Post by Alexander Pasternak on Feb 17, 2019 20:37:59 GMT -5
"And do you think this Gerald is telling the truth?"
I sink into the couch, head down, inspecting my fingernails. Anything I can do to keep myself from looking the good doctor in the eye. It's funny, of all the ways I could be spending Valentine's Day, downing half a bottle of marshmallow vodka on the subway before a therapy session wasn't exactly what I envisioned. And yet, here I am. I even showered and dressed for the occasion so it isn't like he can fault me for lack of effort.
"No, I mean, um…" I begin, my train of thought derailing as I realize just how dry my mouth is. Dr. Sobol watches me, squinting through his thick-rimmed glasses and my face flushes. I hate therapy; even under three layers of clothing, I feel naked. Exposed. Everything charted up and on display while he looks on, eyes betraying all the compassion of a shark.
"Gerald was always a bully. He was some hotshot rich kid whose daddy was one of the main forces that gentrified Williamsburg, so I guess it runs in the family. That's the whole reason he ever hung around any of us, because it made him feel like he could do whatever he wanted. He knew Alex and the guys would always have his back. Some twisted sense of loyalty, I guess."
"And did Gerald ever use that protection in bad faith?"
"All the time. Everyone he went to school with knew Gerald was close with a crew of affiliated Slavs and—"
"Affiliated?"
"Y'know, like gang-affiliated? Either way, it was just the Warszawski twins — and they're both locked up now — but it isn't like Gerald ever elaborated on this point. Nah, he'd just threaten to sic them on anyone who pissed him off."
"I see."
Dr. Sobol rubs his chin, his gaze still locked on me. I cough to fill the silence, reaching into my jacket pocket and retrieving my pack of Newports. I don't even get it halfway out before he shakes his head at me and I swallow hard, pushing it back into place.
"I thought you quit smoking."
"It didn't take."
"Very well, then. Do you and Alex have any plans tonight?"
I shake my head, sighing.
"He isn't even in town. Told me he needed to head down south with Wade. Florida, I think. He wouldn't tell me any more than that, but he swore it was important and, like, I'm sure it is but— fuck it."
Dr. Sobol pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. "No, please elaborate."
"It's just that, ever since he joined up with the #beachkrew guys he's been acting really weird. Distant. For all his other faults, he's never been that before. And now he's just going off on little field trips and he won't even tell me where he's going or when he'll be back or if he'll even be back and I'm supposed to be like, 'okay, cool, fine'?"
"Do you think he's cheating on you?"
"The fuck? No, I don't think that. Not for a second."
"Do you think he's using again?"
"No, I mean — oh, fuck me — I don't know. I hadn't even considered the possibility until that Pendleton cocksucker called."
I can feel my blood begin to boil. The room around me goes from slightly stuffy to sweltering in the blink of an eye. How fucking dare he? Just when things were starting to look up for Alex and I, he rings me up and throws everything into a tailspin. I'd throttle him myself if I ever saw him ag—
"But you don't believe him, right?" Dr. Sobol says, jarring me from my thoughts.
"What?"
"You said you don't believe what Mr. Pendleton said to you."
"I don't."
"I guess what I'm failing to understand is, why would this guy you haven't seen or talked to in years just call you out of the blue and harass you over an incident that he completely fabricated?"
"Because he's a prick. He probably tried to snake his way into some sort of deal with Alex once he saw how profitable #beachkrew really is and Alex told him to fuck off. And because he can't handle things like an adult, he called me and threw a temper tantrum."
Dr. Sobol nods, leaning forward.
"And why you?"
"Take your pick, Doc. Because I'm his girlfriend. Because we never liked each other. Because of… that fucking documentary."
"I'm sorry?"
"Before their big match a few weeks ago, Alex and I got interviewed for some youtube documentary about #BeachKrew and he touched on his sobriety. That's why he did it."
"Have you tried talking to Alex about this?"
