Shawn’s been gone for a few hours. It’s not unlike him to leave like this, but it is unlike him to leave Constance here, alone with me. She and I have been watching reruns of I Love Lucy for like three fuckin’ hours. She’s laid up on one end of our corduroy couch, and I’m seated where her feet are. She keeps trying to get my attention with her Stiletto heels, prodding at my thigh with the bottom of her foot. I keep slapping her foot away, but every few minutes it finds itself right back where it started.
“Would you knock that shit off?” I ask, shoving her foot from my thigh again.
“What’s the matter, Steven? Don’t like me anymore?”
The sweet sound of her voice gives me butterflies and makes my skin crawl, all at the same time. I’ll tell you what though, that fuckin’ southern belle accent would drive any man bananas and it’s doing work on me right now.
I look over at her, and she twists the purple Tootsie Pop she’s got in her hand against the front of her lips and winks at me. She told me when she got here that she stole the lollipop from the Circle K around the corner and that the adrenaline from doing so fired her up inside; she said it completely rocked her world.
“He’s not coming back for a few hours, I don’t know where he’s gone,” I say, pleading for her to leave.
“Who are you talking about? Who’s he” She asks, with a puzzled look on her face.
She doesn’t know.
Even if I explained it to her now, she wouldn’t get it.
“Just forget it,” I blurt out, attempting to interrupt any forthcoming interrogation.
Her eyes go crooked for a minute as she briefly analyzes my face. I look away, and get up from the couch. I walk over to the 1960’s style, tube television and turn the knob to the off position.
“What’d ya’ do that for?” She complains, stomping one of her heels on the green shag carpet, causing a mini dust storm.
She fans the dust away from her face and lightly sneezes. Not one of those sneezes where you got something cleared out, but one of those sneezes that’s barely a fuckin’ squeek.
It was cute, I’m not going to lie.
“You keep talking about…he. Who is he?” She asks, in a nonchalant tone but inquisitive tone, still focused on twirling the lollipop against her lips.
I try to tell her not to worry about it, but she presses for more.
“C’mon…” she insists in the sweetest and softest voice, as she sits up on the couch.
She crosses her legs and pats the seat next to her on the couch. She tilts her head, motioning for me to come over.
“C’mon, talk to me babe.”
I hesitantly walk over and sit down next to her. I try to sit a few feet away, but she grabs the inside of my thigh and pulls herself snug against me.
“So, who is he?”
“Let’s see what else is on…” I try to stand up and get her focus back on the TV, but she pulls me back down.
“Don’t change the subject, Steven. Who is he?”
He’s Shawn fucking Kutter! You dumb cunt!
I shout as loud as I can…but only inside my head.
I could never say that to her face.
I feel what Shawn feels, and we love her…it’s not just him anymore.
She gives me that same puzzled look that she gave me before, but this time she grabs ahold of my hand. She interlaces her fingers with mine and grips tightly.
Shawn is not going to be happy about this. Fuck.
“He…he’s nobody. C’mon, let’s watch some TV.”
I try to stand again, but she yanks my arm back and pulls me back onto the couch again.
“Where’s Shawn right now, Steven?” The question makes me sweat. It makes me nervous.
“He’s not here, Constance,” I feel the blood rush away from my face. My fingers get cold and suddenly…I can’t breathe.
“He’s not here?” She continues her line of questioning. “Then where is he?”
I can’t control my breathing. I can feel my lungs filling and emptying at an unsafe pace.
“I’m getting a little dizzy,” I say, trying to get her to quit.
“That’s ok. Lay back, sweetie,” she says, placing her soft hand on my forehead.
My hands go numb.
“You’re having a panic attack, Steven,” she trembles.
“You’ve got to relax, hun,” she continues, rubbing her hand back and forth on my forehead.
I can’t control myself.
I feel like I’m outside of my body right now.
I’m in and out of consciousness.
Suddenly, I see Shawn.
Its only flashes and he’s two inches from my face.
Can she see him?
His devilish smile is there. And then it’s gone. Just like that.
“You need help, Steven,” Constance says.
