Post by SANGRE on Oct 15, 2024 18:24:18 GMT
Chapter Two
The Orphan Sangre
Downtown Merida, Yucatan, Mexico
2006
“...Come in, Gonzalez. Anything?”
A shaky Yucatan police officer tiptoes through a dark clothing store with his gun and flashlight drawn. He reaches for his walkie talkie with caution while his eyes dart around the darkness around him.
Ofr. Gonzalez
Negative. Brown hair on the suspect?
Ofr. Camaal
At least shoulder length. Likely homeless. They think it’s the same guy that broke into the stores in Centro.
Ofr. Gonzalez flashes the light into the changing rooms and gingerly pushes one of the doors to reveal only a hanging pair of jeans. With a bit more confidence behind him, he pushes open the second changing room door. The vacancy is a relief to Ofr. Gonzalez, who immediately walkies his colleague.
Ofr. Gonzalez
Store is clear, Camaal. How is the alley? Did you catch him running out?
Ofr. Camaal is out of breath and clearly in a haste.
Ofr. Camaal
He never left! He…
Ofr. Gonzalez slowly tilts his flashlight up towards the ceiling.
...NEVER!
The first thing he sees are the grimy, two hairy feet stretched from wall to wall.
...LEFT!
The light reveals a rat-like young man with long brown matted locks. The rat-boy suddenly drops down on Gonzalez and the weary officer catches a knee to the face. The hoodlum rushes out of the changing room hallway and hightails it towards an open window only a mouse could fit through.
Ofr. Camaal enters the pursuit from a back door and almost gets a handful of the rat-boy's unkempt hair. The pursuit ends just as the boy leaps from the cashier counter to an open window above an exit door in one seamless action. Camaal doesn’t attempt the same acrobatic maneuver and instead tries the exit door to no avail.
We join the boy on the other side of the door, on a closed commercial district street. The face of the suspect becomes more illuminated under the streetlight, and it is clear that life hasn’t been easy for young Tohil.
In the distance, Tohil notices the hustle-and-bustle of the Merido streets which may serve as an effective camouflage for him. As he contemplates the next move, the jiggle of keys can be heard from behind the door. Tohil wastes no time as he darts towards his salvation where homeless youth are an unfortunate dime-a-dozen.
The current of the crowd drags the boy toward a sign reading “LUCHA LIBRE ¡TONIGHT!” He uses the cover to his advantage and squeezes through a narrow opening below the bleachers. He climbs over steel bars with a cat-like lightness. The other side of the bleachers offers uncertain passage, but Tohil can’t go backwards. He pushes through a vulnerability in a wired fence which was haphazardly covered with a black curtain. Beyond the curtain is the makeshift backstage area for the LUCHA LIBRE ¡TONIGHT! event. As fortune would have it, the opening led directly to a door with a sign taped on reading: POLLO VILLANO JR. Other paths in the backstage area offered greater risk of being discovered and letting the heat die down while hiding seemed, at least to Tohil, to be the most logical choice.
The room was a treasure of everything foreign to street-survivor Tohil: champagne on ice, heavy gold jewelry, coats made from creatures he once hung for tanning. The most attractive of all was the championship belt lying neatly on the makeup table, surrounded by a large make-up mirror allowing it to rejoice upon itself. The boy grabs a nearby duffel bag and tosses the championship inside. The sweat and grime from his fingers prevents him from getting a healthy grip on the zipper to close it. Finally on the last attempt he grabs the zipper and–an unknown hand tightly wraps around his wrist.
Before the boy can get a good look at the owner of the hand, he’s walloped in the face with the attacker’s other hand. The hit leaves the slightest dent in the boy's nose and briefly knocks his lights out. The possibly broken nose left Tohil’s view of his attacker blurry at best, but he can somehow make out dark orange feathers and black eyes. No matter how blurry though, he knew exactly what was coming his way again. He makes a pathetic, but admirable, attempt to flee but the grip quickly brings him back into reaching distance and – WHACK!
The newscaster didn’t call for any thunderstorms over the Yucatan this evening so the crack echoing could only be attributed to the boy's now disfigured nose. Quite literally broken, and defeated, the boy lets go of the duffle bag and falls backwards into the makeup table chair. Despite the gore, the boy’s response is that of complete silence despite his heavy breathing and the usual spittle of blood to make breathing easier.
As the boy begins to sober up from the pain, he sees the man from all the posters plastered around town: Pollo Villano Jr., or PVJ. Back in the early 2000s, Los Pollos was a household name in Mexico purely for their wrestling endeavors. The generation, led by Hijo and Black Pollo V, would eventually grow the “Los Pollos” brand beyond the wrestling world.
