Post by Christmas Furby on Jan 29, 2013 19:53:03 GMT -6
"I Would Understand..."
“You’re sick… you’re fucking sick… Get away from me!!!” Her words rung vociferously through the crisp, dry night air; the passionate words belonged to a semi-nude brunette whose name I couldn't be bothered to recall as she stormed out of the bedroom of the apartment. Her words were a perfect compilation of hatred and fear that filled the atmosphere, making every breath I took tainted. I lurched out of the room, each step feeling like a chore and a burden as I made my way to the pantry. I was tired, bone-tired, and the signs of my lethargy could be found in the black circles beneath my weary pupils, and the slow manner by which I moved about. Perhaps this fatigue was more mental than physical, and maybe I was dulled and satiated by overindulgence. Yet here I was again, clutching a half-consumed bottle of Jim Beam with a hooker throwing a tantrum in my apartment - here I was the dissipated reprobate.
“…And you bet your ass I’m calling the police… you bastard. You're a monster!” she shouts vehemently at the top of her lungs, along with some other expletives and insults I choose to ignore as she hastily begins dressing herself. She stood there, continuing to lay down her verbal beating, continuing to lash out at me, but it was all falling on deaf ears. I leaned back against the kitchen counter, with one arm lying on top of it and the other pouring the alcoholic impurities into my mouth. I took a painful gulp as I flushed the beer down my throat, my thoughts drifted aimlessly in the back of my head as I stared blankly at her. They were homicidal thoughts, sick, demented thoughts of dissecting her like a toad in biology class, and picking her brain to see what made her tick. I shake my head to break the sadistic trance, regaining my cognizance in time to see her slip on her expensive shoes and equally as lavish coat that she probably earned from whoring around, much like she was doing tonight. But she doesn't look like the million dollar whore who entered my apartment. Her appearance was now disheveled, that brunette colored batch of hair on her scalp was now sweat filled and ruffled, and the brand name makeup that was once perfectly applied to her face was now smeared, looking like the drug store variety. She looked cheap, much like every woman when I’m finished violating her. Without another word she removes herself from the vicinity, slamming the door shut, the sound of which shatters my euphoria. I felt unfulfilled. I was looking for that tear-filled, hate stricken goodbye; I longed for those final words that she would use to articulate, with excessive precision the level of scumbag I had achieved.
I wet my whistle again and again, continuing to absorb the alcohol as I make my way into the hallway. My inebriated amble carries me into the bathroom where I collapse across the sink, finding it difficult to remain on my two feet. The nearly empty bottle slips out of my right hand and plummets to the floor as I stare into the mirror. I’m not sure what I’m staring at; what is this reflection that's being depicted for that matter? The question spun around my mind, running repeated laps around the track that was my consciousness. I mean, when I looked at myself, I resembled a normal person. I maintained all the quirks and idiosyncrasies of a human being: the flesh and blood, skin, eyes, hands, and feet, yet not one lucid, recognizable emotion, save for the sadness and self-hatred. Over the last few months of my erratic life, I've come to the harsh and horrifying realization that something terrible was going on inside of me. I’m having an inner-conflict, and I’m undergoing a scary metamorphosis deep within, and I have absolutely no answer for why it’s occurring. And this transformation was plaguing me, ruining not only my life, but also the lives of everyone I touched. And this change gave me a lust for blood, and an appetite for destruction that had poured out into my daily life. And I feel dangerous, volatile, and unpredictable, and that at any moment the thread holding my sanity together could snap, sending me into paroxysms of rage and vileness.
I can feel the sweat cascading down my brow. These dark thoughts have left my hands shaking and trembling as if I’m suffering from Parkinson’s disease. Frantically, I run some water into my aforementioned hands, and begin to wash my face in a desperate attempt to calm my nerves. The water descends from my visage, and finds a home in the sink. That’s when I notice something. The red pigmentation of the water catches my eye as it fills up in the bottom of the sink. It’s all starting to come back to me, rushing to my head like the blood of someone hanging upside down. I stare at my hands, the dread, and apprehension sobering me as I focus my gaze on my hands…
And the blood and strands of dark colored hair that covers them. And now I've been equipped with the knowledge, the knowledge that I almost committed another atrocity… another transgression. I can’t accept this reality… I MUST escape this nightmare. In a frenzied hysteria I rummage through the medicine cabinet, grabbing myself a few bottles of painkillers before wildly navigating myself first to the pantry to obtain another bottle of alcohol, and then to the living room. The adrenaline rush sends me to the floor, where I quickly pop the cap off the pills. Upon consuming a handful of painkillers, I focus my attention on the beer bottle. This time I’m wielding some Green Flash Palate Wrecker. I haven’t had this one before. Guess it’s another first. My first Palate Wrecker, and the first time I've tried to commit suicide this year. Hopefully they’ll soon be be my two lasts.
