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Travis McCoy · (05-04-2016)

Travis sits in a dark hotel room, it's light outside in Vegas but his shades are pulled tight. He sits slouching in a maroon chair. His long legs extended his feet pointed up resting on his heels. He slouches to his right leaning heavily on his his hand, his arm bent and resting on the arm rest. The room is dark but he wears sunglasses. The room looks like it stinks. His clothes hang off him he looks like he hasn't left the chair in quite some time. He looks like he's recovering from a hangover but in all the trash and dirty laundry in the room there is not a single bottle that ever contained alcohol. Water bottle's Gatorade. A bottle of pills still nearly full in his lap. He pulls his sunglasses down a bit and peers at the clock. He opens the pill bottle and dumps one into his hand. He places it in his mouth and crunches down on it chasing the bitter taste with a sip of water. He takes off the glasses throwing them haphazardly in the direction of the night stand. His eyes are red and he looks exhausted. When he speaks his voice is low and tired, like someone suffering from chronic migraines.

“I fucking hate hospitals. Seriously, everyone says that, but in the deepest recesses of my shriveled frozen soul burns a spark of hatred for hospitals. The bright and yet cold light. That fucking smell. Jesus, what is that smell? It'd be easy to say it's disinfectant but I know that smell. It'd be dark to say it's death or sickness, but I know the smell of rot, I know the stink of vomit. A hospital is neither of those. It's clean laundry that still smells soiled, it's the reek of that paper they put on examining beds. It's the unwashed yeast infected pussy of the old women who just wants her family to visit. It's the pussy and it's the desperation. Desperation that Johnny comes to visit his father's deathbed. Desperation that the lump in her breast is just a cyst. That the sore on your dick is an ingrown hair and not the gift that keeps on giving. It's the bald kid's dad wondering what he did wrong to deserve to watch his only son shrivel away. It's the bald kid not knowing what his dick is for but being incredibly certain he is dying. It's desperation so thick that it's pooled in the corners and begun to turn sour

At this point trying to explain it is pointless because everyone knows that smell. I say hospital smell and your brain instantly fires the memories of the stink. You can probably almost smell it now. It hangs just out of reach like the last line of that catchy song you can never quite remember. It's the same in every hospital I've ever been in. I would bet every dime I've ever made that it's the same in every Saint Mary's, Saint Johns, Saint bullshit hospital in the world.

And they make you wait in that stink. Wait in the waiting room, looking at the other people waiting too. Pretending to read an issue of ESPN magazine from 2012. 'Ya Robert Griffin probably will save the Redskins.' Fill out a form, 'Why yes! my grandfather did have high blood pressure!' wait in the smaller waiting room. Tell the nurse what you've already filled out on the paper she's FUCKING holding. Wait more, tell the foreign doctor all the same shit you've now written down, and told the sassy black nurse, only for him to nod and leave you to...WAIT SOME FUCKING MORE. All while that stink sinks into your pores. All while that stupid cunt of an inescapable paper bracelet tickles your wrist, All while you contemplate if you're fucking dying. Get the tests, go home and tug at the stupid paper bracelet. 'WHERE ARE MY FUCKING SCISSORS?!' Or wear it around so people act like they care when they ask about it. Wait some more.

I hate it.

But sometimes you gotta go. Sometimes you pass out in the shower after a match. Sometimes you sweat through your sheets for a week straight. Sometimes the headaches don't go away and tylenol doesn't take the edge off them. Sometimes the chair you're sitting in feels like it's floating in an ocean. Sometimes a grown ass man pisses his pants because standing in a rapidly rotating room is unthinkable, the walk to the bathroom in the cheap hotel you're in is impossible.

Sometimes you tell them to fuck off.

Always you tell them to fuck off.

Every.
Single.
Time.

Because the spinning stops. It takes a few long miserable days but it faded slower last time. Because who gives a fuck if you can't remember names. Because the fog lifts a little and you can put words together again. Because the only thing that makes all of this worth it is beating some pretty boy into the fucking dirt, because you can. Fuck it,

because I can.

'You could die in the ring son.'

'I was born there, it'd only be fitting'

How fucking cliché.

How fucking perfect it'd be.

What would you do Kid? Christ, I wish that name wouldn't stick in my head. I wish it would fade into head trauma purgatory. I'm not calling you Kid Cool. Simply can't do it. It is the name of 65 percent of every 13 year old backyard wrestler in the country. So I'm going to start again.

What would you do Darren, if the doctors told you to hang it up? If they said the next right hand you catch on the jaw could be more than lights out? It could be a nuclear meltdown, it could be fucking Chernobyl. Don't answer. We don't need to hear it. Because despite what you may try to tell us, we all know your boots would be in a box before the doctor left the room. Fuck, you'd miss a show if you had a shiner. Your happy go lucky pretty boy bullshit couldn't stand in a warm spring downpour, much less the hurricane of a possible death sentence.

How are you going to stand against me? I really want to know because I, and no one here, honestly see's any fucking chance you beat me. How's that chiseled jar gonna stand against my gnarled fist? How are you not a royal waste of my time? You know, your very presence on the card against me is an insult. The bigger slap in the face will be that you probably won't even show your face before the show.

Disgusting,

Disgraceful.

Dick.

Keep your mouth shut all week. You have my permission. I promise you I'll fucking end you either way. They've given me a path you're step one. Savage sits before us a newborn. A raw piece of clay ready to be formed by the strongest hands. Those hands are mine. I'll mold Savage in my image. You have no place here Darren. This isn't Warfare. This isn't Shane

jerking off while Frodo fucks a dog. This is Savage. This is where Travis McCoy lives. As if I wasn't coming into this match angry enough. As if I didn't have a sour taste in my mouth from taking my first loss in XWF. As if I wasn't going to drench that ramen noodle hair in your own blood already. I have a chance for a chance at a chip. I don't care about the the valet's or the suites. The only perk is the shot at a title and I have one in mind.

Nothing about me is 'if'. Not a damn thing. I don't try things, I do them. It's not if I'll win a title here, it's a foregone conclusion. It's not if I'll beat you. It's how badly I'll do it. It's not if I die in the ring it's when. That is my fate. It's the only one I want. I made my choice to do this. I make it every morning at five AM when I get up to train. I make it every night before I part the curtain. I know it could be the last time and I live in that. I revel in that. I don't pray for protection. I don't need a god to protect me. I am a god in that ring. You know it, and everyone else here knows it. I won't claim to be death. Jesus, that's worn out here. I am however playing a completely different game than you. You bop along and smile and you go to clubs and you play on tinder I listen to a doctor tell me through an Indian accent that that I could go blind, that I may not remember my own name in ten years. If I live that long. I listen to him tell me I've signed my own death certificate if I ride a fucking bike without a helmet, that stepping in the ring is virtually suicide. I smile and nod, we've done this before but he's got a job to do just like I do. He shoots straight with me, then washes his hands like Pontius Pilate, and I beat men like you to an unrecognizable pulp.

You don't stand a chance, Darren."

I'm racing the reaper.

You're doing fucking crunches.”

FADE

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