PVJ aggressively grabs Tohil by the shirt collar and lifts him off his feet.
Pollo Villano Jr.
Where are your parents?
Tohil, enduring immense pain without shedding a single tear, is unable to respond.
Pollo Villano Jr.
Answer me now, thief. Where are your par–
Tohil lets out a meager:
Tohil
I don’t know.
PVJ, puzzled by the answer, gently lowers Tohil to the ground.
Pollo Villano Jr.
Where is “home”?
Tohil shakes his head.
Pollo Villano Jr. releases Tohil abruptly, as if the gravity of the situation has settled in him. This kid he just clobbered is homeless, and will likely rot on the streets.
CUT TO:
Pollo Villano Jr. is driving home in a slick red 1982 Corvette; Tohil has joined him in the passenger seat with a nose splint, an ice pack, and a hearty burger.
CUT TO:
A light turns on revealing a guest bedroom in an extravagant Spanish-style home.
PVJ shoves a handful of bed linens at Tohil.
Pollo Villano Jr.
While you are here, you adhere to my rules. Curfew is when I say it is, wake-up time is 5AM every morning. You eat what I give you, sleep when I allow you, and train during every other waking breath.
Tohil
Train for?
Pollo Villano Jr.
Tohil, is it?
Tohil nods.
Pollo Villano Jr.
I’ve broken the nose of a lot of men. You know what all those men had in common? I turned them into blubbering little putas. Grown men reduced to children. And here you are, a child, and you haven’t shed a single tear. I see a fight in you; an ability to absorb suffering and to keep pushing. My family and I have a word for that: lucha…. But what do you think? You think you have it?
Tohil nods again.
Pollo Villano Jr.
Good. Tomorrow’s the first day of training but I'll tell you now: if you betray me at any point, I'll send you back to whatever alleyway you're from. Got it? Now go shower, scrape that filth off you, and rejoin civilized society.
PVJ “pats” Tohil on the back with a hard slap, and exits without wishing a goodnight. Tohil drops the linens on the unmade bed and sits quietly on the mattress while appreciating the view from his room. Beyond the window lie the wilderness of the Yucatan, and the quiet village life he was required to leave behind.
The Orphan Sangre
Downtown Merida, Yucatan, Mexico
2006
“...Come in, Gonzalez. Anything?”
A shaky Yucatan police officer tiptoes through a dark clothing store with his gun and flashlight drawn. He reaches for his walkie talkie with caution while his eyes dart around the darkness around him.
Ofr. Gonzalez
Negative. Brown hair on the suspect?
Ofr. Camaal
At least shoulder length. Likely homeless. They think it’s the same guy that broke into the stores in Centro.
Ofr. Gonzalez flashes the light into the changing rooms and gingerly pushes one of the doors to reveal only a hanging pair of jeans. With a bit more confidence behind him, he pushes open the second changing room door. The vacancy is a relief to Ofr. Gonzalez, who immediately walkies his colleague.
Ofr. Gonzalez
Store is clear, Camaal. How is the alley? Did you catch him running out?
Ofr. Camaal is out of breath and clearly in a haste.
Ofr. Camaal
He never left! He…
Ofr. Gonzalez slowly tilts his flashlight up towards the ceiling.
...NEVER!
The first thing he sees are the grimy, two hairy feet stretched from wall to wall.
...LEFT!
The light reveals a rat-like young man with long brown matted locks. The rat-boy suddenly drops down on Gonzalez and the weary officer catches a knee to the face. The hoodlum rushes out of the changing room hallway and hightails it towards an open window only a mouse could fit through.
Ofr. Camaal enters the pursuit from a back door and almost gets a handful of the rat-boy's unkempt hair. The pursuit ends just as the boy leaps from the cashier counter to an open window above an exit door in one seamless action. Camaal doesn’t attempt the same acrobatic maneuver and instead tries the exit door to no avail.
We join the boy on the other side of the door, on a closed commercial district street. The face of the suspect becomes more illuminated under the streetlight, and it is clear that life hasn’t been easy for young Tohil.
In the distance, Tohil notices the hustle-and-bustle of the Merido streets which may serve as an effective camouflage for him. As he contemplates the next move, the jiggle of keys can be heard from behind the door. Tohil wastes no time as he darts towards his salvation where homeless youth are an unfortunate dime-a-dozen.
