Post by Michael Grant on Jul 7, 2018 17:56:30 GMT -5
"What, are you a fucking faggot?" the kid had meant to ask before the fist of one Khalid Michael Grant cut through the air like a dagger and caught him in the mouth. The kid swore, staggering backward and rubbing his lower lip with his index finger, and spat bloody mucus on the pavement. In an instant, Michael shoved the kid to the ground and pinned him there with his knees on the kid's shoulders. Then, all hell broke loose. Khalid Michael Grant set his future ablaze, one punch at a time. When he felt the kid had enough, he rose to a crouch, grabbing onto the kid's soiled white shirt and tugged him sharply upwards, his arm cocked back for the coup de grace. His fist met the kid's jaw one final time, and Michael dusted himself off and walked away. Behind him the kid lay, curled into a ball, a brown and red splatter painting under the pale glow of a crescent moon.
The memories haunted Michael's dreams his first year at Stateville. Life in a six by eight box in Crest Hill left him with a lot of time to think, which he slowly began to resent. That kind of luxury wasn't granted back home, where a host of distractions and threats skulked, siphoning the hearts and minds of citizens like the parasites they were. Life back home in the Altgeld Gardens homes wasn't really life at all, he concluded six months into his sentence: it was survival.
Then again, life behind bars wasn't really life either. It was as far removed from life as one could get while still maintaining a pulse.
It still didn't feel real to him. Six months on the outside, and he still dreaded sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he feared they'd open and he'd be back in Crest Hill, trapped in a box, scarfing down maggot-infested food as fast as he could to just be done with it. Maybe he'd swallow a razor blade instead, like Gary Merchant.
Michael sat on the floor and stared out the window of an unfamiliar home and watched a street light flicker on the outside. There was no moon tonight, just a temperamental bulb, flashing to the cadence of a child playing with a lightswitch.
A cold hand gripped him on the shoulder, jarring him out of his daydream. He cocked his head to the left and saw a familiar, ragged face: his old cellmate DeSean Washington. It did little to put his lingering doubts at ease.
"Your girl's wild, dog. A real fuckin' trip," DeSean said, chuckling. His voice was smooth as gravel. Quiet, but resonant.
DeSean confided in him once that he didn't expect to live past twenty-five. The joke was on him; he'd made it to forty-nine. The only part of his body that revealed his age was his face, wrinkled and drooping, covered in salt 'n pepper stubble.
Michael could hear Evelyn's shrill voice from the other room, though he couldn't decipher what she was saying. Then, he remembered where he was: DeSean's 'welcome home' party.
"Nah, man. It ain't like that. We ain't—" he began, but DeSean's laughter cut him off.
"Real shit?"
"Yeah."
DeSean cocked his head to the side and scrutinized his friend's face. "Y'all never?"
"Never."
If there were a lie to betray, Michael's stone-cold gaze wouldn't.
DeSean shook his head, scoffing. "Shit man, don't see why you wouldn't."
"Then you don't know Evie," Michael said, smiling. And you don't know me, old man.
DeSean nodded in agreement. "Guess I don't."
The place was silent for a moment, save for Evie's drunken rambling. From the bits and pieces Michael comprehended, she was explaining how to make a molotov cocktail; that was a lecture he'd heard more than a few times prior. He pushed himself off the floor, onto his feet and took a real look around the room. DeSean had mentioned that his sister had the design sense of a chain hotel; he wasn't lying. Not that Michael minded; something about the aesthetic made him feel at home.
"She ain't always like that though. It's just now's a special occasion."
"Oh, word?" DeSean's eyes widened, only half-sarcastically. "What's the occasion? Or does she just like getting shitfaced at strangers' welcome home parties?"
"If she wanted you to know, she'd tell you herself."
"Then tell me what she's normally like."
"Weird."
"That's real fuckin' illuminating."
Michael shook his head, chuckling. "Man, I've spent the last eighteen years tryin' to figure out how to describe that chick. If I had the words for it, I'd tell ya."
DeSean laughed, but Michael's focus shifted to the light once more. His expression soured when the light flickered back to life and he saw the kid on the street below, looking just as he'd left him that night.
"You good, kid?" DeSean asked. A look of worry overtook his face. "It's lookin' like you're the one who just got out."
Michael shook his head, hoping to clear the cobwebs.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just tryin' to make the adjustment is all. Somedays I wake up feelin' as old as you."
