Post by Jack "The Crack" Schlongson on Aug 28, 2016 15:35:10 GMT -6
A stare from across the room.
Two glares meeting in the center of this box of stone, wood, and tile.
In the case of wistful glances back and forth, it can be a pleasant affair; a playful game of interest and flirtation; two swirling souls dancing along the edges as they communicate purely through their Irises, cautiously testing the rippling waters of the active night air. On a typical evening, the two bodies circle around the pulsing waves of the surrounding crowd - one unaware of the game of look-away taking place - and with each lap, the players find themselves pulled closer to the center of their vortex, meeting on a bass pounded dance floor, intoxicated by the spell of a fleeting moment. Their respective persons press together as sensuality becomes the new god, all in a haze of caresses, turns, and fusing seconds.
Any number of bars and clubs have acted as the proverbial playground to this intimate exchange shared at a distance, opening up the floodgates to total abandonment of shame and self-awareness. I pity the machismo stricken personas who refuse themselves the pleasures of total immodesty solely due to their own personal standards. Life is a series of incidents and occurrences, and to let your own humorless ideology suck you dry of these gratifying moments is a social comedy all its own. #StupidHeteros
He would never want me to admit it, especially not to you dear readers, but this is how I met Jeff, the glowing reciprocater of all my affection. Originally an unnamed face out of the corner of my eye, the attraction was immediate, as was my pursuit. Casual was my descent towards him, allowing the field of bodies to disguise my intent as I sauntered past him. Catching his gaze. Hooking him in our little play of stop and go. Shortening the distance between us until the visual language was no longer subtle. Our intent plain to each other and any who might have been watching. Colliding under the DJ's magnificent orchestration of samples and rhythm, we were strangers embraced in a lesson of the other until there was nothing unfamiliar about either of us to our touch.
But...
A stare from across the room.
these are not wistful glances.
This isn't a club.
There is no dance floor.
And it is not Jeff I'm staring at.
A draw. The buzzing activity of the locker room dies to a quiet hum as another Showdown comes to a close. Jack v. Thor ends in a double count out. The illumination over the stage disperses as the ring is dismantled by dream-struck newbies waiting for their chance to fight in it. Along with the set, the spectacle unravels and once where there was a home of grandeur and theatrics is now just cold concrete; with the tent, also goes the circus. Goddamn it, Peter. If you were a little faster. Fans file out in unorganized masses through the front doors with mildly satisfied grins, fixing the memory to aesthetic triggers night air, honking cars, radiant lights of various marquees, this is how we'll remember tonight.
No reverie or celebration from the victors. No grumbling or fighting from the losers. The immediate fervor of each match cooled as time passes until the last chant dies out and there is no more show to shoot. Everyone is tired. Management and competitors alike pack up their lives, many more than ready to depart in search of a warm bed and cozy room to house their sore bodies and aching minds. The day of business is done and the time to retire for the evening has arrived, giving a break to the lot of them, save for a select few including myself and one "Relentless" Andre Holmes, who's eyes shoot straight back at me at the other end of the collective locker room, refusing to break contact.
Go ahead, fucker.
I know what you're thinking.
You wanna tear off my head, don't you?
Good.
You don't know it yet, Andre, but that fiery demeanor will be your greatest gift.
I will manipulate it week after week,
and, eventually,
I will use it to thrash you to a new low. I send him a quick little wink. You ignorant stooge. I rest my head upon my hand as I look deep into his eyes. Is it 'relentlessness' or is it insecurity that drives you? Being relentless is impressive, a switch that can never go off. Its a rarity and inhuman in the best of ways. However, insecurity carries a similar tune, with all the flare and intensity, but speaks more of a inner fragility which the harder shell protects, and if there is one truth I've known from dealing with the insecurities of man; its that the bigger one pounds their chest, the more susceptible they are to such a weakness. I flutter my lashes in his direction. Andre, my newest pet, I can't wait to pull your strings. Be sure to make it fun for me. Make me forget about Thor.
Draw...
Tie...
No contest...
Its a lack of control. Worse, someone else nearly gained control over me. To think in a moment I would have been forced to watch my career slip from my hands by the will of someone else, letting them pull, bend, prod, and break it as they please. I'd be a toy, played to the tune of their whimsy by no one's fault but my own. This world has many grasping fingers, and for the sake of my career, my image, my personal life, and my secrets, it is my prerogative that I keep my fate firmly under lock and key.
Cannot let it happen. I have to appear in control. Must be on top of it.
The room empties until it is Andre and I, locked in this moment as seconds pass uncounted. I leave it as Andre's choice to dismiss himself as I refuse to be the one to give first. Do it. I smile and let out a suppressed giggle. Do you hate that, pet? Does it hit all the wrong nerves in your body? You are a frightening man, Andre, and I play a dangerous game by flirting with your frustration, but the rewards I seek are well worth the work.
He answers with a huff as he rises, finally breaking eye contact, before walking out of the locker room. He mumbles something to himself about wanting to 'bodybag' me. How amusing, Mister Holmes. I hoist my bag onto my shoulder and look at the empty doorway my future partner parted through. Its funny that you threaten me now. When this is over, you'll learn a whole new kind of hate for me. Leaving the arena behind I know that, above all else, I have at least one victory. Hardly consolation for the night's previous failure, but any landing you can walk away from, right?
I have to
appear
in
control.
This thought runs through my head as the chair in my hotel room shatters against the solid oak dresser. Splinters fly across the room, racing away from me while I fight to regain control over my ragged breathing, holding two fractured pieces of wood in my tight grasp. There are deep scratches and indents left from repeated bashings against the once-smooth-top. I drop to two useless pieces of wood and run a hand through my hair, slightly dazed by the raw violence of the act.
Not all is well. The dirt sheets would've had a field day with this. Not at all. Blood rushing through a strained heart. Muscles release from a clenched state, giving way to a dull ache.
"Fuck." I look about the aftermath, realizing I'm not having my finest moment. Get your shit together, Peter. I bend down to pick up the large chunks of wood. If you had been anywhere else than your hotel room, your whole image would be crumbling right now. No hope of being taken seriously. All dreams of being a top competitor would fly out the window in favor of the irreparable image of a distraught decadent at the end of his fraying rope.
Knock knock knock. I stand in place, staring at the door in the quiet whistling of the wind clashing against the outside wall.
"Mister Fitts?" came the voice from the other side of the door. No response came from my end, "Mister Fitts, some of the other guests have complained that there has been a loud banging coming from your room. Is everything okay?"
Deep even breaths, Peter. I shake some sense in my head and shuffle over to the door, listening to my heart thrash against my rib cage.
"Mister Fitts?" came the voice again.
"Um yeah," I muster up the calmest inflection I can, "I've been hearing it too. Sounds like some crazy shit going on upstairs. I was just about to complain myself. I need to sleep tonight and I can't have a bunch of irresponsible college kids on the last stretch of summer vacation ruin my night because they can't keep it together."
Waiting...
Waiting...
Waiting...
"Okay, Mister Fitts, sorry to bother you, we'll be sure to take care of that right away," the voice from the other side of the door departs. I let out a sigh and fall backwards onto my bed.
