So, here’s the thing about me. I hold grudges.
Like, bad. Like to the detriment of myself and all those around me bad. Like I will scorch the earth killing Santa Claus and Mr. Rogers to get my vengeance.
So when I’m stuck here, waiting… and all I want… I just really want to make Mike Best pay for what he did. I want Troy and Ryan to suffer for their betrayal. I want to punch Eric Dane in his stupid fucking face for even bringing me here in the first place.
I have been so focused on people who haven’t been standing across from me in that ring, that I’ve lost, time and time again. When I should have been worried about Sean Stevens, I was thinking about Lindsey Troy. When I should have been focused on making sure Conor Fuse ascends to the next level of badass… I was worried about Mike Best all along.
So, no more. One day, I’ll get to kick Mike Best’s smug Thalia from his face, turn him into Melpomene. But until then, gotta focus on the here, focus on the now.
Focus on the moment, so that it can lead me to where I want to go.
So this week, I’m going to focus the entirety of my energy on one Sir Robert Dean, the man who’s fat folds make him look like he’s perpetually wrapped up in a shamwow. I’ll make it my mission to take your flabby skin and wrap you up in a burrito, straightjacket your flesh until you give up. Not only that, but I’m going to be running so quick and fast around that ring you’ll get tired just looking at me. I may be 45, but even at 85, I’ll still be able to outrun you.
Good on you for losing all that weight though. Should have lost some skin too. Maybe you could have cut it off your gut and used it as a cannibalistic meal, cause I can only imagine you’re just as hungry as you ever were. Filling yourself with food to cover the pain of how mediocre I am.
Perhaps I can turn you into a poncho… or one of those large tarps that elementary school gym classes use during a May Fair. Actually, no, when I’m done with your shallow shitty self at Refueled, people are going to show up at Blackhawks games and wonder if they changed the team colors to Bobby Dean’s pale ass skin color, cause I’ll have stretched it from the south side rafters all the way to the north side. The Stanley Cup Banners will be hanging from your torso with fishhooks if I get my way.
Did I do it right? Did I sound intimidating? Am I scary?
Eh, I’ve never found words to be scary. So instead, I’m going to stop telling you what I’m going to do to you, I’ll just show you.
See you at Refueled.
Oh, and I gotta ask. You have body issues, self esteem issues… So… You spend tens of thousands of dollars getting rid of 40 pounds of useless fat, but you didn’t bother about the 3 pounds of stupid in your head?
Eat a dick, but since you’re on a diet, just taste the tip.
Once again, we fade into a sterile hospital environment. We hear lots of beeps from machines keeping patients alive. A head nurse is answering phones. She’s a heavyset woman who seems polite to a point, and once you cross that line… oooh boy. Large gold hoop earnings, traditional light pink scrubs with a pencil’s tip being lightly chewed on.
She’s interrupted by a man slamming a check onto the counter. Of course, this man is our titular hero, or villain, depending on perspective. Jack Harmen, better known to HOW audiences as High Flyer, stands there with a smile that would rival that of the most ardent street performer.
High Flyer: Hello Ma’am. I’d like one bag of human fat please.
The nurse looks up, goes to say something but the words catch in her throat.
Nurse: I- I’m sorry?
High Flyer: Human fat. I have this zip loc bag.
Flyer holds up a zip loc bag.
Nurse: Excuse me?
High Flyer: Oh right. Cameras. I would like it stored in one of your fine generic plastic storage containers with a plastic zipper at the top.
Nurse: We, we don’t give out human fat.
High Flyer: I know –
He holds up a check. It’s blank.
High Flyer: – That’s why I’m offering compensation
Nurse: We… we don’t sell human remains either.
High Flyer: Well then how the hell is someone supposed to legally get a wheelbarrow of human fat?
Nurse: They’re… not. Sir. This hospital wing is for sick patients and their immediate family. Are you either?
High Flyer: I dunno. Maybe? I got around alot when I was younger.
He looks over a patient list.
High Flyer: There was a Sally Smith, so could be my kid, but that’s such a common last name. Now, are you going to sell me the human fat or not?
Nurse: No. And I have the right mind to call the police on you.
High Flyer: Great. Then I gotta deal with Steve. Listen, fine, you just lost a customer.
High Flyer snatches the blank check and walks off. The nurse just sits there, confused.
Nurse: We’re not a store.
CUTTO: Exterior Hospital, daytime. A grumbling High Flyer emerges from the double doors, kicking an occupant’s wheelchair as they pass. The old man shouts “Hey!” but quickly relents as Flyer turns and stares daggers through him.
Flyer looks around the direct exterior, walks over to a large beautiful oak tree. We hear a zipper unzip, and then a steady stream.
High Flyer: Fuck this tree. Fuck this hospital. Fuck all ya’ll. I’ll get me enough human fat to rip Bobby Dean’s sutures open and stuff him full so he looks like how we all remember him. Like the Staypuff Marshmellow Man he is.
The stream relents, after a few extra drips. The zipper zips. High Flyer turns around, and there’s a police cruiser just behind him. The lights are flashing, but there is no sound. Flyer rolls his eyes.
High Flyer: Hi Steve. How’s the wife?
Without prompting, Flyer turns around, placing his hands behind his back as the two beat cops walk up and slap handcuffs on him. The two cops pull and yank Harmen over to their cruiser.
High Flyer: Hey, your wife isn’t four hundred pounds is she? Cause I’m offering free after market liposuction as long as I can keep the fat.
The cop places his hand on Flyer’s head and gently guides him into the cop car. The door closes, as Flyer continues from the backseat, inaudible to the camera. The two cops enter the front seat and drive off. Sirens blaring as Flyer continues to rant from the backseat.