Post by Lady Munin on Apr 8, 2016 4:13:35 GMT
Press shoved a taco into his mouth from an assortment of cheap Mex-American food on his plate, as Youth watched from across the table with a shake of his head.
“You know, at the rate that you consume those tacos we’re never going to get out of hock.” Youth stated, obviously still irritated with their current lack of funds.
Press shrugged, and took a long swig from the bottle of Bud-Light to his left, before placing it back on the table. “Look, kid. We’ve always made it through tough times before. The money will come from somewhere, if not from an Indy show then a side job for Frank.”
Youth shook his head again at the mention of Frank, a small business owner and local slum lord. He owned several low rent section eight apartments along the outskirts of Las Vegas, a few night clubs and restaurants, including the El Sombrero where they were currently dining. He also owned the garage that Press sometimes lent his talents to for quick cash, and the apartment above the shop where the two currently resided.
They had met Frank one night because of their frequent jaunts to the Sombrero, due mostly to the cheap tacos and two dollar beer specials. He had taken an instant liking to them, seeing the potential for making friends with someone the size of Press. Despite his seedier M.O., Frank was a pretty stand-up guy, and had allowed the two men to take on odd jobs in order to pay their rent every month. He didn’t ask a lot of questions, and mostly respected the men’s privacy. That didn’t mean that every time he contracted one of them to come in and repaint a crummy apartment that Youth got a sick feeling in his gut from the fact that he had probably ejected some poor family onto the street.
The younger of the two men continued to watch Press devour the tacos, trying to figure out how to broach the next subject. Press was firmly against getting back into the wrestling game full time, all because of a point that Youth considered to be minor at best. Johnny Storm, their arch-nemesis for years, owned their wrestling contracts. It didn’t mean that he came after them for any sort of money, quite the contrary, working for Storm almost always meant making money. But it was a major sore spot for Press. Understandably so, considering that it was Storm who ran him over with a limo and led them to the decisions that had stolen four years of their life with the Frayed Ends Of Sanity.
When that whole fiasco was over, Storm felt responsible for the two men, and in a gambit to try and make amends he bought their contracts, giving them a large stipend of cash. Despite what Youth saw as a genuine effort to put the past behind him, Press refused to see it for what it was. He didn’t take the money, and demanded that Storm release them from their obligations.
The problem with men like Johnny Storm is that they’ve never really had to earn anything. Matter of fact, that was one of Storm’s motivating factors in the wrestling industry. When you have that much money it comes with a lot of clout and power, and most people are either kissing your ass in order to get something, or laying down at your feet so that you can walk all over them. Storm had always said that wrestling was the one place that it didn’t matter how much money he had, or who he could by. The contest, the war, between men for supremacy in this game had to be earned. He had told Time Magazine one time that being one of the richest men in the world came with a lot of loneliness, and he couldn’t trust anyone to be a true friend without an ulterior objective. That’s why wrestling was a perfect fit for him. His opponents were his best friends, and all he had to do to get their attention is wrap a steel chair around their heads.
So instead of releasing The Bombtrax from their Storm Corp. contracts, he enforced them so that anytime the two men joined an organization, or got a job on a syndicated program, they would be beholden to Storm’s influence. They were assets, and Press despised it.
Youth, on the other hand, was more optimistic. Had seen everything as an opportunity. Storm, in the most annoying and dastardly way possible, really was trying to make up for past deeds, and like with anything else in his life, wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He was stubborn like that, almost as stubborn as his partner, who had decided with the closing of SIN Wrestling that the two of them wouldn’t ever work for another syndicated product again. The only reason that they still did the independents was because he knew that Storm wouldn’t pay any attention to small potatoes, and that fact had kept the man out of their lives for nearly eight years.
Youth leaned forward in his seat, reaching back for the folded up paper sticking out of his back pocket. When he placed it upon the center of the table, Press looked up from his banquet and gave a quizzical look. “What’s that?”
“Check it out.” Youth replied coolly.
Press eyed his partner for a moment while wiping his hands on the sides of his pants leg. He had known the young man for a long time, damn near fifteen plus years, and knew when he was about to see something he wasn’t going to be keen on. He reached for the paper and unfolded it to reveal a flier for a wrestling show in Chinle, Arizona. “The fuck is this?”
