Post by Gonzo Murdock on Feb 19, 2017 8:07:51 GMT
Entry 5 - Fight or Flight
February 13, 2017
Cajundome
Shortly After Debut
The bell rang, and it continues to ring inside of my head. No sooner had it rang, those two were on me like stink on shit! Thank God those two had major beef with each other, or this could've been the shortest night since my first match back in 1999. But that double offense against me really triggered something that I had thought I buried long ago. Probably why I did so many drugs to begin with. Also why I didn't bother fucking around with each of them once I managed to find a way to intervene and put both of them away.
It also didn't help that Laura Howlett was prowling around ringside. Smart move on her part not to intervene against me, for I have ZERO QUALMS about putting a bitch down when needed. I know it sounds chauvinistic, or misogynistic, but in the game of war, all is fair. Proof of that I found in Sierra Leone, where the child soldier is used to great effect and almost exclusively by the Revolutionary United Front. Talk about evil shit.
Once I got back behind the curtain, the ringing was still prevailing over all other noises. Even Willy Carter's smooth baritone couldn't cut through it, as I had to push him aside after the match in order to avoid the hot mess that usually comes with this ringing and buzzing in my head. I had to calm this damage, and fast.
I made it to the locker room, where I found my flask full of scotch whiskey for such emergencies as this. Yet as I was about to find a private place to go, there was Willy again. Persistent yet nosy asshole, it seems. I had no clue what he said, but I think I made it clear that I was not in a good place for talking at the time. I eventually settled on a janitor's closet, where I could drink in peace and maybe calm this damage inside of my head...
Several Hours Later...
Custodian: Eh man, you okay?
Gonzo: Huh? Where the fuck am I?
Custodian: You in my closet, man. You one of them pro wrestlers, no? You get jumped or someting?
The thick Cajun accent was not doing my head any favors, as I moved to get up and the flask hit the ground. The custodian laughs, as he says...
Custodian: I see! You getting a little drink on! No worries, I keep your secret. But you gotta get outta here, man. Gotsta clean this place up. You can still getta shower, do.
I pick up my flask, and continue out of the closet and back to the locker room. It was quiet, both inside of my head and all around. I thank the Gods, then get myself ready for a shower, pulling out my plastic stool and setting it up. Next was the folding crutch I used to get inside of the shower. Great thing about these feet are that they're pretty durable. But they suck walking through wet tile, and a real pain in the ass to put shoes on, especially high-top wrestling boots.
I'll skip the details of my shower, because other than the fact that I have to kneel on a stool for lack of a right foot, it pretty much is the same as anybody else's shower, except I don't try to take all day to do what needs to be done. Especially in public facilities. The Hollywood shower can wait for when I get to the hotel.
I dry off, put my clothes and foot back on, and leave the building. Looking at my watch, it was several hours past the end of the show, like the daylight might be coming up in a few hours. So it really surprised the hell out of me that Tiffany Jones was leaning on my van, presumably waiting for me. I say...
Gonzo: The show has been over for hours! What are you doing here?
T. Jones: I could ask you the same question. Actually, what are you still doing here?
Gonzo: You want the truth or do you want me to make up something funny for you to write down? Because the truth will not only sound like a lie, but it's quite sad. At least I think it's sad.
T. Jones: Never mind, then. I'm basically here because you blew Willy Carter off after your match, and he's pissed about it. He told me to wait for you here and get the interview that he wanted. Waste of time, to be honest. This interview will probably never see the light of day.
Gonzo: So why even bother?
T. Jones: Because I got bills to pay and my own mouth to feed, to take a line from you.
Gonzo: I feel like Denny's right now. Since we're talking about mouths to feed, mine could do for some grub. And you?
T. Jones: Why not? The van's not as bad as you made it out to be.
Gonzo: Still no car?
T. Jones: Willy left me here to ensure that you'd be interviewed. We carpool, and he's usually in charge of the rental.
Gonzo: That's a pretty dick move on his part. I guess mine, as well. I should've given him the interview, but I probably would've just grunted and howled, before I tore his head off. He should thank me that I didn't do that earlier tonight.
I unlock the passenger side door, and open it up for Tiffany. She gets in and I close the door behind her. As I get to the driver's side, the door is already unlocked thanks to Tiffany. I fire up the old beasty, and get rolling to a Denny's. It was a brief, yet quiet ride as we get to the restaurant. The bare minimum of folks happen to be at this restaurant, which is the great appeal of Denny's to begin with. We sit down, order our food, and quickly get to the questions at hand...
T. Jones: So, the first question would be why did you blow Willy off?
Gonzo: (sighs) Well, after the match, well... It's hard to explain. Sometimes when I get stressed physically, I get this ringing and buzzing in my head, and I get a certain way. Doctors call it a psychosomatic fight or flight response, or something to that effect. When Willy approached me, I was still going through that, and I had to take care of it before I hurt someone, whether they deserved it or not.
T. Jones: Okay, that's different. He just thought you were being an, and I'm saying what he said, "an antisocial fuckhead".
Gonzo: Yeah, he should write down for future reference that after I leave the ring, he should just not bother fucking with me. Him, or anybody else that values breathing.
T. Jones: Noted. Next is after the match, how did you feel winning your first match against such opponents as Ryan Shane and Zasshu?
Gonzo: Well, the match happened as you saw it happen. It isn't rocket science as to how and why I won. Those two have a hard-on for each other, and they let that get the best of them. I took advantage of the situation and I won as a result. And truth be told, I thought the match was going to be a lot tougher than it was, but because I was prepared for the struggle that never came, and they obviously were not, I was able to put them away fast.
T. Jones: Those were some devastating knees you laid into those guys. I've never seen a knee used in that manner before. How did you develop your offense?
Gonzo: A lot of it was practiced over the years, but some of it is off the cuff. Some people call it innovation, but I just call it the right move at the right time for the right circumstances. And that's what makes it so effective, because it's not going to be the same thing day in and day out.
T. Jones: You exchanged some words with Laura Howlett after the match. What did you say to her that made her so angry?
Gonzo: The simple truth, which is she needs better clients. Ryan Shane didn't seem 100% inside of the ring tonight, but Zasshu showed absolutely no heart inside of that ring tonight, and he paid for it. And I think Howlett saw that, too.
