Post by Tren "TrainWreck" Descarrilado on Oct 18, 2019 14:16:23 GMT -8
-Beginnings-
The camera comes to life in a train graveyard. Rusted shells of their former selves, forever tied to this place, never to leave again. The sound of a hollow thumping, rhythmic, repeated, echoes across the yard. The camera follows the sounds, passing by old train engines, dilapidated box cars, festering passenger cars, and the odd rusted caboose. The sound of glass and gravel can be heard underfoot as the cameraman takes a corner to reveal a large man, his face painted in the macabre grin of some devilish clown, beating one of the rusted hulks with a baseball bat meticulously wrapped in barbed wire. This man’s name? Tren Descarrilado. Tren turns his ghoulish grin to the camera, and begins to speak.
“Life, motherfucker, has a funny way of showing it gives a shit about some people.”
*CLANG* The bat bounces off the wreck with a screech as the barbed wire gains purchase in the rusted iron and steel of the dented old train car.
“I was born in Juarez, Chihuahua, Mexico to a couple o’ no good, broke motherfuckers who, instead of raising their bouncin’ baby boy, decided to drop me on the steps of some motherfuckin’ Catholic orphanage with a note.”
*CLANG. CLANG. CLANG*
Tren grins at the sound before continuing to speak.
“They thought I had a better shot at life livin’ with nuns and priests and other homeless kids. Bullshit. Pure and simple.”
Tren places the head of the bat against the old train car, dragging the barbed wire along the side. The screeching sound is nearly intolerable, but Tren just laughs. A maniacal sound. The sound of someone who may or may not be all there.
“I was always a big kid. Lil’ motherfuckers at the orphanage liked to make fun of me for that shit. Callin’ me fat. Dumb kid stuff. But bein’ bigger than ‘em had its advantages.”
*CLANG*. Another swing. The sound of glass shattering as the bat makes contact with an old window.
“I beat the shit outta ‘em. Didn’t need a reason. The Devil hisself spit me out into this shit infested fuck hole, and with it, gave me an urge to fight.”
*CLANG. CLANG. CLANG*
Birds take off, apparently annoyed with the sounds interrupting whatever it is birds do in a train graveyard.
“Spent a lot of time in the ‘quiet box’. That’s what the fuckin’ nuns and sisters called it. Little tiny ass closet where you got bread and water for food. No lights on in that motherfucker either. But it did give me one thing. Privacy. Time to think.”
Tren swings the bat in a lazy circle at his side, motioning for the camera to follow him. The big man’s leather boots crunch through the debris on the ground as he wanders, no destination seemingly in mind.
“I got the fuck outta there at 16. The nuns, y’know, they tried to stop me. The priest, sick motherfucker that he was, tried to stop me. But nobody…”
Tren turns to the camera, a look of concentrated rage on his face.
“FUCKIN’ NOBODY STOPS TREN DESCARRILADO WHEN HE GETS GOIN.”
Tren’s face immediately goes back to a wicked grin, that maniacal laughter ringing out across the silence of graveyard.
“Fell into drugs pretty quick. Not hard to do down in ol’ Me-hi-co. Made my way from Juarez to the bright lights of the biggest, most concentrated shit hole down there. Mexico City. Tourists everywhere. Fuckin’ white people thinkin’ they got privilege just because they got money.”
Tren stops, cocking his head and looking over at an old box car. He turns, gripping the bat in both hands, planting his feet, and swinging with all his might.
BOOM!!!!
The hollow sound reverberates throughout the yard as Tren just laughs his psychotic laughter.
“Started peddlin’ pot to these fuckin’ tourists. Man. White people love their drugs. They get so damned fucked up, I’d sell ‘em dope, then pick pocket their wallets for the rest of their cash.”
Tren just shakes his head, chuckling.
“I never needed money. But I always wanted more. That’s the great thing about ol’ Uncle Sam, ain’t it? Motherfuckin’ money all over these gringos! I was sellin’ whatever they asked for. H, coke, dope. You name it, and any plastic bimbo or old motherfucker with ED was askin’ for it.”
Tren turns back to the camera.
“But there’s always a price, motherfucker. See, I wanted more. This small-time drug shit wasn’t doin’ it for me. No. Train Wreck”
Tren pats his chest with that wicked grin.
“That’s me, by the way, always wanted more. Needed more. So, I started lookin’ for a bigger score. Somethin’ that’d set me up for life, comprende?”
A large building comes into view as the pair continue to follow the tracks. It appears to be some sort of garage, by the looks of it.
“Had a friend. Can’t remember the motherfucker’s name now, but he gets a hold of me, see? ‘Ey yo Train Wreck, we got this big ass job comin up motherfucker, and I want you in on it.’ So, what’d I do? Of course, I took that motherfucker. This asshole was my friend, right? Ride together, die together kinda shit.”
