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“Fuck.”
I haven’t even opened my eyes yet, and I know that I have no fucking clue where I’m at. The cold cement underneath me has cooled my core temperature to near hypothermia levels, I’m sure. I’m shivering uncontrollably and I’ve got a monstrous headache that pierces like something that could only be described as feeling like someone has wedged an ice pick in between my eyes and frontal lobe, tickling my cerebral cortex. I open my eyes, and see that I’m dressed in the same clothes I was wearing when I left the arena last Sunday night.
I fuckin’ hate Ireland, by the way. Just wanted to point that out.
The chocolate “mist” bullshit that Bobby spit all over my face is now a near-week old crust that decorates the ends of my godly mustache. I try to wipe it clean, but it’s too dry and old. So it stays, for now.
There are no windows in this pure cement six-by-six room, and there’s no wait out…without the pin code. The five-inch thick, steel door has a small window near the top and a small sliding door that’s just wide enough for a plate of food to get through. I stand myself up and lean back into the corner. I rub my temples in an attempt to massage away this brutal headache, but it doesn’t work. Rubbing your temples never fuckin’ works.
“Psst!”
The loudest whisper/attention getter I’ve ever heard – thanks to this fuckin’ headache – comes from the window in the door. I can barely keep my eyes open, but somehow I stumble over to the door and peer out of the small opening.
There’s no one there.
I turn to go back, but I hear it again.
“Down here,” a whisper says.
I look down and out of nowhere Logan Tyler pops up to the window to greet me. The surprise sends me back a couple of steps, and almost down to my ass as I nearly lose my footing. His bright smile stretches from ear to ear. His temperament is as odd as it usually is, but there’s something different about him. Something, that’s…
“Are you wearing eye-shadow?” I ask him, still trying to get my full vision back.
“Of course it is,” he responds, his voice much higher pitched than usual.
“Why the fuck are you…we…wearing eye-shadow?” I ask, pretty fuckin’ pissed off. It’s not really my style, and afterall…this is my fuckin’ face.”
“We’re not wearing eye-shadow, Steven,” he says, winking at me.
“Well, that answers my second question. I guess I am the one that’s locked up in this fuckin’ room,” I say, already trying to remember the pass code.
Six months ago, Shawn and I built this room. Not for a situation like this, of course…but just in case Logan Tyler came back. See, everyone thinks that Dr. Devastation is the scary one in the Solex family. He’s got fucked up face paint, he talks like a crazy psychopath, and he says wild shit. But he’s nothing when you compare him to Logan Tyler.
Logan Tyler could quite honestly be the spawn of Jeffrey Dahmer, Charles Manson and the Zodiac Killer if they poked holes in 25 of 50 condoms and played some weird version of Russian roulette with Aileen Wuornos. He’s the kind of sick fuck that skins a rat and hangs the rotting skinless corpse in the middle of a mirrored wind chime…just so he could see the reflection of his work ten times over.
Logan Tyler is a sick, sadistic, sociopathic fuck and now he’s got me locked in a room that was specifically designed to jail him in the event of an emergency.
I walk over to the door and stare at the blue eye shadow on his eyelids.
“You like the color?” He asks as he winks and cocks a half-smile.
“It brings out your eyes.” The snark in my voice could be heard three towns over, if I wasn’t stuck in this fucking room.
“Not my eyes, Steven,” he says as he prances back away from the door.
“Ahh, I get it now,” I say, staring him up and down.
“It brings out the dress,” I saw, shaking my head and staring at the yellow and blue sundress that hardly leaves anything to the imagination.
“What’s the code?” I ask…I’m not in the mood for this bullshit.
He saunters back toward the door, using his hips to make the dress have all the movement of a tablecloth in the wind.
“Do you know what day it is, Steven?” He asks in a condescending tone as he cleans his front teeth with his tongue.
“It’s Monday, dip shit. Now let me out…”
“WRONG!” He shouts at the top of his lungs, spit flying from his mouth like beebees from a shotgun shell.
He laughs maniacally and spins like a schoolgirl. It’s got to be Sunday, I just wrestled Bobby Dean last night and I can still feel the licks I took from those drunk-fuck Irishmen in that shithole Belfast. I’ve got no patience for Logan’s bullshit today, I want answers.
“Well, what day is it you cryptic fuckin’ prick?” I ask in the half-dad, half-soldier tone I’ve perfected over all of these years.
