Post by Drakz on Jan 21, 2019 14:28:17 GMT -5
”The Constant”
(A.K.A. A Clean Home is a Happy Home)
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Peeeeeeeeeeeennnnnnnnny!
You’ve gone and lost the eye patch Penny.
You’ve taken the one thing I wanted and tossed it out.
So now, what the f*ck have you got to offer me in return for my time? My painfully valuable time.
You come out, teeth gnashing and balls swinging, to talk smack about me. Trying to devalue the greatest championship reign of all time, and then 20 minutes later you’re playing dead for a f*cking teenager? You’ve not exactly piqued my interest Pen. I enjoyed the fact that you stepped up, but you went and shat the bed in losing to Mesh. Honestly, you’ve made a mockery of this match.
It seems like perhaps you’re not taking this seriously anymore?
Who am I kidding? You never took it seriously to begin with. How does someone with your tenure, not named David Brennan, go so long without earning a single scrap of gold? And yet I’m supposed to stand here and act as though you’re a contender?
But then I think, maybe you did that on purpose? Maybe you lost to Mesh in the hope of giving her a title shot if you, by some act of God, you take this strap from me? Maybe I’ll suffer an aneurism as the bell rings. Blood from the nose. Eyes roll back. Hook the leg.
No that’s not right either is it?
As much as you’d love to pass the flaming tampon torch to the next underachieving fan girl, you had no idea this was going to be a title match. I sure as f*ck didn’t. I accepted a match. I accepted an opportunity to stretch you out and have you realise that every word you stuttered about me was wrong. And yet here we are, standing under the slimy, swinging d*ck of Lila Sleater as she tries her best to wind me up.
It’s almost as though she thinks I don’t enjoy my job? I’ve never shied away from defending what’s rightfully mine. Not once have I run from a fight. But come on, I’d at least like some worthy challengers if I’m to put the championship on the line.
Then we’ve got the basement dwelling contingent of critics standing to attention, ready to run crying:
“Mom! Drakz doesn’t want to defend the WFWF World Heavyweight Championship.”
Wipe your f*cking noses, and next time read between the lines. I have no problem facing you Shannon. In fact I’m quite looking forward to it. But I don’t think you deserve this shot. I don’t think you’ve done anything resembling a climb to the top.
Right now that blue haired child has more of a claim to this match than you do.
You’re a loser. The same way Frank Lynn is a loser. The same way that intravenous nobody is a loser.
You all came up short, and none of you have any right to call yourselves number one contenders.
But I can’t imagine it makes a f*cking difference. This place is such a hollow barrel these days that I’m sure it won’t be long before Lynn is announced as my next defence.
He lost to me, then he lost to Zmey. He’s probably only the wrong side of a 3 count away from a title opportunity right? That’s how this place works these days I guess. I hate to be the old man pining for the olden days, but at least back then you had to win a few matches to stand a chance. Now it seems we’re giving out consolation prizes.
Thanks for coming. It’s the taking part that counts.
I’m not a man who’s built his castle on taking part though. I’ve fought and clawed for everything I’ve got. Every name they call me is born from my own hard work. They’re not just tag lines for selling merchandise, though the Streak Destroyer Destroyer Destroyer head bands are a steal at only $79.99. Right?
It’s bull sh*t like this that makes me understand why Michael is “done with this life”. Maybe I’m not far off myself? Maybe it’s time they put a bullet in the back of my head and sent me to the f*cking glue factory? It sure sounds more logical than this complete sh*t show.
You hear that Mike? Maybe we can scrap this whole Superbrawl idea and just see who can retire the hardest? Find out who can stay on their sofa the longest, without so much as a flannel’s orbit of the old nethers?
Or maybe I’m looking at all of this in a too matter of fact way? Maybe Penny Shannon really is the only person with any balls around here? Maybe she’s getting a title shot because the powers that be know every other c*nt is too f*cking scared to lace up?
That still doesn’t sit right with me though. I don’t want to be facing the lesser of ten evils. I don’t want to scrape the bottom just to prove a point.
I want the best of the best. I want scalps that actually put up a fight.
But then it seems a dinosaur like me doesn’t get a say anymore. I’ve been left behind by this new generation of management. The blanket notion of “keep everyone happy”.
Well guess what?
I’m not happy. I’m not happy at all.
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Flight
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. This is a boarding call for passengers of flight 704 to Chicago. Will all passengers please now prepare to board from gate 19. Once again, this is a boarding call for…..”
That’s our flight.
I stop paying attention, because I figure the repetition is just for morons who never learned to listen the first time around.
I need to build the resolve to start moving, as I’ve been sat on a sofa in the business lounge for some time now. The fact we’re leaving the UK the morning after Wembley is telling of how few f*cks I’ve come to give about this country. Every time I’m back here, which admittedly isn’t very often, I’m left with nothing but a further risk of stomach cancer. I feel there’s only so much emotional trauma one place can deliver to a person before they just keel over and f*cking die.
On the brighter side of this dirty penny though, I’ve still managed to win my matches every time we’re this side of the Atlantic, and my hand luggage on the return flight is 17lbs heavier than it was when I arrived.
On the not so bright side though (Yes this coin has 3 faces to it. Leave your ideas of logic at the door.) I feel like sh*t. Surprisingly my back’s alright. It’s basically every other part of my flawed anatomy that’s hurting. My joints are stiff as hell, I’m walking with a limp, it hurts to breathe (I know a cracked rib when I feel one) and my right hand is so swollen the definition of my knuckles has been all but reduced to a wobble in the flesh.
As you can imagine getting to my feet again, now my body has settled in to this seat, will require quite the effort on my part. Not to mention that Himori has made a human pillow of me for the last 40 minutes.
I turn my head first, and kiss the top of Himori’s, prompting a nuzzle deeper into my battered shoulder that in turn makes me wince.
“Himori. Okiru jikan.”
This is a woman who has somehow lead me to improve my Japanese in a matter of months. A woman who, unlike anyone else, has shown me a kindness that I don’t immediately suspect is born of an ulterior motive. For the record, I told her to wake the f*ck up. Albeit without the brashness of my internal monologues.
She stirs and raises her head, turning her face toward mine. A face, even with its creases from my jacket, that glows as she smiles.
“Hello.”
My brain is running overtime since last night. I made a decision yesterday that reclaiming my championship was more important to me than revenge. In part at least. Maybe it was more to do with taking that belt back first. Revenge can wait. Kyzer can wait. I’ve waited long enough for him. What’s a little longer? It’s a shame all of this had to come at the expense of a good guy like Dave, but at the end of the day I just showed the world that my record breaking reign should never have ended. As of today I’m “Mr. 8.5.2. and counting”.
All of this is unfortunately taking precedence over the here and now. I should be losing myself in this beautiful woman’s eyes but instead, as always, I’m drowning in my questionable career choices. I can’t disassociate like all of the other f*cks in this business. I can’t just go home to my wife and kids and play happy families the moment I walk out of the arena.
This industry has come to define me, in the same way I have come to define it. But, for maybe the first time in my life, a sadness comes over me as I make this connection. I want to be able to switch off. I want to be able to give this woman my undivided attention. And yes, sadness truly is the only word for it. I feel a sorrow and grief for a man who has never had the chance to actually live a life.
This torrent of thoughts is momentarily plugged as Hiromi makes a face and speaks again.
“I need a toilet.”
And so it’s she that makes the first move. Rising to her feet and offering me her hand, knowing full well how much I’m hurting. Needless to say I don’t take it, because like the rest of you I’ve been crippled into a masculinity so fragile that my pride just won’t allow it. Here we go then.
One.
Two.
Three.
Heave!
F*ck my life.
I struggle to rise from the seat, my arms wobble as they do the initial work to lift me. I make it to my feet but I feel my legs almost give way. No doubt I’d have been scooping myself off the tiled floor had Hiromi not been there as a ballast. Today is a well timed reminder that I simply can’t do this job forever. It might be what I’m best at, but from a simply physical standpoint I’m struggling to keep up. There aren’t many other professions where you’re no longer up to the task come 35 years old.