T. Jones: So now that you got your debut out of the way, what do you think is in store for you in your IWF future?
Gonzo: Make money. That's priority. But a few title shots here and there wouldn't hurt in that regard. Funny how some of these guys think that I don't care about the sport, which may be true, but that doesn't stop me from kicking their ass. My motivations may not be the same as the rest of the guys in the locker room, but they are very realistic and driving, and I will succeed in my plans for the future. Make money, win titles, piss these asshats off that think that their "love" for a sport so fickle will carry them through.
You see, this isn't my first rodeo, and I know just how fast this business can and will turn on you. I'm not going to get invested like I had before. It's like being married to a great chick that just goes sour on you. It gets ugly, then comes the divorce. You lose sleep at night wondering how shit went so bad, and before you know it, you're in rehab because you need drugs to wake up, function, and to sleep. Never again! As far as I'm concerned, this is purely business, and I'm very fucking good at this business. The winning part, at least.
T. Jones: Business being fickle aside, you seem to have done quite well tonight. I just hope you are able to get over your issues from the past. To include your previous organizations and marriages.
Gonzo: I wouldn't hold my breath on that one, but I appreciate you at least pretending to give a shit. Oh thank Gods, the food is here. I am starving!
As soon as the Lumberjack Slam hit the table, I hit it with a vengeance. We ate our food, as the conversation steered away from pro wrestling, and thank God that Tiffany Jones seemed quick on the uptake that I don't care much for the business. Sure, one can be good at what they do, but not always enjoy what they do. Just ask a professional assassin about that, or a stripper, or... Well, you get the point.
After the meal, we went back to Hilton and went our separate ways in the lobby. She went to her room, and I went to mine. I killed the minibar in an effort to find sleep once again. I think it happened after the fifth mini bottle of The Glenlivet went down. Or maybe it was the sixth...
Entry 6 - "Cheryl's" Story
February 17, 2017
PTSD/Survivor's Group Meeting
Slidell, Louisiana
My mind kept going back to that match, and how affected I was after the fact. I wasn't able to sleep without the use of alcohol or weed. Was I starting to backslide? Was it a bad idea for me to go back into professional wrestling? What the hell was I thinking? Was I a complete defective now?
Fighting was all I've ever really been good at. Sure, I was a Corpsman in the Navy, and I parlayed that into a surgical doctorate, at least until I was disbarred because of all the bullshit the government dealt me months ago. Not that I could keep up with all the insurance premiums I would have to pay to be an active physician. But most people don't get that because there aren't that many doctors just walking around talking about it.
After three days and racking up some ridiculous bills to the minibar, I decided it was time to seek some help. After looking up some local PTSD groups, I went out and decided to attend some of these meetings. Alas, most of them wanted money that I just didn't have to pony up. While you're probably thinking I'm cheap (which may be true), I don't think I (or any other veteran or public service member) should ever pay for such services, considering what we do or have done was for the best interest of the general public. Hate us or not, we at least deserve some respect in that regard, and not be ripped off for a service we provide for the community and nation alike.
Getting off of that particular soapbox, I finally found a place just north of New Orleans, which offered such services. It reminded me a lot of Alcoholic's Anonymous, except we wore name tags and didn't recite the whole "I'm an alcoholic and/or addict" part. Good thing, considering I wrote "Jorge" down as my name. At least the name I gave is sort of true.
There were plenty of folks smoking cigarettes in back of the church, to include myself. There was coffee and cookies laid out. Folding chairs that were not dented by someone's brain pan were arranged in a large circle, while the Pastor (himself a Marine scout sniper and Vietnam War veteran, I found out prior to coming to the meeting) managed to finally get everyone into the circle to talk. I'm glad we skipped the part where we hold hands and just went into reciting the Lord's Prayer, which I did more out of habit and respect than actual belief.
I lost faith in God for many different reasons. Because I saw one group of people torture and murder others for finite resources, and the cycle continues. I've seen men on the same side, allegedly, kill each other to keep secrets that would tear the fabric of our nation and society. I've even had the displeasure of losing many close relationships because of the secrets that I had to keep above all else, to include from those I loved, if I was ever capable of love. I question if I am everyday of my miserable existence.
As we wrapped up the Lord's Prayer, the Pastor started off by saying...
Pastor: Now, this isn't like AA meetings where we go around and introduce ourselves. That's what the name tags are for. I would like to start with any positive changes that have occurred as of late. Anybody want to start?
Dead air hung through the room. A pin could've dropped and everyone would've been able to hear it as clear as a siren. Then a petite Asian lady with the name "Cheryl" raised her hand, as the Pastor nodded in her direction and says...
Pastor: Cheryl? You've been coming here for weeks, but have never spoken before. What is your good news?
"Cheryl": I took classes at Tulane to get my CPA, and I recently found out that I'm now state certified.
The room claps at the good news, to include myself. After the clapping ceases, the Pastor then asks.
Pastor: That's good news. Did your move to be an accountant have to do with your past in... Well, I don't know what happened to you to prompt you to come here.
"Cheryl": Prior to this, I worked intelligence. Before that, I was a Nuclear Physics and East Asian Studies major at UC Berkeley on a full ride as a setter on the volleyball team. With those majors, you can figure out what I was going to do.
"Jorge": North Korea?
She shot me a look that could've melted tungsten, but before she could even recite what had happened to her, I already had a pretty good idea as to what transpired, but she continued.
"Cheryl": Yes, I went to North Korea, and long story short, I failed my mission. I got put into a political prison, where I was interrogated for the better part of six months. In between, I was gang raped by the guards. I wasn't the only person this happened to. Others suffered worse fates when they would finally "confess". Usually a public execution, though at least they got to end their suffering quick.
Believe me, I had considered it. I was thinking about ratting out, but I knew if I did, I would probably be disavowed. Plausible deniability by the government. Either way, I was not going to get out of there easy, if ever. Not even an execution for me, because they would've never believed me.
I managed to escape in transit from one political prison to another, and somehow managed to get across the border to China. From there, I stowed away on a ship that was heading for what I later found out was Japan. When I got there, I went to a consulate office and reported in to my agency. I was brought home, debriefed, and I resigned my position. But life had changed for me in ways I never thought could happen.
