'Temperance' or: Think of Something You Know

Previously

Once upon a time, there were two brothers. Grew up in Carson City with a ring in their backyard and dreams bigger’n the sky. One of ‘em took to the spotlight, the other to the shadows, but blood’s a rope that don’t always pull the same way. Daytona Diamonds, he’s the kind that keeps ridin’ ‘til the wheels fall off, smilin’ through the wreckage. Frankie? He just wanted to hold the reins steady. Trouble is, when a man’s already halfway gone, tryna save him don’t just get you dragged… it gets you trampled. ❖❖❖

I

❖❖❖ Think of something you know. Something solid. Something that doesn’t slip.

“So! I says to him, ‘Hey motherfucker! How ‘bout you get your candyass outta my tub ‘fore I start bashin’ that pipsqueak skull in?!” he’s shouting. “And then, I look over at ol’ Mother Troy and I say, ‘You wanna champ or you wanna chump, bitch?!’ Y’oughta seen her face!”

Anything you want. The color of the sky. The shape of the moon. Your ex-wife’s birthday.

“Steroids?! Fuck naw! These muscles are au naturel, baby! You wanna touch ‘em? Go on, they ain’t gonna bite!” he grabs the poor woman’s hand, slapping it against his chest. “Squeeze it! Like granite, ain't it?!”

Think about your nails digging into your palms. The taste of your third martini in an hour. How you could really use a cigarette, even after ten years without.

“Well, hell, I’m plannin’ on winnin’ it, Freddy! You’re lookin’ at your next Universal champ, right here and right now!”

I stare into the glass, swirl the olive, watch the room bend and twist through the expensive liquor. I try to hang on to the little things, y’know? The anchors. Tuesday is trash day. The airport’s off I-15. I used to love my brother, despite everything.

“Glueminati?! More like Suckmydickminati! Fuck ‘em! Fuck ‘em all! I’m gonna powerbomb that sonuvabitch through the goddamn mat! Yeehaw!”

But right now? Watching him hold court? Right now, I hate him so goddamn much. It’s not just tonight, though. It’s every night. Watching him, waiting on him hand and foot, playing pretend as his so-called manager when what that really means is that I’m his babysitter.

His errand boy.

The poor bastard booking flights, packing bags. Nodding, cowering, ignoring his brother twisting into something awful.

I’m not a manager. I’m a valet who gets paid in ulcers.

“FRANKIE! YOU TELL ‘EM!”  he bellows from across the room. “Tell ‘em how I’m gonna turn that fuck into a red stain on the mat!”

And every week, he just gets bigger. Veins roping his arms, shoulders like boulders perched on either side of a neck thick enough to hang a yoke off of. He calls it ‘hard work’, but I know better. We all do. Every time he takes off his shirt, it’s like looking at a science experiment somebody forgot to shut down.

But out here, beneath a banner that says ‘YOUR SOON-TO-BE UNIVERSAL CHAMPION’, surrounded by yes men and fake friends? He’s a god. He points up at the banner, shouting, “LOOKIT THAT, BOYS! Got it printed early ‘cause I ain’t patient! Next stop: Indianapolis, City of My Ascension!”

They can’t get enough of him. The laughter, the backslaps, the way they hang on every stupid word.

This party was his idea. Premature, but not surprising. Daytona’s always three steps ahead of reality, crowning himself king before the first punch is even thrown, cashing the check before the ink’s dry. He needed this; needed the spectacle, the noise, the worship. Showgirls on stage. Vegas playboys, all glitter and cologne. Bass rattles my teeth. Champagne flows like water. Everyone acts like it’s already a victory parade.

Elaine’s here too; black pantsuit, iPad in hand, eyes like razors cutting through the debauchery. She doesn’t drink, doesn’t laugh, doesn’t clap along. She just watches like a teacher forced to chaperone the worst school dance in history. There’s more Chinese suits with her every day. Six tonight. Stiff collars, hands clasped behind their backs, speaking to no one but themselves. They’re just here to make sure their investment doesn’t collapse before payday.

Then there’s the rest of The Poor Whoresmen, Daytona's safety net of degenerates, loud as hell, guzzling free booze like they’ve never seen a stocked bar before. Fred Dick’s in his element, shouting, cracking jokes that make half the room cringe and the other half howl. Anna’s off in her own orbit, perched on the arm of a chair like she’s watching a movie only she can see.

Everyone here’s just a barnacle clinging to the hull. They laugh because it’s easier than not. They clap because it keeps them in the room. And me? I sip my martini in the corner, jaw tight, praying for silence that won’t come.

This isn’t a celebration. It’s a funeral dirge. They just don’t know it yet.

When he slaps me on the back, it nearly knocks me outta my chair. My drink sloshes over the rim, olive bobbing in the spill. I bite my tongue, hard, because I know what comes next.

