Post by Brandon 'Santelmo' Garcia on Nov 18, 2016 22:42:07 GMT -5
Descent
March 31st, 2013
UA Arena, New York
It all happened in an instant.
The decision, the reaction, the fall, and the loss. The most defining moment in Brandon Garcia’s career came down to an instant.
He’d do anything to get it back.
Despite it happening so quick at the time, it was the fall itself that allowed reflection. Brandon could remember the sight of Rex Evans ahead of him, stumbling forward like his life depended on it. He measured him, like a wolf would a limping calf, took aim, his bloodied and blurred vision zoning in on the sweet spot. The shot he never missed. The shot that had won him the title and made him a superstar.
The shot that ended it all.
He wasn’t sure how it happened, but here he was falling, plummeting toward the commentator’s box and another enemy he had under-estimated in Talon Wilkinson. He caught sight of the crowd, the thousands of flashes that would capture the moment he never thought would happen, his downfall.
The rest was a blur, pockets of moments that fell in and out of place in a dreamy manner. He recalled getting to his feet, but has no idea how, and the moment he was pinned. The arena had gone so silent for him, a muffled din from a faraway distance, he could only hear two things: the drum of his own heartbeat, and the slap of the referee’s hand as it met the mat beside him.
An instant and three seconds.
The career of Brandon ‘Santelmo’ Garcia.
Confession
November 5th, 2016
First Church, Boston
The interior of the church was grander than Garcia was expecting, not because the place looked dilapidated from the outside, he was just more accustomed to the dark, dank places his Grandmother had dragged him to as a child. It is possible that it reflected his feelings towards such a place of worship, or that his cheap ass Puerto Rican family were only allowed in the ‘cheap’ churches. Either way, he had no love for them. Primarily because they reminded him of his absent mother. Abandoned as a child his Irish mother sought out fame and fortune at the expense of his upbringing. Her faith was leashed onto him as soon as he could walk, like a carrot dangled before him. Believe in god, be a faithful son, and she will return.
They never truly realised the hate that dwelled within him toward her, and the faith. So, he surprised himself when he stepped into the church on a foggy Friday morning, the chill of dawn still fresh on his cheeks. Grander the church might be, but it still stirred the same emotions within him, he still felt that urge to slap the first nun that crossed his path, or bolt for the exit at the site of another human being that was stupid enough to devote their time to the devotion of a theoretical being. He scoffed out load, obnoxiously loud. Loud enough to bring the attention of the priest, who sauntered toward Garcia with an all to pleasant grin in place.
I want to confess.
Garcia declared before the man of god had chance to speak, Garcia had no interest in what he had to say, he wasn’t truly sure why he was here, doing what he was doing. He had never confessed in his life, never sought action in his errors. Yet here he was, being lead silently to a booth that filled him with dread, and anger. It threatened to boil over, but once alone he contained himself. Sat within the confines of the confession booth, the bench was hard and uncomfortable, a jolt of pain shot through his hip as he slumped on to it.
What can I—
The priest started but Brandon cut him off.
I don’t know quite where to start. You probably don’t know who I am, but if you do, you’ll know I am picking my words very carefully.
He cleared his throat, let the silence simmer over him, the cool draft calm him.
I have had a lot of violence in my life for the past six years. I openly mocked the faith of my family whilst I partook in it, and it felt fitting that on the verge of me returning to it, that I came here. I don’t know what I must confess exactly, maybe I just want to get some things off my chest, but I am returning against my will.
I am stuck, you see. I have a daughter now, again, against my will. Responsibilities, debts, people I care about… you can see the pattern here. I don’t want these things. Or at least, I never did. I wanted fame and fortune, I wanted to ride a wave of violent indulgence to the top of an industry I grew to love and I wanted to do it with a fuck you to the faith that rejected me, to the family that walked away, and the rest that never understood me.
You know I wrestle, right? Or at least I used to. Now I whore myself out for whatever name value I have left after being famous for five minutes, just to keep my life afloat. But that is my industry, it’s all I got. I had this finishing move, I called it the Hail Mary, a knee strike to the face that knocked out more people than I can remember, and I called the knee Rosary. I never really put much thought into it, the names just fit, they worked and they sounded right and it became a part of my brand so I never thought twice about it.
