Post by Stace Matthews on Nov 28, 2017 15:27:57 GMT -5
Black Friday
Full body shivers brought him around or he thought he had awoken. He felt his eyes open, he blinked several times before making the mistake of rubbing; his eyelids may as well have been 320-grit.
The last he remembered was victory, celebrating, but the roar of the crowd was now deafening silence as Johnny Vivacious laid prone and motionless in the blinding dark.
This did not feel like victory.
No early morning song birds as the sun breached the horizon to sneak into his window and find him wrapped peacefully around his wife.
Nothing.
While it was quiet and dark, his other senses were returning to him. The dank smell of sulphur and the stale taste of his last cigarette gave him cottonmouth. He swallowed, choking, his throat like velcro. His fingers found small crevasses along the concrete floor around him. He didn’t have the strength to push himself up, not even to a seated position.
Then, there was static followed by feedback and a voice. It was inaudible at first, his ears struggling to hone in over a persistent internal buzzing, but he heard it the second time.
It was a strange voice, raspy, caustic and sinister, not one that he had ever heard or would recognize. It was not a voice with any endearing qualities. Not with a lisp, but moreso intentionally, certain letters in the annunciation were exaggerated.
“MizztER Vi-VAY-ciouzz,” the voice echoed in the dark, “it would Buh-e vERy wizze of you to re-MAY-n quiet and zztill.”
He did not intend to move, his entire body was weak and hurt. Simply moving his hands to get a feel for his surroundings sent excruciating pain down his back and into his hips.
“Where,” was all he could muster.
“No worries about that right now Mister Vivacious,” the voice responded. “You are here with me and here with me you will stay, that is, until he says differently.”
“Whiskey,” he requested.
“Not now Mister Vivacious.”
“WHISKEY!”
“No, no,” you could hear the fiendish voice shake it's demented head, “that is not the way.”
“Water,” he begged, dropping the side of his face back down onto the rigid concrete.
“That's more like it,” the voice urged. “You will find it there on the table.”
Somewhere, in the agony screaming up his spine, he thought to himself, ‘Where the fuck is a table?’
“You will figure it out, Mister Vivacious,” the voice teased, “you will find the way.”
Despite the state he was in, it didn't take him long before the dire ‘need’ overwhelmed the crushing throb in every single rib. It was all he could do physically to get himself onto his side just enough to allow his right arm to slip in and out of the left side of his jacket.
He didn't waste a flick of his Zippo to search his surroundings, choosing instead to draw a cigarette from the pack with his dehydrated lips and lighting it.
On his stomach, there in the dark, he pulled the smoke into his lungs slowly.
It burned.
Down and out to each side, it burned.
Hot and soothing, it wrapped around him; and, it burned.
It burned so good, there was no rush releasing it into the void.
Unfortunately, the second hit wasn't as good as the first and, the glowing cherry of the third was enough to reveal the table. It hurt so badly, he would have rather snuffed the cigarette than hit it a fourth time, only to plan a route to the table I the glow.
It was a stretch, requiring a certain measure of endurance, but he was able to reach it. It was bolted down, there was no way he could pull it to him; so, after the torture of reaching it, he now had to pull himself to it.
He distinctly remembered beating Tyrone Smith. It was textbook. Not a physically demanding clinic by any stretch. It certainly wasn't a fight. Just a textbook, mid-card wrestling match. He hadn't overdone it at ringside in the main event.
He just couldn't understand or figure out the reason for the intense pain in his back.
The table wasn't any more than two-foot tall and, if not for that pain pressing down on him, he could easily reach the top. Instead, overexertion set in as the nicotine high wore off and he collapsed at the foot of the table.
The Next Day (Saturday)
“Mister Vivacious,” it was soft at first, “it's time to wake up.” It didn't phase him so, it didn't stay soft long, “WAKE UP!”
The excruciating pain was a dull aching soreness; just enough, he felt it. His stomach was beginning to growl. Dehydration continued to set in and then, he remembered, ‘The table.’
Slowly, in the dark, he turned himself and lifted his right hand, following the design of the small metal structure. Gently. To the very top and along the surface.
Stop! Feel it out. Long, slender, wick. Candle. A few of them.
Keep going.
Stop! Small, round; they fit in my fingers and they have dust or powd… pills.
Keep going.
Stop! Glass, round, tall. Very tall and fat. Heavy. Water.
Motivation.
He pulled himself to a seated position, leaning his head against the tabletop and straddling his legs around the secured legs of the table.
