Half-Assed Effort

There’s a lot more involved in getting a divorce than people realize. It’s not a matter of filing paperwork and then it’s all taken care of cleanly and done. God, no, that would be convenient. That would be like pulling the bandage off quickly. But instead, every single step of the way has to drag out for months upon months upon months, with infinite bureaucratic hoops to jump and red tape to work through. You think you can just get a person’s name taken off of a mortgage? Fat chance, pal. It doesn’t work that way. If you’re lucky, and your ex hasn’t completely trashed your credit rating, the best you can hope for is to refinance it and, in all likelihood, get completely shafted on the financing charges and the interest rate. You want a court date? Tough shit. Courts are booked up for months, and when your date finally does roll around you sit in the court room the whole day listening to assholes gripe at each other about all the reasons they hate each other now, until finally you find out that they have to reschedule you for another goddamn month down the road because the previous cases took too long.

I was dealing with another one of those steps the other day. Changing the names on insurance forms is actually one of the easiest steps in the whole process. You don’t really think about it ahead of time, it’s such a minor detail, but it actually was a fairly pleasurable experience, as things that remind you of the destruction of your dreams for the future go. My agent, a bald man named Vinny, actually smiled the whole time he was working. When I asked him, “Why do you seem so pleased?” he informed me simply that they deal with this sort of thing once every couple of weeks or so. Divorce is no big deal in the insurance game. It’s a bonus for them, really. All of those pesky line-item discounts they had to grant you before go away now, because she’s taking this house, this car, and these property policies for herself while you’re left with one other car and some renter’s insurance for your new whole in the wall, nearly condemned apartment. “It’s sort of like death claims, really,” he told me. “You get your first one or two, and you’re really upset. You get all wracked with sympathy. But, after a few months, you get used to it. It’s still a bad thing, but ultimately it’s just business as usual.”

That’s the way I feel about the Brat Pack (see, this is related to the match. I bet you thought I was just rambling again.) The first few times I dealt with groups like yours, it lit a fire under me like nothing I had ever experienced before. It got me charged up, got me flying down the ramps to go do battle with all my heart and soul. It made me want to get better, to compete at a level beyond anything anyone had ever seen. But now, it’s more of another day at the office. It’s routine, humdrum. I’ve done it before, I’ll do it again, and I won’t care then either. At least then I’ll probably put on a better show, not for any change in effort on my part but simply because I’ll have someone to work with who is actually somewhere near my level, unlike the underwhelming Katelyn Buehler.

So thus, I am sitting her typing out a short, blah-dee-blah, narrator talking to the air promo near the last second, and why I couldn’t be bothered to come up with something spectacular for this piece. If nothing else, I gave you the war promos from earlier in the week. You should thank me for that entertainment, at least. It’ll be more than you can expect from this garbage match.

The March of War!

A blackened movie theatre. A hush settles over those arrayed in the seats below as the curtains draw back and the “click-whiirrrrr” of the projector firing up fills the air. Breathless anticipation is the best term to describe the awaiting masses as the first image fills the screen, even if it is just the leader film which clearly, by the looks of the scratches and other random flashes of color, should have been retired a decade ago. Finally, a cartoon popcorn, soda, and hot-dog walk across the screen, singing “Let’s All Go to the Lobby.”

Are you excited yet?

As the cartoon ends (no one gets up and goes to the lobby) it is quickly replaced by a second image, that of the production company, “Kingodm Films Ltd.” “But what is this?” people think, “Hasn’t Johnny Kingdom hung up his parodies forever, electing instead to tell his story with long, rambling, ‘Crime and Punishment’-esque rants about his opponents?” Their anxiety is relieved a moment later, as the next shot in the film is another title, “An AWOL Picture.” As this image too fades, the silence is finally alleviated by the introduction of a triumphant trumpet fanfare. A red banner billows in the breeze, adorned with the silhouette of a black falcon soaring over the countryside. New words fade in as the trumpets crescendo victoriously, announcing to the world “The Return of The Empire!”

And the crowd erupts with applause.

The deep baritone of a narrator echoes through the chamber. “Citizens,” it announces, “The Empire has returned. All is well! Safety will be restored to you soon.” The camera pans down, to a shot of a battle-scarred, desolate wasteland. Sounds of machine-gun fire fill this God-forsaken stretch of land, and mortars explode all throughout. “Though war has descended upon us, and times of great struggle still remain,” the narrator continues, “know this: your safety is now assured. The greatest, most irresistible force the world has ever known has been reassembled. None can stand against it. None can even hope to compete with it! It is unstoppable. It is invincible. It is, good citizens, the iron will of the Empire!”