Did he believe me? Unlikely, but with no proof, what could he do? I just can't let him in.
This is NOT good, deary, I close my eyes and rub my forehead, but its not the hotel I'm thinking about, not after this week. Why #BeachKrew? Why Wade Moor and Dustin Beaver? Why at Meltdown? Why as Andre and I's first match as a team?!
Many hours pass and I remain in the undisturbed tranquil stillness that follows all disasters. I can hear the Television set of the room beside mine, the wind continues to fruitlessly pound at the wall outside and I drift through my wave pool of thoughts.
RIIIIIIIIIING! RIIIIIIIIING! A sudden stop to the aimless floating. A quick glance at my phone reveals the caller: My Haven. RIIIIIIIIIING! RIIIII-
"Oh, honey, so nice to hear from you," I slide down off of the bed into an upright position on the ground, staring at the wall. The world come flooding back in its series of infinite details which had momentarily been suspended in my brief flight. All the stress, anxiety, and confusion becomes real again. I feel like I want to cry. Control. Need it. Bite down on it.
"Peter, you sound dreadful," Jeff replies, sounding genuinely concern. He tells me how he saw my match and wanted nothing more than to call me. He tries to whisper soothing words over our chordless connection, but its not the same as being with him. With the crackle of the phone's receiver from the other end I am all too aware of our distance, as if miles mock me with each word that Jeff spoke.
We go back and forth, assuring each other that everything will be okay as I continue to gaze into the floral wall paper, because its at least SOMETHING to look at. I wonder if they'll send someone to follow up on the complaints. What if the people upstairs claim they weren't doing anything up there. Will they come back to talk to me?
"When the ref counted to ten..."
"Tie is better than a loss," it hurts to say, "I'm not worried about it at all." I look at the remains of a once sturdy chair, turning over a piece in my hand. The kindling to burn down a life with, right? I toss it to the side.
"Are you going to be okay, though?"
"Everything hurts, Jeff," I sigh, "I won't lie about that. It hurts so much."
"Then quit."
"No."
"Peter, I don't like what thi-"
"No, Jeff."
"I just wa-"
"I know what you want," I interrupt him again, I can feel the way my stern voice lands in his chest like a free-swinging razor blade, "but, this is everything for me right now, and I promise you it will get better, I have a plan."
"Thats what I don't like!" He almost yells into the phone, "This plan! The plan is only good if everything works, but what if something goes wrong? Something that can't be fixed happens and...," he goes on about all the pain it causes to watch me. It occurs to me for everything I suffer through, I make him suffer through it too, selfishly by not considering him at all. I throw myself into the sandstorm, leaving him behind to participate as one of many useless bystanders.
I make him feel weak.
...I have to sit at home while this industry makes you act like some cheap joke! He views it all in a helpless stupor each week in our empty house, all by his lonesome. ...sitting and watching you hit on all these guys... Its every melodramatic piece of relationship garbage every story has made you sit through, made unbearable and gaudy by being an external viewer unconnected, but to be in it, to be touched by the fact that I've been a monster to him drives a god awful pain through my chest.
"Turning on the television is a nightmare," he continues, "because all that comes on is this distorted horrifying copy of you without all the charm, wit, and intelligence that I know you for.
"The way you act with Andre is almost more than I can bear. I mean, how am I supposed to take it as your boyfriend? Am I supposed to watch it passively? I know its nothing and its all part of this elaborate ruse, but its like watching you drift away from me.
"When you aren't home and I'm in our bed, I feel my stomach twist into knots. I can't help thinking the world is falling apart and then I have to watch you get the shit kicked out of you by a seven foot monster?" There is no wall in front of me, no hotel around me. I'm surrounded by millions of miles of meaningless garbage and one cellphone that screams misery into my ear so that my brain can absorb it like poison.
"Even now, I wish I could yell at you in person," he sounds as tired as I feel, and I don't bother to interrupt him to tell him that I share his want. I wish he was here to yell at me. I wish he could be closer so it would be easier to convince me to stop. I let him continue, because I know its the right thing to do. There is no way to know how long it goes for, but I listen to every last word, refuse to zone out. I deserve this.
"Tell me, Peter. Am I crazy? Am I being stupid and ridiculous? Because with how shitty this world is sometimes, I can't tell. I feel like I say things and over the phone you could be making this face like I'm retarded. It leave me feeling sick with worry and all I can do is keep talking unti-"
"Jeff."
"Yes?"
"You aren't crazy." Slamming a chair against a dresser until it shatters all over a strange hotel room is crazy. Becoming a wrestler in order to work your way into acting is crazy. Becoming a porn star to avoid living in obscurity is crazy. Manipulating some rage prone maniac into teaming with you against an ungodly force of nature is crazy. Hiding your career from a boyfriend, telling him its a gimmick given to you by a promoter, while then going and acting in that career, juggling it all with your public life is crazy. Jeff might be the one consistent piece of sanity that I know, "but, unfortunately the rest of the world IS crazy, and majority rules, honey."
Silence on the other end of the call. I wait patiently. Letting whatever words need to gather to do so on the other end. For once, letting the world take its time, because there is very little worth giving my patience, but if he wasn't included in that list, what could be?
"Do what you have to, I guess," the brevity of it cuts as I hear the line go dead, leaving me in the unbearable confinement of my own company. I look in the mirror.
A bastard stares back.
Juxtaposed against the chrome layer;
mocking me with his dumbfounded glance
and mouth agape with the grace of a corpse.
The fool staring back
transmits the barest of messages between his ears,
enough to simply function in this pathetic moment
and allow him to continue to catch breath,
prolonging his life long enough to make mistakes once more.
What must an imbecile do to provoke anger?
Very little it would appear,
as one need only place a single eye upon him
before being compelled to toss and slash at him
the nearest piece of infected glass available.
Staring at the man staring back at me,
it comes to mind that there be only one great regret
that I can feel with the total energy of my being;
that there be not two chairs to smash
in this room.
"Do you remember, honey," I speak over the dead line, "when I hurt my leg in a match at Vegas about three years back? You were in the audience, I think it was the first time you ever watched me wrestler. Bran and I were facing some couple of nobodies. I came off the top rope and landed wrong, twisting my ankle something fierce. It hurt like a real bitch. Even now I can recall limping on one leg to tag Bran in. He come in over the top rope after those guys like he was on fire, but all I remember is sitting there, rubbing my ankle, cursing myself out, because I wanted to get that win. I wanted to make that pin and win that match while you were watching, to show you I could. Bran picked up the victory.
"You and I went to the emergency room at about midnight. You kept asking if it hurt, and I shrugged it off. I remember being so angry, but you smiled the whole time going 'at least you won, right? That's amazing!', and like magic, all that anger vanished."
I sit for a moment, thinking before speaking again to a man who wasn't on the other end, "Jeff, I've been lying to you..." and over the next hour I confess to it all. My life up until that point. My career which I hid, the things I had done, and whom I did them with. How I had told him the other guys in Rekt 'Em were wrestlers I managed to coax into joining me, instead of how they were my fellow porn stars which I had 'performed' with countless times. Confessing even that I can't remember every time I had to cover it up, but that I want to apologize for every single one of them.
