Post by The Gangsta on Mar 29, 2017 22:42:08 GMT -5
March 24, 2017
Ben: He’s here.
Buttoned up, except for the last stud. Gold chain, dominance and egotistical attitude. Cuff Links, a sign of wealth and power. Navy blue jacket and pants, reminiscent of a distinguished military service background. Tan brown belt, stainless steel clip and shiny, black cap toe shoes. American made.
I spit out the gum, comb back the little hairs growing in on the sides of my head. I raise my eyebrow in the mirror, testing my appearance and patience. I devilishly smile. I stare at Ben in the background of the mirror, chuckle, and turn around to walk down with him to the lobby.
The door closes softly, keys clinging, and Ben hands me an envelope.
Ante: What’s this?
Ben: Read it after, not to him. Read it alone.
I shove the flimsy paper in my coat pocket and button it up again. The cap toes clack with the concrete steps as I move downward. Ben proceeds in front of me, as if I’m a high-profile celebrity looking for my last itch of fame. The lobby is set, the way I dreamed of it last night. I smell the fear coming from Ben’s pores and the anxiety within mine.
We make it down the stairs, Mahler’s adagietto from “Symphony No. 5” playing softly in the lobby’s stereo sound system. The soft, aquatic vibrations remind me of a beautiful aura; emotional and tranquil. He sits there impatiently, hands folded on his lap, Ben and I taking one last glance at each other. Ben exits and I keep walking.
I can't get outside the aura. I’m part of the aura. I’m here, I’m now.
Ante Whitner RP
The Mendicant
Long gone are the days where I stood upon an empty canvas, ready to paint my picture here. It was white, blank, intrinsic, easy to get lost in. All I had was my blood, my tears, and a paintbrush. Over the course of nearly three years, I waited for the portrait to paint itself. I expected the pints of blood just spilling onto the canvas in neat ways to make it appear beautiful. Rivers and lakes combining to create the visual representation of death.
It was only until a few months ago I realized the schematics behind creating such a masterpiece. It took more than unrealistic expectations and white noise guiding each river of blood into its exact direction. It took commitment, it took fear, it took everything I had for just one pool of blood to remain dormant until it dried.
That sudden realization offered more than just artwork of my career thus far; it offered redemption.
I can’t look at the art in the museum that I had produced without this redemption; it’s my ticket. One admission into tranquility, non-refundable. One admission into utmost fortitude, non-refundable, doors close at five.
It’s difficult to describe this redemption. It’s a feeling of solace, yet uncertainty. It’s a fever you can’t sweat out, but a fever that makes you miss the constant straining hell of daily life. I could look at a stage, a soundboard, a ring, and determine that this is the place I’d want to be, not somewhere I was forced to visit.
For so long, I had no ticket, no pedestal to stand on and wait. My artwork was nothing more than a child’s kindergarten project and my ticket was nothing short but a free coupon for Lucky Charms, refundable. For three years, my legs ached, waiting for the moment I can stand on a new surface and feel the difference not just in my legs, but in my entire body. A euphoric sensation, guided only by my own volition.
Redemption taught me not to wait, but to seize the moment. Instead of walking, I could fly. Instead of flying, I could swim. Instead of living to die, I could be dying to live. It’s that inward struggle of innovation and ambition that taught me what it was like to be someone. To be a somebody, to be a contender, to be a man.
And what does this profound feeling earn me? This match.
A ticket didn’t get me here, nor did a briefcase; I got myself here. For the first time in my entire career, I feel I’ve earned something, this match against you. One on one, for something we both hope to achieve. The redemption that I’ve longed for is only fueling my fire now, a flaming steamroller heading straight for you.
I’ve been reborn, I’ve been redeemed. I finally know what it means to be alive; I’ve learned to fear, to grieve, to feel hopeful. No longer am I some emo punk from Yonkers. No longer am I the d*uchebag that “runs” the place.
I am Ante Whitner, reborn, reshaped, and redeemed. I’m the “Opporunist”, the “Architect”, the “Franchise Player”. My birth certificate was written by Josh Dean, Dex, and Frank Lynn.
My masterpiece begins with you.
There is an awkward pause as we approach each other. I wait for him to extend his hand out for a friendly handshake, but instead, I wait for over five seconds and force myself to do it. I struggled to do so, even though I told myself hours earlier to not express my deeper and darker desires.
