One More Drink (1986 words)
Jul 14, 2019 6:44:40 GMT -5
“The RevolutiDaddy” Wesley and Erin Fausse like this
Post by "Dreamcatcher" Ariel Shadows on Jul 14, 2019 6:44:40 GMT -5
What do you do when you've got nothing left?
You keep showing up to everything you're expected to. You give it 110% every time you come to work. You're in two sports; football and wrestling, possibly the two most physically demanding sports in existance. In the football world, you're in the top five for receiving touchdowns and leading the league in interceptions, playing both ways the whole game...and your team is 4-7. Nowhere near a wild card spot in the playoffs, with only six games left and guaranteed playoff elimination if you lose just one.
What would you do? Keep playing your heart out, knowing you're already doomed? Would you stack some more stats, so you could point to them as a reason you want to be paid more money to lose on a team that doesn't give a shit? Would you scream to be traded to another team that would just use you as a backup?
Or would you give up like a little bitch?
Meanwhile in that other sport...you're a big name, arguably bigger than many. You decide to come back to it all after a 12-year career, perfectly happy with never stepping foot in a ring again. You get a good streak going. You might take a loss here and there, but you're right back in title contention when you bounce back. Then you wake up one morning, and it's all gone. You never lost a one-on-one match clean, you almost died from a head injury, and your employer fired you while you were in a week-long coma.
But wait,there's more!
You come back from that. An offer appears! Somewhere that's drawing big ratings, and big money! But once you get there, you're treated like cannon fodder. Last minute after-thought tag matches, not being told you're in a qualifier match for a title tournament until after you lose, not getting booked for a month and then out of nowhere here's another last-minute "meh, she'll do." You're the Kyle that the Area 51 people put on the front line to absorb all the gunfire from the military guarding the base. And everyone who got hired the same time as you, like Al Envy and Walter, just Naruto run right past you into the spot you were going for.
You come back from that. An offer appears! Somewhere that's drawing big ratings, and big money! But once you get there, you're treated like cannon fodder. Last minute after-thought tag matches, not being told you're in a qualifier match for a title tournament until after you lose, not getting booked for a month and then out of nowhere here's another last-minute "meh, she'll do." You're the Kyle that the Area 51 people put on the front line to absorb all the gunfire from the military guarding the base. And everyone who got hired the same time as you, like Al Envy and Walter, just Naruto run right past you into the spot you were going for.
You ain't shit but a welcome wagon.
And on Monday night you and somebody you have never met have to face two established stars in Action Wrestling. I'm talking legends type motherfuckers who have accomplished more taking a piss this morning than most of us will our entire lives. These two aren't just a random throw-together like your team; they even got a cute name, Man Made Gods. Corey Black, a man who is as intimidating as a 600-pound gorilla scratching its ballsack while staring you directly in the eye. Frank Parick Venable, a man with more titles than the City Of Bangkok. You might have to look that one up on Wikipedia to get the reference. It's okay, I can wait here.
Welcome back. Did you masturbate, too, while you were at it? Early detection is the key, rub your balls so you don't get cancer.
Anyways, you realize that you're about to go 0-3...and NOBODY who starts their career 0-3 ever has it easy trying to get themselves into anything resembling a good spot. It sinks in that you're just washed-up enhancement talent. Whether it was because they hired you as enhancement talent, or because you just couldn't get the job done, you're here. It might be your fault, it might not. You don't know, because you've been drunk for a month straight. You've been drunk enough to eat corn and piss whiskey. You're a god damn failure, for the first time in your miserable pathetic life.
You're a jobber for Action Wrestling because you can't get a job anywhere else.
NOW tell me what the fuck you'd do in that situation.
Because I've had a while to think about it, and I got no fucking clue.
Anyone I'd trust enough to talk to isn't here. They're all either dead or they dug themselves into a hole and changed their cell phone numbers. I'm running this shit solo. I don't have anyone there at ringside to help me win matches, or demand things of the company on my behalf. Nobody's negotiating to get me more TV time or media appearances.
And I damn sure ain't got someone to watch my back if anyone wants to pull any of that shit against me. I don't have a gym buddy, or a training coach. I don't have anyone to ride with on the road. I don't have anyone to switch off driving when it's 2:30 in the morning and we still have 103 miles left. I don't have anyone to share my victories with. I don't have anyone to lament the losses to.
I'm alone, motherfuckers. I'm here by my god damn self. I got to figure this out on my own.
Here's what's going to happen Monday night. I'm gonna find Erin Fausse before the match starts, and I pray that we'll figure out some basic idea of how this is gonna operate. If anything she'll go out there, go into business for herself and just beat on Corey and Frank. I guess the odds of us having team chemistry are shot to shit.
The mere fact that our opponents have taken the time to come up with a name like Man Made Gods is enough to convince me they'll have the teamwork advantage over us. Forget their long list of accomplishments, that's probably all they need to go over a drunk thirty-something widow and some half-assed martial arts fighter with a shitty attitude.
