Post by Joka on May 11, 2018 0:28:26 GMT -5
The experiment went as planned and yet, it didn't. The screens showed a successful first attempt at Dr. Corrigans VR Exposure Therapy. Her and her team have already dubbed these first tests as "The Belasko Trials". They've popped the corks on the champagne, pulled out the party balloons, and let loose the noise makers in celebration of what they have mistakenly assumed was a success. I still don't understand why Byron wouldn't want to let them know that something went wrong with the test, but he obviously saw something that spooked him to his core and he has his reasons for not wanting to inform the doctor. Joka was in recovery from the drugs for a couple of days before Dr. Corrigan allowed him to leave the laboratory at John Hopkins University that housed her experimental therapy. As we left the lab, Joka stayed unusually quiet. The crisp, spring air that met us as soon as we stepped outside seemed to energize Joka and yet, he stayed unusually silent. Our walk across the campus and through the quad to where our motorcycles were parked was a quiet walk as well. Everything in me wanted to grab him by his shoulders and shake him until he explained to me what had happened back there. Not many would know by looking at him, but Tha Joka is a genius. I'm not saying he has an above average intelligence or that he thinks he's a genius because he took a Facebook quiz and scored a ten out of ten. Byron is fluent in multiple languages including Spanish, Japanese, German, Russian, Thai, Chinese, and his native language of English as well as my native language of Brazil - Portuguese. He is also fluent in multiple computer languages as well, making him a dangerous man with a keyboard in his hand. He is a skilled mathematician, amateur astronomer and physicist, and just all-around knowledgeable in all things scientific. This is a man who took the Mensa Admission Test for fun and when he received his acceptance letter in the mail, he burned it with his cigarette lighter and flushed the ashes down the toilet. The minimum accepted score on the Standford-Binet IQ test is 132 and for the Cattell it is 148, and his IQ was well above the latter. This genius level intellect makes Joka a cunning strategist in-and-out of the ring. It also makes it annoying to get a straight answer out of him or to guess what he is thinking.
The ride to his studio apartment in Baltimore only a few miles away from John Hopkins is even more uneventful. The overwhelming noise of our exhaust from my Indian and his Triumph do little to distract me from my thoughts. The anticipation is palpable and my patience is paper thin as we arrive at his place. Him and I have a disdain for riders who dress to the nines in leather and we don't ride with a helmet so as soon as the kickstands touch pavement, we start our walk into his apartment building. The smirk on his face as he inserts the key into his doorknob is killing me. His apartment is a mess as we enter. A desk situated opposite his bed is sitting broken into pieces on the floor, empty cans and pizza boxes scatter the empty floor, and the only sound that meets us is the hum of the fan on his computer sitting on another desk right next to his television. He throws his keys into a bowl by the door, lays his jacket on his computer chair, and falls into his leather loveseat with a deep sigh as I stand in shock with the door still open. He looks at me perplexed as he pulls a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and lights it.
"Ya gonna shut the door so we can talk about what the hell just happened back there?" He says with a smile as smoke exits his mouth and nostrils. I quickly shut the door and take a seat in his recliner. Byron doesn't like to be stared at and Joka especially hates to be stared at but I can't help myself as my attention is fixated on him.
"Darren... y'er lookin' a little pale, man. You want a beer or a soda or somethin'?" He jokingly proposes as my mouth drops out of pure amazement. He walks over to his fridge and pulls out a Pirate Bomb from the fridge; a beer brewed in his home state of Oklahoma, and wiggles it in the air. "Cerveja?" He says with a grin on his face.
"Foda-se você" I mumble as he pops the top on the beer and looks at me with his head cocked sideways.
"Fuck me?!? Why fuck me?" He barks in retaliation. I stand in the small space and walk with commanding foot steps toward him as he leans against his kitchen counter, looking up at me with a mischievous look in his eyes. His attitude doesn't reflect the gravity of the situation but I know him better than most. He likes to deal with difficult situations in two ways. He'll either joke his way out of it or ghost his way out of it. We stand eyeing each other up for a moment and then suddenly and unexpectedly, I rear back and lightly backhand him in the crotch. Gravity takes hold of the bottle in his hand and sends it crashing down as both of his hands cover his balls and he leans forward, breathing heavily. He starts laughing hysterically as he looks up at me, seeing a wry smile on my face.