Percy: Nice to meet you, Ante.
Percy “the Panhandler” Jackson. Why the f*ck would I be holding a meeting with the Panhandler, you may ask?
Ante: It’s an honor, Percy.
Percy: Sit down, I’ve been waiting here for at least fifteen minutes now. Your landlord went up and down the stairs at least twenty times.
Ante: Sorry about that.
He’s smug, methodical, sullen, the complete opposite of Phillip Schneider. I finally see the duality that kept Los Obos at the top for quite some time.
Percy: So, we’re here to talk about Phil, right? Seems like everyone and their mothers have a sudden interest in him again.
Ante: Yes.
He grins, cracks his fingers, and checks his phone for a second.
Percy: So, judging from why you and your yes-man reached out to me, it seems Phil has an “interest” in you?
Ante: I wouldn’t say interest, more of an…
Percy: Obsession?
An obsession is a good term for it, but it’s hard to assume what Schneider has for me. Could be a kink, could be a targeting measure. He could be preparing his infantry and artillery at this very moment and fire on all cylinders when the time comes. It seems like a Schneider-esque thing to do, but Ben assured me earlier that he would’ve done that already. Who knows. Percy might.
Ante: That’s what I think of it as.
Percy leans in like a grandfather about to scold his grandson.
Percy: Obo, Schneider, whatever you call him, is a complicated being. He has a tendency to shop and ponder on something when he’s bored.
Ante: Bored?
Percy: When you’re an old man, living off of Social Security, of course you’re bored. Listening to our cheeto President and watching reruns of classic television shows is certainly not Phil’s forte.
It makes me think what my career could be when I’m off to ride in the sunset. Weak, strong, grey hairs, no hairs. Dave Brennan’s head on my wall, a deer’s head on my wall. Maybe I can live the James Dean lifestyle, the cultural icon of teenage disillusionment and social estrangement in a generation of complicated feelings. He became more famous when he died tragically and young. Maybe that’s the way out for me. I smile.
Percy: He chooses to live on his own, by his own rules, and his own intentions, you know that.
Ante: Yes.
Percy: So, make the connections for yourself. Why does Phil write about you in fan fiction blogs on the website?
I’m hesitant to muster up an answer, fearing whatever I say is completely false. As he pauses, he gazes at me, searching if I can actually say the answer. Percy’s eyes are piercing and engaging, digging into the confines of my soul. It’s almost erotic.
Ante: Because he wants me.
Percy: Close...because he wants himself back. He wants to feel what a 2017 crowd is like, he wants to see how much blood will spill at his feet. He wants to feel orgasms again without the right-hand.
I'm surprised Percy hasn’t said much about their past as tag-team partners. Part of the reason for this meeting was to find out what Schneider is plotting and to entertain myself with stories of WFWF’s past golden age stars. From only five minutes, I figured out that plots only move deathward and that Percy is strictly business. To plot is murder in effect, right?
Ante: He’s an old sheriff looking to regain power in his broken town.
Percy: No.
I nervously chuckle. I sip the water on the table.
Ante: Then, what is he?
Percy: Phillip Schneider, Obo, King of Gore, Heretic Hero, Prophet of Ash...need I say more? That was a bad analogy on your part.
Ante: I get it.
Percy: He’s death, a new strain of it too. Death adapts, like a viral agent.
A viral agent; two words was all it took for Ante Whitner, the man who says he’s been redeemed by some upper power, to shudder and cower in fear. I guess that gives me more evidence that I’m alive.
Ante: He’s been around for thirteen years. If he’s been the same violent, psychopathic motherf*cker for all these years, what makes him able to adapt?
He laughs.
Percy: You are much more oblivious than I thought, you’re gonna have a fun time with Dave Brennan and Phillip Schneider on the route you’re going.
I feel my angry feelings stirring in my stomach like some sick hangover. I feel like I’m at square one with my bipolar disorder when I was unable to control anything. It makes me think of the show Legion that I’ve been binging on. Good sh*t.
Percy: You’re the longest reigning National Champion, right?
Ante: Yeah, 199 days.
Percy: Is that what defines you, 199 days?
Ante: No.
Percy: To everyone else’s eyes, it does. What else have you done so amazing?
Ante: I beat Michael Kyzer.
Percy: A number so close to relevance and a victory over a man without relevance. Does that make you relevant?
Ante: I’m not relevant.
