Untitled

It had been a bad night. Again. Bad nights weren't anything special at this point. They were the norm. They were what Rebel Son, locally grown vigilante, had come to expect. Regardlessly, that didn't stop a bad night from giving him a case of the 'down in the dumps'.

 

Down at that humble little hovel by Green River, that miserable shame of a shack with the tar paper-covered walls and the dense, plastic windows and the rusted hunker of a Ford pickup parked admidst the weeds...Rebel Son stumbled into his house with a crestfallen grown.

 

"I hurt..."

 

Not any specific body part. Just everything. Everything hurt. His back ached. His feet throbbed. He felt that 'hurt' everywhere from the soles of his feet to the tips of his fingernails to the edges of his nosehairs. He hurt. As far as bad nights went, this bad night had been one doozy of a bad night. An uneventful night would have been better.

 

For weeks he'd tried that strategy of just parking out somewhere and tuning into his police scanner like he'd seen in that one cartoon movie with the Fantastic Four family. That didn't work as well as he hoped it would. He was no 'super'. He couldn't get anywhere before the law could. It was pointless. So then he tried a more old-fashioned approach. He'd simply put on his mask and hero duds and skulked around the residential area, keeping an eye out for troublemakers. Tonight was the night he discovered that was also not a very good idea. Wasn't nobody out breaking the law except for him. Somebody called the law about a prowler...which, he supposed that's exactly what he was. He hightailed it back to his place as fast as his boots could carry him and was as lucky as could be that the only responder to the call was ol' Darryl Cobb, who was about as smart as a sack of potatoes and just as lazy.

 

He removed his mask. Rebel Son became Jacob Robert Sutton: high school dropout, part-time wrestler, and worthless sack of crap. Sutton stared into his 'comfy' abode with visible disdain. It was the defintion of a hick-styled bachelor pad. Mud-colored dense carpeting for the 'living room/bedroom' combo as he called it, cheap and dirty linoleum floor for the closet-sized kitchen. They were basically one room, separated only by the change in floor and the chipped oak bar that served as partition. Other than that his only rooms were a small, chilly bathroom and a couple of closets crammed full of junk and clothes, respectively. The 'Rebel Shack' had the unique inanimate ability to be cramped and cluttered while still feeling barren and devoid of closeness. He could doll it up all he wanted but that alien, discomforting trait never quite left. Huge, draping CSA flag billowed down from one wall, held tight by cheap safety pins. In a corner of the bedroom next to the largest window sat a clean, well-kept 2x4 (a prized possession and future family heirloom, if he ever got a family. When 'Hacksaw' Jim Duggan signed it at an appearance down by the armory Sutton just about keeled over in joy).

 

He was sweating. He had an AC window unit but he hesitated to turn it on. Electric bill was too darn high last month. It was one of those hot and humid Kentucky summer nights where it hadn't rained for weeks and it was starting to get to him. "...Nah. Can't afford it. Ah'll make do with the fan again."

 

He kicked off his boots, those heavy brown dirt-stompers with the flesh ripped from the toes to reveal the cold steel beneath. His socks were full of holes. He groaned as he bent down to pick the pair up and then stumbled painfully to one of his closets to put up the stars and bars for the night. Mask and boots went in, then he stripped down his bare essentials. Carhardt jacket, gloves, shirt, jeans, and finally the gimme cap displaying 'PEABODY WESTERN DIVISION' in white, soulless letters. He breathed out a sigh of relief to be free of the self-imposed burden for the night, staring at the sack of clothes while wearing nothing but his boxers. Then his eyes shifted slightly lower and to the right to that still unopened bottle of Old Crow bourbon.

 

He'd bought it a while ago. Had worked two consecutive 72 hour weeks at the mill and made off with quite an overtime haul. He had celebrated with Chinese food from the buffet a county over and had stocked up on his favorite drink, five 1.75 liter bottles of the stuff. He drank those suckers down to the bottom in no time at all, except for one.

 

"No more drinkin'." He spoke to himself. "Nope, no more drinkin'. No more drinkin' 'n no more cussin', can't do none of that no more. Does Batman drink 'n cuss? Heck nah."

 

He actually didn't know if that was true or not, but it sounded true enough. He didn't really read none of those comic books...but he watched that old cartoon a few times and Bruce Wayne seemed like a stand-up kind of guy. Maybe not a Church-goer, but he didn't see him looped out on whiskey or pitching a sinner's cussin' fit.

 

"No more drinkin', no more cussin', 'n no more fightin' unless I gotta. No, sir."

