A Knock Before The Rock

Nine. Nine. Nine. I’m coming. He’s coming. It can’t be a coincidence. The ninth Rumble at the Rock. On November 9th. 2019.


“Can we shut the fuck up about the number 9 already? Let’s just be happy that Mr. Woodson gave us a fresh body to fracture.”


No. It’s time we start getting to the bottom of all this shit. No wait. It’s time I get to the bottom of all this.


“Ah ah ah. I heard you say we. Seems we’re finally understanding that we are one. That we are meant to be together.”


Is he right? I can’t help but to feel defeated. My brain is slipping just as fast as my career has become a joke. I can’t keep going on like this.


“Oh poor piss baby, want some cheese with that whine?”


I want my answers. I sit thinking, racking the number against every moment of my life. Like a conspiracy theorists red yard my brain makes connections to seemingly meaningless instances of the number nine. I can feel myself tearing at the seams. My insides are melting while my outsides deflate like a balloon.


“Think they’ll drop balloons and confetti after we beat Brenton Cross? We sure do hope so.”




My eye shoots over to my door. I’m not expecting visitors. As I look over my kingdom of trash, cigarette burned furniture and empty bottles I quickly realize I’m in no condition for house guests.


“Don’t pretty up our living arrangement. There’s also a hole in the wall from last night’s drinking binge. Remember we fell after fumbling with our boots. Also, this is an apartment not a house. Houses are for successful people not us.”


Perhaps if I ignore it, they’ll go away. After all who even knows where I live?


“Yeah since when did we have friends?”


Well there’s The Order.


“Oh yes the quickly dying and ever helpful Order. We know that the only reason we joined was for promises they never should’ve guaranteed. It’s sickening to be around them. Let’s just hit each member with something hard and covered in barbed wire. After all isn’t Scotty retiring? Let’s steal his gimmick.”


Seems to be everybody’s gimmick. 


“More reason to do it.”




“Seems ignoring the door isn’t going to work after all”


It was worth a shot. As a sigh leaves my lungs I stand up, ashes falling from my pants onto the carpet. Who knows how long I’ve sat in the same spot chain smoking and drinking.


“About 92 hours with a couple four hour periods of sleep interspersed throughout. To be fair, I don’t think this is a healthy lifestyle for us. Perhaps we should switch to that fancy nicotine gum.”


I’m growing weary of his jokes. Everything is a fucking game to him. The more my life gets ripped to pieces and oblivion takes everything from me I hear him chuckle. Now the voice mocks me. It chastises everything I choose to do, it belittles me after every headshot and giggles for every pint of blood I lose.


“Hey now, we’re just having fun, don’t take it so personally. Plus there’s some rapping at your door. Get it rapping? Like that Edgar Alan Poe poem about that damned raven.”


As I step to the door I try and shut the voice out. The mad ramblings about birds and bees. The never ending monologue of how it knows me best because it’s me. It can’t be me. Could it? I ponder this rapidly as I open the door, throwing it open with the force of a hurricane.




No. I recognise my uninvited visitor instantly. My blood runs cold. My spine is jelly. What’s he doing here? How did he find me? I can only muster up one dumbfounded response…



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