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Travis McCoy · (03-19-2016)

"We don't get to pick the thing that fixes us, Red. Makes us whole. Makes us feel purpose. My moment of clarity came from the strangest of places"
-Frank Castle

He hated wrestling for a long time. It represented everything wrong with his last name. Two generations of losers and despicable human beings. Rapists and abusers, sadists and users. Travis desperately wanted to find his own path but there was no time. His days strictly regimented down to the minute, calories counted, meals weighed. Cod, Jesus the amount of cod he ate. He smelt like that shit constantly. It oozed from his pores like oil bubbling up through the sand. No time for friends, barely enough time to jerk off, much less find a real girlfriend.

Until the injury.

He broke his neck, and even though it royally pissed Chuck off, he had to take a full year off before he even thought about training. Chuck even had to treat the kid with light hands. Despite the way Charles McCoy treated his son, he needed him alive and able to turn the family name around. In this time he met the lovely Kaitlyn. She was 5'9 and athletic. With the kind of ass that fills the high school gym for a volleyball game. She had striking blues eyes and curly blonde hair that she could barely tame. It looked like a lions mane and Travis loved running his hands through it during their lunch period. She hated her hair, even though the girls without a kink were jealous of her gorgeous curls. Women always want what they can't have.

Which probably explains why she was crazy about Travis. She'd seen him from afar for a while. Tall and built. Those eyes, not yet cold and hateful, but shining and bright. Quick to smile, but rarely talking. When the other boys couldn't shut up Travis had the quiet confidence to not fill every moment with useless words. He looked sad, she couldn't help but see it. She wanted to make him happy, and she did

often.

During lunch.

In the library.

In every bathroom and locker room the high school had.

Chuck was to never know. Regardless of the injury Chuck's opinions on girlfriends were the same.

“Fucking will lower your testosterone, it'll kill your legs, and us McCoy's are fertile! As soon as you get that tiny Irish dick near a woman she'll get pregnant then there goes your life! There goes all my hard work!”

He was wrong, as he often was.

It didn't kill his legs.

He was in his room watching film and taking notes. His father wasn't going to let him off the hook completely. Chuck had to remind him that this was just a sabbatical. As soon as he was healthy, he'd be back in the ring fighting for his life. Travis already filled 60 notebooks, all labeled and neatly arranged. Move sets, pressure points, technique on armbars and hammerlocks. His father would read his work every night. Travis had to do it, he found no joy in the work. His room though, he loved, one of two in the house and the master. His parents shared the smaller room. Why would he get the master leaving is mother and father cramped into a much smaller room.

Stairs of course.

And Chuck was too cheap to get a lift installed.

The room looks and smells exactly like an 18 year old's room should. Posters on the walls for bands he'd be now be ashamed to admit he liked. Dirty clothes everywhere but the laundry basket. The 18 year old Travis sits in a chair at his desk. A small TV playing grainy footage of Flair/Steamboat. He was wearing gym shorts and a cut off t shirt, The Punisher skull emblazoned across the chest. The knock at his window nearly made him shit. It'd never happened before and it took him till the second blast of tap tap tap to realize what it was.

Kaitlyn, on the roof outside his window.

Travis quickly rushed to her. He was instantly terrified and half hard. Her presence always did that to him. Well, the erection bit. Hell he's 18, the right kind of breeze makes him stand at attention. He was terrified because his father was home and if he found her, there was no telling what he'd do. He'd seen the old man slap his mother. He didn't think the dick was above hitting an 18 year old girl either. Travis opened the window slowly. The night air brought in the smell of her hair and he had to fight the urge to kiss her and toss her on his bed. He needed to be angry with her now. He'd sure as hell try.

“What are you doing?! You're going to get us both killed!”

“I'll be quiet, your dad can't get up the stairs and your mom knows. She wouldn't tell him.”

