Post by Princess on Nov 23, 2013 19:15:19 GMT
The morning always brings the same routine, standing in front of the mirror in my towel, shaving the stubble from my face. Today is no different, despite being a weekend. The blade, Gillette, glides effortlessly across my skin, and I deposit the hairs and cream into the bottom of the sink. The house is empty, cold, quiet. I recall a time when things were different, but I'd rather the quiet than the noise of children not mine, of a wife who lied and whored, of salt shakers breaking against the island in the kitchen. Those days are gone, I'm free now, and freedom, though costly, is worth the price. I look back with no remorse, only regret it didn't come sooner.
I squint hard, trying to find every last shred of hair on my face, since it's not something I wish to have awaiting the days ahead. Monday I don't work, but Tuesday through Friday I must resume my time in front of the computer, assuring that the books are not cooked, despite how they USED to be. The company damn near collapsed without my morals and compulsive desire to check and double-check the numbers, assuring no errors, no illegal activities. I'm the man who roots out the cavity of corporate greed in my tech company before it can fester into an abscess, now I must look forward to doing the same in other areas of my life.
Another long stroke, but this time, a slip. Blood escapes through the slit the blade made on my chin. This shall not do, blood, let loose and free, it should not be, it cannot...
I come back to my senses in my training room, having ruined another heavy bag by viciously attacking it with the letter opener. The same one...that...no, I cannot refer to my past, I cannot fall to the trap of others. My eyes are geared forward, to the future, not the past. To look back is to turn, to turn is to leave yourself open to blind punches, to fall, to falter. Indeed, that's the reason why we have a history, Icon, Lance, whatever it is you wish to call yourself. The bag has been cut, in so many places. Their is a piece of paper on the ground, cut and frayed, I turn the white to the picture on the opposite side and cringe, dropping it back down. The image is of Lance Ryan, but I do not wish to kill, I am not a murderer. I am not him, I am not Spike, I am better than them, I am more controlled than that. I take a deep breath and walk to my miniature fridge. From it I grab a frosty glass and a small bottle of Crown Royal. I pour just a little and take a sip. Yes, calm the nerves, Bates, there is nothing to fear in yourself, you have complete control over the darker desires, complete control.
"Nothing is wrong, Bates, you'll be fine."
There isn't anything wrong, no. But somehow, I feel very on edge, I look at the mess I've made and take another sip. Perhaps I need to relax before I get on with this.
_________________________________________________________________
"Welcome back, Lance. I guess that's overdue, now isn't it? I mean, you being the Icon and all. We truly missed you."
Not at all, buddy, you know it. But again, I guess I'm just a vainglorious asshole like you as well, then.
"Can't seem to get that old habit out of your system, huh, you know, that one that makes you say stupid things and talk all night long with no real point. The one that gives you the thought to stage some altercation with your home life to try and show how "deep" and "human" you are, when, after all, you're no more than a giant egotistical man pretending to be something you are not. You are not pious, you are not holy, you are not religious in the way you claim, for spirituality comes from inside, not from some front put on to make yourself feel better or look better for the masses. No, of course you're a hypocrite, Lance, you've always been. You go around and say you're some Christian while ignoring the number one rule of Christianity: Thou Shalt Not Have Any Other Gods Before Me. You have a god before the one true, don't you. You have yourself, you think of yourself, you're vain, you're self-centered, and you seem to have nothing in mind but what's best for you. You're going to the garden in Game Of Thrones and speaking to Spike about how it's about you two ruling this whole thing, when in the end, you're main aim is to pull a Varis and betray the minute you have a shot at his title. You're a broken record, man, nothing more than the same shit, different day. And here I am, again wasting my breath trying to explain to you what it is you do to not only yourself, but to your so-called-fans. You know, the thing I USED to be. Poor Lance, his wife and kids hate him and he doesn't know why, go mope in his "I'm so emo and sorry for myself" little schtick. God, it's repetitive, it's repulsive, and I feel...oh god, I think I'm dirty just by speaking of it. Damn, I need to wash my hands."
I grab the nearby hand sanitizer and scrub the germs off given simply by mentioning the dirty tactics and nature you are. You're so shallow and vapid, if only you had a mirror that didn't lie to you.
"Good, better. Now where was I? Oh, yes, blah blah, repetition blah. Yes, you're pigeonholed by yourself. You eat your own crow for dinner, how many metaphors and symbols do I have to get through before you GET it? But then again, it takes one to know one, but at the minimum, I've been trying to keep my own self under control. Within the ring, on the air, I'm cool, calculated, controlled. And if by what your match last week showed, you are prone to passing the fuck out when a simple submission hold is put on you. So yeah, let's eliminate the big lug right off the bat, let you wear yourself down so I can come right in, wrap myself around that stack of bibles you call a neck, and choke you right the fuck out. Oh, sorry, I said the F word, I mean...Choke you the Heck out. Pardon my language, and if you would, please, politely go fuck yourself."
