Resurrection of Demons [RP #1]
Dec 15, 2011 18:07:35 GMT -5
Post by scottreave on Dec 15, 2011 18:07:35 GMT -5
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RESURRECTION OF DEMONS
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December 2011
Day 30
“I want to thank you, I mean, I’ve been sober for thirty days and I feel… good. I think this is the best I’ve felt in… shit, I dunno.”
I’ve been stuck here for thirty days, and it fucking sucked.
There was nothing here, nothing but sterile white rooms with fuzzy house coats and white men in white scrubs. Even television was strictly monitored, the recreational room was mostly filled with pasty, pale crack addicts and toothless, grinning societal rejects that couldn’t find a job because they were too stupid or too far gone to help. There was something disheartening about being in this place, about doing nothing but staring at the ceiling during lights out. It was like you were done, everything you were and everything you knew… it didn’t matter so much anymore. Out there—in the real world—I was someone to be proud of. I was someone who worked hard for his money and played just as hard. I mean, sure, maybe I was hooked, maybe it became a craving but—what the hell was I supposed to do? Was I supposed to tell my boss ‘sorry, can’t work, I’m too banged up’? In professional wrestling, that is not an option.
Seriously, the next time you bust your knee or roll your ankle, try telling your boss you can’t make it into work. See what happens.
But in this place—Betty Ford on steroids is what it was—I was trapped. On the outside, I was a man, someone who accomplished something in his career. I used to be the ROPE World Heavyweight Champion, and I was perhaps the hottest bad boy in the entire industry. At least, that’s what the Internet would have you believe. I started riots in arenas, I performed guerrilla warfare on my employers, hell, I even kidnapped one of ‘em so I’d get my chance at glory… and all the while, I was starting to believe more and more that I was destined for something better.
That all changed when I walked into this place, and saw the drooling, shuffling, detoxing addicts that I’d been lumped in with. Shit, even now when I close my eyes, I can hear them screaming, vomiting, and sometimes doing both at the same time.
Was this really what I had become? I remember my first night on the inside. I remember staring into the mirror just before lights out and brushing my teeth, I remember staring into the dark, sagging bags of purple under my eyes, and how pale I looked. How flushed I looked. I remember running my tooth brush along my lips and feeling the coarse, splintering flesh peeling away. I had been on the inside for less than twenty-four hours at that point, and I was already cracking.
But now, now it was almost over. Now I no longer had to deal with shrinks who tried to get to the ‘emotional trauma’ or the ‘reason’ behind my ‘addiction’. I no longer had to deal with middle-aged fuck-ups who got their job thanks to their only qualification being, well, they were in my place at one point in time. I no longer had to deal with people who cared too much or not enough, and, well, standing in the hallway with the manager of this particular re-education internment camp for the addicted, I was growing anxious.
It had been thirty days, and I was fidgeting to get out of here. I was dressed in the clothes I came in with—a leather jacket, black jeans and an Iron Maiden t-shirt, with my knapsack slung over one shoulder, I kept my other hand buried into my jacket pocket—if only so the dumbass who stood in front of me now didn’t see how badly I was fidgeting. To him, it probably would’ve looked like I was jonesing which—well, probably wasn’t the case.
“Now Scott, I want you to know that no matter what, I’m here for you. If you ever feel like you’re going to use, I want you to call me, Scott.”
I nodded, keeping my eye-line low, like, practically counting the linoleum tiles as I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.
“I mean it Scott, you’re a good kid. You’ve just gotta get through this part and then you’re home free.”
I smirked, and nodded.
“Scott?”
“Yeah?”
“Look at me, Scott.”
I sighed, and raised my gaze. It was a disheartening experience, being here, trapped between these walls with nutters and anorexic drag-queens who depended on cocaine to try and relive the glory days of the nineteen-eighties. Granted, I loved the eighties too but… I mean come on, you had to get on with your life, right? You couldn’t just stay in one place while the world moved on. You couldn’t whore yourself out night after night just to take your winnings and buy your next fix, could you?
Shit, I remember when this guy said that that was exactly what I was doing.
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Day 3
“I think they’re bogus. I think these are some of the saddest people walking the Earth, doc. I mean, shit, taking an AR-16 and double-tapping each one in the back of the fuckin’ head would probably be less painful in the long run. I mean, shit, did you even see the newbie?”
He sat across his desk from me, and he laughed. There was a pleasant little smile at the corners of his mouth, as if he knew some secret I didn’t, and that he wasn’t quite willing to share with me just yet.