I had a fiancee, whom left me after he found out what I did and why I disappeared for so long. I couldn't talk to my family about it, because I never told them what I did. They thought I was a naval officer working on nuclear reactors on aircraft carriers. To tell them that I lied to them would've hurt them, and would've made me relive all of this. And to break down in front of them...
That's never happened to me before. I couldn't disappoint them like that! So I came here, far away from them, to rebuild my life. I figured being an accountant would be the start of a safe life away from my old one. There's not exactly a lot of Asians around here, so that's a start.
Pastor: Do you ever talk to your parents? Do you know that they'll handle what you've been through so harshly?
"Cheryl": They're Asian. Failure and disappointment is handled quite harshly. I've never disappointed them ever, and to start now? They'd probably disown me completely. But the thing I would worry about the most is the community. How they would handle it. They would probably think of me as some kind of traitor to my own ethnic background. They would probably think I deserved what I had happen to me.
The pastor nodded, as did I. Asian cultures were much different from our own. Strength of character and the ability to suffer in silence is paramount in such cultures. To say anything regarding discomfort, let alone a personal assault, without providing your own recourse, is considered weakness. In other words, either dealing with your problem, or running away from it, is the only plausible courses of action in such culture. She had obviously made her choice.
"Cheryl": But for the first time in a long time, things are finally starting to look up. I'm a long ways away from Pyongyang. And while I never spoke about this before, I do want to thank a lot of you that do speak. You assure me that I'm not alone in the suffering that I've endured in my life. I thank you all for listening and not judging. And if you are judging, at least keeping your opinions to yourself.
Pastor: Well, thank you Cheryl. Not everyday that we talk to a former government agent. Any other good news?
I raise my hand, as I say...
"Jorge": I got a new job. Money's alright, but I have a lot of lawyer fees and child support to pay out on. But I'm beginning to rebuild my life.
Pastor: Jorge? I don't believe I've seen you before...
"Jorge": My job takes me from place to place, so I may never see you again, but I still have issues. Like when I get stressed out, and I hear the buzz in my ears...
The combat vets and police officers start nodding their heads, knowing exactly what I mean...
Pastor: So what you're doing is dangerous?
"Jorge": You could say that. One wrong move, and I could become a paraplegic. But even though
I know the other guy isn't trying to really kill me, I still get that feeling whenever I get into the ring...
Pastor: You're a fighter?
"Jorge": Yes sir. It's the only thing I really know, and I've always been good at it. Well, I was a SEAL medic, but I still spent more time fighting than I did anything else. That's how I lost my foot. Land mine in Afghanistan. Turned me into a speed junkie for a few years, but I got clean and I've got this job...
Pastor: What kind of organization would let you fight with a prosthetic foot?
Attendant: You're Gonzo, aren't you? Man, I heard of you! You wrestling again?
Well fuck, my cover is blown. I just calmly get to my feet, and say...
"Jorge": Nah, you got me confused with someone else. But he's my hero. He made me believe that despite this issue in my life, I could still do what I've always been good at. Speaking of which, look at the time...
Pastor: Sir? Are you alright?
"Jorge": Yeah, I'm just going to get some air.
I walk out of the basement, as I curse myself over and over again. Why did I open my big fucking mouth? Now EVERYBODY is going to know where I've been and what I'm doing! I then move ass back to the van and get in. I slam my hands on the steering wheel out of anger, before I grab a pack of Marlboro's from the dash and light one up, before I turn over the engine and roll out...
Entry 7 - Fancy Meeting You Here...
The Next Day
Café du Monde
New Orleans, Louisiana
It was a new day and a new disguise, as I sat down to enjoy my coffee and beignets covered in powdered sugar. Most of the sugar wound up in my coffee, as I tend to dunk such items into my coffee before consuming. Because coffee-flavored anything is pretty awesome to me.
As I got through my first fritter, a purse is slammed down on to my table. I figured that maybe this person was lost, because I did my best to wear a disguise that would ensure that nobody in their right mind would ever consider sitting near me. I had glued on random strands of hair to my bald scalp, and added a few age lines and wrinkles to my face. There was no way anybody would know who I was, unless I resemble someone that this person knows.
Much to my shock, as I look up, it was "Cheryl" from the day before! Rather than let on who I was, I say in French...
Gonzo: Je vous connais?
"Cheryl": Let's cut through the BS. I know who you are, George Murdock. Not exactly a lot of people drive around in those vans anymore. Especially with New York plates on them.
Gonzo: Qui êtes-vous, dame? Et qui est ce George?
"Cheryl": Really? So if I went over to that van and slashed the tires on it, you won't care one bit? Or better yet, how about I blow it up?
I sigh, as I'm certain at this point I will get no peace from this woman, as I say...
Gonzo: Can't you see that I do not want to be bothered? What do you want? To kill me? Collect some bounty on my head placed there by some sheikh I pissed off long ago? Or is it one of the Mexican cartels?
"Cheryl": Yeah, the only way I kill you is by killing about a million more people along with you. No, I want to talk to you about wrestling.
Gonzo: Look, it's just a job. Nothing to get excited about. Pay is alright, but there's no settling down for any period of time. There's constant nagging injuries that really get annoying. And talk about long days. And there's the egomaniacs in the back that think they're the next Hulk Hogan. Every fucking one of them will tell you they're all destined to be the top guy in the fed.
"Cheryl": So much for that dream... But you heard what I said. And after thinking about it, I've realized that I'm still angry about it. Sure, accounting is safe, but it's hardly an outlet for my frustrations. I was wondering what it takes to get inside of that ring?
Gonzo: Years of training, hundreds to thousands of dollars for the opportunity, and an iron will to take shit from just about everyone above you. And starting from the bottom, that's everyone.
"Cheryl": Well, I looked into you, and learned a lot about you that didn't even scratch the surface of what you said. I get that after you got burned, you want some anonymity, but you also got some major financial issues. Issues I can help you with.
Gonzo: Really? You want to be my agent? In exchange I teach you to wrestle?
"Cheryl": Exactly.
Gonzo: You're crazy, and I'm leaving...
"Cheryl": Why not? My services are more than enough for you to consider training me? I mean, if I can find you, you don't think other people can't? And I know people who are WAY better at finding people who don't...
Gonzo: And that's why I can't train you. First of all, I don't trust you. Second, you made a threat, which if we were anywhere else but here, I would make a North Korean prison seem like Mardi Gras when I'm done with you. Now I'm going to leave. If you bother me again, I will rip the life out of your body, you understand me?
