Post by The Violent Gentleman on Jul 20, 2017 20:38:41 GMT -5
|Sober.|
Ten times I left my sweat-drenched sheets, staggering in a tornado of slow motion, muscles weak and blood pressure falling as my heartbeat beat holes in my ribcage, beckoning escape.
Nine attempts saw me face down in my own bile, my stomach long ago emptied of any food or drink, denying even the modest acceptance of an ibuprofen to help dull the black storm in my headached head. I didn’t envy the maid. Perhaps a Summer bonus was in order.
Eight hours until my limo would arrive to take me to Heading West. Stabbing a knife westward into my chest would hurt, but then would come the flood of blood and eternal relief. Maybe I still had a bottle hidden somewhere in the caverns of this lonely house that I never made a home.
Seven voicemails. One from the sports psychologist. He had been flown to meet with me the day after Confluence. He kept ringing the doorbell until I frantically searched for its source and ripped a fistful of wires from a small, white box near the kitchen. He eventually left and would be awaiting my call at his hotel nearby. Three from Lila Sleater. She was worried but mostly furious. Didn’t I care about my career? Didn’t I know how much money the WFWF had wasted on flying the sports psychologist to Calgary and putting him up in a hotel? Was I off drunk somewhere? The answer was no on all accounts and I told her so in the form of a text message. “Can’t talk, dying from lack of alcohol and prescription pills. XOXO” with an accompanying photo of me, soaked in a variety of my own bodily fluids and looking as pale as a black-eye bride on her wedding day. Two from Peter. Both rearranging travel as my detox became longer and more dangerous as the hours and days went by. He was genuinely worried for me and said so. I hate him. One from the girl from the bar. I promised that I would call her. She thought that I was different and she still did. Call her back when I was ready. I’d rather another week of this.
Six AM saw me swinging an aluminum baseball bat at lawn ornaments in my neighbor’s yards. Later I was more confused as to where I procured a baseball bat than the horrified look on an especially elderly man’s face as he fumbled with a revolver that still have the trigger lock applied. I recall the way the fading moonlight bounced off the nickel plating of the gun. The police never came thanks to several calls from Peter. I guess hate is a strong word.
Five holes in my bedroom door. Thick cherry looked nice but didn’t do much for the condition of my shaking hands. I was dizzy and vertigo as I searched for what felt like hours for the handle, but was most likely only seconds, before giving into a sick rage and hammering the door until my knuckles and it were wide open.
Four empty bottles, three scotch, one OxyContin that I found after turning over every piece of furniture and scouring every drawer and impossible hiding place. Like an addict's game of hide and seek. I threw the scotch into the inground swimming pool that was empty because I was rarely home enough to put it to use. The glass broke into a hundred pieces and I thought there was some deeper meaning but I needed to puke again.
Three prayers to a God who was only alive in the hearts and minds of the weak and ignorant, but if He came down from his heavenly perch and stopped the hell I had become, I would consider attending a Sunday mass. He never showed, but I would be damned if I wasn’t standing across the ring from Jon Gotch at Heading West. This company deserves a better class of violence and I’m going to give it to them.
Two more hours until my limo arrives. I managed a shower and a glass of water, both as cold as my unpoisoned body could handle. I was weak, but still more of a wrestler than Jon Gotch. Hell, they could have found me dead from this detox and I would still be the superior man. One thing that Joe Bishop and I can agree on is there is no room in the WFWF for garbage, backyard, bleeding-for-dollars, bullcrap wrestling. In fact, don’t even call what Gotch does wrestling. It isn’t. It’s a spectacle. He’s a clown with tacks in his oversized shoes and a barbed wire nose, red with blood, dancing around like a fool, turning this great sport into an inhumane circus. Well, not anymore. I’m going to cure this virus before it spreads throughout the WFWF. No medicine, you see, I’ve sobered up. If I can’t have medicine, neither can Gotch. This sickness can only be cured by pain inflicted on the body. The stretching of tendons, the tearing of cartilage and the snapping of bones. It’s going to hurt, Jon, it’s going to hurt more than you could imagine. That barbwire, those explosions, tacks, glass, fire...that’s not real. It’s all spectacle, vanity. No, the real pain comes from a man’s bare hands. When you look him in the eyes, begging through clenched teeth, knowing your knee is about to pop out of the socket and the realization that not only is he aware, but he is enjoying your pain and has no plans on stopping. You’re addicted to a coward’s violence, Jon, and by the time our match ends, I will have detoxed you, mind, body and spirit. You will have a come-to-Jesus-meeting as you lay on the canvas, not knowing what appendage to reach for to console the waves of pain, but in that moment, God will be nowhere to be found. Only me, Jon. There was only me all along. The God of Wrestling. I have come not to die for your sins but to punish you for them and cast you out of my creation. So pray, Jon. To me. It won’t make a difference but it will make for a good story.
One text message to the girl from the bar. “I’m ready, but you may need to get a different job.”