Post by Kyle Shane on Nov 6, 2017 21:52:45 GMT -5
On a Thursday.
I was sitting in front of the TV with a cup of coffee. I can't believe what I'm seeing. There's a reporter, a man on the street, in front of the state lottery commission, and he's reiterating a big story that broke last night, and all of my illusions about fairness turn to ash in my mouth as he keeps talking.
" - Once again, in a first for Powerball, we do apologize that the number was read improperly. The final winning number was 6. 6. But, despite our colleague's miscue, the person who showed up to claim the winning ticket, is miss Moira Turkett, a resident of Dorchester who has recently fallen on hard times. Moira, here with me, is a homeless person, who says now, that God provided her with the means to escape the gutters." And he flicks the microphone back to the messy, tangled crone behind him and I can hear myself give an audible groan from a galaxy light years away. It was the old woman with the tin cup I'd passed on the street two days ago. Her eyes were rolling with madness, wide in their sockets, and she raised her arms in the air like a praise chorus to thank the heavens for her fortune.
"An angel gimme this ticket! A beautiful, tall, statuesque woman walk up to me t'other day, she say From Me, To You. And she give me a ticket got the winning lotto numbers on it. I am so thankful, praise Jesus, about this and I always say when God closes a door on ye he opens up a window - "
Motherfucker.
"MOTHER.
FUCKER!!!!"
I throw the cup of coffee with enough force that my flatscreen spiderwebs. I get up. Coffee has puddled on the floor around my entertainment system, but I pay the destruction of an expensive floor model and various no mind. My feet aren't even aware of what they're doing as I pace, stuttering on the floor. Johnny has peeked his head meekly out of his room, but my temper, as always, has shocked him into shrinking away in cowed silence. The idea of my son regarding me as a second form, divorced from the father he was getting to know me as, registers in some far away manner but I can't bring enough brain power on it to process that and adjust my attitude. I'm apopleptic and so, I can barely even form sentences in my head. Motherfucker, motherfucker, is all I can rage. I'm so annoyed at how this can happen. How when I was one off from having all the numbers, and I gave the ticket away. That's actually a very good question, though.
And suddenly, as my rage flares, not just at the empty, unfair stupidity that manifests itself in the universe, but in how things are stolen from me capriciously. Suddenly my situation with Gabriel, Seromine, and Justin Michaels comes a little more into focus, kicking me out of the malaise and the angst that lives in my heart of feeling not good enough. Because I am good enough. I can do almost everything right, every time. I can have a winning combination in my hands, and some little oversight fucks me over and things get stolen from me. I am NOT letting that happen. I am NOT letting Seromine and Gabriel get away with dicking the entire roster and stealing both top titles and the Deadly Rumble, both accolades that goddamn sure should have been mine. I'm not apathetic like Tuesday or goofing around on it like Wednesday. My anger thrums like a vintage car engine, purring and fine.
I am going to get that goddamn win back, that should have been mine. How that happens is up to me and me alone.
It was like holding the winning Powerball numbers in my hand, only for some ditzy twit to read a 6 upside down and announce it wrong. The winning combination was always there, it wasn't on me that there was a lack of comprehension.
I grab my coat. I have to get out. There's more to attend to, because I want goddamn answers about the ticket. I am not going to let some old hag have what should have been mine because she didn't work for it, she just sat on a street corner squawking to anyone who would listen about believing in God.
"Dad?" I hear the timid call from my son's room, and Johnny is standing there, looking at me worriedly.
"Hey, buddy. Got a little business to attend to downtown. Just gonna be gone for a little while. Everything's fine..." I say, patting him reassuringly on the shoulder. At the moment, I can't even pretend to be a good father. Ready to leave him here by himself.
I hesitate over what to do, because there is still a part of me in the back that's like an angry dog pulling at a chain, wanting to rip off out of here into the night, and I don't want John seeing this. But seeing him does ground me just a bit, enough for me to determinedly say "Get your coat," and I hear his mother groaning from beyond the grave.
It is quite some time later that we're standing outside a soup kitchen in the worst part of the city. My dealer has looked into Moira Turkett and found where she goes when she isn't ranting about the providence of God. I have come down there in full shit kicker mode, as much as I can be when I have a nine year old by my side, and I'm looking to find the warted old crone and twisting her arm back until she is forced to cough up my goddamn ticket. There's a line of winos, destitute broken faces and threadbare people. A lot of them I might have seen in the trailer park once upon the time. As I approach, and read their faces, I feel calming waves of good cheer radiating from the crowd.
