We chase misprinted lies
We face the path of time
And yet I fight
And yet I fight
This battle all alone
No one to cry to
No place to call home
Ooh
Ooh
Ooh
Ooh
Meadow Lake Apartments
East Cleveland, OH
November 27th, 1997 - Thanksgiving Day
Off Camera Flash Back
(A twelve-year-old sits at a table alone in his small bedroom. His skinny, undernourished arms move at a fever pitch as he draws a picture. The picture is of a woman's face, not beautiful but plain. Her eyes jump off the notebook paper and grab you, the hurt in them are deep, so deep you could drown in them. The boys' breath is visible, as the room surrounding the him is not properly heated and the windows none insulated.
The walls are covered with drawings and posters of bands such as Alice In Chains, Metallica, and Pantera. We hear Nutshell by Alice in chains playing softly on the stereo that sits on a small table next to a small bed with dirty and ragged sheets. The music is soon drowned out though by yelling coming from what sounds like downstairs.)
Male Voice: YOU STUPID B*TCH! I TOLD YOU MILLER LITE NOT BUD LITE! ARE YOU TRYING TO P*SS ME OFF!?!
Female Voice: I'm sorry I thought you sa....
Male Voice: BULLSH*T YOU WERE PROBABLY THINKING ABOUT YOUR SIDE D*CK YOU STUPID WH*RE!
Female Voice: You're the only one with a side piece around here.
Male Voice: WELL IF YOU KNEW HOW TO SUCK A D....
(The voices are drowned out as the young man reaches over and cranks up the volume on his radio.)
My gift of self is raped
My privacy is raked
And yet I find
And yet I find
Repeating in my head
If I can't be my own
I'd feel better dead
(The door of the bedroom flies open and there stands a bare-chested African American man, wearing only a pair of Cleveland Browns sweat pants and black house shoes. In his hand he holds a half-drunk bottle Bud lite.)
Kid: Looks like you'll drink Bud Lite just fine to me.
Male: The f*ck you say to me you little sh*t?
(Before the kid can answer the man throws the bottle at his head. The kid ducks and the bottles smashes into the stereo knocking it of the small table to the floor. The stereo hits with a thud and the CD tray pops open sending the CD sliding across the floor. The kid watches this all as if in slow motion and we see a look of shock on his face, slowly it turns to sadness, but then quickly to rage.
The kid quickly jumps to his feet and charges the man with a scream of rage, but the much larger and older man catches the kid with an upper cut to the jaw that drops the kid to his back. The kid rolls on the floor in pain as the male walks over to and picks up the boom box.)
Male: You be listen to this depressing ass white kis music, no wonder you are such a pu$sy. Your momma tries to say it's because you ain't got a daddy. Well I damn sure ain't gonna be your daddy, but I'm gonna man you up a little bit.
(The male slams the boombox down on the ground as hard as he can, which shatters the boombox into numerous pieces. The kid, now on all fours sees this and once again charges at the male with a scream of rage. This time the male catches the kid and uses his momentum against him. The male is aiming to send the kid into the wall but misses and the kid goes head first through his bedroom window. The kid flies through the window and lands on the roof of their front porch, but the momentum continues to carry him, and he rolls off the porch and lands on the cold, hard ground.
Drifting in and out of consciousness the kid can feel a warm liquid on his forearm and running down his hand, dripping from his fingers. His eyes slowly blinking through his heavy eyelids the kid looks at his right forearm and sees a shard of glass from the window sticking out of his forearm and blood pouring down his arm. He makes no sound as the heaviness of his eyes overcome him and the world becomes dark.)
Holiday Inn Express, Room 420
Outskirts of Phoenix, AZ
July 8th, 2018
On Camera
(We fade in to see a black and white drawing of a phoenix, its wings fading into fire as it soars up from flames. We hear the scratching of a pencil as it continues to work on the drawing. We see a large scar on the forearm of the artist. We pan back more to see it is Solomon Cain sitting at a table in his hotel room. His bare chest covered in tattoos and scars, his body half covered in jeans that look as if they needed washed a month ago. The lighting in the room is dim and lack of sunlight indicates that the shades are drawn. No noise from the television but we hear the music of Sturgill Simpson playing softly in the background.
We focus on Solomon as he continues to draw at a fever pitch. His hand moves quickly but elegantly as he pours himself into his art. We hear a snap, a snap that all elementary school children know, the snap of the lead in a pencil breaking. "F*CK", Solomon shouts and then throws the broken pencil down on the table. He stands up quick and hard, so hard in fact it knocks over the wooden chair he was sitting in. His face wears a mask of distress as he runs his hand down his face and through his beard, and then runs both hands back through his hair. He lets out a big sigh and then looks toward the camera.)