I was sitting across from his desk—this would be where I would have my ‘sessions’ all nice and private like. At least my former boss, Alex Riley, did me a solid when he forced me to go here; he made sure I didn’t have to mingle with the fuckin’ mongoloids while I was here.
“Shit, doc, just… she came in all nice and well mannered, and she called Barney by his first name. She actually seemed friendly around that big bastard, and then at ten o’clock—after lights out, mind you—she starts kickin’ and screamin’, and what’s my luck, doc? She’s got the room right next to mine, and I gotta listen to this bitch vomit all over her damn bed and the fuckin’ smell man… I mean shit, how in God’s name do you guys live with this? I’ve got twenty-seven days left and then I’m a free man, but you, doc? You? You’ve gotta keep putting up with this shit no matter what. How the hell do you do it?”
He was an older man, about fifty-five or so, and his hair was little more than tufts of grey—perhaps some black peppered here and there. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and cheap suits, and seemed to be perspiring no matter what the temperature was. Nonetheless, he tilted his head to one side and simply stared at me while I complained about my new neighbour.
“I mean, I left my room because I hear a woman and she sounds like she’s being run through a wood chipper feet first, I’m gonna try and help, ya know? But this bitch… man… I took one look inside and I just knew this wasn’t my scene. This chick, what’s she in for?”
“Heroin addiction.”
I whistled, not exactly sure how I should respond to that. I smiled then, and began fiddling with my nice pyjamas. Gotta love these pyjamas.
“It’s like… on the outside, anybody can believe—they fool themselves into thinking they’re important, you know? They can have the money to go with it, they can even have the nice apartment and their fridge can be full of twelve packs of Canadian but—the point is, they can believe they’re not doing anything wrong—and superficially, they’re not. I mean, I’m supposedly addicted to Lorcet but I got those legally, doc. Prescriptions are a wonderful thing. I had six refills on it because of the damage I did to my knee, and I take some more than I should’ve sure, I was tired and I just didn’t… I wanted to sleep through the pain, you know? I just wanted to sleep… you vomit in your sleep and all of the sudden your boss is scared for your well being, and your co-workers are pretending to be worried—pretending that they care about you when all they want is for you to fucking disappear so they can steal your spot… I mean shit, doc, you make one mistake and now you gotta waste thirty days in some Methodone knock-off trying to prove you’re not an addict, or at the very least, not crazy.”
That’s the truth. There’s really nothing left to say after that. It’s kinda… how it all started, how it all came together. I had woken up one morning in a hospital, apparently my stomach been pumped and there was Alex, standing over me with a severe frown, his hairline had retreated to the rear just a little more, and he loomed over me like death itself.
I still remember how he stared into my dopey eyes, how I couldn’t talk, how I was on a ventilator, how he simply told me that enough was enough, that it was over, that it didn’t matter how badly ROPE needed me or The System. That we took care of our own, that I was going to rehab and that I was getting off the pills… I told him no, or tried to, anyway, but he wouldn’t hear it. He didn’t give a damn. The truth was, Alex Riley didn’t want a Brian Pillman on his hands. He didn’t want another drug-addled superstar being found dead in their hotel room. He didn’t want the ROPE name being sullied when we were at such a critical point in our lives. Truth is, he just wanted me gone so he didn’t have to worry anymore.
I told the doc all of this.
“Scott, may I put my theory to you?”
I nodded.
“I think, Scott, based on what you’ve told me—I think… well, I think you’re an addict, Scott. I think you had an injury, sure, but it had been how many years at this point? Four?”
I nodded.
“Do you honestly believe that a ‘bummed knee’ is going to be so painful, so utterly disgusting to work with, that you need to pop for Lorcets at a time and chase ‘em down with beer?”
I thought about that for a moment.
“Scott, I think you became hooked on the stuff. I think you had a bad doctor and I think he didn’t care about what he was doing. I think that the pain was excruciating, and the fact that you couldn’t work or do anything else besides pro-wrestling only made it harder on you. I think you sacrificed your health so you could keep running up that hill, Scott. I think, however, that at some point the pills became less of a tool, and more of a dependence. I think, Scott, that after awhile, you stopped caring if your knee was in rough shape, I think you ended up working for your pills, instead of making the pills help you work for you.”
