chronicles of d. watson // inst. one

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CHRONICLES OF D. WATSON // INST. ONE ADRENALINE JUNKIE When you, the reader, may have last seen the elusive Dickie Watson, he was just a spectator at one of the events at So-Cal Ultraviolent -- an extra when it came down to it, not someone that really was intended to rise up and take on the world as his own individual being. He was a support mainly for Elena DeDraca, one of his only friends, and a woman he could call a sister since their time in London. This wrestling thing, it wasn’t something that was supposed to actually happen. His family could have run it all themselves and taken the glory. But it wasn’t always about glory. It wasn’t even about prestige or fame.  Frankly, it all came down to one evening. One singular evening that changed virtually everything. - - - - - - - - - OCTOBER 27TH, 2017 “Welcome back to the B-B-BIG 100, Washington D.C.’s premier classic rock station. Scottie Pippin here tonight for the late hour . . . just want to remind you that it’s a chilly evening out there, a blustery thirty-nine degrees. I recommend you bundle the hell up before you go out tonight, and just a reminder that the storm that was predicted to begin sometime around midnight, if not earlier, seems to be already starting. Make sure you’re in for the night, y’all.” The snow had already begun to fall, despite the weather reports. Regardless of the report anyway, the people of Washington seemed to not particularly care already. With the snowflakes beginning to fall softly out of the sky, there were people milling about, heading to their Friday evening events -- most likely going to booze themselves silly at the downtown bars that seemed to be frequented by socialites and people who didn’t give a rat's ass about snow. The door to Zaytinya, a fairly decent Mediterranean restaurant close to the Washington Mall and United States Capitol, slid open once more, and out of it came a couple who had no intentions whatsoever of following the rest of the crowd out into the nighttime affairs like everyone else. They were more than happy to simply head home, turn on a movie and . . . well, you know.  They were your typical millennial hipster couple. The taller of the two, the young man, wrapped his leather-jacket laden arm across the smaller, lightly pink-haired female’s shoulders, holding her close as they walked down the street. She lifted her heavily darkened eyes up to look at him, laughing at something he said, and reached up, grasping the orange beanie he wore off of his head, ramming it on top of her pinkish hair. “Guess I’m gonna have to freeze, aren’t I?” He chuckled. His dialect screamed Cockney British, dropping several vowel sounds. “I guess so.” She teased back, sticking her tongue out at him. “What’d you want to do when we get back?” “You tell me.” He snorted, and she smacked him in the stomach lightly.  “You’re awful.”  The pair were known to their friends and family as Dimitri and Hannah. Except that Dimitri never went by “Dimitri” -- “Dickie” fit him better. He was sarcastic, but an all around “good guy”. He always put everyone else first, especially before himself. “Dimitri” sounded like some goddamn creepy ass Russian spy that was into everyone’s business, and that just wasn’t him at all. So thus he was called Dickie, and thus it was an opening for every horrible nickname that could ever be placed upon him. He didn't particularly care. "Maybe we shouldn't have walked," Hannah murmured a few minutes later, as they walked down another open street. "Meh, it would have been stupid to drive." He replied. And besides, he just wanted to spend time with her -- more time than he usually got to spend. Hannah was a Biology major over at John Hopkins University on the tip of the Baltimore, Maryland peninsula. It was a two hour drive any time one of them wanted to see the other, and on general basis, he was more apt to spend the time driving there and spending his days with her on campus. She needed study time, and often times, he helped her study in the library, in the dorm room, anywhere on campus that seemed to be the quietest place. And the most secluded.  They usually got into a lot of trouble. If you catch my drift. Hannah wasn't quite sure of her goal yet. At first, he wondered if she wanted to study Pre-Med, but she wasn't sure about that. Nor was she sure about nursing. At the moment, she was content with her second year of university, and of course, spending time with him. She didn't go quite further into her family history, or speak much about her life before JHU. Her roommate happened to be a Japanese Exchange student, who often times left to hang out with her sibling who was quartered in Norfolk, doing some wrestling training school . . . thing. He knew her father lived somewhere in Italy, and he wasn't at all aware of Dickie's continued presence. At least, not their vast time spent together. That probably wasn't good. But it obviously wasn't at the forefront of his mind. They were close to Dickie's flat just minutes from the capital. It was a fairly decent abode, something that he could afford on his salary from the Washington Times. He was columnist that wrote on local sporting events, big or small. He covered the Redskins during American Football season (something he had to train up on, since he grew up in London). Sometimes, he covered high school sports. It really depended on the day and how much news he had to get up there. He was fairly happy with his position. He was happy with his life. He had everything he wanted. His family. Hannah. A good job. And a fish named Phil Collins.  