Brodown part deux

Raffi Azarian has had enough of this shit. He pushes through the adjoining hotel room doors to find darkness. Drapes, closed. Lights, off. Front door, bolted. Raffi darts to the curtains. Ripping them open, he doesn't even feel bad not turning around as sunlight blasts into the room.

“Crash, we need to get something clear here…”

His eyes scan to the bed. The unkempt comforter, strewn sheets, and pillows without marks causes him to pause. His ears cause him to perk towards the only open door, the bathroom door, and Crash hanging, offering a business-like nod, before he hoists himself upward. Repeatedly.

“Don't slip on the sweat, Brozarian. Doin’ work in here.”

Fuckin’ heavy lifting, bro. That's how some people put it.

Raffi locates his best asset before smiling coyly and raising a finger. The past look of disappointment turns to one of promise as Azarian opens his arms with palms up. It's in that moment that the head of HOTDOGS imagines if Crash is either embracing or neglecting his emotions by this sabbatical to find muscle strength for the Gods.

“I came in to see how you're doing, big bro.”

How I'm doing, brochaco? You can’t see the sweat dripping from my fuckin’ sweat?!

This is the prompt he needs to take a break. To stop killing himself as he tries to bury the pain of losing a woman who he very much grew to love and admire over these past few months. Violent Purple is gone and Crash is empty. His eyes can’t hide it even though his body tries.

“Any word from Purps yet?”

Crash grabs a towel, wiping his face, neck, and upperbody. A small look as if to suggest he's gonna get a different answer than he's gotten the last week washes over his face.

Hope is a dangerous thing, dawg.

He steps towards the open curtains, admiring the view of lovely Lisbon, taking down an entire bottle of water.

“So, what I really want to say my man, is that we’re all very sorry f-”

Crash raises his finger, cutting Raffi off. It’s not in a rude way but in the sense that he doesn’t want to hear right now. He finishes his water before setting his hand on Raffi’s shoulder.

“Yeah, bro. Purps ain’t comin’ back. I’ve got a match against Max. Can I get back to getting ready to shove Kael’s skull into his asshole?”

That would be CRAZY, bro! Like a reverse Fois Gras!

• - - – -

Light.

Dark.

Is there an in between?

If there is, it’s sunset. That’s the moment when you know your day is over… and night is just beginning.

The scary time.

Unless you’re like me.

Not afraid of the dark.

• -

Inside an empty gym, in the middle of the ring, low lights show Crash Jackson show to his feet. His heavy breathing and dripping sweat suggests he's been at this fun for some time. Outside the ring is his new gift, Greg Davis.

“Now… show me what you've got.”

That's not a thing a normal person says.

Crash cocks an eyebrow before shrugging. He runs towards the ropes, bounding off like an acrobat, and checks Greg’s reaction. His new mentor slash coach slash gift slash idol rolls his eyes before folding his arms.

“What was that?”

Guess he doesn't appreciate smooth moves.

“I said Show me what you've got… to beat Max Kael.”

Oooooooooohhhhhhhhhh, brooooo!

“I mean, you saw the rope thing?”

Greg stares at Crash. His eyes narrow, somewhat sure he knows the answer, but it's ready to come down this path. This is when he ascends to the apron of this lobe wrestling ring.

“Look, dude… I have no fuckin’ clue.”

That little kip in our most formidable Hot Dog Love Machine draws Greg in. He grins, again like he's been there before. Resting against the ropes, he allows.Crash to go on.

“All I know he stole this woman… a beautiful woman…. right out from under my fuckin’ nose, bro. He is a murderer, maybe! So what do I got?!”

Greg steps forward. Crash, tears forming, does the same. When the posturing ends, Greg challenges Crash with a stern shove.

Bro!

“I got pounds and pounds of hate for Max!”

Greg continues stalking, shoving his new student again,  more violently. Crash falls before getting his fitting back and firing a look of disdain at the old grappler.

“What the hell is that gonna do?”

A spiteful giggle shows the heartbroken Hot Dog that nobody - especially Max Kael - gives two flying fucks about feelings. Greg lunges forward, gripping Crash by the arm, Irish Whipping him to the ropes. Bracing for impact, he looks up to see his redheaded subject clutching them tight.