I close my eyes and knock back, my mouth immediately filling up like a plugged drain with half the liquor running down my throat and the remaining half being choked up. But I’m not going to stop. I have to keep going… until I can’t remember the pain… until I can’t FEEL the pain…
Until I reach the end.
"The Angry Boy A Bit Too Insane..."
I slowly open my eyes, anticipating my arrival at the Devil’s doorstep as a repercussion for the things I've done, but I see no fire and brimstone in sight. I wake up to an orgy of the flesh… no I wake up to the aftermath, and it hits me rather quickly that I’m not in the rundown San Diego apartment I just rented. However I try to stop thinking, hoping to alleviate the pain that's ravaging the side of my brain. It feels like a riot is breaking out in my head; this headache was pretty potent, likely brought on by my apparent partying, which I have absolutely no recollection of. Nevertheless, I find myself stretched out on the couch, surveying a sea of passed out bodies strewn over the carpet. There’s a plethora of empty bottles and pizza boxes to go along with these carcasses; it must have been quite the party. The pungent odor of the apartment reminded me just how long it had been since I consumed any food. That tells you what kind of alcoholic I am. Drinkers eat when they’re wasted, while real drunks eat when they’re not, and right now I was pretty much starving. In spite of every fiber in my being screaming at me not to get up I slowly climb off the couch. From the way my legs tremble as I stand, I'm either still intoxicated, extremely fatigued, or I've somehow put on a considerable amount of weight that my lower extremities can no longer hold up... or maybe a combination of all three. I pull my cellphone out my pocket, hoping to check the time and get some idea as to my whereabouts, but come to find out that the goddamn battery died. Am I not the perfect role-model? Magnus Gunner, the prisoner of his own mindless self-indulgence, once again finds himself held in captivity. Look at me, I'm standing in some apartment in God know's where, surrounded by people (and I HATE people), drunk off of cheap beer with absolutely no idea how I got to this point.
I begin plodding through the apartment, looking for the bathroom. I walk into one of the rooms, stumbling upon a redhead as she sits at the end of the mattress. I've found the bedroom, and since this wasn't what I was looking for I try to slip back out, but she immediately speaks up, hoping to meet my acquaintance.
"You're not from around here are you?" She says, her tone showing me she was coming down from some sort of high. It also told me that she was a little underage.
“What’s here, specifically?” I replied. Finally some answers.
“Philadelphia.” As she moved to her feet I could only wonder about the whereabouts of my 97’ Impala, my pride, and joy. I wasn't too concerned about the fact that I had somehow magically appeared in another city, across the other-side of the country; it surely wasn't the first time.
“How old are you kid?” I said indifferently.
“Just turned nineteen yesterday, hence the party... you fucking partied hard tonight!” She replied as she rubbed her nose, trying to wipe the residue of what I perceived to be cocaine. Or maybe the cool kids are abusing a new drug. I’m so out of touch with the new trends it's ridiculous. “So you gonna stand there, or are you gonna come to bed cutie?”
There it was the soundtrack to my life, the harmony coming in the form of a bad deed, an opportunity to become that much more deplorable, and an opportunity for me to feel that much lower. Here it was, beckoning me to piss all over it's innocence like a dog to a fire-hydrant; and this dog has defaced his share of hydrants. I used to be a man of morals, or at least I pretended to be. I remember pretending to have the sensibilities to know right from wrong. Now I was a broken man, one who couldn't recognize right from wrong, or couldn't be bothered to differentiate between the two.
She slowly took off her tank-top, liberating her pink bra that was trapped underneath. I roll my eyes and sigh, as I felt the rise of that old familiar feeling... a feeling I hated... yet welcomed. "You’re too young for me. I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
The seductive look in her eyes comes as a glaring sign that she's not going to exactly take no for an answer. She moves ever so closer to me, ever so closer to the end of her life, because like all bad things in my life, it starts with me ruining some girl's life. And she was about to become the next damsel in distress that I couldn't save, another body on the long list of women with daddy issues that I've left dead inside.
