BRO TIME LIKE NOW PT 2

Alias.

Such a fun word, bro.

I feel like you get one when you reach a certain level of bro, ya know?

Like, my name is Jason Jackson.

But I’m Crash, right?

Not because of who I am.

Because of what I do.

I did it the first time we met and I’m sure it makes you kick Emeralds, dog.

You got one too though, dude. 

The Emerald Apex. 

My Mount Bromanjarro, bro.

We can call each other whatever we want, bromigo.

Fact is names don't matter here. 

Not in Title Country. 

🌭

The city of Boise goes to bed after what will go down as an epic ReVival 51. There's probably a part of the city that will keep the party going but the Hot Dog Hero doesn't seem to have an interest in celebrating. Leaning over the rail of his second floor balcony, he takes a pull off a joint and takes a swig of his beer before standing upright to let out an audibly long exhale as his shoulders dip a bit.

What was that, bro? Not supposed to do that shit…

Two knocks wrap on his door, which is propped open, because Jacque and Broque have been in and out to tell him about the Tweets and the Facebooks. Stuff he doesn't really care for. This time though, it's Raffi, and he's holding two bottles. Crash turns back, noticing the surprise, before nonchalantly looking back into his own thoughts.

“Mind if we come in for a chat, big bro?”

Yeah… I mind everything right now, bro. 

Crash turns to notice Raffi entering with not two, but four bottles of beer. This draws his eyes up with curiosity.

Three for me?

In the background, Greg Davis comes in, holding three beers himself. Raffi looks around, unsure what's about to happen. The Northern Light comes inside, displaying his fresh bucket of hotel ice, and nods at The Ego.

“Open ‘em up or get ‘em on ice, bro.”

Raffi allies, splitting the two between an awkward stare, slams the beers down in ice. Greg cracks his and takes a swig, full eye contact with his student(?).

Fuckin’ guy says FIGHT FOR YOUR LIFE! Brrrooooooooo

“Crash… big bro… we gotta talk.”

Raffi offers a beer to his favorite client with the twist of the top. They clink out of courtesy before both notice Greg is heading towards a seat. Crash scoffs with a smile and shakes his head.

This motherbrother

The Hot Dog Hero turns to the opposite corner of the room. Raffi simply sits down on the corner of the bed. Greg takes a sip of his beer and points the tip to Crash.

HEY SHITBAG

”Looook, look, look buddy… Haaaaang on.”

No. Not at fucking all. That motherfucker just took me ten yards from my mark. He said fight and then I fought and I fuckin’ punted him in the plumbs, son!

What kind of monster… have I become?

“About your last match, big bro…”

Raffi can see that his choice of a seat is clearly in the way of some sort of disagreement between the more wrestler demographic of the room.

I KNOW RAF! I FUCKED UP! I NEVER SHOULD HAVE TAKEN IT OUT ON STEVE, ALRIGHT!?

“You did what you had to do, kid.”

Greg and Crash lock eyes. Greg's are ready for a punch. It never comes as the Northern Light simply turns and takes a draw off his beer.

“Yeah, I work with this old dickhead who gives bad advice.”

Greg rolls his eyes, knowing this kid hasn't felt it. His eyes drift.  Has he? The glimpse of friendship, and love, and loss, such loss glistens over his student’s eyes. He snarls at Dr. Davis.

“This isn’t how this is supposed to play out, bro. Let’s go, yo!”

Before mayhem ensues after such a glorious moment, the Golden One grabs the Heartbroken Hot Dog by the shoulder in what many would see as an act of pity. Truth is, it’s an act of protection. Crash is broken, thanks to Max, and he’s only likely to damage himself further in his unrelenting pursuit of justice. This is where Greg jumps in with a mild slap.

“Back the fuck up, pup.”

But… I’m mad, too… dude.

🌭🌭

Crash takes to the turnbuckle with deep, heavy breaths. As if second nature, he ascends the three levels quickly before standing upright in the middle of a raucous Zenith de Strasbourg.

How the hell did I… get here, bro?

Time slows to an absolute Max Payne level of slow motion. He looks around the arena, which has turned into PRIZEapalooza for the past week, and notices all the small things. The raucous doggie bros in the front row. The FLAMBO diehard coming out in force. The funny way they say RAAHHHHHH. It sounds more like UHHHHRRRAAAAARRRRR, resembling a drunk French lion. Max Kael on the other side of ring but with a million more muscles than normal. Oh right. That's not Max. It's Kerry Kuroyama.

