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Thomas Nixon · (02-18-2017)

“I’ve been livin’ for the moment
But I just can’t have my way
And I’m afraid to go to sleep
Cause tomorrow is today”

Thomas Nixon hunches over the bathroom sink; water slaps against his face. Nixon slowly raises his head, revealing his reflection in the mirror. His hair is tangled, showing signs that indicate days of neglect. That’s not his most concerning feature.

Nixon’s right eye is shut. His eye lid is a dark pink color, clearly swollen. Slowly, the eye lid creeps open. The eye lid only partially opens, before it abruptly shuts. For a brief moment, the camera catches a glimpse of his damaged eye. The segment that should be white was completely bloodshot. Now, water escapes the corner of his closed eye from the brief irritation.

Nixon stares at the shell of himself, before he hangs his head in resignation. He’s not in his casual get up, he’s wearing a dark blue t-shirt and gray sweat pants. His face is even blemished.

“People tell me life is sweeter
But I don’t hear what they say
Nothing comes to change my life
So tomorrow is today”

Nixon grabs the mirror, opening it up to reveal his medicine cabinet. An unlabeled container of pills catches his eye. He grabs the pills, setting them on the counter, and closing the medicine cabinet.

“I don’t care to know the hour
Cause it’s passing anyway
I don’t have to see tomorrow
Cause I saw it yesterday”

Before Nixon can unscrew the lid, his phone buzzes. He debates reaching into his pocket, but the phone continues to pose. He pulls out his phone. Richard Singer’s name appears in big letters.

“God dammit.”

Nixon hits the lock button, silencing his phone.

“GOD DAMMIT”

Nixon wants to throw his phone straight into the mirror, but he resists the cathartic act. Instead, he crumbles mentally, physically leaning forward onto the sink, neglecting his phone that falls to the ground.

“So I listen for an answer
But the feeling seems to stay
And what’s the use of always dreaming
If tomorrow is today”

[Richard Singer is a dear friend of Thomas Nixon, and he also happens to be a shape shifting lizard. Weeks ago, Singer and Nixon had a disagreement. Singer wanted Thomas to focus on his Television Championship match. He wanted Thomas to ignore his battles with McBride. He wanted Thomas to strategize and study Caedus and recapture the gold that he previously held.

That belt meant something to the lizard people. It was a channel into the mainstream. It mean more to the scaly reptilians than Nixon’s pride and ongoing battle with McBride.

But Nixon ignored Singer. He rejected the advice, and he tried to use his rage in his battle with Caedus. Now, Nixon is in his bathroom looking at an unlabeled bottle of drugs, and the television championship still rests around Jim’s waist.

Even worse, Nixon attempted to get revenge on McBride, but he made a fatal mistake. He didn’t expect Peter Gilmour to help his friend and partner in crime. Before Nixon could taste sweet vengeance, Gilmour’s boot cracked Nixon on the side of the head. He would be completely unaware of what happened afterwards if XWF wasn’t a televised show. Nixon was either knocked out by the super kick or the attacks after caused him to lose all memory of the attacks. He didn’t remember McBride’s act of cruelty, but he watched it a dozen times over.

A sickening image is present in Nixon’s mind, at this time it is unescapable. McBride leans down and jams the smoldering cigarette into Nixon’s eye.]

Nixon twitches. He doesn’t remember the feeling, but he gets chills every time he imagines what McBride did.

“Still I’m waiting for the morning
But it feels so far away
And you don’t need the love I’m giving
So tomorrow is today”

Why should I answer his call? So Richard can say ‘I told you so’? I’m not listening to that shit. I can hear it now, in a condescending tone, lecturing me like a parent would. He wouldn’t say he’s mad, he would tell me he’s disappointed.

“Thomas, if you only took our advice, if only you focused on your title match, we could be on CNN right now, revealing our secret to the world!”

Maybe he’s right. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I let down everyone that has watched me with hope in their eyes and hearts. Everyone that saw me as a golden opportunity. Everyone that saw the political sphere change, and I could give them a chance if I had a platform to speak on. But I failed them. I lost. I’m not a champion.

Nixon’s mind races. Everything around him is a blur, his head aches, but the pills remain in perfect focus.

“Oh, my. Goin’ to the river
Gonna take a ride and the Lord will deliver me
Made my bed, now I’m gonna lie in it
If you don’t come, I’m sure gonna die in it
Too late. Too much given
I’ve seen a lot of life and I’m damn sick of livin’ it
I keep hopin’ that you will pass my way”

Nixon grabs a hold of the container. In a split second, the lid is on the ground, dozens of pills fill his hands. Many spill onto the counter, a few into the sink. Nixon’s eyes tear up, his vision still blurry.

DING!

DING!

That’s the doorbell. Nixon blinks rapidly, this abrupt moment of clarity brings the world back into focus. He wipes the water from his eyes. Realizing his hands are filled with prescription medication, he drops them onto the counter. He rushes to the front door.

“Thomas Nixon?” The man askes, handing Thomas a package.

“Y-yeah. Thanks.” Nixon shuts the door, visibly shaken.

Nixon falls onto the couch in his living area, holding the small box in his hand. His body shakes.

“And some day if your dreams are leavin’ you
I’ll still believe in you!”

On the verge of his sanity further breaking down, he rips open the box. His tears and cries turn into shocked laughter. The man that moments ago held enough prescription medication to sedate a gorilla, is now giggling!

Reaching into the box, he reveals a small black piece of cloth. Tossing the box aside, he rushes to the bathroom. He looks in the mirror as he dawns a black eyepatch over his damaged right eye.

Nixon looks at himself in the mirror, his mouth agape, as he continues to laugh.

“McBride…I’m not taking the easy way out. I’m getting back in the ring. And I may look like a fool with this fucking eyepatch, but you know what? I am a fucking fool. I made a mistake. I wanted revenge, and I lost my chance at gold because of it.”

“But you know what? I don’t care. Not one bit. Because I’ve lost it all, and now I have one simple thing in mind. I want to make you suffer. I want to make you feel the way I feel right now. I want you to crumble. I want to shake your core, your foundation.”

“And I’m going to stomp every single person that gets in my way because I’m not just an athlete. I’m not even a man with good intentions. I’m fucking furious. I’m going to stalk you to the ends of this planet, so I can feel the satisfaction that I desire. I will follow you through the Arctic tundra or the Sahara desert, and I’ll make you out to be the coward you are.”

Nixon’s shaking, he’s filled with giddy.

“I’m wrestling two other men this week. Frankly, I’m worried for them. Because at Warfare, that is my opportunity to constructively use all these pent up feelings that I’ve been holding in! Poor Killjoy and poor Mr. Tidbits. I’m going to make an example out of them because I know that McBride will be watching closely. I want to give him a taste, a trailer, for our inevitable battle. And I want to hear that he shit his pants while watching me take care of my opponents!”

Nixon runs his hands through his hair, staring into his own grotesque reflection. The scene fades to black.

“I don’t care to know the hour
Cause it’s passing anyway
I don’t have to see tomorrow
Cause I saw it yesterday

Though I’m living and I’m singing
And although my hands still play
Soon enough it will all be over
Cause tomorrow is today”

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