I still can’t control my breathing. Her soft hand on my forehead is comforting, but it’s not enough.
I’ve gone faint. I curl up against her.
“Can you get here now?” She asks. She’s on her phone.
“We’ll be here waiting.”
I hear Shawn laughing. I hear Constance sobbing.
“Who’s on their way?” I ask her, barely able to get the words out of my mouth.
“He’s a hypnotist, Steven. The best in town.”
It’s no secret, I have issues. I’ve had issues; for my whole life it seems. And it seems like any time I think I’ve beaten these issues, they rear their ugly heads…every time, like fuckin’ clockwork. Lately though, I’ve gotten stronger. I’ve been able to rid myself of two of the biggest problems I’ve ever had; Logan Tyler and Dr. Devastation. But now…now it’s just me and the biggest issue I’ve ever had: Shawn Kutter.
Over the years, these issues always start with Shawn. Shawn shows up and the others follow; but that’s only because Shawn wanted that to happen. This time, however, I think I’ve convinced him that we are stronger as two. I’ve conceived him that without the other psycho, babbling, pricks around, nothing can stand in our way and no challenge will go undefeated.
For three weeks Logan Tyler locked me in a cell, and for three weeks I tried to convince myself that I deserved to be there. I actually tried to convince myself that Logan Tyler was more suited to take control than I was. I tried to convince myself that I didn’t deserve this anymore and that maybe…just maybe I didn’t want it.
That is how I got Shawn to come back. That is how I inspired Shawn to get rid of Logan Tyler and that is why he never let Dr. Devastation return from whatever fucked up place he went to. Shawn wants to be in charge just as much as the rest of them, but Shawn is loyal to me first. And then there’s the x-factor herself, Constance. She’s the one he loves. If I’m able to keep her in the picture, he will continue to show up. It’s almost involuntary at this point. I know that he’s just as inept as the other two dickheads when it comes to running my life but he is the best friend I’ve ever had.
But it’s my turn now.
And for real this time.
I just have to let Shawn think that he’s the one that’s in control, until I figure out a way to get rid of him once and for all. Truth is, I love Shawn. He’s just as much a part of me as I am, and over the years I’ve come to think of him as some kind of fucked up brother that tortures me to no end. I know that if a bullet was headed in my direction, Shawn would jump right in front of it like Kevin Costner.
But he’s not Steve Solex.
It’s been a fucked up year, and I get to spend another Christmas away from home…but I can finish it all with a win and you…Bobby Dean…you are the only thing that stands between me and my goal of finishing this abortion of a year with a bit of well deserved success. If…let me rephrase…When I beat you Bobby, and put this whole Gentleman’s Agreement to bed with a win, I can confidently tell Shawn that it’s never been him…that it’s always been me. That I am the winner and I am the Alpha, that I’m not just the host. I can tell Shawn that I’m the main fuckin’ character and that he’s just background noise.
At the start of this whole thing, I despised you Bobby. But now, oddly enough, I’ve grown quite fond of you; you fat shit. It’s weird, you’re the kind of guy I would have happily referred to as a fuckin’ soup sandwich and completely dismissed two months ago…but somehow, I’ve grown to respect you, you soggy sack of shit. You’re not the kind of person I would normally have this much respect for, but after all we’ve been through; after six matches and three wins a piece…I do. I respect and like Scott Stevens, but I still beat him like he stole my grandmother’s First Alert necklace when he and I were in the ring together, and I’ll do the same thing to you, you plump, parody of a wrestler and man. I still don’t understand how on God’s green Earth those idiots Logan, Shawn and that fuckin’ weirdo Dr. Devastation let him get this far. It makes zero fuckin’ sense, but as usual…the Dad is here to clean up the mess.
Let’s get this straight though, Bobby. I respect you as a wrestler, nothing more. As a man, as a father, as a member of society you are Dennis Rodman to my Michael Jordan.