Tren spins the combination on the locked door, yanking said lock off and putting it in his pocket as he pulls the door open. The hinges are badly rusted. The sound is godawful.
*SCREEEEEEEEE*
Tren just heads inside, seemingly unfazed. It’s dark in here.
“Bank robbery. Enough to set up all 12 of us for life. Fuck yes motherfucker I’ve finally found it. The motherfuckin’ big time. They wanted me to stay by the car. Security reasons or some shit. I didn’t argue. The cut was good. Fuckin’ 8 percent from the national reserve? I’d be livin’ in Costa fuckin’ Rica getting’ drunk and fuckin’ whores til I couldn’t get my dick up no more.”
Tren kicks a generator, the old machine whirring to life, a painful, merciless sound. Bright flood lamps click on, one by one, as the inside of the building reveals an old train engine with a passenger car, but Tren doesn’t move. He just stares.
“I got fuckin’ set up. This piece of shit ratted us out to the federales, cut some kinda deal to take down people who thought he could be trusted. So, I booked it. Beat a cop down as he tried to arrest me, ditched the clown mask we were all wearin’, and disappeared. Not hard to do when you live on the streets of a place like MC. All kinds of places no right-minded motherfucker would wanna go, even if he was a cop.”
Tren begins to spin the bat in his hand, slowly walking towards the old locomotive.
“So I hopped a train. Got the fuck outta Mexico. Juarez is still my home, comprende, but I can’t never go back there. This paint on my face? It’s a reminder, motherfucker. A reminder of the fact that I failed. A reminder that I can’t trust just any motherfucker. A reminder that sometimes, you just gotta fuckin’ hop on a train and get the fuck outta town.”
Tren climbs the stairs to the passenger car. The windows are mostly intact, and it looks like the inside has been clean. The man stops at the top of the stairs, and holds a hand out to the camera man.
“Nah motherfucker. You ain’t comin in here. This is my sanctuary. My quiet place. My home. So, you take that camera and go back the same fuckin’ way you came. But don’t you worry. Tren ain’t done talkin’ to you yet. Everybody is gonna see just what kinda motherfucker I am.”
-A Day in the Life-
The cameraman meets up with Tren outside of a liquor store in one of the less friendly parts of Chicago. The big man isn’t wearing his face paint as he smokes a crumpled Newport cigarette, and drinks tequila from a bottle wrapped in a paper bag. He turns to the camera with a chuckle.
“Here I was thinkin’ you wouldn’t have the motherfuckin’ stones to come down here today. Guess I was wrong. You strapped? I fuckin’ hope not, because that’s a good way to get fuckin’ clapped down here, ya dig?”
Tren flicks the cigarette towards the cameraman, a flurry of embers and ash bouncing off the lens as the man behind the camera coughs.
“Don’t be a pussy. If I wanted ta hit ya with that, you’d have a ciggy butt in yer eye. Come on motherfucker.”
Tren steps inside the liquor store, the bell above the door tinkling as he does so. Tren makes his way to the tequila aisle, speaking as he looks over the selection.
“See. There’s a lotta motherfucker’s in the fight business that like to get jacked up on steroids, or fuck their brains up with pills, ya dig? Not me. Something hurts? Tequila fixes that. Need to feel fuckin’ invincible before I beat a motherfucker? Guess what. Tequila does that too.”
Tren grabs two bottles of Jose Cuervo, putting on in the pocket of his worn, beaten Tripp shorts. The chains are all but broken. The studs worn down to a shine, if they’re still intact. He spins the cap off the bottle in his hand, and takes a swig before making his way to the beer cooler.
“I like this place, motherfucker. Me an’ the shopkeeper have an understandin’. You don’t say shit to me, I don’t have to bust yer shitty little booze shop up. It’s a good arrangement.”
Tren reaches into the cooler, pulling out a 30 pack of Corona.
“Course, I can’t go around three sheets to the motherfuckin’ wind all the time. Gotta have a little water in my diet.”
Tren chuckles, shouldering the case of beer as he takes another swig from the bottle. The cashier at the store today is obviously new, and nervous from the look on her face. Tren sets the Corona and two bottles of Cuervo on the counter.
“Well well well. What we got here? You’re a cute little motherfuckin’ peach ain’t ya? Gimme three fuckin’ packs o’ Newports too. The long ones.”
The cashier, visibly disgusted by Tren’s ‘compliment’ places the cigarettes on the counter. She tells him his total. Tren shrugs, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a bundle of twenty dollar bills all rolled up and held together by rubber bands. The look of disgust on the girls face changes to one of what can only be described as lust as Tren licks his fingers and peels four of the bills out of the roll, dropping them on the counter.