The question apparently didn’t require a ‘what’ for Youth to understand, and he leaned forward conspiratorially, ready to launch into what he knew would be a downhill argument. “Listen man, you can see what it is. It’s an opportunity. An opportunity for us to make some much needed cash, and just maybe bring some relevancy back to our name so we can garner even better opportunities. It’s our way back in.”
Press was already shaking his head, but before he could make the first negative retort, Youth brought his fist down on the table rattling the plates and the beer. “Listen man, I’m fucking done! I turned twenty-nine in august, and you’re thirty-five. We’re two grown ass men living in a shit two bedroom shack above a crummy garage with nothing to show for our years in this world. I have no money, no girlfriend. No life outside of what we’ve been doing for the past ten years. Something has got to change, and it’s got to happen now, or this whole ride is over.”
The Big man sat there dumb struck, not really sure what to say. He sputtered the first thing that came to mind. “What about the mission?”
Youth’s reply came a lot quicker, fueled by emotions that he had obviously been carrying around for some time. “What mission? When we wrestled our last match for SIN way back in 2007 we meandered here and there before finally settling on Las Vegas. You said it was because this town was a hot bed of Supernatural activity, but the reality is, we didn’t have anywhere else to go. We settled into this place, met Frank, and got complacent. Sure, we’ve killed a lot of baddies, sent them back to hell, but for what? Are you going to sit there and tell me we’ve even put a dent in the demon population around these parts? Well, are you?”
Press leaned forward then, bumping into the table with his stomach, anger building in his throat. “What would you have had us do? Huh? I didn’t want SIN to die, but it did. Our meal ticket was up, and I had to do something, since I’m the only one around here who seems capable of making any fucking decisions. So yeah, we settled down, because if we had went anywhere else Johnny Storm would have been breathing down our necks, and I’m not doing that again. Ever. As for the demons of this city, what the fuck do you want me to say? We’re out numbered here, kid. We’re outnumbered everywhere we go. Evil doesn’t need rest, and it doesn’t play by a fair rulebook. The deck was stacked against us the minute we accepted the gig, but them’s the breaks. We’ve saved people, helped people, and I’m not sorry for that. I am sorry if you’re need for a day spa has clouded you’re judgment so much that you can’t see that any-fuckin’-more.”
Youth’s anger was boiling over now, as he came up to his feet, hovering over the table. “That has nothing to do with it, asshole. Do the fucking math? Do you think we’re going to be able to keep wrestling in our fifties, which is a lot closer now than it was before? For that matter, what about the Mission? Or is it that romantic notion you’ve been living with since Tammy left that we aren’t going to live that long?”
At the mention of Tammy a vengeful grimace came over Press’ face, and he stood now, looming over the smaller Youth in a way that would have intimidated most men. Youth, however, didn’t relent, and his rant continued. “I mean, our odds were never that good in either profession, and we’ve made due so far, but we’re not kids anymore. You’re right, you are the one who’s made all of the decisions, and I followed right along because of a precedent that was created way back when. Shit, I was eighteen. You were older than me, and used to be a lot of fun. I looked up to you because you seemed to have it all figured out. And you know what…I’m not even blaming you, dude. A lot of the shit we’ve been through was just wrong place, wrong time, but you don’t own a fucking monopoly on loss, and I’m done watching you mope around here like you’re waiting to die.”
That last comment put the Big man back down in his seat in silence, and Youth spun towards the exit, power walking before shoving open the door. It wasn’t the first time they had had this argument, but it had been long enough that Press had hoped that it was forgotten. Apparently not. It wasn’t that he wanted to die, or was waiting to die, but more along the notion that he had forgotten how to live. There was nothing normal about either business that he had chosen for himself, and more often than not he spent just as much time processing what he had seen as he did trying to figure out his next move. He rarely stopped to consider how that might appear to his friend and tag partner.
There was no doubt that things had gotten away from him. Tammy’s decision to remain apart of Redemption’s retinue had been ten years ago, and that didn’t change the fact that it still bothered him. Maybe all that they had done in the service of Redemption had been the will of God, but it didn’t change how he felt about it. Some of those things had been really horrible. Things that would keep you up at night, leave you feeling empty inside. He had bottled that anxiety up, thrown it into the vault of his subconscious, and threw away the key. Hell, he could go months now without even thinking about Tammy, but he knew deep down that he’d never be able to escape it. And that brought about the biggest question of all……….Had he given up?
