Post by Spencer Adams on Mar 4, 2018 14:00:52 GMT -5
Part 1: RIP Lil Peep
(3/5/18)
Walking through the halls of the backstage area of Staples, I offer no response to the member of security hollering in my ear from just a little under ten feet behind me.
Security: Sir! I’m gonna have to ask you to stop that!
His request is more than reasonable given the reason. As I continue to pass through, I hold a bottle of cheap vodka in my right hand, tipping it just enough to leave a liquid trail.
Spencer: Relax, it’s not like it’s gonna stain anything.
He was rehearsed. This threw him off his game and he wasn’t very good at improv. I could tell by how inconsistent his volume level became as the conversation carried on.
Security: Sir, you carry that around in here like that. I’m prepared to call the police. If you don’t come back and clean this up, you WILL be escorted from the premises.
Couldn’t cut it as a Marine, so he settled for the National Guard. “I’m serving my country just the same” he’d tell himself, but underneath a thick coating of shame, he knew the truth. When he was finished with his time playing paintball with other twenty somethings during the last weekend of every other month, he knew it was time to move onto the next venture. He was also too big of a pussy to wear a real badge and that brings us to this moment right now, the one where “The Antidote” Spencer Adams is catching sass from Paul Blart: Mall Cop 3.
Security: That’s….that’s alright-
I turn around, making sure to specify the direction I was taking the conversation.
Security: Yes, sir...but...we can’t have you openly drinking like this and making a mess of the arena.
Spencer: Oh, I’m not drinking.
Security: But-
Spencer: I’m about as straight laced as they come. Never was much of a drinker to tell you the truth. Plus, I’ve got a match in less than three hours. What kind of idiot would spend crunch time getting hammered anyway?
Security: I-
Spencer: Don’t answer that. You’ll see the answer to that question tonight actually.
He looks visibly upset, but I’ve got no time to be policed by a babysitter getting paid by the hour. At the end of the hall, I reach my destination, my own personal locker room, a little something I had worked in during contract negotiations. I turn to the guard who is still behind me, holding my hand out to stop him.
I peek over his shoulder to the trail of vodka I left before flipping the bottle once more and allowing a puddle to form at our feet.
I swing the door open, letting it be caught by Ricky who steps out in front of the door to stand watch and turn my follower away.
Part 2: The Chinatown incident
(3/5/18)
Just about an hour from my match with Alexander Pasternak and I’m sprawled out along the bench that lines the wall where the locker spaces are. I leave a cold towel resting over my eyes with my face up towards the ceiling. In front of me sitting in a folding chair is Danny Butler. As those who saw round one of the world title tournament know, Danny is one half of my personal security team. He’s a lanky young guy with trendy, thick-framed glasses. Danny wears a discount police costume with a weird sense of pride about him as he claims he represents it better than the actual men in blue.
I remain in my current laying position, not wanting to break the routine just yet.
Danny: Who turned you onto that one?
Spencer: Everybody’s different, man.
Danny: Hmm.
I hear the volume on the mounted TV go up a couple notches as the room fills with the voice of a news anchor.
Before hearing a response from Danny, a name said by the anchor catches my attention.
Authorities still searching for the whereabouts of professional wrestler Dan Capello after a mysterious disappearance and a jumbled trail of breadcrumbs in Chicago.
I shoot up to a sitting position and peel the towel from my eyes.
The scene, a Chinatown hotel still in it’s youth. This is where Mr. Capello was staying before leaving behind an overturned room along with his possessions.
I hadn’t talked to Dan in a couple of weeks. We texted a bit back and forth after that training session we had, but not much else. Still, I felt weird about this. It was something that felt close to home.
Danny: You alright, man?
Spencer: Yeah..
This irks me, but it’s not something that I can let myself dwell on..at least not when I still have a match to compete in tonight.
Danny: You need us out there tonight?
Spencer: I’m good, thanks...you and Ricky can hold down fort here for the night..
Danny: If you say so.
I push up and make my way toward the locker room door, knocking to let Ricky know to step aside as I turn the handle and start to head out.
Danny: Yeah?
Spencer: Turn that shit off..all it can do is drive you crazy.
Part 3: Bird of prey
(3/5/18)
Standing in front of a blank sheet backdrop, I once again grip a bottle of vodka, letting it rotate in my grasp as I stare down the camera.
For as capable as my opponent has shown himself to be, there’s a foolishness he’s displayed so far..a recklessness really. People have to remember that not much is left a secret as an athlete. We put a spotlight on ourselves and the swarm always follows. Whether we pour our hearts out where people can see or lash out at a heckling fan upon entering the arena, it’s inevitable that somebody is waiting to cash in on our actions. Sometimes it’s TMZ or a Youtube video gone viral. Either way, it never fails to play out that way.
There’s an understanding that what happens between the ropes and in a competitive setting is ours to control. The ring is sanctuary for us, the place where we’re allowed to grow and explore without having to worry as much about those outside sources. I’ve been in this business, in that spotlight long enough to know how to keep my wits about me. That’s not something that can be said for everybody as there will always be people throwing caution to the wind in ways that they shouldn’t be.
Who doesn’t want to fly though? I mean, whichever way you choose to define flight, you’ll see a line that stretches around that building, packed with hopefuls looking to put themselves back in the mind they had as a child. People want to live that comic book lifestyle that they dreamt of when they were a kid and when I look at you, Mr. Pasternak, I see somebody who has been doing just that from day one. It seems that in everything you do, you choose to be airborne for the duration of it.
Again, the issue is recklessness. I don’t have to worry about the clearness of my mind, but I know that you do. So yeah, you’re up in the clouds, but for how long? We both know that you’re going to come down hard and when you do, you’ll only have yourself to blame for it. That’s the price that you have to pay as a junky, Alexander. I know where I am and who I am and when I look at you, I see what you’ve decided to inflict upon yourself. You’ve found out what good means to you personally and continue to put off the bad that comes with it, but it cannot and will not be ignored forever.
This is where Spencer Adams comes in. So far, you’ve been tasked with decent enough opponents, but none as reputable or formidable as the one speaking to you right now. Tonight is about your lifestyle finally catching up with you as I open your eyes to what a fucking idiot you truly are. I see the holes that you’ve exposed. For now, you get to enjoy that high, but The Antidote is primed and ready to swoop in for the kill. You’re flapping around with a broken wing and I’m the hawk waiting on dinner time. For the rest of the world, let this be an example to you. When the franchise player meets the coked-out little prospect between the ropes, all that “high potential” means jack shit. You did this, Alexander. I’m just doing what a predator does.
I tip the bottle upside down, emptying the remaining contents onto the sheet, watching it pool out onto the hallway floor.