His mother was his rock. Helpless in her own way but they shared secret moments of normalcy. A birthday cupcake, nearly inhaled behind his fathers back. Midnight trips to the ER to set broken bones. He had told her about Kaitlyn, she had scolded him with a smile on her face. 'Don't let your dad find out'

Fuck.

Kaitlyn was right.

Why hadn't he thought of this before!?

He could have her right here like he'd always fantasized. As long as she was quiet. He helped her in through the window and with all the grace of a horny 18 year old started trying to feel her up. She laughs.

“Stop it Trav, I'm here for a reason.”

Through kissing her neck he mumbles.

“After baby.”

She pushed him away and he fell back onto his bed. He immediately reached to remove his shorts.

“I love when you take charge. Ok, but keep your fingers away from my ass. Last time I nearly sh...”

She tosses a white stick on his chest, and speaks to him in a stern hissing whisper.

“Travis! I'm pregnant!”

Chuck was only half wrong.

“You've gotta be fucking kidding me...”

Present Day.

Travis, now just over five years from forty, exits his plane in the Lambert Airport in St Louis MO. He was thinking of Kaitlyn on the plane. As he often did in moments when he let his mind wander. You can train your body all you want. Mold it into the shape you want. Teach it how to do harm, but your mind is it's own beast. Try as he might, the memories flood back. It's why he stays so busy with training or watching promos. A busy mind does not wander to the past. He turns on his phone quickly going to XWF's website to find the card.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me...”

“Another triple threat with a black guy and a confused teenage girl?”

“Jesus Christ.”

He continues looking down at his phone jumping to wrestler profiles. Travis reaches into his pocket removing headphones. He puts them on and plugs them in watching a promo. He finishes, slips his phone in his pocket looking into the XWF camera he can't seem to lose. He spots the airport bar, and heads directly towards it. He sits down at a table opposite of the camera man. He curtly tells the waitress he'd like a scotch and he sits staring daggers into the camera until she returns. He kills the drink before she can leave and hands the empty glass back to her twirling his finger in the universal sign for 'keep em coming bar winch' She returns and sets it on the table. He takes a sip the replaces it on the cardboard coaster.

“Frodo can suck my dick if he's got a problem with me drinking during a promo. He was demanding rape in front of a national TV audience. I think he can handle me drinking some scotch.”

He takes another sip and closes his eyes enjoying the drink the way an alcoholic might. He swallows takes a deep breath through his nose and releases it opening his eyes.

“For a second there I thought I was in some groundhog day shit. Second week running I check the card and I'm in a triple threat with a black dude and a confused teenage girl. If I hadn't been in the rumble I'd be starting to think XWF was at the cross roads of a Kat Williams concert and Hot Topic. I was preparing to rant and rave about how management must have it in for me. I was dreading listening to emo boy and g unit all week.

But then I saw Mak speak.

I know all I need to know about you, Ophelia. I've seen your work and I'm not impressed. You're the goth kid. I can go buy The Cure's discography, and if I can manage to listen to the entire thing with out slitting my wrists, I'll know everything there is to know about the inner workings of O. I know I've joked about your gender but yes, I do know your male. Even knowing all this, I went and checked out your bio, a little refresh. I'm three inches taller than you and I outweigh you by 70 pounds. I'm bigger than you in every way and I'm better trained than you. I'm less offensive to look at, and easier to listen to. You smoke, you don't even vape like the hipster goth kid you are. Fucking hell, I'd ask how you've survived here but I've seen your competition. There is nothing you do better than me. You, as a human being walking this earth, are below me in every way imaginable.

Stay home.

What kind of parents name their kid Icarus. It's like they knew the cunt you'd grow in to so they named you appropriately. Is that why you're so pale? Fear the son will melt your wax face er...wings? Further more with a name like Icarus Jinx why even have a ring name? It sounds like a B rate Batman villain with wings made of wax. Listen up Icky. You're in too deep. In what way do you excel? What makes you worth my time. I'm sure it's not your diary. Fucking hell grow some balls and at least call it a journal.

