Post by Deleted on Jun 25, 2016 22:09:06 GMT -6
David Rogers: Well… there you go. You made your impact.
From the sound of his voice over the phone, Howard could tell his agent wasn’t thrilled with his choice of “debut” last week. Truth be told, Howard knew he had every right to be upset and disappointed – David had bent over backwards to secure every request Howard had when negotiating his UCI signing. Complete secrecy? Check. Signing bonus to assure he’d be able to afford lodging? Check. An appearance at that week’s show? Check. A favorable first match? Check. On the other hand, David was Howard’s agent first and foremost, and to hear the disapproval of a friend in their conversation sent a jolt of anger through Howard. Still, the Lost Boy kept his tone calm and cool.
Howard Black: Yeah, I sure did.
David Rogers: And I suppose you don’t give a damn what anyone thinks.
Howard Black: Nope.
David Rogers: Or all the fans who looked up to you and are baffled by this turn of events.
Howard Black: Negative.
David Rogers: How some will say it tarnishes the legacy you’d built.
Howard Black: Oh yeah? What legacy is that?
David Rogers: The one of a decent, selfless man who stood up for others.
Howard Black: You mean the one who was always in second place.
The line was silent for a moment before David sighed to cut the tension. His voice was ragged and exasperated.
David Rogers: Howard… We’re worried about you.
Howard scoffed, rising from the chair he’d been sitting in. He kept the phone to his ear as he paced the confines of the studio apartment he’d rented on the South Side.
Howard Black: Who’s “we”?
David Rogers: Jenn and I. We haven’t seen you once since you moved back to Lincoln. All we know is what we hear, and Sarah’s stopped taking our calls altogether. What the fuck is going on, man?
Howard paced into the kitchen, pulling open the refrigerator door and snapping the uncapped bottle of Wild Turkey 101 from its resting place on the bottom shelf. He tilted the bottle and his head back as he took a long swig, lowering it to let out a gasp before responding.
Howard Black: There’s nothing going on. Nothing that concerns my agent.
David’s voice flared in anger, his words coming out in a sharp bark. Howard could practically imagine him jabbing a finger to the empty air on the other line.
David Rogers: I was your fucking friend before I was your agent, Howie, and I hold that above any business relationship we have! Now you want to turn around and shove that in my face, don’t expect me to be too fucking kind about it!
Howard’s own anger flared, the calm and coolness dropping in an instant to a sharp, stabbing venom.
Howard Black: Yeah, well you being my friend isn’t paying your fucking bills – being my agent is. And what’s going on between my wife and I is between us, so keep your fucking nose out of it.
The silence resumed. David’s voice was quiet and bruised.
David Rogers: You mean that?
Howard’s voice responded low and intense.
Howard Black: I don’t want to talk about Sarah.
David’s voice rose, now pleading and worried.
David Rogers: It’s not divorce is it?
Howard Black paused.
Howard Black: I don’t turn my back on my loyalties, David.
David scoffed.
David Rodgers: I’m sure Crow would disagree with that.
Back in Lincoln, David would immediately hear the line click dead. After hanging up, Howard tossed his phone on the bed as he took another swig from the bottle, walking to the window to gaze out at the twilight cityscape of Chicago. There he was – staring down the barrel of a shotgun Chicago Sunset, wondering what the pull of a trigger would offer him tonight. Life? Death? Irrelevant. With a final gulp of whiskey, he placed the bottle on the windowsill, snatched up his keys, and left through the door to the humid summer evening.
Even if the rough parts of Omaha paled in comparison to Chatham, Howard didn’t feel uncomfortable or nervous taking a late night walk – he’d gone for runs every morning in Mexico City and never had problems, plus he never cared much of value on him. His shoes and clothes were old with holes in the knees of his jeans and thin threading in his hem of his shirt; when he kept his head down and eyes ahead, he drew no outward attention to himself on the street. As he walked down the ragged streets, turning a corner and making his way to the local bar, his mind stayed relatively quiet and empty. Truth be told, the last few months had been all empty – and empty was good.
Pulling the door open to the run down dive, Howard made his way to the bar and pulled a stool up, leaning forward on his elbows as he waited for the bartender. She was an older woman who’d seen better days – her body was thick and heavy on her frame, small black eyes peering out from a pair of smudged glasses which sat beneath a low forehead and mass of wiry brown and gray hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her voice was rough and low, undoubtedly from years of chain-smoking.
Bartender: What’ll it be, sugar?
Howard Black: Seven & Seven, please.
Bartender: Seagrams or well?.
Howard Black: Well, please.
