Post by Jack Graves on Jan 25, 2022 9:55:59 GMT
Monday, January 24th, 2022
Hammerstein Ballroom, Manhattan, NY
Minutes after Jack Graves' debut match against Hilary Levandrier
Elated, ecstatic, thrilled, overjoyed. There weren't enough words in the dictionary to describe how Jack Graves felt in this moment. He'd done it. He'd actually done it. This wasn't some bingo hall, this was HAMMERSTEIN BALLROOM. This was a battleground that had been graced by the presence of MANY legendary wrestlers and events, in a highly respectable promotion, and he'd just wrestled his debut match in both. Albeit, he didn't come away with the win; BUT, he didn't lose either, and quite honestly either way? He was on cloud nine... or ten.. or maybe even twelve and he had to tell someone.
Anyone.
Knowing his cousin Joey had said he would be at the show, Jack makes a beeline toward his bag and quickly locates his iPhone to anxiously give him a call. It took no time to locate Joey's name and press dial. It also took no time for him to hit the call reject button and send him to voicemail.
JOEY'S ANNOYING ASS VOICEMAIL: Hey, what's up? Cool..cool..what are you doing? Awesome, well you've got my voice mail! haha! Tricked you! Leave me a message.
Jack sighs softly, and shakes his head as he thinks of what to say. It wouldn't surprise him in the least bit to know that Joey hadn't come to the show at all, and if he had? He'd bailed on Jack again mid-way through, likely for some pussy or some drugs. It would be a miracle if he even saw the match.
JACK GRAVES: Hey Bubba, I uh... I was just wondering where you were at? Did you see me out there? I did it man.. I really... sigh... You know what? It's cool. You're living your best life. You have fun. Have a good night and be safe. I'm just gonna head back and go to bed.
Hanging up the phone, Jack tosses it back into his bag and takes a moment to look around at the empty room as he rubs ad his temple. A stinging above his eyebrow as he does this leads him to gingerly touch the cut on his forehead with a wince. This brings out a soft chuckle from the brute, or a "Chortle" as Syn called it, as he thinks back to the match. Him lawn darting her into the crowd, and then Hilary lunging at him like a spider monkey. He'd said a lot of things about her to get some heat for the match, but she was a tough gal. She had takin' a lickin' and kept on tickin' and Jack respected that. Not so much that he wouldn't put her down for the count next time they met, but he respected her enough that he wouldn't discount her skills in the ring ever again. Her IQ? Well... no promises.
The silence returns though, as the chortle fades and Jack looks up at the ceiling to draw a long deep breath. He closes his eyes, and slowly exhales, clearly fighting back emotion.
JACK GRAVES: I wish that you could've been here to see that mamma. I told you one day wrestling would pay the bills, and now it finally might. I know you would've stayed and watched every minute. I mean, it's not ballroom dancin'... but it sure as shit ain't slangin' dope. I promised you I'd finally do better. I think this is it.
Graves nods his head and exhales another deep breath, before pushing himself up to his feet to gather his things. He takes one last look behind him at the locker room, soaking it all in, before turning off the light and exiting.
Trousdale Turner Correctional Facility
Hammerstein Ballroom, Manhattan, NY
Minutes after Jack Graves' debut match against Hilary Levandrier
Elated, ecstatic, thrilled, overjoyed. There weren't enough words in the dictionary to describe how Jack Graves felt in this moment. He'd done it. He'd actually done it. This wasn't some bingo hall, this was HAMMERSTEIN BALLROOM. This was a battleground that had been graced by the presence of MANY legendary wrestlers and events, in a highly respectable promotion, and he'd just wrestled his debut match in both. Albeit, he didn't come away with the win; BUT, he didn't lose either, and quite honestly either way? He was on cloud nine... or ten.. or maybe even twelve and he had to tell someone.
Anyone.
Knowing his cousin Joey had said he would be at the show, Jack makes a beeline toward his bag and quickly locates his iPhone to anxiously give him a call. It took no time to locate Joey's name and press dial. It also took no time for him to hit the call reject button and send him to voicemail.
