Post by Creed on Mar 19, 2016 7:29:32 GMT -5
“The flashing lights. The screaming crowd. The fleeting consciousness. The surging pain. Oh what a way to say goodbye.”
PGHW Night Of Pride,
Tokyo, Japan.
March 14, 2016
“There! Yes, there! Get him sat down!” An irate, small framed man with thinning brown hair, pin stripped suit and sunglasses perched on the end of his nose yelled and gestured as a referee and production assistant carried a semi conscious, shirtless man toward a bench. His head rolled on his shoulders and his long blond hair was matted and sticky with blood and sweat.
With considerable effort the two much smaller Japanese men dumped the blood soaked wrestler onto the bench and backed away as his body first convulsed and fell to his right where he lay on the bench before vomiting over himself and the locker room floor.
The suited American went immediately to his knees in the newly formed pool of sick to pry his client's eyes open one at a time, searching for a sign of life.
“What did you take?!” The little man demanded while checking his client's pupils and slapping him on the cheek to elicit a response “Damn you Cam, what did you take?!”
The superstar groaned incoherently and batted the smaller mans hand's from his face. A good sign. The manager turned sharply and hissed at the two men behind him who were still watching on.
“Don't just stand there! Get my car pulled up close; we're leaving!” Turning back to his client he lowered his voice and leaned closer. “Pull yourself together damn it, we gotta get out of here! If anybody see's you like this you can kiss that PCW contract goodbye!”
“S- Sorry Laz” Creed mumbled under his breath as 'Laz' helped him to sit upright once more.
“Me too, kid.” The manager pulls one arm up and over his shoulders before turning toward the one remaining official. He grunts under the strain of trying to help Creed alone and growls at the shocked referee “Well?! Help me dammit!”
Together the two men pull Camron Creed back to his feet and stumble and sway their way out of the locker room, down the corridor and toward the awaiting car.
Myrtle Beach, South Carolina
March 18th, 2016
“I knew before I even stepped foot in the ring that it was going to be a special night. In fact, from the moment I entered the building it felt as though I was walking on air. That night was special. Not just because I was going home straight after, but because without these fans I'd be a nothing, a nobody. Perhaps.. Perhaps that is why I did it...”
“When I came through the curtains, heart racing; adrenaline pumping through my body, I couldn't even see the edge of the stage. The lighting guy had a spotlight aimed right at my face. It didn't matter; I just didn't care. It was my last match in Japan and I planed to make it memorable. I rushed forward three steps instead of the usual five to avoid toppling from the platform, planted my feet and threw my hands out at my sides. The crowd cheered louder than ever before, amplifying the electricity in the air until every hair on my body was stood on end. I started down the ramp, slapping hands and using what little Japanese I know to thank the fans, even though I had no idea what they were saying to me. Once in no-man's land I decided to forgo my usual slide into the ring and lapped it instead, running around the ring making sure that every fan in the front row had their chance to shake my hand, slap my back or wish me luck.”
“Looking back, I guess I was already feeling the effects; but it was a comfortable feeling, like an old pair of shoes. I knew it and I wasn't worried. Finally I slid into the ring and popped to my feet. The music faded like it always does, but I could still hear the words...”
“You were singing them.”
A flash of anger passes over Creed's face and the briefest hint of inner darkness shows in his eyes at the interruption. He grimaces before continuing.
“I know. I've seen the tape. But at that moment it felt like something else; something different. Like the world was singing them to me, or through me, or something. It felt transcendent. When Kozue's music hit I hardly even heard it, and as he hurtled down that ramp and flipped up into the ring like he does I was somewhere else entirely. He drove me back into the ropes with a flurry of kicks and punches before whipping me across the ring like I was nothing. It was only when he hit me with that spinning wheel kick did I realize where I was and what was going on.”
Creed looked at the man sat across from him. His bald head and horn rimmed glasses seemed more like something out of a psychology textbook than an actual Doctor's office and Creed felt a fool lying on the plush leather sofa as though this were some kind of movie or television show. Sighing he sat up and shook his head.
“I'd like to say that I blacked out. That it was an out of body experience and wasn't me in the driving seat.. Anything to justify it really, to make it seem more forgivable; but that wasn't the case at all. I was there. It was all me. When I looked across the ring I saw someone trying to steal my glory, trying to hold me back, and I wanted to hurt him for that.”
“Are you telling me that you did it on purpose?” The Doctor asked peering over the top of his glasses. Creed shook his head.
“No. Well, not exactly. It isn't like I went out there with the express intention of hurting him or anything; and the fall really was an accident. I have my problems Doc, but I wouldn't risk hurting myself like that just to take a guy out. But, yeah... I wanted to hurt him. In that moment, I really wanted to cause him pain.”
“You say you wouldn't risk hurting yourself, but by your own admission you took a near lethal cocktail of alcohol and painkillers before heading toward the ring. What is that, if not a blatant disregard for one's own safety?”