"I won't tell anybody if you don't" she whispered to me as she grabbed my hands, as if discretion meant anything to me. Discretion was for lucky men, and luck and I aren't on speaking terms at the moment. Hell, we haven't spoken to each other in years.
"You're going to regret this." I said shamefully, but that comment was directed more at me than it was her. She was up on some cloud right now, freed of her inhibitions and stripped of her ability to make sound decisions. I had no excuse, the event that was about to transpire was a binary one; you either stop yourself, or you go through with it.
"I'll worry about that tomorrow." She whispered before kissing me. But that's the thing, there's no tomorrow for people like me. Everyday's the same recurring nightmare. And I deluded myself into thinking I could wake up from it. There was no choice in the matter. Nothing but a deeper, deeper descent into the abyss. The illusion manifests later, when you start questioning yourself, when you ask 'What have I done?', and 'Why Is This Happening To Me?'. When you start to put the puzzle pieces together, you realize if you could have changed anything, then you wouldn't be you. If I could stop doing these horrible things, then I wouldn't be me now would I?
But I am me, despite how badly I don't want to be. She pulls me toward the bed and climbs in. I pause for a moment and glance at the nightstand where a can of Budweiser catches my eye. I didn't want to drink anymore, but I certainly didn't want to be sober for this. I hesitantly crack open the cap, and even more reluctantly climb in with her. My face had a permanent grimace on it. I wasn't going to enjoy this... enjoy adding another gap into the gaping hole that was my horrible life. I've tried to run away from it, but that hole only got deeper, and darker. I was weak. I was too afraid to face it, too afraid to confront that pain. That would be the equivalent of staring down the barrel of a gun, waiting to have your head blown clean off your shoulders...
And as many times as I've tried to kill myself in the past year, in reality, I'm just not ready to die.
"Icing Over A Secret Pain..."
As the camera begins to roll Gunner is crouched behind a dumpster, leaning against a brick wall. He looks up to the sky, noticing the clouds beginning to align in the necessary formation for one to predict rain. A storm was indeed brewing. He pulls out a pack of Winstons from his leather jacket, quickly opening the carton and grabbing one of the cancer sticks. He had a vendetta against his lungs; it was as strong as the one he held against his liver. With a flick of the lighter the cigarette is lit and the war against his respiratory system continues, a look of satisfaction immediately manifesting on the Michigander's mug as he inhales the toxins.
"They must not have told you what you're getting into..." Those were the words Gunner murmured as he continued to stare at the sky, a cloud of toxins beginning to climb into the atmosphere. "They must not have told you that you're playing Russian Roulette with your career. Some friends you have, letting you roll the dice like this... letting you play this dangerous game where the risk of ruin is one hundred percent guaranteed..."
Gunner takes another puff, continuing to pollute the air with both the nicotine and the negative vibes he radiates with. As he looks at the camera for the first time, a faint smile crosses his face.
"I don't know much about you Jackson. I don't care to find out either. But from our brief little verbal exchange over the internet, it's obvious that you don't know much about me, because if you did you wouldn't have gone spewing off at the mouth, talking up your big game and writing checks that you won't be able to cash. Since Fiona and Jonathan have left you blissfully ignorant about me, let me educate you... I've got some beautiful stories and anecdotes that you might find interesting."
Magnus climbs to his feet, waving the cigarette at the camera as he passes his hand through his hair. As his eyes close he takes a deep breath, beginning to go to that dark place that no one comes back the same from when they return to a state of normalcy. His eyes slowly open again, his pupils carrying an expression of madness in them.
"I've been in this business for about 5-6 years now, it's pretty hard for me to pinpoint exactly how long it's been when I take into account how many concussions I've suffered throughout my career. I made my mark as a hardcore wrestler, fighting the style that I have my entire life. A style I fought with everyday in high-school, just to show the jocks and the cool kids that there were consequences for twitching their pretentious noses up at me... for pointing their privileged fingers in my direction and making jokes at me because of the way I dressed, or how I articulated myself. I used to fight for my clothes and valuables everyday I left the house, because the drug dealers and low-lifes got it in their head that somehow I was well-bred, and I had to show them that they couldn't make an example out of me. I've been fighting my entire life, so it translated to the ring and I was a natural..."
"I was a natural at making people suffer, just as I have my entire life. But when I first started out, that wasn't my intention. I had dreams of superstardom... dreams of shining under the bright lights and hearing people chant my name... dreams of selling out venues and arenas around the world where people would pay their hard earned money just to watch me do my thing. I dreamed of finally being accepted by society..."