I point Hiromi in the right direction and, picking up my bag, start to put one foot in front of the other.
I wonder if either Dave or Mike feel this rough today?
I f*cking hope so.
”Excuse me sir, do you require extra assistance?”
Wow. Now there’s a blow to the ego. I’m so beat up that this f*cker thinks I’m an old man. Of course she’s only doing her job, but I’m not prepared for this sh*t. Emotionally. I’m not ready for my blue disability badge just yet.
“Get the f*ck out of here.”
Her eyes go wide. Clearly not the response she was expecting from someone who looks as frail as I must.
Enough of this. I ‘need a toilet’ as well.
It’s a painstaking process but we make it there and, whilst Hiromi has to wait in a line of monied wenches, I just go right on in. Hiromi offers to watch my bag but I somewhat snappily retort that I’m fine. I’ll take the damn thing into the toilet with me.
I shouldn’t be taking this out on her. She doesn’t deserve it. She’s the last person that does.
“Gomen'nasai.”
That’s ‘sorry’ to you uncultured reptiles. I opt for the Japanese translation because it burns my tongue less when I say it.
I’m starting to get that adrenaline rush. The pre-safety surge of excitement. Something I’ve not felt for a long time, having weened myself off of all this. My time away honestly was spent getting my self healthy. Both physically and mentally. But I guess I never factored in the morning after. I’d forgotten how rough it is, and right now I can’t stand being fussed over. Like some f*cking helpless animal, writhing around, moments from death.
There’s only one thing for it.
Next thing I know I’ve locked the door of the disabled bathroom, and have a couple of Oxies under my bank card. I use my swollen hand to apply the pressure necessary to crush them. The shooting pain this causes only heightens the whole experience. For a moment I’m not even paying attention. My hands just work on muscle memory like only a f*cking bag rat’s hands can.
Crush. Chop. Rack.
I could just drop them down the hatch, but I’m after an immediate numbness, and so I tear the corner from my boarding pass, roll it up and do the dirty.
Within a matter of seconds all three lines of powder have disappeared from the top of the toilet cistern, and I take a moment. My hands straddle the room, holding onto the bars meant for my assistance…….meant for some cripples assistance. Not mine.
I don’t need them.
I push away from them as though they’re burning me. I don’t need a helping hand anymore. The water from the tap runs cold, and I splash my face before staring at myself in the frustratingly low mirror.
If I were a p*ssy piece of garbage like Trace Demon or Ace Bennet, now would be the time my split personality would pipe up, welcoming me back to the flock. But I’m not. I’m not about to smash this mirror. I’m not about to talk aloud to my own, sentient reflection.
Nope.
I zip my bag up, catching a glimpse at the title belt inside, and stand to attention. I can already feel the absence of feeling in my extremities. I can move freely again. Limbered by the loss of my body’s tentative, protective life jacket.
Sure, in the long run just pushing through and ignoring the pain is probably going to cost me a lot more than it’s worth. But right now? Right now I want to walk out of this room as Isaac f*cking Cray. The killer. The king. The man the people pay to see.
Not the f*cking washed up mortal I know I really am. Bones made of dust with a spine to match.
F*ck mortality. I’ll beat it the same way I’ve beaten everything else that’s stood in my f*cking way.
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. This is a boarding call for passengers of flight 704 to Chicago. Will all passengers please…..”
There it is again. Out we go.
I leave the safety of this cell and find that Hiromi must have only just made it inside. Her pelvic floor must be stronger than mine, because I know I’d have p*ssed myself by now in her position.
I can’t just wait around though. I’m too fidgety. This isn’t the drugs. No. This is my body reacting to my choices. Pain killers don’t give you a buzz. But they have oiled my creaking hinges, and I can’t simply stand here. I need to take a walk. Just a circuit. I’ll be back here before she knows I’m gone. Got to road test the merchandise.
And so I’m gone, walking the terminal of Heathrow airport. I dare anyone to offer me a damn wheelchair now.
It’s a brief moment of clarity, not worrying about my physical condition as I riff on what’s next for me.
I’m back where I belong, on the throne, precariously perched atop the mountain. But the question I suppose is who do I spit on next? Well that’s obvious. I want Michael. I’m still not done with him. I merely had a hurdle to leap before we could dance for real. It’s hard to keep in step when there’s three of you waltzing. Now that David is out of the picture, no doubt for good if I know anything about him, I can focus the entirety of my efforts on the one thing I’ve waited for.
Michael Kyzer has hopped in and out of the stage lights for years now, always making sure there’s some kind of triviality in place to keep me at arm’s length. A restraining order. A debilitating injury. A Dragon. But now he’s right in front of me. I just need to move dead ahead and not let my concentration slip. A lot of people have told me this would never happen. That I should probably consider letting it go, but those people aren’t on my level. Those are the kind of people who settle for mediocrity. Second best. Those are the kind of people who never win the big one, but pat themselves on the back all the same.
Missionary with their dead eyed wives.
Riding coach instead of business.
I’ll never settle for any less than what I f*cking want. And right now all I want is the scalp of WFWF’s pantomime villain. He may be more broken down than I am, his name value may have dropped through the floor in the last few months, but I still want to lift that head aloft by a handful of its hair, laughing as the tongue lolls out of its lifeless, d*ck sucking hole of a mouth.
I can’t forgive and forget. It’s not how I’m wired. I hold on to things. I may not act on them for years and years, but if you’ve ever wronged me, chances are I’ll still be coming for you. No matter how free and easy you think things are. You might be years removed from ever having met me, but I always get my mark. No man, woman or……Dog can say otherwise.
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. This is the final boarding call for passengers of flight 704 to Chicago. Will all…..”
Sh*t. Better get a move on. Hiromi must be done by now, wondering what’s taking me so long.
I’m aware that my legs are still taking me ever further away from my starting point though. Further from gate 19. Further from her.
What am I doing?
I walk towards the information kiosk, not knowing what I’m about to say to the person behind it until the words come out.
“What are the chances of me buying a new ticket?”
“I’m sorry sir?”
“I’ve changed my mind. I want to buy a new ticket. Can you help me with that?”
“Erm, yes I suppose. Where are you scheduled to fly to?”
“Chicago.”
What the f*ck am I doing?
“Okay, and where would you like to fly instead sir?”
“Seattle.”
Is this it?
“You know it would probably be cheaper for you to catch your flight to Chicago and fly domestically to Seattle?”
“Money’s not an issue. I want to fly to Seattle.”
Do I?
“Okay sir. Let me have a look at that for you.”
A few seconds pass.
“And how many tickets do you require?”
Two.
“Just one. I’m travelling alone.”
What?!
“Here’s my passport. Here’s my credit card.”
Still with powder on the underside.
“Can I leave that with you? I’ll be at the private bar just over there.”
He nods and I leave him to it. But why? I’m on the verge of happiness, or at least something resembling it, and I’m just p*ssing it away?
Does my single mindedness really have to come at this cost? Maybe? It shouldn’t. Any fully functioning human should have room for some affection in their life, even if it runs parallel to the ugliness of their character. Right?
I don’t know. Maybe this is best? Maybe this is the only way I can keep Hiromi safe?
“Would passenger Isaac Cray please report to gate 17. Flight 704 to Chicago is ready to leave. Your wife is waiting here for you. Again, would Mr Isaac Cray please come to gate 17. Thank you.”
She’s going to be waiting a long time.
F*ck it.
Who am I kidding. This isn’t about her.
This is about me.
This is how I feel.
I don’t need kindness, warmth and humanity to fulfil my needs.
I can’t deny my subconscious.
It’s lead me this far hasn’t it?
Isaac. Meet Isaac. I’m sure you’ll be very miserable together.
