Ain' Gon' Cower to no Bully
Jun 3, 2016 22:31:17 GMT -6
Spencer Adams, Crow McMorris, and 2 more like this
Post by Mr. Wright on Jun 3, 2016 22:31:17 GMT -6
The Tale of Taylor Wright-
Chapter 3- ‘Ghosts’
So Ramblin’ Jimmy was just as I thought… useless. It was not competitive but it did give me the momentum needed to prove that I’m a threat. My boss should be happy. I waited for the phone call. I wasn’t even totally sure how to use the iPhone that he gave me. It had a thumbprint lock… like it’s a movie from the future. Pretty friggin sweet.
Backstage I had to share a locker room with everyone else. I saw guys like Wade Moor and Crow McMorris take their own locker rooms, or at least rooms with people they teamed with. But that was it. People like me and seemingly the rest had to sit in this big sweaty room and stretch and everything in amidst the chaos.
We all were fighting each other. How did Spencer Adams expect us all to get along in this environment? The concrete floor was covered in the sweat and hepatitis of fallen warriors. I spent most of my time in the corner I allocated to myself. I took a piss in the corner to mark my territory. It sounds a bit barbaric but that’s how I used to have to do it when I lived on the streets. You can deal with your own scent but there’s no way you can deal with someone else’s scent. And such is life.
The announcer made the announcement for the main event and I watched Wade and Crow get out of their respective locker rooms. The men look as though they have some type of history, I’m unsure of what that is but they looked intimidating as fuck. I’m a big dude, and on the streets I was the HNIC but here I’m just a small fish in a big pond… and this pond ain’t that big.
Everyone followed them to ringside… I didn’t bother. As the space cleared I took a deep breath and immediately regretted it. The place smelt of sweat and farts. But finally I was alone. I wanted my space. I did my job and I don’t get paid by the hour… fuck if I hardly get paid at all. This place was worse than working at McDonalds, but you don’t get the satisfaction of killing people at McDonalds… well not physically, just through a slow and painful process of Heart Disease and Diabetes.
“Ooooh….” I heard from behind me.
It sounded like a comic book version of a ghost, with the ghoulish tremor. So go back and imagine the ‘ooooh’ sounding like that… then skip this part and move onto the next part… (maybe I should put this first)
I turned around and didn’t see anyone… but it felt cooler in here; which was weird because all the doors were closed. But this was a cheap ass warehouse so I wouldn’t be surprised if that cheapskate Spencer Adams didn’t bother making sure the ventilation system was up and running. You would think with a room full of sweaty wrestlers he would want to make sure all of us were healthy and safe, but I guess he’s not that type of boss.
“Oooooh…” (remember how it sounded last time… it sounds the same this time)
This time it was coming from where I was looking before. But In knew the only thing in front of me was a cubby where by gig bag was packed. I turned around anyway and I saw it. A translucent… or opaque… I saw a dude that was slightly see through. He wore a fedora but not like when those douchebag bronies wear fedoras, he looked old and appropriate wearing one. Like Frank Sinatra but overweight, full with a trench coat and Dockers.
I recognized the man right away.
“Uncle Carl?” I gasped. He had been dead for over a decade. It was the last funeral I went to and the first time I tasted a beer with my pops at the age of 17. I was a fuck up, but never really dug alcohol until that moment. Even then I didn’t dig alcohol, but it was a sweet release of the pain that mourning brings to a person.
“Sell your stock for Yahoo.” He moaned like a ghost at me.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“In 1999 Yahoo stock will plummet… get out now!”
“Dude… it’s like way past 2009.” I replied and the mystical aura surrounding him suddenly stopped. He looked at me quizzically and the creepy voice turned back to his distinct Brooklyn accent.
“No, Shit… really?” he asked.
“Yea… Yahoo started sucking a while ago. Only poor people use it… or idiots. Or people playing fantasy sports that started like 10 years ago.”
“Well suck my cock and call me Papa Georgio-Lord of the Pod People.”
“I will do neither of those things… what the hell are you doing here?” I replied.
You may think that I was a little thrown off of a ghost standing there in front of me, but this shit happens to me all the time. I’m used to it. I’m not a medium or anything like that, but the dead often come to me… I may have been tripping on mushrooms some of the times I saw dead people, but they came nonetheless. This may or may not become a recurring theme… I’m not sure yet.
Anyway, Uncle Carl responded.
“I needed to give you a stock tip so you can make lotsa money.”
