With my arm draped across the bar top, my head comfortably perched on said arm, I simply stare into the near empty bottle of some cheap whiskey. It could be whatever whiskey you want it to, because to me, I can’t for the life of me read the fucking label.
I’ve been in BFE for the past six hours, drinking my way through beer, then shots, and finally settled into whiskey. I don’t know if I have an iron stomach from all the abuse I put myself through in my past. No, not the wrestling, but more the countless buffets, the all you can eats, the hot dog eating contests that weren’t actual contests, they were just me stuffing my cheeks like a chipmunk full of wieners.
Whatever the reason, I wasn’t complaining as I sat there, staring into the bottle wondering the thing all alcoholics wonder. Why? Why me? Where did it all go wrong? What could I do to change it? And like all alcoholics before me, I take another swig of my drink, enjoying the slow burn as it goes down, and I focus more on the What can I do to bring everyone around me down to my level.
Because like most alcoholics, I’ve now reached that point where I no longer want to think about my misery. I simply want everyone else around me to be more miserable than I am.
Sadly, looking around the near empty room of BFE, I’m realizing my target audience is already more miserable than me. It’s four in the morning, and it’s just me, Rick, the owner, and two other equally drunk gentlemen.
How’s that old Shakespearean play go again?
How do I loathe Thee? Let me count the ways
I loathe thee to the level of every day’s
I loathe thee with the passion put to use
I loathe thee with a love I seemed to lose
I shall but loathe thee better after death…
My daughter has chosen to end her time in my warm and welcoming presence. Choosing rather to go back to her mother’s house, until I, as she puts it, “get my shit together.” I should admonish her, not only for her language, but also for judging me unjustly. Sadly, I can’t, the little fucker kind of has a point.
I wish I could pinpoint the reason for the down spiral I find myself on. I wish I could simply snap out of it, like so many people have told me in recent days. Could Cancer Jiles finding success be the cause? Could Steve Harrison and his unceasing annoyance be the reason why I turn to the bottle, in hopes to drown away the memories of my defeat at M2G? Could Doozer’s continued absence be the cause? Could the recent decline in HOG activities be the reason why I’m suddenly drowning in despair? Could it be the fact that I haven’t been laid since 2010 be the reason why I feel like my life is spiraling out of control?
Or could it be, I simply have an addictive personality and I’ve substituted alcohol in place of food? Where I once sought comfort at the bottom of a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken, I now seek comfort at the bottom of a bottle of Kentucky Straight Bourbon.
Whatever the reason, it doesn’t really change the fact that I’ve been in this bar stool for the past six hours, drinking until my heart stops aching, and I no longer feel my toes. One thing that remained with me after losing all that weight? Diabetes.
The door to the bar opens up and I don’t even bother to look up. Rick, however pokes his head out from his back office, his eyebrows raised in query.
“I’m here for a Bobby Dean?” the newcomer asks the room, looking from one patron to the other, then on to me. I only acknowledge him by raising a pinky from the hand attached to the arm I’m currently using as a pillow.
Whether he saw the pinky or Rick pointing at me, the man approaches the stool next to mine, but instead of taking a seat, he simply stands behind it looking down at me like this was the last thing he wanted to be doing. “So, some guy called a cab for you. They tell me to come in and take you back to the hotel. They also tell me to remind you that you have to work tonight. They say, nothing would make them happier than seeing you puke your guts out in the middle of the ring.”
Or could it be Harrison?
Or would it be Lee? Nah, he’d probably hope I’d no show so he could get rid of me once and for all.
Why am I constantly surrounded by assholes!?
With that thought, I allow the man to help me into the backseat of his awaiting cab. Not even thinking of the last time I rode in a cab. Hopefully this time I won’t wake up outside the USS Octane…
I hate to admit this, but you are absolutely right. Full stop.