“A lapse of judgment(?)” Creed shot the response back meaning it as a confident statement but having it sound more like a question with the doubt-filled inflection in his voice. The Doctors disapproval was evident so Creed quickly continued before he could be scolded again. “The drink really isn't anything unusual so I didn't pay that much attention. The past few weeks I've been feeling a little sore.. nothing major. Well.... nothing that would warrant time off at least. I just wanted to give it my all. To say thanks. So I took a few pills and...”
“Eight.” The Doctor interjects. “The remnants of at least eight pills were found on the floor of your locker room where you had vomited. That suggests to me you took at least twice that many, but I'll give you the benefit of the doubt there and just call it eight. Either way Mr. Creed, eight pills is considerably more than 'a few' wouldn't you say?”
“I guess, but I don't count real good when I'm high.” Creed replied with a cocky grin trying to diffuse the situation. The Doctor grunted but his face remained statuesque and emotionless. Creed sighed and looked at his watch.
“According to your medical report” the Doctor continued, reaching over and taking an open file from his desk “You show the signs of someone in withdrawal; although I hardly needed blood results to tell me that, it is evident by looking at you. However, they were handy for telling me the alcohol content of your blood today, meaning you aren't suffering from alcohol withdrawal. This tells me your relationship to painkillers is considerably more desperate than you yourself are willing to admit.”
“humph” Creed grunts and quietly replies. “Maybe I've been sore for more than just a few weeks.”
“So you admit you've been taking them more than occasionally?” the Doctor asks before scribbling something on his notes.
“Yeah. Sure.” Creed hangs his head, unable to meet the Doctors gaze. “But it isn't a problem. I'm not addicted or anything. I'm just... ya know.” Creed silently ends the sentence with the shrug of one shoulder.
“Sore?” The Doctor asks, picking up where Creed had trailed off.
“Exactly.” Creed sighed again “This isn't going well, is it?”
“How do you mean?” the Doctor asks as he shuffles his notes.
“I mean, you're going to sit there taking notes, nodding your head and watching as I dig my grave deeper and deeper. Then, when I'm done and there's nothing more to tell, then you're going to let me leave the room, contact PCW management and tell them I'm unfit for active competition, aren’t you?”
“Would that be the worst thing in the world, Mr. Creed?”
“Would it b-” Suddenly animated, Creed leaps to his feet irate. “Of course it would! I've worked toward this for YEARS! A black ball now would end my career!”
“I think you're being overly dramatic. We're not talking about striking you off indefinitely, merely a prolonged sabbatical. Time off to rest and heal. Overcome your demons. Come back renewed and healthy.”
“Ha!” Creed scoffed. “You do this work, but you're not a Professional Wrestling fan, are ya Doc?”
“Well, Um.” the Doctor squirmed awkwardly in his seat, uncomfortable at being questioned by the man stood before him. “No, Mr. Creed. I cant say that I am.”
“Then I am guessing you didn't watch Mass Destruction last night.” Creed waves his hand dismissively. “Don't answer, I get it. Well then, let me enlighten you and tell you something about the wrestling world, Doc. In that ring, indifference is the kiss of death. If they hated my guts and were glad to see the back of me, I could demand a pay rise after the suspension and you can be damn sure management would give me it. Same deal if they love me and chant my name every day that I'm gone. But when I made my debut last night and almost nobody there knew who the hell I was, it was pretty much the worst reception I could have got. So yeah, if I'm signed off television now, while the crowd are so blasé toward me, that's it. I'm done.”
Creed laughs through his nose in utter disbelief at the Doctor's lack of understanding.
“And to make matters worse, I'm debuting at a time when the company is on a hiring spree. Did you see how many new faces were at the show?! And still more are coming... If I disappear now, the past three years are flushed down the drain.” Creed sighs in frustration and drops back into his seat. “Just look at my first match as the perfect example! A triple threat match against Brenna Gordon and Kent Paris!”
“I see.” the Doctor replies matter-of-factly, prompting Creed to continue as he takes his notes.
“A match with two other unknowns. Not even any tapes in the PCW library for me to review. The one advantage you have going into a debut match is that your opponent doesn't know who you are or what you're capable of... For us all to be going in blind means that nobody has that advantage. This match is a huge gamble with very little actual pay off.”
“And you consider that to be a bad thing?” the Doctor asks earnestly.
Creed looks dumb struck.
“Doc, let me explain something to you; there is nothing more disruptive to a wrestlers momentum than a debut loss, everyone knows that. So being put in a match with two other newcomers, a match that nobody is going to want to lose.. Yea, that's a bad thing.” Creed sighs “Add to that that none of us have a reputation worth a damn and that means that even winning doesn't actually bag you damn thing.”
The Doctor sits quietly for a moment or two, his legs crossed with one ankle resting on his knee and his eyes carefully studying his patient. Finally he speaks.