As more cheers erupt, they are soon overwritten by the sharp, staccato tones of booted feet tromping in tandem down a city street. Black-uniformed soldiers march in perfect formation, their footfalls in flawless lock-step, rifles held tightly to their chests. As they pass by a balcony they turn sharply towards it, popping off a salute to the man standing just out of sight above. “Even now,” the voice returns, “The greatest fighting forces the world has ever seen are assembling and training constantly, preparing for the day when the ultimate offensive will be launched. The enemy’s will is great, but ourr will is greater. We are guided by the greatest leader in all the world, one whose tactical acumen is second to none, our personal champion, Johnny Kingdom!” The camera pans up to show Kingdom in the balcony, flanked on both sides by his Empire cohorts AWOL and Hurse, standing at attention and flashing his own salutes to the troops as they march past. At the sight of their faces another cheer erupts from the audience.

“In just a matter of days, good citizens, the offensive will be launched, and the enemy will quiver in their holes to know the fury and righteous power aligned against them. None can stand in our way!” Now the screen is filled with images of the booted soldiers training, running from foxhole to foxhole, with AWOL standing above them shouting orders. Through the black-and-white image, the drill sergeant’s face looks almost dusky from shouting, the flush turning his complexion almost as dark as the uniforms of the soldiers. “Even as we speak our fighting men are preparing for the big push. Working night and day, these brave soldiers are prepared to shed their blood and their lives to see too it that the world is freed from the oppression of sub-standard talent being promoted simply as a means of filling space.” The soldiers line up in long formation, charging towards an array of target dummies with bayoneted rifles lowered. “Courageous one and all, they will never surrender, even in the improbable event of some manner of significant resistance from the Brat Pack, our hated foe.” Boos come from the crowd as the soldiers reach the lines, but are replaced quickly by cheers as the sharpened point of a soldier’s blade jabs through a mannequins face. “Oooh,” the commentator groans, “I bet Robin Brooks isn’t quite used to THAT sort of penetration.”

“For too long have these wretched fleas infested our fair country,” the film continues, now showing shots of ruined cities lying in waste. “For too long, men like Christian Saviour, Pat Evans, and, God help us, Porno Lad have been the only answer to opponents like the Brat Pack. Fighting suck with suck has yet to save our fair cities, and has left us in ruins. Our people grow frightened.” A shot of the inside of a tenement, where a family is cooking a can of beans over a campfire built from the remains of their Ikea coffee table. “They lose hope in the face of such all-swallowing despair. But fear not, John Q. Public. Help is on the way, in the form of our Imperial Civil Relief squadrons.” The door bursts open and Hurse steps inside, handing the family bundles of rations and supplies. Mrs. Public unwraps hers quickly, almost shedding tears of joy at receiving a warm coat to wrap around her painfully thin shoulders. Mr. Public laughs as he pulls food free, and Hurse flashes the camera a winning smile, a wink, and a thumbs up.

“Spearheaded by our unparalleled Team Leader,” the narrator expounds as a shot of Kingdom standing at a lectern, his body contorted in the throes of one of his fiery exultations, “the people have been delivered hope again. There is reason to believe that, at last, things are finally going to get better. Freedom is coming, we all just need to stick together to see it through.” Kingdom’s speech apparently reaches a crescendo, as he pounds his fist authoritatively against the podium before raising it again in a triumphant salute, which the audience quickly returns.

“Now is the time, ladies and gentlemen,” he continues, “for all of us to stand up and fight. Emulate the courage of our brave war heroes, like General AWOL who physically dominated two Brat Pack opponents.” Kingdom is smiling and pinning a medal to AWOL’s jacket, shaking his hand. “Follow his brave example! Though the enemy may have numbers on their side, we have something they can never replicate: actual talent! Against that, eventually no amount of sheer quantity of numbers can stand firm. The tide turned last week, citizens, and it is up to people like us to help and make sure that it stays on the right course!”

People are now shown walking through the streets, carrying away piles of trash and helping to repair the damaged structures. “Work crews are being organized, and volunteer city watches are being formed. Everyone needs to do their part! Only through a concerted effort can true, lasting change come about. Just look what happened to other federations!” A shot changes to another blasted landscape, this one abandoned and laid completely to ruin. A sign out front says simply “SCW”.

“It can happen here as well, folks. Unless we keep them fighting!”

“Even young people can get involved, like little Stevie Parkwood here,” Hurse stands beaming in the middle of the camera shot, a buttoned up vest with an ‘Empire Youth’ logo ironed on to it, a beanie hat, and thigh-high socks complimenting the youthful freckles on his face nicely. He waves enthusiastically to the camera. “He’s not afraid to do his part for the cause, are you Stevie?” Stevie shakes his head vigorously in the negative. “Stevie is the head of his youth group, dedicated to doing everything they can to help improve and protect the home front. For now, ladies and gentlemen, more than ever, we must be constantly vigilant. The threat of mediocrity is everywhere. The people next door, who you know and trust, could in fact be members of the Brat Pack!”

Little Stevie looks horrified.