The woman turned, making her way to the cooler and retrieving the bottle. As she sat it in front of Howard, she tilted the bottle into a plastic cup and topped it with Sprite from the soda gun..
Bartender: That’ll be three-fifty.
Howard Black: Start me a tab. And can I get a pen?
The woman grunted and turned as Howard reached for one of the cocktail napkins stacked along the line, placing it in front of himself as he accepted the pen. On the napkin, he sketched a rough figure of a man with metal arms, his mind turning over as he finished the sketch and reached for his drink.
“So my first opponent is to be Burn Out, an idiot biker who spent his first week running his mouth about ‘fighting women’ before getting his career nearly ended by two women who don’t even equal his weight when added together. When I had David negotiate a relatively easy first opponent to get myself acclimated to the ring again, I expected maybe they’d toss me a Shadowlove or an Andre Holmes. Part of me thinks this is an insult, and the other half of me thinks they want finished what Stiletto started.
Just like the man you ripped your gimmick from, you’re a dead man walking. You left the ring in your debut match with crippled arms, and this Sunday you’re going to leave with no arms at all. I wonder if they’ve developed a replacement skull after I cave your face with knees. Hell, maybe you’ll earn a spot in the UCI Hall of Fame for this: ‘Burn Out came to infamy after a string of matches which involved him getting absolutely leveled and yet kept returning day in and day out for another series of beatings. Truly, Burn Out was a fixture in this company a favorite for the blood thirsty masses who watch this shit.’ At the very least, there will be a nice little single line at the beginning of my induction biography: ‘On Howard’s first match in UCI, he sent fellow wrestler Burn Out back to the UCI and ended his career, sending a grave omen to the rest of the federation about the remainder of his career.’
There’s nothing else you could be – certainly not winner of this match. You’re not even a speed bump in the road; you’re the line on the ground I push off as I begin this race. C’mon, Burn Out, what the fuck did you do to piss off the higher ups and get booked like this? Jack off in the locker room? Harass one of your coworker? Fuck it, I’m sure there’s a billion things, but it all really comes down to the fact that you don’t belong here. You’ll never make it, and the company is tired of sending you a paycheck, wondering what bender they were on when signing you in the first place. I’m more than happy to oblige them and wipe your name clean from the roster listing on the website – you’ll be the first head on the pile that I’ll eventually crown with the UCI Championship.”
Howard raised the tall can to his lips and tilted it back, letting the beer run over his tongue and down his throat. He tapped the end of the pen on the metal arms, thinking for a moment.
“If you thought these would save you from a Kimura, you’re only half right. Yeah, you don’t have the nerves to feel the pain and tap out, but if you think I won’t snap that arm off and beat you with it, you’re even more stupid than you look. I can see through you. Through your Neanderthal tough guy posture and edgy leather vest and shades and the metal arms – you’re as soft as a marshmallow in the sun. Any advantage you could feasibly have on paper over me is negated by the fact that you’re absolute trash on all levels against me, from speed to intelligence to ability. Hell, I’m sure I can probably throw my knee harder than you can throw a punch with that metal fist. You can call it an EMP because I’m going to knock you so senseless you won’t have the brain cells to rub together to make those arms work.
Congratulations, Burn Out, you’re the unluckiest man in the entire world. I’m going to put you out of your misery and send you back to the trailer park or prison cell you left to get back to. If I’m feeling incredibly charitable, maybe I’ll just send you back to the dirt. From dust you came, and to dust you shall return. Genesis 3:19 or something like that.”
Howard stared down at the napkin, tapping the pen a few more times before reaching down and crumpling it into a ball. He turned, raising the can to his lips for a final chug before raising from his stool. After tossing a few bills on the table, he turned from the bar and pushed up towards the door.
Howard Black: Never mind on the tab.
With a shove through the door, Howard Black stepped back out into the clammy night, leaving the half-finished drink behind him. It wasn’t the same; it could never be the same. The times he’d had in Lincoln bars – hell, even the bars of the hundreds of cities he’d seen during his career? How could any of them compare to the comforts of the bottle back in the familiar isolation of his hotel room? How could the din of aimless chatter from restless patrons ever match the droning quietus of his rented tomb? And how could that ever hope to compare to the din of battle and chaos in the ring? No, he was out of his element – it was time for the long walk home.
Winding back through the lonesome streets of Chatham, Howard had a lot on his mind. He thought of David and Crow. He thought of the mess of his life back home. He thought of Shadowlove, who’d tried to mock him on Twitter, and he thought of Burn Out, who he’d face this week. But more than anything, Howard thought of the UCI Championship. He had to win it. He had to.
