I got too fucking full of myself. I got too hot headed and arrogant. I saw Amy Chastaine as someone who walked into our match, weak and broken due to the arm injury she had sustained against Selena Frost, the arm received even more abuse during her match against Alexis Quinne. But that didn’t stop her. She and I tore into one another, but in the end, I miscalculated. I fucked up and got beat. She was able to capitalize on my mistake, dropping me to the mat and pinning me one, two, and fucking three. When I heard the bell ring, it brought me too. Her move stunned me, and I was so stunned that I didn’t think that I could move. I was frozen, unable to use my strength to kick out. I thought I had it in the bag, but she proved me wrong. I had so many things in my mind, prepared to say when I was going to address Reagan Street. I had things plotted out perfectly, but in the end, Amy got her hand raised, while I looked on stunned, shocked, or however you wish to put it. I eventually made it to the back, hanging my head in utter disappointment.
I had let myself down.
There was a part of me yelling, stating that I am still in the Shot of Adrenaline tournament. I have a shot at becoming the SCW Adrenaline Champion for the second time. It shouted that I should be thankful for that, that I should feel fucking grateful for it, but all I could do was sigh. Eventually the voice shut up as I returned to my locker room, where I locked the door and sat down, resting my head against my locker, staring up at the light as it flickered ever so often. I had a shot coming up at the next pay per view, Violence in Vegas, where I would step into the ring with Jake Starr against Autumn Valentine and Gable Winchester for the tag straps. My desire to hold those titles remained despite losing at Final Level, but that desire did not and still doesn’t, compare to the desire to become the SCW World Heavyweight Champion. Starr has been goading Autumn and Gable since the Breakdown after Final Level. I have kept to myself. I wasn’t happy when I found out Starr said I would be teaming with him. I wasn’t ready for it as my mind was elsewhere, but now as I think about it, I have this opportunity to become champion once again. I need to get my mind focused. I need to make sure that my mind isn’t anywhere but the match at hand. Maybe Jake and I will be on the same fucking wave length this time. It won’t be a clusterfuck like the tag match at Final Level. There will be no Standing Room Only as they have basically allowed themselves to be resorted to back-up or first response for all things good in the SCW. The Sisterhood are still sisters, but they have other things to do. So it will just be the four of us and I refuse to let them steal another win away from me.
[[Home Is Where the Heart Is…]]
January 7th, 2016
New York City, New York
“So yeah…home sweet home….”
I stand in the living room of the New York loft I haven’t seen since I packed all of my shit a few days before last year’s Apocalypse. I look around and it appears that my housekeepers have taken great care of it. I am pretty sure they took personal liberties with some of my stuff that I left, but oh well. I know I shouldn’t expect anything less. I mean, after all…they are Mexicans. They don’t know anything other than to work, steal from Americans and America as a country, and to pretend like they can’t speak English. I let out a sigh before walking over towards the window as my residence rests high above the city. It is so high that I am pretty sure Bin Laden would have sent his group of dot head militants through it had it been built during that time. Luckily it wasn’t.
I look down and I see the piss ants racing around, scurrying along the streets, lost in a daze and I feel like I have something in common with them. I am lost in a daze, after last night where I had the chance to become number one contender to the richest prize in my chosen profession yet I somehow managed to blow it. I feel lost, not knowing what to do or which way to go. I hate that feeling. But unlike the piss ants below me, I have money. I can buy happiness. I can buy whatever the fuck I want and do whatever the fuck I want. In this day and age, there is truth behind the expression of money talks. But the thing is, I have no clue what would make me happy besides knowing that I would be receiving a shot at the SCW World Heavyweight Championship.
I have more money than I know what to do with yet I feel so…empty.
Not only do feel empty because I’m not going to compete for the World title, but my life has changed…drastically. I am no longer involved with law enforcement or drug cartels. I have spent time walking around today, before coming home, seeing various drug deals going on in alleys you’d be smart to stay out of. There was a part of me that wanted to walk up to them, tell them that I could help them out, to expand their business, or to get them some real high quality shit. I even thought about offering them the chance to work with me, to start up my own business, or to even make Mammon a real life thing, but all I ended up doing was sighing and walking away.
