un hombre sigue en pie | a man is still standing - chapter 1
Nov 12, 2019 20:47:54 GMT -5
Psycho Vulcan Sentai (Kaz), Quixote Della Torre, and 1 more like this
Post by Christian Guillen on Nov 12, 2019 20:47:54 GMT -5
[OOC Note: This RP will contain references to: alcohol abuse, depression, sibling death, and nihilism. While this will not be graphic, please read ahead with this warning in mind.]
Between the big boot from Chow Ding and hitting the hard concrete in the backstage area, things went dark for Christian Guillen. The nightmare returned in that instant. The sound of empty glass bottles clinking together in the floorboards of an old, beat-up Coupe, the blasting of some heavy metal song that had long since faded into obscurity, the crunching of metal as the steel wrapped around a hundred-year-old redwood tree…
“Christian?”
The pain from the kick throbbed in his neck, but it may as well have been the pain from the car crash. Whoever said that being involved in a car crash while drunk somehow made you more limber, and thus less likely to be injured, was a fucking liar. The pain lasted for weeks. And that was just from the impact itself. Shattered glass and tree limbs breaking through the windshield do not care about how drunk the driver is. Nor should they.
“... Christian? Are you okay?”
Christian couldn’t tell if the voices were from the backstage crew at Monday Night Clash or from the paramedics at the scene of the wreck. Both were a disaster. Both had left him in a state of absolute shock, with cables, wiring, and other random bits of garbage piled on top of him. Slowly, however, Christian realized that it wasn’t, in fact, either of those sets of individuals.
It took a moment, but his vision began to wave, then shimmer, then slide into focus. Much like a desert oasis, at first it seems that the illusion of water could break at any second and you will slide back into a dry, dehydrated nightmare. But, as you get closer, you realize that it’s real. That the trees are truly there, and they’re green with life. That the pool of water is drinkable.
It turns out that Christian’s oasis is the Immaculate Conception Catholic Church in Santa Fe, New Mexico. The fellowship hall, to be exact. Sitting in his weekly Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, surrounded by others who have experienced similar trauma. The folding steel chairs, the styrofoam cups steaming with cheap coffee, the haggard looks of men and women who have had their lives turn upside down and are now trying to right them back once more.
“I-I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
The main directly across the circle of chairs from Christian smiled a warm smile. He wore a priest’s black robe with the white collar of the Church. His grey hair and beard made him seem older than he was, and wiser. Padre Rey Lopez, head of this Church. And honestly, the man who had kept Christian on the straight-and-narrow for more than six months now.
“I was asking you how your big debut went. You looked like you started to say something, but then you started staring off into the distance.”
”Ah. Right. Well, umm, it didn’t go as well as I had hoped it would.”
“Few things in life rarely do.”
A few of the members in the group chuckled. Padre Lopez leaned forward, elbows on his knees with his fingers laced together in front of him. In all the time that Christian had been coming to this grouping, he had picked up on some of the small mannerisms of the group. Gerald, for example, the old white man who could barely stand without shaking, would cough before he would talk about financial situations. Toni, the lady that always sat beside Padre Lopez, would drink multiple cups of coffee when it was her turn to speak for the evening.
Padre Lopez, on the other hand, would lean forward with an intense leer. This was his sign that he wanted you to press on, to dig down to something inside of you that would truly help break the dam holding you back. In each of us, he always opened the night with, is a levee preventing us from being our true selves. It’s when we let that levee break and stand against the tide that we realize we can overcome any obstacle, be it the drink or the needle.
“As long as you’ve been coming here, Christian, you’ve talked about wrestling as if it were this small fledgling bird. It was something that you hold cupped in your hands, almost as if it itself is sacrosanct. You’ve tried to protect it, to hide it from the world, because it’s something that you love and it’s something you’re afraid that will be taken away from you. But now it’s time to set that bird free, Christian. Tell us about the first night in your new company.”
”The first thing that happened was I got my ass kicked... Sorry Father.”
Father Lopez laughed.
“No, I understand. Sometimes we do get our asses kicked. And that’s important. If we don’t, then we never understand the value of getting back up. Of standing our ground. The Book of Genesis tells the story of Joseph, who could’ve easily given up after his brothers sold him into slavery… But he didn’t…”
The rest of the night continued on much like the normal meeting nights go. Tears were shed, laughs were had, and somehow, wounds began to heal. Slowly, but surely. Christian wasn’t sure if held the Faith. His mother did, most certainly. His brother had as well. But, no matter whether he held the Faith or not, his conviction grew stronger. His first steps back into wrestling had ended up with him on his ass and TV equipment dropped on him. Maybe that was for the best.
Because a man is most dangerous when he has to pick himself up off the ground.
