| "A Beautiful Story" | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Mar 20 2011, 04:45 AM (64 Views) | |
| BBD | Mar 20 2011, 04:45 AM Post #1 |
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"Beautiful"
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You don’t know why you’re standing in your local bookstore, or why you’re down the “Sports” aisle but you are, and sitting before you on the center of the shelf is my beautiful face. Framed by the words: “A Beautiful Story” along the top and ““Beautiful” Bobby Dean” along the bottom. Intrigued, but filled with reluctance, you reach out and grasp the book. Standing there with a baby blue book in hand, yeah it’s still blue, as it was written before the disastrous loss to Sara Pettis. You casually open the book to a random page and begin to read. “The first time I met the man known to the world as Reaper, I knew two seconds into our meeting that I hated the man. Why? Because he was a prick. Not an arrogant prick like myself, but a prick in the sense that he thought the world owed him something. I for one never owed him a damn thing, yet every time I found him in my presence I always got the impression that he was waiting for me to fulfill some sort of debt I didn’t know I owed him. He was a mediocre wrestler, ugly as a mother fucker, and filled with so much piss and vinegar, but he was always game for a scrap and sometimes with “Beautiful” Bobby Dean, you find yourself in a scrap whether you like it or not. The people, they love me.” With a smirk on your face you pull the book away and shake your head in disbelief. Could a man really have so much arrogance? The answer, yes. Flipping further into the book you stumble upon another random chapter and begin to read once more. “I did the unspeakable. The unforgettable. And the unimaginable. Many people have set their sights to the heights I have met in the sVo, but how many people can claim to hold three titles. Let alone three titles all at the same time? Las Vegas Tag Team International I had a trifecta of gold around my waist and it was still not enough. Many people have questioned my motives and my greed. Some have said, “With three titles, why go for a fourth in arguably the toughest division in the sVo, the World title?” The answer? I’m “Beautiful” Bobby Dean, and there is never enough when it comes to gold around my waist. Plus, the champion at the time was my “friend” Roscoe Shame, a man I had already beaten countless times, who knew he’d actually walk out of that night with a win over me? I certainly didn’t think so.” You can’t help but find yourself shaking your head in disbelief once more. Recalling the events of that night, the night BBD fought Roscoe Shame in a one on one match for the World title, you recall that it ended in controversy with a classic Finger Poke of Death. Of course Bobby Dean wouldn’t paint that picture, he’d paint it as another case of robbery, with himself as the unsuspecting victim. Filled with curiosity and intrigue, you make your way to the checkout, the baby blue book tucked under your arm. Hours later, you’re sitting in your living room, the television currently off, the now familiar face of Bobby Dean staring up at you as you reach down and open the book to your last stopping point. “She was the love of my life. We’d grown up as kids together, running roughshod through the same neighborhood, but her family had moved when I was about eleven years old. By the time I was eighteen and had just dropped out of high school, set to start my wrestling training over at Texas-All Pro, when I came across her familiar face at the local mall. She had moved back all these years later and once our eyes met, I knew she was the one for me. She saw me through all the trials and tribulations of my wrestling career, the voice of reason as I began to question my decision to become a wrestler almost daily.” Two chapters later. “Standing amongst nine other men, I felt a pride I’ve only felt once before in my life. The day my daughter was born, holding her seconds after her birth, I looked down at her with tears in my eyes. Yes, I cried. I cried like a baby. Both tears of joy, fear, and love. But that day with those nine other men, I felt pride because that was the day I graduated from the wrestling school. In a class that began with over 30, it was we 9 who walked out of there with our heads held high. Out of those nine, only one of us went on to make a name for ourselves, and that name, as you all know is “Beautiful” Bobby Dean. Before there was “Beautiful” there was the “Kamikaze Kid”. One of the most generic names in the industry you can find, but I was nineteen years old, with no fear in my eyes, flying through the air like a master trapeze. Something you’ll never see again, not after all of the concussions I’ve gotten through the years from the various botched spots I’ve committed. Much easier to work a match when your feet don’t come off the ground more than a foot or two. Graduating from the wrestling school, I assumed I was set. I would pack my bags, travel the world, make millions of dollars all because I’ve just spent the last year in a grime covered, sweat filled warehouse, in a ring covered with a patched canvas and absolutely no air conditioning. The reality was, I had to make pennies before I could make dollars, and I made pennies for the next three years! That’s why when a kid tells me he wants to become a