“How does one identify members of the Brat Pack?” the announcer queries. “The answers are simpler than you think.” An image appears of Katelyn Buehler. She appears to be twirling her hair around one finger and blowing bubbles. “The first sign is the vapid expression in the face. No one who has to listen or interact with members of this group for long can withstand the mind-melting disease, and most quickly succumb, falling into a torpid, open to suggestion, easily manipulated state.” An arrow points at Katelyn’s glassy-eyed stare. “Who knows what is going on in that shriveled brain? Perhaps she’s thinking of cute bunnies? Or perhaps the mental atrophy has progressed so thoroughly that she has been left a complete, senseless, drooling zombie. No one can say! All we know for sure is that all sense of shame, decency, or personal pride in the competitor’s work is systematically stripped away, leaving only a hollow shell that takes pride in victories that come through subterfuge, trickery, or in some cases an unintentional boot to the head in front of a referee. Beware this lie! Victories of this sort are the worst sort of cheap tripe, leaving all fans hollow and angry. It didn’t work when Dusty Rhodes used to do it, and it doesn’t work today!”

Another shot, this one of Jackson Adams. He poses for the camera. “Another telltale sign is the lack of any sort of true ring presence and the overinflated sense of self-worth.” Adams flashes a winning smile and flexes a bicep, giving it a quick smooch. “Though Brat Pack members often are involved in completely one-sided matches wherein they fail to contribute anything actually meaningful besides some easy T&A for the crowd, they still believe they deserve the right to compete for some of the greatest titles in this land. Do not let them fool you! This tomfoolery is just the sort of thing that shut down WCW! The only way they will learn is by denying them what they crave! Strip them of their titles, Empire! Take away everything, and leave them wondering where it all went wrong!” Adams looks concerned now, peering around quizzically at the commentator. “Despite their lack of ability, one will often find these villains competing for championships they have no right to whatsoever, be it attacking true champions when they are unable to defend themselves and stealing their belts, or griping that despite all the things they supposedly do to put asses in seats for the company, they’re not receiving the recognition and opportunities they deserve. Why, this deluded fool actually believes he deserved a shot at the World Title held by our beloved Kingdom! What a ridiculous notion!” Adams starts to shout silent profanity at the commentator but the image quickly changes again.

“The true force to fear, however, comes not from those who openly display the enemy’s colors, civilian.” A large man who looks similar to Psycho, though he is wearing a vaudeville goatee and Snidely Wiplash mustache, creeps through the streets, chuckling evilly to himself. “The real threat comes from within, from those who would ally themselves with the enemy. Hunt them down, citizens! Cast them out from amongst you like lepers. Show them no mercy, for indeed they deserve none!” A mob of citizens chase down “Psycho” as he is twirling his mustache, his evil grin turning to panic as they descend on him, driving him to the pavement while kicking and beating him with blunt objects. Little Stevie stands in the background, cheering them on. “All who would ally themselves with mediocrity deserve no better!”

“We can do it, Empire! United against the forces of terrible wrestling, none can defy us.” Kingdom, AWOL, Hurse, and the townsfolk now stand together, the former cutting a big yellow ribbon at the entrance to the now fully rebuilt and restored city. A celebration goes up amongst the common folk, and the Imperial Soldiers eagerly shake their hands. “We stand now as one, the greatest fighting force ever assembled. We will be victorious, for Kingdom” the image of the city is replaced once again with the waving Imperial Banner, the figures green-screened in front of it, “For Honor,” the townsfolk disappear, leaving only the three warriors who turn as one towards the crowd, their expressions suddenly deadly serious, “FOR EMPIRE!”

Kingdom, Hurse, and AWOL all throw a salute towards the crowd as the words “LONG LIVE THE EMPIRE” appear emblazoned around them. The Imperial March rolls majestically from the speakers as the theatre drops back into blackness.

KB Disease

“Why does it bother you?”

“Why does what bother me?”

“The promos some of your co-workers put out. You seem to get really bent out of shape about them. If you don’t care about your job, why does it bother you so much when other people fail to live up to your standards?”

A long pause. If you listen very closely, you can hear AWOL scratching the stubble growing out from his chin.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
***

A man in a military uniform is sitting in front of a television, his face lit up by the images being projected from it. He is taking notes on a piece of paper, scrawling with a yellow number two pencil, when suddenly the program on the screen changes. The uniformed man looks up, his expression freezing in place along with the point of the pencil.

The television begins to belch forth the words of IWC competitor Katelyn Buehler. She looks out at the man in uniform, informing him in her monosyllabic way how incredibly hot she is. This, Katelyn rationalizes, is the reason why she will be victorious at Riot! in a handicap match against AWOL. That, and the fact that she is not a man. Obviously this is a formula for victory, she explains. Clearly, there is no way the Brat Pack can fail.

The man in the uniform whimpers softly.

Katelyn goes on to expound that this is, in truth, the reason for the Brat Pack’s success (the lack of Y chromosomes, that is.) She conveniently ignores the fact that Jackson Adams is a member of their group, and that apparently Miho Miyazaki is gifted with male genitalia as well. She also fails to mention the continuous rumors (unsubstantiated rumors, that is. Don’t sue us) that Robin Brooks is in fact a hermaphrodite, similar to what was recently discovered about the South African track star Caster Semenya. Consequently, Katelyn continues (look folks, alliteration), this is the reason for their ultimate success, and why they will no doubt be taking the IWC over and running it (into the ground) soon.

