Post by Jayson Price on Mar 7, 2021 23:59:12 GMT -5
The scene slowly fades in. Sitting on a couch in a dingy hotel room somewhere outside of Birmingham, Alabama is Jayson Price. Alone with only his thoughts and the bottle of Jack Daniels that sits in front of him to keep him company, he leans forward, elbows on his knees and face in his hands.
"You know they don't respect you anymore. These AW folks, they're smarter than the people you're used to being around. They're not amused by the usual Price antics."
Price looks up from his hands, eyes on the bottle in front of him. He reaches out, fingers on the neck of the bottle as he pauses for a moment.
"You think you still have a legacy worth remembering? At this point no one remembers you holding a title, you're just like that old drunk on the corner that people pass by and try not to make eye contact with."
He grabs the bottle and pulls it toward him, letting the familiar scent bring images of a happier place to mind before he lifts it to his mouth and begins to drink.
"You say you don't care about all of the losses, you say you're only here for the money, but how much longer are you going to lie to yourself? These losses are eating away at your insides and your only solution is to keep on drinking. But that bottle is only going to help you forget the last loss long enough until you lose another one. And then another one. Hopefully they'll wise up and fire your ass before you kill yourself or someone else in the ring."
He lets his eyes close as he continues to drink straight from the bottle, knowing all too well how much better things are going to be soon enough.
"That's right, keep on circling the drain. You're not strong enough to pull yourself out of this so just let the current drag you to where you belong. Death is the only way to make people care about your sorry ass again."
Only the need to breath is enough to pull the bottle away from Price's mouth. As he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the dirty mirror on the wall across from him.
"Look at you. Pathetic. You won a match last week due to pure luck and everyone know it, including you. Monroe is going to fucking embarrass you this week. She's already driven one chickenshit to the grave, maybe we'll all get lucky and she'll do it again."
Price throws the bottle across the room at the mirror, shattering it and sending the remaining whiskey splashing across the wall and floor.
"Price: 1, Mirror: 0. Congratulations, at least you'll have one win this week."
Finally, as the familiar warmth of the alcohol begins to take effect, he lays on his side and tries to close his eyes once again. As a loud pounding can be heard from the other side of the wall, a slight smile appears on Price's face as he fades away to a better place.
"It's all going to be fine. You're Jayson fucking Price, who is Debra Mason? A nobody, that's who. You're still the one that the fans show up to see each week, not anyone else. You're doing great champ, we're going to be back on top of the world in no time."
The scene slowly fades out to black as Price rolls over to get comfortable and ends up on the floor in a pile of previously unseen vomit.
"You know they don't respect you anymore. These AW folks, they're smarter than the people you're used to being around. They're not amused by the usual Price antics."
Price looks up from his hands, eyes on the bottle in front of him. He reaches out, fingers on the neck of the bottle as he pauses for a moment.
"You think you still have a legacy worth remembering? At this point no one remembers you holding a title, you're just like that old drunk on the corner that people pass by and try not to make eye contact with."
He grabs the bottle and pulls it toward him, letting the familiar scent bring images of a happier place to mind before he lifts it to his mouth and begins to drink.
"You say you don't care about all of the losses, you say you're only here for the money, but how much longer are you going to lie to yourself? These losses are eating away at your insides and your only solution is to keep on drinking. But that bottle is only going to help you forget the last loss long enough until you lose another one. And then another one. Hopefully they'll wise up and fire your ass before you kill yourself or someone else in the ring."
He lets his eyes close as he continues to drink straight from the bottle, knowing all too well how much better things are going to be soon enough.
"That's right, keep on circling the drain. You're not strong enough to pull yourself out of this so just let the current drag you to where you belong. Death is the only way to make people care about your sorry ass again."
Only the need to breath is enough to pull the bottle away from Price's mouth. As he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the dirty mirror on the wall across from him.
"Look at you. Pathetic. You won a match last week due to pure luck and everyone know it, including you. Monroe is going to fucking embarrass you this week. She's already driven one chickenshit to the grave, maybe we'll all get lucky and she'll do it again."
Price throws the bottle across the room at the mirror, shattering it and sending the remaining whiskey splashing across the wall and floor.
"Price: 1, Mirror: 0. Congratulations, at least you'll have one win this week."
Finally, as the familiar warmth of the alcohol begins to take effect, he lays on his side and tries to close his eyes once again. As a loud pounding can be heard from the other side of the wall, a slight smile appears on Price's face as he fades away to a better place.
"It's all going to be fine. You're Jayson fucking Price, who is Debra Mason? A nobody, that's who. You're still the one that the fans show up to see each week, not anyone else. You're doing great champ, we're going to be back on top of the world in no time."
The scene slowly fades out to black as Price rolls over to get comfortable and ends up on the floor in a pile of previously unseen vomit.