These fuckers better get here. I have been waiting for almost two weeks now. I want my shit.
"Hey, he just called. He's on his way now from across the river."
THANK GOD. I could hug this ginger motherfucker right now so hard his flatbill hat falls off.
"Fuckin' A. Thanks, man..." The drug business is tricky at times. I paid for this shit days ago. I’m waiting to have it brought to my house, as the package had just arrived carrying it.
"You're sure you wanna do these? My mans told me this shit ain't no joke..."
"Trust me. I wanna do these."
"Okay. If you say so."
"I didn't pay to have the shit shipped from overseas just to bitch out. I'm doin' the shit." I looked down to scratch Peach’s head. She was sitting at my feet, staring at the door.
“BARK! BARK!” This is why I don’t own a doorbell. I don’t need one.
“Someone’s at the door.” I had a blunt wrap in one hand and a bag of weed in the other. Plus I wasn’t expecting anybody outside of who was already crammed into my living room. “Fuck it, you get it. I’m busy right now.”
“Dude, I don’t live here…” I kept walking off, looking for a place to start breaking down this weed.
“If they don’t have a gun, let them in. If they do, beat the shit out of them and take it.”
“What if it’s the cops?”
“They would have knocked louder.” I ducked out into my office. I don’t use it quite as much anymore, and the floor is littered with crumpled cloth backdrops for the different companies I’d shoot promos for. Most of them haven’t been used for at least a year. My computer desk and computer are the only things in here not collecting dust. Problem is, it’s cluttered to the point of no surface area available. And to make matters worse, someone’s coming in the office behind me. “YO!”
Peach ran into the room, but the female figure in the door startled me. When I saw that she was shorter than me, I breathed a slight sigh of relief. For a second I thought my ex-wife came back to crash my party.
"Fourteen fucking hours on a goddamn plane. Only for you, dude.” That’s all my visitor says by way of greeting - then again, that’s about all I expected anyway. She steps into my house, looking around briefly to take in the scene, and I feel thankful she’s not the kind of person who needs to ask lots of questions to get the gist of a place; I wouldn’t have been up for answering them, or giving her the grand tour. “I've heard about this place but I've never been here...holy shit, is it always this packed in here?" It still took several seconds for her identity to register, even though Peach was familiar with her. Then again, I have had three whiskey sours and two Percocet 7.5’s, plus I’m getting ready to smoke again. So I could have just been imagining her standing in my house too.
"No. Party tonight. Results of my physical today. I got cleared to wrestle medically!" Typical me, play it off like you were expecting her to show up the whole time.
"I heard." You’re not excited like I am, girl. I hope she knows I’m not putting up with any of that ‘you sure about this?’ crap tonight. I’m not going to get depressed and act like I’m seventeen again. And if she asks me about my ex-wife I’m going to probably kirk the fuck out. Oh shit, a Danish cookie tin full of $50 bills. I can use that lid to set this wrap down on.
"This is a god damn celebration! I don't wanna hear any of that negative shit..."
"I ain't trying to be down on you, dude. Just asking a goddamn question! Jesus, I thought weed was supposed to make you chill!’
"It does, after you’ve rolled it and smoked it.” I see this is one of those conversations where I have to have eye contact. “You ain't got to give me this talk right now. I’m celebrating! I got my motherfuckin' clearance, damnit!" I was grinning from ear to ear now. “I’m in the best shape of my life and today my doctor wrote me a letter proving it.”
"I still want to look at it."
"No problem!" Hey, I even found another cookie tin lid to bust up this nug on. I emptied the bag full of stank with one hand and picked up the results from my battery of physical tests with the other. See, the stupid bitch should have stuck around instead of running off on me. She could have seen that I was doing just fine.
"Is that it?"
"Yep. Look at this right here. Dead by thirty my fuckin' dick! What's that say at the bottom of that fuckin' paper right there?" Here, let me hold it up. No, don't look through all those numbers. I done went over them with the doctor. I'm healthy and all that shit, just look at the fuckin' bottom. Look down there at the doctor's notes. "Fit. To. Compete." Yeah, that's right. Choke on it. I let go of the paper and let it fall back down on the table with all my other crap.
