Post by Guillotine (QDT) on Jun 21, 2019 20:58:23 GMT -5
It's a tempestuous, humid evening here at Chez QDT and, like most nights over the last fortnight, Tawny and I are unwinding in the hot tub. Sometimes there's a playful vibe between us, other times we're struggling to keep inappropriate eroticism at bay in the frothy massage of the warm waves. Tonight, the mood couldn't be more contrasting. There's an omen of doom between us; an anxiety so densely tangible I'm unsure where it starts and ends. Am I picking this up off her or is the poison coursing through my veins? It feels like wolves are at the door, ready to blow down the safe house we're nurturing.
Quixote: Is everything OK tonight?
Tawny: Sure.
... Which is exactly what she doesn't sound in her answer.
Quixote: Not to dwell but I'm always here to tal...
Tawny (cutting me off): I'm moving out.
Sorry? I'm incapable of even uttering an protest before the elaboration comes, tearfully quickfire.
Tawny: This has been the best two weeks. You've helped me from complete rock bottom to... well, low as fuck but actually... hopeful. I owe you my life. Literally man. But you do have YOURS to live.
Quixote: Yep, and my own free will. You can leave anytime you want but don't pretend you're doing this for me. I want you to stay, Tawny. End of. If you go, it's because you want it. I don't do benevolence, remember? Too selfish for that shit. You ain't my charity case.
Tawny: Then what am I to you?
I struggle to articulate this and, after painfully long moments of reflection, I blow bubbles in the tub with an incongruent fart.
Quixote: You cover my arse!
Her melancholy clashes with my ill advised laughter.
Tawny: Two matches since we met, two losses. You've been turning down your regular booty calls from perfect 10s. You need to get laid dude. I'm cramping your style. A suicidal wing-chick by your side hardly gets those pussies quivering. I appreciate what you're doing but I'm hardly the life and soul of the party and you can't help but be brought down with me around.
Quixote: Hey, maybe I need bringing down. You ever stop to think that? Look, I don't know what this is... but I know that it wasn't just ME that talked YOU off a ledge that day; metaphorically in my case. However it's happening, I feel better around you. I'm healing, I think.
Tawny: You have a good thing going with Jenna. With me around, your relationship only stays incubating for so long.
Quixote: There's no relationship with Jenna. She's a friend.
Tawny: Well maybe that's for the best. Jenna is a career woman, after all. If you two went public, she'd be released from her AW contract pronto on serious conflict of interest grounds. But you can find someone else in a heartbeat, dude.
Quixote: While we're dishing out advice, I've been meaning to tell you for a while that calling men "dude" and "man" pretty much cuts their cocks off. They get that you aren't down to fuck; no need for the emasculation. And as for Jenna, I'm sick of people advising me on my relations. One woman's too fucked up, the other woman has it too much together and I could jeopardise her success... I guess I'll have to find an only mildly emotionally damaged hottie.
Tawny: Pathetic...
Tawny rises out of the tub in furious conviction and walks towards the patio door. As she bends over to pick up a towel, I avert my stare. She dries herself off superficially, dons a black crop top, jean shorts and flip flops. She passes through my kitchen and towards the front door.
Quixote: Where are y...
SLAM! She's gone. I don't have the energy for this tonight. I'll let her have her space. I get out, put on my clothes and settle in the living room. As I'm about to put the TV on, I hear rustling and fumbling outside the front door. I go to let her back in.
Quixote: That was quick, Tawn.
As I swing open the door, apparitions of 20 wretched years stalk at my doorstep. They smile in audacious glee like the evil fucks they are. It's my PARENTS...
Quixote: Give me one good reason not to break you like the last time we saw each other?
They push past me with confident entitlement and sit on the adjacent couch.
Mama: Because we want you to.
Quixote: 'Scuse me?
Papa Giacomo: It was the first and only time we've ever been proud of you, bambino. You've been so weak your whole life. I taught you everything, you obeyed. Monkey see, monkey do. But you never seized initiative, Quixote. Never had the coglioni to assert yourself and break from the mould we had you trapped in... UNTIL that sweet Monday Night Clash. It was so refreshing to feel your fist in my jaw and to see your eyes ablaze as you finally rebelled. Boy became man that night. We loved watching your path of decadence and nihilism for months afterwards. The discipline and structure I inculcated in you from birth combined with your newfound reckless, angry autonomy proved such a dangerous blend that you dominated the Havoc Rumble. It reminded me of the dissonant mastery of Chopin in Mazurks in F#.
Mama: But tragically, you went soft again. We should have guessed. You always were a compassionate little snowflake. I remember you wasting hours in the garden as a child trying to save dying birds from the cat's clutches. You wasted vital time going against nature; time you could've spent sharpening yourself. Sympathy has always been the thorn in your side. It's like you're perpetually guilty for being better, more skilled than other people. But you know what? You aren't innately blessed; you're just privileged to have been raised by a family that accepted nothing less from you than brilliance. Your gifts aren't yours to squander or restrain; they're ours and we want you to be brutally aggressive in asserting them. You've got a tree trunk dick - SWING IT FREELY. Fuck the #MeToo movements and the communist fucks trying to equalise everyone into their poverty stricken sphere of inadequacy. You're defective; a bleeding heart liberal prioritising justice and fairness over cold-hearted success. A product of your time, I suppose, which explains all the failure and confusion in this modern world.