But is it wrong that violence and carnage is something that I revere? When you stand at your alter and pronounce the words of your god and tell your crowd that you feel his spirit with you, is it possible that I can feel the same thing when I am inflicting pain? When I am making someone suffer? Not just physically, but mentally. Is that wrong? Because I just don’t know anymore. I put everything I had into it before and I failed, it almost killed me, and I grew to hate it like I hated this church I was forced into as a child.
Why am I going back?
November 5th, 2016
First Church, Boston
The interior of the church was grander than Garcia was expecting, not because the place looked dilapidated from the outside, he was just more accustomed to the dark, dank places his Grandmother had dragged him to as a child. It is possible that it reflected his feelings towards such a place of worship, or that his cheap ass Puerto Rican family were only allowed in the ‘cheap’ churches. Either way, he had no love for them. Primarily because they reminded him of his absent mother. Abandoned as a child his Irish mother sought out fame and fortune at the expense of his upbringing. Her faith was leashed onto him as soon as he could walk, like a carrot dangled before him. Believe in god, be a faithful son, and she will return.
They never truly realised the hate that dwelled within him toward her, and the faith. So, he surprised himself when he stepped into the church on a foggy Friday morning, the chill of dawn still fresh on his cheeks. Grander the church might be, but it still stirred the same emotions within him, he still felt that urge to slap the first nun that crossed his path, or bolt for the exit at the site of another human being that was stupid enough to devote their time to the devotion of a theoretical being. He scoffed out load, obnoxiously loud. Loud enough to bring the attention of the priest, who sauntered toward Garcia with an all to pleasant grin in place.
I want to confess.
Garcia declared before the man of god had chance to speak, Garcia had no interest in what he had to say, he wasn’t truly sure why he was here, doing what he was doing. He had never confessed in his life, never sought action in his errors. Yet here he was, being lead silently to a booth that filled him with dread, and anger. It threatened to boil over, but once alone he contained himself. Sat within the confines of the confession booth, the bench was hard and uncomfortable, a jolt of pain shot through his hip as he slumped on to it.
What can I—
The priest started but Brandon cut him off.
I don’t know quite where to start. You probably don’t know who I am, but if you do, you’ll know I am picking my words very carefully.
He cleared his throat, let the silence simmer over him, the cool draft calm him.
I have had a lot of violence in my life for the past six years. I openly mocked the faith of my family whilst I partook in it, and it felt fitting that on the verge of me returning to it, that I came here. I don’t know what I must confess exactly, maybe I just want to get some things off my chest, but I am returning against my will.
I am stuck, you see. I have a daughter now, again, against my will. Responsibilities, debts, people I care about… you can see the pattern here. I don’t want these things. Or at least, I never did. I wanted fame and fortune, I wanted to ride a wave of violent indulgence to the top of an industry I grew to love and I wanted to do it with a fuck you to the faith that rejected me, to the family that walked away, and the rest that never understood me.
You know I wrestle, right? Or at least I used to. Now I whore myself out for whatever name value I have left after being famous for five minutes, just to keep my life afloat. But that is my industry, it’s all I got. I had this finishing move, I called it the Hail Mary, a knee strike to the face that knocked out more people than I can remember, and I called the knee Rosary. I never really put much thought into it, the names just fit, they worked and they sounded right and it became a part of my brand so I never thought twice about it.
But is it wrong that violence and carnage is something that I revere? When you stand at your alter and pronounce the words of your god and tell your crowd that you feel his spirit with you, is it possible that I can feel the same thing when I am inflicting pain? When I am making someone suffer? Not just physically, but mentally. Is that wrong? Because I just don’t know anymore. I put everything I had into it before and I failed, it almost killed me, and I grew to hate it like I hated this church I was forced into as a child.
Why am I going back?
The Offer
November 1st, 2016
Santelmo Palace, Boston
Garcia felt an anger rising him that he hadn’t felt for a while, especially not here, his home, his haven, his escape from the torturous existence he has been forced to suffer in recent years. He was surrounded, circled in by knuckleheads and mouth-breathers, and stood opposite, the bearer of bad news was his agent, Danny Bywater. An assuming man that has not taken well to middle age, his frayed suit suffered from many a stain, but he still wore it proudly and worked tirelessly for his clients: the dregs, the has-beens, and failures. He was the man who got you the man who put over man. Garcia growled.
It is not happening!
Bywater sighed and shook his head.
I am not sure you have a choice, Brandon.
Like hell I don’t! It is bad enough you fucking turned my home into a retirement complex for these decrepit fucks!
