“What about the IWC appeals to you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You returned to them. Why do you think that you went back to that sort of lifestyle?”
An audible sigh.
“I don’t know, doc. I just wanted a paycheck, and it was a way that I knew I could make one easily and without having to develop any new skills and start over at the bottom.”
“Yes, but from what you’ve told me you’re having to do those things anyway.”
A long pause.
“I thought the point of this was to cheer me up?”
***
I’m not even going to bother setting up a scene for this. It’s not worth the effort (sort of like Hurse, badum-ching.) Ultimately no one cares anyways. So do whatever you feel like with this, Steve. I know you and Kingdom are on this new stint where you need to get on everyone’s case for not doing orthodox, sit-down, interview promos (which is hysterical, to be honest.) If you want to picture me in some dingy, dank basement with one spotlight shining overhead, do that. Or hey, maybe I could be in a back alley. Or if you want me to be in freaking Disneyworld, go for it. It won’t make any difference to me, and frankly the audience could probably give a shit as well.
Also, I’m not going to start putting the brackets around things that happen in between the things I’m saying. As interesting as it is to put in [AWOL scratches his ass] between all my comments about you and your general inadequacies regarding the areas of competing in the wrestling ring, acquiring and achieving a stable relationship, or any of your other failures as a human being, they don’t add anything. They’re a crutch, a means of adding in a pause to try and control the pace of the promo. They’re a hackneyed device that people who can’t manage to create temp any other way rely on to turn what would otherwise be one long stream of literary diarrhea into something that can actually be read without inducing narcolepsy. I’m better than that. To be honest, so are you.
[AWOL inserts a bracketed phrase anyway, mostly just to screw with you.]
This is just going to be a monologue, so you can picture whatever you feel like. The important thing is that I let you know how much I am truly not looking forward to this terrible match. Admittedly, there are very few things about coming to work at the IWC that I really enjoy anyways. As much as I wait breathlessly to go out to the ring, crush some waste of genetic material like Sean Johnson, collect my check, and spend the rest of the night enjoying the kind of cutting, witty banter that can only be supplied by the genius that is Porno Lad, it could be said that there are places I would rather be than competing in the wrestling ring. Trapped inside one of the freezer drawers of a morgue with a naked dead ninety year old man comes to mind as an example.
But still, even more than usual, I don’t want anything to do with this match with you on Friday. It’s not that I don’t like hurting you, Steve, because I assure you that I do. Really, the numerous times I beat you in the ULW ring are some of my fondest memories. You were sort of like the Pete Rose to my Kane, an easy match that was sure to create a high spot and a cheap pop from the crowd, ultimately making me look tough and unbeatable without having to break much of a sweat. It was truly a sweet arrangement. Unfortunately, I don’t seem to be able to work up the old enthusiasm anymore. For a time, I thought that perhaps it was simply that I was tired of going back to the same old well. Yawn, another victory over Hurse. Whoopteedoo. I guess I should be happy that you actually bothered to promo, that puts you ahead of the rest of the “opponents” I’ve had thus far.
But no, I decided, that’s not quite it. In any case it was never a problem before. So I sat myself down and thought about it, and ultimately all I could come up with was this: I’m disgusted with you. I know this is more or less a re-hash of what I ranted at you about earlier in the week, but it truly deserves underscoring. This “Please kill me AWOL” bit has to go. It’s nauseating. It used to be said that committing suicide is the most cowardly thing that you can do, and in a way I agree, but you’ve come along and demonstrated that in truth there is one thing that is more pathetic: getting someone else to kill you because you don’t have the nerve to do it yourself.
Now, I know what you’re thinking (this is what we call anticipating the rebuttal. Rhetorical argumentation 101, people. Give it a try sometime.) “But AWOL, your life is just as messed up as mine is. In your Up the Ante promo you smashed the hell out of your cell phone and started crying. How can you look down your nose at me for trying to pull the same sympathy angle on the crowd?” Well, number one, I’m looking down my nose at you for giving up and for making me do the dirty work for you. But more importantly, number two, my life has been shit for weeks. I lost a relationship I was in for years and which I was planning on staying in for many decades to come. I was happy. You, by contrast, lost a girl you married to irritate your ex. Can you see the difference here? Can you see why I’m having a hard time drudging up any tears for you here?
So beating you doesn’t even feel like it would be satisfying, because to be honest it would be giving you what you want. Heaping more of this ridiculous sympathy onto you would just make the situation more ridiculous. So we’re going to try something different this week, starting now. We’re going to use the Ferber method on you from here on out. You can cry and wail all you like, and we’ll ignore you. We’ll hold you out at arm’s length and, hopefully, eventually you’ll learn to self-soothe, and then we won’t have to listen to you anymore.
And if that doesn’t work, I guess you can roll around in whatever big pile of money you’ve conveniently acquired. I’m sure that will get you through the hard times.
***
“I have a theory, if you’d like to hear it.”
“Sure, why not. That is more or less what I’m paying you for.”
“I think violence is the only way for you to show that you’re strong. What happened with Vivian has thoroughly unnerved you. Throughout all this time you’ve been the character AWOL, you’ve been untouchable. Nothing could hurt you. But now, all of a sudden this thing has happened in your life, and you find yourself in an unfamiliar position of vulnerability. And so, the violence is your coping method, the means through which you’re able to deny that this has actually hurt you.”
“So what the hell do I do about it?”
“There’s going to come a time when hurting people in the ring stops working. Every night it’s going to get a little bit less satisfying until finally you’re chasing the sensation and pushing yourself to more and more extremes to find it.”
“So I’m going to end up like Mickey Rourke from ‘The Wrestler’?”
“Make jokes if you want, Anthony, but you’re going to have to come to grips with this eventually. You’ll have to sit down and ask yourself ‘Do I want to get better?’”
***
Friday, August 28, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Truth and Suicide
"When Jesus saw him lying there and learned that he had been in this condition for a long time, he asked him, 'Do you want to get well?'" (John 5:6).
***
AWOL points the remote at his television, turning off the exceedingly depressing “leaked” last will and testament of his opponent this week, Hurse. He slowly puts the remote down on his coffee table, turning in his chair towards the camera set up in his living room. The image is clearly being recorded by a home camcorder. The upper left of the screen has the red circle of a “record” flashing, while a timer in the bottom left slowly ticks away the seconds. At twenty seconds past initiation, he stares at the lens, opening his mouth to unleash one of his patented venomous tirades.
And then he stops, biting off his words just as quickly.
He sighs, shaking his head. Rethinking things apparently, he points an accusing finger at the screen at thirty five seconds, another fiery retort coming. And just as quickly he gets stuck, dropping the finger and rubbing the bridge of his nose in irritation. Finally, at forty seconds, he sighs, not even bothering to look at the camera this time.
AWOL- Christ, Hurse, what the fuck is your problem?
He grimaces at forty two seconds.
AWOL- I mean, I know what your problem is, or I guess I know what some of them are. Hell, you come up with new ones on a weekly basis and if you’re not doing it your love partners are doing it for you. But, seriously, could you be any more passive aggressive? Recording your will and testament because you volunteered to face me so I could kill you? Really? That’s what you’re going with? What are you, the fat chick that couldn’t make the cheerleading squad?
At one minute three seconds he gives a grim chuckle and looks up into the screen.
AWOL- This is hardly the first time you’ve tried this ploy, I would point out. I vividly remember rushing across town when you, Kingdom, and I were facing each other and some other scrubs in the Weapon’s Lair to try and take a gun out of your hands. Most people call that a cry for help, someone reaching out through threatening suicide to garner sympathy from the people around them. Essentially, they don’t feel like they can get help on their own, or that no one cares about them, and this is the only way to get the help they need. I should point out, at this point, that this is a strategy primarily employed by women, Hurse. While women are two to three times more likely to attempt suicide, men are by far more successful at it, something like eighty to ninety percent.
He leans forward conspiratorily to the lens.
AWOL- You’ll excuse the lecture. My head’s been filled with a lot of these statistics recently. For some reason people think I might want to kill myself.
This occurs at one minute twenty eight seconds.
AWOL- Anyway. So, as I was saying, people may think that this is a cry from help for you, another one, because of the grimness of your situation. It’s a mess, I’ll give it to you. One ex turns on you and takes away your title belt, in doing so joining forces with another one. Two of your exes in one group opposing you is sort of like a perfect storm, and I sympathize. I really do. I know how much you’re hurting right now, or at least as much as you seem to want us to believe you’re hurting. With you, no one can be sure that the emotions one typically associates with normal human beings apply, or whether you are actually capable of feeling anything besides scorn for your opponents and a need for self-pity. I know that when it happened to me, it felt like there was no tomorrow waiting. There was nothing to wake up for, no reason to get out of bed, no reason to keep going day after day in a world that had clearly turned its back on you. It’s no wonder people turn to suicide in situations like yours. Nothing looks sweeter than the barrel of a forty-five or a glock, polished up to a mirror finish and ready to be shoved to the back of your throat while you wrap your finger around the trigger, your last official act to fire a projectile that blows bone, blood, and brain matter against whatever wall or piece of furniture is unfortunate enough to be located behind you. You start to see opportunities everywhere. A beautiful view from a balcony is an opportunity to jump and end it all in one gore-drenched splatter on the pavement below, your body popping like a water balloon on the concrete. A bus driving down the street is an out of control projectile with no chance to stop if you can just work up the nerve to step in front of it, and maybe wave goodbye as it plows over you. All it takes is the will to do it, the force of strength to act and end it all, and the pain stops. There is no afterlife, no heaven or hell or limbo, so you can just end it all and not have to feel the pain any longer. So yeah, Hurse, I get it. I get why you would say you want me to kill you in the ring on Riot! this Friday.
