When the boy became the man.

“He was probably only eighteen years old when he walked into my shop,” the only man grumbled through grit teeth that clamped his Marlboro red still as he spoke. “He just walked in seconds after I opened’er up. And, he says to me--he says...

”I need a job.”

“--and I said back to him--”

”You and’ahelluva lot other people, kid,”.

“His hair was buzzed like the JROTC boys back home--I bet. Or a farmer’s kid. I knew a bunch of those back east. Plain white shirt, plain Wrangler jeans and a pair of work boots. Driving a god-damned beaut of a ‘69 Charger.”

“Orange and black?” his companion asked after he swallowed the last of the whiskey in his water spot covered glass.

“The very same,” the old man chuckled.

“--you got a lot of cars just layin around here,” the younger man said. He stood evenly at six foot of height, dressed in his plain white tee and Wranglers. His thumbs rested through the belt loops. “Let me help you.”

“Don’t need no help,” the old timer mumbled from behind the bent Marlboro red. “--most of these are just wastes of my time anyhow. You need work--hit the strip, kid.”

The younger man just cracked a half smile at the stubbornness of the old man. His head shook a bit, and he slicked back his hair, greaser style.

“I’ll earn my keep,” the blond in stated.

The old man let out an exhausted grumble as he dried the grease stains from his hands. “Where you from boy?” the old man asked.

“Crossett, Arkansas,” the younger man replied with a draw thick as the southern sweet iced tea. “Ain’t nothin there but a GP paper factory--and I ain’t real big on smellin like a mill.”

The old man nodded in understanding.

“Well--Crossett--get your own place to stay--store opens at 7AM--we close when we’re done. Pay ain’t good but it’s a start for a stranger.”

The young man nodded and extended his hand to him for a shake of agreement.

“And that’s all there was to really tell. He found him an old crummy apartment up the road from the shop. Every morning he’d beat me to the shop--he’d work his ass off without any questions asked. One of those old schooled homegrown working kind of southern boys who only listened to 70s rock music and drank their Natural Light.

And I guess that’s all he needed when he got out this way. A place to hang his head and a little bit of green to line his pockets, cause right after he got a year or so under his belt and his sin city sea legs--he found him another job up at the Lucky 13. That’s the first time Dom got to sink his teeth in that boy. Clay Bass died one on a Thursday night at a dive casino all cause of that girl. the lady pimp. Whats’er’name? Cristal Valentine.”

There is no such thing as truth--truth is a concept thought up by man. There are only cold hard facts--and man takes those cold hard facts--and the ones they like--they call those truths--and the ones they don’t really like--those become lies. It’s a way of conditioning a population of impressionable minds into believing there are boundaries. That’s when you gotta ask yourself. Who determines the boundaries?

I was born into one of those deep south small ass towns with a mill. It brings money to a shitty little town so cut off from the rest of society that the local Wal-Mart doesn’t even sell lingerie. Little sleepy bible towns with one elementary school, one junior high, and one high school. You knew everybody--and everybody and their mama knew you.

Westley McFadden didn’t exist back then. No.

Clayton Michael Bass was the name. Oldest of two boys. My little brother is a good eight years younger than yours truly. Hard to have a relationship with someone you barely knew existed. Big gap, but it is what it is.

Every man I knew went to work in that paper mill. Georgia-Pacific has our town by the balls ut pumping job security into the backwoods of southeast Arkansas. My dad worked in the plywood department. His dad worked in the main branch. His dad before him--well--I don’t know what he did--but I’m sure it wasn’t that thrilling.

We have a place called Stink Creek[/i[--I mean what do you think kinda future is there for me back home with that as an existing landmark?

I racked up enough money mowing lawns and doing window tinting on the side--body work--to get me out to Vegas. Mama cried. Dad didn’t have much of an opinion. If you could get away from the black hole of The Natural State--nobody even bothered trying to pull you back.

There’s always that old saying that you’ll always find a way to get back home, but I didn’t really believe most of that jive.

This small town guy walked into Sin City a backwoods boy with no direction and no opinion on the world around him--and look at me now.

Vegas’ Golden Boy. Nope, I’m not Mayweather--nowhere even close. But if you’re a regular joe who like to watch a bunch of grown men beat the hell out of one another with mixed martial arts and boxing moves--I’m your poster boy.

You know how they say success doesn’t happen over night?

I’m living proof that that shit does happen once in a blue moon.

I didn’t know a damned soul--and it was almost like overnight my name was in lights.

It’s all about who you know?

I did this security thing part time at this dive of a casino called the Lucky 13. It’s a nowhere kinda place that attracts the usual same group of gamblers. Those guys peddling drugs and women peddling sex--those were the types that frequented this joint. Just had to put on a yellow t-shirt and black pants and throw trouble makers out onto the street once in awhile. Kept it simple with a low profile. Blending in is part of not having to worry about other people’s drama.