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And just like that, after a brief stint as a duo, I’m back on my own again.
The wheels of loneliness roll on, and in this instance, right over me.
So I suppose the question is why? F*ck. That’s a question I’ve had thrown at me on so many occasions. People always want to know your motives. People always want to know what makes you tick. The inner workings of a man’s mind make for good bed time reading do they?
Well, if you really must know, it’s simple.
Love.
Love is for lovers.
And they can f*cking well keep it.
I left Hiromi behind because she is my humanity. She is my one way ticket to becoming just another schmuck. Being with her served no purpose other than to make me soft, and it doesn’t pay for a man in my position to turn to putty. I need to stay hard like Phillip Schneider’s d*ck in an orphanage.
There’s no room for emotional vulnerability where I’m going.
I solemnly swear to single handedly destroy the weakness that has thrived in my absence. SO help me God. It happens every time I take a sabbatical. When the cream has been skimmed off the top there’s more room for the turds to float into view.
Dave did his best to block the dam. To stop the banks bursting on this lazy river of human excrement. But both he and I know he hasn’t got the mental fortitude for this life. It’s hard. It’s real f*cking hard. Anyone who’s been the champ here will tell you that. Hence why most of them don’t last.
But then I suppose you want to know why I even need to come back? Why not take Hiromi by the hand and leave this all behind? Surely if anyone in the history of the WFWF has already carved out an unsurmountable legacy it’s me? I should be proud of what I’ve done. Proud enough to walk away. And yet I can’t. I can’t sleep, knowing that some other bum has taken my spot and is tarnishing it. Smothering the throne room with sh*t, all the while thinking their run has eclipsed mine. That their name deserves to be in the same conversation as Drakz.
F*ck that. I’ll bring this place to its knees before I let it go on without me. I will humiliate every last member of the locker room until the world loses interest. When there’s no one left to challenge the king then finally, he can sleep.
I am the only undefeated WFWF World Heavyweight Champion. I have never been beaten for this title. Never.
I’ve relinquished it.
I’ve been stripped of it. Twice.
But I’ve never been usurped.
And I do it all alone.
I don’t need Dragons. I don’t need stooges. I don’t need orphans. I don’t need valets or manager. I don’t even need friends.
I am Drakz and I AM THE ONLY CONSTANT.
You can injure me, but it never lasts. I always make it back, held together with duct tape and a f*cking killer moustache.
People like Penny Shannon? She’s just a tourist in this world. She dips in and out whenever it pleases her, and guess what? It shows. Take a look at her trophy cabinet. Anything? Just one sad looking heh, sun bleached and stinking of pimply teenage p*ssy.
That’s it.
That’s her greatest achievement. Fooling confused young women into thinking she’s worth their time. Now I’m not Trace Demon. I’m not about to follow that statement up with some unfounded claim about my own dubious sexual exploits. But I will say this:
Penny Shannon only has fans because it takes a f*cking loser to really know a loser. She connects with the audience because they see her as one of them, and believe me that’s no compliment. There’s a barrier between us and them for a reason. They couldn’t dream of doing what we do, so to lower yourself to such a degree that they start to see parallels between their vacuous lives and your own? That’s a sinny sin sin Penny. You’ve gone and cemented your status.
I repeat. You’re a loser.
And there’s no f*cking way I’m about to start handing out title matches to losers.
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An Offer
You know, no one ever tells you how hard it is to get that wet Dog smell out of your furniture. I’ve near enough ruined half of my stuff with Clorox in the last few months and my entire apartment has become a chore. Everywhere I look I see stray animal hairs. I’m still finding them on my clothes, in my food, collecting in the corners of rooms. Did I mention the smell? I call it “Corrosive Canine” and I’m a real sucker for not getting it on shelves in time for Christmas. I’m sure it would have been the must have gift for 2018.
But of course I’ve had no time to work on refining the atmosphere into a marketable perfume. I’ve been too busy scrubbing. Honestly I’m surprised no one at work has noticed how pink my hands are. The marigolds have long since perished, and f*ck me if bleach doesn’t burn human skin something rotten.
Now here stands before me another reason to have kept Hiromi out of my life. I couldn’t let her see my home in this state. There was a time when spilled salvia bongs and uneaten Chinese food were a mainstay of my natural habitat. There was a time when I didn’t give a f*ck who saw it. Hell, there was a time I pushed a girl’s face into said ditch water whilst I was in her ass hole.
I was almost proud of it. The debauchery. Just filth for the sake of filth.
It was never said aloud, but I’m fairly certain it became a competition between me and Michael. No one ever knew who won. We were always too out of it.
This is different though. I’m different.
This isn’t a mess I’ve made, and there certainly wasn’t any fun had as a result of it. Instead I’m paying the price for my compassion. For taking in a stray animal and being treated like a f*cking idiot for my efforts. Just another example of why kindness is akin to weakness. I’ve allowed myself time and again to be taken advantage of. Never in some big gotcha moment. No. Always more subtly. Slowly but surely people get their hooks into me without my noticing. I feel as though I’m one step ahead the entire time, only to wind up on the wrong end of proceedings.
Well………f*ck em.
Urgh. My nose and eyes are burning from this f*cking bleach.
*Bzzzzzz Bzzzzzzz Bzzzzzz*
Who the f*ck is this? The only person who calls me is Lila Sleater, and even she avoids it if she can.
Withheld number. Figures.
Well, if they can’t let me know who they are ahead of time, why should I waste valuable cleansing time picking up?
I let it vibrate away on coffee table while I keep scrubbing at the carpet, the fumes from the bleach really starting to fill my head like a balloon. I should open a window.
*Bzzzzzz Bzzzzzzz Bzzzzzz*
“Jesus. Take the f*cking hint.”
I get up to let some air into the room but those damn solvents catch up with me and I feel the darkness start to close in around my field of vision.
Free drugs. Well. Not free. This bottle cost $8.99. But unintended bonus drugs?
Oh sh*t, I’m off.
And I really am. Tumble, rag doll, crash.
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*Bzzzzzz Bzzzzzzz Bzzzzzz*
*Bzzzzzz Bzzzzzzz Bzzzzzz*
Urgh. Where am I? What’s this?
My fingers paw at the puddle I’m laid in as I start to open my eyes. They’re strained and the pupils struggle into focus as I examine the substance on my finger tips. It’s red. Urgh. I’ve busted something.
Where exactly am I? And what is that incessant f*cking noise?
*Bzzzzzz Bzzzzzzz Bzzzzzz*
I sit up and start to take in my surroundings, piecing together what’s happened. Sh*t yeah, I passed out. My hands trace around my head, looking for a wound, and it doesn’t take a genius to see I’ve fallen through the coffee table. F*cking hell Isaac. Get your sh*t together.
I plant my palms flat on the floor, ready to stand again, and realise they’re completely soaked in this pool. I take another look only to realise it’s not red at all. I’ve been laid in spilled bleach for who knows how long and f*ck me is it starting to sting now I’m coming around.
*Bzzzzzz Bzzzzzzz Bzzzzzz*
Are they still trying to call me? I look around my person and see the phone itself is also sat in bleach, somehow still refusing to die. I pick it up and wipe it on the closest bit of dry I can find, which in this case is the sofa. Another stain.
This better be good.
“Yes?”
“Is this a bad time?”
“It’s always a bad time. Who the f*ck is this?”
And make it snappy.
“Is this how you start all of your conversations?”
If this is some kind of cold caller then they’ve got serious balls.
“I haven’t got time for this….”
“Hey hey hey. Just a moment. Can’t you spare a minute for your old partner?”
Partner? I may be moments away from a loss of consciousness, and short of a few brain cells, but I know for a fact this is neither Michael Kyzer or David Brennan on the phone. You tend to remember voices like theirs.
“I’m a very busy man. Who am I talking to?”
He chuckles down the phone.
“A man you struggled to get rid of.”