 

He closed the closet, cutting his eyes away from that tempting plastic bottle of booze. He dragged himself over to the bathroom, fighting the urge to just up and collapse into his sofa. He'd sleep better after a shower. His toiletry was about as haggard and destitute as the rest of his home. Everything needed scrubbing. A lonely little shower stall beckoned at the end but he inspected his vanity first, hands on the sink as he stared sadly into the cracked mirror.

 

"...I look like sh-...like garbage."

 

And he did. Short, dirty-blonde hair was matted down under a heaping layer of sweat. His eyes were bloodshot and he could see deep, dark rings underneath them. He'd just shaved the morning before so his face was smooth, but he looked haggard and tired and pitiful. His nose was still bruised and there was a week-old cut on his lip, bad remnants of a heroic duel with a dastardly villain (a wild old drunk that had one too many down at the American Legion). Jacob Sutton was young, barely into his twenties but he looked several years older simply because of how haggerd and worn-out his face looked. His teeth, in the very least, were all still there and cleaner than most. He chalked that one up to the alcohol killing the plaque. Old folks still sometimes said 'You choose yer teeth or yer liver'. He was fit and broad-shouldered but his shoulders slumped with fatique. Bruises and still-healing lacerations marked his chest and arms like a roadmap. "Ah should see a doc..."

 

But he wouldn't, of course. Couldn't afford it. He stared into the mirror as if waiting for his reflection to speak before shaking his head and stumbling into the shower. The water was cold, as it always was. He also couldn't afford a water heater. He braced himself and yowled under the ice-cold, foamy spray and stayed in just long enough to lather himself up with discount Dove and rinse it off. He toweled himself off with the same towel he'd been using for a week straight and then trotted hopelessly into his living room. Cold showers were good for one thing, at least. They weren't as good as the AC but there was at least a transitional period between that bitter cold and that thick, suffocating humid heat where he felt almost comfortable.

 

He collapsed into his sofa. His stomach growled but he was too tired to eat. His fan was one of those thirty-dollar metal ones that he liked. The plastic ones just didn't put out enough good air. It was an old antique of a thing and it made a nasty, wailing metallic racket but it still put out the air and he'd that, at some point, it became difficult for him to sleep without that awful, jostling screech.

 

He considered passing out then and there...but he slept better after some TV. He had no cable, of course (couldn't afford it), but he still had an old CRT TV, a working VCR, and a dynamite box full of VHS tapes (mostly stuff he'd recorded with that same VCR). He fished around in the box amongst the unorganized tapes and found one with a tape label that read 'WRASSLIN 8'. He knew exactly what was on it. He'd watched that entire box over and over and had memorized its contents.

 

He popped the tape in and tuned in to channel 3 before plopping himself back down on the couch. "This a good one."

 

And it was. Chris Benoit vs. 2 Cold Scorpio circa 1993, straight from Asheville, North Carolina. Fight lasted a total of nineteen minutes and fifty-nine seconds with Scorpio pinning Benoit just one second before the twenty minute time limit. It was only the second match of SuperBrawl III, but in Jacob Sutton's humble opinion it stole the show and was better than the main event. It was the good old days, back before Benoit's head injuries got the best of him and back before 2 Cold was the funkiest thing alive. Sutton watched until fell asleep at around 12 minutes into the match, his slumber heralded by the grating 'reeeeeee' of the vibrating fan of the dull thuds of flesh on canvas.

 

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Jacob Sutton wasn't quite sure what it was that woke him up, though he was certain that it couldn't have been a sound. With that metal fan going he could've dreamed through Judgment Day. All he knew was that his eyes had fluttered open and something felt wrong. The air stank, but not that usual bachelor stink that came with not washing the sheets or vacuuming often enough. Nothing was vibrating at just the right wavelength.

 

As his eyes fluttered open he saw that his front door was ajar and knew that someone was in his house. Who? A burglar? That'd be silly. He didn't have a darn thing that'd be worth anything...at least, so he thought. He saw that the television was on but that the tape had run its course. It was still dark out too, couldn't have been that close to morning.

 

He heard a rustle to his side...surprising since that fan was still going. Apparently his ears were sharp as long as he was awake, though he still felt held down by natural drowsiness.

 

...The air conditioner. It was the cheapest model you could get buy, but you could still pawn the thing for a pocketful of spending cash. It was summer, after all. Those things were in high demand. He was being burgled. His inner hero jumped for joy.