So--yeah--posted up watching the night roll by. There’s this girl yanno--real rose in a room of weeds kind of thing. She’s a ten. A real ten. A little bit of plastic surgery turned this preacher’s daughter into your friendly neighborhood Madame. She ran her escorts from the thirteen with her B-girls. A little flirting, a little sin for the right price, it pulled in big bucks for the casino because these lonely saps were looking for a little roll in the hay because their old lady back home stopped being attractive three kids ago,

Cristal had all the charm of a southern belle mixed with a city girl’s street smarts. I couldn’t even begin to tell you her real name. Just pretty damn sure Cristal Valentine is about as authentic as West McFadden.

Matter of fact, Cris is the one who gave me the name.

It was this night when good ole Clay from Crossett stopped being Clay--and became Westley McFadden.

The 13 is ran by a real piece of shit named Pauly Styles. He’s the kind of lesisure suit sporting car salesman type who schmoozes the big wig of the trafficking scene--Dom Durio--up real nice. Protection for profit. That’s how all these little families function.

Dom keeps the VIP room VIP for him and him only. Regardless of whether he’s there or not--you don’t fuck with his stake.

This guy rolls in with a Boston accent and starts throwing around money likes its nothing. It’s got to be dirty. He’s a real cocky son of a bitch with a few guys in cheap tailored suits and gelled hair. He throws a real bitch fit because he wants the VIP. Things get ugly--and the last thing you want is the five-o rolling up in this kind of place.

Those cocky fucks cross a point of no return line most guys don’t want to cross. To keep the barrels from blazing and scaring the patrons--Styles caves and gives him the room.

Sure enough, Dom pops up and sees things have taken a turn for the sour but I promise you he didn’t see red until the Boston guy puts his hands on Cristal. That moment all hell broke loose. That’s where I came in. One good punch is all you need, but I had a system. If you have the right combination of moves you can impair anyone.

Guess I did something right...because look where I am now...

“You got a fucking brick in that hand, kid?” the stumpy little Italian from Orange County that had showed up a few years back and somehow kissed ass his way to the top of this little slice of crime ring. “You knocked him cold.”

“Had my share of fights,” Bass stated as he wiped the blood from his knuckles onto his neon yellow security shirt.

“Get’im to Dom,” the pint sized Italian mumbled. “--we got ourselves a new player, boys.”

The suits walked off leaving him to himself as he glanced over to see the call girl madame’s eyes focused on him.

He half smiled, ducking his attention to the floor. She was crossing the room, wideyed and simple. Not as sultry and vicious as she had often seemed from a distance.

“What’s your name?” she asked with a voice as gentle as smooth silk or fresh linen sheets on a clothesline. A little bit of southern girl hid in the depths of her accent. Traces that you just can’t quite erase when the body gets too tired to meld your voice.

“Clay,” Bass replied.

“That’s a horrible name,” she chuckled. “--you don’t look like a Clay at all.”

“--what do I look like then?” he asked with his own little drawl.

“--like an underwear model in a pair of Wrangler jeans,” she purred. “--I think I’ll call you farm boy.”

He knew the reference and with a bashful smile and color of the cheek he nodded accepting the name as he delivered the line almost as genuinely as Cary Elwes had done in the movie.

“--as you wish,” Bass replied softly. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart leapt immediately. A feeling that she had had for no other man. Ever. It was so foreign it almost made her nauseous from the quick rush of serotonin.

Cristal reached out for him, taking him by the face--a hand on either of his cheeks she turned him to face her.

“My--Westley,” she said softly.

...And that’s where the name came from. The Princess Bride’s her favorite movie. She called me Westley--and I just wanted to call her mine. For twelve years it’s been like this with us--but it takes a special kind of man to love a Madame. Especially with her client list.

McFadden was the random name they generated for me. Almost instantly--after I sat down with Dom Durio--the big boss of this neighborhood--I became someone else. Every bit of my former self was legally changed over to an entirely new identity and that hick town guy I had always been disappeared with the ticking seconds of processing paperwork.

They plugged me into this gym with a ton of guys that had served time once or twice--guys who’ll do anything for a buck. That’s what people want to see. Not those big stars at MGM slugging it out on Pay Per View. In Vegas--it’s all about the gamble but the house always wins.

Fight after fight--I’d go out there, I’d give it the ole one, two--and whatever happened, happened. For me--those fights pathed a life I could have never expected to have.

Wasn’t even three months later and I was drawing every dirty pair of hands in the west coast. All the families wanted a taste of this mystery guy Durio had just skyrocketed to the top of Sin City’s attraction list.

Who was this Westley McFadden?

It’s one big blur now. I remember pieces and events--but the chain is just a distant memory. First time I saw my name on the LED board outside--I about lost my shit. And of course--they have to give their star kid the very best. I had the best apartment--the best cars--the best clothes--and of course, my Buttercup.

Things get stale though.

That’s what this is--a shot of Tabasco for my career. Three minutes may not seem very impressive--may sound too cocky to others--whatever your opinion--this isn’t a brash attempt at being impressive. I’m impressive every fucking day to someone out there because I’d be wearing cement shoes right now if I wasn’t.

I’m an ace in the hole back home--and after so long--you want more. Exodus is the chisel. Let’s see if this farm boy can make some art.