"I had dreams of living a beautiful life with my aspiring model girlfriend... but that dream died along with her love for me. She started to see a change in me... started to see something in my eyes that frightened her... a twinkle of malice, a sparkle of malevolence that I couldn't control. I thought I could... I thought I could bury my sadistic urges and suppress them with booze and a plethora of over the counter prescriptions... and at one point it seemed possible... seemed to be working.. seemed like it was over. I lied to myself thinking it was over. I was still alive. All my dreams were dead. It was far from over."
Gunner takes another soothing pull of the Winston, helping to aid him in his trip down memory lane.
"Everything I ever had, everything I ever wanted or deserved in this world had either eluded me or was taken away. It made me sick... it made me feel hollow... it made me feel empty, and as I looked around me all I could see were happy faces. Faces of champions, faces of lovers, and faces of rookies getting their first big break... they were all happy and elated and I despised of that. And as I stared through the looking glass, I slipped deeper and deeper into madness. And the farther I went off the deep end, the more my bloodlust grew. I wanted to destroy that happiness... I wanted to make EVERYONE feel as low as I did."
“Everything got dark for me... and at first I refused to accept this, tried to resist the darkness. But once I began to appreciate it, once I began to recognize the worth and the beauty of the darkness, and fully embrace it... I started to smile for once. I experienced the joy and the pleasure that came from tasting the darkness. I began to enjoy it. I began to enjoy licking the blood of my adversaries off my white knuckles. I began to enjoy the sensation that ran through my body when I made someone's bones break... or made them scream in response to having their limbs stretched in fashions they were never anatomically meant to be. Wins and losses stopped mattering to me... all that was important was sending people to the emergency room, and ending careers because that made me feel better about myself."
Gunner finished off the cig before walking toward the camera. With each step forward the maniacal expression on his face intensifies.
"So Jackson, understand that while your cause is noble, the truth is you're destined for failure. That's because you've never played this game before, a game where I MAKE THE RULES... a game where I control the outcome. When we meet in two weeks, I'll have our careers in the palms of my hands, and I'll have the choice of what to do. Just understand that I have poor judgement... I've got steady aim but HORRIBLY poor judgement!"
"Just ask Jonathan Collins. He's got you running in here playing the role of the hero just like he was a few months ago. Now he pushes paperwork behind a desk. You want to know why Jackson? It's because he was running from me. The GREAT AND NOBLE JONATHAN COLLINS... WAS RUNNING SCARED FROM ME. Why would somebody like Collins have to fear somebody like me... I mean he's one of the most violent men in the business, IN FACT... I saw him drag a man out on the back of car like someone tracking bath tissue on their shoe... so what did he have to fear? I'll tell you what! He had to fear a man that wanted nothing but to see his world crumble to rubble. I wasn't out for his championship... I was out to destroy his well being.... ruin his life."
"I'm the reason Jimmy Riley is road agent, and has a surgically repaired arm... I'm the man that broke it. I got a level of ecstasy when I felt his bone snap. It was breathtaking. It felt like the first time you eat after a fast."
"I'm the man that put Fiona Rourke into the hospital... she's nursing a concussion... THANKS TO MY CHAIRSHOT... A CALCULATED CHAIRSHOT TO THE CRANIUM... BUT I was just finishing my work Jackson... I had been bashing her skull in for a long time... I just wanted to finish the job. I wanted to send her home to Madison in bandages... I wanted to cripple her!"
Gunner frantically shakes the camera, his eyes unblinking as he stares straight into the lens.
"Jackson we've got two weeks until you get your first hand look at a man that wants nothing more than to see you squirm...a first hand look at a man that wants to send you back home to your loved ones a broken, beaten down former shell of yourself. But as Einstein eluded to, time is relative to the observer. When you're suspended in the air, looking up at the ceiling lights, time will slow down. Your whole life will flash by, all the heartbreak, all the pain, all the scars... you'll feel it all come to you in that one instant. And you'll stay with it, you'll hold onto that moment and you'll live an entire lifetime in that moment..."
The sky became dark, and rain began to fall from the sky as if all the proverbial angels in heaven began to cry at the same time. Gunner backed away from the camera, a menacing, foreboding, deranged look in his eyes as he outstretched his arms and posed in a crucifix. Just as he embraced the darkness, he embraced the rain, holding his position as the clouds continued to shower him. As the feed slowly began to fade out, Gunner issued his final comments...
"And then I'll spin you over, and end that life with a knee strike to the head..."