“He's been ranked numero uno for almost this entire last year, man. He held that Intense Title for a long, long time, too. What the hell am I supposed to do?”

The Golden One stomps his foot and.slams his fist on his chest. He step at Crash with fire in his eyes.

“Fight, son!”

Crash can’t help but charge Greg with a closed fist. Instead of striking him though, then pirouettes away, sweeping Greg’s legs out from under him and pins him down with a top mount. He raises a fist before raising his other to the ceiling and yelling.

You wanna see a fight!?

• - 

Instead of puttin’ you down like the spoiled meatbag you are one on one, you're bring the brood. I really don't care, I just feel bad for what you're getting them into.

I felt like I could just teach you the lesson.

Now I gotta smoke the whole pack, pal.

This isn’t gonna be like last time.

ReVival 35, you caught me before I was me, evil bro.

I was like… BROOOOOO

Now… I'm like bro, bro.

You know?

• - 

Crash stops his emotionally neglecting behavior to take in the horizon of a sunlit Lisbon. His eyes swell momentarily before turning toward Raffi, expressing his desire to have his main man take a break.

“Please,  come and see my gift. “

Gift? Bro… I don't think a prostitute is gonna go w-

Ready for the bro versus hoes, Crash rounds through into the adjoining room. The sight of aging, golden-blond hair causes the Hot Dog Hero pause. Raffi smiles, with open arms, and looks at the man in the chair.

“Big bro…”

BRO!

“Meet my new wrestling advisor and your new mentor.”

The man spins in his chair but notice Crash going into meltdown mode. His face is weathered but pristine. His smile is wide. His glass? That's empty. Raffi excuses himself with a bow.

The Ego?!

The former wrestler, now just a guy in his early 40s know by many names -the Golden One, the Ego, and simply as Golden - Greg Davis grins at the idea this guy knows him at first glance.

“You wanna win?”

Bro.

Crash is hesitant. He certainly does but also wants Max to feel such pain that he won't cause anyone pain anymore. He also wants to know what a former fWo Cruiserweight champion is doing in his hotel room. The time lapse in his response prompts the man in the chair to nod.

“I've been there, brother. “

I fuckin’ know you have, dawg! Crusader, bro!

New York's Finest darts from the self wallowing mindset toward one of empathy, washing his brain clean. Greg stands with purpose, locking eyes with Crash.

“Let me tell you somethin’ about this life that you have chosen to live.”

Greg turns away from Crash, grabbing a bottle of Jameson and pours a few fingers into two glasses. He turns back, cocks his head from side to side and offers a glass up before Crash grabs on. Greg's grip tightens just before looking Jason directly in the eye.

Oh boy.

“There are people you love that are gonna leave. There are people you like that you’re gonna hate. And regardless of how you answer those bells… there’s only one rule you need to know, son.”

Our resident hotdog connoisseur perks up. He knows of rules, hates them, and usually doesn’t follow them. This guy doesn’t seem like he does either. Crash kicks his leg up over his knee and grins receptively.

“You don’t go down without a fight.”

Well. Fuckin’. A, Greg.

Greg gives Crash a strong clink, nods with the notion that his words come from experience, and tosses a swig back.

He makes perfect sense, bro. But… this sucks. Losing my friend, Max. Losing my girl, Purps. Not craving hot dogs! This is some serious fuckin’ bullshit and I don’t wanna! But… I gotta.

“I imagine you've got the secret to success then, old man?”

The Ego chuckles, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. Greg gives Crash a look that implies should he call him an old man again, he'll slam his fist through his chest just before closing his eyes and leaning back.

“No, kid.”

Greg tosses the rest of his glass down with an audible sound of relaxation. He rests the empty glass on his belly and smiles, remembering when he was coming up in the game.

“That's all you.”

• - - —-

The roar of DOGZILLA - Crash’s custom Hot Dog Oscar Meyer Wiener nightmare mobile - does little to drown out the sound of lava and flame coming from the ten mile high, black castle sitting in front of the Hot Dog Hero. His eyes scan the danger ahead, turning toward the LaRoque’s in the back, and then to Violent Purple in the passenger seat. He grabs he hand.

“Last step.”

