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Forgettable Nights I’ll Ever Not Remember
Topic Started: Jan 4 2011, 03:51 PM (54 Views)
BBD
"Beautiful"
[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Moments after One Shot was completed, the final bell tolls and I find myself storming through the curtains returning to the backstage area, bumping shoulders with the “Champ” Jay Wildman as we pass. Of course, Jay on his way out to stare down with the new Number One contender Samuel Amos, and me, on my way sulking back to my locker room, to once again lick my wounds so to speak.

“Great match!” a few people call out as I push my way through faceless employees and named superstars alike. “Great showing Bobby!” more of them call out to uncaring ears.

Turning down one hall, I’m now alone, alone with my thoughts, at least until I reach my locker room of course. Where I know Jeremiah Sloan, Roscoe Shame, and possibly the newest addition to our little trio, Reaper, awaits. My fast paced, determined stride begins to slow to a crawl as the recent events of my career begin to unfold in my mind’s eye.

Losing the Number One contender match here tonight is just one of the numerous steps on this downward spiral as thoughts of myself and Roscoe Shame losing to Jay Wildman follow suit. The rosh-am-bo contest with Shame plays itself out followed shortly after with the both the loss of the Las Vegas title to that masked idiot Grimnir, followed by the loss of the International title to Rey Rosario, and finally the fiasco of losing the tag team titles, first with Roscoe Shame to Night and Pat Fullham, then with Night to Colt Cooper and Joey Equinox finishes off my walk down memory lane.

Numerous questions begin to formulate in my head, why can’t I seem to get my career on track? Am I nothing more than a glorified gate-keeper? Will I always be the test for the rising stars of the sVo? “Beat BBD and earn yourself a title shot. If you can’t then you certainly can’t beat the champion, whoever it may be.” But if I can’t win, then what’s next for me?

I find myself at a cross roads both metaphorically speaking and literally speaking as I stand in an intersection of jumbled hallways, confused as to which hall to take to reach my locker room. Standing there at a loss, wondering what hallway I should take, when something suddenly clicks for me.

“I’m better than this.” I say with conviction in my voice. “I’m better than Amos, I’m better than Rosario, I’m better than Cooper and Rider. Hell I’m even better than Wildman.”

Of course, deep down inside, the inner BBD is laughing obscenely at that proclamation. Rosario? Maybe. Cooper and Rider? Perhaps with a bit of work, it’s doable. But Wildman? Only in my wildest dreams. But that’s the pessimistic voice that I’ve buried deep inside, sure he’ll come out to play, especially after my friend Jack Daniels joins the fray, but right now it’s locked away and cool, suave, confident Bobby Dean is here to take charge.

Turning down a random hallway I once again march with a determined stride. It’s a bit of a surprise, even to myself, when I find myself stopped outside my locker room door. Having chosen the right hallway blindly only confirms my new direction in life. Turning the handle, my new direction is immediately put to the test as Roscoe Shame, Jeremiah Sloan and the ever sour faced, one-eyed Reaper are there to greet me.

Roscoe Shame is first, “Man, I thought you had it buddy! We really should go complain to Anderson or heck, why not go to Page, now that he’s back?”

“Yeah Bobby, Amos looked out to me. I could have sworn his feet touched the ground!” it was Jeremiah Sloan’s turn.

Expectantly, I turn to face Reaper, who casually sits in his chair, a stogie in hand, a bottle of Jim Beam in the other as he smiles. A smile I know all too well as I’m reminded that our “friendship” is one based on hatred and necessity. Reaper fails to disappoint as he chimes in, “Nah, Amos’ feet didn’t touch. You just got cocky and blew the biggest match of your career. Anyone else seem to notice that pattern? You, my friend, are a choke artist, pure and simple. You always were. Nice to see some things haven’t changed.”

He begins to laugh that laugh of his as I walk over, my shoulders, once again slumped in defeat. My only solace is found in the bottom of my equipment bag as I reach in and pull out my bottle of Jack Daniels. The inner, pessimistic me, cries out in joy as I tip the bottle back, the rim to my open lips, awaiting the newest addition to the party.

Reaper laughs at my pitiful display as Jeremiah and Roscoe share another look of concern. A look all too common in recent months, but a look I ignore nevertheless. I don’t care about their concern, I don’t care about Reaper’s shitty attitude, he’s right, and everyone in the room knows it, but only he’s enough of an asshole to say the words on everyone’s lips. Words that are even on the tip of my very own lips.

“Here’s to you buddy.” Reaper calls out holding his bottle of Jim Beam out to me in salute. I motion back with my own bottle before we both tip our respective bottles back and share a drink. The only thing that he and I will ever have in common.

