Post by Bryan "Buzz" Worthy on Aug 19, 2015 18:26:25 GMT -5
(Like so! This was supposed to be posted the week of the May 24th Slam. It wasn’t because I was too lazy to type it up until now, well now actually being then since this was typed Sunday August 16th. At this point it doesn’t really serve any purpose other than me looking for attention. )
Redemption Track
They call it The Train of Death.
It was in the news last summer. Remember the hubbub about thousands of immigrant children hopping a freight to the southwestern United States? Sent abroad by parents desperate to move them away from their home countries, these railroad refugees had become the latest talking point in America’s conversation on immigration; one especially prickly because their numbers were so vast they surpassed the limits of (Not Natural) ICE’s ability to house them. Meanwhile, the usual solution of sending the surplus back to Mexico was impossible because A: they weren’t from there, and B: the Mexican government didn’t want them either.
The story made headlines for a week or so until it was superseded by another media outrage; what I don’t recall. Odds are it was Bieber related. But for the purpose of this story what matters is the train is still running, and its passengers still face grave danger as they ride.
**
Lucinda Vargas hit the hard packed earth and tumbled down the embankment. At first she wasn’t sure what caused the fall, then the young girl’s senses overcame her shock and she remembered feeling a hard shove to her back before her uncontrolled descent had begun. Lucinda was pushed to her current predicament.
Other sensations rose up to replace that dull ache between her shoulder blades: an explosion of pain in her right knee that lessened only slightly after her initial impact with the ground, the sand kicked up by her inelegant tumble scouring her sight, and the deafening roar of the train cars as they rumbled along the track away from her.
By instinct Lucinda rose to her feet and attempted to chase after the vehicle she had been forced from. Her injured knee buckled with her first step, and once again she faceplanted into the ravine that ran beside the rails. She forlornly looked up as the last car to the train passed her position, moving slowly across the Mexican desert, its image shrinking as rapidly as her own chance of survival was.
“Fuck,” she cursed.
Rolling over onto her back, Lucinda tentatively sat up and brought her legs to her body. She gave her knee an investigatory poke. The pain shot through her leg and made her swear again. Flopping back, she shielded her eyes from the sun by bringing her arm across them and tried to process what had happened in hopes it would keep her from thinking about what was likely to happen.
Who pushed her from the train? That tattooed boy whose advances she spurned earlier in their trek? The girl she had teased for her unibrow? Both had shared the box car with her, though she swore the boy had gone up to sit on its roof before the shove had taken place. Maybe it was neither of them. Maybe it was just someone who wanted her spot so they could be the ones dangling their feet from the side of the car and “enjoying” the desolate view of the sunbaked terrain, or at least the rush of cooler air that came with such a station. In the end, Lucinda decided it didn’t truly matter who had done it. She was never going to see them again.
She was probably never going to see anyone again.
It had been hours since the train had last passed through a town, which put her miles away from any known source of aid. And while she had no idea how far she was from the next stop, the fact that no signs of civilization were visible in the direction the locomotive traveled, made her aware following the tracks was no route to salvation. Not that she could travel far on her hurt leg anyway. Lucinda gingerly scrabbled her way to the top of the ravine and with great effort rolled out. She checked to see if anything was visible on either side of the tracks, and spotted a large outcropping of rock opposite her position a mile or so away. Perhaps if she reached it, she could find a way to get to the top for a better view of her surroundings. Failing that, at least the formation could provide her with shade.
Slowly, Lucinda made her way across the rails and towards to what she believed was her once chance to survive the Train of Death.
**
(Text translated from Spanish unless otherwise indicated)
“Boss?”
A walkie-talkie cackled to life, startling almost everyone in the room. The lone exception took the device from its spot on the table, and brought it to his cowl covered lips.
“Yes, Pepito?”
“The sentry has spotted someone. He thinks she fell from the train when it passed earlier. She is crawling towards our camp.”
“She? How old, Pepito?”
“Young. Twelve or thirteen, he said.”
The masked man nodded to himself, “Ready my horse. I will meet you at the stables soon.”
After clipping the communicator to his already laden belt, the man handed his flensing knife off to one of the boys that crowded around him.
“Remember, just the skin. The more meat you take off the less we will have to eat.”
His instructions on how to best flay kid given, the stranger walked out of the butcher’s tent to rescue yet another child.
**
Lucinda’s joy at seeing the rider come from around the other side of the rock and towards her turned to apprehension when she saw his face; or rather, didn’t see it.
The man’s identity was fully concealed behind a black mask. Not even a hint of his features were visible. In their place was a single yellowish disk set in the middle of his forehead, and a silver vector of grille work that covered his jawline. The pattern was familiar to Lucinda. It was something from television. From a cartoon, she thought, or an old movie she had watched with her grandmother.
