I rolled over and stared at my cell phone audibly groaning like a Mummy chasing a tomb raider. It was Rebecca Hines calling me, I stared up at the ceiling as I lied in bed and watched the ceiling fan spin around and around. Bad idea, I was hung over and didn’t even think I had a ceiling fan. Wait…I thought, I am still in Chicago and this must be a hotel room.
Ugh, it kept ringing and my head began to match the noise. Last night was a blur of alcohol and silicone tits all being tossed in my handsome face. Ones were tossed around every strip club I frequented in celebration of the Holy Water redeeming every fan at the Best Arena. It was not a sellout but over fifteen thousand fans wanted a last piece of the man once named Max Kael, you know—if he is dead. I need to remind myself to always remember that he may still be among the living. Red lights don’t mean anything without a breathing head with it.
Thinking about that made my headache worse, I really do not wish to get in a pissing contest with The Minister.
Jesus Christ, I thought, or whoever will give me some bullshit salvation right now from this hang over and Rebecca calling me repeatedly. It was early, what is she thinking. I don’t have a coffee date with Chris Kostoff like that homeless looking dirtball Doozer. I turned over and looked at the clock and was surprised…
2:00PM it read in bright 97Red.
I had no idea what time I even got here or where and what here is. I softly laughed and then held my head. I picked up my phone and looked at it to see I had fifteen missed calls from Rebecca and over twenty from Jack Marley. Well, the latter I thought, didn’t fucking matter. Last I remembered he was rolling a blunt off the ass of some Latina stripper that looked to have two pillows in each cheek.
I am more of a boob man, myself, if one of those areas are going to be fake that is. I looked around the room and saw snack wrappers and empty cans of beer scattered throughout. I shook my head and placed my hands over my face. I slowly rose from the bed like Dracula from his coffin. I see I have a monster theme going here and it is only right I do since I feel like a fucking corpse.
I slowly walked over to the bathroom and looked in the mirror to see hickeys on both sides of my neck. I smiled about that, but it looked like I just recovered from a stroke and I stopped right away.
No reason to brag about hickeys when I cannot remember who I received them from. I mean…It could have been LT.
I shuddered at that thot…or is it thought?
I splashed water on my face and tore apart the bathroom in hopes to find any sort of painkiller. Nothing.
I walked back to the bed and sat at the end of it and just stared at my phone. I sighed and pushed the call button.
I quickly took the phone off my ear and rubbed my head, “not so…loud.”
I heard a grumble on the other end from Rebecca Hines, what did you think I would call Jack back? “Oh, so you were not lying about hitting every strip club possible?”
“I don’t even remember, but yes?”
“Ok, I am not calling you about being a deviant drunk.”
I shrugged knowing damn well that my deviance is just one of my many awesome traits. “Ugh, what do you want then?”
“We are not heading back to Virginia. We are headed to California.”
I smiled, “business doesn’t sleep, right?”
“I mean this is about wrestling.”
I paused and started rubbing my head attempting to think about why I would be going there to wrestle. I stopped, my eyes widened, and I made an OH NO face. “Um…you aren’t telling me…”
She interrupted me, “Yes, you are booked to face Hughie Freeman.”
Um no, I thought. This is a conversation I have had with Rebecca before. I am NOT to wrestle in that fucking dirty jail. I told her over and over again that I will not wrestle in that HATEful place. “NOPE!” I said as loudly as I could without having my head explode.
“Lee Best has booked this match, Steve,” she responded nonchalantly as if she does not care about my wellbeing with rapists and murderers around me.
I paused and stood up quickly. I lost my equilibrium for a second and then began pacing the hotel room. It is not a smart idea to question Lee Best even if he may have no eyes. He still has murderous bodyguards and complete booking power; one could harm me and the other could have me end up facing no names on the Indies like MJF. “Are you happy about this, Rebecca?”
MAYBE! I was flushed red in too much alcohol and anger. This woman loves to push my buttons. I continued pacing and stopped to rub my right temple. “fine, Fine, FINE! Ugh, just come get me.”
“What is the magic word.”
I dropped my phone on the ground and shook my hands to the sky that I could not see but figured it looked like an angry cloud giving me the middle finger. I dropped my hands back down and sighed. I attempted to calm down, I could not believe I would have to accept such disrespect from her. ME, Steve Harrison, the face and mind behind the successful Miracle Enterprise and the undefeated HOW wrestler putting fear into all the disbelievers. I slowly reached down and grabbed my phone and with all the energy I could focus responded, “please.”
