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"Portrait of a Thursday Night" - Printable Version

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"Portrait of a Thursday Night" (/showthread.php?tid=23416)

"Portrait of a Thursday Night" - Lady Luck - 03-24-2016

OOC: Sorry for getting this up last minute, the real world kicked my ass this week.

[Image: efc2c15e0a4bfc4d799c51de4d020f67.jpg]
I see you...even though I wish I didn't.

"Portrait of a Thursday Night"

❤Things don't always go the way you plan them.❤

~I repeat my survival mantra over and over again under my breath, eyes darting wildly around the club, suddenly aware of all the prying eyes. Though all I see is a blue of spastic bodies waving glow sticks and "dancing" horribly off-rhythm to a Hard Dance piece I've heard one time before in San Francisco or San Diego or Santa Ana (somewhere that starts with San), I can't help but feel that all eyes are on me despite what I see. The stench of sweat fills the air and the pounding, driving, blaringly obnoxious and highly entrancing sound of Andy Whitby's "Until the Grave" drowns out almost all other sound in the building and I swallow a mouthful of spit and remember that I should've brought a bottle of water and on that same token I consciously realize that I need to breathe but I make no effort to actually go through with that observation until

right

now.

I take a deep breath in through the mouth and immediately taste salt and as I gag I look down to the ground, wondering if I remembered to record last night's episode of The Americans before remembering that I cancelled my cable subscription months ago because there's something inherently much more punk rock about illegally streaming television on a fifteen inch laptop screen while using the creepy Iraq vet three doors down's internet.

Things don't always go the way you plan them.

I got accepted into the University of Chicago.

Then of course I decided to drop out to pursue the stablest form of employment in the whole world; being a professional wrestling valet. Shouldn't be surprised that fell through to be honest, I cooked that little idea up on a whim. Quarter-life crisis maybe? Whatever it was, it isn't important because that was then and this is now.

Second time around.

Striking out on my own.

"Hey!" I scream at the top of my lungs at the obvious dancing next to me, waving a cerulean glow stick that matches his two-sizes-too-tight v-neck. I think his intention was to show off his muscles. The problem is he doesn't have any muscles to speak of and it seems like he's deaf to boot so I shout once again and slap him on the shoulder so he'll finally take the fucking hint.

He turns and looks at me and smiles like a grade-A creep which pokes holes in my previous theory of him being a fruit but just one look at him would fool just about anyone. He tries to turn his charm on and shouts back, barely audible and definitely unintelligible over the music that's starting to give me a headache.

"You know X" I begin but have to cut myself off when the headache really kicks in. The (still not entirely sold) glares at me for a second before turning back around and returning to his previous routine of being one faint light in a sea of them as I push my way through the crowd, one hand over my mouth, in search of an exit. I can hardly hear the music at this point, which is somewhat of a blessing because a dubstep remix of "In The Air Tonight" just started playing and I think having anyone see me crying because of how beautiful a song is would be disastrous to my reputation as a wrestler.

My breathing is shallow and ragged as I wade through a sea of college dropouts and future college dropouts (this is my element, these are my people), hunched over and murmuring quietly to myself that things don't always go the way I plan while trying to keep down the apple I had for lunch yesterday. My skull is splitting. Literally, like a pistachio shell. Crack! There goes my mind.

Once I finally make it out of the furnace and onto the sidewalk, I collapse to my knees and whip my head back with my arms wide, fully embracing the night air. Of course I then immediately hunch back over and puke all over the curb like I just remembered that Chris Macbeth exists.

Vomit stains my lips, dribbling down my chin like molasses as I lay down on the sidewalk, looking up at the sky. A glorious sea of lights that not even all the burnouts in the world couldn't match with their glow sticks. That's it. Think positive thoughts.

Like this one: I'm in the best city in the whole world and I will be for a few more hours before I have to fly to Chicago and fight Chris Macbeth (gag) and Ghost Tank - and I vomit again - but that isn't right now and right now is all that matters.

Sure I look like a fucking bum but that doesn't matter. Most of the people walking by at this hour are tourists who are probably in the same boat or will be in a little bit.