JOEY'S ANNOYING ASS VOICEMAIL: Hey, what's up? Cool..cool..what are you doing? Awesome, well you've got my voice mail! haha! Tricked you! Leave me a message.
*beep*
Jack sighs softly, and shakes his head as he thinks of what to say. It wouldn't surprise him in the least bit to know that Joey hadn't come to the show at all, and if he had? He'd bailed on Jack again mid-way through, likely for some pussy or some drugs. It would be a miracle if he even saw the match.
JACK GRAVES: Hey Bubba, I uh... I was just wondering where you were at? Did you see me out there? I did it man.. I really... sigh... You know what? It's cool. You're living your best life. You have fun. Have a good night and be safe. I'm just gonna head back and go to bed.
Hanging up the phone, Jack tosses it back into his bag and takes a moment to look around at the empty room as he rubs ad his temple. A stinging above his eyebrow as he does this leads him to gingerly touch the cut on his forehead with a wince. This brings out a soft chuckle from the brute, or a "Chortle" as Syn called it, as he thinks back to the match. Him lawn darting her into the crowd, and then Hilary lunging at him like a spider monkey. He'd said a lot of things about her to get some heat for the match, but she was a tough gal. She had takin' a lickin' and kept on tickin' and Jack respected that. Not so much that he wouldn't put her down for the count next time they met, but he respected her enough that he wouldn't discount her skills in the ring ever again. Her IQ? Well... no promises.
The silence returns though, as the chortle fades and Jack looks up at the ceiling to draw a long deep breath. He closes his eyes, and slowly exhales, clearly fighting back emotion.
JACK GRAVES: I wish that you could've been here to see that mamma. I told you one day wrestling would pay the bills, and now it finally might. I know you would've stayed and watched every minute. I mean, it's not ballroom dancin'... but it sure as shit ain't slangin' dope. I promised you I'd finally do better. I think this is it.
Graves nods his head and exhales another deep breath, before pushing himself up to his feet to gather his things. He takes one last look behind him at the locker room, soaking it all in, before turning off the light and exiting.
Trousdale Turner Correctional Facility
Hartsville, Tennessee
4 years prior
Pushing himself up off his bunk, Graves makes sure his bed is made neatly and places his beanie neatly back atop his head. Slipping his feet into the commissary issued deer hunter orange crocs, he steps out of the cell and into the pod for head count. God he hated these shoes. He missed wearing boots and Jordans. He missed SMELLING nice. He missed everything about the outside world, clothes, weed, shoes, food, whiskey, and especially his mamma. She was getting worse and worse by the day. Her kidneys failing, and dialysis, and all these medicines...
Instead of being out there taking care of her though, he was here. Funny enough though, it was trying to take care of her by himself that ultimately landed him here to begin with when it all boiled down. He initially had been selling dope to help keep the lights on, and a roof over their head, and food in their bellies, and her medicines in stock. But hundreds turned to thousands, and then ten thousands, and then a couple hundred thousands. Eight balls turned into quarter ounces, and then ounces, and then Kilos. Suddenly, things weren't a problem anymore. Bills were paid up for a few months at a time. It was never cold, and they were never hungry. He wasn't stupid with it either. No Lambos, or Beamers, or any of those cars that will get you made by the rats in blue in a heartbeat. He kept it classic. Something you'd take a look at and say "huh, cool car." instead of "lets pull this guy over."
That was, until he cut on the system and the trunk started knocking.
He never imagined he would end up here though. Begging the state of Tennessee to let him out of jail long enough to just see his mamma one last time before they put her in the ground. Listening to some smug, harry Potter looking weasel tell him that he could either go see her now, or go to her funeral.
"You can't do both. You can't have your cake and eat it too, Jack."
Those had been his exact words, like there was even a choice. Of course he wanted to go say goodbye to his mother before she was gone forever. What fuckin' good was a funeral? It was just a bunch of people showing up and claiming they loved you, and that they were so close to you, when most of them hadn't even called in six months or longer. People are fickle though. Human nature.