I walked until I ended up here…home…and I am looking down, not having the slightest damn clue as to what I am going to do next.
[[Two Hours Later…]]
I watch as she slowly peels it back, the layers being removed, showcasing what is underneath. Like I said, I can buy happiness and that happiness has taken the form of a lovely high class street walker named Destiny…pouring yours truly a glass of Jack and Coke on the rocks…just the way I like it. I am pretty sure this is my fifth one, but I have lost count. And yes, I am trying to drown any sort of sorrow that I have with alcohol. And possibly some pussy, but I haven’t decided on whether or not I will allow my purple headed yogurt slinger to go deep sea diving. But then again, it may not be up to me. Getting older, you lose battles to whiskey dick. She hands me my drink as I tell myself that I should be used to losing battles, before taking a few gulps.
Destiny: “You better slow down honey, otherwise we won’t be able to have any fun.”
James Evans: “Is your name Kennedy?”
She looks at me confused before shaking her head no. When you have money, you can tell people who don’t have any, especially hookers, what to do. It’s a benefit.
James Evans: “Then you cannot and will not call me honey. There is only one person I will allow to do so and that isn’t you. Is that understood?”
James Evans: “Then say it.”
Destiny: “I cannot and I will not call you honey.”
I flash a smirk her way before downing the rest of my drink. I let the brown liquid glide over my tongue and burn my throat and chest before holding out my glass, shaking it, indicating that I need a refill. She gets up from her seat across from me on the couch, taking my glass with her into the kitchen. I hear the clinging of ice hitting the bottom of the glass.
James Evans: “Let me ask you a question Destiny. What do you do for you fun? Or better yet…what do you consider fun?”
Destiny walks back into the living room, handing me the glass while I am stretched out in my highly expensive but totally worth it leather recliner. I hold the glass in the palm of my hand, and I swirl it around, watching as the ice and liquid shifts from side to side. Destiny then sits down, places her hands on her thighs before responding.
Destiny: “What was the question?”
I let out a sigh. James Evans: “Destiny, I really hate having to repeat myself, but since you were in the other room making me a drink, I will let it slide. Just this once however, so remember that. Now I asked you what you consider fun…I’m just curious, because I am trying to turn my life around and try new things.”
Destiny: “I like going out with my friends. We go to clubs and go dancing. We go out to eat at all of the fancy restaurants…”
She continues to go on and on and on. I feel like my head is about to explode. Committing crime begins to enter my mind. It has nothing to do with drugs or anything. I am considering committing murder. I am visualizing all of the ways I can do it. I can beat her to death before chopping up the body and stuffing it in a suitcase. I can strangle her and do the same thing. The other option I see is just throwing her ass out of the window. I see myself watching on as she drops story after story, before I come back to reality, realizing that she is still talking. I put my hand up, closing my eyes as I wince a bit in pain. I pinch the bridge of my nose before placing my drink down on the table. I need instant gratification and her talking is going to help so I think of the best way to shut her up.
James Evans: “Alright…I get it…Sorry to cut you off but my head is hurting…”
I undo my pants and pull myself out of them, before looking at Destiny.
James Evans: “Make the pain go away…”
My eyes begin to roll in the back of my skull as my impressive cock is engulfed in the wet warmth in between the lips of Destiny. The pain in my upper hand disappears rather quickly, yet my mind is filled with thoughts. Impure thoughts, but not the kind to help me combat whiskey dick and remain in a upright and stiff position, but the kind of thoughts that let me know just how fucking empty my life truly is.
[[ Just What the Doctor Ordered…]]
January 8th, 2016
New York City, New York
Have I ever mentioned how much I absolutely fucking loathe therapy? In case I haven’t, I will go on record and say that I absolutely fucking loathe therapy, yet I find myself in the waiting room where I am waiting of course, to be seen by some hotshot shrink. Why am I here? I am not really sure. When you’ve spent the better part of your life dealing drugs, running drugs, being shot at or shooting others, you kind of need to consider seeking some serious professional help, especially when you’re me, a man trying to get his shit together in order to live what is deemed a “normal” life.
