Post by Rated R on Jan 3, 2010 6:55:34 GMT -5
PROLOGUE
"All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost,
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring,
Renewed shall be the blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king."
- J. R. R. Tolkien
Heroes. What makes a hero? What great feat must a man undertake to be revered as a hero? Athletic runners are held high in the nest of the media at competition time, and thanks to television are recognised by admirers across the globe. There are some who would call these people their heroes but for what? Running? Why not for instance a young african mother who has to walk much further every day just to fetch water? Or a sweat shop worker who's daily shift out weighs even the heaviest training regime? Both are equally as heroic but few would recognise them in the same way. Heroism is entirely relative, it all depends on the individual making the call. You might class your own Mother as a hero but that doesn't mean to say I would, however just for the record she thinks I am, but that's another story in itself. What I'm trying to say is, that whoever you consider to be your hero is not the hero of the majority, not the hero of the people. It doesn't end there though, I'm not done yet.
Every once in a while there comes a person that surpasses the achievements anyone could have ever expected from them. A person that stands out from the crowd, a person so inspiring that even after they have "moved on" they are still envied, still idolised, still........remembered. It is these people that stand tall through the ages, higher even than your so called heroes, their status never questioned. Their reputation will always arrive before they even consider leaving the house, and it is certain that everybody knows their name. These people are Legends, forever embedded in the history books as "the person who made a difference," and it is these people who live on forever.
THE WANDERER
Since I can remember I've been a drifter, a nomad. Aimlessly moving from place to place, raping it for everything I can before moving onto the next. I need no home, no four walls, they only restrict me. The sky is my roof and the hard concrete floor of the city my bed. I am free in that I care not for material wealth, this however stems from having nothing in the first place. It's a funny old world. I have no bags to carry with me as I have nothing to fill them with, leaving me care free and without responsibility. I am a man of the road. Let me set things straight though, I am not a bum, not a street urchin, this is just the way things are, and like I said, the way they always have been. I have to admit though I'm not being entirely truthful with you, actually no I take that back I have, you may have just misunderstood me along the way. "Since I can remember" may have lead you to believe I have been in this situation my entire life but that's not quite what I meant. Sometimes you have to dig a little deeper than the surface to truly understand something. My memory goes back only a number of months, I don't know why and I don't know how but what I do know is that the man in this photo is somehow linked to it all. I have no idea who he is, I don't even recognise his face but he is stood next to me and that is all that matters. This however is the only shred of the past I know and still it is useless, nothing more than a carrot on a stick, a goal I can never reach. When you even consider the enormity of this city, let alone the country, let alone the world, it soon dawns on you that finding one man amongst all of these people is hopeless, this fact enforced 10 fold by the fact that I don't even know who he is. That photo sits at all times, folded twice, once across it's length and then again across it's breadth in my pocket, well it's actually a pocket within a pocket, such a novel idea but I digress. I shouldn't be spending so much time talking about things that don't even matter, my apologies.
