The soft voice of a loving mother sounded across the walls of the pastel-colored hallway, dancing through a young boy's doorway and touching his ears. His eyebrows arched in realization, turning his head over his shoulder to stare out behind him at the empty hallway behind him, stairwell sitting at the hallway's end.

"Jesse! Boy, answer me!!"

That loving voice now hinted with annoyance at the child's reluctance to respond. A picture frame stares across the room at the conflicted child, within it an image from the child's past. The past smiles at the present as it did to the camera which captured it, but the present offers nothing more then a confused and distraught glance, cast once more to the hallway behind it, and the stairs which abruptley dove off the edge.

Footsteps, slow and methodical, climbing up the stairs.

"Jesse...?"

Curiousity now tinting the voice of the mother... was her little boy okay? Was he hurt? If so, why wasn't he crying? Oh, God, what if he managed to bump his head on sommething, what if he's unconcious?!

Footsteps, swift and panicked, rushing up the stairs.

The young boy's eyes widen as he turns to the poster on his wall as though it were there to offer him a sort-of comfort from whatever danger he knew was coming. Then, turning back to the sight before him, he leans forward and reaches his small hand out. His index finger pushes against a single button labeled "POWER" and, in an instant, the once glowing screen of a television which depicted for the young boy the lives of two warriors turned to darkness.

The footsteps stop, the young boy turns, and the loving mother looks down on him in sheer annoyance.

"Why wouldn't you answer me?! You had me worried sick, Jesse!"

"I'm sorry mom! I... I couldn't hear you!"

A sigh escapes the mother's lips, and as she shakes her head the young boy can only watch in disdain; because directly following that, she takes several steps forward, and turns on the television.

"Of course you couldn't hear me... you were too caught up in this wrestling nonsense!"

The little boy's big eyes stared on at his mother in a mix of anger and sadness, as he shook his head fervently and lifted a finger in the air.

"It's not nonsense! That's th--"

"It's wrestling no matter what it is, Jesse! You know how I feel about that, it's bad enough you have that poster on your wall, let alone the fact that you're always watching it!"

Now completely aggrivated by her child's actions, the mother steps over to his bed and reaches up to the top of the poster. In an instant, the young child begins to wail, begging that she not tear down the glossy paper from his wall; however, as loving as she is... she is also unmerciful. With the sound of tearing paper, the mother strips down the poster from the wall, leaving behind thumbtacks and small strips of paper still pinned to the wall beneath them. She drops the poster to the ground and frowns at her son, who looks up at her with tear-filled eyes.

"I expect you in the dining room in 3 minutes, Jesse, you hear me? It's time for lunch."

Her voice no longer soft.

"You don't understand mom! It's--"

Her gaze no longer tender.

"THREE MINUTES, JESSE!!"

Her stance no longer set.

Turning on her heel, making her way down the hall to the waterfall of stairs which awaited at the end. The young boy can only stare on and pout, looking down at his torn poster. Shaking his head, he carefully picks it back up and spreads it out across the bed, staring down at the man who stood, printed, on the glossed paper. Shaking his head, Jesse looked over his shoulder once more, watching his mother's descent.

"It's Dominic Pericolo..." he spoke in a mumble, looking around his room.

It was true... his mother hated most the poster of his hero, for it took up the most room out of everything within it. However, littered about the room there was much more then just one simple poster. Various trading cards of the wrestler were scattered on his desk, a sticker of the man pressed firm against a drawer. A doll in the corner, an action figure standing proudly in front of all the others, a backpack leaned against the corner.

There was no doubting it: Dominic Pericolo was Jesse's hero... but to the young boy's mother, he was the devil himself.

"I don't want to hear it, Jessica! All this television is rotting your mind-- ESPECIALLY when all you ever WATCH on it is wrestling! For God's sake girl, if you're going to watch something, make it good for you!"

A middle-aged blonde man stands before his little blonde-haired girl, arms crossed over his chest. His steel-framed glasses glint beneath the light provided by the ceiling fan, the shadow brought on from them across his skin making him look all the more intimidating to the little girl. Eyes big and wide with tears, she turns her attention back to the darkened television and crosses her arms over her chest. With a sigh, her father crouches down and places a gentle hand upon her head.

"Listen sweety... I just want the best for you, okay? I'm not trying to be mean, it's just... you don't need to be watching this kind of violence at your age, okay? Maybe when you're older, you can..."

"But I'm not a baby anymore daddy! I'm eight years old, I should be allowed to--"

"Sweety, please... it's your bed time now anyway. Go ahead and get in your pajamas."

Wide, glassy eyes turn to stare back into his own, and the middle-aged father cannot help but give her a relenting smile and a sigh. As though sensing his sudden change of heart, the little girl's once pouting lips began to curl into a slow smile. The father pulls her in for a gentle hug, rubbing her back as he stared behind her to the face of the television screen. Sure, it did bother him that she watched so much wrestling... but it was something she seemed to enjoy, and it really wasn't doing her any harm, was it?

It's just... the violence, these people she watches fought these matches for a living. They were relentless against each other, they gave everything they could to take the other down. There was always blood spilt, always bones broken, muscles torn and bodies wracked with pain... should his daughter really be exposed to all of this?

And then there was...

"Dominic Pericolo's wrestling, daddy... he's my favorite!"

Yes, there was Dominic Pericolo.

It wasn't that the man was a bad person or anything-- far from it, he was one of the more honorable people that the show his daughter watched had on it. Kind hearted, determined... he was mot definitely a good person. It was just... when he fought, inside of that ring... it was like something within that man changed. He was a good fighter, almost never cheating and almost always doing everything he could to stay in the fight... but that was the problem in and of itself. Dominic Pericolo simply wouldn't quit-- when he fought, he gave everything he had... and more often then not everything he had resulted in matches that were brutal on their own.

Yet he also took as much punishment as he could, seemingly all in the name of a victory. So, basically, any time he stepped into the ring it was almost promised that there would be alot of violence before he would ever bring his opponent down, and much more should it be the other way. He knew, he knew that Dominic Pericolo was a good man... but for such a good man, he was incredibly violent.

Yet his daughter worshipped him like some kind of saint, and that in the end was what got to him most.

"Go ahead, sweety... I think I can afford to give you another ten minutes to watch."

The angelic laughter of the little girl sounded through the room as she held her father close, before swiftly turning herelf around and reaching over to press the button, the television once again turning on. On the screen, the two warriors battled it out within the ring like vicious animals fighting for survival. Two men with similar goals, yet different motives, struggling to see just who would come out on top by the time it was over.

So, it was here that the man could only stop to watch as his child watched these two warriors, to see the happiness it brought her. These were her heroes-- though specifically one in particular-- and these were the people that she'd chosen to follow.

He hated it, and he hated him... but the difference was that he loved his daughter. He wanted her to be happy-- not spoiled, just... happy. It was because of that, that he let her watch these men tear each other to shreds.

It was because of that, that he let his daughter's hero, his own personal devil, stay on that television screen.