October 18, 2019, 03:48:01 AM

Author Topic: Alternative Viewpoints  (Read 233 times)

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Alternative Viewpoints
« on: November 29, 2017, 04:49:21 AM »
The atrocities I committed against the guiltless, vulnerable, young couple a few days ago affords me a magnified understanding of what it is to live a day in the life of Dakota Smith.  The fact that I could be so brutal and so ruthless in relation to arbitrarily chosen, entirely untrained individuals, has me unsure of what to think.  Naturally, I have set myself up for success in a No Holds Barred match between the 4CW Butcher and myself, as I proved capable of the sort of soulless depravity he has cornerstoned his career upon.  I now know that I have it within me to do whatever it takes to advance my career, against whoever may cross my path- and that’s something that I didn’t know, before that awesome and awful evening. 

I’ve been in No Holds Barred matches before, but never against someone like Dakota.  Never against a bona fide murderer.  I’ve arguably committed acts of evil before, too, but never in a match.  With my career and Amber being all I have left to look forward upon with a smile, it was absolutely integral to my confidence heading into Adrenaline that I rape that couple of their lives as they knew it, like Dakota rapes dead bodies.  Unlike his dead bodies, those two folks will never be the same again, though.  They’ll never feel the same level of comfort in their own skin as they did the night before they met me, and eerily, that made me feel good.

That makes me feel good about facing Dakota on Wednesday.

That makes me feel good about the outlook of my career.

What doesn’t make me feel good?  You might guess that it’d be that I actually did it- and was fully capable of going through with it- and that I absolutely ruined their lives for years upon decades- and that I wish it hadn’t come to this- but, it isn’t any of those fuckin’ things.  None of that is true.  I don’t care about that couple or the severe extent of damage every fiber of their existences has accrued, simply because I’m alive and have recently felt forced to find avenues of thriving never before explored.  I don’t care that I was capable of going through with it- fuck, I’m glad I was.  I don’t care that my life has come to this- my mother and father wanted me to get straight, to get clean, and to live the life I was supposed to live.  Minus one minor hiccup, I’m clean.  I’m straight. 

And this is where sobriety led me. 

Maybe, some folks are meant to be medicated. 

Perhaps, some day, when I feel I’ve had the career that destiny intended, I’ll seek therapy, Lexapro, and fuckin’ guided meditation.  For now, though, I’m thinking this killer instinct, this lack of empathy, this intensity of thought that borders upon the line of obsession- I’m thinking it’s gonna let me fulfill my parents’ wish.  I’m gonna be able to live the life I was intended to live- the one that ended the week that Bronx and Amber decided to rip it away. 

So what does bother me about the whole situation?  What makes me a little unsure?


And that, right there- that’s what worries me.

As time slowly separates that poor couple and I, I find myself looking back on them with a fondness of which I never thought I’d be capable in relation to such a situation.  I should be ashamed.  I should be sick.  I should feel wretched.  I destroyed two lives, for no good reason.  I should feel guilty.  Really, really, guilty. 

And not only do I not care, I’m starting to feel good about it.  There’s a certain kind of bliss in knowing that you’ve wielded such devastating force over another human being or two, that they’ll never fully recover emotionally, if not physically.  In those two people’s minds, I’ll never be forgotten. 

I’ll never be rejected. 

I’ll never be defeated.

I may be an unholy, diabolical monster in their eyes, but fuck if I don’t carry the status of a god.  After that night, to them, I am omnipotent.



Everywhere they go, they’ll fear that I not only know they’re there, but that I’m potentially around the next corner- standing behind the door, laying poised underneath the bed- with the capability to do absolutely anything.  Purchasing a firearm would only quell that deathly anxiety level to just about one notch lower than if they were back around the corner of that alley, buck naked, bleeding, and broken. Christ, every shower taken will be done with sheer terror of what lies beyond the curtain.  I never, ever thought that I’d identify with Dakota Smith like, apparently, I do.  Shockingly, I understand the same sort of rush he does.  I get the sense of fulfillment he gets.  For the rest of their lives, just like god or themselves, I won’t be far from their minds’ forefronts.  It’s power in one of the most purest, primitive forms, and it’s fucking intoxicating.

So, with my wildly addictive personality, that concept becomes a bit worrisome. 

I was only supposed to research Dakota.

I was never supposed to become Dakota.

For the sake of my career and my freedom from the incarceration that somehow continuously evades him, I cannot become Dakota.  If I’m not THE golden boy of 4CW, right now, I’m one of them.  I’m expected to be charming and charismatic.  I’m expected to be the object of female fans’ desires and the idol of young men across the nation.  I’m what one might call a, “prototype.”  Folks consider me to be very good looking, I’m extremely athletic, my smile lights up the fuckin’ room.  You WANT to like me.  Folks are so instinctively attracted to me that when I curse up a storm, bible-thumpers find it endearing.  I’m lovable, I guess.  Perry Wallace wants that from me.