“Listen, your moment is fast running out. Cut to the chase or the phone’s going back in the bleach.”
“What?”
“Oh. Nothing. Anyway, bye.”
“Come on, you’re no fun. It’s Josh.”
“The Man of the Hour?”
I assumed he was dead.
“What? No.”
Okay. I see where this is going now.
“Joshua De….”
“Dean. Yes. I know.”
I didn’t.
“First off, why have you got my phone number? Secondly what makes you think I’ve got the time for this?”
There’s been a lot of mention of time so far. I have to sell this idea that I’m rushed off my feet. Not just off my feet……….in a pool of bleach.
“Your number’s on file, and Sleater was more than happy to give it up to me.”
Of course. Anything to grind my rusty f*cking gears.
“And yes, I’m sure you’re a very busy man, what with being champion again. I of all people understand that time is money.”
No. Time is time. Money is money. I hate bull sh*t phrases like that.
“So what is it? You still harping on about being owed a shot? Because there’s quite a line forming and you’d be stood right at the back of it.”
Based on current booking logic he’d probably leap frog the entire locker room just because he’s managed to do even less than they have in the last year.
“No no no. Nothing like that. I know you’ve got your hands tied up with an old friend of mine at the moment.”
“Hardly. Any way I’m not sure I’m her type. Bound or otherwise.”
“You shouldn’t overlook Penny you know. Taking people lightly always seems to get you in hot water.”
“I take everyone lightly mate, and guess who the greatest, most winningest sh*t of all time is.”
“It didn’t work out so well with me though, did it?”
I know exactly what he’s getting at, but I’m not going to address his illegitimate claim to the throne.
“You mean when you cost me MY Tag Team Championships? No, you’re right. That didn’t go to plan. You know Josh, it’s been lovely catching up with you. Really, it has. But I’ve got an apartment filled with beautiful people throwing a party in my honour, and I should get back.”
I think I said that with enough confidence?
“A party huh? Sure sounds like a quiet one.”
Oh eat a d*ck.
“I stepped outside to take your call. Anyway, good luck with whatever the f*ck you’re not doing these days.”
“You realise I didn’t call just to shoot the sh*t right?”
So why are we dancing around the subject so much?
“Get to it then. I really need to go.”
I finally pull myself up from the floor and onto the sofa.
“I’m calling to offer you a job.”
…………………………….
“………………………………………”
“Drakz?”
Huhahahuahaha
“HAHAHAHA. Yeah, pull the other one mate. Why are you calling? Get to it.”
“Honestly I’m calling to offer you a position at Championship Connections. EVP of Marketing. We both know you’re not going to be able to do this much longer. Why not come and work with me?”
“With you? Or for you? Because it sounds to me like you’re trying to become my boss.”
“Hell, you can be a independent contractor if it takes the edge off? I honestly just think you’d be good at selling my clients. Everyone knows you can talk. What do you think?”
This is bizarre. Too bizarre.
“What do I think? F*ck no. What are you thinking even calling me? Have you forgotten who I am? I don’t play well with others.”
“Maybe I just thought you’d be looking for options once that back of yours finally bows out. How’s it holding up while we’re on the subject?”
Now he’s playing doctor? This is starting to boil my p*ss.
“Better than ever. My year off has turned me into the Six Million Dollar Man. I’m as indestructible as I’ve ever been, and honestly? I’m f*cking sick of people assuming I’m about to start winding down. This isn’t a part time gig for me. I’m going to keep doing this until there’s nothing left to do.
I can’t just walk away and put a suit on like you Josh. I’m a lifer. You and your merry band of c*nts had your day in the sun pretending like you really wanted to make a difference but guess what? There’s only one of your tribe left, and she’s got a limp. Easy prey.
Your legacy around here? Your name in the WFWF? It means nothing. None of you mean a f*cking thing anymore. And once I put Penny to bed maybe you can offer her that job instead?
F*cking EVP of marketing. Jesus.
The only way you’ll be working alongside someone like me ever again is if you bring your f*cking ball back to the playground. I’ll be waiting Joshua. Bring the whole family.
F*ck your meagre legacy. F*ck your Championship Connections. F*ck your friends. F*ck your wife. F*ck your kids. F*ck your Dog.”
Wow this really has riled me up.
“Well I see you’ve matured since we last spoke.”
“Like a stinking piece of cheese mate.”
“Listen Isaac……”
He knows how much I hate that.
“…….when that back of yours does eventually break…..for good this time……just bear in mind that the offices here have wheelchair access.”
I know he said that with a grin on his face. I can just hear it. Smug c*nt.
*BEEP*
And he’s gone. At least now I can get back to my party, right?
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Penny Shannon. Penny, Penny Shannon.
I’m not sure we’ve ever actually thrown hands? But I’m not one to let things pass me by. I’ve watched you since the day you walked in the door here, and I know full well that you’re the last of a dying breed.
The last of a breed that always thought it could make a difference just by saying it.
The mere proclamation of revolution does not a revolution make. You can ask Frank Lynn about that.
So with all these words, all this talk, I suppose it stands to reason that I’d ask this question of you. I consider myself a gender non-specific of my word, but what about you? When you take an honest look at yourself in the mirror do you see the person you always claimed to be? Or do you see a feckless sham of a comic book character?
I mean really……when was the last time anyone thought you were worth sh*t?
Now before you bark an answer back at me I must add the proviso that Mesh is excluded from any self serving opinion poll you might be dreaming up. Just because some kid frigs herself to your entrance music doesn’t mean you’re any good once it ends and the bell rings.
You need to back up your howls with actions, and not just “try your best, that’s all we can ask of you” sh*te. I need to see results. I need to see hard facts that prove you deserve to even be in a ring with me, let alone trying your hand at becoming “she who holds the gold”.
Say what you like about me Penny, and I know you will, everyone does. Say I run. Say I hide. It’s all f*cking hyperbole, because when it comes down to it I’ve beaten every c*nt that’s stood in my way.
Schneider.
Trace.
Josh.
Ahriman.
Brennan.
Kyzer.
All of them. Dust to the wind.
No where to be seen.
Oh you think there’s an asterisk next to your old pal Mr Dean’s name? That f*cking schmuck didn’t have what it takes. He got lucky and I proved it. Immediately. He then managed to go on and sully MY Tag Team Championship run and eventually cost me. My first loss in, I don’t know? Ever? Who’s counting? I was……for a time.
So where is he now? Sat in an office, trying to keep himself relevant by offering me work I don’t need.
And the rest of your Saviours? Gone. Washed up. Locked up. Beaten up. Knocked up. Who knows? Who the f*ck even cares? There’s only you now. Clinging on for dear life. Allow me to stamp on your fingers.
People tell me not to underestimate you. Not to assume this is a forgone conclusion. And yes, you’ve mashed your fair share of nuts along the way, but I don’t see much in the way of gold on your resumé. F*ck even Nikki Dean managed to score a bit of tin foil during her brief “let’s play wrestler” stint. The closest you’ve come to championship gold was her belt resting on your head, while you ate out that cuck’s wife.
It’s time to join your friends Pen. Time to go home. Time to hang it up and get back to haunting student bars, sharking out those inexperienced teens. Spreading confused snatch, that only opens to you as a middle finger to Daddy, is about all you’re good for these days.
As for my boombox romance with Michael? What the f*ck would you know about it? We’re in a committed, long term relationship. Something a dried out piece of mutton like you wouldn’t recognise if it dropped you on your end……….and it will.
Drop the regression session for a second and grow the f*ck up.
I respect you for asking for this. You’ve got a bigger d*ck than anyone else here, but know that my respect is fleeting. It’ll have all p*ssed down my leg by the time I kick you in the mouth in L.A.
Like everyone who came before you, stepping into the ring with me…….”Mr 8.5.1 and Counting”……will be the only thing you’re remembered for.