Oh yeah… that's why.

Knowing full well the Emerald Apex isn't his direct target, Crash lets that weird feeling flow where he pretends it actually is Max. A funny feeling flows through his veins, bouncing him off the ropes before he can fight it, and sticks a corkscrew shooting star press with force. The crowd pops. Crash goes blank.

🌭🌭🌭

Greg knows it. He nods at his new student of the real game at hand. The Northern Light spirals out of the grip and grabs a second beer to fill both of his fists, balling in rage. Raffi sees an opportunity to discuss things on his mind.

“Look, big bro. You won tonight. Maybe not what we… were thinking would happen but, a win nonetheless.”

Steve’s poor nuts, bro.

“But, as we all know, PRIME’s bookers are a never sleeping group of sadists, bro.”

Crash gulps down his first beer but in mid-last gulp he hears the words and finally understands them. He spits a little out from the sides of his mouth. Greg grins, swallowing a humble swig and finally takes a seat in the corner.

My punishment…

“You’re gonna wanna sit down, Crash.”

The Northern Light turns back at Greg with a new, unsure look on his face. He snarls but then draws back, trying to see if they’ve found Violent Purple yet. He turns back at Raffi, taking a lean on the desk behind him.

I do what I want, Greg.

“What’s the damage, Raf?”

Crash cracks another bottle and takes the first cold, crisp sip to his lips. Reminiscent of his first kiss with VP. His eyes wander but Raffi is quick to reel him back in.

“They’ve got you against Kerry Kuroyama again, big bro…”

Crash’s eyes narrow and then squint shut. He takes a strong gulp from the beer before sighing just as strong. Greg takes yet another humble swig as Raffi quickly turns back with a sly grin.

Broooooooo! He’s gonna want my head since I beat him last time! They’re prolly not even gonna let it be

“You hear that, kid?”

🌭🌭🌭🌭

The glorious feeling of fresh cut grass under bare feet overwhelms Crash. His eyelids slam shut and he literally reaches for a feeling of absolute bliss with wide arms. A slight breeze makes everything even better.

“I'm sorry I left.”

Crash is brought back to the pain, yet smiling, to hear the softest yet hardest lips speak words to him again. Her fur coat suggests her finances are well kept. Crash just smiles.

“You just broke my heart, Purps. No bigs.”

The sky goes from sunny to mildly scary. She notices and cuts the distance between them, placing her hand on Crash's cheek. He drops his focus to her tender touch but then up to find nothing.

BOOM

Crash scrambles to find Violent Purple. Her smell is Still here. He is on all fours. He jumps at the scent. Its gone. Thunder came in and ripped his heart out.

“You know how to find me…”

Those soft lips let out a fading whisper. One that will keep her champion fighting in her name. He chose her but she may as well have chosen him. Crash stands upright as balloons of rain begin to fall.

“I am…”

Without notice, the ground shakes and a violent fracture splits beneath his feet to drop Crash to a knee, putting a strong fist to the sky, and rises with pride.

“Your champiooooon!”

🌭🌭🌭🌭🌭

Greg and Crash lock eyes in a weird, semblant exchange that an artistic filmmaker would sploosh over. The Ego stands upright, raises his beer, and smiles the proudest he’s smiled since he got on the right plane last time he flew.

The fuck is this? I’m no fool, dude!

“I’m not finishin’ that, man. I see how sloppy you are with your hotdogs. Leavin’ all those savory sauces around…”

Greg sighs a little but knows there’s a payoff coming. Having been the one who wanted to deliver it, he succeeds, and finally looks at Raffi with waiting eyes. He smiles brightly again, knowing this is gonna make this sneaker nerd’s day.

“Hit ‘im, Raf.”

Raffi turns before that sentence finishes. He tiptoes himself into Crash’s focus with wide arms and a broad grin. Crash cocks and eyebrow before stepping back a bit.

Behavior similar to an ecstasy man…

“Crash!”

I’m lookin’ right at you, bro.

“You got an Alias Title shot you fuckin’ moron.”

Raffi’s shoulders slump, missing his chance to be the bearer of bodacious news, before Crash drifts his gaze towards Greg. He nods, raising his beer, before taking a swig. Both of them knowing that this is what Greg is here to do and he just fuckin’ gave Jason Jackson a crash course, as they say, on how to be the real Crash after the fallout with Max.

Fearless.

