El Baile del Boleto Plateado de Puños y Escaleras

The sun beams down above Mexico City to the rhythmic sounds of water splashing. Taking advantage of the outdoor pool, the HOTDOGterouge seemingly have the joint to themselves as Crash gets ready for his chance at the Silver Ticket at Culture Shock. His win at ReVival 83 seemingly put him back in the mix of the best up-and-coming names in PRIME. That’s probably why he’s ripping off laps like he’s going for the world record, cutting up and down the length of the pool surprisingly quick for a stocky guy his size, as Violent Purple watches from atop the lifeguard chair holding the red buoy Hasselhoff tool like a spear.

“Take a break, kid,” Greg cuts himself off, raising his fifth Mai Tai to his lips. “Relax a little bit.”

Crash pulls up to the edge, breathing mildly heavy, and spits out pool water on the concrete.

“Not here… to relax, papi…” okay he is actually breathing quite heavily. “You know what this means, right?”

“Zat Crash ‘as ze chance to finally get ze win he deserves at Culture J’ock for ze silvair tickeeet!” Broque LaRoque pumps his fist in the air emphatically. Jacque lowers his head, embarrassed his brother. Greg just eyeballs the big Canadian.

“Not so fast, big guy,” the Northern Light’s tone is full of focus and humility. “Lots of pieces on the board in this one.”

Greg nods, noticing a different look in Jason’s gaze; “Glad you noticed.”

“Noticed?” Crash pushes away from the side, treading water slowly, but maintaining eye contact with Greg. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but this is exactly the kind of match that can change everything.”

Greg and Crash recognize that they both know exactly how much this means. Simply being on Night Two of Culture Shock is huge for the young buck and a win would mean so much more. Broque cracks open a Corona, passing it to Jacque, before doing so again. He waves the bottle around like a pointer laser.

“You got zis, mon amis,” he takes a sip, pressing the fresh lime down with his nose first. “Zese o’zer seven… I don’t zee much in your way.”

Crash hears the words but doesn’t buy in. The thought of unknowns and newcomers in the desperation of a ladder match for a chance at a title shot in PRIME is enough to make the field as dangerous as they come. Established names like Ares and Freeman make it all that more lethal. The lack of scouting reports or knowledge on The D, Keith Castle, Kris Roswell, or Jack Marley throws strategy out the window. Then there’s the dude who made New York’s Finest have to unleash another side of himself he hasn’t let go in a while, Sport. He's in the mix.

Eight people salivating at the chance to earn a chance at PRIME glory. The easiest way to get the people on their feet and blood flowing at the start of PRIME’s first Supercard of the year.

“Gotta climb a ladder, right?” Jason’s eyes dart to Jacque. “Hit me with two, Big J!”

On cue, Jacque picks up a pizza delivery bag and rip the velcro open, revealing it being packed like a machine gun clip with hotdogs. He backhand tosses them at Crash a la Rey Ordonez turning a double play. Crash catches one in each hand, continuing to tread water, holding the pair of doggies over head.

“Keep ‘em up!” Jacque barks. “Higher, bro!”

Greg waves the waiter over for another drink, shaking his head.

And chomp and chew and chew and chomp and up and down and chomp and chew.

Crash rips chomp after chomp off, chewing and treading ferociously. Greg waves his hands at the LaRoques, pleading for them to put and end to this. He gets no help as they cheer their Hero on.

“Do not eat those, didn’t anyone ever teach you that?” He presses the bridge of his nose before taking a long pull off his drink.

Crash raises his hotdogs up higher, pulling a chomp off each one before raising them up to touch the sun. He looks back to VP before winking. That’s also when his eyes go wide and he begins to float on his back. Greg chuckles.

“Fuckin’ told ya, dummy,” he drinks again.

Jacque and Broque leap to their feet. They shoot each other ‘But I don’t know how to swim!’ look before looking back at Crash, floating and choking on those stupid hotdogs. The sound of flesh on foam draws everyone’s attention to the lifeguard chair. WHOOSH VP reacts, sending that red buoy thing like an IMBD missile into Crash’s stomach before leaping into the air, landing with both knees on his chest.  WHAPPPP The impact sends that lodged bit of meat tube into the air and Crash into the water. He comes up flailing but alive and most parties are relieved. Greg just looks on, unsure of what he just saw, and waits to throw in some smart ass remark. VP drags Crash to the edge of the pool as he catches his breath. She shoots Jacque that look your Mom gives you when she is about to slap you with a JC Penny catalogue.