I get up from the table, and I pick up the cane which goes with my disguise, my thumb on a button that conceals a blade at the bottom of the walking stick, and walk towards my van, as I hear her say...
Catherine: Catherine Moon. You want trust? My name is Catherine Moon. Talk to your contacts, if you still have any, and look me up. But I'm serious, I need this!
I turn around, and I look at her, stunned by her determination. I shake my head and sigh, before I say...
Gonzo: Why me?
Catherine: I don't know why, but I feel like I can trust you. You've been through some of the same things I been through. I read about the hotbox treatment in Afghanistan back in 2009. I can only imagine what they did to you before they left you out in the desert to die...
Gonzo: You still have Agency contacts? You know, associating with me is a good way to get yourself in trouble with the Agency.
Catherine: I walked away long ago. For you, I just burned my last bridge. Guy said you were radioactive, which is okay with me. It might discourage the Agency from ever reaching out to me ever again.
I couldn't help but smirk and chuckle at that statement. I'd do just about anything to get back in, while she'll do just about anything to stay out.Though I believe the irony was lost to her. I then say...
Gonzo: I still think you're crazy, but if you're really serious, meet me at the Hyatt Regency near the Smoothie King Center tomorrow at 6:30 AM. Ask for George at the front desk. We'll start after that. I will have your first task to do at that time. Until then, don't follow me. And do not be late!
She nods, as I turn to walk away. As I walk to the van, I chuckle to myself at the situation. She has no clue what she's getting herself into. But at the very least, I'll be getting my taxes done for free this year...
Entry 7 - Clash of the Undesired Hated Bastard Children of the IWF (The Shoot)
The first match of my career in the IWF was against two different men by the names of Ryan Shane and Zasshu. This week, I face two more men, though they both reside in the same body named Jimmy Zane.
On the surface, it just looks like a whack job who's just looking for some attention. A guy who wears masks and paints his face to evoke some sort of response from whomever is across the ring from him. And probably some ploy to sell some merch to some unsuspecting children at the shows who think he's edgy and cool. And to get his point across, he's got some Tom Hardy-looking motherfucker following him around to keep him in check, because he's so dangerous. Not just to society, but to himself, as well.
But looking past his appearance, his eccentricities, and all the smoke and mirrors, I come to find out he's a second generation wrestler who seemingly has "Daddy Issues" that are far from resolved. I guess this caused his break in his psyche, and thus all the theatrical paint and masks he subjects us to whenever he's booked to wrestle. Perhaps if I was still a medical professional that still gave a shit, I would offer him some help and guidance. Or at least a number to a therapist that isn't interested in using him as a meal ticket, but rather is interested in offering him some REAL HELP.
I guess this isn't Jimmy Zane's day, is it? Like he'd listen to what I had to say. Especially considering how badly he needs a W. So I guess it's time to share. Because sharing is caring.
You see Jimmy, I grew up in an unhappy home. I was born to a father who never gave a shit about me. I know, because he was never a part of my life. Ever. And when I did meet him as an adult, he had the audacity to call ME a failure at life. At least I had the balls to get up and DO SOMETHING with my life! What the fuck did that loser ever do with his life? He did a lot of drugs and lived off of his father, my grandfather, like a fucking leech! FUCK THAT GUY! WHO THE FUCK NEEDS THAT WHINY LITTLE BITCH?!?!
My step-father? Well, he spent loads of time telling me the same damn thing. I'll never be worth a shit to anybody. I'm a loser. I'm destined to fail at everything because my real father is a piece of shit. Glad I listened to him, because if I did, many good people would be dead, others would still be alive to hurt people who don't deserve it, and I never would've been able to be so damn successful in the 17 years I've been stomping holes into assholes like you inside of the squared circle. Which, ironically enough, he taught me how to do through the study of martial arts. He's still an asshole, but I have to give him that.
Then there's my mother, who basically ignored me most of my life, save for whenever I got into trouble. Then it was even worse than those two supposed "father figures" I grew up with. Most of my childhood scars, both physical and emotional, are a result of that woman. A woman who would deride me as being "Just like your father!" whom I never met until I was an adult. Do you know how much that hurt? Not because of the implications, but because I honestly didn't know what the fuck she was talking about! Hurt my fucking head for YEARS! Because every time I did something bad, or at least something she didn't like or agree with, it was always back to, you guessed it...
"Just like your father!"
So yes, I had some shitbag parents. But did I break like glass? NO! Did I whine, cry, and pout in a corner or at a mirror all the time? NO! Do I even blame them for my shortcomings in life, or my failures? Well, maybe when it comes to interpersonal relationships, but otherwise? NO!
But that's all you seem to do. Blame your father for your failings and shortcomings. Instead of taking responsibility for your own choices and actions, such as following him into professional wrestling. So what if he hung you out to dry? If anything, you should have pushed on and succeeded despite that bastard! Instead, you buckled under the pressure of handling things YOURSELF, LIKE A REAL MAN WOULD!
So bottom line is this, you live in a fantasy world where you think you're problems are based around the fact that your Daddy was shitty to you, yet you cannot or will not hold yourself accountable for the fact that YOU are the failure inside of the ring, and NOT HIM! You cannot cope with the fact you are an utter failure, so you create a shitty alter-ego so you can lay blame on him when you inevitably fail once again. Or is this alter ego supposed to help you rise above? Well, how great is that working out for you so far? And how do you think it's going to work out this time around?
Sure, you're probably saying things like "You don't even care about pro wrestling!" Or maybe you're going to point out I'm in this for the money, while you say you're going to win this fight because you have to prove something to a Daddy who doesn't give a shit about you! The fact is, if that's what you plan on throwing at me, then kettle, meet pot. We're both in this for the wrong reasons. At least I'm honest about my motivations. Are you?
Contemplate all of this before we step into the ring, because when the lights come back on, we're standing in that ring and the bell rings, know that somewhere your Daddy is watching you get your ass handed to you in a sling by a man with an equally shitty family who's hoping you kill me in that ring. I'm not going to give them the satisfaction of failure because I'm over their shit. I cannot say the same about you.
PAYDAY is coming, Jimmy Zane! And come Monday night, I'll be cashing your check. I'll see you then, pussy!