"Dad, what's the endgame here?" Johnny says from my hip. I look down at him, frowning in annoyance. Because I didn't know, exactly. I had gone to the streets in a high dander, but as I'd traversed from the high rises where I stayed down to lowtown and seen the people in passing, I was less sure of what I would get from this, what satisfaction. I just didn't know.
But I was certain of one thing. "She stole from me," I said doggedly.
"Didn't you give the ticket away because you thought it wasn't legit," Johnny pointed out, "And just because it came through, does that make it yours anymore?"
"Listen, it was mine because I was the one who collected it. It doesn't get to go to someone else so that they can crow that God gave it to them."
Johnny looked visibly uncomfortable as we were standing in line. I know the beliefs imparted on him by his mom were at war with what he thought I'd want him to say. Finally, he said, "Dad, I think you have to question if you're doing the right thing here."
"I'm doing what's right for us, kid," I say plainly.
"No, you're doing what's right for you, to make you feel better. Listen, I know you don't believe in the potential of the universe, but I believe that God doesn't have to be some all knowing father in the sky. Maybe God is in what we do for each other."
"Oh, neat, an idea about God from the mouth of a sweet kid," I say with a roll of my eyes. A few of the homeless people around us have turned to eye me irritably. "Look, John, I'm going to lay some facts on you that will only serve to help you change your attitude in the long run. There is no God. There is only you. Don't live your life sucking up to some spirit energy in the sky, asking him to provide you strength or give you a way out because that is a lie. It is a total copout. This woman didn't deserve to get handed a winning lottery ticket, and it wasn't gifted to her in thanks for her faith. If you live your life like that, you're dulling your own potential to be the best you can be."
"Why can't it be both, child?" said a voice. It was a voice that, a couple days ago, had been spitting out fragmented bon mots about the Lord from a squatter's position on the sidewalk. The warted face of Moira Turkett was beaming at me. She held her arms out. I don't know if I was more surprised she had cleaned up a little bit or that she was speaking sanely, in an even tone of voice.
"The first thing I did with a windfall of money was buy a new prescription for my medication. It's helped me see with some... clarity. And that, too, is a testament to your way of thinking. Do for yourself, provide for yourself. God isn't a slot machine that you pull on, and hit jackpot every time. That much is true."
She comes around through the soup kitchen line, coming near to me. She tenderly touches Johnny's face. "There is always free will. Those that preach their version of God as the be-all, end all of providence are misguided. Our Lord wants us to be our best selves, but that takes work. Long, hard, arduous work. And to that end, giving praise and thanks helps, but He does not simply give."
She straightened up, to look me in my eye. "Brother Kyle, you say that you don't believe. But trust me in this, God works through you. Even if ye don't agree with it. It was your questioning of your own station in life that led ye to buying a ticket as your out. But ye deccided to give it to someone else. Thus it was your charity, through your free will, that gave me this new lease on life. And I choose to use it to help these people. I've already begun using it to feed this group, and to finance housing and assistance for the people who need it the most. So ye see, you have opened new doors for myself, and people who don't have the advantages that we have."
She embraced me warmly. "Bless ye, son. Bless ye."
I feel my rage quelling down to a bitter, ashy taste in the back of my mouth, because it's hard to argue with that. As much as I want to.
"Will ye stay and break bread with us here, Kyle and son?" She said, her no longer madness shiny eyes beaming at us hopefully. "Have some of our delicious soup?"
Some time later, my son and I were eating steaming bowls of soup as we sat on the trunk of my car, parked on the side of the street. Well, I was, digging in to the soup with a leaden, disappointed glower. Johnny looked over at me with a new appreciation, the kind when a kid sees something in their parental figure that makes them look up to them that much more. "We did a good thing tonight, dad... it's just like mom said... God closed a door, but look at what he opened up..."
"Shut up and eat your soup, boy."
He still had a grin around his plastic spoon. We ate in silence. The soup kitchen, financed and run by the newly sane Moira, was humming with life across the street.
It was some time later, after we had set aside the stryofoam dishes, that Johnny pointed at the woman crying in her car. "Dad?" he said, with the instinct in his voice to go help her. I was getting fed up with this kid. "Should we go talk to her?"
I knew there wasn't much way we could get out of this since he had already seen her.
