Post by Justin on Mar 3, 2021 0:52:20 GMT -5
Four walls.
Floor.
Ceiling.
A balled up mess of threadbare blankets to sleep on.
A bucket to piss, shit, and puke in.
This has been my life for the last week or so. I can’t be sure, to be honest my days have been bleeding into one another for a while now, weeks before I woke up in this concrete crypt. I can’t say exactly how I got here in the first place, but I’d bet dollars to donuts that Angus had something to do with it.
Wouldn’t be the first time.
It’s obvious that I overdosed. Again. He probably found me in a puddle of my own puke. Again. It occurs to me that I might ought to give that guy a hug the next time I see him, he’s been putting up with my bullshit for a real long fuckin’ time and he always comes through in the clutch.
Even if it means locking me in a basement until I sweat and scream the junk out of my system. Angus generally knows when it’s time for me to reevaluate, and apparently an executive decision had been made. Maybe I should be mad, hell I’ve got a title defense coming up in what, two weeks now I guess? A fuckin’ clock would have been nice, or a window.
Whatever, doesn’t matter.
Lord Dominicus is a joke.
Always has been, always will be. When this is all said and done he can go root around in the muck with Timeless and Primal and the rest of them as far as I’m concerned. Just as soon as I can get out of this room, run myself through a carwash, and then finish up with Dominicus, I’m washing my hands of all of this low hanging fruit nonsense and if anybody wants me they’re gonna have to come and get me.
The voice in my head has a voice in it’s head.
That’s not weird at all, probably.
“Ah, fuck you,” I say to nobody but the walls. “And fuck whatever detox bullshit fever dream that brought you on.”
I don’t have time for this.
I have a match.
I have-
That’s not fair.
It’s-
“Jesus fuck,” I snapped at the aether. “Jesse took the fuckin’ fall, bitch at him.”
I know that nobody can hear me, and that I don’t have to speak for the voice in my head to understand my own voice in my head, but sometimes that last bit of inflection just sounded a little bit better vocally. This was not one of those times.
I know he’s right.
He knows I know he’s right.
Something is wet.
It’s me.
I cough and I retch and through it all I can hear Angus yelling at me.
“Wake up,” he looks bored, the empty bucket he’d used to douse me awake hangs limply at one side. I hack up a little bit more of my lungs before rolling over and retching again. There was nothing there, though, I hadn’t eaten in days. I hadn’t done much of anything in days except piss and puke and sweat out the poison. “Get a shower. We’ll get something to eat.”
It’s like he’d read my mind.
He hadn’t, though, he just knew.
“If you’re ready.”
“Fuck you,” I say. “I’m ready.”
“Good. But Eric…”
“Yeah?”
“After this is all said and done, you and me, we gotta have the talk.”
His face is stone. I can feel my brows as they scrunch and the left brow raises curiously. Angus has been threatening me for years about going too far one too many times. This was probably just more of that.
Still.
I’d better do something, and quick, to make sure it’s nothing worse.
I ask, “What day is it?”
He answers my question with a question, “Does it matter?”
“Probably not. When’s the match?”
“Two weeks. Unless you want to forfeit.”
I glared at him like he’d just grown an arm out of his forehead.
“Are you high?”
A moment passed, he shrugged before extending a hand downward to me. Grabbing my hand in his iron grip he pulled, damn near took my shoulder out of its socket.
“I need to hit the ring. Get some work in.”
Dominicus may be a joke, but he isn’t a slouch.
“Fair enough.”
“And Angus…”
“Yeah?”
“Call the press. Any press. It’s about time I said what everyone’s been thinking.”
Floor.
Ceiling.
A balled up mess of threadbare blankets to sleep on.
A bucket to piss, shit, and puke in.
This has been my life for the last week or so. I can’t be sure, to be honest my days have been bleeding into one another for a while now, weeks before I woke up in this concrete crypt. I can’t say exactly how I got here in the first place, but I’d bet dollars to donuts that Angus had something to do with it.
Wouldn’t be the first time.
It’s obvious that I overdosed. Again. He probably found me in a puddle of my own puke. Again. It occurs to me that I might ought to give that guy a hug the next time I see him, he’s been putting up with my bullshit for a real long fuckin’ time and he always comes through in the clutch.