Solomon Cain: I hate this being on camera sh*t, still makes me nervous. I can be in the ring and be the center of attention as thousands of people watch me fight another man, but put a camera on me in a one on one situation, hell get me alone in a one on one situation and I'm sh*t.
(Solomon moves to the bed, more specifically his leather vest that sits on the bed. He pulls a small bag with a green bud in it, a pack of rolling papers, and a lighter from the inside pocket. He tosses them down on the table where he was just drawing. He sits the chair up and then goes to the mini fridge in his room where he retrieves a Pabst Blue Ribbon. He quickly twists the top off and tosses it into the trash. He takes a drink while sitting back down at the table. He moves his drawing to the side as he places the beer down and grabs the bag. He opens it up and begins to break up the green herb. He begins to talk again without looking at the camera.)
Solomon Cain: Rock and Roll God, huh funny...I'm from Cleveland, you know the rock and roll capital of the country, home of the rock and roll hall of fame, and yet I have never heard of you. Oh well, not like I've ever even been inside the hall of fame, you could be there for all I know. Maybe you are famous, and you just aren't someone I listen too, sh*t you could be the lead singer of Nickleback for all I know. What I do know though is that you are one unlucky son of a b*tch. You must have drawn the short straw because you are the poor ba$tard that got pitted against me in my debut for Mile High Wrestling.
You see Rock, I've been scraping and clawing my entire life. Scraping and clawing for food, for money, for my own survival. I grew up in the dirt and mud, so when I see someone calling themselves a God, rather it be of Rock and Roll, or wrestling, or lightning, or anything then I am going to take notice of that person. I don't take notice of them because they are flashy, because they are cocky, because they are great, no...I take notice of them because I know this person is full of sh*t. I'm sure Marshall Applewhite and David Koresh considered themselves God's too and were able to fool mindless, gullible idiots into believing them and following them as well.
But there were false prophets also among the people, even as there shall be false teachers among you, who privily shall bring damnable heresies, even denying the Lord that brought them, and bring upon themselves swift destruction. Second Peter, verse two, chapter one.
You have brought upon yourself swift destruction. You brought this upon yourself when you signed on that dotted line to meet me in the ring at Phoenix rising. You may fool a lot of people with all your pomp and circumstance, you may have been riding high your whole life on your charisma and talking skills, but I will not be fooled. I am not someone who will be impressed by you, I will not be in awe of you, I am not someone who looks up to you, and I damn sure am not someone who fears you.
My point is Rock, I don't care if you are a Rockstar, I don't care if you call yourself a God, sh*t I don't care if God himself called down from Heaven and dubbed you the God of Rock and Roll. There are three things you will never be one, Layne Staley, two Phil Anselmo, and three is victorious over me. I may not have been wrestling for a very long time, but unfortunately, I am the biological son of Outcast Chris Cain, and unfortunately that worthless piece of sh*ts DNA flows through me. He was a sh*t father, sh*t human being, but he was a true artist in the ring. Couple that with the fact that I have been fighting since I was born and I don't think you have a chance of beating me.
(Cain stops talking and takes another drink of his PBR. By this time he has finished rolling his green herb in his papers and places the end of it into his mouth and then lights it. He takes a few deep drags before ashing it directly onto the table. He takes a few more puffs and begins to speak in between tokes.)
Solomon Cain: I'm not saying there is no way you could win the match, just saying that there is no way you can beat me. You could win by disqualification, I have been known to lose control from time to time, but you will not beat me. You will not make me submit, you will not hold my shoulders to the mat for a three count. You can call yourself a God if you want, you can rock and roll all night and party every day, but at Phoenix rising you are going to be smack by reality. It's going to smack you hard and smack you right across the face. The hand that reality uses to smack you with will be me, The Lost Child Solomon Cain.
Growing up as a kid I saw people like you all the time, and I always hated them. Nine times out of ten I wound up beating the sh*t out of them too. Guys who always thought they were so cool, thought they were the life of the party, thought that everyone liked them and that everyone wanted to be their friend. Guys who never shut up, and no matter what had ever been done they had been there and done that and done it better than it has ever been done before. Well Rock, I don't like you, I don't want to hear you talk about how cool you are, and I don't want to be your friend. What I do want to do is punch your face until it is unrecognizable. I want to make you bleed. I want to run my fingers through your blood and wipe it on my chest like a badge of honor.
Then I will smile. That's right, I will smile. See like a famous artist may work in oils, or water colors, I work in pain and suffering. The canvas I paint is that of the one cover the wrestling ring, and my medium is blood. After I have painted a beautiful portrait using your innards, I will climb the top turnbuckle and have a seat. There I will overlook my creation in the ring, and as any good artist does when sitting back and enjoying his work...I will smile.
(Cain snubs out what is left of his joint on the drawing of the Phoenix. He grabs the PBR and says “guess I am pretty good at this trash talking sh*t” and then begins to chug the beer as we fade out.)
