Post by Paul Mall on Oct 1, 2021 12:39:13 GMT -5
“What if instead of buying a pack of Newports,” Paul muses, laying atop the trailer of his semi and staring at the constellations above, “a Newport bought a pack of you?”
Sure, Paul was breaking a handful of OSHA violations by taking a smoke break at such great heights. It wasn’t just a risk for his shipping company, but the camera operator at Action Wrestling, too. However, this was a gorgeous night en route to Indianapolis, and he couldn’t help himself but to enjoy the view provided in the rest area parking lot.
“I’m not sure I would like that,” he continues, taking a drag off the cancer stick and doing his best to flick the ash off of the precipice of the trailer. Did we mention that he was laying dangerously close to the edge? What madness. Some would even call it Mall Madness, like the title of this roleplay. “Lit on fire, dropped on the ground carelessly, and then stomped on. Or if you’re lucky, you get mushed into an ashtray or a bucket of sand. That’s really no way to treat anyone, not even an inanimate object. And that’s why I’m planning on kicking the habit if Cheyenne Walker beats me at Clash.”
While this revelation would be quite startling coming from the man whose identity was built around being handcuffed to big tobacco, it wasn’t really anything new. Paul Mall had attempted to quit smoking about 3,427,231 times since he’d started as a teenager. As a matter of fact, he had told himself that “this was his last one” three times today until making the decision that he’d put it off until next week.
“You heard me right, dudes,” Paul proclaims as he holds up his cigarette and examines it as if it were a living organism. “If Cheyenne can beat me and end my chances at winning a shot at the Cruiserweight championship, that’s one less thing I have to stress out about. And you can’t really stop smoking if you’re all willy-nilly in the brain.”
“Doesn’t mean that I won’t try to win, though. Because it’s not just nicotine that helps me get up and go,” he reveals, tossing the finished butt off the trailer onto the pavement below and immediately pulling a new one from the little green box. “The roar of the wrestling crowd. The air rushing against my face as I do an unnecessary flip off the top rope. The thrill of a hard-earned victory. And who can forget the celebratory smoke next to the venue’s entrance right after? I’m addicted to it, man. But if the Killa Bae hits her Killa Bae and puts my shoulders to the mat for the three-count? That’s a huge weight off my chest.”
Paul exhales and pauses for a moment, lifting an index finger to clarify his last remark. “I mean, not really, because in order to properly do a pin, you’re putting weight on your opponent’s chest.”
“But after that? Once my neck stops hurting from a finishing maneuver that’s named after her own nickname,” Paul smiles, “the pressure’s off. And I can finally stop carrying around lemon-scented body spray to cover up the smoky smell on my clothes. If I lose of course.”
The monologue is briefly interrupted by the clanging of his work boots on the aluminum surface. Paul stretches with hands on hips and a soft pop is heard as he readjusts his back.
“But heck, the Goddess of Wrestling Truckers may decide to show me a little favor and give me the strength to get the ‘V’ over Cheyenne! That’s definitely going to keep the stress up for the next round, so I won’t be finishing the last pack off at the Gainbridge Fieldhouse just in case,” he says, taking another puff from his second cigarette in two minutes. “Best of luck to the Bae. I’m really looking forward to seein’ what you got!”
Sure, Paul was breaking a handful of OSHA violations by taking a smoke break at such great heights. It wasn’t just a risk for his shipping company, but the camera operator at Action Wrestling, too. However, this was a gorgeous night en route to Indianapolis, and he couldn’t help himself but to enjoy the view provided in the rest area parking lot.
“I’m not sure I would like that,” he continues, taking a drag off the cancer stick and doing his best to flick the ash off of the precipice of the trailer. Did we mention that he was laying dangerously close to the edge? What madness. Some would even call it Mall Madness, like the title of this roleplay. “Lit on fire, dropped on the ground carelessly, and then stomped on. Or if you’re lucky, you get mushed into an ashtray or a bucket of sand. That’s really no way to treat anyone, not even an inanimate object. And that’s why I’m planning on kicking the habit if Cheyenne Walker beats me at Clash.”
While this revelation would be quite startling coming from the man whose identity was built around being handcuffed to big tobacco, it wasn’t really anything new. Paul Mall had attempted to quit smoking about 3,427,231 times since he’d started as a teenager. As a matter of fact, he had told himself that “this was his last one” three times today until making the decision that he’d put it off until next week.
“You heard me right, dudes,” Paul proclaims as he holds up his cigarette and examines it as if it were a living organism. “If Cheyenne can beat me and end my chances at winning a shot at the Cruiserweight championship, that’s one less thing I have to stress out about. And you can’t really stop smoking if you’re all willy-nilly in the brain.”
“Doesn’t mean that I won’t try to win, though. Because it’s not just nicotine that helps me get up and go,” he reveals, tossing the finished butt off the trailer onto the pavement below and immediately pulling a new one from the little green box. “The roar of the wrestling crowd. The air rushing against my face as I do an unnecessary flip off the top rope. The thrill of a hard-earned victory. And who can forget the celebratory smoke next to the venue’s entrance right after? I’m addicted to it, man. But if the Killa Bae hits her Killa Bae and puts my shoulders to the mat for the three-count? That’s a huge weight off my chest.”
Paul exhales and pauses for a moment, lifting an index finger to clarify his last remark. “I mean, not really, because in order to properly do a pin, you’re putting weight on your opponent’s chest.”
“But after that? Once my neck stops hurting from a finishing maneuver that’s named after her own nickname,” Paul smiles, “the pressure’s off. And I can finally stop carrying around lemon-scented body spray to cover up the smoky smell on my clothes. If I lose of course.”
The monologue is briefly interrupted by the clanging of his work boots on the aluminum surface. Paul stretches with hands on hips and a soft pop is heard as he readjusts his back.
“But heck, the Goddess of Wrestling Truckers may decide to show me a little favor and give me the strength to get the ‘V’ over Cheyenne! That’s definitely going to keep the stress up for the next round, so I won’t be finishing the last pack off at the Gainbridge Fieldhouse just in case,” he says, taking another puff from his second cigarette in two minutes. “Best of luck to the Bae. I’m really looking forward to seein’ what you got!”