He leans back in his char, two minutes twelve seconds ticking off the counter.
AWOL- The problem is, Hurse, you and I and, I like to think, the majority of the viewing population know that its bullshit. You’re really going to off yourself because you lost some chick you’ve been married too for a matter of weeks and who, from what I’ve seen, was impressed by you taking her to Red Lobster? That’s what pushed you over the edge? Or, no, maybe it was the loss of your glorious mid-card belt that finally broke the camel’s back. Or, no, I get it now. Clearly what’s finally brought you to your lowest point, the event that has left you in the no-win scenario with no chance of ever improving your circumstances, is the staggering odds of having to face the wrath of the Brat Pack week in and week out. I mean, come on, there’s five chicks and Jackson Adams in that stable. Who wouldn’t be terrified?
At two minutes forty seven he gives a derisive snort.
AWOL- No, this isn’t a real suicide attempt. This isn’t even a cry for help. It’s a cry for attention. Poor Steven, his life’s a wreck. His TV wife left him and now he’s got a busted up wing and a group of PMSing women who are out to get him, or at least, you know, write nasty things on the mirror of his dressing room with lipstick. Quick, everyone drop what you’re doing and feel sorry for poor Mr. Parkwood. Clearly, his sob story is the most tragic thing to happen here in the IWC. And maybe, just maybe, if we shed enough tears for him, and pray, and cheer loud enough for him at Riot! he’ll find the will to live and overcome the odds against the big, nasty AWOL so he can go fight the good fight once again! And what a story it’ll be, comeback of the year, as Hurse drags himself up from the bottom to regain what was taken from him. Pfft. It’s almost too ridiculous for words.
He pauses at three minutes twenty four, reaching around on the side of his chair and coming up with an old picture frame. In the middle of it stands Hurse, soaked in sweat and blood, standing at the base of a steel cage with the ULW world heavyweight title lifted triumphantly over his head.
AWOL- Do you remember this guy, Hurse? Because I do, and that’s what really pisses me off about all of this. You used to be somebody. For one shining moment in the rest of your miserable, pathetic fucking life you put your own self-imposed limitations aside and rose to the highest point in this company. You went into the Lair with five other competitors. You survived me throwing your ass off the top of the second cell. Hell, you pulled the fucking world title literally out of the grip of Johnny Kingdom, probably the greatest and most accomplished champion either federation has ever known, and you did it on the highest stage in the company. For that bright, shining moment you were the star that everyone saw the potential for you to be. You had it made, man. You had the fucking world on a plate, and now look at you. You’re wasting away in the mid-card, embroiling yourself in feuds with people that are so far below you that they’re barely worth mentioning, and now you want to give up? Now you want us to believe that you’re ready to pack it in and call it a day? Please. Don’t make me laugh. The Brat Pack is maybe the most ridiculous heel stable I’ve seen in my entire career. Robin Brooks is the best wrestler they have. I’m going to repeat that so you understand the full meaning of what I’m saying. Robin Brooks, the running joke, the town bicycle, is their best wrestler. Everyone else would barely qualify for a participation award at a high school wrestling meet, and you’re going to throw in the towel? I could break them apart in a month without even trying, and I know that if you would just fucking get over yourself you could do the same. It’s really just pathetic when you get right down to it.
He stands up, the top of his head barely framed in the shot.
AWOL- So no, Hurse, I’m not going to kill you. You’re not worth the time and paperwork to be honest. I’m just going to go out to the ring and beat you, simple as that, same as I’ve done every other time we’ve been matched up one on one. Hell, all those other times I did it when you had both arms working, this shouldn’t even take more than a few minutes, which is fine with me. Matter of fact, why don’t you save us both some time and just not show up. That would fit this new “Woe is Me” image you’re portraying pretty well, I would say. Maybe the camera guys could even cut to the back to find you crying in your locker room, too depressed to go on. That would generate some real sympathy, Steven, and we all know that’s what you’re really going for here. And hell, any night I can get a bonus for a win without even having to break a sweat, I’m a happy man.
He flashes an unpleasant smile at the camera before flipping it off, just as the camera passes four minutes thirty seven.
***
AWOL points the remote at his television, turning off the exceedingly depressing “leaked” last will and testament of his opponent this week, Hurse. He slowly puts the remote down on his coffee table, turning in his chair towards the camera set up in his living room. The image is clearly being recorded by a home camcorder. The upper left of the screen has the red circle of a “record” flashing, while a timer in the bottom left slowly ticks away the seconds. At twenty seconds past initiation, he stares at the lens, opening his mouth to unleash one of his patented venomous tirades.
And then he stops, biting off his words just as quickly.
He sighs, shaking his head. Rethinking things apparently, he points an accusing finger at the screen at thirty five seconds, another fiery retort coming. And just as quickly he gets stuck, dropping the finger and rubbing the bridge of his nose in irritation. Finally, at forty seconds, he sighs, not even bothering to look at the camera this time.
AWOL- Christ, Hurse, what the fuck is your problem?
He grimaces at forty two seconds.
AWOL- I mean, I know what your problem is, or I guess I know what some of them are. Hell, you come up with new ones on a weekly basis and if you’re not doing it your love partners are doing it for you. But, seriously, could you be any more passive aggressive? Recording your will and testament because you volunteered to face me so I could kill you? Really? That’s what you’re going with? What are you, the fat chick that couldn’t make the cheerleading squad?
At one minute three seconds he gives a grim chuckle and looks up into the screen.
AWOL- This is hardly the first time you’ve tried this ploy, I would point out. I vividly remember rushing across town when you, Kingdom, and I were facing each other and some other scrubs in the Weapon’s Lair to try and take a gun out of your hands. Most people call that a cry for help, someone reaching out through threatening suicide to garner sympathy from the people around them. Essentially, they don’t feel like they can get help on their own, or that no one cares about them, and this is the only way to get the help they need. I should point out, at this point, that this is a strategy primarily employed by women, Hurse. While women are two to three times more likely to attempt suicide, men are by far more successful at it, something like eighty to ninety percent.
He leans forward conspiratorily to the lens.
AWOL- You’ll excuse the lecture. My head’s been filled with a lot of these statistics recently. For some reason people think I might want to kill myself.
This occurs at one minute twenty eight seconds.
AWOL- Anyway. So, as I was saying, people may think that this is a cry from help for you, another one, because of the grimness of your situation. It’s a mess, I’ll give it to you. One ex turns on you and takes away your title belt, in doing so joining forces with another one. Two of your exes in one group opposing you is sort of like a perfect storm, and I sympathize. I really do. I know how much you’re hurting right now, or at least as much as you seem to want us to believe you’re hurting. With you, no one can be sure that the emotions one typically associates with normal human beings apply, or whether you are actually capable of feeling anything besides scorn for your opponents and a need for self-pity. I know that when it happened to me, it felt like there was no tomorrow waiting. There was nothing to wake up for, no reason to get out of bed, no reason to keep going day after day in a world that had clearly turned its back on you. It’s no wonder people turn to suicide in situations like yours. Nothing looks sweeter than the barrel of a forty-five or a glock, polished up to a mirror finish and ready to be shoved to the back of your throat while you wrap your finger around the trigger, your last official act to fire a projectile that blows bone, blood, and brain matter against whatever wall or piece of furniture is unfortunate enough to be located behind you. You start to see opportunities everywhere. A beautiful view from a balcony is an opportunity to jump and end it all in one gore-drenched splatter on the pavement below, your body popping like a water balloon on the concrete. A bus driving down the street is an out of control projectile with no chance to stop if you can just work up the nerve to step in front of it, and maybe wave goodbye as it plows over you. All it takes is the will to do it, the force of strength to act and end it all, and the pain stops. There is no afterlife, no heaven or hell or limbo, so you can just end it all and not have to feel the pain any longer. So yeah, Hurse, I get it. I get why you would say you want me to kill you in the ring on Riot! this Friday.
He leans back in his char, two minutes twelve seconds ticking off the counter.