And the psychotic laughter that followed.
"You Don't Belong..."
“You’re sick… you’re fucking sick… Get away from me!!!” Her words rung vociferously through the crisp, dry night air; the passionate words belonged to a semi-nude brunette whose name I couldn't be bothered to recall as she stormed out of the bedroom of the apartment. Her words were a perfect compilation of hatred and fear that filled the atmosphere, making every breath I took tainted. I lurched out of the room, each step feeling like a chore and a burden as I made my way to the pantry. I was tired, bone-tired, and the signs of my lethargy could be found in the black circles beneath my weary pupils, and the slow manner by which I moved about. Perhaps this fatigue was more mental than physical, and maybe I was dulled and satiated by overindulgence. Yet here I was again, clutching a half-consumed bottle of Jim Beam with a hooker throwing a tantrum in my apartment - here I was the dissipated reprobate.
“…And you bet your ass I’m calling the police… you bastard. You're a monster!” she shouts vehemently at the top of her lungs, along with some other expletives and insults I choose to ignore as she hastily begins dressing herself. She stood there, continuing to lay down her verbal beating, continuing to lash out at me, but it was all falling on deaf ears. I leaned back against the kitchen counter, with one arm lying on top of it and the other pouring the alcoholic impurities into my mouth. I took a painful gulp as I flushed the beer down my throat, my thoughts drifted aimlessly in the back of my head as I stared blankly at her. They were homicidal thoughts, sick, demented thoughts of dissecting her like a toad in biology class, and picking her brain to see what made her tick. I shake my head to break the sadistic trance, regaining my cognizance in time to see her slip on her expensive shoes and equally as lavish coat that she probably earned from whoring around, much like she was doing tonight. But she doesn't look like the million dollar whore who entered my apartment. Her appearance was now disheveled, that brunette colored batch of hair on her scalp was now sweat filled and ruffled, and the brand name makeup that was once perfectly applied to her face was now smeared, looking like the drug store variety. She looked cheap, much like every woman when I’m finished violating her. Without another word she removes herself from the vicinity, slamming the door shut, the sound of which shatters my euphoria. I felt unfulfilled. I was looking for that tear-filled, hate stricken goodbye; I longed for those final words that she would use to articulate, with excessive precision the level of scumbag I had achieved.
I wet my whistle again and again, continuing to absorb the alcohol as I make my way into the hallway. My inebriated amble carries me into the bathroom where I collapse across the sink, finding it difficult to remain on my two feet. The nearly empty bottle slips out of my right hand and plummets to the floor as I stare into the mirror. I’m not sure what I’m staring at; what is this reflection that's being depicted for that matter? The question spun around my mind, running repeated laps around the track that was my consciousness. I mean, when I looked at myself, I resembled a normal person. I maintained all the quirks and idiosyncrasies of a human being: the flesh and blood, skin, eyes, hands, and feet, yet not one lucid, recognizable emotion, save for the sadness and self-hatred. Over the last few months of my erratic life, I've come to the harsh and horrifying realization that something terrible was going on inside of me. I’m having an inner-conflict, and I’m undergoing a scary metamorphosis deep within, and I have absolutely no answer for why it’s occurring. And this transformation was plaguing me, ruining not only my life, but also the lives of everyone I touched. And this change gave me a lust for blood, and an appetite for destruction that had poured out into my daily life. And I feel dangerous, volatile, and unpredictable, and that at any moment the thread holding my sanity together could snap, sending me into paroxysms of rage and vileness.
I can feel the sweat cascading down my brow. These dark thoughts have left my hands shaking and trembling as if I’m suffering from Parkinson’s disease. Frantically, I run some water into my aforementioned hands, and begin to wash my face in a desperate attempt to calm my nerves. The water descends from my visage, and finds a home in the sink. That’s when I notice something. The red pigmentation of the water catches my eye as it fills up in the bottom of the sink. It’s all starting to come back to me, rushing to my head like the blood of someone hanging upside down. I stare at my hands, the dread, and apprehension sobering me as I focus my gaze on my hands…
And the blood and strands of dark colored hair that covers them. And now I've been equipped with the knowledge, the knowledge that I almost committed another atrocity… another transgression. I can’t accept this reality… I MUST escape this nightmare. In a frenzied hysteria I rummage through the medicine cabinet, grabbing myself a few bottles of painkillers before wildly navigating myself first to the pantry to obtain another bottle of alcohol, and then to the living room. The adrenaline rush sends me to the floor, where I quickly pop the cap off the pills. Upon consuming a handful of painkillers, I focus my attention on the beer bottle. This time I’m wielding some Green Flash Palate Wrecker. I haven’t had this one before. Guess it’s another first. My first Palate Wrecker, and the first time I've tried to commit suicide this year. Hopefully they’ll soon be be my two lasts.