Dying a little bit inside, I knocked on her windshield. She looked up, startled. It was a familiar, pretty face I remembered with a scornful twinge as having seen her on Tuesday, holding a number 6 Powerball upside down. She looked ashamed to be caught crying in her car.
"Hi there. Me and my son noticed you over here, and I saw you were having a bad night... I just wanted to offer my assistance if you needed anything, uh..."
The blonde reporter sighed, sniffled, wiped her streaky makeup eyes. "Camille," she said simply, and she took my hand when I offered it. "Camille," I repeated back, trying to be charming instead of wanting to wring her neck.
"I - I came here for the story," the poor dumb girl stammered, "Get an interview with the lottery winner, I'm just, I'm in so much trouble at work, because of the st-stUpid Powerball mix up, so I just wanted to find a way to fix it..."
She began to cry again. I got down close to her, stroked her cheek, and she rested her forehead against mine and had a good cry. She melted into me as I leaned in to embrace her. And I sat there, half-in and half out of a car, hugging a crying girl in lowtown, and I thought to myself maybe there is something to this after all, that God may close one door, but open a window in response.
On a Friday, then...
A Friday night, specifically, after a day spent together getting high and talking, that in my bedroom, she moved against me, moaning lowly as she arched her back. I wrapped her hair in a fistful in my hand as she slapped her ample ass against my thighs, entering her, and our rigorous action and sweaty thrusting in time shaking my mattress and moving my bed, my nightstand, our entire world.
It was Saturday...
3 am Saturday morning, Camille was asleep, Johnny had finally turned off the tv playing Nickelodeon he had had on it's highest volume setting to drown out any noises he may have heard in dad's room. He was getting to be good at that.
And I was standing in front of the window, a sheet wrapped around my waist trailing from there, back to the bed, where a tuckered out blonde woman with a thick body was sprawled out.
And I felt it all click into place.
Everything I had been trying to say, from the apathy, to the anger, to the acceptance, clicked into a final and solid form. Everything Johnny had been trying to say, in his childish but wise way. Tell me all your thoughts on God, Dishwalla had said. In this moment of reflection the night truly began to come alive, and I felt excited. I moved back over to the bed, kissing the sleeping form on the neck, and felt her begin to squirm beneath me.
Sunday...
A very motivated and reinvigorated God of Game can be seen in the gym, running the ropes like a madman. He also seems to be practicing lines to put the puzzle pieces in his head and fit them in a sequential order, having come alive... and finally figuring out what he wants to say.
And so... here we are on Monday...
I sit in the designated promo room, game face on as I settle in front of the camera. Everything is honed, polished, and ready for presentation. There's no stuttering in a Halloween costume and losing my train of thought here. I have had all weekend of reflection and contemplation about opportunities taken and lost and given anew to get me here. And now, I stand, ready, open, like the fighter I am. Like the one taking instead of losing.
"Justin Stormm Michaels."
"You and I stand at the precipice of a unique opportunity here Stormmy. So I've already given Gabriel all my thoughts on God, and all my ideas re: the fact that he's a bunch of rubbish. And yet, both he and Seromine walked out on top at Deadly Intentions, stepping over you and me, both. That's not a good look for either of us, I'm afraid. For different reasons. Whereas I've been quietly building momentum for some time, getting quality wins like the Icemann Invititational Tournament this summer, or being the longest reigning Underground champion, or knocking off Gabriel for that belt in the first place, you and your man Johnny Vivacious hit the Rumble with impact. Your returns have made a big splash in my lake here, and a lot of ripples have still yet to reach the edge of the water. But it's clear, you have the weight of previous history here, while I'm still getting started. So for both of us to get knocked down by Gabriel and Seromine and lose out, is a travesty, for divergent reasons. For you, it means your return was for nothing. For me, it means that I lost everything, including the pride I had. Losing the North American title was bad, but if I lost that but stepped up and won number one contendership to the World title, I could still look at myself and be proud. I could still look at that as forward momentum. Because the North American title was never something I intended to hang on to for a record time anyway. It was a means to an end, a point to prove about my willingness to climb the ranks, to be a representative of achievement."
"I feel like that was stolen from me at Deadly Intentions. I dunno. What about you."
"But when one door closes, another door can be opened. But you can't wait for them to open up for you. You have to be prepared to kick the damn thing in sometimes. And it is with that in mind that we get here. Trauma 221. You versus me. Contendership for two titles on the line. Winner gets the World title. Loser gets a shot at the North American title."
