Post by Mason St. Croix on Jan 25, 2015 10:06:12 GMT
“Wake up Mason!”
Hank’s voice boomed through Mason’s nearly empty apartment as he stood over Mason who was lying in the floor dressed only in a pair of grey cotton shorts. Mason’s eyes fluttered open long enough to see the older man standing over him. He quickly closed his eyes back tightly trying to block the light out.
“I said wake up dammit.” Hank said, grabbing Mason by the shoulder and shaking him. Mason opened his eyes completely and could see the empty fast food wrappers and pizza boxes that littered the floor, as well as a bottle of rum lying on its side a few feet from him, the brown liquid staining the carpet around it.
“I’m awake.” Mason stated as Hank removed his hand from his shoulder. He sat up and looked around the room. “What am I doing here? I need to be at the hospital with Erica.”
“What in tarnation are you talking about?” Hank asked.
“Erica…. She’s in the hospital isn’t she…” he trailed off, the uncertainty in his voice was apparent.
“Not as far as I know.” Hank responded. “That’s why I’m here. She called your Dad and said she saw you out in town yesterday and you were drunk and belligerent. He’s too damn stubborn to come check on ya himself but he asked me if I’d stop and see if you were ok. When I got here you was curled up in a ball in the floor having some kinda fit or something.”
“What day is it Hank?” Mason asked with a sense of panic and urgency.
“It’s Tuesday, why?”
Mason folded his arms against his knees and began to sob.
“What on earth is wrong with you boy?” Hank questioned with a worried tone.
“I’m losing it.” Mason answered through gritted teeth as he looked up at Hank. “In my head we've all been at the hospital for over a week because Anthony almost beat Erica to death but that never happened. I’ve been trapped in my mind. Dreams that only last a few minutes feel like they last for weeks. I’m having nightmares inside of nightmares. It’s to the point where I don’t know what’s real and what’s imaginary anymore. For all I know you’re not really here. This conversation may not even really be happening.”
“I can promise ya kid, I’m sitting here in your filthy apartment watching you sit on the floor in your underwear and cry.” Hank stated, trying to lighten the mood.
His words fell on deaf ears though as Mason stood up and walked over to his bed where he picked up his phone off the nightstand. He checked the date and it was in fact Tuesday as Hank had said.
“I need help…”
Boys, boys, boys. Frank and Eddie, the good old Black’s. Do you morons think you’re dealing with someone that doesn’t know you? Someone that doesn’t know exactly what you’re like when the cameras aren’t rolling and you’re putting on your mad faces and spewing your macho hillbilly bullshit? I ran with you for nearly six months.
You’re a couple of fucking cowards.
You’re too afraid of GOD to say “No, I’ve had enough.” Which is what I did when you pieces of trash decided that pushing a Purple Heart recipient with no legs off the side of a stage while he was strapped to a wheel chair was a good idea. Did you think I forgot what started all this? I would still be fighting by your side and not against you if Angel wasn’t so fucking insecure that the mere thought of someone trying to turn me against him before even talking to me about it caused him to push the panic button.
He’s afraid of me, and you two meth mouthed fucks should be too if you had a brain cell to share between you.
You thought when I was all by myself and had stabbed anyone that had ever trusted me in the back I’d be easy pickings but you never expected I’d not only find someone to watch my back and fight by my side but it’d be a former Man of Steel Champion that less than a year ago had anyone who saw their name listed across from his shaking in their boots and shitting their pants. Killian Creed is a different breed from anybody that currently populates the IWF roster.
He’s not the biggest, definitely not the best looking either but he hits hard and often. He survived 15 years behind bars, smokes a pack a day and has the lungs of an Olympic swimmer. He can fight all night and halfway through tomorrow before he walks to your parents’ house on two broken legs, drags your old man out of bed and bangs your Mom so she can finally say she got laid by someone that wasn’t from the same family tree.
And I’m proud to call him my partner.
