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It stinks!!!
I mean, good roleplay Skypup. I'm not sure what decided to bring you back into the 4CW fold, but it's great to have you back. It's almost like you haven't left. Nice fresh Roleplay. I can't wait to see what else you got in store for us.
(There, I gave you a nice review. Now where's my 5 bucks!)
It stinks!!!
I mean, good roleplay Skypup. I'm not sure what decided to bring you back into the 4CW fold, but it's great to have you back. It's almost like you haven't left. Nice fresh Roleplay. I can't wait to see what else you got in store for us.
(There, I gave you a nice review. Now where's my 5 bucks!)
*Discreetly slides five bucks in a burned and soiled paper bag across the table*
I'm gonna need that bag back after you're done with it.
But I appreciate the kind words, old friend. This was my first piece of writing in years. I missed this place and Rhys twisted my arm enough, so here I am to stink up the joint like old times.
10 Years Ago
The smell of sweat hits me the second I walk through the door. It vaguely reminds me of wrestling Senecca, but about a thousand times more pleasant. Honestly, that guy could choke a water buffalo with his body odor. My money would be on him if the world ever suffered a zombie apocalypse, solely for the fact he’d literally be the only thing they avoided eating. The guy gets his own dressing room and it isn’t because of his star power, is all I’m saying.
Stench aside, the dim-lit gymnasium takes my eyes a moment to adjust, while the sounds of bodies colliding and weightlifting equipment pound my eardrums. It feels more like home to me than just about anything else. Except for my actual home now. Six rooms, four bathrooms, two goddamn foyers. The place is glorious. But not much else compares to this. Well, aside from sex. Or a good steak. Or one after the other...after the other. A steak-and-sex-and-steak sandwich. Yeah, that beats this, hands down.
“Cross,” a voice calls out to me from the other side of the ring, “good to see you again!” Fuckin’ liar. Nobody ever says that to me unless they want something. “Yeah, yeah,” I reply halfheartedly, but I don’t think he notices, “you, too, man.” We share a moist and longer-than-necessary handshake once he jogs his fat ass around to where I’m standing. I immediately wipe my hand off on the ring apron and instantly regret touching anything in this place.
Speaking of fat fucks like Senecca, the man calling himself Big Al used to be one of my proteges before his body succumbed to diabetes like he was Wilford Brimley. 6’1”, closing in on 400 pounds, with an exercise regimen like that of a long-dead tortoise. His idea of a workout is jerking off and rolling out of bed in the morning. It’s usually in that order, too. And somehow he got it into his head that he’d make the perfect trainer. Those who can’t do, teach, right? The only thing is, he’s not that great of a teacher, either. Most of his students drop out before their first year is up, but that’s worked out well financially for him. Bringing in two or three classes a year and getting paid for them instead of just one has given him enough of an income to afford a hooker every once in a while. Not even the cheap ones, either. Well, they are the cheap ones, but they charge him like a high-class escort. I don’t feel I need to explain why.
He’d called me up about a week or two ago. Maybe longer. Sometimes I ignore people for so long that I legitimately forget the last time we spoke. Hell, it could’ve been years ago. But I bank on it being fairly recently, and get right down to brass tacks. That’s a phrase, isn’t it? I hope so, because I really dislike saying things like “getting down to business” unless I’m about to get down to business. And there’s no way I’m conducting any business in this place.
By business, I mean sex. Just so we’re clear.
He clears his throat, probably so he can eat whatever gunk is caught in it a second time, then continues. “So, ready to get down to business then?” Goddamn it. That’s a hard no. I eye him for a moment, wondering if he can read my mind, but no...that’s crazy. Or is it? Bush did 9/11! ...Nothing? I’m probably just being paranoid. Or maybe he’s on to me. Amy Schumer is the next big thing in comedy! Still nada. Maybe experimenting with peyote last month wasn’t such a great idea. That shit messes you up. Oh, he’s still waiting for a response.
“Yeah, I was just thinking,” but I don’t tell him about what. He probably already knows. Mind-reading son of a bitch. “How about we see what he can do and go from there?” It’s the first student in this place that’s shown any promise whatsoever. I feel like I owe it to him to give the kid a chance. After all, it was technically my fault he got diabetes in the first place. No, I didn’t feed him donuts on a never-ending conveyor belt like that one episode of Simpsons. He rigged that thing up himself. Hell, I even tore it down after the doctors threatened to take his foot. But before that, there was this experimental steroid being tested and I figured he’d be the perfect candidate. I sure as hell wasn’t going to let them trial run that shit on me. It was all hush-hush and would’ve completely revolutionized professional sports as a whole, but it turns out he was put in the placebo group and got sugar water instead. And it probably didn’t help that I signed him up for the trial another two times and he ended up getting placebo’d both of those times.