“Mr. Creed, have you ever considered that you may not be particularly well suited to the wrestling industry?” the Doctors question is abrupt and clearly unexpected as a look of shock washes over Creed's face.
“What are you talking about?!” Creed asks aghast “I am pound-for-pound one of the top technical wrestlers in the world!”
“Oh, I know that physically speaking you are an amazing performer and that your amateur record is exemplary.” the Doctor shuffles his notes and scans his eyes over another page. “However, with your addictive personality, your competitive nature and determination, I cant help but draw parallels to other greats and wonder if yours isn't a path of self destruction.”
Creed sat slack jawed and speechless for several moments, unable to find the correct words to form a reply.
“Please don't take that as a personal attack Mr. Creed, because it isn't one. My job is to ascertain your suitability on a mental and physical level for active competition in PCW; but as a medical professional I feel it is my duty to your health and well being to offer this advice.”
“And that is based on your professional opinion?” Creed asks, breaking his silence at last.
“That is correct.” the Doctor nods his head in firm agreement.
“An opinion that I didn't want, or ask for.” Creed responded in a cold emotionless tone, shifting the discomfort back on the Doctor.
“Please, forgive me if I spoke out of turn.” the Doctor says composing himself and returning to a more professional manner immediately. “If you don't mind, I'd very much like to talk about your last PGHW opponent, Kozue Kawashima. How do you feel about the injuries he sustained during your match with him?”
“Injuries?” Creed shrugs his shoulders, but cannot hide the doubtful look on his face. “It's part and parcel with what we do. Everyone knows the risks when they step through those ropes.”
“But not everyone has to face an inebriated opponent.” the Doctor replies in a curt tone.
“What are you getting at?” Creed snaps back.
“I am simply trying to ascertain how you feel given the outcome of the match and the fact your opponent suffered a broken neck due to your actions. I've been told there are questions as to weather or not he will ever wrestle again. Some even say he could have died. There aren't many people in this world who can experience something like that and feel no remorse in the aftermath.” the Doctor uncrosses his legs and leans slightly forward in his seat to better measure the body language of his patient. “In short, Mr. Creed.. I want to know if you regret your actions? Was it worth it?”
“Remorse?” Creed angrily jumps back to his feet. “You ever heard the phrase 'accident's happen'? I went to hit my finisher and it went wrong. I fell; he followed. Is it my fault that he landed awkwardly? I could have broken my neck just as easily you know!”
Creed checks his watch and starts pacing anxiously up and down in front of the sofa.
“Fact of the matter is this, Kozue knew the risks. Sure, it sucks that he got hurt, but it could have just as easily been me. Does that mean I should pay with my livelihood? Spend the rest of my life groveling for forgiveness? I made a mistake; I had a small drink to celebrate my last night there and took a couple painkillers to help me put on a good show. I didn't know what was going to happen, did I?! Not like I did it intentionally.”
“Did he accept your apology?” the Doctor's question is squeezed in the moment Creed stops ranting and it causes him to stop in his tracks and stare at the Doctor dumbfounded.
“What?!” Creed questions, completely stumped.
“Mr. Kawashima.” the Doctor adds, leaning back in his chair and again crossing one leg over the other to easier scribble something in his notepad. “You said 'should I spend the rest of my life groveling for forgiveness' implying that you apologized to him. I was wondering if he had accepted it, or not?”
“What does that matter?” Creed's response was brash, but his cheeks flushed slightly.
“Clearly it matter's Mr. Creed. You are very obviously upset by this subject and so I am wondering if perhaps a refusal to accept your apology is the route of this particular raw nerve?”
“No.” Creed answered and checked his watch again before sitting down with a sigh.
“He refused to forgive you?” the Doctor's question was accompanied by a raise of his eyebrows, indicating his genuine interest in this route of questioning.
“No, I -” Creed hesitates and hangs his head “I... I haven’t talked with him - yet.”
“I see.” Again the doctor scribbles something in his book. “Then perhaps, Mr. Creed, the reason this subject elicits such an aggressive response from you, is guilt. Guilt not only of the situation, but of the fact you have made no effort to make amends.”
Subjugated, defeated, Creed shakes his head, still unable to look at the Doctor.
“I... I'd really rather talk about something else if you wouldn't mind Doc.” Creed asks in a docile, deflated and defeated tone.
“Very well.” the Doctor replies with a nod of his head. “Let's get back to the match, shall we?”
“What about it?”
“Before we went off on this tangent, you expressed a worry or fear of losing your debut match and falling victim to an indifferent, blasé crowd. Why do you think you are going to lose?”
“I don't.” Creed responds quickly. “I was simply acknowledging how dangerous an unknown quantity can be.”