My throat burns and I groan loudly as I see a police officer standing over and he says~

"Dancing in 106 Time Signatures"

I hear the sound of saxophones - King Crimson's excellent "21st Century Schizoid Man" - ringing in my ears as the man behind the camera gives Steve Sayors and I a thumbs up and the red dot on his camera flashes on.

Steve is dressed about as nicely as he always is. Which is to say he's a fucking slob with a wrinkled jacket and loose tie, held together by a stained vaguely yellow dress shirt. He smiles the way he does whenever an XWF employee isn't assaulting him and introduces me by the alter-ego I developed for employment in this prestigious federation - Lady Luck. I smile and thank him for the warm welcome, not bothering to pay attention to the particulars of what I'm saying because all that matters is the how.

I turn to the camera and smile wide for all the nerds at home.

"So, tell us about your absence."

I open my mouth but immediately shut it before my unfocused autopilot brain says something stupid. I sigh, sucking on my teeth before uncrossing and recrossing my legs to draw attention away from how I'm already floundering a little bit.

"I wouldn't call it an absence - I wasn't even hired at that point."

I chuckle.

"Though, I still get text messages from CJ Sharpe. He's kind of obsessed."

I'm lying. I think he died or something anyway. Sayors seems unfazed by my remarks because to be fair Sharpe is kind of an obscure name. Just another nobody trying to be a somebody. Nothing special.

"Fair enough," Sayors says, looking away. "Tell us, what drove you to become a wrestler when you first came to semi-relevance by offering managerial services?"

"The thrill of it all, Steve. There's something dangerous, exciting about being in a wrestling ring that just standing on the outside aiding someone can't fulfill."

Steve looks a bit taken aback by that remark.

"Are you implying you've wrestled elsewhere?"

"I don't know, is that what I'm implying?"

He squints at me, trying to read my poker face.

"I honestly don't know. That's why I'm asking."

He shakes his head, "Let's, just move on."

I shrug but don't protest.

"Alright, your opponents have said a few things about you,"

I put my hand up to his mouth to cut him off.

"They have? Or is it just one opponent that's said anything because last I checked Ghost Tank hasn't said anything about Macbeth or I." I'm getting better I swear, I didn't even gag at the mention of either of their names. "Why do you think that is, Steve?"

Steve looks at me, dumbfounded. I know what he wants to say, hell it reminds me of a knock-knock joke: Knock-knock. Who's there? The Gestapo. The Gestapo who? I AM ZE ONE ASKING ZE QUESTIONS HERE! I laugh at my own stupid memory which only adds more ire to Steve's glare before he finally regains his composure and plays along.

"I don't know, what do you think?"

Because he's a scared little who, despite being a literal giant, is too whipped by his jap cunt wife to just do what he wants to do with his time and he's only in the position of having to justify his decision to return to wrestling because he's fucking garbage at it.

I choke the words I want to say down my throat.

"I'm sure he just wanted to hear what Chris and I said about him and go from there. After all, he's not the best when it comes to the speaking part of this gig, seeing as he still acts like he's a credible beast when he's been slayed more time than he can probably remember. He probably doesn't want to stick his foot further into his mouth."

"Are you implying that Ghost Tank is intimidated by you or Macbeth?"

"Not necessarily. Since his return Ghost Tank is undefeated. Sure, only two matches and neither were against what you would call world class competition," putting it nicely, "but he's undefeated nonetheless. Though, that being said I do think Tank realizes that Chris and I are going to be much more difficult to deal with. Maybe he's keeping from saying anything because he's scared of eating his words."

"So he is intimidated?"

"There's a difference between realizing you're not necessarily the favorite and being intimidated. I know I'm not the favorite either, how could I be? This is my first match after all, but I'm not scared of Tank or Macbeth."

Steve taps one finger against his ear. "That so?" He mutters under his breath.

"Sorry to cut you off, but it looks like Tank finally did say something about you both."

~CUT~

~And resume~

"Thank you for your time, Steve, but I think I can handle it from here.

