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The greatest of evils and the worst of crimes is poverty
HE HATED DREDGING up memories. They did not stir in him a taste for nostalgia or loves lost. He saw in them only one purpose--to harden the shell he had chiseled with care, the one mat hid all that could be deemed vulnerable and kept entombed the signs of humanity. When he talked to me about his early years, it was with the voice of a stranger, as if what had been had touched the life of another, one a safe distance removed from the fray. In the telling, his eyes never strayed beyond my face and his voice retained its deep pitch, no matter the emotional import of what was recalled. I was ten when I first heard the story of his ocean crossing, and as I sat in the hospital room listening to Mary's account of the tale, the early moments of the dying man's life came exploding back, as real, as hard and as fresh as a wave. His ship was three days out of Naples when the storm hit. Four levels below the deck, walled-in against an overworked engine, six hundred men, women and children were crammed into a space designed for two hundred. The stench of waste mingled with that of burning oil and spouting steam. The cargo hold, normally a dry haven for luggage and sealed goods, was now little more than a moaning assembly of humanity. Families sat in small circles, huddled under tattered coverlets of soiled sheets and clothes. Infants wailed against the pangs of hunger and the nibbling of rats. The elderly chewed tobacco leaves instead of food, black spittle coursing down their chins. Women, young and old, sang Neapolitan ballads to lift deadened spirits and prayed daily to a stern God for a quick end to a dark journey. They boarded the ship under a blanket of darkness, paying twenty-five thousand lira--nearly five hundred dollars-- per head to a local broker, Giorgio Salvecci, an overweight landlord who kept a tan overcoat draped over his shoulders regardless of season. Salvecci shipped skins--Italian immigrants--across the Atlantic Ocean and into the harbors of New York, Boston and Baltimore. At the turn of the century, during the height of the Italian migration to American soil, Salvecci and his crew of thugs sent fifteen hundred transports a week off to an uncertain future. They were openly indifferent to their customers' ultimate fates; their part of the bargain ended with the payment of under-the-table cash. In return for a few thousand extra lira, Salvecci could also be counted on to supply false documents that would be rubber-stamped at Ellis Island and other points of entry, allowing the less-than-desirable access to the Golden Land. Convicts, thieves, con men and murderers: all, eventually, made their way to Salvecci. He was their last hope, all that separated them from a long stretch behind the hard bars of an Italian prison. The ships commissioned by Salvecci to cross the Atlantic were beaten and worn-down cruisers that had seen far better years and far more magnificent voyages. What once had been the pride of a vibrant fleet had been reduced through neglect into ocean-chugging pimps, rushing loads of human hope and misery toward a mysterious new country. The ships had majestic names culled from a more glorious past to cart along with their deteriorating bodies--II Leonardo, La Vittoria Colonna, La Regina Isabella, II Marco Polo. They had once carried the gold of Venetian merchants across the angry seas of the Adriatic. Now, weighed down with age, they swam slowly over the Atlantic. The passengers were fed once a day, in the late afternoon, by a large, muscular man covered from forehead to ankles in tattoos. His name was Italo and he came from a northern mountain region known more for rugged terrain than culinary expertise. It would take Italo a dozen trips to fill the bowls of the hungry, as he lumbered down narrow steel steps, carrying a large pot filled with hot stew. He dipped the bowls into the scalding liquid and scampered away, leaving them to devour what he knew to be a meal unfit for animals. On occasion, he would throw large chunks of old bread into the hole and watch dirty hands dive for the delicacy. Passengers built small fires around which they'd circle, using old wood and clothes in an attempt to stay warm and keep their children safe. It was an eight-day journey of pain, but one that each person on that stifling deck desperately needed to complete. They were leaving behind a land of dry soil and little promise for a place where, they were told, every one of their dreams would come true. That is what they needed to believe, what would give them the courage to go on as around them grandfathers died in silence and infants wailed their last breaths. The dream of America was more than enough to make Paolino Vestieri want to live. Vestieri was a thirty-six-year-old shepherd from Salerno who had seen a thriving flock of three hundred reduced to a half-dozen, victims of hunger, thieves and sickness. He had an eight-year-old son, Carlo, and a wife, Francesca, eight months pregnant with their second child. Despite the daily difficulties, Paolino had no plans to leave Italy. But then, in the late winter of 1906, his father, Giacamo, was ambushed by a band of camorristas--the Neapolitan Mafia. Ignoring his pleas for more time to pay off a long-standing debt, they stripped him nude, hung him from an olive tree and sliced open his stomach. It would be three days before Paolino got word about his father and was able to find his body, and by then the crows and maggots had had their fill. When he returned home, he found Carlo missing and his wife screaming in ways he had never heard a woman cry before. They took Carlo! She shrieked. They took my son! Who took him? Paolino asked, grabbing his wife. The camorra, Francesca managed to shout between screams. They took my boy. They took him for the money your father owed. The money we cannot pay. Stop your crying, Paolino said, removing his hands from his wife and heading for the bedroom to get his lupara. I will get Carlo. Francesca fell to her knees, still crying, head cradled in her hands. I want my son, I want my son. If they want revenge, tell them to take it from your father. Not from my boy. They have already taken it from my father Paolino said, checking the lupara for shells as he walked past his wife and out the door. 