Even if it means locking me in a basement until I sweat and scream the junk out of my system. Angus generally knows when it’s time for me to reevaluate, and apparently an executive decision had been made. Maybe I should be mad, hell I’ve got a title defense coming up in what, two weeks now I guess? A fuckin’ clock would have been nice, or a window.
Whatever, doesn’t matter.
Lord Dominicus is a joke.
Always has been, always will be. When this is all said and done he can go root around in the muck with Timeless and Primal and the rest of them as far as I’m concerned. Just as soon as I can get out of this room, run myself through a carwash, and then finish up with Dominicus, I’m washing my hands of all of this low hanging fruit nonsense and if anybody wants me they’re gonna have to come and get me.
“You’re bein’ too goddamned nice.”
The voice in my head has a voice in it’s head.
That’s not weird at all, probably.
“Matter of fact, kid, you’ve been too soft on ‘em ever since you came back.”
I don’t have time for this.
I have a match.
I have-
“You have a match for my NPW Title with an absolute Lesser-Than.”
That’s not fair.
“Fuck fair. How the fuck did you go from dominating Northern Pro and on the cusp of taking the X*Crown from that pretty boy prick Dylan Black to defending the NPW Title in a throwaway match against a pissbreak comedian in a mask? It’s fuckin’ embarrassing.”
It’s-
“What, not your fault? Boo-fucking-hoo! Who’s fault is it, Scott’s? That guy has three brain cells and trust me when I tell you they’re nowhere near close enough together to form the first synaptic response, let alone carry the blame for your bullshit.”
“Jesus fuck,” I snapped at the aether. “Jesse took the fuckin’ fall, bitch at him.”
I know that nobody can hear me, and that I don’t have to speak for the voice in my head to understand my own voice in my head, but sometimes that last bit of inflection just sounded a little bit better vocally. This was not one of those times.
“Are you being serious right now? With that bullshit? Let me tell you something, kid, you’d better not be running game on Jesse Jamester if you ain’t got the stomach to see it through. If you are, and he finds out, it’ll be our ass! Don’t you fuck around and forget why he is where he is or you’re on your fuckin’ own!”
I know he’s right.
“You’re goddamn right I’m right! Just like I’m right that going back to Chicago was a huge mistake and it’s turned you into this muttering pill-popping piece of shit version of yourself. Of Me! And I ain’t fuckin’ havin’ it, not anymore! So you’d better get it straight through that numb skull of mine and start reminding these halfwit ham-n-eggers that Eric Dane is not the one to be fucked with around these parts!”
He knows I know he’s right.
“Good, now wake up!”
~*SPLASH*~
Something is wet.
It’s me.
I cough and I retch and through it all I can hear Angus yelling at me.
“Wake up,” he looks bored, the empty bucket he’d used to douse me awake hangs limply at one side. I hack up a little bit more of my lungs before rolling over and retching again. There was nothing there, though, I hadn’t eaten in days. I hadn’t done much of anything in days except piss and puke and sweat out the poison. “Get a shower. We’ll get something to eat.”
It’s like he’d read my mind.
He hadn’t, though, he just knew.
“If you’re ready.”
“Fuck you,” I say. “I’m ready.”
“Good. But Eric…”
“Yeah?”
“After this is all said and done, you and me, we gotta have the talk.”
His face is stone. I can feel my brows as they scrunch and the left brow raises curiously. Angus has been threatening me for years about going too far one too many times. This was probably just more of that.
Still.
I’d better do something, and quick, to make sure it’s nothing worse.
I ask, “What day is it?”
He answers my question with a question, “Does it matter?”
“Probably not. When’s the match?”
“Two weeks. Unless you want to forfeit.”
I glared at him like he’d just grown an arm out of his forehead.
“Are you high?”
A moment passed, he shrugged before extending a hand downward to me. Grabbing my hand in his iron grip he pulled, damn near took my shoulder out of its socket.
“I need to hit the ring. Get some work in.”
Dominicus may be a joke, but he isn’t a slouch.
“Fair enough.”
“And Angus…”
“Yeah?”
“Call the press. Any press. It’s about time I said what everyone’s been thinking.”