Introductions are boring, and lame, and repetitive. No one gives a fuck who you are, or where you’ve been, or what you’ve accomplished. Joining HOW is like taking the Red Pill in the Matrix. We wake up and realize this is a new reality and whatever we have done in the past doesn’t exist anymore. We’re here in the NOW!
Once I saw this, this no introductions thing, I simply stopped listening to the rest of whatever you said. I mean, I didn’t simply shut it down and go on to better things. I just skimmed the rest of it. Just waited to see if anything caught my ear, or is eye?
I popped for the Robert Dean mention. I tried that for a while, but sadly, I had to drop it after a week when no one else bothered to sell it. Now, here you come, Mr. Arthur Pleasant himself; sorry, I know I’m “supposed” to know you and fear you, and all, but honestly, when I hear that name all I think about is that old movie Pleasantville.
You remember that movie? Kids go into a black ‘n white TV show, and then they go into color after they fuck? Wasn’t a bad flick, though you might not be familiar with it. But don’t fret, I’m pretty sure you would have stayed in Black ‘n White during the whole thing. I actually prefect the sequel Pleasureville, you should look it up.
Another thing I’m afraid to admit, I’m glad no one sold the Robert Dean thing. Seeing you say my name so much really sold how awful “Robert Dean” is compared to “Bobby Dean.” So thank you for that, thank you for showing me just how ridiculous that would have been had I continued forcing it down everyone’s throat.
I wish instead of tearing you down, I could take you by the shoulder and simply point out a few of your mistakes. For instance, you need to pay attention out here. Pay attention to the little details; like I’m no longer fat. I’ve had to point this out a million and one times now, but it’s gotten rather old. It’s like stale bread, no one wants it anymore, but I’ll force feed it to you fuckers until you get it!
I’m sure Lee is rolling his useless eyes right now having to listen to me explain this to you. Seriously, though, I’m not fat. I’m not big boned. I’m no longer even considered obese by the BMI scale. In the past couple of weeks I’ve even turned my food addiction into something more respectable. Alcohol addiction.
Also, be careful how you talk about the High Octane audience. They’re a bunch of fickle cunts. You think they’d boo you because you were booed at every other Fischer Price fed you’ve been in. But this is HOW. Seeing how much of an asshole you are, they’d probably down right love you.
For the longest time I felt like I was a stepping stone for people like you. You know, the newcomers, the recent additions, the sad sacks that stumble their way into our midst looking to make a name for themselves. But I’ve realized that I’ve been mistaken this whole time. I’m not a stepping stone for you. I’m your learning curve.
Lee feeds the newbies like you to me, not hoping I’ll wipe the grandeur from your eyes, but rather, I’ll temper your ambition. Let’s face it, beating me is nothing to toot your horn about. And losing to me, simply tells Lee to keep you on the lower end of the booking sheet.
And after seeing what you got, I have to wonder about you, my friend. (That’s English for mon ami) I never understood why someone new to a place like High Octane would immediately talk about how mundane, boring, lacking in skill, or just how downright awful we all are. I get the strategy in itself. Downplay everyone else, while hyping yourself. But it’s a flawed strategy to begin with. If we were such shit shows, why are you here? Ultimately the truth is, you’re a shit show like the rest of us, you just want to see what level of shit show you are.
Are you a Scott Stevens on the scale of shit? Or possibly a Max Kael (RIP). Could you be a Hollywood Boiz level of shit? Or perhaps a Dan Ryan?
The good news, for me, I know exactly how low on the scale I sit. If you’d like, I can scooch on over and make some room for you to sit right here next to me?
Here’s yet another admission that I’m reluctant to share. I lied. I read everything you provided… So go ahead, talk about how you’re going to kill me in the ring. Talk about how much better you are than everyone else. How you’re the next savior for High Octane. And while you’re doing all of that, I’ll be over here pushing the HOG to parley a bet on just where you’ll sit on the Scales of Shit.
I bet you were wishing you had taken the Blue pill huh?
Welcome to HOW!