The rain pours down upon Miami, each drop causes devastating effects beyond it’s purpose. Whether it be hitting the cover sheet of someone’s prized presentation for work or landing on a perfectly laid pad of drying cement...one thing is for certain - these drops are deadlier than they realize. More so today because they are affecting my mood. I may come across as a somewhat grim on television each week, but even us bad men don’t like to be brought down. These little droplets, these sky assassins have effectively made me worry about their existence. Well played. I move away from the window and toward my stationary. There, laying against the wood grain of my desk, lays a copy of The Anniversary’s events. I routinely threaten the production staff, which grants me access to their extensive library. But this disc, this episode of the highlights of HIW, this is not something I’m interested in watching again. When a dog defecates on your carpet, you rub his nose in it. I care not to rub my nose in my own mistakes. That’s exactly what it was you know, my mistake. Not Scorpio’s, Not Purcell’s, not anyone’s but mine. How could I have been so blind? I knew that Deka was up to something. Looking up into the mirror hanging across from me, I stare into my own eyes and smile. “Well done Deka. You effectively shocked everyone. I thought that was my department? But the thing great thing about me, is that I can always spin a negative. Sure, your bold move put it to us on the biggest stage, ruined our plan and looked like a hero. It would have all been so great Deka, but you shocked the world and open my eyes.” I turn and slowly walk towards the archway, to the front hallway. The rain is pouring down outside my picture window. Like a drowning plague upon the world, it descends. Like a drowning plague upon the world, sedition rises. “You stood alone, no one but you turned the tide of that epic match. The world was shocked. I learned something. I learned that I don’t need to rely on Scorpio. I don’t need DOA. I was deadly before them and I’ll be deadly with out them. I’ve disappointed the world of HIW inside the gauntlet, but I could careless. If anything you all should be happy I bothered to show. And for my actions I was anticipating that Scorpio or Deka would have thrown me to the wolves. Yet I am tossed to the bottom of the ladder? Which is fine by me. I do not fear climbing back up. I could care less about becoming the mid card draw. The way I see it, it’s a clean slate.” A sacrifice. He is learning the way. I walk up the stairs and chuckle to myself. The thought that Deka is sinking to our level almost makes me want to sit down with the man. But he has morals, he is only going this far because he has something to prove. His morals will take longer to fade, his ideals even longer and his will, well that will take some time indeed. “You seem to get it now Deka. You’ve now see what I am capable of. At first, you saw me and DOA as these droplets and took no notice. But now that you’re house is flooding, it’s already gone too far and your mouth is too full to even scream. You think that stepping up to do something will save you, but we all know how effective FEMA has been in the past. You are trying to bail water out of a sinking ship, but you are overwhelmed. You have come into HIW with good intentions, you have brought new ideas and new battle strategies. You’ve also brought back some of the biggest names this company has ever seen, but what you don’t seem to realize is; No amount of star power can save the S.S. HIW. She won’t even last until 2 a.m.” Down the upstairs hallway now, I think of how much the tacky hall rug beneath my feet disgusts me. It’s mere presence in my home makes me want to burn the entire thing to the ground. But then I think, and I wonder “Why am I getting so angry about this meaningless rug?”. It attempts to interfere in my day and while I hate it for existing, it really has no effect on anything that happens. Which makes me think of someone in particular. “Matt Marvel, you are one of these “good intentioned” people that I have been forced to notice. That is why I will ultimately destroy you and everything you’ve ever stood for. You have no effect on my cause, you are a shitzu in this dogfight. But your constant interference in my affairs has cursed me with the unfortunate task of talking about you. You need to stay far away from anything even remotely resembling me, let alone my actual physical form. I am a plague that you have attempted to cure and yet again you have fallen on your face. Your cure, has killed off more civilians than it has saved.” I almost want to pat him on the back. Matt, he tries to hard to do well. But his mediocrity and lack of focus will ultimately lead him right into my hands. I won’t notice until he is within arms reach, but when he is, I’ll strangle him until his last breath. And with that breath, I’ll make him scream my name. Just for fun. “I was as thrilled to see the return of Travis as much as the next guy. I enjoyed watching Travis pull the biggest upset in the history of HIW. You became a punch line Matt. The whole world was laughing at the hero. You played for the people, and they all took great pleasure in your pain. And these are the people you aim to please? These are the same people you want to make happy with your Modern Marvels. Will they were thrilled…for Travis.” “As for Travis, the hero of the moment, You are a placeholder, homeslice. All the big dogs are busy fighting amongst themselves, they don’t care that you have the biggest bone. Do you know why? It’s because