S01E12
Mar 15, 2013 12:31:34 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Mar 15, 2013 12:31:34 GMT -5
When the highlight of your weekend is something as measly and inconsequential as defeating The Bob Pooler in a wrestling match, it's a safe bet to say that you’ve had a bad few days.
And as I lay here on Heather's sofa feeling sorry for myself, I agree that it has been a lousy time as of late; my head throbs as the hangover kicks it up a gear, past the churning stomach and dry mouth I usually feel after a night’s drinking.
I’m not a drinker, not much of one anyway. But this weekend, it’s gotten the better of me at time. I couldn't tell you what annoyed me more. Was it that Junior managed to defeat Malcolm? Was it when Pooler and Blayze played the numbers game to stop me from making the save? Was it when Blayze and Junior travelled the length of the country to follow me to San Diego ahead of my appearance in Exodus? The fact that they'd go to such lengths to annoy me, to get to me, to play mind games with me!
I don't mind the loss I suffered in that Exodus match much. Not at all, in fact. I refuse to let anything Jonathan Collins does get to me anymore; his steadfast refusal to acknowledge me as the rightful Exodus Pro International Champion left an acerbic taste in my mouth. Then he went and, in a bid to get back at me for being disrespectful, booked me in a match against Heather and another yet-unnamed opponent for the title belt. That is actually, much to my chagrin, eating at me slightly.
There's a pot-kettle-black theme to Collins and it rubs me the wrong way.
Was that why I acted the way I did last night? I was in Philly watching the PDW roster play their charity football match, to watch and support Heather in the game. But I wound up drinking myself into a stupor. Struggling to match a more experienced drinker, Brytain Montgomery, drink for drink and I lost hopelessly by half time. What was I thinking?
I ended up stood on the sidelines, in 50F weather, watching as Heather was on one team and Riley was on the other. Torn between cheering for the woman to whom I'm partially committed and resisting cheering as the woman with whom I had one crazy night of passion kept running for more and more rushing yards. But I couldn't show any of the happiness I derived from the latter. that night I was a #TeamBanks supporter, coupled with the fact that I'm Heather's toy boy. And to top it off she already suspects that something happened between me and Riley. She'll deny being jealous or suspicious and claim that she trusts me, but she doesn't, why should she.
I mean, at various points throughout the night, I vaguely remember drunkenly stealing glances at the lithe young redhead, trying to escape the notice of my drinking buddy for the evening and that of my girlfriend. Hopefully I got away with it. Apparently the rest of my behaviour was deplorable enough without being caught ogling another woman. I may not remember most of what I did, but everyone paying attention to me knows about my antics. Heather knows what I did and can recall just how much I embarrassed her in front of all of her colleagues ... And that's bad enough.
As I said, it was a bad weekend.
However, beyond the headache, the sore limbs and the thawing legs. Past the irate girlfriend, the poor first impressions on fellow professionals and the pink haired pixie who now thinks I'm a lightweight. Through all of the disrespect I have endured and the mind games I have suffered, the true dread I am feeling, the fear that is coursing through my veins right now is because I remember the last time I got that drunk...
“Do you remember me, Bond?” I ask the camera as I sit, slouched forward with my elbows resting on my knees, in an upholstered black chair with its high back and sides; I’m actually at Heather’s apartment but she’s taken the kids to New York to see her friend in the hospital, giving me chance to do my thing here. Dressed in a black Nirvana t-shirt, the one with a yellow smiley face on it, and a pair of dark jeans, I sit here with a smug smirk on my face as I continue.
“I mean past the cheap shots you take each week,” I jest, chuckling to myself as I do. “Do you remember back in SCCW when I first arrived on the scene? In your Simcoe. Back when I was this chipper young gun introducing himself to all the wrestlers backstage, smiling for the fans, asking for autographs. And the throwing up in a bucket when my nerves got the better of me! Who can forget that? I mean, I can remember the battle royal I entered that first night, in an effort to try and win the final entry spot in the Bunkhouse Brawl … and the taste of failure that left in my mouth when I got eliminated. I remember meeting Fallon and Cydel and Monroe and Giomazzo. And you, I can remember meeting you.”