“FRANKIE! THERE HE IS!” he bellows, like I’d just come in through the door instead of sitting here all damn night. His arm clamps around my shoulder, dragging me up to my feet like a prop. “Y’all know this sonuvabitch?! My brother! My manager!”

Think of something you know. The taste of gin. The ache in your back. The quickest way to the nearest exit.

“He’s the brains ‘hind all my brawn!” Daytona roars, flexing one arm for effect. “Without ol’ Frankie here, I’d probably be in a ditch somewhere!”

They always laugh.

I force a smile, the kind that makes my teeth feel too sharp in my mouth. My palms are wet. My ears are ringing. Daytona jostles me again, harder this time, shaking me like a ragdoll.

“Hey! Turn off that goddang music and get Frankie a mic!” he shouts and, right on cue, the music goes quiet. “C’mon, Frankie! Sell ‘em the dream! Tell ‘em how ol’ Daytona’s gonna bring the belt and his hot tub home! Give it up for my little brother, folks! Without me, he’d be beggin’ for quarters in Reno!”

Think of something you know. The taste of your sleeping pills. The urge to swerve into oncoming traffic. The rattle in your chest when you drink too much too fast. Anything other than the fact your brother just made you a punchline.

The room howls, stomping feet, slapping tables. They’re not laughing with me; they’re laughing at me. At both of us. The brawny king of nothing and his pathetic jester. Something in me cracks. Maybe it’s the gin. Maybe it’s the ulcers. Maybe it’s the thirty-three years of playing second fiddle to a man who can’t even tune his own goddamn guitar.

“That’s enough,” I mutter.

He doesn’t hear me. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. He grins wide, throws his free arm up like he’s leading a choir. “C’MON, FRANKIE! Speak up! Tell ‘em how your big brother’s ‘bout to be the goddang Universal Champion!”

The crowd roars its approval.

“That’s enough,” I say, louder this time, yanking the mic from his hand. My voice cracks, raw and bitter, but I don’t stop. “Enough of the bullshit! You think this is funny…? You think any of this is real?! What, the steroids rotted your brains along with your balls?! You think you’re a goddamn king?! You’re not! You’re a clown in a rhinestone shirt, juiced to the gills, a whore for the spotlight, and everybody here’s too scared to tell you the truth!”

The crowd gasps. A few nervous chuckles, but mostly the kind of silence that sinks deep, heavy as lead. Daytona’s grin freezes on his face, teeth bared like an animal caught mid-snarl. I can feel Elaine’s eyes drilling through me from across the room. The suits shift, murmuring in Mandarin. Fred Dick stops laughing for the first time all night.

“Say it again,” Daytona growls, low enough that only I can hear. His hand tightens around my shoulder.

I don’t look away. I can’t. I won't.

“You’re nothing without me,” I tell him. “Not a champ. Not a man. Just a freak science project waiting to fall apart.”

For a second, nobody moves. Not the guests, the Whoresmen, or the showgirls frozen on the stage. The silence burns hotter than an inferno… and then Daytona shoves me like I weigh nothing. The mic clatters to the floor, feedback screeching before someone scrambles to kill it.

“Party’s over,” he snarls. “Y’all heard me! Get the fuck outta my house!”

Nobody laughs this time. Nobody argues. Chairs scrape, glasses clink, conversations die mid-sentence. The Whoresmen scatter like roaches; Fred muttering something about hitting the strip, Anna following after him in a half-daze. The playboys slink off, their fake smiles melted away. The showgirls grab their coats. The suits don’t move until Elaine gives the slightest nod and then they file out one by one, stiff as tombstones.

Daytona doesn’t watch them go. He’s pacing; shoulders heaving, fists clenching like he’s trying to decide whether to punch a wall or my skull. When the last door slams shut, it’s just the three of us left: me, him, and Elaine.

He stops pacing, whirls on me, veins pulsing in his neck. “You think you embarrassed me out there, Frankie?! Ain’t nobody embarrasses Daytona goddamn Diamonds! Not Cecilworth Farthington, not Lindsay Troy, and sure as fuck not my little brother!”

Elaine doesn’t flinch. She just lowers her iPad, watching him like a hawk circling something that’s already dying. For a second, I think he’s gonna charge me. For a second, I almost wish he would.

Instead, he spits on the floor and jabs a finger towards the hall. “Fuck this. I’m hittin’ the gym. Least in there, I can hear myself think without traitors runnin’ their mouths.”

He storms off, boots pounding against the tile. A door slams somewhere down the corridor. The sound rattles through the compound long after he’s gone. I’m left standing there, heart still thudding in my ears, the taste of gin sour in my mouth. Elaine hasn’t moved. Not a blink. Not a shift in weight.

