BUZZ….. BUZZZZZZ….. BUZZ…..
The ever familiar vibrations of his phone awakes The Hardcore Artist from… I don’t wanna say sleep. You sleep in a bed. You pass the fuck out in an alley outside a bar somewhere in Minneapolis. The sunlight burns the eyes of Scottywood as he tries to open them up, his head pounding like a fucking drum as he reaches for his cell phone, knocking over a half filled bottle of Surly Brewing’s Furious IPA in the process.
“Who in the fuck?….” Scotty questions to himself as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. He somehow manages to sit himself up and prop his back against the brick wall of the building before taking a look at his phone’s screen.
48 Text Messages
“Seriously…“ Mutters Scotty as he rubs his hand over his bald head… well now rough head as it has been at least two days since he has shaved.
Answer your texts Scooter! We got shit to fucking plan for Refueled!
He doesn’t bother even reading the rest, he knows what they are all gonna be. Though the curse words do seem to rattle him a bit. No firetrucks. No positive spin on things. This is a different Bobbinette Carey then he last teamed with in the last era of HOW. He places the phone back in his pocket, ignoring Carey as he grabs the bottle of beer that he has knocked over. It’s piss warm and now only a quarter filled, but he shrugs and downs the rest of the beer before tossing the bottle down the alley. It smashes as he pulls himself up to his feet.
“Wonder if they are open?” He questions out loud as he tries to open the door he must have stumbled out of at some point last night. Finishing another bender after losing his first match in some three months.
“Fuck. Maybe I have some beer back at the hotel.” Wonders Scotty as he starts to walk his way down the alley and to the street.
ONE HOUR LATER
With a bottle of Advil in his hand, Scotty pulls a couple pills out of it and down the medicine with a healthy swig that finishes his can of Sam Adams Ocotberfest. He tosses the can at the trash, but misses as it lands on the carpet of the hotel that has certainly seen it’s share of fluids unloaded in it. I guess when you spend all of your travel money on beer, you don’t have much left for hotels that have amenities like… someone that ever cleans them.
Though even this shit hole is a step up from where The Hardcore Artist spent his last evening.
“Where the fuck is Frankie? I really hope I didn’t sell him to pay my bar tab again. His hands were pruned for four days after that one bar had him washing dishes for ten hours straight.” Ponders Scotty as he reaches for his phone again.
4 New Test Messages
Scotty swipes the phone open as he ignores the texts again and instead calls Frankie’s phone which starts to ring.
“Hey Scotty!” Snaps the ever chipper voice of Frankie.
“Where the fuck are you?” Questions Scotty, cutting past the so-called pleasantries.
“Isn’t that the question I should be asking you? You never came back to the hotel last night.” Retorts Frankie as Scotty’s eyes grow narrow with anger, not enjoying the tables being turned on him by his adopted son.
“None of your fucking business Fran….” Tries to answer Scotty but he is cut off by another familiar voice.
“But it is my fucking business Scooter!” Exclaims Bobbinette Carey as Scotty moves the phone away from his ear which is pierced by the anger in her voice.
“You bring me back to HOW and then you go and ghost me? We need to prepare for Refueled. You need to prepare for your match. I won’t even ask what you were doing,because we all know you passed out at some bar hammering back your twentieth IPA. And then what’s worse was you didn’t even invite me! Rude much?” Rants Carey as Scotty opens his eyes back up, his Advil hasn’t kicked in yet to be able to handle this.
“You don’t even drink.” Scotty mumbles back in some kind of half assed defense.
“For starters you’re wrong there. Secondly, completely missing the point, Scooter!” I come back to HOW, after saying I wouldn’t so many times, and this is how you’re gonna act? I didn’t want to. I was happy at home with PTA mom’s and those bitches can drink! But you brought me back. You kept pushing, you were adamant. What, were you just planning on ignoring me until you showed up at the arena for Refueled? Just gonna stumble down to the ring and take on Bobby Dean, like you did with QT Reese? That worked out great. You had that handled right? Spoiler alert, you didn’t!” Rants Carey as Scotty holds the phone as far away from his ear as he can. Each word piercing what is left of his brain.
“For fucking starters… if you were really happy with those non-fuckable cunts, you never would have taken me up on my offer. So stop pretending that just because you popped some kids out of that slip and slide vagina, that you’re too good for HOW.” Slams back Scotty as he grabs another can of Octoberfest and cracks it open.
“Excuse me Scoo….” Carey tries to interject but this time Scotty cuts her off.
“Welcome back to HOW Carey. Plus what is there to prepare for with Bobby Dean? He’s back to being a fat fuck who really doesn’t give a fuck anymore in HOW. Fucker can’t be trusted to do shit here anymore… which is something coming from the resident alcoholic here in HOW.” Slams Scotty as he chugs half the can of beer as he awaits Carey’s next lecture.
“So an out of shape pathetic sack of shit versus an alcoholic. Did I really come out of retirement for this? How about you get your butt out here with me and Frankie, we’re doing recon at a fast food restaurant watching the sloths of Minneapolis. So get your drunk ass some food at the very least.” Carey suggests, hoping to try and wrangle Scotty in before she loses him to another bender around Minneapolis.
“Fine… let me shower, have a few more beers and I’ll meet up with you two. Maybe I’ll cut me a fucking promo on Bobby Dean.” Gives in Scotty as places down his beer on the table and pulls his shirt off over his head and tosses it on the bed. Wondering in the process how dirty said bed is compared to the shirt he wore while sleeping in an alley.
