A Bromage to a Life of Love and Loss

This time’s gonna be different, bro.

At Colossus, you stepped on my toes.

Now, you’re messin’ with my bro?

I’m gonna tighten’ the fuckin’ noose on you, dude.

This ain’t gonna be like last time.

The way I see it, Bryan, is that you are vicariously responsible for the state of the woman that I care very much about, bud.

It’s awful, dude.

She barely eats.

She does not sleep. 

She doesn’t speak, bro.

So when you justify this to yourself down the road and dismiss it with a He got his girl back…

This is not my Purps, Pineapple Man.

🌭

The thirteen hour drive across Saskatchewan to Winnipeg is a lengthy ride. Such distance and time creates ample time for the mind to wander and indulge every intrusive thought that comes to the surface. As the DOGterouge faces their current circumstances regarding Violent Purple’s volatile condition in both public and private places, the collective made the call to hedge their bets and use four wheels to get to ReVival 67.

“Almost there, mon freres,” Broque says, glancing back to a mostly quiet rear section of the car in the rearview. “And madmoiselle. Almost in ze majestic Winnipeg.”

Jacque scoffs, “Merde… Manitoba.”

Jacque LaRoque holds down the co-pilot spot as “Pompei” by Bastille wraps up. As Chief Car Trip Playlist Curator, a small flash of accomplishment flashes over his lips. In the middle row sit a bulky Greg Davis and Raffi, the money man sporting a baby blue Adidas tracksuit and gradient aviators. All the way in the back is Violent Purple, crouching with her feet on the seat and eyes darting around as they pass by and head towards potential threats and deathtraps. Next to her is Jason Jackson, PRIME’s least successful full-time member, with his elbow on the armrest and eyes off in Lalaland.

Another scar to remind my ass just how fucked I actually am here, bro.

Been fucked from the jump, honestly. The time to stop lyin’ to myself and askin’ when it would be my time on top came a long time ago but I missed it because I wouldn’t shut up about all that self-manifestation of greatness bullshit. 

None of that shit matters anymore.

It hasn’t for a while.

Back when I was trying to run before I could walk went mostly unnoticed, being so far out of the spotlight that it just looked like a baby deer fallin’ down every other step forward. So far out of focus from the real predators in PRIME, it really didn’t register how in over my head I was.

Fast forward to today when I find myself in the middle of the mayhem with some equally-motivated brochachos and finally gettin’ a chance to move the fuckin’ needle.

Just the same, The Muse gave me a nice reminder of just how far off course I‘ve gone.

“Alright. I’m sick of this shit,” the words come from Jason Jackson’s sternum. “Pull over.”

With a WHOOSH and YEEET, VP draws the seatbelt buckle in between her index finger and thumb and holds it to the Hot Dog Hero’s throat. Slightly aroused, he stifles his human urges before smirking a bit. Everyone in the car can see this flirtatious moment. He slowly presses a finger on VP’s weapon before sending a sideways finger to Broque in the rearview.

“Pull over, bro,” the tone in his voice is adamant. “I need some air.”

With a glance to Jacque, Broque LaRoque pulls the rental Denali over on the Trans Canada Highway. The Ego looks over his shoulder, noticing Crash somehow getting VP to lower the seat belt from his throat.

Greg knows the drill. Raffi isn’t moving so he undoes his restraint before opening the door and propping his seat forward. Crash is quick to escape the confines of the SUV and passes by Greg with an eye exchange that his mentor hasn’t seen before. He’s seen glimpses. He’s seen small patterns. But not this constant and calculated.

Not this hot.

“What the fuck are we doin’, Greggo?” Crash barks, finally outside, and ready to use his big boy voice.

Greg kicks at the rock he tries to find. “We’re goin’ to Winnipeg, kid.”

“Should we tell him now?” the financier of all this emerges from the truck, removing his shades.

“Tell me what?” Jason loses his train of thought for a second.

Jacque and Broque join the duo outside with a double thud. They put the windows down and leave a door open for VP because they also care for her wellbeing. Greg dips into Raffi’s ear.

“Not now…” he snarls through his teeth.

“Every minute is another dollar, Mister Davis,” Raffi breezes past the caution warning big blonde man. “We have to talk to you about your future with HOTDOGS.”

ExFUCKINGcuse me, bud!?

“The wrestling? It's probably time to move on, bro. For all of us,” Raffi spins to gesture at everyone nearby. “But honestly, it’s not worth the money spent. Travel fees, lodging, work force… and for what?”

