The Polo Bro Don't Know the Hotdog Code

The sunshine in Lexington is profound today. It lights up the living room of the current hotel residence of one Crash Jackson. He’s not there though. Not yet. He went for a walk late last night to clear his head. Now that the sun’s up… he’s sure to be back any minute now. Greg looks at the clock. Little hand points to the eight.

“That’s it,” the Ego grabs the keys. “Let’s go find this little sh-”

WHAM

With a kick, Crash enters the room. He’s drunk. He takes two choppy steps inside the room before perching himself up on the wall. He offers a squiggled grin. Jacque and Broque jump to help him stand. Greg stops them.

“Nope…” he gives Jason a once over. “Let ‘im fall.”

Crash lives up to the name and faceplants with a thud. The door to VP’s room swings open wildly as she holds a knife erected out of Lego pieces in her hand. Everyone looks at Crash. Face still on the floor, both his thumbs kick up.

“Hooooooome by eeeeeight, broooo.”

🌭

“Bro. Bro. Bro,” Jacque LaRoque cannot seem to contain himself. “Zis new Justin Bieber album is straight fire! ‘Ave you ‘eard zis, big bro?”

Broque scoffs. He continues to prepare the coffee. But that’s not the point so he turns his brother, shaking his head and waving his hands.

“What are you doing?” more head shaking, hand waving. “You are listening to ze Biebers when you know we ‘ave soooo much work to do when zis guy wakes up?”

Broque’s brother doesn't even look up from his phone. There’s a silence in the air that suggests he should. He doesn’t though.

“Like what?” Jacque says with an alarmingly long delay.

From behind Broque spins Greg Davis, preparing waffles, eggs, and bacon. He uses his rubber spatula as a pointer towards Crash, sleeping like a little shit in his room.

“One, we gotta sober him up,” the Ego barks. “Two, we gotta figure out what he’s gonna do next and, more importantly…”

Greg locks eyes with both LaRoque boys right now because it’s about to be the most important conversation he recalls having with them in his life. They both recognize that. Jacque removes his ass from the couch and steps to the kitchen.

“Figure out if we can let him do it,” his tone is honest as a pause from Greg follows. “He’s a kicked dog right now. He’s gonna find somethin’ to bite.”

Broque nods because he knows that tone as they both turn to Jacque. He shrugs. Nobody says anything. Greg resumes his duties as breakfast provider, glad they could hear his honest words.

“What ze ‘ell does zat mean?” Jacque still can’t get it to click.

“We ‘ave to watch out for Crash, man,” Jacque slaps his brother’s shoulder. “Keep ‘im from biting at ze wrong people, bro.”

Jacque’s eyebrows bounce as his face shows understanding. He nods with agreement. Greg flashes a smirk, barely turning his head away from his eggs. Jacque nods, thinking about what he can do to help, as he returns to the couch.

🌭

Greg turns, dusts his hands off in a very Dad-like fashion, and spreads his arms.

“Soup’s on,” he grins.

Jacque and Broque set their sights on the feast in front of them. In a swoosh, Violent Purple’s door opens and she speeds into the kitchen like a nightmare. She snags a plate in a whoosh before piling more than her share of each dish. She saddles up to the counter both Jacque and Broque lean on before grabbing the pot of hot coffee and pouring it all over her plate.

“What in ze fu-” Broque turns to Greg, who holds up his finger.

“Relax kid,” as they all watch VP devour her hot liquid infused breakfast. “At least she’s eating…”

She’s done in what might say two seconds but, more accurately, it’s like 33 seconds for four strips of bacon, two waffles, and two scrambled eggs covered in hot coffee.

Greg takes a deep breath in, “And hopefully gettin’ some liquids.”

Our struggling Hero’s door finally opens. He steps out in gym shorts and nothing else. He takes short strides full of fatigue directly to the coffee pot. VP snarls, sure she’ll need more and unsure if he’ll take too much. He waits. Her snarl decreases. His grabs a mug.

“Smells good, old man,” the Northern Light says as he pours his cuppa joe.

He turns to face Greg. He nods and lowers his eyes. They both know that’s in reference to the night - or morning - before. Greg doesn’t grin back but makes sure Jason knows it wasn’t okay.

Disappearing is not okay.