 

'Like mugging a police officer', he thought. 'Trying to burn down the fire department. Holding up the doughnut shop when every lawman was on break.'

 

He considered sneaking off to the closet for his mask, but even when just waking up he knew that'd be dumb. May as well put a sign on his back that read 'I am Rebel Son'. Though, it wasn't as if much of anyone even knew there was a Rebel Son. He was still waiting for that big headline.

 

This kind of opportunity was rare. He had it. It was time to shine. Of course, stopping a crook who was robbing only you wasn't something that'd get you called a hero, but it has definitely a step up from prowling around like paintballing hoodlum. It was time for a one-liner. He sprang up from his couch in nothing but solid gray, discount boxers and pointed an accusing finger.

 

"Fella, you don't know wh-"

 

That was as far as he got. The main with his dirty fingers wrapped around the AC was, naturally, spooked...but rather than turn tail and hoof it out of there he reared back like a wild animal and sprang forward with his mouth open and howling and his hands forward.

 

He was a gaunt man, downright skeletal. Pajama bottoms hung from his narrow hips and nearly slipped right off of him. A greasy, sweat-soaked wifebeater stuck to his barely there chest. The smell of ammonia and fresh catpiss stuck to him like an otherwordly aura and his teeth were rotten and not all-there, both telltale signs of a tweaker. A bad one too, the kinda guy who smoked up for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and was about as familiar with sleep as Sutton was with a solid paycheck. Long, wispy beard fluttered as he moved and still had blotches of something nasty and unidenfitable in it. He was bald on top but had a halo of dirty brown hair clinging to the sides of his head that made him look like Bozo the Clown.

 

Jacob Sutton, as much of a scrapper as he was, recoiled in fright as the intruder attempted to claw at his throat. Really, it was the sound he made that did it. It was a high-pitched 'WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAGH' that felt so high-pitched and distinctly inhuman that it made his ears ache and he could feel it through his teeth. The burglar's nails were long and filthy, a caked-in goldmine of mud and waste seeming to be the only thing still gluing them to his long, narrow fingers.

 

Sutton had to outweigh him by a good eighty pounds but there was always something about glass that brought out a person's inner strength. "Crazy tweakin' sumbitch!"

 

He found himself shouting those words through his teeth despite his promise to cut out all the cussin'. Sutton grabbed the tweaker's wrists and tore his hands away from him while keeping his chin down to make sure he couldn't grab at his neck. He wrestled as a heel (when he did wrestle) and he was in the habit of falling back on the dirty tactics. Though he had no shoes on (neither did the tweaker), a stomp could still hurt. He smashed his own broad foot down on the thief's own filthy toes and then took the opportunity to wrap stout, muscular arms around the meth-heads middle and slap his head beneath his shoulder.

 

There was no stunt-work in this particular version of the inverted atomic drop. He dropped the guy down and smashed his groin right onto his knee. He wouldn't have been surprised if the fella's jewels had been crammed straight up into his stomach. The floor shook with the blow and he pushed the tweaker off triumphantly...only to see the guy was barely even stunned. Glass had a way of upping your tolerance to pain as well as lighting a fire in your gut.

 

"Gawdamn glass-eatin' fuck..."

 

Baldie spit through the gaps where his teeth weren't, cluthing his lower abdomen momentarily before getting back into that wild cat-like stance, putting himself low and bowing his arms out. There was a brief standoff...before the tweaker jolted to the side.

 

Sutton thought he was retreating at first...then saw he was going for the 2x4 in the corner. "No no no, that's signed by J-"

 

CRACK! The tweaker was faster than expected. The plank of wood collided with Sutton's forearm, which he'd just barely had time to raise up to shield his face. He grunted in pain as the board splintered and broke into two pieces. There was a distinct 'ccclk!' sound. He wasn't sure if that was also the 2x4 or just his radius cracking.

 

Tweaker took another swing with what was left of the lumber. This one caught Sutton right in the hip and he seethed and hollered and fell back and felt a few stray splinters piercing into his side.

 

The burglar raised what was left of his weapon up as if to deliver a finishing pummel, but stopped...as if some bit of his sober self had kicked back into his consciousness. He dropped it and looked around, dazed and confused. He started to shamble over to the AC again...but thought better of it once he saw Sutton starting to scramble up. He turned tail and ran like his feet were aflame.

 

Sutton screamed and held his hip while still struggling up to his feet, reaching his front door just as the tweaker was sprinting through the thorny woods.

 

No more cussin'. Heroes don't cuss. No more cussin'. No more

 

"Bitch! BIIIIIIIIIITCH!"

