Title: Bigger Things
Featuring: Python
Date: The night after Untouchable
Location: A pub in New York City

[Python makes his way into a small New York City pub and swings his leg over a barstool. Bob Dylan's voice hums through the quiet little place courtesy of an old jukebox in the corner, and a TV monitor glows bright on an otherwise dimly lit wall, showing the muted events of a close Yankees game in the bottom of the 8th. It's early in the evening and the bar hasn't yet begun to attract its usual crowd, save for a select few silently picking at their dinners, glancing at the game, and minding their own business. Python catches the bartender's eye.]

 

Python:

Hey man, how ya doing? I'll do a single malt scotch on the rocks, please.

Bartender:

Can I get some I.D., boss?

 

[Python grins and digs into his pocket.]

 

Python:

Yep, fair enough.

 

[He presents his license to the burly bartender, who studies it carefully before handing it back with a grunt.]

 

Bartender:

Comin' right up, pal.

Python:

Thanks.

 

[Python shifts in his seat, instinctively rests his elbows on the bar, and winces sharply. He pulls back and gingerly rubs a fresh, wicked looking bruise on his right arm.]

 

Python:

Ahh, son of an ass.

 

[A middle aged man sitting next to Python casts him a bemused sideways glance and returns his attention to the TV. After a moment of thought, his brow furrows and he turns back toward Python. The young wrestler takes notice and, after an awkward moment of silence unbroken by his barstool neighbor, Python clears his throat and gestures toward the television.]

 

Python:

So, how they doing tonight? Hanging in there without Jeter?

 

Man:

I'm sorry for not remembering, but... have we met?

 

Python:

Nah, I don't think so, man.

 

[The man's brow furrows a little deeper.]

 

Man:

Weird. Well, I apologize. I just... ah, I could swear I know your face from somewhere.

 

Python:

Could be. I'm a pro wrestler.

 

[An involuntary look of skeptical surprise crosses the stranger's face for just a moment as he considers Python's youth, small stature, and "I dig rock music and don't give a fuck about anything else" manner of appearance. But suddenly, a little lightbulb goes off in the man's head.]   

  

Man:

Oh, holy hell, that's it! You're the uh, the guy! The snake! My kid's got your face on a poster in his room!

 

Python:

Hah, no kidding?

 

Man:

Sure, he's got a couple of shirts and an action figure too. Talks about you all the time. Python, is it?

 

Python:

Yeah! Well, Matt. Good to meet you, dude.
 

[He extends his hand and the man shakes his heartily.]

 

Man:

Ben.

 

Python:

How old's your kid, Ben?

 

Ben:

He's eleven. But he's been watching wrestling since he was eight, his mother got him into it.

 

Python:

Hah, that's awesome!

 

[The bartender returns and sets Python's drink down in front of him. Python opens his wallet, but Ben waves him off.]

 

Ben:

Put him on my tab, Paulie.

 

Bartender:

You got it.

 

Ben:

Shit, my kid is never going to believe this. I'd call him but he's got a ballgame tonight, probably about halfway done by now. Wants to play pro when he grows up, heh. Didn't we all, right? I wanted to be there tonight, but, you know... work. Could I get you to sign something?

 

Python:

Of course, man, no problem!

 

[Ben grabs a clean napkin and produces a pen from his pocket. Python takes them with a smile and begins to scroll out a message.]

 

Python:

What's his name?

 

Ben:

David.

 

Python:

Alrighty.

 

Ben:

So what brings you to the Big Apple, Matt?  

 

Python:

I'm in the tri-state area for the week. Had an event in Pennsylvania last night, doing a press thing near here tomorrow morning, I'll probably visit home after that.

 

Ben:

Where's home?

 

Python:

Jersey. Newark.

 

Ben:

No kidding? Family still live there?

 

Python:

Nah, nah. My dad passed years ago, and he adopted me on his own, so...

 

Ben:

Sorry, man.

 

Python:

Oh, no, no worries. But yeah, I've still got some friends there who I'm really looking forward to catching up with.