Crash nods. He gets it. He knows it wasn’t his best moment. He knows it was much needed though. As fate has it, Broque presents a plate of breakfast for Crash and offers it to him. He takes his coffee and breakfast to the counter. VP snarls, with somewhat kindness, before grabbing her soggy waffles and running into her room. Familiar with the reaction, Crash dives into his plate and hooves it down in similar fashion to the female mute in their tribe. Twenty nine seconds go by and that shit is gone. He grabs his coffee and heads to the window, admiring the sun and Lexington in the daylight.

VP sneaks out of her room to indulge herself. She leg sweeps Jacque and punches him twice in the ribs with the hilt of her Lego knife. Her eyes express revenge for the earlier judgement. He cowers and points at Broque.

Tears start to well in Jacque’s eyes, “That was him!”

VP turns. Her sights set on long term payback. Broque and Greg grab one another. She slowly backs into her room before slamming the door. Everyone aside from Crash tries to figure out what just happened. New York’s Finest has different ideas. Jacque is the one to notice.

“You good, bro?” Jacque’s tone is timid.

Crash doesn’t turn away from the sun. shining so bright, only to set in the next few hours. The way he has. The way his life has. The star he wanted to be but has become a shadow of.

“No, bro…” he shakes his head. “Not good at fuckin’ all.”

Fred took Bash. 

Mindwashed him. 

VP still is a feral beast. 

Unpredictable. 

Might be my worst enemy or my best friend kinda thing. 

I’m not good, bro.

“Let’s go do somethin’ good,” Crash sips his coffee. “Spread some love.”

Jacque and Broque are curious. Greg takes off his apron. They all just look out the windows to whatever has inspired Crash. There’s a moment of silence as The Ego moves to Crash’s side. He smiles at the junior grappler.

“I’m not feelin’ bein’ mad today.”

🌭

In the rental, Crash sits in the rear passenger seat next to Greg Davis. The LaRoque boys fill the front seats. Crash jumps forward and presses his grip into his driver’s shoulder.

“Here, here,” Crash whispers for some reason. “He’s usually right… heeere…”

A dude emerges from under the newspaper stand and approaches the car. Broque rolls his window up as Crash lowers his. The panhandler doesn't stand up.

“Any change to spare?” he beckons in a low, broken voice.

“I’ve got somethin’ better, bro,” Crash opens his bag of very hot and very doggy hotdogs “You allergic to onions?”

The panhandler goes nuts. He looks at Crash. The Northern Light nods, implying true generosity.

Take as many as you want, big guy.

He grabs six and turns to Crash with swelling eyes.

“Thank you, mister.”

The sentiment is shared. Then they both hear the sound of coins hitting the sidewalk. They spot a dude wearing really short shorts and a Ralph Lauren polo with the collar popped fumbling around with the panhandler’s hat. He rushes back to try and defend his property.

“Please,” his tone changes from the grateful one Crash heard into a sad one begging for mercy. “It’s all I got!”

The Young Wildcat turns to his boys, laughs like a dick, and turns back to mister panhandler man. He takes a scoop of change off the ground and throws it in the grass next to them.

“This is my change, loser!” his tone is violent and, at the same, ignorant.

Still holding his gifts from Crash, the panhandler reaches for the quarters. That gives the douche a chance to slap them out of his arms. The man falls to his knees, unsure what he did to deserve this hatred, before he hears the slamming of a car door.

“Goddamnit,” Greg barks when he notices Crash is out of the car.

His footsteps are loud, “Hey fuckface.”

Polo Boy is the prime target of months of unfiltered pain. He locks onto Crash and backpedals. Sad to say he’s not quick enough.

“No man I ju-” he gets grabbed by his shirt, pulled into a straight fist and then two more for good fucking measure.

“You want some change, motherfucker?” Crash blasts two more straight rights across this little pissant’s right side before back handing him across the left. “Here’s my two fuckin’ cents, brohio!”

Broque is the first to restrain Crash. Greg is the next. They drag him away from what is turning into a crowd. Crash finally loses his visions of red and looks at them both as they push him into the back seat and speed away. He notices the spray pattern of blood on his fists and arms. Then his shirt. Greg presses his hand on Crash’s shoulder.

“We’re gonna need that, kid.”

Crash turns to the window, unsure what to think about himself other than he’s gonna have to step over the lines.

Again.

He fades into darkness as the street lights zoom by.

The road ahead is long.