The Stoneham suburb of Boston, Massachusetts was a fine place to raise a family outside the confines of the city proper without fully isolating oneself from the amenities offered there. Finn Donovan found himself in the backyard of one such building here, colonial in style and blue in color, a three bed two bath house that he called home. His first home, it should be clarified, where he was born and raised and, on this crisp Tuesday morning, he returned to visit.
El Trébol Jr sat alone in this backyard, the grass a luscious green with smatterings of oranges and reds amongst it, courtesy of the oak tree who let its once thriving leaves to fall and die for the betterment of itself. He sat not on a chair, but the cracked leather seat of his old swing-set, the metal showing the slightest signs of rust after over a decade out here in the elements. He grasped the chain with one gloved hand while he held a bottle of Samuel Adams—for this Boston, you see—in his other, sipping at it with the bare lips uncovered by his signature green mask. Indeed, even at home, Finn Donovan was still Trébol through and through.
“To Sabrina Baker,” Trébol said suddenly, holding the bottle up in the air; the movement led to a slight sway in the elevated position he found himself in as his feet were too short to plant on the bare dirt below, instead dangling a few inches above. Oh, he could stretch and steady himself, but the last thing Trébol wanted to do right now was look silly. “For giving me the match I wanted. You fought hard, chicka.” Trébol finishes off the toast with a long drag of the bottle.
“But it was I who got to return home and tell those I loved about my success. I return to the place that molded me, shaped me, to show what has come of that upbringing. That . . . that is what home is about.” El Trébol pauses and looks at the scene around him. “It seems for my opponent and I, our backyard had a big hand in our lives as well.”
Trébol grins as he lets the now empty bottle of Samuel Adams drop to the ground with a thud beside him. “We have a fence between our house and the neighbors,” he begins, pointing off-screen in the general direction where it was safe to assume the fence was still there, “where the neighbor’s daughter would always sunbathe naked outside when the weather was nice. Now, the fence was too tall for me to peek over normally, but if you swung high enough . . . well let’s just saw the view from up top was spectacular.” Even recalling this memory sends Trébol’s little legs into motion, swaying back and forth. “So you could bet your ass when I heard Justin Timberlake singing from across the wall, I’d find myself in this seat pumping my legs like there was no tomorrow. This swing set, this yard, it made me into the man I was today. Well, kind of.”
El Trébol drops out of the swing onto the ground, bending over the pick up the bottle, allowing the suspense to build around that last statement.
“My perversion, if nothing else, taught me to work hard for the things I wanted. That tenacity is what strengthened my dream of professional wrestling, that despite who I was, I could become a star. And my opponent, Skylar Montgomery, in this strange way possesses that same tenacity.” El Trébol holds up a hand with the pinky extended. “So I promise I won’t berate you, Skylar, for the path you have taken that has led to our collision on Proving Grounds Number Seven.”
The hand drops, the promise sealed with the figurative second pinky.
“You took the path, Skylar that now requires the professional companies to put disclaimers before their shows in the hopes it would not be reproduced by fans. Of course, you completely ignored such disclaimers, submitting your poor mattress to the poorly performed techniques and atrocious acts of barbarity and violence, in the hopes that you would one day break into the professional wrestling circuit. And by god, you did it; you’re here in the UTA—for the second time, I should throw out there—and unlike your first run, you look like you may be here to stay. So, with sincerity, congratulations.”
Trébol does indeed clap, as to be expected after such a mocking comment. Except, neither the comment nor the clapping was performed in a mocking tone but instead, as Trébol had specifically said, with sincerity. It simply came off that way because clapping was not a sincere gesture.
“Because I’m going to guess that you were a boy, a young lad across the pond, who was told he could make a name in this business. I can relate with that, Skylar. But I busted my ass and you busted some light tubes, two men who weren’t big enough or talented enough to compete, until we were given a chance to prove otherwise. Now on November 22 in Edmonton, Alberta we have to show which of us was more deserving.” A pause. “My intention is clear: by the end of that night, I will be the man the crowd applauses, not you Skylar.”
Trébol begins to move away from the swing set towards the large oak in the corner of the yard, continuing to talk in the process; underneath him, the decaying leaves crunched beneath his boots. “Now I could chalk this confidence up to the fact that, since you returned to UTA two months ago, you have yet to win a match, even against the—how should I put this—less intimidating opponents here.” Trébol shrugs. “Other opponents would base their impending success simply on that. How could a man who couldn’t even beat Jack Hunter possibly ever beat them? I’m a different sort of man, though, Skylar. I’m convinced you won’t beat me because you lack something that I possess.”
El Trébol draws up short of the wide, thick oak. He reaches out, placing his hand on the trunk as he turns to face the camera again.
Ooh, repetition from the mini luchador.
“I told Sabrina Baker that I had a bigger heart than her two weeks ago and now I tell, you Skylar. I shouldn’t have to; it should be obvious that this heart is still beating. But I bring it up because I want to say that it’s beating more.” Trébol nods. “I watched International Affair backstage, Skylar, and I realized that was where I wanted to be, out there in front of sixty thousand people and stealing the show. And to get there, I have to keep winning, keep taking the opportunities I’ve been given and make the best of them, even when the opportunities come in the form of the least opponents. And you Skylar, has your heart changed?”
El Trébol stares hard, before shaking his head.
“My guess is no. You’re still the same kid who simply wanted to be called Suicidal.”
Trébol pats the tree again as he sets the empty Samuel Adams bottle at the base of the tree
“So go be it, Skylar, be suicidal for me. Just come and hang out in this tree right here until I can go and fetch another beer to toast you as well. And then, after that, we can wrestle our little hearts out in Edmonton.”
Trébol steps off-camera following those heavy words. The camera focuses in on the bottle by the tree for a moment, as a breeze carries a few of those decaying leaves across it, before the scene fades out.
"Victory will be found in Unlikely places, and I will be walking away with that championship around my waist."
- Mikey Unlikely