Enjoy your moment in the sun, because that shadow of yours is starting to look awful long.
(A.K.A. A Clean Home is a Happy Home)
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Peeeeeeeeeeeennnnnnnnny!
You’ve gone and lost the eye patch Penny.
You’ve taken the one thing I wanted and tossed it out.
So now, what the f*ck have you got to offer me in return for my time? My painfully valuable time.
You come out, teeth gnashing and balls swinging, to talk smack about me. Trying to devalue the greatest championship reign of all time, and then 20 minutes later you’re playing dead for a f*cking teenager? You’ve not exactly piqued my interest Pen. I enjoyed the fact that you stepped up, but you went and shat the bed in losing to Mesh. Honestly, you’ve made a mockery of this match.
It seems like perhaps you’re not taking this seriously anymore?
Who am I kidding? You never took it seriously to begin with. How does someone with your tenure, not named David Brennan, go so long without earning a single scrap of gold? And yet I’m supposed to stand here and act as though you’re a contender?
But then I think, maybe you did that on purpose? Maybe you lost to Mesh in the hope of giving her a title shot if you, by some act of God, you take this strap from me? Maybe I’ll suffer an aneurism as the bell rings. Blood from the nose. Eyes roll back. Hook the leg.
No that’s not right either is it?
As much as you’d love to pass the flaming tampon torch to the next underachieving fan girl, you had no idea this was going to be a title match. I sure as f*ck didn’t. I accepted a match. I accepted an opportunity to stretch you out and have you realise that every word you stuttered about me was wrong. And yet here we are, standing under the slimy, swinging d*ck of Lila Sleater as she tries her best to wind me up.
It’s almost as though she thinks I don’t enjoy my job? I’ve never shied away from defending what’s rightfully mine. Not once have I run from a fight. But come on, I’d at least like some worthy challengers if I’m to put the championship on the line.
Then we’ve got the basement dwelling contingent of critics standing to attention, ready to run crying:
“Mom! Drakz doesn’t want to defend the WFWF World Heavyweight Championship.”
Wipe your f*cking noses, and next time read between the lines. I have no problem facing you Shannon. In fact I’m quite looking forward to it. But I don’t think you deserve this shot. I don’t think you’ve done anything resembling a climb to the top.
Right now that blue haired child has more of a claim to this match than you do.
You’re a loser. The same way Frank Lynn is a loser. The same way that intravenous nobody is a loser.
You all came up short, and none of you have any right to call yourselves number one contenders.
But I can’t imagine it makes a f*cking difference. This place is such a hollow barrel these days that I’m sure it won’t be long before Lynn is announced as my next defence.
He lost to me, then he lost to Zmey. He’s probably only the wrong side of a 3 count away from a title opportunity right? That’s how this place works these days I guess. I hate to be the old man pining for the olden days, but at least back then you had to win a few matches to stand a chance. Now it seems we’re giving out consolation prizes.
Thanks for coming. It’s the taking part that counts.
I’m not a man who’s built his castle on taking part though. I’ve fought and clawed for everything I’ve got. Every name they call me is born from my own hard work. They’re not just tag lines for selling merchandise, though the Streak Destroyer Destroyer Destroyer head bands are a steal at only $79.99. Right?
It’s bull sh*t like this that makes me understand why Michael is “done with this life”. Maybe I’m not far off myself? Maybe it’s time they put a bullet in the back of my head and sent me to the f*cking glue factory? It sure sounds more logical than this complete sh*t show.
You hear that Mike? Maybe we can scrap this whole Superbrawl idea and just see who can retire the hardest? Find out who can stay on their sofa the longest, without so much as a flannel’s orbit of the old nethers?
Or maybe I’m looking at all of this in a too matter of fact way? Maybe Penny Shannon really is the only person with any balls around here? Maybe she’s getting a title shot because the powers that be know every other c*nt is too f*cking scared to lace up?
That still doesn’t sit right with me though. I don’t want to be facing the lesser of ten evils. I don’t want to scrape the bottom just to prove a point.
I want the best of the best. I want scalps that actually put up a fight.
But then it seems a dinosaur like me doesn’t get a say anymore. I’ve been left behind by this new generation of management. The blanket notion of “keep everyone happy”.
Well guess what?
I’m not happy. I’m not happy at all.
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Flight
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. This is a boarding call for passengers of flight 704 to Chicago. Will all passengers please now prepare to board from gate 19. Once again, this is a boarding call for…..”
That’s our flight.
I stop paying attention, because I figure the repetition is just for morons who never learned to listen the first time around.
I need to build the resolve to start moving, as I’ve been sat on a sofa in the business lounge for some time now. The fact we’re leaving the UK the morning after Wembley is telling of how few f*cks I’ve come to give about this country. Every time I’m back here, which admittedly isn’t very often, I’m left with nothing but a further risk of stomach cancer. I feel there’s only so much emotional trauma one place can deliver to a person before they just keel over and f*cking die.
On the brighter side of this dirty penny though, I’ve still managed to win my matches every time we’re this side of the Atlantic, and my hand luggage on the return flight is 17lbs heavier than it was when I arrived.
On the not so bright side though (Yes this coin has 3 faces to it. Leave your ideas of logic at the door.) I feel like sh*t. Surprisingly my back’s alright. It’s basically every other part of my flawed anatomy that’s hurting. My joints are stiff as hell, I’m walking with a limp, it hurts to breathe (I know a cracked rib when I feel one) and my right hand is so swollen the definition of my knuckles has been all but reduced to a wobble in the flesh.
As you can imagine getting to my feet again, now my body has settled in to this seat, will require quite the effort on my part. Not to mention that Himori has made a human pillow of me for the last 40 minutes.
I turn my head first, and kiss the top of Himori’s, prompting a nuzzle deeper into my battered shoulder that in turn makes me wince.
“Himori. Okiru jikan.”
This is a woman who has somehow lead me to improve my Japanese in a matter of months. A woman who, unlike anyone else, has shown me a kindness that I don’t immediately suspect is born of an ulterior motive. For the record, I told her to wake the f*ck up. Albeit without the brashness of my internal monologues.
She stirs and raises her head, turning her face toward mine. A face, even with its creases from my jacket, that glows as she smiles.
“Hello.”
My brain is running overtime since last night. I made a decision yesterday that reclaiming my championship was more important to me than revenge. In part at least. Maybe it was more to do with taking that belt back first. Revenge can wait. Kyzer can wait. I’ve waited long enough for him. What’s a little longer? It’s a shame all of this had to come at the expense of a good guy like Dave, but at the end of the day I just showed the world that my record breaking reign should never have ended. As of today I’m “Mr. 8.5.2. and counting”.
All of this is unfortunately taking precedence over the here and now. I should be losing myself in this beautiful woman’s eyes but instead, as always, I’m drowning in my questionable career choices. I can’t disassociate like all of the other f*cks in this business. I can’t just go home to my wife and kids and play happy families the moment I walk out of the arena.
This industry has come to define me, in the same way I have come to define it. But, for maybe the first time in my life, a sadness comes over me as I make this connection. I want to be able to switch off. I want to be able to give this woman my undivided attention. And yes, sadness truly is the only word for it. I feel a sorrow and grief for a man who has never had the chance to actually live a life.
This torrent of thoughts is momentarily plugged as Hiromi makes a face and speaks again.
“I need a toilet.”
And so it’s she that makes the first move. Rising to her feet and offering me her hand, knowing full well how much I’m hurting. Needless to say I don’t take it, because like the rest of you I’ve been crippled into a masculinity so fragile that my pride just won’t allow it. Here we go then.
One.
Two.
Three.
Heave!
F*ck my life.
I struggle to rise from the seat, my arms wobble as they do the initial work to lift me. I make it to my feet but I feel my legs almost give way. No doubt I’d have been scooping myself off the tiled floor had Hiromi not been there as a ballast. Today is a well timed reminder that I simply can’t do this job forever. It might be what I’m best at, but from a simply physical standpoint I’m struggling to keep up. There aren’t many other professions where you’re no longer up to the task come 35 years old.
