Post by Shooter McCool on Oct 9, 2016 15:32:59 GMT -6
About 5 months ago
The cold, steel cuffs dig into Shooter’s wrists, as two very large men drag him down the hall away from Merriweather’s office. The wrestler tries to pull himself free, but Merriweather somehow turned off the bionic abilities granted to him by his new spine of metal and wires, leaving him unable to free himself. The two men toss him into the golden elevator, and press the button for the second basement. Shooter McCool stands between the men, blood dripping from his nose, his eye slowly swelling, and still without a shirt.
Shooter:You two come here often?
The guards stand silently, staring at the door in front of them. Shooter tries to shift his arms to a more comfortable position, but can’t find one.
Shooter:You know, after I get my ass whipped, I always feel like I need a smoke. Either of you two boys got one I can bum?
They stay still for a moment more, before one of them relents, and reaches into the inner breast pocket of his blazer. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and slips one into Shooter’s mouth. The man lights it for him with a silver zippo, before sliding it all back into his jacket.
Shooter:Thank you kindly.
Smooth jazz drifts in from the speakers above them, as the descend down the tower. Shooter has a few puffs, before speaking again, the white stick bobbing with the motion of his lips.
Shooter:Hey big guy. You mind scratchin’ my nose for me. It’s drivin’ me nuts.
The man rolls his eyes, before turning toward Shooter. He doesn’t even get a chance to try and scratch Shooter’s nose, before the wrestler reels back and swings his neck like a headbutt, landing the cigarette in the man’s left eye. While he’s busy howling in pain, Shooter spins around and kicks his partner in the stomach a few times. Having his hands cuffed catches up with him though, as the guard fire back with a right and a left that send Shooter to the floor. The standing guard kicks Shooter in the ribs a few times, while his partner kneels in the corner, holding his eye. Shooter spits up a glob of mucus and blood that splatters against the elevator floor.
Guard 1:You think that’s funny, cock sucker? Let’s see how funny you think it is after a couple days in the basement.
Shooter:If it’s anything like an elevator ride with you two, I don’t think I’m gonna like it much.
The standing guard grabs him by his shoulder, and yanks him to his feet, banging the back of his head against the wall.
Shooter:Fuckin’ ow! No, that’s cool. I had that comin’. I ain’t even sure what my plan was there.
Guard 1:Right? We’re in an elevator heading to a basement. Jesus man.
Before Shooter can say anything else, the half blinded partner stands up and takes a swing. Shooter just manages to dodge it. The man’s hand slams into the wall, and he hears the bones break.
Guard 1:Calm the fuck down Steve. The boss is gonna want him alive at least.
Guard 2:My fuckin’ eye!
Guard 1:Take it easy! Look at the bright side. Maybe the boss’ll give you a magic one like that bitch in the basement.
The guard known as Steve looks like he may tear Shooter apart anyway. Thankfully for him, the elevator stops and the door opens. The first guard quickly grabs Shooter and tosses him into the cold, rotten smelling blackness. He slams into the wall, and lets out a scream of pain as he feels his shoulder dislocate. He drops to the damp, concrete ground, and watches as the elevator door closes, taking the only light with it. Shooter backs himself against a wall, wishing they had taken off the handcuffs before throwing him in. After a moment of contemplation, he speaks to himself.
Shooter:Well ain’t this a perfect metaphor for your life. Get a bionic spine, get thrown in a fuckin’ dungeon.
Suddenly, a female voice from the darkness makes Shooter jump.
Martina:Lucky. At least you got to keep both your eyes.
Shooter:What the fuck?! Who else is in here?!
Martina:Name’s Martina.
Shooter takes a few deep breaths, calming himself before responding.
Shooter:Hi there Martina. You’ll forgive me if I ain’t real cordial given the situation. Wait a minute… did you say eye? You’re the chick they were talkin’ about.
Her quiet laughter echoes off the stone walls.
Martina:Not surprised they’re still talking about me. You see the bandage on the big one’s ear? I bit a chunk off on my way down here. Man was he pissed. Damn near broke my jaw.
