I would make a terrible criminal.
Have you ever seen “The Blob”?
It’s an old flick, I watched it with Gilda last year when we would make it sort of our Thursday night tradition. It’s about this gelatinous alien life form that eats anything in it’s path and grows larger and larger the more it eats until it becomes bigger than a Waffle House.
That’s the best way to describe my guilt when I have done something wrong. It eats away at my insides slowly getting bigger and bigger until it becomes all I think about. It’s just another element to my anxieties.
Sometimes, it hits within minutes. For example, when I was about seven or eight, during recess, a bunch of us kids, about four of us, were throwing rocks at the side of this auto repair shop near school until one that I heaved shattered some glass. Like cockroaches when the light comes on, we scurried away. One of the workers made a complaint. Immediately, I fessed up.
None of the other kids ratted me out. Rules of the playground and all that.
Maybe it was my Catholic upbringing, but hearing that the rock shattered the glass while people were working, which could have caused someone to get seriously injured, I don’t know, I felt the anxiety building.
There was something freeing about taking ownership of it.
However, the belt that would come across my buttocks later that night, taught me the lesson of how much guilt can you live with because sometimes you get punished for doing the right thing. Even if doing the wrong thing led you to doing the right thing.
Anyway, I’m getting off track just a smidge.
The point is, sometimes the guilt is immediate.
Some of the crap I’ve done in my life while drunk…hell, while sober….still keeps me up at night. At least if I were drunk, I’d have an excuse….
No, not an excuse. Excuses are what those in recovery call “stinkin’ thinkin’”. No, getting blitzed explains the behavior, it does not excuse it. Which is why making amends is important.
In some cases, you try and try, but, as in the case of someone who shant be named, you befriend them, help them regain some monocle of relevance by helping them win the HOW Tag Team Championships only for them to turn on you and leave you be crippled by a pack of hooligans….one of which is a dickless fuck who decided to get the hell out of dodge the second he heard that the Mayor of ManJattan was on the mend.
Sorry, the Jattlantic City Idol is still a little bitter about that. Especially on cold, rainy days when I feel that sharp pain in my neck. Let me put it in perspective for you, I used to wonder what it would feel like if someone jammed a giant needle into the back of the neck of a Jatt Starr voodoo doll. I don’t anymore. I feel it at least three or four times a month.
Back to my point…..
There are times when I relive these moments, where my conscience constantly reminds me of some shit I pulled. Whether it’s bashing Sektor’s then girlfriend or fiancee or whatever in the head with a steel chair. Or watching Sektor sleep with twentysomethings, which is just fucking creepy, and allowing it to happen. Or allowing Sektor….hold up, I am getting the sense that my relationship with Sektor was a toxic one.
Then there’s Lee Best. You wouldn’t believe the stuff I have covered up for him in my years. There is one story where, HOW may have been something like two months old, there was this Best Alliance party, there were the three “B’s”….Babes, Booze, and Best.
There was one party where we were watching him degrade some poor young lady, tying her up, putting that ball gag in her mouth….and just….admiring him for it. I would get physically ill when I looked in the mirror and thought of that.
Sure, she was a prostitute and probably got paid very well. There I go again, making excuses.
Yeah, so I’d make a pretty awful criminal.
I had this, well, have this uncle, it’s not like he’s dead. He was one of those guys who was just magnetic, he had this inherit charisma. It’s probably how he scored Aunt Laurie, a pageant queen in her day. Look, it’s not like he was a Montgomery Clift type, either. More like a Seth Rogen. Portly Seth Rogan, not the thin Seth Rogan of today. He had the curly hair, the beard…only blonder….he liked being the center of attention.
Good ol’ Uncle Davey. He owned a fairly successful used car dealership somewhere near Philadelphia. He was also, what one would call, a degenerate gambler. Depending on the year, you knew if he was a big winner or a big loser. On Christmas, he would either “forget” to send the presents or we would get either a fifty dollar bill in a card or something big. One year, he got me a BMX.