Ah, one down, one to go, right? I take a sip of my Crown and smirk at the camera. As I set down the drink, I assume the position by furrowing my brows till they are almost meeting, and assume the neanderthal position.
"Me big, me kick ass. Blah Blah. Someone clean my boom boom!"
And quickly, I assume the opposite role.
"Oh, don't mind him, I just forgot to take him by the hand to the bathroom. I'm the rich guy who handles this wild beast. Hi, My name is Mr. Moneybags, yes, could you please forget that I even introduced him, since you know this is all really about me. I'm just trying to use him to add to my accolades, since I'm obviously no good in the ring myself. I can't help but realize this as I speak out loud in monologue about how much money I'm wasting on the elaborate sets and publicity shots of the big lug. But I love him, I mean REALLY love him. We have a bit of tension but I always make sure I'm the top, he doesn't seem to mind, or well, it'd be hard to tell, I wonder if he's even got the emotional capacity to feel that."
"What? Me no under-"
"Yes, you don't understand, I know. Just quietly go play with this squeaky toy and have yourself a good ol time while the adults speak."
"SQUEEEAKY TOY!!!! YAYYYY!!!!!!"
"Oh god, I think he just pooped again. My apologies. SO, Mr. Bates is it? Oh god, how formal. You sound like some form of Lunatic, is that what you are? Truly? A lunatic? Oh my, perhaps I should fear going to the shower in your house, I might get stabbed and you might very well be cross-dressing like a dead old woman. Oh my, have I just put you in a box? I like boxes, it's safe in there, really, I mean SUPER safe. I need to go back to mine now. By the way, I'm secretly a Vampire and the box is code for a casket, how else do you think I became so rich. HAHAHAHA! Oh god, the light, I hate that crap. Blah."
Yes, a little improper, but I think I just responded for our opponent, right? I mean, he can't POSSIBLY have anything useful to say, and it does give me a chance to break out my bad acting skills, you know, being from California and all I need to do that on occasion. God, I'm so fucking biased, I'm going to Hell.
"So yes, Lance, now that I'm done insulting you, and the other man, well, if he's even got the genetic makeup to be considered a Homo Sapien, I guess I should end this, so you can go back to moping before our meeting tomorrow night. I mean, seriously, is it that bad being a Hypocrite? Aren't we all, in some way? It's all bullshit, it's all bad for you, and in the end, we all go to the same place in the end. And no, I don't mean Heaven, there is no Heaven. It's a grave, a big old black pile of dirt that you get to rot away into nothing. There's no life after death, there's no reincarnation. So make your life worth it, Lance, and stop riding your legacy or other people's coat-tails. You're better than that. But then again, Actions speak far louder than words. So, as I do, perhaps you can politely, and quickly, SHUT UP!"
I squint hard, trying to find every last shred of hair on my face, since it's not something I wish to have awaiting the days ahead. Monday I don't work, but Tuesday through Friday I must resume my time in front of the computer, assuring that the books are not cooked, despite how they USED to be. The company damn near collapsed without my morals and compulsive desire to check and double-check the numbers, assuring no errors, no illegal activities. I'm the man who roots out the cavity of corporate greed in my tech company before it can fester into an abscess, now I must look forward to doing the same in other areas of my life.
Another long stroke, but this time, a slip. Blood escapes through the slit the blade made on my chin. This shall not do, blood, let loose and free, it should not be, it cannot...
I come back to my senses in my training room, having ruined another heavy bag by viciously attacking it with the letter opener. The same one...that...no, I cannot refer to my past, I cannot fall to the trap of others. My eyes are geared forward, to the future, not the past. To look back is to turn, to turn is to leave yourself open to blind punches, to fall, to falter. Indeed, that's the reason why we have a history, Icon, Lance, whatever it is you wish to call yourself. The bag has been cut, in so many places. Their is a piece of paper on the ground, cut and frayed, I turn the white to the picture on the opposite side and cringe, dropping it back down. The image is of Lance Ryan, but I do not wish to kill, I am not a murderer. I am not him, I am not Spike, I am better than them, I am more controlled than that. I take a deep breath and walk to my miniature fridge. From it I grab a frosty glass and a small bottle of Crown Royal. I pour just a little and take a sip. Yes, calm the nerves, Bates, there is nothing to fear in yourself, you have complete control over the darker desires, complete control.
"Nothing is wrong, Bates, you'll be fine."
There isn't anything wrong, no. But somehow, I feel very on edge, I look at the mess I've made and take another sip. Perhaps I need to relax before I get on with this.
_________________________________________________________________
"Welcome back, Lance. I guess that's overdue, now isn't it? I mean, you being the Icon and all. We truly missed you."
Not at all, buddy, you know it. But again, I guess I'm just a vainglorious asshole like you as well, then.
