Retail Therapy

Retail Therapy

Posted on September 30, 2021 at 10:54 pm by QT Reese

“I had another one of those crazy dreams again.”

“Mr. Reese,” his attorney interjects, running her claws through her greying hair in frustration, “need I remind you again that just because I am your legal counsel, it does not make me your therapeutic counselor?”  

“I know, but this dream is TOTALLY relevant to what we’re dealing with right now,” QT replies, holding his hands up in protest. “Hear me out.”

The elegant and elaborately-dressed lawyer sighs in defeat, putting a pair of houndstooth-clad elbows atop her fancy mahogany desk. “You said that the last time,” Tabitha Montgomery recalls, “and it ended up being about your transformation into a toothbrush, only to be used by your childhood nemesis to scrub a lavatory. Which had absolutely nothing to do with the regulatory aspect of your business venture.”

“Exactly! Turning someone into a toothbrush is pretty fucking illegal, don’t you think?” QT pipes up, trying his damndest to insist upon the nightmare’s loose connection to the law. Straightening down the hairs of his moustache, he almost dares her to object to it.

Someone less willing to put up with Christmas’s bull shit would have gladly accepted this challenge. However, Tabitha had learned a valuable lesson during her short time serving as Reese’s confidant: sometimes it was better to simply disengage him to avoid hours and hours of wasted breath. As she was closing in on her 63rd birthday, time was not exactly on her side.

“Very well. Tell me about your dream,” Montgomery concedes. She silently began to prepare herself for yet another deep dive into the psychological tar pit of Reese’s mind. At the very least, it would provide some form of grotesque entertainment to laugh about with her college-aged lover later that night.

“Excellent,” he begins. “So this time, I didn’t get smaller…”

I was fucking HUGE. Like King Kong huge, to where I could have knocked over skyscrapers. But, I wasn’t in New York or Chicago or some large city like in those other giant monster movies. Instead, it was more like a Nashville or Oklahoma City or something. One of those towns that nobody really cares about but the people who live there think it’s really important.

Anyway, it was a little strange to take it all in. There I was with my head high in the clouds, staring down at buildings and cars, really perplexed as to what it was that I should do. I could barely see people, but they looked more like ants than anything to me. All that I knew was that I had to be really careful in how I moved or there would be some serious damage done to this place, so I just stood there frozen stiff.

It was then that I looked back and noticed a set of colossal footprints that had led me to where I was. I noticed that those prints extended as far back as I could see, probably miles and miles back into the horizon. Within those prints were the remnants of trees, roadways, houses, and other buildings that were just pulverized into rubble.

It was then when I began to panic, and I had to tap into a corner of my brain that I’d long since neglected for years: my spirituality.

“God,” I said, “you were supposed to be there for me. But when I look back, I see a set of footprints, and you apparently saw fit to make me this titanic beast. I’ve now ruined the lives of so many people, destroying this place without any remorse up until now! Where were you when I needed you the most? Were those your footprints, and were you just carrying me to this point?”

Suddenly, a few white cumulus clouds began to part ways, forming a pair of puffy white lips that began to speak to me. It was god himself, and there was no question about that since the voice slightly resembled that of Morgan Freeman.

“Christmas, my son, I was not carrying you,” he replied. “Those are your footprints.”

“But why? Why has thou forsaken me and placed upon me this terrible curse of growing like a hundred feet tall?” I asked him, tears beginning to well up in my eyes.

“Relax. Your life on Earth is no longer,” God explained to me. “You passed on in your sleep, and congrats! You made it to Heaven!”

I guess God could tell I was a little confused. I mean, with him being God, he should have fucking known that I was confused and just explained it to me, but I still had to ask him: how was this Heaven?

“Aren’t there supposed to be like, streets of gold and my own mansion and all of that other stuff we got promised in Vacation Bible School?”

“Well yeah,” God responded to me. “Some people get that. But Heaven is kind of a custom experience, and I knew that you would probably complain about the mansion not having a big enough waterslide to take you from the house into the swimming pool or something. So I decided to create your eternal paradise into one that you would appreciate more. Now, my son, you can do what you have always wanted: be a living, breathing natural disaster. Except you aren’t really living, of course. Either way, now you can create all the chaos that you want without any fear of retaliation. Because you’re really god damn big and no one can stop you.”

And then, bright rays of sunshine began to pour from his makeshift mouth, warming my entire ten-ton frame. A smile spread across my face. God was right. I couldn’t have envisioned a Heaven better than this one.

“I will leave you to your afterlife,” God added. “But before I go, I have one important suggestion for you.”

“What’s that?” I asked, curious.

“You should totally poop on that field over there to your right. That would be really funny, just a big old pile of hot snakes where they’re playing baseball at.”