******************
Youth wandered the Vegas strip for about an hour, hands shoved deep into his leather jacket, a furrow across his brow indicating deep thought. He had regretted invoking Tammy’s name the instant it had shot from his mouth, but it was about the only way he knew how to drive a space into the Big man’s defenses long enough to make his point. He also knew that no matter how vehemently he had pronounced that he was ‘done’ that that wouldn’t be the case. Press was the only family he had on this earth, and he wouldn’t leave him alone to his own devices.
That didn’t change the fact that he was worried, and the concerns he had spat tonight were valid. Their money situation wasn’t going to change on the continued course. What was worse, is that it would probably begin to heavily dip into the negative soon. Owing Frank a few hundred dollars was one thing, but if they were ever into him for thousands, it would be worse than with Johnny Storm. Storm just wanted them to wrestle and make money, not harass low income families because they couldn’t pay rent. He gave pause to ponder the irony of that thought. Two broke, down on their luck enforcers, forcibly evicting other broke, down on their luck people. It made him want to vomit.
He shuddered the feeling back, and took in a long measured breath. He realized that he should probably make his way back to the apartment if they were going to get an early jump on the next day. Frank would probably have an apartment that needed to be painted, or a car that needed fixing, and he didn’t have time to be depressed. Besides, Press was doing a good enough job for the both of them on that front.
After leaving the main strip and walking several blocks in a southern direction, he came to a street that would eventually dump him out at the garage. It was about nine o’clock and the few shops scattered around the area were turning into the night, closing their cages, or pulling down their metal shudders. Several of the owners were wary at first when they saw the lone man approach, but once he entered the street lights, they all smiled and waved. He smirked internally to himself. Press had been right. They had helped people.
The neighborhood was a mixture of Latino’s and Black’s, who, despite having the same troubles, mostly stayed on opposing sides of the street. When they first arrived at the garage, most people didn’t think much of the gringos, but as time would stretch on, crime had went down in that small portion of the city due to their efforts to rid it of the less than savory denizens. Now they were regarded as area heroes, and many of the shop keepers had helped them along the way because of it.
He saw the garage up ahead, and let out a deep sigh before making his way towards the building. The light above the garage was already on, indicating that Press had come back to the apartment earlier. He figured they would have another argument before it was over, but wasn’t sure if there was a point. It was times like these that made him wish that he had made better decisions with his end of the wrestling money.
He approached the stairs leading up to the apartment above, and grudgingly climbed them one by one, each step feeling heavy and weighted. When he reached the landing at the top he hesitated for a moment before finally reaching for the knob, and swinging the door open. As he entered he noticed how quiet the apartment was. No T.V., radio, or movement could be heard. His alert went up immediately as he quietly pushed the door closed, taking care that the latch wouldn’t make a sound. He crept through the kitchen, then into the main living area, and spied the door to Press’ room slightly ajar, the source of the light he had seen from the street.
He made his way for the doorway, tip-toeing over the empty pizza boxes and scattered beer bottles that littered the floor. Just when he was about to reach out for the handle, the door swung open sharply, and Press came through the entry way with a duffle bag slung over his shoulder.
He stopped for a moment, regarding Youth with a quizzical expression, and then shook his head and started for the kitchen. Panic set in on Youth, not sure what to make of his partners silence, or the duffle bag in his possession. Surely he wasn’t just going to leave without saying anything. That wasn’t Press’ style, but then again, maybe he had pushed the envelope by bringing up Tammy.
Press stopped in the kitchen doorway, and stood there for a moment, prolonging the silence. Then, he looked over his shoulder without fully turning around, and in a quiet voice said, “I’m only going to say this once, so savor it now. You were right. About a lot of it. But just because I don’t know what direction we need to be moving in doesn’t mean that I’m just waiting to die. I have become complacent here. Routine is something that you and I never had in the past, and it was easier. Maybe that’s just not our lot in life, ‘to have it easy’. I’m still pretty anxious about getting back into a regular gig, because I can damn near guarantee that somehow, someway, it’s going to bite us in the ass. But we gotta do something, and wrestling is what we do. So if you want to check out this Evolution Wrestling, pack a bag, and meet me downstairs at the car in fifteen.” With that he strode through the kitchen and out the door.