"Oh... mah fawking bawls! You got me good, fucker! Ya know that'll cost ya right?" He exclaims, still giggling through his words as his breathing becomes more labored. I cross my arms in defiance as the smile leaves my face. "When did you get so touchy? I remember when you could take a hit to the balls like a champion." I utter in a voice of playful disgust.
"No, no, it ain't about the bawls. That was a perfectly good Pirate Bomb you just wasted. That right there... is a murder most foul." He confers as he reaches into the fridge and turns back toward me revealing two Pirate Bombs. He pulls his bottle opener back out of his pocket and pops both of the bottle caps and hands me one of the beers. Our bottles sing out as we tap them against each other and take a drink in unison.
"I get the fact that you are sad that I wasted your cerveja but it's not so egregious that you need to go quoting Shakespeare because of it." I say, putting a period on my statement with a proper chug from the bottle. After I swallow the drink and my eyes settle back on my best friend, I see him squeezing the bottle and looking down at the floor with a vacant look on his face. "Well... you know how philosophical I get when I start reminiscing about Death. I guess it gets turned up to eleven after I spend time in his company." He muses, still focusing his attention on the tile in his kitchen.
"I... was wondering when you were going to bring that up... again. I've been dying to ask you what the hell happened back there." I say in a pleading manner, almost begging him to explain the situation to me. He takes a long drink from his beer until the bottle is empty and quickly reaches into the fridge to retrieve another. He pops the top and proceeds to turn the bottom of the bottle up into the air until that beer is empty as well. Without a word, he repeats this and pulls another beer out. He goes to take a drink but my large hand grabs his wrist and his eyes quickly focus on me with a look of hurt on his face. I'm taken aback by this as it's uncharacteristic of Joka to show any other emotion except happy and angry. He pulls his arm away but I don't relent, keeping a firm grasp on it until he finally just takes the bottle in the other hand.
"If you were any other man... this bottle would have already been broken over y'er skull." He bellows in a monotone voice.
"But... I am not any other man. I'm your best friend... and you are my amigo melhor as well." I assert to him, still holding his arm in place.
"Y'er mah best friend, too." He tells me in a somber tone. "I just can't... I can't really wrap my head around what happened. I have a feeling though, that whatever happened, happened for a reason."
I stand befuddled and motionless when suddenly his demeanor changes and Joka escapes my grasp and quickly grabs ahold of my hand in a handshake. He pulls me toward him and looks into my eyes in that way that he does. "But... that'll all come to light in time. Tell me why you have too leave tomorrow and then fly back for my next appointment." He inquires of me, stealthily brushing aside the more important matter at hand.
"It's a wrestling match..." I state in a bold manor, almost to the point of being cocky. He cocks his head to the side and smiles up at me.
"Have I heard of the company?" He says, letting loose my hand and leaning back onto his kitchen counter.
"I believe you have. It is the fabled company started by your dear friend, Icemann." I state blankly, catching the excitement building in his face.
"PCW?!? Oh man, so who're ya goin' up against?" He asks excitedly.
"It's actually the Icemann Invitational. The passing of Luis has... encouraged me to join the Last Chance Battle Royale. I'm entering to honor him on your behalf." I tell him, a sad look washing over my face as I reminisce on the time spent as Joka's Manager in Pure Class Wrestling. Byron crosses his arms and his brow furrows as he stares at a wall on the opposite side of the room. Almost looking straight at me but clearly looking past me and reflecting in his own thoughts.
"Icemann... Luis... is dead? He asks, stumbling over his words. A sad look washing over his face as well as he continues staring past me.
"Yes... he was murdered. It was announced... and I'm sorry, Byron. I thought you knew." I tell him, lifting an arm and placing my huge hand on his shoulder. His eyes suddenly dart around. "Who you got in front of ya?" He quickly questions of me as I bring my hand back to my side.