"I don't know how you see it Stormm, but that second stipulation doesn't sit well with me. I know that I'm a creature of pride above all else. As a former North American champ, it feels a little like being given it as a consolation prize for not being the last man standing in our match weakens and ultimately cheapens the credibility of the North American belt... or certainly it makes it worse if I didn't win that but I did beat Gabriel. I do want to beat Gabriel. Because I know that I can. But more than that, I want, very much, to crush Serominism and their terrible, overexposed, overused, cliche cult into fucking powder."
"And I steadfastly refuse to be second place. To anyone."
"So they say God closes a window but opens a door. I'm telling you this right now. Because I don't believe in any god except for my own skill. I worship at the altar of nothing less than personal growth and progress, of levelling up through your own hard work. And you are not going to outwork me, Stormm. So it is with that said that the God that's in control of these doors is me. I'm going to kick down that fucking barrier in place that's keeping Seromine sitting pretty at the top of the card. I am going to slam a door, a window, a latch shut right in your face when I beat you, and I'm going to throw Seromine out of it. I am not going to be second place this time. And I am not trusting in fate to provide some cheap ending like I did at Deadly Intentions. This time I am going to be damned if I let Seromine's cult walk out with all the power like they did in those title matches and the Rumble. I am going in to Trauma and I am coming out the better man, having ultimately proven my point. That I am a God of ultimate achievement and greater skill. That my example paved the way for your comeback and my skill raised the bar that you need to work under now. I push the envelope every time I go out there. Because I am single handedly changing this game, because I'm a goddamn catalyst, a lightning rod of creation and innovation. You cannot dispute this."
"So I'm going to open the door my damn self. And I'm kicking all of you out of it."
"What I feel worst about is you, that you fought so hard in your comeback, you showed such skill and promise, and you are going to have to be the one in the end that takes the second best tag and claims the North American title match. Hell, hope it serves you better than it served me. Watch out for Gabriel's hand when he's reaching between your legs, can't trust those priest."
"But the lesson here, the final message, is this: your new beginning that came in the Rumble is coming to a grinding halt. That is my fucking word."
"Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end."
Satisfied, I shut the camcorder off, having finally put together everything I need to say. I exit promo room, shutting the door behind with finality.
I was sitting in front of the TV with a cup of coffee. I can't believe what I'm seeing. There's a reporter, a man on the street, in front of the state lottery commission, and he's reiterating a big story that broke last night, and all of my illusions about fairness turn to ash in my mouth as he keeps talking.
" - Once again, in a first for Powerball, we do apologize that the number was read improperly. The final winning number was 6. 6. But, despite our colleague's miscue, the person who showed up to claim the winning ticket, is miss Moira Turkett, a resident of Dorchester who has recently fallen on hard times. Moira, here with me, is a homeless person, who says now, that God provided her with the means to escape the gutters." And he flicks the microphone back to the messy, tangled crone behind him and I can hear myself give an audible groan from a galaxy light years away. It was the old woman with the tin cup I'd passed on the street two days ago. Her eyes were rolling with madness, wide in their sockets, and she raised her arms in the air like a praise chorus to thank the heavens for her fortune.
"An angel gimme this ticket! A beautiful, tall, statuesque woman walk up to me t'other day, she say From Me, To You. And she give me a ticket got the winning lotto numbers on it. I am so thankful, praise Jesus, about this and I always say when God closes a door on ye he opens up a window - "
Motherfucker.
"MOTHER.
FUCKER!!!!"
I throw the cup of coffee with enough force that my flatscreen spiderwebs. I get up. Coffee has puddled on the floor around my entertainment system, but I pay the destruction of an expensive floor model and various no mind. My feet aren't even aware of what they're doing as I pace, stuttering on the floor. Johnny has peeked his head meekly out of his room, but my temper, as always, has shocked him into shrinking away in cowed silence. The idea of my son regarding me as a second form, divorced from the father he was getting to know me as, registers in some far away manner but I can't bring enough brain power on it to process that and adjust my attitude. I'm apopleptic and so, I can barely even form sentences in my head. Motherfucker, motherfucker, is all I can rage. I'm so annoyed at how this can happen. How when I was one off from having all the numbers, and I gave the ticket away. That's actually a very good question, though.