Usually, the first thing I see when I wake up is a shell of a man staring back at me in the bathroom mirror. As if a mannequin had slipped on a Christian Guillen costume and paraded around as if he were me. That fucked up scene in Donnie Darko, where Donnie sees that creepy rabbit staring back at him? That’s what it has felt like living my life over the past few years.
But this morning when I woke up, I looked into that mirror, and saw something that I haven’t seen since Guillermo died. I saw a man with purpose. I saw a man with fire in what was once cold, dead eyes. A man whose heart was beating, pumping hot, red blood through veins that had run as dry as the desert mineshafts. No more mannequin. Instead, I saw the mother fucker that used to be Christian Guillermo tear down that mannequin and stare back at me, proud.
I have you to thank for that, Chow Ding. I have you to thank for that, Hajeet. Without the two of you and your funny little “attack group”, guerilla warfare, Rage Against the Machine bullshit you’ve got going on, I wouldn’t have found my groove back so soon. I would still back that walking husk, that hombre muerto caminando. I would not be burning inside like a furnace.
But it’s not either of you that I get to square off against this coming week at Monday Night Clash. In fact, unlike you two pieces of trash, it’s someone that I actually respect: Jordan Fox.
Jordan is the type of guy I would’ve loved to work with on the indy circuit. He’s got it all: he’s got the speed to outpace you, he’s got the wrestling ability to out wrestling you on the mat, and he’s got that quick hitting ability where he can just knock your ass out in an instant. Where I’ve trained all of my life to fight inside of the squared circle, Jordan Fox could step into the squared circle and win, or he could step into the octagon and knock out anyone he wants to.
The problem Jordan Fox is facing is not one of a lack of talent, it’s a lack of motivation. Jordan has all of the tools, all of the skills, and all of the potential. But he doesn’t have what I have…
Jordan has been through hell and still left standing.
By now, almost everyone knows my past. It’s not a secret. I’m sure some will even try to bring up the ghost of my brother by the time I’m done here in Action Wrestling. But this isn’t about ghosts. This isn’t about past mistakes. This is about now. It’s about dragging yourself through the fire and brimstone of a waking hell and staggering to your feet a new man. A man reborn like a phoenix. As if Muerte himself has no sway over him.
Come Monday Night, Jordan. That’s what you face. I hope you’re ready. I hope that you bring all of your tools. I hope that you pack all of your potential. I hope that you bring everything you’ve got to split my wig. Because I’m bringing with me the might of a man that cannot be brought low. I’m bringing with me the might of a man still standing.
un hombre sigue en pie | a man is still standing
capítulo 1 | chapter 1
versus Jordan Fox @ Monday Night Clash 11/18/19
capítulo 1 | chapter 1
versus Jordan Fox @ Monday Night Clash 11/18/19
Between the big boot from Chow Ding and hitting the hard concrete in the backstage area, things went dark for Christian Guillen. The nightmare returned in that instant. The sound of empty glass bottles clinking together in the floorboards of an old, beat-up Coupe, the blasting of some heavy metal song that had long since faded into obscurity, the crunching of metal as the steel wrapped around a hundred-year-old redwood tree…
“Christian?”
The pain from the kick throbbed in his neck, but it may as well have been the pain from the car crash. Whoever said that being involved in a car crash while drunk somehow made you more limber, and thus less likely to be injured, was a fucking liar. The pain lasted for weeks. And that was just from the impact itself. Shattered glass and tree limbs breaking through the windshield do not care about how drunk the driver is. Nor should they.
“... Christian? Are you okay?”
Christian couldn’t tell if the voices were from the backstage crew at Monday Night Clash or from the paramedics at the scene of the wreck. Both were a disaster. Both had left him in a state of absolute shock, with cables, wiring, and other random bits of garbage piled on top of him. Slowly, however, Christian realized that it wasn’t, in fact, either of those sets of individuals.
It took a moment, but his vision began to wave, then shimmer, then slide into focus. Much like a desert oasis, at first it seems that the illusion of water could break at any second and you will slide back into a dry, dehydrated nightmare. But, as you get closer, you realize that it’s real. That the trees are truly there, and they’re green with life. That the pool of water is drinkable.
It turns out that Christian’s oasis is the Immaculate Conception Catholic Church in Santa Fe, New Mexico. The fellowship hall, to be exact. Sitting in his weekly Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, surrounded by others who have experienced similar trauma. The folding steel chairs, the styrofoam cups steaming with cheap coffee, the haggard looks of men and women who have had their lives turn upside down and are now trying to right them back once more.
“I-I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
The main directly across the circle of chairs from Christian smiled a warm smile. He wore a priest’s black robe with the white collar of the Church. His grey hair and beard made him seem older than he was, and wiser. Padre Rey Lopez, head of this Church. And honestly, the man who had kept Christian on the straight-and-narrow for more than six months now.