Percy: Keep telling yourself that. It’ll spare you more time to prepare for whatever Phil has planned for you.
I stand up in frustration. I look down on him as if he’s a peasant to me.
Ante: I didn’t set up this meeting to be ridiculed.
Percy: I’m not ridiculing you kid, haha. I’m simply pointing out what he wants to fondle with. Judging by your little juvenile attitude, you’re absolutely f*cked. You’re gonna be fighting these wars for the rest of your life, thinking you’re transcendental and above the curve is only gonna land your dog tags in your boyfriend’s hands.
I think back to last night where I woke up in the grip of a death sweat, defenseless against my own racking fears. I felt a pause at the center of my existence, lacking the will and physical strength to get out of bed and move through my dark apartment. I clutched to the walls and countertops as if the building was suddenly swaying to some cataclysmic event. Now, I realize that cataclysmic event is Schneider lurking around the corner when all this time I thought it was the upcoming match with Brennan. I’m more afraid of a retired man than a grueling match with WFWF’s best.
I sit down in embarrassment.
Ante: Tell me when Schneider will pick me apart.
Percy: He already has, three times so far. Check the Internet, it’s a wonderful thing.
Ante: He’s said nothing, but positive things about me in his “slayings”.
Percy: He’s getting into your head you idiot. My god, please tell me you're smarter than this. You’re f*cked for Brennan if you’re this oblivious, who knows what Phil will have left to fondle with after that one.
Ante: It’s been awhile since I’ve talked to someone outside of the realms of my personal life.
Percy laughs hysterically, slapping his knee. My cheeks are red, embarrassed by a knee slapping has-been.
Percy: You’re alone Ante, haha, what personal life do you have?
Words fail to come out.
Percy: You’re on a fishhook. Phil is the wave that’s gonna knock you off. This meeting is done. I don’t know what Phil wants to do with you, but whatever you do, be prepared.
I sit there, speechless, numb and dumb.
Percy: Oh, and open that stupid envelope you got. I told your landlord to hand it to you. Hint: it’s from the man himself.
I hesitate to pull out the envelope Ben gave me, but I look at Percy and his stabbing eyes tell me to do so. I rip it open, ripping a piece of the letter off. I begin to read.:
“You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain. Make your choice Ante.”
Percy smiles at me, mouthing the words “be ready”. He exits the building. I rip the letter up and yell in rage. Ben comes rushing down the stairs.
Ben: What happened?! Where’s Percy?
Ante: He’s gone. I don’t know what to f*ckin’ do.
Ben: What do you mean?
Ante: I’ve gone three and zero in this tournament. I have a briefcase that entitles me to a one-on-one match with Dave Brennan. I have credence to my name after all these years. Yet, I’m at f*cking square one when I’ve been on cloud nine all this time.
Ben: He got into your head, didn’t he?
I hand him the crumpled up and ripped pieces of the letter.
Ben: I told you not to open it with Percy around.
Ante: He’s the f*ckin’ person who put it in the mailbox. He knows jack sh*t about what Schneider is planning, yet advocates that he’s bored being a retiree.
Ben: What did it say?
Ante: What did I say to Michael Kyzer when I was about to face him?
Ben: The Harvey Dent line from Dark Knight.
I sit down and cover my face.
Ante: He’s going to fire on all cylinders.
Ben: At least you’re showing you’re scared. Means you’re human.
Ante: I’m done with being metaphysical. I’m nothing to Schneider, Ben.
Fear consumes me once again. Fear of the unknown, the worst breed of it.
Fear is unnatural. Lightning and thunder are unnatural. Pain, death, reality, these are all unnatural. We can't bear these things as they are. We know too much. So we resort to repression, compromise and disguise. This is how we survive the universe. This is the natural language of the species.
This is how I survive. This is how Schneider thrives.
For most people, there are only two places in the world: where they live and their TV set. If a thing happens on television, we have every right to find it fascinating, whatever it is. A car accident on TV interests us, whereas if one were to happen to us, we’d cower in fear.
It’s the same notion when one famous person gets assassinated, everyone gathers to grieve. But, when a group of unknown citizens are massacred in a mass shooting, grief is temporary.
Today, affluence itself betrayed us. We are always craving, always itching to get our hands on the next iPhone or the latest breakthrough in heartburn medication. We are never satisfied, always starving. Anything we see grabs our attention and the emotions we experience are nothing more than temporary.