"The Battle Royal is stacked. High Tide and Tyler Scott look... hungry. Braddock and Gerard Angelo look ready and could be a challenge as well." I explain to him as my mind wanders and begins exploring the many different scenarios that could play out.
"None of em can stand up to the size and strength of the Monster do Brasil. You've got what it takes to do something I have yet to accomplish." Joka quips as I stand smiling. "You'll do great, old friend."
"I hope I do but even if I don't, then that just means you'll have to enter next year and do better than me." I say, implying he should come out of his early retirement and come back to the career he loves. Joka just smiles a familiar smile and takes a drink of his beer as the conversation drifts away to other places. In the back of my mind, my attention was stuck on this upcoming match. I'd like to think the thought of his friend entering The Icemann Invitational Tournament on his behalf, and in honor of a friend of his from early on in his wrestling career, was helping to keep the doomed thoughts of his exposure therapy out of his mind. Even if only for a moment.
The ride to his studio apartment in Baltimore only a few miles away from John Hopkins is even more uneventful. The overwhelming noise of our exhaust from my Indian and his Triumph do little to distract me from my thoughts. The anticipation is palpable and my patience is paper thin as we arrive at his place. Him and I have a disdain for riders who dress to the nines in leather and we don't ride with a helmet so as soon as the kickstands touch pavement, we start our walk into his apartment building. The smirk on his face as he inserts the key into his doorknob is killing me. His apartment is a mess as we enter. A desk situated opposite his bed is sitting broken into pieces on the floor, empty cans and pizza boxes scatter the empty floor, and the only sound that meets us is the hum of the fan on his computer sitting on another desk right next to his television. He throws his keys into a bowl by the door, lays his jacket on his computer chair, and falls into his leather loveseat with a deep sigh as I stand in shock with the door still open. He looks at me perplexed as he pulls a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and lights it.
"Ya gonna shut the door so we can talk about what the hell just happened back there?" He says with a smile as smoke exits his mouth and nostrils. I quickly shut the door and take a seat in his recliner. Byron doesn't like to be stared at and Joka especially hates to be stared at but I can't help myself as my attention is fixated on him.
"Darren... y'er lookin' a little pale, man. You want a beer or a soda or somethin'?" He jokingly proposes as my mouth drops out of pure amazement. He walks over to his fridge and pulls out a Pirate Bomb from the fridge; a beer brewed in his home state of Oklahoma, and wiggles it in the air. "Cerveja?" He says with a grin on his face.
"Foda-se você" I mumble as he pops the top on the beer and looks at me with his head cocked sideways.
"Fuck me?!? Why fuck me?" He barks in retaliation. I stand in the small space and walk with commanding foot steps toward him as he leans against his kitchen counter, looking up at me with a mischievous look in his eyes. His attitude doesn't reflect the gravity of the situation but I know him better than most. He likes to deal with difficult situations in two ways. He'll either joke his way out of it or ghost his way out of it. We stand eyeing each other up for a moment and then suddenly and unexpectedly, I rear back and lightly backhand him in the crotch. Gravity takes hold of the bottle in his hand and sends it crashing down as both of his hands cover his balls and he leans forward, breathing heavily. He starts laughing hysterically as he looks up at me, seeing a wry smile on my face.
"Oh... mah fawking bawls! You got me good, fucker! Ya know that'll cost ya right?" He exclaims, still giggling through his words as his breathing becomes more labored. I cross my arms in defiance as the smile leaves my face. "When did you get so touchy? I remember when you could take a hit to the balls like a champion." I utter in a voice of playful disgust.
"No, no, it ain't about the bawls. That was a perfectly good Pirate Bomb you just wasted. That right there... is a murder most foul." He confers as he reaches into the fridge and turns back toward me revealing two Pirate Bombs. He pulls his bottle opener back out of his pocket and pops both of the bottle caps and hands me one of the beers. Our bottles sing out as we tap them against each other and take a drink in unison.