It is a night like any other night only tonight it's freezing, the sky a deep shade of blue but no stars can be seen, they lay hidden from me behind the orange glare of the city's lights. The moon tonight is nothing more than a dainty letter C, hanging there, waiting for the world to turn knowing that as it does the time for it to become whole again approaches ever nearer. I wish I could say the same. How I envy you moon, not just for that but you're made of cheese and I'm hungry as hell.........I wish I was made of cheese. Again I digress, something you'll see I do a lot. Did I mention it's really, really cold? The puddle to my right is iced over and I poke at it trying to break the surface but it is so cold the entire puddle has frozen solid. I sit back, hunched against a wall just across the road from "The Gem," an ironically named club, more of a chipped pebble than a gem stone. The neon sign emblazoned across the front of the building reads "Dancers for your pleasure" and hums like an insect light. Much like an insect light it seems to attract the less desirable characters this crap hole of a city has to offer, hypnotised by the thought of a flash of cheap clam. I happen to notice one gentleman in particular who struts along the pavement on the club's side of the road. His sheepskin jacket dwarfs him and it seems he doesn't realise it would look a lot better on me. I stare at him from the shadows as he enters the door of the filth box, greeted by the doorman with a smile, obviously a regular here. A sharp wind cuts through my thin hooded top and I make a promise to myself that once that man exits the building I'm taking that animal carcass off his back and putting it on myself. I wait for hours, eyes fixated on the doorway, the cold of the night threatening to pick me off at any time. No sign of him. Either he's getting his rocks off in there or he's drunk as hell, either way it makes him an easy target. Suddenly I see him again, he staggers out half laughing half shouting over his shoulder to some one inside and my hairs stand on end. It takes me a moment to psych myself up enough to even consider moving, but instead of thinking about it I act on basic reaction and with one hard push against the frosted wall I'm upright. I begin to walk parallel to him, a dangerous mirror image, staying in the shadow where at all possible. He happily zig zags along only for a couple of minutes until he turns off down an alleyway and it is now I begin to close in on him, my prey. I cross the road and begin to follow him down the cobbled path like a rat to the piper, only this piper can't play, instead he mumbles a drunken rendition of a song I can't distinguish. As I continue behind him I start to realise this man has no idea how close I am. My footsteps echo relentlessly but still he doesn't turn around. Then in a split second it happens, he steps awkwardly onto one of the cobbles and his foot buckles. He tumbles sideways trying desperately to steady himself but I'm already next to him and I aid his mishap with a good, right handed push against his head causing it to ricochet off of the brick wall and as quick as it started it ends. I make fast my escape, sheep skin now on my back instead of his. There is a part of me that is certain he will die in that alley, if the blow to his skull didn't do it the temperature will. I'm not a killer, but I'm not adverse to dealing with people in a necessary fashion either.
Once I reach the river side I make my way to the nearest shelter from the wind, which in this instance is a recess in the wall under the bridge. This coat is amazing, I feel like I'm wearing a duvet, strange that I should know what that feels like? Hmmmm. I sit my sinful behind down onto a pile of flattened cardboard boxes, a throne built for a king, a throne built for me. I wonder if this guy has anything of any value in his pockets? I slide both of my hands into either pocket, the right one empty but the left one comes up trumps. I take out his wallet and begin to thumb through its contents. The first thing to come out of course is the shockingly large amount of Benjamins. How did this guy spend so long in that club and still come out with so much cash? Unlike an arcade you can't win your cash back in a strip club. I continue through his wallet and pick out his driving license, it reads "Jamie Chaemo," and now I have a name to put to the face. Sorry Mr Chaemo but at least you didn't (possibly) die in vein, because I'm toasty right now. I soon realise there is nothing else of any value in the wallet and so I toss it, into the ice flecked river before sliding the ID card into my own trouser pocket. Patting down the remainder of the coat I search out any hidden pockets until I feel something in the breast. The pocket is on the inside and I reach into it to what feels like a few screwed up bits of paper, being the curious creature that I am though I still take it out for closer inspection. It seems I was half right as I remove the crumpled paper from its lapel hide out, but it is only when I open it up that everything falls into place. Inside the wrap sits a very modest amount of brown powder which I have to shield from the wind even though I myself am mostly sheltered. Having no drug related experiences thus far in my life I don't know what to make of it but I do know it's worth a lot of money, and I do now know where all of this cash has come from. See I have two options here, I can either sell it myself and risk being caught by someone who knows this "Jamie" character or I can stick my nose in this right now and see where the rest of this night takes me. Hell, I'm gonna live a little, especially as killing a drug dealer has probably demoted me in terms of life expectancy, I may as well make the most of what I've got left.
A CAUSE FOR CONCERN
Time goes by, be it for better or worse it flows continuously. People talk of the sands of time and right now I know they've slipped through my fingers, left me broken, washed up on the shores of crapville, USA. If you were to ask me if I had any regrets I would stubbornly tell you none, but truthfully I regret everything that has happened in the last few weeks. Since that fate twisting night under the bridge things seem to have begun their descent, not slowly and surely but quickly and definitely. I'm an abuser. An abuser of trust, of self respect, of life itself. Why should I care though? This is my life now and there is little sign of it changing, other than perhaps another vertical drop taking me deeper into the hell mouth I've grown accustomed to. Things never change round here anymore it seems, my daily routine has become so established now that it bores me but I know I'm not strong enough to break it. If ever I had a zest for life, which I'm pretty sure I didn't, but for arguments sake we'll say I did, then it has been ground into the dirt, cooked up on a dirty spoon and introduced to my already contaminated blood stream. In other words I'm a junkie, an addict, a druggie, a low life, a China White aficionado. I assume you understand now? Would you like me to spell it out?
