Hello Darin. Remember me?
Incase ya forgot, my name is Clay Byrd. I’m the guy that crushed your windpipe at Refueled 61. Do ya remember the little chat we had that day Darin? We talked ‘bout things that won’t go away. We talked ‘bout things that just keep motorin’ on and on. We came up with a lotta ways ta describe ya. We even compared ya ta some of the finest wares this great country of ours has. Glitter, Chevy Cavaliers, the guy who keeps callin’ ‘bout the extended warranty on your car, and herpes.
We settled on one though Darin, and that one was persistence.
Ya were all up in arms thinkin’ Conor Fuse had stepped over ya on his way ta a War Games team. Ya were all mad, fumin’, I still think ya even called yerself Matthews at that point. Here ya were, whinin’ and cryin’ ‘bout Conor, and little did ya know just a few weeks later the two of ya would be pees in a pod. The best of friends, a relationship that could make Mike Best, Cecilworth Farthington, and Max Kael’s ashes jealous.
Zion, I thought I had finally done it. That night at Refueled, I was damn near certain that I had scrubbed out the shit stain legacy you had left on this place. And then, we had the events that happened on the good boat USS Octane. Jace Parker Davidson, the dipshit of dipshit’s. The moron of fuckin’ morons, the ultimate underestimator decided ta sleep on Darin Fuckin’ Zion.
All he had ta do was show up, keep his head on his shoulders, and stomp a hole in yer ass. But instead… Oh, instead that fuckin’ moron had ta get down on the ground. He decided ta place his mouth on yers, and perform CPR on yer fuckin’ career. That dumb son of a bitch might as well have went and got the fuckin’ paddles and shocked ya back ta life. That night The Alliance fucked up, that night Jace Parker Davidson made a colossal fuckin’ error against Darin ‘I don’t know what name I’m using this week’ Zion.
Now, that error should have been corrected. Jace should have been made to atone for his failures. I guess in a way, his atonement occurred at Bottomline. But clearly, he didn’t do enough. Darin, Jace should have been made ta destroy ya, he should have been made ta fuckin’ end yer pathetic existance. Instead, he beat ya, and asked someone else ta finish takin’ care of the issue. So we go on, and ya end up against that psycho serial killer weirdo. He beat ya, and even took a chunk out of yer face. There we go, the psycho killer weirdo had finally ended yer fuckin’ career. It should have finally been over, someone just needed ta put the icing on the cake and finish ya the fuck off.
Enter the walking face of disappointment known as Cancer fuckin’ Jiles. One of the other morons involved in that abortion of a handicap match. He let you beat him with literally the oldest trick in the book. A fuckin’ roll up. So here ya are, ridin’ ‘nother wave. Ready ta challenge fer a bunch of titles or somethin’. Ya know, the same thing ya seem ta think after every little fuckin’ win.
Ya just keep fightin’ kid. Ya just keep fightin’. All that moxie has taken ya ta this point. All that persistence has finally gotten ya somewhere Darin. Look at where all that hard work, all that dedication, all that miserable fuckin’ losin’ finally landed ya. I guess Lee still asks me for favors from beyond the grave. He must have known I was angry, he must have known I wanted to destroy and mangle somethin’. That telepathic ghost fuck must have read my mind when I took a shit this mornin’ and knew I wanted ta fuckin’ break somethin’.
Darin, I’m not the same person from Refueled 61, I’ve changed. A few short weeks later, the night Jace Parker Davidson breathed life back into your career; mine changed forever. Things have been difficult lately Darin, things have been hard. Not losing my face to the cannibal hard, but things have been difficult. And I’m angry about it Darin, I’m furious about it. I need something to take it out on, I need something to break and smash. I need a career to destroy. So I’m going to shove that dumb mask all the way up your ass until you choke on it, then I’m going to hit you with a lariat so hard that you shit it out.
I’ll see you at Refueled, hopefully for the last time you persistent little fuck.
The waiting room’s industrial carpeting softened the blow of the footsteps as The Behemoth entered the office. Dr. Park had been highly recommended, referral after referral had taken The Monster from Plainview to this dreary place. He approached the receptionist at the desk like any normal patient would.
“I have an appointment with Dr. Park,” Clay mumbled, the receptionist said something he couldn’t quite hear. The buzzing in his ear hadn’t stopped since Bottomline. He took the paperwork she handed him and sat down in one of the chairs. It was just a hair small for The Behemoth, but it would do.