February 13, 2017
Cajundome
Shortly After Debut
The bell rang, and it continues to ring inside of my head. No sooner had it rang, those two were on me like stink on shit! Thank God those two had major beef with each other, or this could've been the shortest night since my first match back in 1999. But that double offense against me really triggered something that I had thought I buried long ago. Probably why I did so many drugs to begin with. Also why I didn't bother fucking around with each of them once I managed to find a way to intervene and put both of them away.
It also didn't help that Laura Howlett was prowling around ringside. Smart move on her part not to intervene against me, for I have ZERO QUALMS about putting a bitch down when needed. I know it sounds chauvinistic, or misogynistic, but in the game of war, all is fair. Proof of that I found in Sierra Leone, where the child soldier is used to great effect and almost exclusively by the Revolutionary United Front. Talk about evil shit.
Once I got back behind the curtain, the ringing was still prevailing over all other noises. Even Willy Carter's smooth baritone couldn't cut through it, as I had to push him aside after the match in order to avoid the hot mess that usually comes with this ringing and buzzing in my head. I had to calm this damage, and fast.
I made it to the locker room, where I found my flask full of scotch whiskey for such emergencies as this. Yet as I was about to find a private place to go, there was Willy again. Persistent yet nosy asshole, it seems. I had no clue what he said, but I think I made it clear that I was not in a good place for talking at the time. I eventually settled on a janitor's closet, where I could drink in peace and maybe calm this damage inside of my head...
Several Hours Later...
Custodian: Eh man, you okay?
Gonzo: Huh? Where the fuck am I?
Custodian: You in my closet, man. You one of them pro wrestlers, no? You get jumped or someting?
The thick Cajun accent was not doing my head any favors, as I moved to get up and the flask hit the ground. The custodian laughs, as he says...
Custodian: I see! You getting a little drink on! No worries, I keep your secret. But you gotta get outta here, man. Gotsta clean this place up. You can still getta shower, do.
I pick up my flask, and continue out of the closet and back to the locker room. It was quiet, both inside of my head and all around. I thank the Gods, then get myself ready for a shower, pulling out my plastic stool and setting it up. Next was the folding crutch I used to get inside of the shower. Great thing about these feet are that they're pretty durable. But they suck walking through wet tile, and a real pain in the ass to put shoes on, especially high-top wrestling boots.
I'll skip the details of my shower, because other than the fact that I have to kneel on a stool for lack of a right foot, it pretty much is the same as anybody else's shower, except I don't try to take all day to do what needs to be done. Especially in public facilities. The Hollywood shower can wait for when I get to the hotel.
I dry off, put my clothes and foot back on, and leave the building. Looking at my watch, it was several hours past the end of the show, like the daylight might be coming up in a few hours. So it really surprised the hell out of me that Tiffany Jones was leaning on my van, presumably waiting for me. I say...
Gonzo: The show has been over for hours! What are you doing here?
T. Jones: I could ask you the same question. Actually, what are you still doing here?
Gonzo: You want the truth or do you want me to make up something funny for you to write down? Because the truth will not only sound like a lie, but it's quite sad. At least I think it's sad.
T. Jones: Never mind, then. I'm basically here because you blew Willy Carter off after your match, and he's pissed about it. He told me to wait for you here and get the interview that he wanted. Waste of time, to be honest. This interview will probably never see the light of day.
Gonzo: So why even bother?
T. Jones: Because I got bills to pay and my own mouth to feed, to take a line from you.
Gonzo: I feel like Denny's right now. Since we're talking about mouths to feed, mine could do for some grub. And you?
T. Jones: Why not? The van's not as bad as you made it out to be.
Gonzo: Still no car?
T. Jones: Willy left me here to ensure that you'd be interviewed. We carpool, and he's usually in charge of the rental.
Gonzo: That's a pretty dick move on his part. I guess mine, as well. I should've given him the interview, but I probably would've just grunted and howled, before I tore his head off. He should thank me that I didn't do that earlier tonight.
I unlock the passenger side door, and open it up for Tiffany. She gets in and I close the door behind her. As I get to the driver's side, the door is already unlocked thanks to Tiffany. I fire up the old beasty, and get rolling to a Denny's. It was a brief, yet quiet ride as we get to the restaurant. The bare minimum of folks happen to be at this restaurant, which is the great appeal of Denny's to begin with. We sit down, order our food, and quickly get to the questions at hand...
T. Jones: So, the first question would be why did you blow Willy off?
Gonzo: (sighs) Well, after the match, well... It's hard to explain. Sometimes when I get stressed physically, I get this ringing and buzzing in my head, and I get a certain way. Doctors call it a psychosomatic fight or flight response, or something to that effect. When Willy approached me, I was still going through that, and I had to take care of it before I hurt someone, whether they deserved it or not.
T. Jones: Okay, that's different. He just thought you were being an, and I'm saying what he said, "an antisocial fuckhead".
Gonzo: Yeah, he should write down for future reference that after I leave the ring, he should just not bother fucking with me. Him, or anybody else that values breathing.
T. Jones: Noted. Next is after the match, how did you feel winning your first match against such opponents as Ryan Shane and Zasshu?
Gonzo: Well, the match happened as you saw it happen. It isn't rocket science as to how and why I won. Those two have a hard-on for each other, and they let that get the best of them. I took advantage of the situation and I won as a result. And truth be told, I thought the match was going to be a lot tougher than it was, but because I was prepared for the struggle that never came, and they obviously were not, I was able to put them away fast.
T. Jones: Those were some devastating knees you laid into those guys. I've never seen a knee used in that manner before. How did you develop your offense?
Gonzo: A lot of it was practiced over the years, but some of it is off the cuff. Some people call it innovation, but I just call it the right move at the right time for the right circumstances. And that's what makes it so effective, because it's not going to be the same thing day in and day out.
T. Jones: You exchanged some words with Laura Howlett after the match. What did you say to her that made her so angry?
Gonzo: The simple truth, which is she needs better clients. Ryan Shane didn't seem 100% inside of the ring tonight, but Zasshu showed absolutely no heart inside of that ring tonight, and he paid for it. And I think Howlett saw that, too.
