September 20, 2021
San Francisco, CA 2:33pm
Some Therapist’s Office
The scene fades in from black to what appears to be a therapist’s office. Steve Solex is shown laid up on #97Red leather lounge chair. The shot is from the ceiling, and straight down on Solex’s face. His expression is much softer than usual, almost youthful and weak.
“They should have never let us out, doc. It was a bad idea.”
He vents his frustrations of being let loose from Alcatraz much earlier than his original sentencing called for.
“I mean, I just don’t get it, doc,” he continues, his eyes closed as he shakes his head.
“I’m not ready to be a free man. I’m not ready to be unsupervised. I need to be under the thumb of someone, and locked away until I find myself again. Even if it is under the massive thumb of that overgrown fuck-bag, Mr. Wahl.”
The scene stays locked on Solex’s face.
“I’m not Steve Solex, doc. I’m not Shawn Kutter either. I’m not strong like them,” Solex says, still laid back.
“I’m Logan Tyler,” he continues.
“One day, I’ll be strong like them. Not as strong as Shawn…he’s an absolute monster-alpha male. But maybe strong like Solex. Strong enough to get by.”
Suddenly, Solex’s eyes pop wide open.
“Will you please, shut the fuck up! I’m tired of you’re whining and crying, you pussy!” Solex shouts at himself, staring up at the ceiling.
“Jesus Christ, doc. Is this the kind of shit you gotta listen to all day? I mean, fuck man. Logan’s a total bitch…but I just feel bad for you after hearing all of this bullshit. It’s not even real complaints, man. I mean, look at me. Of course I’m a monster-alpha,” Solex says, dropping the hint that he has indeed taken the personality of Shawn Kutter.
“I mean, shit. I don’t think Lee Best was wrong at all, by lettin’ us off the rock. He needed me to be in a match and take care of business. He needed a Hall of Famer. He needed a familiar source to do his dirty work. And as a former member of the Best Alliance, I was glad to step the fuck up when no one else would!” He shouts, in his raspy, deep Shawn Kutter voice.
“What the fuck are you rambling about, Shawn?”
Solex closes his eyes tight as the tone in his voice suddenly changes. His eyes pop back open and he grits his teeth, continuing to stare at the ceiling.
You’re not a formber member of the Best Alliance, and you damn sure aren’t a fuckin’ HOW Hall of Famer. All of that belongs to me! It was mine before either of you fuckin’ idiots showed up! I’m the HOW Hall of Famer, and this is my match to fuckin’ win! I’m the #1 Dad-Soldier! Don’t you understand that!? Huh?!” His tone and cadence are militaristic in nature.
“This isn’t something I take lightly, Shawn. I earned the accolades and nothing makes me more happy than being booked in a match specifically for people of a certain calibre; a Hall of Fame calibre. A man that he can trust, and while you Shawn, may be a monster-alpha…I’m a fuckin’ overdose of toxic masculinity, only written about in emoji-heiroglyphs by pussy ass blue hairied, they-slash-thems…or in this case…purple and red hair fucks, with more than three comorbities a peice and that’s before bloodwork, but don’t worry…we’ll get their bloodwork done this week. And just so we’re absolutely fuckin’ clear, you should already know what comorbidity number-one is and that’s Steve Fuckin’ Solex.”
“Oh, that’s what we’re doing now? We’re cuttin’ fuckin’ promos on each other, eh?’ He asks himself, his voice back to Kutter.
“You’re fuckin’ right,” his tone immediately back to Solex. “I’m the Dad-Soldier, Shawn. While you bully Logan into that corner over their…I’ll get us back into the mix. I’ll get us the notoriety we once had back and firmly in our grasp. Pinning a Hall of Famer, even if it is two from the bottom of the fuckin’ barrel, would get us right back in the mix. Let me lead us down that path Shawn. We tried it your way and we ended up in fuckin’ Alcatraz.”
Solex slams his eyes shut, and when they reopen…they do so softly. The burning intensity is gone from his eyes, and now the baby dough eyes reveal themselves. His eyes fill with water as he continues to stare up at the ceiling.
“Like I was sayin, doc…I don’t think we were ready to get out just yet,” he says as Logan Tyler.
The scene pans away from Solex and rotates to a chair adjacent to our main character. Down on the green carpeted floor, is a hog tied therapist. He struggles to free himself from the cheap, Home Depot style plastic rope, but Solex is a former team guy…he can tie a knot like nobody’s business. Solex’s footsteps are heard approaching the restrained doctor. Solex kneels down in front of the doctor, and messes up the docs hair with his hand like you would your son at a ball game.
“Who’s the Hall of Famer, doc? I thought I was. Nobody. And Steve is a little confused. We didn’t just show up, doc. We’ve always been here,” he says, in his softened voice. He begins to laugh wildly as he gets up from the kneeled position and heads toward the exit. The scene focuses back on the doctor who continues to try and free himself from the rope as the scene fades to black.