"Why would I do that? So I can sound like I'd ever take Gerald fucking Pendleton at his word and accuse my recovering addict boyfriend of relapsing without any solid proof? That sounds healthy."
"Fair enough, but Alex wasn't the only person supposedly there, right? You told me that Mr. Pendleton said another of that group was with Alex. Reinhart?"
"Lockhart. Ryan Lockhart."
"Yeah, him. Could you ask him about it?"
I cock my head to the side and stare blankly into space.
"Maybe. Can't be too sure he wouldn't run and tell Alex all about it if I did though."
My mind races at the thought. From the looks of it, Lockhart's a little pretty boy primadonna. He doesn't seem like such a tough nut to crack. Of course, the last thing I need is for him to go whining to Alex about how his bitch of a girlfriend started pressing him too hard.
I hunch forward and place my hand towards my mouth.
"Hey, Doc. I'm not feelin' too well, might have to cut this session short."
"Well, uh, alright," Dr. Sobol says, nodding. "See you next week?"
"Wouldn't miss it," I say as I stand up and grab the plastic grocery bag I brought in before making my way to the door. I push the door open and step out of his office, waiting until it closes behind me to snatch the half-finished bottle of vodka from the bag. I twist the lid off and finish it there on the spot, chuckling as it burns my throat and begins to insulate me from the winds I'm soon to face.
With fumbling hands I reach into my pocket for my phone. Dialing absent-mindedly, I place the phone to my ear and wait for an answer.
"It's ya boi Alex, leave a fuckin' message."
How's that for a fuckin' finish, eh? Y'all happy now? Are you not entertained? We've been talking about #BeachKrew dominance for how long now, and every week without fail there's been some damn, doubting fool in our Twitter mentions saying primo, Grade-A dumb shit like 'oh, #BeachKrew ain't 'bout this' or 'they're gonna get sonned at War Games' or 'Jaice Wilds is a legitimate contender for the World Title'.
Then we went out and fucking slumped #FightSmart in my hometown just a few weeks ago and are now on the precipice of putting on the sickest party most of you goddamn losers and geeks will ever get the honor of being on the clean-up crew for and still, some of you are sipping on that dumb fuck juice.
Last week though? That was supposed to be the last stand for the rest of Action Wrestling. Ryan Lockhart, Wade Moor and myself were thrust against our respective opponents for #EffinRager: Jaice Wilds and the Cowboys from Hell. This was their chance to find a chink in our armor and jam their greasy, Dorito-stained thumbs right into it. They could have shown that maybe, just maybe, #BeachKrew isn't this invincible, unstoppable juggernaut. That we can bleed. That you can kill us.
But y'all know how that shit ended already, L-M-A-O. Your boi, your Urchin Prince AND Urchin Princess Alexander Pasternak dropped Zombie McMorris on his goddamn head and pinned him for the one, two, three. In the middle of the ring. No shenanigans, no nothing. Just a fuckin' slumping, that's all.
Wait, though. Something doesn't sound right about that. Oh, right. It doesn't fit the narrative, does it? Ain't I supposed to be a bitch? A fuckin' joke? The least important, least talented, least x, y, and z member of #BeachKrew? What the fuck am I out here doing gettin' the big pin on folk hero Zombie McMorris? Y'know, longest reigning 201 and TV champion Z-MAC? That's right, baby. I wasn't bluffin' last week when I told y'all that the weakest member of #BeachKrew (see: me) would still fuckin' murk the best the rest of this roster can throw at me because that's just how dominant of a stable we are.
That's why #FightSmart got dropped, losing the war after the first fucking battle. That's why literally no one among us actually gives a shit about the Guardians, no matter how much they try to cling onto our pant legs and cry for our attention. Fuck it, maybe if the space tranny let me smash I'd contemplate systematically dismantling her whole gang of underachievers and reprobates.