Shooter:You’re gonna love this then. I got him in the eye with a cigarette.
She laughs again. Louder this time.
Martina:Man I’m sad I missed that one. What’s your name?
Shooter:Shooter. Shooter McCool.
Martina:Martina. Martina Chavis. Bionic spine, huh? Sounds like fun. I just got an eye and an arm.
Shooter:You’re one of the other ones Merriweather saved?
Martina:Sure, if by saved you mean gave me a robot eye and arm, before demanding I fight a bunch of his other patients to the death, then yeah, he saved me. When I win, I’m gonna repay the favor.
Shooter:You mean you agreed to fight?
Martina:Eventually. I tried to resist, but after a week down here I realized it was either fight for my life, or rot in a dungeon. Not a hard decision when you frame it that way.
Shooter:No… no I guess not.
Silence hangs between them. A slow drip in the distance the only sound.
Shooter:Hey, are your hands cuffed?
Martina:Nah. Merriweather didn’t want the prosthetic getting damaged.
Shooter:Then you mind comin’ over this way and relocatin’ my shoulder?
Martina:Sure.
He listens as she gets to her feet, and follows along the wall, her metal hand scraping the stone. He feels as her fingers feel for direction, and slowly find his left shoulder.
Martina:This one.
Shooter:Yeah, yeah that one.
She grips the shoulder with her flesh hand and his back with her metal one. She pulls back, clicking the joint into place as Shooter let’s out a shriek.
Martina:You alright?
Shooter:Been better… been worse.
__ _ _ __ _ _ _ __ _
Present day
Shooter McCool sits at the end of an empty bar, dust particles dangling in the light beams that filter in from outside. A juke box across the room quietly plays an old Merle Haggard song. A half empty glass bottle sits in front of Shooter, as he stares at the wall. After a few moments, he turns his head and stares at the camera.
Shooter:Teddy Sol. Sweeter than sugar and half the calories. You’re so sweet and cheesy you’re gonna give me diabetes and a heart attack. This sumbitch is so squeaky clean you could eat off of him. It’s precious, really. You come on out and you do all your flippy moves. You preen and pose and tell all the fans what a great guy you are. You pretend to be a hero, when really, you ain’t got a damn clue who you are on the inside.
Shooter stares down at his open hands. He shakes his head and takes a swing of his beer, fighting back thoughts he would rather not think.
Shooter:Until you’ve been to the edge, until you’ve had to make that choice, you ain’t got a clue who you really are. You think your whole life that you’re one of the good guys. Maybe not the best, but still good. Then… somethin’ happens. You find yourself somewhere you never thought you’d be, with a choice in front of you you never thought you’d have to make. There ain’t no hero option on the test, either. Naw, you get to choose between bein’ a dead guy, or bein’ a murderer. You get to choose between givin’ up your whole life, or lyin’ to somebody who means the world to you. Those are the choices you get, and until you been there, you don’t know shit.
Shooter finishes his beer, and pulls a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his shirt. He lights one, and exhales a plume of smoke before continuing his speech.
Shooter:The fans love ya, Teddy, and that’s great. We need somebody to sell the t-shirts and get the kids in. The problem is, you ain’t even been tested like you shoulda been tested before you got to face shooter McCool. You’re prancin’ around this place thinkin’ you’re a hero, when really, you’re just a little kid playin’ dress up. You ain’t got no clue who you are inside. There could be a monster in there, and if there is, a match with the most brutal mother fucker you ever met is gonna bring it out. I’m gonna test you this week, Teddy. We’re gonna find out who the hell you are.
He scratches at his growing beard, before ordering another beer, and tapping off the ashes of his cigarette.