The source didn’t really matter, she realized. What was important was why her supposed rescuer hid himself behind them.
The masked man slowed his horse to a trot, and then halted her completely. He stared down at Lucinda with his perfectly round representation for an eye.
“Do you speak English?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
He dismounted. The man was huge, Lucinda noted; nearly as tall as the horse he rode, with a thick and powerful frame. Reaching into one of the large bags draped over the steed’s chestnut hued flanks he produced a canteen and a first aid kit. Without a word he handed the water off to her while inspecting her injury.
Lucinda quickly drained the thermos of its contents, gulping down the much needed fluid while the man cleaned up her injury and set her leg in an expertly snug splint.
“Try to stand,” he told her.
She could, albeit only grabbing onto his arm for balance. The limb felt as solid as oak to her touch. Despite this, the big man tensed at the contact. He looked ready to shrug his way free from her grip before she spoke.
“Thank you,” she blurted out, looking up into his empty face, not quite sure if she should be focusing on where his eyes should be behind the mask or at the single cyclopean disk that dominated it.
“You are welcome,” he said, his body relaxing as he became tolerant to her touch. Bobbing his head in the direction of the tracks, “You were trying to get to America.”
His tone made it clear he was not asking Lucinda a question, “Yes.”
“Did you have family with you on the train?”
“No.”
“Do you have family waiting for you in America?”
“No. Everyone I know lives in Columbia,” this statement made Lucinda realize that even if she had been saved from dying in the desert, she still had no way to get back home, or even if boarding the train again to the United States was even possible.
The stranger spoke to her concerns, “I have a camp where there are many children like you. Young men and women with no place to go. I can take you there, if you want.”
To Lucinda, qualifying the offer was unnecessary. Where else did she have to go? Who else was here to help her? Still, she couldn’t help but ask for assurances:
“Do you promise I will be safe?”
“Of course,” the stranger nodded, his voice somewhat indignant. There was a break, and then slowly, reluctantly, he raised his hand and held up three fingers to swear on it.
“Scout’s Honor.”
**
Lucinda rode with the not such a mystery anymore man back to his home. Set on the other side of the rock formation, the camp had several rows of tents, a few non-permanent buildings, a large wooden barn with a field of grazing goats, a chicken coop, a well, and, most surprising of all given their location, a fertile garden. She counted at least forty children of all age groups working the land.
The man brought the horse to the paddock. Dismounting with a grace that belied his size and simian build, he then took Lucinda by the waist and lowered her to the ground. A teenaged girl who had opened the gate to the corral ushered the horse into it, and then returned to await future orders.
She was introduced to Lucinda, “This is Rosa Marie. She is the woman’s barracks leader. Rosa, take her to get clean. Be careful and make sure the bandage on her leg stays dry. Then bring her to assembly. You have twenty minutes.”
Rosa, a stout sullen girl with scars on her cheeks, nodded and escorted Lucinda to a row of shower stalls. Lucinda was handed a bucket of water, a sponge, and a gob of homemade soap.
“Hang your clothes on the door,” Rosa Marie said, “You will be given clean clothes.”
Lucinda did as she was told; stripping down and handing off her dirt covered blouse and skirt. After beginning her ablutions she spoke to the girl on the other side of the stall, “What is this place? How did you all get here?”
“It Is the Boss’s camp. He built it and brought us here.”
“Where from?”
“Lots of different places. I’m from an orphanage that was forced to close.”
“You’re an orphan?”
“Duh. Yeah.”
Lucinda internally debated broaching the next topic before going forward, “Why does that man wear a mask?”
“He’s a wrestler. He has to wear it.”
“Why?”
“Are you stupid? A wrestler must always wear his mask. To remove would bring him great shame.”
Lucinda snagged the towel and clothing Rosa Marie had put over the stall door. She dried and dressed, “I’m not stupid,” she said after coming out of the shower, squaring off with the older, larger girl.
Rosa Marie folded her arms and snorted, “You’re asking too many questions. That’s what makes you stupid. Just be happy the Boss rescued you, and given you a place to live.”
“I don’t want to live here. I want to go back home and be with my family.”
The stern look on Rosa’s face faltered, “You can’t,” she all but whispered, “There are no return trips from the Runaway Train.”
**
Locomotora Desbocado idled in front of his charges. As they stood at attention he perused the daily briefing from his chief lieutenant Pepito. It was gibberish mostly, as the teen was functionally illiterate, but the act in of itself made him feel important and needed. Which Pepito was. Locomotora Desbocado knew there had to be a hierarchy, a chain of command, for the camp to run smoothly.
“Excellent work, Pepito. Once again, you prove your worth.”