“There you go,” the voice was scathing with false encouragement. “You need to know now,” it hid a warning with a persuasive smirk, “there is a reward or consequence for anything you do.”
He had heard the words, but wasn't really listening as he drew another cigarette and lit up. He counted the remaining with his index finger across the top of the pack, down to two, ‘Fuck.’
He used the cherry of the first hit to melt the bottom of a candle. The wax was just hot enough to adhere it to the tabletop and then, he lit flicked his Zippo and lit the candle.
With the small room illuminated, the heat instantly cut off and the vents suddenly started pumping in cold air. Almost immediately, or so it felt, he could see his own breath.
“Do we have an understanding, Mister Vivacious?”
The temperature in the room was soothing to the soreness spanning his shoulders, down into his hips. It also made the water very cold; unfortunately, the penalty for the small refreshing sip, was a downpour from sprinklers above.
The necessity left everything drenched; however, with his candlelight doused, the warm comfort of the heat was a welcomed surprise.
He kept his legs tightly around the anchored table legs and eased himself straight back down into the water pooling around him on the concrete. The coldness of the water soothed deep into his inked skin, comforting his aching muscles.
At this point, there was no need to test the pills, the sacrifice wouldn't likely be worth whatever would may be levied against him.
For now, like a Rocky montage, his grunts echoed in the dark; and he pushed his physical limits, situps until his stomach cramped up on the inside, his abdominals burned on the outside and then, he passed out.
He came to or woke up five different times; once, he smoked half of a cigarette and continued to dry his candles; the next, he turned himself over and held plank as long as he could before using very little remaining energy to turn over to his backside; the third, he smoked the remaining half of the cigarette and, holding the candles under the tabletop, snuck a drink of water; the next, he did push ups until the cramps in his stomach caused him to pass out again; and the final, he was able to move around on all fours.
Without the ability to see, he moved slowly and gingerly. He used his hands to feel around him for the wall and then went along the base seeking an exit. He didn't remember seeing a door earlier and definitely didn't feel one in his searching.
He was in a box with no escape.
‘Why would Grimm do this to me?’ He wondered to himself as he lit his last Marlboro. ‘I guess if I wanted to guarantee myself a win,’ he took a long drag as he thought, ‘I would make sure they never showed up to the fight.’ He continued to smoke and go over his situation in his mind, ‘He knows he can't beat me.’
Leaning against the wall of, what he assumed to be his doom, he smoked and tried to figure out his captor.
‘Grimm understands that everything is about to change,’ he blows smoke circles that he cannot see, ‘with Justin, Notorious, we are about to blow PCW up.’ Several thoughts cross his mind, but the one that circles back the most, ‘Grimm has never had a challenger come right at him.’
He has been full-throttle.
He pushed it.
He probably smoked more than he wanted to and, luckily he did, because as he drifted off to sleep the cigarette burnt out in hand.
The Day After (Sunday)
The cramps in his stomach were nearly unbearable, but he was awake and he was up.
Standing felt good.
The first couple of steps were shaky, but now he was walking. It was much easier to navigate the room on his feet. The only piece of furniture was the small table affixed to the floor of this box.
He figured the vents and whatever door, hatch or method of access had to be located above him; because, even standing, the walls were completely smooth and revealed nothing.
“How in the fuck do I get out of here,” his scream echoed around him in the darkness.
“I see you have awoken,” the voice startled him. “Good morning, Mister Vivacious.”
“Who the fuck are you,” he demanded.
“That is not important.”
“I am hungry and out of cigarettes,” he shouted, “I am really close to losing my shit, Mother Fucker!”
“Mister Vivacious,” the voice taunted, “I am going to ask you to cease speaking that way.”
“Fuck you,” he yelled, “let me the fuck out of here, Mother Fucker!”
“I tried so hard to warn you.”
“Do something,” he provoked, “come on, Fuck Wad. Fucking do something!”
He went on shouting obscene expletives for more than an hour.
All of the vulgar names he called out went unanswered.
None of the profane cursing received a response.
He screamed and hollered until he lost his voice in the still silence of the nothing.
When he couldn't cry out any longer, in the heat of his frustration, he snuck a sip without thinking.
“Sonuva bitch!”
Back to drying the candles.
He held them in his hands as he ran in place, then did jumping jacks. Feeling himself swaying, he put them down on the table before he collapsed to the concrete floor.
The cramps in his stomach were debilitating.
The want, the need, the aching hunger for the nicotine fix of just one cigarette.
