Post by jonnycorrigan on Dec 15, 2008 1:35:17 GMT -5
I had gotten the message from some random fucking guy with that stupid headset rainbowed over his head. He looked at me with that assertive glare and that condescending tone because he had some kind of power measurable to a bus driver or a floor manager. I didn’t say anything back to him when he spoke those words to me. I just sat there on the couch in the break room, my arms crossed over my chest, my hair overflowing down my face, my eyelids half-covering my pupils so that I could just barely see the epically disgusting figure standing in front of me. His horseshoe of hair created a target of light on the center of his head and his plump belly stared at me angrily.
And then when he was finished talking he stood there for a second as if I was supposed to say something, but I didn’t. Because that’s my way with people. If I don’t care about what they have to say I just don’t respond. Because if I were to respond I would be portraying an idea that I actually cared, and that is what we call lying.
And once he left the room the words bounced into my head and rolled around and then formed something that made sense.
So here I found myself standing outside Caius Turner’s office. I’m sure by now you can figure out what was said to me. Yeah, I was in trouble, had been called in to see the big boss man. And the funny thing is, as I looked at that door that stood in front of me with the wooden and gold plaque reading,
I didn’t feel any different than that time I worked at Wal-Mart and waited outside the manager’s office, awaiting some kind of tongue-lashing.
I looked down the halls that drew afar beside me. Silence. Emptiness. There wasn’t a living creature to be seen, and as hallucinogenic as my brain can be it wasn’t hard for me to imagine a zombie tearing around the corner and sprinting at me for a taste of my flesh and blood. So then I turned my eyes back to the door and quickly knocked. And then I stood back and rested my back against the clean white wall behind me. The coldness of it seeped through my shirt and formed goosebumps on the small of my back and the nape of my neck.
The door opened, and there I saw the commish look me in the eyes. A grimace formed on his face and his lips, which were once a straight line but became curvy like some kind of quadratic graph when he opened the door. He looked me up and down and his eyebrows sunk like he wanted to puke, and for the average person this might be a little offensive and even enraging but being the kind of kid I am, I’ve grown used to it. Especially here… they aren’t used to pieces of shit like me who grew up in a small town like Granite Falls.
“Get in here, Corrigan,” Turner said as he spun away and walked over to his desk. I followed him in. “Close the door behind you,” he demanded as the chair he sat in squeaked like a rat in the grasp of a mousetrap. I put my hand on the edge of the door and swung it closed, and then I looked at him, almost waiting for another command.
“Sit down,” he said, and normally I wouldn’t sit down just for the satisfaction of refusing to be told what to do, but this time I did, and I looked across the smooth mahogany desk at him which seemed like a vast desert that stretched for miles upon miles.
Caius rolled his chair to the table so that his back was flat against the chair and his chest was pushing against the edge of the desk. He folded his fingers over each other and laid them on the desk, and than he looked at me. But he didn’t just look at me, he burned holes through me, and I could feel them like the ends of two newly lit cigarettes.
“What the hell, Corrigan,” he said, closing his eyes smugly and shaking his head as he spoke, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
And then I could feel the smile pulling at my lip. And I tried to stop it, but it forced its way onto my face anyway. “What ever do you mean, Mr. Caius?”
I picked my leg off the floor and crossed my ankle over my opposite knee. And Caius’ eyes widened a little, not in the angry way but in the kind of shocked and surprised way, like how a high school teacher looks at you when they find out you didn’t study for a test. He opened his arms straight out and shouted, “Shitting on a platter, Corrigan?! Offering it to Scotty Raven and I like we’re some kind of swine?” And then he let his arms curl back up against his chest as he leaned back in his chair, “Not to mention all the fucking death threats you’re throwing around. You’re wading in some deep shit, Corrigan.”
And then I looked at him and I felt the smile drift off my face and whirl away into some sort of breeze. I pulled my ankle off my knee and stamped it against the floor, and the room shook a little. Turner was surprised. He flinched a little, and that I’m-better-than-you grimace transformed into a look of bewilderment and slight fear.
