Post by Old Line Jeff on Dec 16, 2021 9:12:14 GMT -5
D. Damien
Ronnie Long looked at his phone and the name on the display in disgust.
“One little bit of adversity and you’re trying to beat the door in to get back into my career and life. And for what? Helping me win, or turning me to the dark side either one, isn’t going to rebuild your own.”
The phone stopped ringing, and the name slowly faded from the display.
Ronnie shook his head and put the phone back in his pocket.
“You could answer and tell him that.”
The oppressive Georgia heat was only slightly less withering than the glare Deanna was giving him.
“Last time you said I should’ve blocked his number, now you think I should talk to him? I’ve got other things to worry about - have I told you about the creep that Arnold has me booked against this week?”
Deanna exhaled through her nose, one of those little tells that she was angrier than she was letting on and trying very hard to reign it in.
“Okay, well, what do you want me to do then? Shoot him? That’s murder, that’s an overly drastic solution for a minor problem.”
“Fft.” She made a noise somewhere between a hiss and a raspberry.
“Do you want me to quit?”
“Yes.” Hands on her hips, she tilted her head to the side, meeting his eyes at an angle. “The so called invasion is turning out harmless, and Damien’s trying to get involved. How long until things get worse? What happens if you have another bad week and it’s a singles match? If Damien actually shows up in person, how long do you think it’s going to be until someone shows up to stop him? Will it be Jeff? Because if Jeff Andrews starts doing things you’re just going to end up in his shadow again because that’s how it always goes. What if you get booked against someone from the KGB and Jeff shows up and Damien shows up and you end up as a bit player in yet another stable versus stable war?”
Deanna paused for breath, a red spot on each cheek and the barest beginning of a tear in one eye.
“Deanna, I know you’re upset about the last show. I promise you, one more showing like that and I’ll retire with as much grace as I can manage given the situation - apologize for being too old, leave my boots in the ring, and come home.”
“I’ve obviously never wrestled Greg Adkins, but I’ve looked up bits and pieces of him. One of his trademark moves is sticking his finger in his opponents’ sphincter. Another is licking his fist before he punches someone. The reason I’m bringing this up is because that combination means that Greg Adkins literally eats shit.”
Ronnie Long is doing the words-saying thing.
“No, I just thought pointing out that the guy literally eats shit is a good starting point. I’m now going to proceed to explain why every aspect of his existence is offensive to me.”
There’s a small audience, mostly wrestling nerds with blogs.
“I outright told Gus Arnold when this whole Galactic Pirates invasion thing started that I thought Adkins was ‘disgusting.’ I guess he thought that meant of all the Pirates, that made him the one I would most enjoy making an example out of? It really meant that in this current climate of COVID concerns, I didn’t want to wrestle someone who’s a walking sanitation hazard - someone who revels in being a walking sanitation hazard. It’s baffling to me that he’s able to get cleared to wrestle. Then again, it’s baffling to me to listen to old man Parsons call me generic while pretending he magically doesn’t age.”
Chuckles, but not from Long.
“Yeah, it’s funny, right until you’re heading to the hospital to make sure you didn’t catch anything. With everything that’s going on in the world today, the last thing you want weighing on you is whether you caught something because for some reason your wrestling promotion cleared a open and proud dopehead to wrestle and he thought it’d be funny to stick taint sweat in your mouth. I know there’s people out there that think it’s funny - I’d like them to take a look in the mirror, watch themselves laugh about it, and see if they feel anything.”
He shakes his head.
“Then there’s that thing where he, Adkins that is, spits on his opponents and spits on himself too, you know, that’s nasty.” Those last two words spoken in a Cleveland Brown accent. “Back… okay maybe there’s something of a generation gap between us, but back when I was a kid, they taught us not to spit. Parents, teachers, what have you, you got taught to respect. Now when I was in middle school I got detention once and had to write about a poem about how there is a time and place for everything under the heavens - no matter how horrible, somewhere, some time, there will be a place for it. Greg Adkins would’ve been the time and place for child abuse.”
An uncomfortable silence from the assembled masses.
Except for the loud clapping. Performance clapping.
A man in a white suit over a shimmery black satin shirt has walked into the room. At 6 foot 6 he towers over the assembled nerds, his auburn hair combed back straight, showing that kind of widow’s peak that makes a man look simultaneously dignified and untrustworthy. A closer examination, the way he claps is strange - he holds his right arm still at navel height, palm up, and brings his left arm down.
“That was dark, Ronnie. Real dark. I always said you had it in you.”
(Contd)
Ronnie Long looked at his phone and the name on the display in disgust.