Youth stood there, stunned. He hadn’t expected that. Press wasn’t the type to say he was sorry, and now that he thought about it, he hadn’t really said it then. But that was as close to an admission of wrong as he had ever heard out of his partner, and I’ll be damned if he wasn't going to go and see what happened next. He quickly made for his room, turning his closet into a whirlwind of shirts, boots, and jeans. Once he had the mess all piled on the bed, he grabbed his own duffle from the corner, and began unceremoniously shoving articles of clothing past the zipper.
By the time he made it to the front door, shut all the lights, and turned the lock, he could hear the Pontiac roaring to life below him. He took the steps two at a time before swinging around the corner and spying the Tempest with Press in the driver’s seat, and the passenger’s side door swung open. He tossed his bag in the back seat, hopped into the front seat, and pulled the door closed all in one motion. The car thundered out into the street, and after a few twists and turns they were on the Vegas strip once more, heading east.
Both men had a smile on their face as the car continued down the lit up road, tourists and card sharks milling all about them on either side. A thought struck Youth, and he turned to Press with the question. “How can we afford this trip?”
Press smirked, “After you bolted, I stopped by to see Frank. Told him I needed some spending cash, so he loaned me a thousand bucks at two points a week."
“Oooohhhh,” Youth groaned, bringing his fingers up to massage his temples. “You know what that means don’t you?”
Press’ smirk faded, and a more determined expression replaced it. When he spoke in reply, his voice carried the hint of malice behind it. “Yeah, kid. It means we go down here and we make some business.”
Youth stopped massaging his temples, and looked over at the resolute face of the driver, and a grin spread across his own. He reached down for the dials on the dash, and powered on the factory radio. He rolled the dial, switching through the channels before settling on a classic rock station. The last song was slowly fading out, and the next song cued up, raking out its throaty guitar rhythms. “Crazy Train” by Ozzy Osbourne filled the car, and Youth nodded his head as if it were fate. Cause that’s exactly what this was, a crazy train, and it’s next stop was Chinle, Arizona
“You know, at the rate that you consume those tacos we’re never going to get out of hock.” Youth stated, obviously still irritated with their current lack of funds.
Press shrugged, and took a long swig from the bottle of Bud-Light to his left, before placing it back on the table. “Look, kid. We’ve always made it through tough times before. The money will come from somewhere, if not from an Indy show then a side job for Frank.”
Youth shook his head again at the mention of Frank, a small business owner and local slum lord. He owned several low rent section eight apartments along the outskirts of Las Vegas, a few night clubs and restaurants, including the El Sombrero where they were currently dining. He also owned the garage that Press sometimes lent his talents to for quick cash, and the apartment above the shop where the two currently resided.
They had met Frank one night because of their frequent jaunts to the Sombrero, due mostly to the cheap tacos and two dollar beer specials. He had taken an instant liking to them, seeing the potential for making friends with someone the size of Press. Despite his seedier M.O., Frank was a pretty stand-up guy, and had allowed the two men to take on odd jobs in order to pay their rent every month. He didn’t ask a lot of questions, and mostly respected the men’s privacy. That didn’t mean that every time he contracted one of them to come in and repaint a crummy apartment that Youth got a sick feeling in his gut from the fact that he had probably ejected some poor family onto the street.
The younger of the two men continued to watch Press devour the tacos, trying to figure out how to broach the next subject. Press was firmly against getting back into the wrestling game full time, all because of a point that Youth considered to be minor at best. Johnny Storm, their arch-nemesis for years, owned their wrestling contracts. It didn’t mean that he came after them for any sort of money, quite the contrary, working for Storm almost always meant making money. But it was a major sore spot for Press. Understandably so, considering that it was Storm who ran him over with a limo and led them to the decisions that had stolen four years of their life with the Frayed Ends Of Sanity.
When that whole fiasco was over, Storm felt responsible for the two men, and in a gambit to try and make amends he bought their contracts, giving them a large stipend of cash. Despite what Youth saw as a genuine effort to put the past behind him, Press refused to see it for what it was. He didn’t take the money, and demanded that Storm release them from their obligations.