The man in uniform begins to tremble, a sniffle issuing forth from his nose.

The scene changes, and now Katelyn and her pack of females that aren’t worth learning the names of are headed downtown to a club. Katelyn is informing them of how horny she is since she’s been on a dry spell of two days without sex. Her nameless friends (and Robin Brooks) inform her of how whorey she is, which Katelyn’s small brain seems to interpret as a compliment. The audience begins to wonder just what in the blue hell this has to do with anything related to anything people would want to know about, when the group arrives at the club and are let inside without having to wait in line since, obviously, the one thing a club that is already at capacity needs is a bunch of drunk femi-nazis who are looking to break laws and generally cause trouble.

A tear slowly rolls down the cheek of the man in uniform.

Many more minutes of mindless blather pass, wherein Katelyn Buehler lets us in on the inner workings of her mind (they resemble a dead hamster lying on a motionless exercising wheel, if you’re curious). At one point we’re treated with the likely scenario of a bunch of frat aged men walking out of a bathroom Katelyn has just entered (because most clubs have unisex bathrooms) discussing how some girl is apparently in there performing oral sex on anyone walking through the door. Given that she’s only been in there for ten minutes or so and apparently some of these gentlemen have been through the door twice, either they have only just reached puberty or have the stamina and staying power of a card house in a hurricane, since this implies that she’s serviced over a dozen men in the time since she went back there. However, we are surprised to find out that the woman in the bathroom is not, in fact, Katelyn Buehler. Ms. Buehler’s chastity is rewarded by her finding a suave English gentleman (suave, in this case, meaning he is capable of speaking in complete sentences) who takes her home and (another shocker) elects not to sleep with her. Katelyn is very confused. The audience is simply confused as to why they have been watching for this long.

The man in the uniform, however, can take no more. He lifts his yellow number two pencil from the paper, places the point against his closed left eye-lid, and drives his face forward against the desktop. A sickening spray of red gore from the punctured frontal lobe of the man’s brain washes out onto the notes he wrote down only moments prior.

As he spasms, lying face down on the desk, a man in an adjacent room shakes his head, regretfully. The metal of numerous ribbons and medals pinned to the front of his jacket, to say nothing of the three stars adorning his shoulders, rattle as he lets out a deep sigh. He reaches over, picking a telephone up off of the wall.

“Mr. President?” he says, holding the black receiver to his ear. “This is General Millborne. It’s as bad as we thought. Alert the CDC.”

***

Two news anchors look out into TV land, staring into the lens of the camera and trying to look concerned so all the people at home can understand how truly dire the situation really is.

“This just in from the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta. All citizens are warned to refrain from viewing a promo by IWC ‘Superstar’ Katelyn Buehler,” the blonde anchor says, reading the telepormpter with impeccable pronunciation.

“Authorities warn that observing this film could lead to massive brain hemorrhaging, hallucination, and schizophrenic behavior,” the male anchor sitting next to her adds, his region free dialect ensuring confidence in his words. “This after a number of reports have flooded the news desk of disturbances throughout the country, presumably linked to what authorities are already beginning to refer to as ‘The KB virus.’”

The female anchor leans forward, mock concern written all over her expression. “Downtown Chicago is said to be in flames, with packs of roving citizens storming through the streets. In London, British authorities have been forced to institute martial law after a number of looters attacked the houses of Parlaiment and Big Ben. The president has reportedly been moved to a secure bunker, as a group of tourists were shot earlier today while trying to storm into the Oval office.”

“For more on this story,” the man says, “We go now live to Victor Rodrigues out in the field. What does it look like out there, Victor?”

The screen behind the anchors turns on, showing a latino reporter holding his hand up to his left ear. He stands in the center of a city street. Smoke is pouring out of nearby buildings and flames have begun to lick at the windowsills facing the street. In the distance, shadowy figures can be seen running in the background helter-skelter, reigning havoc on anyone they encounter along the way.

“Thanks Jim. I’m reporting live from Times Square in Manhattan, where the scene can only be described as anarchy. People have taken to the streets, seemingly driven completely mad simply from observing the promotional video filmed by Katelyn Buehler.” Victor ducks as a loud crash can be heard behind him. A fireball explodes in the middle of the busy street. A loud cheer goes up as the mob hears Buehler’s name, with some of the looters shouting that they want to meet her in the bathroom. Victor stands back up, looking around to make sure the mob isn’t coming towards him, and then resumes his reports. “The NYPD have been overrun and have pulled back to a number of secure zones. As a safety measure, the mayor is considering cutting all television and internet feeds to these zones to ensure no one else is forced to watch this maddening piece of footage.”