The fact that, not only his, but possibly the contract of his brother-in-law could be very negatively affected should he not be present at this huge event.
Grimm had defeated him?
He slept what had become the middle of his day propped against the wall. He had lost his sense of time when the hangover wore off.
Yesterday?
The event was Thursday, on Thanksgiving; yesterday, she was supposed to go shopping with her mom, which means today, today is the ‘big game’.
They had spent Thanksgiving with her family since he crossed The River. They always celebrated it on Saturday, the Saturday immediately following, The Buckeyes versus That Tea× Up North.
‘I am missing Thanksgiving.’
Waking up convinced that it was Saturday; what a nightmare or, quite possibly, the most fucked-up daydream ever.
He actually feared ever seeing the light of day again. He did not want to endure the pain of being cold. His endurance thus far in the pitch black also fed into his fear.
If he did though, he was going to need to eat. He was going to need to eat and, for the safety of all within arms-length, he was going to need to smoke.
“I need a fucking drink,” his mumble echoed back to himself, sitting alone against the wall in the dark.
He wondered, a lot, ‘How in the fuck am I going to get out of this?’
His stomach had long since given up on growling, it wasn't even cramping any longer. He was completely sapped of strength and willpower, but his body wasn't aching. He also wasn't shivering. Getting into the latter half of three days without food was taking its toll.
If he was honest with himself, even with the spread provided for Club V, he hadn't eaten much on Thursday either.
He never ate much on show day.
Thoughts about Grimm drifted away as he began to accept the fact, this was the end that he had went right out and asked for. The return, the challenge, the match, none of it mattered any more. If this was where he would rot, he wasn't going to think too much about such things.
Instead, he was sorry.
He was sorry he hadn't heeded the warnings. He was sorry he brushed off the ‘ghost stories’. He was sorry he went out, bright and loud, to rile up the fans only to let them down.
He was sorry to his brother-in-law, sure the show went on, but Justin wasn't happy with him. He was sorry that, right as Justin was signing papers to be free of all of this, he had drug his friend back in. He was sorry that he wouldn't be there at ringside for Notorious’ first championship win.
He was sorry for the pretty girl still riding shotgun. After all of these years, the sweet little fair-haired girl that stole his heart away, he would never see her again.
They had endured this wrestling business together, both born and bred into it. It had given them so much and taken away plenty, if not more.
They lived through his cancer scare.
They struggled past his infertility, caused by his fair habitual bad decision making.
They had seen a lot of life together and he was sorry that, once again, he was going to bring pain into her life.
He drifted off to sleep, just sorry.
The Final Day (Monday)
He could have sworn he heard birds, but it wasn't enough to wake him. He felt a gentle breeze pass over his face, but it still didn't wake him. No, it took the smell of fresh eggs, sausage links, shredded hash browns and toast on the next breeze to crack his eyelids open.
It couldn't be, but it was.
As he pried his eyes open and the fuzzy blur cleared his vision, he could see it. On the table, breakfast awaited him with orange juice, milk and piping hot coffee. The steam rose above the plate.
He could see it.
From above, there was light. It was just enough to create a spotlight down onto the table.
There was also something hanging within the beam. It took several minutes for his pupils to adjust, but above his breakfast, dangling from the source of the light was a rope ladder with dowel rungs.
He was hungry.
He could escape.
Then, that damned voice returned inside of his head, reminding him of the cost and reward for everything that he did.
“Why are you teasing me,” he shouted.
“Goodbye,” the voice actually sounded pleasant, “Mister Vivacious.”
“Goodbye?”
“Yes,” the voice confirmed, “please eat and get your strength to climb out. Your car has been gassed up and you navigation system will get you home.”
“No costs for the food?”
“No, Mister Vivacious.”
“The ladder?”
“Just your strength and will to climb it, Mister Vivacious.”
This proved harder than he had imagined. Knowing he was starving, he ate slowly and not completely before making his first attempt.
He had to put the plate on the floor, work himself up onto the table and stand, which he failed, falling flat down onto the concrete.
Maybe, if someone heard him, someone could help. He began screaming upward at the source of the ladder and light.
Nothing.
No one.
If at first you don't succeed.
He tried at least a dozen more times before the entire plate and all of his drinks were consumed. He had vomited the first round up long ago, yet still forced the remainder of the food down.
He thought long and hard about all of the things he was sorry for before it happened. The shear desire to kick Grimm’s teeth in with his size thirteen. As his fingers clenched tightly to the framing of his escape, he pulled himself up and out.