The problem with men like Johnny Storm is that they’ve never really had to earn anything. Matter of fact, that was one of Storm’s motivating factors in the wrestling industry. When you have that much money it comes with a lot of clout and power, and most people are either kissing your ass in order to get something, or laying down at your feet so that you can walk all over them. Storm had always said that wrestling was the one place that it didn’t matter how much money he had, or who he could by. The contest, the war, between men for supremacy in this game had to be earned. He had told Time Magazine one time that being one of the richest men in the world came with a lot of loneliness, and he couldn’t trust anyone to be a true friend without an ulterior objective. That’s why wrestling was a perfect fit for him. His opponents were his best friends, and all he had to do to get their attention is wrap a steel chair around their heads.
So instead of releasing The Bombtrax from their Storm Corp. contracts, he enforced them so that anytime the two men joined an organization, or got a job on a syndicated program, they would be beholden to Storm’s influence. They were assets, and Press despised it.
Youth, on the other hand, was more optimistic. Had seen everything as an opportunity. Storm, in the most annoying and dastardly way possible, really was trying to make up for past deeds, and like with anything else in his life, wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He was stubborn like that, almost as stubborn as his partner, who had decided with the closing of SIN Wrestling that the two of them wouldn’t ever work for another syndicated product again. The only reason that they still did the independents was because he knew that Storm wouldn’t pay any attention to small potatoes, and that fact had kept the man out of their lives for nearly eight years.
Youth leaned forward in his seat, reaching back for the folded up paper sticking out of his back pocket. When he placed it upon the center of the table, Press looked up from his banquet and gave a quizzical look. “What’s that?”
“Check it out.” Youth replied coolly.
Press eyed his partner for a moment while wiping his hands on the sides of his pants leg. He had known the young man for a long time, damn near fifteen plus years, and knew when he was about to see something he wasn’t going to be keen on. He reached for the paper and unfolded it to reveal a flier for a wrestling show in Chinle, Arizona. “The fuck is this?”
The question apparently didn’t require a ‘what’ for Youth to understand, and he leaned forward conspiratorially, ready to launch into what he knew would be a downhill argument. “Listen man, you can see what it is. It’s an opportunity. An opportunity for us to make some much needed cash, and just maybe bring some relevancy back to our name so we can garner even better opportunities. It’s our way back in.”
Press was already shaking his head, but before he could make the first negative retort, Youth brought his fist down on the table rattling the plates and the beer. “Listen man, I’m fucking done! I turned twenty-nine in august, and you’re thirty-five. We’re two grown ass men living in a shit two bedroom shack above a crummy garage with nothing to show for our years in this world. I have no money, no girlfriend. No life outside of what we’ve been doing for the past ten years. Something has got to change, and it’s got to happen now, or this whole ride is over.”
The Big man sat there dumb struck, not really sure what to say. He sputtered the first thing that came to mind. “What about the mission?”
Youth’s reply came a lot quicker, fueled by emotions that he had obviously been carrying around for some time. “What mission? When we wrestled our last match for SIN way back in 2007 we meandered here and there before finally settling on Las Vegas. You said it was because this town was a hot bed of Supernatural activity, but the reality is, we didn’t have anywhere else to go. We settled into this place, met Frank, and got complacent. Sure, we’ve killed a lot of baddies, sent them back to hell, but for what? Are you going to sit there and tell me we’ve even put a dent in the demon population around these parts? Well, are you?”
Press leaned forward then, bumping into the table with his stomach, anger building in his throat. “What would you have had us do? Huh? I didn’t want SIN to die, but it did. Our meal ticket was up, and I had to do something, since I’m the only one around here who seems capable of making any fucking decisions. So yeah, we settled down, because if we had went anywhere else Johnny Storm would have been breathing down our necks, and I’m not doing that again. Ever. As for the demons of this city, what the fuck do you want me to say? We’re out numbered here, kid. We’re outnumbered everywhere we go. Evil doesn’t need rest, and it doesn’t play by a fair rulebook. The deck was stacked against us the minute we accepted the gig, but them’s the breaks. We’ve saved people, helped people, and I’m not sorry for that. I am sorry if you’re need for a day spa has clouded you’re judgment so much that you can’t see that any-fuckin’-more.”