VP turns toward Crash with a rare smile. The sound of glass shattering isn’t but a split second before a giant spear flies through her chest and pins her to the seat. The smile fades as blood flows from her mouth. Crash can’t get words out before slamming his foot on the gas and flying up to Kael Castle.

“You!”

The sound of Kael Henchdouchebags bouncing off DOGZILLA is rapid. Crash can’t help but punch on the steering wheel.

“Mother!”

Looking back at VP, dead, and gone, the Northern Light cracks. He rolls his window down, and leaps into the air, flying up to the highest level of Kael Castle that he can reach. Flowing through the castle, he snaps necks and breaks backs to get to the giant, 40-foot door that reads exactly who Crash is looking for.

“FUCKER!”

A kick and boom causes King Kael to rise from his dark throne of skulls. He laughs. He throws his open hands downward, similar to Wolverine drawing his claws.

Two footlong hotdogs fly from the sleeves of Crash’s super sick duster, sending a sick grin over his sweaty face. They're already wearing all the proper condiments for his final boss fight.

“I've always thought of you as Chourico! But you've proven that you're just…”

Crash sprints at Max full speed, full throttle and grips his footies like two majestically magic blades. Max postures himself for battle, ready to eat at least half of one of Crash’s glorious meattubes.

“You're just BOILED COMMIE SAUSAGE!”

New York's finest leaps, rearing back, raises his right hand and baits his nemesis in with his left meat trap. Roaring with fury, his eyes fill with rage as he prepares to cut down this piece of shitty sausage. He flies at Max, who kinda laughs, before

BZZZT

BZZZT

BZZZT

The alarm goes off. It’s 4:55 AM. A few seconds go by before Crash slowly rolls over. He sighs.

Damn, bro. That was just gettin’ good. I bet Purps w-

He turns to the empty pillow before thinking twice. It's heartbreaking every time. Things never even got that far but knowing he’ll never wake up next to Violent Purple feels worse.

Especially when you don't have a say in it.

The focus on his target draws Crash’s eyes abruptly open. He swipes his alarm off on his phone. The devastating fact he won't have anyone special to celebrate with brings a snarl to his early rise as he sits up.

Let’s go to fuckin’ work, bro.

• - 

I don't know if it's somethin’ that would help see the beauty in this business…

Crash takes a few short puffs for efficiency off his joint, gazing over early morning in Lisbon.

I wish Purps could see this, bromeo.

The City of Light comes to life. The old trollies. The layers and layers of city life below. Crash knows that he's going to enjoy this day. Not just for himself but, maybe, to spread this joy. A smile spreads over his face.

I'm gonna find you, Purps.

That smile grows wider, somehow, as the Northern Light stretches. He flexes his body from left to right, up then down, jumps and then drops before firing off 13 rapid push-ups.

Odd numbers, bro. They're more appetizing.

Mr. Red & Yellow starts-

Hold the fuck up. 

Red?! And yellow?!?!

Hell no, bro!

Mister motherfuckin’ Ketchup and Mustard stands upright, scanning the magical city of Lisbon. It's a second before it sinks in but he’s finally coming to grips with where he is.

PRIME

But, also, a place he never thought he felt he could get. Lisbon. Tropical Turmoil 2024. The one place he was told he'd never get to.

Night fuckin’ Two, dude.

The notion that it might be an occasion to celebrate draws Jason's eyes to drift. They admire the city of Lisbon below, breathtaking as it is, before flashing back to where he grew up. He grabs his phone, swipes around, before clicking on a contact.

DAD

“Hey, bud! How ya doin'!?”

I mean…

The delay is enough to cause alarm. Jason Jr's eyes look for something to deflect from his honest answer. He takes a long drag from his joint before looking down.

“I'm not sure, pops. I'm great…. but real sad.”

It's hard to explain.

“What's up, son? Everything okay?”

He assesses his general surroundings, snarling at the beauty in front of the Nothern Light’s eyes. The amazing Portugese city. The amazing, life-altering match ahead. Partaking in a PRIME PPV Night Two. The good shit is good.

“I'm in Portugal, dad. About to wrestle in the biggest,  toughest match of my life.”

The bad shit? It’s bad, Dad.

A loud cheer and clapping echo over the phone speaker. Crash grins a little but it fades quickly.