“Are you seriously dropping me, bro?” Crash cocks his head. “When I’m in the only group of guys who are gonna make a difference around here against all these asshole organizations?”

Raffi waves that off, “No! No no, big bro. I think it's time to pivot to TikTok dancing, bro. Lots of money in that, my friend!”

This really was an exploit. Everybody said it. I didn’t think…

“Wow…” Broque blurts out.

Jacque pivots, shoulder-to-shoulder with Crash, and points. “You really are a fuckin’ asshat.”

Mr. Azarian stops, unsure of the reason for the attack, because he does business and doesn’t get how the real people feel. With only one set of eyeballs left to care about, he shrugs, and claps.

Greg doesn’t move an inch.

The boss points at the middle of his palm, “I pay you people…”

Not even letting him finish the sentence, Greg tosses his Mai Tai over his shoulder and steps toward Raffi.

“Not anymore, asshole,” the tone and depth of the words bounce off Raffi's ribs. “You wanna drop this kid? That’s your call. I’m in this for the long haul.”

Greg…

The LaRoque’s step just behind the Ego and show their solidarity with his statement.  Greg does the age old move of crossing his arms over his once-massive chest and snarls. Raffi looks back through the window at VP, who is snarling at him and using the seatbelt to signify choking him out if he gets close enough. Azarian turns to Crash and watches him step in front of his real allies.

Bros…

“I appreciate the opportunity, Raff,” Crash extends his hand. “But I don’t need your fuckin’ money anymore.”

🌭

The Boys pull up at the front of the hotel in Winnipeg after an awkward remainder of their trip. Passing the time with nature observations and small talk, Greg jumps out and heads for the bar. The LaRoques want to follow as fast as they can but, being the largest of the group, know they have to take care of the luggage. Raffi exits, fluffing his tracksuit jacket before propping his glasses over his glassy eyes. He turns back to see Crash leading Violent Purple from the Denali XL rental.

“Crash… bro… “ he doesn’t want to say it but has to. “It has been a pleasure being on this ride with you.”

The Northern Light, trying to maintain the powergrip VP has on his hand, glances past Raffi to Broque. He flags him down, gesturing that they’re going to exchange baggage, as Broque’s eyes go into afraid mode. Jacque also watches in horror as Broque takes VP’s hand… with no violent reaction. Everyone is surprised. Crash turns to Raffi, noticing his lack of interest in VP’s anything, and shrugs.

“Different directions, Raffi,” he says with as little emotion as a rock. “I gotta go check in with the Heroes.”

They exchange a businesslike handshake before Jason Jackson blows by Raffi Azarian much the same way a passenger goes by a flight attendant upon departure.

Without a fuckin’ thought.

Everything else is a blur. Jason is walking away from a financial lifeline, should he ever need it, but also from somebody he thought was a friend and ally. To find out he was just looking at his career as a business opportunity stings. Stings so much that Crash doesn’t wait for the crew to join him as he heads to the open elevator. There’s really two people he needs to talk to and he’s not gonna be able to do it here. He needs to get to Bash and Tom and get his head right before he walks into what he hopes is a bloodbath at ReVival 67.

BING

The elevator reaches the floor Bash told Crash their suite was on. He exits the elevator and sees Gold running suicides in his preparation for his biggest Alias Title defense to date. He figures it’s smart to head towards him to find a place to put down his stuff. The open door lets him know where to go. Upon entrance, TAL looks up from his phone and seems glad Crash made it. The Hot Dog Hero approaches the Looch Bro with purpose, offering him some stern knuckles with a proud smile of the opportunity Tom Battaglia has in front of him and, subsequently, the chance to put Nobody’s Heroes on PRIME’s front page. Tom notices a slight streak in Crash’s eye.

He puts his phone down, cocking his head at his younger stablemate. “You good, kid?”

“Not sure, Tom…” he looks away. “I think I just need to make a phone call."

🌭

A few moments alone on the balcony of his hotel room is working. Without the stress. The fear. The anxiety. The self-doubt. The fresh air is fresh enough to wash away most thoughts but not the one that sits on his head since Colossus.

Fuckin’ Bryan Dawkins…

RINGRING RINGRING

Gotta put this fucker in the Grandstands.

Crash taps the speaker button and looks at the screen with a second thought. He’s really not sure he wants to do this but right now, after all the bullshit that’s gone on and all the bullshit that’s about to meet him at a bottleneck with nowhere to hide…

Crash really doesn’t know what the fuck to do.

Never been here before.

RINGRING RINGRING

I guess it’s fuckin’ nature, bro.