“Told ya,” Greg shrugs off the close-to-death encounter and polishes off his Mai Tai. “But hey, what do I know?”

His words go unnoticed as VP runs her hand through Crash’s luscious, red mane with concern. Her other hand holds his face, checking him to ensure he’s okay. They share a moment of thanks, fear, and kindness. Then she dunks his head under water to emphasize that, should he do anything to scare her like that ever again, she’ll finish the job herself. He comes back up, clawing for a grip on land, before spitting out more pool water and smiles.

“All good, everyone,” he says before looking at Purps. “Kinda bit off more than I could chew there.”

That draws another chuckle from The Ego, knowing damn well that has multiple meanings for his young student heading into Culture Shock. Crash notices the tone of the chuckle. It’s more of a scoff than chuckle, he thinks, and crosses his arms on the edge of the pool.

“Look where I am, man,” Crash locks eyes with Greg. “I’m in the fuckin’ deep end, again, bro.”

I mean, literally, that’s where he is. He nearly drowned in it. Literally. So as Greg looks around, he’s not sure if this is a bit or this has a point to it, and holds his tongue to see what comes out of Crash’s mouth next.

“But you guys, all of you,” the Hot Dog Hero makes meaningful eye contact with every member of the DOGterouge. “You help keep me above water. Washed away, drowned out, and fucked up… you’re the ones who helped me get here.”

This moment draws an exchange of looks from the group’s secondary players. Jacque and Broque bump fists before looking at Greg. He can’t help how helpful he’s been other than an ear and voice to lend to the cause. They all look to VP, who snarls at all of them and each of them simultaneously, until she hides her teeth when she looks back to Crash.

“So, no,” his words hold a hard tone. “I’m not gonna take it easy, or relax, or be careful.”

He takes a deep breath through his nose before pressing himself out of the water.

Naked, yet again.

Jacque and Broque spin their heads with a groan. Greg, ready for this, whips a towel in his general direction. He’s been waiting for it because, since they’ve been in Mexico, it’s kinda been Crash’s thing - being naked - and quite frankly, he’s sick of it being put in his face. Crash looks down at VP, wearing a coy grin.

The Northern Light poses for them to take it all in before wrapping up out of courtesy. He lends a hand to pull VP out of the water before shooting his mentor a look that says one thing. The look that says that, ready or not, two things are true.

Crash is going to Culture Shock and he sure as hell isn’t afraid. 🌭 Probably the biggest moment of my life, right here.

KK.

Max.

Bruh.

The entire Red Army.

I could list ‘em all, y’all.

Won’t change the fact that I’ve been closer than a Silver Ticket and come up short every time.

But guess what?

I’m still here, gang.

You can only lose when you give up, somebody once told me.

That's why I'm here, homies.

Because I haven't given up yet and I damn sure won't do it on the big stage.

It's not two on two or even four on four. 

It's me against the other seven animals, ready to give everything they have in the tank, just to get a shot at PRIME history.

That’s my kind of party.

The toughest match Culture Shock has to offer is exactly where I need to be, bro.

Know that I’m not gonna let this chance go to shit.

I'll be there, ready for the fight.

Locked in.

Fists ready for la fiesta. 🌭 With such a resounding opportunity ahead of him, it’s no wonder why New York’s Finest can’t catch a wink of sleep. And yes, he’s very naked again, because he’s been the only one awake for the past three hours. It’s approaching 5AM and Mexico City doesn’t give a fuck. They’re up and he’s up. But they’re both feeling very alive. Crash looks down at the lengthy amount of his joint he has left before he can think about going to bed again and smiles.

Gonna get right tonight, papi.

As the Hot Dog Hero takes a drag, movement from behind comes up quickly and in a rush, causing him to start coughing his brains out. A pen is pushed to his jugular vein as he raises his hands, defenseless. His assailant draws into view before it’s just VP being vigilant. Crash lets out a deep sigh of relief. She withdraws her weapon of the moment.

“Dios mi, mami,” his bad Spanglish is cute but almost offensive. “You scared the ketchup out of me.”