I kept thinking about my neighbour, about how she was vomiting, about how she left chunks of water and stomach acid all over her room. I kept thinking about how there was nothing after awhile but stomach acid, about how bad it smelled, and about how every night after that, I had to put up with her sobbing, with her endless fucking sobbing.
She turned into a chronic masturbator, by the way.
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Day 30
“Well?”
I was remembering my time here, remembering how I went through the same thing the masturbation girl went through. Violent shakes, endless streams of vomit—just when I thought it was over, and I had nothing left, my stomach somehow dug in and found something to throw back up. The DTs, turning paler than Powder. Everything was a violent experience here, surreal and blurry, a foggy haze had descended over my time here, like my mind was trying to block the bad experience and focus on the fact that I was nearly home free.
“I’ll keep in touch, doc.”
He smiled at me, but it wasn’t genuine. I could see in his eyes he expected me to be back. He didn’t think I was serious about my rehabilitation—and maybe I wasn’t. Right now, I didn’t care. All I wanted was to get the fuck out of here. Away from Barney, away from the crazy chronic masturbator, away from the sterile walls and the curfews. Anywhere but here.
We shook hands, and the good doctor escorted me outside. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. It smelled good here, the birds were chirping and the trees were lush and green. Colour had returned to my world. I smiled one last time at the good doctor and walked down the cobble stone path, putting as much distance between me and the damn rehab clinic from hell behind me. I didn’t know it at the time, but I’d be back—quite a few times, actually… but for the moment, I was free.
Sitting atop of a large boulder—some kind of decoration—I lit a cigarette and tasted the smooth tobacco for the first time in a few days. It felt nice.
Around the corner came a beat up baby blue sedan. The body was almost completely rusted through, cracks along the windshield snaked along, splintering off into a maze of spider’s webs. I couldn’t really see who it was, but as it rolled and puttered to a stop in front of me, I recognized the afro—even through the smoke that billowed out from the car.
“You’re almost late.”
“Shut up nigga, fuckin’ piece o’ shit wouldn’t start.”
I chuckled and ditched the smoke, crushing it under my boot heel, I walked to the sedan and gripped the handle.
“You sure this shit-box is safe?”
From the driver’s seat, one hand loosely gripping the steering wheel and the other handling perhaps the biggest blunt I’ve seen in my life, Allen Marrow looked at me through Chinese eyes and said, “I dunno, but it’s better than the bus, ain’t it?”
I nodded, and hopped inside, descending into the cloud of smoke that had been hot-boxed into this p.o.s. Allen Marrow smiled and grinned at me, and then offered me the joint.
“I’ll pass for now, one of us needs to be sober.”
Allen nodded, “True dat, son.”
I looked around, there was nobody here, nobody on the block. It was like we were the only two people in the world.
Casually, I turned to Allen and said, “You got what I asked for?”
Allen sucked his teeth and then spit through them, out the driver’s side window. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a neon orange bottle of pills and shook them. The clink the little pills made against the plastic set my teeth on edge.
“Here you go little nigga, but I gotta say… shit was difficult to get a hold of. Nearly had to lay pipe to an old bitch befo’ she gave it up.”
I snatched them from Allen’s hand, twisted the child proof cap off, and downed about six or seven at once.
“Drink. Hit me.”
Allen reached into the cup holder he probably welded to the console, and offered me his bottle of Crown Royal. No cup, no ice, just straight out of the mock-crystal bottle. I grinned and downed a shot or two, and handed it back to Allen. Swishing the whiskey around in my mouth, I finally bit the bullet and swallowed the whiskey, and the pills, and felt them settle nicely into my stomach.
I felt my eyes roll into the back of my head, and I smiled. Now, it was time to have some fun.
“Set a course, number one.”
“Where to, Captain?”
“To white bitches and weed, my good man… to white bitches… and weed…” I raised a lucid hand, and motioned to go forward. “Engage.”
From what seemed like far away, hearing Allen through merely a tin can and string, I heard him say what sounded like, “You white boys and your Trek. Fuckin’ white boys.”
The rest of that weekend… I don’t quite remember.
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Do I really think I’ll be great again?
Do I really think I can get to where I was?
… I don’t know.
See James, I was preparing for this and I was thinking to myself. I was thinking about how I wasn’t quite sure what to say, about how I was probably going to come in with the typical Reave charm and how I was going to show you through my words and my actions just how far off the damn reservation you truly are. But then something got me thinking.
Just what do I expect from this match?
