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Author Topic: The Wooden Spoonbender Chronicles: Hands  (Read 125 times)

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David Sanchez

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The Wooden Spoonbender Chronicles: Hands
« on: October 08, 2018, 08:04:23 AM »
The Wooden Spoonbender Chronicles:

Episode 1 - HANDS

"Way back when I first re-laced my boots and decided I wasn't done yet, I used to take this sport for granted, you know? That shit's easy to do-- seventeen years of the exact same shit being forced through the puckered asshole of this industry. It tends to make you stop seeing the good side of wrestling; the side with all the world travel that let me build so many bridges. The media attention that allowed me to rise to the lofty role of Mayor to the city of Chicago and the endorsement deals that keep me in such finery. You know that tasty, life-affirming mumbo-jumbo that most men and women wouldn't take so for granted."


The scene opens on a black suited gentleman, bespectacled and broken in both spirit and soul; these things made immediately obvious by his vacant stare. Mahogany... imagine every single instance of mahogany in your life and multiply it by five-- the result wouldn't equate to the room which seamlessly appears around him. A bar, this was definitely a bar; making our mysterious stranger; it’s bartender.

"Take a look at this guy here. This average man doing an average job for an average salary. No job security, no company health insurance policies to look after his average wife and C-student kids when he dies of causes that could've been corrected, had he been able to afford better healthcare."

The camera pans around to a nearby booth, one of seven leather clad, built-in dining nooks that would wrongly suggest that this place sold something a little more appetizing than common Canadian classics and the odd toasted sandwich. Sitting slouched and almost sideways so that his legs occupy the whole double-seat we find our now-known narrator, one David Sanchez studying the simple barman as he sips the froth from an ice cold pint of Peroni and tries to calm the telltale signs of heroin withdrawal that manifest through his trembling, brittle hands.

"This guy would probably fuckin' rape his mother for a glamorous job like: 'professional wrestler,' but here's the thing... what the fuck is so ‘professional’ about any of this anymore, huh? This ain't the Golden God damned career that I broke my fuckin' leg for three times. This slack-hipped slut of a business is a different depository entirely than the one which I poured my blood, sweat and tears into for all these years. This so-called sport has fast become a silhouette of what it once was... a whisper of a memory only held by a few fading stars in the crowded night sky, aka: the network of new talent that crops up each passing week."

Eighteen months had passed since he'd last used, Eighteen rocky months in which he’d been dragged to court, fired from the WCF and exiled to his homeland of South America only to return refreshed and refocused. Sure, he was drinking himself to sleep and taking enough painkillers to subdue a small elephant. Still, it was all progress-- a step in the right direction. At home, or hotel rather, as it had evidently become since re-entering the public view in wake of his political scandal there was a single loaded syringe stored inside of a stash box, inside of a suitcase, inside of a sliding wardrobe. Just in case of emergencies. In truth he'd almost sold out to the remnants of his old life after being sent over the ropes at Bad Company but what little self control he had stayed the course and kept him straight. Well, straight is a strong word, slightly crooked would perhaps better fit the bill. But these are semantics. The fact of the matter is that he hadn't put heroin into his body now for a year and a half. Yet, if you'd have asked him as an unknown bystander, he'd still deny ever having tried it.

"Sports Entertainer. Say it with me everybody.... Sports... Entertainer."


He pauses for effect, shaking his head in what would seem to be disgust.

"That's what I am now... apparently."

Marlboro Red brought to his lips Sanchez again pauses to spark said cigarette before continuing his 'First World Problems' styled complaint of sorts.

"That makes me sick, you know? To see this ‘safe space, equality and diversity for everybody’ new direction suck everything I love out of what barely qualifies as a sport anymore. To see all the guys I came up with start to sell out and wear shoes with no motherfuckin’ socks just to fit in with the greater majority when they're like forty years old. That shit is heart wrenching to watch and it's also the reason that I no longer associate with anybody outside of my inner circle nowadays, fuckin’ trendsetters. Still, this isn't the time for that talk-- this is the time to stand up and take action. For among us… walks a glitch in the system that must be rectified."

He does nothing to reinforce his would-be intentions and instead remains seated, smoking between gulps of Italian lager.

"Even as the sport of professional wrestling dies slowly from the inside there are those who still defile it's remains in ways that should never be allowed-- some things are just supposed to be sacred, you know? Like wins and losses for one, these things are meant to be decided by pins, submissions and in the odd, entertaining contest; a TKO.”


It begins to become obvious where this was going. All the small-talk about the bartender and the underlying lesson of appreciating what you have was starting to fade and reveal the true reason for this little promotional video-- a grievance, go figure.

“At Bad Company IV, I rushed in like fools so often do and wound up falling flat on my face, both literally and figuratively; a mistake I won’t be making again in a hurry which also led to a life-changing lesson in humility. You see, when I toppled over the ropes in Hawaii, completely through my own fault and in no way through the actions of Artemis Kaiser… this was said to have been a loss-- and that’s just not something I can let slide. You see, there’s a whole mess of reasons as to why and how this should have never came about in the first place but I’d like to start by sticking to the obvious: a spill to the floor is neither a pin nor a submission, nor indeed does it suggest any kind of Technical Knockout.”