As promised, his car awaited him.
He was free.
Full body shivers brought him around or he thought he had awoken. He felt his eyes open, he blinked several times before making the mistake of rubbing; his eyelids may as well have been 320-grit.
The last he remembered was victory, celebrating, but the roar of the crowd was now deafening silence as Johnny Vivacious laid prone and motionless in the blinding dark.
This did not feel like victory.
No early morning song birds as the sun breached the horizon to sneak into his window and find him wrapped peacefully around his wife.
Nothing.
While it was quiet and dark, his other senses were returning to him. The dank smell of sulphur and the stale taste of his last cigarette gave him cottonmouth. He swallowed, choking, his throat like velcro. His fingers found small crevasses along the concrete floor around him. He didn’t have the strength to push himself up, not even to a seated position.
Then, there was static followed by feedback and a voice. It was inaudible at first, his ears struggling to hone in over a persistent internal buzzing, but he heard it the second time.
It was a strange voice, raspy, caustic and sinister, not one that he had ever heard or would recognize. It was not a voice with any endearing qualities. Not with a lisp, but moreso intentionally, certain letters in the annunciation were exaggerated.
“MizztER Vi-VAY-ciouzz,” the voice echoed in the dark, “it would Buh-e vERy wizze of you to re-MAY-n quiet and zztill.”
He did not intend to move, his entire body was weak and hurt. Simply moving his hands to get a feel for his surroundings sent excruciating pain down his back and into his hips.
“Where,” was all he could muster.
“No worries about that right now Mister Vivacious,” the voice responded. “You are here with me and here with me you will stay, that is, until he says differently.”
“Whiskey,” he requested.
“Not now Mister Vivacious.”
“WHISKEY!”
“No, no,” you could hear the fiendish voice shake it's demented head, “that is not the way.”
“Water,” he begged, dropping the side of his face back down onto the rigid concrete.
“That's more like it,” the voice urged. “You will find it there on the table.”
Somewhere, in the agony screaming up his spine, he thought to himself, ‘Where the fuck is a table?’
“You will figure it out, Mister Vivacious,” the voice teased, “you will find the way.”
Despite the state he was in, it didn't take him long before the dire ‘need’ overwhelmed the crushing throb in every single rib. It was all he could do physically to get himself onto his side just enough to allow his right arm to slip in and out of the left side of his jacket.
He didn't waste a flick of his Zippo to search his surroundings, choosing instead to draw a cigarette from the pack with his dehydrated lips and lighting it.
On his stomach, there in the dark, he pulled the smoke into his lungs slowly.
It burned.
Down and out to each side, it burned.
Hot and soothing, it wrapped around him; and, it burned.
It burned so good, there was no rush releasing it into the void.
Unfortunately, the second hit wasn't as good as the first and, the glowing cherry of the third was enough to reveal the table. It hurt so badly, he would have rather snuffed the cigarette than hit it a fourth time, only to plan a route to the table I the glow.
It was a stretch, requiring a certain measure of endurance, but he was able to reach it. It was bolted down, there was no way he could pull it to him; so, after the torture of reaching it, he now had to pull himself to it.
He distinctly remembered beating Tyrone Smith. It was textbook. Not a physically demanding clinic by any stretch. It certainly wasn't a fight. Just a textbook, mid-card wrestling match. He hadn't overdone it at ringside in the main event.
He just couldn't understand or figure out the reason for the intense pain in his back.
The table wasn't any more than two-foot tall and, if not for that pain pressing down on him, he could easily reach the top. Instead, overexertion set in as the nicotine high wore off and he collapsed at the foot of the table.
The Next Day (Saturday)
“Mister Vivacious,” it was soft at first, “it's time to wake up.” It didn't phase him so, it didn't stay soft long, “WAKE UP!”
The excruciating pain was a dull aching soreness; just enough, he felt it. His stomach was beginning to growl. Dehydration continued to set in and then, he remembered, ‘The table.’
Slowly, in the dark, he turned himself and lifted his right hand, following the design of the small metal structure. Gently. To the very top and along the surface.
Stop! Feel it out. Long, slender, wick. Candle. A few of them.
Keep going.
Stop! Small, round; they fit in my fingers and they have dust or powd… pills.
Keep going.
Stop! Glass, round, tall. Very tall and fat. Heavy. Water.
Motivation.
He pulled himself to a seated position, leaning his head against the tabletop and straddling his legs around the secured legs of the table.