"Wait..." And she picks it right back the fuck up?
"What the fuck you doing?"
"I'm reading this. I want to see for myself.” I lunged for the paper, but she was a bit quicker than me. She didn’t have weed she was worried about spilling like I did.
“Come on, dude, let me read this shit!” She’s serious about this. Forget it, I got nothing to hide. I’m going to go back to rolling this shit up. “Hmmm…” I caught myself glancing up at her a couple times while she was reading it. I wasn’t doing it out of concern for myself, like I usually am when other people read my medical results. So why the hell was I looking at this woman looking at my medical history? “Well, fuck me running!”
“You’re right. You’re in good shape...I can’t believe it.” I know why she’s looking at me like that. I’m in a Mega Man T-shirt and Dinosaurs pajamas, rolling a blunt on a cookie tin full of money. I’d be staring at me too.
“For fuck’s sake, look at me! Do I look like the guy you knew when we met? Back in the day, I was a skinny fuckturd! And I haven’t wrestled in almost a YEAR, chick! I feel so fucking...ready right now! I am full on HP, I feel like I’m god damn near invincible...only I’m smart! I know I’m not...I KNOW I’m not invincible, but I can push myself and when I do, I push back. Hard. When I’m at the end of my rope, I’m at my best. People remember me for two things: being batshit crazy, and being even more batshit crazy when my back is against the wall. I was a mess. I was a physical wreck on the verge of collapse at any given moment. My mind was fucked. And I STILL won the big ones, I STILL got my name in the book of history. But now I’m ten times the man I was back then...and if I could do the things I did then, what can I do now?”
“Holy fucking shit.” She gives me this look, and I almost lash out at her again. “You’re really thinking about coming out of retirement, aren’t you?”
“Wrestlers never retire anyway. They just quit calling the bookers back.” With the blunt finally finished, I had no reason to be sitting at my desk any longer. “I had a couple of business meetings, yeah. HCW had wanted to work something out with me for a while, so I wanted to at least come and see what they were all about. UTA wanted to work something out on getting me into future merch, like the next run of trading cards. And plus, I got to come on and relive a lot of that old magic…”
“That’s kind of what I’m talking about. I know you love your drugs, and I don’t give a fuck .You do you.. But you going there and being on TV, in your suit with the mask on...that was the drug I’m worried about. I know how this shit works, Madman. I’ve been in it sixteen years. This shit’s addictive. Hell, look at me. Supposed to be retired, right? And what am I doing? Moving to Japan and bickering on Twitter with bitches half my age. Saying I’m retired is like saying Donald Trump likes immigrants. And you’re the same. You showing up at Victory was like seeing someone who beat the addiction come back and relapse like it was nothing. ”
With the blunt in my hand, I tightened it up and panicked slightly. “I don’t know what else to do with my life! I suck at pretty much everything else, if you haven’t noticed. I’ve been at this since I was 14, I dropped out of college for this. I ran my wife off because of how much this business means to me. And I’d love to just sit here with all my money, in my house that’s paid for, and not do shit the rest of my life. But my mind won’t let me. I have to do something with my life. And everything I ever set out to do outside of a wrestling ring, I failed miserably!”
“So you go back and then what? Wear yourself back down to nothing? Do you even know how many people in this business don’t like you?”
“Fuck ‘em. I don’t even like myself half the time. How many of ‘em don’t respect me?” Her look was her answer. “That’s what I thought.”
“So you’ll go back into UTA knowing there’s a lot of people who don’t want you there? What are you, stupid? Oh, hey, since it’s apparently National ‘Go Work For People Who Hate Your Guts’ Day, let me go and ask Stella Superbitch if she’ll find me a spot in her roster, too! Fuck me!” She throws her hands up, probably so she won’t punch something instead. (Wonder if she blames me for Malibu going under.) I think the two by fours in here are spaced pretty wide, so she’d be somewhat all right. Plus, her frustration is a sign she really cares. If she didn’t, she’d be in my kitchen drinking up my makeshift mini-bar.