Then the meaning of the match hits Crash like a heavy stack of flapjacks because he got a brain stab. Not just a rematch against one of the mightiest names in the game but for a chance to be called a PRIME Champion. Something he set out for and then he felt like he was ten fathoms from breaching the surface for this kind of air. Something he knew would take a mountain’s climb to even get a glimpse at the summit. A climb he’s clumb before, bro, in perhaps the greatest single moment of his life.

In France of all places. Whoodda thunk it?

Crash immediately drops his beer on the desk, gets in perfect position to fire off fifty two pushups in honor of this chance to do something he’s always wanted to do. Greg jumps up, Raffi stopping him with a soft palm to his older yet strong chest, and grins. Greg watches as Crash is already at twenty whatever.

You fuckin’ serious, bro?! A chance to dance with the champ for the PRIME Alias Strap!?

“I don’t think we can stop him now, old bro.”

LEEEET’S GOOOOOOOOOOOO

“I really want you to stop calling me that, Raf.”

Raffi jumps, forgetful for a second, and is met with immediate shame. Greg furrows his brow, unsure if this is a medical emergency or just an overreaction. Raffi stops Crash at the apex oif his fourty-fifth pushup.

“You need a wingman though, bro…”

A… whaaaaaaat?

This long stall is too see through to know what’s happening. Crash is rifling through his list of friends and or frenemies able to trust in this type of career-making moment. His eyes bounce from left to right and back then forth. His eyes stop. On one arm, the corner of his mouth kicks up.

“Phone.”

Alright good. He bought it. Who in the fuck can I ask to even help me with this?

Raffi scrambles to find his client’s digital communication device as Greg rolls his eyes and folds his arms. After a few seconds of this impressive stall from the Heartbroken Hot Dog and frantic scrambling from Raffi, Greg snaps his fingers.

I’m just gonna ask Ma

“You can’t ask Max.”

Crash’s eyes lift from the floor target for maximum pushup posture and snarls.

Yeah… or Violent Purple, you fuckin’ fuck.

“Okay! Phone. Who are we texting, my man?”

Who can I ask, amigo? I don’t really have anybody I can trust…

Crash rips off a few more pushups to get to fifty and looks at the ground in a deep deathstare. His fingers fire off a rapid text but is probably badly worded. Theres no immediate response so he knows for a fact that might have been too big of an ask at such a miniscule event, to the recipient.

“They’re probably busy… and stuff.”

The next thought is clearly distracting like a shiny, diamond light in his eye. Crash fires off some more finger swipes and taps before holding a finger of pause. The immediate response signifies that perhaps his second request has been met with heartbreak as well. The Northern Light turns up, unsure of how this is gonna go now, and reflects on his situation ahead.

Unless… I ask for the only person you can trust, son.

“Two more…”

He’s the only one worth askin’ anymore. He’ll keep me straight.

Crash rips two more pushups off, following through with his first goal of this quest to be the best and perhaps the only who gives a fuck about the way PRIME smells on the inside. He grabs his phone from Raffi. His fingers fly around as Greg and Raffi share a moment.

“I think this is my fault. I made him think he doesn’t need anyone else aside from his eight knuckles.”

Difference in fightin’ for your life and fightin’ for the fame.

Raffi chuckles.

“Mine as well, my man. I needed to network him some sort of ally or-”

The vibration of his client’s cell phone stops all thought going on. Crash jumps up, cracking another beer, and holds up his phone.

“He’s in.”

Raffi and Greg look at one another before back at Crash, taking a swig of celebration… or remorse? Either way, he flashes a smile at his phone, clearly texting back.

“Who’s in?”

Raffi can't help but blurt it out. Greg takes a soft swig from his beer, unsure of if he’s going to need to be sober for this next part. The Hot Dog Hero looks up with a wide smile.

“You’re gonna love him.”

🌭🌭🌭🌭🌭🌭

Crash sits back with his cup of coffee on the balcony of his prestigious third floor balcony in the heart of Los Angeles. He’s got a few hours before training, giving him time to light up a joint and take in what’s about to go down in a few days at ReVival 52. The Epic rematch and showdown between Crash and Kerry Kurofuckinyama, bro.

Oh that’s tasty…

The thought of who he wants to talk to runs through his head. He pulls out his phone, tries to do the math in his head for time zone difference and shit, before shrugging and presses the call button.

Haven’t talked to the Folks in a while.

He sets the phone on speaker before resting it on his lap. Crash takes another sip of coffee and looks off into the possibilities the City of Angels has ahead. The phone rings again to remind Crash that not every wish is granted. They’d just be guaranteed at that point. The ringing stops.