It all changed that night.  A dude, stocky, with his head down, turned the corner in front of them. He had a beanie cap on, a large jacket, and his hands where shoved deep into his pockets. At first, the couple paid him no mind, so focused were they on one another. But as he approached, and his stare became somewhat leering, Dickie's eyes narrowed. As if time could actually slow down, as if it were in slow motion, he watched the man as he pulled his hand from his large jacket pockets. And in it was a .9mm. He pulled it on them, pointing it at the two of them. The sounds of shouting echoed loudly across the quiet street, all three of them shouting things that were unable to be heard. Regardless, Dickie and Hannah were made to exit the open street and pushed into the alley way behind them by only the weapon that was in the man's hand. Dickie, in his infinite wisdom, tried to reason with the assailant. Unconsciously, he placed himself in-between Hannah and the (obvious) mugger.  "Bro, you don't have to do this. Just put the--" "Give me everything you've got!" He yelled at the two of them, cutting off the British native and brandishing the gun in their faces. Hannah yelped loudly, her gasp exceptionally frightened. "Now!" "Okay, okay!" She replied, her voice shaking, and she pulled her bag off of her shoulders.  "And you, pretty boy." He growled, pointing the gun directly at Hannah as he stared down Dickie.  A brief spark of rebellion flooded through Dickie -- clearly, his genetic-givers hadn't been the best stewards of their own lives, considering they were both dead. They'd given him that lack of self-preservation themselves, and it always seemed to come out at the wrong times. He should have been concerned with not getting shot, or concerned about calling the police after their encounter with this dude. Perhaps he should have been pulling out his wallet and handing him the fat stack of twenties he'd pulled out of the Automated Teller Machine so he could take Hannah out on a date. Perhaps he should be simply been listening to his rational brain as it argued with his illogical one. He saw red. The fact of the matter is that Dickie did not hand over his cash, or his wallet, or frankly anything. He put his hand out and pressed it to Hannah's opposite shoulder. "No." He replied. The reaction of the thief was instantaneous. The gun's barrel was promptly focused on him, and the criminal stepped forward towards Dickie, hoping to intimidate him. It wasn't until the barrel was pressed upon the millennial's forehead that he spoke. "Don't make the girly watch you get your brains blown out, kid. Hand over the cash." There was a flurry of motion as Dickie moved quicker than he thought he'd ever moved in his life. The two men struggled as Hannah yelled loudly, her tone near banshee levels of volume. A gun shot rang out, but luckily, it was pointed at the ground. That would have caused people to run out of their homes if they were paying attention. Unfortunately for them, it's Washington D.C. -- it was more of a surprise if someone wasn't shooting. Somehow, some way, Dickie was able to overpower the thief, ramming his fist into the man's face without him anticipating it; the gun fell to the floor. Dickie quickly grasped the criminal's head, forcing it to careen off of the dumpster in the corner. The man wobbled on his feet, and the younger man repeated the attack until the thief fell face forward into a pile of full garbage bags. Dickie stumbled backward briefly, just as Hannah grasped his arm in shock. "Are you okay?" He muttered to her, turning his head to face her. He was promptly slapped, which knocked his brain back into shape. And then he was hugged, Hannah's arms wrapping tightly around him as he stood there. "You're such an idiot." Her voice was a mixture of worried and relieved. "I know." He muttered back, pressing his fingers into her hair as he held her in return.  