Just look at it as a job. Forget the past. This is a big opportunity for you…
You don’t get it, Dan. This place fucked me over, Talon Wilkinson single-handedly saw to it that I did not receive any medical treatment and he fucking owned the place. I almost died because that fucker held a grudge. And look where I am. Penniless. Broken. A FATHER! And I’m surrounded by homeless jobbers. Going back there is NOT an option.
I understand. I honestly do, but you are not thinking clearly here. The work has dried up, the other shit I have been magically pulling out of thin air for you won’t last and you have more than yourself to think about here.
Don’t bring her into it!
You can’t keep acting like she is not your responsibility. We’ve already lost enough court cases following that path. You are going to have to take this one on the chin and use it for all it’s worth. You don’t have to like it, but I can guran-damn-tee that this Wilkinson fellow won’t like it either.
Fuck. It has been a long time since I thought about him, long time since I thought about any form of revenge or restitution. I don’t know. The money is what is important though, right?
Exactly.
And they are expecting a Garcia?
That is the name on the contract.
I have something in mind.
November 1st, 2016
Santelmo Palace, Boston
Garcia felt an anger rising him that he hadn’t felt for a while, especially not here, his home, his haven, his escape from the torturous existence he has been forced to suffer in recent years. He was surrounded, circled in by knuckleheads and mouth-breathers, and stood opposite, the bearer of bad news was his agent, Danny Bywater. An assuming man that has not taken well to middle age, his frayed suit suffered from many a stain, but he still wore it proudly and worked tirelessly for his clients: the dregs, the has-beens, and failures. He was the man who got you the man who put over man. Garcia growled.
It is not happening!
Bywater sighed and shook his head.
I am not sure you have a choice, Brandon.
Like hell I don’t! It is bad enough you fucking turned my home into a retirement complex for these decrepit fucks!
Just look at it as a job. Forget the past. This is a big opportunity for you…
You don’t get it, Dan. This place fucked me over, Talon Wilkinson single-handedly saw to it that I did not receive any medical treatment and he fucking owned the place. I almost died because that fucker held a grudge. And look where I am. Penniless. Broken. A FATHER! And I’m surrounded by homeless jobbers. Going back there is NOT an option.
I understand. I honestly do, but you are not thinking clearly here. The work has dried up, the other shit I have been magically pulling out of thin air for you won’t last and you have more than yourself to think about here.
Don’t bring her into it!
You can’t keep acting like she is not your responsibility. We’ve already lost enough court cases following that path. You are going to have to take this one on the chin and use it for all it’s worth. You don’t have to like it, but I can guran-damn-tee that this Wilkinson fellow won’t like it either.
Fuck. It has been a long time since I thought about him, long time since I thought about any form of revenge or restitution. I don’t know. The money is what is important though, right?
Exactly.
And they are expecting a Garcia?
That is the name on the contract.
I have something in mind.
The Plan
November 3rd, 2016
Santelmo Palace, Boston
Her room was an eye-sore, vibrant pinks and purples offset with an obnoxious number of rainbows and dolls, it was enough to make you feel nauseous. Garcia fought back the vile rising from his stomach and stepped into his daughter’s room, he wanted to go over the plan with her again, not because he was concerned for her wellbeing, he just wanted to ensure she understood it. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched her struggle with the boots they had made her.
They don’t fit!
She threw the boot across the room and dropped to her back in dramatic fashion, hair matted to her face she huffed and puffed in a manner that only a child could pull off.
Forget about them.
Garcia knew they’d struggle to get them right, there were few wrestlers her size. He recalled the look of horror on the designer’s face, he was Garcia’s old haberdasher, but he dabbled in wrestling attire from time to time, plenty of fedora wearing clientele apparently.
The boots aren’t important Rose, the match is. Can you remember what you need to do?
She nodded.
Tell me…
Fine. I will do what you said, walk out to in front of the people and tell them that I am a Rosemary Garcia. Then I kick the man in the leg and we wrestle.
And…
And I let him win...
There is a knock on the door and it swings open before Garcia can respond. Danny Bywater is joined by a large fellow that some wrestling fans may remember for a certain kind of Justice he enforced. He was one of the squatting jobbers that worked for Bywater. The agent looked aghast.
Please tell me this is not what it looks like!
What? She can fight! Hits harder than you’d guess. Don’t look so fucking shocked, this isn’t about her wrestling, this is about the message I am sending to Talon and the rest of the cronies that run CRW. They want a Garcia, this is it.
