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Travis McCoy · (08-01-2017)

Travis is in a small diner in Lewiston Maine. Travis sits trying to hide as much as possible. He's got a hoodie on even though the weather is warm. The hood is pulled up over a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes...eye. It doesn't hide the gauze wrapped around his head pressing cotton against the open hole where his eyes used to be. Doctor told him it'd heal fast, it had come out clean. There's a glass prosthetic eye in his pocket collecting dust. He found it in a thrift store. Don't worry he'll rense it before he pops it in the open hole. He's made it to his destination and still doesn't know why he's here. Chuck's firmly in control, like some shitty Fight Club rip off. I am Jack's oozing eye socket, I am... I am...I am...

fucking lost.

Travis sits with his back to the room and his wound toward the wall. His meal is finished and for now Chuck has left him be. As if he's saving his strength for one final push. Probably off a cliff but Travis' tries not to think about it. He can't control it anyway. But his brain does what brain's do. His own voice in his head wearing circles in the underbrush of the forest of his brain.

What does he want?

How is this possible?

What does he want?

How is this possible?

To kill me

It's not

To kill me

it's not

I'm fucking losing it

I've lost it

I thought crazy people didn't know they were crazy.

They do

Travis is currently staring down into his spoon at his reflection. He used to be handsome. He used to pride himself on being a nasty man who didn't look half bad. I am Jack's vanity squashed. How many men had stared into his baby blues and seen there future fall away? Hundreds. Easily hundreds. Now they'll stare into one baby blue and one glass eye.

“Guess it's not so bad...”

“What was that hun?”

Travis visibly jumps at the waitress who has walked up to fill his coffee and overheard him mumbling. She's...cute at best. Mid to late forties, wearing too much makeup and not exactly thin. Her eyes though, they cut through all the bullshit. They're blue, just like Travis' and she uses them just as well. Travis looks into them for a second before turning away, hiding his face.

“Nothing.”

“You ok doll? You're...leaking”

Travis gently touches his face feeling the warm liquid on his cheek. He goes to grab a napkin but he's not used to the depth perception problem. He knocks over a glass. He apologizes to the waitress while scrambling to clean the mess and his face. She grabs a napkin deftly and reaches toward his face. He pulls away grabbing her wrist in a quick well practiced movement.

break it

They stay in that position for a long moment. The room, once loud with bustling waitresses and families falls silent. All eyes on the big man in the back corner holding the wrist of a waitress. His gaze cuts into her for a moment, but she doesn't waiver. She returns his gaze. He releases her wrist mumbling an apology. She shocks him when she reaches up and wipes the liquid off his face.

“Sorry sweetie, just the mom in me. You're lucky I didn't spit on the napkin first.”

He nearly smirks.

“You're lucky I didn't break your wrist.”

“I'd like to see you try.”

She smiles at him.

I am Jane's addiction to bad boys.

I am Jane's phone number on the bill

I am Jack's slightly repaired ego.

I am Jack's softening rod as Jane leaves the hotel room for smokes.

Travis sits in a chair in a hotel room. She didn't want to go to her house because of her kids. Fair. He's only wearing a pair of shorts. His body covered in scars large and small, clean from surgery and jagged from wounds. She traced them with her fingers as he was inside of her. She wanted to hear how he got them. She said it turned her on. She wanted to see the spot where his eye used to be. Daddy issues galore, she called him daddy when he stuck it in her ass. He told her if he did it again he'd lose his wood. She wanted him to force her. She told him before that no mater how much she struggled she wanted him to keep going. She gave him a fucking safe word.

Please stop

She is a fucking shit show.

But she was warm and she _was_ willing and Travis didn't have to pay her. So it was a welcome change. He's doing what every man does after a fuck. He's relaxing stretching his old bones and contemplating seconds whenever she returns. He's trying to remember her name. Her name tag sits on the dresser across the room he begins to stand to get it.

*HEADACHE*

“Not so fast boy.”

The voice comes out of him strong and hard as the load he just sprayed all over the woman's tits.

Travis visibly tries to fight it, he grits his teeth and continues to try to stand but he can't. His legs collapse and he drops back into the chair. He sits, leaned forward with his arms resting on his knees. When he speaks there is no hint of Travis. Chuck's in control again, and he's getting strong. He takes a deep breath and speaks.