“Honestly, that’s the only reason I didn’t ask for my job back while I was in London. So there. I’m thinking this through, okay? I fucked up, and I have to pay my consequences. Other than that, I’m free to do whatever I want and for once in my life, I feel physically up to it.” I almost put my hand on her shoulder. Maybe I did, I don’t fuckin’ know.
“Yeah, but are you up to it mentally? I’ve seen how you deal with this shit, dude. Once they start using you up again...well, I don’t want to have to fly all the way out here again to keep you from shooting yourself or whatever. It’s kind’a out of the way for me, y’know?” I appreciate her attempt at making a joke of it - and her obvious demonstration that yeah, she definitely does care.
“I sure hope so…” This time, I KNOW I put a hand on her shoulder. The semi-glibness I portray allows me to do so in a manner that appears self-confident. In reality, it’s me setting up a defensive bubble to keep my ass safe. “Because here’s the deal, cupcake: we’re ending this part of the conversation right here. I am lighting this blunt, waiting for my pills to show up, partying with my friends, and tomorrow I’m going to go look for a job. Capeesh?”
“HEY! Watch it, cupcake!” But she’s smiling. We’re fine.
“So...you gonna be sticking around long enough to tell me why you came all the way out here looking for me, other than just to chastise me about doing something I’m born to do and willing to die doing?”
She doesn’t reply straight away, and seems to have something on her mind. A moment later, she voices it: "What kind of pills are you doing?"
"Oh, just some Mandrax." I grabbed a lighter off the desk, making an executive decision not to share the blunt with the other partygoers in lieu of talking to my current companion. But when I saw I had no lighter, I sat the blunt down on the desk. Plus…
“BARK!” Someone else just showed up. I think it’s the man of the hour.
"Okay." For a brief moment, she seems prepared to let the subject go; it does not take more than a second, however, for that hope to come crashing down, as she double-takes so hard she chokes on her cigarette. "Wait, WHAT?"
"Yeah! I know, this is gonna be fucking awesome! I've been looking for some fuckin' ludes for months! I wanna be Jordan Belfort high, opening car doors with my feet and shit!”
"We're not working, you can use my name. But yeah, that was the whole point of me going to London. I had to track down somebody who knew what the hell I was talking about."
"You went to England to get drugs?” Oh, hey, she can be shrill. I never knew that until now. Thanks, ‘ludes! “ What about going to HCW headquarters and showing up on UTA Victory?"
"Oh, I wasn't on the ludes then. I wouldn't have been able to stand up." A lean-in the door by the ginger plug and a toss later, and I was now in possession of the Holy Grail of drugs. "Come on, you REALLY think I would show up looking for a job high?...ohmyGod, ohmyGod, OHMYGOD! THEY’RE HERE!” I dropped the pills and I swear to God I did a fuckin’ Riverdance of joy. I felt like holding the fuckin’ bottle of pills over my head like Link when he opens a treasure chest. ‘YOU HAVE FOUND THE QUAALUDES! CALLED MANDRAX IN ENGLAND, THEY ARE EQUIVALENT TO LEMMON 714s! HOPE YOU AIN’T GOT SHIT TO DO THIS WEEK!’ I am beyond giddy.
She picks up the bottle of pills and examines it. "...you ever done these before, dude?"
"No. But there's a first time for everything." I leaned over, leaning the label over slightly to read it along with her. "Should I take this with orange juice, or...do I need to eat with these? I think I got some pizza left in there, I don't know...I don't wanna fuck up the high off this kush blunt...why, you want one of these?" We locked eyes briefly. "What?"
Just like that, the moment passes. “I think there’s someone else at the door. You better go see who it is. I’m gonna go in there and try not to let any of your friends piss me off.” A moment later, she does just that, disappearing through the door to my living room and leaving me standing there, holding a bottle of pills, while my too-fat-for-her-own-good beagle barks her spotted brown head off.
“All right, all right, I got this, Peach! God damn, son…” I mumble, heading for the door. Whoever this is, it’s bound to be a downgrade from my previous two guests; after all, when it comes to a party, it’s hard to top a blonde chick and a bottle of ludes.
"Hey Two C! I’m going to kick you in the teeth later!"
- La Flama Blanca