AWOL- The problem is, Hurse, you and I and, I like to think, the majority of the viewing population know that its bullshit. You’re really going to off yourself because you lost some chick you’ve been married too for a matter of weeks and who, from what I’ve seen, was impressed by you taking her to Red Lobster? That’s what pushed you over the edge? Or, no, maybe it was the loss of your glorious mid-card belt that finally broke the camel’s back. Or, no, I get it now. Clearly what’s finally brought you to your lowest point, the event that has left you in the no-win scenario with no chance of ever improving your circumstances, is the staggering odds of having to face the wrath of the Brat Pack week in and week out. I mean, come on, there’s five chicks and Jackson Adams in that stable. Who wouldn’t be terrified?
At two minutes forty seven he gives a derisive snort.
AWOL- No, this isn’t a real suicide attempt. This isn’t even a cry for help. It’s a cry for attention. Poor Steven, his life’s a wreck. His TV wife left him and now he’s got a busted up wing and a group of PMSing women who are out to get him, or at least, you know, write nasty things on the mirror of his dressing room with lipstick. Quick, everyone drop what you’re doing and feel sorry for poor Mr. Parkwood. Clearly, his sob story is the most tragic thing to happen here in the IWC. And maybe, just maybe, if we shed enough tears for him, and pray, and cheer loud enough for him at Riot! he’ll find the will to live and overcome the odds against the big, nasty AWOL so he can go fight the good fight once again! And what a story it’ll be, comeback of the year, as Hurse drags himself up from the bottom to regain what was taken from him. Pfft. It’s almost too ridiculous for words.
He pauses at three minutes twenty four, reaching around on the side of his chair and coming up with an old picture frame. In the middle of it stands Hurse, soaked in sweat and blood, standing at the base of a steel cage with the ULW world heavyweight title lifted triumphantly over his head.
AWOL- Do you remember this guy, Hurse? Because I do, and that’s what really pisses me off about all of this. You used to be somebody. For one shining moment in the rest of your miserable, pathetic fucking life you put your own self-imposed limitations aside and rose to the highest point in this company. You went into the Lair with five other competitors. You survived me throwing your ass off the top of the second cell. Hell, you pulled the fucking world title literally out of the grip of Johnny Kingdom, probably the greatest and most accomplished champion either federation has ever known, and you did it on the highest stage in the company. For that bright, shining moment you were the star that everyone saw the potential for you to be. You had it made, man. You had the fucking world on a plate, and now look at you. You’re wasting away in the mid-card, embroiling yourself in feuds with people that are so far below you that they’re barely worth mentioning, and now you want to give up? Now you want us to believe that you’re ready to pack it in and call it a day? Please. Don’t make me laugh. The Brat Pack is maybe the most ridiculous heel stable I’ve seen in my entire career. Robin Brooks is the best wrestler they have. I’m going to repeat that so you understand the full meaning of what I’m saying. Robin Brooks, the running joke, the town bicycle, is their best wrestler. Everyone else would barely qualify for a participation award at a high school wrestling meet, and you’re going to throw in the towel? I could break them apart in a month without even trying, and I know that if you would just fucking get over yourself you could do the same. It’s really just pathetic when you get right down to it.
He stands up, the top of his head barely framed in the shot.
AWOL- So no, Hurse, I’m not going to kill you. You’re not worth the time and paperwork to be honest. I’m just going to go out to the ring and beat you, simple as that, same as I’ve done every other time we’ve been matched up one on one. Hell, all those other times I did it when you had both arms working, this shouldn’t even take more than a few minutes, which is fine with me. Matter of fact, why don’t you save us both some time and just not show up. That would fit this new “Woe is Me” image you’re portraying pretty well, I would say. Maybe the camera guys could even cut to the back to find you crying in your locker room, too depressed to go on. That would generate some real sympathy, Steven, and we all know that’s what you’re really going for here. And hell, any night I can get a bonus for a win without even having to break a sweat, I’m a happy man.
He flashes an unpleasant smile at the camera before flipping it off, just as the camera passes four minutes thirty seven.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Where is Everybody?
"Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their work: If one falls down, his friend can help him up. But pity the man who falls and has no one to help him up!" (Ecclesiastes 4:9-10).
***
“The place is here,”
AWOL walks down a street, clad in a grey jumpsuit, looking around with an expression of puzzlement at the concrete jungle surrounding him on all sides. He is covered in about an inch of beige road dust, caking into a solid film on his forehead from perspiration. Staggering, the man appears to be near the point of collapse.
“The time is now,”
He rubs the muddy, caked on sweat from his forehead, looking up at the glaringly hot sun beating down from a sky that doesn’t appear to have seen a cloud in decades. Heat mirages drift lazily up from the concrete road ahead of him, blurring his vision and leaving him stumbling, even more disoriented.
“And the journey into the shadows we’re about to watch could be our journey.”
AWOL walks around a corner, eyes widening in shock as they try to take in the vast stretch of road before him. A long highway stretches away into the distance, flanked on both sides by buildings featuring all manner of bizarre architecture and styles, ranging from massive Egyptian pyramids to brightly colored castles. The former champion stops, struck completely dumb for a moment by the awe inspiring vista, an oasis in the desert, this city of sin. He recognizes it immediately. He’s standing on the strip in downtown Las Vegas at the foot of the Desert Palms hotel, dozens of monuments to consumerism, greed, and vice towering over him, trailing off to the horizon.
And no other human beings are anywhere in sight.
***
The bell over the door rings as he steps through it, tossing open the entrance to the restaurant with an impatient swipe. He steps inside, scanning the room with his eyes out of old habit, finding only an empty dining area straight out of the nineteen fifties, dozens of tables sitting with silverware, napkins, and water glasses all immaculately placed and pristine. A malt shop complete with black and white checker board tile floors and the brightly polished chrome bar sits at the front of the establishment near the door through which AWOL has just arrived. Roy Orbison’s “Oobie Doobie” drifts from the speakers of a jukebox in the corner of the room, though there is no indication of who may have fed the quarter into the machine to start the tune. A tall chocolate malt sits on the countertop, the outside of the glass already dripping with condensation despite being full and not yet melting, seemingly having been poured only moments earlier.
“Hello?”
AWOL looks around for a response, but Mr. Orbison’s voice is the only answer he receives.
“Anybody here?”
He starts to walk through the room, again keeping an ear cocked for a response. “Hey, I could use some service,” he shouts towards the kitchen. “I’ve got some money with me, I’d be happy to pay.” He pauses, a curious expression crossing his face, as he digs around in one of the jump-suit’s pockets. He pulls out a small wad of bills and a handful of coins. He digs through the cash with the index finger of his other hand, rolling the bills out of the way and ticking off each coin individually. Shaking his head ruefully, he stuffs the cash back into his pocket. “Well, not much cash, but I could really just use a glass of water or something.”
He walks up to the bar, sitting down on one of the stools next to the malt shake. He waits for a moment, tapping his finger on the countertop impatiently. “Hello? Anybody back there?” he shouts, craning his neck to the side and staring back past the large red swinging doors towards the kitchen. He chuckles, a smile spreading onto his face. “I’m not INS, I just want a god damned cheeseburger. Somebody get out here and take my order.”
“I was just wandering in off of the road out there, you see,” he says, jerking his thumb towards the door. “I’m not really sure how I got here, to be honest. It looks like I’ve been travelling for a while, but I don’t remember any of it. Hell, come to think of it, I’m not even sure who I am.” He looks around, still seeing no one, and finally loses his patience. “Seriously, the joke’s getting old. Get the hell out here, or I’m coming back to get my own food. I’m starting to lose my patience.”
He waits a second longer before finally standing up in irritation, leaping over the bar in one move and storming angrily back into the kitchen. “Alright, I warned you, now get me a god damned-. “ He comes up short, cutting himself off mid-rant as he finds the kitchen completely empty as well. Long rows of silver ovens and grills run parallel to each other into depths of the long room, all sterile and missing only some chefs to prepare the food. One of the burners has a large silver kettle resting on it, the high heat finally causing the soup within it to boil over the side as the big-man stands, jaw agape, looking at the desolation. With a crash, the bubbling liquid throws the lid free of the pot to clatter onto the floor. The sound echoes eerily as the song on the jukebox ends.
“Where is everybody?”
***
AWOL is walking through an abandoned casino floor, carrying the malt shake from the restaurant and taking a thoughtful sip from the straw. The silence in the room is deafening, made more eerie from the cacophony that typically predominates in the pit of any Vegas gambling house. The ear almost aches for the usual sounds of barely controlled anarchy that all of a person’s senses tell them SHOULD BE HERE, with slot machines joining into an endless song-in-the-round chorus of electronic jingles and bells, intermingling with the excited shouts of the winners and the agonized groans of the newly bankrupt.
Instead AWOL’s footfalls are the only noises in the room as he walks by the craps tables. He looks down at the bets laid out, with a large stack of chips waiting on the pass line. He pauses for a moment, glancing up at the ring of security cameras surrounding him, their red indicator lights still lit despite the lack of any security guards to watch them. He smiles, knowingly, throwing the cameras a wink before picking up easily fifty grand in chips in his free hand. He makes a move to put the stack into his pocket. “Look out,” he says to the room, “I’m about to clean you out. Better send a pit boss or some of the big bruisers to stop me.” He waits another moment, hand poised over his pocket, but no commotion of casino security coming to arrest him answers. Finally, disgusted, he throws the chips back onto the table along with the empty malt glass and continues walking.