“Pete my boy! Travis couldn't currently muster up enough venom to speak to you but I sure as fuck can so I'm going to take this one. Alright piss stain? You'll get me Peter, small words and piss and vinegar. Just your style Pete. Just your speed moron. Nice move fucking up the name over and over. The problem is you got one name right the entire time, and it's the more important one. It's the one you didn't fuck up once.

McCoy.

And that means something Peter. Just one more thing in the world you don't understand but unlike basic math and stringing together a sentence you will soon understand what a McCoy is. I could of named the boy anything I wanted but I decided to let his mother do it. Because I wasn't all bad all the time, and she said she'd blow me. Truth is I never really cared what his name was because I knew at the end of the day that he was going to be a McCoy, and that my friend is all that mattered. That, you fucking imbecile (that means idiot by the way). That, was the important bit because that's what he truly is. She could of named him Jim or Bob or...fucking Peter for fucks sake and it wouldn't matter a lick because he was going to be a McCoy. So call him Thomas, or cunt, or

, or anything but always remember he's a fucking McCoy. The real fucking McCoy.

Do you know what that means Petey?

That means he was going to be a third generation fighter. Now me and my dad's record was never very good but you can ask any man we stepped in the ring with. We've always been nasty. We've always been violent bastards. We're not gentleman, we're not fan favorites, we're not plucky underdogs. As far back as you can trace my blood we've been angry nasty fucks. We're walking fire breathing hate machines. Travis has a legacy, while perhaps one he wants to break, he has legacy just the same. See and none of you really fucking get that do you? I guess it's not quite as spelled out as calling someone a

or telling them to suck your dick so perhaps I shouldn't be surprised you all have missed it. The fact that me and my dad were losers in the record books drives Travis. It drives him to be better than me and his grandpa ever were. And he already is. A family with a legacy like ours is still a legacy. It's still generations of blood and fate leading to this exact moment. The only difference is ours involved losses and rape instead of gold and love stories. My boy has history, my boy has a legacy to break. What do you have Petey? What do you have that drives you more than a wet hole and a warm meal? The fans? Fucking jokers. They'd turn on you if King Vinnie told them to and you know it. You're a walking dick joke. Constantly reminding the world how big your cock is and how hot your wife is, what does any of that matter Pete? Honestly boy, do you think Travis or me gives two fucks if girls cum when you walk to the ring? I can torment Travis because I earned it with years spent hardening the boy and training him. But you don't have the fucking balls Peter. Talk a big dick game but the truth is when you step in the ring with my boy he'll fucking murder you. You know it as well as everyone here. My boy is a third generation wrestler from a family of men who would laugh in the face of you 'extreme violence'.

McCoy means son of fire and we are. Travis has been forged not through generations of lush mansions and long stories of victory. The boy was smashed into existence through torment and murder and rape and the ashy taste of defeat. Son's of fire aren't created. They're forged in smoke filled rooms the clanging sound of steel rattling your fucking brain. Peter, you tilt your head back, mouth open, begging for one more taste of glory but all you'll taste is ash, you lazy, entitled, full breasted, pussy.

You know what Gilmour means?

Servant to the Virgin Mary

You don't strike me as catholic but the amount your persona depends on fucking chicks and defending the one on your arm, you're sure as fuck a pussy whipped fat fuck. Just like every fat fuck we've all known. Girls date guys like you because you'll do anything for them. She probably doesn't even mind the big show you put on in front of the crowd and your coworkers because at the end of the day she asks for money and hand it over. She asks to fuck an ex boyfriend 'superstar' and you surely allow it. Because you know if you really told her know she'd walk right back to his lone wolf. They dated for a long time boy, fucking google it you dimwitted dullard. Jesus boy, your skull is as thick as your sausage fingers, but even slow Peter knows deep down that with out her and the claimed sexual conquests you're just that same fat fuck that is a punchline in two thirds of the video packages guys post here. I hear your name constantly but it's always followed by a laugh. That's why Travis calls you a joke. Because it sure as fuck seems to be all any of your 'peers' think of you.

Peter 'Fuckin' Gilmour. Should be Peter 'Rimshot' Gilmour

*Badum Tshh*

“I think Peter, that my boy was right. I think you are done. Because that list of accolades doesn't match up to what we see now. Unless listing women you've fucked counts as entertainment. We weren't entertained. If you were good once, Travis never saw it, we're surely not seeing it now.

Jim Caedus.”

“No.

Take a break old man. I'll handle this

Jim.

Jim.

