Post by SANTANA on Oct 3, 2020 23:38:40 GMT
“See because if it wasn’t for my father, I wouldn’t be standing here today looking you dead in your eyes. Being me is both the most challenging and easy thing ever.
They want me. Well, they want Santana & I’m always going to give them Santana.
They never want E’Twan because Santana never gave them E’Twan. No one knows who I was and it’s better off that way because, quite frankly, I don’t even know who I was.
I’m just glad that my kids ain’t ever turn out like me.”
A deep seeded sigh leaves his mouth, dropping his shoulders along with his head. He’s tired. Probably from the late night binders. Maybe it’s from falling 20 feet off of stuff onto tables, sometimes even just the hard, unforgiving floor. This… let’s just call this magical de-aging a “change”. The change was a second chance at living his dream but before him was his son, Adonis. Adonis was a college grad and everything Santana isn’t.
“Why’re you telling me this now? Rian and Billi might’ve forgotten all those long nights. You showing up drunk, or high on whatever was on tonight’s special. Not saying a word as we waited hours for you to come home. You’re lucky I handle most of the promotional work for your own wrestling company because if it were up to you? Sheesh, we’d be down and out already.”
Here he went again, on this long tirade. Santana always took it because he knew that he deserved it. He was never apologetic for loving wrestling and drugs. His kids knew that he was the one putting food on their tables despite his heavy lust for the next hit. Johnson never really knew how much it hurt his kids emotionally. Maybe he did. Maybe he just didn’t care. 60 years on this planet, you’d think Santana would’ve gotten a grip by now.
“Did you just hear a word I just said!?” Adonis yells.
He didn’t. The stocky athletic son of one of the most vile things to come out of deathmatch wrestling was heaving in a heap of anger. Yeah, he got the temper from his dad.
“YOU WANT TO TELL SANTANA WHAT THE FUCK YOU DOING? YOU GON PERK UP AND STAND TO ME. MUTHERFUCKER IF I WAS YOUR AGE I- WELL SHIT, SON. IT LOOKS LIKE YOU GON NEED TO EITHER CALM DOWN AND TALK TO ME LIKE A MAN OR YOU GON HAVE TO SWING. WHICH ONE IS IT!?”
Adonis was big and smart. So smart that he knew that getting into a tussle with his father wasn’t something that he wanted. He eased up and sat back down, as did his father.
“E’Twan isn’t someone that any of us know. Not me. Not Billi or Rian. Not even mom. Telling me that you’re sorry doesn’t just wash away years of abandonment.”
Mental and sometimes even physical abandonment. Those binders where he’d be gone for days at a time? They didn’t start after the kids became adults, they were probably worse as they were growing up. Whilst he was never physical with his kids or their mother, they knew what the man was capable of. Coming back from Japan with a reattached thumb or a missing right pinky toe every now and then was enough to really tell the people in that household that he was one crazy motherfucker.
“I’M NOT SORRY. ME BEIN WHO I AM MADE YOU BECOME THE MAN YOU ARE TODAY. SURE YOU FUCKED UP BUT WE ALL FUCKED UP. BILLI TRIES TO BE LIKE ME BUT SHE GOT TOO MUCH OF A HEART. RIAN AINT NOTHING LIKE ME, JUST LIKE YOU. THATS WHAT SANTANA TAKE PRIDE IN, THE FACT THAT YALL STILL STANDING HERE TO THIS DAY. FOOD IN YOUR BELLY AND CLOTHES ON YOUR BACK. WHO THE FUCK PAID FOR IT!? ME. THE MAN WHO SNIFF ALL THAT COCAINE AND COME HOME DRUNK AS A SKUNK DID ALL THAT. IF ANYONE SHOULD BE GRATEFUL, IT SHOULD BE YALL. WE COULD ALL HAVE BEEN IN THE SOUTHSIDE OF CHICAGO. YOU WANNA KNOW WHAT THATS LIKE!?
"
Santana felt that his kids didn’t know struggle like he experienced.
Chicago, 1974.
Little Santana was already a troublemaker. Fighting in the street, committing petty theft, he wasn’t doing well for himself. Barely passing in school, we have to sit back and wonder why he was turning out to be like this? Well, the answer unfortunately isn’t some convoluted conspiracy. You take one look at the Johnson household and you can tell what’s going on there. Clarice Johnson, Santana’s mom. She was a beautiful woman with a beautiful soul. That is, until Tony Johnson Jr. got into her life. She was a stick of dynamite and he was a motherfucker with one hell of a lighter and together they blew each other up.
By the time Santana was in his early teens, his father had already did a 5 year bid and his mom was so hopped up on cocaine, she’d sell her son for a line. Dirt poor. That’s what Santana was. He was the product of his surroundings. Negativity fed on negativity and he ate it up like it was the last supper. Santana learned how to throw a punch early, he learned the ways of ducking and dodging from his mom’s periodic beatdowns. He became one with the feeling of absorbing pain from his father’s daily ‘life lessons’. Broke ass kid in a broke ass environment. With nowhere to turn in his house, not a single dollar in his pocket and not a fuck to be given for school, where was a little boy from the hood gonna turn?