You dabble in Wicca...

Holy shit dude. Get a grip.

We get it, you had a bit too much of The Cult and watch The Craft on repeat. It's time to grow up. Wash your face, cut your hair and get a real job. This shit isn't for you. Fuck, maybe go eat a sandwich while you're at it. Hit the gym or something, and for fucks sake get an ecig. Your lungs are probably as black as your deeeeeep daaaaark soooooul. Give your 'sister' my number though. I'm into goth chicks. They're fucking wild in the sack. Sure ,they''ll ramble about the magic of womanhood, and they're way too into their periods but generally they like it when it hurts, and they tend to be very giving with their assholes.

I dig that shit.

And please for the love of my people, stop telling everyone you're from Ireland. I get it, you're pale too, but you're a cum stain on my heritage.

If it were only you in this match I may hang myself. No, not the call for help shit your kind pulls. Like really, “I'm done with this shit” suicide. But alas, every goth cloud has a silver lining. Yours is named Makaveli and he's got me a little chubbed up.

This guy, I'm starting to like. Granted he's 150 pounds and 5'11, and the weak point in his game is well... me. I'm going to literally break him. I don't mean I'm going to break his spirit. I mean literally break this guy. Lucky you, I'll break a couple of your bones then you can go visit that nappy headed nurse. Sure the flippy guys tend to annoy me more than others, but it's from a place of disgust, not from genuine weakness. They asked for my weakness when I signed here and I thought saying 'no weaknesses' was arrogant even for me. There is nothing high enough for this guy to jump off that's going to effect me. I've blown loads bigger than this guy. I've fucked girls bigger than this guy. He looks like my dick if I put it in a toaster oven for a week.

He's also a walking black stereotype. Ex con. It's funny your girl says 'It's not every day your highschool sweetheart gets outta prison'. Fucking hell, that's EVERY day when your highschool sweetheart is a Spike Lee Joint waiting to be made. Basketball and prison are what you guys are good at. Dammit, I wish I would have bet on what your offense was before I saw it. I would of bet my entire career on it being armed robbery, probably to get money for drugs. Your kind is big on drugs. Annnnnd DING DING DING he's smoking pot, and saying nigga like it's going out of style. That's three stereotypes in one person. So forgive me, but I'm going to fill in the blanks. You didn't know your dad? He was dead, or in prison, or in general didn't give a fuck about you. You had a friend who was really good at basketball or maybe football but he got shot. The cops roughed you up in front of your mom?

Probably wondering why I said I like you.

Because after a week of dealing with Joey Menos, you're a breath of fresh air. I could make sense of your promo, and I fucking love black entertainment. Not rap, that's garbage. But I mean I own Straight Outta Compton on BluRay. I've seen boys n the hood like 40 times. This week is gonna be a marathon of that shit. Lets get this straight, I'm not mocking you because you're black. I'm not a racist. I'm mocking you because you're a fucking stereotype. You know that right? When you look in the mirror you see have to see that. When you speak you have to hear it.

Boy, lets get this straight. In our business a guy in his thirties is in his prime. Look at the top guys in our business and they're all in their thirties. Don't get it twisted, I'm older than you but I'm far from washed up and you'll see that soon. You didn't cost me shit. Did you pay attention after your little run in or did you spark up and bowl and look for a middle eastern guy to rob? What cost me the rumble was Trax taking a nap. I ran rough shot in that match, I dropped the champ on his head. If you would've paid attention you'd see I chose the right career. I chose the only thing that makes me feel alive. I enjoy hurting people and I'm really fucking good at it. While you're 'spitting mad fire' I'm in the gym. While you were locked up I was honing my craft.

This ain't the street boy. Not a lot of guys trained like me in your hood I'm sure.

This isn't prison.

This is my world.

Welcome, my nigga.”

FADE

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