“Well that was shit… just like when you were alive… actually… didn’t Yahoo stock plummet while you were alive?”
“When did I die?”
“Like 2004 or something.”
“Shit… I guess it did. What year is it?”
“This year.”
“Right.”
We stopped talking for a while. He had ADHD I’m pretty sure before they diagnosed that shit. I could see him staring at my gig bag, and the wad on hundos sticking out. If he was corporeal he would totally have tried to swipe that shit. Then like a lightbulb clicked on in his head he seemed to remember something.
“Your mother…”
“If you weren’t a ghost I would smack the taste outta your mouth.”
Call me a mama’s boy, or whatever… but NO ONE talks shit about my ma!
“No you little shit… your mother is sick…”
“My mother is dead… she died about a year back… it’s still a sore spot.”
“Fuck… I’m really late for all this shit, huh? Just like when I was alive. Always late… always the bridesmaid, never the bride, right kid… ha!”
Uncle Carl was a real piece of shit. I had to go. My boss wanted me to meet him before the main event ended and if I didn’t make it he was going to be pissed. He wanted to beat the traffic, but more importantly he didn’t want anyone to see him. And I’m sure he wouldn’t like waiting… it seems like something he would say; ’I don’t appreciate waiting’ or some shit like that.
“I’m gonna go…” I said as I slowly started walking away. I should have just bolted out of the room. It’s not like he could have stopped me, and he had nothing meaningful to say to me that…
“Your daughter needs you.”
I stopped. About 12 years ago I knocked up a girl. I tried to do the right thing. I tried to stay with the girl and raise our daughter together, but shit went down, I became a bit of a shit and she left me. She lets me visit Sara once in a while… Sara is my daughter’s name, but usually it’s only when it’s convenient to her…. Who am I kidding… ONLY when it’s convenient to her.
I hadn’t seen her in about 2 years, since that summer I brought her to the water park with the big slide that she was too scared to go down. I wasn’t sure if IU could trust this guy. Then another thought struck me like a ton of bricks…
“Are you late with this information too?” I asked furiously. He apparently had a history of it so the questions wasn’t out of line in the slightest bit.
“No… this is legit. I don’t know… the powers that be or whatever are telling me that your daughter needs you. Your baby mama is sick and she needs financial help. Or probably more helpful would be help with the kid.”
“I haven’t seen her in years… either of them. Why would they need my help?”
“You think you got this gig for no reason? You think that you got hooked up with that millionaire who is just throwing money at you to beat jobbers for nothing? You are a good person, Taylor. And you made some bad decisions. But most of all you gotta family to take care of. Nothing in this world happens on accident; nothing in this world is free, neither. So you gots to make the money you can, and you gots to take care o’ that kid o’ yours. Ya heard?”
I looked at him and I heard the bell ring outside. I had to go. I had to keep the boss happy. I had so many more questions, but if what this mother fucker was saying was true I had to keep the boss happy. I left, leaving all my questions and concerns in the dingy locker room and made my way towards the exit. I made it outside before the announcer could tell everyone who won and saw the limo waiting for me outside. The door magically opened and I stepped inside. Before I could even sit the limo took off and I fell into my seat like a buffoon.
“I don’t like being forced to wait…”
I knew he would say it…
The Tale of Taylor Wright
Chapter 4- Awakening
“You will be taking out Mickey Saint next week…”
“Alright.” I responded. He somehow knew my schedule better than I did. Something told me that he planned this. I looked around the limo and it was dark. Lights adorned the trim of the limo lighting just enough so I could see the deep pupils of my boss as he glared at me with those piercing eyes. “Tell me what I need to know.”
“He’s not your opponent… you’ll just be taking him out.”
“What, like… on a date or sumthin’” I joked. He didn’t take kindly to it as he lit a cigarette and blew the smoke right in my face. I coughed. “You know where I’m from that means you wanna fuck me… you wanna fuck me, boss?”
“If I wanted to I would have already been inside of you.” He said it so seriously and so menacingly I kinda thought it was true. I felt my asshole to see if it had been stretched open yet… no… thank goodness. Tight as a vice. But his eyes penetrated through me and the tough guy attitude I was displaying went to the back and I listened intently as this daunting man.
“The epitome of cool is more than a lifestyle of a drug addled mind. It is the persona of a man with passion and drive. It is the livelihood of this competitor that truly believes in his ways. Just as a pro-life Theologian is just as dangerous in his beliefs as an Islamic madman hell-bent on placing a Jihad on the infidels this Epitome of Cool is just as dangerous as a mad man dressed like the Joker shooting up a Colorado Movie Theatre.” The Boss explained.