Dakota Smith is not lovable. 

Dakota Smith is not endearing.

Perry Wallace needs that of him.

Now, the world of professional wrestling would forgive a single step into the darkness, evidenced as an attempt to gain an edge on the most feared, despicable grappler in its history.  The couple I ravaged would be widely and rightly considered casualties of warfare; pawns in the Art of War, where Sun Tzu vehemently impresses upon his audience the importance of knowing one’s enemy.  My first offense would be forgiven- perhaps, even be seen as a flash of brilliance from a wiser, more thoughtful and downright dangerous Boston, by your more cerebral critics. 

To do it again, though, would upset the herd.  Another transgression like it, and I am no longer simply doing what’s necessary to gain an edge over the guy across the ring from me- I become the guy across the ring from me.  It wouldn’t sit well with the fans, and it wouldn’t sit well with Perry Wallace.  He’s already making dividends on my handsome as fuck face.

But it was so easy.  A night that would have been otherwise spent laboriously torturing myself over a few past failures was replaced with excitement, adrenaline, and the most peculiar sense of fulfillment that I’ve likely ever come across- I think, stemming from my forced acquisition of complete and utter control.

Complete and utter control.

I don’t know if I’ve ever had that in my life.

I owned those nice folks that night-

-and I still do.

I always will.

It’s a feeling that I want back again almost as bad as I want to rewrite history with Bronx, or- well, I don’t think I want anything as bad as I want Amber.  Regardless, I will get that feeling back again, just like I’ll beat Bronx and Amber will return to my side where she’s belonged since New Mexico. 

I’ll just have to find a different way to do it.


I had spent the evening thus far as I had done for about a month or so.  Laying on a tiny bed, in a relatively equally minuscule room, surrounded by shiny, off-white walls accented by generic paintings of the Naturalist genre and equidistant pewtered-glass covered light bulbs with gold-plated holsters.  There was a black television screen showcasing only my lonely reflection, backed by a multiply angled mahogany headboard that presumably left its mark upon the sea of white surroundings with every comfortability seeking adjustment I made in my self-decreed prison draped in a soft, flat floral arrangement. 

It was worth it to me to spend half, or more, of my earnings from my last appearance to stay in hotel rooms in one city or the other and not face the prospect of going home.

My laptop was positioned parallel to my face, and my right shoulder, the locale of a previous sidelining injury, had begun to ache as it crossed over my barrel chest to navigate between watching old matches of Dakota Smith and those of Bronx Valescence.  For every hour I studied Dakota, I spent ten minutes on Bronx.  My right arm never moved, however, because nervous energy dictated that I need follow the action with the little white arrow on the screen.

I had been at it for about six hours at that point, and it became my contention that I had seen every fucked up variation of maneuver onto or into a foreign object I could see- twice- from Dakota Smith.  That wasn’t true, of course, as the hours of footage are nearly endless when it came to the Butcher, but at that point, my eyes had actually begun to cross, as vision had become blurred into about hour three.  I needed a break that consisted of something more than executing a set of one hundred push-ups or taking a piss.  When I looked up from the computer screen with one eye focused on the ceiling fan and the other straight ahead at the wall, for a moment it seemed as though three of the glossy pearl colored walls were crashing down upon me. 

The realization that this was the extent of my life every two weeks between shows set in, at least, as often as the change of the hour, and that was a depressing thought.

It made me want a percocet.

It made me want a shot of Popov.

It made me want to fuck up someone’s life.

It made me want Amber.

What I needed, though, was some food and some fresh fuckin’ air.

Five or ten minutes later, my Timberland boots collided with a collection of cement that called a sidewalk in downtown Washington, D.C. its place of residence.  Brisk November evening winds made the close quartered city blocks feel as though they were in the thralls of Winter- it was like a wind tunnel- so I had a tan Carhartt jacket on, unzipped, over a thick, black thermal, all resting atop a pair of fairly dirty- a noticeable grease stain added character to the right hip- and wrinkled jeans, mostly blue in color, though from mid-thigh to mid-shin, white threading interwove with the standard denim, which created the illusion that they had been worn for over a decade.  Mesh well with the D.C. nightlife, I definitely didn’t, but I wasn’t much for fashion or for people that were, so I wasted as little time as I possibly could contemplating the facet of popular culture. 