“YOU WANT TO PUT THE BLAME ON SANTANA LIKE SANTANA BLAMED HIS PARENTS? SHIT, BOY IF YOU KNEW AS MUCH ABOUT THE SHIT THAT GOES ON IN THE STREETS AS YOU DO WITH THOSE BOOKS, YOU’D BE ABLE TO CHANGE A MUTHERFUCKER’S LIFE. THERE WASNT NO LEMME WAIT A FEW WEEKS TIL DAD COME HOME SO I CAN GET ME A FUCKIN NINTENDO. SANTANA AINT HAVE NO NINTENDO BOY. SANTANA HAD THESE.”
He puts up his meaty balled up fist.
“IN MY DAY, YOU LEARNED TO SURVIVE WITH THESE. NOT YOUR MIND. NOW IF SANTANA PUT HIS FOCUS ON BOOKS OR SOMETHING PRODUCTIVE THAT WASNT ME FALLIN OFF SHIT OR CUTTING A MUTHERFUCKER OPEN, MAYBE MY MIND WOULDVE BEEN USEFUL.”
It still was. Muscle memory from the thousands of fights he’d been in had him pinned as one of the best boxers in Insane South Side Popes. Yep, the young Santana Johnson turned to gang affiliation. It wasn’t about looking cool or being the toughest mutherfucker in the world. The kid needed to eat. He needed to be able to walk in a pair of shoes that he didn’t outgrow 2 years ago. One thing about Santana that you should always know is that as violent and brutal as he may be, he never in his life cared for guns. Sure, he shot one but young E’Twan always saw guns as the easy way out of a fight.
“THE WHOLE POINT..”
Santana let out another lasting breath and looked up at his son. Young and in his prime, sort of like Santana is now.
“Boy, the whole point of me sitting you down isn’t to gloat about me and what I’ve done. It’s to tell you that Santana is proud of who you’ve become. You not having my drunk ass always in your life has benefited you and I can promise you right now that this gon make you an even better father than I could ever be.
You’re a good man.
You took care of your sisters when I couldn’t. Lord knows I couldn’t.
Your momma is a good woman. She’s the reason yall aint crazy like your father.
I ain’t sorry for what I’ve done in my life but what I am, is thankful. Thankful to whoever the fuck is up there, making sure I’m still here and making sure you’re sticking to the right path.”
It was very rare for Santana to show his emotions and become soft spoken, so when he did, whoever he took the time to talk to usually listened. As for his son sitting right by him with tears in his eyes, he just nodded. Adonis understood right then and there. Although there were moments that he’d show love or kindness, Santana wasn’t a good man. He was a terrible person with usual selfish intentions, but like it or not, he was his father.
They want me. Well, they want Santana & I’m always going to give them Santana.
They never want E’Twan because Santana never gave them E’Twan. No one knows who I was and it’s better off that way because, quite frankly, I don’t even know who I was.
I’m just glad that my kids ain’t ever turn out like me.”
A deep seeded sigh leaves his mouth, dropping his shoulders along with his head. He’s tired. Probably from the late night binders. Maybe it’s from falling 20 feet off of stuff onto tables, sometimes even just the hard, unforgiving floor. This… let’s just call this magical de-aging a “change”. The change was a second chance at living his dream but before him was his son, Adonis. Adonis was a college grad and everything Santana isn’t.
“Why’re you telling me this now? Rian and Billi might’ve forgotten all those long nights. You showing up drunk, or high on whatever was on tonight’s special. Not saying a word as we waited hours for you to come home. You’re lucky I handle most of the promotional work for your own wrestling company because if it were up to you? Sheesh, we’d be down and out already.”
Here he went again, on this long tirade. Santana always took it because he knew that he deserved it. He was never apologetic for loving wrestling and drugs. His kids knew that he was the one putting food on their tables despite his heavy lust for the next hit. Johnson never really knew how much it hurt his kids emotionally. Maybe he did. Maybe he just didn’t care. 60 years on this planet, you’d think Santana would’ve gotten a grip by now.
“Did you just hear a word I just said!?” Adonis yells.
He didn’t. The stocky athletic son of one of the most vile things to come out of deathmatch wrestling was heaving in a heap of anger. Yeah, he got the temper from his dad.
“YOU WANT TO TELL SANTANA WHAT THE FUCK YOU DOING? YOU GON PERK UP AND STAND TO ME. MUTHERFUCKER IF I WAS YOUR AGE I- WELL SHIT, SON. IT LOOKS LIKE YOU GON NEED TO EITHER CALM DOWN AND TALK TO ME LIKE A MAN OR YOU GON HAVE TO SWING. WHICH ONE IS IT!?”
Adonis was big and smart. So smart that he knew that getting into a tussle with his father wasn’t something that he wanted. He eased up and sat back down, as did his father.
“E’Twan isn’t someone that any of us know. Not me. Not Billi or Rian. Not even mom. Telling me that you’re sorry doesn’t just wash away years of abandonment.”
