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Travis McCoy · (06-30-2017)

Camera opens on the wheels of a wheelchair on a worn down maroon carpet. There is no trail leading to it, it's been sitting in the same spot for quite a while. The lighting is decent but cheap. A lightbulb spraying it's glow through an old lampshade yellowed with nicotene or I dunno, cum maybe. The camera pans up slowly revealing heavily muscled tattoo'd arms resting on the arm rests. No motion other than one tapping finger that seems to reverberate through the quiet cheap hotel room. In a few hours the building will rock with the sounds of it's belligerent boarders. The thin walls protect no guests from the sounds of his or her neighbors. The fake orgasm of a cheap hooker, the ramblings of the meth heads, the sirens from the ambulance called too late for an overdose. For now though, it's quiet. The calm before a storm if you will, or some other lazy cliché if you prefer.

The camera continues it's slow dramatic pan that started at the floor and finally reaches the profile of the resident of the wheel chair. His profile appears the same to those of you that recognize it. His hair is greasy and slicked back, the hair on the sides trimmed to little more than fuzz. He opens his mouth to speak and then stops, he drops his head into his hands running his fingers through his greasy mane. When he finally speaks his voice is slow and deliberate with the slightest bit of a slur.

“Change is inevitable. Nothing ever remains static. The tumor grows or shrinks, the war is won or lost, a dick that once stood straight and unrelenting now lays flat against your belly regardless how hard you tug it. Time rolls on and ravages everything in it's path. It doesn't play favorites. It doesn't spare anyone. Twenty years ago I laced my first pair of boots. I was everything I am not now. My body didn't creak, my fingers and nose were straight. I could recall names and didn't fight to control my impulses. My brain fucking worked like it's supposed to.”

Travis turns his head quickly away from the camera.

“Shut the fuck up! I told you I'd handle this!”

Travis turns back, his face all the way to the camera. The right side of his face droops loosely, the corner of his mouth pulled down, his right eye lid pulling towards the floor. The eye under the flap is milky and perhaps unseeing.

“I was handsome.”

“You fucking happy now!? They've seen! They've all seen what that bitch did to me. I had a fucking plan you cunt! I was going to build drama and then I was going to show them and scare the fuck out of them. It's why I'm in this stupid fucking wheelchair even though I can walk but nooooo you had to have your fucking way and ruin everything I swear to...”

Travis stops speaking staring off into middle distance. The silence seems to drag on forever. When Travis speaks again his voice is low and full of gravel.

“Since when did I ever give a fuck about setting a scene boy? Since when did you? Ya, the bitch clocked you a few times and made you a bit of a tard but christ boy, you're still Travis fucking McCoy. She was just the straw that fucked the camels face up. None of these shit hawks even know who you are. This grand reveal that you've changed doesn't mean shit to 95 percent of the people watching this. You're just a fucking monster now, but honestly boy, the outside just matches the inside. Get on with it boy. The people are waiting. Show them who the fuck you are. Show them who the fuck they should be worried about.”

Travis' chin drops to his chest and he begins breathing heavy muttering to himself. When he looks up his good eye blazes and the strong side of his mouth creeps up into a smile made more hideous by the drooping of the other side. Drool rolls out of his mouth catching in his beard. He wipes it with the back of his hand. When he speaks the slur is nearly gone. His voice is clear and full of malice.

“Here's the cliff notes boyo. Listen closely because after nearly twenty years I'm pretty fucking sick of introducing myself. If you want the full story find it yourself. I started wrestling at fifteen. Twenty plus years of wrestling is really bad for your brain ya dig? Some cunt hit me a few times with a chair and I spent the next 6 months in a coma. When I woke up this is how I looked. No, I don't have a death wish, I prefer living to dying, but life without dropping twats like John Holiday on his head isn't really a life worth living for me. See kids, we don't get to pick the thing that completes us. What completes me is the destruction I cause in that ring.

Whatever name they wrote across from mine on the card was bound for the same fate, but I must admit this one is going to feel pretty fucking good. You know why?

Because cunts like John Holliday are everything I hate in the world. With your smiling and you easy good looks. 'Oh golly shucks folks I'm just happy to be here, I got big plans I'm gonna show the world!' Fuck off with that happy go lucky shit. This business is going to tear whatever I leave of you up you smiling shit burger. No one makes it out of this business whole kid. I'm going to really enjoy ripping the first bit of flesh. You think I might have the same burning passion as you? Jesus christ kid you couldn't be more wrong. The only thing we have in common is we've stepped in a wrestling ring. I'm going to show you what real passion is one bruise at a time. If you had my passion you wouldn't be out playing buffy. You'd be training. You notice how this promo didn't start with some bullshit supernatural c level story? I mean fucking hell kid, you're doing this for the fans? I've done this shit in front of six people. I've nearly destroyed my body with no one watching. Passion isn't doing this for the fans. Passion is doing this because without it your life falls apart. Passion is looking in the mirror every day and seeing a life time of violence in every scar and crooked joint. Passion isn't what you do. Passion isn't vampires.

I'm insulted you'd speak to me the way you have. What'd you expect back? That I'd shuck and jive and maybe we'd go grab a beer after our match? Wrong boyo. This isn't fun and games. This isn't a boys club. This isn't fucking karate class. This is blood and violence. This is 15 years of self inflicted torture. Not to please some fat fuck for a star rating. Not for the sport of it. Either do this to be the very best or stay fucking home. I don't do this for anyone but myself. I don't want to be worshiped by smart fans, I want to feared by my so called peers. I don't want a standing ovation as I raise a title over my head. I want to rip the title from some poor saps twitching fingers. I want to bust my knuckles on your teeth. I want your blood splattered on my chest and in my teeth.

I want to erase silly fucks like you.

Because that's what you are. You're a threat to no one, much less one to me. You're an Adam West version of Batman without the charm. You're scooby doo with curse words.

'jeepers scoob, a bloodsucker killed the mayors son!'

I thought you were going to eat a six foot sandwhich in a single bite you hokey fuck.

I don't know why I'm surprised. Silly cunts like you are always popping up in here. I ran through a few of them last time I was I around but yet...I guess I hoped that while I was gone this place had turned a corner. That the demons and the magicians had moved on. I hoped that there wasn't rape every third segment. Nope. New names, same old shit.

At least there are less memes

John, you're not going to take me to my limit. Your ceiling is below my floor boyo. I've ended men who'd piss down your throat for the mockery you've made of our business. Hell...I want to piss down your throat for what you've done. John, on your best day you couldn't lace my fucking boots. I know that's a cliché, I'm well aware that it's a well worn phrase but at this point I don't want to waste anything better on you. I've wasted enough of my time on you already.

Don't quit your stupid fucking day job. This business isn't for you.

It's mine. I make the rules.”

FADE

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode Ah Fuck...This shit again.
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