper bars were places of despair and apathy, with dust covered tables and no windows, or if there were windows, they were so dirty the sunlight comes in brown and murky. They certainly weren’t found in restaurant chains that promoted family atmospheres and hired the dumbest stock the American Working Force had to offer.
But Dark didn’t particularly feel like walking very far, it wasn’t that his match had tired him out; on the contrary Rykor seemed to be concentrated on other things the whole time. Perhaps he had underestimated me, Dark thought. Or perhaps—certainly more likely—he was too busy thinking about Goliath. A mistake. Like the many drinks he had after the match. He knew he didn’t have enough and would soon have to go out looking for it, in a strange town he never really liked.
The second mistake was settling on Applebee’s for a drink. That was a big mistake. He had walked through the parking lot and saw the building, the red rectangular bricks with the white mortar in-between, the disgusting red, white, and green striped awnings over the windows, the green door opened invitingly, above it all, resting like a horny vulture, hung the disgusting neon sign: APPLEBEE’S; and seeing it Dark instantly shuttered. Applebee’s was everything he hated. He could already see the pink lipsticked bartender with vacant, doughy eyes and a voice reminiscent of a teenage girl. She would be too happy, too excited, too full of an enthusiasm that resulted from being too dumb to know the world was a horrible, dirty place filled with moments of great cruelty. Anyone who watched the news regularly could tell you that. She was one of those ‘Glass isn’t half full, it’s over flowing’ kind of people.
Another sign of a shitty bar. Bartenders that are too happy or subservient.
When he got to the bar he ordered a beer, the lady bartender asked him which of the big three he would like, Bud, Coors, or Miller, and promptly he instead ordered a whiskey. She then asked for his ID, which he grumbled at, for he hadn’t been carded in 10 years. When she served him his whiskey she gave him a happy-go-lucky smile which Dark returned with a distasteful frown. He turned on his stool and looked around, there were people eating and enjoying the ‘homely’ cooking. These were the people of America, the fattened swine that cared not for school budget cuts, as they hardly paid attention when they were kids and hadn’t really learned anything anyway; the imbeciles that came out every day in disgust at the lack of jobs, and then went to buy some foreign deal. Look at the fattest one, with his big neck hanging out onto his chest, wiggling like a turkey’s neck as he gobbles down some of Applebee’s finest cuisine.
Everyone seemed to be talking and enjoying themselves well enough, but then Dark noticed that some of them were stealing looks toward the door. Some had stopped eating all together, their eyes glued to whatever it was they were looking at, the food on their forks steaming in front of their empty, waiting mouths. And then Dark looked at that one point they were all looking at, that point that seemed to draw the eyes of every diner whether they wanted it to or not.
Dark saw the reason he had stayed behind in Alabama.
EL TORO.
The midget stood in the doorway, his shadow stretching out into the room like that of a child. He wore a brown sequin poncho, EL TORO in bold on the back, and horns on top of his mask. He had this performance he did for simple-minded people that liked to see midgets do silly things (frat boys, hicks, and the like) during which he would kick his feet and lower his head and charge just like a bull, and then he would pull back a part of his poncho revealing a red layering underneath, and he would play the role of the bullfighter. He would whip his poncho around stabbing at the imaginary bull with an imaginary sword, and then he would play the role of the bull again, angry and charging. It went on until the bull was eventually killed, and El Toro lay out on the ground and gave one of his best Shakespearean deaths.
It was some stupid shit beyond words, but some people liked it. To El Toro it was some very real shit, and not something to joke about. The bullfight was a metaphor for life, and don’t you ever forget it gringo. I guess when you’re only four feet tall, the whole world looks like a charging bull to you, Dark thought.
El Toro came into the restaurant, people staring as he walked to the bar. Mothers nudged children, telling them not to stare while they stared themselves. The fat man nearly choked on his chicken fingers. Toro crawled up a stool and called upon the waitress in his native tongue.
“Hey we don’t serve kids booze in here!” she said.
“Lady, he’s no kid. And I think you should watch your tone, as this man is a professional Midget Rodeo Champion.” Dark said, motioning toward El Toro. The woman seemed confused, so he continued: “Yes, 15 of them little bastards and a whole team of goats. Goats can be real wiley. Ever see 15 midgets go after a pack of goats with a bunch of lassos? Seems like it might do quite well in these parts. Wrangled a goat in 23 minutes 27 seconds flat. A record in the league. Takes em so long on account of the stubby legs they got. They make em wear cowboy boots too, which doesn’t help much.”