Do I expect to win? Sure, I think I’ve still got the skills to back it up, despite having two surgeries on my knee and feeling like I’m about to keel over and die at any moment. Do I think it’s going to be easy? Well, maybe, but again, that kinda depends on how my body holds up, not necessarily whether or not you have the skills to take me down.
My name is Scott Marlon Reave, and I was born on March 19th, 1978. I was born to a single mother and to be honest, I’ve never even met my father. I don’t even have a picture of the man. All I got was some vague description when I was a kid, something I can barely remember even now… and I can tell you that I wasn’t the greatest or the smartest kid in school, but growing up in the Bowery pre-Giuliani… you kinda had to have your mind on more important things—like where your next meal was coming from, where your next paycheck was at, and what exactly you were willing to do to stay alive. Growing up white and in the Bowery wasn’t fun, James, but maybe you might know a little something about that.
The one thing I did have when I was a kid—I sure as shit didn’t get an Atari or a Lite Brite or whatever the hell was popular—was a television, and on that television we got pro-wrestling… and you know what? It fascinated me, James. The idea of two tough guys going into a ring and settling their differences intrigued me, and I kinda knew that from then on, pro-wrestling was something I needed to try. Something I needed to see if I could do… and as I grew up, the city around me changed, and the world around me changed, but pro-wrestling never changed. Pro-wrestling even when I first walked into my school at the age of eighteen, was just as tough as it was thirty years ago. I took my beatings and I climbed up the ladder, picking up skills and little tricks along the way. I wasn’t the most gifted or even the most athletic, but I was a hard worker—and that’s something you can’t just wish into existence, James, a work ethic is something you develop over time, most often out of necessity than teachings.
But I made it… and I did good. I broke into this sport, and I fell in love with it. I loved everything about this sport, James. I loved taking the bumps and I loved beating the hell out of the other guys. I loved the fact that I was getting paid fifty, maybe sixty bucks a shot, driving up and down the highways and earning what I could, staying in the shittiest motels or just sleeping in my Chevy to try and break even. I loved spending every last dollar I had on my gas tank, or sitting up until three in the morning teaching myself how to sew, because some asshole grabbed my trunks and ripped them open, exposing my ass. I loved every single lesson the old timers taught me, James… and the truth is, I finally felt like I was home.
Pro-wresting James, is a brotherhood. Sure we beat the hell out of each other, but very few people outside of this sport know what it’s like to be one of us. They don’t really have a clue of what it’s like to step into the ring night after night and kill yourself, kill your back, your knees, your arms, kill your neck just for a few dollars and the rush of adrenaline that comes from a crowd of twenty-five or twenty-five thousand. We kill ourselves because we either love what we do, or because we can’t do anything else…
… So I gotta wonder, James, which side of the fence am I on?
And the truth is… I honestly couldn’t tell you. Leading up to this match, leading into my return here to pro-wrestling—I honestly didn’t know what to expect, or even if I’d be still the same Scott Reave that the Internet remembered. I couldn’t tell you if I’d be out of shape or if I’d step into the ring and realize I don’t have what it takes anymore. I couldn’t tell you if when my music plays and I’m walking out to that ring, and I don’t feel the butterflies anymore… but I can tell you, James, that when it comes to you and me, when it comes to you and I stepping into the ring and standing toe-to-toe, I can promise that you’re going to get what I can give. I can promise that you’re going to face the best Scott Reave that’s been seen in years. I can promise this because I realize James, this might be my last chance. This might be my last opportunity to truly make my mark… sure ROPE was fun, and it was good money, but ROPE is dead, James. ROPE is dead and buried and now we’re here, now we’re in FRONTIER Grappling Arts, and now the past means nothing and I have to start all over again.
So the question becomes, James, just which one of us is willing to do what it takes to run up that hill, to take that hill and to hold it against all comers? Just which one of us has what it takes to finally storm the beach and refuse to falter? We’re coming from the same place, just on different sides of the tracks.
Maybe you’ve got a better idea of what you’re capable of, of what you can do, than I do… and I’d be willing to wager that you’re right. I don’t know what I’m capable of anymore, James… but one thing I am looking forward to, is stepping into the ring with you and testing myself and testing my ability one last time, and maybe seeing if I can break an arm one last time. Maybe then I’ll find out what kind of man I am, and maybe then I’ll find out if I was doomed to be an indy darling for the rest of my career, or maybe if I had what it took to make it in the big leagues all along. Truth is, James, I don’t know yet… but I’ve got a feeling that come Combat, when you and me step into the squared circle to dance… I have a feeling that I’ll be finding out real, real soon.
