There is a moment in every man’s life where he must think towards the future.
A life outside the squared circle, more specifically.
There was some contemplation on that subject as the days grew closer and closer to “Dead or Alive”.
I mean, I had a final, albeit far too short, run as the LSD Championship. Over the course of his two LSD Championship runs I managed to hold the title for one hundred and twenty-six days combined, putting me in eighth place and bumping Kostoff into the ninth spot.
After suffering the agony of defeat and losing my big opportunity to once again become the ICON Champion, the thoughts of retirement flooding came back.
It was more of a flash flood.
I could hang up the boots after losing to Tyler Best and say to myself that I went out in an ICON Championship match and then ride out into the sunset like Gary Cooper or Bruce Wayne. The cowboy Bruce Wayne, you know, Rooster Foghorn, not Batman.
But that would mean my last match would be a loss….
….against Tyler Best….
….an arrogant man-baby….
….the shittiest shit that ever did shit…..
Oh, I know that prick would become even more insufferable than he already is.
No, I cannot walk away with a loss to that little shit.
So, here I am, plodding onwards and forwards.
Waking up in another town in some two star hotel or motel (depending on price and cleanliness), my trusty duffel bag of clothes and toiletries in tow. There is no Louis the Little Person to keep me on my toes. There is no Wabid Wabbit to watch my back or to chauffeur me around town in a luxury rental. And Heidi is still in New Zealand.
No, these days I am forced to drive myself in an economy car without heated seats (not that they come in handy during the summer, but the thought of driving in a Chicago winter without the benefit of a warm tushie does not appeal to me).
But choices had to be made, costs had to be cut, and Wabbits had to quit on me to pursue more lucrative ventures. Unmasking my former Elmer Fudd sounding colleague and leaving him a blubbering mess MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY not have helped their relationship.
And so, onto another city, Miami.
John Sektor’s stomping grounds.
He fucking retired!!! And he comes back to challenge the Rembrandt of Wrestling to a match at “Rumble at the Rock”?!
Fucker should have stayed retired.
But John Sektor is future Simon Sparrow’s problem.
Present Simon Sparrow’s problem is going to be humidity, bugs the size of Cadillacs (because I will not be able to stay in Miami due it’s exorbitant hotel costs, instead I will have to slum it at the Swamp Sludge Motel an hour outside the city), and, of course, Steve Harrison.
Is Steve Harrison really a problem?
Seriously, is he worse than ginormous bugs and Florida swamp stench?
Actually, Steve Harrison isn’t that bad. In fact, for dropping his pants and taking a huge dump all over Christopher America’s self-aggrandizing, “look at me and how flipping great I am and always will be” moment, he should be admired!
Did I just say that?
Did I really just give Steve Harrison a compliment?
For the world to hear?
Well, shit!! I guess miracles DO happen!
Watching him take down Christopher America would not be the worst thing in the world. And, let’s be honest here, I really don’t have anything against Steve Harrison. Well, other than the general douchiness that he exudes.
Maybe I should really consider my options. I am slowing down a bit. I have nothing to prove to anybody. My body’s takin’ a lickin’ and, for right now, it’s still tickin’. But there’s that lingering pain in my neck. Is it really worth risking permanent injury to take on Steve Harrison?
When you think about it, he really should beat me. Sooner rather than later. If I go on an amazing run, the greatest winning streak that High Octane Wrestling has ever seen, Tyler Best would still have the bragging rights as the last person to defeat the Professor of Sparrowdynamics. Fuck him! Why should he be my last loss? Fuck that guy!
Why not give that honor to someone else?
Why not take a dive?
Steve Harrison gets the “W” and I walk away without any harm or injury.
It’s a Win-Win!
But then again, there are the fans who paid their hard earned money to see the Rembrandt of Wrestling compete. And Sektor, the cause of this constant neck pain that I suffer from, that sick son of a bitch would get some depraved pleasure out of watching me lose. Fucking pervert.
Although, if I decide to take a dive, then maybe it sucks the joy out of it for him. Maybe he gets his rocks off by the fact that I would go out there to that ring, get myself all pumped to kick Steve Harrison’s ass so hard that he shits when he sneezes and make him a fucking example for Sektor! He wants me to walk down that ramp, enter that ring, give one hundred and ten percent only to come up short in the end. Sick fuck!
But then there would be this perception that I only took a dive because I am fearful of Steve Harrison. That the Miracle Man has me a-quakin’ in mah boots! To those that would believe such horseycock, I say that is blatantly untrue. Might I remind you all that I did defeat him and two other people to become the LSD Champion a couple of years ago at ICONIC. I was not afraid of him then and I am not afraid of him now.
But I shall not and will not allow those toxic individuals to get under my skin. I will not allow those outside influences sway my decision, whatever that might be. The decision will be my own as I weigh my options.
Then again, my fans have been loyal to me and not giving my all would be like spitting in their collective faces. But they are HOW fans, so they are used to that level of abuse.
But what if not going all in against Steve Harrison benefits me in other ways than just longevity? And who says taking dives are bad?! People win gold medals for diving at every Summer Olympics! They get rewarded for it!
