Throughout my training to become a wrestler there was one man whose annoyance was only eclipsed by his culture appropriation.
His name was Jack Marley
I am not saying it this way because he is famous as a great competitor. No, I am saying it this way because the man is as white as a snowflake yet appropriated Bob Marley’s last name because he enjoyed smoking ounces and ounces of the kind bud.
He was a 5’10 skinny red eyed moron. He would quote Bob Marley songs while he was trying to explain why his boss and my trainer was great yet would say: “Don’t gain the world and lose your soul, wisdom is better than silver or gold.”
I was an innocent fool then, so I just nodded having no idea what he was trying to say.
The truth was he wasn’t saying anything.
He was just high.
It made zero sense because my trainer had long lost his soul before I even cared about wrestling. He had a business relationship with my father, so I already knew this guy did indeed care more about silver or gold then his soul.
This did not stop Jack Marley from trying to sound like some high-minded Rastafarian. He would ramble on and on about the past and how he almost made it as a wrestler in late 1999 and then one last chance in late 2002.
His chances all added up to a record of 1-3? I will be honest that is all I could find from the Internet, so I am not sure it is correct. Wrestling federations seemed to close as soon as he arrived.
The past is the past of course. It is hard for the Man of Miracles to look back at that time and see what an utter failure I was. Now, I bring forth ratings as high as Bobby Dean yelp reviews for IHOP.
That is fucking high, assholes.
So why am I reminiscing about some stoned lackey?
He was knocking on my Apartment door.
I looked up from my comfortable recliner a glass of Crown Royal XO in my left hand. I stared intently at Rebecca Hines who stood in front of the door hoping she would answer the door. She stared back at me with a frown on her face. I had wanted to daily tell her to smile because all those frowns were making her look like Lindsay Troy and that is not a compliment. I would have to have my head in a pile of cocaine for two weeks straight to find that Amazonian attractive.
“You going to answer the door?” She asked angrily staring a hole through me.
I sighed, “I don’t recognize the voice.”
Rebecca stamped her foot, “you know who it is. Do not try to weasel your way out of agreeing for him to be your assistant.”
“Ugh,” I muttered slowly. The last thing I wanted on a Friday evening when I am relaxing with a glass of whiskey was too entertain or to be entertained by Jack Marley.
Rebecca threw her arms up and then a smirk came to her face. She opened the door and Jack stood there with an old looking Adidas soccer bag hanging from his right shoulder. “Jack, he is right there,”: she pointed at me and walked out the door, “have fun you guys,” the door slammed behind her.
Jack tossed his bag on the ground. Dirt flew off the bag onto my clean floor. I eyed it angrily and looked up at him to see him with a smile bigger than the lake of tears Cecilworth had created after The Minister ditched him. “Hey mon, long time no weed.”
This man looked ridiculous. He was bald but still had his dreads. Just three long dreads in the back of his head. What a joke, I started to chuckle at the sight of him.
He shook his head, “no, do you have any weed, I just ran out on the uber ride, mon?”
I rolled both my eyes so hard I could literally see my brain melting. “No. I have things much stronger, but I must save those for Brian Bare for Refueled tomorrow night.”
“STF, it is, mon!” Jack responded his dreads flying left to right as he jumped up and down in happiness.
I shook my head so fast and hard I got dizzy and passed out.
Dreams of Jack Marley choking on his dreads followed.