H is for Heroin
E is for Eroin
R is for Roin
O is for Oin
I is for In
N is for.................as you can tell my creative mind is some what incapacitated, I can't even dream up a god damn acrostic.
The winter is still here, still trying to finish me off. You'd think I could put up a fight now I own a heavy duty jacket but unfortunately this is not so, I foolishly sold it on to buy myself more.......sedatives. And so here I am, still in this same old urban graveyard, as cold as I was before all of this began. I roll up my sleeve and laugh at the dot to dot waiting to be tended to. My arms are like train tracks, dappled with the marks of "just one more hit." Such a foolish thought, there is never "just one more." You forget in the midst of it all that this is dependancy not decision. Well like I said routine calls which means it's time for a dose. It's impossible to buy needles from a regular shop when you look like I do, it's quite hard to lie when your face speaks volumes. I buy my needles from the same place I buy my product, risking infection every time. How am I to know if this is even a new needle? God I disgust myself and if I had even an ounce of dignity left I'd throw the wrap I have in my pocket down the drain, however I don't. Instead I take off my belt and tie it around my bicep before attempting to manoeuvre the dust from the wrap onto my trusty spoon, used for eating, drug cooking and anything else you might want of a spoon. My hands shake at a constant rate making it hard to avoid throwing the powder all over my lap, I seem to have got the knack of it though. Now to season with my own spit, the only liquid on hand besides urine but even I haven't slumped that low just yet. Like some kind of intellectually- disabled person I dribble into the curve of the spoon until it reaches the brim. As you can imagine you can't just stop dribbling at the drop of a hat so I cock my head and hawk the remainder of it onto the side of a an empty rice pudding tin, not by choice, I've not got anything against rice pudding it just happened to be in the way. My black fingers slither their way back into my pocket and produce a lighter which to the untrained Tom, Dick or Harry looks empty but I know I've still got a couple more burns to go yet. My thumb rolls over the flint wheel, once, twice, three times and just as all hope seems lost it ignites on the fourth. Like some kind of mad scientist I hold my bunsen to the base of the dish and watch with flame filled eyes as the concoction begins to bubble. Just as I decide it's nicely cooked up the lighter dies, maybe two burns was optimistic? I cast the lighter to the ground and with my free hand take out my syringe. I bite the cap covering the needle and pull it off before dipping the tip into the brown juice. With one well honed action the entire contents of the spoon shoot up into the chamber and I release a little of it, not wanting to force air into my vein. The spoon goes back into my sock and I place the leather tourniquet in-between my yellow teeth, biting down hard and again cocking my head to pull it tight. My left hand makes a fist and unfurls a number of times until I can clearly make out the path of my chosen blood vessel and it is now I can finally get my release. Over excited by the whole thing I plunge the needle into my arm, at first missing the vein completely before slipping it back out and then in again, this time hitting home. With one steady push of my thumb the chamber empties and I feel its warmth roll over me from head to toe. My mouth relaxes and the belt slackens as I slump down to an almost horizontal level. The needle hangs from my arm still, waggling as I move, like an extra limb, but I have better things to think about, like complete physical and mental ecstasy. My eyes roll and a smile creeps its way onto my otherwise deadpan face as I reach the height of my high. Nothing can stop me when I'm like this, I am the King of my own kingdom and the court jester. Any inhibitions go out of the theoretical window and at last I feel at home again, at home in my castle.