“Jason!” the fake pleasantries begin with the glass-cutting voice his mother always uses when she answers. “Daaaaarling! It’s been aaaaaaaaages!”

EVERY FUCKING TIME

“Hey Ma,” he says with a second half kick in his pitch that tries to express false enthusiasm to get her first on the phone. “What’s new with you?”

She laughs dramatically, as if to portray being in the middle of such pure joy that he couldn’t possibly understand; “Oh, dear, I’m just happy you called! I am organizing a charity ball this weekend for, oh you’ll love this, the inner city children to earn money so they can learn how to make automobiles, here, in America! They’ll flourish in their late-teenage years. We are just so honored to do this for these children.”

There’s an awkward pause at the levels of disrespect his Mother has just thrown down. Jason Jackson isn't really sure if this is his mother or an imposter but, if it’s a fake, it’s a good rendition of what his Mother might let fly with nobody else listening.

Pretty fuckin’ spot on Mom, right there.

“How are you, dear?”

Shit. That’s definitely Mom.

“Well…” he weighs the options of being false, her native language, or being Honest.

Let’s be fuckin’ real, bro.

“I’m… kinda fucked, Ma,” the curse word releases a gasp on the other end. “I met a girl. She went away for a while. She came back to me but… not..”

Everything he’s been through creeps upward into Crash’s throat. He’s not able to get beyond it. He reminds himself that, right now, he’s being real with his real life family.

“I’m soooooo happy for you Jason,” his Mother recycles one of her charity ball cordials. “I hope we can talk more about this soon! Here's your father.”

Thanks, Mom.

“Junior?!” Crash’s Dad rearranges the vibe with real enthusiasm. “How ya been, bud?”

Crash laughs, picturing his Dad clasping him by the forearm and pulling him in for a hug; “Been better, Pops.”

Jesus, dude. Didn’t have to lead off with the bad shit.

“Everything alright, Jay?” his Dad’s tone is real. It’s loving. It’s all in. “You need to come home?”

“Not that bad, Dad,” Jason looks out over the daytime skyline of Winnipeg. “I’m just nervous. I got a real big match comin’ up and, honestly, I’m sick of bein’ the fuckin’ PRIME punchin’ bag. I know what I signed up for when we started the Heroes but I’m just sick of bein’ the guy who can’t find a Dub when we need it.”

“Son…” his Father’s tone loses the enthusiasm for his kid’s mild accomplishments while weighing his near death experiences. “I think you need to consider leaving wrestling behind. It's not been fruitful, it’s costing you your body, and it just might be time to hang it up.”

No FUCKING way, Dad.

“You know what I’m doin’, right?” Jason tries his best but lets Crash come out. “I can’t sit back and watch all these… BAD GUYS… get away with murder and act like I can’t do anything to stop it.”

The other end responds with a deep sigh and silence. Jason Jackson Jr. can’t help but wait. He prepares for a response or a retort and even a rebuttal. Another deep breath from the end in which his father sits draws an eyebrow, raising toward the phone with no video.

“You remember your Uncle Jerry, Junior? Jerry was the most honorable, respectable guy I’ve ever known…” his father stops at the result of emotion. “Then they caught him stealing from the Buffalo PD Retirement Fund. Anything he ever did, washed off the board. Everything he stood for, in the gutter. He was a good man who did bad things. He didn’t see the difference.”

Uncle Jerry… did what??

“I don’t want that for you Jason,” his Dad’s tone changes. “I never did. If you don’t want to man up, pull up your bootstraps, and do whatever the hell you need to do in PRIME… then come home. It’s safe here, son.”

Something doesn’t add up here, Pops.

“You either gotta step up or shut up,” his Dad says with a somber tone. “And it doesn’t seem like you're climbing right now.”

The… FUCK!? Not CLIMBING!? I’m working with the only two moral guys in the game to make sure these fuckhounds don’t get their chance to run rampant, breed, and tear this things down from the inside out.

His Dad sighs, seemingly getting cues from outside the scope of their conversation; “You might just need to take your mindset down a few notches and get a gauge on how you're gonna be able to succeed in this environment.”

BOOP

Ending the call so abruptly is worth it. That notion of getting chastised for twenty more minutes would be so much worse than anything Dawkins will bring his way. He’s been through that before. Something he hasn’t gotten used to is the false hope of his parents supporting anything he does. New York’s Finest turns his head, however, recognizing that he has a job to do and a lot of his job duties don’t even come listed on the requirement sheet. He pulls a joint out to alleviate the stress.

If there’s a chance to make Dawkins pay…. It’s at Sixty fuckin’ Seven.

