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So began another day for Ed DeLion.
He was in a good mood that morning. The letter received from his wife had brought good news about his future. That was, the future he'd see if he survived this ordeal. But for the time, he wasn't worried about survival. He was more focused on being happy. Things were looking up for the DeLion couple (soon to be family), and it was only a matter of time before he could enjoy it fully.
Even though he stood on foreign soil, Vietnam was the last thing on Edward DeLion's mind.
He was whistling as he drew his razor across his lathered face. A cut appeared near the jaw-line on the right side of his face, but it wasn't like it was serious. He had gone through worse in his previous two tours through the jungle. A cut? Hah! Normal men would be pissed off... self-righteous yuppie Democratic bastards, "supporting" this piece of shit war and backing the president with every word, but cowards, through and through.
Someone approached him, dropping his pack. He looked up and smiled as he recognized the face.
"PFC James?" he inquired.
"L.T." replied Private First Class Robert James, "Jim-Bob" to his friends. Upon inspection, DeLion could tell he hadn't had his shit together in a while. With his shirt off, Jim-Bob revealed his skinny upper body, the cause of malnutrition over the past few weeks. Bags hung under his eyes, from sleep deprivation. He looked like shit, but he never wiped that classic jokester smile off his face. It probably wouldn't go away with his shock of curly blonde hair and puppy dog brown eyes. A runt, but a soldier. A hippie, but a friend. He was one of Lieutenant DeLion's favorites.
What neither man knew at the time was that Robert James would be dead in less than 48 hours.
While his team did a routine check through Song An, the squad fell under a small ambush from Charlie. Four went down, James included. DeLion would forever remember that day, being in the unlucky position of being on empty and putting a new chamber into his rifle, when two VCs popped up from the bushes feet in front of him and lowered their automatics to him.
That was when skinny little Robert James, "Jim-Bob" to his friends, came between him and the Vietnamese. He walked straight into the line of fire, and took eight consecutive shots to the chest.
James spasmed, blood spurting from his chest and firing his rifle at the same time. He fragged the VCs in his painful rage, but died before he hit the ground. I happened so fast. Ed hardly remembered mourning the death of his friend and fellow trooper, but he kept the memory with him always.
DeLion wasn't certain that he intentionally ran out either to cross to the other side of the echelon, or to save his commanding officer. But Ed DeLion did know that Robert James saved his life that day.
And for that reason, six years later, he remembered Robert James when he named his second son, born January 11, 1977. That was a long way into the future.
"You just get back from Dodge City?" asked DeLion.
"Yep, had a damn fine time too," answered Jim-Bob, with his sweet Southern twang and fine rows of perfect white teeth. "They had this bitch--Lao Yu, I think that was her name--had a pussy like you wouldn't BELIEVE, Ed!"
James broke into a laughter, patting his superior officer on the back. Ed was quick to take the razor off his skin as his body was jerked upon impact, then went back to working on the stubble on his neck.
"She had some nice legs, too," PFC James continued. "If you want, I could introduce you."
DeLion giggled at the thought. Him, with a Vietnamese hooker? "No thanks, Jim-Bob," he said, flashing his left hand to remind him of the wedding band. "I'll settle with the old ball and chain back home."
James nodded understandingly. "Yeah, Susan is her name? She sounds like quite a gal."
"You wouldn't believe," DeLion said, moving from the neck to the left side of his face to finish the job. "Got a letter this morning, too."
"What about?"
Ed took a moment away from shaving to reach under the mattress of his cot that stood at the far end of the bunker, a mere foot away from the mirror and sink basin on the wall, and took out the envelope of question. He put it into Jim-Bob's curious fingers, who quickly opened it up and read the message. His eyes darted back and forth as they read over the fine penmanship of the woman of Edward DeLion's dreams. His eyes widened.
"Holy shit, Ed, you devil!" PFC James said with elation as he finished the letter. "Your first?"
"Yep," confirmed DeLion as he took back the letter and put it into the mattress whence it came. "And a boy. I've always dreamed of the day when I'd raise my own son."
"Damn, that's great news. You must have been an ANIMAL at R&R a couple months ago, eh?"