He’s also very, very high.

So it’s no wonder that he’s standing on the balcony, buttnaked and getting baked. He looks at her with a wide smile. But she can see right through it. She can see the fear in his eyes. What she doesn’t get is why he’s afraid. That’s when she grabs his free hand and intertwines her fingers with his, drawing his attention away from the joint and to her.

For a solid ten seconds, Crash and Violent Purple share eye contact they have only twice done before. In jail, only a few days ago, and in Belarus. It’s a painfully honest, raw look that doesn’t go away. It’s the kind that lasts forever. And has lasted forever, for that matter. Crash rips his eyes away before they swell up, pulling off the joint one more time and posturing his elbows on the balcony rail. Butt glistening in the moonlight.

“Can I tell you somethin’, Purps?” his voice is shallow, almost shameful. “The reason why I’m here today?”

Violent Purple nestles back into the chair nearby, unsure if she’s ready to hear his dark secrets. Does it involve Winter’s Port? Has she been played a fool? Her fingers run across the scars on the back of her arms, watching Crash with precision.

“When I was eighteen… I had a dog,” his tone becomes muffled, raspy. “Her name… was Disco.”

VP watches Crash’s posture drop. He smiles, fighting tears, before he deflects his gaze to look across the city.

“I didn’t have friends. I had my Dad but, no friends,” his words seem to be pushed out, against his will. “But I had Disco.”

“So, anyways, I got into high school and got into a lot of fights…” he looks back at VP. “And I didn’t lose ‘em.”

Crash takes a pause, wondering if he did the right things back then and swallows the fact that he won’t ever know. He only knows what happened next.

“Then one of the kids I got into a fight with jumped me outside of my house, walking Disco,” his eyes dropped to the floor. “And they took her.”

Violent Purple’s not sure how to interpret this yet. Her eyes bounce from Crash to the nearest weapon, a lighter, but reserves herself. Crash shrugs.

“So when I went home with a broken jaw, ribs, and whatever the hell else, I went to my Dad,” Crash stops before looking back at VP. “You know what he told me?”

The lack of vocal response was expected. That makes Crash laugh a touch before remembering the actual words his Dad told him that day. His eyes float away.

Buffalo Summer of 2014

“Holy Jim Kelly!” his Dad rushed to the door to meet his son. “What happened?”

The cut on his forehead was enough to show he’d been in a fight. Holding his ribs certainly wasn't enough to sell that he was okay. Jason Jackson Sr. rushed his son into the kitchen in front of the ice box, handing him bags of frozen peas and corn to apply the proper areas. Jason’s father finally notices the gash under his son’s eye. He presses the closest towel he can find in reach to slow the bleeding.

His eyes bounce from one impact point to the next before he lands on the eye with the ruptured blood vessels. He groans, gripping Jason Jr.’s shoulder, soft yet stern.

“Dad…” he says with labored breaths. “Disco…”

All hell breaks loose when Mom comes into the picture, holding the landline phone and shrieks. She waves her hands in disapproval, spinning her shoulders to block any sounds from the kitchen into the phone.

“No, darling,” her fake voice comes out. “That’s not something Junior would do. This has to be some misunderstanding, dear!”

Dad presses the peas onto Jason’s forehead as his son grips the frozen corn bag against his ribs. That’s when the two share a look of understanding. Not full understanding but the kind where you know why you look the way you look and just did something you had to do. There’s a beep before Mom comes into the kitchen again.

“Jason!” her voice is shrill as fuck. “A word in the dining room.”

The eldest Jackson jerks his eyes around, not ready to stop first aid for his boy quite yet. He's met with folded arms and flaring nostrils from his wife. Her eyes grow wider.

“It's not a fucking request,” she spins and exits to the desired meeting place.

His Dad turns back, opens the fridge and grabs another bag to ice the wounds. Watching to make sure she left the room, Jason’s Dad leans in close and makes strong eye contact with his bloodied son

“Go get her back,” his words are sharp, to the point, and draw Junior’s eyes up from the floor.

Jason Sr. nods, handing Jason Jr. another pack of peas to put wherever he needs to while his Dad can buy him some time. Left alone in the kitchen, Jason Jr. can hear every word shared between the two from the other room, despite the whisper yelling his Mom loves to do.