wrestler, I slap his or her mom and dad! No one should want to become a wrestler, it’s a thankless job filled with ridicule from other “athletes” who feel we are simple lowly stunt men who can’t act.” Further into the book you find yourself sitting on the porcelain seat, your pants dropped around your ankles, the book sitting comfortably in your lap as you grimace with exertion, followed by a familiar “kerplunk”. “Married life wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Sure I was a horrible husband, I was traveling the world, finally, starting to make a name for myself. With women, known in the business as ring rats, throwing themselves at me on a nightly basis. Sure, some were fat, toothless, cows with sagging tits, but they sucked a mean dick none the less. The only problem was, Laurie, my wife at the time, pregnant with our daughter, didn’t appreciate my extracurricular activities. Of course if she had been sleeping with random men out of every state in the US, I probably would have beaten her ass before kicking her to the curb as well. I know, I’m an asshole, a sexist who believes in certain double standards. Such as, I’m allowed to cheat, fuck, get sucked, by whoever, wherever, whenever I want. You. You are not. You are to suck, fuck, and cook whenever I happen to be home. Unfair? Definitely.” Lying in bed, curled up with the sheets around your waist, you lie on your side, holding the book open with one hand as you hold your head up with the other. “With all the new faces coming into the sVo, I can’t help but feel old. Sure, I’m far from it, but I’ve been in the sVo for so long by now, have wrestled just about everyone, from the Mike Polowy’s to the Peter Gilmour’s. My body is tired, the ambition slowly draining out of me. I question continuing my reign in the sVo almost daily. Waking up to the sourpuss Reaper, doesn’t help my struggle. I’ve got no voice of reason to keep me going. Just a devil perched on my shoulder telling me to hang it up. I’m past my prime, I’ve accomplished everything I’ve set out to accomplish. And you know what? He’s right. But where is the voice of the angel? To remind me that there is still some fight left in me? That there is still more for me to accomplish in the world of wrestling. I mean, I’ve yet to win a World title under the flag of “Beautiful” Bobby Dean, something I’ve not publicly admitted until now. How could I retire without one last hurrah? But, is the devil right? Is it my time to ride off into the sunset? Is the game now a young man’s game? Are the fresh faces, the Sara Pettis’, the Sheldon Hossteder’s, the Nero’s, the Lucas Greene’s, the Samuel Amos’ are these the new faces of the sVo while my face has overstayed it’s welcome? The answer? The answer is simple. The answer is….” “What the fuck?” you can’t help but mutter as you flip the page to see that the book has suddenly ended. Will “Beautiful” Bobby Dean retire? Will “Beautiful” Bobby Dean hang them up once and for all? All these questions flutter through your mind as you switch the bedside lamp off and lie in bed, the clock showing that it’s two in the morning. Across the way walking out the back door of a club known as Crush, with a woman, recently acquired for the night, attached to each arm, I make my way to the awaiting taxi. Suddenly a voice calls out from the shadows. “Look at this fag…” the voice calls. I don’t look around. Oblivious to the threat in the man’s voice as I ignore it and continue towards the awaiting cab. Suddenly the mangiest man I’ve ever encountered walks out from the shadows, a bottle of Jack in hand, the man stops and bends down picking up a snubbed out cigarette with just a bit left on the end, the man smiles at his fortune as he picks it up and tucks it behind his ear in the wild mangled mess he calls hair. “Got a light fag?” he asks as he nears. The women on each arm begin to back away, trying to pit me in front of them. Sadly they don’t know me very well, as I quickly scurry around them putting them between myself and this unknown, but familiar vagrant. “Do I know you?” I ask curiously. “I know you, “Beautiful” Bobby Dean.” he says in the familiar baritone voice of his. “Yeah well, you smell like shit and you’re scaring my lady friends.” I say, still forcefully shoving the women in front of me, keeping them between me and the advancing bear of a man. “Your lady friends, they sure are purty.” He says with a smile as he finally reaches our happy little trio. “You sure you need two of ‘em?” I smile that friendly, arrogant smile of mine before suddenly shoving the two ladies forward, into his surprising, but hungry grasp. As the vagrant wraps his arms around the ladies in a massive bear hug, I turn and bolt for the awaiting cab. I’m a purple blur as I leap into the backseat of the cab, yelling to the Arab cab driver, “GO! GO! GO!” With the tires squealing, leaving treads on the street I don’t even look back as the homeless man in the white, stain covered, wife beater leads the ladies back to the shadows. Smiling at my quick thinking, I can’t help but shrug my shoulders. Sure I had just lost a few hundred dollars, but I chalk that up to doing my good deed for the year. Sometimes it’s good to be “Beautiful” other times it’s good to be “Mad Max” so the homeless man thinks as he enters the shadows, dragging two unwilling women by the wrist behind him. |
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2:30 PM Jul 11