When he finally reached his apartment, he finished off the bottle of Wild Turkey and crawled into bed. He had no dreams that night.
From the sound of his voice over the phone, Howard could tell his agent wasn’t thrilled with his choice of “debut” last week. Truth be told, Howard knew he had every right to be upset and disappointed – David had bent over backwards to secure every request Howard had when negotiating his UCI signing. Complete secrecy? Check. Signing bonus to assure he’d be able to afford lodging? Check. An appearance at that week’s show? Check. A favorable first match? Check. On the other hand, David was Howard’s agent first and foremost, and to hear the disapproval of a friend in their conversation sent a jolt of anger through Howard. Still, the Lost Boy kept his tone calm and cool.
Howard Black: Yeah, I sure did.
David Rogers: And I suppose you don’t give a damn what anyone thinks.
Howard Black: Nope.
David Rogers: Or all the fans who looked up to you and are baffled by this turn of events.
Howard Black: Negative.
David Rogers: How some will say it tarnishes the legacy you’d built.
Howard Black: Oh yeah? What legacy is that?
David Rogers: The one of a decent, selfless man who stood up for others.
Howard Black: You mean the one who was always in second place.
The line was silent for a moment before David sighed to cut the tension. His voice was ragged and exasperated.
David Rogers: Howard… We’re worried about you.
Howard scoffed, rising from the chair he’d been sitting in. He kept the phone to his ear as he paced the confines of the studio apartment he’d rented on the South Side.
Howard Black: Who’s “we”?
David Rogers: Jenn and I. We haven’t seen you once since you moved back to Lincoln. All we know is what we hear, and Sarah’s stopped taking our calls altogether. What the fuck is going on, man?
Howard paced into the kitchen, pulling open the refrigerator door and snapping the uncapped bottle of Wild Turkey 101 from its resting place on the bottom shelf. He tilted the bottle and his head back as he took a long swig, lowering it to let out a gasp before responding.
Howard Black: There’s nothing going on. Nothing that concerns my agent.
David’s voice flared in anger, his words coming out in a sharp bark. Howard could practically imagine him jabbing a finger to the empty air on the other line.
David Rogers: I was your fucking friend before I was your agent, Howie, and I hold that above any business relationship we have! Now you want to turn around and shove that in my face, don’t expect me to be too fucking kind about it!
Howard’s own anger flared, the calm and coolness dropping in an instant to a sharp, stabbing venom.
Howard Black: Yeah, well you being my friend isn’t paying your fucking bills – being my agent is. And what’s going on between my wife and I is between us, so keep your fucking nose out of it.
The silence resumed. David’s voice was quiet and bruised.
David Rogers: You mean that?
Howard’s voice responded low and intense.
Howard Black: I don’t want to talk about Sarah.
David’s voice rose, now pleading and worried.
David Rogers: It’s not divorce is it?
Howard Black paused.
Howard Black: I don’t turn my back on my loyalties, David.
David scoffed.
David Rodgers: I’m sure Crow would disagree with that.
Back in Lincoln, David would immediately hear the line click dead. After hanging up, Howard tossed his phone on the bed as he took another swig from the bottle, walking to the window to gaze out at the twilight cityscape of Chicago. There he was – staring down the barrel of a shotgun Chicago Sunset, wondering what the pull of a trigger would offer him tonight. Life? Death? Irrelevant. With a final gulp of whiskey, he placed the bottle on the windowsill, snatched up his keys, and left through the door to the humid summer evening.
Even if the rough parts of Omaha paled in comparison to Chatham, Howard didn’t feel uncomfortable or nervous taking a late night walk – he’d gone for runs every morning in Mexico City and never had problems, plus he never cared much of value on him. His shoes and clothes were old with holes in the knees of his jeans and thin threading in his hem of his shirt; when he kept his head down and eyes ahead, he drew no outward attention to himself on the street. As he walked down the ragged streets, turning a corner and making his way to the local bar, his mind stayed relatively quiet and empty. Truth be told, the last few months had been all empty – and empty was good.
Pulling the door open to the run down dive, Howard made his way to the bar and pulled a stool up, leaning forward on his elbows as he waited for the bartender. She was an older woman who’d seen better days – her body was thick and heavy on her frame, small black eyes peering out from a pair of smudged glasses which sat beneath a low forehead and mass of wiry brown and gray hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her voice was rough and low, undoubtedly from years of chain-smoking.
Bartender: What’ll it be, sugar?
Howard Black: Seven & Seven, please.
Bartender: Seagrams or well?.
Howard Black: Well, please.
The woman turned, making her way to the cooler and retrieving the bottle. As she sat it in front of Howard, she tilted the bottle into a plastic cup and topped it with Sprite from the soda gun..