RESURRECTION OF DEMONS
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December 2011
Day 30
“I want to thank you, I mean, I’ve been sober for thirty days and I feel… good. I think this is the best I’ve felt in… shit, I dunno.”
I’ve been stuck here for thirty days, and it fucking sucked.
There was nothing here, nothing but sterile white rooms with fuzzy house coats and white men in white scrubs. Even television was strictly monitored, the recreational room was mostly filled with pasty, pale crack addicts and toothless, grinning societal rejects that couldn’t find a job because they were too stupid or too far gone to help. There was something disheartening about being in this place, about doing nothing but staring at the ceiling during lights out. It was like you were done, everything you were and everything you knew… it didn’t matter so much anymore. Out there—in the real world—I was someone to be proud of. I was someone who worked hard for his money and played just as hard. I mean, sure, maybe I was hooked, maybe it became a craving but—what the hell was I supposed to do? Was I supposed to tell my boss ‘sorry, can’t work, I’m too banged up’? In professional wrestling, that is not an option.
Seriously, the next time you bust your knee or roll your ankle, try telling your boss you can’t make it into work. See what happens.
But in this place—Betty Ford on steroids is what it was—I was trapped. On the outside, I was a man, someone who accomplished something in his career. I used to be the ROPE World Heavyweight Champion, and I was perhaps the hottest bad boy in the entire industry. At least, that’s what the Internet would have you believe. I started riots in arenas, I performed guerrilla warfare on my employers, hell, I even kidnapped one of ‘em so I’d get my chance at glory… and all the while, I was starting to believe more and more that I was destined for something better.
That all changed when I walked into this place, and saw the drooling, shuffling, detoxing addicts that I’d been lumped in with. Shit, even now when I close my eyes, I can hear them screaming, vomiting, and sometimes doing both at the same time.
Was this really what I had become? I remember my first night on the inside. I remember staring into the mirror just before lights out and brushing my teeth, I remember staring into the dark, sagging bags of purple under my eyes, and how pale I looked. How flushed I looked. I remember running my tooth brush along my lips and feeling the coarse, splintering flesh peeling away. I had been on the inside for less than twenty-four hours at that point, and I was already cracking.
But now, now it was almost over. Now I no longer had to deal with shrinks who tried to get to the ‘emotional trauma’ or the ‘reason’ behind my ‘addiction’. I no longer had to deal with middle-aged fuck-ups who got their job thanks to their only qualification being, well, they were in my place at one point in time. I no longer had to deal with people who cared too much or not enough, and, well, standing in the hallway with the manager of this particular re-education internment camp for the addicted, I was growing anxious.
It had been thirty days, and I was fidgeting to get out of here. I was dressed in the clothes I came in with—a leather jacket, black jeans and an Iron Maiden t-shirt, with my knapsack slung over one shoulder, I kept my other hand buried into my jacket pocket—if only so the dumbass who stood in front of me now didn’t see how badly I was fidgeting. To him, it probably would’ve looked like I was jonesing which—well, probably wasn’t the case.
“Now Scott, I want you to know that no matter what, I’m here for you. If you ever feel like you’re going to use, I want you to call me, Scott.”
I nodded, keeping my eye-line low, like, practically counting the linoleum tiles as I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.
“I mean it Scott, you’re a good kid. You’ve just gotta get through this part and then you’re home free.”
I smirked, and nodded.
“Scott?”
“Yeah?”
“Look at me, Scott.”
I sighed, and raised my gaze. It was a disheartening experience, being here, trapped between these walls with nutters and anorexic drag-queens who depended on cocaine to try and relive the glory days of the nineteen-eighties. Granted, I loved the eighties too but… I mean come on, you had to get on with your life, right? You couldn’t just stay in one place while the world moved on. You couldn’t whore yourself out night after night just to take your winnings and buy your next fix, could you?
Shit, I remember when this guy said that that was exactly what I was doing.
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Day 3
“I think they’re bogus. I think these are some of the saddest people walking the Earth, doc. I mean, shit, taking an AR-16 and double-tapping each one in the back of the fuckin’ head would probably be less painful in the long run. I mean, shit, did you even see the newbie?”
He sat across his desk from me, and he laughed. There was a pleasant little smile at the corners of his mouth, as if he knew some secret I didn’t, and that he wasn’t quite willing to share with me just yet.