I cleanse my spirit, rattling off one sin after another while my eyes droop, my thoughts growing less coherent until I find myself repeating things in an attempt to keep my train of thought, to unburden my being of everything I can while it struck me as important to do so, because I know in the morning that such urges will have died away. Soon, I can no longer remember anything more to admit to over the phone and sleep overtakes me, leaving consciousness at the foot of my bed.
Sleeping proves less than difficult, its the morning that comes problematically. Still lost in the disorienting haze of last night's cacophonous explosion, I drag my feet along the floor, kicking shards of wood to the side as I pry open each eye with what might the day would bequeath me.
"We hope that you enjoyed your stay," the clerk at the front desk spits at me with Mickey Mouse enthusiasm, only to be answered with a grunt by the insentient shell of myself working as a place holder until the morning ceases and I no longer feel bitter towards the suns knife-like greeting.
I don't want to go to this conference, I lament to the only audience I have; myself, want to just go home to Jeff, tell him I quit, and not be the bad guy anymore. I even look at my phone with a virtual ticket upon its screen, thinking about changing it straight to California, one straight trip into my bed where I'll lay beside him for an unending number of hours. Its possible, I could do it.
I could...but, today, I choose to be the bad guy.
Hanging above the clouds for a few hours, I stare at the back of the seat in front of me. I peer to my left and witness someone reading a rarity; a physical copy of one of those dreadful wrestling magazines.
Mismatched? Shitty writers trying to treat us like I didn't know exactly what I was doing when I put Andre and myself together.
That's the problem, though, Mister Moor and Mister Beaver; never mind that your little stable hasn't been together since UCI formed, I imagine that the legacy of that team will out live the both of you, and it won't matter what two people management wants to put in front of you, the hype train favors the hopelessly deranged, doesn't it?
The world remembers you all too well. Titles under your reign while I watched, fighting a losing battle for employment in a company that felt my antics were 'offensive' while you all did it and it was met with applause. Think I forgot about that? Oh no, I've been counting every weekday, weekend, and holiday, waiting for when I would get to take down even a single member of your little 'fuccboi' parade. And now, you're here in UCI, the new budding face of the industry and you sit without a title to claim. Funny how even the ground has become.
Oh god, all the catchphrases, all the slurs. Its was fun being untouchable, wasn't it? You got to say whatever you wanted without having to worry about consequences, right? your little bitch-brother, Jared, said a lot of shit on your guys' behalf didn't he? A lot of talking about people being faggots, right? I can't blame you, it was a never ending summer, and when you have hordes of people calling you 'Godnilla' every week, you don't feel like you have to answer to much of anyone.
No, I don't want to make you answer for any of it, I just want to take it out on you two for every time your lame water puns wore thin on me, every time I gritted my teeth when you called someone 'fuccbois'. You were walking caricatures, and I am an intellectual, an artist, but its never mattered much to anyone, and that, above all us, is what drives me nuts about you empty-headed fucks. You don't care the mental gymnastics I've put into plotting out my career, and like everyone else you leaned on your ignorance.
SUUUURE, your new initiative is Beaver's little positivity movement, isn't you? Some heads popped up for that makeshift revolution hasn't it? God, if I could stop that by beating you, it would be like kicking dirt in your eyes after I've taken out your legs. Steal that little prize you've managed to work out for yourself. You pretty boy puss bag, you'll finally get to know what its like to work for something and have it stolen from you, won't you? Fuck your positivity and your weak attempts to make up for your social and intellectual crimes against humanity, you walking piece of shit! You get to drown in every little thing you did, fuck your redemption!
Curse the leviathan! Curse the Godnilla!
Fuck beavlieving! Fuck your movement!
Jack will finally have his day. He will grab his new pet by the horns and drive him deep down your throats.
Down with #beachkrew! Those clowns will boil in their seas and drown under their waves. Down with their post-modern whirlwind of worthless and empty words filling up silence! Soon the only words to be spoken will be ones of importance, ever again will they be the meaningless drivel so many had been forced to endure. Soon it will be Jack Schlongson that the masses will turn to to hear.
We've never had any real history to speak of, but now that our paths will finally be crossing, the one bit of history we will share will be a victory over your weak revival of your glory days. Unlike most, I will walk away unblemished by your legacy, so I guess I can thank our former employer for that.
Mismatched my ass. The dirt sheets don't have the brain power to dissect how deep my plans go.
The conference is going as well as I could hope. I watch from the back through close circuit televisions as Andre goes off on #BeachKrew. Oh boy, does he ever seem ready. ready, but not fired up enough. Queue my entrance, in my modest attire I make my way next to Andre, who quickly moves away. Excellent.
The back and forth between the interviewer and I is enough fodder for me to subtley slip in my arrogant persona, sure to point out that I'm undefeated and hinting how Andre should be greatful. I can see Andre ready to flip, trying to keep his professional face on. Lets poke that bear. I continue my demeanor, sinking a little deeper each time while Andre refuses to even answer questions that deal with me.
I
poke
that
bear
a
little
harder...
He stands from his seat in a huff, and just like in the locker room, he leaves, no doubt ready to tear my heart out and eat it. I keep my straight face, careful not to betray my joy at another victory. I cover up for his departure and continue on with the conference, a little more laid back knowing I accomplished what I was looking to.
After the debacle in the conference hall, I feel its time to put the funnel on this firestorm. Agitation is an easy game, but now I need to make Andre listen, and even before I pestered him, the chances of getting him to sit still long enough to hear me out was next to zero, so my only option left is force.
A house show only a few days before Meltdown, I strut to his locker room and push the door open.
"Get the fuck out," I'm met with resistance immediately as Andre quickly rises to his feet, but I have none of it. With a firm push backwards, Andre stumbles and lands on his back on top the bench. I make my move without hesitation, straddling his stomach and pressing my hands against his chest to keep the leverage on him. "Oh, I am about to break your bright colored skull, man. Hitting on me is one thi-"
"Shut your mouth for one second, babe, I'll make this quick for the both of us" there is no fabricated lust in my eyes, the communication is not one of attraction, but of absolute seriousness, my face a mere few inches above his as he looks up at me, I peer down with a gaze of pure ice, "we are NOT losing this Sunday, that crystal, Mister Holmes?
"There has been a lot of talk between the two of us, a lot from your end about how you don't need me, but I swear to god, honey, if you let your big-fucking-head get in the way when it comes time to shine, I will over look every feeling I have for you and lay you out flat. You think you get savage when talking to me? Anbae, I will ruin you if you fuck this up.
"I, frankly, don't give a flying fuck what you think about me. I can be a real cold bitch like that, understand? I could make your blood boil every time I pass by, but that doesn't matter. You and I both know it. BeachKrew is the only thing that matters this week, and frankly I'm tired of your shitty little lone-wolf attitude, making little ole me look like I'm not needed, so you better wisen up mister-too-good-for-Jack's-help and swallow that pride." I know he can feel my breath on his face, with my legs on either side of his hips, I want no part of this to be comfortable for him.