Finally, she slips the iPad under her arm and tilts her head towards me. “Did you forget so soon, Franklin?” she asks. “Well water should not interfere with river water. Fix this. He cannot have this weighing on his mind before his match.”

And then she turns, following him down the hall, leaving me alone with the silence I built.

Think of something you know.

Anything solid.

Anything that doesn’t slip. ❖❖❖

II

❖❖❖ The compound feels cavernous after the party clears out. Empty glasses on the tables, cigarette smoke clinging to the air. It’s quiet, but not peaceful; the kind of quiet that hums, thick with something ugly underneath.

It’s been thirty minutes. I’ve gone over what to say in my head a hundred different ways. I tell myself this is the right thing to do. Apologize. Smooth it over. Keep the peace. Just like always.

I follow the noise; the clang of iron, the rhythmic groan of machinery. My footsteps echo against the tile as I get closer. The doorway looms at the end of the hall. I stop there for a second, hand braced on the frame, listening, watching. He’s there at the far rack, back turned, sweat dripping down his spine in rivulets. He doesn’t look at me, but I know he knows I’m there.

I step inside, closing the door behind me.

The air here is heavier. Every slam of the barbell rattles the floor beneath my shoes. He moves like a machine, shoulders and arms pumping in perfect rhythm.

“Daytona,” I start, my voice sounding so small in a room so big. “About earlier…”

The bar crashes into its cradle with a sound like a gunshot. He stays bent over the bar a beat too long, chest heaving, sweat pattering against the floor. Then he straightens, slow and deliberate, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Earlier, huh?” His voice is low, but it fills the room anyway. He doesn’t turn around. “That what we’re callin’ it? Earlier?”

I swallow hard. “I… I shouldn't have said what I said. I was drunk. Pissed off. You know how I get. I… didn’t mean it..

He finally turns, eyes like coals burning through me. A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth, but there’s no joy in it.

“You didn’t mean it,” he repeats, but it’s not a question. He takes a step forward, then another, boots thudding against the rubber floor. “Funny thing, Frankie. I think you did.”

I almost break and run right there. My hands twitch, useless at my sides, wanting to reach for something, anything.

“I just… want us to be good before Indianapolis,” I manage. “That’s all.”

For a second, he just stares. The silence stretches wide… and then he laughs. Not the party laugh, not the one that shakes the walls and makes everybody else laugh with him. This one’s sharp, joyless. A blade scraping glass.

“Good?” he says, rolling the word in his mouth like it tastes bad. “You think we’re ever gonna be good again, Frankie? You think all it takes is you mutterin’ sorry after you humiliated me in front of everyone I know and now every-fuckin’-body’s gonna be whisperin’ that ol’ Farthington’s got me figured out ‘fore the bell even rings. That I’m a joke. That I’m just the roided-up sideshow who’s gonna fold the second he lays a hand on me. You think sorry fixes that, Frankie?”

“I–”

“Shut up,” he points a finger at me, sweat flicking off. “You don’t get to talk. So, you were pissed, huh? Boo-fuckin’-hoo. Y’think you’re the only one carryin’ weight ‘round here? Y’think  you’re the only one with somethin’ to be mad about?”

He takes another step, close enough now that I can smell the salt on his skin, the sour bite of protein shakes and cheap whiskey still lingering from the party. His voice drops, but somehow, it’s louder than ever.

“You ain’t fit to be no manager. Hell, you ain’t fit to be my brother!” he says. “You’re a fuckin’ albatross, Frankie! Wrapped ‘round my goddamn neck since the day you was born. You don’t make me better. You drag me down.”

The words land heavier than any weight he’s been throwing around tonight. My throat tightens. For a second, I can’t breathe.

“Daytona, please–”

“Don’t fuckin’ ‘please’ me!” He shouts. “You think this is a team?! You think I fuckin’ need you?! Look at me, Frankie! Fuckin’ look at me! I’m a goddamn monument! A machine! A once-in-a-lifetime sonuvabitch built to conquer the world! Farthington don’t know what’s comin’ for him, but you? You’re makin’ me weak ‘fore I even get there! A goddamn tick suckin’ me dry! I wanted us to rise to the top together! Didja let it go to your head?! Start thinkin’ you was hot shit?! Well, FUCK YOU TOO, BUDDY!”

And then his hands hit my shoulders, sudden and violent, shoving me back like he’s clearing space. My heel clips a stray dumbbell. I stumble, flail, reaching out and finding nothing but thin air.

For a moment, I'm weightless.

The back of my skull smashes against something hard, a crack as loud as the voice of God echoing in my ears. A lightning bolt shoots down my spine, white-hot, paralyzing. My jaw locks. My tongue seizes. I try to scream, but nothing comes out.

The world tilts sideways. My vision tunnels. I see Daytona standing over me, arms crossed over his chest.

