The Worth of a Life vs The Worth of a Purse

["The Asshole" Whitey Ford]

Cold water was rushing in all around him and there was nothing he could do about it. The steering wheel had been pushed against his left thigh painfully the second of impact, pinning him against his seat. Even if he WASN'T focusing on not panicking over the possibility of drowning, thinking clearly wasn't an option anyways. Whitey had struck his head against the drivers side window hard enough to render him nearly unconcious. "What the fuck..." The impact had jarred his memory too, and he couldn't quite remember how he landed in the body of water. "Gotta get out..."

Pushing against the steering wheel with both arms and with his leg planted on the floorboard of the Impala, Ford tried to force his leg free to no avail, other than sending a sharp pain jolting up his thigh and into his hip. The pain was enough to put him out, darkness washing over him just like the water, which was already up to his waist.

"I don't care what you say, you bloody idiot, that win was a good thing. A win over Grimm is ALWAYS a good thing."

MJW was always chastising him about something, it seemed, especially after his decision to play it straight and follow the rules in PCW. Granted, his return had been less than what he had hoped for, so the old Brit might actually be right. Whitey had not been beaten, that was true; but none of his wins were exactly picture perfect either. But despite not seeing eye to eye in the recent month, they took the bi-weekly trip to Maine together this time. "You're lucky you didn't get yourself fucking killed, mate! Bashing your head through a car window a day before your match?!" Windsor continued. "You should have let the dumb broad lose her purse and be done with it, ESPECIALLY with what she was saying to you."

"What she said to me is WHY I got the purse back. People don't believe in me, Mike." Whitey rested his wrist loosely on the steering wheel of a dirty white Chevy Impala. He had borrowed the jalopy from a friend in hopes that his manager would balk at the idea of riding in anything other than a limo, but his plan hadn't worked, and the stalwart MJW insisted on staying at Whitey's side to keep him in line. "She knew me from USCW, AWA...she knew who I used to be, and she didn't believe that I could save PCW...y'know, to get it back to being the best of the best."

"Who can blame her? You're an asshole, not a savior."

Ford shook his head in silent anger, so focused on what his response could be that he almost ran a red light. Hitting the breaks just hard enough to jerk to a stop, Whitey held up a hand to quiet the inevitable protest about his driving. "When have I never kept my word? I may have done things in some...unconventional ways, but I did what I fucking said I was going to do. Even when I left, I told the world it would take the entire roster to take me down and lo and fucking behold, it did."

Windsor scoffed, obviously unimpressed. "Right, mate. Just drop the act, right? You haven't won clean since you returned. I'm not buying it. Let's just focus on winning matches and getting you your World Title back."

Something violently woke him, but his head was still swimming and he couldn't figure out what it was. A voice, yelling from somewhere...distant? Near? Whitey couldn't tell. All he knew is that his leg was stuck and his car was continuing to take on water at an alarming rate. The nose end seemed to be seeking first, and if he inclined his head upwards he could see the shoreline and what appeared to be houses. "Think, you stupid fucking...Windsor! I'm stuck! I--"

It was at that moment he realized Windor was no longer in the car. A wave of panic hit him, colder than the February water in Maine. The details of how he got into his situation were still mostly evading him. Had MJW been thrown from the car? Had he been in the car?

Where was he?

A lightbulb clicked on in Whitey's head, and he reached his hand down into the icy water, trying to find the lever to slide his drivers seat back to alleviate the pressure on his leg and to escape his watery tomb. His hand fumbled and floundered and he cursed and swore, but his fingers came up empty. "Fuck me," he said, feeling defeated as he realized he couldn't reach his salvation.

"First of all, fuck you." Whitey jabbed a finger at MJW, who swatted it away with minor annoyance, being used to his clients antics after years of partnership. "And second, I had that match in the bag. Grimm didn't have me beat, Dan Fierce just had to get his shots in and make me look like less of a man than him."

"So you're less than a gay man?"

Whitey raised his eyebrow, giving Windsor an incredulous look. "Mike, you really need to stop with the gay hating shit. I'm worried about you. Still, I didn't lose that match. I haven't lost since I've returned for fuck's sake!"

"Ok, fine, Whitey. You're right, again. But let me get this straight; you're going to go into Trauma and fight fair against Nathan Saniti and Andy D and get another big ol' W in the win column?"

"That's fucking right. That's what I'm going to fucking do."