“I even took a photo…” I fish out my cell phone and bring up the gallery app; fortunately I prepared for this and the photo is ready loaded. As I hold up the phone to the camera, sure enough, the photo of a younger me, smiling, with my arm around the shoulders of Chris Bond is visible for all to see. He doesn’t look overly happy in it though. “For the life of me I can’t remember if you gave me any advice that day. I can’t remember any words of wisdom you may have imparted, any tips you might have told me.”
“But for a while back then this photo was a cherished memento of mine. A reminder of the time I met the living legend…” another chuckle as I slide the phone back into my pocket. “But, inevitably, times change. Somebody happened to tell me that nice guys finish last, so now any memories you have of me are probably of me hounding Anita Naylor around the “A” Channel Studios. You probably remember her knight in shining armour, Galahad wanting to kick my ass from pillar to post to preserve her honour! Maybe I’m nothing more than the Ascended Supremacy lapdog to you, running around after Constance Monroe and doing her bidding. As the boy who followed Jace Parker Davidson’s instructions to the tee. I might be nothing more than Griffin Hawkins’s punching bag to you.”
“But I remember you, Bond.” I say as the smirk widens. “I remember watching the living legend stepping into that ring, week in and week out. Stood around the monitor with a few of the guys, watching you as you went on your sixteen match losing streak. And hearing the rumours that your performance was probably hampered by the alcohol abuse … there went the respect.” A shake of the head breaks up the sentence. “I saw when you injured your knee, Bond. And I bet that still plays up even now, doesn’t it? Nearly three years later and you probably still have a prescription to numb the pain you feel. To shut out your senses, too many and you can probably forget some of the memories that haunt you too.”
“Too many and you can forget the labels people have stuck to you over the years. Washed-up. Has-been. Waste of space…” I hiss. “Junkie, alcoholic. Back then there was a very real worry in the locker room, Bond, that one of these days we’d get a phone call, maybe we’d read it on the Internet that former SCCW Legacy Champion Chris Bond has been found dead in his apartment from an apparent drugs overdose. That the depression might have gripped you. The pain had become to much to bear. Maybe you realised how worthless you were, how talentless you were, how far beyond redemption you had become. Any one of those. Or just that you might have fallen into the pit that so many professional wrestlers do…”
My gaze shifts upwards to the camera; it had been drifting slowly down for the last minute or so. The smirk on my face has disappeared, replaced by an impassive glare. I shrug my shoulders before speaking again, “But here you are. Two years later and stepping foot in the ring again. And now I’m fifty bucks worse off if I ever see Jace again because of it. But you, Bond, you’re a walking-talking testament to what perseverance and fortitude can accomplish!”
“What was it, sobriety too boring for you? You just had to reappear, to return to the ring. And, in true Sod’s Law fashion, you sign for the same place I am. So I have to stand back and watch you try and save yourself. I have to stand back and wait for you to implode!” I say in a raised voice. “Or do I? Impressive victories against the likes of Rampage and Jones are nothing to be scoffed at!” I say sarcastically before scoffing. “Don’t worry though, Bond, you’ve got a real challenge this week. Because I’m not sure what you remember of me from the last time our paths crossed. Your jibes suggest that any of the memories you have, they’re not positive ones. I’m not portrayed in a good light in any of them, am I?”
“Fine.”
“You see, I’m not that boy anymore…” a scowl crosses my face, “I’ve grown, changed into the crow you see before you today. Gone are the flightless mentors, the grounded leaders. Replaced by the harbinger, the Godkiller. In case you don’t understand, you can go and ask your buddy Pooler exactly what that means. Seek out Junior or Blayze, ask them about the fear that keeps them up at night. You can ask O’Hare or Mangold what that means…” I chuckle, “if you can find the holes they’ve crawled into to hide away from the world.”