These fucking cowards just don't get it, man. They think they can throw around toothless, limp-wristed insults about me, thinking that being the fourth best member of the greatest four-man stable in the history of professional wrestling is something to be ashamed of. These are the people that don't understand loyalty or success. They'd rather be bottom-card scrubs so long as they're the best member of their army of one. They're so insecure that someone else might take the shine that they don't deserve in the first place that they won't let anyone try to build them up. It's sad, it's pathetic, and it's so goddamn hilarious watching them flop like fishes when they realize the shit that'd cut their shallow, paper-thin asses deep doesn't even register when they whip it out against me.
Hi, Jaice. I guess we're doing this again. To be completely honest, I'd have been just fine with watching Ryan stomp your skull into the canvas at #EffinRager and letting it stop there. Letting you die nameless in an unmarked grave, never to return and infest the lower-card of an Action Wrestling show with your self-satisfied, utterly worthless mug. But no, here I am, one week removed from punking you and pinning the most talented member of your cobbled-together little trio (hint: you didn't get pinned during that match) and I have to stare you down again (literally, because you're 5'1 and come up to about my knee you fucking child) and honestly, I don't think I can be fucking bothered to rip you to shreds. Don't get it twisted, any other day of the week I'd love for you to try to step to so I could bounce your head off the mat like a basketball, but with one week left before you're due to take on Ryan, hell, I just don't wanna hurt you, little guy.
I don't want to give your pathetic, cowardly ass even the slightest hint of an excuse for when Ryan creams you at #EffinRager. I don't want to hear those fucking words leave your mouth: "oh, you just won because you sicced gutter rat, commie dog Alex Pasternak on me". After a fuckin' wall of white noise about how I'm not shit, once I get my hands around your throat and throttle you like you owe me money, you're gonna change your tune. Suddenly, I'll be a threat. Suddenly, I'll have your 'respect' which I'll tell you right now to shove up your ass. Suddenly, I'm a guard dog. I can already see it now.
You wanna know how I can see it?
Because you're so fucking transparent. You're a self-interested, whiny little narcissist who's deluded himself so thoroughly that he still believes he can go in the year of our Lord, twenty-bi-teen. Newsflash, Jaice: your glory days — if they ever existed in the first place — are over. You're never getting them back. And no one fucking cares about Jaice Wilds anymore. No one cared when you got played so hard by PW:K that you had to out yourself on their terms. No one cared when you bounced around divisions hoping to find a niche to fill anywhere you could. And no one cares now that you're the next in the long line of undercard talent getting fed to Ryan Lockhart. Sorry, those are the facts, Jack.
Tell me, Jaice. Why are you even in the Guardians in the first place? Your ticket for entry, Damian Kaine, is nowhere to be seen. He fucked off after Order of Chaos got exposed for the frauds they were and went to wrestling jail for impersonating a tag team. All intrigue around you evaporated once you took off the mask and revealed that the ominous Dark Spectre was really just a mediocre last-ditch run from a fucking fossilized pro-wrestler hoping to rekindle their past successes. Is it because you're scared to be on your own? Because you know without anyone to hype you up, to believe in your incredibly obvious bullshit, the closest you'd ever get to a main event in this promotion would be breaking down the ring after the show ended? Sounds about right, you fucking coattail rider.
You got gifted a title shot by management after we were told that #BeachKrew could book the card free of oversight because you yipped like a fucking Chihuahua. That sanctimonious bitch might be TV champ and hasn't done anything to earn it, but L goddamn Verez deserved this match more than you. Everyone in your fucking stable deserved this opportunity more than you, and yet here you are. Just living proof that management has thrown up their hands and said fuck it when it comes to finding a challenger for Ryan Lockhart.
Do you think they see you as a real contender, Jaice? Is that what this is about to you? Newsflash, midget: they don't. If they thought you were legit, they wouldn't have just pawned this title shot off on you, at the #BeachKrew show. Just like Ira Hayes raising the flag, they threw a dog a bone and for some reason you've internalized it like you're special. Nah fam, your tribe still ain't got no fuckin' water. And management stacking the deck in your favor as obviously as they have been just proves they have no faith in you.
