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Author Topic: "Killing Myself Slowly"  (Read 295 times)

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RichERich

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"Killing Myself Slowly"
« on: November 09, 2017, 11:49:49 AM »
“KILLING MYSELF SLOWLY”


Vossler as Philippe "Vossler" Chiari




I booked my flight here and returned on August 22nd. I had a deal to hold up. The blackmail payment I'd put on hold for so long couldn't wait any longer. It was about time I actually went down to pay it myself. Upon arriving at Heathrow airport in London, the cold streets of London greeted me once more with rain and gray skies. I should've brought my umbrella, I should've known. But I only stood there with my coat, quickly drenched hair and a metal suitcase. It was almost cinematic, like from a movie. Much like the invitation to then step into a car from two men who looked familiar to me. They'd shown up Concord, North Carolina with Angeleo once. Angeleo, the man of feigned symphathy and manipulation. And these were his henchmen. Running or rejecting wasn't going to do me any good. Once I sat down on the backseat of the vehicle, one of the henchmen placed himself next to me and quickly drew a gun. I wasn't shocked, more surprised at their assumption I'd try to blow the situation. The driver adjusted his rear view mirror, and took off.



The office Vossler was guided to was a luxurious one placed at the top of a corporate building. Yet the floor they were on had nothing to do with the corporation. It was bought out by the people who were now standing in front of Vossler. The two henchmen who both pointed a gun, Angeleo who seemed far more composed than his rookies and the man of the hour. The Boss. No name. He'd never told anyone, believing his rank should speak for him. While in reality, he was just as afraid as any other individual involved with the criminal underworld of London to have their family discovered, threatened or worse. He sat in a wheelchair, a mask over his face with a breathing machine seemingly worked into the desk. He stared daggers into the face of Vossler, and not before long The Boss took the mask off.

BOSS: "This mask... I do not need it the whole time. I can go for a total of 4 hours without it every day, conciously. I can go to sleep without it, so long as I put it back on in the morning."

Vossler didn't respond.

BOSS: "My wife used to sleep in the same bed as me, you know. She lasted a whole 4 months until she'd decided we needed a different room. She told me that she loved me but the machine in our home made too much noise for her to rest after taking care of me through the day. Bathing me, feeding me. I am no longer able to hug or hold my children. Them sitting on my lap hurts, so I ask them not to. They've grown distant from their father. But those are the consequences of being paralyzed from the waist down, with one paralyzed arm to boot. Luckily my legal work has a very good policy for those who can't come into work due to illness and such. It allowed me to have more time for the lawyers that have been chasing me all these years."

The Boss motioned to the henchmen to lower their weapons. They hesitated, but obliged in the end.

BOSS: "You did this to me, Philippe Chiari. Out of revenge for the poisoning of your father. Did you not?"

PHIL: "I did."

BOSS: "Yes... I remember the day you kicked in the door. You carried a... a lead bat, wasn't it? From one of the local batting cages. Yes."

Vossler nodded.

BOSS: "It is good that you are atleast honest of your actions, no matter how treacherous they are."

PHIL: "You got what you deserved and nothing less."

The Boss was caught off guard by that comment, seemingly shocked.

BOSS: "Got what... I deserved? I deserve all this!?"

PHIL: "You killed my father out of a personal vendetta. You did not rule Europe, you ruled London. And when the events in France leaked out to London you wanted someone to blame for the sudden rise in opposition. You killed my father because your services, your product and your income would rise through the top. You wouldn't rise to it, you would go far above it. World renowned!"

BOSS: "I cannot hold my own son!"

Vossler stood up as the henchmen in the room readied quickly but were stopped by a gesture from Angeleo.

PHIL: "The only ever time I get to visit my father is when I visit his gravestone! You should be burried 6 feet below him in plain dirt. You don't deserve a casket."

BOSS: "Is that why you brought that today?"

The Boss' functioning arm pointed to the suitcase that had been set up next to my seat.

PHIL: "That is the money you blackmailed me for. That is yours. Every fuckin' penny, in cash. I worked for this. I fucking earned this. But if this means that you, this whole underworld you guard over and your bitchboys dissapear out of my life permanently, I'd pay you double what I have with me already."

Angeleo walked towards the case and lifted it off the floor, as the room fell silent. He opened the case swiftly to reveal stacks of cash. Dollars. One million.