Making his way through the rows of machines, he finds more indications of life. Here, a cigarette still burns in an ash tray only halfway down to the filter. There, a machine is waiting with the coins loaded, waiting only for someone to pull the lever and start the wheels spinning. Bets are placed, cards are dealt, but no one is here to play the games besides a very confused IWC performer.
He gives a roulette wheel a spin as he walks past it. “This has to be a dream,” he finally concludes, nodding to himself. “This is a dream, I’m going to wake up any minute now.”
He walks over to a mirror, staring into his reflection. “I just don’t understand it,” he says to himself. “I know that something’s not right about all of this. There should be other people here. I’m here to MEET two people. I know it. I know there’s a reason I’m here, but where the hell are they?” He rests his forehead on the glass. “Wake up,” he says, enjoying the feel of the cool glass on his skin. “Wake up!” he shouts, pounding a fist against the glass. “WAKE UP!” he finally screams, smashing his forehead against the mirror. It shatters with a crash, collapsing into a dozen pieces around him. He turns around, cursing under his breath and trying to stem the sudden tide of blood dripping from where the broken glass has cut his forehead. He staggers backwards, cursing under his breath, as he looks around frantically in all directions. Crimson liquid is welling between the fingers of the hand he has clamped over the wound, and no first aid-kit or other means of treating it is in sight. He staggers, resting his back against the broken mirror, and rips a piece of his sleeve free for an improvised bandage.
As he pulls the knot tight behind his head, creating a sort of blood-covered bandana, he hears a faint sound from somewhere in the rest of the building. “Hello?” he shouts, bolting upright in an instant. “Is somebody there?”
He sprints off in the direction of the sound.
***
AWOL walks through a swinging metal door, flipping down a kick-stand to hold it open. He’s standing in the abandoned arena of the Hard Rock Casino. The ring is already set up for the IWC pay-per-view “Up The Ante,” but the seats as expected are still abandoned. The sound is coming from the dozens of speakers scattered throughout the room, blaring out rock music at full volume. Looking around in even more confusion, the massive man starts to walk down the steps towards the ring.
“Who’s running the music?” he shouts as he reaches the ring apron. “HEY!” he shouts, waving an arm towards the screen. “Who’s back there?”
Suddenly the tune changes and the lights darken. A voice screams “YOU BETTA GO AWAY!” and the stage explodes with pyro, forcing the man to cover up his eyes with his forearm for a moment. He stares, mesmerized at images of himself on the screen inflicting horrible violence on other human beings. His name flashes, “AWOL,” ringed by fire and replaced immediately with his own brooding visage staring out at himself.
A light of understanding finally appears on the real AWOL’s face. “I’m a professional wrestler,” he says, nodding. “My name is AWOL. I must be here for a match. Now, where are my opponents?”
As if on cue, a different song fires up on the stage. Sean Johnsons’ entrance music kicks on. The video package changes as well, with shots of Johnson’s various “achievements” during his wrestling career interspersed with images of that fucking hideous cat. AWOL climbs up into the ring, turning towards the ramp expectantly, but sees no one coming out through the curtains. He waits another impatient moment longer, but as the music cuts out he walks over to the rope, grabbing it in frustration. “Hey, what the hell! Where is he? Send him out here! I need an opponent!”
Instead, the only response he receives is “Animal I Have Become” blaring out of the PA and Too Magnificent’s video package taking over the massive screen. AWOL pauses for a moment, but there is still no tell-tale ripping aside of the curtain to signify this new competitor’s arrival. This only serves to infuriate the big man more, and he climbs out through the ropes and starts up the ramp. “Alright, I’ve had enough of this shit!” AWOL screams, dashing off the side of the entrance ramp towards the audio/visual controls. He skids to a halt, seeing the machines apparently running on their own, an empty folding chair sitting all by itself in front of the control panel. With an animalistic scream of fury, AWOL snatches the chair up from the ground, snapping the seat up into prime smashing position before unleashing his rage on the devices that seem to be taunting him. He swings the hunk of steel down into glass monitors and audio sound mixers, sparks of electricity flying into the air with each metal-and-ear-shattering collision. The music from the PA distorts before finally falling silent, the video screen’s output being replaced shortly thereafter with blackness.
AWOL slumps down onto the floor, tossing the mangled remains of the folding chair to the side, his fury finally spent. His eyes are wide and panicked, and his hands grip the sides of his forehead. He bangs the back of his head repeatedly against the smashed control panel. “What the hell is going on?” he mutters to himself. “Why am I the only one here? Where the hell is everybody hiding? Who’s doing this to me?”
Only silence echoes through the arena, but a moment later a new sound rings out, that of the squeak of a hinge as a door slowly swings shut. AWOL looks up, panic evident on his features, as he sees the door he propped open closing. He bolts to his feet, sprinting around the ring and up the stairs. He is far too slow, however, and with an ominous clang the door slams shut, a final click ringing out as it latches. AWOL runs up to the door, throwing his weight against it in vain. The barrier sealing him in doesn’t budge, doesn’t even dent, beneath the big man’s weight.
“Ok, ha ha, everybody’s had a good laugh now,” he shouts, only the tiniest edge of panic audible in his voice, his mouth an inch from the metal. “Open the fucking door and let’s get on with the show.” He keeps his smile in place for a moment before instantly replacing it with a snarl. “God damn it! This isn’t funny! Somebody open up and let me out of here!” He slams his fist against the door. “Open up! Let me the fuck out of here!”
Behind him, the spotlights illuminating the ring cut out.
“I want out of here! Let me out of here! I want out!”
Another set of lights turn off, leaving only a small ring around the outside of the arena.
“Please let me out! PLEASE!” AWOl begs, dropping down to his knees with his back to the door, still banging against it with his shoulder.
Another click, now AWOL is sitting illuminated by the only overhead light in the arena.
“Let me out,” he whispers, his hands now simply covering up his eyes. “Please. I want out. Why are you doing this to me? Let me out. God, please let me out.”
Click. The room drops to darkness.
***
Beep. Beep. Beep.
AWOL rests on a stretcher, his massive frame covered by a hospital gown. He is ringed on all sides by instrumentation monitoring his pulse, blood pressure, and brain activity, the latter spiking all over the chart. Wires run from sensors placed around his temples and almost every other exposed piece of skin. His eyes flash back and forth beneath closed lids, and suddenly his whole body twitches.
The ring of men and women in lab coats standing near him make a note on their clipboards.
“Isn’t this kind of inhumane?” one of them says, a brunette woman in dark glasses.
“What are you talking about?” the man next to her answers, making another note on his sheet. “He’s been in comas before. It’s all on his chart. This is a walk in the park for him.”
The woman drops the clipboard to her side, flashing him a disgusted look. “You know damn well that this is different,” she says, “He’s been trapped in there for three days now. We’ve been running him through scenario after scenario where he’s trapped, alone, with no hope and no interaction with anyone. No one can take that kind of strain. We could be shattering this man’s mind permanently.”
The man sighs, dropping his clipboard down to his side as well. “Look sweetheart, I know what you’re trying to say here, but you’re missing an important fact.” He pulls his own glasses off, putting them into a pocket as he looks the woman in the eyes. “He’s coming back to the IWC after years being away, and he’s going to have to work his way back from the bottom. You know what that means for a monster big-man like him? It means he’s going to spend weeks competing against sub-standard opponents who barely bother to even put together promos, let alone show up in the ring. It’s wrestling build-up 101. The big man comes in, crushes these guys like bugs, and that builds up his credibility for when he goes up against real opponents later on. It’s all well and good, but there are safety concerns that need to be addressed before we turn him loose.”
The man gives a sad smile to the brunette. “He’s going to be all alone for a hell of a lot longer than three days with even less interaction than he is having now. He’ll be trapped, isolated, and forced to essentially entertain himself for weeks, maybe even months at a time before he finally works through enough of these scrubs to get back into the ring with the big-timers. We’re not being cruel to him.” He turns back, true sympathy finally apparent on his features. “By making him get used to it ahead of time, we’re actually doing the poor bastard a kindness.”
The woman looks doubtful. “I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem right.”
“I agree, and I wish it wasn’t necessary,” the man answers, pulling his glasses back out and replacing them on his face. “But that’s just the way the business works. We wouldn’t want to push him too fast too soon, or people would start bitching about him getting title shots he didn’t deserve. And god knows, we can’t let that happen.” He flashes the still concerned woman a smile, even going so far as to drop a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, he knew what he was getting into when he came back.”
She flashes him a halfhearted smile of her own before lifting the clipboard back up. The man turns back to an operator near the machinery. “Let’s run the August 28th Riot! program next. Set him up to fight Jackson Adams and Miho Miyazaki.”