All three of your stupid fucking friends get to hang out at ringside and hell, maybe they'll dig up some of the other Guardians for guest appearances too. No #BeachKrew allowed. Does this sound like the booking decision of an ownership group so desperate to get the belt off #BK's prodigal son but are also confident in the person they've sent out for the job? Nah, because they aren't. Because they know that even with all of these concessions in place for your benefit, you'll still get stoned like a rape victim in Saudi Arabia. You have the opportunity of a lifetime placed on a fucking tee for you, and you'll still find a way to strike out, because that's what you are.
A whiny, pathetic, obnoxious loudmouth and consummate choke artist. PW:K knew it when they slumped y'all so bad Damian Kaine fuckin' offed himself in shame or something. The whole 201 and Fun division knows it, you fat fuck. And soon, in Philly, the whole world will see you get sonned by someone young enough to be your son, Jaice.
But come Monday night, so will Wilmington. See, I don't want to wreck your shit, man. I want to see you so fucking embarrassed you'll keep #BK's name out of your mouth and stop trying to snatch clout off our fuckin' names. But I gotta fuck you up man. Not for Ryan, not even for the #Krew, but for me. Because you're everything I loathe.
A fuckin' fat cat who's gorged himself on a twisted fucking fantasy of competence. A deluded fucking geek who can't see the countless anchors around his neck from every undeserved opportunity, every chokejob.
You're done, Jaice. You've been done since the second you decided to open your mouth and target #BeachKrew. You've been done since you've been booked against Ryan Lockhart for the belt. You've been done since Ryan sonned you with all your little friends watching at ringside last Monday. You've been done since you've been booked against me the week before your big title match.
You're fucking dead, Jaice. You just don't know it yet.
Sleep has become an increasingly rare luxury these past couple months. The moon outside my window is cold and uninviting, blanketing the borough of Brooklyn — the only home I've ever known — in a pale, ominous light. Bad things happen on nights like these.
Sighing, I roll over onto my back and flip on the bedside lamp. The light stings my eyes for a few moments and I squint, covering my face with my hand, up at the stucco ceiling above me. Through the paper thin walls of our apartment, I can hear the next door neighbors screaming at each other. This is the third time this week. The husband, Mikhail, seems to have a bit of a drinking problem.
I wish I had more vodka.
I'd pound on the wall and tell them to shut the fuck up — that some people are trying to sleep at 3:00 in the morning — but something about that feels wrong. After all, they've put up with Alex and I's shit for just as long as we've dealt with theirs.
With my eyes adjusted, I reach across the bedside table for my cell-phone, a cautious smile forming on the corners of my mouth as I pressed the home button. Nothing. No new notifications. 3:36 AM. That fucking asshole. I chuckle involuntarily, shaking my head at the screen. Of course he wasn't going to return my call, not when I fucking spazzed on his answering machine like that.
Staring at the screen, a familiar idea wormed its way into my head. There's no chance that Ryan would be awake right now, but maybe I could trick him into meeting with me. I opened my contact list and scrolled through the names. Alex had programmed Ryan, Wade, and Jared's numbers into my phone in case I really needed to get ahold of him and he wasn't answering. Of course, Wade wasn't picking up earlier today either, so who knows if these are even real?
Fuck it, worth a shot.
Down at the Rs, I found him: Ryan Lockhart.
I freeze for a second, the letters suddenly devoid of all meaning. Then, as if possessed, I press the compose new message button and type furiously:
can you come down to brighton beach?
it's important.
it's alex man i fuckin dropped my
I don't even finish my third message before I get a reply.
Who are you?
"Fuck," I mutter. Just my luck.
it's alex man i dropped my
it's alex pussy
alex
Jana
I sigh and toss my phone away from me, onto the bed. I feel my heartbeat in my throat as the phone vibrates again, and with shaking hands I snatch it at look at the screen.
Do I know you?
Alex's girlfriend
An uneasy silence hangs in the air. The neighbors have gone quiet, the world outside comes to a standstill. I sit, frozen in place, waiting for a response that does not come.