And it really put things into perspective. It’s funny how you don’t realize how much a strong conviction can motivate a person. Even the weakest of foes can become the fiercest of fighters if their beliefs, be them right or wrong, are truly felt and truly justified in their own mind at the very least. I was listening to a podcast and the discussion of Hysterical strength came up.
Did you know that this is a real fucking thing? I mean, like shit, man. There’s a true fucking story of a woman who saw her granddaughter being attacked by a lawnmower, or some shit. I mean like she was stuck under there… like a riding lawnmower… once of those big ass ones… like a John deer or some shit. This little girl and her grandmother, this frail old bitch, came running over and tossed the lawnmower off this girl like with was a piece of cardboard.
She had to save her Granddaughter’s life so she did what she had to do. Apparently it goes hand I hand with that flight or fight survival mechanism. Like when a lion comes you either run away or you punch the mother fucker in the eye. When you fight your body sends out electrical impulses to the rest of your body, it contracts your muscles or something and your body literally becomes 10 times the strength that you normally have.
10 fucking times! Why don’t we live like that all the time. We’re only using a fraction of our potential. You know why? Because if your body was running at that maximum potential all the time your heart and your organs wouldn’t be able to handle it and you would probably explode form the inside. Crazy shit. That’s what’s fucking cool. Shit like that. Learning shit. Not smoking weed and taking pills.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve done my fair share of pill popping and weed smoking among other things. It’s a great release but I never did those things to be cool or anything like that. I did that shit because my life was complete shit and it was the only thing that I could do to help numb the pain, both physically and emotionally.
“Listen,” I started, “I’ve dealt with my fair share of bullies…”
“This man is not a bully…” The Boss interrupted. So I fucking interrupted him back.
“Yes he is. What the fuck do you think a Bully is?” I started in on him… but I wasn’t fucking done, yet… “You’re a fucking bully, and you’re doing it right now trying to tell me I’m wrong without hearing what I have to say. You’re using your power to try and make me feel low-grade, but let me tell you somethin’ boss. You ain’t gonna make me feel like a piece of shit, and neither is this ‘Cool Guy’ I’ve gotta fight next week either.“
We bumped over the roads that desperately needed paving through the streets of Chicago. The barrier between the driver and the back had slowly gone up leaving a black glass mirror showing the Boss’ face glaring back at himself as if contemplating the egregious claim that I just made towards him. He seemed to look directly at it right through me, as though I wasn’t even there. It was disconcerting knowing that I was nothing but a translucent piece of glass to him… or opaque… which ever one means that you can see right through it.
He reached into a compartment next to him and pulled out a glass flask. Then he pulled out two rocks glasses. He poured the copper liquid in and handed it to me. Then he poured himself one for himself. I smelled the pungent liquid… it reminded me of Daddy’s kisses… except if he drank a fine bourbon instead of Natty Ices.
He sipped so I followed. I saw him pour from the same flask and I ain’t sayin’ I thought he would poison
me, but I KNOW that he ain’t poisoning himself is all I’m sayin’. He spoke again in his dry and apathetic tone.
“Aaron Miles is his name. He’s relatively new but you can check him out. I’ve emailed you links to his matches and his promos. You will have my entire facility at your disposal. You shan’t lose this match. If you do… nothing will happen to you, but I assure you nothing is indeed something. And something is not what you want.”
It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t a promise. It just was a statement said by a man who seemed to have been faced with his own mortality and was destined to fight it head on. I simply nodded as I finished my glass. I didn’t dare ask for a second round and he didn’t offer.
I didn’t need it anyway. I had to figure out how to use my email and check this mother fucker out. On queue he stopped in front of my office building. This time there wasn’t no door man. There hadn’t been since that first time I got dropped off. But I knew where I was going. I had been coming and going for the past week.
I heard a joke recently. It’s dated back to the tenth century and its roots are found in England.
What hangs by a man’s knee and wants to prod the hole it’s poked before…
I put my key in the door and turned slightly. Itj opened up easy and I flicked the switch. And I saw it. A beautiful mahogany computer desk was in the corner where my little dining room table used to be. And on it was a tight lookin’ computer. This wasn’t here before, this must be the email that the Boss was talking about.
I turned the box on and it started up right away, and opened to a GMAIL account and I looked at the first and only message. It read: ‘Aaron Miles: Epitome of Cool.’