Shooter:Enough about you, let’s talk about me. I know I ain’t no hero. I know I’m gonna walk down that ramp and almost every sumbitch in that arena’s gonna be booin’ me. The thing is, I don’t care. You’re gonna learn that when you really know who you are, the opinion of a bunch of morons don’t mean nothin’ to you. I’m a runaway train car full of dynamite, and I’m headed straight for you, Teddy. Ain’t no stoppin’ me and you from runnin’ headlong into our destiny. You’re gonna give me my first legit win in UCI, and I’m gonna dig out the inner you. You should be thankin’ me to be honest. I’m givin’ you somethin’ you been needin’ for a long time.
Shooter drinks deep from the fresh beer, and stands up from the barstool. He meanders across the wooden floor to the jukebox, changing it to a Johnny Cash song.
Shooter:I ain’t gained a lot from gettin’ older, but one thing I got in abundance is wisdom, and I’m about to hand some down to you tough love style. I’m gonna push you to your breakin’ point with a damn smile on my face, because we both need it. I been itchin’ for a real fight since I got to this dump, and you been needin’ someone to smack you upside the head since day one. Teddy, I think we’re a match made in heaven. I think you and I are gonna make some beautiful, violent music together. That or I smash your brains in and leave you a mass of nothin’. Your call really.
Shooter walks back over to the bar, and drains the bottle, taking another puff of his cigarette.
Shooter:Bottom line, this Overload ain’t gonna end well for you. You damn sure drew the short straw when you got matched up against Shooter McCool. I done knocked the rust off me good with my last two matches, and now I’m more than ready to tear your ass apart. You and anyone else that tries to fuck up my game. I’m a hard drinkin’, harder hittin’, time tested son of a bitch that’s ready for round two of his life, and my rise to the top starts with beatin’ your ass. You better get your ass ready. On Monday, we’re gonna find out if Teddy Sol is really the hero everyone thinks he is.
Shooter snuffs out his cigarette on the bar, before turning and stepping out of the building. Mid day light floods over him, as he steps toward the old, black trans am in the back of the parking lot.He slides into the vehicle, and takes a moment to stare at the tiny gold crucifix pendant that hangs from the rear view mirror. He shakes his head, and starts the car with a disgruntled roar. He hits the gas and kicks up some gravel as he speed out of the parking lot, and down the empty road.
The cold, steel cuffs dig into Shooter’s wrists, as two very large men drag him down the hall away from Merriweather’s office. The wrestler tries to pull himself free, but Merriweather somehow turned off the bionic abilities granted to him by his new spine of metal and wires, leaving him unable to free himself. The two men toss him into the golden elevator, and press the button for the second basement. Shooter McCool stands between the men, blood dripping from his nose, his eye slowly swelling, and still without a shirt.
Shooter:You two come here often?
The guards stand silently, staring at the door in front of them. Shooter tries to shift his arms to a more comfortable position, but can’t find one.
Shooter:You know, after I get my ass whipped, I always feel like I need a smoke. Either of you two boys got one I can bum?
They stay still for a moment more, before one of them relents, and reaches into the inner breast pocket of his blazer. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and slips one into Shooter’s mouth. The man lights it for him with a silver zippo, before sliding it all back into his jacket.
Shooter:Thank you kindly.
Smooth jazz drifts in from the speakers above them, as the descend down the tower. Shooter has a few puffs, before speaking again, the white stick bobbing with the motion of his lips.
Shooter:Hey big guy. You mind scratchin’ my nose for me. It’s drivin’ me nuts.
The man rolls his eyes, before turning toward Shooter. He doesn’t even get a chance to try and scratch Shooter’s nose, before the wrestler reels back and swings his neck like a headbutt, landing the cigarette in the man’s left eye. While he’s busy howling in pain, Shooter spins around and kicks his partner in the stomach a few times. Having his hands cuffed catches up with him though, as the guard fire back with a right and a left that send Shooter to the floor. The standing guard kicks Shooter in the ribs a few times, while his partner kneels in the corner, holding his eye. Shooter spits up a glob of mucus and blood that splatters against the elevator floor.
Guard 1:You think that’s funny, cock sucker? Let’s see how funny you think it is after a couple days in the basement.
Shooter:If it’s anything like an elevator ride with you two, I don’t think I’m gonna like it much.
