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Ruben A. Mitchell · **12-29-2014, 12:16 AM**

I'm glad to see that the Space Cowboy can remember things just like any human. Kudos to him, he shows basic intelligence. And what do you know, he corrected me on something. Kudos again, you're going to get a fist to your face as your late Christmas present. That sounds like decent gift from me to you. You might not like it, and hell, you already admitted that you're going to fail, but I'll certainly enjoy everything that I'll hand over for the holidays. You know what else I'm proud of you for? Liking my story. Hell, since you liked it so much, I might as well tell you another one.

But first, as usual, I have to find some music to play over my voice. See, saying that is the easy part. The main problem is actually finding something that won't drive you fucks away.

What to play...

...This should do. As long as none of you bitch about the accents, we'll be able to get through this story with no problems.

You know, I find it funny that you mentioned therapy, because that's exactly what happened once I pissed off Greg. They didn't really believe my excuse because it was too complicated and too stupid for anyone to accept as truth, so they gave me a stern warning about what happens when people lie, something about getting their tongues cut off or something, and then they brought out the paddle again. Now you say that I became aroused when my ass changed color, but I had to act like I was getting hurt, because I couldn't let them know that I enjoyed the punishment I was receiving. Otherwise I would be put through that exorcism shit all Christians do when they don't realize that an asylum would be a much better alternative.

I'm getting off track, I apologize, I get carried away when I talk about how stupid people are. Where was I again? Oh yeah, the therapist. It took them a while, but they managed to find Dr. Callahan. She had a PhD in Psychology and Human Behaviors, so she was the most qualified to figure out why I was constantly starting fights at Sunday school and why I seemed to distrust everyone in that building. They booked an appointment for me and we headed off.

The car ride was pretty uneventful and didn't last long, since the place was only around the corner and whatever. Once we stepped inside, we found out that, besides having the therapist herself and a receptionist, the place was deserted. It was also a mess, magazines were everywhere, papers were torn in half, candy wrappers were left on the seats, it was a parent's worst nightmare. So I was called in by the therapist herself into her office, where it looked like naptime colors. Piss yellow and beige. What would be a worse combination? Actually no, don't name one, I really don't want to find out.

I don't feel like wasting any more of my time, so I'm just going to summarize What happened in the office. She tried to act friendly towards me by offering some melted candy, trying to appeal to me or something like that, I don't know. What I do know is that I refused and she set it away. And then she asked me about why I was acting so aggressive and why I beat Greg up over something so meaningless and trivial. I'll always remember the three words I ended up saying to her, not because they're an ironic echo to anything, but because they're my main motive to anything I do from then on.

"Because it's fun."

I can remember the look on her face as I told her that. It looked like she was terrified and disgusted at the same time. Pretty much the same reaction anyone gets when they hear 'Shelley Duvall' and 'naked' in the same sentence. Hell, you might be a spaceman, but you can't tell me that you didn't grimace at the thought alone. Thought so.

Anyways, after that, My therapist wanted to sign me up for an anger management classes on my behalf. Knowing a person like me, you can tell can tell exactly how it went.

But enough about this summarized story, let's focus on what you said about me, about our match, and how you weren't ballsy enough to say Mitchell. Oh, I might as well clarify what I mean when I don't want people to call me by my name. Call me Ruben when I don't think you're worthy and you'll have a mouthful of my seed, and as many people in prison have told me, it tastes like canned dog food that has expired. Call me Alistair, and you're pretty much on my shit list until our bout passes. Simple really. As you must have heard before, I prefer either being called Cuddles, which was chosen for me by everyone else back in Georgia, or Mitchell, a name that was apparently so hard for you to pronounce, you didn't even bother to bring it up. I pronounced it right now for you and it's only two syllables long. Call me whatever, but names won't help you win. In fact, the only reason why I'm not calling you by yours is because nicknames are more fun. That, and it's easier to remember than Azrael.

Now that we gave each other our names, we move on to my disdain to being called a wrestler. I consider wrestlers much worse fighters, and being labeled as one disgusts me to no end. Hell, simply saying that word reminds me of saying moist, it's not really a pleasant word and it's just one of those words that no one wants to utter. And when I'm fighting, and that's what I'm calling it, I prefer hearing words like fight, bout, and beat down. Nothing's worse than hearing wrestling. Such an awful word.

What else did you say? Something about your past and how I couldn't care to look back in your history. Even after that argument, I still don't. Hell, a Steinbeck story is more entertaining than watching what you do, and that's supposed to be exciting shit. Then you talked about how I'm stupid, like I haven't heard that hundreds of times already. Then you mention that you beat up people that don't relate to me at all. After all that, I have to ask one question, What does this have to do with beating me up with glass?

I guess we'll find out tomorrow, but I hope you enjoy the punishment we're about to give each other. Makes me squirm with pleasure just thinking about it.

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