Bartender: That’ll be three-fifty.
Howard Black: Start me a tab. And can I get a pen?
The woman grunted and turned as Howard reached for one of the cocktail napkins stacked along the line, placing it in front of himself as he accepted the pen. On the napkin, he sketched a rough figure of a man with metal arms, his mind turning over as he finished the sketch and reached for his drink.
“So my first opponent is to be Burn Out, an idiot biker who spent his first week running his mouth about ‘fighting women’ before getting his career nearly ended by two women who don’t even equal his weight when added together. When I had David negotiate a relatively easy first opponent to get myself acclimated to the ring again, I expected maybe they’d toss me a Shadowlove or an Andre Holmes. Part of me thinks this is an insult, and the other half of me thinks they want finished what Stiletto started.
Just like the man you ripped your gimmick from, you’re a dead man walking. You left the ring in your debut match with crippled arms, and this Sunday you’re going to leave with no arms at all. I wonder if they’ve developed a replacement skull after I cave your face with knees. Hell, maybe you’ll earn a spot in the UCI Hall of Fame for this: ‘Burn Out came to infamy after a string of matches which involved him getting absolutely leveled and yet kept returning day in and day out for another series of beatings. Truly, Burn Out was a fixture in this company a favorite for the blood thirsty masses who watch this shit.’ At the very least, there will be a nice little single line at the beginning of my induction biography: ‘On Howard’s first match in UCI, he sent fellow wrestler Burn Out back to the UCI and ended his career, sending a grave omen to the rest of the federation about the remainder of his career.’
There’s nothing else you could be – certainly not winner of this match. You’re not even a speed bump in the road; you’re the line on the ground I push off as I begin this race. C’mon, Burn Out, what the fuck did you do to piss off the higher ups and get booked like this? Jack off in the locker room? Harass one of your coworker? Fuck it, I’m sure there’s a billion things, but it all really comes down to the fact that you don’t belong here. You’ll never make it, and the company is tired of sending you a paycheck, wondering what bender they were on when signing you in the first place. I’m more than happy to oblige them and wipe your name clean from the roster listing on the website – you’ll be the first head on the pile that I’ll eventually crown with the UCI Championship.”
Howard raised the tall can to his lips and tilted it back, letting the beer run over his tongue and down his throat. He tapped the end of the pen on the metal arms, thinking for a moment.
“If you thought these would save you from a Kimura, you’re only half right. Yeah, you don’t have the nerves to feel the pain and tap out, but if you think I won’t snap that arm off and beat you with it, you’re even more stupid than you look. I can see through you. Through your Neanderthal tough guy posture and edgy leather vest and shades and the metal arms – you’re as soft as a marshmallow in the sun. Any advantage you could feasibly have on paper over me is negated by the fact that you’re absolute trash on all levels against me, from speed to intelligence to ability. Hell, I’m sure I can probably throw my knee harder than you can throw a punch with that metal fist. You can call it an EMP because I’m going to knock you so senseless you won’t have the brain cells to rub together to make those arms work.
Congratulations, Burn Out, you’re the unluckiest man in the entire world. I’m going to put you out of your misery and send you back to the trailer park or prison cell you left to get back to. If I’m feeling incredibly charitable, maybe I’ll just send you back to the dirt. From dust you came, and to dust you shall return. Genesis 3:19 or something like that.”
Howard stared down at the napkin, tapping the pen a few more times before reaching down and crumpling it into a ball. He turned, raising the can to his lips for a final chug before raising from his stool. After tossing a few bills on the table, he turned from the bar and pushed up towards the door.
Howard Black: Never mind on the tab.
With a shove through the door, Howard Black stepped back out into the clammy night, leaving the half-finished drink behind him. It wasn’t the same; it could never be the same. The times he’d had in Lincoln bars – hell, even the bars of the hundreds of cities he’d seen during his career? How could any of them compare to the comforts of the bottle back in the familiar isolation of his hotel room? How could the din of aimless chatter from restless patrons ever match the droning quietus of his rented tomb? And how could that ever hope to compare to the din of battle and chaos in the ring? No, he was out of his element – it was time for the long walk home.
Winding back through the lonesome streets of Chatham, Howard had a lot on his mind. He thought of David and Crow. He thought of the mess of his life back home. He thought of Shadowlove, who’d tried to mock him on Twitter, and he thought of Burn Out, who he’d face this week. But more than anything, Howard thought of the UCI Championship. He had to win it. He had to.
When he finally reached his apartment, he finished off the bottle of Wild Turkey and crawled into bed. He had no dreams that night.