PHIL: "One million fucking dollars for your old crippled ass. Why you wanted it in dollars, I have no fucking clue."

BOSS: "You come here to insult me, you try to put me down with a threatening tone while you know there are loaded firearms in this room... You have grown a set of balls, Chiari. Impressive. It must have happened during your time away in Japan because as I recall, one of our most valuable assests happened to be in the same company you were hired to... and suddenly he was killed. A gun-for-hire who only told us that he was hired by a French-British man."

Vossler said nothing.

BOSS: "You have not only wronged me, but also my business and my money income... Chiari. Your name means nothing to us after this."

PHIL: "And you have your money now. So take it, and let me return to Concord in peace."

BOSS: "No... After this."

A metallic slap against skin was the last he'd heard before falling to the wooden floor below. Whatever happened next, Vossler could not recall. It was all darkness to him.



It's been two months since I returned to London. I haven't left since. I haven't been able to. I woke up in an alleyway in Portsmouth. No shoes, no coat, no wallet, no phone, no passport. I was stranded in the United Kingdom. 72 miles away from my point of entry with no way of getting back. Only when I tried to get up had I noticed the moisture on the side of my head. The hit must've been so hard it broke skin. Wobbly, I made my way to the pub. Warmth and possibly help awaited me there. Or so I had hoped, anyway.


Vossler entered the pub. It was a quiet time for the pub. The only people there were some bums who appeared to be celebrating with a happy birthday song. I didn't care. I approached the bar and waved to the bartender.

PHIL: "Hi, afternoon. I--"

BARTENDER: "Evening, sir."

PHIL: "Right, good evening. Do you have a phone I can use?"

BARTENDER: "Bet. Pound an-- Oh. Christ, the fuck happened to you lad?"

He pointed to the crimson color that painted the side of Vossler's head and hair.

PHIL: "I... got robbed. I didn't win."

BARTENDER: "Fuckin' hell. Ya don't need an ambulance?"

He probably did, but Vossler wouldn't be able to get or be able to pay for the help.

PHIL: "No, no. I'm just going to call a relative and... actually. Could you give me a wet paper towel to clean this with?"

BARTENDER: "A'ight, bet. Go use the phone lad."

And so Phil got behind the counter and dialed the number. The partying bums suddenly noticed him.

BUM 1: "Aye, there's a banged up chode if I ever saw one, eh!?"

BUM 2: "Like me ex when she was PMS'ing!"

They laughed, but Phil ignored it. The other end of the phone picked up.

??: Who the fuck's this?"

PHIL: "Jolon? It's Phil."

JOLON: "Phil? The fuck is this number?"

PHIL: "Listen, I'm in London. Shit went bad, they took everything. The signs say I'm in Portsmouth but I'm going to head to London as soon as possible. Is there any way you can come pick me up?"

Jolon Stevenson, Philippe's manager, went quiet.

JOLON: "I-I don't know man. It's going to take me a while. My kid is in the hospital. They believe he's been poisoned. I can't leave him, man."

Phil was shocked. Did they actually try for another personal vendetta?

JOLON: "All they saw next to his seizuring body was a note that said 'Farewell', does this have to do with you?!"

PHIL: "I... I don't know. I paid them the money, hell, they took even more. They've probably raided my bank by now knowing their teams for that shit. I think this was their final warning not to fuck with them."

JOLON: "Phil... I swear to god. If this is your doing, the only way you're coming back to the United States is with a bullet hole through your skull."

PHIL: "Joe, it's not my doing! Jo--"

The desperate tones got cut off by the sudden monotonous tone that meant the line was broken. Reality had set in. He truly was deserted here. The sound of the bums laughing roared back into his conciousness.

BUM 1: "Lovers' quarrel, you faggot!? Baaahhh!!"

BUM 2: "I bet he got turned down again! Look at his fuckin' head! He doesn't know when to quit!"

They hammered the bar, but Vos had one more call to make before he could stop ignoring them.

His departure, if only temporarily, from 4 Corners Wrestling.