James, clowing around again, playfully grinded his pelvis into DeLion's hip. Ed nearly cut himself with the razor again, but moved his hand in time. He smiled with mild annoyance, bumping the PFC away. Robert James... sometimes, people thought he was homo. Probably was, with his brain growing upside down in his head. But Edward DeLion was among the many who could take a joke from Jim-Bob. He went back to work on his face.
"Thought of a name then?" inquired James.
"Well, Susy and I decided that our first son would be named Roy, after her father," said DeLion, taking another swipe across the left side of his face. He finished the region around his mouth, and worked out toward the ear, where the last of the lathered region would soon be swiped away.
"Roy DeLion, eh?" James spoke with awe, then looked up and down at the frame of the Lieutenant. James was larger than average; 6'2" and 220 pounds. He outweighed the PFC by nearly 70 pounds, and stood a head above him. "Is he going to grow into a big motherfucker like you?"
"Maybe," Roy said, and smiled. "I can almost think of what he'd become. Linebacker in highschool football... he could join the wrestling team. He's going to be a hell of an athlete though, I garuntee that. The DeLion blood has a long history of knowing how to handle the ball..."
"Well, you knocked up your wife, so I guess you DO know how to handle balls!" James said with honking laughter, nudging the L.T. with his elbow. Again, Ed nearly cut himself, but didn't. He was almost finished.
"Heh, I'll talk to you later," Jim-Bob said, turning away to go to his own bunk. Ed looked back into the mirror, at the thin whine stripe below his ear. One more swipe of the razor, and he wouldn't have to worry about giving that nick on the right side of his face a match.
One more swipe.
He drew the razor up to his face.
He put the blade against the skin.
His muscles began to move, and the razor slide across his skin, taking the layer of shaving cream and beard stubs with it.
"Lietenant DeLion!"
His arm jerked, and there was a moment of sharp pain as the razor slid spasmatically across his cheek. Footsteps approached from behind, but he was paralyzed for a moment, staring as his own bleeding face in the mirror. He had cut himself a good inch across the face. Blood was gushing out like all good razor cuts do. Then, regaining his composure as he recognized the speaking voice, he stood upright and made a 180.
"Major!" he addressed, and saluted.
Major Phillip Quick closed the few steps that seperated them and came face to face with him, wearing his typical poker face. Quick looked him in the eyes, gave the cut on his face a glance of concern, then maintained the former glance.
"...you okay, Ed?" spoke the Major, addressing the gash on his face.
"It'll heal, Major," retorted Lieutenant, hardly noticing it any more. It didn't hurt, even though the trail of blood began to seep down his neck.
"Right," spoke the Major tentatively, then continued. "Just came to remind you that you've got the duty in Song An tomorrow at 0700 hours."
"Yes, Major, I am aware of that, sir," spoke Edward in robotic clarity.
"Good," said Major Quick with a nod that was alike his name. "Make sure your squad is ready. At ease."
The Major made an about face and left the bunker. DeLion did as commanded. A towel was tossed into his face. That came from Private Joey Talbot, also in the bunker at the time, who was one of many that noticed the unusually large cut on the L.T.'s face. DeLion thanked him and quickly wiped the blood off of his neck and face.
"I don't think a piece of toilet paper's going to stop that one, L.T." spoke James from across the room.
DeLion made a short laugh as he went to he first aid box and removed the proper equipment. By tomorrow, it would be healed. By the time it would be healed, he'd be hoofing it through Song An with his squad, hardly expecting Charlie to be cooped up on the hill fifteen meters from their position.
It seemed like an omen, but the last thing Edward DeLion cared about was prophecy. For starters, he didn't believe in fate. Still, he found it quite unusual. The red blood, the slight pain in his cheek, the way it looked in the mirror when it happened--first an oversized paper cut, then a red line, then a creature with long crimson arms stretching down his face, searching and needing a source to thrive off of, and reproduce.
Spawn of the blood. It truly was in the blood. That's where it mattered.
It's in the blood.
And thirty years later, with both of his sons raising his grandchildren and pushing through the bitter society, long having abandoned him, the blood continued to thrive. It continued to reach out for nourishment and reproduction.