And suddenly, as my rage flares, not just at the empty, unfair stupidity that manifests itself in the universe, but in how things are stolen from me capriciously. Suddenly my situation with Gabriel, Seromine, and Justin Michaels comes a little more into focus, kicking me out of the malaise and the angst that lives in my heart of feeling not good enough. Because I am good enough. I can do almost everything right, every time. I can have a winning combination in my hands, and some little oversight fucks me over and things get stolen from me. I am NOT letting that happen. I am NOT letting Seromine and Gabriel get away with dicking the entire roster and stealing both top titles and the Deadly Rumble, both accolades that goddamn sure should have been mine. I'm not apathetic like Tuesday or goofing around on it like Wednesday. My anger thrums like a vintage car engine, purring and fine.
I am going to get that goddamn win back, that should have been mine. How that happens is up to me and me alone.
It was like holding the winning Powerball numbers in my hand, only for some ditzy twit to read a 6 upside down and announce it wrong. The winning combination was always there, it wasn't on me that there was a lack of comprehension.
I grab my coat. I have to get out. There's more to attend to, because I want goddamn answers about the ticket. I am not going to let some old hag have what should have been mine because she didn't work for it, she just sat on a street corner squawking to anyone who would listen about believing in God.
"Dad?" I hear the timid call from my son's room, and Johnny is standing there, looking at me worriedly.
"Hey, buddy. Got a little business to attend to downtown. Just gonna be gone for a little while. Everything's fine..." I say, patting him reassuringly on the shoulder. At the moment, I can't even pretend to be a good father. Ready to leave him here by himself.
I hesitate over what to do, because there is still a part of me in the back that's like an angry dog pulling at a chain, wanting to rip off out of here into the night, and I don't want John seeing this. But seeing him does ground me just a bit, enough for me to determinedly say "Get your coat," and I hear his mother groaning from beyond the grave.
It is quite some time later that we're standing outside a soup kitchen in the worst part of the city. My dealer has looked into Moira Turkett and found where she goes when she isn't ranting about the providence of God. I have come down there in full shit kicker mode, as much as I can be when I have a nine year old by my side, and I'm looking to find the warted old crone and twisting her arm back until she is forced to cough up my goddamn ticket. There's a line of winos, destitute broken faces and threadbare people. A lot of them I might have seen in the trailer park once upon the time. As I approach, and read their faces, I feel calming waves of good cheer radiating from the crowd.
"Dad, what's the endgame here?" Johnny says from my hip. I look down at him, frowning in annoyance. Because I didn't know, exactly. I had gone to the streets in a high dander, but as I'd traversed from the high rises where I stayed down to lowtown and seen the people in passing, I was less sure of what I would get from this, what satisfaction. I just didn't know.
But I was certain of one thing. "She stole from me," I said doggedly.
"Didn't you give the ticket away because you thought it wasn't legit," Johnny pointed out, "And just because it came through, does that make it yours anymore?"
"Listen, it was mine because I was the one who collected it. It doesn't get to go to someone else so that they can crow that God gave it to them."
Johnny looked visibly uncomfortable as we were standing in line. I know the beliefs imparted on him by his mom were at war with what he thought I'd want him to say. Finally, he said, "Dad, I think you have to question if you're doing the right thing here."
"I'm doing what's right for us, kid," I say plainly.
"No, you're doing what's right for you, to make you feel better. Listen, I know you don't believe in the potential of the universe, but I believe that God doesn't have to be some all knowing father in the sky. Maybe God is in what we do for each other."
"Oh, neat, an idea about God from the mouth of a sweet kid," I say with a roll of my eyes. A few of the homeless people around us have turned to eye me irritably. "Look, John, I'm going to lay some facts on you that will only serve to help you change your attitude in the long run. There is no God. There is only you. Don't live your life sucking up to some spirit energy in the sky, asking him to provide you strength or give you a way out because that is a lie. It is a total copout. This woman didn't deserve to get handed a winning lottery ticket, and it wasn't gifted to her in thanks for her faith. If you live your life like that, you're dulling your own potential to be the best you can be."
"Why can't it be both, child?" said a voice. It was a voice that, a couple days ago, had been spitting out fragmented bon mots about the Lord from a squatter's position on the sidewalk. The warted face of Moira Turkett was beaming at me. She held her arms out. I don't know if I was more surprised she had cleaned up a little bit or that she was speaking sanely, in an even tone of voice.
"The first thing I did with a windfall of money was buy a new prescription for my medication. It's helped me see with some... clarity. And that, too, is a testament to your way of thinking. Do for yourself, provide for yourself. God isn't a slot machine that you pull on, and hit jackpot every time. That much is true."