Anyway, sometime in the early nineties, ninety-one, I think? The cards stopped coming, my brothers, sister, and I never heard from Uncle Davy again. Apparently, as we found out a few years later, he had a rather unfortunate time in Atlantic City where ended up owing the wrong people a lot of money. Family gossip says it was in the neighborhood of sixty grand. You can’t really talk yourself out of that kind of debt with those kind of people.
I’m pretty sure he had a broken thumb to prove that.
Needless to say, my parents tried to help him out and gave him about five thousand dollars. Do you know what he did? He put it on the Bengals to beat the Houston Oilers. They lost thirty-five to three!
After a couple of other loans that he never paid back, not only from my parents but from other family members as well, they all stopped. Meanwhile, these people who clearly want their debt repaid and then some, essentially buried his business, falsified records, took some of his inventory, and eventually he had to shut his business down. My Aunt Laurie divorced him, especially after she found out he drained not only their savings account but also Franny, my cousin’s college fund.
Today, Franny is single with two kids, each with a different father by the way, who works as a nail technician in Akron. As if that’s not tragic enough, there was some talk within the family circle that she may have spent some time working the pole. Aunt Laurie, well, she, uh, she spent years getting out of the weight of the massive debt Uncle Davy left her with. As of six years ago, her beauty pageant good looks had faded, the smoking and alcohol had taken their toll – her face looking like an aged, cracked leather couch. Last time I saw her, she was sixty-eight going on ninety. But, you know what? She’s been with her third husband for about ten years now, assuming they’re still together.
Back to Uncle Davey, after he filed for bankruptcy, the police got involved, arrested him, he did a couple years for fraud, and was paroled.
When I think about my own guilt, sometimes I think of Uncle Davey.
I would like to think while he was in prison he took time to reflect on the pain and misery he inflicted on every single person who cared about him. Did he ever feel guilty about it? If he did, it didn’t stick because last I heard, he was living in Reno with his third wife, a former stripper named “Desire”. I’m pretty sure that’s not the name on her birth certificate.
Uncle Davy is somebody who can not be redeemed.
In a lot of ways, he reminds me of Jeffery Joe-Joe Rogers.
They are both human buckets of trash. Both of them put their needs above everyone else’s. They both have zero regard for anyone else. And they both leave destruction in their wake. Granted, Jeffrey Rogers is a psychopath and Uncle Davy is basically a sociopath. But that’s like saying yellow corn and white corn are completely different.
Let’s face it, they both end up in your poop at the end of the day.
When I look in the mirror today, you know what I think?
At least I’m not Uncle Davy and by extension Jeffrey Rogers.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m no New Starrleans Saint. I’m still someone who enjoys little extravgances such as caviar, fine artisan cheeses, luxury hotels, and well tailored suits.
But I am getting better.
Getting out of my comfort zone.
My life coach, Buster, is teaching me to channel my anger, a.k.a. or, as the French say “vis a vis”, my negative energy by experiencing new….um….experiences.
Whether that’s a month stint doing a drag show. Watching “Meet Joe Black” which was so soul crushingly bad, it made a Bobbinette Carey match look like the Cirque du Soleil! Trying “Rocky Mountain Oysters” which is the biggest lie in advertising since “The Neverending Story”. Spoiler Alert: It’s not seafood.
All told though, it wasn’t half bad.
But I really wanted some seafood, so it was disappointing in that way. I blame the server. She should—-
I’m going off on another tangent, aren’t I?
You see, that’s what really burns my britches about Jeffrey and my Uncle Davy. Their lack of a conscience. Uncle Davy, well, you break some bones and he’ll be pissing himself like a chronic bedwetter…..like Jeffrey.
I shouldn’t joke. It’s how I deal with things.
But psychopaths are notorious murderers and bedwetters. It is based in fact.
Speaking of Jeffrey, I don’t think breaking bones will break him, you know?
Uncle Davy, he’ll make you believe anything you want in order to get what he wants.
Jeffrey, I don’t think he gives a rat’s rectum about anything. He takes what he wants when he wants and fuck anyone who stands in his way. He is remorseless.
But he’s also a narcissist.
Jeffrey is all about Jeffrey.
People like him, they eventually get their comeuppance.