Logan presses his face into the square hole in the door and sticks his tongue out at me. He giggles like a fuckin weirdo, but he finally tells me…
“It’s Thanksgiving!”
He pushes himself away from the door and dances around like a fuckin’ ballerina.
“You mean to tell me…I’ve been in this room for four fuckin’ days?!”
“Actually, Steven. You’ve been in that room for three days, two hours, three minutes, and fifty-six seconds,” he says, staring at the women’s Seiko watch on his wrist.
The last thing I remember was going back to my hotel room, grabbing my bag and heading to the airport in that shitty fuckin’ Toyota Corolla that was my Uber.
“You fuckin’ weirdo. You poisoned my water in the Uber, didn’t ya? You little shit.”
“Technically, you poisoned your own water Steven. And technically, we’re the exact same size…soooooo, calling me little is kind of self-deprecating, don’t ya think? But none of that matters, Steven. Not at this moment in time anyway. Not in this timeline, and this is the timeline that matters. We’re here now. We’re here together to celebrate this wonderful day of thanks.”
“Just give me the code you…fuckin’ weird piece…,” I get up to the square window in the door and Logan and I are two inches from each other’s faces. “Just give me the code, Logan. I’ve got shit to do.”
Logan walks backward and laughs as he spins around and around, just like before. He tolds out a small, folded, white piece of paper.
“You mean, this code?” He asks with a devilish grin.
“Yes, Logan. Give it to me please,” I say, reaching through the opening in the door as far as I can with my face pressed up against the cold steel of the door.
“Please, Logan. Give me the code.”
He laughs, keeping true to his gimmick.
“Steven, it’s just not fair. You had your shot against Bobby. Dr. Devasation comes out of pretty much nowhere and got his shot before me, and then he fuckin’ disappeared. And then Shawn got his shot.”
“And you can see, Logan. Quite clearly, actually…why I have to get back out there and get us a win. If we lose, Logan, we are down three matches to one. That means we are one loss away from…”
“I KNOW HOW TO DO BASIC MATH, STEVEN!” He shouts at the top of his lungs, his voice echoing off the walls in our basement.
“But now, it’s my turn. You don’t have a choice, Steven,” he says, as he tilts his head back and sticks his tongue out as far as humanly possible.
“Don’t you fuckin’ do it!”
I try to stop him, but I’m too late. He places the paper on the end of his tongue and swallows it.
“God damnit, Logan. This is fuckin’ serious! Do I look like I’m fuckin’ around here?!”
He looks at me sideways as my arm drops down flat against the door.
“You fuckin’ prick…” I start, but Logan is quick to interrupt me.
“Sorry, Steven. But I’ve got a few friends I’ve got to visit, and I can’t waste any more time here with you. By the way, Bobby’s stipulation is a Thanksgiving Turkey Match, Steven. And lucky for you…I mean, us… can cook,” he says before he prances off and up the stairs, out of the basement.
I’m fucking stuck here.
Logan is officially on the loose and alone.
Bobby Dean has done more damage to my psyche than any competitor before. But not because he is some great wonder to the world, but because he has found a way to win. He has found a way to beat me, against all odds. Two weeks in a row, Bobby Dean has had his hand raised while I sulked in defeat.
I don’t think it’s Bobby’s will to win or anything like that, however. I think that it’s these fuckin’ gimmicks. Ever since there have been gimmicks involved, Bobby Dean has come out victorious. It’s been a chairs match and then a fuckin’ pillow fight.
By the way, the bricks…not my idea. Talk to Shawn about that shit.
I need to get this shit back to fuckin’ basics. I’m telling you right now, I’m telling everyone right fuckin’ now…no more gimmicks, if I’m in control. No more gimmicks, no more bullshit, no more tall tales, no more tom-foolery.
Just straight up wrestling from here on out.
That’s where my strengths are anyway, those are the matches in which I’ve won World Championships. Those are the matches in which I thrive, where I excel. And believe it or not, the same thing can be said for both Shawn Kutter and Logan Tyler.
So, now Bobbo…you know the stipulations from here on out.
I hope you make it through this week, Bobby. I want my Michael Jordan, game seven, fade away jumper at ICONIC. I want that shit so fuckin’ bad, I can taste it. So, please…please be on your game Bobby. Be my Utah Jazz, be my fuckin’ Reggie Miller. If you don’t want to be, I’ll have you escorted out of the HOW like I’m Lebron James snitchin’ on two college kids in the front row.
And I’ll do it before ICONIC, if ya’ let me.