“I’m wading in deep shit, Caius?” I asked without expecting an answer. I leaned forward in my chair and stuck my finger in his face, “No Caius, it isn’t me, it’s everybody fucking else. It’s Blake Worship, it’s T-Money, it’s Freakula, and Caius, it’s you.” I gritted my teeth and absorbed the pain that pressed into my gums. “How do you expect to keep this company stable when a ton of cage collapses on one of your greatest talents, and you sit there and do nothing? You don’t hand out any suspensions. You don’t retract any paychecks. You don’t even reinforce your equipment so that something like this never happens again, Caius. And amidst it all, Caius, Blake Worship continues to get countless title matches without exemplifying an ounce of decency. What have you done, huh? Tell me, what have you done that could solidify you as more qualified than me for your job? Because I tell you one thing, Turner.”
And then I stood out of my chair and I pressed my hands against the table so that little fuzzy imprints were engraved there. “REW would be much better off if you were dead.”
Caius stood out of his chair and it kicked out from behind him. It slammed against the wall. His respirations were deep and fast and he looked like he wanted to tear my balls off and shove them down my throat so that I couldn’t breathe, but he didn’t do that. He just readjusted his tie, calmed itself, and then he pointed that judgmental finger at me. “You better watch yourself, Corrigan,” he asserted, “You’re lucky that I don’t can you right now. What you must realize in that puny, molecule-like brain of yours is that this is the wrestling business. Violence happens here, kid. So if I were to hand out a suspension every time someone got hurt… hell… we wouldn’t have any fucking wrestlers at all, Jonny-boy.”
And to this a sarcastic grin reached across from one corner of my lips to the other. “Well,” I said as I grabbed the phone receiver off the desk. “I guess I’m going to have to capitalize on that philosophy.”
And with the phone receiver in my hand I threw it across the table and it slammed directly into the side of Caius’ head. He went toppling down to the floor and blood instantly began to pour out of the crevice left in his skin. It felt really good, making Caius Turner hurt, so I wanted to do it more. I leaped over the desk and I unloaded a flurry of punches into his head and face and I couldn’t stop. It was like I had an unlimited supply of energy buried deep inside me waiting to be unleashed, and now it was. Turner’s nose began to bleed, his eyes began to turn blue and close up. They looked like a pair of plums, and all this felt like a dream.
I proceeded to pick Caius Turner up by his shirt collar, and then I threw him over the desk, and he flipped down to the carpet where his blood poured and stained the threading. I walked over and picked the monitor up off his desk and threw it down on him. He screamed in agony as all of the weight came crashing down on him, dispersing into a thousand pieces. Finally he got what he deserved. Finally my hatred was avenged, and I could feel some kind of relief in the violence I was then obligated to commit.
No…
It wasn’t over yet.
I grabbed him. I dragged him over to the front of his desk and leaned his broken torso against it. His head fell limp to the side in all his vague consciousness that made me a skinny blur in his contorted vision. He ogled from one side of the room to the other like a drunk on the verge of regurgitation. I walked around the desk and clung to the computer that patiently wasted time under the desk. I ripped the plugs out of its sockets and the power that ran through it was drained out and vanished. I walked around to the other side of the desk and seethed madly. I glared at Caius Turner. I glared at him hard the way George Bush glares at an articulate liberal reporter. And I waited there, and for a moment the air was sucked out of the sky and a streak of doubt clutched my throat shut. But it was fleeting, and so I ran toward the desk and smashed the end of the big metal computer into Caius’ head.
And then I knew everything he saw was black. He fell over to one side and blood drained from his ears and nose and there were bruises tagged all over his face. His eyes were white with vacancy as his pupils rolled into his brain. I could hear the blood sitting in his throat gurgling with every breath. I surveyed all of this, and I didn’t know how to feel about it. It was almost as if I didn’t have any control. Something just came over me. Something different. Something mean. Something careless.
Something good.