"Can't seem to get that old habit out of your system, huh, you know, that one that makes you say stupid things and talk all night long with no real point. The one that gives you the thought to stage some altercation with your home life to try and show how "deep" and "human" you are, when, after all, you're no more than a giant egotistical man pretending to be something you are not. You are not pious, you are not holy, you are not religious in the way you claim, for spirituality comes from inside, not from some front put on to make yourself feel better or look better for the masses. No, of course you're a hypocrite, Lance, you've always been. You go around and say you're some Christian while ignoring the number one rule of Christianity: Thou Shalt Not Have Any Other Gods Before Me. You have a god before the one true, don't you. You have yourself, you think of yourself, you're vain, you're self-centered, and you seem to have nothing in mind but what's best for you. You're going to the garden in Game Of Thrones and speaking to Spike about how it's about you two ruling this whole thing, when in the end, you're main aim is to pull a Varis and betray the minute you have a shot at his title. You're a broken record, man, nothing more than the same shit, different day. And here I am, again wasting my breath trying to explain to you what it is you do to not only yourself, but to your so-called-fans. You know, the thing I USED to be. Poor Lance, his wife and kids hate him and he doesn't know why, go mope in his "I'm so emo and sorry for myself" little schtick. God, it's repetitive, it's repulsive, and I feel...oh god, I think I'm dirty just by speaking of it. Damn, I need to wash my hands."
I grab the nearby hand sanitizer and scrub the germs off given simply by mentioning the dirty tactics and nature you are. You're so shallow and vapid, if only you had a mirror that didn't lie to you.
"Good, better. Now where was I? Oh, yes, blah blah, repetition blah. Yes, you're pigeonholed by yourself. You eat your own crow for dinner, how many metaphors and symbols do I have to get through before you GET it? But then again, it takes one to know one, but at the minimum, I've been trying to keep my own self under control. Within the ring, on the air, I'm cool, calculated, controlled. And if by what your match last week showed, you are prone to passing the fuck out when a simple submission hold is put on you. So yeah, let's eliminate the big lug right off the bat, let you wear yourself down so I can come right in, wrap myself around that stack of bibles you call a neck, and choke you right the fuck out. Oh, sorry, I said the F word, I mean...Choke you the Heck out. Pardon my language, and if you would, please, politely go fuck yourself."
Ah, one down, one to go, right? I take a sip of my Crown and smirk at the camera. As I set down the drink, I assume the position by furrowing my brows till they are almost meeting, and assume the neanderthal position.
"Me big, me kick ass. Blah Blah. Someone clean my boom boom!"
And quickly, I assume the opposite role.
"Oh, don't mind him, I just forgot to take him by the hand to the bathroom. I'm the rich guy who handles this wild beast. Hi, My name is Mr. Moneybags, yes, could you please forget that I even introduced him, since you know this is all really about me. I'm just trying to use him to add to my accolades, since I'm obviously no good in the ring myself. I can't help but realize this as I speak out loud in monologue about how much money I'm wasting on the elaborate sets and publicity shots of the big lug. But I love him, I mean REALLY love him. We have a bit of tension but I always make sure I'm the top, he doesn't seem to mind, or well, it'd be hard to tell, I wonder if he's even got the emotional capacity to feel that."
"What? Me no under-"
"Yes, you don't understand, I know. Just quietly go play with this squeaky toy and have yourself a good ol time while the adults speak."
"SQUEEEAKY TOY!!!! YAYYYY!!!!!!"
"Oh god, I think he just pooped again. My apologies. SO, Mr. Bates is it? Oh god, how formal. You sound like some form of Lunatic, is that what you are? Truly? A lunatic? Oh my, perhaps I should fear going to the shower in your house, I might get stabbed and you might very well be cross-dressing like a dead old woman. Oh my, have I just put you in a box? I like boxes, it's safe in there, really, I mean SUPER safe. I need to go back to mine now. By the way, I'm secretly a Vampire and the box is code for a casket, how else do you think I became so rich. HAHAHAHA! Oh god, the light, I hate that crap. Blah."
Yes, a little improper, but I think I just responded for our opponent, right? I mean, he can't POSSIBLY have anything useful to say, and it does give me a chance to break out my bad acting skills, you know, being from California and all I need to do that on occasion. God, I'm so fucking biased, I'm going to Hell.
"So yes, Lance, now that I'm done insulting you, and the other man, well, if he's even got the genetic makeup to be considered a Homo Sapien, I guess I should end this, so you can go back to moping before our meeting tomorrow night. I mean, seriously, is it that bad being a Hypocrite? Aren't we all, in some way? It's all bullshit, it's all bad for you, and in the end, we all go to the same place in the end. And no, I don't mean Heaven, there is no Heaven. It's a grave, a big old black pile of dirt that you get to rot away into nothing. There's no life after death, there's no reincarnation. So make your life worth it, Lance, and stop riding your legacy or other people's coat-tails. You're better than that. But then again, Actions speak far louder than words. So, as I do, perhaps you can politely, and quickly, SHUT UP!"
Well howdy there pardner.