And then it all went bl– ❖❖❖

III

❖❖❖ Think of somethin’ you know. It’s the backyard in Carson City, summertime. Me and Frankie in the ring Dad built; ropes saggin’, canvas smellin’ like sweat and blood. I’m playin’ heel, stompin’ his arm while he squeals, but he don’t quit. Not ‘til Mom calls us in for dinner. Frankie’s plate always had the bigger slice of pie. I never minded. Not then.

Think of somethin’ you know.

It’s middle school. I’m sneakin’ out my bedroom window to meet some girl from down the block. Frankie’s sittin’ on the roof, keepin’ lookout, whisperin’ jokes that damn near make me fall off the shingles. We both swear we won’t never rat each other out. Next mornin’, Dad’s grillin’ me at breakfast, and Frankie’s starin’ at his cereal, tryin’ not to laugh. Me and Frankie, thick as thieves.

Think of somethin’ you know.

It’s my first long road trip on the indies. Beat-up sedan, two hundred miles of desert stretchin’ forever. Frankie’s behind the wheel, talkin’ ‘bout college like it’s somethin’ that could actually happen for him. I’m not listenin’. I’m thinkin’ ‘bout the pop I’ll get when I hit the ring. He drives through the night anyway, just so I can chase a cheer that barely fills the tank.

Think of somethin’ you know.

It’s a motel room, stink of mildew and cheap beer. I just lost a payday at the tables, rent money gone. Frankie’s countin’ crumpled bills outta his wallet, jaw tight, sayin’ he’ll cover us ‘just this once’. I swear I’ll pay it back double. I don’t. Never do.

Think of somethin’ you know.

It’s Christmas. He shows up with a tree strapped to the roof of his car, draggin’ it inside like he’s savin’ the holiday single-handed. I’m already drunk, high off my ass on coke, all my money in Larry Lawson’s pockets. I’m lyin’ ‘bout why I couldn’t buy no gifts. He don’t say nothin’, just sets the tree up and puts the lights on. Makes it glow. Makes me look at it and hate myself a little more.

Think of somethin’ you know.

It’s now. The gym. Frankie’s crumpled up on the floor, not movin’, eyes open but empty. I’m sittin’ on a bench and it feels like my chest is cavin’ in. Then it’s chaos: Boots on tile, voices barkin’. EMTs stormin’ into the room, kneelin’ beside him, workin’ fast. Neck brace. Oxygen mask. They slide him onto a stretcher like he’s made of glass.

I just sit there. Elbows on my knees. Sweat runnin’ into my eyes, stingin’. Can’t move, can’t speak. I’m watchin’ the whole thing like it’s a show I didn’t buy a ticket for. The kind you don’t clap at when it’s all over with.

Elaine’s there, of course. She’s always there. Talkin’ low to the medics, hands folded polite over her tablet like she’s signin’ for a delivery. Nobody raises their voice at her. Every question finds its way through her, like she’s the one runnin’ the whole damn world. Maybe she is.

Frankie’s stretcher rolls past me. For a second, I think ‘bout walkin' with him to the ambulance, but I don’t. His hand hangs slack at his side. I don’t reach for it. I just let him go. The doors slam behind ‘em. Sirens wail somewhere outside. The sound fades, leavin’ nothin’ but the hum of the AC and the thump-thump-thump of my own heartbeat in my ears.

Elaine finally turns to me, eyes sharp enough to cut steel. “Mr. Diamonds,” she says, voice smooth, even. “I’ll drive you to the hospital to be with your brother.”

I shake my head. Wipe my face with both hands. My throat’s dry as sandpaper.

“He ain’t dead, is he?” I mutter. She doesn’t answer and I don’t wait for one. I lean back on the bench, stare up at the ceiling, reach for the barbell. “Then I got a match to get ready for.”

Elaine studies me for a long moment, chin tilted, eyes like scalpels. She don’t argue. Just exhales slow through her nose, like she expected it all along. Then she tucks her tablet under her arm and turns towards the door.

I wrap my hands ‘round cold steel, pullin' breath in deep like I'm 'bout to drown, the only air left on the other side of the bar. My palms are slick, but I don’t wipe ‘em. I just squeeze harder.

The weight don’t talk back.

The weight don’t leave.

The weight just wants to be lifted.

Every rep’s a prayer to a god I don’t believe in. Every grunt, a confession no priest could stomach. Frankie’s face flashes ‘hind my eyelids, but I drive it down with the bar. Drive it down ‘til my arms quake, til' my ribs feel like they're splinterin', 'til the iron's the only truth left in the world.

In here, it's just me and the weight.

Think of somethin’ you know.

The pressure ‘fore a big match. The sound of the bell ringin’. That, if you’ll put your own blood in the hospital for gettin’ in your way, then Farthington don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of walkin’ outta Indianapolis in one piece.

Not a goddamn chance.