"Long live the king"
My eyes twitch open to a blurred view of the world, but I can make out no one stood before me. I squint, trying my hardest to focus, but even then I see nothing of the person who spoke those 4 words. The street is vacant of all life. Maybe I should panic? Instead I go for the easy option and put it down to the heroin as I continue to drift. The population of this city seems less real than ever, sober or high I don't want people pestering me and I've found the best way to do that is simply to exist as I am. Human nature tells people to avoid me, it's instinct. Hell if I were anyone else I wouldn't want to even look at myself in such a state, eyes glazed and scabby lips smirking. The one real advantage of doing this to myself is at least I don't feel the cold anymore.
CHAEMO
I'm high. I'm high again. For the 3rd time today I am swimming around in my own sea of self gratification. This time hasn't failed to press the correct buttons either, this is the only consistent thing I have in my life. My eyes are as they always are, rolled back and if you look closely, tainted with a sniff of yellow. My top lip quivers like a teen girl climaxing for the 1st time only there is no one here to cuddle me after, but I'm still not quite at the height of this hit just yet. I feel myself falling into the ground, slowly, smoothly, as though I were being lowered on ropes into my grave. It's so comforting when the drugs envelope you in this warmth, especially when all you know is so cold.
"What's yours is mine."
The same voice as earlier today, so self assured, so unnerving. I try to sit up to seek out the source but the force of my imaginary fall seems to be pinning me down. I do my best to fight it but that only seems to make it worse, especially when I can feel the next wave of my high coming on. I start to fall faster and I begin to lose sight of the hole above me, the sky being swallowed. I panic but still find it impossible to move and it begins to dawn on me that I may very well be balls deep in an overdose.
"What's yours is mine."
That voice again, but I see no possessor of it. My heart thuds and I can feel it pulse through my entire body, shaking me like monstrous footsteps. My throat starts to feel so dry I can't swallow and within a few more seconds find it hard to breathe. The sky has now been totally snatched from my vision and I feel myself imploding in complete darkness. My body seems to be going into shut down and it doesn't take long until............I...........can't...can't.......can't feel.......anythin...........anyth........
"What's yours is mine."
This time I say it with lips, this time I say it with a voice that can be heard outside of the four walls of that infantile skull. This time I say it for real. I open these eyes, and the sun bursts into them, blinding me for a second. Once they become accustomed to the light I see I am exactly where that fool left off, in this god forsaken city. No opportunities for a boy who doesn't even know himself. It's a good job I can now take advantage of what he has to offer, even if he never worked out exactly what that was. I pull this body upright, onto its feet. It's going to take a little while to get used to being the ring master and not just one of the clowns. This body is like crap, completely malnourished. What could he have hoped the future would hold for him when he carries himself like this? I have a lot of work to do if I am to get back on track, first of all though I'm going to need a lot more narcotics if I'm to remain this way for the duration of the trip. Can't go jumping straight in the deep end without taking the necessary precautions, health and safety and all. It's about time this body went home, returned to the only thing it knows. I can't return like this though, not with this face, that would be careless. It's not worth the risk of losing my place as host. I need a new name, a new persona. As this hand I control slips its way into the pocket of these trousers I feel something in there. Flat and laminated, it slips out easily in the palm of my hand and to my surprise I see a face staring back at me I recognise, the face that allowed me to come here. The card reads "Jamie Chaemo" and I feel it would be somewhat of a homage to the fellow who made all this possible if I were to take his name. "Chaemo." It has a nice ring to it, concise but memorable much like myself. There are few men who get the privilege of weaving their own destiny but in the coming weeks I will do just that. I have to prepare, there is so little time and it's a long way back to "The Motherland."
For a short while Chaemo joins the WFWF as can be seen in the vaults of the WFWF results but due to an over-confident sense of self loses the most important match he has been billed in. After the loss he flees the fed a physical and mental wreck, his match against DC left him with a severely damaged shoulder and a whole host of cuts up and down his back losing him a lot of blood. Shortly after staggering from the arena he collapses and loses consciousness, little is known about his whereabouts and the WFWF bosses are forced to terminate his contract.
AWAKENING Pt.1
My eyes flicker slightly, it feels as though I haven't opened them in a long time indeed, it feels as though this is the first time. White light intrudes and almost burns my retinas, I snap them shut again and let out a dull moan. This noise seems to have attracted the attention of someone, although I'm not sure who.
"Doctor I think he may be awake."