The boy beamed at the approval, and accepted the clipboard carrying his report from his leader. Locomotora then began the next part of the afternoon assembly’s routine: inspection. He paced among the rows of children, his single eyed stare examining them for any deviations from the norm. None, for the moment, were visible. After completing his circuit, the Runaway Train returned to the front of the gathering, to his army’s newest recruit.
“What is your name, young lady?” he finally asked Lucinda.
She told him.
“Lucinda. Welcome to my camp. Did Rosa Marie tell you why and how it exists? And how you are now part of it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good. You are a member of my troop now, Lucinda. Much will be expected of you. The work here is hard, but rewarding. The rules are strict, but needed. You agree with me that the world is a cruel place, yes?”
Lucinda knew this well, and signaled as such with a nod. The Runaway Train mimicked the gesture.
“Very cruel. To survive in it, a person must be strong. Physically. Morally. And to become strong, we must carry the weight, no matter how great the struggle. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Locomotora blessed the child with a rare display of affection, patting the top of her head with his gauntleted hand. Then he afforded her an even greater boon, “Do you have any questions for me?”
Lucinda cast a glance over to Rosa Marie, who stood stone faced and silent behind the Boss, “Well… I am very hungry. Could I please have something to eat?”
“Dinner will not be for another hour, Lucinda. However, given your day, we can risk spoiling your appetite,” Locomotora reached into one of his shorts’ many pockets to produce a hunk of dried meat, “Goat jerky?”
“No, no thank you,” she begged off, “I don’t eat meat.”
“Some pickled asparagus then? We have barrels of it.”
Lucinda had no doubt, “No, sir. Really, if I could just get my skirt back there are some hot fries in-“
“HOT? FRIES?”
The entire right side of Locomotora’s mask spasmed.
“Y-yes?”
“You came to my camp with HOT FRIES?”
He rounded on Pepito and Rosa Marie, “Find them! Bring them to me!”
The two subordinates scrambled to obey. As they ran off the Runaway Train turned his attention back to Lucinda.
“Open your mouth,” he commanded.
Terrified, Lucinda did as she was told. Locomotora Desbocado lifted up enough of his cowl so that his chin and lips were visible, confirming to the young girl what she had long suspected: he was a white man, a gringo. The paleness of his jaw was a startling contrast to how bronzed his exposed skin had become living here in the desert. Leaning forward, Locomotora took a long whiff of her breath, and then ran a finger along the inside of her mouth. After a thorough swab of her cheeks and gums, he removed the gloved digit and examined it. The results seemed to satisfy him.
By now Pepito and Rosa Marie had returned with the contraband. Snatching up the bag and tearing it open, Locomotora slowly and with great affect dumped its contents onto the ground. He then stamped on the spilled hot fries until they were orange dust caking his Size 15 trail boot. His cyclopean gaze fell upon Lucinda once again.
“Those… things…. are not allowed here,” he intoned gravely, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.
“I’m sorry,” Lucinda managed to squeak out, “I didn’t know.”
“Does it matter?” an incensed Locomotora lapsed into his native tongue, “Ignorance of the law is no excuse. It- having them on your person- to consume them- it speaks to a lack of character. It is an indictment of your very soul.”
He began pacing back and forth, still speaking in English, but now only to himself, “How appropriate. How symbolic. I turn this place to Eden, and they come. Watching. Scheming. Waiting for the right moment when they can squat over what I’ve created and evacuate their bowels of its effluvium. And worse! Worse! They strike at me through those I have saved; turning them against me with the temptation of taboo tuber treats.”
He halted his march in front of Lucinda and glowered, “I should throw you out of here for this. There’s precedent. Biblical precedent. Send you East, to the Land of Nod, or whatever the Mexican equivalent is.”
The man’s incoherent rant terrified Lucinda. She spoke hurriedly, tears beginning to well in her eyes, “Please, mister, I don’t understand what you’re saying and you’re scaring me!”
From behind his mask Locomotora Desbocado blinked.
His broad shoulders slumped. He sighed. He covered the entirety of his face once again.
“Take her to the kitchen and feed her,” he told Rosa Marie in Spanish before marching off in search of another solution to his problem.
**
“WCF.”
Locomotora Desbocado has changed into his ring gear: a gunmetal grey singlet with white “railroad track trim” running up the sides. As he straddles a chair in some dimly lit room, he addresses the audience.
“You just… you just couldn’t leave me alone.”
Pause as he rubs the back of his neck in agitation
.
“In the past, I looked to individuals, and their factions, as the source of my troubles. My losses.”
“LA Johnny Stylez destroyed my sash of merit badges.”
“The Misfits cost me my Internet Championship.”
“Steven Orbit, my family’s love and respect.”