I sink into the couch, head down, inspecting my fingernails. Anything I can do to keep myself from looking the good doctor in the eye. It's funny, of all the ways I could be spending Valentine's Day, downing half a bottle of marshmallow vodka on the subway before a therapy session wasn't exactly what I envisioned. And yet, here I am. I even showered and dressed for the occasion so it isn't like he can fault me for lack of effort.
"No, I mean, um…" I begin, my train of thought derailing as I realize just how dry my mouth is. Dr. Sobol watches me, squinting through his thick-rimmed glasses and my face flushes. I hate therapy; even under three layers of clothing, I feel naked. Exposed. Everything charted up and on display while he looks on, eyes betraying all the compassion of a shark.
"Gerald was always a bully. He was some hotshot rich kid whose daddy was one of the main forces that gentrified Williamsburg, so I guess it runs in the family. That's the whole reason he ever hung around any of us, because it made him feel like he could do whatever he wanted. He knew Alex and the guys would always have his back. Some twisted sense of loyalty, I guess."
"And did Gerald ever use that protection in bad faith?"
"All the time. Everyone he went to school with knew Gerald was close with a crew of affiliated Slavs and—"
"Affiliated?"
"Y'know, like gang-affiliated? Either way, it was just the Warszawski twins — and they're both locked up now — but it isn't like Gerald ever elaborated on this point. Nah, he'd just threaten to sic them on anyone who pissed him off."
"I see."
Dr. Sobol rubs his chin, his gaze still locked on me. I cough to fill the silence, reaching into my jacket pocket and retrieving my pack of Newports. I don't even get it halfway out before he shakes his head at me and I swallow hard, pushing it back into place.
"I thought you quit smoking."
"It didn't take."
"Very well, then. Do you and Alex have any plans tonight?"
I shake my head, sighing.
"He isn't even in town. Told me he needed to head down south with Wade. Florida, I think. He wouldn't tell me any more than that, but he swore it was important and, like, I'm sure it is but— fuck it."
Dr. Sobol pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. "No, please elaborate."
"It's just that, ever since he joined up with the #beachkrew guys he's been acting really weird. Distant. For all his other faults, he's never been that before. And now he's just going off on little field trips and he won't even tell me where he's going or when he'll be back or if he'll even be back and I'm supposed to be like, 'okay, cool, fine'?"
"Do you think he's cheating on you?"
"The fuck? No, I don't think that. Not for a second."
"Do you think he's using again?"
"No, I mean — oh, fuck me — I don't know. I hadn't even considered the possibility until that Pendleton cocksucker called."
I can feel my blood begin to boil. The room around me goes from slightly stuffy to sweltering in the blink of an eye. How fucking dare he? Just when things were starting to look up for Alex and I, he rings me up and throws everything into a tailspin. I'd throttle him myself if I ever saw him ag—
"But you don't believe him, right?" Dr. Sobol says, jarring me from my thoughts.
"What?"
"You said you don't believe what Mr. Pendleton said to you."
"I don't."
"I guess what I'm failing to understand is, why would this guy you haven't seen or talked to in years just call you out of the blue and harass you over an incident that he completely fabricated?"
"Because he's a prick. He probably tried to snake his way into some sort of deal with Alex once he saw how profitable #beachkrew really is and Alex told him to fuck off. And because he can't handle things like an adult, he called me and threw a temper tantrum."
Dr. Sobol nods, leaning forward.
"And why you?"
"Take your pick, Doc. Because I'm his girlfriend. Because we never liked each other. Because of… that fucking documentary."
"I'm sorry?"
"Before their big match a few weeks ago, Alex and I got interviewed for some youtube documentary about #BeachKrew and he touched on his sobriety. That's why he did it."
"Have you tried talking to Alex about this?"
"Why would I do that? So I can sound like I'd ever take Gerald fucking Pendleton at his word and accuse my recovering addict boyfriend of relapsing without any solid proof? That sounds healthy."