She comes around through the soup kitchen line, coming near to me. She tenderly touches Johnny's face. "There is always free will. Those that preach their version of God as the be-all, end all of providence are misguided. Our Lord wants us to be our best selves, but that takes work. Long, hard, arduous work. And to that end, giving praise and thanks helps, but He does not simply give."
She straightened up, to look me in my eye. "Brother Kyle, you say that you don't believe. But trust me in this, God works through you. Even if ye don't agree with it. It was your questioning of your own station in life that led ye to buying a ticket as your out. But ye deccided to give it to someone else. Thus it was your charity, through your free will, that gave me this new lease on life. And I choose to use it to help these people. I've already begun using it to feed this group, and to finance housing and assistance for the people who need it the most. So ye see, you have opened new doors for myself, and people who don't have the advantages that we have."
She embraced me warmly. "Bless ye, son. Bless ye."
I feel my rage quelling down to a bitter, ashy taste in the back of my mouth, because it's hard to argue with that. As much as I want to.
"Will ye stay and break bread with us here, Kyle and son?" She said, her no longer madness shiny eyes beaming at us hopefully. "Have some of our delicious soup?"
Some time later, my son and I were eating steaming bowls of soup as we sat on the trunk of my car, parked on the side of the street. Well, I was, digging in to the soup with a leaden, disappointed glower. Johnny looked over at me with a new appreciation, the kind when a kid sees something in their parental figure that makes them look up to them that much more. "We did a good thing tonight, dad... it's just like mom said... God closed a door, but look at what he opened up..."
"Shut up and eat your soup, boy."
He still had a grin around his plastic spoon. We ate in silence. The soup kitchen, financed and run by the newly sane Moira, was humming with life across the street.
It was some time later, after we had set aside the stryofoam dishes, that Johnny pointed at the woman crying in her car. "Dad?" he said, with the instinct in his voice to go help her. I was getting fed up with this kid. "Should we go talk to her?"
I knew there wasn't much way we could get out of this since he had already seen her.
Dying a little bit inside, I knocked on her windshield. She looked up, startled. It was a familiar, pretty face I remembered with a scornful twinge as having seen her on Tuesday, holding a number 6 Powerball upside down. She looked ashamed to be caught crying in her car.
"Hi there. Me and my son noticed you over here, and I saw you were having a bad night... I just wanted to offer my assistance if you needed anything, uh..."
The blonde reporter sighed, sniffled, wiped her streaky makeup eyes. "Camille," she said simply, and she took my hand when I offered it. "Camille," I repeated back, trying to be charming instead of wanting to wring her neck.
"I - I came here for the story," the poor dumb girl stammered, "Get an interview with the lottery winner, I'm just, I'm in so much trouble at work, because of the st-stUpid Powerball mix up, so I just wanted to find a way to fix it..."
She began to cry again. I got down close to her, stroked her cheek, and she rested her forehead against mine and had a good cry. She melted into me as I leaned in to embrace her. And I sat there, half-in and half out of a car, hugging a crying girl in lowtown, and I thought to myself maybe there is something to this after all, that God may close one door, but open a window in response.
On a Friday, then...
A Friday night, specifically, after a day spent together getting high and talking, that in my bedroom, she moved against me, moaning lowly as she arched her back. I wrapped her hair in a fistful in my hand as she slapped her ample ass against my thighs, entering her, and our rigorous action and sweaty thrusting in time shaking my mattress and moving my bed, my nightstand, our entire world.
It was Saturday...
3 am Saturday morning, Camille was asleep, Johnny had finally turned off the tv playing Nickelodeon he had had on it's highest volume setting to drown out any noises he may have heard in dad's room. He was getting to be good at that.
And I was standing in front of the window, a sheet wrapped around my waist trailing from there, back to the bed, where a tuckered out blonde woman with a thick body was sprawled out.
And I felt it all click into place.
Everything I had been trying to say, from the apathy, to the anger, to the acceptance, clicked into a final and solid form. Everything Johnny had been trying to say, in his childish but wise way. Tell me all your thoughts on God, Dishwalla had said. In this moment of reflection the night truly began to come alive, and I felt excited. I moved back over to the bed, kissing the sleeping form on the neck, and felt her begin to squirm beneath me.
Sunday...