“Jason, darling?”

Shit

“Hey Mom! What’s new?”

“It’s him! Oh my, dear. How is your head? Your father told me about it - I was out with the girls - but are you alright my dear?”

Well… this is not what I wanted. Too High, bro.

“I’m fine, Mom. It’s a head injury. It Happens all the time. I won my last match th-”

“Oh thank goodness! I found your father… get out of the shower and speak with your son! I’ve got to get to my luncheon for the amateur women’s golf thing! …”

Nice talking to you too, Ma.

“Junior!?”

“Dad!”

Instinctively Crash jumps to the balls of his feet and springs up, seemingly ready to walk his father through a whole ton of shit as fast as he can. He takes a sip of coffee before pointing his joint out into the skyline of LA.

“Hang on a sec, I was in the shower.”

Well… fuck.

“Alright. Back with ya, kid. What’s goin’ on with your head?”

The tone is real after a quick hello, of sorts. Crash scoffs, shrugs, and takes a puff from the joint.

“Sliiiiight skull fracture… minor brain injury… I feel fine, pops.”

A slow sigh comes from the other end of the line. Crash grins, knowing his dad is not gonna have a very supportive response but is on the other side of the country and can’t stop the train that’s on the tracks. The long pause is a lot to absorb.

“You okay, kid?”

Damnit, Dad. Right when I was ready to boast… you bring me right back to reality.

“I’m seein’ red, man. Everywhere. I had a match last week…”

Another sigh from the speaker phone.

“I saw that, son…”

I FUCKED UP, ALRIGHT!?

“Not somethin’ you normally do. It was…”

Crash closes his eyes.

“It was wild.”

Crash opens them, unsure whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean, and snarls. He turns back toward his phone to justify his ruthlessness against Steve Harrison.

“I don’t know what to do anymore, Dad! Everyone around me is a maniac, or a monster, and I just want to have fun and make friends. I think Max unlocked somethin’ in me that I didn’t want unlocked… but am really fuckin’ good at.”

Another groan comes from the other end. Crash pauses, deep in breath, and looks out to the skyline yet again. It’s so different from home. It’s bright and full of promise.

“That’s not you though, son. You’re a good man. Don’t let the fog cloud your sight on. Not yet, anyway, heh.”

They both chuckle but for different reasons. Senior Jackson knows it’s easy to get distracted in life while Crash simply watches a balloon float off into the sunrise. He’s high enough to come back and get real though.

He’s totally right.

“You told me when you stopped all that circus nonsense, you were going to do things the right way in PRIME. Everyone has their slip ups. You have a chance to do what you set out to do.”

Kill Max Kael? Find VP? Oh…

Win a motherfuckin’ championship, bro!

The minute Crash exudes pride and anxiety and all the things that come with challenging for a PRIME Title belt, things are cut short. His energy is left for nowhere to go.

“We got a new contract at a retirement home, pal. I gotta run.”

The Northern Light fades a little but smiles.

“Well… good to talk to you, Dad.”

There’s a miniscule pause before they hang up.

“I love you, kid. Good luck.”

That causes another pause as Crash smiles with pride. He knows that if there’s one thing that he can do to make his dad proud is fight a good fight and never choose wrong over right. And win a championship. That might help the most.

“I love you too, Dad.”

I absolutely hate Max Kael.

🌭🌭🌭🌭🌭🌭🌭

I know I make you sick. 

Sometimes I make… myself sick, broyama.

You’re all… technical.

I’m more… spectacle, son.

Not even talking about when I overdose on those delicious doggies, dog.

I'm talkin’ about the lies I'm tellin’ myself to make this all make sense, sensai.

The gratitude I express to have been chosen for your first defense of your well earned championship.

The pride I feel to earn this opportunity.

Rise through the literal ashes to get a match against one of the best technical wrestlers in PRIME.

Mountain meets the mole hill.

Part two.

Havin’ to climb Mount Bromanjaro again so fast…

This time, it's for a strap?

Took every damn thing I had the first time.

Gonna take every damn thing again, ain’t ya, Champ?

I think it was our dance in France that helped me figure things out, Kerry. 

That it doesn't matter who's on that side of the ring. That they're just a road cone when I'm behind the wheel.

I don't think it's fair but…

Truth is, Kerry… 

I'm goin’ through Hell right now.

So you will too, dude.