I point Hiromi in the right direction and, picking up my bag, start to put one foot in front of the other.
I wonder if either Dave or Mike feel this rough today?
I f*cking hope so.
”Excuse me sir, do you require extra assistance?”
Wow. Now there’s a blow to the ego. I’m so beat up that this f*cker thinks I’m an old man. Of course she’s only doing her job, but I’m not prepared for this sh*t. Emotionally. I’m not ready for my blue disability badge just yet.
“Get the f*ck out of here.”
Her eyes go wide. Clearly not the response she was expecting from someone who looks as frail as I must.
Enough of this. I ‘need a toilet’ as well.
It’s a painstaking process but we make it there and, whilst Hiromi has to wait in a line of monied wenches, I just go right on in. Hiromi offers to watch my bag but I somewhat snappily retort that I’m fine. I’ll take the damn thing into the toilet with me.
I shouldn’t be taking this out on her. She doesn’t deserve it. She’s the last person that does.
“Gomen'nasai.”
That’s ‘sorry’ to you uncultured reptiles. I opt for the Japanese translation because it burns my tongue less when I say it.
I’m starting to get that adrenaline rush. The pre-safety surge of excitement. Something I’ve not felt for a long time, having weened myself off of all this. My time away honestly was spent getting my self healthy. Both physically and mentally. But I guess I never factored in the morning after. I’d forgotten how rough it is, and right now I can’t stand being fussed over. Like some f*cking helpless animal, writhing around, moments from death.
There’s only one thing for it.
Next thing I know I’ve locked the door of the disabled bathroom, and have a couple of Oxies under my bank card. I use my swollen hand to apply the pressure necessary to crush them. The shooting pain this causes only heightens the whole experience. For a moment I’m not even paying attention. My hands just work on muscle memory like only a f*cking bag rat’s hands can.
Crush. Chop. Rack.
I could just drop them down the hatch, but I’m after an immediate numbness, and so I tear the corner from my boarding pass, roll it up and do the dirty.
Within a matter of seconds all three lines of powder have disappeared from the top of the toilet cistern, and I take a moment. My hands straddle the room, holding onto the bars meant for my assistance…….meant for some cripples assistance. Not mine.
I don’t need them.
I push away from them as though they’re burning me. I don’t need a helping hand anymore. The water from the tap runs cold, and I splash my face before staring at myself in the frustratingly low mirror.
If I were a p*ssy piece of garbage like Trace Demon or Ace Bennet, now would be the time my split personality would pipe up, welcoming me back to the flock. But I’m not. I’m not about to smash this mirror. I’m not about to talk aloud to my own, sentient reflection.
Nope.
I zip my bag up, catching a glimpse at the title belt inside, and stand to attention. I can already feel the absence of feeling in my extremities. I can move freely again. Limbered by the loss of my body’s tentative, protective life jacket.
Sure, in the long run just pushing through and ignoring the pain is probably going to cost me a lot more than it’s worth. But right now? Right now I want to walk out of this room as Isaac f*cking Cray. The killer. The king. The man the people pay to see.
Not the f*cking washed up mortal I know I really am. Bones made of dust with a spine to match.
F*ck mortality. I’ll beat it the same way I’ve beaten everything else that’s stood in my f*cking way.
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. This is a boarding call for passengers of flight 704 to Chicago. Will all passengers please…..”
There it is again. Out we go.
I leave the safety of this cell and find that Hiromi must have only just made it inside. Her pelvic floor must be stronger than mine, because I know I’d have p*ssed myself by now in her position.
I can’t just wait around though. I’m too fidgety. This isn’t the drugs. No. This is my body reacting to my choices. Pain killers don’t give you a buzz. But they have oiled my creaking hinges, and I can’t simply stand here. I need to take a walk. Just a circuit. I’ll be back here before she knows I’m gone. Got to road test the merchandise.
And so I’m gone, walking the terminal of Heathrow airport. I dare anyone to offer me a damn wheelchair now.
It’s a brief moment of clarity, not worrying about my physical condition as I riff on what’s next for me.
I’m back where I belong, on the throne, precariously perched atop the mountain. But the question I suppose is who do I spit on next? Well that’s obvious. I want Michael. I’m still not done with him. I merely had a hurdle to leap before we could dance for real. It’s hard to keep in step when there’s three of you waltzing. Now that David is out of the picture, no doubt for good if I know anything about him, I can focus the entirety of my efforts on the one thing I’ve waited for.
Michael Kyzer has hopped in and out of the stage lights for years now, always making sure there’s some kind of triviality in place to keep me at arm’s length. A restraining order. A debilitating injury. A Dragon. But now he’s right in front of me. I just need to move dead ahead and not let my concentration slip. A lot of people have told me this would never happen. That I should probably consider letting it go, but those people aren’t on my level. Those are the kind of people who settle for mediocrity. Second best. Those are the kind of people who never win the big one, but pat themselves on the back all the same.
Missionary with their dead eyed wives.
Riding coach instead of business.
I’ll never settle for any less than what I f*cking want. And right now all I want is the scalp of WFWF’s pantomime villain. He may be more broken down than I am, his name value may have dropped through the floor in the last few months, but I still want to lift that head aloft by a handful of its hair, laughing as the tongue lolls out of its lifeless, d*ck sucking hole of a mouth.
I can’t forgive and forget. It’s not how I’m wired. I hold on to things. I may not act on them for years and years, but if you’ve ever wronged me, chances are I’ll still be coming for you. No matter how free and easy you think things are. You might be years removed from ever having met me, but I always get my mark. No man, woman or……Dog can say otherwise.
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. This is the final boarding call for passengers of flight 704 to Chicago. Will all…..”
Sh*t. Better get a move on. Hiromi must be done by now, wondering what’s taking me so long.
I’m aware that my legs are still taking me ever further away from my starting point though. Further from gate 19. Further from her.
What am I doing?
I walk towards the information kiosk, not knowing what I’m about to say to the person behind it until the words come out.
“What are the chances of me buying a new ticket?”
“I’m sorry sir?”
“I’ve changed my mind. I want to buy a new ticket. Can you help me with that?”
“Erm, yes I suppose. Where are you scheduled to fly to?”
“Chicago.”
What the f*ck am I doing?
“Okay, and where would you like to fly instead sir?”
“Seattle.”
Is this it?
“You know it would probably be cheaper for you to catch your flight to Chicago and fly domestically to Seattle?”
“Money’s not an issue. I want to fly to Seattle.”
Do I?
“Okay sir. Let me have a look at that for you.”
A few seconds pass.
“And how many tickets do you require?”
Two.
“Just one. I’m travelling alone.”
What?!
“Here’s my passport. Here’s my credit card.”
Still with powder on the underside.
“Can I leave that with you? I’ll be at the private bar just over there.”
He nods and I leave him to it. But why? I’m on the verge of happiness, or at least something resembling it, and I’m just p*ssing it away?
Does my single mindedness really have to come at this cost? Maybe? It shouldn’t. Any fully functioning human should have room for some affection in their life, even if it runs parallel to the ugliness of their character. Right?
I don’t know. Maybe this is best? Maybe this is the only way I can keep Hiromi safe?
“Would passenger Isaac Cray please report to gate 17. Flight 704 to Chicago is ready to leave. Your wife is waiting here for you. Again, would Mr Isaac Cray please come to gate 17. Thank you.”
She’s going to be waiting a long time.
F*ck it.
Who am I kidding. This isn’t about her.
This is about me.
This is how I feel.
I don’t need kindness, warmth and humanity to fulfil my needs.
I can’t deny my subconscious.
It’s lead me this far hasn’t it?
Isaac. Meet Isaac. I’m sure you’ll be very miserable together.