The drink flows free as the night wears on. Leaving the arena, I find myself strolling up and down the red light district of the shadiest area in Las Vegas, a feat in and of it self as I’m fucking plastered. Stopping the car after accidently popping up onto the nearby curb, I roll down my window and call out to the scattering of women of the night. “Hey, bitches! How much?”

The “classy” ladies turn towards me and with a mere glance the group of them turn their backs on me as if I were a cop ready to bust them. Apparently, being shit faced drunk was a common method amongst Las Vegas’ finest. But one girl of the bunch strolls up, bends over into my window and with Menthol on her breath answers, “For you honey, thirty bucks.”

“Thirty bucks?” I ask astonished. This bitch was cheap! There one thing I love more than a cheap bitch and that’s cheap heat. I smile and respond back with all my suave charm, “Well then get your fat ass in the car and let’s get this nightmare over with!”

The girl looks astonished and a bit miffed but thirty bucks is thirty bucks she thought to herself as she was about to climb into the front passenger seat. But she’s stopped midway as I call out, “No, you whore! You ride in the back! I don’t want people to actually see me with you. Just get in the back and lie down, there should be a blanket back there, use that to cover yourself.”

Laughing at the sight of this six foot two tall, brunette crawling into my backseat, pulling a blanket over her head, I peel off the curb and make my uneasy way back to my hotel room to one of the most forgettable nights I’ll ever not remember.

The familiar tune of “Fuck You” by Cee Lo Green begins to play from my phone, drawing me out from my slumber. Rolling over I’m greeted to one of the scariest sights I’ve ever seen in my life. The “woman” I picked up last night, wasn’t quite as beautiful as I recall.

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“AHHHHHHHH!” I scream out, rolling out of bed, falling to my naked ass, I scramble to my hands and knees and crawl as fast as I can to the nearby bathroom where I slam the door closed and lock it shut before I turn to the sink and begin to pour scalding hot water on my face, and then on my dick. Whimpering both in pain and in misery I hear this “chick” knocking on the door.

With “her” booming voice she calls out, “Is everything ok honey?”

I dry heave, a bit of vomit wanting to come up as she speaks. Looking around the bathroom I noticed a pile of discarded clothes, luckily for me, they are my discarded pile of clothes from the night before. Fishing into the pants pocket I pull out both my ringing phone and my money clip. Yanking a bill with Franklin’s face on it away from the clip I rush to the door. With lightning speed I jerk the door open, throw the bill out into the surprised face of this hooker, and then slam the door shut once more.

“It was only thirty dollar sweet heart.” She calls out to me, surprise in her voice.

“No, that’s a thirty dollars for you to get your wrinkly ball sack out of my hotel room, and another seventy to keep your mouth shut about this!” I demand through the shut door.

“Fuck You” again begins to play through the phone in my hand causing me to jump in surprise. Ripping the phone open I hit the talk button and mash it to my ear calling out, “What!?”

“Bobby?” the familiar tone of Roscoe Shame calls out tentatively. “You okay?”

“No!” I answer back curtly as I lean into the door, trying to listen to the hotel room, waiting for the familiar sound of the hotel door slamming shut, a sound I’ve heard countless times from the hookers I’ve found myself spending the nights with. “What do you want Roscoe?”

“I just wanted to tell you, it looks like Beautiful Shame is back together.” Roscoe says with some mirth in his voice. “I just got the call from Jay, we’re set to team up against Rey Rosario and Chris Wrestling on the next Showdown.”

“Rosario?” I ask, a sudden gleam in my eye as I remember once more back to the night I lost my International title to that man. “Outstanding…”

“You okay buddy?” Roscoe calls out once more, concern in his voice.

“I am now!” I call out as not only thoughts of unfinished business with Rosario play through my mind, but the sound of the slamming hotel door echoes through the hotel room and into the bathroom. Smiling I hand up the phone, without so much as a goodbye to my tag partner, I walk out into the hotel room, ready to do my happy dance. But my happy dance is put on hold as that behemoth of a “woman” is standing there in his mini skirt smiling evilly at me from the hall leading to the front door.

The last thing I see is “her” fist cocked back, then blackness as his punch catches me square on the jaw! Dropping me like a sack of potatoes. How humiliating, that is the thought that would be running through my mind, the second I return to consciousness. Followed by a few expletives as I find my wallet, phone, clothes, car keys and whatever else was of any miniscule value stolen out from under me by that sasquatch of a he/she. But seeing as how I’m unconscious at the moment the only thing going through my head is, absolute nothing. A sort of blissful feeling as the worries of the world no longer weigh my overwhelmed shoulders down.

Sometimes it’s good to be “beautiful”, other times I’d much rather be ugly like so many of the other sVo guys.
Edited by BBD, Jan 4 2011, 03:58 PM.
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