I’m Back From The Dead!!!
The voice of hard rock goddess, Lzzy Hale echoes in the head of The Hardcore Artist as he sits in his cell at Alcatraz Island. A smile sits on his face, under his mask as he stares at the #97Red Solo cup in his hand. The words “Fuck Off Dick” written in black Sharpie by Lee Best. A final fuck you to The Hardcore Artist before his own jaw was likely decimated by Mike Best’s knee at Bottom Line. The karma is somewhat poetic… if you believed in any of that shit. Karma…. and poetry.
Rotating himself, he brings the cup up towards the single tap line that is in his cell, the same one that he had installed years ago when he was stuck in this very same cell before. So to say he knows this room well, is a grave understatement. Every crack in the concrete, every mark on the walls and every stain on the floor… etched into his mind for all of eternity. There might be some things you forget with half a brain… but never a single detail of this cell.
Because for one, they are not memories that The Hardcore Artist wants to forget. Because this, for many purposes, is his home. Alcatraz is where he has felt his most comfortable, his most at peace that one of his mindset could ever feel.
Pushing the handle back, the intoxicating liquid pours out into his cup. Scotty’s eyes glued to the cup, barely being able to wait the few seconds for the cup to fill so he can continue to numb his mind and body. With the cup filled… with the unknown beer… but likely an IPA, he shuts the tap off and quickly brings the cup up to his mask for a much needed drink. Because while he may not want to forget the memories of this cell, there are a few memories that The Hardcore Artist would like to forget.
June 9th, 2021 – Mount Sinai Hospital
Manhattan, New York
It’s been a long three days since Scottywood was carried away from the War Games cell on the USS Octane. A day spent in the ship’s sick bay… mainly sedated and on heavy pain meds. Then a day spent in multiple medical transports, getting him off that ship and all the way back to New York City and doctors who are familiar with The Hardcore Artist, complicated to say the least medical history.
Thank you Chris Diamond and the fucking concussion in twenty-thirteen that nearly ended his life… and certainly changed it forever. Whereas before he was really only getting stitches or healing fractures. Now he’s getting constant MRIs and consulting with a team of neurosurgeons anytime there is some major blow to his head. And having a mace shatter your jaw certainly a major fucking blow.
Which brings us to day three, the present in this flashback. Scotty in a hospital bed, his jaw partially wired up to keep it immobilized until they can further wire it up. All the wires they got hooked up to him along with an IV in his left arm that is certainly serving up a nice dose of pain meds that is keeping The Hardcore Artist in a pretty relaxed state. The kind of state he’d need to go on quite the drinking bender to get to.
Outside his room a team of doctors are huddled as they are looking over some paperwork as they occasionally gaze into the room at Scotty. They think they are being quiet, but even in his drugged up state, he can make out their conversation.
“Seriously? How is this guy not dead? With this many concussions. His MRI looks like he should be fucking brain dead.” One doctor comments as he shakes his head at one of the images of Scotty’s latest MRI.
“No idea. I told him some eight years ago that one more bad shot to his head could very easily kill him. That his brain at that point has likely already suffered severe CTE trauma. He didn’t listen one bit. I can’t count how many times he’s been back in here after a match. I honestly can’t wait to see what his brain looks like when he is dead.” Admits the other doctor as he just shakes his head, sorta sad that Scotty hasn’t decided to heed any of his advice.
“Doubt you’ll have to wait very long.” Snaps back the first doctor, as the other doctor sorta nods his head, pretty much believing that’ll likely be the truth.
They finally walk away from the door, out of sight and out of earshot of The Hardcore Artist as wants to shake his own head. He wants to tell them that none of that matters, he will never give the one of the two things that truly make him happy in life. Wrestling. And yes, of course the other beer. He knows he should just hang them up here. That he pretty much embarrassed himself at War Games. That it would be poetic to start and end his HOW career in that War Games cell.
But he can’t do that.
He can not give this up, despite knowing every one of the risks he faces every time he enters another match. The roll of the dice he is taking, the spin of the chamber on the revolver, hoping that it’s empty just one more time. Maybe it would have been poetic to retire after War Games. But it is way more fitting for him to die in that ring, doing what he loves.
It’s gonna be a long road, but he will find the end of it. For now though, he’ll enjoy the drugs, the break from the pain, both physically and mentally.
Tilting back his cup, Scotty drains the beer he poured just moments ago before the cut away flashback. He quickly brings it back to the tap and pours himself another round.
“So gluttony… that’s the sin that Lee has labeled with me?” Scotty rhetorically questions as he lifts the cup and chuckles a bit under his mask.