“Have you tried speaking with any of the rioters?” The Jim asks.

“Yes, but all I’ve found so far that they are incapable of communication,” Victor responds. “It appears that they have been driven so thoroughly insane that the only phrases they respond to are ‘Isn’t Katelyn Buehler hot?’ ‘Men suck’ and ‘Do you want to meet me in the bathroom later?’ The use of complete sentences and proper grammar seems to be particularly irritating to them. In any case, I was too afraid for my own life to try and continue communicating.”

“I don’t mean to cut you off, Victor, but we’re receiving word that the director of the CDC is beginning a press conference to discuss the crisis.” The woman says. “You get back here as soon as you can, and stay safe.”

“Will do, Karen. And god help us all.”

Jim nods, as he and Karen turn away from the screen. “We go now live to Atlanta Georgia.”

***

The director stands in front of the press corps, nervously tightening his tie and waiting for the crowd to settle down. Behind him, a number of other scientists, many wearing lab coats despite the fact that there’s nothing risky that they would need to worry about being exposed to in the press room, look nearly as nervous as the director.

Finally, the low murmur of the audience dulls down and the director steps towards the microphone. “I’m glad you could all make it on such short notice,” he says, “I’ve called this press conference to inform you about the current crisis being caused by the spread of the KB virus throughout this country. I want to start by reassuring the public that, though we have been caught somewhat by surprise by the speed with which this agent has spread throughout the country, we are doing everything we can to understand this threat and bring it under control.”

The director gestures towards a projection screen set up at the side of the stage. As he does so, an image of the human brain appears. “This is a scan of a normal human brain. We have performed a number of preliminary studies, and identified what we believe to be the cause of the erratic behavior demonstrated by those afflicted with KB.” He clicks a button on the remote in his left hand, and an animation activates. Parts of the frontal lobes of the brain begin to turn grey immediately. “This is not a time-lapse animation. Rather, this is a real time scan of the brain of a test subject observing the promo in question. You will note the collapse of the reasoning and logic centers of the brain, likely due to the exposure to the extremely illogical subject matter of the film. Additionally, you will note the immediate collapse of the language center as well, which likely requires no explanation to those of you unfortunate enough to have heard Katelyn Buehler speak before.” As the animation progresses, the grey areas turn completely black and begin to cave in on themselves, as the tissue necrosis spreads to the outlying portions of the brain. “The damage then spreads rapidly, destroying the memory centers, likely as a self-defense method to try and remove any memory of having seen the images. Eventually, the entire frontal lobe is reduced to a pool of inanimate jelly and the subject is left a drooling, amoral, incommunicative wreck. We believe that the subsequent development of violent and dangerous behavior is simply due to the fact that what is left of the individual’s identity is furious at being forced to watch Katelyn Buehler in the first place.”

The lights in the conference room raise and the director turns back to the press corps. “I’ll be happy to take any questions.”

Immediately a reporter stands, raising his hand. At the director’s nod, he asks, “Have you made any progress towards finding a cure?”

“Unfortunately, once you’ve watched a Katelyn Buehler promo, you can not unwatch it. The damage appears to be irreversible.”

The director nods to another reporter, who asks “Has anyone found Buehler to ask her why she chooses to inflict this damage on the general public by putting out promos like these?”

“We’re not certain that Katelyn Buehler is a real person,” the director answers. “To be blunt, no human being could be that cruel. We’re forced to assume that this is a threat being introduced from some other source, perhaps by some sort of extraterrestrial intelligence or computer aberration. If a real human is responsible, it can only be someone with a soul truly composed of evil, someone like Osama Bin Laden, or perhaps Simon Cowel.”

“What is CDC doing to curb the threat? Can the average citizen help out with dealing with the crisis?”

“To answer the first question, military units have been deployed to urban centers to try and curb the spread of the riots. For the time being, IWC.com has been disabled and all communications from the site have been tracked and officials are proceeding to homes to try and capture the majority of those afflicted with KB disease before they can degenerate into full on madness. As to what the average citizen can do, well, stay away from televisions that are set to IWC programming until the individuals responsible for creating the Katelyn Buehler character are found and brought to justice, and if you do come across one of the infected, kill them immediately. Believe me, after seeing the Katelyn Buehler promo, you’ll be doing them a favor.”

“Is this threat going to be over any time soon?”

“Unfortunately, IWC seems to be alright with allowing Katelyn Buehler to continue publishing promos despite the obvious threat they pose to society. For now, all we can do is pray that in the end good wins out, and those responsible are found and punished. In the meantime, I suppose we can all be thankful that she will only be allowed to publish one promo this week.”

***

“Come on, AWOL. I saw the promo you’re putting up this week. You’re going to tell me that you don’t think that’s a little bit of an overreaction?”

“Did you see the Bueler promo?”

Another silence, this time filled by the sigh of the therapist.

“That’s what I thought.”

Goodbye

Goodbye to my home.
Goodbye to feeling secure.
Goodbye to the iris bed I dug with my own hands.
Goodbye to the satisfaction of drinking a beer in my backyard.