With a nod, the operator starts turning the dials, changing the horrifying loneliness of the Las Vegas arena to another, nameless arena filled with yet more emptiness and fear. AWOL twitches again on the table, a grimace momentarily twisting his lips before returning back to calm. As the camera floats up into the air, through the roof, away from the doctors and the scene of medical torture, the voice of the narrator returns.
“"Out there, out there in the pits of the midcard, in the void that is curtain-jerking, out there is an enemy known as isolation. It sits there in the booking office waiting, waiting with the patience of eons, forever waiting... in the AWOL Zone."
Cue creepy music. Credits.
***
“The place is here,”
AWOL walks down a street, clad in a grey jumpsuit, looking around with an expression of puzzlement at the concrete jungle surrounding him on all sides. He is covered in about an inch of beige road dust, caking into a solid film on his forehead from perspiration. Staggering, the man appears to be near the point of collapse.
“The time is now,”
He rubs the muddy, caked on sweat from his forehead, looking up at the glaringly hot sun beating down from a sky that doesn’t appear to have seen a cloud in decades. Heat mirages drift lazily up from the concrete road ahead of him, blurring his vision and leaving him stumbling, even more disoriented.
“And the journey into the shadows we’re about to watch could be our journey.”
AWOL walks around a corner, eyes widening in shock as they try to take in the vast stretch of road before him. A long highway stretches away into the distance, flanked on both sides by buildings featuring all manner of bizarre architecture and styles, ranging from massive Egyptian pyramids to brightly colored castles. The former champion stops, struck completely dumb for a moment by the awe inspiring vista, an oasis in the desert, this city of sin. He recognizes it immediately. He’s standing on the strip in downtown Las Vegas at the foot of the Desert Palms hotel, dozens of monuments to consumerism, greed, and vice towering over him, trailing off to the horizon.
And no other human beings are anywhere in sight.
***
The bell over the door rings as he steps through it, tossing open the entrance to the restaurant with an impatient swipe. He steps inside, scanning the room with his eyes out of old habit, finding only an empty dining area straight out of the nineteen fifties, dozens of tables sitting with silverware, napkins, and water glasses all immaculately placed and pristine. A malt shop complete with black and white checker board tile floors and the brightly polished chrome bar sits at the front of the establishment near the door through which AWOL has just arrived. Roy Orbison’s “Oobie Doobie” drifts from the speakers of a jukebox in the corner of the room, though there is no indication of who may have fed the quarter into the machine to start the tune. A tall chocolate malt sits on the countertop, the outside of the glass already dripping with condensation despite being full and not yet melting, seemingly having been poured only moments earlier.
“Hello?”
AWOL looks around for a response, but Mr. Orbison’s voice is the only answer he receives.
“Anybody here?”
He starts to walk through the room, again keeping an ear cocked for a response. “Hey, I could use some service,” he shouts towards the kitchen. “I’ve got some money with me, I’d be happy to pay.” He pauses, a curious expression crossing his face, as he digs around in one of the jump-suit’s pockets. He pulls out a small wad of bills and a handful of coins. He digs through the cash with the index finger of his other hand, rolling the bills out of the way and ticking off each coin individually. Shaking his head ruefully, he stuffs the cash back into his pocket. “Well, not much cash, but I could really just use a glass of water or something.”
He walks up to the bar, sitting down on one of the stools next to the malt shake. He waits for a moment, tapping his finger on the countertop impatiently. “Hello? Anybody back there?” he shouts, craning his neck to the side and staring back past the large red swinging doors towards the kitchen. He chuckles, a smile spreading onto his face. “I’m not INS, I just want a god damned cheeseburger. Somebody get out here and take my order.”
“I was just wandering in off of the road out there, you see,” he says, jerking his thumb towards the door. “I’m not really sure how I got here, to be honest. It looks like I’ve been travelling for a while, but I don’t remember any of it. Hell, come to think of it, I’m not even sure who I am.” He looks around, still seeing no one, and finally loses his patience. “Seriously, the joke’s getting old. Get the hell out here, or I’m coming back to get my own food. I’m starting to lose my patience.”
He waits a second longer before finally standing up in irritation, leaping over the bar in one move and storming angrily back into the kitchen. “Alright, I warned you, now get me a god damned-. “ He comes up short, cutting himself off mid-rant as he finds the kitchen completely empty as well. Long rows of silver ovens and grills run parallel to each other into depths of the long room, all sterile and missing only some chefs to prepare the food. One of the burners has a large silver kettle resting on it, the high heat finally causing the soup within it to boil over the side as the big-man stands, jaw agape, looking at the desolation. With a crash, the bubbling liquid throws the lid free of the pot to clatter onto the floor. The sound echoes eerily as the song on the jukebox ends.
“Where is everybody?”
***
AWOL is walking through an abandoned casino floor, carrying the malt shake from the restaurant and taking a thoughtful sip from the straw. The silence in the room is deafening, made more eerie from the cacophony that typically predominates in the pit of any Vegas gambling house. The ear almost aches for the usual sounds of barely controlled anarchy that all of a person’s senses tell them SHOULD BE HERE, with slot machines joining into an endless song-in-the-round chorus of electronic jingles and bells, intermingling with the excited shouts of the winners and the agonized groans of the newly bankrupt.
Instead AWOL’s footfalls are the only noises in the room as he walks by the craps tables. He looks down at the bets laid out, with a large stack of chips waiting on the pass line. He pauses for a moment, glancing up at the ring of security cameras surrounding him, their red indicator lights still lit despite the lack of any security guards to watch them. He smiles, knowingly, throwing the cameras a wink before picking up easily fifty grand in chips in his free hand. He makes a move to put the stack into his pocket. “Look out,” he says to the room, “I’m about to clean you out. Better send a pit boss or some of the big bruisers to stop me.” He waits another moment, hand poised over his pocket, but no commotion of casino security coming to arrest him answers. Finally, disgusted, he throws the chips back onto the table along with the empty malt glass and continues walking.
Making his way through the rows of machines, he finds more indications of life. Here, a cigarette still burns in an ash tray only halfway down to the filter. There, a machine is waiting with the coins loaded, waiting only for someone to pull the lever and start the wheels spinning. Bets are placed, cards are dealt, but no one is here to play the games besides a very confused IWC performer.
He gives a roulette wheel a spin as he walks past it. “This has to be a dream,” he finally concludes, nodding to himself. “This is a dream, I’m going to wake up any minute now.”
He walks over to a mirror, staring into his reflection. “I just don’t understand it,” he says to himself. “I know that something’s not right about all of this. There should be other people here. I’m here to MEET two people. I know it. I know there’s a reason I’m here, but where the hell are they?” He rests his forehead on the glass. “Wake up,” he says, enjoying the feel of the cool glass on his skin. “Wake up!” he shouts, pounding a fist against the glass. “WAKE UP!” he finally screams, smashing his forehead against the mirror. It shatters with a crash, collapsing into a dozen pieces around him. He turns around, cursing under his breath and trying to stem the sudden tide of blood dripping from where the broken glass has cut his forehead. He staggers backwards, cursing under his breath, as he looks around frantically in all directions. Crimson liquid is welling between the fingers of the hand he has clamped over the wound, and no first aid-kit or other means of treating it is in sight. He staggers, resting his back against the broken mirror, and rips a piece of his sleeve free for an improvised bandage.
As he pulls the knot tight behind his head, creating a sort of blood-covered bandana, he hears a faint sound from somewhere in the rest of the building. “Hello?” he shouts, bolting upright in an instant. “Is somebody there?”
He sprints off in the direction of the sound.
***
AWOL walks through a swinging metal door, flipping down a kick-stand to hold it open. He’s standing in the abandoned arena of the Hard Rock Casino. The ring is already set up for the IWC pay-per-view “Up The Ante,” but the seats as expected are still abandoned. The sound is coming from the dozens of speakers scattered throughout the room, blaring out rock music at full volume. Looking around in even more confusion, the massive man starts to walk down the steps towards the ring.
“Who’s running the music?” he shouts as he reaches the ring apron. “HEY!” he shouts, waving an arm towards the screen. “Who’s back there?”
Suddenly the tune changes and the lights darken. A voice screams “YOU BETTA GO AWAY!” and the stage explodes with pyro, forcing the man to cover up his eyes with his forearm for a moment. He stares, mesmerized at images of himself on the screen inflicting horrible violence on other human beings. His name flashes, “AWOL,” ringed by fire and replaced immediately with his own brooding visage staring out at himself.
A light of understanding finally appears on the real AWOL’s face. “I’m a professional wrestler,” he says, nodding. “My name is AWOL. I must be here for a match. Now, where are my opponents?”
As if on cue, a different song fires up on the stage. Sean Johnsons’ entrance music kicks on. The video package changes as well, with shots of Johnson’s various “achievements” during his wrestling career interspersed with images of that fucking hideous cat. AWOL climbs up into the ring, turning towards the ramp expectantly, but sees no one coming out through the curtains. He waits another impatient moment longer, but as the music cuts out he walks over to the rope, grabbing it in frustration. “Hey, what the hell! Where is he? Send him out here! I need an opponent!”
