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As soon as I open the door to my apartment, a waft of foulness hits me right in the nostrils. Ugh. Right away, I know what this is. Or more precisely, who this was.
The odor permeating the air is the rotting carcass of Henry. My once beloved Goldendoodle. Over the last several months, I neglected to tell anybody to feed Henry. So there he lies. In his cage. Dead. With his fucking tongue out and his dopey little eyes gooed over with slime. Flies buzz around his doodly-haired carcass, which prompts me to gag for a moment. Ugh. Poor fucking dog.
It inconveniences me upon realization that I’ll have to pixelate the grotesque sight upon post-production so as to not upset the ASPCA or American Humane Association.
Cocking my head toward the body of Henry, I can feel a sensation of satisfaction overcome my disgust towards the smell. There’s just something fascinating about such emptiness as death.
No glow.
No sound.
No movement.
Just… nothingness.
I shrug, feeling somewhat nonplussed about the whole situation.
“You’re better off, Henry.” I say, telling the truth for the first time in what feels like forever.
This world we live in is much too cruel for something so innocent to live in.
For no one else’s amusement other than my own, I roll onto my back and mimic the mannerisms of a dog. Specifically, Henry.
This upside down view of a rotting animal is even more sickening than seeing it from an upright position. The best way, and perhaps only way, to describe the flies buzzing around in this view would be to say they’re like strange little UFOs. Or something..?
“Not all dogs go to heaven, Henry.” I say as I flip back onto my stomach. As I stand up, I decide to kick Henry’s cage and watch it move about a foot against the peeling walls of my dilapidated domicile. The contents within jostle around like a physics engine. Imagine ‘Human Fall Flat’… just with a half-decayed dog.
Whistling to myself, I sauntered over to a table covered in garbage. The living conditions within my sacred home are just brutal. What were once freshly cooked scrambled eggs have transformed into a jaundiced, sticky pudding sitting in a pan next to one of the front burners of a gas stove. Luckily, I remembered to shut the gas off before I last left this place for the road. Empty cans of ‘Ultra Black’ Monster Energy, an addiction I’m not was not proud of, scatter across a table inside this fucked up version of a kitchen.
Beneath it all is a stack of papers that represent the reason I returned here. Flipping through them, I absentmindedly hum the tune of “It’s a Jungle Out There” by Randy Newman. That’s what happens after binging on ‘Monk’ a few nights ago.
When I reach the last page from the stack, I just laugh.
And laugh, and laugh, and fucking laugh.
Knock, knock, knock.
“What the fuck?” I think to myself as I snap out of my own thoughts. No one knows I live here, and yet there’s a knock at the door? Odd. Despite this, however, I smile. It’s been a long time since I had a visitor in my own home.
I pat down the pocket of my orange Coleman brand t-shirt. Dipping my fingers inside of it, I pull out my trusty switchblade in its folded form. The initials ‘AP’ are inscribed in gold on the black handle–a gift from a friend from what seems like a lifetime ago. Pressing down on the locking mechanism, the blade flips open from the side. Being that it is of the single-action variety, I press down on the lock and hold it there as I fold the blade back inside the handle. Tapping on the pocket clip, I debate whether to let our newfound guest inside. I can only imagine the questions they’ll have upon entry.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Open up, Mr. Pleasant. I know you’re in there. I saw you enter just now.”
I nod, as if the person on the other side of the door can see me. Placing my switchblade in the pocket of my camouflage jeans, I look through the peephole and see a badge.
‘City of Gainesville’ reads on the upper arch, and ‘State of Florida’ reads on the bottom one. Underneath that reads the motto of virtually every police department; ‘Protect and Serve’. The metal looks genuine enough and the picture in the middle of the badge is detailed just enough to consider it being authentic.
Looking at one of the empty Monster cans that still has some of the tasty red liquid inside of it, I tilt it until a dime-sized speck comes pouring out onto the disgusting kitchen slash dining room table. Swishing my pinky finger around, I make my signature in the wetness of a four-month-old spoiled malfeasance.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Don’t make me bust this door down. I’m too old for that shit.”