I close my eyes and knock back, my mouth immediately filling up like a plugged drain with half the liquor running down my throat and the remaining half being choked up. But I’m not going to stop. I have to keep going… until I can’t remember the pain… until I can’t FEEL the pain…
Until I reach the end.
"The Angry Boy A Bit Too Insane..."
I slowly open my eyes, anticipating my arrival at the Devil’s doorstep as a repercussion for the things I've done, but I see no fire and brimstone in sight. I wake up to an orgy of the flesh… no I wake up to the aftermath, and it hits me rather quickly that I’m not in the rundown San Diego apartment I just rented. However I try to stop thinking, hoping to alleviate the pain that's ravaging the side of my brain. It feels like a riot is breaking out in my head; this headache was pretty potent, likely brought on by my apparent partying, which I have absolutely no recollection of. Nevertheless, I find myself stretched out on the couch, surveying a sea of passed out bodies strewn over the carpet. There’s a plethora of empty bottles and pizza boxes to go along with these carcasses; it must have been quite the party. The pungent odor of the apartment reminded me just how long it had been since I consumed any food. That tells you what kind of alcoholic I am. Drinkers eat when they’re wasted, while real drunks eat when they’re not, and right now I was pretty much starving. In spite of every fiber in my being screaming at me not to get up I slowly climb off the couch. From the way my legs tremble as I stand, I'm either still intoxicated, extremely fatigued, or I've somehow put on a considerable amount of weight that my lower extremities can no longer hold up... or maybe a combination of all three. I pull my cellphone out my pocket, hoping to check the time and get some idea as to my whereabouts, but come to find out that the goddamn battery died. Am I not the perfect role-model? Magnus Gunner, the prisoner of his own mindless self-indulgence, once again finds himself held in captivity. Look at me, I'm standing in some apartment in God know's where, surrounded by people (and I HATE people), drunk off of cheap beer with absolutely no idea how I got to this point.
I begin plodding through the apartment, looking for the bathroom. I walk into one of the rooms, stumbling upon a redhead as she sits at the end of the mattress. I've found the bedroom, and since this wasn't what I was looking for I try to slip back out, but she immediately speaks up, hoping to meet my acquaintance.
"You're not from around here are you?" She says, her tone showing me she was coming down from some sort of high. It also told me that she was a little underage.
“What’s here, specifically?” I replied. Finally some answers.
“Philadelphia.” As she moved to her feet I could only wonder about the whereabouts of my 97’ Impala, my pride, and joy. I wasn't too concerned about the fact that I had somehow magically appeared in another city, across the other-side of the country; it surely wasn't the first time.
“How old are you kid?” I said indifferently.
“Just turned nineteen yesterday, hence the party... you fucking partied hard tonight!” She replied as she rubbed her nose, trying to wipe the residue of what I perceived to be cocaine. Or maybe the cool kids are abusing a new drug. I’m so out of touch with the new trends it's ridiculous. “So you gonna stand there, or are you gonna come to bed cutie?”
There it was the soundtrack to my life, the harmony coming in the form of a bad deed, an opportunity to become that much more deplorable, and an opportunity for me to feel that much lower. Here it was, beckoning me to piss all over it's innocence like a dog to a fire-hydrant; and this dog has defaced his share of hydrants. I used to be a man of morals, or at least I pretended to be. I remember pretending to have the sensibilities to know right from wrong. Now I was a broken man, one who couldn't recognize right from wrong, or couldn't be bothered to differentiate between the two.
She slowly took off her tank-top, liberating her pink bra that was trapped underneath. I roll my eyes and sigh, as I felt the rise of that old familiar feeling... a feeling I hated... yet welcomed. "You’re too young for me. I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
The seductive look in her eyes comes as a glaring sign that she's not going to exactly take no for an answer. She moves ever so closer to me, ever so closer to the end of her life, because like all bad things in my life, it starts with me ruining some girl's life. And she was about to become the next damsel in distress that I couldn't save, another body on the long list of women with daddy issues that I've left dead inside.
"I won't tell anybody if you don't" she whispered to me as she grabbed my hands, as if discretion meant anything to me. Discretion was for lucky men, and luck and I aren't on speaking terms at the moment. Hell, we haven't spoken to each other in years.