Youth’s anger was boiling over now, as he came up to his feet, hovering over the table. “That has nothing to do with it, asshole. Do the fucking math? Do you think we’re going to be able to keep wrestling in our fifties, which is a lot closer now than it was before? For that matter, what about the Mission? Or is it that romantic notion you’ve been living with since Tammy left that we aren’t going to live that long?”
At the mention of Tammy a vengeful grimace came over Press’ face, and he stood now, looming over the smaller Youth in a way that would have intimidated most men. Youth, however, didn’t relent, and his rant continued. “I mean, our odds were never that good in either profession, and we’ve made due so far, but we’re not kids anymore. You’re right, you are the one who’s made all of the decisions, and I followed right along because of a precedent that was created way back when. Shit, I was eighteen. You were older than me, and used to be a lot of fun. I looked up to you because you seemed to have it all figured out. And you know what…I’m not even blaming you, dude. A lot of the shit we’ve been through was just wrong place, wrong time, but you don’t own a fucking monopoly on loss, and I’m done watching you mope around here like you’re waiting to die.”
That last comment put the Big man back down in his seat in silence, and Youth spun towards the exit, power walking before shoving open the door. It wasn’t the first time they had had this argument, but it had been long enough that Press had hoped that it was forgotten. Apparently not. It wasn’t that he wanted to die, or was waiting to die, but more along the notion that he had forgotten how to live. There was nothing normal about either business that he had chosen for himself, and more often than not he spent just as much time processing what he had seen as he did trying to figure out his next move. He rarely stopped to consider how that might appear to his friend and tag partner.
There was no doubt that things had gotten away from him. Tammy’s decision to remain apart of Redemption’s retinue had been ten years ago, and that didn’t change the fact that it still bothered him. Maybe all that they had done in the service of Redemption had been the will of God, but it didn’t change how he felt about it. Some of those things had been really horrible. Things that would keep you up at night, leave you feeling empty inside. He had bottled that anxiety up, thrown it into the vault of his subconscious, and threw away the key. Hell, he could go months now without even thinking about Tammy, but he knew deep down that he’d never be able to escape it. And that brought about the biggest question of all……….Had he given up?
******************
Youth wandered the Vegas strip for about an hour, hands shoved deep into his leather jacket, a furrow across his brow indicating deep thought. He had regretted invoking Tammy’s name the instant it had shot from his mouth, but it was about the only way he knew how to drive a space into the Big man’s defenses long enough to make his point. He also knew that no matter how vehemently he had pronounced that he was ‘done’ that that wouldn’t be the case. Press was the only family he had on this earth, and he wouldn’t leave him alone to his own devices.
That didn’t change the fact that he was worried, and the concerns he had spat tonight were valid. Their money situation wasn’t going to change on the continued course. What was worse, is that it would probably begin to heavily dip into the negative soon. Owing Frank a few hundred dollars was one thing, but if they were ever into him for thousands, it would be worse than with Johnny Storm. Storm just wanted them to wrestle and make money, not harass low income families because they couldn’t pay rent. He gave pause to ponder the irony of that thought. Two broke, down on their luck enforcers, forcibly evicting other broke, down on their luck people. It made him want to vomit.
He shuddered the feeling back, and took in a long measured breath. He realized that he should probably make his way back to the apartment if they were going to get an early jump on the next day. Frank would probably have an apartment that needed to be painted, or a car that needed fixing, and he didn’t have time to be depressed. Besides, Press was doing a good enough job for the both of them on that front.
After leaving the main strip and walking several blocks in a southern direction, he came to a street that would eventually dump him out at the garage. It was about nine o’clock and the few shops scattered around the area were turning into the night, closing their cages, or pulling down their metal shudders. Several of the owners were wary at first when they saw the lone man approach, but once he entered the street lights, they all smiled and waved. He smirked internally to himself. Press had been right. They had helped people.
The neighborhood was a mixture of Latino’s and Black’s, who, despite having the same troubles, mostly stayed on opposing sides of the street. When they first arrived at the garage, most people didn’t think much of the gringos, but as time would stretch on, crime had went down in that small portion of the city due to their efforts to rid it of the less than savory denizens. Now they were regarded as area heroes, and many of the shop keepers had helped them along the way because of it.
