Post by Notorious B.O.B. on Aug 29, 2016 0:13:56 GMT
“Bob … hey, Bob … can you hear me okay there?”
He hears him over the sound of Parkway Drive still playing throughout the arena, punctuated with a chorus of boos and intermingled cheers. He opens one eye, all he can manage for the moment, as the referee kneels above him, one hand on his chest and the other held out as though ready to fend off a return attack.
“Hang tight, med staff should be out here in a minute once they stop celebrating up on the stage.”
By lifting his head a few inches, he can see the large Jumbotron that is cutting between a replay of the matches end, and the celebratory victory tour that the House of Howlet seemed to be having on their way backstage. Pooler groaned something that sounded like, “screw that” as he rolled gingerly onto his side and propped himself up on an elbow.
Many of the fans sitting ringside were still cheering him on and shouting encouragement in his direction as he got himself into a sitting position. He dragged the back of his hand across his cheek and nose, a smear of blood leaving a trail on his white wrist tape. “Hey, take it easy – you don’t have to …” the referee began as he rolled, again, this time onto all fours and made the short crawl to the ropes. Reaching up he drags himself to a vertical stance, albeit on very shaky legs, as the fans begin to clap and cheer.
Medical staff finally make their appearance as he shakes his head, pushing past them and out of the ring. He refuses their assistance up the ramp, choosing instead to stumble and nearly collapse than be carried.
He stops at the top of the ramp, one hand wrapped around the black curtain separating the fans from the backstage area, and turns to look back at the crowd.
An arm is raised, a single finger extended toward the heavens as the fans cheer once more and he makes his exit.
The backstage area is still alive with people scurrying around like ants. He scans the sea of unknown stagehands and various personnel before finding a single familiar face.
“Hey … Carter”
Willie Carter, turns half-eaten hotdog still hanging out of his mouth, and makes a dash to catch Pooler as he nearly drops. Chewing feverishly, Willie isn’t able to say anything to the bloodied, battered, man – but that doesn’t matter; Pooler’s the one with something to say.
“Tell them,” he grimaces, “tell them that this isn’t over; tell ‘em all, man …”
Willie nods his head as the medical staff swoop in and take over, pulling Pooler to his feet and out of sight.
__________________________________
”It wasn’t that long ago that I’d have seen what just happened as an invitation to war, Spike; good thing one of us seems to have grown up,”
He sits behind the wheel of an unknown vehicle, parked in an unknown location. His cellphone, probably still held by some sort of dashboard apparatus, records as he chuckles softly to himself. ”See,” he smirks, ”this was probably as far from how I thought things would go as you could get. I honestly though that when you accepted my open invitation to a match, that we’d just have a nice go of it …” He holds his hand over his heart, the sincerity of his words ringing clear.
As he shakes his head, the camera manages to catch a reflection from the mirrored sunglasses on his face. Even though backwards, the Irish flag reflected in the lenses stands out. The words, their script making it difficult to read backwards, appear to note the name of a pub.
A few cars drift by behind him, as a few bystanders are reflected in front of him. One pair opens the door to the establishment and fill the afternoon air with the sounds of the Dropkick Murphys. The tune finds its way to his ears making him chuckle once more.
”I thought that we’d just have a nice ol’ match, and then I’d see about come back home to IWF full time. That,” he snorts, ”was the plan. Looks like things changed a little, eh?” He tilts his head backwards into the headrest for a moment before cocking it to the side with a small pop. ”I really have to tell you the truth, bud,” he’s smiling, but there’s a sense of remorse there too, ”I honestly didn’t remember anything that I’d said or done when I was taken off the active roster last year. I mean, I know that things were kind of dicey there at the end, but the God’s honest truth is that all that shit with AJ … it’s, like,” he shakes his head back and forth, searching for the right words, ”it's just like it isn’t there anymore” he taps at his temple. ”I’ve gone back and watched the old Sacrifices, sat through my old promos, and man,” this time as he shakes his head, he looks like he’s trying to choke back bile, ”man, I’ve got a lot to apologize for.”
He pauses for a moment to collect himself. The viewer can just see that emotion bubbling there beneath the surface that he seems adamant on pushing back down. A small breath in through his nose and he seems refocused.
”So, Spike, let me just say that I’m sorry – for everything. I mean, you came out swinging last week and as I sat there watching you tear me down it really sank in that I must have royally screwed up. Like, your words really cut deep, man; but if you’ve been holding on to this for all this time, then I’m glad you got that off your chest. But,” you can see the muscles in his jaw tense as he clenches his jaw momentarily, ”that doesn’t excuse what happened last week.
You and I,” he motions back and forth between himself and the camera, ”we had ourselves a deal. Sure, I thought that it was going to be a nice gentleman’s match and you wanted to rip my head off – but still, by the end of it we’d have gotten it all worked out.
That was supposed to be the plan, Spike.