What exactly will it prove?
…Talon would never let it happen. It is about power, control. They are trying to re-build this company off my name, they have put me in the main event and they expect to waltz out there like nothing fucking happened and help them get an audience again. Well this is my fuck you to that.
And what if he allows it to happen? We have seen him allow worse.
Then she knows what to do. I have told her to let them win, won’t be nothing but a simple pin. She’s ten year old for fuck sake.
You don’t know who they’ve booked you against, do you?
They announced that?
Check your phone…
Just tell me.
Trust me. You need a plan B.
November 3rd, 2016
Santelmo Palace, Boston
Her room was an eye-sore, vibrant pinks and purples offset with an obnoxious number of rainbows and dolls, it was enough to make you feel nauseous. Garcia fought back the vile rising from his stomach and stepped into his daughter’s room, he wanted to go over the plan with her again, not because he was concerned for her wellbeing, he just wanted to ensure she understood it. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched her struggle with the boots they had made her.
They don’t fit!
She threw the boot across the room and dropped to her back in dramatic fashion, hair matted to her face she huffed and puffed in a manner that only a child could pull off.
Forget about them.
Garcia knew they’d struggle to get them right, there were few wrestlers her size. He recalled the look of horror on the designer’s face, he was Garcia’s old haberdasher, but he dabbled in wrestling attire from time to time, plenty of fedora wearing clientele apparently.
The boots aren’t important Rose, the match is. Can you remember what you need to do?
She nodded.
Tell me…
Fine. I will do what you said, walk out to in front of the people and tell them that I am a Rosemary Garcia. Then I kick the man in the leg and we wrestle.
And…
And I let him win...
There is a knock on the door and it swings open before Garcia can respond. Danny Bywater is joined by a large fellow that some wrestling fans may remember for a certain kind of Justice he enforced. He was one of the squatting jobbers that worked for Bywater. The agent looked aghast.
Please tell me this is not what it looks like!
What? She can fight! Hits harder than you’d guess. Don’t look so fucking shocked, this isn’t about her wrestling, this is about the message I am sending to Talon and the rest of the cronies that run CRW. They want a Garcia, this is it.
What exactly will it prove?
…Talon would never let it happen. It is about power, control. They are trying to re-build this company off my name, they have put me in the main event and they expect to waltz out there like nothing fucking happened and help them get an audience again. Well this is my fuck you to that.
And what if he allows it to happen? We have seen him allow worse.
Then she knows what to do. I have told her to let them win, won’t be nothing but a simple pin. She’s ten year old for fuck sake.
You don’t know who they’ve booked you against, do you?
They announced that?
Check your phone…
Just tell me.
Trust me. You need a plan B.
Plan B
November 15th, 2016
Santelmo Palace, Boston
The camera feed came to live with a close up of Garcia, clearly struggling with the GoPro. He had never been great with tech, always seemed like something he could pay someone to do. The truth is, it wasn’t the camera he struggled with the most, it was Rose, and her incessant need to fidget. At least with the GoPro on her head, she could move with him, or around him and hopefully he’d stay in shot. He didn’t have much to say, the quality of it was not important, but he was never the type to head into a fight silently. Rosemary shifted and the camera with her.
Can you believe this! Huh! Code Red Wrestling is alive… and so am I. I don’t know what the bigger shock for you fans is, the fact that someone was stupid enough to bank roll this company again, or that I am still stupid enough to agree to wrestle in it. I will let you make the decision yourself but know this first, I am here for one thing only, and that is the pay check.
I don’t care about nostalgia. There are no good times for me to re-live, only heartbreak and sorrow caused by the man who made his millions off of my misfortune.
So here I am... getting my share back.
For some of you who have followed my career since the Under Armour Arena got overtaken by mannequins, I have had a tough time. Injuries, limited employment options, a surprising dislike for my mannerisms. The wrestling world is a cruel bitch if you aren’t willing to pucker up and service it. That is why you will see the disparity in careers between some of us. Where men like Rex Evans and Tobias Burden have gone on to cement decent careers, the likes of me have been cast aside.
We are not compliant, that is the problem. We are popular, but hell, there are plenty out there that will mimic what we say, and get on their knees too, and you guys are too stupid to realise the difference.