Mental and sometimes even physical abandonment. Those binders where he’d be gone for days at a time? They didn’t start after the kids became adults, they were probably worse as they were growing up. Whilst he was never physical with his kids or their mother, they knew what the man was capable of. Coming back from Japan with a reattached thumb or a missing right pinky toe every now and then was enough to really tell the people in that household that he was one crazy motherfucker.
“I’M NOT SORRY. ME BEIN WHO I AM MADE YOU BECOME THE MAN YOU ARE TODAY. SURE YOU FUCKED UP BUT WE ALL FUCKED UP. BILLI TRIES TO BE LIKE ME BUT SHE GOT TOO MUCH OF A HEART. RIAN AINT NOTHING LIKE ME, JUST LIKE YOU. THATS WHAT SANTANA TAKE PRIDE IN, THE FACT THAT YALL STILL STANDING HERE TO THIS DAY. FOOD IN YOUR BELLY AND CLOTHES ON YOUR BACK. WHO THE FUCK PAID FOR IT!? ME. THE MAN WHO SNIFF ALL THAT COCAINE AND COME HOME DRUNK AS A SKUNK DID ALL THAT. IF ANYONE SHOULD BE GRATEFUL, IT SHOULD BE YALL. WE COULD ALL HAVE BEEN IN THE SOUTHSIDE OF CHICAGO. YOU WANNA KNOW WHAT THATS LIKE!?
"
Santana felt that his kids didn’t know struggle like he experienced.
Chicago, 1974.
Little Santana was already a troublemaker. Fighting in the street, committing petty theft, he wasn’t doing well for himself. Barely passing in school, we have to sit back and wonder why he was turning out to be like this? Well, the answer unfortunately isn’t some convoluted conspiracy. You take one look at the Johnson household and you can tell what’s going on there. Clarice Johnson, Santana’s mom. She was a beautiful woman with a beautiful soul. That is, until Tony Johnson Jr. got into her life. She was a stick of dynamite and he was a motherfucker with one hell of a lighter and together they blew each other up.
By the time Santana was in his early teens, his father had already did a 5 year bid and his mom was so hopped up on cocaine, she’d sell her son for a line. Dirt poor. That’s what Santana was. He was the product of his surroundings. Negativity fed on negativity and he ate it up like it was the last supper. Santana learned how to throw a punch early, he learned the ways of ducking and dodging from his mom’s periodic beatdowns. He became one with the feeling of absorbing pain from his father’s daily ‘life lessons’. Broke ass kid in a broke ass environment. With nowhere to turn in his house, not a single dollar in his pocket and not a fuck to be given for school, where was a little boy from the hood gonna turn?
“YOU WANT TO PUT THE BLAME ON SANTANA LIKE SANTANA BLAMED HIS PARENTS? SHIT, BOY IF YOU KNEW AS MUCH ABOUT THE SHIT THAT GOES ON IN THE STREETS AS YOU DO WITH THOSE BOOKS, YOU’D BE ABLE TO CHANGE A MUTHERFUCKER’S LIFE. THERE WASNT NO LEMME WAIT A FEW WEEKS TIL DAD COME HOME SO I CAN GET ME A FUCKIN NINTENDO. SANTANA AINT HAVE NO NINTENDO BOY. SANTANA HAD THESE.”
He puts up his meaty balled up fist.
“IN MY DAY, YOU LEARNED TO SURVIVE WITH THESE. NOT YOUR MIND. NOW IF SANTANA PUT HIS FOCUS ON BOOKS OR SOMETHING PRODUCTIVE THAT WASNT ME FALLIN OFF SHIT OR CUTTING A MUTHERFUCKER OPEN, MAYBE MY MIND WOULDVE BEEN USEFUL.”
It still was. Muscle memory from the thousands of fights he’d been in had him pinned as one of the best boxers in Insane South Side Popes. Yep, the young Santana Johnson turned to gang affiliation. It wasn’t about looking cool or being the toughest mutherfucker in the world. The kid needed to eat. He needed to be able to walk in a pair of shoes that he didn’t outgrow 2 years ago. One thing about Santana that you should always know is that as violent and brutal as he may be, he never in his life cared for guns. Sure, he shot one but young E’Twan always saw guns as the easy way out of a fight.
“THE WHOLE POINT..”
Santana let out another lasting breath and looked up at his son. Young and in his prime, sort of like Santana is now.
“Boy, the whole point of me sitting you down isn’t to gloat about me and what I’ve done. It’s to tell you that Santana is proud of who you’ve become. You not having my drunk ass always in your life has benefited you and I can promise you right now that this gon make you an even better father than I could ever be.
You’re a good man.
You took care of your sisters when I couldn’t. Lord knows I couldn’t.
Your momma is a good woman. She’s the reason yall aint crazy like your father.
I ain’t sorry for what I’ve done in my life but what I am, is thankful. Thankful to whoever the fuck is up there, making sure I’m still here and making sure you’re sticking to the right path.”
It was very rare for Santana to show his emotions and become soft spoken, so when he did, whoever he took the time to talk to usually listened. As for his son sitting right by him with tears in his eyes, he just nodded. Adonis understood right then and there. Although there were moments that he’d show love or kindness, Santana wasn’t a good man. He was a terrible person with usual selfish intentions, but like it or not, he was his father.