“And you better believe that I’m coming into this match as one pissed off crow, Bond,” I state vehemently. “Don’t think for one second that I’m not out for blood when I step through those ropes. There is a goal we are trying to achieve, an order we are striving for. To eliminate the weak and the undeserving, to allow the strong to thrive and excel at what we do. And that order has no room for someone like…” I jab my finger at the camera. “You. That sort of ex-junkie, alcoholic, has-been wrestler wanting a second chance, trying to earn a modicum of redemption, they have no room in our world, Bond. So when we step into that ring together in Elizabeth I will do what someone should have done over two years ago…” I pause as the sick grin on my face stretches from ear to ear.
“I’m going to put you out of your misery.”
May 2012
My eyes blink open, straining to process the information as it drips in piece by piece. I see white tiles, albeit stained ones, to one side and a porcelain bowl above me. My olfactory senses start up and the overwhelming acrid stench of vomit hits me like a brick. I damn near gag; the fact I don’t throw up probably has something to do with the abundance of my stomach contents that were sprayed over the toilet bowl, sink, floor and my t-shirt last night.
A shudder runs down my spine as I try to sit up; the pain is overwhelming, spreading across my back and through my internal organs. Urgh, and the taste in my mouth is absolutely vile. I use the radiator to pull myself to my feet, stripping off my t-shirt as I tread warily out of the bathroom, staggering slightly as my top finds its way into the wash basket at the foot my bed.
Last night was Elsie’s friend Charlotte’s birthday, so we went round to her house for a party. Nobody seemed to mind I was only nineteen there, so I had unrestricted access to the keg and the bottles of Tennessee sour mash and Kentucky bourbon that other people brought with them. This was my first time meeting some of the people there so I was apprehensive at first, understandably so as it turned out. I was relying on Elsie to introduce me to those I didn’t know, to be there for me if I didn’t find anyone to talk to and generally be my loving, supportive girlfriend.
She was, however, distant to say the least. She didn’t dance, she didn’t mingle. She hardly drank, while I on the other hand imbibed more than my fair share in an effort to loosen up…
Oh God.
I think I confronted her; in my drunken stupor I got aggressive and asked Elsie what the f##k is up with you after she refused an offer of a drink. Something so stupid, so petty. I accused her of being a prude and an uptight bitch, almost shouting at her until she threw a drink in my face. That would explain why she’s nowhere to be seen. Why she’s not here with me or in my bed this morning.
“Elsie!” I attempt to shout, managing nothing more than a croak. Regardless, there’s no answer. I continue to stumble, propping myself up on the kitchen counters and the wall as I stagger towards my front door. An elderly lady, presumably an upstairs neighbour, passes by as I step out into the corridor; I’m dressed only in the cargo shorts I wore last night, doubled over, dry heaving as this lady inches past me warily. I must look a state, but I just need to apologise to Elsie. I need to say sorry for my actions last night.
knock knock knock
With one hand on her door frame I wait for Elsie to open her apartment door, which she does after almost thirty seconds. A few inches, that’s all it opens before the chain halts all progress. The resounding metallic thunk causes me to flinch and hold my head; I look up at Elsie through bloodshot eyes, my vision slightly blurred as she shields herself behind the wooden structure.
“Leave me alone, Dom…” she says with a whimper.
“I’m sorry,” I plead with her, my voice a trembly whisper. “For last night, everything, I don’t know what got into me.” I leave it vague, unsure of exactly what I did after we left the party.
“Just leave…” she repeats as she tries to close the door. I stick my foot out, jamming it between the door and frame so she can’t shut it as I try again.
“Elsie, whatever I did we can work through it.” I beg. “Can’t we?”
There’s no response from her this time. I remove my foot from the door as she sticks her face out between the door and frame. That’s when I see it; the cause of her anger with me is staring me straight in the face. There, staining her beautiful face, surrounding her left eye are the distinctive purple bruise and swelling associated with a right hook. My hand immediately goes to my mouth as I recoil in horror, just managing to hold down another bout of vomiting as Elsie closes the door on me. Did I do that? I couldn’t have done that, I would never hurt Elsie … would I?