I laugh, giving away my presence. Moments later, I open the door and turn my back to it, thereby allowing the Detective from Gainesville entrance into my home.
“Ooof. What is that smell?!” says the Detective as he steps foot inside.
Grabbing a handkerchief, he holds it to his nose as he closes my door.
“I’m Detective-”
“McDonald. I know who you are. Jeffrey told me you’d be snooping around here at some point. Either you, Callaway, or Burns. Long way from that petri dish in Florida, aren’t ya?”
Suddenly, his eyes meet Henry’s decomposition.
“What the…” he says, trailing off. My eyes immediately dart down towards his hand as it grips the holster of his gun.
“Now, now, Detective. I just let you into my home without having to. What good would it be to shoot me without getting the information you came for?”
Detective McDonald seems fixated on Henry. Like he’s never seen a dead dog before.
“Listen, Mr. Pleasant. I… okay, what the hell is with the dog?”
I shrug.
“That’s Henry. Henry, this is Detective McDonald. Say hello, Henry.”
Silence.
“Henry doesn’t like you very much, it seems, Detective.”
Detective McDonald isn’t sure what to make of the situation as he struggles to not vomit at the sight of Henry’s putrefaction.
“Come now, Detective. I’m sure you have questions for me. After all, I’m a known associate of convicted murderer Jeffrey James Roberts!”
McDonald’s grip on his holster tightens.
“Mr. Pleasant, I have reason to believe that you aided and abetted a known felon in his escape from imprisonment. I think it’d be wise for the both of us if you came with me.”
I tilt my head back, my face rife with indignation.
“Really? Hmm. Well, Detective, I beg to differ. ‘It’ being wise for the both of us, that is. Because, really now, it’s only wise for you. You don’t know who I am and the stench of Henry’s filth is clouting your concentration. With that in mind? You’d much rather interrogate me, unofficially, of course, somewhere else. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be so hot to leave here. How spot on am I, exactly, with that observation?”
I wave my hand. “Rhetorical.”
I lean on the filth of my table and pull out my switchblade.
“The thing about that is… I don’t really know who you are. I’ve also not done anything wrong. At least, not regarding this bullshit witch hunt you’re a part of. Jeffrey is not incarcerated by the judicial system, as I’m sure you realize. He’s as protected from the law as a cooperating witness would be for the mob, my friend.”
McDonald’s eyes betray him as he darts between Henry and me.
“You’re in over your head, Detective. You wish you could’ve known that before entering my home, but you can’t go back in time. Take your hand off your gun, please, and thank you.”
McDonald coughs from under the handkerchief.
“Listen, you smug motherfucker, I don’t give a shit about protocol. Your friend Jeffrey murdered a detective in cold blood, and I’m gonna find proof you had a hand in it. One way or another.”
“But you’re wrong, Detective. I didn’t have a hand in it at all.”
I press the locking mechanism and the blade becomes exposed.
“You fucking people.” I say, as I sprint towards McDonald before he can even get a round off. Grabbing his wrist, I rush forward and pin him against the door. His breath smells like cigarettes and coffee.
I slam his hand against my door several times until the gun falls to the floor.
“You are out of your fucking depth, Detective. You come here, uninvited, without a warrant. With no probable cause and threaten me with fucking nonsense.”
My upper lip quivers with rage as my nose touches his. I have an urge to hear the squelching of my knife as it enters his fucking guts, but I silently repress it. Suddenly, my stomach burns as a knee hits me right in the abdomen. I bowl over for just a moment, instinctively kicking away the gun the Detective dropped.
“I’ll have you know that this is all self-defense!” I laugh. “You were about to draw your gun. So I didn’t have a choice but to rush you.”
“Yeah?! You think so huh, bub?!”
“I know so, Detective. Now, can we remain calm for a second while I give you a second chance to ask me the questions you want to ask me?”
“FUCK YOU!! You and Jeffrey are going D-.”