I’m going to enjoy this win, Bobby. I’m going to enjoy watching you fail to answer the count of ten. I can’t fuckin’ wait to see you struggle to get to your feet like an overstuffed tortoise on it’s back. But don’t worry about that, Bobby. At the end of the match…the people will applaud for you. They’ll applaud and cheer for you, Bobby and you’ll think it’s a sign of respect. You’ll think it’s because you earned something. You’ll think it’s because you put up a hell of a fight. But let me tell you something Bobby, nothing could be further from the truth. They’ll applaud for you Bobby, because they are the same people who give their kids participation trophies for coming in Fourth Place! They are the same people who
The only part that I’m going to regret about this whole fuckin’ thing, is that I didn’t get to do it on American soil. But instead, I have to do it in fuckin’ England like I’m goddamn Austin Powers fighting Fat fuckin’ Bastard, but instead of a Scottish accent Bobby sounds like he’s been gurgling bacon grease for twenty-fuckin’ years.
I’m the Alpha-American and my people deserve to be in attendance when I do work. The American people deserve to see me win, just like they deserve to watch fireworks on the 4th of July. They admire and respect me. They look up to me. And even though you are, one hundred percent, a more accurate representation of the common American man when it comes to waistline circumference and body mass index, it’s me they pretend to be! They fantasize about being me, Bobby. It’s my name they want autographed on an eight-by-ten photo, magazine or DVD cover. Even if I’m not on it!
They look down on you, Bobby. Can’t you see that? No matter how fat they are, no matter how many pounds of overly processed, garbage, food they shove into their dicksuckers and force down their gullets every night. And no matter how much of a “feel good story” you try to be…no one really loves you Bobby. It’s all a farce.
It’s not really your fault though, slim.
They hate you, because they hate themselves.
They hate that when they see you, they see themselves. They hate that when they look in the mirror every morning they see what you see, and it definitely isn’t their dicks. It’s their belly hanging down to their knees, and stretch marks that look like tiger stripes on a bloated hippo. They hate that when they step on the scale every Monday morning, that the scale begs for them to step right the fuck off. They hate that they are more like you than they are like me. And that’s not your fault, Bobby. It’s theirs. If glamorizing your disgusting and unsafe lifestyle makes you feel better, if crammin’ a double quarter pounder with cheese fills some kind of void you have and if drinking a twelve pack of diet coke makes you feel like you’ve made progress, then do it!
This is America, for fucks sake.
That’s your right!
But don’t make it seem like you love your life, kid. I can see the discomfort in your face with every breath you take. I can smell last week’s salami-sub – extra cheese – dripping out of your pores when we’re in the ring together. I know, deep down, this isn’t the man that you want to be. I can hear the jarring destruction your weight has done to your joints over the years. Your knees sound like fuckin’ cement mixers man, take some glutamine for cryin’ out loud!
And those eGG Bandits you pal around with, they’re enabling this behavior Bobby. Can’t you see that? The Bandits are as good for you as a case of whiskey is to someone with liver disease. Sure, it’s all fun and games in Bandit land.
“We throw eggs at people! It’s hilarious!”
The only eggs you should be throwing Bobby, are egg whites into a pan every morning to go with a piece of whole grain toast. The eGG Bandits are fuckin’ enablers, Bob. I wish you could see that. They don’t love you, they hate you. They make you feel like you’re a part of the group, but all they do is turn you into their comic relief. They make it seem like you’re an important part of the group and that they love you, but would dress you up as a half-shirted Santa Clause eating a rotisserie chicken if it made them laugh, and don’t think otherwise.
While you’re shopping for fuckin’ lingerie and creeping out women and their children, or going on radio shows talking about the upcoming Lee Best Invitational Tag Team Tournament that you’ll never-ever be a part of; your friends are shaking their heads in disgust. We’re nine days out from 2022, Bob…and you still don’t have a contract. What does that say about you, Bob? What does that say about the perception of you from the front office? What does that say about the friends that are supposed to have your back and put in a good word for you with the head shed?
It says a whole fuckin’ lot, that’s what it says.
It says that no one, not even your best friends, believe that you have a shot in hell at beating me at ICONIC. That is the status quo, Bob. You think that this might be your swan song?
There is no might about it, Bobby…this is your swan song.
This is your last dance in HOW.
This is the end of the road
This is your walk of shame.