Instead, the only response he receives is “Animal I Have Become” blaring out of the PA and Too Magnificent’s video package taking over the massive screen. AWOL pauses for a moment, but there is still no tell-tale ripping aside of the curtain to signify this new competitor’s arrival. This only serves to infuriate the big man more, and he climbs out through the ropes and starts up the ramp. “Alright, I’ve had enough of this shit!” AWOL screams, dashing off the side of the entrance ramp towards the audio/visual controls. He skids to a halt, seeing the machines apparently running on their own, an empty folding chair sitting all by itself in front of the control panel. With an animalistic scream of fury, AWOL snatches the chair up from the ground, snapping the seat up into prime smashing position before unleashing his rage on the devices that seem to be taunting him. He swings the hunk of steel down into glass monitors and audio sound mixers, sparks of electricity flying into the air with each metal-and-ear-shattering collision. The music from the PA distorts before finally falling silent, the video screen’s output being replaced shortly thereafter with blackness.
AWOL slumps down onto the floor, tossing the mangled remains of the folding chair to the side, his fury finally spent. His eyes are wide and panicked, and his hands grip the sides of his forehead. He bangs the back of his head repeatedly against the smashed control panel. “What the hell is going on?” he mutters to himself. “Why am I the only one here? Where the hell is everybody hiding? Who’s doing this to me?”
Only silence echoes through the arena, but a moment later a new sound rings out, that of the squeak of a hinge as a door slowly swings shut. AWOL looks up, panic evident on his features, as he sees the door he propped open closing. He bolts to his feet, sprinting around the ring and up the stairs. He is far too slow, however, and with an ominous clang the door slams shut, a final click ringing out as it latches. AWOL runs up to the door, throwing his weight against it in vain. The barrier sealing him in doesn’t budge, doesn’t even dent, beneath the big man’s weight.
“Ok, ha ha, everybody’s had a good laugh now,” he shouts, only the tiniest edge of panic audible in his voice, his mouth an inch from the metal. “Open the fucking door and let’s get on with the show.” He keeps his smile in place for a moment before instantly replacing it with a snarl. “God damn it! This isn’t funny! Somebody open up and let me out of here!” He slams his fist against the door. “Open up! Let me the fuck out of here!”
Behind him, the spotlights illuminating the ring cut out.
“I want out of here! Let me out of here! I want out!”
Another set of lights turn off, leaving only a small ring around the outside of the arena.
“Please let me out! PLEASE!” AWOl begs, dropping down to his knees with his back to the door, still banging against it with his shoulder.
Another click, now AWOL is sitting illuminated by the only overhead light in the arena.
“Let me out,” he whispers, his hands now simply covering up his eyes. “Please. I want out. Why are you doing this to me? Let me out. God, please let me out.”
Click. The room drops to darkness.
***
Beep. Beep. Beep.
AWOL rests on a stretcher, his massive frame covered by a hospital gown. He is ringed on all sides by instrumentation monitoring his pulse, blood pressure, and brain activity, the latter spiking all over the chart. Wires run from sensors placed around his temples and almost every other exposed piece of skin. His eyes flash back and forth beneath closed lids, and suddenly his whole body twitches.
The ring of men and women in lab coats standing near him make a note on their clipboards.
“Isn’t this kind of inhumane?” one of them says, a brunette woman in dark glasses.
“What are you talking about?” the man next to her answers, making another note on his sheet. “He’s been in comas before. It’s all on his chart. This is a walk in the park for him.”
The woman drops the clipboard to her side, flashing him a disgusted look. “You know damn well that this is different,” she says, “He’s been trapped in there for three days now. We’ve been running him through scenario after scenario where he’s trapped, alone, with no hope and no interaction with anyone. No one can take that kind of strain. We could be shattering this man’s mind permanently.”
The man sighs, dropping his clipboard down to his side as well. “Look sweetheart, I know what you’re trying to say here, but you’re missing an important fact.” He pulls his own glasses off, putting them into a pocket as he looks the woman in the eyes. “He’s coming back to the IWC after years being away, and he’s going to have to work his way back from the bottom. You know what that means for a monster big-man like him? It means he’s going to spend weeks competing against sub-standard opponents who barely bother to even put together promos, let alone show up in the ring. It’s wrestling build-up 101. The big man comes in, crushes these guys like bugs, and that builds up his credibility for when he goes up against real opponents later on. It’s all well and good, but there are safety concerns that need to be addressed before we turn him loose.”
The man gives a sad smile to the brunette. “He’s going to be all alone for a hell of a lot longer than three days with even less interaction than he is having now. He’ll be trapped, isolated, and forced to essentially entertain himself for weeks, maybe even months at a time before he finally works through enough of these scrubs to get back into the ring with the big-timers. We’re not being cruel to him.” He turns back, true sympathy finally apparent on his features. “By making him get used to it ahead of time, we’re actually doing the poor bastard a kindness.”
The woman looks doubtful. “I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem right.”
“I agree, and I wish it wasn’t necessary,” the man answers, pulling his glasses back out and replacing them on his face. “But that’s just the way the business works. We wouldn’t want to push him too fast too soon, or people would start bitching about him getting title shots he didn’t deserve. And god knows, we can’t let that happen.” He flashes the still concerned woman a smile, even going so far as to drop a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, he knew what he was getting into when he came back.”
She flashes him a halfhearted smile of her own before lifting the clipboard back up. The man turns back to an operator near the machinery. “Let’s run the August 28th Riot! program next. Set him up to fight Jackson Adams and Miho Miyazaki.”
With a nod, the operator starts turning the dials, changing the horrifying loneliness of the Las Vegas arena to another, nameless arena filled with yet more emptiness and fear. AWOL twitches again on the table, a grimace momentarily twisting his lips before returning back to calm. As the camera floats up into the air, through the roof, away from the doctors and the scene of medical torture, the voice of the narrator returns.
“"Out there, out there in the pits of the midcard, in the void that is curtain-jerking, out there is an enemy known as isolation. It sits there in the booking office waiting, waiting with the patience of eons, forever waiting... in the AWOL Zone."
Cue creepy music. Credits.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Crazy
“Thank you for calling Visa customer service. To continue this message in English, press one. Para español, oprema dos.”
AWOL pulls the cell phone from his ear and presses one of the buttons.
“For a balance statement, or to make a payment, press one. To report a card stolen or order a new card, press two. To activate your new card, press three. To-“
The big man brings the phone back down with an irritated sigh, pressing three and cutting off the commentator. He holds the offending new card in his free hand, tapping it on the countertop.
“Please hold while we transfer you to our customer service center. Your call is very important to us.”
He rolls his eyes. The tune of a country music ballad starts in his ears.
“Craaazy, I’m crazy for feeelllinnnnggg so looonneellllyyyyy”
His eyes narrow into a glare, simple irritation clearly being replaced with legitimate anger.
***
With a whir and a click, the tape starts. The quiet hiss of the recorder dutifully reporting dead air issues forth for a second before someone starts to speak.
“This is Dr. Lena Ferraro, in session number one with Mr. Anthony Wolworth on August 3rd, 2009. So, Mr. Wolworth, tell me what brings you here today.”
“My contract with the IWC requires that I go through a psych evaluation prior to any reinstatement. The owner seems to think that I’m an unstable element.” A bitter chuckle emanates from the recording. “Which is ironic, really, since instability is the reason people enjoy watching me in the first place.”
“Why do you say that?”
“They market me as ‘The Big Crazy Bastard,’ Doc. I’m supposed to portray myself as this raging, barely controlled lunatic. If I come back with a clean bill of health, they’re going to have to do some spinning to set things straight.”
“Do you think that that’s likely, given that your employer sent you here?”
An uncomfortable silence settles onto the tape for a moment. Dr. Ferraro is the first voice to return.
“Forgive me for saying so, but from what I’ve seen of this ‘sport,’ you’re trying to get back into, it would seem to me that a person would have to be mentally ill to want to participate in the first place. I mean, grown men bashing themselves senseless with blunt objects for not much money, constant bickering and backstabbing from your co-workers, and a front office that cares only about the bottom line and where seemingly the most important jobs in the company rotate from person to person freely on a monthly basis. Why anyone would put themselves through that, particularly one that had been a part of that life and made it out successfully, is beyond me.”
A bitter laugh issues forth.
“What can I say, doc? There’s truth in advertising.”
***
“I knew, you’d love mee, as long aaaass, you wanteeeedddd.”
AWOL pinches the bridge of his nose, a dark red flush spreading through his cranium.
“And then soomedaaaayyy, You’d leave meee for somebooodyyy neeeeeewwww.”
***
“What motivated your return to the ring?”
“I needed cash. It’s all there in the file, so I don’t know why you’re asking me.”