Suddenly, before McDonald can even fumble for his dropped gun again, he clutches at his chest. His eyes go wide as he realizes what is happening.
“Hey. Hey you don’t look so good, Detective. Are you okay?”
I back up a few feet to give Detective McDonald some much-needed breathing room, as it looks like the poor fucker is about to drop dead from a heart attack. He has all the symptoms. From the way he’s clawing at the left side of his sternum, it’s clear he has severe chest pain. There’s a noticeable amount of sweat fully saturating his face, too. Finally, he’s flexing his left arm and grimacing from obvious shoulder and arm pain.
It’s all there. Check, check, checkity check.
Detective McDonald is about to have a terrible fucking day.
“C-Call an ambulance! O-oh G-GOD.” he weakly cries out before falling to his knees. This tough old bastard is probably the type who refuses to look weak to anybody. Real old school-like. We all know someone who fits the mold. Suddenly, John Sektor pops into my mind. Nah, I’m sure it has nothing to do with the stereotypical badass persona I just perceived through this poor soul teetering on the edge of death. Heh.
Looking at the helplessness of Detective McDonald intrigues me on levels I can’t even possibly convey. How can someone act so self-assured and swinging-their-dick type of brazen one minute, only to be as vulnerable as a fucking infant the next? Life can be so funny like that sometimes.
“Please. P-please, Arthur.” he begs me. A chill goes down my spine as I witness Detective McDonald slowly die before my very eyes. Fuck him. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so preoccupied with Jeffrey that he would never have ended up here, dying on my shitty looking floor.
Taking in the moment, I allow my legs to bend in bowlike fashion until I’m sitting criss-cross on my splitting linoleum flooring. I really need to have this replaced sometime soon. Jeffrey would be ashamed if he ever set foot in here, being the neat freak that he is.
Oh. Right. Dying fuckhead in front of me.
Elbows to my knees with my fingers interlocked, I throw the knife point down right next to Detective McDonald’s frame. My thumbs point upwards as they hold my head in just the right way so I can gaze into Detective McDonald’s agonies. I heave a sigh. This really is quite the inconvenience for me.
“You really should’ve taken better care of yourself over the years, Detective.” I chastise Detective McDonald.
“You should’ve put that double cheeseburger down and had a salad or two. Know what I mean? Jesus Christ, man. You should’ve gone to the gym more than once or twice after New Year’s for some pathetic resolution you never intended to see through. Or maybe, just maybe, you shouldn’t have put in so much overtime to catch the fucking bad guys.”
I cock my head a bit as a devilish smile forms across my face. In a low whisper, I inch my face closer to his.
“Bad guys like me, Mac.”
I turn an ear to his mouth so I can hear the death rattle happen. Moments later, I realize this guy might survive after all. Figures. There’s always the type in every profession who can survive one in one-hundred odds.
“What do you think, Mac? Coulda, woulda, shoulda… right?”
I slide my phone out of my pocket and begin dialing 911.
My finger hovers over the green “CALL” button. Looking back down at Detective McDonald, my countenance turns to ice.
“I need you to hear something, Mac. And hear it well. I know what you’re going through right now is painful as all hell, but I need you to compartmentalize that pain and your frustration over that detective’s disappearance for a moment and listen to me. Can you do that for me, Mac?”
There’s a loud whack echoing throughout the apartment as I smack McDonald across his face.
“Well, can you?”
McDonald fights through the agony and nods very weakly.
“If I call 911 for you, and you somehow make it through this—assuming it’s not a widowmaker — I need you to back off. More importantly, I need you to tell that dimwitted fuck wagon, Detective Burns, to stop digging and let it go. This goes beyond Jeffrey and myself. ‘Cause when you fuck with the Devil, Mac, you can’t go back.”
“Y-you can’t be… AGH… you can’t be…”
“As a heart attack, Mac. As a fucking heart attack.”
*****
This opportunity? It’s almost frustrating.
Almost.