“I see.” the Doctor straightens himself up in his chair and fixes his gaze on Creed. “You'll have to forgive me if this is a ridiculous question; I am not a wrestling fan as we have already established, but surely every match has that same element to it. Winner take all, nobody wanting to lose.. the uncertainty of who your opponent is and what he is capable of. So tell me, Mr. Creed.. What makes this match so different? Why would it hinder you so badly if I were to recommend your debut be delayed several weeks.”
“Because, Doc, my name is already out there. After my unscheduled appearance at Mass Destruction they're all expecting me to be there. If I'm not.. If I crawl away with my tail between my legs and allow someone else to make a splash, to take my spotlight, I'll be completely forgotten about...” Creed sighs and shakes his head “..Or worse, I'll be a laughing stock.”
“You really care about what others think about you, don't you Mr. Creed?” the Doctor asks with genuine interest
“Not particularly.” Creed answers with a smirk. “I know who I am and what I am capable of. But I also know how much damage can be caused by the crowd forgetting who you are, or by management not being on your side.”
“I find it very difficult to read you Mr. Creed.” The Doctor studies Creed for several moments. A few moments ago he was vulnerable and stripped bare, then from nowhere there was a confident smirk and a burst of confidence that seemed both in-genuine and out of place. The Doctor made another note in his book. “There are times when I see doubt in your eyes that makes me wonder if you are seriously in need of my help and then you say something like that and I honestly believe you to be one of the most condescending narcissists I have ever met.”
“Gee Doc, don't spare my feelings now, will ya?” Creed answers with a chuckle, deflecting the seriousness of the Doctor's comment.
“I don't believe there is any worry about my hurting your feeling's, Mr. Creed.” the Doctor writes one last thing in his notepad before flipping the cover closed and removing his glasses. He folds the arms closed, holds them in his hands and crosses one leg over the other, his hands resting gently in his lap. “You do know that I cant possibly clear you to compete, don’t you Mr. Creed?”
Creed takes several moments to examine the Doctor and measure his response. Finally, he smirks.
“Honestly, I'm not too concerned about that Doc.” Camron answers as he checks his watch again.
“and what do you mean by that?”
“Do you have the correct time?” Creed asks suddenly, ignoring the Doctor's question completely.
“Just coming up to half pas-”
The intercom suddenly beeps to life, startling the Doctor.
“Doctor Bass? Sorry to interrupt you, Sir.”
“Julie, I told you no calls when I am with a patient.”
“I know, Sir, but they were... very insistent.”
The Doctor looks at Creed suspiciously. He nods his head at the phone and whispers. “It's Ok, I'll wait.”
Reluctantly, the Doctor lifts the receiver up off of his desk, hits a button and presses the phone to his ear.
“Hello, this is Doctor Bass. I'm afraid this isn't a good ti-” Bass is suddenly silenced by something said over the phone. At first he seems almost pleasantly surprised, but slowly the color begins to drain from his face. Trying to look cool and collected, Creed leans back in his seat and watches as the Doctor's demeanor slowly changes and he looks progressively more uncomfortable. Finally the Doctor shoots a scolded look across the room at Creed before gritting his teeth and nodding his head. “I understand.”
Creed shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He knew the call was coming, and what the aim of it was, but he had no idea what the Doctor was currently being told, so he just sat there and tried to look like he knew what was going on. The Doctor nodded again.
“Ok. I see. Yes. fine.” Dr. Bass placed the phone back down, ending the call and lowered his eyes. For the next few moments he remained motionless and silent before finally picking Creed's medical documents and his own notes up off of the desk. He quickly scanned over them with his eyes.
“Do you know what that was about?” the Doctor asked, looking at Creed for the first time.
“I have some idea.” Creed hoped the half truth was convincing. The Doctor hesitated, nodded and climbed to his feet.
“I hope you know what you're doing Mr. Creed. It's a dangerous game you play. These procedures are in place for the betterment of everyone.. Circumventing them is an unwise move.”
“Thanks for your concern, Doc. But I know what I'm doing.” Creed answers more confidently than he felt, flashing the cocky grin of his just to be sure.
“Very well.” the Doctor said with one final nod of his head before walking behind his desk and feeding the entire wad of paper into a shredder. “I'll inform PCW management that you passed these tests with flying colors. Now, I'd thank you to leave my office; I have some personal calls to make.”
“Sure.” Creed said as he climbed to his feet and offered his hand. “I'm sorry it had to go like this Doc.”
Dr. Bass ignored the offer and instead gestured toward the door. “Just go.”
Creed nodded his head and pulled the door open. He paused and looked back into the room as the Doctor sat defeated behind his desk.
“Before I go..” Creed calls from the doorway, hesitant and clearly feeling guilty for the sight before him “earlier, you asked if I regret my actions.. if it was worth it.. I honestly don’t think you can understand unless you've been there, but... The flashing lights. The screaming crowd. The fleeting consciousness. The surging pain.” Creed smiles and a wistful look fills his eyes “Oh what a way to say goodbye.”