He pulls the flame from the joint and stuffs both into their casing without indulging. There will be plenty of time to relax and chill and eat hot dogs like a goon.

Right now? 

There are more pressing matters to address.

That's when the door opens with a click as Broque brings VP into the room. Jason tries not to stare as she scrambles into the shower to hide from the world but can’t help it with his concern. That feeling, the helplessness, sparks another note of curiosity in his bones. He exits his room abruptly, and gestures to his fellow Heroes.

“Greg, Broque and Jacque are with us, boys,” his tone is deliberate. “Don't either of you let her out of your sight.”

Tom Battaglia shakes his head, trying to focus on the biggest match of his life. Sebastian Gold does a shrug, and winces as he holds ice to his shoulder. Greg, double-fisting Mai Tais, finds himself at the focus of caretaker duties. Crash nods, knowing the circumstances, before throwing a thumb to the door.

“We've got a plane to catch,” he gestures to both LaRoque's. “I'll be back in three days, bros.”

🌭

Jason Jackson Jr. steps inside the door of Ray Brook Federal Correctional Institute in the best way he could have imagined.

Not an inmate.

BZZZZZTTTTTT

“Visitor approaching…” he holds his hands together to display no ill will. “For Inmate 084519.”

From out of view, Jerry Jackson emerges, and locks eyes with Jason. They both smile to the point tears bloom but don't want Jerry to look like a bitch so they stifle their emotions for the time being. The CO guides Jerry to his seat before Crash opens his hand up against the glass. His uncle offers a similar gesture without much life. They simultaneously reach for their respective orange phones.

“Uncle Jerry,” our hero leads. “I… I’m sorry it’s been so long.”

His uncle says nothing, admiring the features his family had given to his nephew, before smiling as much as he can these days.

“Junior…” his eyes drop before mustering up enough courage to have this conversation the right way. “Lookin’ good, kid.”

Whatever they’re doing, it’s real, and it feels genuine. Crash smiles. Jerry doesn’t. That’s enough to prompt Crash to cut through the bullshit.

“What happened, Uncle Jerry?”

Damn dude. Couldn't even cut it with some love first?

“I fucked up, JJ,” his words are so real that they could shatter the glass between them. “Been thankful for it every day since.”

Jason and Jerry don’t exactly see it the same way but understand one another.

“I got caught up in a greedy grab, to pay your aunt Jane’s caregivers…”

Aunt Jane. Parkinson’s took her at 48 and really fucked our entire family up.

“Gave her that peace at the end, kid,” he lets a somber smile spread over his lips. “And I’d do it all over again to make sure she had a peaceful passing.

“You really took that money, Jerry?” Crash isn’t sure how to ask or pivot.

His uncle looks him up and down. It’s not aggressive. It’s not even sympathetic. It’s the most real encounter Crash has had in a long, long time.

“Everything I’ve ever done was to help people, Jason,” his words cut through the noise like a sabre against paper. “Trust me. I didn't do it because I wanted to.”

His nephew can’t contain the years of not knowing.

“Then why’d you do it, Unc?” Crash finds that last word choking him up. “Dad doesn’t even talk about you anymore, bro.”

“Because sometimes…” Uncle Jerry balls his fist and then notices their time is coming to an end. “It’s worth it.”

BZZZZTTTTT

The quick end to their visit sounds off like a fire alarm. COs begin to escort Jerry away as he sees Crash still gripping the orange phone. He hangs onto his end as the grunts try to force him off broadcast.

“If you are going to do a bad thing for a good reason, that's fine,” Jerry says honestly into the phone. “You just gotta make peace with that decision and not let it bury you.”

🌭

I thought for the longest time that you had some fuckin’ class, Hawai’i. 

You were proud, strong, and a bad ass King. You didn't have your glory back in the ReVolution Era so you came back to reach even higher highs when you stepped into the bright lights as the Alias Champion…

That’s why it made me so fuckin’ sick to my stomach that I was that bad off with my character assessment, bro. My insides turned. Because you did the exact same thing that fucker Max Kael did. 

You beat me. 

You ran off to the Red Army. 

How fuckin’ original, Island Boy.

The thing that makes me wanna remove your lower jaw from your skull with a Wide Left the most, bro?

You could have told me where she was. 

Whether you think you were savin’ me the stress or protectin’ Max so you could see your girl again…

That wasn’t your call to make.

Thinkin’ What can Crash do? Go save her?

You obviously don’t know what I do, dude.

Might not be the same after.

But it's fuckin’ worth it.