DeSean laughed and patted Michael on the back.
"There's that sense of humor I remember. Now come, ain't no miserable bastards allowed in this house."
_._._._._._
I wanted you to know
That I am ready to go.
_._._._._._
Click.
"Now, I ain't a real talkative person, but I got a couple things I wanna get off my chest before Monday night.
"I'm still a little bit shocked that Evie and I made it this far. On Monday night, we got our first wrestling match broadcast on national television. If you told me when we started that we'd get there at all, let alone within six months, I'd have called you crazy. Shit, I still half-expect to wake up and find out this has all been a dream.
"Of course, it ain't, is it? Nah, I would've woken up by now. So this is it. The big time. And who do Evie and I owe the honor of facing us in our debut? Right, Order of Chaos. Dark Spectre and Damian Kaine. I think I ought to be a bit star struck. After all, I don't think it's every day that a one gets to square off against a former champion and his hangeron in their debut match. But I gotta be honest: I don't. I only feel one thing when I see the name Damian Kaine.
"See, I've done my homework. I've been studying up on you since the matchup was announced. It started with me lookin' for an angle, some kind of weakness to exploit in the former champ, the more talented of the pair Evie and I were set to face off against. You know what I actually found? An effervescent desire to punch you in the mouth. In case I haven't made it clear enough, you fucking disgust me, Damian.
"No one ought to be surprised that you buddied up with Dark Spectre to go for the tag titles, no matter how many members of your so-called family could've taken his spot. They all must've seen how you'll snake your own blood to get ahead and figured they'd be better off keepin' you at arm's length. Guess Dark Spectre didn't get the memo.
"Tell me, Damian. What kinda man jumps his own fuckin' cousin to steal his shot at the limelight? You won the TV title that night, so I'm sure you remember powerbombing your cousin right outside the ring and claiming his opportunity for yourself, you glutton. To answer the question, where I'm from there ain't any type of man who'd pull that shit. Just rats. Just snakes. You sold your masculinity for instant gratification and as a result, anyone with a functioning set of eyes will look at you and only see a little bitch.
"I gotta tell ya, it's fucking nauseating to hear you bloviating about how you're this big underdog, when it's so obviously bullshit that it's almost funny. If only it weren't so sad. You fucking roach, you haven't had to put in the work for the opportunities that have been thrown at your feet. Do I need to list them for you, would that get it through your thick skull?
"Newsflash, in case I haven't made it obvious enough already: you fucking stole your cousin's big break. The only work you put in to secure that TV title shot was hitting your own blood from behind. You couldn't even look him in the eye when you did it. You capitalized on that opportunity sure, but don't front for a fucking second that you earned it.
"Then, you lose the title but it's fine because you're thrust in a ladder match for another title at Action Wrestling's biggest show thus far pretty much entirely because you used to wrestle for the promotion that gives the belt its name. Beating Lockjaw was little more than a formality. And then, you lost.
"Hell, even your first match as Order of Chaos was a gift. You were facing the number one contenders to the tag titles. If y'all could've knocked off Murder, Inc. who knows what'd happen? Maybe y'all'd be thrust into the title match at Pandemic. But, I don't think I need to spell out what happened there. I'm sure that wound's a little raw, still. Ain't it?
"So while you may look at these opportunities you squandered and fancy yourself an underdog, all I see is someone who just can't get the job done. You're not an underdog, Damian. You're the Houston Rockets. You're the Washington Nationals. A perennial second-round playoff elimination. You're a paper contender, considering you can't even win a championship unless the reigning champ thinks they're fighting someone else.
"Tell me, how long will it take before you turn on Dark Spectre and do him like you did your cousin? After Evie and I beat ya, will that be it? Or will ya hold on long enough to maybe get thrust into a tag title match you don't deserve and didn't earn and get the shit kicked out of you by Power Word: Kill or Murder, Inc. again and that'll be it?
"You fucking coward. You fraud. You phony. You remind me of a kid I faced at Chicago Golden Gloves a few years back. Some rich ass white boy from Arlington Heights or Schaumburg or wherever, looked at me like I wasn't shit. Kid was the favorite to win the whole damn thing when we faced off. Didn't think too much of me, guess my upbringing and training didn't impress him none.
"At the end of the day though, it didn't really matter what he thought of me, because when it was time to put up or shut up, that boy was left stunned silent. My first real upset right there.