He scribbled through the paperwork, pausing for a moment on the address section. He glanced out the window at the black Ford F150 he was currently calling his residence. Every other form he had put the ranch’s address down. Clay figured he better keep it consistent. He turned the forms in and went back to waiting for his turn to be seen.
He’d been to four other neurologists in the last two weeks. Each one had told Clay that they believed him, but there actions proved that they actually hadn’t believed a word that came out of his mouth. He’d been referred to a pain specialist, a psychologist, and a chiropractor. But Clay knew what he had experienced, and knew what he was still experiencing. Each day was agony, each moment the pain in his head ached and tore at him.
“Mr. Byrd? MR. CLAY BYRD?!” a few of the other patients snickered at the nurse shouting for someone named Clay Byrd. When The Behemoth unfolded himself from the chair they all immediately stopped. Clay approached the door and smiled at the woman. He thought she had said “Dr. Park will see you now.” He wasn’t sure though, he’d only heard his name when she shouted.
Clay followed the nurse diligently, and responded to the queues the woman made as she reached for different medical instruments. He’d been through this enough this week to understand the normal routine. Blood pressure check, temperature check, take a deep breath, shining light in his ears. Clay could get through it all without needing to hear anything.
The woman said something about the doctor and left the room. Clay assumed she had said that the doctor would be in soon. Clay knew better than that though and reclined himself on the medical bed. He felt like the only time he could stretch out and lay down was when he had gone to the different appointments. Sleeping in the truck wasn’t working for The Behemoth and he knew it.
Clay’s eyes danced around the room, the walls were sterile white. It gave off a completely different feeling than the waiting room. He looked over the drawings on the wall, maps of the different sections of the brain littered the wall. The Behemoth wished he had paid more attention in Biology as he kept looking around the room. Finally he glanced at the metal desk in the corner, a picture of a young man in a military uniform caught his eye. He assumed it had to be the doctor.
The ringing stopped in his ears.
Clay was stunned, and continued to look at the picture. He tried to make out the uniform, but he couldn’t quite see the insignia’s in the old black and white photograph. Dr. Park entered the room, and Clay’s eyes shot forward. He felt almost guilty analyzing the photograph like that.
“Hello Mr. Byrd, my name is Dr. Park. So on your form here it says this is your fourth opinion?” The Dr asked Clay. Clearly shocked and confused. “And it says here you’re a professional wrestler?”
“Yes, and yes.” Clay said, nodding his head. “What I could read on you, it sounded like you’re one of the best neurologists in the country. So I figured I would come have you tell me I’m insane.”
“Why would I tell you you’re insane?” the doctor mused to himself as he continued looking over the chart. “So tell me about your injuries Clayton.”
“Call me Clay,” The Behemoth said. He prepared himself, he had told this story three other times and each time the doctor’s reactions had elevated. Each one thinking Clay was madder than the last. “It all started back in July, I caught a knee in the temple.”
“Is that a normal part of your profession?” The doctor asked back.
“For me, you could call it that.” Clay said with a small sigh thinking of what he remembered of Michael Best launching himself at The Monster. “After the knee, I started having headaches and I had this sensitivity ta light. I figured the feller had concussed me, so I took precautions. Wore some sunglasses durin’ the day, started drivin’ more during dusk when the headlights wouldn’t be so bad… ya know… the usual stuff.”
“I guess for your profession that would classify as usual stuff.” Dr. Park said as he started scribbling things in his notebook.
“Ya don’t usually treat athletes?” Clay asked, and the doctor shook his head.
“Clay, I don’t normally treat people who choose to harm their own brains. But go on,” Dr. Park stated matter of factly. The Behemoth felt his hand facing away from the doctor ball into a fist.
“So normally that’s a few days right, no big deal. Tough it out, get back at it. Learned that from football,” Clay tossed the last bit out to see the doctor’s reaction. “So it didn’t go away after a few days, I found myself havin’ the same issues the next week.”
“Did you limit your physical activities?” Dr. Park asked with an eye roll. He already knew the answer.
“Naa, I beat the brakes off some little girl. But the symptoms didn’t go away. The next week I ended up gettin’ myself choked out in the middle of the ring.” Dr. Park continued to scribble in his notepad.
