On A Window Ledge
I’m not sure at what point I thought about ending it. There was a phase I went through in my teenage years but that was most definitely a cry for help. I wasn’t a goth or anything, but there are simply no other alternatives now. On the Richter scale of wanting to die and possible death, I’m somewhere in between Scott Stevens and a bald Britney Spears.
O’DELL: This is it, Gavin! Don’t try and stop me, Gavin! Don’t you dare try and stop me, Gavin…!
GAVIN: Don’t do it Jon!
O’DELL: It’s too late for me now, Gav. Save yourself! And whatever you do.. don’t you dare try and stop me, Gavin!
Precise location, unknown. Jonny O’Dell yells from an outside windowsill. There he stands, gripping on for dear life. The narrowest of ledges for his feet and his finger tips clutching the brick work.
Gavin, O’Dell’s esteemed best friend, offers his support. Trying to frantically reassure his hero from the ground looking up.
My name is Jonny O’Dell, I’m fifty five years old, I am a professional wrestler…….. and I’m getting bullied in the workplace.
Notice the deafening silence. Almost like I’ve smacked a ten year old in the face with a baseball bat. I don’t know, maybe he deserved it for asking ‘why?’ every thirty seconds.
Granted, picking on the fat redhead girl in high school seems like a bit of harmless fun.. but those words run deep, man. And shit sticks, you know? Like if you were to throw your gum into someone’s hair. Fucker ain’t coming out until they cut loose. Then again, there’s always that trick of pulling their chair out from under them. That’s a classic.
Much like what HOW have done to my whole profession coming to think of it. You know, I’d love to sit in that prestigious chair without it being pulled, or even just a bastard rug would suffice. Doesn’t really matter though, does it? Because it’s never going to happen. I’d have to be worth something first.
The wind is getting stronger. The scruffy old ‘HOW’ logo t-shirt worn by O’Dell flaps from its velocity.
GAVIN: But…. you’re booked! You’re booked!
O’DELL: Yeah, well.. so was Dennis Stamp and he’s still a loser.
I don’t know, maybe if this thirty year vet pulled his weight on ring crew then I might have been a contender. But let’s not open up that can of worms again. Shit starts to hit the fan when you hit them with a bit of truth. People set their lip up and start complaining when they feel like their spot is in jeopardy. And trust me, they’ll stoop to anything to retain their precious spot.
Fucking got guys in HOW that would iron Lee Best’s socks to simply get one foot higher on the ladder. Fucking pathetic. Just wrestle. That’s all that is required for you to do here in HOW. Not…. acting like a seven year old begging for daddy to watch you on your bike. You’re fucking seven, you’re old enough now to ride without the stabilizers. What the fuck else do you want? An ice cream? There’s other people on the roster you attention whores.
Stronger winds and heavy rain descend. Some time has passed and upon O’Dell’s reflections, Gavin fails to talk him down. O’Dell, is shirtless now.
O’DELL: YOU CALL THIS A STORM?! IT’S A SHOWDOWN..! BETWEEN YOU..! AND ME!
O’Dell laughs like a crazy mental person. Gavin, meanwhile, slips in mud with a yellow raincoat on trying (and failing) to hold onto his hat against the relentless winds.
I’m far too old to tell Lee that he’s looking lovely today, help him with his laundry or simply knock on his office for a little chin wag. He’s a busy man and he’s probably fed up of ninety percent of the roster sucking him off so I will simply leave him alone… and his penis. Fucking milked dry like an anorexic cow.
Truth is, I don’t run in those social circles. Never have, never will. I don’t get all of the clearly hilarious inside jokes, and neither do any of the others outside of said circle. The bubble of HOW can’t be burst and that’s because you have the dork brigade calling the shots.
Yet the worst thing about it is they think they’re cool and rad. So it makes them even more pathetic. And they’re the guys on top. You really couldn’t write it.
Going from the handsome Shane Reynolds, the charismatic Jatt Starr, the brutal Mark O’Neal.. to these useless set of hacks. Fuck, no wonder Kostoff has no hair having to work with these undeserving con artists. No wonder his go-to match is fucking Hardcore.. I’d want to bash them over the heads with a hammer, too.
You’re like a group of suicide bombers that have been employed by HOW unknowingly. Sneaked passed security, and it’s pretty obvious what your mission is to me and underutilized talent like Aunt Flo. Yet when you’ve finally destroyed what everyone once loved, you’ll be too busy playing on the OCW merry-go-round to actually give a fuck.
See, you’re all caught up in dream matches, settling feuds from 2000BC and shinning up your Hall Of Fame rings (that have been fully lodged up Lee’s arse for the past couple of years). You can’t be arsed to create anything new and exciting if we’re shooting, cowboys. Open your fucking eyes, because the death of HOW is going to be a slow and painful one. So I hope you’re happy. HOW’s demise will be on you.
We had a real chance to do something GREAT here. And I don’t mean another shit inside joke there. I mean the opportunity to make this HOW the best era it’s ever been. But instead, you’re all writing your eulogies and talking about who to put in the Hall Of Fame from previous era’s.
Here’s an idea from someone who is an imminent death risk: ahhh, forget it. Nobody is listening. Could legit say anything and it’d still be a total waste of time. Federation full of Stevie Wonders up in here.
The potential is there, man. And it’s the fucking hope that kills me. Just think about the guys I could of helped create here. The next generation of star. But you aren’t for anyone else. You, and your selfish fucking spots.. that another win for you would be totally insignificant. Because you all want to work with your pals who coincidentally just happen to be the GREATEST ever wrestler to ever lace them up. Yeah, good judgement. Spread the dollar between you and let us feast off your table scraps. Naw, you win boys. Have your cake.