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And just like that, after a brief stint as a duo, I’m back on my own again.
The wheels of loneliness roll on, and in this instance, right over me.
So I suppose the question is why? F*ck. That’s a question I’ve had thrown at me on so many occasions. People always want to know your motives. People always want to know what makes you tick. The inner workings of a man’s mind make for good bed time reading do they?
Well, if you really must know, it’s simple.
Love.
Love is for lovers.
And they can f*cking well keep it.
I left Hiromi behind because she is my humanity. She is my one way ticket to becoming just another schmuck. Being with her served no purpose other than to make me soft, and it doesn’t pay for a man in my position to turn to putty. I need to stay hard like Phillip Schneider’s d*ck in an orphanage.
There’s no room for emotional vulnerability where I’m going.
I solemnly swear to single handedly destroy the weakness that has thrived in my absence. SO help me God. It happens every time I take a sabbatical. When the cream has been skimmed off the top there’s more room for the turds to float into view.
Dave did his best to block the dam. To stop the banks bursting on this lazy river of human excrement. But both he and I know he hasn’t got the mental fortitude for this life. It’s hard. It’s real f*cking hard. Anyone who’s been the champ here will tell you that. Hence why most of them don’t last.
But then I suppose you want to know why I even need to come back? Why not take Hiromi by the hand and leave this all behind? Surely if anyone in the history of the WFWF has already carved out an unsurmountable legacy it’s me? I should be proud of what I’ve done. Proud enough to walk away. And yet I can’t. I can’t sleep, knowing that some other bum has taken my spot and is tarnishing it. Smothering the throne room with sh*t, all the while thinking their run has eclipsed mine. That their name deserves to be in the same conversation as Drakz.
F*ck that. I’ll bring this place to its knees before I let it go on without me. I will humiliate every last member of the locker room until the world loses interest. When there’s no one left to challenge the king then finally, he can sleep.
I am the only undefeated WFWF World Heavyweight Champion. I have never been beaten for this title. Never.
I’ve relinquished it.
I’ve been stripped of it. Twice.
But I’ve never been usurped.
And I do it all alone.
I don’t need Dragons. I don’t need stooges. I don’t need orphans. I don’t need valets or manager. I don’t even need friends.
I am Drakz and I AM THE ONLY CONSTANT.
You can injure me, but it never lasts. I always make it back, held together with duct tape and a f*cking killer moustache.
People like Penny Shannon? She’s just a tourist in this world. She dips in and out whenever it pleases her, and guess what? It shows. Take a look at her trophy cabinet. Anything? Just one sad looking heh, sun bleached and stinking of pimply teenage p*ssy.
That’s it.
That’s her greatest achievement. Fooling confused young women into thinking she’s worth their time. Now I’m not Trace Demon. I’m not about to follow that statement up with some unfounded claim about my own dubious sexual exploits. But I will say this:
Penny Shannon only has fans because it takes a f*cking loser to really know a loser. She connects with the audience because they see her as one of them, and believe me that’s no compliment. There’s a barrier between us and them for a reason. They couldn’t dream of doing what we do, so to lower yourself to such a degree that they start to see parallels between their vacuous lives and your own? That’s a sinny sin sin Penny. You’ve gone and cemented your status.
I repeat. You’re a loser.
And there’s no f*cking way I’m about to start handing out title matches to losers.
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An Offer
You know, no one ever tells you how hard it is to get that wet Dog smell out of your furniture. I’ve near enough ruined half of my stuff with Clorox in the last few months and my entire apartment has become a chore. Everywhere I look I see stray animal hairs. I’m still finding them on my clothes, in my food, collecting in the corners of rooms. Did I mention the smell? I call it “Corrosive Canine” and I’m a real sucker for not getting it on shelves in time for Christmas. I’m sure it would have been the must have gift for 2018.
But of course I’ve had no time to work on refining the atmosphere into a marketable perfume. I’ve been too busy scrubbing. Honestly I’m surprised no one at work has noticed how pink my hands are. The marigolds have long since perished, and f*ck me if bleach doesn’t burn human skin something rotten.
Now here stands before me another reason to have kept Hiromi out of my life. I couldn’t let her see my home in this state. There was a time when spilled salvia bongs and uneaten Chinese food were a mainstay of my natural habitat. There was a time when I didn’t give a f*ck who saw it. Hell, there was a time I pushed a girl’s face into said ditch water whilst I was in her ass hole.
I was almost proud of it. The debauchery. Just filth for the sake of filth.
It was never said aloud, but I’m fairly certain it became a competition between me and Michael. No one ever knew who won. We were always too out of it.
This is different though. I’m different.
This isn’t a mess I’ve made, and there certainly wasn’t any fun had as a result of it. Instead I’m paying the price for my compassion. For taking in a stray animal and being treated like a f*cking idiot for my efforts. Just another example of why kindness is akin to weakness. I’ve allowed myself time and again to be taken advantage of. Never in some big gotcha moment. No. Always more subtly. Slowly but surely people get their hooks into me without my noticing. I feel as though I’m one step ahead the entire time, only to wind up on the wrong end of proceedings.
Well………f*ck em.
Urgh. My nose and eyes are burning from this f*cking bleach.
*Bzzzzzz Bzzzzzzz Bzzzzzz*
Who the f*ck is this? The only person who calls me is Lila Sleater, and even she avoids it if she can.
Withheld number. Figures.
Well, if they can’t let me know who they are ahead of time, why should I waste valuable cleansing time picking up?
I let it vibrate away on coffee table while I keep scrubbing at the carpet, the fumes from the bleach really starting to fill my head like a balloon. I should open a window.
*Bzzzzzz Bzzzzzzz Bzzzzzz*
“Jesus. Take the f*cking hint.”
I get up to let some air into the room but those damn solvents catch up with me and I feel the darkness start to close in around my field of vision.
Free drugs. Well. Not free. This bottle cost $8.99. But unintended bonus drugs?
Oh sh*t, I’m off.
And I really am. Tumble, rag doll, crash.
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*Bzzzzzz Bzzzzzzz Bzzzzzz*
*Bzzzzzz Bzzzzzzz Bzzzzzz*
Urgh. Where am I? What’s this?
My fingers paw at the puddle I’m laid in as I start to open my eyes. They’re strained and the pupils struggle into focus as I examine the substance on my finger tips. It’s red. Urgh. I’ve busted something.
Where exactly am I? And what is that incessant f*cking noise?
*Bzzzzzz Bzzzzzzz Bzzzzzz*
I sit up and start to take in my surroundings, piecing together what’s happened. Sh*t yeah, I passed out. My hands trace around my head, looking for a wound, and it doesn’t take a genius to see I’ve fallen through the coffee table. F*cking hell Isaac. Get your sh*t together.
I plant my palms flat on the floor, ready to stand again, and realise they’re completely soaked in this pool. I take another look only to realise it’s not red at all. I’ve been laid in spilled bleach for who knows how long and f*ck me is it starting to sting now I’m coming around.
*Bzzzzzz Bzzzzzzz Bzzzzzz*
Are they still trying to call me? I look around my person and see the phone itself is also sat in bleach, somehow still refusing to die. I pick it up and wipe it on the closest bit of dry I can find, which in this case is the sofa. Another stain.
This better be good.
“Yes?”
“Is this a bad time?”
“It’s always a bad time. Who the f*ck is this?”
And make it snappy.
“Is this how you start all of your conversations?”
If this is some kind of cold caller then they’ve got serious balls.
“I haven’t got time for this….”
“Hey hey hey. Just a moment. Can’t you spare a minute for your old partner?”
Partner? I may be moments away from a loss of consciousness, and short of a few brain cells, but I know for a fact this is neither Michael Kyzer or David Brennan on the phone. You tend to remember voices like theirs.
“I’m a very busy man. Who am I talking to?”
He chuckles down the phone.
“A man you struggled to get rid of.”