You drink, but you’re never satisfied with your BAC number. You fight, but you’re still bloodthirsty. You hold two titles, but you’re itching for another one to complete the collection.
You’re a victim to our world. The only thing fueling your recent drive is your intentions of fighting the world, claiming “I’m f*ckin’ Dave Brennan, it’s what I’m gonna do”. A divine right, a motive is all it needs for a victim of our world to go batsh*t crazy. Combined with your drinking problem, you’re heading to an unprecedented form of batsh*t insane.
To you, I am nothing but a bottlecap, flung across the room, hoping to find it’s place somewhere, even if it’s in the trash can. You’re the cold one, full of itself, bubbling and ready to pour out after opening. What happens if that bottlecap was never thrown across the room and is just sitting on the table next to the bottle?
Now, that’s me. I never left after our match at Black Hole Sun. Penny Shannon did, but sobriety and I remained. I’m a mendicant, always starving. You’re a panhandler, always thirsty. Only difference between us, besides the excessive drinking, is that God’s Forgotten Child is knocking on my door. I’ve been thrown two sharks at me and I’m only a mere shrimp without any battle armor.
I’ve signed up for one fight that has inadvertently brought me a war; a war I’m unequipped to fight. It started with the triple threat, it continues with this match, and may end when I cash in my Golden Opportunity entitlement. I never thought border hopping would lead to this.
I love it. At the end of the day, I’m still hungry for more and a briefcase sits on my shelf, waiting to get the right hand on it’s shaft. Sometimes, I question if fighting some egghead for the World Heavyweight Champion is more worth it than fighting you for the International Champion and the same answer remains: no.
I cream my underpants at the thought of holding two championships at once. But, I’d be able to impregnate anything if I could just say three words: “I beat you”. It would offer me for child support bills than Michael Jackson, but it would be so f*ckin’ worth it. The mendicant who “beats” the panhandler. Amazing.
I hope you continue to talk in your broken English as much as Sloth from the Goonies. Whatever you say is muddled garbage and everyone knows that. Do everyone a favor, keep the bottle in your mouth and continue to be the waste of space you truly are. Because at the end of the day, I have three legs of a chair I’d like to sit on.
Want to be the fourth?
Ben: He’s here.
Buttoned up, except for the last stud. Gold chain, dominance and egotistical attitude. Cuff Links, a sign of wealth and power. Navy blue jacket and pants, reminiscent of a distinguished military service background. Tan brown belt, stainless steel clip and shiny, black cap toe shoes. American made.
I spit out the gum, comb back the little hairs growing in on the sides of my head. I raise my eyebrow in the mirror, testing my appearance and patience. I devilishly smile. I stare at Ben in the background of the mirror, chuckle, and turn around to walk down with him to the lobby.
The door closes softly, keys clinging, and Ben hands me an envelope.
Ante: What’s this?
Ben: Read it after, not to him. Read it alone.
I shove the flimsy paper in my coat pocket and button it up again. The cap toes clack with the concrete steps as I move downward. Ben proceeds in front of me, as if I’m a high-profile celebrity looking for my last itch of fame. The lobby is set, the way I dreamed of it last night. I smell the fear coming from Ben’s pores and the anxiety within mine.
We make it down the stairs, Mahler’s adagietto from “Symphony No. 5” playing softly in the lobby’s stereo sound system. The soft, aquatic vibrations remind me of a beautiful aura; emotional and tranquil. He sits there impatiently, hands folded on his lap, Ben and I taking one last glance at each other. Ben exits and I keep walking.
I can't get outside the aura. I’m part of the aura. I’m here, I’m now.
Ante Whitner RP
The Mendicant
Long gone are the days where I stood upon an empty canvas, ready to paint my picture here. It was white, blank, intrinsic, easy to get lost in. All I had was my blood, my tears, and a paintbrush. Over the course of nearly three years, I waited for the portrait to paint itself. I expected the pints of blood just spilling onto the canvas in neat ways to make it appear beautiful. Rivers and lakes combining to create the visual representation of death.
It was only until a few months ago I realized the schematics behind creating such a masterpiece. It took more than unrealistic expectations and white noise guiding each river of blood into its exact direction. It took commitment, it took fear, it took everything I had for just one pool of blood to remain dormant until it dried.
That sudden realization offered more than just artwork of my career thus far; it offered redemption.