"Hmph. Nathan Saniti...someone I can't recall you ever being able to really get one up over. The man is a master of illusion and one of the hottest tickets in town right now. He has a group of misfits only slightly better than Seromine's horde because they actually FIGHT Seromine's horde, he's unstable and unpredictable and you only beat him last time because of a freak accident between him and Grimm?" Windsor said with a coy smile, trying to bait Whitey into anger. "What if you get hit with one of his sleep darts out of the blue, huh? Are you going to pull out the rulebook, plead to the referee, and have him overturn the decision that you were put the fuck to sleep? Fight DIRTY. It's what you're best at, and it'll throw him off his game. Maybe he's loony enough to buy the idea that you're not going to cheat anymore."

"I'm not going to cheat, I fucking told you!" Whitey slammed a fist into the dashboard. "And to be fair, if he hits me with a sleep dart I doubt it'll have any damned effect. My tolerance for substance abuse is so high it might even make me a BETTER wrestler."

"Fair enough...ok. Andy D, then. Andy is one of the biggest legends in PCW because he's always been a class act. He's done things that you can't even dream of by simply being a nice fucking guy. He's been wrestling all his career by the book, you're not going to beat him in a traditional style match..."

"Will too!"

"...so I say you pit them against each other. Let Andy try and take the risks, you stay on defense and once Andy gets momentum against Saniti, take him down. HARD. Chop block him in the knees with that spear of yours, punch Nathan in the nuts when the referee is checking on Andy, and bam, mate! Another win under your belt."

Whitey held his hand up, palm first, in exasperation. "I'm not going to cheat! I thought you were on my fucking side!?"

Bits and pieces of the conversation he had early that day were coming back to him, but his attention was on more pressing matters...mainly, not drowning to death. The water had reached up to his neck now, and Ford had given up on trying to pry his leg free. "Mike! Windsor! Where are ya man?!?!" Somehow, he had the wherewithall to start controlling his breathe, taking deep inhales to get ready for what might be his final draw of air. Ford was no stranger to being close to death, yet he could feel a gnawing fear creep up the back of his spine.

The freezing temperature of the water was also starting to play a factor, his limbs growing weaker and weaker as the heat ebbed from his body. A few more moments and his head would be underwater, and that would be it. No grand endgame for Mr. Whitey Ford, no continued legacy, no World Title number two...just a cold, watery death.

Whitey took the largest breath he could muster, and his nose was submersed in water.

"You know what, Michael? You fucking know what?" Whitey slammed on the brakes and jerked the Impala into a parking spot. They had started traversing on a one way street, and he had stopped in front of one of the many convenience and one stop stores that littered the sidewalks. "Go get me a coffee."

MJW barked out a harsh laugh. "You don't drink coffee."

"Then get me a slim jim. A Monster. A cookie, a Butterfinger, a soda, a fucking...I dunno, a bag of chips and a thirty rack of beer. Any of it, all of it, I don't fucking care, just get out of the car before I slap the ever loving shit out of you."

This time, MJW laughed. "What, the good guy Whitey Ford needs a safe space when he gets cranky?" But Windsor obliged and stepped out of the car. "Just know this, my old friend...you're never going to be a hero. You can't change what you've done, so you might as well embrace the fact that you're the best damned villain the world has seen." He said before he shut the door and meandered into the small store.

Whitey sat there and stewed for a couple minutes. Every ounce of logic in him knew that Windsor was right; if he wanted success, he'd probably have to revert back to his old ways. But was success what he really desired at this point? Even by being the villain and working his way to the top, memories of his past still clung vaguely to his memory. He remembered being the one to help, the one that solved problems instead of caused them for everyone around him.

Was it success that he wanted, or...peace? Amends?

POP! POP!

The distinct sound of gunfire woke him from his pondering, and Whitey snapped his attention to the source of the sound. A few shops down from where he parked a man in a ski mask ran from one of the ethnic grocers that also were frequently found in that part of town. the man held a backpack in one hand and was obviously in a hurry to get away from the scene...a robbery. The thief leapt into his blue Saturn and sped off.

Whitey craned his neck towards the store where MJW was waiting outside, holding a back of beer and snack food. The british former-superstar's eyes were wide as saucers, and his mouth twitched as he began to protest. "I can do whatever the fuck I want." Ford said at the same time as he jammed his car into gear and took off after the burgular. Windsor tried to scream anything to stop his client, but it was already far too late.