I roll my eyes. I'm tempted to do worse but don't want to give them satisfaction in their reverse psychology jizzmongering.
Papa Giacomo: All it took was adulation from the people. In the Rumble, your adrenaline spiked off the dopamine hits from the crowd cheering you. If you'd have blocked it out and not let it feed nor distract you, you'd have sunk both Casey Holliday and Michael X. You'd be World Champion as we speak. Instead, you're hovering around the midcard like a spectre. You've lost your cutting edge. Normally the US Title would suffice for someone of your profile but this tournament is stacked with elite talent that won't hesitate to enact the unadulterated violence you're holding yourself back from.
Mama: You need something to get enraged about again.
At this, they kiss like a couple of starving dogs tonguing their freshly replenished dinner bowls. I'm damn near puking in my mouth. Papa pulls away, his brows arched as if forging a new, more spiteful blade to stab me with.
Papa Giacomo: You need to be more like Ryan Elias. A perfectionist far too robust to indulge in even the slightest bit of inadequacy. You've let sloppiness and approval seeking dull your edge. How do you expect to beat Elias this week? Have you seen how expertly he cracks eggs with one hand? Your shell's so thin that he'll leave your gooey centre exposed all over the canvas at Clash. The US Title tournament is a step too far for you. Bugger me... I'm not even certain he'd still bully the Cruiserweight division anymore. Are you, Penny?
Mama: In his defence, he was joint second in the Evolution 2 performance of the week award, only slightly behind his conqueror Wade Moor. Again, he made the shortlist for best performance at the last Clash. Kyle Kemp wasn't nominated but guess what... he WON THE MATCH. Kudos, chants and back slaps mean jack in comparison to the sound of those vital numbers - 1, 2, 3. Qui, you're so concerned with being appreciated that you've forgotten how to get the job done. Just like the left wing, millennial scumbags that you're quickly becoming a parody of. So consumed with fairness and being "oh so diverse" and "accepting" that you tolerate mediocrity. You lack aggression and balls. I'm disgusted to have raised such a manbaby. Look at the heroic president of your adopted country. Donald Trump would not only grab that US Title by the pussy, he'd make it great again. He's a winner, son. Be more like Trump. Those are cold, hard facts and facts don't care about your feelings.
Quixote: Are you done channelling that Shapiro shitbag live in my lounge? You can fellate Trump later in your own time. I actually don't give two fucks about politics. Both sides are arseholes so leave me out of your lazy stereotypes. You don't know me anymore.
Papa Giacomo: We've been watching. Closely. You'd always been a bit loose with your dick which was mildly annoying but at least it kept your testosterone pumping. Now you're loose with your heart and it's leaving you vulnerable. You're in love with two women and you're letting them run the show.
Quixote: You know nothing about that.
Papa Giacomo: You tasted love for the first time from the AW fans. I saw it light you up like cocaine. Validation's a drug you'll seek in escalating forms. You're pandering more now, you've gone all doughy and human and, worst of all, you're like a puppy running around after a corporate floozy and a loser who'd be better off hanging herself.
Without even a second of thought, my hand wraps around my father's throat. I'm about to pop out his trachea... until the phone goes. As I move to answer it, my parents get up and venture out through the front door into the night. Good riddance to bad rubbish.
Quixote (on phone): Jenna?
The caller-ID isn't lying. The usually assured Miss Bauer's voice carries a rattled shrill.
Jenna: Is Tawny with you?
Quixote: No, she left. Thought she might be with you by now.
Jenna: She sent me a really odd text. Something about a final mission to make wrongs right. Sounded really dark, Quixote.
Quixote: I'm on it. Call me if you see her.
I hang up without closing pleasantries. I rush straight out of the door, bumping my lingering parents to the ground as I shoulder barge my way to my car.
I've exhausted all the landmarks raised in the many moonlight memoirs Tawny has shared with me over the past couple of weeks. She wasn't at Luigi's, the ice cream parlour she spent both her 6th and 18th birthdays at. I couldn't find her at her childhood home, located through the magic of Google Maps. Numerous fruitless social media messages were sent to the handful of people she considers real friends. I even stopped by the church she frequented before her baggage got too heavy for them to help her carry. Nothing. I'm riddled with nerves and struggling to even keep my foot steady on the accelerator as I cruise through the streets at this godforsaken hour. Any shadowy figure or object on the side of the road fills me with agonising dread. With each corner I turn, I'm worried that the next silhouette I see will be of Tawny's dead body. I have to keep looking.
My phone is ringing. Unknown number. A million thoughts flash through my mind. None of them positive.
Voice (on phone): Hi, is this Quixote Della Torre?
I somehow force out a meek "yes" through my heavy knotted chest.
Voice: It's about Tawny Layne. Sorry to call so late... I... err... have some bad news.
CONTINUES SUNDAY IN PART 2 - THE RECKONER OF WRECKAGE