You lost to fucking Blingsteen. Blame it on Graves, whatever but at the end of the day everyone backed you. Everyone hitched their horses to your cart and you got beat but not just Blingsteen, but a lady Blingsteen. You may of killed your dad twice, whatever the fuck that means, but you lost to a

drug addict with a meat wallet between her legs.

You sad miserable excuse for a champion.

Now I know you're going to ignore all this Jim. I've come to see how you play. I know that you've already got a three hour promo lined up to drop a minute before midnight like James Raven swooping in to beat McBride and Peter 'Pussy Servant' Gilmour, but I hope that for a just a second you hesitate and you listen to my words right now.

I thought we could dance because I thought you were the best XWF had to offer. I truly mean that Caedus. But after a week of really watching you I've realized I was wrong. You're a verbose ventriloquist dummy. You say and do a lot but at the end of the day someone else is saying it all. And that someone else is EVERYONE else. Jesus Caedus. I can't believe I thought you were it. I cannot believe I really thought that you would be able to come up to my level. I'm not fucking scared of you Jim. I'm not scared of the shotgun Josh Reno handed to you. I'm not scared you'll put a bounty on my head because you're not even close to what I imagined.

Growing old is watching your heroes turn human right in front of you.

And I saw it.

We all saw it Jim.

Some how the oratory assault of Jim Caedus seems to be lacking the same punch since Saturday.

Guess what Jimmy boy. I am on your fucking level. I'm pretty fucking confident I'm above it. And yes I do believe I'm better than all those fun little names you listed, and as you watch me speak you feel it. Asshole.

As you watch me step into the ring with me you'll know it.

Tell me I'm cliché and another broken kid from a broken home. _FINE_! Sure my story has been repeated in thousands of different hard eye micks but not a single fucking one of them was me. No other fractured family fairy tale created a monstrous messiah like me. Me and the voices in my head don't always get along Jimbo, but the old man has one thing right.

I'm the real fucking McCoy

I didn't kill my dad but he tried his damnedest to kill me. Here I sit covered in scars one eye down and I'm about to beat two former universal champions at the same time. I didn't have a damn thing handed to me. I didn't win a single title from cashing in a FUCKING BRIEFCASE. I've never lost to a fucking tranny you sassy cisnormative _bitch_.

How's that taste Jim.

Better or worse than Blingsteen's clam?

I regret ever coming to you with anything other than venom. Because you're not worth it Jim. Just an over exaggerated ego from one too many pats on the back. Fuck you and fuck your empty threats of pain and agony. Look at me Jimbo, do I look averse to the shit? You'll be happy to know that after Wednesday I'll never come at you again. Because it's a waste of my time. While I'll continue on building my career yours just took a steep dive. There's absolutely no point in trying to do anything with you because when it comes to Jim, it's allllll aboooout Jim. And that story, is over boyo. Maybe you should of let old man Caedus live. Maybe the thought of looking that bastard in the eye after that embarrassment Saturday night would of given you the little extra to beat Brucette.”

“If you're looking for a daddy Jim...”

“Shut the fuck up.”

The door opens slowly. The woman returning with her cigarettes peeks in not sure what she'll find.

“Someone with you?”

“No... just a sore throat.”

“You sure babe? That sounds terrible, maybe you should go see a doctor.”

“Maybe just a naughty nurse will do.”

“Ohh, I like the sound of that.”

The waitress from the diner walks over and straddles Travis. He stands, lifting her wide frame effortlessly. He tosses her on the bed pinning her hands above her.

“ohh baby, Nurse Charlie is gonna fix you right up.”

“Charlie?”

“You dick. Yes, named after my dad apparently. Never met him, he was a wrestler like you. Came through and left, I honestly think he raped her but my momma was Forest Gump level

and a romantic. Thought he just liked it rough and that he'd come back...”

She continues talking but Travis is longer listening. His face curls into a hideous face of agony. He carved out his eye within the week. He watched it fall burst and leaking onto his cheek and he didn't mutter a sound. Now he looks into the eyes that look strikingly like his own and he wants to scream. He wants to run and his stomach clinches in a head spinning way. He's going to puke or shit himself but before that he's going to run. He's going to run before he can double down on a mistake already made. He's going to hightail it before he can truly realize that Chuck brought him here for a reason. For this very reason. But before Travis can stop, before he can try to undo what his dick did to him. Before he can try to not double down. Charles' hands grip down tighter on her wrists. She's going to fight. For Travis this is disgusting, this act, with this woman. For Chuck, it's just a bucket list check mark.

“Your momma gave me the clap in 75. When were you born? 76?

You can call me daddy”

FADE

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