El Trébol Jr
[The scene opens to a quiet cemetery on a cold winter’s night. El Trébol Jr sat with his back against a headstone, a six pack of Samuel Adams sitting beside his right hand. Two bottles already laid scattered across the snow kissed ground, and a third was pressed against his bright red lips (his mask being pulled up a tad to allow it). Much of the writing on the tomb stone was obscured from view, save for a few words.]
[Last name, Donovan. Date of Death: September 12, 2001]
“A man puts on a mask the day he becomes a father.”
[El Trébol sets the now empty bottle down on the ground beside him, leaning his head back against the cold marble. His eyes didn’t seem to focus on anything while he spoke.]
“Because in the eyes of his progeny, he is nothing short of a hero. And so he is forced to hide his weathered visage, lest he wishes the idealism of infancy to pass away. He shoulders burdens beyond what he his capable of carrying, holding to standards far beyond what is fair, for the sake of his son’s beliefs. Damned by the disguise he has donned until the brevity that is life takes its final toll.”
[Finally, he looks at the camera]
“Have you come to understand this, Marvolo?”
[El Trébol exhales, his face hidden by his cloudy breath for a moment.]
“You’ve adopted the mark of your forefather in the hopes to mirror the successes he had in protecting you and those he cared for. Yet I cannot help but feel that this newfound sense of duty is misguided. You present the mask like that of a funerary urn, a vessel in which the essence of Marvolo Sr is held close to heart. Similarly, you display your newfound gold across your puffed-out chest in the hopes to legitimize your place in the light after residing for so long in the shadow of royalty. In both scenarios, you fail to broaden your world outside the confines of your metallic prison.
[While he had been speaking, El Trébol had been brushing aside the snow to reveal the earth beneath it. He pulled up a tuft of grass to get to the dirt below, rubbing the near black soil between his gloved hands.
“I, on the other hand, dirty myself with the cinders of my past so that it proves the catalyst that spurs forth my lineage. I have stared the burning destruction that is fate in the eyes and said ‘so be it,’ for it was the ashes themselves that I had sprouted from. I, just as you yourself are, am a product of loss. But through it, I have gained the resolve to be so much more than I would be than if I had succumbed to complacency.”
[He lets the dirt fall to the earth once more.]
“And that is where our reflected lives part ways. While you flirted with frivolous independence, Marvolo, bearing the moniker of a hero but acting only for yourself, I have dived head first into this role, consequences or not. I do not hide nor boast nor emphasize any sort of inflated projections of myself in the hopes of diverting attention away from my shortcomings.”
[He smiles wanly, his lower half of his visage still visible to the camera.
“I do not stand on my tip toes to appear taller because it is in my size that my strength resides.”
“Believe me, Marvolo, I hope this newfound sense of purpose holds true in the months to come; OSW certainly needs its heroes. But you’ve only been honest with yourself for a single night before now. The emotions from receiving your father’s symbol and the lust after Nigel’s crown has waned. I’m not a storied mark in the extensive Marvolo history books. I’m just a man clawing his way up to the perch you’ve so recently found yourself atop. Your victory over the King will soon prove to be your downfall.”
[With another huff, El Trébol pulls his mask back down his face and pushes himself up on unsteady legs.]
“Because so soon after growing used to the sight of gold, green will be the last thing you see.”