How to be an Alpha Part 1

How to be an Alpha Part 1

Posted on February 24, 2022 at 7:32 pm by Steve Solex

The scene fades in from black to the unbearable tune of a 1950’s sitcom theme song.  A quick montage is shown of the Solex family. Solex is shown barbecuing in his “#1 Dad” apron, Constance is shown in her bathrobe and curlers chasing a cat off the front porch, and little Scotty Stevens-Solex Jr. is shown riding his bicycle in a multi-colored striped shirt and khaki shorts.  Each short clip ends with the individual stopping and smiling into the camera as their name is shown on the lower third of the screen.  The montage fades to black as…

“How to be an Alpha”

The words are shown in white letters on a black screen before fading into the scene of Steven Solex and Scotty Stevens-Solex Jr. playing catch on the bright green and perfectly cut grass that is the front lawn of the Solex residence.

“No, son.  That’s a fastball!” Steven shouts out from across the yard of the young, clearly unathletic – thanks to Scott Stevens’ genes, I’m sure – boy.

“You want to rotate your wrist like this,” he says, demonstrating the motion for a curveball.

Steven tosses the ball across the card to the boy, but the kid jerks and moves his mitt around in an curious fashion and doesn’t get a fraction of leather on the ball and goes right over his head, into the neighbor’s yard.  

“Darn,” the goofy, buck-toothed nine-year-old says, his Texas accent clearly fading.

The crowd laughs as the boy awkwardly runs over to the neighbors yard.

“Wouldn’t be lookin’ for this would ya?”

The boy runs right up to the neighbor, Frank, who holds the ball up and out of the boy’s reach as the crowd cheers him in.

“Yes, sir.  Can I have it, please?” Little Scotty asks the red haired neighbor as he reaches up for the baseball.

“Sure thing, bud.  Where’s your old man?” Frank inquires, still holding the ball just out of the kid’s reach.

“He’s over ther…” The boy starts, but he’s immediately cut off by…

“GIVE HIM THE BALL FRANK!” Steven shouts from his yard. The crowd laughs at the interruption.

Frank laughs and winks at the kid, inciting more laughter from the crowd.

“Or what?!”  

The crowd oo’s as Frank throws out a brazen challenge, especially for an out of shape, 45 year old, suburbanite, dickhead.

“GIVE HIM THE BALL, NOW!” Steven roars in response, shaking the wooden fence separating their yards.

The thunderous booms of Steven’s demand puts a nervous and shaky look on Frank’s face and he immediately hands the ball over to little Scotty.

“Thanks mister!” Scotty shouts out as he runs off back to the yard with his new Dad.

Scotty tries to throw the ball to good ol’ Number One, but the ball slides out of the side of his hand and unceremoniously bounces to a dead stop in the grass three feet in front of his red shoes.  The little boy chucks his mitt to the ground and kicks it out of frustration. The crowd gives the obligatory “awwwweee” as he folds his arms across his chest.

“Now, now!” Steven shouts from across the yard.

Steven takes up a light, valet speed, jog and approaches the boy.

“Don’t let it get ya’ down, sport. You’ll get it!”

“My real Dad never made me play catch,” the boy mutters under his breath as the crowd lets out a collective “ooooo.”

“Well, your real Dad didn’t have a mustache as nice as mine either, and I’m undefeated in the ring against him too,” Steven sings, winking to the sound of a ding at the camera.

“He had a goatee,” the boy mutters, trying to stay as low in volume as possible.

“God dam…,” The crowd oo’s as if he just just spilled spaghetti on white rug.  Steven looks sideways into the camera, and then back at the boy. “Gosh darn it, Scotty,” he starts.

“How many times do I have to tell you, that’s not what a real man does.  A real man does not grow a goatee. This is the year 20, 19…,” the crowd goes silent and once again Steven gives a cross look into the camera, “you know what freakin’ year it is, son.  Look, you’re going to be an alpha-male.  Solex’s are alpha’s, that’s really all there is to it.”

The little boy seems a bit confused.

“What about Ivy English? Is he an alpha?”

The crowd laughs wildly, as does Steven.  In fact, Steven laughs so hard he does a full lean back and belly pat, really selling it for the crowd.

“No, son.  He sure isn’t.  Not even close,” Steven tells the inquisitive little shit.

“But he’s a champion and he has muscles,” the boy tries to reason with his newly adopted father, but once again Steven laughs along with the crowd.

Steven drops to a knee and right on cue, the soft sound of piano playing that cheesy ass fatherly music  is heard as Steven drops to a knee and gets eye to eye with Scotty. The perfect segway to a father-son moment.