“Oh yeah, looking forward to the big showdown! Been planning to tune in.”

“I wanna be pumped to get here. Truth is… I'm fuckin’ sad, dad.”

“Why?”

“I met a girl. Now she's… gone. And my match? It's against somebody I thought was my friend.”

It hurts, Dad.

“Oh, buddy. I know you're going through a lot right now. Best thing to do is go to work and do a great job. That's what matters at the end of the day.”

Even if I have to smash this sucker's face through his neck?

“Wanna talk to Mom?”

Fuck.

“Sure…”

A gap in conversation draws Crash away from losing his grip on his emotions and breaking down to his dad. The only one who's really been able to help him get over tough times.

“Jason! Hello dear.”

“Hey Mom. How's it g-”

“I have friends coming over for your wrestling recital! I just got the final arrangements made with the caterers. It's going to be so exciting!”

“Well, be ready, Mom. He was the top rank wrestler in PRIME for a long time. He was the Intense Champ for 91 days.”

“Oh dear.”

“So I'm not sure how this is all gonna play out.”

“Oh, your father is asking to speak with you, Jason. I love you! Break a leg!”

Her cackle shows how insincere that last comment is. Crash can't help but chuckle, not sure why he ever expects anything different.

“Bud?”

“Hey, Dad.”

There's now a gap on the other end but much longer. The only sound coming from the phone is the fading voices in the background.

“You there?”

“I'm always here. I thought about what you said but… not to sound cold, I think you need to man up.”

Ouch, Pops

“There's always going to be more reasons to not do something than the reasons to do it. I think you have many, very good reasons to do what you need to do.”

That makes too much sense

“Whats the catch there, Dad? Max is… bad, bro. He can't get away with this shit.”

“Just know, whichever choice you make, it's gonna change you. Forever, Jason.”

Looking into the distance for a quick reply, he finds open air. Crash knows he's got no logical response to such a real fact.

Whether I drop to Max's level or take the high road…

“Be sure you're ready to keep movin’ forward.”

Isn't there a better way to say that, man? Now you're sayin’ I gotta be the better man and not rip his tongue through the ears? Come on, bro!

“I'm proud of you either way, son. I hope you get everything you want.”

Okay, now, wait. Is he speaking covertly? Telling me it's cool to drive Max into the depths of Hell but doing it like, in a hands off style?

“I've gotta go. I love you.”

The abrupt end to the call leaves Crash somewhat uncertain if he just got great advice or the worst. Either way…

It was nice to talk to them.

• -

For how you manipulated me. For Purps. For… Couth. For everything, you fuckin’ sick, twisted fuckface.

Truth is…

I know that all of this?

It's my fault.

I thought that the things we were doin’, dawg, were the ticket to success… to main events… and to livin’ a happy fuckin’ life, dude.

You induced me to my first,  like… real love, you ugly horseface evil cupid son of a test tube.

Silly me, my guy.

You’re a massive fuckin’ douchebag devil and I absoolutely cannot explain just how ready I am to wrap my hand around your fuckin’ throat and repeatedly punch you in the nuts.

I wanted to make my parents proud, bro.

Now?

I’m gonna put that shit on pause, bro, because…

I gotta fuckin’... DO THIS

You got what you wanted, bro.  You made me out to be the chump. Sent my girl into the wind… with somebody else’s stack of cash, Max. 

You crewed up, I'm all alone, and now you wanna go toe to toe, bro? Well let's fuckin’ go, Comrade Dragbro.

Now that I’m lookin’ close?

The more I see what you actually do, and say, and pretend to be, it just makes it easier to get ready to bury you. Not once and for all.

For the first time.

And, bro! I fuckin’ hope there's a lot more chances down the line.

We’re just gettin’ started.

You wanna rip true love out of my life?

Fuck you, you sour little fuckberry version of a maniac. You saw that I won VP over. You couldn't stand to see me win her heart, knowing you’ll never come close to somethin’ that real. I’m the better man, man. Even she could see that.

So let me prepare you for what comes next. I'm gonna show the Red Army that you're not an asset. You're a fuckin’ liability. Because now all of you are in my crosshairs and I'm comin’ with a full clip, brosovich.

I've got your scent, Moskovskaya.

I can't fuckin’ stand it.