4 years prior
The familiar buzz of the locks alert Jack to the start of the day before the COs even start their damn yellin'. It's not like he ever got any decent sleep in this fuckin' place anyway. There was always some jackass hootin' and hollerin' a few cells down, or someone wanting to stab you in your sleep here, and the lights never went off. Never. He wasn't sure if they were supposed to or not, but in the 2 years he'd been there so far, they had NEVER gone off at night. So if left up to him, he'd rather not take his chances on getting stabbed. That's why he really only slept in small bursts. Given as how bad luck had already gotten him here, he sure as shit didn't want to see where else it could take him. After all, there were only two places someone like him landed, and he was already here in the pen. He didn't want to take the other route.
Pushing himself up off his bunk, Graves makes sure his bed is made neatly and places his beanie neatly back atop his head. Slipping his feet into the commissary issued deer hunter orange crocs, he steps out of the cell and into the pod for head count. God he hated these shoes. He missed wearing boots and Jordans. He missed SMELLING nice. He missed everything about the outside world, clothes, weed, shoes, food, whiskey, and especially his mamma. She was getting worse and worse by the day. Her kidneys failing, and dialysis, and all these medicines...
Instead of being out there taking care of her though, he was here. Funny enough though, it was trying to take care of her by himself that ultimately landed him here to begin with when it all boiled down. He initially had been selling dope to help keep the lights on, and a roof over their head, and food in their bellies, and her medicines in stock. But hundreds turned to thousands, and then ten thousands, and then a couple hundred thousands. Eight balls turned into quarter ounces, and then ounces, and then Kilos. Suddenly, things weren't a problem anymore. Bills were paid up for a few months at a time. It was never cold, and they were never hungry. He wasn't stupid with it either. No Lambos, or Beamers, or any of those cars that will get you made by the rats in blue in a heartbeat. He kept it classic. Something you'd take a look at and say "huh, cool car." instead of "lets pull this guy over."
That was, until he cut on the system and the trunk started knocking.
He never imagined he would end up here though. Begging the state of Tennessee to let him out of jail long enough to just see his mamma one last time before they put her in the ground. Listening to some smug, harry Potter looking weasel tell him that he could either go see her now, or go to her funeral.
"You can't do both. You can't have your cake and eat it too, Jack."
Those had been his exact words, like there was even a choice. Of course he wanted to go say goodbye to his mother before she was gone forever. What fuckin' good was a funeral? It was just a bunch of people showing up and claiming they loved you, and that they were so close to you, when most of them hadn't even called in six months or longer. People are fickle though. Human nature.
147608
Ah, the good ol' inmate ID number. The CO rattles it off as he comes by with his roster, checking to make sure all the animals are accounted for.
Good doggy.
He didn't care though, Jack just wanted him to hurry the fuck up so he could go get some breakfast before all the trays were taken. Then he'd go back up to his room and wait for the library cart to come around to get some new books. He didn't want anything to do with the motherfuckers in here. The Southern Front. Wannabe Aryan racist pieces of shit. Scum of the earth. They had tried to approach him when he first got in. Mistaking him for one of them because of the shaven head and the tattoos. I mean after all, you see a big ol' country boy, and most people probably assume he's a little racist. But not ol' Jack Graves. He didn't go for that shit.
They'd pushed back at first, trying to intimidate and threaten him. But he'd stood his ground each time and eventually they'd backed off, or so it seemed. Either way, Jack kept his distance, and always stayed ready to fight at the drop of a hat. You had to be on high alert in this place, or get killed... Or sodomized. Neither sounded like a fun option.
As per usual, there was not enough breakfast to go around, as some of the racist assholes grabbed seconds like always. Of course, in order to avoid a full on riot, the guards and other inmates were content to kind of just keep their mouths shut and go hungry. At first he had been in agreement. The issue just wasn't worth the trouble. But with a dying mother, and very little other family? Commissary was slim and he was starving in here.