“There you go,” the voice was scathing with false encouragement. “You need to know now,” it hid a warning with a persuasive smirk, “there is a reward or consequence for anything you do.”
He had heard the words, but wasn't really listening as he drew another cigarette and lit up. He counted the remaining with his index finger across the top of the pack, down to two, ‘Fuck.’
He used the cherry of the first hit to melt the bottom of a candle. The wax was just hot enough to adhere it to the tabletop and then, he lit flicked his Zippo and lit the candle.
With the small room illuminated, the heat instantly cut off and the vents suddenly started pumping in cold air. Almost immediately, or so it felt, he could see his own breath.
“Do we have an understanding, Mister Vivacious?”
The temperature in the room was soothing to the soreness spanning his shoulders, down into his hips. It also made the water very cold; unfortunately, the penalty for the small refreshing sip, was a downpour from sprinklers above.
The necessity left everything drenched; however, with his candlelight doused, the warm comfort of the heat was a welcomed surprise.
He kept his legs tightly around the anchored table legs and eased himself straight back down into the water pooling around him on the concrete. The coldness of the water soothed deep into his inked skin, comforting his aching muscles.
At this point, there was no need to test the pills, the sacrifice wouldn't likely be worth whatever would may be levied against him.
For now, like a Rocky montage, his grunts echoed in the dark; and he pushed his physical limits, situps until his stomach cramped up on the inside, his abdominals burned on the outside and then, he passed out.
He came to or woke up five different times; once, he smoked half of a cigarette and continued to dry his candles; the next, he turned himself over and held plank as long as he could before using very little remaining energy to turn over to his backside; the third, he smoked the remaining half of the cigarette and, holding the candles under the tabletop, snuck a drink of water; the next, he did push ups until the cramps in his stomach caused him to pass out again; and the final, he was able to move around on all fours.
Without the ability to see, he moved slowly and gingerly. He used his hands to feel around him for the wall and then went along the base seeking an exit. He didn't remember seeing a door earlier and definitely didn't feel one in his searching.
He was in a box with no escape.
‘Why would Grimm do this to me?’ He wondered to himself as he lit his last Marlboro. ‘I guess if I wanted to guarantee myself a win,’ he took a long drag as he thought, ‘I would make sure they never showed up to the fight.’ He continued to smoke and go over his situation in his mind, ‘He knows he can't beat me.’
Leaning against the wall of, what he assumed to be his doom, he smoked and tried to figure out his captor.
‘Grimm understands that everything is about to change,’ he blows smoke circles that he cannot see, ‘with Justin, Notorious, we are about to blow PCW up.’ Several thoughts cross his mind, but the one that circles back the most, ‘Grimm has never had a challenger come right at him.’
He has been full-throttle.
He pushed it.
He probably smoked more than he wanted to and, luckily he did, because as he drifted off to sleep the cigarette burnt out in hand.
The Day After (Sunday)
The cramps in his stomach were nearly unbearable, but he was awake and he was up.
Standing felt good.
The first couple of steps were shaky, but now he was walking. It was much easier to navigate the room on his feet. The only piece of furniture was the small table affixed to the floor of this box.
He figured the vents and whatever door, hatch or method of access had to be located above him; because, even standing, the walls were completely smooth and revealed nothing.
“How in the fuck do I get out of here,” his scream echoed around him in the darkness.
“I see you have awoken,” the voice startled him. “Good morning, Mister Vivacious.”
“Who the fuck are you,” he demanded.
“That is not important.”
“I am hungry and out of cigarettes,” he shouted, “I am really close to losing my shit, Mother Fucker!”
“Mister Vivacious,” the voice taunted, “I am going to ask you to cease speaking that way.”
“Fuck you,” he yelled, “let me the fuck out of here, Mother Fucker!”
“I tried so hard to warn you.”
“Do something,” he provoked, “come on, Fuck Wad. Fucking do something!”
He went on shouting obscene expletives for more than an hour.
All of the vulgar names he called out went unanswered.
None of the profane cursing received a response.
He screamed and hollered until he lost his voice in the still silence of the nothing.
When he couldn't cry out any longer, in the heat of his frustration, he snuck a sip without thinking.
“Sonuva bitch!”
Back to drying the candles.
He held them in his hands as he ran in place, then did jumping jacks. Feeling himself swaying, he put them down on the table before he collapsed to the concrete floor.
The cramps in his stomach were debilitating.
The want, the need, the aching hunger for the nicotine fix of just one cigarette.
The fact that, not only his, but possibly the contract of his brother-in-law could be very negatively affected should he not be present at this huge event.