Creed turns and leaves, pulling the door closed behind him, leaving the Doctor to contemplate all that just happened.
PGHW Night Of Pride,
Tokyo, Japan.
March 14, 2016
“There! Yes, there! Get him sat down!” An irate, small framed man with thinning brown hair, pin stripped suit and sunglasses perched on the end of his nose yelled and gestured as a referee and production assistant carried a semi conscious, shirtless man toward a bench. His head rolled on his shoulders and his long blond hair was matted and sticky with blood and sweat.
With considerable effort the two much smaller Japanese men dumped the blood soaked wrestler onto the bench and backed away as his body first convulsed and fell to his right where he lay on the bench before vomiting over himself and the locker room floor.
The suited American went immediately to his knees in the newly formed pool of sick to pry his client's eyes open one at a time, searching for a sign of life.
“What did you take?!” The little man demanded while checking his client's pupils and slapping him on the cheek to elicit a response “Damn you Cam, what did you take?!”
The superstar groaned incoherently and batted the smaller mans hand's from his face. A good sign. The manager turned sharply and hissed at the two men behind him who were still watching on.
“Don't just stand there! Get my car pulled up close; we're leaving!” Turning back to his client he lowered his voice and leaned closer. “Pull yourself together damn it, we gotta get out of here! If anybody see's you like this you can kiss that PCW contract goodbye!”
“S- Sorry Laz” Creed mumbled under his breath as 'Laz' helped him to sit upright once more.
“Me too, kid.” The manager pulls one arm up and over his shoulders before turning toward the one remaining official. He grunts under the strain of trying to help Creed alone and growls at the shocked referee “Well?! Help me dammit!”
Together the two men pull Camron Creed back to his feet and stumble and sway their way out of the locker room, down the corridor and toward the awaiting car.
Myrtle Beach, South Carolina
March 18th, 2016
“I knew before I even stepped foot in the ring that it was going to be a special night. In fact, from the moment I entered the building it felt as though I was walking on air. That night was special. Not just because I was going home straight after, but because without these fans I'd be a nothing, a nobody. Perhaps.. Perhaps that is why I did it...”
“When I came through the curtains, heart racing; adrenaline pumping through my body, I couldn't even see the edge of the stage. The lighting guy had a spotlight aimed right at my face. It didn't matter; I just didn't care. It was my last match in Japan and I planed to make it memorable. I rushed forward three steps instead of the usual five to avoid toppling from the platform, planted my feet and threw my hands out at my sides. The crowd cheered louder than ever before, amplifying the electricity in the air until every hair on my body was stood on end. I started down the ramp, slapping hands and using what little Japanese I know to thank the fans, even though I had no idea what they were saying to me. Once in no-man's land I decided to forgo my usual slide into the ring and lapped it instead, running around the ring making sure that every fan in the front row had their chance to shake my hand, slap my back or wish me luck.”
“Looking back, I guess I was already feeling the effects; but it was a comfortable feeling, like an old pair of shoes. I knew it and I wasn't worried. Finally I slid into the ring and popped to my feet. The music faded like it always does, but I could still hear the words...”
“You were singing them.”
A flash of anger passes over Creed's face and the briefest hint of inner darkness shows in his eyes at the interruption. He grimaces before continuing.
“I know. I've seen the tape. But at that moment it felt like something else; something different. Like the world was singing them to me, or through me, or something. It felt transcendent. When Kozue's music hit I hardly even heard it, and as he hurtled down that ramp and flipped up into the ring like he does I was somewhere else entirely. He drove me back into the ropes with a flurry of kicks and punches before whipping me across the ring like I was nothing. It was only when he hit me with that spinning wheel kick did I realize where I was and what was going on.”
Creed looked at the man sat across from him. His bald head and horn rimmed glasses seemed more like something out of a psychology textbook than an actual Doctor's office and Creed felt a fool lying on the plush leather sofa as though this were some kind of movie or television show. Sighing he sat up and shook his head.
“I'd like to say that I blacked out. That it was an out of body experience and wasn't me in the driving seat.. Anything to justify it really, to make it seem more forgivable; but that wasn't the case at all. I was there. It was all me. When I looked across the ring I saw someone trying to steal my glory, trying to hold me back, and I wanted to hurt him for that.”
“Are you telling me that you did it on purpose?” The Doctor asked peering over the top of his glasses. Creed shook his head.
“No. Well, not exactly. It isn't like I went out there with the express intention of hurting him or anything; and the fall really was an accident. I have my problems Doc, but I wouldn't risk hurting myself like that just to take a guy out. But, yeah... I wanted to hurt him. In that moment, I really wanted to cause him pain.”
“You say you wouldn't risk hurting yourself, but by your own admission you took a near lethal cocktail of alcohol and painkillers before heading toward the ring. What is that, if not a blatant disregard for one's own safety?”