It had a few months since my stranding in London. I was scraping by, luckily. But only after the bums who had originally mocked me offered to help out. They gave me clothes, shelter. Escapes. A means to survive. A means to enjoy life, still. Euphoria at a cheap price. I was asking for help from people, I approached old friends. But all of them turned me down, kicked me back to the curb. The bums became my friends and allies, the ones who caught me after each kick. I found a new love in life. It became rare for me to spend the time I was awake sober. My drive to continue came in the forms of pills, needles and whatever else I could get my hands on. It helped that there were business men in parks that were easy to mug for a quick buck. It was the only way for me to stay in shape at all. Running, fighting for money, gambling, dealing... It was all so easy to make money with. But while I would've previously told myself that it was all to get back to where I had to go, it was all spent to feed my new addiction. Powders, pills, cold needles, beverages and worse. I had come close to overdosing twice. But luckily the bums knew plenty of ways to help someone in that state. Or, atleast keep them from dying.


PHIL: "Dude, pass it."

The bums and Philippe had seated around a small fire, passing a blunt around that could've easily served twice the size of their group. Vossler puffed and passed, coughing.

BUM 1: "Still ain't used it to it, are ya pretty boy?"

BUM 2: "Ah, fuck off Larry. Shit's strong! Must be mixed!"

PHIL: "Mixed is the shit though."

Vossler leaned back and hit someone's stomach.

PHIL: "Hey, fuck off man. My space."

Only when he had actually opened his eyes did he realize it was Jolon Stevenson.

PHIL: "What the..."

JOLON: "What the fuck indeed. What the fuck is this, you cunt?"

The bums all turned their head.

BUM 1: "Hey, fuck off and leave the boy be! We're enjoying ourselves. What're you, a pig?"

Vossler stood up to look his old friend in the face.

PHIL: "Where the fuck have you been?"

JOLON: "Where the fuck do you think I've been? For the last two weeks I've been looking for your ass all over this goddamn town. London is massive but not massive enough for me to spend two weeks looking for your ass from the looks of it. Are you done playing junkie and are you ready to get back to the United States with me now?"

Vossler wasn't ready to hear it. He didn't want to go. It was a shit life for sure, but nomading through the city and enjoying life psychedelically? It was wonderous, miraclous.

JOLON: "You can't be fucking serious."

Vossler remained quiet.

JOLON: "They've fucking stripped you from the title in Octane. Everyone fucking hates you for no-showing. Bronx has publicly outed you to be a fraud in the main event. You're shunned and despised. This is your only opportunity to ever make it right. Because after seeing all this and seeing this reponse from you? The moment I leave this place, I'm not coming back for your ass and you're going to be left stranded here for the rest of your miserable life. Look at you, you punk! The bags under your eyes, the dents in your cheeks, the fucking hair you've grown. You look like a fucking sasquatch! I can connect the dots on your skin where you put the fucking needles. What the fuck has my best friend become?"

The bums had gone quiet after the word title. They'd even sunk in a little as Jolon roasted Vossler, recognizing his words in themselves.

PHIL: "I..."

JOLON: "This is your only chance, Philippe. Your father asked me with his dying breath to take care of you in shit situations, but you're not his son anymore. This isn't who he'd let his son become. You're a fucking disgrace."

Jolon turned around and walked away. Suddenly Phil shouted out.

PHIL: "JOE!"

Jolon didn't stop.

PHIL: "How's your son!?"

But that did.

JOLON: "He... lived. He was poisoned, but not by any specific person after research. Complications occured when they did research but it's shown to be the lily of the valley. I refused that the first three times but after a while believed it. Hence why I came to get you."

PHIL: "I'm sorry, Jolon."

JOLON: "Sorry for what?"

PHIL: "For making you worry about your kid, man..."

Jolon went quiet. Atleast a minute passed without anyone saying anything, only the hustle and bustle of the London districts remaining audible.

JOLON: "Are you coming with me?"

Phil looked behind him for one moment. This was what he'd become. Sobering reality kicked in. Heroine, weed, ecstacy, cocaine... those were his reasons to live now. And when the promise of home stared him right in the face, he'd have to think twice about even taking it. He realized that now. This wasn't him.

PHIL: "Yeah."



I've been sobering more and more for the last month. I've finally returned to Concord and was given some funds by Jolon Stevenson in order to restart my training. I clung on to cigarettes to quiet the voices that told me to return to bad habits. And it worked. Alcohol was still a vice that I atleast now healthily controlled. I have a lot to make up for. Lost time, lost respect. Lost opportunities, lost titles. Lost credibility and most importantly, a lost life. But I will do what I can in order to make up for it. I have the opportunity to now.

I had better make the most of it.