When I was a kid, the other little shits around me were asked what they wanted to be when they grew up. Some of the answers were I don’t know, or the random kid picking his nose. Other answers were, ‘I want to be a doctor…or a lawyer…or a fireman…or even a policeman.’ I fucking wanted to be something else entirely. I wanted to be a legend like Mr. Wayne…as in I wanted to fucking be Batman. I wanted to go out and fight crime. I wanted to be rich. I wanted gadgets and my own fucking cave with a big ass computer. I would get laughed at for my answer typically. Other little boys would try to pick on me when we hit the playground, but then I would hit them over and over again before getting sent to the office.
But the point is that I wanted then, as I want now, an extraordinary life. Something beyond normal for others, but normal enough for me. I don’t want to be running drugs, having to go undercover and all of that other bullshit. Yeah, all of that is for the birds. I know that I will never be the same after killing three people, because who is ever truly normal after that?
But I am a professional wrestler at the end of the day. I lived a double life, but that life is no more. It has ceased to exist, so all I am is none other than a professional wrestler. What in the fucking fuck is normal for them? I know a lot of go to press conferences, which I have never really gone to. I don’t do that shit. They do radio shows and that has never been my thing. I have a very photogenic face and a Hollywood smile, as well as a body that a lot of men are jealous of because their women crave it. I can do those things. I can be a guest star on talk shows and even TV shows, but I have never really tried to. I don’t know why. I just know that I haven’t. Would that be the best route for me? Would that qualify me as…normal?
I am contemplating this while sitting in the waiting room, on this couch that looks like a gigantic checkers board. I find this appropriate given my current mental situation, because I feel like an enormous checkers piece, or chess piece, or whatever. I am a big piece of the puzzle known as life and I have no clue as to where I fit into everything else and then I hear…
I look up, breaking my internal monologue, to find a heavy set Mexican woman dressed in scrubs standing in the doorway. At first, I take a quick glance around to see if Ashton Kutcher is around because I have the feeling I am being punked. But then I realize that Ashton has no career or relevance so that couldn’t happen, and I realize that since this is America, Mexicans can work in a doctor’s office.
James Evans: “I’m James…I’m James Evans.”
I stand up. I have seen on television where people usually greet the nurses and stuff with a handshake, but I am not going to do that. That would be abnormal for me. Plus, I am rich and I am now one of the reasons this office stays in business, so the way I see it, she should be catering to me. Hell, she’s probably related to one of my housekeepers that more than likely robbed me while I was away. We just lock eyes before she tells me to follow her. She isn’t bad looking for a Mexican. She has an ass that doesn’t quit. It could probably give that irrelevant bitch Jennifer Lopez a run for her money in the booty department. If this chick wasn’t beneath me, I’d probably hit it.
I am led down a long hallway corridor, before turning to the left and stepping into an office, complete with a leather couch. It is the perfect display of the therapist starter kit. The spic tells me that my therapist will be in to see me in just a few minutes. My therapist is celebrity therapist Kevin Draper. I had options. I could have been seen by an Arab which I quickly declined, stating that I wanted to talk to someone who could speak English. I blame the New York in me as the reason as to why my inner racist has begun to show himself.
There is a knock at the door and in walks a middle aged man with an ashy colored beard. He is what you would call Caucasian, therefore I approve.
James Evans: “Dr. Draper?”
Dr. Draper: “And you are James Evans, professional wrestler…correct?”
James Evans: “That would be me.”
He continues to walk through the office before taking a seat in a leather chair across from me as I rest on the couch. He scribbles something on his notepad before speaking, never taking his eyes off of the paper.
Dr. Draper: “I have seen many professional wrestlers. A lot of them have to deal with steroid abuse. I have to make sure that they’re not considering killing their family or themselves. Steroids and chair shots as studies have shown, can cause serious brain damage. It is a lethal combination. So…that said…what brings you to my office today?”