“So, you were rendered unconscious in a contest?” Dr. Park asked. I nodded my head up and down for yes. The doctor asked another question. “Does that happen frequently?”
“You’d almost think I’m one a them people who like gettin’ choked while fuckin’,” Clay said with a chuckle. “But yeah, it had happened about a month before that.”
Dr. Park was almost at his limit and he continued to write notes on the sheet of paper. He flipped the page over and continued writing before waiving his hand for Clay to continue.
“Well I took a few weeks off, at my boss’s request. Beat up some idiots, but managed ta not get my head kicked in or choked out. But I developed some control issues. I felt furious all the time, it felt like I was turned up to ten all the time. I almost killed a guy just to prove ta him I would do it,” Clay stopped for a second. This is where it normally went completely off the rails. Dr. Park just kept writing. “Then I beat the fuck outta the feller that had tossed me off an aircraft carrier.”
“You were tossed off an aircraft carrier?” Dr. Park asked. Clay put his head in his hands again. He was waiting for the dismissal, but it never came.
“Yes, but I was fine. Got checked out by the coast guard EMTs and everythin’. Anyway, I felt like I was losing control. It felt like I could just snap at any moment.” The doctor stopped and looked at Clay for a moment.
“Do you have a stressful working environment?” he asked. Clay immediately started laughing out loud. Clay responded; “If you think workin’ fer a crazy murderous dictator is stressful then yes.”
“Anyway, we get ta the big match, and my symptoms continued ta progress. At one point on my way ta the arena I had ta pull over on the side of the road ‘cause of the tinnitus.” Clay paused for a moment, this was the farthest he had gotten in this conversation with any other doctor. “So I get choked again, I got the guys shoulders on the mat though. And I know I can hold on, I know I just need ta wait a few more seconds. I hear the hand slap on the mat fer the first count and it all goes black.”
“So you were rendered unconscious again?”
“No, I mean, I might have been. But I had him, I watched the tape. The ref slams his hand on the mat the second time and suddenly out of nowhere I start tapping out uncontrollably.” Clay said, he rubbed his temples.
“I woke up, and I couldn’t hear the crowd, I couldn’t hear the referee, I couldn’t hear the EMTs in the back. Nothing. My head was throbbing, my ears had been ringing so loud I could hardly think. The pain was excruciating,” Clay said confidently. “Doc, I’ve been hurt before, I’ve blown my knee out. I’ve experienced some fuckin’ pain in my day. But nothin’ like this.”
The doctor nodded his head and responded. “So what would you like me to do?”
“I want some fuckin’ answers!” The Behemoth roared. Dr. Park took a step back and looked Clay up and down, making sure he wasn’t going to lunge at him before returning to the conversation.
“So you want me to recommend treatment? Do an MRI? Are you going to actually accept my recommendations and my treatment, or are you going to keep putting yourself at risk?” Dr. Park asked The Monster.
“Ya want me ta stop wrasslin’?” Clay seethed as the statement left his mouth. His head wasn’t throbbing, his ears weren’t ringing, this anger didn’t come from his brain. This came from somewhere deeper.
“Yes, I’d recommend you stop all physical activity. We can go for an MRI today, and see what we’re dealing with. But you’ll have to stop physical activity while we are treating the injury.” Clay sat up from the medical table and stood up.
“I can’t do that Doc…” The Behemoth said as he wrung his hands together.
“I’m going to refer you to a pain specialist the…” Dr. Park never got to finish his statement as Clay walked out of the room, muttering “Fuck this shit” to himself while slamming the door on the doctor.
Dr. Park exited the room into a crowd of onlookers, the entire staff stared at him. He looked down the hallway and saw doors smashed open, scared patients standing at the openings waiting.
“Athletes… they don’t know when to call it quits,” Dr. Park said as the crew stood in silence. He started the group laughing about the situation. “I’ll be in my office for a few minutes calling the insurance company… heh-heh…” he forced out a laugh trying to calm the crowd.
He turned around and walked into his office, picking up the phone receiver. Dr. Park sat down at his desk, he had his office phone in his hand and his hand on the hook switch. He took a deep breath and glanced at the notes on his desk. He ran his hand over the schematic he had drawn up, and lifted his hand off of the switch hook.
The other end picked up immediately.
“He’ll be calling soon.” The doctor said to the receiver. “He’s almost at his breaking point.”