Goodbye to my cats, who taught me that they aren't all evil.
Goodbye to bedmates, both feline and human.
While we're at it, goodbye to my bed.

Goodbye to having someone waiting for me.
Goodbye to someone who cared.
Goodbye to solving mysteries together.
Goodbye to having someone to share my day with, even if she didn't really care.

Goodbye to all my plans for us.
Goodbye to all my dreams.
Goodbye to the future we had together.
And most of all, goodbye to the little child I was going to read stories too, and do voices for all the characters.

I'm sorry I never got to meet you.

Goodbye to feeling small.
Goodbye to being a burden. Goodbye to never feeling good enough.
Goodbye to "when are you getting a real job?"

Goodbye to the girl that no one, not even she, liked.
Goodbye to fights in public.
Goodbye to making my friends feel awkward.
Goodbye to having to chose between one or the other.

Goodbye to screaming when you clothes don't fit.
Goodbye to waiting until the last minute.
Goodbye to four bank accounts.
Goodbye to living on an allowance.
Goodbye to my spending money to eat while you bought jewelry.

Goodbye to the nose in the air at the wedding reception.
Goodbye to not dancing with me.
And goodbye to "should I go out and try to catch the bouquet."

Goodbye to not understanding.
Goodbye to feeling alone.
Goodbye to a future of depression.
Goodbye to being held back.

Goodbye to my wife, my soulmate
and a nightmare that ruined my life.
Goodbye to a lot of things, some good, some bad.

Hello to what awaits me ahead.

Beginning of the End

Here’s a shocker. It’s the middle of the week, and still no one’s put together a promotional video. I don’t know why I’m so surprised, although I would have thought having two of you would increase the odds of someone getting a wild hair up their ass and putting something out there. That’s what I get for thinking, I suppose.

Well, someone had better fill the air time. I guess it’ll have to be me. I feel bad for the fans, I suppose. At least if Robin Brooks had promoed they could have muted the sound and just watched her tits jiggle.

***

[AWOL stands in front of his locker, in what the audience is supernaturally aware is the backstage area of the last episode of Riot! from last Friday. His body is covered in perspiration which he wipes away in short, irritable swipes with a white towel. Inexplicably, however, his usual scowl is replaced with a contented, thoughtful smile. That smile fades rapidly, however, as a voice issues forth from the locker room door.]

Orlando Curze- Care to let me know what that was all about?

AWOL-What would you be referring to?

Cruze-You sticking around in the ring after your match and turning Sean Johnson’s face into paste.

AWOL-His cat is ugly. It irritates me. Satisfied?

[The sardonic twisting of one corner of Cruze’s mouth lets AWOL and the audience know that he, in fact, is not.]

Cruze-I understand that the last thing you want is to have management in your face, and I’ve tried to back off and let you do what you’re going to do, but this kind of thing just can’t be tolerated. People paid to watch that match, and you ruined it.

AWOL-If people were paying to watch Psycho fight Sean Johnson, then they couldn’t have been expecting much anyways.

Cruze-God damn it! This isn’t a fucking joke. What the hell were you thinking?

[AWOL’s hand is a blur as it reaches up, slamming the locker door shut with an ear-splitting crash of metal on metal.]

AWOL-I was thinking that this place is boring the hell out of me, “boss.” I was thinking, “What the hell can I do to keep from driving my car into a light pole on the way home from the arena tonight just to alleviate the monotony.” Or, maybe, I was just thinking that I felt like breaking someone or something, and that stupid son of a bitch was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

[He walks forward, standing nose to nose with the commissioner.]

Cruze-Careful, AWOL, your employment is at my leisure.

AWOL-Yes, and you knew god damned well what you were getting when you hired me, didn’t you? You could have hired anyone in the world to fill these mid-card matches, any polished, shined up, oiled down piece of no-talent shit that could stink up this slot in the mid-card just like your roster is full of. But you didn’t hire one of them, did you? You hired me. You hired a bastard. And now, you’re going to come and get in my face because I’m acting the way you and everyone else expected me to?

[He jabs an accusing finger into Cruze’s chest.]

AWOL-If you want me to be a good little boy and get in line, you’re even stupider than I thought. I’m going to go out to that ring week after week and do what I god-damned well please. If I feel like taking a shit right on the IWC logo, I’m going to do it, and you’re not going to be able to do a damned thing about it. And you know why? Because the fans don’t come here to see athletic competition, Cruze. They don’t care who’s got the better ground game or mastery of high-flying offense. They want to see high-spots, ridiculous cheap pops, and to watch us maim each other for their entertainment. And guess what? What I just did to Sean Johnson fulfills all three needs at once. Now, is there anything else? Or were you just about to get the fuck out of my way and let me go home?

[Cruze’s face flushes red for a moment, but with a shake of his head he steps to the side.]

AWOL-That’s what I thought.