"Y'all the fat cats. Sittin' pretty and callin' your shot at Power Word: Kill. Evie and I are the damn near feral dogs in the street. Starvin'. Freezin'. Let me call my shot: Riverdale's Most Wanted over Order of Chaos.
"And you're gettin' punched in the fucking mouth, Damian. Maybe I can knock some sense into you."
Click.
_._._._._._
I'm a ghost and you know this
That's why we broke up in the first place.
_._._._._._
Tomorrow, he'd be in Columbus, but tonight was his.
The most troubling adjustment Michael had made since his release was sleeping in his own bed once more. His mother had been accommodating, letting him stay home while he got back on his feet but the thought of returning to his old room, which hadn't been touched since his arrest, made him uneasy. His first night home was a trip down memory lane in the worst ways. He dreamt about the kid for the first time in years. The kid was always the kid.
Perhaps that's why he made it a habit to stay home as little as possible these last six months. Be it staying the night at Evie's, sleeping sitting up on a metal folding chair, or on nights like these — when he could scrounge up enough money from wrestling gigs and his part time job at Key Food & Liquor — crashing at a hotel downtown. Tonight it was the La Quinta in the South Loop. From the window of his room, Michael could almost see the Civic Opera House.
"You gonna stare into space all night?" Michael's companion for the evening asked, with an almost-audible eye roll. "Thought you were from here."
Michael turned from the window, rubbing his temples with his thumb and ring finger. "Yeah, I mean I'm from here but I ain't from here, you know?"
"I guess," his companion answered. It was at this point when he realized he hadn't so much as learned the man's name. On the other hand, he didn't know Michael's either. Mutual anonymity, Michael reasoned, might be best for both of them.
Michael lowered his hand. His companion — some Wicker Park hipster twink with dyed blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a faint scar on his cheek — was seated at the foot of the bed, inspecting his fingernails. The room smelled of cinnamon, courtesy of his cologne (Mr. Burberry Eau de Parfum, the man had replied when asked prior).
"Sorry," Michael said, shaking his head. "I just, ain't done this in a while."
"Now, I find that hard to believe," his companion whispered, reaching for Michael's hand as he approached. Though he felt an air of dread surrounding him and the cold grip of anxiety tugging on his sleeve, he didn't pull his hand away. His lips snaked into an awkward crooked smile as his companion stood up and planted a kiss on Michael's lips.
Then Michael shoved him back, his grin nowhere to be seen. His hand engulfed his companion, fingers digging into flesh.
"What the fuck, you're hurting me!" his companion whimpered.
The kid's words left Michael's mouth before he let go and his companion scampered out of the room.
"What are you, a fucking faggot?"
Michael slept alone. He did not dream.
The memories haunted Michael's dreams his first year at Stateville. Life in a six by eight box in Crest Hill left him with a lot of time to think, which he slowly began to resent. That kind of luxury wasn't granted back home, where a host of distractions and threats skulked, siphoning the hearts and minds of citizens like the parasites they were. Life back home in the Altgeld Gardens homes wasn't really life at all, he concluded six months into his sentence: it was survival.
Then again, life behind bars wasn't really life either. It was as far removed from life as one could get while still maintaining a pulse.
It still didn't feel real to him. Six months on the outside, and he still dreaded sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he feared they'd open and he'd be back in Crest Hill, trapped in a box, scarfing down maggot-infested food as fast as he could to just be done with it. Maybe he'd swallow a razor blade instead, like Gary Merchant.
Michael sat on the floor and stared out the window of an unfamiliar home and watched a street light flicker on the outside. There was no moon tonight, just a temperamental bulb, flashing to the cadence of a child playing with a lightswitch.
A cold hand gripped him on the shoulder, jarring him out of his daydream. He cocked his head to the left and saw a familiar, ragged face: his old cellmate DeSean Washington. It did little to put his lingering doubts at ease.
"Your girl's wild, dog. A real fuckin' trip," DeSean said, chuckling. His voice was smooth as gravel. Quiet, but resonant.
DeSean confided in him once that he didn't expect to live past twenty-five. The joke was on him; he'd made it to forty-nine. The only part of his body that revealed his age was his face, wrinkled and drooping, covered in salt 'n pepper stubble.
Michael could hear Evelyn's shrill voice from the other room, though he couldn't decipher what she was saying. Then, he remembered where he was: DeSean's 'welcome home' party.
"Nah, man. It ain't like that. We ain't—" he began, but DeSean's laughter cut him off.