 

Sutton spatted out with pure venom, facing the fleeing man as he yelled as if his words would actually hunt him down and stick into him.

 

"YOU STUPID SUMBITCH! YOU STUPID TWEAKIN' CHRISTIN' SUMBITCH! THAT WAS SIGNED BY JIM DUGGAN, YA FUCKIN' ASS! YA IGNORANT SACK OF SHIT! FUCK! FUCK FUCK! FUUUUUCK!"

 

He screamed and cussed until he felt his voice getting raspy and slammed his door in a huff. His right forearm was already starting to swell. The left side of his hip creaked and he already limping. He slumped over back to the couch and threw an arm over it, using it to support himself.

 

He breathed heavy. Long, weighted, rasping gasps for air that made his chest feel hollow and his gut ache. He looked over sadly to the broken block of wood with the autograph snapped in half and quietly remarked, "Oh God, this is how Bruce Wayne must'a felt."

 

"...Hic...hic..."

 

He thought he was laughing at first.

 

Big, child-like tears stuck at the corner of his eyes and he felt himself sobbing. Each sob just made him hurt more and that just made him sob more and it didn't stop. He wiped furiously at his eyes and tried to calm himself down but those big, chest-shaking hics and huffs of repressed weeping didn't go away.

 

He wasn't crying because he was in pain. He wasn't crying because his Jim Duggan 2x4 was lying in splinters on the ground or because he felt violated or because there was a chance he could've died.

 

He was crying because

 

"I want a drink. God, God, God almighty, I wanna a drink. God help me, I wanna drink."

 

He spoke to himself through wet, shameful little hics and covered his eyes with one hand. No more drinkin'. He cussed, but no more drinkin'. No matter how much he wanted it, no more drinkin'. It was nothing but trouble and it'd end up killing him, so no more

 

"Fuck it. Fuck it fuck it fuck it fuck it fuck it fuck it."

 

He repeated that. Over and over as he dragged himself to the closet, practically tore the door off the hinge, and hefted up that big, inviting bottle full of fiery, amber-colored drink. Twisted the top open, threw it to the floor, and took a nice, long whiff.

 

Some people would say it smelled like the Devil. Others would say it smelled like smoke and wood and a hint of vanilla. To Jacob R. Sutton, an open bottle of Old Crow smelled like sleep. That long, dreamless time-wasting sleep that only drunks knew about.

 

He stared at the bottle for a minute or so through blurry, stinging tears before finally knocking it back and pouring the whiskey down his throat. He gulped and glugged and poured and didn't put the bottle down until a third of it was gone. He coughed through the intense alcohol burn, gasped and breathed heavy upon his reunion with Dr. James C. Crow.

 

He wobbled back to the couch and took a seat, bottle still in hand. His chest heaved a few more times in wickedly painful sobs before he felt that comfortable numbness come back. His head swam, he felt the room spinning, and he felt his connection with the world begin to waver. Oh yes, that was Dr. Crow's medicine. "Gaw, ah'm awful. Ah'm fuckin' terrible, ah hate my goddamn self."

 

Even so, he found himself taking another swig of 80-proof bourbon.

 

"I...will not...seek vengeance." Spoken through a thickening veil of speech impediment-inducing hard liquor. He didn't know if that was a Bible verse or something he saw in a TV show but it sounded good and right and what a hero would say. "I will nah...will not...seek vengeance upon ya."

 

Another swig.

 

"...But if I happen to run into ya on accident...yer gettin' one hell of an ass-whoopin'."

 

He dropped the bottle without screwing the top back on, letting some of the strong-smelling contents leak into his carpet. He didn't care. He was holding hands with Dr. Crow and he didn't care. He felt those horrible, child-like, pitiful sobs giving way to laughter. He'd heard from someone once, though he couldn't recall who, that booze never made you do anything you didn't want. That booze brought out your true self.

 

That was comforting. Though few knew it since he always drank alone, Sutton wasn't a violent drunk. It calmed him down. He wouldn't fight or yell or anything like that when he was wasted. He'd laugh at nothing and sleep and relax and enjoy the feeling of being drunk. He was mellow and happy and he felt all his anger melting away and it felt good to know that, maybe, that was his true self.

 

He rolled over and slept long. He'd wake up with a hangover, an aching forearm, a bruised hip, and a bitter nagging at the back of his mind of why he didn't call the cops after the incident. He already knew why he didn't though.

 

Batman wouldn't call the cops. Also, Batman didn't usually get the law called on him for prowling.