Post by thecolby on Dec 21, 2019 14:27:15 GMT -5
Before us stands a beautiful luxury hotel, whose stark white walls stretch upwards in truly stunning contrast with the cloudless blue sky behind it. As throngs of bronzed beach goers saunter by on the winding sidewalk, a small army of hotel valets remain in constant motion, maneuvering six-figure vehicle after six-figure vehicle for both arriving and departing patrons. With the legendary Ocean Drive at its front, and the white sands and blue waters of Miami Beach behind, it's hard to imagine a more ideal locale.
Emerging from the open-air lobby come two equally picturesque individuals. The woman, although probably in her mid-40's, still easily puts the majority of the nearby bikini-clad twenty-somethings to shame. Her stunning dark features suggest Latin American bloodlines, while her business suit and extravagant jewelry confirm a lifestyle devoid of financial concerns. Alongside her strides a chiseled Hispanic male whose salt and pepper hair matches smartly with his well-tailored charcoal suit and black dress shirt underneath. As each and every passing staff member slows to greet the couple, it becomes increasingly obvious that that they are to be held in the highest possible regard. Stopping for a brief moment to admire their surroundings, the couple turn to each other lovingly.
Woman: "I can't believe at long last the day has finally come. Our beautiful, baby boy is finally ready to claim his birthright. To follow in his Papá's footsteps as a luchador. A symbol of bravery and courage. A true warrior, who fears no man."
As that sentence comes to its dramatic conclusion, a loud commotion at the lobby entrance suddenly commands their attention. Now hopping back and forth on his right leg, a young man in his early 20's breaks out of the crowd, holding his left foot in the air, despite the efforts of his designer skinny jeans to make that incredibly difficult, and letting loose a stream of less common and infinitely more offensive expletives.
Man: "What a fucking tough guy."
The woman hits her husband on the arm and shoots him a look that manages to convey both "quiet" and "couch" simultaneously.
Woman: "That's your son, Armando, show some compassion."
Armando: "It is my son, Isabella. And that's exactly why I don't have any."
Isabella: "Enough, let's make sure mi bebé isn't hurt."
Isabella rushes forward to her son's side, closely examining his foot for a proper diagnosis. The son obviously appreciates her concern, as he finally brings the obscenities to a welcome end and smiles down at his doting mother. As his father approaches, however, he quickly reverses course.
Son: "Yo moms, I got this. You know ain't nothing gonna stop my shine when I step into that Cruiserweight Havoc Battle Royal on Sunday. I'm built for this."
Armando: "I've asked you not to refer to your mother as moms on more than one occasion, Miguel. And the only thing I've seen you build lately is a mountain of debt and a less than stellar reputation amongst the locals."
Miguel: "What can I say? Shit's easy when you're the hottest DJ at the top resort on South Beach. Girls love DJ Miggy A."
Armando: "And I know exactly what that A stands for. So how's your training been going lately?"
Miguel: "Training's for the average, pops. With genetics like this, being a champion is my destiny."
Isabella: "That's right, hijo."
Armando: "Your destiny will be pushing a towel cart if you don't take this seriously. I killed myself for years to get to the top."
Miguel: "Maybe taking the stairs worked for you, but I'm just gonna take the elevator instead. At the end of the day, we all end up in the penthouse anyway."
Miguel smiles and winks at his parents before hopping into the hotel limousine nearby. As the chauffeur closes the door and gets into the drivers seat, the back window rolls down and Miguel's smiling face pops out.
Miguel: "Don't forget, AW Network, four o'clock. Your baby boy's about to make an impact."
Miguel laughs and points at his parents, disappearing back into the limousine as it pulls away from the curb.
Isabella: "He's going to make us proud."
Armando: "He's going to make us broke."
Emerging from the open-air lobby come two equally picturesque individuals. The woman, although probably in her mid-40's, still easily puts the majority of the nearby bikini-clad twenty-somethings to shame. Her stunning dark features suggest Latin American bloodlines, while her business suit and extravagant jewelry confirm a lifestyle devoid of financial concerns. Alongside her strides a chiseled Hispanic male whose salt and pepper hair matches smartly with his well-tailored charcoal suit and black dress shirt underneath. As each and every passing staff member slows to greet the couple, it becomes increasingly obvious that that they are to be held in the highest possible regard. Stopping for a brief moment to admire their surroundings, the couple turn to each other lovingly.
Woman: "I can't believe at long last the day has finally come. Our beautiful, baby boy is finally ready to claim his birthright. To follow in his Papá's footsteps as a luchador. A symbol of bravery and courage. A true warrior, who fears no man."
As that sentence comes to its dramatic conclusion, a loud commotion at the lobby entrance suddenly commands their attention. Now hopping back and forth on his right leg, a young man in his early 20's breaks out of the crowd, holding his left foot in the air, despite the efforts of his designer skinny jeans to make that incredibly difficult, and letting loose a stream of less common and infinitely more offensive expletives.
Man: "What a fucking tough guy."
The woman hits her husband on the arm and shoots him a look that manages to convey both "quiet" and "couch" simultaneously.
Woman: "That's your son, Armando, show some compassion."
Armando: "It is my son, Isabella. And that's exactly why I don't have any."
Isabella: "Enough, let's make sure mi bebé isn't hurt."
Isabella rushes forward to her son's side, closely examining his foot for a proper diagnosis. The son obviously appreciates her concern, as he finally brings the obscenities to a welcome end and smiles down at his doting mother. As his father approaches, however, he quickly reverses course.
Son: "Yo moms, I got this. You know ain't nothing gonna stop my shine when I step into that Cruiserweight Havoc Battle Royal on Sunday. I'm built for this."
Armando: "I've asked you not to refer to your mother as moms on more than one occasion, Miguel. And the only thing I've seen you build lately is a mountain of debt and a less than stellar reputation amongst the locals."
Miguel: "What can I say? Shit's easy when you're the hottest DJ at the top resort on South Beach. Girls love DJ Miggy A."
Armando: "And I know exactly what that A stands for. So how's your training been going lately?"
Miguel: "Training's for the average, pops. With genetics like this, being a champion is my destiny."
Isabella: "That's right, hijo."
Armando: "Your destiny will be pushing a towel cart if you don't take this seriously. I killed myself for years to get to the top."
Miguel: "Maybe taking the stairs worked for you, but I'm just gonna take the elevator instead. At the end of the day, we all end up in the penthouse anyway."
Miguel smiles and winks at his parents before hopping into the hotel limousine nearby. As the chauffeur closes the door and gets into the drivers seat, the back window rolls down and Miguel's smiling face pops out.
Miguel: "Don't forget, AW Network, four o'clock. Your baby boy's about to make an impact."
Miguel laughs and points at his parents, disappearing back into the limousine as it pulls away from the curb.
Isabella: "He's going to make us proud."
Armando: "He's going to make us broke."