"Fair enough, but Alex wasn't the only person supposedly there, right? You told me that Mr. Pendleton said another of that group was with Alex. Reinhart?"
"Lockhart. Ryan Lockhart."
"Yeah, him. Could you ask him about it?"
I cock my head to the side and stare blankly into space.
"Maybe. Can't be too sure he wouldn't run and tell Alex all about it if I did though."
My mind races at the thought. From the looks of it, Lockhart's a little pretty boy primadonna. He doesn't seem like such a tough nut to crack. Of course, the last thing I need is for him to go whining to Alex about how his bitch of a girlfriend started pressing him too hard.
I hunch forward and place my hand towards my mouth.
"Hey, Doc. I'm not feelin' too well, might have to cut this session short."
"Well, uh, alright," Dr. Sobol says, nodding. "See you next week?"
"Wouldn't miss it," I say as I stand up and grab the plastic grocery bag I brought in before making my way to the door. I push the door open and step out of his office, waiting until it closes behind me to snatch the half-finished bottle of vodka from the bag. I twist the lid off and finish it there on the spot, chuckling as it burns my throat and begins to insulate me from the winds I'm soon to face.
With fumbling hands I reach into my pocket for my phone. Dialing absent-mindedly, I place the phone to my ear and wait for an answer.
"It's ya boi Alex, leave a fuckin' message."
=*=*=*=*=*=*=
How's that for a fuckin' finish, eh? Y'all happy now? Are you not entertained? We've been talking about #BeachKrew dominance for how long now, and every week without fail there's been some damn, doubting fool in our Twitter mentions saying primo, Grade-A dumb shit like 'oh, #BeachKrew ain't 'bout this' or 'they're gonna get sonned at War Games' or 'Jaice Wilds is a legitimate contender for the World Title'.
Then we went out and fucking slumped #FightSmart in my hometown just a few weeks ago and are now on the precipice of putting on the sickest party most of you goddamn losers and geeks will ever get the honor of being on the clean-up crew for and still, some of you are sipping on that dumb fuck juice.
Last week though? That was supposed to be the last stand for the rest of Action Wrestling. Ryan Lockhart, Wade Moor and myself were thrust against our respective opponents for #EffinRager: Jaice Wilds and the Cowboys from Hell. This was their chance to find a chink in our armor and jam their greasy, Dorito-stained thumbs right into it. They could have shown that maybe, just maybe, #BeachKrew isn't this invincible, unstoppable juggernaut. That we can bleed. That you can kill us.
But y'all know how that shit ended already, L-M-A-O. Your boi, your Urchin Prince AND Urchin Princess Alexander Pasternak dropped Zombie McMorris on his goddamn head and pinned him for the one, two, three. In the middle of the ring. No shenanigans, no nothing. Just a fuckin' slumping, that's all.
Wait, though. Something doesn't sound right about that. Oh, right. It doesn't fit the narrative, does it? Ain't I supposed to be a bitch? A fuckin' joke? The least important, least talented, least x, y, and z member of #BeachKrew? What the fuck am I out here doing gettin' the big pin on folk hero Zombie McMorris? Y'know, longest reigning 201 and TV champion Z-MAC? That's right, baby. I wasn't bluffin' last week when I told y'all that the weakest member of #BeachKrew (see: me) would still fuckin' murk the best the rest of this roster can throw at me because that's just how dominant of a stable we are.
That's why #FightSmart got dropped, losing the war after the first fucking battle. That's why literally no one among us actually gives a shit about the Guardians, no matter how much they try to cling onto our pant legs and cry for our attention. Fuck it, maybe if the space tranny let me smash I'd contemplate systematically dismantling her whole gang of underachievers and reprobates.