Grimm had defeated him?
He slept what had become the middle of his day propped against the wall. He had lost his sense of time when the hangover wore off.
Yesterday?
The event was Thursday, on Thanksgiving; yesterday, she was supposed to go shopping with her mom, which means today, today is the ‘big game’.
They had spent Thanksgiving with her family since he crossed The River. They always celebrated it on Saturday, the Saturday immediately following, The Buckeyes versus That Tea× Up North.
‘I am missing Thanksgiving.’
Waking up convinced that it was Saturday; what a nightmare or, quite possibly, the most fucked-up daydream ever.
He actually feared ever seeing the light of day again. He did not want to endure the pain of being cold. His endurance thus far in the pitch black also fed into his fear.
If he did though, he was going to need to eat. He was going to need to eat and, for the safety of all within arms-length, he was going to need to smoke.
“I need a fucking drink,” his mumble echoed back to himself, sitting alone against the wall in the dark.
He wondered, a lot, ‘How in the fuck am I going to get out of this?’
His stomach had long since given up on growling, it wasn't even cramping any longer. He was completely sapped of strength and willpower, but his body wasn't aching. He also wasn't shivering. Getting into the latter half of three days without food was taking its toll.
If he was honest with himself, even with the spread provided for Club V, he hadn't eaten much on Thursday either.
He never ate much on show day.
Thoughts about Grimm drifted away as he began to accept the fact, this was the end that he had went right out and asked for. The return, the challenge, the match, none of it mattered any more. If this was where he would rot, he wasn't going to think too much about such things.
Instead, he was sorry.
He was sorry he hadn't heeded the warnings. He was sorry he brushed off the ‘ghost stories’. He was sorry he went out, bright and loud, to rile up the fans only to let them down.
He was sorry to his brother-in-law, sure the show went on, but Justin wasn't happy with him. He was sorry that, right as Justin was signing papers to be free of all of this, he had drug his friend back in. He was sorry that he wouldn't be there at ringside for Notorious’ first championship win.
He was sorry for the pretty girl still riding shotgun. After all of these years, the sweet little fair-haired girl that stole his heart away, he would never see her again.
They had endured this wrestling business together, both born and bred into it. It had given them so much and taken away plenty, if not more.
They lived through his cancer scare.
They struggled past his infertility, caused by his fair habitual bad decision making.
They had seen a lot of life together and he was sorry that, once again, he was going to bring pain into her life.
He drifted off to sleep, just sorry.
The Final Day (Monday)
He could have sworn he heard birds, but it wasn't enough to wake him. He felt a gentle breeze pass over his face, but it still didn't wake him. No, it took the smell of fresh eggs, sausage links, shredded hash browns and toast on the next breeze to crack his eyelids open.
It couldn't be, but it was.
As he pried his eyes open and the fuzzy blur cleared his vision, he could see it. On the table, breakfast awaited him with orange juice, milk and piping hot coffee. The steam rose above the plate.
He could see it.
From above, there was light. It was just enough to create a spotlight down onto the table.
There was also something hanging within the beam. It took several minutes for his pupils to adjust, but above his breakfast, dangling from the source of the light was a rope ladder with dowel rungs.
He was hungry.
He could escape.
Then, that damned voice returned inside of his head, reminding him of the cost and reward for everything that he did.
“Why are you teasing me,” he shouted.
“Goodbye,” the voice actually sounded pleasant, “Mister Vivacious.”
“Goodbye?”
“Yes,” the voice confirmed, “please eat and get your strength to climb out. Your car has been gassed up and you navigation system will get you home.”
“No costs for the food?”
“No, Mister Vivacious.”
“The ladder?”
“Just your strength and will to climb it, Mister Vivacious.”
This proved harder than he had imagined. Knowing he was starving, he ate slowly and not completely before making his first attempt.
He had to put the plate on the floor, work himself up onto the table and stand, which he failed, falling flat down onto the concrete.
Maybe, if someone heard him, someone could help. He began screaming upward at the source of the ladder and light.
Nothing.
No one.
If at first you don't succeed.
He tried at least a dozen more times before the entire plate and all of his drinks were consumed. He had vomited the first round up long ago, yet still forced the remainder of the food down.
He thought long and hard about all of the things he was sorry for before it happened. The shear desire to kick Grimm’s teeth in with his size thirteen. As his fingers clenched tightly to the framing of his escape, he pulled himself up and out.
As promised, his car awaited him.
He was free.