I didn’t know she’d be gone when I got home.
I honestly didn’t expect it.
Two marriages in one year…right down the fuckin’ drain.
She even took the kid.
Just like my last wife did.
How can I be the #1 Dad if I’m just some double-divorced, douchebag with a perfect lawn and a killer mustache?
I’m a fuckin’ imposter. A phony of the highest regard.
She didn’t deserve the way I treated her and neither did the kid.
A brain tumor isn’t something that I should be taking so lightly, but I have no other way to deal with it. Wrestling is my life. Competing in this ring is what I was born to do. If I don’t have that, I have nothing. I try not to think about it and what might happen should I take the wrong bump to the head.
Out of sight, out of mind.
So, here I sit…on this bullshit floral couch, leaned back, staring at the ceiling…alone.
Normally, I’d call up the boys and have a few beers. But I’m just not feelin’ it today. I’m maxed the fuck out.
My half of the HOTv Championship is laid across my lap, the weight of it keeps me feeling grounded, but the weight of knowing that I have to defend that belt has me fucked up.
It should have been Harrison to defend this thing; he loves it so goddamn much.
But The Miracle Man’s got his shot at Christopher America, and I’ll be damned if I let him get distracted with something as trivial as the eGG Bandits right now.
I couldn’t beat Chris, but Harrison can and at Rumble at the Rock…he will.
The Bandits are back and…
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
The sound of three obnoxiously loud knocks at the front door nearly knocks the curtains off the windows and startles me from my day dreamin’ bullshit. I toss the tag belt aside and grunt and groan my way up to my feet.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
Motherfucker. This shit better be good.
I walk over to the front door and rip it right open, fuck that peep hole, I want to be surprised.
It’s Frank from across the street. Fuckin. He’s holding a six pack of some off brand bullshit up at shoulder height and wearing the dumbest outfit I’ve ever seen in my fucking life. A green striped polo and dungaree blue jeans make this forty-something asshole look like an overgrown ten year old helping out during the family garage sale.
He stands there, just staring at me, still holding the beer up high with that idiotic, plastic grin.
I slam the door in his face and turn away. Then it hits me.
I whip the door back open. Like a fuckin’ moron, he’s still standing there with the beer help up. I snatch it from his hand and slam the door in his face once more. I turn my back to the door and peel a beer from the plastic ring of the six pack, pop it open. I lean back against the door and slide down to the ground while chugging down the piss warm knock-off beer.
Muttering to myself seems to be my thing these days.
Losing my wife can’t be a concern right now. I knew this would happen, I was prepared for this. What I need to do is get myself back on track. I’m on a two match skid and that shit sucks, I can’t even try to lie to myself about that.
The losses were against the World Champion.
Trying to justify it doesn’t work and it’s not my style.
Losses are losses.
This week, I can get a little bit of redemption for myself. The eGG Bandits are the newest play thing of The Board, and if I can exact a little revenge on them by way of the Bandits, I may start to feel a bit better about myself. Challenging those three goofs to a Best of Five was an easy way to pad my schedule for a bit.
Cause, that’s what I do…ain’t it?
I hear you Bobby Dean and I see you…shit, how could I miss you?
I really love how you try to be part of the joke by using self-deprecating humor to mask your obvious self-loathing. I got new for you, bub…you’re not part of the joke and you never will be…not as long as you walk around looking the way you look.
Make another Bobby Dean fat joke! They’re not old!
The jokes are old and they’re definitely tired. They’re old and tired like your organs after a weekend long ice cream bender in your mother’s basement.
This is classic fat guy stuff.
Last year, I got to punch you in your fat fuckin’ face for seven weeks in a row and then beat you in the payoff match at the end to cap it all off. Trying to discount that by saying the shit you’re saying is typical Bobby Dean.
“Bruh, I can’t believe you didn’t beat me in all four matches! I fuckin’ suck!”
You said it, Robert Dean…self-deprecating all over your own chest. We’ll call that the Deaner Steamer, for future reference.
And then Doozer comes back. Following the other two nitwits as usual. But this time…this time, things are different.
This is the big, bad, tough and full of grit version we’ve never seen before. This is a Doozer I can get on board with. Finally standing for himself and getting snotty with the Bandit of all Bandits, Cancer Jiles. It’s like a dream come true.
But….really. How long did it finally take for you to stand up to him, Dooze? Like five fuckin’ years? Five long years of riding bitch behind Bobby Dean? I’ve seen battered wives with Stockholm Syndrome leave their husbands in less time than that. But there you were, loyal to the man as he belittled you and buried you day after day, for almost two-thousand days.
So, while you might think you’re impressing everyone with your new bravado and bad attitude, remember who the fuck you’re dealing with.
You’re dealing with the MERCDAD and Joe Bergman.
You’re dealing with The Highwaymen.
You’re dealing with PBR.