I clicked the link and a video of this piece of shit wrestling turned on. He wasn’t half bad. There were other links to his other matches and promos below. I sat and watched… I had some learnin’ to do…
[/i][/i]
Chapter 3- ‘Ghosts’
So Ramblin’ Jimmy was just as I thought… useless. It was not competitive but it did give me the momentum needed to prove that I’m a threat. My boss should be happy. I waited for the phone call. I wasn’t even totally sure how to use the iPhone that he gave me. It had a thumbprint lock… like it’s a movie from the future. Pretty friggin sweet.
Backstage I had to share a locker room with everyone else. I saw guys like Wade Moor and Crow McMorris take their own locker rooms, or at least rooms with people they teamed with. But that was it. People like me and seemingly the rest had to sit in this big sweaty room and stretch and everything in amidst the chaos.
We all were fighting each other. How did Spencer Adams expect us all to get along in this environment? The concrete floor was covered in the sweat and hepatitis of fallen warriors. I spent most of my time in the corner I allocated to myself. I took a piss in the corner to mark my territory. It sounds a bit barbaric but that’s how I used to have to do it when I lived on the streets. You can deal with your own scent but there’s no way you can deal with someone else’s scent. And such is life.
The announcer made the announcement for the main event and I watched Wade and Crow get out of their respective locker rooms. The men look as though they have some type of history, I’m unsure of what that is but they looked intimidating as fuck. I’m a big dude, and on the streets I was the HNIC but here I’m just a small fish in a big pond… and this pond ain’t that big.
Everyone followed them to ringside… I didn’t bother. As the space cleared I took a deep breath and immediately regretted it. The place smelt of sweat and farts. But finally I was alone. I wanted my space. I did my job and I don’t get paid by the hour… fuck if I hardly get paid at all. This place was worse than working at McDonalds, but you don’t get the satisfaction of killing people at McDonalds… well not physically, just through a slow and painful process of Heart Disease and Diabetes.
“Ooooh….” I heard from behind me.
It sounded like a comic book version of a ghost, with the ghoulish tremor. So go back and imagine the ‘ooooh’ sounding like that… then skip this part and move onto the next part… (maybe I should put this first)
I turned around and didn’t see anyone… but it felt cooler in here; which was weird because all the doors were closed. But this was a cheap ass warehouse so I wouldn’t be surprised if that cheapskate Spencer Adams didn’t bother making sure the ventilation system was up and running. You would think with a room full of sweaty wrestlers he would want to make sure all of us were healthy and safe, but I guess he’s not that type of boss.
“Oooooh…” (remember how it sounded last time… it sounds the same this time)
This time it was coming from where I was looking before. But In knew the only thing in front of me was a cubby where by gig bag was packed. I turned around anyway and I saw it. A translucent… or opaque… I saw a dude that was slightly see through. He wore a fedora but not like when those douchebag bronies wear fedoras, he looked old and appropriate wearing one. Like Frank Sinatra but overweight, full with a trench coat and Dockers.
I recognized the man right away.
“Uncle Carl?” I gasped. He had been dead for over a decade. It was the last funeral I went to and the first time I tasted a beer with my pops at the age of 17. I was a fuck up, but never really dug alcohol until that moment. Even then I didn’t dig alcohol, but it was a sweet release of the pain that mourning brings to a person.
“Sell your stock for Yahoo.” He moaned like a ghost at me.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“In 1999 Yahoo stock will plummet… get out now!”
“Dude… it’s like way past 2009.” I replied and the mystical aura surrounding him suddenly stopped. He looked at me quizzically and the creepy voice turned back to his distinct Brooklyn accent.
“No, Shit… really?” he asked.
“Yea… Yahoo started sucking a while ago. Only poor people use it… or idiots. Or people playing fantasy sports that started like 10 years ago.”
“Well suck my cock and call me Papa Georgio-Lord of the Pod People.”
“I will do neither of those things… what the hell are you doing here?” I replied.
You may think that I was a little thrown off of a ghost standing there in front of me, but this shit happens to me all the time. I’m used to it. I’m not a medium or anything like that, but the dead often come to me… I may have been tripping on mushrooms some of the times I saw dead people, but they came nonetheless. This may or may not become a recurring theme… I’m not sure yet.
Anyway, Uncle Carl responded.
“I needed to give you a stock tip so you can make lotsa money.”
“Well that was shit… just like when you were alive… actually… didn’t Yahoo stock plummet while you were alive?”
“When did I die?”
“Like 2004 or something.”
“Shit… I guess it did. What year is it?”
