Looming, Serious Decisions

Looming, Serious Decisions

Posted on June 30, 2020 at 9:13 pm by RICK

I woke up before my alarm today and I waited for it to go off.  I stared at the clock…4:57…three minutes early.  I could’ve finished that dream, or who knows, maybe finished it AND had another.  It’s weird how the brain works sometimes, especially surrounding sleep.  Regardless, my bed was comfortable, and I didn’t want to move.


Y’know, I really need to start thinking about a few important things.  Things that’ve been on my mind for awhile, serious, real issues.  Maybe even…life altering?




I’ve made a lot of questionable decisions in the past – sometimes they worked out, sometimes not, but that all comes with the territory.


I could sit here and list every single one, but that would take far too long.  Shit, I could go into detail about every time I fucked up, or every time shit just didn’t go as planned.




Think about it, I left the comforts of Toronto to move up into the middle of butt fuck nowhere in northern British Columbia so I could be a lumberjack.  Who the fuck does that?  Sure there was a time when being a lumberjack was an illustrious career, but that was what, a hundred years ago?  More?  It ain’t what it used to be, that’s for sure.


It ain’t cruising down river riding a massive pine trunk, or skipping across a logjam, or pretty much any of the stuff that made me fall in love with that lifestyle.  Now it’s clearcutting a mountain, shipping the trunks out on trucks driving on barely passable logging roads; it’s dirty, it’s smelly, and it’s dangerous, but that’s what I live for.  It was also a questionable decision.


5:00, and the shrill beeping filled my bedroom for a few seconds before I slammed my hand on it to shut it up – thankfully I never decided to use that puzzle alarm clock that popped apart and you had to find all the pieces and put it back together before it shut off.  Jesus fucking christ, I’d be like a bull in a china shop trying to find that shit first thing, bangin’ my head off of shit, stubbing toes…yeah, there’d be holes in the walls.


Anyways, where was I?  Oh, right…


Hell, I went from one dirty, smelly, dangerous job to another: professional wrestling, and to be honest?  That’s a lateral move at best.  I’m not dodging tree trunks or falling branches anymore, now I’m dodging fists, feet, and foreign objects…but they’re just as dangerous, because they’ll kill ya too, just, slower.


I mean, sure, there’s the glitz and glamour of being in the public eye.  There’s the world class training facilities, world class medical staff, and world class company, but the tradeoff is that you put your body on the line.  Every.  Single.  Time.


So, again, another questionable decision.


I pulled my ass out of bed, and walked across the hallway to the bathroom, turning the water on and splashing some cold water on my face.  It was like getting punched in the face by Old Man Winter, or having your face buried in a snowbank as a kid because the neighbourhood bully wanted to teach you how to play ostrich.  Fun game…you shove someone’s head in a snowbank and watch them struggle to free themselves.  Ah, yes…good ol’ Canadian humor.  I turned the tap off and dried my face with a towel…why, I’ll never know.  Force of habit?  I mean, fuck, I was just getting in the shower anyways.


Speaking of more questionable decisions, there was Turn It Up Express.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, Matt Klazzic is a hell of a guy, this isn’t about him personally.  It’s about the team, the cheesy 80s gimmick…it just didn’t work.  It was bound to fail, but at the time?  It was the right move.


I pulled the shower curtain across the rod to keep the spray enclosed, then I turned the taps both on, tested the water, and when it was hot enough to cook a lobster, I raised the knob on top of the faucet and waited for the water to cascade from the shower head.  I pulled the curtain back enough to squeeze in without getting the floor soaked, and I let the hot water flow over my head, onto my shoulders, and down my back and stomach.  It was glorious.  An old trick I learned when I was a kid from my grandma: when it’s hot as balls outside, have a hot as balls shower – when you get out, it won’t seem quite as hot outside.


We were a team, Matt and I.  As odd of a pairing as it was, it somehow worked.  Like The Odd Couple, except I was into weed, beer, maple syrup, and anything Canadian, and he was…well, he was Matt.  Quiet, reserved, far too courteous for his own good.  Hell, he was naïve as they come, almost like an Amish kid on his first few days of Rumspringa.


We made the best of it, travelled together, ate together, roomed together on the road.  It was always entertaining, and hell, I even made a second family out of the deal.  That may not seem bad, but with a second family comes a whole second set of problems.


So, again, questionable decision.


I loaded my loofah with some body wash and got to work lathering my body, the thick white bubbles leaving white trails up my arms and across my chest.  It smelled like English Leather, my grandpa’s favourite cologne.  A real man’s scent, so powerful that I had to use a pink loofah just to prevent it from putting too much additional hair on my chest.  That’s why this was my favourite body wash…what was it called, Twilight Woods or some shit?  I don’t know, all I know is, it smells fucking amazeballs.  Makes me think about all the times we’d sit on his porch and he’d tell me things like: “A man is nothing without his word,” and “A penny saved is a penny earned,” but my favourite was when he’d fake like he was drawing a cross on himself, but say: “Spectacles, testicles, wallet, and watch…I’ve got everything, let’s go!”  He also told me that I should always think long and hard before making a decision.