September 22, 2021
Shawn Kutter’s House
I haven’t spoken to Shawn since we left that doctor’s office in San Fran. Shawn, Logan and I have been in the same house for two days, and no one has said as much as a word to one another, and nobody’s come by either. I fully expected Shawn to be trapped in his bedroom with his as soon as we got back, but he hasn’t even texted her, let alone invited her over. I get up from our shitty couch and head toward the kitchen. Before I make it through the entryway, I’m stopped dead in my tracks. Shawn is leaned up against the counter, sipping his coffee from an old canteen cup I must’ve left out. Knowing that while I was deployed I used to wash my balls in that canteen cup brings a small and short lived half smile to my face.
“Fuck are you laughin’ at?” Shawn asks, before taking another sip from his coffee.
“You run around here all fuckin’ day, thinking your the best thing since sliced fuckin’ bread and now what? You’re laughing at me? Making fun of me?”
“No!” I blurt out entirely too fast, like a kid caught lying to his mother.
I shrug my shoulders and grab a mug from the cabinet. I blow the dusts out of it and pour myself a cup of Joe.
“You excited?” I ask him. He looks me up and down while he thinks up his answer.
“Excited about what? God damn, Steve. You’ve becoming one annoying asshole.”
“Excited about the match, Shawn. Hall of Fame match, kid. We’re in it.”
He doesn’t share my excitement, and instead of responding he takes the last swig of his coffee and slams the canteen cup into my chest.
“You have fun, you Hall of Fame asshole,” he says, dropping the canteen cup down to the linoleum at my feet. He storms out of through the kitchen and out the back door of the house.
“He doesn’t understand.”
He scared the shit of me. The creepy, pale faced, sociopathic Logan Tyler stands at the entry way of the kitchen. He holds his hands together behind his back and stares right into my eyes as he tilts his head to the side. His soft, almost wimpy voice is oddly demonic.
“He’s a tough man, that Shawn. But he’s not like you, Steve,” he begins to slowly walk through the kitchen in my direction.
“You’re a war hardened, steroid freak who was inducted into the Hall of Fame because you’re part of a perceived power group. A (throws up air quotes) big three, if you will. So while you’re pretending to be Air Jordan – of HOW that is – don’t forget that you only got there because I’ve always been with you. Because Shawn has always been with you. Because we….we are Steve Solex. We are Shawn Kutter. We are Logan Tyler. Which means we are in the Hall of Fame,” he says, getting only inches away from me. He stares me directly in the eyes, almost as if he’s looking into my soul. This kid scares the shit out of me.
He always has.
“So, while you’re in here daydreaming about how you can’t wait to stomp the woke out of Bobinnete Carey or beat the ever living anarchy out of old Scott Woodson, just remember how you got here in the first place. Remember that we aren’t part of you, Steve. We are you.”
I hate to admit it, but I know this little Dexter wanna-be piece of shit is right. He continues to stare into my eyes, and softly places his hand on my shoulder. He tries to pull me in for a hug, but I’m not having and of that bullshit and I immediately press my forearm into his chest and shove him back.
“Tsk, tsk,” he says. “Your toxic masculinity is showing Steve, you may want to bring that down a notch before someone who knows absol-fuckin-lutely nothing about you begins to throw accusations around.”
He slowly walks backward and out of the kitchen.
He leaves me wondering about all of his cryptic bullshit, but only for a second. I can’t seem to shake the feeling that none of this is going to work out. I mean, I’ve been in literal jail for the last few weeks and suddenly I’m supposed to wrestle in this match. What’s weird, is that in all of our time in HOW, Mike and I have only been in the ring with each other one time. Once! Twice if you count LPW, but I’m done talking about old shit. Scottywood and I, on the other hand…we’ve gone at it a few times. I don’t remember shit about it – and I’m not about to do any research right now – but I can tell you that this time, it’s my time. What even happened to Scotty anyway? This dude used to be the King of Hardcore, the Barbwire Bitchface, the Lights Out Light Tube Breaker Guy. He was all of those things, but what’s happened lately? Nothing. Nothing at fuckin’ all. Well, I mean…other than Mario absolutely handing his ass to him, nothing. Wasn’t he like the one-percent owner of the company, or something ridiculous like that? I don’t fuckin’ know, generally…Scottywood isn’t worth my time. Who has fuckin’ lip rings in 2021 anyway? He looks like Lindsay Troy listening to My Chemical Romance while she got stood up by Mike Best on her fuckin’ birthday. Scotty looks like he dyed his hair with Magic Johnson’s blood and then fell face first into a latex version of Kat Von D’s crotch.
“You’re fuckin’ weird dude,” Shawn says staring at me from the back door. The weird thing about being you, is hearing your thoughts, you sick fuck.”
“Get out of my head, you fuckin’ asshole,” I say back, knowing full well there is no way in hell that will happen. I feel like John Cusack in that fuckin’ Identity movie…he’s got personality disorder like I do, but he’s nowhere near as cool as Brad Pitt in Fight Club, like I am.
“Brad Pitt? Are you fuckin’ kidding me right now?!” Shawn’s patience with me is growing thin. It’s clear that he wants to take over. That he wants me gone. But Alcatraz somehow made me stronger. Stronger than him.
For both of our sakes…let’s hope Logan doesn’t take over.