Red-eye to Columbus

[Bobby Minio]

"Try and take it, or you can, pry it out my cold dead hand."

 

Muffled lyrics escapes from the confines of the headphones hugging Bobby Minio's head as the scene opens. The light is low, and as the camera comes into focus, we see the all to familiar scene of a window seat on a plane. Coach. The song grinding bass against the sides of Minio's skull is

, a moody declaration of determination and dedication that could not be more perfect for the moment in his life. Minio shares his seat aisle with his thoughts, something he is thankful for. He glances to his right to see two mostly empty seats, with the exception of a bag in the seat immediately beside him.

 

He stares out over the night, indiscriminate civilization below him that sprawled somewhere between Grand Rapids and Columbus. It was a puddle skip, a short flight that Minio had opted for instead of renting a car. Driving alone could be an express ticket to injury or worse for a tired wrestler, and with Minio being a newcomer to the OCW roster, he had yet to meet a traveling partner, a necessity for any hard working, over night driver.

 

The bass of the song continued to roar from the headphones while Minio watched the world below, he thought to himself, foolishly, childishly, that he wished state-lines were more prominent to the naked eye. He immediately saw the silliness in the thought, smirking to himself before turning his attention back to the cabin of the plane.

 

Fan: "Hello Bobby. Er... Mr. Minio!"

 

An enthusiastic voice broke the silence, the first interruption of the peaceful world of loud music aside from the occasional cough or sneeze. Minio's safe haven of his empty aisle had been invaded, a man, no older than Minio, was sitting in the aisle seat. He had a shy smile, a star struck look plastered across his face. Minio was caught off guard, he fumbled to pause his music, rolling his headphones back from his head to drape around his neck.

 

Minio: "Hello... stranger?"

 

Minio replied, offering a hand out towards the newcomer. Minio was in social auto-pilot, but when the man quickly returned the gesture with an eager handshake, it seemed to drag Minio's conscious back into the moment.

 

Fan: "I'm sorry to bother you, I just... I was at the show."

 

The man was self conscious about coming off as a fanboy, a mark, it was obvious. Minio attempted to adjust his body language, come off less intimidating, trying to make the man feel welcome in row 8 of flight 946.

 

Minio: "Me too."

 

Minio joked with a casual sarcasm to assist in the attempt to comfort the fan.

 

Fan: "I know you guys like your privacy, I'll make this quick."

 

The fan was speaking fast, he was going about 15% faster than normal. It read in his voice, it read on his face. This was a familiar, yet distant experience for Minio. A fan. A fan who gave a shit. A fan who wanted to respect Minio's privacy. "Where have they been hiding this guy?" Minio pondered as an active commentary on the entitled generation of fans these days. The man found his voice. He spoke concisely, with confidence.

 

Fan: "I remember you."

 

Minio: "Excuse me?"

 

Fan: "I REMEMBER You. Thank you. For years ago, and for coming back. I'm sure you guys don't hear it enough, but thank you."

 

Minio was stunned. He wore a look, close to confusion, over his brow and eyes. The man offered his hand again, which the stunned Minio quickly shook, and like that, the fan had slipped out of the row and headed quickly back to his seat. This was as good as a fan interaction could possibly go. Somehow, the FAN had left MINIO wanting more. Minio smiled to himself, thinking that the most well behaved fan he can remember meeting was someone who had followed his career a decade ago. Something about that was reassuring to him.

 

He slipped his headphones back over his head, hitting play inviting the music to resume. He rested his temple on the cabin of the plane, feeling the impossibly cool touch of the air outside pushing it's way through the window of the plane.

 

"Fuck the landing, I'll man the weapons, and hold the barrel to my own fate."

 

The words battled with the music against Minio's ears. Something about the lyrics, holding the figurative barrel to his fate, it resonated with him. He probably knew that, he probably put that song on for that very reason. While he debated that internally, his mind wandered from the music and he found himself thinking about second chances and their rarity. He was deep in thought now, and not even the digital beep of the flight attendant paging the in-plane PA and detailing their preparations for landing broke his train of thought.

[Patolomai]

Awesome Sauce Minio... I like your style of writing a lot, has a nice balance to it and always adds depth to your character... Keep up the good work my dude...

[Tiberius Dupree]

Man your writing style is FRESH!

[Luke Fuentes]

I like it buddy. Keep it up!