“I’m asking because I’d like to hear your answer, and see the way you respond to the question. For instance, the way you just tensed up suggests to me that you’re not telling me everything.”
Some shuffling is audible, as if someone is shifting uncomfortably in their chair.
“Maybe I like the competition. It gives me a direction for my life, some reason to wake up every day and get out of bed.”
“Maybe, but there are other arenas where you could explore that without such an intense personal risk.”
An irritated sigh.
“Look, lady. I came back because I needed to come back. There’s no more explanation than that. The IWC is something I’m familiar with, something I could fall back on, and so here I am. What more do you want from me?”
“You could start with being honest, if not with me than with yourself. This is not a trivial question I’m asking. While I can understand your desire to return to a place where you have an established reputation and you’re treated with respect, I can-“
AWOL cuts her off, laughing derisively.
***
“Wooorrryyyy, Whhyyy do I let myyyself woorrryyyy”
***
Porno Lad: Ladies and Gentlemen I know you’re used to me putting out promos so entertaining so amazing that they completely and utterly blow your mind. But this week I just want to talk. I have a lot of things to talk about. See first we got AWOL. The glorious return of AWOL occurred on last week’s riot. The former world champion/commissioner/welfare check collector has returned to the IWC to grace us with his presence. And while I usually wouldn’t care about such an occurrence, he he actually had the gall, the nerve to say that people like me are what is wrong with the IWC. That I am not on the level of his dumb uneducated ass.
AWOL...I know you've been gone awhile and that’s all good and fine but when you decide to take a random shot at me, the best thing to hit the IWC in years I do take offence to it. I take offence to it because, well, you have spent the last few years sitting at home, once and awhile coming in for the occasional paycheck. I have been stealing the whole damn show. I've brought more new viewers to this company then any other star, and people hardly even remember your old fossilized ass.
***
Emily Cage: What are your thoughts on the return of Silencer and AWOL?
Jackson Adams: I am not too worried about these people Emily, really we have two ULW has-beens, coming here to be IWC never will-be’s.
EC: Wow, Jack kind of harsh to state about two returning people who helped make IWC what it is today....
* Jackson just glares at Emily.*
JA: Helped make IWC what it is today? Did I hear you correctly Emily, for fucks sake the "Team Leader" hasn't even helped make IWC what it is today. People like myself, founding roster members of the IWC and the younger generations pouring out their blood, sweat and tears in this ring has helped mold IWC into what it is today Emily. Not the people who just walk in and start demanding that they should be placed in title matches and end up the World Champion. In this business you have to earn what you want, and people like Kingdom, AWOL, and Silencer just ride in on their reputation and take what the real deserving superstars deserve and that's a World Title shot, and a chance to show to the world how talented they really are.
***
Max Craven: Ohhhhh AWOL…if you needed money so badly…why didn’t you just SAY so earlier? You know, Stiffy Productions is in the market for some new talent, and your shiny mushroom cap of a noggin could be JUST what we need for the burgeoning niche market of “bald guy/hot girl” porn…or “bald guy on guy”, if you’re into that sort of thing. And if not, then there’s always rubbing a little bit of oil up there and taking shots from the BACK to accommodate the growing demographic of head-penis fetishists—you know, those people who get all excited down there when they see somebody whose bald head looks like a throbbing member from the back.
***
“Wooondrinnnn, whaaat, in the woooorld, did I doooooooo?”
***
“What?”
“Treated with respect? Are you serious? They have me curtain-jerking this week against two opponents who haven’t been relevant in…well…come to think of it they’ve never been relevant. Somehow the prevailing notion is that since the letters on the door have changed, that somehow this isn’t my federation anymore. Somehow my years of service as a top-billing performer and as GM of this company no longer count. And yet, despite this fact, the perception is that I’m being pushed into the title picture unfairly. Never mind the fact that I’m facing nobodies every week. Some stupid ass rumor article mentions that I’m back in the discussion for wold champion and it’s the fucking gospel around this place. So not only am I insulted by the roster and the booking office on a constant basis, but everyone thinks I’m getting handed titles and opportunities hand over fist at the same time. ”
“I take it that makes you angry.”
“You’re god damned right it does. I built this place with my own goddamned hands, and these miserable SONS OF BITCHES have the NERVE to-“
AWOL cuts himself off abruptly, heavy breathing being the only sound for a moment.
“I think perhaps now we’re getting somewhere.”
***
“Craaazy, for thinkiiing, that my loooove could hold yoooouuuuuu”
***
“So, what, you obviously have some kind of diagnosis in mind, from that smug smile on your face. You’ve seen the tapes, read my file. What’s it going to be? Sociopathy? Schizophrenia? Post traumatic stress disorder?”
“Does it need to be something that dramatic?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
The sound of a notebook being set down on a table, followed closely by a pen.
“You said it yourself, you’re supposed to be this image, this Big Crazy Bastard. It has to be a spectacular strain to maintain that all the time. Would it help you to do so if I applied a label to you as extreme as those you listed off?”
Another frustrated sigh.
“What I think, Anthony, is that you need the mantle. You need to be AWOL, and that’s why you returned to IWC. It’s easier to be him, to put yourself back into a world with no rules and no expectations where you can do whatever you damn well please and feel powerful again, than it is to deal with your real problems. AWOL doesn’t have to pay alimony. He doesn’t have to live in a crappy basement apartment and deal with debt collectors every day. He doesn’t have to put up with people asking him annoying questions. He can be just as rude back to them, make their lives miserable, and laugh as he does it. Unfortunately, one of these days you’re going to have to realize that AWOL isn’t really you, and there’s only so much time you can spend hiding behind him. Eventually you’ll have to deal with your own problems, and there will be nothing the Big Crazy Bastard can do to help you.”
***
“I’m craaaazy for tryin,”
***
“I believe you suffer from major depression.”
***
" and crrraaaazzzyyy for cryin,"
***
A final pause, as the words sink in.
“That’s it? That’s your revelation?”
“As I said, it’s not exactly dramatic, but it is a real and serious problem.”
“Let me get this straight. I’ve lost my wife, lost my money, and been forced to return to a job that I despise, and you think it’s news that I’m depressed? You seriously charge a hundred bucks an hour for this?”
“I wouldn’t take it lightly, Anthony. Depression can cripple a person emotionally, and significantly increases your risk of suicide. Now, with your permission, I’d like to discuss treatment options.”
One more sound, the sound of AWOL standing up from his chair and walking towards the door. With a disgusted snort, he wrenches it open and slams it shut behind him.
***
“And I’m crraaazzyyy, for loooovinnn’ yoooooouuuuuu.”
AWOL’s face is a crimson mask, his eyes pinched shut in irritation, as the music finally fades. He sighs in relief as he hears a voice return to the line.
“Your call is very important to us. Please remain on the line and a customer service representative will be with you shortly.”
The blood drains from AWOL’s face almost as rapidly as it initially filled it, and the quiet warble of the guitar returns.
“Craaazy, I’m crazy for feeeeliinnnn’, so looneeelllyyyy”
With a roar, he pulls the phone down away from his ear, smashing it against the tabletop once, twice, and a third time. Circuitry and plastic shatter like shrapnel, flying in all directions, before the former ULW champion hurls the remains with all of his strength against a nearby wall. He immediately holds his head in his hands, elbows resting on the table amongst the smashed circuit boards, his breath coming in ever faster and shallower bursts. His massive frame trembles with barely contained fury, the knuckles of his hands turning white from the tension of his fingernails digging into his scalp. The image slowly fades to blackness as the quiet sound of muffled sobs echoes through the room.
***
“This is Dr. Lena Ferraro, in session number two with Anthony Wolowrth, August 6th, 2009.”
“ I’m glad you decided to return, Anthony.”
AWOL pulls the cell phone from his ear and presses one of the buttons.
“For a balance statement, or to make a payment, press one. To report a card stolen or order a new card, press two. To activate your new card, press three. To-“
The big man brings the phone back down with an irritated sigh, pressing three and cutting off the commentator. He holds the offending new card in his free hand, tapping it on the countertop.
“Please hold while we transfer you to our customer service center. Your call is very important to us.”
He rolls his eyes. The tune of a country music ballad starts in his ears.
“Craaazy, I’m crazy for feeelllinnnnggg so looonneellllyyyyy”
His eyes narrow into a glare, simple irritation clearly being replaced with legitimate anger.
***
With a whir and a click, the tape starts. The quiet hiss of the recorder dutifully reporting dead air issues forth for a second before someone starts to speak.
“This is Dr. Lena Ferraro, in session number one with Mr. Anthony Wolworth on August 3rd, 2009. So, Mr. Wolworth, tell me what brings you here today.”
“My contract with the IWC requires that I go through a psych evaluation prior to any reinstatement. The owner seems to think that I’m an unstable element.” A bitter chuckle emanates from the recording. “Which is ironic, really, since instability is the reason people enjoy watching me in the first place.”
“Why do you say that?”