Fact is? With March To Glory right around the corner, your friendly neighborhood Provocateur should be focused on laying his rightful claim to the LSD Championship.
And yet, I can’t. Not yet, anyway.
The Maurako Cup? Pfft. Despite a fluke loss to a half-team… it’s fucking over. As much as I hate to fucking admit it, we got caught. The end. The HOW World Champion, in all his childlike ignorance, proved his mettle to the world by getting another lucky pinfall on Jeffrey James Roberts. For the second time in a High Octane Wrestling ring. Not that I blame Jeffrey for the loss or anything, but the Gamer has his number.
This would be considered an impressive feat had it not been accomplished under fortuitous circumstances.
With that in mind? Someday soon, that perseverance, that sheer fucking LUCK, will run out. And then? Then.. his career will fade to black quicker than a Kostoff promo. Whether or not it’s for a championship, you best believe Jeffrey and/or myself will return the goddamn favor to Conor Fuse.
But until then? Our march to glory is not done.
Not by a long shot.
Not until we show the world why we are the most dangerous fucking tag team on the entire fucking planet.
With that said, there’s another opportunity opening itself up for us to seize. At Refueled 90, we are served up with a delicious meal in the form of Brian Hollywood and Eli Dresden.
I say served up because it won’t be a match so much as it will be a fucking massacre.
A massacre where we, the hungry patrons of Esperanza Restaurante del HOW, will go on to March To Glory and face another team for the number one contendership for the reinstated HOW World Tag Team Titles.
Hallowed be thy opportunity.
It’s a shame that the Flakedragon, Eli Dresden, and the Fraudwizard, Brian Hollywood, had to be the casualties here. Because Jeffrey and I are out for blood. Not just for us, though. He has DEMANDED it so.
Because this is what happens when you fuck with the devil.
Now, this might not be as ideal as winning the tournament, but that is why success is not limited to a single path. Not for those who give a shit, of course. This opportunity was designed, manufactured, shipped, and dropped at our fucking doorstep with no one else in mind to open it. Not even Amazon could have effectively delivered us such a package in such pristine condition and in such a timely manner.
So look at me.
Look at me, Brian.
Look at me, Eli.
There’s something the two of you need to understand before we head to that ring on Sunday.
Because if you don’t understand, then there’s little to no chance you will ever recover from this slaughter. I don’t give a shit what petty fucking excuse either of you two filler spots come up with for getting scared and going silent on us all week… no one will ever put you two fucking undeserving idiots in a situation where you get the chance to be taken seriously again. Mark my words.
What you need to understand is how out of your depth the both of you are.
What you need to understand is what sort of intrinsically violent people you are getting in the ring with.
What you need to understand is that we are going to impose our will upon you and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.
Jeffrey has already destroyed you both separately. Ever since, the both of you have been a thorn in his proverbial side by receiving inappropriate opportunities.
Now?
It’s his chance to destroy you both in one fell swoop.
And it’s my chance to showcase why we, The Devil’s Advocates, are the BEST fucking thing happening in High Octane Wrestling.
*****
“911. What is the nature of your emergency?”
“Yeah, I have a friend here. A Detective McDonald from Gainesville P.D., badge number 1229. I think he’s having a heart attack. Please hurry.” I say monotonically into my phone as it rests in the palm of my hand on speaker mode.
McDonald continues groaning on the floor while I retrieve the switchblade from the floor and fold it back into my shirt pocket.
“Okay, sir. Can I have your address?”
…
“Sir? Sir, are you still there?”
I place the phone on the floor right next to Detective McDonald. Looks like I wouldn’t be getting the phone back. Not that I have anything to hide or anything compromising on it.
“Sir? If you can hear me, stay on the line with me so that we can triangulate your location.”
Standing up, I look down at Detective McDonald. Looking over at Henry, I shake my head.
“Don’t worry, boy. Nice people are coming over to clean you up. Try not to bite!” I say, smirking at his horrific gelatinisation.
Stepping over Detective McDonald, I open the door to my apartment and salute him before shutting the door behind me.