"I get the fact that you are sad that I wasted your cerveja but it's not so egregious that you need to go quoting Shakespeare because of it." I say, putting a period on my statement with a proper chug from the bottle. After I swallow the drink and my eyes settle back on my best friend, I see him squeezing the bottle and looking down at the floor with a vacant look on his face. "Well... you know how philosophical I get when I start reminiscing about Death. I guess it gets turned up to eleven after I spend time in his company." He muses, still focusing his attention on the tile in his kitchen.
"I... was wondering when you were going to bring that up... again. I've been dying to ask you what the hell happened back there." I say in a pleading manner, almost begging him to explain the situation to me. He takes a long drink from his beer until the bottle is empty and quickly reaches into the fridge to retrieve another. He pops the top and proceeds to turn the bottom of the bottle up into the air until that beer is empty as well. Without a word, he repeats this and pulls another beer out. He goes to take a drink but my large hand grabs his wrist and his eyes quickly focus on me with a look of hurt on his face. I'm taken aback by this as it's uncharacteristic of Joka to show any other emotion except happy and angry. He pulls his arm away but I don't relent, keeping a firm grasp on it until he finally just takes the bottle in the other hand.
"If you were any other man... this bottle would have already been broken over y'er skull." He bellows in a monotone voice.
"But... I am not any other man. I'm your best friend... and you are my amigo melhor as well." I assert to him, still holding his arm in place.
"Y'er mah best friend, too." He tells me in a somber tone. "I just can't... I can't really wrap my head around what happened. I have a feeling though, that whatever happened, happened for a reason."
I stand befuddled and motionless when suddenly his demeanor changes and Joka escapes my grasp and quickly grabs ahold of my hand in a handshake. He pulls me toward him and looks into my eyes in that way that he does. "But... that'll all come to light in time. Tell me why you have too leave tomorrow and then fly back for my next appointment." He inquires of me, stealthily brushing aside the more important matter at hand.
"It's a wrestling match..." I state in a bold manor, almost to the point of being cocky. He cocks his head to the side and smiles up at me.
"Have I heard of the company?" He says, letting loose my hand and leaning back onto his kitchen counter.
"I believe you have. It is the fabled company started by your dear friend, Icemann." I state blankly, catching the excitement building in his face.
"PCW?!? Oh man, so who're ya goin' up against?" He asks excitedly.
"It's actually the Icemann Invitational. The passing of Luis has... encouraged me to join the Last Chance Battle Royale. I'm entering to honor him on your behalf." I tell him, a sad look washing over my face as I reminisce on the time spent as Joka's Manager in Pure Class Wrestling. Byron crosses his arms and his brow furrows as he stares at a wall on the opposite side of the room. Almost looking straight at me but clearly looking past me and reflecting in his own thoughts.
"Icemann... Luis... is dead? He asks, stumbling over his words. A sad look washing over his face as well as he continues staring past me.
"Yes... he was murdered. It was announced... and I'm sorry, Byron. I thought you knew." I tell him, lifting an arm and placing my huge hand on his shoulder. His eyes suddenly dart around. "Who you got in front of ya?" He quickly questions of me as I bring my hand back to my side.
"The Battle Royal is stacked. High Tide and Tyler Scott look... hungry. Braddock and Gerard Angelo look ready and could be a challenge as well." I explain to him as my mind wanders and begins exploring the many different scenarios that could play out.
"None of em can stand up to the size and strength of the Monster do Brasil. You've got what it takes to do something I have yet to accomplish." Joka quips as I stand smiling. "You'll do great, old friend."
"I hope I do but even if I don't, then that just means you'll have to enter next year and do better than me." I say, implying he should come out of his early retirement and come back to the career he loves. Joka just smiles a familiar smile and takes a drink of his beer as the conversation drifts away to other places. In the back of my mind, my attention was stuck on this upcoming match. I'd like to think the thought of his friend entering The Icemann Invitational Tournament on his behalf, and in honor of a friend of his from early on in his wrestling career, was helping to keep the doomed thoughts of his exposure therapy out of his mind. Even if only for a moment.