And all of this made me want to smile, so I did. I smiled wide. I was actually proud of that broken carcass that was slain before me. So much so that a ball of saliva rolled over the horizon of my bottom lip. I wiped it away with the sleeve of my sweatshirt.
And then I walked out of the room… finally a little bit more alive inside.
And then when he was finished talking he stood there for a second as if I was supposed to say something, but I didn’t. Because that’s my way with people. If I don’t care about what they have to say I just don’t respond. Because if I were to respond I would be portraying an idea that I actually cared, and that is what we call lying.
And once he left the room the words bounced into my head and rolled around and then formed something that made sense.
So here I found myself standing outside Caius Turner’s office. I’m sure by now you can figure out what was said to me. Yeah, I was in trouble, had been called in to see the big boss man. And the funny thing is, as I looked at that door that stood in front of me with the wooden and gold plaque reading,
Caius Turner
Commissioner
Commissioner
I didn’t feel any different than that time I worked at Wal-Mart and waited outside the manager’s office, awaiting some kind of tongue-lashing.
I looked down the halls that drew afar beside me. Silence. Emptiness. There wasn’t a living creature to be seen, and as hallucinogenic as my brain can be it wasn’t hard for me to imagine a zombie tearing around the corner and sprinting at me for a taste of my flesh and blood. So then I turned my eyes back to the door and quickly knocked. And then I stood back and rested my back against the clean white wall behind me. The coldness of it seeped through my shirt and formed goosebumps on the small of my back and the nape of my neck.
The door opened, and there I saw the commish look me in the eyes. A grimace formed on his face and his lips, which were once a straight line but became curvy like some kind of quadratic graph when he opened the door. He looked me up and down and his eyebrows sunk like he wanted to puke, and for the average person this might be a little offensive and even enraging but being the kind of kid I am, I’ve grown used to it. Especially here… they aren’t used to pieces of shit like me who grew up in a small town like Granite Falls.
“Get in here, Corrigan,” Turner said as he spun away and walked over to his desk. I followed him in. “Close the door behind you,” he demanded as the chair he sat in squeaked like a rat in the grasp of a mousetrap. I put my hand on the edge of the door and swung it closed, and then I looked at him, almost waiting for another command.
“Sit down,” he said, and normally I wouldn’t sit down just for the satisfaction of refusing to be told what to do, but this time I did, and I looked across the smooth mahogany desk at him which seemed like a vast desert that stretched for miles upon miles.
Caius rolled his chair to the table so that his back was flat against the chair and his chest was pushing against the edge of the desk. He folded his fingers over each other and laid them on the desk, and than he looked at me. But he didn’t just look at me, he burned holes through me, and I could feel them like the ends of two newly lit cigarettes.
“What the hell, Corrigan,” he said, closing his eyes smugly and shaking his head as he spoke, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
And then I could feel the smile pulling at my lip. And I tried to stop it, but it forced its way onto my face anyway. “What ever do you mean, Mr. Caius?”
I picked my leg off the floor and crossed my ankle over my opposite knee. And Caius’ eyes widened a little, not in the angry way but in the kind of shocked and surprised way, like how a high school teacher looks at you when they find out you didn’t study for a test. He opened his arms straight out and shouted, “Shitting on a platter, Corrigan?! Offering it to Scotty Raven and I like we’re some kind of swine?” And then he let his arms curl back up against his chest as he leaned back in his chair, “Not to mention all the fucking death threats you’re throwing around. You’re wading in some deep shit, Corrigan.”
And then I looked at him and I felt the smile drift off my face and whirl away into some sort of breeze. I pulled my ankle off my knee and stamped it against the floor, and the room shook a little. Turner was surprised. He flinched a little, and that I’m-better-than-you grimace transformed into a look of bewilderment and slight fear.