But this is where the plan went a little bonkers … because, silly me,” he snickers, ”I thought that we were going to keep things on the ‘up-and-up’, but your palls in the House of Howlett had other ideas. So either they didn’t like the way the match was going, or you decided to call in the reinforcements because you were too afraid of the prospects of losing to someone like me
Face it, Spike, you probably can’t look any worse than I do. There’s so much blood on my hands I’m honestly SHOCKED that Verona even let me back in the building, let alone gave me a match. So here I am, the Judas of IWF with his thirty pieces of silver and all I want is to be rid of it all; to shed this … this … persona that I built – that I earned through my terrible decisions.
And there you were, seconds away from losing to the pariah.
Part of me doesn’t blame you for the interference, Spike; I’d like to think that if I were in your shoes I’d have had the strength to take the loss,” he shrugs, ”but hindsight is twenty-twenty, eh?
All I know is that you owe me. That match, that was your chance to take out a years worth of pent up frustration on me – but where was my closure? Win or lose, I deserved to see that match through to the end; you stole that from me.
Now,” he snarls, removing the sunglasses from his face and wincing at the sight of his own blackened eye, ”now it’s my turn to take that back. It’s time for me to close out that chapter of my life and to move on. I’ve fought through hell that you wouldn’t believe to even get to a place where I feel like I’m able to show my face around here again.
This is my turn, Spike.
It’s time to give back this silver; one fucking coin at a time.” He holds up a silver dollar, pinched between this thumb and forefinger, ”This one’s for you.”
Journal Entry
February 22nd, 2015
Yup, I’m apparently still being forced to sit here and do this shit. Not exactly sure what the fuck I’m supposed to write either – am I supposed to write about my feelings? Write about why I’m so pathetic or why nobody wants to be my friend? Fuck if I know, but whatever I’m supposed to put in here is fucking stupid.
They keep telling me that if I don’t complete ALL the parts of my therapy I won’t get reinstated. So this shit counts, I guess.
Ugh, this is … pointless. So I guess I’ll get this fucking entry over with so I can get back to not doing anything else.
Dear stupid-fucking-diary,
It’s been about a week since I was “voluntarily relocated” from my apartment to this “wonderful” facility. Apparently, it’s frowned upon to to choke your landlord for being a fucking tool.
So, thanks to a friendly judge, I’m not a happy resident of room seventeen here in –REDACTED- where I’m going to make all kinds of “great friends” and “learn all about myself”.
I’m pretty sure I’ll be dead before the end of the month …
Hugs and kisses,
Bobby Go-Fuck-Yourself
He hears him over the sound of Parkway Drive still playing throughout the arena, punctuated with a chorus of boos and intermingled cheers. He opens one eye, all he can manage for the moment, as the referee kneels above him, one hand on his chest and the other held out as though ready to fend off a return attack.
“Hang tight, med staff should be out here in a minute once they stop celebrating up on the stage.”
By lifting his head a few inches, he can see the large Jumbotron that is cutting between a replay of the matches end, and the celebratory victory tour that the House of Howlet seemed to be having on their way backstage. Pooler groaned something that sounded like, “screw that” as he rolled gingerly onto his side and propped himself up on an elbow.
Many of the fans sitting ringside were still cheering him on and shouting encouragement in his direction as he got himself into a sitting position. He dragged the back of his hand across his cheek and nose, a smear of blood leaving a trail on his white wrist tape. “Hey, take it easy – you don’t have to …” the referee began as he rolled, again, this time onto all fours and made the short crawl to the ropes. Reaching up he drags himself to a vertical stance, albeit on very shaky legs, as the fans begin to clap and cheer.
Medical staff finally make their appearance as he shakes his head, pushing past them and out of the ring. He refuses their assistance up the ramp, choosing instead to stumble and nearly collapse than be carried.
He stops at the top of the ramp, one hand wrapped around the black curtain separating the fans from the backstage area, and turns to look back at the crowd.
An arm is raised, a single finger extended toward the heavens as the fans cheer once more and he makes his exit.
The backstage area is still alive with people scurrying around like ants. He scans the sea of unknown stagehands and various personnel before finding a single familiar face.
“Hey … Carter”
Willie Carter, turns half-eaten hotdog still hanging out of his mouth, and makes a dash to catch Pooler as he nearly drops. Chewing feverishly, Willie isn’t able to say anything to the bloodied, battered, man – but that doesn’t matter; Pooler’s the one with something to say.
“Tell them,” he grimaces, “tell them that this isn’t over; tell ‘em all, man …”
Willie nods his head as the medical staff swoop in and take over, pulling Pooler to his feet and out of sight.
__________________________________
”It wasn’t that long ago that I’d have seen what just happened as an invitation to war, Spike; good thing one of us seems to have grown up,”
He sits behind the wheel of an unknown vehicle, parked in an unknown location. His cellphone, probably still held by some sort of dashboard apparatus, records as he chuckles softly to himself. ”See,” he smirks, ”this was probably as far from how I thought things would go as you could get. I honestly though that when you accepted my open invitation to a match, that we’d just have a nice go of it …” He holds his hand over his heart, the sincerity of his words ringing clear.