“A lapse of judgment(?)” Creed shot the response back meaning it as a confident statement but having it sound more like a question with the doubt-filled inflection in his voice. The Doctors disapproval was evident so Creed quickly continued before he could be scolded again. “The drink really isn't anything unusual so I didn't pay that much attention. The past few weeks I've been feeling a little sore.. nothing major. Well.... nothing that would warrant time off at least. I just wanted to give it my all. To say thanks. So I took a few pills and...”
“Eight.” The Doctor interjects. “The remnants of at least eight pills were found on the floor of your locker room where you had vomited. That suggests to me you took at least twice that many, but I'll give you the benefit of the doubt there and just call it eight. Either way Mr. Creed, eight pills is considerably more than 'a few' wouldn't you say?”
“I guess, but I don't count real good when I'm high.” Creed replied with a cocky grin trying to diffuse the situation. The Doctor grunted but his face remained statuesque and emotionless. Creed sighed and looked at his watch.
“According to your medical report” the Doctor continued, reaching over and taking an open file from his desk “You show the signs of someone in withdrawal; although I hardly needed blood results to tell me that, it is evident by looking at you. However, they were handy for telling me the alcohol content of your blood today, meaning you aren't suffering from alcohol withdrawal. This tells me your relationship to painkillers is considerably more desperate than you yourself are willing to admit.”
“humph” Creed grunts and quietly replies. “Maybe I've been sore for more than just a few weeks.”
“So you admit you've been taking them more than occasionally?” the Doctor asks before scribbling something on his notes.
“Yeah. Sure.” Creed hangs his head, unable to meet the Doctors gaze. “But it isn't a problem. I'm not addicted or anything. I'm just... ya know.” Creed silently ends the sentence with the shrug of one shoulder.
“Sore?” The Doctor asks, picking up where Creed had trailed off.
“Exactly.” Creed sighed again “This isn't going well, is it?”
“How do you mean?” the Doctor asks as he shuffles his notes.
“I mean, you're going to sit there taking notes, nodding your head and watching as I dig my grave deeper and deeper. Then, when I'm done and there's nothing more to tell, then you're going to let me leave the room, contact PCW management and tell them I'm unfit for active competition, aren’t you?”
“Would that be the worst thing in the world, Mr. Creed?”
“Would it b-” Suddenly animated, Creed leaps to his feet irate. “Of course it would! I've worked toward this for YEARS! A black ball now would end my career!”
“I think you're being overly dramatic. We're not talking about striking you off indefinitely, merely a prolonged sabbatical. Time off to rest and heal. Overcome your demons. Come back renewed and healthy.”
“Ha!” Creed scoffed. “You do this work, but you're not a Professional Wrestling fan, are ya Doc?”
“Well, Um.” the Doctor squirmed awkwardly in his seat, uncomfortable at being questioned by the man stood before him. “No, Mr. Creed. I cant say that I am.”
“Then I am guessing you didn't watch Mass Destruction last night.” Creed waves his hand dismissively. “Don't answer, I get it. Well then, let me enlighten you and tell you something about the wrestling world, Doc. In that ring, indifference is the kiss of death. If they hated my guts and were glad to see the back of me, I could demand a pay rise after the suspension and you can be damn sure management would give me it. Same deal if they love me and chant my name every day that I'm gone. But when I made my debut last night and almost nobody there knew who the hell I was, it was pretty much the worst reception I could have got. So yeah, if I'm signed off television now, while the crowd are so blasé toward me, that's it. I'm done.”
Creed laughs through his nose in utter disbelief at the Doctor's lack of understanding.
“And to make matters worse, I'm debuting at a time when the company is on a hiring spree. Did you see how many new faces were at the show?! And still more are coming... If I disappear now, the past three years are flushed down the drain.” Creed sighs in frustration and drops back into his seat. “Just look at my first match as the perfect example! A triple threat match against Brenna Gordon and Kent Paris!”
“I see.” the Doctor replies matter-of-factly, prompting Creed to continue as he takes his notes.
“A match with two other unknowns. Not even any tapes in the PCW library for me to review. The one advantage you have going into a debut match is that your opponent doesn't know who you are or what you're capable of... For us all to be going in blind means that nobody has that advantage. This match is a huge gamble with very little actual pay off.”
“And you consider that to be a bad thing?” the Doctor asks earnestly.
Creed looks dumb struck.
“Doc, let me explain something to you; there is nothing more disruptive to a wrestlers momentum than a debut loss, everyone knows that. So being put in a match with two other newcomers, a match that nobody is going to want to lose.. Yea, that's a bad thing.” Creed sighs “Add to that that none of us have a reputation worth a damn and that means that even winning doesn't actually bag you damn thing.”
The Doctor sits quietly for a moment or two, his legs crossed with one ankle resting on his knee and his eyes carefully studying his patient. Finally he speaks.