I can’t look at the art in the museum that I had produced without this redemption; it’s my ticket. One admission into tranquility, non-refundable. One admission into utmost fortitude, non-refundable, doors close at five.
It’s difficult to describe this redemption. It’s a feeling of solace, yet uncertainty. It’s a fever you can’t sweat out, but a fever that makes you miss the constant straining hell of daily life. I could look at a stage, a soundboard, a ring, and determine that this is the place I’d want to be, not somewhere I was forced to visit.
For so long, I had no ticket, no pedestal to stand on and wait. My artwork was nothing more than a child’s kindergarten project and my ticket was nothing short but a free coupon for Lucky Charms, refundable. For three years, my legs ached, waiting for the moment I can stand on a new surface and feel the difference not just in my legs, but in my entire body. A euphoric sensation, guided only by my own volition.
Redemption taught me not to wait, but to seize the moment. Instead of walking, I could fly. Instead of flying, I could swim. Instead of living to die, I could be dying to live. It’s that inward struggle of innovation and ambition that taught me what it was like to be someone. To be a somebody, to be a contender, to be a man.
And what does this profound feeling earn me? This match.
A ticket didn’t get me here, nor did a briefcase; I got myself here. For the first time in my entire career, I feel I’ve earned something, this match against you. One on one, for something we both hope to achieve. The redemption that I’ve longed for is only fueling my fire now, a flaming steamroller heading straight for you.
I’ve been reborn, I’ve been redeemed. I finally know what it means to be alive; I’ve learned to fear, to grieve, to feel hopeful. No longer am I some emo punk from Yonkers. No longer am I the d*uchebag that “runs” the place.
I am Ante Whitner, reborn, reshaped, and redeemed. I’m the “Opporunist”, the “Architect”, the “Franchise Player”. My birth certificate was written by Josh Dean, Dex, and Frank Lynn.
My masterpiece begins with you.
There is an awkward pause as we approach each other. I wait for him to extend his hand out for a friendly handshake, but instead, I wait for over five seconds and force myself to do it. I struggled to do so, even though I told myself hours earlier to not express my deeper and darker desires.
Percy: Nice to meet you, Ante.
Percy “the Panhandler” Jackson. Why the f*ck would I be holding a meeting with the Panhandler, you may ask?
Ante: It’s an honor, Percy.
Percy: Sit down, I’ve been waiting here for at least fifteen minutes now. Your landlord went up and down the stairs at least twenty times.
Ante: Sorry about that.
He’s smug, methodical, sullen, the complete opposite of Phillip Schneider. I finally see the duality that kept Los Obos at the top for quite some time.
Percy: So, we’re here to talk about Phil, right? Seems like everyone and their mothers have a sudden interest in him again.
Ante: Yes.
He grins, cracks his fingers, and checks his phone for a second.
Percy: So, judging from why you and your yes-man reached out to me, it seems Phil has an “interest” in you?
Ante: I wouldn’t say interest, more of an…
Percy: Obsession?
An obsession is a good term for it, but it’s hard to assume what Schneider has for me. Could be a kink, could be a targeting measure. He could be preparing his infantry and artillery at this very moment and fire on all cylinders when the time comes. It seems like a Schneider-esque thing to do, but Ben assured me earlier that he would’ve done that already. Who knows. Percy might.
Ante: That’s what I think of it as.
Percy leans in like a grandfather about to scold his grandson.
Percy: Obo, Schneider, whatever you call him, is a complicated being. He has a tendency to shop and ponder on something when he’s bored.
Ante: Bored?
Percy: When you’re an old man, living off of Social Security, of course you’re bored. Listening to our cheeto President and watching reruns of classic television shows is certainly not Phil’s forte.
It makes me think what my career could be when I’m off to ride in the sunset. Weak, strong, grey hairs, no hairs. Dave Brennan’s head on my wall, a deer’s head on my wall. Maybe I can live the James Dean lifestyle, the cultural icon of teenage disillusionment and social estrangement in a generation of complicated feelings. He became more famous when he died tragically and young. Maybe that’s the way out for me. I smile.
Percy: He chooses to live on his own, by his own rules, and his own intentions, you know that.
Ante: Yes.
Percy: So, make the connections for yourself. Why does Phil write about you in fan fiction blogs on the website?