The current of the crowd drags the boy toward a sign reading “LUCHA LIBRE ¡TONIGHT!” He uses the cover to his advantage and squeezes through a narrow opening below the bleachers. He climbs over steel bars with a cat-like lightness. The other side of the bleachers offers uncertain passage, but Tohil can’t go backwards. He pushes through a vulnerability in a wired fence which was haphazardly covered with a black curtain. Beyond the curtain is the makeshift backstage area for the LUCHA LIBRE ¡TONIGHT! event. As fortune would have it, the opening led directly to a door with a sign taped on reading: POLLO VILLANO JR. Other paths in the backstage area offered greater risk of being discovered and letting the heat die down while hiding seemed, at least to Tohil, to be the most logical choice.
The room was a treasure of everything foreign to street-survivor Tohil: champagne on ice, heavy gold jewelry, coats made from creatures he once hung for tanning. The most attractive of all was the championship belt lying neatly on the makeup table, surrounded by a large make-up mirror allowing it to rejoice upon itself. The boy grabs a nearby duffel bag and tosses the championship inside. The sweat and grime from his fingers prevents him from getting a healthy grip on the zipper to close it. Finally on the last attempt he grabs the zipper and–an unknown hand tightly wraps around his wrist.
Before the boy can get a good look at the owner of the hand, he’s walloped in the face with the attacker’s other hand. The hit leaves the slightest dent in the boy's nose and briefly knocks his lights out. The possibly broken nose left Tohil’s view of his attacker blurry at best, but he can somehow make out dark orange feathers and black eyes. No matter how blurry though, he knew exactly what was coming his way again. He makes a pathetic, but admirable, attempt to flee but the grip quickly brings him back into reaching distance and – WHACK!
The newscaster didn’t call for any thunderstorms over the Yucatan this evening so the crack echoing could only be attributed to the boy's now disfigured nose. Quite literally broken, and defeated, the boy lets go of the duffle bag and falls backwards into the makeup table chair. Despite the gore, the boy’s response is that of complete silence despite his heavy breathing and the usual spittle of blood to make breathing easier.
As the boy begins to sober up from the pain, he sees the man from all the posters plastered around town: Pollo Villano Jr., or PVJ. Back in the early 2000s, Los Pollos was a household name in Mexico purely for their wrestling endeavors. The generation, led by Hijo and Black Pollo V, would eventually grow the “Los Pollos” brand beyond the wrestling world.
PVJ aggressively grabs Tohil by the shirt collar and lifts him off his feet.
Pollo Villano Jr.
Where are your parents?
Tohil, enduring immense pain without shedding a single tear, is unable to respond.
Pollo Villano Jr.
Answer me now, thief. Where are your par–
Tohil lets out a meager:
Tohil
I don’t know.
PVJ, puzzled by the answer, gently lowers Tohil to the ground.
Pollo Villano Jr.
Where is “home”?
Tohil shakes his head.
Pollo Villano Jr. releases Tohil abruptly, as if the gravity of the situation has settled in him. This kid he just clobbered is homeless, and will likely rot on the streets.
CUT TO:
Pollo Villano Jr. is driving home in a slick red 1982 Corvette; Tohil has joined him in the passenger seat with a nose splint, an ice pack, and a hearty burger.
CUT TO:
A light turns on revealing a guest bedroom in an extravagant Spanish-style home.
PVJ shoves a handful of bed linens at Tohil.
Pollo Villano Jr.
While you are here, you adhere to my rules. Curfew is when I say it is, wake-up time is 5AM every morning. You eat what I give you, sleep when I allow you, and train during every other waking breath.
Tohil
Train for?
Pollo Villano Jr.
Tohil, is it?
Tohil nods.
Pollo Villano Jr.
I’ve broken the nose of a lot of men. You know what all those men had in common? I turned them into blubbering little putas. Grown men reduced to children. And here you are, a child, and you haven’t shed a single tear. I see a fight in you; an ability to absorb suffering and to keep pushing. My family and I have a word for that: lucha…. But what do you think? You think you have it?
Tohil nods again.
Pollo Villano Jr.
Good. Tomorrow’s the first day of training but I'll tell you now: if you betray me at any point, I'll send you back to whatever alleyway you're from. Got it? Now go shower, scrape that filth off you, and rejoin civilized society.
PVJ “pats” Tohil on the back with a hard slap, and exits without wishing a goodnight. Tohil drops the linens on the unmade bed and sits quietly on the mattress while appreciating the view from his room. Beyond the window lie the wilderness of the Yucatan, and the quiet village life he was required to leave behind.