[With a smirk he steps past Cruze into the hallway.]

Cruze-Whatever you and Psycho are up to, it’s not going to work for much longer.

[AWOL comes immediately to a halt, turning back to face Cruze. His face, however, is now lit up with the same smile from earlier.]

AWOL-Me and Psycho? You think this is about me and Psycho working together?

[He waits, seeing no reaction from the commissioner. Finally, he can’t take it any longer, and a mocking, derisive belly laugh rips forth from the Big Crazy Bastard’s guts. He has to put a hand up against the door frame to support himself, he’s laughing so hard. The ugly crimson hue of Cruze’s face only deepens. Finally, AWOL’s laughter drifts off to a low chuckle as he reaches up, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. He looks up, seeing Cruze’s scowl, a near mirror image of his own typical expression, and the laughter immediately returns.]

AWOL-You are so far off and you don’t even know it. Oh, Cruze, you’re too much.

[Finally AWOL turns, heading up the hallway away from the locker room. As the door swings shut, AWOL’s mocking laughter continues to echo through the backstage area.]

***

AWOL rests comfortably behind an oak desk, his hands folded neatly on its surface. This is likely the only background or description you’re going to receive during this part of the promo, so feel free to do with it what you will.

“It might seem puzzling that I would agree to work with Hurse against the Brat Pack. I’ll warrant, it makes about as much sense as throwing a rattle-snake in a bag, shaking it around and slamming it against rocks, then shoving your hand blindly inside to see whether the thing is dead. The chances of this ending with me laid out, my scalp busted open from a chairshot or some other suitable blind-siding attack from the sniveling little worm we all know as Steven Parkwood are, we’ll say, significant. We have no shortage of history and honestly can’t stand each other. However, he has something I want, and so for now I’ll give this my attention.

What that thing is, however, may surprise you. The fact that there is money in the offering for breaking up your little social club is nice, I’ll admit. However, there are more than enough ways for me to make some cash on the side and, frankly, the more excess income I have the more my ex-wife gets to take from me every month. No, the cash wouldn’t have been enough to draw me to this mission on its own. And before you start congratulating yourselves on your incredible, devastating attack on us at the end of our match, I’ve had bowel movements that hurt worse than that cheap-shot you laid on me, Katelyn. No, this isn’t about any of those things. I’m going to personally destroy the Brat Pack for one reason and one reason alone: it’s going to be fun.

I realized something as I was inducing a concussion on Sean Johnson, I missed hurting people a lot more than I wanted to admit. Beating them in the ring is one thing, but really rendering someone completely helpless and then continuing to pummel them until you can’t even feel the bones underneath their skin anymore because the bruises have already swollen up to cover them, well, it’s a feeling impossible to describe. In that moment of truth you are the all-powerful. You are god. Their continued existence on this earth depends entirely, one-hundred percent, upon your willingness to grant them mercy. One twist of a joint, and they never wrestle again. One broken vertebrae, and they never walk, and maybe they never take another breath. It’s a rush, indescribable, and something I missed.

You may think it premature for me to be calling this fight over before it’s even begun, Robin, but I assure you that it is. Oh, you’ll pardon me not speaking to you, Katelyn, but seeing as how I’ve only seen you win matches where someone beats your opponent down for you ahead of time, I’m going to go ahead and assume that when they called this a handicap match, what they meant was that Robin Brooks was going to be handicapped by having to deal with you as a partner. Now, what was I saying? Ah, yes, breaking up the Brat Pack. What you don’t realize is that this is hardly the first time I’ve done this. To tell the truth, I’ve spent my entire career destroying heel stables. You might call it my specialty. I’ve done it more times than I can count, and I assure you I’ve become very efficient at it.

I’ll even go ahead and let you know how I’m going to do it, so you’re not surprised later. The underlying weakness of any group like yours, you see, is that they are made up of individuals. Yes, you’ve all sworn whatever oaths of loyalty and exchanged whatever bonds of friendship were involved in creating this all-crushing super power you’ve assembled, but no amount of pinky swearing and exchanging colorful wrist-bands changes this fact. You are all individual people, with individual desires and individual needs, foremost amongst these being the desires for self-preservation and advancement. And so, you are all very much vulnerable to a thing described in game theory as “The Prisoner’s Dilemma.”

Since most of you probably think game theory has something to do with Triple H, I’ll go ahead and explain what the prisoner’s dilemma is. Essentially, if you imagine four co-conspirators being arrested and interrogated simultaneously, you can see the situation you currently face. The interrogator offers each member of the conspiracy a deal: turn on your friends and do one year of hard time while they do five, or stay silent and everyone does three years. Real police do this sort of thing all the time. The dilemma it creates is this: from the stand-point of an individual, the motivation to stay loyal weakens significantly under this sort of pressure. If they stay silent, the best they can hope for is three years in prison, and they could just as easily end up doing five if their co-conspirators, who they have no control over, rat them out. So, from a personal fitness stand-point, the only rational choice is to turn on your fellows and protect yourself.