I was sitting across from his desk—this would be where I would have my ‘sessions’ all nice and private like. At least my former boss, Alex Riley, did me a solid when he forced me to go here; he made sure I didn’t have to mingle with the fuckin’ mongoloids while I was here.
“Shit, doc, just… she came in all nice and well mannered, and she called Barney by his first name. She actually seemed friendly around that big bastard, and then at ten o’clock—after lights out, mind you—she starts kickin’ and screamin’, and what’s my luck, doc? She’s got the room right next to mine, and I gotta listen to this bitch vomit all over her damn bed and the fuckin’ smell man… I mean shit, how in God’s name do you guys live with this? I’ve got twenty-seven days left and then I’m a free man, but you, doc? You? You’ve gotta keep putting up with this shit no matter what. How the hell do you do it?”
He was an older man, about fifty-five or so, and his hair was little more than tufts of grey—perhaps some black peppered here and there. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and cheap suits, and seemed to be perspiring no matter what the temperature was. Nonetheless, he tilted his head to one side and simply stared at me while I complained about my new neighbour.
“I mean, I left my room because I hear a woman and she sounds like she’s being run through a wood chipper feet first, I’m gonna try and help, ya know? But this bitch… man… I took one look inside and I just knew this wasn’t my scene. This chick, what’s she in for?”
“Heroin addiction.”
I whistled, not exactly sure how I should respond to that. I smiled then, and began fiddling with my nice pyjamas. Gotta love these pyjamas.
“It’s like… on the outside, anybody can believe—they fool themselves into thinking they’re important, you know? They can have the money to go with it, they can even have the nice apartment and their fridge can be full of twelve packs of Canadian but—the point is, they can believe they’re not doing anything wrong—and superficially, they’re not. I mean, I’m supposedly addicted to Lorcet but I got those legally, doc. Prescriptions are a wonderful thing. I had six refills on it because of the damage I did to my knee, and I take some more than I should’ve sure, I was tired and I just didn’t… I wanted to sleep through the pain, you know? I just wanted to sleep… you vomit in your sleep and all of the sudden your boss is scared for your well being, and your co-workers are pretending to be worried—pretending that they care about you when all they want is for you to fucking disappear so they can steal your spot… I mean shit, doc, you make one mistake and now you gotta waste thirty days in some Methodone knock-off trying to prove you’re not an addict, or at the very least, not crazy.”
That’s the truth. There’s really nothing left to say after that. It’s kinda… how it all started, how it all came together. I had woken up one morning in a hospital, apparently my stomach been pumped and there was Alex, standing over me with a severe frown, his hairline had retreated to the rear just a little more, and he loomed over me like death itself.
I still remember how he stared into my dopey eyes, how I couldn’t talk, how I was on a ventilator, how he simply told me that enough was enough, that it was over, that it didn’t matter how badly ROPE needed me or The System. That we took care of our own, that I was going to rehab and that I was getting off the pills… I told him no, or tried to, anyway, but he wouldn’t hear it. He didn’t give a damn. The truth was, Alex Riley didn’t want a Brian Pillman on his hands. He didn’t want another drug-addled superstar being found dead in their hotel room. He didn’t want the ROPE name being sullied when we were at such a critical point in our lives. Truth is, he just wanted me gone so he didn’t have to worry anymore.
I told the doc all of this.
“Scott, may I put my theory to you?”
I nodded.
“I think, Scott, based on what you’ve told me—I think… well, I think you’re an addict, Scott. I think you had an injury, sure, but it had been how many years at this point? Four?”
I nodded.
“Do you honestly believe that a ‘bummed knee’ is going to be so painful, so utterly disgusting to work with, that you need to pop for Lorcets at a time and chase ‘em down with beer?”
I thought about that for a moment.
“Scott, I think you became hooked on the stuff. I think you had a bad doctor and I think he didn’t care about what he was doing. I think that the pain was excruciating, and the fact that you couldn’t work or do anything else besides pro-wrestling only made it harder on you. I think you sacrificed your health so you could keep running up that hill, Scott. I think, however, that at some point the pills became less of a tool, and more of a dependence. I think, Scott, that after awhile, you stopped caring if your knee was in rough shape, I think you ended up working for your pills, instead of making the pills help you work for you.”
I kept thinking about my neighbour, about how she was vomiting, about how she left chunks of water and stomach acid all over her room. I kept thinking about how there was nothing after awhile but stomach acid, about how bad it smelled, and about how every night after that, I had to put up with her sobbing, with her endless fucking sobbing.
