Post by Stace Matthews on Mar 13, 2018 22:16:06 GMT -5
Gluttonous, scorching flames roar as they devour smoldering pallets by the dozen. The wood cries out, cracking and popping in the teeth of the starved beast. Consumed and turned into twirling embers, glowing and twinkling in a thick cloud of smoke rising above a beach somewhere on the east coast.
Between two large rocks, a pair of black Harley¤Davidson Badlands, socks, an Aussie-style fedora, sunglasses and a patch-covered leather vest laid in the sand near the fire. A little further away, yet parked beyond the “Motor Vehicles Prohibited on Beach” sign, Sinister reflects the flickering oranges and fluttering reds.
In the passenger's seat, Rebi Matthews leans against the door, asleep. She has traveled the east coast with her cousin since the Friday following this last Trauma. They had even went to Delaware to get her enrolled to train at Sussex County Championship Wrestling. She's a third-generation Matthews and he wants her to learn both the right way with SCCW and the smart way on the road with him. He hopes it will help her make less mistakes than those before her.
Mistakes, Johnny Matthews has made more than his share. Right now, he's likely making another, standing against the rage of the Atlantic charging the shore only to fall short of licking the blaze. He had rolled his Timberlands to his knees and was standing nearly that deep in the ocean.
A stiff breeze brought the waves and pinned the PCW Official “Notorious: widely, yet unfavorably known” T-shirt against his chest. As difficult as it is to imagine picturing him not doing so, it was impossible for him to smoke. He yelled and cursed the beach, the ocean, the wind, the sky and the moon.
Everything.
Everyone.
Himself.
Nobody.
He literally spat a relentless and incomprehensible rant, rambling incoherently for several minutes. His eyes bloodshot and glassy; his face drawn in and pale; and his voice weary and waning. He stood there, furious, between the turbulence behind and smoldering in front of him.
“Fuck it,” he forced himself to shout, “I've always liked the heat any way.”
He waved his arms at the ocean as he turned his back to the wind. He stumbled and yelled at the brisk shove from the sky before fumbling to catch himself and failing to wade and forced to crawl back to shore. Then he struggled to find his feet in the sand beneath him and his balance on the unsteady grit.
It wasn't quick nor pretty, but he soon reached the fire and his belongings. He rifled through the pockets of his vest, found his cigarettes and snapped open his Zippo; held upright by a the larger of the two rocks, he had himself a smoke. Back in the pocket of his vest, he found his cellular and turned on a popular rebel song.
“I've been driftin’ down that open highway,” he sang along, “finger in the air, ‘cause I do things my way.”
The song plays on, but he trails off in his singing, yet continues to slightly bob his head with the beat. He enjoys his cigarette made, especially for him by Matthew Gamble, of pure Insignia tobacco laced with a blend of Tennessee-grown Hogsbreath and Alabama High-Test. The smoke is thick, wafting and whirling above his head. A mouthwatering butterscotch lingers.
“Let's talk about Mass Destruction, Man,” he talked to himself as he took a small square of paper from his leather cigarette case. He placed the thin square on his tongue before continuing, “I won my first and only fuckimg championship at Mass Destruction. The one Justin is carrying now,” he shrugged, “I beat a piece of shit that Lou legit dug out of a dumpster.”
He went back into the pockets of his vest a final time, retrieving a Fun Dip and small package. He rips the candy stick portion of the package and throws it into the fire. He unwraps the neatly folded aluminum foil, revealing Xanny bar.
“On Sunday,” he rips the candy powder portion open, “I am going to return to Mass Destruction,” he dips the bar into the powder, “and take a crown because I am,” he licks the powder from the stick, “the future Underground King.”
He looked up onto the rock, his eyes dilated to the size of dodge balls and jaw dropped open. Reaching up, toward the uppermost surface of the rock.
“It's been a few years,” he admits to himself, “but never this bad a trip. What the fuck? Y-You can't be here,” he claims. “I blame you for all of this,” he scowls. “What do you mean,” he interrupts himself, “something bad has happened?”
Between the tide and the fire, while his country music played, he dumped on whomever was seated on the rock above him.