And as I lay here on Heather's sofa feeling sorry for myself, I agree that it has been a lousy time as of late; my head throbs as the hangover kicks it up a gear, past the churning stomach and dry mouth I usually feel after a night’s drinking.
I’m not a drinker, not much of one anyway. But this weekend, it’s gotten the better of me at time. I couldn't tell you what annoyed me more. Was it that Junior managed to defeat Malcolm? Was it when Pooler and Blayze played the numbers game to stop me from making the save? Was it when Blayze and Junior travelled the length of the country to follow me to San Diego ahead of my appearance in Exodus? The fact that they'd go to such lengths to annoy me, to get to me, to play mind games with me!
I don't mind the loss I suffered in that Exodus match much. Not at all, in fact. I refuse to let anything Jonathan Collins does get to me anymore; his steadfast refusal to acknowledge me as the rightful Exodus Pro International Champion left an acerbic taste in my mouth. Then he went and, in a bid to get back at me for being disrespectful, booked me in a match against Heather and another yet-unnamed opponent for the title belt. That is actually, much to my chagrin, eating at me slightly.
There's a pot-kettle-black theme to Collins and it rubs me the wrong way.
Was that why I acted the way I did last night? I was in Philly watching the PDW roster play their charity football match, to watch and support Heather in the game. But I wound up drinking myself into a stupor. Struggling to match a more experienced drinker, Brytain Montgomery, drink for drink and I lost hopelessly by half time. What was I thinking?
I ended up stood on the sidelines, in 50F weather, watching as Heather was on one team and Riley was on the other. Torn between cheering for the woman to whom I'm partially committed and resisting cheering as the woman with whom I had one crazy night of passion kept running for more and more rushing yards. But I couldn't show any of the happiness I derived from the latter. that night I was a #TeamBanks supporter, coupled with the fact that I'm Heather's toy boy. And to top it off she already suspects that something happened between me and Riley. She'll deny being jealous or suspicious and claim that she trusts me, but she doesn't, why should she.
I mean, at various points throughout the night, I vaguely remember drunkenly stealing glances at the lithe young redhead, trying to escape the notice of my drinking buddy for the evening and that of my girlfriend. Hopefully I got away with it. Apparently the rest of my behaviour was deplorable enough without being caught ogling another woman. I may not remember most of what I did, but everyone paying attention to me knows about my antics. Heather knows what I did and can recall just how much I embarrassed her in front of all of her colleagues ... And that's bad enough.
As I said, it was a bad weekend.
However, beyond the headache, the sore limbs and the thawing legs. Past the irate girlfriend, the poor first impressions on fellow professionals and the pink haired pixie who now thinks I'm a lightweight. Through all of the disrespect I have endured and the mind games I have suffered, the true dread I am feeling, the fear that is coursing through my veins right now is because I remember the last time I got that drunk...
“Do you remember me, Bond?” I ask the camera as I sit, slouched forward with my elbows resting on my knees, in an upholstered black chair with its high back and sides; I’m actually at Heather’s apartment but she’s taken the kids to New York to see her friend in the hospital, giving me chance to do my thing here. Dressed in a black Nirvana t-shirt, the one with a yellow smiley face on it, and a pair of dark jeans, I sit here with a smug smirk on my face as I continue.
“I mean past the cheap shots you take each week,” I jest, chuckling to myself as I do. “Do you remember back in SCCW when I first arrived on the scene? In your Simcoe. Back when I was this chipper young gun introducing himself to all the wrestlers backstage, smiling for the fans, asking for autographs. And the throwing up in a bucket when my nerves got the better of me! Who can forget that? I mean, I can remember the battle royal I entered that first night, in an effort to try and win the final entry spot in the Bunkhouse Brawl … and the taste of failure that left in my mouth when I got eliminated. I remember meeting Fallon and Cydel and Monroe and Giomazzo. And you, I can remember meeting you.”