I’m hesitant to muster up an answer, fearing whatever I say is completely false. As he pauses, he gazes at me, searching if I can actually say the answer. Percy’s eyes are piercing and engaging, digging into the confines of my soul. It’s almost erotic.
Ante: Because he wants me.
Percy: Close...because he wants himself back. He wants to feel what a 2017 crowd is like, he wants to see how much blood will spill at his feet. He wants to feel orgasms again without the right-hand.
I'm surprised Percy hasn’t said much about their past as tag-team partners. Part of the reason for this meeting was to find out what Schneider is plotting and to entertain myself with stories of WFWF’s past golden age stars. From only five minutes, I figured out that plots only move deathward and that Percy is strictly business. To plot is murder in effect, right?
Ante: He’s an old sheriff looking to regain power in his broken town.
Percy: No.
I nervously chuckle. I sip the water on the table.
Ante: Then, what is he?
Percy: Phillip Schneider, Obo, King of Gore, Heretic Hero, Prophet of Ash...need I say more? That was a bad analogy on your part.
Ante: I get it.
Percy: He’s death, a new strain of it too. Death adapts, like a viral agent.
A viral agent; two words was all it took for Ante Whitner, the man who says he’s been redeemed by some upper power, to shudder and cower in fear. I guess that gives me more evidence that I’m alive.
Ante: He’s been around for thirteen years. If he’s been the same violent, psychopathic motherf*cker for all these years, what makes him able to adapt?
He laughs.
Percy: You are much more oblivious than I thought, you’re gonna have a fun time with Dave Brennan and Phillip Schneider on the route you’re going.
I feel my angry feelings stirring in my stomach like some sick hangover. I feel like I’m at square one with my bipolar disorder when I was unable to control anything. It makes me think of the show Legion that I’ve been binging on. Good sh*t.
Percy: You’re the longest reigning National Champion, right?
Ante: Yeah, 199 days.
Percy: Is that what defines you, 199 days?
Ante: No.
Percy: To everyone else’s eyes, it does. What else have you done so amazing?
Ante: I beat Michael Kyzer.
Percy: A number so close to relevance and a victory over a man without relevance. Does that make you relevant?
Ante: I’m not relevant.
Percy: Keep telling yourself that. It’ll spare you more time to prepare for whatever Phil has planned for you.
I stand up in frustration. I look down on him as if he’s a peasant to me.
Ante: I didn’t set up this meeting to be ridiculed.
Percy: I’m not ridiculing you kid, haha. I’m simply pointing out what he wants to fondle with. Judging by your little juvenile attitude, you’re absolutely f*cked. You’re gonna be fighting these wars for the rest of your life, thinking you’re transcendental and above the curve is only gonna land your dog tags in your boyfriend’s hands.
I think back to last night where I woke up in the grip of a death sweat, defenseless against my own racking fears. I felt a pause at the center of my existence, lacking the will and physical strength to get out of bed and move through my dark apartment. I clutched to the walls and countertops as if the building was suddenly swaying to some cataclysmic event. Now, I realize that cataclysmic event is Schneider lurking around the corner when all this time I thought it was the upcoming match with Brennan. I’m more afraid of a retired man than a grueling match with WFWF’s best.
I sit down in embarrassment.
Ante: Tell me when Schneider will pick me apart.
Percy: He already has, three times so far. Check the Internet, it’s a wonderful thing.
Ante: He’s said nothing, but positive things about me in his “slayings”.
Percy: He’s getting into your head you idiot. My god, please tell me you're smarter than this. You’re f*cked for Brennan if you’re this oblivious, who knows what Phil will have left to fondle with after that one.
Ante: It’s been awhile since I’ve talked to someone outside of the realms of my personal life.
Percy laughs hysterically, slapping his knee. My cheeks are red, embarrassed by a knee slapping has-been.
Percy: You’re alone Ante, haha, what personal life do you have?
Words fail to come out.
Percy: You’re on a fishhook. Phil is the wave that’s gonna knock you off. This meeting is done. I don’t know what Phil wants to do with you, but whatever you do, be prepared.
I sit there, speechless, numb and dumb.
Percy: Oh, and open that stupid envelope you got. I told your landlord to hand it to you. Hint: it’s from the man himself.
I hesitate to pull out the envelope Ben gave me, but I look at Percy and his stabbing eyes tell me to do so. I rip it open, ripping a piece of the letter off. I begin to read.:
“You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain. Make your choice Ante.”
