Another match in the books.
Why am I not surprised?
As the match ends I make my way towards the back, the true Walk of Shame. Supportive fans reach out to clap me on the back, telling me I’ll get them next time. I try to smile at their encouragement, but at some point you can’t just grin and bear it.
My friend Eric Dane is ahead of me, power walking through the curtain. No handshakes, no well wishes, nothing but disappointment. Of course he gave me one instruction. Stay on the outside! That’s all I had to do, just stand there, look pretty, smile at the audience, clap my hands occasionally to get the crowd behind Dane. But no. No, dummy me decides that tangling toe to toe with Max Kael would be such a grand idea!
Let’s forget that Max fucking Kael and I have history. I remember back in the days of old, when Max Kael took a pound of flesh out of my hide at Rumble on the Rock. Literally. I’ve got the scar to remind myself of it. Sure, a pound of flesh out of my hide is like popping a zit off my ass. It’s a crater that is hidden by my fleshy exterior.
I digress. The point is, Dane gave me one simple instruction and I blew it. Now I’ve cost him a vital match leading into War Games. Yeah, I can see why he wouldn’t want anything to do with me.
Walking through the curtain I see some of the boys chuckling amongst themselves. Some are whispering. Some are looking in my general vicinity. But of course I can’t help but think they’re all talking about me. Laughing at me. Looking at me.
“There goes that fat piece of shit.”
“Look at that lard ass waddle.”
“Why is he even here?”
“You think he’s got an ounce of talent hidden somewhere in that vastness of fat?”
Of course they’re not talking about me. They’re not even looking at me. They’re trying to watch the monitors that I happen to be standing in front of. But I don’t know any of that. To my addled brain it’s all about me.
“Bobby, anyone ever tell you, you’d make a better door than a window?” someone asks out loud.
“Uhm, no?” I respond, wondering if there was a punchline coming.
“What he’s trying to say is, get the fuck out of the way!” someone else shouts out causing a few guys to chuckle as more than a few people shout “MOVE!”
“Bobby dear, are you okay?”
“No…” I answer into the phone with a small voice.
“What’s wrong honey?” my mom asks from the other end of the phone.
“I can’t do anything right anymore.” I say, whining like a child.
“Well, of course not.” she says with a laugh. “But you never could, so why’s that got you down all of a sudden?”
“Mooooom!?” I squeal out. “I’m serious! I can’t seem to do anything right. I’ve finally decided to give this another go again, and I’m already regretting it. I mean, maybe I should have stayed working that manager spot at the restaurant. I was on my way to possibly being regional manager but instead I threw that all away to come back to being the laughing stock of the wrestling business.”
“Oh come now honey.” Missus Dean soothes. “You bring joy and laughter to those around you. What more could you ask for?”
“Uhm, fame?” I answer deadpan. “Glory? Riches? Ladies to throw their panties at me? Mothers begging me to sign their babies foreheads? Big boobies milfs asking me to sign their big boobies? Guys offering me to sleep with their girlfriends like in the movie Striptease?”
“Indecent Proposal, Sweetie.” my mom corrects me.
“Huh?” I answer in confusion.
“It wasn’t Striptease, it was Indecent Proposal.” she clarifies.
“Mooooom!?” I squeal out once more.
“What?” she asks with a laugh. “I love a good sex movie.”
“Bleh!” I mine throwing up.
“You should really watch the Fifty Shades of Grey movies!” she says with mirth in her voice. “I swear, I ran through four sets of batteries in one day when that movie came out on DVD!”
“BLEH!” this time I wasn’t miming to which she has a hearty chuckle at my expense.
“Listen honey,” she begins, once more soothingly. “Only you can make yourself happy. If winning is so important to you, then honey, do what you have to do to win.”
After a slight pause in thought, I blurt out, “Mom, can I borrow $20 grand?”
“…” she pauses, digesting the request. Mulling it over. “Borrow as in you’ll pay it back, or borrow as in you’ll forget?”
“Does it matter?” I ask, seriously.
“No, not really.” she answers, equally serious. “Yeah, honey, you can have some money. But what do you need it for?”
“I think I’m gonna take a little trip to Tijuana…” I respond with a little foreshadowing.
Tijuana, Mexico. Or as the Mexicans say… Tijuana, Mexico. I guess that doesn’t really translate all that well in text form, but re-read that with the think Spanish accent and you know exactly what I mean.
You know, I’ve been to Mexico countless times. Having grown up in Texas it was always just a hop, jump, and a skip, and you’d be over the border, drinking cervaza, fucking whores for half the price, and running the risk of being kidnapped and murdered.
God Mexico is better than Disney Land!
But, sadly, this time I wasn’t here for the cervaza, or the whores, or even the delicious food. No this time I was here to meet with a doctor, a doctor named Doctor Wiener… I know, it’s such a childish thing to call him Doctor Wiener, but the fact is, that is his name.
Oddly enough, he was Indian. Trained at the AIIMS in New Delhi, then he traveled a bit abroad. He did his surgical rounds at a popular hospital down in Houston Texas, then found that the whores in Mexico were cheap, and the cocaine plentiful. So after impregnating a hooker or three, he decided to make his home in Tijuana. Work his magic without all the red tape that one must deal with in the American Health Care field.
“So, I see we’re here for a little gastric bypass procedure?” he asks as I sit nervously on the examination table.
“Yes sir,” I answer, stammering a bit. “And if it’s not too much trouble, could we wrap this up pretty quick? I’ve got an appointment with a Mr. Hollywood in four days.”