“Mr. Creed, have you ever considered that you may not be particularly well suited to the wrestling industry?” the Doctors question is abrupt and clearly unexpected as a look of shock washes over Creed's face.
“What are you talking about?!” Creed asks aghast “I am pound-for-pound one of the top technical wrestlers in the world!”
“Oh, I know that physically speaking you are an amazing performer and that your amateur record is exemplary.” the Doctor shuffles his notes and scans his eyes over another page. “However, with your addictive personality, your competitive nature and determination, I cant help but draw parallels to other greats and wonder if yours isn't a path of self destruction.”
Creed sat slack jawed and speechless for several moments, unable to find the correct words to form a reply.
“Please don't take that as a personal attack Mr. Creed, because it isn't one. My job is to ascertain your suitability on a mental and physical level for active competition in PCW; but as a medical professional I feel it is my duty to your health and well being to offer this advice.”
“And that is based on your professional opinion?” Creed asks, breaking his silence at last.
“That is correct.” the Doctor nods his head in firm agreement.
“An opinion that I didn't want, or ask for.” Creed responded in a cold emotionless tone, shifting the discomfort back on the Doctor.
“Please, forgive me if I spoke out of turn.” the Doctor says composing himself and returning to a more professional manner immediately. “If you don't mind, I'd very much like to talk about your last PGHW opponent, Kozue Kawashima. How do you feel about the injuries he sustained during your match with him?”
“Injuries?” Creed shrugs his shoulders, but cannot hide the doubtful look on his face. “It's part and parcel with what we do. Everyone knows the risks when they step through those ropes.”
“But not everyone has to face an inebriated opponent.” the Doctor replies in a curt tone.
“What are you getting at?” Creed snaps back.
“I am simply trying to ascertain how you feel given the outcome of the match and the fact your opponent suffered a broken neck due to your actions. I've been told there are questions as to weather or not he will ever wrestle again. Some even say he could have died. There aren't many people in this world who can experience something like that and feel no remorse in the aftermath.” the Doctor uncrosses his legs and leans slightly forward in his seat to better measure the body language of his patient. “In short, Mr. Creed.. I want to know if you regret your actions? Was it worth it?”
“Remorse?” Creed angrily jumps back to his feet. “You ever heard the phrase 'accident's happen'? I went to hit my finisher and it went wrong. I fell; he followed. Is it my fault that he landed awkwardly? I could have broken my neck just as easily you know!”
Creed checks his watch and starts pacing anxiously up and down in front of the sofa.
“Fact of the matter is this, Kozue knew the risks. Sure, it sucks that he got hurt, but it could have just as easily been me. Does that mean I should pay with my livelihood? Spend the rest of my life groveling for forgiveness? I made a mistake; I had a small drink to celebrate my last night there and took a couple painkillers to help me put on a good show. I didn't know what was going to happen, did I?! Not like I did it intentionally.”
“Did he accept your apology?” the Doctor's question is squeezed in the moment Creed stops ranting and it causes him to stop in his tracks and stare at the Doctor dumbfounded.
“What?!” Creed questions, completely stumped.
“Mr. Kawashima.” the Doctor adds, leaning back in his chair and again crossing one leg over the other to easier scribble something in his notepad. “You said 'should I spend the rest of my life groveling for forgiveness' implying that you apologized to him. I was wondering if he had accepted it, or not?”
“What does that matter?” Creed's response was brash, but his cheeks flushed slightly.
“Clearly it matter's Mr. Creed. You are very obviously upset by this subject and so I am wondering if perhaps a refusal to accept your apology is the route of this particular raw nerve?”
“No.” Creed answered and checked his watch again before sitting down with a sigh.
“He refused to forgive you?” the Doctor's question was accompanied by a raise of his eyebrows, indicating his genuine interest in this route of questioning.
“No, I -” Creed hesitates and hangs his head “I... I haven’t talked with him - yet.”
“I see.” Again the doctor scribbles something in his book. “Then perhaps, Mr. Creed, the reason this subject elicits such an aggressive response from you, is guilt. Guilt not only of the situation, but of the fact you have made no effort to make amends.”
Subjugated, defeated, Creed shakes his head, still unable to look at the Doctor.
“I... I'd really rather talk about something else if you wouldn't mind Doc.” Creed asks in a docile, deflated and defeated tone.
“Very well.” the Doctor replies with a nod of his head. “Let's get back to the match, shall we?”
“What about it?”
“Before we went off on this tangent, you expressed a worry or fear of losing your debut match and falling victim to an indifferent, blasé crowd. Why do you think you are going to lose?”
“I don't.” Creed responds quickly. “I was simply acknowledging how dangerous an unknown quantity can be.”
“I see.” the Doctor straightens himself up in his chair and fixes his gaze on Creed. “You'll have to forgive me if this is a ridiculous question; I am not a wrestling fan as we have already established, but surely every match has that same element to it. Winner take all, nobody wanting to lose.. the uncertainty of who your opponent is and what he is capable of. So tell me, Mr. Creed.. What makes this match so different? Why would it hinder you so badly if I were to recommend your debut be delayed several weeks.”