I laughed out loud and gave God a thumbs up as the clouds went back to their original shape. And then, I proceeded to squat down and…


“I THINK I GOT IT, MR. REESE,” Tabitha yells, bringing the dream sequence to a screeching halt before he began to dive deep into the details of his next action. “Maybe you should skip to the part where this ridiculous dream of yours bears ANY relevance to our present situation with the retention of Reesemart or your present dealings with High Octane Wrestling.”

“You really aren’t a psychologist, are you?”

“Once again, NO. I am NOT,” she emphasized, collapsing her head onto her desk in dramatic fashion.

“Well, if you were, you’d already understand the meaning behind the dream without me having to explain it to you. That was God’s way of telling me that I need to make a change. To tap back into my sense of charity and reverence. To start trying to become a better person,” Reese proclaims, standing up from his chair and folding his hands as if he were praying aloud. “So that when I die, I can crush EVERYONE who has EVER wronged me in the great beyond! I’m going to start doing things a little differently, Tabithamund. From this day forward, you are looking at a brand new man! An enlightened beacon of the high moral ground. But not in one of those weird ‘start-a-cult’ ways. More like a cool youth pastor. Who sells weapons and other quality merchandise.”

Montgomery simply stares at the lunatic across from her and blinks. After about twenty seconds of dead air, she breaks the silence.

“What exactly does this turn of a new leaf entail, Mr. Reese?”

“I’m not too sure,” Reese says. “But I did write a poem about it that expresses the thought process. Would you like to hear it?”

“Not particula…”

QT ignores her, unfurling a piece of notebook paper that he’d fished out of his pocket, as he’d been eager to express his “art” for the past couple of days to any audience that would give him attention.

“I’m starting with the man in the mirror. I’m asking him to change his ways. And no message could’ve been any clearer,” he recites, poking out his chest and smiling with pride. “If you want to make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and make that. Change.”

Tabitha shakes her head, fully aware that he had just plagiarized a Michael Jackson song and tried to pass it off as his own work. But again, as she had learned: it was best sometimes to just let him go.


As you all SHOULD BE aware, I’ve never been a huge fan of these “tough-talking” promotional videos that seem to be pretty popular with wrestling. Nothing really behind me but a curtain that proudly displays the Reesemart logo, standing in view of a camera with a lapel microphone to pick up every word I have to say about my upcoming opponent. It lacks pizzazz, and as a firm believer in presentation, I tend to go for the subtle bells and whistles that a natural background can provide.

Especially when you’re a Television champion. You want the sophisticated flair of me eating at a quaint little bistro. Or the excitement of bringing you an exclusive look into my training regiment at the tanning bed. You want the drama of Sherlock Reese chasing leads and solving cold case files, such as the apparent identity theft by Steve Solex of the popular Wooly Willy children’s game. But with the many tastes that TV can satisfy for your mood, we cannot simply neglect the ancestry of one form of program that has been all but forgotten with the emergence of streaming services.

Public access.

Most would call it the lowest form of broadcasting, but I think that’s an exaggeration, as they have probably never had to suffer through five minutes of Conor Fuse’s Twitch stream. What kind of miserable existence do you lead to when you actually want to watch people playing video games? Especially when you can easily find the latest Reesemart commercial on YouTube!

But as to the matter at hand, public TV has given us SO MUCH. Who could ignore the many memories that their syndicated children’s programming have given us, going on adventures with Thomas the Train and letting our imaginations run amok with a purple dinosaur leading the way? This history should be cherished and appreciated, not degraded like it was a mound of giant turds covering a baseball diamond!

I mean, do I want to actually take a load off in the Reesemart breakroom and enjoy an episode of This Old House? Shit no, especially when I’m already two episodes behind on what the Jersey Shore gang is up to on their trip to the Poconos! But that doesn’t mean I want to cast Rick Steves to some crusty old nursing home, forcing myself to go see him every week until I can start to blame my lack of visitation on his dementia.

And the same can be said for Brian Hollywood! You know, the old QT would have made some clever joke as to the irony of being named after a city that hasn’t actually produced any sort of entertainment since California stopped giving tax incentives to the industry. But as you may have heard, I’m a new man! I put some RESPECT on the names of individuals who have helped to build HOW into the powerhouse it is today, even if I have waltzed in and completely fucking embarrassed one by ending his championship reign via flatulation.

And that’s why I’m honored to pay homage to Brian Hollywood, the Public Access of Professional Wrestling. He will forever be remembered as one of the greats that was beaten by Christmas Reese, an honor that will be a fine addition to the description of his biopic on Turner Classic’s streaming service. A true footnote under the foot of the Reesemart brand, smeared into a paste and mixed in with the rest of the remains of future Hall of Famers as I continue to exploi…I mean promote…my top-quality merchandise! And hey, I’m doing every single one of the fans a favor there. For only $20, you can purchase a ticket to see that stain on my boot!

Actually, make that $30. I got word from my money guy that inflation’s on the rise.