Grabbing the last of the peanut butter and crackers out of his cell, Jack makes his way over to the phones and dials out to his mamma, Faye. After a few rings, she answers, her voice ragged.
MAMMA GRAVES: Hey Jackie, how are you doing honey?
The sounds of her voice hits him like a freight train. The weakness is audible, and he can hear the slight tinge of hope and cheerfulness in her voice as she speaks to him. Like it was the highlight of her day. It probably was. It sure as hell was for him.
JACK GRAVES: Hey you tough ol' bird. How you hangin' in there? I applied for the furlough so I can come see you soon since you're... since you...
He wasn't quite sure how to say it. Hell, he wasn't quite sure if he had the strength.
'Since you're dying. Since you're dying... SINCE YOU'RE-- FUCK.'
He couldn't do it. But of course, she could. She always was one to give you a dose of straight up candor.
MAMMA GRAVES: Since I'm dyin' Jackie. It's okay.
JACK GRAVES: MA! WHAT THE FUCK?! Don't say that.
There's a silence on the line for a moment, and Jack heaves a heavy sigh.
JACK GRAVES: Look, I'm sorry. I know you hate that fucki- ahem. That word. I know you hate that word. Look, I'm dyin' in here Ma. Not being able to be out there and takin' care of you.. I..
MAMMA GRAVES: Jackie, it's the way of the world baby. It's inevitable. When your number gets drawn, it's time to go. Just do what you can to get here. I just want to see you one more time. I just want to hug you one more time, my baby boy.
Jack's jaw is clinched so tight that it's a miracle he didn't chip a tooth as he fought back his emotions. Bottled it up. If you cried in prison? In front of these men? If you showed weakness? It was game over. It didn't help that he could hear her crying on the other side of the phone.
JACK GRAVES: Hey, don't cry. I've been behaving, and they're going to approve this furlough okay? Okay? Just hang in there for me. I love yo-
Good doggy.
He didn't care though, Jack just wanted him to hurry the fuck up so he could go get some breakfast before all the trays were taken. Then he'd go back up to his room and wait for the library cart to come around to get some new books. He didn't want anything to do with the motherfuckers in here. The Southern Front. Wannabe Aryan racist pieces of shit. Scum of the earth. They had tried to approach him when he first got in. Mistaking him for one of them because of the shaven head and the tattoos. I mean after all, you see a big ol' country boy, and most people probably assume he's a little racist. But not ol' Jack Graves. He didn't go for that shit.
They'd pushed back at first, trying to intimidate and threaten him. But he'd stood his ground each time and eventually they'd backed off, or so it seemed. Either way, Jack kept his distance, and always stayed ready to fight at the drop of a hat. You had to be on high alert in this place, or get killed... Or sodomized. Neither sounded like a fun option.
As per usual, there was not enough breakfast to go around, as some of the racist assholes grabbed seconds like always. Of course, in order to avoid a full on riot, the guards and other inmates were content to kind of just keep their mouths shut and go hungry. At first he had been in agreement. The issue just wasn't worth the trouble. But with a dying mother, and very little other family? Commissary was slim and he was starving in here.
Grabbing the last of the peanut butter and crackers out of his cell, Jack makes his way over to the phones and dials out to his mamma, Faye. After a few rings, she answers, her voice ragged.
MAMMA GRAVES: Hey Jackie, how are you doing honey?
The sounds of her voice hits him like a freight train. The weakness is audible, and he can hear the slight tinge of hope and cheerfulness in her voice as she speaks to him. Like it was the highlight of her day. It probably was. It sure as hell was for him.
JACK GRAVES: Hey you tough ol' bird. How you hangin' in there? I applied for the furlough so I can come see you soon since you're... since you...
He wasn't quite sure how to say it. Hell, he wasn't quite sure if he had the strength.
'Since you're dying. Since you're dying... SINCE YOU'RE-- FUCK.'