T. Jones: So now that you got your debut out of the way, what do you think is in store for you in your IWF future?
Gonzo: Make money. That's priority. But a few title shots here and there wouldn't hurt in that regard. Funny how some of these guys think that I don't care about the sport, which may be true, but that doesn't stop me from kicking their ass. My motivations may not be the same as the rest of the guys in the locker room, but they are very realistic and driving, and I will succeed in my plans for the future. Make money, win titles, piss these asshats off that think that their "love" for a sport so fickle will carry them through.
You see, this isn't my first rodeo, and I know just how fast this business can and will turn on you. I'm not going to get invested like I had before. It's like being married to a great chick that just goes sour on you. It gets ugly, then comes the divorce. You lose sleep at night wondering how shit went so bad, and before you know it, you're in rehab because you need drugs to wake up, function, and to sleep. Never again! As far as I'm concerned, this is purely business, and I'm very fucking good at this business. The winning part, at least.
T. Jones: Business being fickle aside, you seem to have done quite well tonight. I just hope you are able to get over your issues from the past. To include your previous organizations and marriages.
Gonzo: I wouldn't hold my breath on that one, but I appreciate you at least pretending to give a shit. Oh thank Gods, the food is here. I am starving!
As soon as the Lumberjack Slam hit the table, I hit it with a vengeance. We ate our food, as the conversation steered away from pro wrestling, and thank God that Tiffany Jones seemed quick on the uptake that I don't care much for the business. Sure, one can be good at what they do, but not always enjoy what they do. Just ask a professional assassin about that, or a stripper, or... Well, you get the point.
After the meal, we went back to Hilton and went our separate ways in the lobby. She went to her room, and I went to mine. I killed the minibar in an effort to find sleep once again. I think it happened after the fifth mini bottle of The Glenlivet went down. Or maybe it was the sixth...
Entry 6 - "Cheryl's" Story
February 17, 2017
PTSD/Survivor's Group Meeting
Slidell, Louisiana
My mind kept going back to that match, and how affected I was after the fact. I wasn't able to sleep without the use of alcohol or weed. Was I starting to backslide? Was it a bad idea for me to go back into professional wrestling? What the hell was I thinking? Was I a complete defective now?
Fighting was all I've ever really been good at. Sure, I was a Corpsman in the Navy, and I parlayed that into a surgical doctorate, at least until I was disbarred because of all the bullshit the government dealt me months ago. Not that I could keep up with all the insurance premiums I would have to pay to be an active physician. But most people don't get that because there aren't that many doctors just walking around talking about it.
After three days and racking up some ridiculous bills to the minibar, I decided it was time to seek some help. After looking up some local PTSD groups, I went out and decided to attend some of these meetings. Alas, most of them wanted money that I just didn't have to pony up. While you're probably thinking I'm cheap (which may be true), I don't think I (or any other veteran or public service member) should ever pay for such services, considering what we do or have done was for the best interest of the general public. Hate us or not, we at least deserve some respect in that regard, and not be ripped off for a service we provide for the community and nation alike.
Getting off of that particular soapbox, I finally found a place just north of New Orleans, which offered such services. It reminded me a lot of Alcoholic's Anonymous, except we wore name tags and didn't recite the whole "I'm an alcoholic and/or addict" part. Good thing, considering I wrote "Jorge" down as my name. At least the name I gave is sort of true.
There were plenty of folks smoking cigarettes in back of the church, to include myself. There was coffee and cookies laid out. Folding chairs that were not dented by someone's brain pan were arranged in a large circle, while the Pastor (himself a Marine scout sniper and Vietnam War veteran, I found out prior to coming to the meeting) managed to finally get everyone into the circle to talk. I'm glad we skipped the part where we hold hands and just went into reciting the Lord's Prayer, which I did more out of habit and respect than actual belief.
I lost faith in God for many different reasons. Because I saw one group of people torture and murder others for finite resources, and the cycle continues. I've seen men on the same side, allegedly, kill each other to keep secrets that would tear the fabric of our nation and society. I've even had the displeasure of losing many close relationships because of the secrets that I had to keep above all else, to include from those I loved, if I was ever capable of love. I question if I am everyday of my miserable existence.
As we wrapped up the Lord's Prayer, the Pastor started off by saying...
Pastor: Now, this isn't like AA meetings where we go around and introduce ourselves. That's what the name tags are for. I would like to start with any positive changes that have occurred as of late. Anybody want to start?
Dead air hung through the room. A pin could've dropped and everyone would've been able to hear it as clear as a siren. Then a petite Asian lady with the name "Cheryl" raised her hand, as the Pastor nodded in her direction and says...
Pastor: Cheryl? You've been coming here for weeks, but have never spoken before. What is your good news?
"Cheryl": I took classes at Tulane to get my CPA, and I recently found out that I'm now state certified.
The room claps at the good news, to include myself. After the clapping ceases, the Pastor then asks.
Pastor: That's good news. Did your move to be an accountant have to do with your past in... Well, I don't know what happened to you to prompt you to come here.
"Cheryl": Prior to this, I worked intelligence. Before that, I was a Nuclear Physics and East Asian Studies major at UC Berkeley on a full ride as a setter on the volleyball team. With those majors, you can figure out what I was going to do.
"Jorge": North Korea?
She shot me a look that could've melted tungsten, but before she could even recite what had happened to her, I already had a pretty good idea as to what transpired, but she continued.
"Cheryl": Yes, I went to North Korea, and long story short, I failed my mission. I got put into a political prison, where I was interrogated for the better part of six months. In between, I was gang raped by the guards. I wasn't the only person this happened to. Others suffered worse fates when they would finally "confess". Usually a public execution, though at least they got to end their suffering quick.
Believe me, I had considered it. I was thinking about ratting out, but I knew if I did, I would probably be disavowed. Plausible deniability by the government. Either way, I was not going to get out of there easy, if ever. Not even an execution for me, because they would've never believed me.
I managed to escape in transit from one political prison to another, and somehow managed to get across the border to China. From there, I stowed away on a ship that was heading for what I later found out was Japan. When I got there, I went to a consulate office and reported in to my agency. I was brought home, debriefed, and I resigned my position. But life had changed for me in ways I never thought could happen.
I had a fiancee, whom left me after he found out what I did and why I disappeared for so long. I couldn't talk to my family about it, because I never told them what I did. They thought I was a naval officer working on nuclear reactors on aircraft carriers. To tell them that I lied to them would've hurt them, and would've made me relive all of this. And to break down in front of them...