"Well, at least he's not in the same situation as me," Whitey thought to himself, already feeling his breath grow stale inside of his lungs. Years of smoking and unhealthy habits left him ill prepared for holding his breath, but what could prepare anyone for the situation of knowing that you're eventually going to drown? He began to tug at his leg again, but knew in the back of his head it was a futile gesture.

His chest screamed, on fire, begging for air. His mind raced, knowing that his time had come. He thought back to his fight with Jonny Veigns, his estranged security guard, who had nearly drowned him in a fishtank. Ford had been a lot drunker then than he was now, so the pain didn't seem nearly as bad as the present batch. But just like with the fishtank, Whitey's vision began to edge with black, and soon he saw nothing...

The cars both men drove weren't made to race, obviously, but speed wasn't a factor at this point on the busy one way street. Whitey tailed the thief as close as he could get, wincing as he cut a lane change too close and scraped his rear fender off the headlight of another vehicle. Struggling to control the wheel, Whitey accelerated and bumped the Saturn forward, nearly causing it to careen into a light post. The masked driver kept control, however, and banked a hard left. The light was red but both the pursued and pursuer made it through the intersection without a scratch.

Both drivers could pick up the speed at this point, racing past an Irish-Mexican restaunt. Whitey saw his opportunity, and with reckless abandon charged into the rear of the Saturn once more. The force of the battering ram move sent the Saturn veering left, rear ending an SUV and putting it out of comission. Whitey, on the other hand, careened right. Ford over corrected, almost hitting the guardrail of the bridge directly after the restaurant. Sliding left, he attempted to straighten out his two ton deathtrap, but once again over-corrected, sending the car crashing THROUGH the guard rail, and down a good fifty feet to splash into the water.

Whitey had thought himself dreaming, because he could have sworn he was dead. But in the depths of his waterlogged mind, he felt his seat slide back and a hand pulling at his shirt. The hand wasn't strong at all, but persisted. Ford could feel himself floating, and imagined himself being dragged up to heaven. Look at that. Look the fuck at that. The Christians were right. Repent and do good deeds and anybody can get into heaven.

Then all of a sudden he was coughing, spitting fountains of water straight up into the air. Rolling from his back to his side, Whitey coughed up what must have been half of the Androscoggin River onto the grassy bank where he lay. There was a crowd around him but he paid them no mind; he was still groggy from the head trauma, and dizzy from coughing and lack of oxygen. He could hear the British accent of his manager, still chastising him, but other people as well.

"Get back, you rubbernecking ingrates! Give him some air! The man almost died...for no good reason. Bloody fucking fool." MJW stood over Ford, shaking his head in contempt. "You can't make me money if you're dead. Don't pull that shit again! Leave it to the cops. Christ, just trying to prove me wrong and you almost die. Well, you almost proved me right! Do things my way and you don't get hurt!" It was just then, however, that Whitey noticed that MJW's standard black suit was dry as a bone. He hadn't been the one to drag him to safety.

How could he? He was on foot, and although the chase only lasted quarter of a mile it had all happened so fast...but if not MJW, who may be his only friend...then who?

"We're even. But I think you're life is worth a lot more than a purse full of dollar bills and condoms."

That voice... Whitey snapped his neck to his left, and there she sat, her hair drenched with water and her clothes as well, although a good samaritan had thrown a heavy jacket over her to try and quell the shivering. "Jamie? How in the actual fuck?"

"Dumb luck, I guess. I was walking over the bridge when you took a hard right into nothing. Are you just a terrible driver? Are you drunk? Or...what?" She spoke through quivering lips, the jacket pulled tight around her shoulders to absorb as much of the warmth as possible.

Ford didn't have an answer right away. He waved off a man who offered him a jacket of his own before wearily getting to his feet. "Someone told me a few weeks ago that it was never too late to do more good than bad." Whitey tested his weight on the leg that had been pinned; no pain, only a bit of soreness.

Jamie smiled at him, leaving Whitey with a feeling that had been foreign to him for a long, long time. "Well, lesson number two is--"

"DON'T BE A FUCKING HERO!" MJW interjected, his neck red with bluster. Whitey Ford and Jamie both gave him a brief glance, but then exchanged a look.

"---don't listen to the British. Ever." She laughed then, and despite his near death experience and numerous impending legal charges and fines, he joined in with her.