She laughed, “see, that wasn’t too hard.”
I sat back down at the edge of the bed and took a few deep breaths, “right—just come get me.”
“Where is Jack?”
I shrugged to myself, “fuck if I know or care, remember we cannot trust that guy.”
“Yet, you let him take cash last night when selling the Holy Water?”
I smiled, “did I? I remember there being tiny cameras all around the table to see everything that happened.”
“Smart, I am surprised.”
I gritted my teeth at the backhanded compliment, “Thanks, Rebecca I knew some day you would come around,” I replied diffusing her insult and attempting to annoy her.
“Where are you?’
I walked around the hotel room and came across a menu that had the hotel name on it and read it out loud to her. I leaned back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling again as I thought about how a fun night could turn into such a horrible next day. Hungover and Hughie Freeman, not sure if any other two words could be any worse for the Man of many Miracles on this day.
God-damn scumbag Hughie Freeman.
Fuck you Cancer Jiles.
Heh, that made me smile at least.
Miracles work in mysterious ways.
A red light shining at the bottom of debris.
The eGG Bandits already losing the tag titles.
A man finally getting his match at Rumble at the Rock to become an actual Free-man.
Of course, this coming week that Free-man will still be in lock up and facing a man decked out in a hazmat suit so he isn’t stricken with jail germs. I cannot understand anything this mumble-mouth, piece of human garbage says, and I don’t feel like trying. I can accept his commitment but hell no am I going to respect him believing HATE is LOVE. That type of love is destined to give him more jail time later in life.
Its rapey, man.
Pikey Love coming to an Onlyfans upon release from jail.
I want to make it a point that I despise having to go to Alcatraz, but I am not shaking in my knickers of having to face Hughie. He is like any other crazed maniac with a pain fetish, just English. I want Hughie to not take this as an insult because I am aware of his one punch power. I realize this person rid HOW of Perfection and destroyed RICK at No Remorse and is a man with no conscience. This man literally burned a man alive and smiled his whole way through his journey to Jail. Hell, I am not certain I should even consider him a man, to me is some subhuman sewer monster…but I digress.
I am not taking this match lightly. He was promised an LSD title but now is ranked below me, I am sure he feels he has a lot to prove. This means the Miracle Man will need to fight through the dirty disease infested inmates and pound on Hughie’s neck until it stops functioning. To beat an animal, you just need to punch it back in the mouth harder or in my case: knee a neck into convulsions.
Look, you are not the only one that enjoys hurting people but in my case I do it because I like to feel superior. I do not sit alone in the dark and masturbate about blood or fire or fisting myself. I do not shit in my hands and make porn drawings with my own poop on a jailhouse wall. I can just see you grinning like a madman as you stare at one of Scottywoods Guards while you shit in your hand like a fucking Monkey. I am certain I am painting a picture everyone in HOW can nod their head to in agreement with. It is not hard and relax I am not talking about my dick…to believe you to be some pain pervert who uses razor blades on his testicles for an orgasmic thrill.
The shining image of a Peaky Blinder cosplayer. That is a statement not a question and shining should probably be changed to coal stained urchin, but I don’t know…I am just a thoughtless bastard.
This is when I stare at the camera and shrug innocently and nobody believes me.
Its fine, I know I am a required taste, that is you are required to be intelligent to respect my immensity. What I said last Saturday about Asterisk Man dudebro bitch tits Cancer Jiles and you is true. It does not matter to me if you get an LSD title shot before me. Why should it bother me to miss out on some throwaway Refueled show title match when the name Steve Harrison belongs in neon lights in a match that matters?
I am sure I feel you nodding in agreement as well.
Steve Harrison, the Miracle Man, the Suplex Saint, The Milk Man, the Holy Water creator, The Undefeated Marvel deserves whatever he wants. I do not beg for title shots, but I deserve one and I deserve it—ON…MY…TERMS.
Of course, I apologize for making you think you will get a title match. After I beat you, you will go from title contender to contending with dropping the soap in Gen Pop. I hope you win but at the same time I am not sure I want to see what winning means for you in that scenario.
I am a walking, breathing, noise making dick head. I am aware of this but with this confidence comes the need to back it up. I will not sit back and watch the help get a step ahead of me in the wrestling ring. Erin Gordon in all her tiny glory lasted ten seconds, I am hoping you can give me a sweat from wrestling but then again you don’t wrestle, do you?