“I even took a photo…” I fish out my cell phone and bring up the gallery app; fortunately I prepared for this and the photo is ready loaded. As I hold up the phone to the camera, sure enough, the photo of a younger me, smiling, with my arm around the shoulders of Chris Bond is visible for all to see. He doesn’t look overly happy in it though. “For the life of me I can’t remember if you gave me any advice that day. I can’t remember any words of wisdom you may have imparted, any tips you might have told me.”
“But for a while back then this photo was a cherished memento of mine. A reminder of the time I met the living legend…” another chuckle as I slide the phone back into my pocket. “But, inevitably, times change. Somebody happened to tell me that nice guys finish last, so now any memories you have of me are probably of me hounding Anita Naylor around the “A” Channel Studios. You probably remember her knight in shining armour, Galahad wanting to kick my ass from pillar to post to preserve her honour! Maybe I’m nothing more than the Ascended Supremacy lapdog to you, running around after Constance Monroe and doing her bidding. As the boy who followed Jace Parker Davidson’s instructions to the tee. I might be nothing more than Griffin Hawkins’s punching bag to you.”
“But I remember you, Bond.” I say as the smirk widens. “I remember watching the living legend stepping into that ring, week in and week out. Stood around the monitor with a few of the guys, watching you as you went on your sixteen match losing streak. And hearing the rumours that your performance was probably hampered by the alcohol abuse … there went the respect.” A shake of the head breaks up the sentence. “I saw when you injured your knee, Bond. And I bet that still plays up even now, doesn’t it? Nearly three years later and you probably still have a prescription to numb the pain you feel. To shut out your senses, too many and you can probably forget some of the memories that haunt you too.”
“Too many and you can forget the labels people have stuck to you over the years. Washed-up. Has-been. Waste of space…” I hiss. “Junkie, alcoholic. Back then there was a very real worry in the locker room, Bond, that one of these days we’d get a phone call, maybe we’d read it on the Internet that former SCCW Legacy Champion Chris Bond has been found dead in his apartment from an apparent drugs overdose. That the depression might have gripped you. The pain had become to much to bear. Maybe you realised how worthless you were, how talentless you were, how far beyond redemption you had become. Any one of those. Or just that you might have fallen into the pit that so many professional wrestlers do…”
My gaze shifts upwards to the camera; it had been drifting slowly down for the last minute or so. The smirk on my face has disappeared, replaced by an impassive glare. I shrug my shoulders before speaking again, “But here you are. Two years later and stepping foot in the ring again. And now I’m fifty bucks worse off if I ever see Jace again because of it. But you, Bond, you’re a walking-talking testament to what perseverance and fortitude can accomplish!”
“What was it, sobriety too boring for you? You just had to reappear, to return to the ring. And, in true Sod’s Law fashion, you sign for the same place I am. So I have to stand back and watch you try and save yourself. I have to stand back and wait for you to implode!” I say in a raised voice. “Or do I? Impressive victories against the likes of Rampage and Jones are nothing to be scoffed at!” I say sarcastically before scoffing. “Don’t worry though, Bond, you’ve got a real challenge this week. Because I’m not sure what you remember of me from the last time our paths crossed. Your jibes suggest that any of the memories you have, they’re not positive ones. I’m not portrayed in a good light in any of them, am I?”
“Fine.”
“You see, I’m not that boy anymore…” a scowl crosses my face, “I’ve grown, changed into the crow you see before you today. Gone are the flightless mentors, the grounded leaders. Replaced by the harbinger, the Godkiller. In case you don’t understand, you can go and ask your buddy Pooler exactly what that means. Seek out Junior or Blayze, ask them about the fear that keeps them up at night. You can ask O’Hare or Mangold what that means…” I chuckle, “if you can find the holes they’ve crawled into to hide away from the world.”