He could have chalked it up to adrenaline. He could have chalked it up to some protector complex that he didn't know he had. But neither of those would have been the complete explanation anyway. Or even close to the right one. It was simple: Dickie enjoyed ramming the man's face into the dumpster. He enjoyed causing him ill will. More than he should have. He was a kind human being. He rarely wished death upon a fly in his household. But now that he'd experienced violence in such a manner, his fingers seemed to itch for it to happen again. It was a new cross to bear. - - - - - - - - -  FEBRUARY 7TH, 2018 “Heard there's a new promotion opening up. Down in Jersey." They stood in the large, professionally-equipped kitchen, their meal complete, and mostly everyone sated from a delicious spread of American home cooked delights. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and those weird little beans. It wasn't a full course London dinner, but it hit the spot well . . . considering everyone ate at least two helpings. As they always did. Dickie leaned on the counter, his open domestic IPA clutched in his hand. He tapped his fingers against the granite, gauging the reaction of the man in front of him. They didn't always see eye-to-eye, and most of the time, the elder man treated Dickie like a complete idiot, but Finn Whelan was probably the only person that the kid could talk to about this and get an open, completely honest response. That didn't mean, of course, that Elena or Hannah's opinions didn't matter. Of course, they absolutely did. But he already knew what they were going to say -- absolutely fucking not.  Finn grasped a plate, placing it under the running faucet and cracked his neck as he took the brush to the top of it. "Yeah?" "Yeah." Dickie confirmed. "You heard about it yet?" "Nah." They didn't share a lot of words. Not often. Finn enjoyed screwing with the kid, calling him names and rising his ire. It was what siblings did, and since he'd known Dickie for about as long as he'd known Elena, they might as well be.  But tonight, Dickie hadn't been responding to the usual dickery that Finn resorted to. He seemed to be off in space, or even off in his own head. Even now, he was only staring at the refrigerator behind Finn, thinking of what he was saying. "Called The Factory." He continued, his fingers tapping incessantly on the counter still. Finn lifted a sharp eyebrow, disappearing behind the opposite side of the counter for a second as he loaded the dishwasher in a surprisingly domestic move. He reappeared a moment later, cocking his head to the side as he waited for Dickie to continue. He didn't have to wait very long. "It's in Newark. It's only a couple hours drive from here." Still silence. "I was signed two nights ago." To this, Finn let out a snort that echoed off his surroundings, followed by laughter. That was the thing -- no one in the household seemed to think that Dickie would be able to become anything but a flop. Not because he was who he was, but . . . because he was who he was. For so many years, they'd watched as Dickie could barely swat a spider or even Finn in retaliation, much less another human being. But that was the Dickie of Old. Of prior to five months ago. "It's not completely out of line, Finn." He huffed, frowning as his "sibling" continued to laugh. "I mean, you didn't see the match at Slaughterhouse, but I completely overpowered that dude that was a hundred pounds heavier than me. I won that match." "And yet they closed the week after. Dickwad, you're not a fighter. You never have been. Luck doesn't supersede skill, or years of training." Finn retorted quickly, his Irish accent accenting his speech significantly. It tended to happen when he got excited about something. "I've been training. For months now." He insisted, leaning forward on the counter. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm still working it out. I'm still pushing myself. But since the stuff with Hannah's family, and that mugger, I needed an outlet. I'm not saying I'm the best dude out there in the world--" "Because you fucking aren't." "-- but I think I've gotten pretty good in a short time for knowing fucking nothing." Finn turned off the water and pressed his hands onto the counter. He stared at the kid, who ran a hand through his hair as he looked off to the side. His eyes took in the scene through the doorway, where Elena and Hannah sat with Finn's wifey, laughing about something that was said. "I'm sensing a 'but' in this conversation." Dickie nodded. "I'm going to need mentoring, I think. It's a hardcore variant place. And I mean, you excelled in San Diego. And WWH. And I mean, you've got that match this week with Vachon at Union . . ." Finn leaned forward, a smirk rising on his lips as he shook his head. "Are you asking Pissy ol' Finneh for help?" The millennial sighed. He dreaded having to do this, especially since Finn could be a complete asshole on even his best day. But he looked up at the ceiling, and then, with a very long, drawn out exhale, he nodded. The Seattle Saint walked around the counter and reached out, ruffling his sibling's hair and snorting at the same time. "Deal. But you're telling Elena, Dickwad. And if you die, you die." Dickie groaned loudly. "Fuck off." END.