This is the situation you will shortly find yourself in, Brat Pack. I’m sure you expect that I’m just going to roll on out to the ring and play into your hands, with some of you interfering in the match or doing run-ins or, hell, the options are really limitless for how you could take advantage of your numbers to gain an edge. Frankly, I’m still pretty sure I’d just stomp both of your heads in and win anyways, but I digress. The point is not that I’m going to beat you on Friday. All that does is perpetuate things, drag them out longer and longer. No, that’s not the kind of war I wage. Instead, I’m going to do everything I can to make the lives of each and every stupid bastard who has had the misfortune of associating with you more miserable than any of you have ever imagined. You will know pain and terror on a level you have never before witnessed. By the end of Riot! you will think that you have somehow brought down the unholy wrath of Satan himself and all of his devils upon you, and one-by-one, you’re going to realize something. There is no reason for you to have to suffer like this. All you have to do is walk away, renounce the Pack, and the pain stops.

This will happen on week one. I assure you things will get worse from there.

Now you might think that you can count on your people, Brooks, and I can’t say I blame you. It’s natural to want to trust the people you’re depending on. I’ve been there. But I assure you, the time will come when you’ll see that I was right. So please, come on out to the ring on Riot! Both of you bring whatever dirty tricks you feel like. As a matter of fact, bring the chick with the acronym name, Adams, and the cross-dressing Jap with you too. It’ll save me the trouble of having to hunt you down individually, and I’ll want them to have a front-row seat to the action when I beat the two of you within an inch of your lives. That will be the start of it, the opening salvo. You’ll see. One by one your friends will abandon you. One by one you’ll watch them drift away. If you’re lucky they’ll just stop coming to the secret clubhouse after the show, but more than likely they’ll flat out turn on you in the ring to let everyone know that they don’t have your back anymore. Hell, it’s already kind of started, if the backstage mutterings about Jackson Adams are anything to go by. And when that day comes, and you find yourself alone in the dark with only me for company, then you will know, without a doubt, that I was telling you the truth. And you’ll have no one to blame for what happened but yourself.”

Things That Make Life Worth Living

Many people, particularly those that don't know me very well, think that I don't have emotions or, more likely, that those which I have are in some way lessened or weakened compared to their own. This isn't really much of a surprise to me. When I was growing up, the two Star Trek characters I idolized were Mr. Spock and Data, and I suppose a large part of my personality comes from trying to emulate them. There's a reason that many people have a hard time telling when I'm being sarcastic or joking around. This is a long cultivated image, I can assure you, and one that comes very much in handy when crunch time happens, I'm trying to pretend that I didn't just draw a pair of aces while playing poker, and when I'm attempting to intimidate undergraduates so they don't realize I really have no idea what I'm talking about in class this week.

I am here to tell you, however, that this could not be farther from the truth. Reality is that I have a great deal of emotion about a large number of things. Some people would be surprised, in fact, to realize just how strong my feelings are most of the time. I think the real reason I work so hard to be reserved is simply the fact that I am, myself, surprised at their intensity. So, in an effort to A)Dispel this myth, 2) Let people know a little more about me, and Third) Write something positive for a change, I am hereby composing a list of the things that make me feel best in the world, or at least all of them I've encountered so far and which I can come up with right now.

1. The moment an experiment I've been working on for months finally works, and the result is novel and furthers our understanding of science.
2. Collapsing into your own bed at the end of a long, exhausting day (the value of this has been further driven home of late, for obvious reasons.)
3. Sitting down in your backyard with a beer in your hand, meat cooking on the grill, and the smell of the freshly cut grass you just mowed filling your nose.
4. Women who wear some combination of a necklace (the longer the better,) stockings, and/or heels while making love.
5. Going for an exploratory run through a brand new city with my camera in my pocket.
6. Brisk autumn Saturdays where you have nothing planned besides tailgating and enjoying a college football game in person.
7. Running faster and/or farther than I ever have before.
8. The red rock cliffs of Arizona and Nevada. I could live my life there and never get tired of looking at them.
9. Teaching, which I never expected to be true.
10. Figuring out the mystery before the detectives on the TV
11. The drunken stagger home from a pub/bar where you're halfway intoxicated with alcohol but the other half is simply from laughing all night long.
12. Writing, and going back years later to see that, despite all the mistakes, maybe you really weren't so bad at this after all.
13. Cursing up a storm
14. Watching dick sports fans' teams lose. Also, laughing at them.
15. A warm hand to hold as the sun sets.
16. Watching the night sky in all directions filled with fireworks on the Fourth of July from the roof of the Twenty Grand movie theater.
17. The band trip to the Alamo Bowl (but not racing to drink whole bottles of wine. Ugh.)
18. Stirring debates and discussions, about damn near anything
19. Fiercely loyal friends (you know who you are, Team Adam.)
20. When people who read your blog post comments. ;)

Thanks for dealing with my self-indulgent post.