“Pantheon stole the United States Belt from me.”
“He Who Shall Not Be Named was the reason behind the loss of my Scoutmaster title, as well as the source of other, uh, uh, personal afflictions.”
“But it wasn’t one lone individual or stable set against me.”
“It was you COLLECTIVELY.”
“The entire diseased organization is responsible for the trials I’ve endured. When I capped the number of conspirators against me at fourteen, I shorted myself by millions!”
He gives a frantic nod.
“The whole WCF Galaxy has been my enemy all along. I can see that now. I should have realized it weeks ago, when the traveling Grand Guignol that is Slam put down stakes here in my new homeland. I tried to ignore its presence. I turned the other cheek.”
He pushes a finger against the masked, meaty side of his face for effect.
“But you continued your torments. WCF is the vulture sent to feast on the last honorable man in professional wrestling’s liver as punishment for attempting to bring light and heat to this noble sport. And for a while, I took it.”
“But this Prometheus is no longer bound.”
“I will not ignore this latest attempt to destroy my victories. You saw I built an oasis in this God forsaken land and wanted to piddle in the pool. This will not happen. And you will pay a price for even daring to try. The cost of your perfidy, WCF? My attention. My complete, undivided attention. I have my eye on you, WCF-“
He gestures to the single disk set in the center of his cowl.
“-and soon my hands will be too. This Sunday will be the time, and there isn’t a darn thing you can do about it.”
Locomotora chuckles and holds up a piece of paper.
“You see, WCF: Slam’s latest card gives me an in. Specifically, the terms of this contest:”
He reads from the WCF program in a voice that is eerily similar to his former employer’s Seth Lerch:
“Tag Match: Vulgar and Kyle Kemp versus Alexander Richards and anyone who is willing to fight alongside a member of Pantheon.”
Another pause.
“Now, I know what you all are thinking. Why would I. Pantheon’s greatest enemy, choose to align himself with a member of the group? It was not a difficult choice to make, actually. The, ah, realignment of certain stars in the WCF Galaxy has made a partnership with Pantheon far more palatable. Also, I am a man who, in the past when circumstances warranted it, has tag teamed with Eric Price, literally the worst person in the world. Compared to that working with Alex Richards will be easy peasey Japanesey. Indeed, I expect the current Internet Champion will be, for the moment, overjoyed to see me Sunday, considering the only other people who have offered to partner with him are that schmendrick Buddy Roman and Spencer Adams’s mother.”
“My opponents should feel no such bliss. Vulgar, Kyle Kemp: I am going to make examples of you Sunday. Your defeat will remind WCF I am not a man to be toyed with. One would think my past accomplishments would be proof enough. During my pervious tenures with the company I beat legends. Pinned World Champions, War Winners, and Hall of Famers. You two? Of all the dishes of revenge I plan to dine on, you are the amuse bouche. A pair of slimy, sleazy undercarders who’ve been put in a bad place at a bad time. I’m sure Mister Lerch booked this match to build interest in Misters Kemp’s and Richards’s Internet Title bout at Asesinato De Mayo, with Vulgar playing a supporting role since he will be facing another Pantheon member, Scarecrow, for the People’s Championship later that same night.”
“But I’m here to flip the script. This match will not be about momentum going into the next pay per view, or a referendum on Pantheon’s popularity. It is about me, and how I am going to punish you all for not having the good sense to leave me alone. And to those of you who don’t think it’s fair that I’m coming in to steal your shine, I say this in response: tough darts. If members of the WCF Galaxy don’t want to be bigfooted they need to stop messing with Sasquatch.”
“This is not to say I see myself as so far above my opponents that I am taking them lightly. If WCF had a future, Vulgar and Kyle Kemp would be part of it. And not just because they are shiftless reprobates. They have demonstrated competency in the ring, and I would say they deserve their upcoming title shots. Are they on my level? Of course not. Are they on Alex Richards’s level? Again, no. Mister Richards has proven himself a powerful opponent. He’s consistently beaten quality wrestlers in his time in WCF, and is one of the few in the sport who can claim to have pinned the Parran*of Parroted Promo Styles, Governor Robert C. Cairo. His antics may be infantile, but the man himself must be taken very seriously.”
“But even if my not-quite- yet partner of circumstance wasn’t as formidable as Alex Richards, the outcome of this match Sunday is assured. Wrestling Championship Federation’s campaign to destroy what I have created in Mexico has motivated me to give out some well-deserved payback. It starts with Vulgar and Kyle Kemp, but it will not end until I have ground this company and everyone in it into powder. Be Prepared, WCF: on the schedule or not, this Train is bound for glory. This train is bound for Slam.”
*Cajun for Godfather. Sorry, a little of Caleb Fourchon crept into this RP.