“I was asking you how your big debut went. You looked like you started to say something, but then you started staring off into the distance.”
”Ah. Right. Well, umm, it didn’t go as well as I had hoped it would.”
“Few things in life rarely do.”
A few of the members in the group chuckled. Padre Lopez leaned forward, elbows on his knees with his fingers laced together in front of him. In all the time that Christian had been coming to this grouping, he had picked up on some of the small mannerisms of the group. Gerald, for example, the old white man who could barely stand without shaking, would cough before he would talk about financial situations. Toni, the lady that always sat beside Padre Lopez, would drink multiple cups of coffee when it was her turn to speak for the evening.
Padre Lopez, on the other hand, would lean forward with an intense leer. This was his sign that he wanted you to press on, to dig down to something inside of you that would truly help break the dam holding you back. In each of us, he always opened the night with, is a levee preventing us from being our true selves. It’s when we let that levee break and stand against the tide that we realize we can overcome any obstacle, be it the drink or the needle.
“As long as you’ve been coming here, Christian, you’ve talked about wrestling as if it were this small fledgling bird. It was something that you hold cupped in your hands, almost as if it itself is sacrosanct. You’ve tried to protect it, to hide it from the world, because it’s something that you love and it’s something you’re afraid that will be taken away from you. But now it’s time to set that bird free, Christian. Tell us about the first night in your new company.”
”The first thing that happened was I got my ass kicked... Sorry Father.”
Father Lopez laughed.
“No, I understand. Sometimes we do get our asses kicked. And that’s important. If we don’t, then we never understand the value of getting back up. Of standing our ground. The Book of Genesis tells the story of Joseph, who could’ve easily given up after his brothers sold him into slavery… But he didn’t…”
The rest of the night continued on much like the normal meeting nights go. Tears were shed, laughs were had, and somehow, wounds began to heal. Slowly, but surely. Christian wasn’t sure if held the Faith. His mother did, most certainly. His brother had as well. But, no matter whether he held the Faith or not, his conviction grew stronger. His first steps back into wrestling had ended up with him on his ass and TV equipment dropped on him. Maybe that was for the best.
Because a man is most dangerous when he has to pick himself up off the ground.
atrapar | entr’acte
Usually, the first thing I see when I wake up is a shell of a man staring back at me in the bathroom mirror. As if a mannequin had slipped on a Christian Guillen costume and paraded around as if he were me. That fucked up scene in Donnie Darko, where Donnie sees that creepy rabbit staring back at him? That’s what it has felt like living my life over the past few years.
But this morning when I woke up, I looked into that mirror, and saw something that I haven’t seen since Guillermo died. I saw a man with purpose. I saw a man with fire in what was once cold, dead eyes. A man whose heart was beating, pumping hot, red blood through veins that had run as dry as the desert mineshafts. No more mannequin. Instead, I saw the mother fucker that used to be Christian Guillermo tear down that mannequin and stare back at me, proud.
I have you to thank for that, Chow Ding. I have you to thank for that, Hajeet. Without the two of you and your funny little “attack group”, guerilla warfare, Rage Against the Machine bullshit you’ve got going on, I wouldn’t have found my groove back so soon. I would still back that walking husk, that hombre muerto caminando. I would not be burning inside like a furnace.
But it’s not either of you that I get to square off against this coming week at Monday Night Clash. In fact, unlike you two pieces of trash, it’s someone that I actually respect: Jordan Fox.
Jordan is the type of guy I would’ve loved to work with on the indy circuit. He’s got it all: he’s got the speed to outpace you, he’s got the wrestling ability to out wrestling you on the mat, and he’s got that quick hitting ability where he can just knock your ass out in an instant. Where I’ve trained all of my life to fight inside of the squared circle, Jordan Fox could step into the squared circle and win, or he could step into the octagon and knock out anyone he wants to.
The problem Jordan Fox is facing is not one of a lack of talent, it’s a lack of motivation. Jordan has all of the tools, all of the skills, and all of the potential. But he doesn’t have what I have…
Jordan has been through hell and still left standing.
By now, almost everyone knows my past. It’s not a secret. I’m sure some will even try to bring up the ghost of my brother by the time I’m done here in Action Wrestling. But this isn’t about ghosts. This isn’t about past mistakes. This is about now. It’s about dragging yourself through the fire and brimstone of a waking hell and staggering to your feet a new man. A man reborn like a phoenix. As if Muerte himself has no sway over him.
Come Monday Night, Jordan. That’s what you face. I hope you’re ready. I hope that you bring all of your tools. I hope that you pack all of your potential. I hope that you bring everything you’ve got to split my wig. Because I’m bringing with me the might of a man that cannot be brought low. I’m bringing with me the might of a man still standing.