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CM Punk · (06-14-2013)

[Image: tumblr_meyvkfO6eS1rpw70to1_500.jpg]

A soothing place is as simple as somewhere where one can relax and realize the simplest pleasures of everyday life, relax, and enjoy themselves. Or, for others, it can be forgetting about everyday life and letting go.

For Phill, it’s neither of those things. It’s a matter of sitting back and letting the body taking control. It occasionally is a mix of the two, the body controls the blood and blood runs to the brain causing thoughts to travel through the mind, which increases the realization of the simple pleasures he’s experiencing when he’s relaxing. But sometimes he simply slips into a peaceful, submissive state and seems to forget all around him.

Unfortunately for him, it was one of those submissive days. People passing by, kicking shit at him, throwing rocks and asking what he was doing out in public so openly. Phill ignored it, of course, but because he was being so lenient towards it all, he started to overhear other things brought up by the fact an XWF superstar was here.

“Did you here Dean’s dad hates him?” One of the pedestrians walking by said. He seemed liked your average wrestling viewer, slightly chubby but not stereotypical, with a beard like Daniel Bryan’s, and a face that said ‘It’s still real to me, damnit!’.

“Yeah, I did, and to be honest I don’t see why. His dad’s a failure in prison and his son is just like him. And don’t you think it’s weird they have some random fat fuck come out and try and say his supposed son is manipulative and such? That could be just throwing us in one direction. Honestly, I think his ‘dad’ (air quotes are used here) is just as manipulative, stupid, and worthless as Dean himself.” The other pedestrian answers with what seems to be a clever, know-it-all type response. He’s a skinny, beardless man with an Iphone always linked to the dirt sheets. He’s what you’d call a smark. Smart mark.

Punk smiles at his comment. The smark freaks out, and like so, begins to take a picture of the smile. “Punk smiled at my comment! This is going right on bleacher report, baby!” The smark runs off giggly and about a block away he trips and drops his iphone.

“Moron,” Punk comes to a stand and looks around. “Why are you all crowding me again?” The crowd around him suddenly makes room for him to walk away, but trails behind him. He turns around, notices it, and keeps going, recognizing he can’t do much about it. After a while, Punk makes his way to Taylor’s apartment, entering it with his copy of the key and throwing that same key on a table in the front room, he enters the living room and proceeds to sit down on a couch. The living room was suitable for a couple, it had a nice couch, an old box television, and an entertainment center with regular blue carpentry. The rest of the rooms were tile, since it was just the bathroom and the kitchen.

Punk looked around. No sign of Taylor, and while he was unsure of her whereabouts, he didn’t really care. This was the first time he had been alone in days. Was it bad to feel the way? Was he feeling regret for feeling? He didn’t understand his feelings for the first time in a while, and it was making him nervous. Something else was making him nervous too, because he had just spotted it across the room.

His bag was opened, and his script was on the same table he had left his keys. “Goddamnit!” he screamed in anger, and grabbed his keys to leave. Suddenly though, he re-thought his actions. What if she knew? How could she know? It wasn’t in the script, was it? No, he didn’t think so, but remembering was something he was hard-pressed to do with fifteen other thoughts traveling through the busy traffic way that was the intersection of his mind at the current time. He decided one thing, and that one thing was that he had to take a nap. He pulled out the couch, transforming it into a two person bed, and began to sleep comfortably although it definitely wasn’t what he was used to.

Punk never worried about his European title because for one, he knew Taylor had it, and two, with Paul Heyman around, you’ve got to play your cards right or you get fucked, and honestly, he had more potentially for getting fucked in his mind. Taylor had taken the European title down to the local police department and began to worry on the trip. The car ride could be accurately described as frightening, because she had many thoughts about the fact she had been dating someone who was not only trained to be strong, but had apparently trained himself to kill. She just couldn’t believe it. As she arrived at the department, she walked in and was greeted by a kind woman behind a desk.

“Hello, how may I assist you in your trip to our department today?” The lady, who was a petite young woman with brunette hair and blue eyes, asked Taylor.

“I know something about one of your cases. And I don’t want to wait because I’m in danger.” Taylor was shaking from the consuming nervousness. Eating up her insides and nibbling at her bones, she was all but minutes at from collapsing from the pressure.

“Just fill out this form and..”

“Fuck your form. Get me back there now or Phill Brooks won’t be caught!” Taylor had never really been one for cuss words, or bursts of anger, but if the time is right, she was willing.

She was ushered into a small room with four chairs and a desk, including many pictures of Phill. This was not a changing interrogation room, and she could tell because she had worked in the detective agency and had to come into rooms like so before, and it didn’t always end with the person walking out.

The black cop she had spoken to before appeared. “You lied to us.” John was his named, as aforementioned, and he was visibly disappointed. “You know that’s a crime, right?” Taylor shook her head in understanding. “You know you’re going to jail, or at least paying a fine, right?” Taylor looked surprised.

“But, I thought maybe we could make a deal or something.” She was crying her eyes out at this point.
“Sorry miss. I tried asking about a deal…I was told no. Where’s Phill?” Taylor threw the European title at the cop, and the cop grabbed it. “I brought this for evidence, he’s at my apartment usually.” Taylor had ratted out Phill. He was on borrowed time.

A few hours had passed and Brooks was still asleep. A perimeter had been set-up to ensure no escape, guys outside the door, guys in the hallway, elevators and stairs were shut down. The windows were considered too high of a fall, and as such nothing was outside anymore. A unique bomb had been set-up, too. The European championship had two smoke grenades wrapped underneath it, where the straps were, so from top-side up it couldn’t be seen. They were going to throw it in, and Phill would hopefully awake and pick it up, setting them off.

“You all ready?” John looked back, questioned his unit, and a plethora of cops nodded. No countdown. The door was kicked open, and the championship thrown in. “Now we wait for the smoke.”

Phill awoke to see an open door, and the title laying on the ground. He noticed some whisperings outside the doorway, and thought about the potential of Taylor knowing. It was more than potential. He saw what looked to be some type of can protruding from underneath the title. Assuming it was dangerous, he looked for options, the window next to the bed was his first. He threw the title out that. There was no escape for him..unless..

He jumped after the title. Landing on a bunch of people, and then blacking out, three hours passed. He awoke later in a dark location that he could not make out.

“Who are you? Where am I?” Phill asked, noticing the title, with nothing on it but a cracked front.
“We saved you from those cops. Caught you, and brought you here.” A white male with greasy hair answered his questions.

“Where’s here?” Phill got up and looked around, nearly falling in a stream in between two sidewalks. "You're fucking kidding me, right?"

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