"This week, we are a team, and for as many weeks after that as I deem fit. Saddle up, bitch, this is gonna be a long second half to the year for you."
He manages to push me off. I step back a few feet as he jumps to his.
"The fuck is your problem?!" He yells back, "You don't tell me what to do, I will fucking wreck Beachkrew myself if I have to, got it? Beaver? Done. Wade? Gone. Fuck you, coming in here acting like you can push me around, I've about had it. Don't you ever touch me again, dig?"
"Heh, I dig, hun-buns," I smirk, "Just don't forget Beachkrew doesn't care if you work with me or not. I want to see us win, they don't give a fuck about you. If you want someone to be angry with, just remember all the trouble they've given you before. You think I've been bad, how much of your time have they wasted? Honey, more than anyone else, I would love to see you obliterate them. Remember who the enemy is, kaybabe?" I turn around and leave, letting the idea set in his mind.
Can you imagine how beneficial this will be? We'll put each other through so much shit, but its our opponents who will end up feeling it. Fight backstage and take it out on the people across the ring from us, its almost a perfect set up as long as the-little-fire-named-andre doesn't slip out and spread around me to. Until then though, Wade and Dustin are walking right into a hornet nest I've beaten silly with a baseball bat.
I AM
in total
control.
It occurs to me while standing on a beach somewhere on the lower side of California, waiting or Bran to finish setting up the camera equipment.
"Bran, this week is in the bag for me."
"Yep."
"With Andre ready to crack heads, I've practically won this match."
"Yep."
"Oh, how the world spins on my hand!" I hold mine out towards the clear blue sky, my theatrical voice in full swing, "I touch the skies and they clear, the oceans and they part, the crowds and they swoon. To be I, Peter Fitts, in a time of The Crack, the year of Jack. I must truly be blessed." I bow and laugh.
"Yep."
"Have you heard anything I've said?"
"Not a single word." He finishes, looking up at me surrounded by the speedo clan extra we manage to assembly for this shoot, "who are you facing again?" Dearest Bran, your obliviousness borders on being Richard-like from time to time.
"Wade Moor and Dustin Beaver," I answer, furrowing my eyebrows, "You know, Beachkrew. Hence why we're at a beach!"
"Oooooh, Dustin Beaver?" Bran replies, a smile stretching across that face, "that boy could have rested on his looks, god knows I would have taken care of him. Hey, when you're in the ring with him, make sure to give him a kiss from me."
"I'm not doing anything of the sort. Can we please just get to shooting?"
-_-_-_-
A shot of the ocean. The endless waters. The deep blue which stretches far beyond what one's eye can watch. The camera pans over as the water gives way to sand, and sand gives way to people. The faint strumming of an acoustic guitar can be heard in the distance as all the beach goers seem to be facing the same direction. The more the camera turns, the bigger the crowd of toned blonde-head model types have transfixed their gazes upon a single point. Finally, the camera comes to that point, a life-guard outpost, surrounded on all sides by the aforementioned crowd. At the foot of the tower is a faceless individual strumming and guitar slowly, mimicking the waves gentle crash upon the sand. The camera raises its view to the top of the life-guard's post to reveal Jack Schlongson, our hero, perched atop of it, his legs thrown over one arm and his head thrown back over the other, staring up at the sky lazily.
"Oh, what a wonderful place this is, isn't it? The ideal vacation spot for men, women, and children a-like. How can one go wrong in a place where the sun always shine, the water is always cold, and the locals are always beautiful, right? This is a paradise in a country that seems determined to rip itself apart, right? If there was ever a utopia, it must be here, correct?
"Well sadly, babes," I turn my head over to the camera, pulling off my sunglasses, "that isn't the case. The sun DOESN'T always shine, the locals aren't always beautiful, and I swear if one more brat pisses in that ocean, it won't be long before the water isn't cold.
"See, despite being a close to perfect as one can imagine, its still far from a utopia. There is garbage everywhere due to a lack of respect, the noise can be almost unbearable, and frankly, what was one the last refuge of freedom for expressive clothing has now come under attack by the religious right. We too revealing, or not revealing enough? Does my speedo upset you yet the burkini make you livid?
"Hun, you might be a 'fuccboi'.
"Whats a fuccboi? A self-entitled ass who believes that the world already owes them something, and then freaks out when the world decides to think for itself instead of only thinking of you. If you get mad because you suddenly have to think about what you say? You're a fuccboi. If you find yourself going into a rage over the fact that women might not want to fuck you? You're a fuccboi. If you rail against concepts or ideas that don't hurt you at all but manage to help those who are far more oppressed than your sensitive little mind? You're a fuccboi. I feel you get the picture now, right?
"Now, you might think of one group when it comes to the use of this precious little word, but probably because they decided to throw it around so generously themselves, right? But I assure you, the reason they should be so closely associated has less to do with their use and more to do with how closely they resemble the definition.
"Beachkrew aka Beachboyz aka Analbleachkrew, are the scum of not only the sea, but of every body of water on this planet, giving this nice little place a bad name with their childish antics.
"On top of that, their awful behavior in the ring has even hurt the squared circle I adore so much. Now now, I know you might be thinking 'but Jack, that adorable little Dustin Beaver has changed his way and his getting Wade to follow suit!', but have they? Do habits really die that easily?! I doubt it. Something tells me, even under Beaver's little announcement that he might be taking a small hiatus, that those men are ready to relapse harder than anything else in the world. Just. You. Wait.
"Oh, and that Wade Moor? Just. Ew. I guess every beach needs its beached whale, but oh god does that little psychobilly make me gag like its my first day on set. That little washed up ball of fur is possibly the hardest to stomach of the bunch, but now that there's only two of them running around, its like I've had to stare at his ass way more now, and Oh. My. God. is it hard to miss.
"Honey, I'm so glad you guys are straight, because if I had to deal with your come on's every week, I think I would have been violently ill the whole time in our last fed, because I date real men, not children.
"Though, I've found myself thinking about our old employer a lot ever since this one announced our match, maybe thats because thoe guys are totally last years news? All their glory is in the past, where it should remain. I mean, I can appreciate a reunion, but that little space-boys Guardians kinda showed why it was doomed from the start, didn't they? Hehe. Don't worry, though, I'm sure my little Anbae and I will be sure to tear them down too, so don't worry beachkrew fans, all five of you left."
One of the extras climbs the ladder to my chair with a bottle of water and a stem of grapes in his arms.
"I'm afraid that its from me for now, too-ta-loo, UCI Galaxy, see you at Meltdown." I put my sunglasses back on and lean my head back. I take the bottle from the extra and open my mouth for him to place grapes in while the camera turns away to face the ocean once more, letting the screen fade to a resounding black.
Two glares meeting in the center of this box of stone, wood, and tile.
In the case of wistful glances back and forth, it can be a pleasant affair; a playful game of interest and flirtation; two swirling souls dancing along the edges as they communicate purely through their Irises, cautiously testing the rippling waters of the active night air. On a typical evening, the two bodies circle around the pulsing waves of the surrounding crowd - one unaware of the game of look-away taking place - and with each lap, the players find themselves pulled closer to the center of their vortex, meeting on a bass pounded dance floor, intoxicated by the spell of a fleeting moment. Their respective persons press together as sensuality becomes the new god, all in a haze of caresses, turns, and fusing seconds.