I stare up at the ceiling, wondering if I should tell him about my life with the criminal underworld and all of the shit I have gone through, or if I should just talk about how I want to find meaning in a seemingly normal life. I know that if I mention the criminal part, there is a good chance the authorities will be called and everything that I planned out to keep my ass from behind bars would crumble.
James Evans: “Well I am definitely not on steroids, though I am sure there are a few women in the wrestling industry who are. Especially the one that beat me a few nights ago. It is just unrealistic. I may have to have her tested.”
Dr. Draper: “Is that why you’re here, James?”
James Evans: “Well no…”
Dr. Draper: “Then let’s get to the point. I have other patients I have to see.”
James Evans: “I’m here because I am not sure how to live my life. I want something as close to normal as I can possibly have. I am just not sure how to attain it. A lot of the other wrestlers around me…they have relationships. They are constantly on Twitter. They have best friends that they go out and do shit with. They seem to be…more engaged in life.”
I hear the sound of pencil to paper as Draper scribbles, before speaking.
Dr. Draper: “They seem to be more engaged in life, yet you’re not. Are you doing anything to change that?”
I shrug my shoulders.
James Evans: “Well, I may have a relationship in the works. I created a Twitter account but I don’t use it much. I don’t want the world to be that involved in my life. It annoys me for the most part. People spending all of their time on social media seems dumb, yet that seems to be normal. I don’t know if I have it in me to be that normal. As far as friends go…I feel like I have people that I am associated with, nothing more. I don’t really have friends per se.”
Dr. Draper: “Well, when you say that you’re associated with them, what do you mean?”
James Evans: “Well, I guess I consider them friends, but I haven’t really put a lot of effort into those relationships unless there is a way to benefit me.”
Dr. Draper: “So you surround yourself with people only if you get something out of it. What about this relationship you are working on. I am assuming this is with a female, correct?”
I look over at Draper, who actually takes his eyes of his paper, locking them with mine, as I stare at him, bewildered.
James Evans: “What the fuck, man? I’m not some faggot. I love women. I have all of their albums. But yeah, I am talking to a female. We are seeing where it goes I guess. I’m not sure. We haven’t really talked about it.”
Dr. Draper: “Does she work with you?”
James Evans: “Yes.”
Dr. Draper: “Are you pursuing her because you want to be in a relationship, or are you doing it to benefit your career?”
I grow silent before returning my gaze back up to the ceiling. I have to admit that it is an honest question, but I don’t have an answer. I have never thought about it. I know I was drawn to her when I saw her after Final Level. I thought she was fucking hot and that hasn’t changed. But am I drawn to her because I feel like she can benefit my career or am I drawn to her because I feel like I could actually like her and give a damn about her?
James Evans: “I’m not sure how to answer that, doc. I haven’t put much thought into it and to be honest, it kind of bums me out. I mean, she is a good looking woman. But she has accomplished more than me in a short time. It does make me envious.”
Dr. Draper: “Envious to the point of simply using her and nothing more?”
James Evans: “I don’t know. Maybe. Like I said, I haven’t really put much thought into it to be honest.”
Dr. Draper: “Well since you want my opinion or advice on your life, I will tell you what I can tell so far from what you’ve told me.”
I sit up on the couch, locking eyes with the good doctor. He leans forward in his seat, placing his pencil and notepad on the coffee table in front of him, before addressing me.
James Evans: “The floor’s all yours, doc.”
Dr. Draper: “I believe you don’t want friends, or any real relationship. You only look for personal gain and that James, from what I can tell, is normal for you. It carries over not only in your professional life, but in your personal life as well. I read the survey you filled out and I have listened to you. To me, you seem stuck.”
James Evans: “Stuck? What do you mean by that?”
Dr. Draper: “You’re stuck. You’re afraid of whom you really are, but I don’t think you yourself…know who you really are. I can see it. I can hear it. But I don’t think you can. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here, James.”
James Evans: “Well, Dr. Draper…why don’t you tell me who I am? I think that would help and speed this process up a little bit.”
Dr. Draper shakes his head.
Dr. Draper: “No, I am not doing that, James. It is up to you to figure out who you are. So, that said, I am going to give you a homework assignment.”