On a more serious note, Eddie you of all people know what I’m capable of; I spent the first month of my IWF career kicking your ass on a regular basis. I beat you so bad you had no choice but to respect me and we formed a friendship built on that mutual respect. I still had all the respect in the World for you too until you pushed Walt Jenkins off that stage. I knew you were a low down dirty piece of shit but I didn’t think even you could do something that terrible. It’s sad what fear will drive a man to do. Might even make him sit back and watch a monster have his way with the love of his life.
Stings don’t it, bitch.
See Eddie, old friend, you and your somehow less intelligent brother have done something that needed doing a long time ago. You’ve lit a fire under me. I’d become complacent, I was just going through the motions and I’d lost that killer instinct that made me a singles champion in two different divisions and now that it’s back will see me and Killian Creed walk out of Metamorphosis with your precious Tag Team Championships too.
You’ve got no one to thank for that but yourselves, and Angel Blake of course.
Frank, I’ll be the first to admit I don’t know you nearly as well as I know Eddie. I know you used to get jealous when me and him would hang out on the road without you cause we’d laugh at you about it behind your back. Eddie even told me a few embarrassing stories about you growing up like how you pissed the bed till you were 13. Now you’re all grown up though and you get to trade in your piss stained mattress for a blood stained ring because I’m gonna bash your skull in with everything in the arena that’s not nailed down.
For someone that says I spew the same shit every week you sure do sound like a broken fucking record yourself Frankie. I thought for sure since we ran together and know each other as well as we do you’d come up with something new but we could go find a clip of a Brother’s Black promo from a year ago and dub in the names Mason and Killian over the names of whoever you were facing at the time and it’d sound exactly the same. Killian I get because there’s so many 40 year old Ex-cons running around IWF. That was sarcasm you backwoods piece of shit.
I’m insulted you couldn’t find more original ways to insult me though.
Doesn’t matter though, nothing any of us say matters at this point. We’ve screamed, yelled, and cussed each other for well over a month. I know it’s cliché to say but the time for talking is over. It’s Scars and Stripes vs. The Brother’s Black, rulebook be damned in a street fight for the IWF Tag Team Championships. The first time in many months those belts have been defended but you boys have to do it not just against any team but a team made up of a man that your GOD dubbed his Perfect Weapon because he knew there wasn’t anything perfect about either of you and a guy who may or may not have murdered people in prison and pinned it on his cellmate.
Good luck.
“Then you’ll get it.” Hank said without hesitation. “You got a lot of people that care about you, including me and I ain’t even known you that long.”
“Thanks Hank.”
Mason tried to force a smile as he picked up the half empty bottle of rum off the floor and just stared at it.
“First thing you can do is help yourself by putting that shit down.” Hank shook his head in disappointment.
“I was going to go pour it out. I’m done drinking, I’m done with the pills.” Mason stated as he walked to the sink in the small studio apartment and poured the rum down the drain.
“That’s a great start,” Hank began “Now we need to get you in to see one of those head doctors, can’t remember if it’s called a psychiatrist or a psychologist. One of those psych words.”
“I’ve tried that.” Mason walked back in and took a seat on the foot of the bed. “What I need to do is find out exactly what went on those two years I was gone, and not just the little bit that Walt told me about.”
“Well then that’s what we’ll do.” Hank said as he checked his watch and stood up. “I gotta run, I told your old man I’d help him with some stuff but I’ll swing by soon and we can brainstorm how we’re gonna figure this mess out.”
“Alright,” Mason stood up and shook Hank’s hand. “I really appreciate it, Hank.”
“I’d appreciate it a lot more if you’d have some damn pants on next time.” Hank said with a chuckle
“See ya, Hank.”
Hank walked out the door and Mason closed it behind him. Hank made his way back down to where his Jeep was parked on the curb. Once inside the Jeep he looked up at the window to make sure Mason wasn’t looking out and pulled out a handheld digital recording device and began speaking into it.
“Day One Hundred Sixty Eight. The subject still seems to be suffering from acute Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Night Terrors, and possible hallucinations. Daily monitoring may be in order so that I can try to find out if the treatment has had any effect on him what so ever. I will report back on Day One Hundred and Seventy. Agent Murphy, out.”
Hank looked down at the device, his face covered with signs of guilt as he touched the button on the screen that read “SEND” and drove away.
