It’s a dire situation in the LSD Championship match. My ribs are crushed, barely able to take in any oxygen. My vision’s gotten blurry, and I can only hear the faint sound of the crowd echoing through my head. I can sense the looming threat of danger, making out the faint shadow of Jace Parker Davidson wielding some sort of object……
Vickie Hall: DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRIN! LOOOOOOOOOK OUUUUUUUT!
Whew! A close one! Thank you Vickie! You’re my guiding light. Whatever the fuck that was—in JPD’s hands it’s a weapon of mass destruction. I’ve still got a chance….
The hazy white light has grown more now. Why are my arms going limp? Am I flying in the air?
SHIT! Jace hit the Unscripted Violence on me. COME ON VICKIE! COME ON JONATHAN! COME ON TRISTIAN! Get your asses out of the seats NOOOOOOOW! It’s a Code Red. I can’t feel anything in my body. Try as I might—I cannot pull myself off this mat. My arms have gone frail and limp. I’m trying to make it back towards the ropes. PLEASE GOD! Don’t let that fucker hit his finisher. I refuse to BOW TO THE….
In one instant, the world around me fades out. A bright light comes beaming down. It’s a complete blank slate followed with an ear-piercing ring. The cold, vacuum of silence is maddening. It feels like I’m free falling into the clouds, tumbling down an endless void. My ears perk up–hearing faint, familiar scream. It’s one I haven’t heard in almost 20 years.
“HOW MANY TIMES I TELL YA, BOY! TURN OFF THAT FUCKING RASSLIN’ GARBAGE ON MY TV. HUH?”
My heart begins racing; my body starts to convulse a bit, and the hairs on my back perk up. My mouth’s paralyzed—I’m a powerless witness to the scene coming back into focus. Like clockwork, when I hear the voice again, my teeth chatter and my body trembles.
“BOY! ARE YOU A FUGGIN’ MORON? LISTEN TO ME! TURN THAT SHIT OFF NOW! I’M NOT ASKING YOU AGAIN.”
A large lump forms in the back of my throat as everything comes back into focus. Taking a gulp, I start to realize what day is occurring. My eyes swell as the faint orange and brown floral pattern comes into frame. The faint aroma of moth balls, lavender, and Smirnoff wafts through my nostrils. I can feel my skin sticking to the brick-like linoleum. My fists ball up, quivering like I needed a fix. My pre-pubescent girly voice cracks, trying to form the words. Closing my eyes, I peel myself off the floor. Stomping over to the blurry, fat, balding red-plaid dressed figure, I stand toe to toe with the villain to my story:
MY LATE FATHER!
With all the courage I could muster up, I squeal out with my eyes bulging from my head.
Darin Zion: NO ASSHOLE! I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. I WANT MY ONE FUCKING ESCAPE FROM THIS HELLACIOUS LIFE. Let me enjoy my wrestling in peace, Dad. You can have the TV after I’m done.
I let out a tiny gap from my 14-year old lungs. The tension released from my shoulder while I saunter back over towards the TV. As I sit back down, I cross my legs, leaning forward in awe, eyes glued on the HOTv action. The pure beauty in the art work these performers put on sent me to Cloud 9. The endorphins kick in, my fists tremor from the action. I start pounding my chest like a rabid animal, hungry for blood…
THWAAAAAACK! THWWWWAAAACK! THWAAAAAAACK! CLAAAAAAANG! CLAAAAAANG! CLAAAAANG!
The old man yanked his belt adorned with a HUGE cowboy belt buckle against my neck. Folding over on the ground, I roll into the fetal position as my Dad unleashed his furious justice. Welts, bruises, and blood blisters form all over my body. I cry out to mom, hoping for a quick save—it was to no avail. Mom had a long 14-hour day at the hospital. Between her vodka binges and the Percs she took for the pain—she was out cold in bed. She couldn’t hear the loud, boisterous voice thundering from dad’s belly.
Soon the belt whips became full on punches towards my gut. I could hear the cracking sounds in my rib cage. The furious coughing muffled the verbal onslaught coming out of my dad’s mouth. He proceeds to wrap the belt buckle against his fist, pounding the ever-living shit out of me. One hit knocks out one of my teeth. Blood comes pouring out of my mouth.
“WHAT I FUGGIN’ TELL YOU, BRAT?! GET THE FUCK UP! MAN UP, PUSSY! YOU GONNA BE ONE OF THOSE RASSLERS?! FIGHT ME, WIMP!”
I kip up from the ground, charging towards the old man. We both collide with the coffee table, causing a lamp to break. The old man had enough of this fight. Like the dirty bastard he was—he reaches over towards the table, clinching his huge 11 in fist around the half-full bottle of Smirnoff nearby. He takes one crack at my skull, shattering the glass straight on my head. It splinters into hundreds of shards, embedding straight into my skull. More blood comes oozing out of my skull.
The old man wipes my blood away from his cheek. Dad cackles while admiring his work, pointing at me, continuing to mock me as I started fading from the blood loss.
“YOU’RE THE MOST WORTHLESS FUGGIN PERSON ON THE GOD DAMN PLANET. I WISH YOUR MOTHER WOULDA FUGGIN MISCARRIED YOU TOO. YOU’LL AMOUNT TO NOTHING, ESPECIALLY IF YOU GO CHASING THEM FUGGIN’ SIDESHOW CARNY RASSLING FREAKS YOU LOVE SO MUCH. I HOPE YOU ROT IN A GUTTER AND DIE IF YOU CHASE THAT DAMN DREAM OF YOU.”
I begin to ball while I’m slowly fainting off. Continuing to patronize me, dad rubs his eyes—dancing around like a damn drunkard.
“BOO HOO HOO! POOR LITTLE DARIN! THE WORTHLESS RAAAAAAAASSSSLIN’ FANATIC! YOU’LL NEVER WIN A FUCKING MAJOR SINGLES TITLE. YOU’LL BE THE FUCKIN JOKE TO EVERYONE. POOR WORTHLESS BASTARD CHILD! GOD! YOU’RE A FUCKIN SPOILED BABY YOU MISERABLE GOOD-FOR-NOTHING SLACKER! I should just throw your ass in a dumpster and leave you to die.”
The door to my mother’s bedroom slams open, but before I can make out of her hollering—the bright light once again flashes in my eyes. Suddenly I’m transported in a whirlwind like event. Tons of colors and flashing lights whisk me straight into the HOW’s trainers’ office.
There’s an intense throbbing in my head. Without asking me how I’m feeling—the physician continues to shine a bright flashlight, strobing it on both eyes. I continue starring off into space, processing everything happening. Before I could regain my composure, Vickie makes a beeline dash, almost knocking me over. Wrapping her arms around me, she almost suffocates me. I shake my head for a moment, bringing into focus the other members of THE LOVE CONVOY®. Vickie’s voice frantically shrills out with thanksgiving.
Vickie Hall: OH MY LOVELY! THANK GOD! You’ve snapped out of that episode.
Darin Zion: Wait? What happened?
Tristian-Crippin Gladhappy wastes no time in nuzzling against me while my BFF JCH walks over towards the table I’m laying on.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Man, you got a Grade 3 Concussion—something or other. JPD scrambled that noodle of yours Dare-Bear. You lost all faculties after that LSD Championship match.
Darin Zion: Oh fuck sakes! Please at least tell me I won the #LOVESTILLDOMINATES Championship guys….
All three members of the Love Convoy’s smiles turn into frowns. They stare at me with a blank look as my stomach turns.
Darin Zion: Guys? Did I win?