“I’m wading in deep shit, Caius?” I asked without expecting an answer. I leaned forward in my chair and stuck my finger in his face, “No Caius, it isn’t me, it’s everybody fucking else. It’s Blake Worship, it’s T-Money, it’s Freakula, and Caius, it’s you.” I gritted my teeth and absorbed the pain that pressed into my gums. “How do you expect to keep this company stable when a ton of cage collapses on one of your greatest talents, and you sit there and do nothing? You don’t hand out any suspensions. You don’t retract any paychecks. You don’t even reinforce your equipment so that something like this never happens again, Caius. And amidst it all, Caius, Blake Worship continues to get countless title matches without exemplifying an ounce of decency. What have you done, huh? Tell me, what have you done that could solidify you as more qualified than me for your job? Because I tell you one thing, Turner.”
And then I stood out of my chair and I pressed my hands against the table so that little fuzzy imprints were engraved there. “REW would be much better off if you were dead.”
Caius stood out of his chair and it kicked out from behind him. It slammed against the wall. His respirations were deep and fast and he looked like he wanted to tear my balls off and shove them down my throat so that I couldn’t breathe, but he didn’t do that. He just readjusted his tie, calmed itself, and then he pointed that judgmental finger at me. “You better watch yourself, Corrigan,” he asserted, “You’re lucky that I don’t can you right now. What you must realize in that puny, molecule-like brain of yours is that this is the wrestling business. Violence happens here, kid. So if I were to hand out a suspension every time someone got hurt… hell… we wouldn’t have any fucking wrestlers at all, Jonny-boy.”
And to this a sarcastic grin reached across from one corner of my lips to the other. “Well,” I said as I grabbed the phone receiver off the desk. “I guess I’m going to have to capitalize on that philosophy.”
And with the phone receiver in my hand I threw it across the table and it slammed directly into the side of Caius’ head. He went toppling down to the floor and blood instantly began to pour out of the crevice left in his skin. It felt really good, making Caius Turner hurt, so I wanted to do it more. I leaped over the desk and I unloaded a flurry of punches into his head and face and I couldn’t stop. It was like I had an unlimited supply of energy buried deep inside me waiting to be unleashed, and now it was. Turner’s nose began to bleed, his eyes began to turn blue and close up. They looked like a pair of plums, and all this felt like a dream.
I proceeded to pick Caius Turner up by his shirt collar, and then I threw him over the desk, and he flipped down to the carpet where his blood poured and stained the threading. I walked over and picked the monitor up off his desk and threw it down on him. He screamed in agony as all of the weight came crashing down on him, dispersing into a thousand pieces. Finally he got what he deserved. Finally my hatred was avenged, and I could feel some kind of relief in the violence I was then obligated to commit.
No…
It wasn’t over yet.
I grabbed him. I dragged him over to the front of his desk and leaned his broken torso against it. His head fell limp to the side in all his vague consciousness that made me a skinny blur in his contorted vision. He ogled from one side of the room to the other like a drunk on the verge of regurgitation. I walked around the desk and clung to the computer that patiently wasted time under the desk. I ripped the plugs out of its sockets and the power that ran through it was drained out and vanished. I walked around to the other side of the desk and seethed madly. I glared at Caius Turner. I glared at him hard the way George Bush glares at an articulate liberal reporter. And I waited there, and for a moment the air was sucked out of the sky and a streak of doubt clutched my throat shut. But it was fleeting, and so I ran toward the desk and smashed the end of the big metal computer into Caius’ head.
And then I knew everything he saw was black. He fell over to one side and blood drained from his ears and nose and there were bruises tagged all over his face. His eyes were white with vacancy as his pupils rolled into his brain. I could hear the blood sitting in his throat gurgling with every breath. I surveyed all of this, and I didn’t know how to feel about it. It was almost as if I didn’t have any control. Something just came over me. Something different. Something mean. Something careless.
Something good.
And all of this made me want to smile, so I did. I smiled wide. I was actually proud of that broken carcass that was slain before me. So much so that a ball of saliva rolled over the horizon of my bottom lip. I wiped it away with the sleeve of my sweatshirt.
And then I walked out of the room… finally a little bit more alive inside.
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