Then came the move to High Octane Wrestling.  I came in with a huge head, full of plans, full of hopes and dreams, but most of all, full of a want to be the very best.  What was it that blonde, suit wearing douche canoe from down on the Indy scene said?  “You can’t climb the summit until you knock me off.”


Well, now I have my chance.  Admittedly, the deck’s stacked against me.  Cecilworth Farthington?  HOW World Champion as of just shy of two weeks ago?  Current HOW LSD Champion?  Versus me.  Lowly, little, bottom feeding me.


After rinsing off, I shut the tap off and depressed the plunger on top of the faucet to let the water drain before stepping out of the shower.  I reached for a towel hanging on the back of the door and began drying off…first my head, then my arms and shoulders.  It felt nice, the cool air on my skin after the near scalding water raised my internal temperature.  It felt so good though, especially since I had another full day of training ahead.  I continued drying myself off, and then I started to think a bit more.


It makes you question things just a bit, to try to read between the lines.  Was Farthington taking this seriously, or doing what he normally does?  Flap his cocksucker while placeholding a belt.  See, by my estimation, this is Farthington resting on his laurels and feeding on low hanging fruit…but what he doesn’t understand is sometimes that low hanging fruit is dangerous.


Speaking of low hanging fruit…Cecilworth?  Really?  I mean, some people would say that Cecilworth is a stupid name, but in reality those people are actually stupid!  Think about it!  It’s impossible to think of anything insulting that rhymes with the name Cecilworth, thus rendering him much more impervious to ridicule, right?


I hung up the towel over the shower curtain rod to let it dry out a little faster, then reached for my microfibre robe.  It was so soft against my skin, but still not so  heavy that it was uncomfortable.  The slight chill from the central air was giving me goosebumps anyways, and I was getting dressed after breakfast…by then I should be acclimatized.  I slowly shut the light off and exited the bathroom, following the hallway down to the living room, through there to the kitchen/dining room combo.


Sure, being the Champ has its advantages, but so too does being the nobody thrust into the picture.  The fact is, Cecilworth has everything to lose, and I?  I have everything to gain.  He loses, he never lives it down.  He loses his precious Championship.  I lose?  No skin off my ass.  I lose nothing.


But this isn’t about losing, no…this is about looming, serious decisions.


I looked at the business card on the counter again, slightly wrinkled from “water” damage.  Bobby Dean had given it to me Saturday after saving him from that twisted fuck Woodson, maybe as a thank you?  I don’t know.  I just remember him shoving his hand into those tighty whiteys and producing this…masterpiece.


It looks like he uses this one to pick up chicks: “Dr. Bobby Dean OB/GYN, Fertilization Specialist.”  The happy face drawn on with permanent marker had bled, making it seem like more of a misshapen blob…and that’s when it hit me…this card was covered in Bobby Dean’s ball sweat.  And he put that fucking thing in my hand, with a genuine smile on his face.  They all had smiles on their faces…they were all happy to see me.  They were genuinely…happy.  They told me what I did was awesome, that they’d never seen a giant fly before…and finally, that I should call them.


Was this gonna be another questionable decision?


No more questionable than agreeing to a match against a guy who thinks scarves are cool…so, I’d say we’re lookin’ at par for the course.  I mean, seriously…a scarf?  What the actual fuck?


Thankfully Bobby hadn’t written the phone number in permanent marker, it was still perfectly legible.  All I had to do was dial the 10 digits…whoever picked up the phone would know, after all, there’s no way this is a legit doctor’s office, right?


Think about it, Rick…you make the call, you put your neck out there again…maybe it works out.  Maybe you find the one thing you’re missing: friends.  Just pick up that phone, make the call.  What’ve you got to lose?  Seems to me like you’re in a shit situation, and you’ve gotta pull them socks up…now’s the time.


And then I did.  I punched in the 10 digits, and I waited for the line to connect.  When it did, Bobby’s unmistakable voice rang through:


“Dr. Bobby Dean’s office, how may I help you?”


And in that moment, I said the only thing that mattered:




I swear I heard the phone drop, then excited chatter from the other end of the line – I could pick out their voices one by one, and suddenly I heard the chatter stop and Bobby Dean’s lovely voice again:


“Understood, sir.  So, will two o’clock tomorrow afternoon work for you?  The address is on the card, if you have a quick look there.”


And that’s when it happened.  How?  I have no idea…but it did.  I swear, these guys were magical.  Hell, if I was a lady, I would DEFINITELY be sending my lady friends to Doctor Bobby Dean OB/GYN.  I steeled myself for the inevitable response, and as the words escaped my lips, it was like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders.




That was when I knew that this?  This was definitely the right looming, serious decision.