We Are Shawn Kutter

We Are Shawn Kutter

Posted on April 21, 2021 at 8:20 pm by Steve Solex

April 18th, 2021

“What’s up, sugar?”

Her southern accent perks my attention as her cold hand slides up and down my back. I was hoping that she’d still be asleep by the time I got out of here. I sit off the edge of our bed with my face in my hands and relive my long night in my head. I couldn’t sleep last night; the nightmares have come back…and they’re intense. I take a deep breath as I feel her lips press against my shoulder blade. The kiss sound she makes as her lips leave my body raises goosebumps all over my body.

“I’m good,” I mutter through my hands. “I’ll be alright.”

I stand up, pick up my shirt from the floor and throw it on. She sighs deeply as I walk out of the bedroom. She’s trying to get my attention, but she can’t have it. I’ve only been divorced for a couple of weeks, and it still stings. As much of a raging bitch Karen was; I still love her and I can’t get her out of my mind.

This blonde smokeshow wants a relationship.

I don’t.

She’s hot as fuck, but I’m just not into it and nothings going to change my mind. I’m about halfway down the stairs when I hear the floor creak from the bedroom. I know she’s standing there, I can feel those big hazel eyes staring a hole into my back. I stop and look down. I rub the back of my neck and in a stern voice I tell her not to follow me downstairs. I tell her that I’m not staying here for one second longer than I have to. It’s not that I don’t like her….it’s that I don’t want her. I don’t tell her that though. I’m not that big of a dick.

I walk down the stairs, into the living room and out the front door. Half way through

Her name is Constance.

April 18th, 2021

“Congrats, bro,” he tells me. He holds his beer up high to chink beer necks with me and I return the favor. “This is your chance, Steve. This is your time. Fuck those local grapple fucks. Fuck them right in the ass. You’re about to bring the gold home to the Best Alliance where it belongs, son!”

That scruffy dude with the bear. He’s a buddy of mine. We met at the VA about seven years ago. He’s a fellow veteran, and as it turns out…he’s also a professional wrestler. He goes through the same type of post traumatic stress shit that I do. Recurring nightmares of the battlefields that we served on…and what’s funny, we may have even crossed paths before we ever met. We were both shipped across the pond at the same time back in 2003; during the invasion of Iraq.

“Thanks brother. I appreciate the vote of confidence. JPD’s a fuckin’ beast, so I’m happy with the pairing, but I got to say…I’m not overly excited about having another tag team match.”

“Dude!  It’s for the fuckin’ tag titles!  Get your shit together and get your fuckin’ head in the game bro. This isn’t the time to start doubting yourself. You’re the fuckin’ Dad-Solider. You’re the #1 Dad and a war hero. You’re the fuckin’ Alpha!”  He’s emphatic as he stands up and slams a fist into the old wooden bartop. His passionate rant gets me fired right the fuck up…this is just what I needed.

I stand up and I take the shot that I’ve been fiddling with for the last 10 minutes, and the whiskey lights a fire right in my belly.

“You’re goddamn right! Fuck those 214 clowns. I’m the baddest motherfucker in the room, everywhere I go. I’m like Marky Mark in FEAR!”

“You punch yourself in the chest!?”

“That’s not the fuckin point. Pay attention. Get your head out of your third point of contact.”  Your third point of contact is your ass, you non-veteran, scared to serve, self-righteous pricks. Man, he’s really got me fired up. He holds his hands up at his elbows with an awkward look on his face as I shout him down. We both slowly sit back down in our stools, staring one another down.

“You’re a crazy fuck, you know that!” He shouts as he slaps me on the shoulder.

His name is Shawn Kutter.

April 20th

Moving to Chicago wasn’t what I really wanted to do. It’s not that I mind the city or the living conditions. The problem is that I own like nine-million firearms and this place has some of the strictest gun laws in the country, but that’s a rant for another day. A few weeks ago, after Karen and I got divorced I had to get out of dodge. I couldn’t stay in the same state as her, and that small-town livin’ just isn’t for me these days. I got myself a nice little apartment last week, and just last night Shawn asked me if he could stay over for a few days while he waits on the city to run power to the house he just built. Having a roommate is going to be an easy way to get settled in. On my way back from the gym I grabbed a sixer of Stella Artois and was hoping Shawn and I could review the tape from my last match and see exactly where I fucked it all up. That shit was my fault, I know it. I just don’t know why. I reach for the doorknob, but before I can grasp the knob, the door is pulled inward.

I whisper expletives to myself as the open door reveals Shawn Kutter and Constance lip locked right in front of me.  Damn, she’s hot as fuck.  But only two days after she was with me, she’s with Shawn?  Shawn’s definitely a rebound fuck…but better him than me. I clear my throat and they finally release.

“See ya later?” She asks Shawn. Her voice, soft and sweet.  But still…I’m out.  She walks past me without once looking at me, I even have to turn my body at an angle so she doesn’t barrel me over.

I don’t exist.

Shawn scoffs at her question. What a prick.  But it’s funny. I can tell…she’s the kind of girl that loves assholes and if I’m right, Shawn Kutter is just what the doctor ordered for her.

I ask him if he’s got a busy night as I walk through the door.  Shawn laughs and swings the door shut.

“Somethin’ like that,” he says, grinning from ear to ear.

I hold up the six pack at eye level and quickly he snatches a beer free from the cardboard.  I follow him through the entry into the living room.  He uses the table for leverage as he pries the top of the beer. The beertop leaves a nice scratch on my brand new Ashley Furniture table.  I sarcastically thank Shawn for the scratch and open a beer of my own.  I ask him if he wants to watch tape from my last match against Local Grapplers 214.  He laughs right in my face.

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” He pulls a cigarette from the brand new pack of Marlboros in his hand and fires it up. He smiles a closed smiles, keeping his cigarette in place. He blows the smoke toward the ceiling, and all I can think of is the yellow stains that will appear on the white walls over time.  We didn’t establish any smoking rules in the house.  I ask him to take it out to the porch, but he’s quick to change the subject.

“Look, you know how to bet Zeb Martin. This is your time. That Ray McAvay dude…isn’t he the ring announcer?  Shouldn’t he be in a tag team with Blaire Moise or some shit?  You got this in the bag bro!” He takes another deep drag of his cigarette.  I remind him that Brian McVay is the ring announcer, and that Ray McAvay is a legit contender and general tough guy.  It doesn’t seem to impress him much, as he does his best Shania Twain impression folding his arms and acting unimpressed.

“I don’t give a fuck who he is, man!  You got this in the bag, homie.”  He’s always got some weird nickname for me.  Man, homie, bro, sport…whatever. It’s kind of annoying, but that’s just Shawn.  I take a swig of my beer and plop my ass down on the couch. I tell him that my last match has my confidence a bit down, and he tells me to shut the fuck up and get my head back in the game.

“You’ve got to focus, bro!” He shouts as he rips the VHS from my hand.  He stares at it.  “How the fuck are we supposed to watch this?  You got a VCR in this place?”  I shake my head and he smashes the tape into a million pieces below his feet.

“We will win. We will be the tag team champions.”