Thirty years later, the blood of Rochester Vincent Daymon, once Robert James DeLion, continues to fight, conquer, and spawn.
Williamsburg, Illinois
Silence was a blessing. But this was the silence of the dead.
He longed for silence. He wanted silence of voice, and stress, and worry. He wanted silence of the old ball and chain, her constant I-just-want-you-to-think-it-overs, and her occassional I-can't-believe-you're-doing-this-to-our-families. He wanted everything around him to shut up and let the earth be still.
But in the dead silence, he wasn't comfortable.
He looked down at the face of his father, Edward DeLion. It was a face he had not seen in nine years. He left home when he was only seventeen. But even in such a short time, the face of his father had aged terribly. Much of his hair had left, and what remained had gone as white as snow. His skin had little more pigmentation than his head. His stern face had seeped into a depressing fold of wrinkles. It was horrible to look at.
"Robert?" spoke a voice from behind him.
Rocko Daymon turned to face his mother, Susan DeLion, whose reunion had met his acquaintance the day early. He had said his hellos and wept his tears already. But the man holding her hand was another story. It was a face he hadn't seen in almost as long as his father's. And though he had grown a beard in those seven of seperation, Daymon recognized the man with the same height, hair, and eyes as his own.
"Roy?" Daymon said, almost in shock. But of course it was Roy DeLion. He was seeing his brother.
"Hey, Rob," said his brother, breaking away from his mother's hand and coming into Rocko's arms. The two hugged for a moment, the older brother burying his face into the younger's shoulder. It felt a little akward. For years, Robert DeLion lived in the shadow of this man. Roy DeLion, star linebacker at Williamsburg High School. Roy DeLion, captation of the football team. Roy DeLion, who knocked up his girlfriend and told his parents to fuck off, and spent the last ten years working in a piece of shit factory in Denver, Colorado. Daymon had finally realized that the days being supported by his brother were over. The roles had shifted, and now Rocko Daymon was the man to lean onto.
When Roy DeLion had his fill, he pulled away and looked into the matching brown eyes of his brother.
"Been awhile, hasn't it?" spoke Roy.
"Yeah, Roy, it's been a long time," said Rocko, with a smile. "And Veronica? Heath?"
Roy nodded. "Brought the whole family. I suppose I might as well let Heath have the benefit of seeing his grandfather, at least once."
"Yeah, I understand," Rocko said, though not sure about Veronica. She was, partly, the cause of all the trouble in the Daymon household. But it was more of Ed DeLion's fault than hers; you can't stop two kids from loving each other. "I brought my family too."
"Family?" Roy said in surprise.
Rocko nodded, his smiled broadening. "It's been a busy few years, Roy. I want you to meet Caitlyn and Kincaid. My son is now three years old."
Roy DeLion shook his head, unbelieving. Then he looked back into the brown eyes of his brother, and flashed the usual smile. It was a smile Rocko Daymon missed seeing, back when he still went by Robert. He grew up with that loving look of an older brother. The two hugged again, then turned to face their father, where Roy would gain the same impression as his brother.
Susan DeLion came to their side and joined them. The DeLion family had been brought together, one last time. This thought brought a tear to her eye. Ed DeLion would not see it.
They stood for several moments in the near empty funeral home, which would later be filled with life-long friends and other relatives, Daymons and DeLions meeting each other for the first time, old war buddies, and maybe even a Vintelli or two to show their sympathies. They looked over the fragile image of Ed DeLion, who slowly faded away every day after his second son left him nearly ten years ago. Years without love, constant shit from the mafia... then on October 7, 2003, Ed's pain had finally ended when a massive heart attack claimed his life in the living room of their own home. Finally, he was at rest, and his family had been brought together after years of disconnection. But he would never heard the voices of his sons again.