I might not be able to win the HOW TV Title from him, but you know what I can do? I can get inside that demented brain on his. And what better way to do that than to detonate a Jattomic Bomb on his psycho ass and end his perfect little streak. Hell, I don’t even need to worry about him, all Jace and I need, Jace being my super awesome friend, is to beat his partner, what’s his name, Arthur Peasant.
Have I made myself clear here?
There is no rehabilitation for people like Uncle Davy and Jeffrey, the Impotent Bedwetting Murdery Guy.
They cannot be redeemed……
UNLIKE THIS COUPON WHICH IMPLICITLY STATES THAT IT IS GOOD UNTIL DECEMBER 9, 2021!!!
::::SCENE: For the past several minutes, the Thane of Starrkarth has been standing in the doorway to his ridiculously expensive hotel room in Liverpool, approximately five miles from the M & S Bank Arena. He is sporting his plush while robe with the hotel’s ludicrously garish insignia which includes a fucking eagle on the chest. An Eagle! In England! That’s an American bird, dammit! Not that Jatt Starr necessarily minds the bird, it’s just the size of the insignia that bothered him.
Jatt Starr is also sporting black pants, leather slippers, and a yellow “Golden Girls” t-shirt featuring the faces of Rose, Blanche, Dorothy, and Sophia.
Standing in the corridor of the hotel is a young pimply faced, ginger haired lad named “Thad”, as indicated on his “Hi My Name Is…” pin on his “The Queen’s Pizza” rusty orange polo shirt. Of course the “Q” has a crown on it. Why wouldn’t it?
The pizza delivery guy, “Thad” holds the heat encapsulating bag in his wiry, Max Kael like arms, they are almost shaking as he looks at Jatt Starr with as much interest as he would a documentary on Jeffrey Abacus, the inventor of math….at least that is who Jatt Starr thinks invented math. Thad takes a large sniff, the sound of his nose vacuuming the liquid mucus back into his nasal cavity can be heard across the floor.
The Ruler of Jattlantis can only cringe in disgust as if he were hearing the words “Darin Zion: HOW Hall of Famer”.::::
THAD: Look mate, it says “by” December 9, 2021, not “through”.
JATT STARR: Don’t try double talking me! This coupon—–
::::Meredith touches the Hero of Jattlanta’s shoulder and leads him out from the doorway, she proceeds to hand the teenager some cash. Or poundage as Jatt believes they say in the native English tongue.::::
MEREDITH: Keep the change.
JATT STARR: What are you doing??? It’s a five dollar—
MEREDITH: Pounds, Jatt.
JATT STARR: Yeah, somebody’s gonna get pounded for this highway banditry!
::::Thad takes the colorful wad of cash and shoves it in his pocket and proceeds to pull out two large pizza boxes. Meredith takes them and walks past the Jattlantic City Idol and into the spacious and elegant living room area as the door closes behind them. Meredith, sporting a rather chic pinstripe suit, places the pizza boxes on the wooden (probably mahogany) table.::::
JATT STARR: Why would you do that?
MEREDITH: It’s only five pounds.
JATT STARR: That’s like—That’s like thirty dollars American!!!
MEREDITH: It is not. And we’re hungry.
JATT STARR: I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.
::::The King of Jatten Island glares at the door once last time, hoping he can tap into a long hidden supernatural ability to shoot invisible death ray lasers from his eyes and disintegrate that teenage ingrate.::::
MEREDITH: Was that story about your uncle true?
JATT STARR: Hm?
::::The Marquis of MadagaStarr continues to stare at the door but is brought back by the sound of Meredith, who is currently opening one of the boxes.::::
JATT STARR: Yeah, mostly. He only gave us fifties once. It was usually twenty to twenty-five.
:::Jace Parker Davidson, sporting a rather fashionable red shirt and suit pants comes sauntering into the living room and begins rubbing his hands together.::::
JPD: Pizza’s here!
:::Meredith hands him a slice of pepperoni as Jatt Starr takes a seat on the couch on the other side of the room. The King of Everything follows him and takes a bite of the slice.::::
JPD: You know, I was skeptical that English pizza would taste like shit. And I was right…
::::Jace proceeds to turn and spit the contents of his mouth into a potted plant next to the doors leading to the balcony.::::
JATT STARR: What are you doing? Why are you always spitting food out in my room?