That's never happened to me before. I couldn't disappoint them like that! So I came here, far away from them, to rebuild my life. I figured being an accountant would be the start of a safe life away from my old one. There's not exactly a lot of Asians around here, so that's a start.
Pastor: Do you ever talk to your parents? Do you know that they'll handle what you've been through so harshly?
"Cheryl": They're Asian. Failure and disappointment is handled quite harshly. I've never disappointed them ever, and to start now? They'd probably disown me completely. But the thing I would worry about the most is the community. How they would handle it. They would probably think of me as some kind of traitor to my own ethnic background. They would probably think I deserved what I had happen to me.
The pastor nodded, as did I. Asian cultures were much different from our own. Strength of character and the ability to suffer in silence is paramount in such cultures. To say anything regarding discomfort, let alone a personal assault, without providing your own recourse, is considered weakness. In other words, either dealing with your problem, or running away from it, is the only plausible courses of action in such culture. She had obviously made her choice.
"Cheryl": But for the first time in a long time, things are finally starting to look up. I'm a long ways away from Pyongyang. And while I never spoke about this before, I do want to thank a lot of you that do speak. You assure me that I'm not alone in the suffering that I've endured in my life. I thank you all for listening and not judging. And if you are judging, at least keeping your opinions to yourself.
Pastor: Well, thank you Cheryl. Not everyday that we talk to a former government agent. Any other good news?
I raise my hand, as I say...
"Jorge": I got a new job. Money's alright, but I have a lot of lawyer fees and child support to pay out on. But I'm beginning to rebuild my life.
Pastor: Jorge? I don't believe I've seen you before...
"Jorge": My job takes me from place to place, so I may never see you again, but I still have issues. Like when I get stressed out, and I hear the buzz in my ears...
The combat vets and police officers start nodding their heads, knowing exactly what I mean...
Pastor: So what you're doing is dangerous?
"Jorge": You could say that. One wrong move, and I could become a paraplegic. But even though
I know the other guy isn't trying to really kill me, I still get that feeling whenever I get into the ring...
Pastor: You're a fighter?
"Jorge": Yes sir. It's the only thing I really know, and I've always been good at it. Well, I was a SEAL medic, but I still spent more time fighting than I did anything else. That's how I lost my foot. Land mine in Afghanistan. Turned me into a speed junkie for a few years, but I got clean and I've got this job...
Pastor: What kind of organization would let you fight with a prosthetic foot?
Attendant: You're Gonzo, aren't you? Man, I heard of you! You wrestling again?
Well fuck, my cover is blown. I just calmly get to my feet, and say...
"Jorge": Nah, you got me confused with someone else. But he's my hero. He made me believe that despite this issue in my life, I could still do what I've always been good at. Speaking of which, look at the time...
Pastor: Sir? Are you alright?
"Jorge": Yeah, I'm just going to get some air.
I walk out of the basement, as I curse myself over and over again. Why did I open my big fucking mouth? Now EVERYBODY is going to know where I've been and what I'm doing! I then move ass back to the van and get in. I slam my hands on the steering wheel out of anger, before I grab a pack of Marlboro's from the dash and light one up, before I turn over the engine and roll out...
Entry 7 - Fancy Meeting You Here...
The Next Day
Café du Monde
New Orleans, Louisiana
It was a new day and a new disguise, as I sat down to enjoy my coffee and beignets covered in powdered sugar. Most of the sugar wound up in my coffee, as I tend to dunk such items into my coffee before consuming. Because coffee-flavored anything is pretty awesome to me.
As I got through my first fritter, a purse is slammed down on to my table. I figured that maybe this person was lost, because I did my best to wear a disguise that would ensure that nobody in their right mind would ever consider sitting near me. I had glued on random strands of hair to my bald scalp, and added a few age lines and wrinkles to my face. There was no way anybody would know who I was, unless I resemble someone that this person knows.
Much to my shock, as I look up, it was "Cheryl" from the day before! Rather than let on who I was, I say in French...
Gonzo: Je vous connais?
"Cheryl": Let's cut through the BS. I know who you are, George Murdock. Not exactly a lot of people drive around in those vans anymore. Especially with New York plates on them.
Gonzo: Qui êtes-vous, dame? Et qui est ce George?
"Cheryl": Really? So if I went over to that van and slashed the tires on it, you won't care one bit? Or better yet, how about I blow it up?
I sigh, as I'm certain at this point I will get no peace from this woman, as I say...
Gonzo: Can't you see that I do not want to be bothered? What do you want? To kill me? Collect some bounty on my head placed there by some sheikh I pissed off long ago? Or is it one of the Mexican cartels?
"Cheryl": Yeah, the only way I kill you is by killing about a million more people along with you. No, I want to talk to you about wrestling.
Gonzo: Look, it's just a job. Nothing to get excited about. Pay is alright, but there's no settling down for any period of time. There's constant nagging injuries that really get annoying. And talk about long days. And there's the egomaniacs in the back that think they're the next Hulk Hogan. Every fucking one of them will tell you they're all destined to be the top guy in the fed.
"Cheryl": So much for that dream... But you heard what I said. And after thinking about it, I've realized that I'm still angry about it. Sure, accounting is safe, but it's hardly an outlet for my frustrations. I was wondering what it takes to get inside of that ring?
Gonzo: Years of training, hundreds to thousands of dollars for the opportunity, and an iron will to take shit from just about everyone above you. And starting from the bottom, that's everyone.
"Cheryl": Well, I looked into you, and learned a lot about you that didn't even scratch the surface of what you said. I get that after you got burned, you want some anonymity, but you also got some major financial issues. Issues I can help you with.
Gonzo: Really? You want to be my agent? In exchange I teach you to wrestle?
"Cheryl": Exactly.
Gonzo: You're crazy, and I'm leaving...
"Cheryl": Why not? My services are more than enough for you to consider training me? I mean, if I can find you, you don't think other people can't? And I know people who are WAY better at finding people who don't...
Gonzo: And that's why I can't train you. First of all, I don't trust you. Second, you made a threat, which if we were anywhere else but here, I would make a North Korean prison seem like Mardi Gras when I'm done with you. Now I'm going to leave. If you bother me again, I will rip the life out of your body, you understand me?