A very motivated and reinvigorated God of Game can be seen in the gym, running the ropes like a madman. He also seems to be practicing lines to put the puzzle pieces in his head and fit them in a sequential order, having come alive... and finally figuring out what he wants to say.
And so... here we are on Monday...
I sit in the designated promo room, game face on as I settle in front of the camera. Everything is honed, polished, and ready for presentation. There's no stuttering in a Halloween costume and losing my train of thought here. I have had all weekend of reflection and contemplation about opportunities taken and lost and given anew to get me here. And now, I stand, ready, open, like the fighter I am. Like the one taking instead of losing.
"Justin Stormm Michaels."
"You and I stand at the precipice of a unique opportunity here Stormmy. So I've already given Gabriel all my thoughts on God, and all my ideas re: the fact that he's a bunch of rubbish. And yet, both he and Seromine walked out on top at Deadly Intentions, stepping over you and me, both. That's not a good look for either of us, I'm afraid. For different reasons. Whereas I've been quietly building momentum for some time, getting quality wins like the Icemann Invititational Tournament this summer, or being the longest reigning Underground champion, or knocking off Gabriel for that belt in the first place, you and your man Johnny Vivacious hit the Rumble with impact. Your returns have made a big splash in my lake here, and a lot of ripples have still yet to reach the edge of the water. But it's clear, you have the weight of previous history here, while I'm still getting started. So for both of us to get knocked down by Gabriel and Seromine and lose out, is a travesty, for divergent reasons. For you, it means your return was for nothing. For me, it means that I lost everything, including the pride I had. Losing the North American title was bad, but if I lost that but stepped up and won number one contendership to the World title, I could still look at myself and be proud. I could still look at that as forward momentum. Because the North American title was never something I intended to hang on to for a record time anyway. It was a means to an end, a point to prove about my willingness to climb the ranks, to be a representative of achievement."
"I feel like that was stolen from me at Deadly Intentions. I dunno. What about you."
"But when one door closes, another door can be opened. But you can't wait for them to open up for you. You have to be prepared to kick the damn thing in sometimes. And it is with that in mind that we get here. Trauma 221. You versus me. Contendership for two titles on the line. Winner gets the World title. Loser gets a shot at the North American title."
"I don't know how you see it Stormm, but that second stipulation doesn't sit well with me. I know that I'm a creature of pride above all else. As a former North American champ, it feels a little like being given it as a consolation prize for not being the last man standing in our match weakens and ultimately cheapens the credibility of the North American belt... or certainly it makes it worse if I didn't win that but I did beat Gabriel. I do want to beat Gabriel. Because I know that I can. But more than that, I want, very much, to crush Serominism and their terrible, overexposed, overused, cliche cult into fucking powder."
"And I steadfastly refuse to be second place. To anyone."
"So they say God closes a window but opens a door. I'm telling you this right now. Because I don't believe in any god except for my own skill. I worship at the altar of nothing less than personal growth and progress, of levelling up through your own hard work. And you are not going to outwork me, Stormm. So it is with that said that the God that's in control of these doors is me. I'm going to kick down that fucking barrier in place that's keeping Seromine sitting pretty at the top of the card. I am going to slam a door, a window, a latch shut right in your face when I beat you, and I'm going to throw Seromine out of it. I am not going to be second place this time. And I am not trusting in fate to provide some cheap ending like I did at Deadly Intentions. This time I am going to be damned if I let Seromine's cult walk out with all the power like they did in those title matches and the Rumble. I am going in to Trauma and I am coming out the better man, having ultimately proven my point. That I am a God of ultimate achievement and greater skill. That my example paved the way for your comeback and my skill raised the bar that you need to work under now. I push the envelope every time I go out there. Because I am single handedly changing this game, because I'm a goddamn catalyst, a lightning rod of creation and innovation. You cannot dispute this."
"So I'm going to open the door my damn self. And I'm kicking all of you out of it."
"What I feel worst about is you, that you fought so hard in your comeback, you showed such skill and promise, and you are going to have to be the one in the end that takes the second best tag and claims the North American title match. Hell, hope it serves you better than it served me. Watch out for Gabriel's hand when he's reaching between your legs, can't trust those priest."
"But the lesson here, the final message, is this: your new beginning that came in the Rumble is coming to a grinding halt. That is my fucking word."
"Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end."
Satisfied, I shut the camcorder off, having finally put together everything I need to say. I exit promo room, shutting the door behind with finality.
