Thirty-Eight ~~CONTENT WARNING, DEATH, SUICIDE~~
Aug 25, 2022 20:27:52 GMT -5
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Post by null on Aug 25, 2022 20:27:52 GMT -5
null lays on the floor of their run-down looking gym, location unimportant. He breathes heavily, you can tell by the rhythmic moving of their chest as his lips are obscured by the mask. They start some sharp, controlled sit-ups, arms locked behind his head, touching elbows against both knees while turning. They count each rep, loudly, clearly.
35…36… 37… 38…
Stopping, suddenly, null makes his way up to their feet, turning to the camera and running his hand through his matted dirty blonde hair that drapes down loosely behind his head. They turn to the camera and speak in a cold, low one. No inflection, no passion. As steady as if their speech was metered to the ticking of a clock.
null:
How difficult a challenge is “Beat The Clock?” To win. To defeat your opponent. To perform that task faster than any of the other competitors. Damn difficult. Your own destiny taken out of your hands. I could win and still lose by virtue of someone else being quicker on the draw than me. It’s a careful balancing act, doing enough damage to win while not wasting too much time in getting there. Shit, better wrestlers than me could go in there and fail. It’s about the math of it. Course I got a strategy laid out. I got keys to victory. But there’s one huge problem that needs solving.
Beat.
null:
How do you beat a guy who’s already beaten the clock?
You can’t see if a smile formed at this speculative question. The mask hides all.
null:
Thirty-eight, Death Trap. You know what that means. It’s a number that your peers would issue in hushed tones or joke about in their blackest of black humor. Thirty-eight. I’m a generation below you but I watched those shows growing up. I saw locker rooms of my heroes, heads bowed, tears falling. The guys I idolized. The guys who pulled ribs and held court on a rookie Death Trap. The guys we, in our own way, lost. See, Death Trap, you’re sitting at plus four. You’ve beaten the clock. Some people might accuse you of being past your prime, another aging star trying to hold on to relevancy. Some people might praise your wealth of experience and try to work out how to match wits with a guy of greater experience. Me? I just want you to remember to be thankful. Be gracious. Know that every second you spend breathing is a second your fans don’t have to spend mourning.
The utter calmness of which the passing of wrestling icons is discussed is unsettling. There is no pause for remembrance. No respect for the dead.
null:
Thirty-eight is when you choke to death on your own vomit, Vicodin and Pinot Noir filling your system. Thirty-eight is when the concussions catch up with you and you stagger into your car, run a stop sign and take three random members of the public with you. Thirty-eight is when that guy you knew who never quite made it realises his life just ain’t worked out the way it shoulda and loads up his side arm for the last time. Except…
Beat, again.
null:
Except that’s not who I am, Death Trap. The latest generation to join this industry are breaking the cycle. When I hit your age, and I will, I’m not going to be thankful I’m still breathing. I’ve seen this industry. I’ve been on both sides of the frosted glass. But I never knew how much that change needed to happen until I entered the profession. And change, change starts one place. With yourself.
You’d expect a finger to be lifted. Most professional wrestlers would punctuate that statement by pointing to themselves. null is not most professional wrestlers. Hopefully not any?
null:
I could feel myself slipping into a pattern, Death Trap. I could feel my life being dragged into a spiral, down a path that others have tread. Get known, get famous, get success, get money, get rats, get all the power and the prestige and then get chewed up and spit out like so many others. It’s never a question of how you fall. From how high. How hard and fast. It’s when. It’s always when. I know you feel it, Death Trap. I know you have a buncha contacts in your phone who can run the cons with you, make a little pin money away from their job as a realtor or, if they were a real double tough shooter, chasing guys who skipped town while on bail. And some of the other contacts in your phone? Well, you just keep them there for sentimental reasons, their cell contracts long cut off.
Again, the casual way of which death is brought up. It’s haunting. Ghoulish. Wrong. Like they aren’t in touch with their emotions. Or that he has buried them somewhere deep and dark.
null:
This industry leaves scars, Death Trap. And yet wrestlers can’t walk away. I see you beating the clock every time you walk in the ring. You can’t leave. You’re trapped. You can’t break out. Me? All I have to do is take the mask off. And it’s that freedom that gives me all the damn time in the world. Think on that. See that clock we’re beating? It’s designed to force you into mistakes. Make you overcommit. Add a sense of panic. All it takes is one little mistake and you get rolled up and lose. You know you’re on borrowed time, Death Trap. Me?
I’m a long way from thirty-eight.
Scene.