Any number of bars and clubs have acted as the proverbial playground to this intimate exchange shared at a distance, opening up the floodgates to total abandonment of shame and self-awareness. I pity the machismo stricken personas who refuse themselves the pleasures of total immodesty solely due to their own personal standards. Life is a series of incidents and occurrences, and to let your own humorless ideology suck you dry of these gratifying moments is a social comedy all its own. #StupidHeteros
He would never want me to admit it, especially not to you dear readers, but this is how I met Jeff, the glowing reciprocater of all my affection. Originally an unnamed face out of the corner of my eye, the attraction was immediate, as was my pursuit. Casual was my descent towards him, allowing the field of bodies to disguise my intent as I sauntered past him. Catching his gaze. Hooking him in our little play of stop and go. Shortening the distance between us until the visual language was no longer subtle. Our intent plain to each other and any who might have been watching. Colliding under the DJ's magnificent orchestration of samples and rhythm, we were strangers embraced in a lesson of the other until there was nothing unfamiliar about either of us to our touch.
But...
A stare from across the room.
these are not wistful glances.
This isn't a club.
There is no dance floor.
And it is not Jeff I'm staring at.
A draw. The buzzing activity of the locker room dies to a quiet hum as another Showdown comes to a close. Jack v. Thor ends in a double count out. The illumination over the stage disperses as the ring is dismantled by dream-struck newbies waiting for their chance to fight in it. Along with the set, the spectacle unravels and once where there was a home of grandeur and theatrics is now just cold concrete; with the tent, also goes the circus. Goddamn it, Peter. If you were a little faster. Fans file out in unorganized masses through the front doors with mildly satisfied grins, fixing the memory to aesthetic triggers night air, honking cars, radiant lights of various marquees, this is how we'll remember tonight.
No reverie or celebration from the victors. No grumbling or fighting from the losers. The immediate fervor of each match cooled as time passes until the last chant dies out and there is no more show to shoot. Everyone is tired. Management and competitors alike pack up their lives, many more than ready to depart in search of a warm bed and cozy room to house their sore bodies and aching minds. The day of business is done and the time to retire for the evening has arrived, giving a break to the lot of them, save for a select few including myself and one "Relentless" Andre Holmes, who's eyes shoot straight back at me at the other end of the collective locker room, refusing to break contact.
Go ahead, fucker.
I know what you're thinking.
You wanna tear off my head, don't you?
Good.
You don't know it yet, Andre, but that fiery demeanor will be your greatest gift.
I will manipulate it week after week,
and, eventually,
I will use it to thrash you to a new low. I send him a quick little wink. You ignorant stooge. I rest my head upon my hand as I look deep into his eyes. Is it 'relentlessness' or is it insecurity that drives you? Being relentless is impressive, a switch that can never go off. Its a rarity and inhuman in the best of ways. However, insecurity carries a similar tune, with all the flare and intensity, but speaks more of a inner fragility which the harder shell protects, and if there is one truth I've known from dealing with the insecurities of man; its that the bigger one pounds their chest, the more susceptible they are to such a weakness. I flutter my lashes in his direction. Andre, my newest pet, I can't wait to pull your strings. Be sure to make it fun for me. Make me forget about Thor.
Draw...
Tie...
No contest...
Why does the draw bother me so much?
Its a lack of control. Worse, someone else nearly gained control over me. To think in a moment I would have been forced to watch my career slip from my hands by the will of someone else, letting them pull, bend, prod, and break it as they please. I'd be a toy, played to the tune of their whimsy by no one's fault but my own. This world has many grasping fingers, and for the sake of my career, my image, my personal life, and my secrets, it is my prerogative that I keep my fate firmly under lock and key.
Cannot let it happen. I have to appear in control. Must be on top of it.
The room empties until it is Andre and I, locked in this moment as seconds pass uncounted. I leave it as Andre's choice to dismiss himself as I refuse to be the one to give first. Do it. I smile and let out a suppressed giggle. Do you hate that, pet? Does it hit all the wrong nerves in your body? You are a frightening man, Andre, and I play a dangerous game by flirting with your frustration, but the rewards I seek are well worth the work.
He answers with a huff as he rises, finally breaking eye contact, before walking out of the locker room. He mumbles something to himself about wanting to 'bodybag' me. How amusing, Mister Holmes. I hoist my bag onto my shoulder and look at the empty doorway my future partner parted through. Its funny that you threaten me now. When this is over, you'll learn a whole new kind of hate for me. Leaving the arena behind I know that, above all else, I have at least one victory. Hardly consolation for the night's previous failure, but any landing you can walk away from, right?
Announcement: Wade Moor and Dustin Beaver vs. Andre Holmes and Jack Schlongson at Meltdown
I have to
appear
in
control.
This thought runs through my head as the chair in my hotel room shatters against the solid oak dresser. Splinters fly across the room, racing away from me while I fight to regain control over my ragged breathing, holding two fractured pieces of wood in my tight grasp. There are deep scratches and indents left from repeated bashings against the once-smooth-top. I drop to two useless pieces of wood and run a hand through my hair, slightly dazed by the raw violence of the act.
Not all is well. The dirt sheets would've had a field day with this. Not at all. Blood rushing through a strained heart. Muscles release from a clenched state, giving way to a dull ache.
"Fuck." I look about the aftermath, realizing I'm not having my finest moment. Get your shit together, Peter. I bend down to pick up the large chunks of wood. If you had been anywhere else than your hotel room, your whole image would be crumbling right now. No hope of being taken seriously. All dreams of being a top competitor would fly out the window in favor of the irreparable image of a distraught decadent at the end of his fraying rope.
Knock knock knock. I stand in place, staring at the door in the quiet whistling of the wind clashing against the outside wall.
"Mister Fitts?" came the voice from the other side of the door. No response came from my end, "Mister Fitts, some of the other guests have complained that there has been a loud banging coming from your room. Is everything okay?"
Deep even breaths, Peter. I shake some sense in my head and shuffle over to the door, listening to my heart thrash against my rib cage.
"Mister Fitts?" came the voice again.
"Um yeah," I muster up the calmest inflection I can, "I've been hearing it too. Sounds like some crazy shit going on upstairs. I was just about to complain myself. I need to sleep tonight and I can't have a bunch of irresponsible college kids on the last stretch of summer vacation ruin my night because they can't keep it together."
Waiting...
Waiting...
Waiting...
"Okay, Mister Fitts, sorry to bother you, we'll be sure to take care of that right away," the voice from the other side of the door departs. I let out a sigh and fall backwards onto my bed.
Did he believe me? Unlikely, but with no proof, what could he do? I just can't let him in.
This is NOT good, deary, I close my eyes and rub my forehead, but its not the hotel I'm thinking about, not after this week. Why #BeachKrew? Why Wade Moor and Dustin Beaver? Why at Meltdown? Why as Andre and I's first match as a team?!