She turned into a chronic masturbator, by the way.
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Day 30
“Well?”
I was remembering my time here, remembering how I went through the same thing the masturbation girl went through. Violent shakes, endless streams of vomit—just when I thought it was over, and I had nothing left, my stomach somehow dug in and found something to throw back up. The DTs, turning paler than Powder. Everything was a violent experience here, surreal and blurry, a foggy haze had descended over my time here, like my mind was trying to block the bad experience and focus on the fact that I was nearly home free.
“I’ll keep in touch, doc.”
He smiled at me, but it wasn’t genuine. I could see in his eyes he expected me to be back. He didn’t think I was serious about my rehabilitation—and maybe I wasn’t. Right now, I didn’t care. All I wanted was to get the fuck out of here. Away from Barney, away from the crazy chronic masturbator, away from the sterile walls and the curfews. Anywhere but here.
We shook hands, and the good doctor escorted me outside. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. It smelled good here, the birds were chirping and the trees were lush and green. Colour had returned to my world. I smiled one last time at the good doctor and walked down the cobble stone path, putting as much distance between me and the damn rehab clinic from hell behind me. I didn’t know it at the time, but I’d be back—quite a few times, actually… but for the moment, I was free.
Sitting atop of a large boulder—some kind of decoration—I lit a cigarette and tasted the smooth tobacco for the first time in a few days. It felt nice.
Around the corner came a beat up baby blue sedan. The body was almost completely rusted through, cracks along the windshield snaked along, splintering off into a maze of spider’s webs. I couldn’t really see who it was, but as it rolled and puttered to a stop in front of me, I recognized the afro—even through the smoke that billowed out from the car.
“You’re almost late.”
“Shut up nigga, fuckin’ piece o’ shit wouldn’t start.”
I chuckled and ditched the smoke, crushing it under my boot heel, I walked to the sedan and gripped the handle.
“You sure this shit-box is safe?”
From the driver’s seat, one hand loosely gripping the steering wheel and the other handling perhaps the biggest blunt I’ve seen in my life, Allen Marrow looked at me through Chinese eyes and said, “I dunno, but it’s better than the bus, ain’t it?”
I nodded, and hopped inside, descending into the cloud of smoke that had been hot-boxed into this p.o.s. Allen Marrow smiled and grinned at me, and then offered me the joint.
“I’ll pass for now, one of us needs to be sober.”
Allen nodded, “True dat, son.”
I looked around, there was nobody here, nobody on the block. It was like we were the only two people in the world.
Casually, I turned to Allen and said, “You got what I asked for?”
Allen sucked his teeth and then spit through them, out the driver’s side window. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a neon orange bottle of pills and shook them. The clink the little pills made against the plastic set my teeth on edge.
“Here you go little nigga, but I gotta say… shit was difficult to get a hold of. Nearly had to lay pipe to an old bitch befo’ she gave it up.”
I snatched them from Allen’s hand, twisted the child proof cap off, and downed about six or seven at once.
“Drink. Hit me.”
Allen reached into the cup holder he probably welded to the console, and offered me his bottle of Crown Royal. No cup, no ice, just straight out of the mock-crystal bottle. I grinned and downed a shot or two, and handed it back to Allen. Swishing the whiskey around in my mouth, I finally bit the bullet and swallowed the whiskey, and the pills, and felt them settle nicely into my stomach.
I felt my eyes roll into the back of my head, and I smiled. Now, it was time to have some fun.
“Set a course, number one.”
“Where to, Captain?”
“To white bitches and weed, my good man… to white bitches… and weed…” I raised a lucid hand, and motioned to go forward. “Engage.”
From what seemed like far away, hearing Allen through merely a tin can and string, I heard him say what sounded like, “You white boys and your Trek. Fuckin’ white boys.”
The rest of that weekend… I don’t quite remember.
___________________________________________________________________________________
Do I really think I’ll be great again?
Do I really think I can get to where I was?
… I don’t know.
See James, I was preparing for this and I was thinking to myself. I was thinking about how I wasn’t quite sure what to say, about how I was probably going to come in with the typical Reave charm and how I was going to show you through my words and my actions just how far off the damn reservation you truly are. But then something got me thinking.
Just what do I expect from this match?
Do I expect to win? Sure, I think I’ve still got the skills to back it up, despite having two surgeries on my knee and feeling like I’m about to keel over and die at any moment. Do I think it’s going to be easy? Well, maybe, but again, that kinda depends on how my body holds up, not necessarily whether or not you have the skills to take me down.