I passed by several fairly well-attended bars as I trudged against rushing masses of air searing my cheeks to a blush, without catalyst for embarrassment, and down further into the heart of the nation’s capital’s downtown district.  It was strange for me to pass up a pub while in search of food, as up until a little while ago, I would refuse to eat anywhere that didn’t serve alcohol, but in the interest of making sobriety last a full month, I was in search of a Subway that my phone indicated existed just about another block and a half up the road.  My conviction was strong against my urges to use, drink- whatever, same thing to me- but, I could decipher no point in tempting impulse, which had been known to get the best of me for as long as I’d been able to set one foot in front of the other, clearly just as much, or more, these days, than ever in the past.  I could see the yellow and green bannered safe haven in the short distance when I approached the stretch of sidewalk that acted as a welcome mat for City Tap House at Penn Quarter.

And then, ironically, in sync with a break in the wind, I was almost knocked to the collage of cracked cement, dirt, and sticky, wadded napkins below my rubber soles. 

She could be more elusive than the Holy Grail, the lost city of Atlantis, the Loch Ness Monster, and Waldo put together, and I’d spot her, instantly, anywhere.

That garnet colored hair wistfully falling at her cheek, so perfectly accenting her teal colored eyes stopped me dead in my tracks.  I had spent hours on end thinking about her the last couple of weeks, and before that, at least a half hour a day over the last two years picturing that face, smiling at and eyeing me seductively as it had when we were Orion Tag Team Champions in New Mexico.  Across from her, sat a man who had helped me more than words could express in the past.  The timing seemed perfect.  I’d been counting the seconds since I last saw Amber Ryan at Fright Night, there was no doubt that she reciprocated those sort of feelings.  They were way too strong to be any kind of one-sided.  Riddle certainly wouldn’t mind if I interrupted, either- I was pretty sure that he had a girlfriend.  Besides, the tone of their conversation seemed serious- even terse, in nature.  He’d be glad to catch a break from the line of questioning that seemed to be going down- and she would be glad to see me.

I made a hard left and finagled my way through the crowd comprised equally of young professionals and seemingly established folks of middle age toward the high-top table the two world-renowned 4CW stars employed.  As I approached, Amber looked adorable, wincing, as she choked down what must have been a pretty skunked or otherwise awful beer.  I wasn’t sure why she wasn’t just downing shots of tequila, like she normally did, but maybe I was just catching her between shots.  Riddle looked on, stoically, with a slight smirk.  Neither of them saw me coming.  As I meandered through pencil skirts and loosened ties, as sudden anxiety came over me.  The muscles in my back and shoulders tensed considerably, my esophagus seemed to cinch in upon itself, my mind started racing- and it occurred to me that it had been over a week since I had spoken more than three or four words to another human being, let alone HER- the pinnacle of my mind’s eye for, at least, the last month.  All of the confidence and whatever semblance of swagger that I used to have in these types of situations had vanished. 

For the last couple of months, I had only spoken to video cameras on my phone for promotional purposes, Gabrial Hartman ONE time, and the good folks at N.A. meetings across America for longer than a sentence or two.  Her essence- her very being- pulled me from my otherwise intensely worrisome state long enough to engage my impulses- of course- to guide me from the street, tableside, and I had no idea what the fuck to say.  Riddle saw me first, and I shot my eyes wide at him, as if asking for an answer.  To that, he just cocked his head back and slightly furrowed his brow, offering no help.  But, I was there, front and center, I had to dive the fuck in.

“Uhm- uh- h-hey, guys. Saw y’all from the window and- shit, I hope I’m not interrupting- but, uh, I, uh, just thought I’d uh- say what- what’s up?”

Yeah, guys, remember me?  I was your fuckin’ algebra and civics tutor back in eighth grade.  At school dances, I was the guy who slow-danced with girls at a near forty-five degree angle to hide his raging, uncontrollable erection.  Riddle, you taped me to a very unclean urinal once, and Amber, you lured me to sit in fruit punch so you and the rest of the class could call me, “period boy,” until well after high-school graduation.  Aren’t you so fuckin’ happy to see me?!  What the fuck was wrong with me?!  I have never fucking stuttered!  I mean, I stutter at N.A. meetings sometimes, because that can be fuckin’ nerve wracking, and I think maybe I borderline did, once or twice, trying to get Marquis to flirt with me in Canada- but she ended up fuckin’ flirting with me, so it was okay.  This?  This was not fuckin’ okay. 

This was not me. 

I was virtually shaking with nerves because I was talking to the ONLY woman to have ever really shut me down.


I was reeling, standing still.