JPD: It’s fucking gross, Jatt.
JATT STARR: Do you spit food in your room???
JPD: Of course not.
MEREDITH: We always eat out….and yeah, this pizza is the worst.
JATT STARR (confused and bewildered): But it’s endorsed by the Queen.
JPD: What, you think Little Caesar’s was endorsed by Julius Caesar?
JATT STARR: Well, no….
MEREDITH: Can we get started?
:::Meredith approaches the Victorian style chair across from the couch.::::
MEREDITH: What do you need from us?
JATT STARR: Look, Jace, you and I respect each other immensely. I don’t know anything about anything when it comes to Farty Pleasant.
JPD: Pleasant Farts?
JATT STARR: Farty Peasant.
::::Jace points approvingly at the Sovereign of Starrgentina.::::
JATT STARR: Sorry. Look, it’s no secret that the Ruler of Jattlantis has been on a wee bit of a losing streak lately since beating High Flyer. I lost to Sektor.
JPD: You were robbed.
JATT STARR: Losing to you.
JPD: No shame in that.
JATT STARR: Getting pepper sprayed and kicked in the nut by Bobbinette Carey.
JATT STARR: Losing the battle royal.
JPD: Fucking Stevens!
JATT STARR: I need this victory. I don’t know if Scottywood intends to accept my challenge or not for ICONIC, but I need to regain the momentum. We need to come up with a plan of attack to take down the murderous whackjob and his crony.
JPD: Is he a crony though?
JATT STARR: Who freaking knows? I don’t pay enough attention to the Farty Peasant to know that! Do you?
JATT STARR: So, we need to watch video of this Jeffrey guy in all of his matches and expose his weakness in the ring. Once we do that, bing-bang-boom we’re back on top. I even have my t-shirt at the ready to print off matching shirts that says “THE STARR-LEY DAVIDSON CONNECTION: UNDEFEATED AGAINST JJR – DECEMBER 12, 2021”. And for an additional three dollars AMERICAN, he will make us coffee mugs.
MEREDITH: You are not calling yourselves that.
JATT STARR: Too late.
JPD: Meredith, how am I looking tomorrow?
MEREDITH: We’re free from two to four tomorrow and then we have reservations at five.
JATT STARR: Can’t tomorrow afternoon, I’m dressing up as Santa at an orphanage.
JPD: That sounds like a real horror show.
MEREDITH: After dinner then?
JATT STARR: Oooo, can’t. I have a charity drag show. The final appearance of Simone Sparkles. Yep, hanging up the wig after tomorrow night.
JPD: Sure you are.
MEREDITH: We have Saturday morning free.
JATT STARR: I usually video chat with Gilda every Saturday….but, eh, I can skip it. I’ll make it up to her for Christmas.
MEREDITH: Alright, Saturday it is. Jace, we’ve got that….thing….
::::Meredith begins not-so-subtly pointing her head towards the door.::::
JPD: Oh, yeah. We’ll talk tomorrow, Jatt.
JATT STARR: Are you sure?
::::Jace proceeds to head towards the door followed by Meredith. The Earl of GlouStarr gets up off the couch.::::
JATT STARR: There’s plenty of pizza!
JPD: We are absolutely sure. Don’t worry.
MEREDITH: It’s—We can’t cancel. Sorry.
:::Meredith and Jace Parker Davidson exit the room, leaving the Ruler of Jattlantis standing by the table containing the pizza. He stares at the door momentarily, wondering where they could possibly go at eleven o’clock at night. He decides they probably had a reservation at an exclusive club that only sells alcohol and they chose not to tell him out of respect for his sobriety. They are such great friends, he is lucky to have them.
The Savior of Starrkham grabs a slice of the pepperoni pizza and takes a bite. Not only is the pizza cold but it is godawful and he promptly spits it out into the box. He heads to the phone to order room service, which he should have done in the first place, but decided not to because, PIZZA. Instead, he will get an order of bangers and mash and a soda off the late night menu as the scene comes to an end.:::::