As he shakes his head, the camera manages to catch a reflection from the mirrored sunglasses on his face. Even though backwards, the Irish flag reflected in the lenses stands out. The words, their script making it difficult to read backwards, appear to note the name of a pub.
A few cars drift by behind him, as a few bystanders are reflected in front of him. One pair opens the door to the establishment and fill the afternoon air with the sounds of the Dropkick Murphys. The tune finds its way to his ears making him chuckle once more.
”I thought that we’d just have a nice ol’ match, and then I’d see about come back home to IWF full time. That,” he snorts, ”was the plan. Looks like things changed a little, eh?” He tilts his head backwards into the headrest for a moment before cocking it to the side with a small pop. ”I really have to tell you the truth, bud,” he’s smiling, but there’s a sense of remorse there too, ”I honestly didn’t remember anything that I’d said or done when I was taken off the active roster last year. I mean, I know that things were kind of dicey there at the end, but the God’s honest truth is that all that shit with AJ … it’s, like,” he shakes his head back and forth, searching for the right words, ”it's just like it isn’t there anymore” he taps at his temple. ”I’ve gone back and watched the old Sacrifices, sat through my old promos, and man,” this time as he shakes his head, he looks like he’s trying to choke back bile, ”man, I’ve got a lot to apologize for.”
He pauses for a moment to collect himself. The viewer can just see that emotion bubbling there beneath the surface that he seems adamant on pushing back down. A small breath in through his nose and he seems refocused.
”So, Spike, let me just say that I’m sorry – for everything. I mean, you came out swinging last week and as I sat there watching you tear me down it really sank in that I must have royally screwed up. Like, your words really cut deep, man; but if you’ve been holding on to this for all this time, then I’m glad you got that off your chest. But,” you can see the muscles in his jaw tense as he clenches his jaw momentarily, ”that doesn’t excuse what happened last week.
You and I,” he motions back and forth between himself and the camera, ”we had ourselves a deal. Sure, I thought that it was going to be a nice gentleman’s match and you wanted to rip my head off – but still, by the end of it we’d have gotten it all worked out.
That was supposed to be the plan, Spike.
But this is where the plan went a little bonkers … because, silly me,” he snickers, ”I thought that we were going to keep things on the ‘up-and-up’, but your palls in the House of Howlett had other ideas. So either they didn’t like the way the match was going, or you decided to call in the reinforcements because you were too afraid of the prospects of losing to someone like me
Face it, Spike, you probably can’t look any worse than I do. There’s so much blood on my hands I’m honestly SHOCKED that Verona even let me back in the building, let alone gave me a match. So here I am, the Judas of IWF with his thirty pieces of silver and all I want is to be rid of it all; to shed this … this … persona that I built – that I earned through my terrible decisions.
And there you were, seconds away from losing to the pariah.
Part of me doesn’t blame you for the interference, Spike; I’d like to think that if I were in your shoes I’d have had the strength to take the loss,” he shrugs, ”but hindsight is twenty-twenty, eh?
All I know is that you owe me. That match, that was your chance to take out a years worth of pent up frustration on me – but where was my closure? Win or lose, I deserved to see that match through to the end; you stole that from me.
Now,” he snarls, removing the sunglasses from his face and wincing at the sight of his own blackened eye, ”now it’s my turn to take that back. It’s time for me to close out that chapter of my life and to move on. I’ve fought through hell that you wouldn’t believe to even get to a place where I feel like I’m able to show my face around here again.
This is my turn, Spike.
It’s time to give back this silver; one fucking coin at a time.” He holds up a silver dollar, pinched between this thumb and forefinger, ”This one’s for you.”
__________________________________
Journal Entry
February 22nd, 2015
Yup, I’m apparently still being forced to sit here and do this shit. Not exactly sure what the fuck I’m supposed to write either – am I supposed to write about my feelings? Write about why I’m so pathetic or why nobody wants to be my friend? Fuck if I know, but whatever I’m supposed to put in here is fucking stupid.
They keep telling me that if I don’t complete ALL the parts of my therapy I won’t get reinstated. So this shit counts, I guess.
Ugh, this is … pointless. So I guess I’ll get this fucking entry over with so I can get back to not doing anything else.
Dear stupid-fucking-diary,
It’s been about a week since I was “voluntarily relocated” from my apartment to this “wonderful” facility. Apparently, it’s frowned upon to to choke your landlord for being a fucking tool.
So, thanks to a friendly judge, I’m not a happy resident of room seventeen here in –REDACTED- where I’m going to make all kinds of “great friends” and “learn all about myself”.
I’m pretty sure I’ll be dead before the end of the month …
Hugs and kisses,
Bobby Go-Fuck-Yourself
Well howdy there pardner.