Post by Jason Mudd on Feb 23, 2012 2:31:19 GMT -5
“Description is everything. Detail is the epitome of core values and foundation for this world, this business, we dive headfirst into. Found through our rookie green and tested down to our worn out and blood red tenured statuses among our ranks... Who we are all goes down to a few simple rules. Speak well, look good, and make the match pretty.
If I lacked detail, restricted description... could your mind fathom the restraint? Could you allow your imagination to stimulate its own thought process, to not cripple under its own pressure of the proverbial hand not being held?
... Probably not. And I could only hope to say it isn't your fault; but in truth? It is. Tools, sheep, fodder for the exploit, every last one of you stuck in a trend that is pathetic and revolting.
So, let me help you with your miss fortunes, open your eyes so to speak. Cut your pretty promos; spit your wicked trash talk; dress to impress the mass; dance in the ring like a puppet, for once you are ready to wake up, and I'm sure some of you are even without realizing it, I will be there to alarm you conscious of the world you've allowed yourself to be dragged down into.
Your heart beats, you fuck like rabbits, and the sun seems to shine on every crevice you walk. When I'm through, you'll realize only the opposite is what reality holds for you.
You're blood is cold, a dying breed, where shadows won't even follow you where you're going.
You call this world Professional Wrestling.
I call it your own personal Hell.”
The last of my words, before I stop the recording, hold an amused venom that ponders me if my words will be taken seriously. After a second of meditating on it, I realize, much like the Honey Badger, I simply do not give a fuck. Let them take it as a joke, the egotistical fucks. More sweet the nectar will taste.
I stand from my chair, stepping away from the computer and web cam. I leave my office room, once the bedroom I shared with someone, and move through the hallway of the quite, empty apartment. I don't spend much time here anymore. No need to. It's not like it's a home or anything.
I make it to the bathroom and step in, needing to drain the snake, take a piss. I do my business, it seeming to take forever. Too many beers, I suppose. Zipping and flushing, I go to walk out of the bathroom without washing my hands. Fuck hygiene; yet, I stop. I catch sight of something out of the corner of my eyes that makes me hesitate.
I see me. Jason Mudd. The man of a thousand failures, to lose everything he's ever wanted. A pissed off man. A bitter man. A lonely man. Just not happy.
My face doesn't smile, it doesn't frown. No anger or brow furrowing. I simply stare there, empty and without contemplation. This is what I have become, and I accept it. This is who I am, the real me now. No gimmick, no persona to spice things up.
Just a well built dude with a bunch of vent up frustration, but no where to let it go. At least, that's how it was until a few days ago.
Chris Page really shouldn't have had his people call me. Worst mistake of his fucking life. There it is, that thought. I smirk, the look back in the mirror coming out almost wrong.
I don't look good smiling anymore. My eyes too tired, my chiseled, still dashing looks, to etched and hard. I probably should shave. Eventually.
Anyway, enough of this. I turn and take two steps, out of sight of the mirror. Turning off the light, I walk into the living room and go to the couch. I pick up the beer on the coffee table as I sit and take a swig.
Me and my empty apartment, that flows through my thoughts as I finish my beer within a few swigs. I'm thirsty. Playing, absent minded, with the bottle while I look around, I stare at the lack of detail on my bare walls. Holes where things once were hung tatter and make the only real break in the mundane I live with.
Ashley would never stand to live like this. Everything had to be fresh, tidy, and up beat looking; but she doesn't live here anymore. In fact, I have no idea where she's living right now. So, know what?
Fuck it. My apartment, my way of living... or lack there of. Before I can continue that thought, however, a buzz comes from my pocket. Sliding out my silenced phone, I accept the call only a second after seeing the name of the woman contacting me.
“Yeah, Sam.” Samantha, my agent, occasional fuck buddy, and the only thing constant in my life anymore. Except beer. I set the phone to speaker and lay it down on the coffee table, grabbing up a few pretzels to snack on before leaning back into relaxation.
“Good news, I got your flight booked,” That is good news. Going back to the HQ of good ol' WGWF is something I've always wanted to do. Like trying suicide, “You'll be catching your flight tomorrow morning at ten.”
“Thanks for the update,” munch, munch, munch. These are delicious.
“Anytime,” slight pause, “How you been?”
“Good,” blunt and to the point, “Will I have a chance to see you before my flight tomorrow?” I look to my watch, “Seeing as it's only eleven.”
She laughs softly, that soft laugh that doesn't belong to her, someone so blond... stereotyping, I know. But it's true. She's way smarter than she looks.
“I'll be going with you tomorrow.” That perks my attention.
“How long is this trip going to take?”
More silence, “Three days.”
I see what she's done there, “A little getaway, huh?”
“... Something like that,” She sees us more than simply fuck buddies. I muse her kind heart because it makes me feel alive on the inside. She can love me all she wants. I'm sure some part of me cares for her, but in the end? I just want to get my dick wet, and she's clean. So, what the hell, right?
“When should I pick you up?”
“You could come over tonight if you want.”
I look to my watch again, “Sure... why not.”
“See you soon?”
“Yep.”
I can feel her smile through the phone before the call disconnects. I just sit there and stare off into space, the blank walls of my apartment closing in.