These fucking cowards just don't get it, man. They think they can throw around toothless, limp-wristed insults about me, thinking that being the fourth best member of the greatest four-man stable in the history of professional wrestling is something to be ashamed of. These are the people that don't understand loyalty or success. They'd rather be bottom-card scrubs so long as they're the best member of their army of one. They're so insecure that someone else might take the shine that they don't deserve in the first place that they won't let anyone try to build them up. It's sad, it's pathetic, and it's so goddamn hilarious watching them flop like fishes when they realize the shit that'd cut their shallow, paper-thin asses deep doesn't even register when they whip it out against me.
Hi, Jaice. I guess we're doing this again. To be completely honest, I'd have been just fine with watching Ryan stomp your skull into the canvas at #EffinRager and letting it stop there. Letting you die nameless in an unmarked grave, never to return and infest the lower-card of an Action Wrestling show with your self-satisfied, utterly worthless mug. But no, here I am, one week removed from punking you and pinning the most talented member of your cobbled-together little trio (hint: you didn't get pinned during that match) and I have to stare you down again (literally, because you're 5'1 and come up to about my knee you fucking child) and honestly, I don't think I can be fucking bothered to rip you to shreds. Don't get it twisted, any other day of the week I'd love for you to try to step to so I could bounce your head off the mat like a basketball, but with one week left before you're due to take on Ryan, hell, I just don't wanna hurt you, little guy.
I don't want to give your pathetic, cowardly ass even the slightest hint of an excuse for when Ryan creams you at #EffinRager. I don't want to hear those fucking words leave your mouth: "oh, you just won because you sicced gutter rat, commie dog Alex Pasternak on me". After a fuckin' wall of white noise about how I'm not shit, once I get my hands around your throat and throttle you like you owe me money, you're gonna change your tune. Suddenly, I'll be a threat. Suddenly, I'll have your 'respect' which I'll tell you right now to shove up your ass. Suddenly, I'm a guard dog. I can already see it now.
You wanna know how I can see it?
Because you're so fucking transparent. You're a self-interested, whiny little narcissist who's deluded himself so thoroughly that he still believes he can go in the year of our Lord, twenty-bi-teen. Newsflash, Jaice: your glory days — if they ever existed in the first place — are over. You're never getting them back. And no one fucking cares about Jaice Wilds anymore. No one cared when you got played so hard by PW:K that you had to out yourself on their terms. No one cared when you bounced around divisions hoping to find a niche to fill anywhere you could. And no one cares now that you're the next in the long line of undercard talent getting fed to Ryan Lockhart. Sorry, those are the facts, Jack.
Tell me, Jaice. Why are you even in the Guardians in the first place? Your ticket for entry, Damian Kaine, is nowhere to be seen. He fucked off after Order of Chaos got exposed for the frauds they were and went to wrestling jail for impersonating a tag team. All intrigue around you evaporated once you took off the mask and revealed that the ominous Dark Spectre was really just a mediocre last-ditch run from a fucking fossilized pro-wrestler hoping to rekindle their past successes. Is it because you're scared to be on your own? Because you know without anyone to hype you up, to believe in your incredibly obvious bullshit, the closest you'd ever get to a main event in this promotion would be breaking down the ring after the show ended? Sounds about right, you fucking coattail rider.
You got gifted a title shot by management after we were told that #BeachKrew could book the card free of oversight because you yipped like a fucking Chihuahua. That sanctimonious bitch might be TV champ and hasn't done anything to earn it, but L goddamn Verez deserved this match more than you. Everyone in your fucking stable deserved this opportunity more than you, and yet here you are. Just living proof that management has thrown up their hands and said fuck it when it comes to finding a challenger for Ryan Lockhart.
Do you think they see you as a real contender, Jaice? Is that what this is about to you? Newsflash, midget: they don't. If they thought you were legit, they wouldn't have just pawned this title shot off on you, at the #BeachKrew show. Just like Ira Hayes raising the flag, they threw a dog a bone and for some reason you've internalized it like you're special. Nah fam, your tribe still ain't got no fuckin' water. And management stacking the deck in your favor as obviously as they have been just proves they have no faith in you.