"You're going to regret this." I said shamefully, but that comment was directed more at me than it was her. She was up on some cloud right now, freed of her inhibitions and stripped of her ability to make sound decisions. I had no excuse, the event that was about to transpire was a binary one; you either stop yourself, or you go through with it.
"I'll worry about that tomorrow." She whispered before kissing me. But that's the thing, there's no tomorrow for people like me. Everyday's the same recurring nightmare. And I deluded myself into thinking I could wake up from it. There was no choice in the matter. Nothing but a deeper, deeper descent into the abyss. The illusion manifests later, when you start questioning yourself, when you ask 'What have I done?', and 'Why Is This Happening To Me?'. When you start to put the puzzle pieces together, you realize if you could have changed anything, then you wouldn't be you. If I could stop doing these horrible things, then I wouldn't be me now would I?
But I am me, despite how badly I don't want to be. She pulls me toward the bed and climbs in. I pause for a moment and glance at the nightstand where a can of Budweiser catches my eye. I didn't want to drink anymore, but I certainly didn't want to be sober for this. I hesitantly crack open the cap, and even more reluctantly climb in with her. My face had a permanent grimace on it. I wasn't going to enjoy this... enjoy adding another gap into the gaping hole that was my horrible life. I've tried to run away from it, but that hole only got deeper, and darker. I was weak. I was too afraid to face it, too afraid to confront that pain. That would be the equivalent of staring down the barrel of a gun, waiting to have your head blown clean off your shoulders...
And as many times as I've tried to kill myself in the past year, in reality, I'm just not ready to die.
"Icing Over A Secret Pain..."
As the camera begins to roll Gunner is crouched behind a dumpster, leaning against a brick wall. He looks up to the sky, noticing the clouds beginning to align in the necessary formation for one to predict rain. A storm was indeed brewing. He pulls out a pack of Winstons from his leather jacket, quickly opening the carton and grabbing one of the cancer sticks. He had a vendetta against his lungs; it was as strong as the one he held against his liver. With a flick of the lighter the cigarette is lit and the war against his respiratory system continues, a look of satisfaction immediately manifesting on the Michigander's mug as he inhales the toxins.
"They must not have told you what you're getting into..." Those were the words Gunner murmured as he continued to stare at the sky, a cloud of toxins beginning to climb into the atmosphere. "They must not have told you that you're playing Russian Roulette with your career. Some friends you have, letting you roll the dice like this... letting you play this dangerous game where the risk of ruin is one hundred percent guaranteed..."
Gunner takes another puff, continuing to pollute the air with both the nicotine and the negative vibes he radiates with. As he looks at the camera for the first time, a faint smile crosses his face.
"I don't know much about you Jackson. I don't care to find out either. But from our brief little verbal exchange over the internet, it's obvious that you don't know much about me, because if you did you wouldn't have gone spewing off at the mouth, talking up your big game and writing checks that you won't be able to cash. Since Fiona and Jonathan have left you blissfully ignorant about me, let me educate you... I've got some beautiful stories and anecdotes that you might find interesting."
Magnus climbs to his feet, waving the cigarette at the camera as he passes his hand through his hair. As his eyes close he takes a deep breath, beginning to go to that dark place that no one comes back the same from when they return to a state of normalcy. His eyes slowly open again, his pupils carrying an expression of madness in them.
"I've been in this business for about 5-6 years now, it's pretty hard for me to pinpoint exactly how long it's been when I take into account how many concussions I've suffered throughout my career. I made my mark as a hardcore wrestler, fighting the style that I have my entire life. A style I fought with everyday in high-school, just to show the jocks and the cool kids that there were consequences for twitching their pretentious noses up at me... for pointing their privileged fingers in my direction and making jokes at me because of the way I dressed, or how I articulated myself. I used to fight for my clothes and valuables everyday I left the house, because the drug dealers and low-lifes got it in their head that somehow I was well-bred, and I had to show them that they couldn't make an example out of me. I've been fighting my entire life, so it translated to the ring and I was a natural..."
"I was a natural at making people suffer, just as I have my entire life. But when I first started out, that wasn't my intention. I had dreams of superstardom... dreams of shining under the bright lights and hearing people chant my name... dreams of selling out venues and arenas around the world where people would pay their hard earned money just to watch me do my thing. I dreamed of finally being accepted by society..."