“Why am I on the phone with Nancy Palmetto, Jason?” his Mom’s tone suggests she doesnt know half of the fuck of what’s going on.

She could care less, bro.

Senior laughs sarcastically; “Oh, I don't know, Claire. Maybe to tell you her kid just beat the shit out of our son… again… and then stole Disco?!”

“Disco? Wh- Jason?!” her words prove that the blood, frozen vegetable compresses, and battered image of their son didn't even register on her radar. “I just saw him-”

Her words drop off a cliff of shame. She did in fact just see her boy but she didn't actually see him. Her head was buried so far up her own ass about the other person in the other end of the line that she skipped right past the actual situation.

“That kid has been bullying Jason for years,” his Dad barks while muffling his voice. “And then he does this and takes Disco?!”

There’s a meaningful silence. His Dad lets out a deep grunt. His Mom remains silent. Junior can tell that she's got that look on her face. The kind she wears when she wants everyone to feel bad for her because she forgot to care again. BOOM Both of Jason's parents scramble into the kitchen. Claire finally soaks in the gruesome scene in front of her. Bloody vegetable bags that will surely need to be rinsed before they go back into the freezer. A few towels saturated in blood. The one thing she doesn't see is her boy, just the blood droplets and muddy footprints leading from and, now, towards the front door. She finally shares a look of concern with her husband.

Her concern shifts to caution before her eyes begin to swell; “What did you do?”

“I told him to go get his dog back,” his voice is powerful, stern.

Back to Purps

The Northern Light looks at Violent Purple. He sees what his Dad meant when he said to fight for everything you love. A slight tear drops from her eye, knowing how much she means to him and grabs his hand again.

“That’s the day that made everything clear to me,” Crash lets out a deep sigh. “That the only thing that matters is what’s important… and right now, that’s you.”

That day resonates inside Jason as if it was his first day on the job. It was. His first day doing whatever the fuck it takes to do the right thing and shut the cruel fuckers in this world down. The reason he’s thrown himself into the fire and wants a piece of every nasty ass in PRIME. The reason he wants a fist in every fight he can get in on.

The reason he needs that Silver Ticket.

Then I can really make some noise.

“I’m not the hero you think I am, Purps,” he says, wondering if there’s gonna be that moment where he loses control again. “I snapped that kid's leg like a stick I found in the street. Sent Disco to live on the farm with my cousins. Pretty much left home and haven't given it a second thought to go back except for the occasional visit.”

Because I belong out here. Doing exactly what I'm doin’.

That story allows VP to reflect on where she’s been herself. The people she’s seen. The climate she has come from. The pain she has endured. And then she thinks about where Crash has been through all of that. Either right next to her or doing everything he can to make it safe for her. That’s enough to draw her eyes up to meet his own with a well brewing in himself, unsure if he can forgive himself for crossing the line. Her eyes straighten, pulling him from his own pity party, and they both come back to the point.

VP grips Crash with both hands on his head. She stares deep into his eyes, unflinching and unafraid of what comes next. They're both just here to weather the storm until the skies are clear. The sense that there's a line that can't be crossed is progressively fading out of Jason’s mind. At the end of the day, it's all about tipping the scales of justice in favor of those who deserve it and not the ones who aim to skew it by means of greed, fear, or corruption. So, all in all, that line is there as a suggestion.

It's not a boundary, brochaka.

They press their foreheads together. It's not a neutral link thing. They just maintain eye contact, embracing one another, and both share a moment of understanding. The ultimate understanding that, in this wild ride through the world of PRIME, all they really have is each other.

“I couldn't do this without you,” he says, full of dedication. “I wouldn't want to.”

That’s just the fuckin' starting line. 🌭 At the top of that ladder sits a chance to make this long, hard road worth following.

The pain.

The blood.

The tears.

At the end of the day, we can all crumble to what’s gone wrong.

But what about what’s gone right?

That’s why we’re here.

PRIME.

The one place where a chance at glory can work wonders outside of the ring.

Lessons are learned.

Respect is earned.

In the fire is where the doggies get burned.

I won’t be on the ground when they do this time.

I’ll be climbin’ that ladder until I can’t.

And I’ll take every one of you down if I have to. Time to let the Hot Dog loose.