“Odd. Don’t recall you having that much of a stutter before…”

That’s because I fucking didn’t.  But, God, see, look at her, she’s laughing!  She’s making a joke out of it and trying to be encouraging at the same time.  She’s trying to snap me out of it, asking me to recall earlier interactions with her, when I wasn’t social anxiety personified.  She was thinking about those nights we spent on hotel balconies, taking turns getting plastered and having earth-shattering sex- nights when I never stumbled over a single word.  Nights when everything that came out of my mouth, even if it was the dumbest fuckin’ thing she’d ever heard, came with confidence.  She was beckoning me to be sure of myself.  You’re motherfucking Boston.  You have one name, and you’re good enough that no one makes too much fun of you for it, because that’d be a weak fuckin’ argument against you.  You might well have been the best tag partner she had ever had.  Never lost a match together.

Wow, did I love her laugh, even if it was just a polite laugh.  I wanted to keep it going.  C’mon, strike one, find yourself, Boston.  Wind up, and the pitch...

“H-yeah, I think I’m uh- retroactively autistic or something.”

The autism punchline was apparently hysterical via Twitter, but in person, it didn’t carry the same weight.  Everyone within fucking earshot took a moment out of their evening to glare at me- hard.  One lady looked at me like she was Veronica Vaughn and I was Billy Madison, after he went for the, “T-T-T-TODAY, JUNIAHHH’,” line- I swear my ear tingled in anticipation of it getting gripped up.  It was at this point that I believe I recall stepping outside of myself for a couple of moments.  Like, I don’t mean I took a second to consider all sides of the coin, carefully.  I mean, I nearly fainted, kinda blacked out, and barely remember the density of the awkward silence I had just initiated.  Welcome back to the exciting world of eighth grade civics, folks. 

“Autism… Right, look I don’t mean to be blunt, but is there a point you're getting at?”

There she goes again.  She acknowledged the misfire, but redirected, instead of ridiculing me.  She could have told me to just, “fuck off,” but she didn’t.  She welcomed me back into the conversation.  She was trying to help me win here, for Christ’s sake.  She was rubbing her temple, as if she was super annoyed- classic Amber- she would pretend to be super annoyed with me a lot in New Mexico, too.  It was part of our, “thing,” I guess.  I loved that we had such a good, “schtick,” I guess you could call it.  We used to bounce off of one another for hours, in between her debilitating migraines. 

When she stopped massaging her head and opened her beautiful blue-green eyes, they immediately found mine.  The connection we made in that moment was palpable and powerful, to say the least.  There was no question now, regarding whether or not she had missed me.  Her eyes said it all.  In that moment’s ocular dance, I found all of the reassurance I needed. 

She regretted ever letting me go. 

She was sorry, and she wanted me back. 

She just didn’t know how bad until that very moment.

It’s like her eyes of longing had caught flame- just like the one we’d shared in New Mexico.  I’ll never forget that moment, as long as I live.  Riddle might as well have been in fucking Maryland, for all we cared.

“Uh? Usually isn't.  Just wanted to wish you luck against Aidan. She’s tough.  Riddle, you too, good luck this week, bro.”

There it was.  She had given me my confidence back.  One quick, cool, self-deprecating reply, and I was quick to the point- wishing her luck in a big match, before I strolled off into the night with her burning to follow.  I leaned out to gently slap the table before I walked out of the door with her heart in my hand, but before I could, she fired back with a query of her own.

“Yeah, you too darl… Dakota right? I look forward to seeing that.”

Of course, she knew who I was facing this week.  She cared about me.  She wanted to see me do well.  She looked forward to seeing it, because she knew what I was capable of doing in the ring, even against a monster like Dakota.  She didn't know the lengths to which I had gone to prepare for a No Holds Barred battle with the Butcher, but even without that, she knew I could take him- and despite that knowledge, there was something in her tone, when she delivered that final phrase, which beckoned me to take care of myself.  She was asking me to make sure I came out alive, if not on top. I couldn’t believe that I had ever even gotten nervous about running into her so fortuitously.  She was an integral part of my destiny, after all.  Cyrus even nodded as if to express his intuitive understanding as to what had just transpired before him.

“So uh… yeah.”

Just like that, the tables had turned and the upper hand had completed a half circle.  Suddenly, she was the anxious one.  In an instant, she was the one who couldn't find the words.  I smiled with all the warmth and grandeur I could muster to confirm the suspicions she harbored concerning wanting me back, shared one more fate-filled glance with my Distorted Angel, and headed for the door, a man confident in his destiny.

A couple of days later, she even wished me a happy birthday on Twitter.

I forgot to say goodbye to Riddle-

-but, when it came to her?

I meant to leave that part out.
« Last Edit: November 29, 2017, 08:25:37 AM by Boston »