“Well I dunno,” the bartender said, looking at the midget with a scrupulous eye.
“He’s a grown man. He’s got a mustache for god’s sake. He’s just a midget, I assure you.”
“Oh yes, I see it now. I can tell now looking at his fingers. Sausages.”
El Toro ordered a beer, but when the waitress asked which of the big three he would prefer, Bud, Coors, or Miller, he promptly ordered a whiskey. When she asked for his ID, Dark cited how unfortunate it would be for her and the ‘great’ Applebee’s if they were to suddenly have a midget succumb to a coma right there in the middle of the restaurant due to the certain inabilities and negligence of a certain bartender, for after all, El Toro was a very sick man, and needed booze by the hour. And though this was a total lie, the woman seemed to believe it and was rather worried. She brought El Toro’s whiskey promptly, she didn’t even bother to ask for the money right away, and as he sipped his drink she stood over at the corner of the bar, biting her nails and watching him out of the corner of her eye.
“¿Porque Applebee’s, es una habatacion muy demonico?” El Toro said over his watered down drink, “Why Applebee’s, it’s a very demonic habitation?”
“Habitation!” Dark said. “I like that. They are a certain breed. Exterminate all brutes!”
“¡Extermine todas last bestias!” El Toro said. “Exterminate all brutes!”
They each took a big drink and slammed their drinks down on the bar. They were far too watered down to be enjoyed properly. Yet another sign of a shitty bar.
“Well, Toro, we’ve got a whole week to fuck around before the next event. It’s tough drifting at such a slow pace. Sometimes I feel like a pilgrim in a damn wagon train. For a man trying his best to earn his ‘cheddar’ Tim Ross is dragging it all out, nice and slow like. Perhaps he has other ventures. But once a week? What are horrid drifters and washed up drunks such as ourselves to do Toro?”
“Hable para usted,” El Toro said with a snort. “Speak for yourself.”
“I tell you what we do,” Dark said, pulling a large folded piece of paper from his pocket. He unfolded it carefully and spread it out on the bar.
“Hey now! This bar is for drinks only!”
“Madam. This gentleman next to me is a foreigner. And a midget. Imagine the horrors that would come to you and the ‘great’ Applebee’s if a foreign midget happened to. . .”
“Ok!” she pleaded. “Alright, whatever!”
“Now look Toro,” Dark said.
The map was of the “Bible Belt” states, Oklahoma in particular. Routes had been traced with many different colored pens, marking where they would travel. There were also stars, happy faces, and sad faces drawn crudely on parts of the map along the routes.
“Look here, look. Oklahoma, Toro. Tornado Alley. They call it the Buckle of The Bible Belt. See these lines? These are the many routes we are to take. The stars are either: bars, titty joints, or massage parlors known to give happy endings I know of and have marked accordingly. The smiley faces are for titty joints that serve alcohol, the sad faces are for those that don’t. See?”
Toro nodded emphatically, his tongue darting out over his moustache for left over whiskey.
“I figure we’ve got a lot of time, after were done with all the places that serve booze, we’ll hit up the ones that don’t and sneak it in.” Dark took a good long thoughtful drink. “Yes Toro. This is a great adventure you are embarking on. One of great danger, fun, but most importantly it is educational. Yes, there’s no better way one can learn about a country than by appraising its women. And what better place to do that than a strip club?”
“¿Que tal el combate?” El Toro asked.
“What about the fight?” Dark echoed. “Ah yes, I forget you probably don’t know. Yes this current endeavor I have been employed to help runs its shows on the glorious internet. Do your people know of this? The Lollipop Guild? Nevermind. Scheduled for a triple threat match. All you have to do is get me there.”
“¿Y?” El Toro asked. “And?”
“And what? Pyroclastic Youth has said himself he’s much like a volcano. But to me he’s more like a teenager: he fills himself with his own angst bullshit until he suddenly bursts in a loud explosion of misdirected rage. Big whoop. Classic case. Seen it a million times. I assure you when he gets enraged, it will be FJ Tombs who will bear the brunt of it, as I plan on letting the two of them beat the snot out of one another. After all, they are young men and are looking to prove something. In their ignorance they’ll be too caught up in one another, seeing themselves to be the most dangerous threats. They won’t think any harm can come from the old man known to love his drink.