My name is Scott Marlon Reave, and I was born on March 19th, 1978. I was born to a single mother and to be honest, I’ve never even met my father. I don’t even have a picture of the man. All I got was some vague description when I was a kid, something I can barely remember even now… and I can tell you that I wasn’t the greatest or the smartest kid in school, but growing up in the Bowery pre-Giuliani… you kinda had to have your mind on more important things—like where your next meal was coming from, where your next paycheck was at, and what exactly you were willing to do to stay alive. Growing up white and in the Bowery wasn’t fun, James, but maybe you might know a little something about that.
The one thing I did have when I was a kid—I sure as shit didn’t get an Atari or a Lite Brite or whatever the hell was popular—was a television, and on that television we got pro-wrestling… and you know what? It fascinated me, James. The idea of two tough guys going into a ring and settling their differences intrigued me, and I kinda knew that from then on, pro-wrestling was something I needed to try. Something I needed to see if I could do… and as I grew up, the city around me changed, and the world around me changed, but pro-wrestling never changed. Pro-wrestling even when I first walked into my school at the age of eighteen, was just as tough as it was thirty years ago. I took my beatings and I climbed up the ladder, picking up skills and little tricks along the way. I wasn’t the most gifted or even the most athletic, but I was a hard worker—and that’s something you can’t just wish into existence, James, a work ethic is something you develop over time, most often out of necessity than teachings.
But I made it… and I did good. I broke into this sport, and I fell in love with it. I loved everything about this sport, James. I loved taking the bumps and I loved beating the hell out of the other guys. I loved the fact that I was getting paid fifty, maybe sixty bucks a shot, driving up and down the highways and earning what I could, staying in the shittiest motels or just sleeping in my Chevy to try and break even. I loved spending every last dollar I had on my gas tank, or sitting up until three in the morning teaching myself how to sew, because some asshole grabbed my trunks and ripped them open, exposing my ass. I loved every single lesson the old timers taught me, James… and the truth is, I finally felt like I was home.
Pro-wresting James, is a brotherhood. Sure we beat the hell out of each other, but very few people outside of this sport know what it’s like to be one of us. They don’t really have a clue of what it’s like to step into the ring night after night and kill yourself, kill your back, your knees, your arms, kill your neck just for a few dollars and the rush of adrenaline that comes from a crowd of twenty-five or twenty-five thousand. We kill ourselves because we either love what we do, or because we can’t do anything else…
… So I gotta wonder, James, which side of the fence am I on?
And the truth is… I honestly couldn’t tell you. Leading up to this match, leading into my return here to pro-wrestling—I honestly didn’t know what to expect, or even if I’d be still the same Scott Reave that the Internet remembered. I couldn’t tell you if I’d be out of shape or if I’d step into the ring and realize I don’t have what it takes anymore. I couldn’t tell you if when my music plays and I’m walking out to that ring, and I don’t feel the butterflies anymore… but I can tell you, James, that when it comes to you and me, when it comes to you and I stepping into the ring and standing toe-to-toe, I can promise that you’re going to get what I can give. I can promise that you’re going to face the best Scott Reave that’s been seen in years. I can promise this because I realize James, this might be my last chance. This might be my last opportunity to truly make my mark… sure ROPE was fun, and it was good money, but ROPE is dead, James. ROPE is dead and buried and now we’re here, now we’re in FRONTIER Grappling Arts, and now the past means nothing and I have to start all over again.
So the question becomes, James, just which one of us is willing to do what it takes to run up that hill, to take that hill and to hold it against all comers? Just which one of us has what it takes to finally storm the beach and refuse to falter? We’re coming from the same place, just on different sides of the tracks.
Maybe you’ve got a better idea of what you’re capable of, of what you can do, than I do… and I’d be willing to wager that you’re right. I don’t know what I’m capable of anymore, James… but one thing I am looking forward to, is stepping into the ring with you and testing myself and testing my ability one last time, and maybe seeing if I can break an arm one last time. Maybe then I’ll find out what kind of man I am, and maybe then I’ll find out if I was doomed to be an indy darling for the rest of my career, or maybe if I had what it took to make it in the big leagues all along. Truth is, James, I don’t know yet… but I’ve got a feeling that come Combat, when you and me step into the squared circle to dance… I have a feeling that I’ll be finding out real, real soon.