“Son…his outfit is pink.  His hair is dyed purple, he’s named after a stringy plant – or it could be a liberal college, I don’t know which is worse – and worst of all…he’s from Atlanta. People from Atlanta don’t know how to run warehouses, and they sure as shi…,” crowd oo’s, “…heck don’t know how to be a man. Let alone an alpha!”

“But, I don’t understand. I heard that real men aren’t afraid to express themselves and show the world what they feel on the inside,” the boy says, trying to explain himself.

The crowd again bursts into laughter, but Steven doesn’t.  This time, he appeared to be getting frustrated.  He reaches over to the boy and places a hand on little Scotty’s shoulder.

“That’s bullshi..,” again the crowd oo’s at the near-curse. “That’s incorrect, son.  Real men bottle up their feelings, real deep so no one else can see them and then when the time is right, they explode in a manic fit…or die of a heart attack, with honor.”

“But, I have a pink shirt…”

The boy starts to speak, but goes silent quickly.  He looks over at Steven’s hand on his shoulder.  Steven’s knuckles begin to turn white as his grip begins to get stronger and stronger. A few members of the crowd gasp as the boy tries to free himself of Steven’s kung-fu grip.

“There’s no buts about it, boy! In this house, men don’t wear pink! We wear 97red, you got that?!” Steven says through his gritted teeth.

The sentimental music fades as the boy reluctantly nods, earning a little compassion from Steven, who loosens his grip on the boy.  Scotty rotates his shoulder a bit as his eyes well up with tears.

“What about Genosyde, is he an alpha?”  

The crowd goes silent as the rage boiling inside of Steven becomes evident as his face reddens and his eyebrows narrow.  The little boy, absolutely frightened, pulls his arms in tight and takes a step backward from Steven.  Suddenly, Steven’s demeanor softens and he lets out a small laugh.

“No, son.  Genosyde is not an alpha. Alpha’s don’t wear masks, and they don’t wear pink…we’ve already been through this.”

“But, he’s wearing crimson.”

“Is it 97red?”


“Then it might as well be fuc…,” obligatory oo’s from the crowd, “…freakin’ pink!”

A tear falls from the boy’s eye as Steven stands up over the boy, and shouts the annoying little pissant down, wagging a finger in his face.

“Most of all!” Steven shouts, pressing his finger up against the boys nose, flattening it against his little face.  “Alpha’s don’t cry!”

The crowd boo’s as Steven presses the boy’s nose hard even, to knock him off balance and down on his boney, little butt.

The boy’s expression changes to rage as soon as he lands butt-first on the perfectly manicured grass.

Steven cracks a smile as the boy stares daggers at the elder Solex.

Steven reaches out a hand to help the boy up, but Steven shakes his head no and pushes Steven’s hand out of the way.  The little boy lunges up to his feet and begins to throw haymakers at Steven’s rib cage.  He grunts and squeals as he throws punch after punch, not a single one connecting as Steven palms the boys head and his him just out of striking range.

The crowd laughs hysterically as the young boy tires himself out in no time.

“That’s what I like to see!” Steven exclaims.  “Now, get up and go to the house. It’s time to get washed up for dinner.  Your mom’s been working on this meal all afternoon, so you be sure to show your appreciation.”

Little Scotty climbs to his feet and begins to walk toward the house.  Just before he reaches the wooden steps to the porch, he turns back and asks, “What’s for dinner, Stev…” Steven immediately raises his eyebrows, reminding the boy, “…Dad?”

Steven smiles as wide as humanly possible, showing off his pearly whites and stretching his mustache to levels of epicness never before seen.

“Meatloaf!” He shouts.

The boy looks down at his feet and kids the concrete beneath him.

“Meatloaf, again?” The boy asks, mostly under his breath.

Steven laughs and points to the house.  Little Scotty turns back and walks into the house, slamming the screen door behind himself.

“That little so-and-so,” Steven says as the crowd laughs and he gathers the baseball and two mitts off the front lawn.

“I get the boy’s frustration, Steve-oh! I’ve had your wife’s meatloaf!”  Stevens’ neighbor interjects from the next lot over.

“Shut the fuck up, Frank!” Steven shouts.

The crowd boos as the swear word that’s been building for what seems like an eternity.

The camera zooms in on Steven and he gives one of those awkward sitcom smiles and shrugs his shoulders, elbows bent and palms facing the sky.

The crowd laughs wildly at the goofy gesture as the shitty theme music picks back up and the credits begin to roll on a still shot of Steven in the same position before the scene fades to black.