He couldn't do it. But of course, she could. She always was one to give you a dose of straight up candor.
MAMMA GRAVES: Since I'm dyin' Jackie. It's okay.
JACK GRAVES: MA! WHAT THE FUCK?! Don't say that.
There's a silence on the line for a moment, and Jack heaves a heavy sigh.
JACK GRAVES: Look, I'm sorry. I know you hate that fucki- ahem. That word. I know you hate that word. Look, I'm dyin' in here Ma. Not being able to be out there and takin' care of you.. I..
MAMMA GRAVES: Jackie, it's the way of the world baby. It's inevitable. When your number gets drawn, it's time to go. Just do what you can to get here. I just want to see you one more time. I just want to hug you one more time, my baby boy.
Jack's jaw is clinched so tight that it's a miracle he didn't chip a tooth as he fought back his emotions. Bottled it up. If you cried in prison? In front of these men? If you showed weakness? It was game over. It didn't help that he could hear her crying on the other side of the phone.
JACK GRAVES: Hey, don't cry. I've been behaving, and they're going to approve this furlough okay? Okay? Just hang in there for me. I love yo-
Click.
The sound of laughter echoes out around him as the phone line goes dead. This causes Jack to turn and look at the commotion, but he doesn't have to turn far because to his immediate left is Virgil, the backwoods neo-nazi... uh "leader?" "Grand master wizard?"... Whatever those stupid fucks call themselves, and around him on the other side are 3 more of his hillbilly buddies. Virgil takes a step back, and takes his finger off the phone hook with a smirk as Jack stands up quickly and squares up to him.
JACK GRAVES: What's good motherfucker? We gonna do this or what? Let's skip all the theatrics and talk and get to the action.
Virgil reaches into his waistband and pulls out a shiv, flashing it to Jack discreetly.
RACIST ASSHOLE LEADER: You better watch how you're a-talkin' to me, mamma's boy. Don't get stuck like a pig in here. You will get to reunite with mamma a lot sooner than anticipated though, so maybe we'd be doing you a fav-
He doesn't have a chance to finish his sentence before Jack springs on him, knocking the weapon out of his hand and hitting him with a textbook spine buster on the concrete floor, Ritz crackers flying everywhere. A few sickening shots land to the asshole's face, before things suddenly go black. The three behind Jack wasted no time jumping in and saving their leader. The first few blows knocked Jack out cold, but they kept kicking and punching, and then one of them retrieved the shiv, stabbing Jack once in the shoulder blade and once in the chest before the guards could make it in to break it up.
The next thing he remembered was waking up in the infirmary, barely able to move from the beating and the blood loss. Oh, and he remembered the Harry Potter lookin' motherfucker hovering over him, and the words that followed.
JACK GRAVES: What's good motherfucker? We gonna do this or what? Let's skip all the theatrics and talk and get to the action.
Virgil reaches into his waistband and pulls out a shiv, flashing it to Jack discreetly.
RACIST ASSHOLE LEADER: You better watch how you're a-talkin' to me, mamma's boy. Don't get stuck like a pig in here. You will get to reunite with mamma a lot sooner than anticipated though, so maybe we'd be doing you a fav-
He doesn't have a chance to finish his sentence before Jack springs on him, knocking the weapon out of his hand and hitting him with a textbook spine buster on the concrete floor, Ritz crackers flying everywhere. A few sickening shots land to the asshole's face, before things suddenly go black. The three behind Jack wasted no time jumping in and saving their leader. The first few blows knocked Jack out cold, but they kept kicking and punching, and then one of them retrieved the shiv, stabbing Jack once in the shoulder blade and once in the chest before the guards could make it in to break it up.
The next thing he remembered was waking up in the infirmary, barely able to move from the beating and the blood loss. Oh, and he remembered the Harry Potter lookin' motherfucker hovering over him, and the words that followed.
Words that would haunt him forever. To this day.
"Guess you didn't wanna see poor ol' mamma Graves that bad, did you? You ain't going anywhere now, you dumb son of a bitch."