You are a fighter.
Good luck fighting out of It’s a Harricle, you need it more then most. You need my hand on your forehead telling you that a better day is ahead for you. That day will have nothing to do with title shots, but that day will have me giving you odd jobs to make a living. Miracle Enterprise can always use a bodyguard or an enforcer, better yet, arson is not something I would shy away from either if it leads to me my end goal.
I am aware you understand completely about who you are. You are not fake to yourself which says a lot in a world of self-preservation. The problem with your beliefs is that they are bullshit.
You are bullshit.
If you wish to be a wandering gypsy Pikey Fuck then go fuck off somewhere when you are finally released from jail. It doesn’t matter to me what you believe in. I know the truth about this world, and you are just a dirty uncomfortable mistake that can easily be swept under the rug when the time comes.
That time will come.
Even the most pathetic and least powerful person in the world can become too annoying to ignore and then POOF, gone. I am not the final boss in your journey of self-destruction but I am the level you will never get by. I don’t care enough about you to end you. I will leave you staring at the sky with whatever hopes and dreams you have disappearing like Lucians melting face. No way forward just a chance to get out of jail at Rumble at the Rocks, but then what? Go get your Bindle, sneak on a train and go away.
Riding the rails only seems right for Hughie Freeman. A free ride for the Free-man, it’s fitting. I am sure you will enjoy taking spit showers and eating any rats you find.
Congrats on a nice start to your HOW career.
From here on out, you become stationary. Nothing but a motionless husk of a human being never moving up in life.
The Miracle Man has steps to climb and fools to break down into Miracle Enterprise believers. My time with you will be short but remember–you will have helped catapult me to where the world will need me: on top.
…For the New World.
Jack Marley sits on a bench outside a Burger King in Chicago. He is all by himself with a worried look on his face. He looks down at his phone again but sees nothing. He twists his one long dread around his right index finger. He takes a deep breath and pushes his call button on an unseen number and waits as it rings tapping his foot anxiously. Seemingly someone answers the phone as Jack begins speaking.
“Hey, mon,” Marley responds still looking worried.
“Yea, I know it is late, mon but I cannot get a hold of Steve.” The want to be Reggae star wipes his forehead, sweat already beginning from the conversation.
“Uh…he left me inside a burger king bathroom.” He looks down at a half-finished Whopper and smirks for a quick second.
“Nah, he was drunk and had like three strippers in the limo and said something about not having room for a real-life Jeff Fisher.” Jack counts on his hand the number of strippers, looking a tad jealous at the thought of Steve with three women as he sits with nobody.
“No…Jeff Fisher from American Dad. He blazes every day and doesn’t really do anything else.” He proudly responds as it is his favorite cartoon character of course.
“It is a show, mon—I am not sure if I agree that I just defined myself?” Looks at what he is wearing and shrugs, not realizing yes, he looks like a complete stoner.
“I need a ride, mon, I have no idea where I am.” The Weed man looks around the Burger King, not recognizing anything. This is not a surprise since we are in Chicago and even if Jack lived in Chicago, he would still not recognize anything…you know…his bad memory from concussions, sure let’s go with that.
“I have no idea where Steve is staying.”
“Ok, sorry, yes…I am asking for a place to stay tonight and tomorrow I am sure Rebecca can help.”
“I did what you asked, mon.” Jack stands up and watches helplessly as his half-eaten whopper falls to the floor. He grimaces at that and begins pacing.
“I did but that guy doesn’t trust his own shadow, mon.” His arms going flying to the sky in confusion for where this conversation is going.
“Not sure what you want anyway.” The Man of Marley sits back down.
“Well ever since The Birth of the blunterific Miracle Whip he looks at me like I am about to stab him in the back,” proud of the car he birthed even if everyone else in the worlds thinks it is a monstrosity that should be burned in some unlicensed illegal scrap heap.
“I mean literally, mon, jeez-louis,” Marley Man responds with.
“Please just send someone to get me and I promise I will get whatever you want, I understand the implications of not following through.”
“Thanks, when I smoke a lot my vocabulary becomes that of a poet laureate,” a shitty grin on his face concludes the statement.
“No, I don’t know what that means,” the moron replies not realizing how dumb he sounds that he cannot understand his own self flatulence.
Jack pushes the call button and hangs up the call. He smiles, feeling a little better about his situation but then sighs realizing what he must do and what he has promised to. He quickly takes a joint from around his ear and lights it as he attempts to forget about everything.