Hank’s voice boomed through Mason’s nearly empty apartment as he stood over Mason who was lying in the floor dressed only in a pair of grey cotton shorts. Mason’s eyes fluttered open long enough to see the older man standing over him. He quickly closed his eyes back tightly trying to block the light out.
“I said wake up dammit.” Hank said, grabbing Mason by the shoulder and shaking him. Mason opened his eyes completely and could see the empty fast food wrappers and pizza boxes that littered the floor, as well as a bottle of rum lying on its side a few feet from him, the brown liquid staining the carpet around it.
“I’m awake.” Mason stated as Hank removed his hand from his shoulder. He sat up and looked around the room. “What am I doing here? I need to be at the hospital with Erica.”
“What in tarnation are you talking about?” Hank asked.
“Erica…. She’s in the hospital isn’t she…” he trailed off, the uncertainty in his voice was apparent.
“Not as far as I know.” Hank responded. “That’s why I’m here. She called your Dad and said she saw you out in town yesterday and you were drunk and belligerent. He’s too damn stubborn to come check on ya himself but he asked me if I’d stop and see if you were ok. When I got here you was curled up in a ball in the floor having some kinda fit or something.”
“What day is it Hank?” Mason asked with a sense of panic and urgency.
“It’s Tuesday, why?”
Mason folded his arms against his knees and began to sob.
“What on earth is wrong with you boy?” Hank questioned with a worried tone.
“I’m losing it.” Mason answered through gritted teeth as he looked up at Hank. “In my head we've all been at the hospital for over a week because Anthony almost beat Erica to death but that never happened. I’ve been trapped in my mind. Dreams that only last a few minutes feel like they last for weeks. I’m having nightmares inside of nightmares. It’s to the point where I don’t know what’s real and what’s imaginary anymore. For all I know you’re not really here. This conversation may not even really be happening.”
“I can promise ya kid, I’m sitting here in your filthy apartment watching you sit on the floor in your underwear and cry.” Hank stated, trying to lighten the mood.
His words fell on deaf ears though as Mason stood up and walked over to his bed where he picked up his phone off the nightstand. He checked the date and it was in fact Tuesday as Hank had said.
“I need help…”
Boys, boys, boys. Frank and Eddie, the good old Black’s. Do you morons think you’re dealing with someone that doesn’t know you? Someone that doesn’t know exactly what you’re like when the cameras aren’t rolling and you’re putting on your mad faces and spewing your macho hillbilly bullshit? I ran with you for nearly six months.
You’re a couple of fucking cowards.
You’re too afraid of GOD to say “No, I’ve had enough.” Which is what I did when you pieces of trash decided that pushing a Purple Heart recipient with no legs off the side of a stage while he was strapped to a wheel chair was a good idea. Did you think I forgot what started all this? I would still be fighting by your side and not against you if Angel wasn’t so fucking insecure that the mere thought of someone trying to turn me against him before even talking to me about it caused him to push the panic button.
He’s afraid of me, and you two meth mouthed fucks should be too if you had a brain cell to share between you.
You thought when I was all by myself and had stabbed anyone that had ever trusted me in the back I’d be easy pickings but you never expected I’d not only find someone to watch my back and fight by my side but it’d be a former Man of Steel Champion that less than a year ago had anyone who saw their name listed across from his shaking in their boots and shitting their pants. Killian Creed is a different breed from anybody that currently populates the IWF roster.
He’s not the biggest, definitely not the best looking either but he hits hard and often. He survived 15 years behind bars, smokes a pack a day and has the lungs of an Olympic swimmer. He can fight all night and halfway through tomorrow before he walks to your parents’ house on two broken legs, drags your old man out of bed and bangs your Mom so she can finally say she got laid by someone that wasn’t from the same family tree.
And I’m proud to call him my partner.
On a more serious note, Eddie you of all people know what I’m capable of; I spent the first month of my IWF career kicking your ass on a regular basis. I beat you so bad you had no choice but to respect me and we formed a friendship built on that mutual respect. I still had all the respect in the World for you too until you pushed Walt Jenkins off that stage. I knew you were a low down dirty piece of shit but I didn’t think even you could do something that terrible. It’s sad what fear will drive a man to do. Might even make him sit back and watch a monster have his way with the love of his life.
