Gerald R. Ford International Airport

[Bobby Minio]

Minio: "Crowded. It's always fucking crowded."

 

Bobby Minio had thought to himself, perhaps out loud, definitely not loud enough to be registered by another soul around him. At a lean 6'3, Minio stood out above a few crowds in public. He looked down over the other passengers, who would stop just short of a stampede to get to the baggage claim. Minio found himself counting the steps until he could break pack with the fellow passengers of the direct flight here from Vegas. He packed light, something he had learned over a decade earlier when the circuit was his grind.

 

Visual frustration twisted across his face as he squeezed through two wheel chairs that had been throttling the foot traffic for nearly fifty yards. Salvation was in sight. A man, wearing a suit too expensive to be a gag, and too cheap to be a status symbol, stood holding a sign with the OCW logo in front of his chest. Minio stepped up his pace to close the distance between himself and his escape route. It was only four hours earlier that he had realized just how little tolerance he had for crowds, which, he immediately realized was going to be a problem that would need facing, given his return to a specific profession and all.

 

Stranger: "Uh... Hey!"

 

The unmistakable sound of the fan who couldn't place a name. A decade earlier, Minio was an up and coming name in the wrestling industry. A decade in today's world is a damn long time, and if that decade was spent not only out of the spotlight, but under a submerged rock, you will be lucky if someone recognized you in passing. Minio was feeling particularly unlucky as the man cut directly into Minio's path towards the driver in the mediocre gray suit, who stood some thirty feet away.

 

Stranger: "You're a wrestler? Right? ... At least tell me I got that right!"

 

The man spoke into Minio's face, who, in a sudden moment of P.R. clarity, searched his brain for a reply that ranged somewhere between "Holy shit, someone remembers me!" and "fuck yourself, stupid". The latter of which had been a more common reply from Minio's mouth in the rare occasions that he was recognized in public. Sidelined by what was considered by many to be the injury that would serve as the back cover to Minio's short but promising career, living in partial darkness to add some relief to the never ending symptoms, Minio had become a bit impatient and callous with others.

 

Minio: "Bobby Minio, I made my way around North America in the late nineties and early thousands. Ring a bell?"

 

He half asked as he did his best to put on the proverbial happy face, anything to cover the overwhelming desire to check into a hotel room, kill the lights and relax after even the short flight to Michigan. Despite the fact that he had been symptom free for over a year, the lifestyle adjustments from his time on the shelf had left him less social than he, or anyone, would really like.

 

Stranger: "I think so! I know your face... that much I'm sure of!"

The man stated with a raised voice, before motioning over Minio's shoulder to someone else. Minio heard the pitter patter of small feet, a kid. No older than Minio's post concussion symptoms, eight, maybe nine. Cute, he was beaming, Dad had mentioned that he saw a wrestler and of course the child had hoped he was going to finally meet Paul Pugh in the flesh. Once the boy had made it to Minio and the stranger, his face fell. He had no idea who Minio was, it was blatantly worn across the boy's face.

 

Minio: "That's two of us, kid."

 

Minio thought to himself as he read the unspoken words from the child's expression.

 

Stranger: "Sorry if this is rude but, could we get an autograph? Just for the kid? He's a big fan!"

 

Minio and the boy shared a look as if they were both sharing the same thought that the father was very shoddy at lying and the boy clearly was not a big fan. For a brief moment, this bonded the two, and Minio flashed a lazy smile as he slipped a sharpee out of his dufflebag and took the boy's flight stub. He signed it "Bobby Minio, remember the name" and nodded to the boy, who read the signature and nodded back. Minio and the man shared forced pleasantries before he could finally reach the driver, who led him out to a waiting town car and had the dufflebag in the trunk in the same amount of time that the autograph session had taken. Before he was even aware of it, Minio was sitting in the backseat of the vehicle in the direction of the hotel.

 

He reflected on the experience, coming to terms with the fact that his career, simply did not exist anymore. Time and the internet had been unkind on his reputation and history, and aside from the occasional passing glance of familiarity, he was starting over entirely anew. Something about that realization really appealed to Minio, who found himself excited again after a window of cynicism that coincidentally lasted as long as the trip to Grand Rapids.

 

Minio: "Nine years..."

 

Minio was muttering to himself while watching the city pass by through the car window. He found himself obsessing over that fact, the length of time that he had been off of the circuit and battling recovery. He began writing a speech in his head, scripting out word for word what he would have to say from the bottom of his heart, all with a thousand yard stare firmly glued to his face as he stared through the city outside.

 

Minio: "... Nine long years..."

 

He trailed off into his thoughts.

[Pugh]

IN MINIO WE TRUST!

 

Good work. This is how you should introduce a character.