For a moment, Rocko Daymon began to remember his father in the true aspect. Ed DeLion was an uptight prick. He remembered the years of childhood, raised with uniformity and creeds. Being told what was good and what was wrong, what was acceptable and what wasn't. Normal for any family, but taken to another level in the DeLion household. It was a life of chores and schedules, devoid of love and focused on a proper and ridgid upbringing. Ed DeLion, former Lieutenant of the 1st Battallion 69th Armor in Vietnam, raised his family with braces fastened to their backs. They were not allowed to live in any way he didn't like. In some ways, that was the cause of everything. That was why Roy DeLion left home, and his younger brother shortly after. That was why hitmen had been following the trail of Rocko Daymon for years. Perhaps that was also why he met the love of his life and married her, and watched her bear his first son. Perhaps that was also way he was on the verge of hating her in the present time.
Then there was a vibration near his chest. His cell phone, on silent mode.
"I need to take a step outside," he said to his brother and mother, taking the phone out of his jacket and showing them. "I'll just be a minute."
They nodded understandingly, and he left them there by the oak casket. He stepped outside, taking a seat on the curb, and answered the phone.
"Hello?"
"Rock, it's Vince," spoke the voice of his lawyer on the other end. "Did I catch you at a bad time?"
"Sort of," Rocko said with a shrug. "But don't worry about that. Why'd you call?"
"Just wanted to get back to you on GXW and MCW," Vince continued. "You've been accepted, to both."
Daymon raised his eyebrows suddenly. He gave Vincent Crowe the go-ahead to send out copies of his prewritten applications only a day ago. He had gone to Global Xtreme Wrestling, where many familiar faces resided, and Major Championship Wrestling, and up-and-coming fed that had prospered in the past month.
"So soon?"
"Yeah, I know," Vince said understandingly. "We sent that stuff in yesterday, and a day later, we're accepted. That means they expect you to really pop out. You've got a hell of a reputation going for you, especially after being side-lined for over a year. But anyways, you'll probably be starting off in a week or two."
"Sounds good," Rocko said, then added. "Caitlyn will be thrilled."
Vincent chuckled lightly. Everybody back home in Tacoma knew how Caitlyn Daymon reacted to her husband's decision to return to the world of professional wrestling. And everybody sided with her. It seemed as though Vince was the only one interested in respawning his career.
"Yeah, I know," Vince said. "That's all though."
"Okay. Thanks, Vincent."
"Your welcome. Oh, and once again... I send my deepest--"
"Yeah yeah, Vince, you told me once," Rocko said with a smile on his face. "You just get ahold of the owners--Dupree, Bolich, Zieba, all of them. You tell them Rocko Daymon will be there at the next show, whether it be Ballistic or Revolution. You tell them he's bringing a new line of blood into professional wrestling, one that nobody has seen before, but one that is needed. And don't forget to send them a big thank you by puckering up and planting a set of wet lips on their white, freckled asses."
"Will do, except I don't think I'll do that last part personally," Vince said, then paused for a beat. "Well, I'll let you get back to what you need to do, and spread the news around here."
"Okay," Rocko said with a nod. "And thanks again, Vince."
"Yeah, you hang in there."
Vincent Crowe disconnected, and Rocko put the phone back into his jacket. He looked up and across the horizon of a city he had not been in for as long as he had seen his father. Williamsburg, Illinois, the place of his birth, and his father's death. The cornerstone and turning point of his entire life. This was the main root of his entire legacy. From Robert DeLion, to Rocko Daymon.
A wave of nostalgia crossed over him, and he sighed. Ed DeLion once told his sons an important thing, one that wasn't a military creed or household rule. Once, Ed DeLion said that everything that matters is in the blood. Your past, present, and future... your state of being... everything depends on the blood that flows through your veins. It was the blood of a long line of fathers, and husbands, and brothers, and laborers, and lawmen, and soldiers, and pioneers, and even one professional wrestlers searching for his life's purpose.
Rocko Daymon looked to the ground, finally understanding what his father meant the day he told that lesson to his children. He had become Rocko Daymon by the blood in him, that spawned from his father. He had built his legacy with that which flows through his veins.
He shed a lot of blood in the past to become what he was, and he would give gallons more to let his path unfold before him. It's in the blood. It always has been, it always will be. And the DeLion blood would be the future of the Daymon line.
1-1-28 to 10-7-03 We'll miss you, Grandma
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© 2002 Robert Ryan Strawsma and Gainsboro Theorem - All rights reserved