“He did compare you and your promos to Ambien… That he falls asleep to your stuff. So I think that is worth a response.” Baits Carey, hoping the attempt at trash talk by Bobby will ignite the HOFC attitude in Scottywood that gave HOW it’s best look this era at what Scottywood can really do here.
“Really? Come on Bobby. What else did he say about me?” Asks Scotty as he shakes his head, disappointed in the utter lack of creativity Bobby decided to use in his lazy fucking jab.
“You? Nothing. Jace and Mike… much more. But you… nothing. Like dude already faced you and you’re an after thought. Like you are some curtain jerking extra talent that was just hired for him to look better.” Answers Carey as Scotty just nods his head in a pissed off but accepting the reality of it kind of way.
“Text me your location, I’ll be there in an hour.” States Scotty as he hangs up his phone. He goes to toss it on the bed… but thinks better of it as he holds onto it and bring it with him into the bathroom as he tries to wash the smell of dirty fucking alley off him before meeting up with Carey and Frankie.
TWO AND A HALF HOURS LATER
A black car pulls up to the McDonalds in downtown Minneapolis as we See The Hardcore Artist step out with another can of Octoberfest in his fans. He thanks the Uber driver as he pounds the can and exits the car, leaving it behind as some kind of tip or souvenir for the driver of his celebrity passenger he just had.
“Ladymen and Gentleguys… The Hardcore Artist, Scottywood!!!” Exclaims Frankie as he rushes Scotty with his phone out, already streaming live on who knows what fucking social media platform. Scotty meanwhile just stares at Frankie for a moment as he lowers his sunglasses with a “are you fucking serious?” look on his face.
“This is where you cut apart Bobby Dean.” Obviously states Frankie as Scotty just shakes his head and looks over at Carey chilling at a table outside with a smile on her face, knowing just how much Scotty is hating this right now.
“You want me to cut a promo on Bobby Dean. That fat again fuck who could barely fucking bothered to mention me this week. Seems he’s more concerned with Jace and Mike then the man that could stop his heart sooner than the shit clogging up those poor fucking arteries of his. Put the Ambien down and wake the fuck up Bobby, because believe me, if you don’t take me serious… it won’t just be another loss you have to worry about. I’ll put you to fucking sleep for good and HOW will have to go through the ooooooh so hard task of finding another sloth to slot into the Rumble at the Rock card.” Claims Scotty as he looks around at some of the McDonald’s patrons and spots about five in just a simple glance.
“You think I’m fucking boring? Why? Just because I’m no longer a fucking clown alongside Jiles? Well what the fuck have you done recently Bobby that is any fucking better? A win over Sulter some six plus months ago that won you what? Nothing! So sit your fat fucking ass down and jerk The 4th Wahl off some more before I put by fucking foot through him. People say I’m checked out of HOW… but you Bobby take that shit to a whole new level. I heard you’re not even writing your own promos for Refueled… just reading off cards that someone else wrote for you cause your time is so much more important than others here.” Jabs Scotty as he just shakes his head as he reaches into his pockets and pulls out a fresh Octoberfest to crack open on the sidewalk.
“Pretend like Mike and Jace are even in your fucking wheelhouse right now. Ignore the fact that you must survive both a match with me at Refueled and a fucking fight at Alcatraz prison with me and the other sinners next month. Because we all know you and The Bandits love to live in some kind of fucking fantasy world. One where Doozer isn’t just cosplaying as Superman. Where Jiles didn’t literally fall into a World Title reign. And one where you Bobby Dean aren’t just loved because everyone feels sorry for the fat man who needs a grab-it tool to hold his own dick when taking a piss.” Chuckles Scotty as he makes a clamping action with his hand down towards his… well I think you all get the mental picture. Sorry.
“I’m not gonna ignore you Bobby. Even if you claim yourself that this is gonna be an easy win for me. I honestly wish I could though, cause thinking about you and the massive fat rolls that are going to come in contact with me on Saturday makes me fucking sick. Pretty sure that is an OSHA violation for me to have to touch your nasty ass body. Then again I hear PETA is pretty angery too cause their afraid I’m gonna murder a fucking whale come Refueled.” Laughs Scotty as he can just imagine the “Save Bobby Dean” signs outside the arena as PETA tries to save what they they think is a fat fucking whale.
“The Whalers are dead and so will you Bobby if I feel like putting HOW out of their misery of having to again watch your fat ass try and pretend you are some kind of fucking athlete. That you belong anywhere near this fucking ring. Not because your ass has two fucking zip codes, but because you just don’t give a shit about being here anymore. That you are just going through the fucking motions to collect a pay check and from HOW and ride the imaginary coattails of two men, Jiles and Doozer who have done next to nothing, except when one of them was fucking carried by me.” Boldly claims Scotty as he can already here the groans from the fucking marks who love Jiles and his awesome run as World Title. Cause to them, him and The Bandits can do no fucking wrong here in HOW.
“So expect a loss come Refueled Bobby… and pray that you just fucking survive. I didn’t get to play my game last week against QT Reese… and I paid for it. I had the last fucking laugh, but I didn’t get that fucking win. You may be easier to beat than Bobbinette’s goalkeepers… but when I beat you Bobby, it will be a turn in the right direction for me. A direction that The Harcore Artist needs to find again. That I will find again. Now dig in. Cause it’s time now for me to feast, not on endless amount of nasty ass fucking food… but to feast on your fucking soul Bobby.” Finishes Scotty as he slams his beer and makes his way into the McDonalds to place his order.
Nearby at the table outside on the sidewalk, Bobbinette has a small smile on her face. Happy that maybe, just maybe she ignited some of the HATE within Scotty. A HATE that can flow through his veins instead of the excessive amounts of beer that have almost overwhelmed every ounce of his body.