CRW was the only place willing to push me, willing to put me in the main event and on the posters. But it wasn’t because they respected me, or that they even recognised my ability. They did it because they had no choice. You… the fans forced their hand and whilst we have never seen eye to eye, that is something I do like about the masses. When they want something, they get it.
Look at my opponent for this CRW resurgence. A fucking Japanese porn star was one of the most popular guys on the roster for knocking out bums with his dick! You think Talon ever wanted that guy to be fundamental to his business?
Me and Mazuki are very different men, our motivations vastly differ, and I’ll be honest, I am not entirely sure he is sane. But one thing we share is our affinity with the fans that want something different. The fans that appreciate someone who doesn’t give a fuck.
This might not be the type of promo you expect from me. Rest assured I still have the one liners, the insults, and the hatred. And you will see plenty of it. But right now, I just want to thank those of you who fuck with the system, and assure you that me and Mazuki will give you guys what you have been craving since the industry left us behind.
To Mazuki, if you happen across this and you are not too doped up on enhancers, I hope you are the competitor I remember. It has been too long since I had a good fight. And I hope you remember the competitor I am. For your own sake.
I devastated this company the first night I walked into it, the very first Face Off that I showed my face changed everything for CRW. And it wasn’t my looks, my charisma, or my gimmick. It was my tenacity, it was my insatiable desire for fucking annihilating anyone and everyone that I needed to, to achieve my goals. And my goal is simple this time around.
I just need to win.
For Garcia.
November 15th, 2016
Santelmo Palace, Boston
The camera feed came to live with a close up of Garcia, clearly struggling with the GoPro. He had never been great with tech, always seemed like something he could pay someone to do. The truth is, it wasn’t the camera he struggled with the most, it was Rose, and her incessant need to fidget. At least with the GoPro on her head, she could move with him, or around him and hopefully he’d stay in shot. He didn’t have much to say, the quality of it was not important, but he was never the type to head into a fight silently. Rosemary shifted and the camera with her.
Can you believe this! Huh! Code Red Wrestling is alive… and so am I. I don’t know what the bigger shock for you fans is, the fact that someone was stupid enough to bank roll this company again, or that I am still stupid enough to agree to wrestle in it. I will let you make the decision yourself but know this first, I am here for one thing only, and that is the pay check.
I don’t care about nostalgia. There are no good times for me to re-live, only heartbreak and sorrow caused by the man who made his millions off of my misfortune.
So here I am... getting my share back.
For some of you who have followed my career since the Under Armour Arena got overtaken by mannequins, I have had a tough time. Injuries, limited employment options, a surprising dislike for my mannerisms. The wrestling world is a cruel bitch if you aren’t willing to pucker up and service it. That is why you will see the disparity in careers between some of us. Where men like Rex Evans and Tobias Burden have gone on to cement decent careers, the likes of me have been cast aside.
We are not compliant, that is the problem. We are popular, but hell, there are plenty out there that will mimic what we say, and get on their knees too, and you guys are too stupid to realise the difference.
CRW was the only place willing to push me, willing to put me in the main event and on the posters. But it wasn’t because they respected me, or that they even recognised my ability. They did it because they had no choice. You… the fans forced their hand and whilst we have never seen eye to eye, that is something I do like about the masses. When they want something, they get it.
Look at my opponent for this CRW resurgence. A fucking Japanese porn star was one of the most popular guys on the roster for knocking out bums with his dick! You think Talon ever wanted that guy to be fundamental to his business?
Me and Mazuki are very different men, our motivations vastly differ, and I’ll be honest, I am not entirely sure he is sane. But one thing we share is our affinity with the fans that want something different. The fans that appreciate someone who doesn’t give a fuck.
This might not be the type of promo you expect from me. Rest assured I still have the one liners, the insults, and the hatred. And you will see plenty of it. But right now, I just want to thank those of you who fuck with the system, and assure you that me and Mazuki will give you guys what you have been craving since the industry left us behind.
To Mazuki, if you happen across this and you are not too doped up on enhancers, I hope you are the competitor I remember. It has been too long since I had a good fight. And I hope you remember the competitor I am. For your own sake.
I devastated this company the first night I walked into it, the very first Face Off that I showed my face changed everything for CRW. And it wasn’t my looks, my charisma, or my gimmick. It was my tenacity, it was my insatiable desire for fucking annihilating anyone and everyone that I needed to, to achieve my goals. And my goal is simple this time around.
I just need to win.
For Garcia.