“Yes, I drink a lot. Is it in excess? Well that would be your own fucking opinion. Do I look like Bobby fat fucking Dean? No. Do I manage to keep a job and handle all my responsibilities? Yes. Maybe I drink more than you… or anyone you know. But to call it excess, to call gluttony… fuck off.” Claims Scotty as he shakes his head and downs another healthy amount of his beer.
“With that said… am I a glutton for pain? Many believed I should have hung things up in 2013 and saved what little was left of my brain before it splattered across an HOW ring and they had to drag my lifeless body from it. But I said fuck that and pushed on. There were days it sucked… and the pain was horrible. I pushed on though, and I kept fighting, kept taking more shots and kept shouldering more and more pain each and every match.” Winces Scotty as even the mere memory of those days are uncomfortable.
“But had I not done that… had I not pushed through all that pain… I would have never won the HOW World Title in twenty-sixteen. So in the end… it was all worth it. It was worth it back then… is it going to be worth it now? Five years later and HOW’s return has been far from anything I would have hoped for. No title wins, despite a few shots at both the LSD and HOFC Title. I came close… maybe closer than anyone who face Mike Best for that HOFC Title… but in the end, I failed. Now Some three months of rehab from another injury that should have ended my career… and I wonder, will it all be worth it.”
“I know I need to work my way up all the way from the bottom. But facing off in the opening match against some fuck whose first name are two letter that don’t even belong together and has never had a match here in HOW. Someone only known as a fucking salesmen of cheap ass fucking weapons then any actual wrestling. Probably just fucking here to shill his fucking shit after cutting Lee a fat fucking check.” Scotty takes a deep breath and settles himself with another drink from his cup.
“Like is that really the kind of welcome back match I deserve? A Hall of Famer. A former World Champion. Partial Owner of this fucking company… maybe? No. But let’s shove Scotty in a prison cell and give him some unknown shit fuck influencer wannabe. I have no clue if I’m going to bulldoze this shit in mere seconds… or be in for the fight of my fucking career.” Scotty ponders as he finishes his beer and immediately starts to pour himself another.
Nope, it’s not gluttony!
“For your own sake QT, I really hope you are here to fight. I hope you don’t get distracted by the sudden attention your little brand is getting. On all the views, likes and hearts it’s gonna get on social media now that HOW has shined a light on it. Because if you’re not focused on what happens inside that ring… I will give Reesemart a commercial that no one will ever forget. The only downside QT, is the cost. Cause it will cost you your well being… and your career, because I will end you before you even get started here in HOW.” Warns Scotty as he runs his hand down his mask while taking another nice drink from his cup.
“And don’t worry QT, I won’t try to pull any bullshit come Refueled with this mask. I’m not gonna claim I need it to medically protect my jaw… and then use it like a cheap Reesemart weapon to gain the upper hand. I’m sure even you already know what you are in store for though QT. An introduction to a real weapon. One whose legacy may only rival that of Lady Murderfucks in HOW. My barbed wire wrapped hockey stick.” Barely smiles Scotty through the mask and jaw wiring. Wishing that he had his faithful partner with him now, but knows he will soon be reunited and it will be a beautiful massacre when they are.
“So bring whatever cheap Reese’s pieces of shit you have from your two bit mart. Take aim at my jaw and dish out all the pain you can. I want it Reese. I need it! Because when I feel that pain I know that I am still alive… that I am not dead yet… and that I can still prove that this era of HOW was not just a waste of my fucking time.” Darkly admits Scotty as you guessed it, he finishes yet another beer and goes for another refill. I mean what the fuck else is he supposed to do while locked up in a prison cell with an unlimited supply of free beer.
I really hope it’s free, imagine if Lee gave him a tab after he is released… yikes. Trust me though, if that happens, Lee isn’t getting a tip. The service here has been fuck awful and the restrooms are absolutely disgusting.
“It’s going to be a Pleasant debut for you Reese though. Sorry, no, not pleasant as in happy or enjoyable… but in the way that I may just pretend that you are Arthur Pleasant since I really could care fucking less about you. Plus since it seems like I’ll never get my chance at revenge against the fucker who did this to my jaw… pretending you are him while I paint your fucking blood across the canvas will bring be some semblance of joy.” The kind of joy he can only otherwise find at the bottom of a beer can or nicely curved tulip glass.
“I hope you’re ready Reese, hope you’re stocked your online shopping cart up on toys and I hope you don’t underestimate the gravity of the situation you are being put into. Because after three long months of recovery, three months of plotting what my next move will be. I am more than fucking ready to get back in that HOW ring and take another swing… or twenty with my barbed wire hockey stick, bringing back the kind of brutality I am fucking known for here.”
Scotty downs the remains of yet another beer as he again just stares at the handwriting of Lee on his cup. Driving that motivation even more to show everyone that he is back… and back this time with one hell of a fucking chip on his shoulder.