Many hours pass and I remain in the undisturbed tranquil stillness that follows all disasters. I can hear the Television set of the room beside mine, the wind continues to fruitlessly pound at the wall outside and I drift through my wave pool of thoughts.
RIIIIIIIIIING! RIIIIIIIIING! A sudden stop to the aimless floating. A quick glance at my phone reveals the caller: My Haven. RIIIIIIIIIING! RIIIII-
"Oh, honey, so nice to hear from you," I slide down off of the bed into an upright position on the ground, staring at the wall. The world come flooding back in its series of infinite details which had momentarily been suspended in my brief flight. All the stress, anxiety, and confusion becomes real again. I feel like I want to cry. Control. Need it. Bite down on it.
"Peter, you sound dreadful," Jeff replies, sounding genuinely concern. He tells me how he saw my match and wanted nothing more than to call me. He tries to whisper soothing words over our chordless connection, but its not the same as being with him. With the crackle of the phone's receiver from the other end I am all too aware of our distance, as if miles mock me with each word that Jeff spoke.
We go back and forth, assuring each other that everything will be okay as I continue to gaze into the floral wall paper, because its at least SOMETHING to look at. I wonder if they'll send someone to follow up on the complaints. What if the people upstairs claim they weren't doing anything up there. Will they come back to talk to me?
"When the ref counted to ten..."
"Tie is better than a loss," it hurts to say, "I'm not worried about it at all." I look at the remains of a once sturdy chair, turning over a piece in my hand. The kindling to burn down a life with, right? I toss it to the side.
"Are you going to be okay, though?"
"Everything hurts, Jeff," I sigh, "I won't lie about that. It hurts so much."
"Then quit."
"No."
"Peter, I don't like what thi-"
"No, Jeff."
"I just wa-"
"I know what you want," I interrupt him again, I can feel the way my stern voice lands in his chest like a free-swinging razor blade, "but, this is everything for me right now, and I promise you it will get better, I have a plan."
"Thats what I don't like!" He almost yells into the phone, "This plan! The plan is only good if everything works, but what if something goes wrong? Something that can't be fixed happens and...," he goes on about all the pain it causes to watch me. It occurs to me for everything I suffer through, I make him suffer through it too, selfishly by not considering him at all. I throw myself into the sandstorm, leaving him behind to participate as one of many useless bystanders.
I make him feel weak.
...I have to sit at home while this industry makes you act like some cheap joke! He views it all in a helpless stupor each week in our empty house, all by his lonesome. ...sitting and watching you hit on all these guys... Its every melodramatic piece of relationship garbage every story has made you sit through, made unbearable and gaudy by being an external viewer unconnected, but to be in it, to be touched by the fact that I've been a monster to him drives a god awful pain through my chest.
"Turning on the television is a nightmare," he continues, "because all that comes on is this distorted horrifying copy of you without all the charm, wit, and intelligence that I know you for.
"The way you act with Andre is almost more than I can bear. I mean, how am I supposed to take it as your boyfriend? Am I supposed to watch it passively? I know its nothing and its all part of this elaborate ruse, but its like watching you drift away from me.
"When you aren't home and I'm in our bed, I feel my stomach twist into knots. I can't help thinking the world is falling apart and then I have to watch you get the shit kicked out of you by a seven foot monster?" There is no wall in front of me, no hotel around me. I'm surrounded by millions of miles of meaningless garbage and one cellphone that screams misery into my ear so that my brain can absorb it like poison.
"Even now, I wish I could yell at you in person," he sounds as tired as I feel, and I don't bother to interrupt him to tell him that I share his want. I wish he was here to yell at me. I wish he could be closer so it would be easier to convince me to stop. I let him continue, because I know its the right thing to do. There is no way to know how long it goes for, but I listen to every last word, refuse to zone out. I deserve this.
"Tell me, Peter. Am I crazy? Am I being stupid and ridiculous? Because with how shitty this world is sometimes, I can't tell. I feel like I say things and over the phone you could be making this face like I'm retarded. It leave me feeling sick with worry and all I can do is keep talking unti-"
"Jeff."
"Yes?"
"You aren't crazy." Slamming a chair against a dresser until it shatters all over a strange hotel room is crazy. Becoming a wrestler in order to work your way into acting is crazy. Becoming a porn star to avoid living in obscurity is crazy. Manipulating some rage prone maniac into teaming with you against an ungodly force of nature is crazy. Hiding your career from a boyfriend, telling him its a gimmick given to you by a promoter, while then going and acting in that career, juggling it all with your public life is crazy. Jeff might be the one consistent piece of sanity that I know, "but, unfortunately the rest of the world IS crazy, and majority rules, honey."
Silence on the other end of the call. I wait patiently. Letting whatever words need to gather to do so on the other end. For once, letting the world take its time, because there is very little worth giving my patience, but if he wasn't included in that list, what could be?
"Do what you have to, I guess," the brevity of it cuts as I hear the line go dead, leaving me in the unbearable confinement of my own company. I look in the mirror.
A bastard stares back.
Juxtaposed against the chrome layer;
mocking me with his dumbfounded glance
and mouth agape with the grace of a corpse.
The fool staring back
transmits the barest of messages between his ears,
enough to simply function in this pathetic moment
and allow him to continue to catch breath,
prolonging his life long enough to make mistakes once more.
What must an imbecile do to provoke anger?
Very little it would appear,
as one need only place a single eye upon him
before being compelled to toss and slash at him
the nearest piece of infected glass available.
Staring at the man staring back at me,
it comes to mind that there be only one great regret
that I can feel with the total energy of my being;
that there be not two chairs to smash
in this room.
"Do you remember, honey," I speak over the dead line, "when I hurt my leg in a match at Vegas about three years back? You were in the audience, I think it was the first time you ever watched me wrestler. Bran and I were facing some couple of nobodies. I came off the top rope and landed wrong, twisting my ankle something fierce. It hurt like a real bitch. Even now I can recall limping on one leg to tag Bran in. He come in over the top rope after those guys like he was on fire, but all I remember is sitting there, rubbing my ankle, cursing myself out, because I wanted to get that win. I wanted to make that pin and win that match while you were watching, to show you I could. Bran picked up the victory.
"You and I went to the emergency room at about midnight. You kept asking if it hurt, and I shrugged it off. I remember being so angry, but you smiled the whole time going 'at least you won, right? That's amazing!', and like magic, all that anger vanished."
I sit for a moment, thinking before speaking again to a man who wasn't on the other end, "Jeff, I've been lying to you..." and over the next hour I confess to it all. My life up until that point. My career which I hid, the things I had done, and whom I did them with. How I had told him the other guys in Rekt 'Em were wrestlers I managed to coax into joining me, instead of how they were my fellow porn stars which I had 'performed' with countless times. Confessing even that I can't remember every time I had to cover it up, but that I want to apologize for every single one of them.
I cleanse my spirit, rattling off one sin after another while my eyes droop, my thoughts growing less coherent until I find myself repeating things in an attempt to keep my train of thought, to unburden my being of everything I can while it struck me as important to do so, because I know in the morning that such urges will have died away. Soon, I can no longer remember anything more to admit to over the phone and sleep overtakes me, leaving consciousness at the foot of my bed.