“They market me as ‘The Big Crazy Bastard,’ Doc. I’m supposed to portray myself as this raging, barely controlled lunatic. If I come back with a clean bill of health, they’re going to have to do some spinning to set things straight.”
“Do you think that that’s likely, given that your employer sent you here?”
An uncomfortable silence settles onto the tape for a moment. Dr. Ferraro is the first voice to return.
“Forgive me for saying so, but from what I’ve seen of this ‘sport,’ you’re trying to get back into, it would seem to me that a person would have to be mentally ill to want to participate in the first place. I mean, grown men bashing themselves senseless with blunt objects for not much money, constant bickering and backstabbing from your co-workers, and a front office that cares only about the bottom line and where seemingly the most important jobs in the company rotate from person to person freely on a monthly basis. Why anyone would put themselves through that, particularly one that had been a part of that life and made it out successfully, is beyond me.”
A bitter laugh issues forth.
“What can I say, doc? There’s truth in advertising.”
***
“I knew, you’d love mee, as long aaaass, you wanteeeedddd.”
AWOL pinches the bridge of his nose, a dark red flush spreading through his cranium.
“And then soomedaaaayyy, You’d leave meee for somebooodyyy neeeeeewwww.”
***
“What motivated your return to the ring?”
“I needed cash. It’s all there in the file, so I don’t know why you’re asking me.”
“I’m asking because I’d like to hear your answer, and see the way you respond to the question. For instance, the way you just tensed up suggests to me that you’re not telling me everything.”
Some shuffling is audible, as if someone is shifting uncomfortably in their chair.
“Maybe I like the competition. It gives me a direction for my life, some reason to wake up every day and get out of bed.”
“Maybe, but there are other arenas where you could explore that without such an intense personal risk.”
An irritated sigh.
“Look, lady. I came back because I needed to come back. There’s no more explanation than that. The IWC is something I’m familiar with, something I could fall back on, and so here I am. What more do you want from me?”
“You could start with being honest, if not with me than with yourself. This is not a trivial question I’m asking. While I can understand your desire to return to a place where you have an established reputation and you’re treated with respect, I can-“
AWOL cuts her off, laughing derisively.
***
“Wooorrryyyy, Whhyyy do I let myyyself woorrryyyy”
***
Porno Lad: Ladies and Gentlemen I know you’re used to me putting out promos so entertaining so amazing that they completely and utterly blow your mind. But this week I just want to talk. I have a lot of things to talk about. See first we got AWOL. The glorious return of AWOL occurred on last week’s riot. The former world champion/commissioner/welfare check collector has returned to the IWC to grace us with his presence. And while I usually wouldn’t care about such an occurrence, he he actually had the gall, the nerve to say that people like me are what is wrong with the IWC. That I am not on the level of his dumb uneducated ass.
AWOL...I know you've been gone awhile and that’s all good and fine but when you decide to take a random shot at me, the best thing to hit the IWC in years I do take offence to it. I take offence to it because, well, you have spent the last few years sitting at home, once and awhile coming in for the occasional paycheck. I have been stealing the whole damn show. I've brought more new viewers to this company then any other star, and people hardly even remember your old fossilized ass.
***
Emily Cage: What are your thoughts on the return of Silencer and AWOL?
Jackson Adams: I am not too worried about these people Emily, really we have two ULW has-beens, coming here to be IWC never will-be’s.
EC: Wow, Jack kind of harsh to state about two returning people who helped make IWC what it is today....
* Jackson just glares at Emily.*
JA: Helped make IWC what it is today? Did I hear you correctly Emily, for fucks sake the "Team Leader" hasn't even helped make IWC what it is today. People like myself, founding roster members of the IWC and the younger generations pouring out their blood, sweat and tears in this ring has helped mold IWC into what it is today Emily. Not the people who just walk in and start demanding that they should be placed in title matches and end up the World Champion. In this business you have to earn what you want, and people like Kingdom, AWOL, and Silencer just ride in on their reputation and take what the real deserving superstars deserve and that's a World Title shot, and a chance to show to the world how talented they really are.
***
Max Craven: Ohhhhh AWOL…if you needed money so badly…why didn’t you just SAY so earlier? You know, Stiffy Productions is in the market for some new talent, and your shiny mushroom cap of a noggin could be JUST what we need for the burgeoning niche market of “bald guy/hot girl” porn…or “bald guy on guy”, if you’re into that sort of thing. And if not, then there’s always rubbing a little bit of oil up there and taking shots from the BACK to accommodate the growing demographic of head-penis fetishists—you know, those people who get all excited down there when they see somebody whose bald head looks like a throbbing member from the back.
***
“Wooondrinnnn, whaaat, in the woooorld, did I doooooooo?”
***
“What?”
“Treated with respect? Are you serious? They have me curtain-jerking this week against two opponents who haven’t been relevant in…well…come to think of it they’ve never been relevant. Somehow the prevailing notion is that since the letters on the door have changed, that somehow this isn’t my federation anymore. Somehow my years of service as a top-billing performer and as GM of this company no longer count. And yet, despite this fact, the perception is that I’m being pushed into the title picture unfairly. Never mind the fact that I’m facing nobodies every week. Some stupid ass rumor article mentions that I’m back in the discussion for wold champion and it’s the fucking gospel around this place. So not only am I insulted by the roster and the booking office on a constant basis, but everyone thinks I’m getting handed titles and opportunities hand over fist at the same time. ”
“I take it that makes you angry.”
“You’re god damned right it does. I built this place with my own goddamned hands, and these miserable SONS OF BITCHES have the NERVE to-“
AWOL cuts himself off abruptly, heavy breathing being the only sound for a moment.
“I think perhaps now we’re getting somewhere.”
***
“Craaazy, for thinkiiing, that my loooove could hold yoooouuuuuu”
***
“So, what, you obviously have some kind of diagnosis in mind, from that smug smile on your face. You’ve seen the tapes, read my file. What’s it going to be? Sociopathy? Schizophrenia? Post traumatic stress disorder?”
“Does it need to be something that dramatic?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
The sound of a notebook being set down on a table, followed closely by a pen.
“You said it yourself, you’re supposed to be this image, this Big Crazy Bastard. It has to be a spectacular strain to maintain that all the time. Would it help you to do so if I applied a label to you as extreme as those you listed off?”
Another frustrated sigh.
“What I think, Anthony, is that you need the mantle. You need to be AWOL, and that’s why you returned to IWC. It’s easier to be him, to put yourself back into a world with no rules and no expectations where you can do whatever you damn well please and feel powerful again, than it is to deal with your real problems. AWOL doesn’t have to pay alimony. He doesn’t have to live in a crappy basement apartment and deal with debt collectors every day. He doesn’t have to put up with people asking him annoying questions. He can be just as rude back to them, make their lives miserable, and laugh as he does it. Unfortunately, one of these days you’re going to have to realize that AWOL isn’t really you, and there’s only so much time you can spend hiding behind him. Eventually you’ll have to deal with your own problems, and there will be nothing the Big Crazy Bastard can do to help you.”
***
“I’m craaaazy for tryin,”
***
“I believe you suffer from major depression.”
***
" and crrraaaazzzyyy for cryin,"
***
A final pause, as the words sink in.
“That’s it? That’s your revelation?”
“As I said, it’s not exactly dramatic, but it is a real and serious problem.”
“Let me get this straight. I’ve lost my wife, lost my money, and been forced to return to a job that I despise, and you think it’s news that I’m depressed? You seriously charge a hundred bucks an hour for this?”
“I wouldn’t take it lightly, Anthony. Depression can cripple a person emotionally, and significantly increases your risk of suicide. Now, with your permission, I’d like to discuss treatment options.”
One more sound, the sound of AWOL standing up from his chair and walking towards the door. With a disgusted snort, he wrenches it open and slams it shut behind him.
***
“And I’m crraaazzyyy, for loooovinnn’ yoooooouuuuuu.”
AWOL’s face is a crimson mask, his eyes pinched shut in irritation, as the music finally fades. He sighs in relief as he hears a voice return to the line.
“Your call is very important to us. Please remain on the line and a customer service representative will be with you shortly.”
The blood drains from AWOL’s face almost as rapidly as it initially filled it, and the quiet warble of the guitar returns.
“Craaazy, I’m crazy for feeeeliinnnn’, so looneeelllyyyy”
With a roar, he pulls the phone down away from his ear, smashing it against the tabletop once, twice, and a third time. Circuitry and plastic shatter like shrapnel, flying in all directions, before the former ULW champion hurls the remains with all of his strength against a nearby wall. He immediately holds his head in his hands, elbows resting on the table amongst the smashed circuit boards, his breath coming in ever faster and shallower bursts. His massive frame trembles with barely contained fury, the knuckles of his hands turning white from the tension of his fingernails digging into his scalp. The image slowly fades to blackness as the quiet sound of muffled sobs echoes through the room.
***
“This is Dr. Lena Ferraro, in session number two with Anthony Wolowrth, August 6th, 2009.”
“ I’m glad you decided to return, Anthony.”
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