“I mean,” he threw his hands up, “bad’s turned to shit and shit into misery. Bad,” he humphed, “bad was challenging Grimm.” He laughed, “Yeah,” sarcastically, “what a lesson that was, I killed my own momentum. Shit,” this time, scathing, “shit was all of those fucking tag team matches. Come on, Dad,” he shouted, “you know I don't like to count on anyone and,” he rolled his eyes, “no one can count on me. Misery,” he appeared unhinged, but absolutely deadpan, “I want to smack a big target on my back and defend a Pure Class Championship. Do you know how miserable that is?”
He formed a gun with his right hand, placed the barrel to his temple and popped one.
“I have no doubt that I could do it,” he shrugs, “I could do it with my eyes closed.”
He flinched, full-body; then he peered cautiously around the rock, panting. As suddenly as he was overwhelmed, he is relieved. Not exactly lucid and there’s definitely a little lunacy in his twitch.
“I made this huge comeback,” he continued, “only to crash and burn. No!” he cut himself off again, “Not because Kyle said so. Quit with the bad stuff happening already. If you want to talk about bad stuff,” he swerves this conversation on the beach, “let's talk about Johnny Vivacious. He's your fucking fault too,” he accused. “Right when you think you have hit the bottom,” he smacks the bottom of his fist into the sand, “you find out how low a man can get.”
He put his finger in the band around his hat and pulls out two white pills. From the back left pocket of his jeans, he opens a flask and takes a swig, then the pills and a chaser.
“The failures,” he shouts, “that I have suffered because of this burning desire to chase this circus. Inside and outside of this big top,” he explains as only he can, “this passion for performance that pulses in my blood has cost me ten times as much as it has ever,” he searches for the word, “compensated me.”
He looks up, bewildered, dumbfounded and subtly startled. Halfway through his bar, the powder candy is gone. His adversary tonight, still perched on this rock. His eyelids heavy over his bulging eyes.
“Again,” his frustration clear, “with this something bad shit…” his music cut out as the telephone rang. “This is the third time that she’s called tonight,” he juggles the telephone, failing to answer in time.
While it was late in his day, it was very early in the morning on the east coast which meant it was quite late where Lindsay was calling from. A call that should have been answered or returned would have to wait. He passed out and he fell. He fell down hard into the sand. The missed call notification indicated he now had three voicemails waiting.
Between two large rocks, a pair of black Harley¤Davidson Badlands, socks, an Aussie-style fedora, sunglasses and a patch-covered leather vest laid in the sand near the fire. A little further away, yet parked beyond the “Motor Vehicles Prohibited on Beach” sign, Sinister reflects the flickering oranges and fluttering reds.
In the passenger's seat, Rebi Matthews leans against the door, asleep. She has traveled the east coast with her cousin since the Friday following this last Trauma. They had even went to Delaware to get her enrolled to train at Sussex County Championship Wrestling. She's a third-generation Matthews and he wants her to learn both the right way with SCCW and the smart way on the road with him. He hopes it will help her make less mistakes than those before her.
Mistakes, Johnny Matthews has made more than his share. Right now, he's likely making another, standing against the rage of the Atlantic charging the shore only to fall short of licking the blaze. He had rolled his Timberlands to his knees and was standing nearly that deep in the ocean.
A stiff breeze brought the waves and pinned the PCW Official “Notorious: widely, yet unfavorably known” T-shirt against his chest. As difficult as it is to imagine picturing him not doing so, it was impossible for him to smoke. He yelled and cursed the beach, the ocean, the wind, the sky and the moon.
Everything.
Everyone.
Himself.
Nobody.
He literally spat a relentless and incomprehensible rant, rambling incoherently for several minutes. His eyes bloodshot and glassy; his face drawn in and pale; and his voice weary and waning. He stood there, furious, between the turbulence behind and smoldering in front of him.
“Fuck it,” he forced himself to shout, “I've always liked the heat any way.”
He waved his arms at the ocean as he turned his back to the wind. He stumbled and yelled at the brisk shove from the sky before fumbling to catch himself and failing to wade and forced to crawl back to shore. Then he struggled to find his feet in the sand beneath him and his balance on the unsteady grit.