“This year.”
“Right.”
We stopped talking for a while. He had ADHD I’m pretty sure before they diagnosed that shit. I could see him staring at my gig bag, and the wad on hundos sticking out. If he was corporeal he would totally have tried to swipe that shit. Then like a lightbulb clicked on in his head he seemed to remember something.
“Your mother…”
“If you weren’t a ghost I would smack the taste outta your mouth.”
Call me a mama’s boy, or whatever… but NO ONE talks shit about my ma!
“No you little shit… your mother is sick…”
“My mother is dead… she died about a year back… it’s still a sore spot.”
“Fuck… I’m really late for all this shit, huh? Just like when I was alive. Always late… always the bridesmaid, never the bride, right kid… ha!”
Uncle Carl was a real piece of shit. I had to go. My boss wanted me to meet him before the main event ended and if I didn’t make it he was going to be pissed. He wanted to beat the traffic, but more importantly he didn’t want anyone to see him. And I’m sure he wouldn’t like waiting… it seems like something he would say; ’I don’t appreciate waiting’ or some shit like that.
“I’m gonna go…” I said as I slowly started walking away. I should have just bolted out of the room. It’s not like he could have stopped me, and he had nothing meaningful to say to me that…
“Your daughter needs you.”
I stopped. About 12 years ago I knocked up a girl. I tried to do the right thing. I tried to stay with the girl and raise our daughter together, but shit went down, I became a bit of a shit and she left me. She lets me visit Sara once in a while… Sara is my daughter’s name, but usually it’s only when it’s convenient to her…. Who am I kidding… ONLY when it’s convenient to her.
I hadn’t seen her in about 2 years, since that summer I brought her to the water park with the big slide that she was too scared to go down. I wasn’t sure if IU could trust this guy. Then another thought struck me like a ton of bricks…
“Are you late with this information too?” I asked furiously. He apparently had a history of it so the questions wasn’t out of line in the slightest bit.
“No… this is legit. I don’t know… the powers that be or whatever are telling me that your daughter needs you. Your baby mama is sick and she needs financial help. Or probably more helpful would be help with the kid.”
“I haven’t seen her in years… either of them. Why would they need my help?”
“You think you got this gig for no reason? You think that you got hooked up with that millionaire who is just throwing money at you to beat jobbers for nothing? You are a good person, Taylor. And you made some bad decisions. But most of all you gotta family to take care of. Nothing in this world happens on accident; nothing in this world is free, neither. So you gots to make the money you can, and you gots to take care o’ that kid o’ yours. Ya heard?”
I looked at him and I heard the bell ring outside. I had to go. I had to keep the boss happy. I had so many more questions, but if what this mother fucker was saying was true I had to keep the boss happy. I left, leaving all my questions and concerns in the dingy locker room and made my way towards the exit. I made it outside before the announcer could tell everyone who won and saw the limo waiting for me outside. The door magically opened and I stepped inside. Before I could even sit the limo took off and I fell into my seat like a buffoon.
“I don’t like being forced to wait…”
I knew he would say it…
The Tale of Taylor Wright
Chapter 4- Awakening
“You will be taking out Mickey Saint next week…”
“Alright.” I responded. He somehow knew my schedule better than I did. Something told me that he planned this. I looked around the limo and it was dark. Lights adorned the trim of the limo lighting just enough so I could see the deep pupils of my boss as he glared at me with those piercing eyes. “Tell me what I need to know.”
“He’s not your opponent… you’ll just be taking him out.”
“What, like… on a date or sumthin’” I joked. He didn’t take kindly to it as he lit a cigarette and blew the smoke right in my face. I coughed. “You know where I’m from that means you wanna fuck me… you wanna fuck me, boss?”
“If I wanted to I would have already been inside of you.” He said it so seriously and so menacingly I kinda thought it was true. I felt my asshole to see if it had been stretched open yet… no… thank goodness. Tight as a vice. But his eyes penetrated through me and the tough guy attitude I was displaying went to the back and I listened intently as this daunting man.
“The epitome of cool is more than a lifestyle of a drug addled mind. It is the persona of a man with passion and drive. It is the livelihood of this competitor that truly believes in his ways. Just as a pro-life Theologian is just as dangerous in his beliefs as an Islamic madman hell-bent on placing a Jihad on the infidels this Epitome of Cool is just as dangerous as a mad man dressed like the Joker shooting up a Colorado Movie Theatre.” The Boss explained.