Tank, I have to ask, did you get permission from your wife to cut that promo? Figured I'd ask since she's got your balls in her purse. How emasculating is that, really? That you have to put up with your wife's incessant nagging about your career choice like this was a bad sitcom? The imbecile husband and the nagging shrew wife. Real progressive, Tank. Keeping the same stereotypes that've been around forever.

Do you groan when she asks you to do the laundry, too?

Face it, Tank. You've been broken too many times to function with the monster persona you cling too so tightly.

Be it as the trying-too-hard-to-be edgy Cleanser of the Asylum, or the smug, sanctimonious prick who called himself the Phoenix, or the Pale Rider trying desperately to hold onto his one last chance to be a badass.

The man who likes to talk like he's something more. Like he can break people at will. With the snap of his finger as casually as anything else in his life. As casually as he loses to people he should be crushing with his superior size.

How many people have you actually broken, Tank?

How many careers have you ended?

A resounding zero.

And you want me to be scared that you're threatening to break my pelvis? Oh no, I should just pull out of the match right now because the big bad wolf is going to huff and puff and probably give himself an asthma attack before he can knock me over.

You're right, I was a manager.

You were never a threat. No one ever took you seriously, you big fucking lug. Go back to preaching your Atheist manifesto to rednecks and losing to everyone under the sun. Go back to watching your buddy overshadow you in your own promotional materials. Go back to describing your fantasies because they'll never come to fruition.

And then we have Chris Macbeth who I don't really have any issue with. Matter of fact, I like you Chris. I do. What you and the Union are doing, fighting to get English wrestlers the shine they deserve, it's all so noble.

But, Lady Fuck? Really?

That's the best you got? The creme de la creme of your abilities on the microphone? Sheesh man! You're providing a pretty excellent excuse for the higher ups to justify the continued practice of holding English talent back. If that's the extent of your wit, then I'm sorry. I actually feel bad for you, you poor bastard.

This is the match of the returning talent, isn't it?

Tank, finding the most success he's ever had.

You, escaping the looming shadow of Nightmare, only to be overshadowed once again by your own stablemates in the Union, as well as your buddies Ted and Dave. Seriously, does anyone even remember who Chris has even beat in his glorious return?

Has he beaten anyone worth a shit aside from a debuting Rebel Star?

This isn't rhetorical, I'm actually curious. See, I don't blame him for that though, after all he is the victim of discrimination against English wrestlers. He says while his stablemate is the Intercontinental Champion. Yeah, doesn't really have the same ring to it when you know that fact.

I'm glad you two have decided to overlook me almost entirely. Focus on each other. Beat each other down play your two-dimensional games. I'll be waiting in the wings ready to dispose of the winner of the initial exchange and secure the victory for myself.

Yes, I am saying my gameplan aloud.

I don't think you'll put two and two together until it's too late. Even with this heads up.

Keep on keeping on you two.

I'll be rocketing to the top."

~CUT~

"Portrait of a Friday Morning"

~and I don't even remember how I ended up in the possession of a bag of grapefruits but here I am, six grapefruits in a plastic bag slung over my shoulder as I run to my apartment. I'm lucky I packed last night before hitting the club because I'm in danger of missing my flight as is. My phone is pressed to my ear as I'm currently in a shouting match with my landlord - the Lard King - about the fact that I haven't paid rent in a couple months. I hang up the phone and shout as I chuck it into the street. Not important right now. Macklemore's "Downtown" is playing in my head as I run - he's surprisingly fun when he's not busy apologizing for existing - and I add a bit more spring to my step as I ponder the usual things: what Chicago will be like, how I'll fare in the match, what'd happen if I took a circular saw to the Lard King's stomach, when Ghost Tank will retrieve his balls from his wife's purse, and so on.

That reminds me, I hope the Lard King doesn't meet me at my apartment. I don't have time to deal with him right now plus there's a couple of packages sitting on my couch that I don't think he'd approve of.

I'll cross that bridge when we get to it, after all, I'm sure he and I can agree that meowing was getting~