I get up from the table, and I pick up the cane which goes with my disguise, my thumb on a button that conceals a blade at the bottom of the walking stick, and walk towards my van, as I hear her say...
Catherine: Catherine Moon. You want trust? My name is Catherine Moon. Talk to your contacts, if you still have any, and look me up. But I'm serious, I need this!
I turn around, and I look at her, stunned by her determination. I shake my head and sigh, before I say...
Gonzo: Why me?
Catherine: I don't know why, but I feel like I can trust you. You've been through some of the same things I been through. I read about the hotbox treatment in Afghanistan back in 2009. I can only imagine what they did to you before they left you out in the desert to die...
Gonzo: You still have Agency contacts? You know, associating with me is a good way to get yourself in trouble with the Agency.
Catherine: I walked away long ago. For you, I just burned my last bridge. Guy said you were radioactive, which is okay with me. It might discourage the Agency from ever reaching out to me ever again.
I couldn't help but smirk and chuckle at that statement. I'd do just about anything to get back in, while she'll do just about anything to stay out.Though I believe the irony was lost to her. I then say...
Gonzo: I still think you're crazy, but if you're really serious, meet me at the Hyatt Regency near the Smoothie King Center tomorrow at 6:30 AM. Ask for George at the front desk. We'll start after that. I will have your first task to do at that time. Until then, don't follow me. And do not be late!
She nods, as I turn to walk away. As I walk to the van, I chuckle to myself at the situation. She has no clue what she's getting herself into. But at the very least, I'll be getting my taxes done for free this year...
Entry 7 - Clash of the Undesired Hated Bastard Children of the IWF (The Shoot)
The first match of my career in the IWF was against two different men by the names of Ryan Shane and Zasshu. This week, I face two more men, though they both reside in the same body named Jimmy Zane.
On the surface, it just looks like a whack job who's just looking for some attention. A guy who wears masks and paints his face to evoke some sort of response from whomever is across the ring from him. And probably some ploy to sell some merch to some unsuspecting children at the shows who think he's edgy and cool. And to get his point across, he's got some Tom Hardy-looking motherfucker following him around to keep him in check, because he's so dangerous. Not just to society, but to himself, as well.
But looking past his appearance, his eccentricities, and all the smoke and mirrors, I come to find out he's a second generation wrestler who seemingly has "Daddy Issues" that are far from resolved. I guess this caused his break in his psyche, and thus all the theatrical paint and masks he subjects us to whenever he's booked to wrestle. Perhaps if I was still a medical professional that still gave a shit, I would offer him some help and guidance. Or at least a number to a therapist that isn't interested in using him as a meal ticket, but rather is interested in offering him some REAL HELP.
I guess this isn't Jimmy Zane's day, is it? Like he'd listen to what I had to say. Especially considering how badly he needs a W. So I guess it's time to share. Because sharing is caring.
You see Jimmy, I grew up in an unhappy home. I was born to a father who never gave a shit about me. I know, because he was never a part of my life. Ever. And when I did meet him as an adult, he had the audacity to call ME a failure at life. At least I had the balls to get up and DO SOMETHING with my life! What the fuck did that loser ever do with his life? He did a lot of drugs and lived off of his father, my grandfather, like a fucking leech! FUCK THAT GUY! WHO THE FUCK NEEDS THAT WHINY LITTLE BITCH?!?!
My step-father? Well, he spent loads of time telling me the same damn thing. I'll never be worth a shit to anybody. I'm a loser. I'm destined to fail at everything because my real father is a piece of shit. Glad I listened to him, because if I did, many good people would be dead, others would still be alive to hurt people who don't deserve it, and I never would've been able to be so damn successful in the 17 years I've been stomping holes into assholes like you inside of the squared circle. Which, ironically enough, he taught me how to do through the study of martial arts. He's still an asshole, but I have to give him that.
Then there's my mother, who basically ignored me most of my life, save for whenever I got into trouble. Then it was even worse than those two supposed "father figures" I grew up with. Most of my childhood scars, both physical and emotional, are a result of that woman. A woman who would deride me as being "Just like your father!" whom I never met until I was an adult. Do you know how much that hurt? Not because of the implications, but because I honestly didn't know what the fuck she was talking about! Hurt my fucking head for YEARS! Because every time I did something bad, or at least something she didn't like or agree with, it was always back to, you guessed it...
"Just like your father!"
So yes, I had some shitbag parents. But did I break like glass? NO! Did I whine, cry, and pout in a corner or at a mirror all the time? NO! Do I even blame them for my shortcomings in life, or my failures? Well, maybe when it comes to interpersonal relationships, but otherwise? NO!
But that's all you seem to do. Blame your father for your failings and shortcomings. Instead of taking responsibility for your own choices and actions, such as following him into professional wrestling. So what if he hung you out to dry? If anything, you should have pushed on and succeeded despite that bastard! Instead, you buckled under the pressure of handling things YOURSELF, LIKE A REAL MAN WOULD!
So bottom line is this, you live in a fantasy world where you think you're problems are based around the fact that your Daddy was shitty to you, yet you cannot or will not hold yourself accountable for the fact that YOU are the failure inside of the ring, and NOT HIM! You cannot cope with the fact you are an utter failure, so you create a shitty alter-ego so you can lay blame on him when you inevitably fail once again. Or is this alter ego supposed to help you rise above? Well, how great is that working out for you so far? And how do you think it's going to work out this time around?
Sure, you're probably saying things like "You don't even care about pro wrestling!" Or maybe you're going to point out I'm in this for the money, while you say you're going to win this fight because you have to prove something to a Daddy who doesn't give a shit about you! The fact is, if that's what you plan on throwing at me, then kettle, meet pot. We're both in this for the wrong reasons. At least I'm honest about my motivations. Are you?
Contemplate all of this before we step into the ring, because when the lights come back on, we're standing in that ring and the bell rings, know that somewhere your Daddy is watching you get your ass handed to you in a sling by a man with an equally shitty family who's hoping you kill me in that ring. I'm not going to give them the satisfaction of failure because I'm over their shit. I cannot say the same about you.
PAYDAY is coming, Jimmy Zane! And come Monday night, I'll be cashing your check. I'll see you then, pussy!
Well howdy there pardner.