Stings don’t it, bitch.
See Eddie, old friend, you and your somehow less intelligent brother have done something that needed doing a long time ago. You’ve lit a fire under me. I’d become complacent, I was just going through the motions and I’d lost that killer instinct that made me a singles champion in two different divisions and now that it’s back will see me and Killian Creed walk out of Metamorphosis with your precious Tag Team Championships too.
You’ve got no one to thank for that but yourselves, and Angel Blake of course.
Frank, I’ll be the first to admit I don’t know you nearly as well as I know Eddie. I know you used to get jealous when me and him would hang out on the road without you cause we’d laugh at you about it behind your back. Eddie even told me a few embarrassing stories about you growing up like how you pissed the bed till you were 13. Now you’re all grown up though and you get to trade in your piss stained mattress for a blood stained ring because I’m gonna bash your skull in with everything in the arena that’s not nailed down.
For someone that says I spew the same shit every week you sure do sound like a broken fucking record yourself Frankie. I thought for sure since we ran together and know each other as well as we do you’d come up with something new but we could go find a clip of a Brother’s Black promo from a year ago and dub in the names Mason and Killian over the names of whoever you were facing at the time and it’d sound exactly the same. Killian I get because there’s so many 40 year old Ex-cons running around IWF. That was sarcasm you backwoods piece of shit.
I’m insulted you couldn’t find more original ways to insult me though.
Doesn’t matter though, nothing any of us say matters at this point. We’ve screamed, yelled, and cussed each other for well over a month. I know it’s cliché to say but the time for talking is over. It’s Scars and Stripes vs. The Brother’s Black, rulebook be damned in a street fight for the IWF Tag Team Championships. The first time in many months those belts have been defended but you boys have to do it not just against any team but a team made up of a man that your GOD dubbed his Perfect Weapon because he knew there wasn’t anything perfect about either of you and a guy who may or may not have murdered people in prison and pinned it on his cellmate.
Good luck.
“Then you’ll get it.” Hank said without hesitation. “You got a lot of people that care about you, including me and I ain’t even known you that long.”
“Thanks Hank.”
Mason tried to force a smile as he picked up the half empty bottle of rum off the floor and just stared at it.
“First thing you can do is help yourself by putting that shit down.” Hank shook his head in disappointment.
“I was going to go pour it out. I’m done drinking, I’m done with the pills.” Mason stated as he walked to the sink in the small studio apartment and poured the rum down the drain.
“That’s a great start,” Hank began “Now we need to get you in to see one of those head doctors, can’t remember if it’s called a psychiatrist or a psychologist. One of those psych words.”
“I’ve tried that.” Mason walked back in and took a seat on the foot of the bed. “What I need to do is find out exactly what went on those two years I was gone, and not just the little bit that Walt told me about.”
“Well then that’s what we’ll do.” Hank said as he checked his watch and stood up. “I gotta run, I told your old man I’d help him with some stuff but I’ll swing by soon and we can brainstorm how we’re gonna figure this mess out.”
“Alright,” Mason stood up and shook Hank’s hand. “I really appreciate it, Hank.”
“I’d appreciate it a lot more if you’d have some damn pants on next time.” Hank said with a chuckle
“See ya, Hank.”
Hank walked out the door and Mason closed it behind him. Hank made his way back down to where his Jeep was parked on the curb. Once inside the Jeep he looked up at the window to make sure Mason wasn’t looking out and pulled out a handheld digital recording device and began speaking into it.
“Day One Hundred Sixty Eight. The subject still seems to be suffering from acute Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Night Terrors, and possible hallucinations. Daily monitoring may be in order so that I can try to find out if the treatment has had any effect on him what so ever. I will report back on Day One Hundred and Seventy. Agent Murphy, out.”
Hank looked down at the device, his face covered with signs of guilt as he touched the button on the screen that read “SEND” and drove away.
Well howdy there pardner.