All three of your stupid fucking friends get to hang out at ringside and hell, maybe they'll dig up some of the other Guardians for guest appearances too. No #BeachKrew allowed. Does this sound like the booking decision of an ownership group so desperate to get the belt off #BK's prodigal son but are also confident in the person they've sent out for the job? Nah, because they aren't. Because they know that even with all of these concessions in place for your benefit, you'll still get stoned like a rape victim in Saudi Arabia. You have the opportunity of a lifetime placed on a fucking tee for you, and you'll still find a way to strike out, because that's what you are.
A whiny, pathetic, obnoxious loudmouth and consummate choke artist. PW:K knew it when they slumped y'all so bad Damian Kaine fuckin' offed himself in shame or something. The whole 201 and Fun division knows it, you fat fuck. And soon, in Philly, the whole world will see you get sonned by someone young enough to be your son, Jaice.
But come Monday night, so will Wilmington. See, I don't want to wreck your shit, man. I want to see you so fucking embarrassed you'll keep #BK's name out of your mouth and stop trying to snatch clout off our fuckin' names. But I gotta fuck you up man. Not for Ryan, not even for the #Krew, but for me. Because you're everything I loathe.
A fuckin' fat cat who's gorged himself on a twisted fucking fantasy of competence. A deluded fucking geek who can't see the countless anchors around his neck from every undeserved opportunity, every chokejob.
You're done, Jaice. You've been done since the second you decided to open your mouth and target #BeachKrew. You've been done since you've been booked against Ryan Lockhart for the belt. You've been done since Ryan sonned you with all your little friends watching at ringside last Monday. You've been done since you've been booked against me the week before your big title match.
You're fucking dead, Jaice. You just don't know it yet.
=*=*=*=*=*=*=
Sleep has become an increasingly rare luxury these past couple months. The moon outside my window is cold and uninviting, blanketing the borough of Brooklyn — the only home I've ever known — in a pale, ominous light. Bad things happen on nights like these.
Sighing, I roll over onto my back and flip on the bedside lamp. The light stings my eyes for a few moments and I squint, covering my face with my hand, up at the stucco ceiling above me. Through the paper thin walls of our apartment, I can hear the next door neighbors screaming at each other. This is the third time this week. The husband, Mikhail, seems to have a bit of a drinking problem.
I wish I had more vodka.
I'd pound on the wall and tell them to shut the fuck up — that some people are trying to sleep at 3:00 in the morning — but something about that feels wrong. After all, they've put up with Alex and I's shit for just as long as we've dealt with theirs.
With my eyes adjusted, I reach across the bedside table for my cell-phone, a cautious smile forming on the corners of my mouth as I pressed the home button. Nothing. No new notifications. 3:36 AM. That fucking asshole. I chuckle involuntarily, shaking my head at the screen. Of course he wasn't going to return my call, not when I fucking spazzed on his answering machine like that.
Staring at the screen, a familiar idea wormed its way into my head. There's no chance that Ryan would be awake right now, but maybe I could trick him into meeting with me. I opened my contact list and scrolled through the names. Alex had programmed Ryan, Wade, and Jared's numbers into my phone in case I really needed to get ahold of him and he wasn't answering. Of course, Wade wasn't picking up earlier today either, so who knows if these are even real?
Fuck it, worth a shot.
Down at the Rs, I found him: Ryan Lockhart.
I freeze for a second, the letters suddenly devoid of all meaning. Then, as if possessed, I press the compose new message button and type furiously:
can you come down to brighton beach?
it's important.
I don't even finish my third message before I get a reply.
Who are you?
"Fuck," I mutter. Just my luck.
Jana
I sigh and toss my phone away from me, onto the bed. I feel my heartbeat in my throat as the phone vibrates again, and with shaking hands I snatch it at look at the screen.
Do I know you?
Alex's girlfriend
An uneasy silence hangs in the air. The neighbors have gone quiet, the world outside comes to a standstill. I sit, frozen in place, waiting for a response that does not come.