And it really put things into perspective. It’s funny how you don’t realize how much a strong conviction can motivate a person. Even the weakest of foes can become the fiercest of fighters if their beliefs, be them right or wrong, are truly felt and truly justified in their own mind at the very least. I was listening to a podcast and the discussion of Hysterical strength came up.
Did you know that this is a real fucking thing? I mean, like shit, man. There’s a true fucking story of a woman who saw her granddaughter being attacked by a lawnmower, or some shit. I mean like she was stuck under there… like a riding lawnmower… once of those big ass ones… like a John deer or some shit. This little girl and her grandmother, this frail old bitch, came running over and tossed the lawnmower off this girl like with was a piece of cardboard.
She had to save her Granddaughter’s life so she did what she had to do. Apparently it goes hand I hand with that flight or fight survival mechanism. Like when a lion comes you either run away or you punch the mother fucker in the eye. When you fight your body sends out electrical impulses to the rest of your body, it contracts your muscles or something and your body literally becomes 10 times the strength that you normally have.
10 fucking times! Why don’t we live like that all the time. We’re only using a fraction of our potential. You know why? Because if your body was running at that maximum potential all the time your heart and your organs wouldn’t be able to handle it and you would probably explode form the inside. Crazy shit. That’s what’s fucking cool. Shit like that. Learning shit. Not smoking weed and taking pills.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve done my fair share of pill popping and weed smoking among other things. It’s a great release but I never did those things to be cool or anything like that. I did that shit because my life was complete shit and it was the only thing that I could do to help numb the pain, both physically and emotionally.
“Listen,” I started, “I’ve dealt with my fair share of bullies…”
“This man is not a bully…” The Boss interrupted. So I fucking interrupted him back.
“Yes he is. What the fuck do you think a Bully is?” I started in on him… but I wasn’t fucking done, yet… “You’re a fucking bully, and you’re doing it right now trying to tell me I’m wrong without hearing what I have to say. You’re using your power to try and make me feel low-grade, but let me tell you somethin’ boss. You ain’t gonna make me feel like a piece of shit, and neither is this ‘Cool Guy’ I’ve gotta fight next week either.“
We bumped over the roads that desperately needed paving through the streets of Chicago. The barrier between the driver and the back had slowly gone up leaving a black glass mirror showing the Boss’ face glaring back at himself as if contemplating the egregious claim that I just made towards him. He seemed to look directly at it right through me, as though I wasn’t even there. It was disconcerting knowing that I was nothing but a translucent piece of glass to him… or opaque… which ever one means that you can see right through it.
He reached into a compartment next to him and pulled out a glass flask. Then he pulled out two rocks glasses. He poured the copper liquid in and handed it to me. Then he poured himself one for himself. I smelled the pungent liquid… it reminded me of Daddy’s kisses… except if he drank a fine bourbon instead of Natty Ices.
He sipped so I followed. I saw him pour from the same flask and I ain’t sayin’ I thought he would poison
me, but I KNOW that he ain’t poisoning himself is all I’m sayin’. He spoke again in his dry and apathetic tone.
“Aaron Miles is his name. He’s relatively new but you can check him out. I’ve emailed you links to his matches and his promos. You will have my entire facility at your disposal. You shan’t lose this match. If you do… nothing will happen to you, but I assure you nothing is indeed something. And something is not what you want.”
It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t a promise. It just was a statement said by a man who seemed to have been faced with his own mortality and was destined to fight it head on. I simply nodded as I finished my glass. I didn’t dare ask for a second round and he didn’t offer.
I didn’t need it anyway. I had to figure out how to use my email and check this mother fucker out. On queue he stopped in front of my office building. This time there wasn’t no door man. There hadn’t been since that first time I got dropped off. But I knew where I was going. I had been coming and going for the past week.
I heard a joke recently. It’s dated back to the tenth century and its roots are found in England.
What hangs by a man’s knee and wants to prod the hole it’s poked before…
I put my key in the door and turned slightly. Itj opened up easy and I flicked the switch. And I saw it. A beautiful mahogany computer desk was in the corner where my little dining room table used to be. And on it was a tight lookin’ computer. This wasn’t here before, this must be the email that the Boss was talking about.
I turned the box on and it started up right away, and opened to a GMAIL account and I looked at the first and only message. It read: ‘Aaron Miles: Epitome of Cool.’
I clicked the link and a video of this piece of shit wrestling turned on. He wasn’t half bad. There were other links to his other matches and promos below. I sat and watched… I had some learnin’ to do…
[/i][/i]