Sleeping proves less than difficult, its the morning that comes problematically. Still lost in the disorienting haze of last night's cacophonous explosion, I drag my feet along the floor, kicking shards of wood to the side as I pry open each eye with what might the day would bequeath me.
"We hope that you enjoyed your stay," the clerk at the front desk spits at me with Mickey Mouse enthusiasm, only to be answered with a grunt by the insentient shell of myself working as a place holder until the morning ceases and I no longer feel bitter towards the suns knife-like greeting.
I don't want to go to this conference, I lament to the only audience I have; myself, want to just go home to Jeff, tell him I quit, and not be the bad guy anymore. I even look at my phone with a virtual ticket upon its screen, thinking about changing it straight to California, one straight trip into my bed where I'll lay beside him for an unending number of hours. Its possible, I could do it.
I could...but, today, I choose to be the bad guy.
Hanging above the clouds for a few hours, I stare at the back of the seat in front of me. I peer to my left and witness someone reading a rarity; a physical copy of one of those dreadful wrestling magazines.
HEADLINE: UCI Meltdown Pay-Per-View Approaches.
Sub-headers: Will Howard Black Retain?
Who Will Leave The Battle Royal as the New Rising Star Champion?
Will The Hentai Prince Bring Kawaii to the Ring?
Will Thor Bounce Back From His Shaky Debut?
How Will #BeachKrew Come Out Against Their Mismatched Opponents?
Sub-headers: Will Howard Black Retain?
Who Will Leave The Battle Royal as the New Rising Star Champion?
Will The Hentai Prince Bring Kawaii to the Ring?
Will Thor Bounce Back From His Shaky Debut?
How Will #BeachKrew Come Out Against Their Mismatched Opponents?
Mismatched? Shitty writers trying to treat us like I didn't know exactly what I was doing when I put Andre and myself together.
That's the problem, though, Mister Moor and Mister Beaver; never mind that your little stable hasn't been together since UCI formed, I imagine that the legacy of that team will out live the both of you, and it won't matter what two people management wants to put in front of you, the hype train favors the hopelessly deranged, doesn't it?
The world remembers you all too well. Titles under your reign while I watched, fighting a losing battle for employment in a company that felt my antics were 'offensive' while you all did it and it was met with applause. Think I forgot about that? Oh no, I've been counting every weekday, weekend, and holiday, waiting for when I would get to take down even a single member of your little 'fuccboi' parade. And now, you're here in UCI, the new budding face of the industry and you sit without a title to claim. Funny how even the ground has become.
Oh god, all the catchphrases, all the slurs. Its was fun being untouchable, wasn't it? You got to say whatever you wanted without having to worry about consequences, right? your little bitch-brother, Jared, said a lot of shit on your guys' behalf didn't he? A lot of talking about people being faggots, right? I can't blame you, it was a never ending summer, and when you have hordes of people calling you 'Godnilla' every week, you don't feel like you have to answer to much of anyone.
No, I don't want to make you answer for any of it, I just want to take it out on you two for every time your lame water puns wore thin on me, every time I gritted my teeth when you called someone 'fuccbois'. You were walking caricatures, and I am an intellectual, an artist, but its never mattered much to anyone, and that, above all us, is what drives me nuts about you empty-headed fucks. You don't care the mental gymnastics I've put into plotting out my career, and like everyone else you leaned on your ignorance.
SUUUURE, your new initiative is Beaver's little positivity movement, isn't you? Some heads popped up for that makeshift revolution hasn't it? God, if I could stop that by beating you, it would be like kicking dirt in your eyes after I've taken out your legs. Steal that little prize you've managed to work out for yourself. You pretty boy puss bag, you'll finally get to know what its like to work for something and have it stolen from you, won't you? Fuck your positivity and your weak attempts to make up for your social and intellectual crimes against humanity, you walking piece of shit! You get to drown in every little thing you did, fuck your redemption!
Curse the leviathan! Curse the Godnilla!
Fuck beavlieving! Fuck your movement!
Jack will finally have his day. He will grab his new pet by the horns and drive him deep down your throats.
Down with #beachkrew! Those clowns will boil in their seas and drown under their waves. Down with their post-modern whirlwind of worthless and empty words filling up silence! Soon the only words to be spoken will be ones of importance, ever again will they be the meaningless drivel so many had been forced to endure. Soon it will be Jack Schlongson that the masses will turn to to hear.
We've never had any real history to speak of, but now that our paths will finally be crossing, the one bit of history we will share will be a victory over your weak revival of your glory days. Unlike most, I will walk away unblemished by your legacy, so I guess I can thank our former employer for that.
Mismatched my ass. The dirt sheets don't have the brain power to dissect how deep my plans go.
The conference is going as well as I could hope. I watch from the back through close circuit televisions as Andre goes off on #BeachKrew. Oh boy, does he ever seem ready. ready, but not fired up enough. Queue my entrance, in my modest attire I make my way next to Andre, who quickly moves away. Excellent.
The back and forth between the interviewer and I is enough fodder for me to subtley slip in my arrogant persona, sure to point out that I'm undefeated and hinting how Andre should be greatful. I can see Andre ready to flip, trying to keep his professional face on. Lets poke that bear. I continue my demeanor, sinking a little deeper each time while Andre refuses to even answer questions that deal with me.
I
poke
that
bear
a
little
harder...
He stands from his seat in a huff, and just like in the locker room, he leaves, no doubt ready to tear my heart out and eat it. I keep my straight face, careful not to betray my joy at another victory. I cover up for his departure and continue on with the conference, a little more laid back knowing I accomplished what I was looking to.
After the debacle in the conference hall, I feel its time to put the funnel on this firestorm. Agitation is an easy game, but now I need to make Andre listen, and even before I pestered him, the chances of getting him to sit still long enough to hear me out was next to zero, so my only option left is force.
A house show only a few days before Meltdown, I strut to his locker room and push the door open.
"Get the fuck out," I'm met with resistance immediately as Andre quickly rises to his feet, but I have none of it. With a firm push backwards, Andre stumbles and lands on his back on top the bench. I make my move without hesitation, straddling his stomach and pressing my hands against his chest to keep the leverage on him. "Oh, I am about to break your bright colored skull, man. Hitting on me is one thi-"
"Shut your mouth for one second, babe, I'll make this quick for the both of us" there is no fabricated lust in my eyes, the communication is not one of attraction, but of absolute seriousness, my face a mere few inches above his as he looks up at me, I peer down with a gaze of pure ice, "we are NOT losing this Sunday, that crystal, Mister Holmes?
"There has been a lot of talk between the two of us, a lot from your end about how you don't need me, but I swear to god, honey, if you let your big-fucking-head get in the way when it comes time to shine, I will over look every feeling I have for you and lay you out flat. You think you get savage when talking to me? Anbae, I will ruin you if you fuck this up.