Whatever I decide, it won’t change anything. Win or lose, the people will still love me. They will still buy my t-shirts, pens, and limited edition bobbleheads. All of the proceeds will still go towards that bullshit fine the Board is still forcing me to pay. I am still going to be up to my eyes in debt. Win or lose, nothing changes for me.
It might change things for Steve Harrison, though.
Can I live with myself knowing that he beat me when I let him win? Does he deserve that kind of credibility?
Win or lose….
What to do…..
:::::It’s hot. It’s not a dry heat. It’s the muggy late August heat, the type where the second he walks outside from a comfortably air conditioned room, the moisture sticks to Simon Sparrow, his clothes clinging to his body like a second skin.
The rental car, a Honda Bucket or some such, broke down twenty minutes after picking it up. He supposes that’s what he gets for renting a vehicle from “C_ESTER’S CHEAP AND REL_A_LE”. If they can’t afford letters or a new sign, they clearly cannot maintain their vehicles.
So, here he is….
Sitting on a bench, waiting on a bus like a commoner. How did he end up like this? Sweating like a pig on a pit in jogging pants and a “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” t-shirt, watching as people walk by spitting chewing tobacco in the street, scratching their crotches, and stroking their moustaches. The women are real lookers in this area of Florida.
An elderly chap of about ninety sits next to Simon Sparrow. An atomic sounding bit of flatulence escapes the old man as his buttocks meet the scalding hot metal bench. The old man smiles revealing brown, rotting teeth and tips his little golfing cap at the HOW Hall of Famer. Simon Sparrow forces a polite looking smile and nods while praying to all the deities in the universe that this gentleman is not waiting for the Number Fifteen bus.:::
OLD MAN: Hey there, y’all waitin’ for the number fifteen?
SIMON SPARROW: No, the, uh, number seventeen.
OLD MAN: Oh, well, y’all be waitin’ for a long time. The sebbenteen bus that ain’t come ‘round here since….ohhhhhhhh, I’d say oh-two. Not since that there fellow was runned over by that bus driver. Needed to shovel’em up, or what was left of’em. Bigsby. That was the name. The bus driver’s name. The other feller, well, he was one of them touristy folks that come ‘round here. Cain’t remember his name. Think it started with an “M”. Or an “N”. See, there’s this hovercraft rental—-
SIMON SPARROW: I meant the fifteen. Sorry.
OLD MAN: The fifteen, that’ll be comin’ ‘round—-
SIMON SPARROW: Yeah, I don’t give a shit.
OLD MAN: C’mon now, there’s no need for that there kind of language. I’m just tryna show you some hospitality’s’all.
SIMON SPARROW: Well, I’m having a bit of a bad day, thank you very much.
OLD MAN: They say a stranger’s just a—-
SIMON SPARROW: Like I said. I don’t give a shit.
::::Simon Sparrow crosses his arms across his chest, a satisfied smile crosses his face as he shut the old man up. Not the greatest accomplishment in the world. It would probably rank right up there with properly using a coupon to get fifty cents off laundry detergent.
But, still, he prefers silence.
At least, right now he does.
There is a lot weighing on his mind. Steve Harrison. John Sektor. Lee Best. His professional life is in a state of chaos. Even if Simon Sparrow plans on just laying on the mat and allowing Steve Harrison to pin, he’s not the most trustworthy of people. Who is to say that Steve Harrison won’t take the opportunity to stomp the Professor of Sparrowdynamics’s teeth the first chance he gets.
Then there’s Lee lingering in the back of his mind. Sending Sektor, who, for some inexplicable reason decided to unretire, to come after him. That deviant prick might decided Chaos is the perfect chance to ambush him. Sektor, his once best friend, clearly still holds a grudge that Simon Sparrow (then Jatt Starr) was the face of StarrSek Industries. Sektor needs to let all that jealousy he has for Simon Sparrow go.
There is always something to worry about.
The giant bugs that look like they were the byproduct of toxic waste and radiation and somehow grew to an inordinate size to where Simon is unclear if it is bird flying in the distance or an insect.
Like his ass baking on the metal bench. HAVEN’T THEY EVER HEARD OF WOODED BENCHES IN THIS FUCKING TOWN?????
Then there’s this fucking heat.
And this rotten egg smell emanating from the old man’s britches. Was it not just a fart?
Did he SHART?
That’s nasty if he did.
The stench combined with this heat is toxic. SImon Sparrow can feel his eyes burning and start to water. Simon Sparrow cannot help but to get up and start staggering away from the old man and his foul, vile stench. A odor so horrendous, for the briefest of moments the Rembrandt of Wrestling wishes he could bottle it and shoot into the face of all that oppose. However, his survival instincts kicked in and now he needs to get away from this man as soon as he can. He can feel his legs turn to jelly as the nausea sets in.
As if sent by the gods, a bus pulls up and the malodorous man enters, taking his stank with him. After a few moments on all fours next to the bushes nearest to the bench, he is finally able to breathe and takes his place on the bench. He missed the fifteen bus, but another one that will get him where he needs to go should be here shortly.
There has got to be more than one bus that can get him to the Greyhound station and then to Miami in this town, right?
He can wait…..
As long as no one sits next to him…..END SCENE::::