I try to move but my shoulder is so stiff it pains me to even stretch. I hear footsteps approach me, echoing off a tiled floor. I'm laid out in what feels like a bed and I assume if there is a doctor present I'm in a hospital, but I can't be sure as I am yet to fully open my eyes. I try again but even this takes an unreal amount of energy and I feel eventually it's not worth it.
"Don't strain yourself, you are still very weak. It is of the upmost importance that you rest and build up your strength again."
I groan again, I can't even coherently string together a sentence right now. My thoughts are all over, darting between the shadowed memories I have, trying desperately to figure out why I'm here.
"You have just woken from a 7 month coma my boy, don't expect to be leaving here any time soon, we have to monitor your progress and check for any haemorrhaging in the coming days. If you need me at any point please use this."
A strange object is placed into my curled hand and the faceless doctor moves my thumb so that it rests on a button. I feel so helpless, I shouldn't be here, where should I be though?
"Press this if you need our assistance, there will be a ward nurse on hand 24/7, you're safe here."
I try my best to answer but sleep begins to take a hold of me and I fall back into a dream world once more.
AWAKENING Pt.2
I can tell I'm about to wake up again as the dull ache in my shoulder returns and I can taste my own mouth, it's not pleasant. I've been drifting in and out of reality for the past week or so, it's hard to tell where the days start and end here, but I feel my strength coming back to me little by little. I feel around for my mother button, I need some mothering. I can't find it blindly so I pry open my eyes and take a few long, exaggerated blinks before looking down to my side to locate the magic box. With a simple press and release of it I hear footsteps approach my bedside as they have every other time.
"How can I help you sir?"
"Water."
"Water, please?"
you, wasting my time with etiquette, I need water not your friendship. I refuse to respond and eventually she gives me the water I desire muttering under her breathe about manners not costing anything. Neither does pissing yourself and hey, look at that..…..I just did and it's your job to clean it up. Time for a bed bath. I can tell this week is starting to drag for this nurse and she sighs to herself as she retrieves the appropriate equipment."This afternoon the doctor wants some information out of you."
She takes the warm, wet sponge and pushes it under the sheets and begins cleaning.
"The police have been asking about your wounds and we can't enlighten them. We don't even know your name or next of kin."
I tense up at the mention of the word police, I have no reason to be fearful do I? Perhaps I did something really horrific and I can't remember because I'm blocking it out? Sounds a bit too Jason Bourne to me. This could be it for me though, straight into prison in this state. I'd have a torn anus within the hour.
"Bring him in now."
The nurse stops in her tracks, her right, sponge filled hand resting under my nut sack, I close my eyes and smirk, score for me. She sees my enjoyment and quickly removes herself and leaves the room without even changing my sheets, so I lay here still swimming in my filth waiting for the illusive doctor to hound me with his questions. I wait for a number of minutes before I hear another set of footsteps coming my way coupled with the sound of squeaking wheels. My eyes remain closed as he approaches my bedside but bolt open when he taps his clip board on the metal frame of the bed. I glance over at him and my entire body freezes, my throat dries up and my hands grip at the damp bed. The doctor smiles at me, pushing a wheel chair in front of him. He removes his glasses and hooks them on his collar before stepping toward me. This is no doctor, this is no stranger. That face brings back a flash of memory and I recall a folded photo that should be in my pocket were I not draped in this gown. This is the man I've been looking for, this is the only man who knows who I am. My eyes dart from his face to his blatantly fake name badge and it reads "Dr. Kyzer."
"Who are you!?"
He smiles and I feel the dose of morphine in my drip multiply and I begin to drift. I try to fight it but in my weakened state I am no match for the power of modern medicine, just like that I am dreaming once more.
S&S
Why bother going back? Have you seen the state of the place? What's in it for you? All questions I've been asked recently and all can be answered with a single answer. It's nothing more than I like keeping bitches on their toes, I don't want them to think they're sat up on a pedestal. It's been a while since I've graced the corridors of the WFWF and as far as I can see right now it seems they need me to show everyone what their "A Game" should look like. I left that company in tatters last time I was there and I think it's about time we burst the seams again, don't you?
END