It wasn't quick nor pretty, but he soon reached the fire and his belongings. He rifled through the pockets of his vest, found his cigarettes and snapped open his Zippo; held upright by a the larger of the two rocks, he had himself a smoke. Back in the pocket of his vest, he found his cellular and turned on a popular rebel song.
“I've been driftin’ down that open highway,” he sang along, “finger in the air, ‘cause I do things my way.”
The song plays on, but he trails off in his singing, yet continues to slightly bob his head with the beat. He enjoys his cigarette made, especially for him by Matthew Gamble, of pure Insignia tobacco laced with a blend of Tennessee-grown Hogsbreath and Alabama High-Test. The smoke is thick, wafting and whirling above his head. A mouthwatering butterscotch lingers.
“Let's talk about Mass Destruction, Man,” he talked to himself as he took a small square of paper from his leather cigarette case. He placed the thin square on his tongue before continuing, “I won my first and only fuckimg championship at Mass Destruction. The one Justin is carrying now,” he shrugged, “I beat a piece of shit that Lou legit dug out of a dumpster.”
He went back into the pockets of his vest a final time, retrieving a Fun Dip and small package. He rips the candy stick portion of the package and throws it into the fire. He unwraps the neatly folded aluminum foil, revealing Xanny bar.
“On Sunday,” he rips the candy powder portion open, “I am going to return to Mass Destruction,” he dips the bar into the powder, “and take a crown because I am,” he licks the powder from the stick, “the future Underground King.”
He looked up onto the rock, his eyes dilated to the size of dodge balls and jaw dropped open. Reaching up, toward the uppermost surface of the rock.
“It's been a few years,” he admits to himself, “but never this bad a trip. What the fuck? Y-You can't be here,” he claims. “I blame you for all of this,” he scowls. “What do you mean,” he interrupts himself, “something bad has happened?”
Between the tide and the fire, while his country music played, he dumped on whomever was seated on the rock above him.
“I mean,” he threw his hands up, “bad’s turned to shit and shit into misery. Bad,” he humphed, “bad was challenging Grimm.” He laughed, “Yeah,” sarcastically, “what a lesson that was, I killed my own momentum. Shit,” this time, scathing, “shit was all of those fucking tag team matches. Come on, Dad,” he shouted, “you know I don't like to count on anyone and,” he rolled his eyes, “no one can count on me. Misery,” he appeared unhinged, but absolutely deadpan, “I want to smack a big target on my back and defend a Pure Class Championship. Do you know how miserable that is?”
He formed a gun with his right hand, placed the barrel to his temple and popped one.
“I have no doubt that I could do it,” he shrugs, “I could do it with my eyes closed.”
He flinched, full-body; then he peered cautiously around the rock, panting. As suddenly as he was overwhelmed, he is relieved. Not exactly lucid and there’s definitely a little lunacy in his twitch.
“I made this huge comeback,” he continued, “only to crash and burn. No!” he cut himself off again, “Not because Kyle said so. Quit with the bad stuff happening already. If you want to talk about bad stuff,” he swerves this conversation on the beach, “let's talk about Johnny Vivacious. He's your fucking fault too,” he accused. “Right when you think you have hit the bottom,” he smacks the bottom of his fist into the sand, “you find out how low a man can get.”
He put his finger in the band around his hat and pulls out two white pills. From the back left pocket of his jeans, he opens a flask and takes a swig, then the pills and a chaser.
“The failures,” he shouts, “that I have suffered because of this burning desire to chase this circus. Inside and outside of this big top,” he explains as only he can, “this passion for performance that pulses in my blood has cost me ten times as much as it has ever,” he searches for the word, “compensated me.”
He looks up, bewildered, dumbfounded and subtly startled. Halfway through his bar, the powder candy is gone. His adversary tonight, still perched on this rock. His eyelids heavy over his bulging eyes.
“Again,” his frustration clear, “with this something bad shit…” his music cut out as the telephone rang. “This is the third time that she’s called tonight,” he juggles the telephone, failing to answer in time.
While it was late in his day, it was very early in the morning on the east coast which meant it was quite late where Lindsay was calling from. A call that should have been answered or returned would have to wait. He passed out and he fell. He fell down hard into the sand. The missed call notification indicated he now had three voicemails waiting.