“One little bit of adversity and you’re trying to beat the door in to get back into my career and life. And for what? Helping me win, or turning me to the dark side either one, isn’t going to rebuild your own.”
The phone stopped ringing, and the name slowly faded from the display.
Ronnie shook his head and put the phone back in his pocket.
“You could answer and tell him that.”
The oppressive Georgia heat was only slightly less withering than the glare Deanna was giving him.
“Last time you said I should’ve blocked his number, now you think I should talk to him? I’ve got other things to worry about - have I told you about the creep that Arnold has me booked against this week?”
Deanna exhaled through her nose, one of those little tells that she was angrier than she was letting on and trying very hard to reign it in.
“Okay, well, what do you want me to do then? Shoot him? That’s murder, that’s an overly drastic solution for a minor problem.”
“Fft.” She made a noise somewhere between a hiss and a raspberry.
“Do you want me to quit?”
“Yes.” Hands on her hips, she tilted her head to the side, meeting his eyes at an angle. “The so called invasion is turning out harmless, and Damien’s trying to get involved. How long until things get worse? What happens if you have another bad week and it’s a singles match? If Damien actually shows up in person, how long do you think it’s going to be until someone shows up to stop him? Will it be Jeff? Because if Jeff Andrews starts doing things you’re just going to end up in his shadow again because that’s how it always goes. What if you get booked against someone from the KGB and Jeff shows up and Damien shows up and you end up as a bit player in yet another stable versus stable war?”
Deanna paused for breath, a red spot on each cheek and the barest beginning of a tear in one eye.
“Deanna, I know you’re upset about the last show. I promise you, one more showing like that and I’ll retire with as much grace as I can manage given the situation - apologize for being too old, leave my boots in the ring, and come home.”
“It’s not just that though. I did look up that creep you have to wrestle, and this is the first time ever I’ve been genuinely worried about you coming home diseased.”
“I’ve obviously never wrestled Greg Adkins, but I’ve looked up bits and pieces of him. One of his trademark moves is sticking his finger in his opponents’ sphincter. Another is licking his fist before he punches someone. The reason I’m bringing this up is because that combination means that Greg Adkins literally eats shit.”
Oh, we’re back in Vancouver.
Ronnie Long is doing the words-saying thing.
“No, I just thought pointing out that the guy literally eats shit is a good starting point. I’m now going to proceed to explain why every aspect of his existence is offensive to me.”
There’s a small audience, mostly wrestling nerds with blogs.
“I outright told Gus Arnold when this whole Galactic Pirates invasion thing started that I thought Adkins was ‘disgusting.’ I guess he thought that meant of all the Pirates, that made him the one I would most enjoy making an example out of? It really meant that in this current climate of COVID concerns, I didn’t want to wrestle someone who’s a walking sanitation hazard - someone who revels in being a walking sanitation hazard. It’s baffling to me that he’s able to get cleared to wrestle. Then again, it’s baffling to me to listen to old man Parsons call me generic while pretending he magically doesn’t age.”
Chuckles, but not from Long.
“Yeah, it’s funny, right until you’re heading to the hospital to make sure you didn’t catch anything. With everything that’s going on in the world today, the last thing you want weighing on you is whether you caught something because for some reason your wrestling promotion cleared a open and proud dopehead to wrestle and he thought it’d be funny to stick taint sweat in your mouth. I know there’s people out there that think it’s funny - I’d like them to take a look in the mirror, watch themselves laugh about it, and see if they feel anything.”
He shakes his head.
“Then there’s that thing where he, Adkins that is, spits on his opponents and spits on himself too, you know, that’s nasty.” Those last two words spoken in a Cleveland Brown accent. “Back… okay maybe there’s something of a generation gap between us, but back when I was a kid, they taught us not to spit. Parents, teachers, what have you, you got taught to respect. Now when I was in middle school I got detention once and had to write about a poem about how there is a time and place for everything under the heavens - no matter how horrible, somewhere, some time, there will be a place for it. Greg Adkins would’ve been the time and place for child abuse.”
An uncomfortable silence from the assembled masses.
Except for the loud clapping. Performance clapping.
A man in a white suit over a shimmery black satin shirt has walked into the room. At 6 foot 6 he towers over the assembled nerds, his auburn hair combed back straight, showing that kind of widow’s peak that makes a man look simultaneously dignified and untrustworthy. A closer examination, the way he claps is strange - he holds his right arm still at navel height, palm up, and brings his left arm down.
“That was dark, Ronnie. Real dark. I always said you had it in you.”
(Contd)