 

[Python finishes signing the napkin and slides it back to Ben.]

 

Ben:

Thanks! So how'd the event go last night?

 

Python:

Not bad, man. It was a double header. Did your kid catch it?

 

Ben:

Probably. Haven't gotten to see him in a couple days now.

 

Python:

Mm.

 

Ben:

Did you win?

 

Python:

No. Well, yes and no. Won the first match, lost the second. Got tossed out by five guys at once.

 

Bartender:

Four guys and a chick.

 

[Python and Ben look up, startled. The bartender shrugs and goes about washing dishes on the other side of the bar.]

 

Bartender:

What, we were gonna be the only bar in the city not showin' the pay per view?

 

[This draws a laugh from Python.]

 

Python:

And you still felt the need to card me, huh?

 

Bartender:

Hey, you could be fifteen and fightin' guys on TV for all I know, what the fuck. I ain't losin' my liquor license for it.

 

[The big bartender turns his back on the two to assist another customer.]

 

 Ben:

So are you upset that you lost the one match?

 

Python:

Well, yeah, but I mean... not upset at myself. I did my best. If you're in a battle royal and everyone in the ring decides you gotta go, there's not a whole lot you can do about it, unfortunately. But I came into the match knowing that was something I'd probably have to deal with.

 

Ben:

What for? You do something to piss 'em off?

 

Python:

Nah. Well, yeah, just one asshole. But I've never had anything to do with the rest.

 

Ben:

So why do they hate ya?

 

Python:

They don't.

 

[He grins and takes a drink of his scotch, swirling it thoughtfully before putting it back down.]

 

Python:

They're afraid of me.

 

Ben:

How come? No offense, but aren't you a little smaller than most guys who do that stuff?

 

Python:

Sure. But I guess that didn't stop them from thinking I'd take 'em all out as soon as I found the chance.

 

Ben:

Were they right?

 

[Python laughs, sliding his glass from one hand to the other before taking another long swig of his drink and answering...]

 

Python:

Hell yeah, they were right.

 

[Ben nods and they sit in silence for a minute, drinking and watching as the Yankees close in on a comeback victory in the bottom of the 9th.]

 

Ben:

So... what's next for you? Any news I can share with my kid?

 

Python:

Well, you can tell him that I've got my mind on some bigger things in the near future. And that even though I didn't win the battle royal, I gave Chance von Crank the beating he was asking for and he knows where to find me if he wants another.

 

[Ben's eyes light up with recognition.]

 

Ben:

I know that name. My wife banned our son from watching any of his videos online. Not sure why.

 

Python:

Heh. Have you ever seen any of them?

 

Ben:

No.

 

Python:

That's... probably for the best.

 

[Python kills the rest of his drink and sets down the glass. He gets up, claps Ben on the shoulder with one hand, and extends the other for a handshake.]

 

Python:

Thanks again for the drink, man. Great to meet you.

 

Ben:

Yeah, hey, the pleasure was mine! Best of luck.

 

[Python nods to the bartender, throws his hood up over his head, and disappears out the side door in a few long strides. Ben shakes his head in disbelief and turns back to the bar, laughing to himself.]

 

 Ben:

How 'bout that?

 

[He looks down at the newly autographed napkin, reading the inscription to himself for the first time.]

 

David,

 

Best of luck with the baseball career, buddy. As you get older, always remember that no one can decide for you what you can or can't do. Cherish your wins with class. The moments between your victories define you just as much as the victories themselves. Learn from your losses. They're important, but they're not the end of the world. The well of opportunities will never run dry for as long as you stay thirsty for them.

 

- Python

 

PS your dad is a super cool dude and he promised to catch your next five games in a row and hit the batting cages with you this weekend. Lucky you!

 

[A light smatter of applause and whoops go up from the few people in the bar as the Yankees drive in the winning run on TV. Ben folds the napkin and tucks it into his pocket with a smile.]

 

       

 

 

 

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