"Real shit?"
"Yeah."
DeSean cocked his head to the side and scrutinized his friend's face. "Y'all never?"
"Never."
If there were a lie to betray, Michael's stone-cold gaze wouldn't.
DeSean shook his head, scoffing. "Shit man, don't see why you wouldn't."
"Then you don't know Evie," Michael said, smiling. And you don't know me, old man.
DeSean nodded in agreement. "Guess I don't."
The place was silent for a moment, save for Evie's drunken rambling. From the bits and pieces Michael comprehended, she was explaining how to make a molotov cocktail; that was a lecture he'd heard more than a few times prior. He pushed himself off the floor, onto his feet and took a real look around the room. DeSean had mentioned that his sister had the design sense of a chain hotel; he wasn't lying. Not that Michael minded; something about the aesthetic made him feel at home.
"She ain't always like that though. It's just now's a special occasion."
"Oh, word?" DeSean's eyes widened, only half-sarcastically. "What's the occasion? Or does she just like getting shitfaced at strangers' welcome home parties?"
"If she wanted you to know, she'd tell you herself."
"Then tell me what she's normally like."
"Weird."
"That's real fuckin' illuminating."
Michael shook his head, chuckling. "Man, I've spent the last eighteen years tryin' to figure out how to describe that chick. If I had the words for it, I'd tell ya."
DeSean laughed, but Michael's focus shifted to the light once more. His expression soured when the light flickered back to life and he saw the kid on the street below, looking just as he'd left him that night.
"You good, kid?" DeSean asked. A look of worry overtook his face. "It's lookin' like you're the one who just got out."
Michael shook his head, hoping to clear the cobwebs.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just tryin' to make the adjustment is all. Somedays I wake up feelin' as old as you."
DeSean laughed and patted Michael on the back.
"There's that sense of humor I remember. Now come, ain't no miserable bastards allowed in this house."
_._._._._._
I wanted you to know
That I am ready to go.
_._._._._._
Click.
"Now, I ain't a real talkative person, but I got a couple things I wanna get off my chest before Monday night.
"I'm still a little bit shocked that Evie and I made it this far. On Monday night, we got our first wrestling match broadcast on national television. If you told me when we started that we'd get there at all, let alone within six months, I'd have called you crazy. Shit, I still half-expect to wake up and find out this has all been a dream.
"Of course, it ain't, is it? Nah, I would've woken up by now. So this is it. The big time. And who do Evie and I owe the honor of facing us in our debut? Right, Order of Chaos. Dark Spectre and Damian Kaine. I think I ought to be a bit star struck. After all, I don't think it's every day that a one gets to square off against a former champion and his hangeron in their debut match. But I gotta be honest: I don't. I only feel one thing when I see the name Damian Kaine.
"See, I've done my homework. I've been studying up on you since the matchup was announced. It started with me lookin' for an angle, some kind of weakness to exploit in the former champ, the more talented of the pair Evie and I were set to face off against. You know what I actually found? An effervescent desire to punch you in the mouth. In case I haven't made it clear enough, you fucking disgust me, Damian.
"No one ought to be surprised that you buddied up with Dark Spectre to go for the tag titles, no matter how many members of your so-called family could've taken his spot. They all must've seen how you'll snake your own blood to get ahead and figured they'd be better off keepin' you at arm's length. Guess Dark Spectre didn't get the memo.
"Tell me, Damian. What kinda man jumps his own fuckin' cousin to steal his shot at the limelight? You won the TV title that night, so I'm sure you remember powerbombing your cousin right outside the ring and claiming his opportunity for yourself, you glutton. To answer the question, where I'm from there ain't any type of man who'd pull that shit. Just rats. Just snakes. You sold your masculinity for instant gratification and as a result, anyone with a functioning set of eyes will look at you and only see a little bitch.
"I gotta tell ya, it's fucking nauseating to hear you bloviating about how you're this big underdog, when it's so obviously bullshit that it's almost funny. If only it weren't so sad. You fucking roach, you haven't had to put in the work for the opportunities that have been thrown at your feet. Do I need to list them for you, would that get it through your thick skull?
"Newsflash, in case I haven't made it obvious enough already: you fucking stole your cousin's big break. The only work you put in to secure that TV title shot was hitting your own blood from behind. You couldn't even look him in the eye when you did it. You capitalized on that opportunity sure, but don't front for a fucking second that you earned it.