HOW to me was everything it was to you, and everyone else it has touched over the years. And you know.. maybe I just didn’t actually have the talent, maybe I was full of my own shit in my younger days. But fuck me… HOW used to be a trendsetter. Now..? All they are setting today is an emphatic ‘R.I.P’ on their tombstone.
I used to be jealous of what I never had in HOW. Jealous of how fucking GREAT they were. Respected how cutthroat and ruthless they were. Even at my own peril. Fuck, dare I say I enjoyed being the victim back then. Because at least then I knew where I stood. Now it’s just who helps walk Lee Best’s dog the GREATEST and other shit that shouldn’t impact the end product. Their contradictions on what makes a star only makes my paranoia gain extra suicidal tendencies.
They’d rather ridicule the people outside said circle. And that’s all GREAT. Nothing wrong with a good rib. But Christ alive, their ribs are the most tasteless thing I’ve ever munched on. And that’s not because they’re good. It’s because they’re shite.
Sorry I didn’t articulate that very well. But, like… I don’t care. I want to die, see.
More time elapses. This time, the sun is shinning. O’Dell looks lethargic with his head slumped downward. With his arms still stretched out wide, it has stark comparisons to the crucifixion of Jesus Christ himself.
GAVIN: One More Match! One More Match!
O’Dell slowly raises his head with squinting eyes due to the beaming sun.
Enter Darin Zion.
On paper, arguably the greatest of all time. But that’s not the reality though, is it? Reality is you’re a victim, too. Granted, a future Hall Of Famer in your own right, but you’re gunna be the joke of the whole class at this rate. Lets face it, you’re gunna be the induction where everyone is puzzled by it and tarnishes the whole Hall Of Fame as a total waste of time. You’re on the cusp of being the novelty act that simply doesn’t belong.
But don’t have a go at me, mate. I’m on your side. In fact, I’m a victim just like you.. I’ve just never had the courage to speak out. But me and you together, Darin.. we could of made the difference. Us two together.. we could of made HOW better. Me as the lion, you definitely as the scarecrow, Lee as tin man, and of course Toto there for comfort hugs and belly rubs.
Fuck, imagine a HOW without the whole ‘high fiving gimmick’ when one of the GREATS are finally exposed as the fakes they truly are. Where, without the HOW machine behind them they’d actually realize their shit smells of actual genuine shit and not roses.
Imagine HOW if all you did was turn up, wrestle, get paid and then went home to watch Stranger Things on Netflix. You think I’m joking, Darin.. but stranger things have happened, mate.
Halitosis wrestling for the HOW World title for one.
But see, the gentle side of me is blurring the lines. I’ve not heard from you regarding this match and you’re supposed to be the GREAT here. So, you tell me, Darin… when you turn up five minutes before we’re meant to lock horns out there. How is this supposed to go down?
You’re caught up in the rat race of professional wrestling. Particularly, the bullshit that goes down here in HOW. Quit throwing challenges out to the bullies because it ain’t going to achieve diddly squat. So, what.. you give your tormentor a kicking. Well done. They aren’t bothered about the build.. only the pay-off. I’m telling you, mate.. all they are interested in is the pure entertainment of your downfall. Poking fun for shits and giggles. Yet, HOW is the biggest sufferer. Hope your proud.
GAVIN: War Games..
O’Dell has somewhat a glint in his eyes. With the sun going in for the day and even more time passing.. a look of sheer opportunity perhaps.
But O’Dell’s vision appears blurry. A lot of time has come to pass and perhaps merely only a hallucination. Maybe this is just a friendly voice and an opinion that he craves.
GAVIN: Get the fuck down, Jon! I’m freezing and hungry.. just fucking jump then!
But War Games…
I have a better chance of being picked for the South African cricket team.
This match is synonymous with HOW. It’d mean a GREAT deal to someone who actually wasn’t wanting to die. But fuck me, the ghost of Jonny O’Dell will be pumped for this dangled carrot. And, let’s face it.. everyone has a hard on for a dead person in HOW….. HIGH FIVE! I just made another funny.
Knowing that, it kind of almost doesn’t make me wonna jump off this ledge now. Perhaps that this War Games pick is the validation – not just for my career, but for what my whole life needs. Maybe plummeting to my immediate death is simply not the answer. Perhaps a wake up call for myself and the whole of HOW is what is needed.
It’s nightfall. O’Dell’s legs transform to jelly. This is the ultimate cliffhanger. It’s decision time, but with his hold weakening then maybe his fate is already made up. His might is the only thing holding him as the human body begins to break. The finger tips loosening one by one. There is simply no going back now..
O’DELL: FUCK. THIS. SHIT!
O’Dell releases his grip. Uncontrollably, free-falling from the ledge. They say your whole life passes by your eyes before you die but only the stand-out moments are prominent for Jonny O’Dell. Or, even still.. Jon Oliver. The actual person behind the character. That seems more dignified.
Jon the crying newborn, Jon on a little red bike, Jon losing his virginity to a dinner lady, Jon taking his first bump in front of his trainer Bobby Beatdown Thompson, Jon signing his HOW contract, Jon getting bullied in HOW by presenting his travel bag full of puke, Jon getting fired from HOW, and finally Jon shitting himself in a match on the independents.
My name is Jon Oliver, I’m fifty five years young, I’m a professional wrestler………. and I’m not a victim, Darin Zion. But… probably, more than likely… still want to die.
CRASH! Jonny O’Dell lands on Gavin…………. dramatically descending all the way from a 4ft ledge onto the ground floor.
The idiots regroup, slowly stirring to a vertical base.
So I enter this match to simply kill or be killed. Never more dangerous. Living life on a window ledge…