“I say so what. Mickey Mantle was a drunk. Look at what he did.”
“Mickey Mantle?” Toro asked.
“Mickey Mantle. Beisbol. But it is of no concern Toro. Nor is Pyro. He’s a simple juvenile with a penchant for vandalism. And when not playing the role of Dennis the Menace with a sling shot in his back pocket, he’s a drummer in some silly band nobody has ever heard of. There’s a reason he left Oregon so quickly, Toro. He’s a punk. He couldn’t hack it. I know Oregon, do you know Oregon, Toro?”
The midget shook his head and ordered another drink.
“Of course you don’t. I’ll have another as well. I know Oregon, and Oregon is a country where reason has lost itself in the thick forests that make up some of its parts. Oregon is where man goes to die, and nature always abides. There is a reason Pyro clipped those flowers like the juvenile he is. He did it because Oregon can swallow whole the workings of man. I’ve seen it. It’s so wet that fungus thrives in the place. I’ve seen a whole barrel of nails rust overnight in Oregon. All the way from New York, and rusted over night. I’ve seen it.
“I’ve seen mushrooms sprout out of the carcass of dead cats in a matter of hours in Oregon. Oregon winters?! Why, you’d have to live through it to really know it. It makes men. Either you endure it or you jump ship. Like this Pyro kid did. Jumped ship all the way to Japan. Oregon scared him so bad he left the WESTERN WORLD. This means something Toro. That Pacific Islander blood is doing him no good. Besides he’s a kid. Haven’t you heard the way he talks?”
Dark laughed and he and Toro enjoyed their newly refreshed drinks. The bartender had taken an interest in the conversation, though she was trying desperately to make it look like she was cleaning. Either that or she was in love with the section of the bartop she had been cleaning with a rag for the past five minutes.
“Toro?” Dark asked suddenly.
“¿Si?” Toro asked. “Yes?”
“What’s youtube?”
“No se.”
They sat staring into their glasses.
“
¿Y el otro?” Toro asked. “And the other?”
“The other? The Butcher’s Boy? FJ Tombs? Well he’s gonna be a star. A big star. And he plans on being a big star in Death Row,” Dark laughed. “I don’t know if he didn’t notice, but I’m a drunk, Maynard is a rat whispering psychopath, our boss is an unintelligible stereotype, Doozer, Mr. Superman, has long been getting fat on the couch, and Chance Von Crank, though the King of the Trailer Park, is still white trash. He just makes it look good. One could argue that Yoshii is the most dominate force in Death Row, only because he can sit on everyone if he wants to. Perhaps all that fishing really dulled Tombs’ brain, but I don’t see much use being the brightest star if it means being anything but blinding. Star of Death Row? That’s hardly something to put on the resume. It’s like being the manager of a grocery store. Sure you get to wear a nice shirt and tie, but you still work at a grocery store.
“But let us not forget that he is hardworking Toro. After all, he helped build his daddy’s butcher shop up. In fact, I think Mr. Tombs Sr. is the Meat King of Texas. Let us not forget this blue collar man with a Jeff Foxworthy mustache. FJ Tombs is just gonna show the whole dang world what a little blood, sweat and tears can get you, goddangit!” Dark said mockingly. After finishing his second whiskey the booze was beginning to take effect. He was begging to feel nice and warm.
“Howdy partner!” Toro said in his thick accent.
“Ha Ha yeah! Howdy partner! That’s exactly right! A little blood, sweat and tears. Yeah, that’s quite a good idea. Make them bleed, let them sweat, watch them cry.”
Dark finished his drink and they paid the bill. The bartender was especially nice, now that she saw they were leaving, and even threw in that time honored phrase of hospitality: “You all come back now, you hear?”
They staggered out of the restaurant, and outside the air was cold and sobering. Toro led the way, to a beat up read station wagon.
“Nice ride,” Dark said sarcastically. He got inside the passenger seat.
Inside the roof of the car was lined with little gondola balls and the dashboard of the car had been refurbished with fur. Dark ran his hands over the dashboard and belched. Toro got in on the driver’s side, where he sat on a stack of telephone books. The gas pedal as well as the break had been extended so his feet could reach. Toro started the car and turned on the radio. The sound of accordions came out of the cheap stereo system as a mariachi strummed his guitar rhythmically.
“I should have known,” Dark said. “Let us go!”
“¡Si!”
The car reversed and left the parking lot, turning out onto the street.