The standing guard grabs him by his shoulder, and yanks him to his feet, banging the back of his head against the wall.
Shooter:Fuckin’ ow! No, that’s cool. I had that comin’. I ain’t even sure what my plan was there.
Guard 1:Right? We’re in an elevator heading to a basement. Jesus man.
Before Shooter can say anything else, the half blinded partner stands up and takes a swing. Shooter just manages to dodge it. The man’s hand slams into the wall, and he hears the bones break.
Guard 1:Calm the fuck down Steve. The boss is gonna want him alive at least.
Guard 2:My fuckin’ eye!
Guard 1:Take it easy! Look at the bright side. Maybe the boss’ll give you a magic one like that bitch in the basement.
The guard known as Steve looks like he may tear Shooter apart anyway. Thankfully for him, the elevator stops and the door opens. The first guard quickly grabs Shooter and tosses him into the cold, rotten smelling blackness. He slams into the wall, and lets out a scream of pain as he feels his shoulder dislocate. He drops to the damp, concrete ground, and watches as the elevator door closes, taking the only light with it. Shooter backs himself against a wall, wishing they had taken off the handcuffs before throwing him in. After a moment of contemplation, he speaks to himself.
Shooter:Well ain’t this a perfect metaphor for your life. Get a bionic spine, get thrown in a fuckin’ dungeon.
Suddenly, a female voice from the darkness makes Shooter jump.
Martina:Lucky. At least you got to keep both your eyes.
Shooter:What the fuck?! Who else is in here?!
Martina:Name’s Martina.
Shooter takes a few deep breaths, calming himself before responding.
Shooter:Hi there Martina. You’ll forgive me if I ain’t real cordial given the situation. Wait a minute… did you say eye? You’re the chick they were talkin’ about.
Her quiet laughter echoes off the stone walls.
Martina:Not surprised they’re still talking about me. You see the bandage on the big one’s ear? I bit a chunk off on my way down here. Man was he pissed. Damn near broke my jaw.
Shooter:You’re gonna love this then. I got him in the eye with a cigarette.
She laughs again. Louder this time.
Martina:Man I’m sad I missed that one. What’s your name?
Shooter:Shooter. Shooter McCool.
Martina:Martina. Martina Chavis. Bionic spine, huh? Sounds like fun. I just got an eye and an arm.
Shooter:You’re one of the other ones Merriweather saved?
Martina:Sure, if by saved you mean gave me a robot eye and arm, before demanding I fight a bunch of his other patients to the death, then yeah, he saved me. When I win, I’m gonna repay the favor.
Shooter:You mean you agreed to fight?
Martina:Eventually. I tried to resist, but after a week down here I realized it was either fight for my life, or rot in a dungeon. Not a hard decision when you frame it that way.
Shooter:No… no I guess not.
Silence hangs between them. A slow drip in the distance the only sound.
Shooter:Hey, are your hands cuffed?
Martina:Nah. Merriweather didn’t want the prosthetic getting damaged.
Shooter:Then you mind comin’ over this way and relocatin’ my shoulder?
Martina:Sure.
He listens as she gets to her feet, and follows along the wall, her metal hand scraping the stone. He feels as her fingers feel for direction, and slowly find his left shoulder.
Martina:This one.
Shooter:Yeah, yeah that one.
She grips the shoulder with her flesh hand and his back with her metal one. She pulls back, clicking the joint into place as Shooter let’s out a shriek.
Martina:You alright?
Shooter:Been better… been worse.
__ _ _ __ _ _ _ __ _
Present day
Shooter McCool sits at the end of an empty bar, dust particles dangling in the light beams that filter in from outside. A juke box across the room quietly plays an old Merle Haggard song. A half empty glass bottle sits in front of Shooter, as he stares at the wall. After a few moments, he turns his head and stares at the camera.