Where else in the world would one find an almost-down-and-out entity like our irritated host here this evening than a quiet bar full of ex-loggers reminiscing about their glory days and truckers trading tales from the road as a roaring fire rages in the corner and the rest of Canada goes about its merry way? It was like this place was built for the bitchy-natured burden of this bar on this particularly cold and wet evening in October. Finding little joy in his beer Sanchez summons the innkeeper over to his booth through the universal signal of the whistle.


“What can I get for you tonight stranger?”


Just as this establishment seemed to be created for Sanchez, the service industry seemed to be something of a passion to this glorified glass-cleaner in the eyes of his beholder. Talk about setting your sights on a realistic dream, right? Still, here he was prompt and properly dressed. Polite and perhaps even a little too eager to please his guests. Even with all that mediocrity eating away at him from deep behind his hazel eyes.


“Glenmorangie, no ice. Whatever the oldest cask is.”


“Right away, make yourself comfortable.”


Then off he went towards the bar without dragging his feet or blowing his brains out in the process. David wondered how he possibly managed this. Turning back to the camera he sighs a weathered breath of disinterest and continues on as though his interaction with the barman hadn’t happened.

“Yet, here I am opening the fuckin’ show, as has fast become my role around here whilst she defends her tertiary, way-too-much-effort-required championship against another nonentity contender in Mark Storm with the added cherry on top of a Warzone spot up for grabs in the process. Where’s the justice in this world? Certainly not here in 4CW anyway, at least not when it comes to me. You see, this little girl has been allowed not only to think that she has cost me an actual loss but also to wrongfully think that she legitimately won a championship match to earn her so-called crutch of a title. In what world do ring-outs decide winners anyway This isn’t Sumo Wrestling, whose bright idea was that, huh?”


The defeated husk of an attendant returns with David’s drink just in time to prevent a level-seven ‘mantrum’ the likes of which this bar was neither used to or prepared for. The two exchange forced pleasantries and agree for the scotch to be added to the charming stranger’s bill. The hosting party completely unaware it was entertaining the fox within the henhouse walls. Currency is exchanged, a tip that would be small change to Sanchez but meant food on the family table to this facilitator of fine single malt. Then, just as quietly and politely as he had arrived, he vanishes back to the mahogany fortress of the main bar where he delves fluently back into mind-numbing, current affairs-based banter with an obese gentleman in his late fifties who looked almost built into the scene. It was becoming a little unclear in fact whether it was he holding up the bar or vice-versa. A sudden realization occurs in the form of an idea and David quickly amends his order.

“Excuse me kind sir, sorry. If it’s not too much trouble, might I perhaps borrow a wooden spoon from one of your kitchen staff? I promise, I won’t need it for long.”

He forced the words out with gritted teeth. It was causing him physical harm trying to be this calm, courteous and civil towards his fellow man. Taken aback, the barman smiles and disappears through a door towards the kitchen area that was previously invisible-- camouflaged into the optics on the wall like a secret back door to some kind of alcoholic’s Narnia.


“Would this do? I’m sorry… it’s not something we’re used to being asked for.”


As if emerging from the liquor laden walls themselves he returns with exactly what was requested, even if he did seem a little unsure on why he was doing it. The wooden spoon exchanges hands as David approaches the bar and takes it back to the booth with an ominous smile and a slight nod. Confused, the barman returns to his banter with the occasional glance to his left whilst David finally gazes up at him from his transfixed focus on the spoon and musters up an unsettling response.

“It’s perfect, in it’s own way. Believe me buddy, it’s not something that I’m exactly accustom to being handed either. But at the end of the day… I guess it’s better than nothing, right?”

Noticing that this was a rhetorical question that didn’t at all seem directed at him, our innkeeper simply smiles and allows Sanchez to return to his not at all creepy business with the common kitchen utensil.

“It ain’t much but it’s better than kick in the dick.”

He studies the spoon thoroughly, turning it over in his hands and examining each inch of it as though it were some alien species yet to be discovered by humanity.

“I’d like to be perfectly clear when I say this… The Ignition Championship? Hahaha. That’s nothing more than this spoon to me. A consolation prize I’m going to inherit by default when I flay this pretender and leave her butterflied, bleeding and back in her rightful place on the dirty ground with all the other insects.”

He makes a stand now, getting angrier and thus tightening his grip on the wooden spoon so much that his veins bulge from his skin, revealing the track-marks up and down his tensed forearm.

“Even a wooden spoon though… can be a very dangerous thing... in the right hands that is.”

The wood splinters as the handle snaps in David’s hands, leaving only the spoon and a sharp wooden spike that draws blood from his hand as he squeezes it.

“Artemis Kaiser is a proverbial pityfuck to me and nothing more. A wrong that I’m going to make right like I should have done to Mariano Fernandez all those years ago. I won’t be fucking swept to the kerb twice-- you need to fall sweetheart, I’m sorry but I just can’t let it go, I can’t… I just can’t.”

The crimson blood drips onto the the mahogany table, into the scotch, some even reaches the wooden floor of this most unbecoming establishment. The tighter Sanchez grips what remains of the spoon, the further the shards of spiky wooden penetrate into his hand. Finally, in one fluent yet fatal lunge he drives the stake-like spoon downwards stabbing the splintered spoon into the table with such force that it punctures the surface and now remains impaled into the booth as Sanchez sips his crimson dyed Glenmorangie with a shit-eating grin and a bloodsoaked binge to get back to.

“Like I said… in the right hands.”


He holds up his hands, opening the palms for a big reveal so that the blood begins to pool inside them.