On the plus side, the people who got the actual steroid all died. So you could kind of say I saved his life.
Al smirks and nods to the ring, “you’re already seeing it, bro.” I hate it when people call me bro. But I swallow that hatred like [chux] probably swallows every guy in the locker room. That’s the only real explanation for his title runs. You’ve all seen the [chux] [sux] signs, don’t lie. Inside the ring, a mammoth about the size of Al runs the ropes, dropping student after student with shoulder blocks. He looks like he’s been at it for a while, judging by the sweat running down his face, but shows no signs of slowing down. The ropes, on the other hand, look like they’re about to nope the fuck out of there with every hit.
“Reinforced buckles?” It’s almost more of a rhetorical question than anything, but Al still responds. Gotta admire that moderately-retarded sense of innocence. “Ring, too. Kid can go, huh?” Yeah, he can. But there’s a difference between cardio and actual skill. Presence. Psychology. If he doesn’t--oh, enzuigiri. Not bad for a big guy. 6’2”, maybe 6’3”, I’d guess? He probably gives up about a hundred pounds in total to my blubbery friend here, but the height makes up for that. Besides, nobody needs to be that damn fat. An uppercut palm strike knocks one of the students back against the ropes, rebounding him right into a fall-away slam. He wisely rolls out of the ring right after, and all but one lick their wounds at ringside. The final victim charges from behind with a wild lariat that wouldn’t look out of place in a Jell-O wrestling match. It’s that bad. Seriously. The big man easily feels it coming and ducks, elbowing his attacker in the kidney as he runs by. Without a moment’s hesitation, he lifts this school’s next dropout and spikes him with a high-angle back suplex. I might not have seen him wrestle an actual match yet, but this I can work with.
I give Al an approving nod and he responds like a dog that just got told he’s a good boy. That’s right, boy, you found one. You finally found one! Good doggy. Did I mention Al’s black? I probably shouldn’t call him a boy. Shit, I really hope he can’t read minds now.
“Hey, kid,” I shout over to the behemoth in the ring, who’s now leaning against the ropes with a bottle of water in hand, finally showing some signs of fatigue. “What’s your name?”
“Jasiri, sir.” The thick African accent throws me off slightly, like I’m speaking to Mugabe or something. Shit, is that racist, too? I really have to watch myself. “Kamau Jasiri.” I snap back quickly enough to climb onto the apron and reach into the ring to shake his hand. “Well, buddy, your life’s about to get a whole hell of a lot better.” And mine, too. Wolfie could always use an extra meal ticket. I see bright things in this kid’s future.
8 Years Ago
“We’re gathered here today to mourn the loss of Kamau Adofo Jasiri, beloved husband and son.” The rain pours down all around us, while family members sob on each other’s shoulders, and even Big Al sheds a tear for his first graduate. It would be his last, too, as his gym closed down mere months after I poached the most talented thing to come out of that place since I walked out that fateful day to make a phone call to change both our lives.
Well, not so much mine. I never did get him into 4CW like I’d planned. The idea was to start off in that feeder federation, the name of which escapes me now. Honestly, I barely even remember 4CW half the time. You can’t expect miracles here. But without that leap to the main roster and the stardom that follows, those big paychecks never came, and eventually we had to part ways. He never did reach that level I knew he could, and I always wondered if that was somehow my fault. Did I push him too hard, too soon? Should I have seen something I didn’t? Was he just not cut out for this life? These thoughts run through my head, and they’re some of my biggest regrets in life.
Well, that, and getting him hooked on cocaine. Kid should’ve known his limits, though.
Present Day
The sun piercing through the glass bay windows in the lobby nearly goddamn blinds me, and I think about putting my sunglasses back on before I even get out the door, but I pause. Moments ago, the Board of Directors practically begged me to take over as General Manager of 4CW. Maybe not as glorious of a title as Owner or World Champion, but it’ll do for now. And maybe they didn’t so much beg me as ask if I’d like the job, then threaten to give it to Supreme when I held out for more money, but at least they came to me first. After asking Fish, and Inferno, and even Stephen fucking Penance. But hey, top five. That shit ain’t bad.
I’m just about to leave, but there’s something bothering me. I’ve been thinking about it the entire meeting, and I just can’t shake it. There’s a force here, pulling me to do the right thing. And as much as I want to resist it, I can’t.
“Roz,” I say, turning to the surly receptionist who tried to bar me from entering earlier, “you’re fired.” Her jaw drops in horror, and I can see tears start to form, while I try to figure out if I can actually do that. But as long as she thinks I can, I can.