"I had dreams of living a beautiful life with my aspiring model girlfriend... but that dream died along with her love for me. She started to see a change in me... started to see something in my eyes that frightened her... a twinkle of malice, a sparkle of malevolence that I couldn't control. I thought I could... I thought I could bury my sadistic urges and suppress them with booze and a plethora of over the counter prescriptions... and at one point it seemed possible... seemed to be working.. seemed like it was over. I lied to myself thinking it was over. I was still alive. All my dreams were dead. It was far from over."
Gunner takes another soothing pull of the Winston, helping to aid him in his trip down memory lane.
"Everything I ever had, everything I ever wanted or deserved in this world had either eluded me or was taken away. It made me sick... it made me feel hollow... it made me feel empty, and as I looked around me all I could see were happy faces. Faces of champions, faces of lovers, and faces of rookies getting their first big break... they were all happy and elated and I despised of that. And as I stared through the looking glass, I slipped deeper and deeper into madness. And the farther I went off the deep end, the more my bloodlust grew. I wanted to destroy that happiness... I wanted to make EVERYONE feel as low as I did."
“Everything got dark for me... and at first I refused to accept this, tried to resist the darkness. But once I began to appreciate it, once I began to recognize the worth and the beauty of the darkness, and fully embrace it... I started to smile for once. I experienced the joy and the pleasure that came from tasting the darkness. I began to enjoy it. I began to enjoy licking the blood of my adversaries off my white knuckles. I began to enjoy the sensation that ran through my body when I made someone's bones break... or made them scream in response to having their limbs stretched in fashions they were never anatomically meant to be. Wins and losses stopped mattering to me... all that was important was sending people to the emergency room, and ending careers because that made me feel better about myself."
Gunner finished off the cig before walking toward the camera. With each step forward the maniacal expression on his face intensifies.
"So Jackson, understand that while your cause is noble, the truth is you're destined for failure. That's because you've never played this game before, a game where I MAKE THE RULES... a game where I control the outcome. When we meet in two weeks, I'll have our careers in the palms of my hands, and I'll have the choice of what to do. Just understand that I have poor judgement... I've got steady aim but HORRIBLY poor judgement!"
"Just ask Jonathan Collins. He's got you running in here playing the role of the hero just like he was a few months ago. Now he pushes paperwork behind a desk. You want to know why Jackson? It's because he was running from me. The GREAT AND NOBLE JONATHAN COLLINS... WAS RUNNING SCARED FROM ME. Why would somebody like Collins have to fear somebody like me... I mean he's one of the most violent men in the business, IN FACT... I saw him drag a man out on the back of car like someone tracking bath tissue on their shoe... so what did he have to fear? I'll tell you what! He had to fear a man that wanted nothing but to see his world crumble to rubble. I wasn't out for his championship... I was out to destroy his well being.... ruin his life."
"I'm the reason Jimmy Riley is road agent, and has a surgically repaired arm... I'm the man that broke it. I got a level of ecstasy when I felt his bone snap. It was breathtaking. It felt like the first time you eat after a fast."
"I'm the man that put Fiona Rourke into the hospital... she's nursing a concussion... THANKS TO MY CHAIRSHOT... A CALCULATED CHAIRSHOT TO THE CRANIUM... BUT I was just finishing my work Jackson... I had been bashing her skull in for a long time... I just wanted to finish the job. I wanted to send her home to Madison in bandages... I wanted to cripple her!"
Gunner frantically shakes the camera, his eyes unblinking as he stares straight into the lens.
"Jackson we've got two weeks until you get your first hand look at a man that wants nothing more than to see you squirm...a first hand look at a man that wants to send you back home to your loved ones a broken, beaten down former shell of yourself. But as Einstein eluded to, time is relative to the observer. When you're suspended in the air, looking up at the ceiling lights, time will slow down. Your whole life will flash by, all the heartbreak, all the pain, all the scars... you'll feel it all come to you in that one instant. And you'll stay with it, you'll hold onto that moment and you'll live an entire lifetime in that moment..."
The sky became dark, and rain began to fall from the sky as if all the proverbial angels in heaven began to cry at the same time. Gunner backed away from the camera, a menacing, foreboding, deranged look in his eyes as he outstretched his arms and posed in a crucifix. Just as he embraced the darkness, he embraced the rain, holding his position as the clouds continued to shower him. As the feed slowly began to fade out, Gunner issued his final comments...
"And then I'll spin you over, and end that life with a knee strike to the head..."
And the psychotic laughter that followed.
"You Don't Belong..."