"I, frankly, don't give a flying fuck what you think about me. I can be a real cold bitch like that, understand? I could make your blood boil every time I pass by, but that doesn't matter. You and I both know it. BeachKrew is the only thing that matters this week, and frankly I'm tired of your shitty little lone-wolf attitude, making little ole me look like I'm not needed, so you better wisen up mister-too-good-for-Jack's-help and swallow that pride." I know he can feel my breath on his face, with my legs on either side of his hips, I want no part of this to be comfortable for him.
"This week, we are a team, and for as many weeks after that as I deem fit. Saddle up, bitch, this is gonna be a long second half to the year for you."
He manages to push me off. I step back a few feet as he jumps to his.
"The fuck is your problem?!" He yells back, "You don't tell me what to do, I will fucking wreck Beachkrew myself if I have to, got it? Beaver? Done. Wade? Gone. Fuck you, coming in here acting like you can push me around, I've about had it. Don't you ever touch me again, dig?"
"Heh, I dig, hun-buns," I smirk, "Just don't forget Beachkrew doesn't care if you work with me or not. I want to see us win, they don't give a fuck about you. If you want someone to be angry with, just remember all the trouble they've given you before. You think I've been bad, how much of your time have they wasted? Honey, more than anyone else, I would love to see you obliterate them. Remember who the enemy is, kaybabe?" I turn around and leave, letting the idea set in his mind.
Can you imagine how beneficial this will be? We'll put each other through so much shit, but its our opponents who will end up feeling it. Fight backstage and take it out on the people across the ring from us, its almost a perfect set up as long as the-little-fire-named-andre doesn't slip out and spread around me to. Until then though, Wade and Dustin are walking right into a hornet nest I've beaten silly with a baseball bat.
I AM
in total
control.
It occurs to me while standing on a beach somewhere on the lower side of California, waiting or Bran to finish setting up the camera equipment.
"Bran, this week is in the bag for me."
"Yep."
"With Andre ready to crack heads, I've practically won this match."
"Yep."
"Oh, how the world spins on my hand!" I hold mine out towards the clear blue sky, my theatrical voice in full swing, "I touch the skies and they clear, the oceans and they part, the crowds and they swoon. To be I, Peter Fitts, in a time of The Crack, the year of Jack. I must truly be blessed." I bow and laugh.
"Yep."
"Have you heard anything I've said?"
"Not a single word." He finishes, looking up at me surrounded by the speedo clan extra we manage to assembly for this shoot, "who are you facing again?" Dearest Bran, your obliviousness borders on being Richard-like from time to time.
"Wade Moor and Dustin Beaver," I answer, furrowing my eyebrows, "You know, Beachkrew. Hence why we're at a beach!"
"Oooooh, Dustin Beaver?" Bran replies, a smile stretching across that face, "that boy could have rested on his looks, god knows I would have taken care of him. Hey, when you're in the ring with him, make sure to give him a kiss from me."
"I'm not doing anything of the sort. Can we please just get to shooting?"
-_-_-_-
A shot of the ocean. The endless waters. The deep blue which stretches far beyond what one's eye can watch. The camera pans over as the water gives way to sand, and sand gives way to people. The faint strumming of an acoustic guitar can be heard in the distance as all the beach goers seem to be facing the same direction. The more the camera turns, the bigger the crowd of toned blonde-head model types have transfixed their gazes upon a single point. Finally, the camera comes to that point, a life-guard outpost, surrounded on all sides by the aforementioned crowd. At the foot of the tower is a faceless individual strumming and guitar slowly, mimicking the waves gentle crash upon the sand. The camera raises its view to the top of the life-guard's post to reveal Jack Schlongson, our hero, perched atop of it, his legs thrown over one arm and his head thrown back over the other, staring up at the sky lazily.
"Oh, what a wonderful place this is, isn't it? The ideal vacation spot for men, women, and children a-like. How can one go wrong in a place where the sun always shine, the water is always cold, and the locals are always beautiful, right? This is a paradise in a country that seems determined to rip itself apart, right? If there was ever a utopia, it must be here, correct?
"Well sadly, babes," I turn my head over to the camera, pulling off my sunglasses, "that isn't the case. The sun DOESN'T always shine, the locals aren't always beautiful, and I swear if one more brat pisses in that ocean, it won't be long before the water isn't cold.
"See, despite being a close to perfect as one can imagine, its still far from a utopia. There is garbage everywhere due to a lack of respect, the noise can be almost unbearable, and frankly, what was one the last refuge of freedom for expressive clothing has now come under attack by the religious right. We too revealing, or not revealing enough? Does my speedo upset you yet the burkini make you livid?
"Hun, you might be a 'fuccboi'.
"Whats a fuccboi? A self-entitled ass who believes that the world already owes them something, and then freaks out when the world decides to think for itself instead of only thinking of you. If you get mad because you suddenly have to think about what you say? You're a fuccboi. If you find yourself going into a rage over the fact that women might not want to fuck you? You're a fuccboi. If you rail against concepts or ideas that don't hurt you at all but manage to help those who are far more oppressed than your sensitive little mind? You're a fuccboi. I feel you get the picture now, right?
"Now, you might think of one group when it comes to the use of this precious little word, but probably because they decided to throw it around so generously themselves, right? But I assure you, the reason they should be so closely associated has less to do with their use and more to do with how closely they resemble the definition.
"Beachkrew aka Beachboyz aka Analbleachkrew, are the scum of not only the sea, but of every body of water on this planet, giving this nice little place a bad name with their childish antics.
"On top of that, their awful behavior in the ring has even hurt the squared circle I adore so much. Now now, I know you might be thinking 'but Jack, that adorable little Dustin Beaver has changed his way and his getting Wade to follow suit!', but have they? Do habits really die that easily?! I doubt it. Something tells me, even under Beaver's little announcement that he might be taking a small hiatus, that those men are ready to relapse harder than anything else in the world. Just. You. Wait.
"Oh, and that Wade Moor? Just. Ew. I guess every beach needs its beached whale, but oh god does that little psychobilly make me gag like its my first day on set. That little washed up ball of fur is possibly the hardest to stomach of the bunch, but now that there's only two of them running around, its like I've had to stare at his ass way more now, and Oh. My. God. is it hard to miss.
"Honey, I'm so glad you guys are straight, because if I had to deal with your come on's every week, I think I would have been violently ill the whole time in our last fed, because I date real men, not children.
"Though, I've found myself thinking about our old employer a lot ever since this one announced our match, maybe thats because thoe guys are totally last years news? All their glory is in the past, where it should remain. I mean, I can appreciate a reunion, but that little space-boys Guardians kinda showed why it was doomed from the start, didn't they? Hehe. Don't worry, though, I'm sure my little Anbae and I will be sure to tear them down too, so don't worry beachkrew fans, all five of you left."
One of the extras climbs the ladder to my chair with a bottle of water and a stem of grapes in his arms.
"I'm afraid that its from me for now, too-ta-loo, UCI Galaxy, see you at Meltdown." I put my sunglasses back on and lean my head back. I take the bottle from the extra and open my mouth for him to place grapes in while the camera turns away to face the ocean once more, letting the screen fade to a resounding black.