James Evans: “You have got to be fucking joking with me doc. I smoked weed through high school. I got kicked out of college for driving under the influence which led to a high speed police pursuit. I am pretty sure it’s obvious I don’t do well when it comes to homework.”
Dr. Draper: “I said I am giving you one. Whether or not you do it depends entirely on you, James. You’ve been in therapy before, for entirely different reasons, but you have always been asked to write or keep a journal. I want you to write something for me, that you feel reflects who you truly are, James. Like I said, whether or not you do it is up to you. But I feel it would be beneficial to you in a number of ways.”
I fire back, trying to mask the fact that I am intrigued by this little homework assignment.
James Evans: “Name one…”
Dr. Draper: “You may be able to get a better understanding of who James Evans truly is. Sometimes writing then reading it aloud, helps you find your voice so to speak.”
James Evans: “Do you think that this is really necessary, Draper? I mean…”
He cuts me off.
Dr. Draper: “I think the bigger question James is…do you?”
I look at him for a few moments, unsure of what to say. I then look away, before focusing my eyes on the clock, before looking back at Draper.
Dr. Draper: “Well…James?”
I let out a sigh, looking at the clock once more before replying.
James Evans: “Time’s up…See you next week.”
I go to get up from my spot on the couch but he stops me dead in my tracks.
Dr. Draper: “I have just one more question before you go, James.”
I turn and look at him, my eyes asking, Are you fucking serious?
Dr. Draper: “I’m adding to the homework assignment, as I will not be able to see you next week. But, that is beside the point. The second part of the assignment, and you can choose to do them in whatever order you wish…but it deals with you having fun. Do you actually go out and have fun, James?”
There is a part of me that wants to grab him by the fucking face and shout at him, telling him about what I’ve been through the last few months, or even take him on a trip down the lane of my memories about how I got started into the whole drug running business, but I don’t. I just flash him a look which is a mixture of cocky and confused, as I reply.
James Evans: “Of course I have fun dude. Do you know who I am? I am James Evans. I have fun all of the fucking time. I travel the fucking world for one thing. I go out and I mingle with the people, getting to sample all kinds of international alcohol, drugs…ignore that last bit…and pussy. The women practically throw themselves at me. So yeah, yours truly has fun. I have more fun than I know what to do with.”
There is also that part of me that wants to kick my own ass before throwing myself out of his fucking office window so I can put my lying ass out of my own misery.
Dr. Draper: “I see…yet you say you don’t have any real friends and this relationship you’re trying to pursue…you are able to set all of that aside for international parties and as you put it…pussy. How is that possible, James? I am a specialist. I can detect bullshit from a mile away and James you can bullshit with the best of them, but trust me when I say that you’re not any good at it.”
I go to respond, but I can’t. The son of a bitch has me stumped.
Dr. Draper: “These assignments are to help you figure out who you are, James. From the sound of your bullshit, you don’t really do anything except participate in self destructive behavior. And I think that behavior stems from you not knowing who you are or what you want out of life. I can tell you’ve been through something traumatic and I feel that is holding you back.”
I look down, letting everything he says sink in because deep down, I know it is one hundred percent true. After he finishes speaking, I sigh before looking at him.
James Evans: “So what do you prescribe, doc? Xanax? Oxy? Medical marijuana? I am sure you have something you can give me to help me have fun.”
He shakes his head.
Dr. Draper: “I can only give you advice, James and my advice to you is to do these assignments. And the big thing for you to do, should you choose to do it, or allow yourself to do so is to cut loose and have fun.”
I go to speak, but Draper puts his hands up, his right index finger lightly tapping on the watch dangling from his left wrist.
Dr. Draper: “I don’t have time for anything else today James. I have other patients. Please see the receptionist at the front desk to schedule a time for two weeks.”
I try to speak again, but the office door opens and some smug little kid walks in with his pants below his ass and some God awful haircut. I look at him and ask what the fuck is wrong with kids today. But then I remind myself that I need to not be such a hypocritical dick, because not even I have my shit together.