“Take whatever you need to pay fer the booze Peach. The rest is fer yer phone number. You’re good lookin’ enough I could dick you down at least once. Maybe even call you back.”
The girl quickly scribbles her number down after cashing out the transaction, giving Tren a little wave as he turns to leave. Tren ignores her, walking out the door and back into the parking lot. He sets the Corona on the ground before slapping one of the packs of Newports against his palm.
“Pussy ain’t hard for a motherfucker to get around here man. Ya dig? Flash a little cash and these bitches end up wetter than a waterpark in a rainstorm.”
Tren chuckles, taking a beat up old Zippo out of the pocket of the leather vest he’s wearing, flicking the lighter to life and dragging on the cigarette. He exhales, blowing the smoke directly into the camera. Coughing ensues from the man behind the lens.
“Only three things a man like me needs to live motherfucker. Feastin’, fuckin’, and fightin’. Come on. I’m hungry motherfucker. And you look like you could use a fuckin’ sandwich wit’ cho’ scrawny ass.”
-Dinner-
Tren tells the cameraman to pull over at a run-down old diner deep in the heart of the hood.
“Hope you got insurance on this motherfucker. People all about carjackin’ down here. But they see yer with me? Motherfuckers’ll sing a different tune.”
Tren climbs outta the car, the shocks groaning as the load is lifted. He nods to a man who is obviously a pimp based on his selected attire for the evening, and the man nods back.
“Yo Train Wreck! My man! You lookin’ for a little action tonight? Got some new girls you gotta try out!”
Tren shakes his head with a laugh.
“Not tonight. Got my own thing set up for later. And I ain’t trying ta catch nothin’ from your cheap girls anyway motherfucker.”
The pimp laughs, turning and walking back down the street the opposite way as Tren and the cameraman enter the diner. Tren climbs onto a stool, patting the one next to him as the cameraman takes his seat.
“I don’ get the hype behind eatin’ healthy or trainin’ in a fancy ass gym all day. I’m gonna eat what I wanna eat motherfucker. I’m gonna train how I wanna train. Sure, I’ve lost a few fights. Won plenty of ‘em too. If it ain’t broke? Don’t motherfuckin’ fix it.”
The waitress comes over with a smile at Tren before casting a dubious glance at the cameraman.
“Don’ worry Bernie. Motherfucker is with me. He ain’t gonna bother you. I’m gonna need like six full orders of biscuits and gravy. Coffee. And this scrawny motherfucker needs a cheeseburger and fries. Glass o’ water too.”
Bernie nods, smiling again as she takes the order and wanders off to the kitchen to place it.
“Me and Bernie go back. Best fuck I ever had, but more importantly, she don’ treat me like some kinda motherfuckin’ freak, ya dig? Bernie’s good fuckin’ people, and I’ve had to break a couple o’ the gangbangers down here who think they can fuck with my girl.”
Bernie returns with the food, all of Tren’s piled on one plate, and a giant thermos of coffee. She slides the burger towards the camera.
“Thanks Bernie. Yer a motherfuckin’ sweetheart. Eat up cameraman. Best damn burger you ever had.”
Tren eats slowly, savoring the food as he does so. It’s apparent that he doesn’t eat nearly this good on a regular basis.
“Here’s the deal. I done inked a motherfuckin’ deal with some wrestlin’ promotion, ya dig? I don’t know what they’re payin’ me, but I’m assumin’ you been followin’ me around with yer nose up my ass for this exact reason. Fine by me. You can diddle your day away for all I give a fuck. But I don’t fight fair. Ain’t no such thing as fair in a fight. So whoever the sad sack o’ shit is that they put me into a ring wit’ for the firs’ time better be prepared. I’m a big motherfucker, ya feel me? I like to throw my weight around.”
As he finishes his food, Tren licks his fingers, peeling three twenty dollar bills off the roll, and handing them to Bernie. She smiles at Tren, a friendly smile, before pocketing the money and going to take more orders.
“Bernie had a kid motherfucker. I gotta help her take care of that. Ain’t mine, but Bernie is the only real motherfuckin’ friend I got in this world, and I’m guessin’ this diner don’t pay for shit. Now, I’m getting’ tired, so take me the fuck home already. And I’m done talkin’ to that camera, so shut it the fuck off too.”
The camera follows Tren out into the parking lot, where he lights another cigarette and looks up into the sky.
“Yeah, I think this is the right move for me. Finally gonna make that name for myself, like I motherfuckin’ said I would. That, or I’m gonna die tryin’ to. Now let’s go. This time o’ night ain’ safe for no scrawny little motherfucker down here. Especially not one with an expensive ass camera.”
Tren’s maniacal laugher echoes through the night as the camera finally clicks off.