“Because, Doc, my name is already out there. After my unscheduled appearance at Mass Destruction they're all expecting me to be there. If I'm not.. If I crawl away with my tail between my legs and allow someone else to make a splash, to take my spotlight, I'll be completely forgotten about...” Creed sighs and shakes his head “..Or worse, I'll be a laughing stock.”
“You really care about what others think about you, don't you Mr. Creed?” the Doctor asks with genuine interest
“Not particularly.” Creed answers with a smirk. “I know who I am and what I am capable of. But I also know how much damage can be caused by the crowd forgetting who you are, or by management not being on your side.”
“I find it very difficult to read you Mr. Creed.” The Doctor studies Creed for several moments. A few moments ago he was vulnerable and stripped bare, then from nowhere there was a confident smirk and a burst of confidence that seemed both in-genuine and out of place. The Doctor made another note in his book. “There are times when I see doubt in your eyes that makes me wonder if you are seriously in need of my help and then you say something like that and I honestly believe you to be one of the most condescending narcissists I have ever met.”
“Gee Doc, don't spare my feelings now, will ya?” Creed answers with a chuckle, deflecting the seriousness of the Doctor's comment.
“I don't believe there is any worry about my hurting your feeling's, Mr. Creed.” the Doctor writes one last thing in his notepad before flipping the cover closed and removing his glasses. He folds the arms closed, holds them in his hands and crosses one leg over the other, his hands resting gently in his lap. “You do know that I cant possibly clear you to compete, don’t you Mr. Creed?”
Creed takes several moments to examine the Doctor and measure his response. Finally, he smirks.
“Honestly, I'm not too concerned about that Doc.” Camron answers as he checks his watch again.
“and what do you mean by that?”
“Do you have the correct time?” Creed asks suddenly, ignoring the Doctor's question completely.
“Just coming up to half pas-”
The intercom suddenly beeps to life, startling the Doctor.
“Doctor Bass? Sorry to interrupt you, Sir.”
“Julie, I told you no calls when I am with a patient.”
“I know, Sir, but they were... very insistent.”
The Doctor looks at Creed suspiciously. He nods his head at the phone and whispers. “It's Ok, I'll wait.”
Reluctantly, the Doctor lifts the receiver up off of his desk, hits a button and presses the phone to his ear.
“Hello, this is Doctor Bass. I'm afraid this isn't a good ti-” Bass is suddenly silenced by something said over the phone. At first he seems almost pleasantly surprised, but slowly the color begins to drain from his face. Trying to look cool and collected, Creed leans back in his seat and watches as the Doctor's demeanor slowly changes and he looks progressively more uncomfortable. Finally the Doctor shoots a scolded look across the room at Creed before gritting his teeth and nodding his head. “I understand.”
Creed shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He knew the call was coming, and what the aim of it was, but he had no idea what the Doctor was currently being told, so he just sat there and tried to look like he knew what was going on. The Doctor nodded again.
“Ok. I see. Yes. fine.” Dr. Bass placed the phone back down, ending the call and lowered his eyes. For the next few moments he remained motionless and silent before finally picking Creed's medical documents and his own notes up off of the desk. He quickly scanned over them with his eyes.
“Do you know what that was about?” the Doctor asked, looking at Creed for the first time.
“I have some idea.” Creed hoped the half truth was convincing. The Doctor hesitated, nodded and climbed to his feet.
“I hope you know what you're doing Mr. Creed. It's a dangerous game you play. These procedures are in place for the betterment of everyone.. Circumventing them is an unwise move.”
“Thanks for your concern, Doc. But I know what I'm doing.” Creed answers more confidently than he felt, flashing the cocky grin of his just to be sure.
“Very well.” the Doctor said with one final nod of his head before walking behind his desk and feeding the entire wad of paper into a shredder. “I'll inform PCW management that you passed these tests with flying colors. Now, I'd thank you to leave my office; I have some personal calls to make.”
“Sure.” Creed said as he climbed to his feet and offered his hand. “I'm sorry it had to go like this Doc.”
Dr. Bass ignored the offer and instead gestured toward the door. “Just go.”
Creed nodded his head and pulled the door open. He paused and looked back into the room as the Doctor sat defeated behind his desk.
“Before I go..” Creed calls from the doorway, hesitant and clearly feeling guilty for the sight before him “earlier, you asked if I regret my actions.. if it was worth it.. I honestly don’t think you can understand unless you've been there, but... The flashing lights. The screaming crowd. The fleeting consciousness. The surging pain.” Creed smiles and a wistful look fills his eyes “Oh what a way to say goodbye.”
Creed turns and leaves, pulling the door closed behind him, leaving the Doctor to contemplate all that just happened.