This place isn't my home. I should probably move out. I look at myself, my phone, and feel my pocket for my wallet.
I'm packed. Let's go.
If I lacked detail, restricted description... could your mind fathom the restraint? Could you allow your imagination to stimulate its own thought process, to not cripple under its own pressure of the proverbial hand not being held?
... Probably not. And I could only hope to say it isn't your fault; but in truth? It is. Tools, sheep, fodder for the exploit, every last one of you stuck in a trend that is pathetic and revolting.
So, let me help you with your miss fortunes, open your eyes so to speak. Cut your pretty promos; spit your wicked trash talk; dress to impress the mass; dance in the ring like a puppet, for once you are ready to wake up, and I'm sure some of you are even without realizing it, I will be there to alarm you conscious of the world you've allowed yourself to be dragged down into.
Your heart beats, you fuck like rabbits, and the sun seems to shine on every crevice you walk. When I'm through, you'll realize only the opposite is what reality holds for you.
You're blood is cold, a dying breed, where shadows won't even follow you where you're going.
You call this world Professional Wrestling.
I call it your own personal Hell.”
The last of my words, before I stop the recording, hold an amused venom that ponders me if my words will be taken seriously. After a second of meditating on it, I realize, much like the Honey Badger, I simply do not give a fuck. Let them take it as a joke, the egotistical fucks. More sweet the nectar will taste.
I stand from my chair, stepping away from the computer and web cam. I leave my office room, once the bedroom I shared with someone, and move through the hallway of the quite, empty apartment. I don't spend much time here anymore. No need to. It's not like it's a home or anything.
I make it to the bathroom and step in, needing to drain the snake, take a piss. I do my business, it seeming to take forever. Too many beers, I suppose. Zipping and flushing, I go to walk out of the bathroom without washing my hands. Fuck hygiene; yet, I stop. I catch sight of something out of the corner of my eyes that makes me hesitate.
I see me. Jason Mudd. The man of a thousand failures, to lose everything he's ever wanted. A pissed off man. A bitter man. A lonely man. Just not happy.
My face doesn't smile, it doesn't frown. No anger or brow furrowing. I simply stare there, empty and without contemplation. This is what I have become, and I accept it. This is who I am, the real me now. No gimmick, no persona to spice things up.
Just a well built dude with a bunch of vent up frustration, but no where to let it go. At least, that's how it was until a few days ago.
Chris Page really shouldn't have had his people call me. Worst mistake of his fucking life. There it is, that thought. I smirk, the look back in the mirror coming out almost wrong.
I don't look good smiling anymore. My eyes too tired, my chiseled, still dashing looks, to etched and hard. I probably should shave. Eventually.
Anyway, enough of this. I turn and take two steps, out of sight of the mirror. Turning off the light, I walk into the living room and go to the couch. I pick up the beer on the coffee table as I sit and take a swig.
Me and my empty apartment, that flows through my thoughts as I finish my beer within a few swigs. I'm thirsty. Playing, absent minded, with the bottle while I look around, I stare at the lack of detail on my bare walls. Holes where things once were hung tatter and make the only real break in the mundane I live with.
Ashley would never stand to live like this. Everything had to be fresh, tidy, and up beat looking; but she doesn't live here anymore. In fact, I have no idea where she's living right now. So, know what?
Fuck it. My apartment, my way of living... or lack there of. Before I can continue that thought, however, a buzz comes from my pocket. Sliding out my silenced phone, I accept the call only a second after seeing the name of the woman contacting me.
“Yeah, Sam.” Samantha, my agent, occasional fuck buddy, and the only thing constant in my life anymore. Except beer. I set the phone to speaker and lay it down on the coffee table, grabbing up a few pretzels to snack on before leaning back into relaxation.
“Good news, I got your flight booked,” That is good news. Going back to the HQ of good ol' WGWF is something I've always wanted to do. Like trying suicide, “You'll be catching your flight tomorrow morning at ten.”
“Thanks for the update,” munch, munch, munch. These are delicious.
“Anytime,” slight pause, “How you been?”
“Good,” blunt and to the point, “Will I have a chance to see you before my flight tomorrow?” I look to my watch, “Seeing as it's only eleven.”
She laughs softly, that soft laugh that doesn't belong to her, someone so blond... stereotyping, I know. But it's true. She's way smarter than she looks.
“I'll be going with you tomorrow.” That perks my attention.
“How long is this trip going to take?”
More silence, “Three days.”
I see what she's done there, “A little getaway, huh?”
“... Something like that,” She sees us more than simply fuck buddies. I muse her kind heart because it makes me feel alive on the inside. She can love me all she wants. I'm sure some part of me cares for her, but in the end? I just want to get my dick wet, and she's clean. So, what the hell, right?
“When should I pick you up?”
“You could come over tonight if you want.”
I look to my watch again, “Sure... why not.”
“See you soon?”
“Yep.”
I can feel her smile through the phone before the call disconnects. I just sit there and stare off into space, the blank walls of my apartment closing in.
This place isn't my home. I should probably move out. I look at myself, my phone, and feel my pocket for my wallet.
I'm packed. Let's go.