they are systematically eliminating more difficult competition, so that when they want to claim said bone, only a mere shitzu stands in their way. Me? I’m not one of these dogs. I’m the dog trainer, watching it all and laughing. I suppose that also makes you a bitch.” Vulgarities. How the weak use them to instill themselves with a sense of superiority over their opponent. Me, I don’t personally care for them. But for lack of a better analogy, I call a spade a spade and Travis and Matt is the bitch within HIW’s pen of mad dogs. “I hate you for making me one of the few people in HIW who notices anything you do Matt. For that, you will have a very short career. My affairs, are none of your business. When HIW finally becomes the Chaotic Utopia, I will execute you publicly, as a display of what not to be. Are feud is done for the moment, I find no joy in fighting you for the 500th time. Long story short Matt, keep my name out of your mouth or it’ll turn soon to blood, understand?” How Matt is underestimating his insignificance within this whole unraveling plot. He is a bystander at best, and yet he builds himself up to be some sort of savior in the eyes of the audience. News to Matt, the audience is waking up and they see that the pure and cautious, like him, are winding up on the spike. It’s the bold, the idealists that are taking over. “Just the thought of Matt face makes me want to tear my eyes out. The images of him, the thought that he even breathes makes me want to hunt him down and gut him like I’m Billy Loomis. But he is not worth the energy, his meteoric rise will still crumble under a harsh dose of reality. And no Scorpio, that wasn't a reference to you, I've already mentioned you once and you should feel lucky for that. As for are partnership I believe I was better off on the solo tip. Sorry good chump, But your cramping my style. It was fun when you were young and naïve, now you‘ve become this power hungry Hitler. I take credit in helping you to this level. Now your on your own, at least when it comes to me being there” Why spend so much breath on those who aren’t in my immediate sight line? Because I Iike for my enemies to know where I stand. Chester Addison, the new blood. A first class joke. He is the real target and from where I stand, any random firing will end in a head shot. Chester is the stepping stone for people like Kaos, Daniel Fear and Bobby Azula...but to me he is an over the hill waste of time, and thus, needs euthanasia. “Chester Addison. You, you are my subject of interest. Like a city of panicking flood victims, you somehow find yourself lost in the shuffle. Congratulations, Chester, because this might be the biggest match you’ll ever have in your career. You’re going to be staring inside the barrel of a loaded gun and you’re not gonna know what to do. Sure, you’ll tell me that you’re going to eliminate me and maybe even bring my string of bad luck. Hell go ahead and tell me how much I fucked the chance of becoming True Expert champion. You honestly don’t understand the back story. You see I burnt that Expert bridge a long time ago. No matter what I do that bridge will always be burnt. I could have went into that match this past week and blew the roof off, ran through each name on the list. It wouldn’t have mattered. The people in the front office of the experts don’t like me and I feel the same way towards them.” For someone like Chester would value those things. Chester is a person who has built his whole career on what he has done before anyone knew who he was. My bet is that most of those accomplishments are flukes, and there is nothing to prove otherwise. Chester may have had a long lucky streak but the fact of the matter is that he is over. As in, finished. “Chester, you’re like an amateur porn actress, prone to choking. Every time that brass ring comes into sight, your grasp at it falls short and only pushes it farther away. Face it, you haven’t learned from your mistakes and you will never attain top tier status. Give up, go home and savor your rookie years.” It’s true. Chester is the new kid on the block. He knows not of the new conditioning peaks we have achieve. His style is old, sluggish and out dated. Our new arsenal over powers the old style ten fold. We have pointed out his flaws and deleted them from our game. He cannot win. “Everything comes full circle. Chester, you’re a stepping stone to the ring leader who needs to be put to sleep. This isn’t playtime anymore. For a while everyone acted like a top player here in this company when all you’ve all been doing is kicking around lifeless bodies. Bodies that I’ve already destroyed. If you want to do something extravagant, try hanging me. I guarantee that you won’t be able to do it. Not because you couldn’t because you could... easily. It’s simply because you can’t and you won’t. I have nothing to lose, Chester. I’ve lost my wife in an ugly divorce battle, I barely see my three precious daughters, I’ve been on the brink of death, and I lost my father. There is nothing you can do to stop me. I’m invincible. There’s only so much one man can take before he snaps.” “I’ve snapped.” “Vital Signs, you’re going to be feeding fish to sharks. What are you going to do when your bleeding from every spot on your body and there is no one there to stop the bleeding? What are you going to do when you’re lying in a crumbled mess and no one will be there to help you? You’re going to do nothing. You’re going to stay down like everyone else and when people ask you what happened you’re only going to be able to say one thing.” “God…” -- FIN -- |