He saw the garage up ahead, and let out a deep sigh before making his way towards the building. The light above the garage was already on, indicating that Press had come back to the apartment earlier. He figured they would have another argument before it was over, but wasn’t sure if there was a point. It was times like these that made him wish that he had made better decisions with his end of the wrestling money.
He approached the stairs leading up to the apartment above, and grudgingly climbed them one by one, each step feeling heavy and weighted. When he reached the landing at the top he hesitated for a moment before finally reaching for the knob, and swinging the door open. As he entered he noticed how quiet the apartment was. No T.V., radio, or movement could be heard. His alert went up immediately as he quietly pushed the door closed, taking care that the latch wouldn’t make a sound. He crept through the kitchen, then into the main living area, and spied the door to Press’ room slightly ajar, the source of the light he had seen from the street.
He made his way for the doorway, tip-toeing over the empty pizza boxes and scattered beer bottles that littered the floor. Just when he was about to reach out for the handle, the door swung open sharply, and Press came through the entry way with a duffle bag slung over his shoulder.
He stopped for a moment, regarding Youth with a quizzical expression, and then shook his head and started for the kitchen. Panic set in on Youth, not sure what to make of his partners silence, or the duffle bag in his possession. Surely he wasn’t just going to leave without saying anything. That wasn’t Press’ style, but then again, maybe he had pushed the envelope by bringing up Tammy.
Press stopped in the kitchen doorway, and stood there for a moment, prolonging the silence. Then, he looked over his shoulder without fully turning around, and in a quiet voice said, “I’m only going to say this once, so savor it now. You were right. About a lot of it. But just because I don’t know what direction we need to be moving in doesn’t mean that I’m just waiting to die. I have become complacent here. Routine is something that you and I never had in the past, and it was easier. Maybe that’s just not our lot in life, ‘to have it easy’. I’m still pretty anxious about getting back into a regular gig, because I can damn near guarantee that somehow, someway, it’s going to bite us in the ass. But we gotta do something, and wrestling is what we do. So if you want to check out this Evolution Wrestling, pack a bag, and meet me downstairs at the car in fifteen.” With that he strode through the kitchen and out the door.
Youth stood there, stunned. He hadn’t expected that. Press wasn’t the type to say he was sorry, and now that he thought about it, he hadn’t really said it then. But that was as close to an admission of wrong as he had ever heard out of his partner, and I’ll be damned if he wasn't going to go and see what happened next. He quickly made for his room, turning his closet into a whirlwind of shirts, boots, and jeans. Once he had the mess all piled on the bed, he grabbed his own duffle from the corner, and began unceremoniously shoving articles of clothing past the zipper.
By the time he made it to the front door, shut all the lights, and turned the lock, he could hear the Pontiac roaring to life below him. He took the steps two at a time before swinging around the corner and spying the Tempest with Press in the driver’s seat, and the passenger’s side door swung open. He tossed his bag in the back seat, hopped into the front seat, and pulled the door closed all in one motion. The car thundered out into the street, and after a few twists and turns they were on the Vegas strip once more, heading east.
Both men had a smile on their face as the car continued down the lit up road, tourists and card sharks milling all about them on either side. A thought struck Youth, and he turned to Press with the question. “How can we afford this trip?”
Press smirked, “After you bolted, I stopped by to see Frank. Told him I needed some spending cash, so he loaned me a thousand bucks at two points a week."
“Oooohhhh,” Youth groaned, bringing his fingers up to massage his temples. “You know what that means don’t you?”
Press’ smirk faded, and a more determined expression replaced it. When he spoke in reply, his voice carried the hint of malice behind it. “Yeah, kid. It means we go down here and we make some business.”
Youth stopped massaging his temples, and looked over at the resolute face of the driver, and a grin spread across his own. He reached down for the dials on the dash, and powered on the factory radio. He rolled the dial, switching through the channels before settling on a classic rock station. The last song was slowly fading out, and the next song cued up, raking out its throaty guitar rhythms. “Crazy Train” by Ozzy Osbourne filled the car, and Youth nodded his head as if it were fate. Cause that’s exactly what this was, a crazy train, and it’s next stop was Chinle, Arizona