Shooter:Teddy Sol. Sweeter than sugar and half the calories. You’re so sweet and cheesy you’re gonna give me diabetes and a heart attack. This sumbitch is so squeaky clean you could eat off of him. It’s precious, really. You come on out and you do all your flippy moves. You preen and pose and tell all the fans what a great guy you are. You pretend to be a hero, when really, you ain’t got a damn clue who you are on the inside.
Shooter stares down at his open hands. He shakes his head and takes a swing of his beer, fighting back thoughts he would rather not think.
Shooter:Until you’ve been to the edge, until you’ve had to make that choice, you ain’t got a clue who you really are. You think your whole life that you’re one of the good guys. Maybe not the best, but still good. Then… somethin’ happens. You find yourself somewhere you never thought you’d be, with a choice in front of you you never thought you’d have to make. There ain’t no hero option on the test, either. Naw, you get to choose between bein’ a dead guy, or bein’ a murderer. You get to choose between givin’ up your whole life, or lyin’ to somebody who means the world to you. Those are the choices you get, and until you been there, you don’t know shit.
Shooter finishes his beer, and pulls a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his shirt. He lights one, and exhales a plume of smoke before continuing his speech.
Shooter:The fans love ya, Teddy, and that’s great. We need somebody to sell the t-shirts and get the kids in. The problem is, you ain’t even been tested like you shoulda been tested before you got to face shooter McCool. You’re prancin’ around this place thinkin’ you’re a hero, when really, you’re just a little kid playin’ dress up. You ain’t got no clue who you are inside. There could be a monster in there, and if there is, a match with the most brutal mother fucker you ever met is gonna bring it out. I’m gonna test you this week, Teddy. We’re gonna find out who the hell you are.
He scratches at his growing beard, before ordering another beer, and tapping off the ashes of his cigarette.
Shooter:Enough about you, let’s talk about me. I know I ain’t no hero. I know I’m gonna walk down that ramp and almost every sumbitch in that arena’s gonna be booin’ me. The thing is, I don’t care. You’re gonna learn that when you really know who you are, the opinion of a bunch of morons don’t mean nothin’ to you. I’m a runaway train car full of dynamite, and I’m headed straight for you, Teddy. Ain’t no stoppin’ me and you from runnin’ headlong into our destiny. You’re gonna give me my first legit win in UCI, and I’m gonna dig out the inner you. You should be thankin’ me to be honest. I’m givin’ you somethin’ you been needin’ for a long time.
Shooter drinks deep from the fresh beer, and stands up from the barstool. He meanders across the wooden floor to the jukebox, changing it to a Johnny Cash song.
Shooter:I ain’t gained a lot from gettin’ older, but one thing I got in abundance is wisdom, and I’m about to hand some down to you tough love style. I’m gonna push you to your breakin’ point with a damn smile on my face, because we both need it. I been itchin’ for a real fight since I got to this dump, and you been needin’ someone to smack you upside the head since day one. Teddy, I think we’re a match made in heaven. I think you and I are gonna make some beautiful, violent music together. That or I smash your brains in and leave you a mass of nothin’. Your call really.
Shooter walks back over to the bar, and drains the bottle, taking another puff of his cigarette.
Shooter:Bottom line, this Overload ain’t gonna end well for you. You damn sure drew the short straw when you got matched up against Shooter McCool. I done knocked the rust off me good with my last two matches, and now I’m more than ready to tear your ass apart. You and anyone else that tries to fuck up my game. I’m a hard drinkin’, harder hittin’, time tested son of a bitch that’s ready for round two of his life, and my rise to the top starts with beatin’ your ass. You better get your ass ready. On Monday, we’re gonna find out if Teddy Sol is really the hero everyone thinks he is.
Shooter snuffs out his cigarette on the bar, before turning and stepping out of the building. Mid day light floods over him, as he steps toward the old, black trans am in the back of the parking lot.He slides into the vehicle, and takes a moment to stare at the tiny gold crucifix pendant that hangs from the rear view mirror. He shakes his head, and starts the car with a disgruntled roar. He hits the gas and kicks up some gravel as he speed out of the parking lot, and down the empty road.