"Then, you lose the title but it's fine because you're thrust in a ladder match for another title at Action Wrestling's biggest show thus far pretty much entirely because you used to wrestle for the promotion that gives the belt its name. Beating Lockjaw was little more than a formality. And then, you lost.
"Hell, even your first match as Order of Chaos was a gift. You were facing the number one contenders to the tag titles. If y'all could've knocked off Murder, Inc. who knows what'd happen? Maybe y'all'd be thrust into the title match at Pandemic. But, I don't think I need to spell out what happened there. I'm sure that wound's a little raw, still. Ain't it?
"So while you may look at these opportunities you squandered and fancy yourself an underdog, all I see is someone who just can't get the job done. You're not an underdog, Damian. You're the Houston Rockets. You're the Washington Nationals. A perennial second-round playoff elimination. You're a paper contender, considering you can't even win a championship unless the reigning champ thinks they're fighting someone else.
"Tell me, how long will it take before you turn on Dark Spectre and do him like you did your cousin? After Evie and I beat ya, will that be it? Or will ya hold on long enough to maybe get thrust into a tag title match you don't deserve and didn't earn and get the shit kicked out of you by Power Word: Kill or Murder, Inc. again and that'll be it?
"You fucking coward. You fraud. You phony. You remind me of a kid I faced at Chicago Golden Gloves a few years back. Some rich ass white boy from Arlington Heights or Schaumburg or wherever, looked at me like I wasn't shit. Kid was the favorite to win the whole damn thing when we faced off. Didn't think too much of me, guess my upbringing and training didn't impress him none.
"At the end of the day though, it didn't really matter what he thought of me, because when it was time to put up or shut up, that boy was left stunned silent. My first real upset right there.
"Y'all the fat cats. Sittin' pretty and callin' your shot at Power Word: Kill. Evie and I are the damn near feral dogs in the street. Starvin'. Freezin'. Let me call my shot: Riverdale's Most Wanted over Order of Chaos.
"And you're gettin' punched in the fucking mouth, Damian. Maybe I can knock some sense into you."
Click.
_._._._._._
I'm a ghost and you know this
That's why we broke up in the first place.
_._._._._._
Tomorrow, he'd be in Columbus, but tonight was his.
The most troubling adjustment Michael had made since his release was sleeping in his own bed once more. His mother had been accommodating, letting him stay home while he got back on his feet but the thought of returning to his old room, which hadn't been touched since his arrest, made him uneasy. His first night home was a trip down memory lane in the worst ways. He dreamt about the kid for the first time in years. The kid was always the kid.
Perhaps that's why he made it a habit to stay home as little as possible these last six months. Be it staying the night at Evie's, sleeping sitting up on a metal folding chair, or on nights like these — when he could scrounge up enough money from wrestling gigs and his part time job at Key Food & Liquor — crashing at a hotel downtown. Tonight it was the La Quinta in the South Loop. From the window of his room, Michael could almost see the Civic Opera House.
"You gonna stare into space all night?" Michael's companion for the evening asked, with an almost-audible eye roll. "Thought you were from here."
Michael turned from the window, rubbing his temples with his thumb and ring finger. "Yeah, I mean I'm from here but I ain't from here, you know?"
"I guess," his companion answered. It was at this point when he realized he hadn't so much as learned the man's name. On the other hand, he didn't know Michael's either. Mutual anonymity, Michael reasoned, might be best for both of them.
Michael lowered his hand. His companion — some Wicker Park hipster twink with dyed blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a faint scar on his cheek — was seated at the foot of the bed, inspecting his fingernails. The room smelled of cinnamon, courtesy of his cologne (Mr. Burberry Eau de Parfum, the man had replied when asked prior).
"Sorry," Michael said, shaking his head. "I just, ain't done this in a while."
"Now, I find that hard to believe," his companion whispered, reaching for Michael's hand as he approached. Though he felt an air of dread surrounding him and the cold grip of anxiety tugging on his sleeve, he didn't pull his hand away. His lips snaked into an awkward crooked smile as his companion stood up and planted a kiss on Michael's lips.
Then Michael shoved him back, his grin nowhere to be seen. His hand engulfed his companion, fingers digging into flesh.
"What the fuck, you're hurting me!" his companion whimpered.
The kid's words left Michael's mouth before he let go and his companion scampered out of the room.
"What are you, a fucking faggot?"
Michael slept alone. He did not dream.