“And you better believe that I’m coming into this match as one pissed off crow, Bond,” I state vehemently. “Don’t think for one second that I’m not out for blood when I step through those ropes. There is a goal we are trying to achieve, an order we are striving for. To eliminate the weak and the undeserving, to allow the strong to thrive and excel at what we do. And that order has no room for someone like…” I jab my finger at the camera. “You. That sort of ex-junkie, alcoholic, has-been wrestler wanting a second chance, trying to earn a modicum of redemption, they have no room in our world, Bond. So when we step into that ring together in Elizabeth I will do what someone should have done over two years ago…” I pause as the sick grin on my face stretches from ear to ear.
“I’m going to put you out of your misery.”
May 2012
My eyes blink open, straining to process the information as it drips in piece by piece. I see white tiles, albeit stained ones, to one side and a porcelain bowl above me. My olfactory senses start up and the overwhelming acrid stench of vomit hits me like a brick. I damn near gag; the fact I don’t throw up probably has something to do with the abundance of my stomach contents that were sprayed over the toilet bowl, sink, floor and my t-shirt last night.
A shudder runs down my spine as I try to sit up; the pain is overwhelming, spreading across my back and through my internal organs. Urgh, and the taste in my mouth is absolutely vile. I use the radiator to pull myself to my feet, stripping off my t-shirt as I tread warily out of the bathroom, staggering slightly as my top finds its way into the wash basket at the foot my bed.
Last night was Elsie’s friend Charlotte’s birthday, so we went round to her house for a party. Nobody seemed to mind I was only nineteen there, so I had unrestricted access to the keg and the bottles of Tennessee sour mash and Kentucky bourbon that other people brought with them. This was my first time meeting some of the people there so I was apprehensive at first, understandably so as it turned out. I was relying on Elsie to introduce me to those I didn’t know, to be there for me if I didn’t find anyone to talk to and generally be my loving, supportive girlfriend.
She was, however, distant to say the least. She didn’t dance, she didn’t mingle. She hardly drank, while I on the other hand imbibed more than my fair share in an effort to loosen up…
Oh God.
I think I confronted her; in my drunken stupor I got aggressive and asked Elsie what the f##k is up with you after she refused an offer of a drink. Something so stupid, so petty. I accused her of being a prude and an uptight bitch, almost shouting at her until she threw a drink in my face. That would explain why she’s nowhere to be seen. Why she’s not here with me or in my bed this morning.
“Elsie!” I attempt to shout, managing nothing more than a croak. Regardless, there’s no answer. I continue to stumble, propping myself up on the kitchen counters and the wall as I stagger towards my front door. An elderly lady, presumably an upstairs neighbour, passes by as I step out into the corridor; I’m dressed only in the cargo shorts I wore last night, doubled over, dry heaving as this lady inches past me warily. I must look a state, but I just need to apologise to Elsie. I need to say sorry for my actions last night.
knock knock knock
With one hand on her door frame I wait for Elsie to open her apartment door, which she does after almost thirty seconds. A few inches, that’s all it opens before the chain halts all progress. The resounding metallic thunk causes me to flinch and hold my head; I look up at Elsie through bloodshot eyes, my vision slightly blurred as she shields herself behind the wooden structure.
“Leave me alone, Dom…” she says with a whimper.
“I’m sorry,” I plead with her, my voice a trembly whisper. “For last night, everything, I don’t know what got into me.” I leave it vague, unsure of exactly what I did after we left the party.
“Just leave…” she repeats as she tries to close the door. I stick my foot out, jamming it between the door and frame so she can’t shut it as I try again.
“Elsie, whatever I did we can work through it.” I beg. “Can’t we?”
There’s no response from her this time. I remove my foot from the door as she sticks her face out between the door and frame. That’s when I see it; the cause of her anger with me is staring me straight in the face. There, staining her beautiful face, surrounding her left eye are the distinctive purple bruise and swelling associated with a right hook. My hand immediately goes to my mouth as I recoil in horror, just managing to hold down another bout of vomiting as Elsie closes the door on me. Did I do that? I couldn’t have done that, I would never hurt Elsie … would I?