Jesus Christ, I am so fucked.
How the fuck am I expected to leave Kansas City without looking like a complete loser?
Fuck it.
Guess I just gotta kill someone.
(NOT FOR REAL JESUS CHRIST THIS ISN'T A DEATH MATCH PROMOTION I'm just gonna kick one of them in the head really hard. Like REALLY hard. Knock Corey Black's eye patch off and reveal where he keeps his dope hard. Kick FPV so hard he can't taste his coffee for a month hard. Harder than GG Allin's dick if A Serbian Film was released when he was alive so he could watch it while jerking off with a dog grooming glove hard. If you don't get the picture by now, please re-read this entire blog from the beginning and try again. Repeat until the message is clear: I'm going to kick someone in the head and finally win a match in Action Wrestling.)
I never needed a bar to get drunk. I could buy liquor virtually anywhere. Maybe I do it to be around people, even if I just keep to myself. Plus, this is Kansas City. The whole fucking town smells like barbecue sauce. I can eat a half rack of ribs to settle my stomach in between pounding drinks. But for the moment I am content to sit here, head half on the bar, listening to the conversation behind me. Here. Have a listen.
"OBAMA DID IT TOO! OBAMA SAID..."
"I don't give a mother fuck what that dumb Muslim said!"
"TRUMP 2020!"
Yeah. Kansas City is THAT kind of town. Or at least, this bar is.
"I want to know when we're gonna lock up these enemies of America! All Democrats must hang!"
I could feel my blood boiling. I just wanted to turn around and bash all three of 'em's skulls in. I could cave this fat mothefucker's face into mush in one hit. His buddies would run over, and get curbstomped against the pool table. In fact, I was actually getting ready to turn around on my stool and say something.
"Re-open that Tent City that Sheriff Joe put up in Arizona!"
"I wish Sheriff Joe would run here..."
"Question..."
And of course, all three of them looked up from their pool game. I'm a white woman who's more than a six appearance wise, and the 25% Korean blood in my body isn't that apparent in my facial features. This means that they will listen to me.
"How do y'all take a shit in the morning without shitting all over yourselves? Dumb fucking idiots..."
"Easy. We don't vote Democrap!"
I realized from the laughter at his shitty (pun intended) joke that I was sorely outnumbered. As usual.
"Why? Do you want it to be legal for you to murder the baby you and I could make tonight?"
"No thanks."
"Hmph. Lesbian."
Why do guy have to look at their friends to re-assure them after every line? I mean, chicks do it too, but we usually knock that shit off by college. These guys are all my age if not older.
"That's right, taking all the women so dudes like you have to jerk each other off when you leave here..."
I hopped down off the barstool, drink still in my hand.
"Besides, your stupidity just dried my vagina up like the Sahara."
"We can get some lube, baby..."
"Oh no, when I fuck you up the ass for talking shit to me, I'll use sand. Come on, make a tranny joke next. Please. One of you fucking Farmers Only premium members, step right the fuck up. Please. I'm having a really bad week and jail sounds like a really good fucking way to end it."
I'm actually walking towards the pool table. My stupid ass is trying to fight three grown men, on their home turf.
"Hey, YOU came to US..."
"That's right. I got sick of your fuckin' mouths. Either shut the fuck up so we can all drink in peace, or let's fuckin' go."
"Hey, lady, if you don't like how we talk, YOU CAN GET THE FUCK OUT!"
"Go drink at that faggot bar down the street!"
As soon as that dude said faggot, he got the ice and watered-down sour mix all up on his shirt. I set the glass down and stared him down hard, but he wouldn't budge. Just looked down at his wet ass nasty crusty orange work shirt, then back at me, then back at his shirt. I, on the other hand, get reprimanded by two bar employees as well as having the other two dumbfuck racist fascist nationalists breathing down my neck as well.
"You do that again, you're out of here. I don't care if you've spent $120 on drinks..."
"Make it $130, gimme another one."
"You've had too much. You're starting fights. ONE more drink, and that's it for you."
It sank in that I was in an unwinnable fight, and I was alone against an army of fascist traitors to America who backed a far-right dictator. I sighed, and went back towards my seat. It was at this moment that my situation totally hit me. Even while the guy who just threatened to bounce me was serving me another Long Island.
"You're right. This IS it."
"I feel where you're coming from..."
"Do you? Really?"
"Listen, I don't like it when they do that slur shit either...but this is their home. They got nowhere else to go but here or home to their shitty family and home life."
"At least they have somewhere to go."
My final drink of the night slid across the bar to me. I responded with dropping two $100 bills on the counter.
"The rest is all you. Thanks for having me tonight."
"Thank you! It's no problem, ma'am, take as long as you need to finish that. We ain't closing for a while. You gonna be all right to get home? I can't let you drive, and I didn't see you come in with anybody..."
The door to the bar opened. I turned to see who it was...and I'm stopping right here, just to cliffhang you motherfuckers.