Percy smiles at me, mouthing the words “be ready”. He exits the building. I rip the letter up and yell in rage. Ben comes rushing down the stairs.
Ben: What happened?! Where’s Percy?
Ante: He’s gone. I don’t know what to f*ckin’ do.
Ben: What do you mean?
Ante: I’ve gone three and zero in this tournament. I have a briefcase that entitles me to a one-on-one match with Dave Brennan. I have credence to my name after all these years. Yet, I’m at f*cking square one when I’ve been on cloud nine all this time.
Ben: He got into your head, didn’t he?
I hand him the crumpled up and ripped pieces of the letter.
Ben: I told you not to open it with Percy around.
Ante: He’s the f*ckin’ person who put it in the mailbox. He knows jack sh*t about what Schneider is planning, yet advocates that he’s bored being a retiree.
Ben: What did it say?
Ante: What did I say to Michael Kyzer when I was about to face him?
Ben: The Harvey Dent line from Dark Knight.
I sit down and cover my face.
Ante: He’s going to fire on all cylinders.
Ben: At least you’re showing you’re scared. Means you’re human.
Ante: I’m done with being metaphysical. I’m nothing to Schneider, Ben.
Fear consumes me once again. Fear of the unknown, the worst breed of it.
Fear is unnatural. Lightning and thunder are unnatural. Pain, death, reality, these are all unnatural. We can't bear these things as they are. We know too much. So we resort to repression, compromise and disguise. This is how we survive the universe. This is the natural language of the species.
This is how I survive. This is how Schneider thrives.
For most people, there are only two places in the world: where they live and their TV set. If a thing happens on television, we have every right to find it fascinating, whatever it is. A car accident on TV interests us, whereas if one were to happen to us, we’d cower in fear.
It’s the same notion when one famous person gets assassinated, everyone gathers to grieve. But, when a group of unknown citizens are massacred in a mass shooting, grief is temporary.
Today, affluence itself betrayed us. We are always craving, always itching to get our hands on the next iPhone or the latest breakthrough in heartburn medication. We are never satisfied, always starving. Anything we see grabs our attention and the emotions we experience are nothing more than temporary.
You drink, but you’re never satisfied with your BAC number. You fight, but you’re still bloodthirsty. You hold two titles, but you’re itching for another one to complete the collection.
You’re a victim to our world. The only thing fueling your recent drive is your intentions of fighting the world, claiming “I’m f*ckin’ Dave Brennan, it’s what I’m gonna do”. A divine right, a motive is all it needs for a victim of our world to go batsh*t crazy. Combined with your drinking problem, you’re heading to an unprecedented form of batsh*t insane.
To you, I am nothing but a bottlecap, flung across the room, hoping to find it’s place somewhere, even if it’s in the trash can. You’re the cold one, full of itself, bubbling and ready to pour out after opening. What happens if that bottlecap was never thrown across the room and is just sitting on the table next to the bottle?
Now, that’s me. I never left after our match at Black Hole Sun. Penny Shannon did, but sobriety and I remained. I’m a mendicant, always starving. You’re a panhandler, always thirsty. Only difference between us, besides the excessive drinking, is that God’s Forgotten Child is knocking on my door. I’ve been thrown two sharks at me and I’m only a mere shrimp without any battle armor.
I’ve signed up for one fight that has inadvertently brought me a war; a war I’m unequipped to fight. It started with the triple threat, it continues with this match, and may end when I cash in my Golden Opportunity entitlement. I never thought border hopping would lead to this.
I love it. At the end of the day, I’m still hungry for more and a briefcase sits on my shelf, waiting to get the right hand on it’s shaft. Sometimes, I question if fighting some egghead for the World Heavyweight Champion is more worth it than fighting you for the International Champion and the same answer remains: no.
I cream my underpants at the thought of holding two championships at once. But, I’d be able to impregnate anything if I could just say three words: “I beat you”. It would offer me for child support bills than Michael Jackson, but it would be so f*ckin’ worth it. The mendicant who “beats” the panhandler. Amazing.
I hope you continue to talk in your broken English as much as Sloth from the Goonies. Whatever you say is muddled garbage and everyone knows that. Do everyone a favor, keep the bottle in your mouth and continue to be the waste of space you truly are. Because at the end of the day, I have three legs of a chair I’d like to sit on.
Want to be the fourth?
I dont know good luck 