“Listen, your moment is fast running out. Cut to the chase or the phone’s going back in the bleach.”
“What?”
“Oh. Nothing. Anyway, bye.”
“Come on, you’re no fun. It’s Josh.”
“The Man of the Hour?”
I assumed he was dead.
“What? No.”
Okay. I see where this is going now.
“Joshua De….”
“Dean. Yes. I know.”
I didn’t.
“First off, why have you got my phone number? Secondly what makes you think I’ve got the time for this?”
There’s been a lot of mention of time so far. I have to sell this idea that I’m rushed off my feet. Not just off my feet……….in a pool of bleach.
“Your number’s on file, and Sleater was more than happy to give it up to me.”
Of course. Anything to grind my rusty f*cking gears.
“And yes, I’m sure you’re a very busy man, what with being champion again. I of all people understand that time is money.”
No. Time is time. Money is money. I hate bull sh*t phrases like that.
“So what is it? You still harping on about being owed a shot? Because there’s quite a line forming and you’d be stood right at the back of it.”
Based on current booking logic he’d probably leap frog the entire locker room just because he’s managed to do even less than they have in the last year.
“No no no. Nothing like that. I know you’ve got your hands tied up with an old friend of mine at the moment.”
“Hardly. Any way I’m not sure I’m her type. Bound or otherwise.”
“You shouldn’t overlook Penny you know. Taking people lightly always seems to get you in hot water.”
“I take everyone lightly mate, and guess who the greatest, most winningest sh*t of all time is.”
“It didn’t work out so well with me though, did it?”
I know exactly what he’s getting at, but I’m not going to address his illegitimate claim to the throne.
“You mean when you cost me MY Tag Team Championships? No, you’re right. That didn’t go to plan. You know Josh, it’s been lovely catching up with you. Really, it has. But I’ve got an apartment filled with beautiful people throwing a party in my honour, and I should get back.”
I think I said that with enough confidence?
“A party huh? Sure sounds like a quiet one.”
Oh eat a d*ck.
“I stepped outside to take your call. Anyway, good luck with whatever the f*ck you’re not doing these days.”
“You realise I didn’t call just to shoot the sh*t right?”
So why are we dancing around the subject so much?
“Get to it then. I really need to go.”
I finally pull myself up from the floor and onto the sofa.
“I’m calling to offer you a job.”
…………………………….
“………………………………………”
“Drakz?”
Huhahahuahaha
“HAHAHAHA. Yeah, pull the other one mate. Why are you calling? Get to it.”
“Honestly I’m calling to offer you a position at Championship Connections. EVP of Marketing. We both know you’re not going to be able to do this much longer. Why not come and work with me?”
“With you? Or for you? Because it sounds to me like you’re trying to become my boss.”
“Hell, you can be a independent contractor if it takes the edge off? I honestly just think you’d be good at selling my clients. Everyone knows you can talk. What do you think?”
This is bizarre. Too bizarre.
“What do I think? F*ck no. What are you thinking even calling me? Have you forgotten who I am? I don’t play well with others.”
“Maybe I just thought you’d be looking for options once that back of yours finally bows out. How’s it holding up while we’re on the subject?”
Now he’s playing doctor? This is starting to boil my p*ss.
“Better than ever. My year off has turned me into the Six Million Dollar Man. I’m as indestructible as I’ve ever been, and honestly? I’m f*cking sick of people assuming I’m about to start winding down. This isn’t a part time gig for me. I’m going to keep doing this until there’s nothing left to do.
I can’t just walk away and put a suit on like you Josh. I’m a lifer. You and your merry band of c*nts had your day in the sun pretending like you really wanted to make a difference but guess what? There’s only one of your tribe left, and she’s got a limp. Easy prey.
Your legacy around here? Your name in the WFWF? It means nothing. None of you mean a f*cking thing anymore. And once I put Penny to bed maybe you can offer her that job instead?
F*cking EVP of marketing. Jesus.
The only way you’ll be working alongside someone like me ever again is if you bring your f*cking ball back to the playground. I’ll be waiting Joshua. Bring the whole family.
F*ck your meagre legacy. F*ck your Championship Connections. F*ck your friends. F*ck your wife. F*ck your kids. F*ck your Dog.”
Wow this really has riled me up.
“Well I see you’ve matured since we last spoke.”
“Like a stinking piece of cheese mate.”
“Listen Isaac……”
He knows how much I hate that.
“…….when that back of yours does eventually break…..for good this time……just bear in mind that the offices here have wheelchair access.”
I know he said that with a grin on his face. I can just hear it. Smug c*nt.
*BEEP*
And he’s gone. At least now I can get back to my party, right?
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Penny Shannon. Penny, Penny Shannon.
I’m not sure we’ve ever actually thrown hands? But I’m not one to let things pass me by. I’ve watched you since the day you walked in the door here, and I know full well that you’re the last of a dying breed.
The last of a breed that always thought it could make a difference just by saying it.
The mere proclamation of revolution does not a revolution make. You can ask Frank Lynn about that.
So with all these words, all this talk, I suppose it stands to reason that I’d ask this question of you. I consider myself a gender non-specific of my word, but what about you? When you take an honest look at yourself in the mirror do you see the person you always claimed to be? Or do you see a feckless sham of a comic book character?
I mean really……when was the last time anyone thought you were worth sh*t?
Now before you bark an answer back at me I must add the proviso that Mesh is excluded from any self serving opinion poll you might be dreaming up. Just because some kid frigs herself to your entrance music doesn’t mean you’re any good once it ends and the bell rings.
You need to back up your howls with actions, and not just “try your best, that’s all we can ask of you” sh*te. I need to see results. I need to see hard facts that prove you deserve to even be in a ring with me, let alone trying your hand at becoming “she who holds the gold”.
Say what you like about me Penny, and I know you will, everyone does. Say I run. Say I hide. It’s all f*cking hyperbole, because when it comes down to it I’ve beaten every c*nt that’s stood in my way.
Schneider.
Trace.
Josh.
Ahriman.
Brennan.
Kyzer.
All of them. Dust to the wind.
No where to be seen.
Oh you think there’s an asterisk next to your old pal Mr Dean’s name? That f*cking schmuck didn’t have what it takes. He got lucky and I proved it. Immediately. He then managed to go on and sully MY Tag Team Championship run and eventually cost me. My first loss in, I don’t know? Ever? Who’s counting? I was……for a time.
So where is he now? Sat in an office, trying to keep himself relevant by offering me work I don’t need.
And the rest of your Saviours? Gone. Washed up. Locked up. Beaten up. Knocked up. Who knows? Who the f*ck even cares? There’s only you now. Clinging on for dear life. Allow me to stamp on your fingers.
People tell me not to underestimate you. Not to assume this is a forgone conclusion. And yes, you’ve mashed your fair share of nuts along the way, but I don’t see much in the way of gold on your resumé. F*ck even Nikki Dean managed to score a bit of tin foil during her brief “let’s play wrestler” stint. The closest you’ve come to championship gold was her belt resting on your head, while you ate out that cuck’s wife.
It’s time to join your friends Pen. Time to go home. Time to hang it up and get back to haunting student bars, sharking out those inexperienced teens. Spreading confused snatch, that only opens to you as a middle finger to Daddy, is about all you’re good for these days.
As for my boombox romance with Michael? What the f*ck would you know about it? We’re in a committed, long term relationship. Something a dried out piece of mutton like you wouldn’t recognise if it dropped you on your end……….and it will.
Drop the regression session for a second and grow the f*ck up.
I respect you for asking for this. You’ve got a bigger d*ck than anyone else here, but know that my respect is fleeting. It’ll have all p*ssed down my leg by the time I kick you in the mouth in L.A.
Like everyone who came before you, stepping into the ring with me…….”Mr 8.5.1 and Counting”……will be the only thing you’re remembered for.
Enjoy your moment in the sun, because that shadow of yours is starting to look awful long.