Now the sunglasses can go back on. There, perfect.
There are times in a man’s life, when he questions the person he’s become. Is he the same man he once was? Or has he become a shell, a distant memory of himself lost to the annals of time? Is he now just a shadow? A memory? Is there still a place for him in the future, or is he simply a remnant of the past? These thoughts haunt him, repeating through his head constantly. Endlessly. Torturing him, keeping him awake at night. They force him to face who he is now; deep down inside, not just the version of him that he presents to the world. Does he still have what it takes to be his true self? Did he ever? The average man faces these questions every day in his life.
Thankfully, I’m not the average man.
A car pulls into a reserved parking spot. What kind of car, you ask? Newer model, sporty, black. Maybe red. No, black. Red gets stolen too often. It doesn’t matter what model it is. It’s foreign. You probably can’t pronounce it, anyway. If I gave you a name, would you be able to tell what it was if you didn’t have Google at the ready? That’s what I thought.
The conversation ends a few moments after the car turns off. That’s right, I distracted drive. What of it? I think about leaving the cell on the passenger seat, but it doesn’t take me long to think better of it. Sure, it’s a business meeting, but I’m a busy man. They’ll understand if I have to take a call. Besides, this kind of looks like a bad neighborhood for being in a good neighborhood. I’m pretty sure I saw a family that only owned one car on the drive over.
I take one step out of the car and almost instantly regret my decision. I’d forgotten that the outside world doesn’t have air conditioning for a moment there, and the heat hits me like a fat woman’s hunger pangs five minutes after dinner. It takes a few seconds to decide that this is worth it, but I finally convince my body to exit the cool confines of upper class comfort in exchange for the harsh reality of Toronto. Yeah, now you understand my hesitation. I haven’t been back home in years, if you can call it home in the first place. Toronto is more the friend’s couch you crash on when you’re completely broke than it is home. Except the friend is a drug addict you met earlier in the day that wouldn’t tell you his first name. And the couch is a stained mattress you’re forced to share. And you wake up to him OD’ing while trying to give you a reach-around.
The buzzing in my jacket pocket attempts to turn my attention from the glass doors at the front of the building, but a quick exercise in muscle memory sends that bad boy straight to voicemail. I’ve gotten so good at ignoring people that I once managed to block a call from my uncle on his deathbed during a threesome while the phone was inside one of the girls. Wait, that sounds bad. Okay, just to clarify, my uncle wasn’t having a threesome on his deathbed. Well, I don’t actually know that for sure. I didn’t even go to his funeral. We weren’t that close, and he could’ve been doing anything at the end there. Guy always kind of creeped me out, to be honest, so I wouldn’t put it past him to be into some freaky crap like that.
I pass under the 4CW logo and shudder quietly as the doors open automatically for me. I’m not sure if that’s an ominous sign or anything, but the receptionist looking up at me from her R4GE Monthly magazine and then asking me if I have an appointment definitely is. Wait, is R4GE still open? Now that I think of it, maybe it was the back of a box of Tampax. Same thing, am I right? Ohhhh! High-five? Someone? Come on, don’t leave me hanging here. Fine, fuck it, whatever.
So I stroll up to her desk, and I kid you not, she looks like the receptionist monster from Monsters, Inc., except when she talks you’d have guessed she was 5’5” and 95 pounds. I bet she spends all her free time eating and cat-fishing guys on wrestling forums. When she asks me a second time if I have an appointment, I think about saying, “No, but you should make about twenty with your doctor” but instead I decide to do what nature didn’t and take it easy on her. “Sure do, sweetie,” I tell her with a wink, giving her a heaping helping of the old Skywolf charm, but before I get a chance to continue she starts going off on this whole tirade about the patriarchy or something. Honestly, I got bored of listening about halfway through and just started walking down the nearest hallway until I found my destination. I could still hear her shouting at me about sexism and a word that I think was mansplaining but it couldn’t be because that makes absolutely no sense. It only takes a few seconds to find the door I’m looking for, which is probably about twenty minutes faster than if I had waited to ask for directions.
“Roz, is that you?” a voice calls out after I knock on the door, and holy shit, her name is Roz. That is just precious. Instead of answering, I decide to open the door, but upon finding it locked, I decide again to answer. Foregoing my initial idea of trying out my best pack-a-day voice, I instead say, “Hey, it’s Skywolf, you guys called for me.” Or maybe I said, “Who the fuck locks their door in a private building? Are you jerking off in there?” I don’t really remember. They’re both pretty similar. Whatever I said, it did the job because the door opened moments later to reveal twelve old white guys in a room together.
Holy shit, it’s the real life Lemonparty.
I also don’t really remember if I said that out loud or just thought it.