''One's'' Inner Demon (5)

[Level-Two]

''One's'' Inner Demon (5)

A Christmas without a spirit
Date: Unknown

It's amazing just how the smallest, most trivial, issues and subjects penetrate even the strongest minds. Unlike many men and women that walk upon the earths cracked surface; I know what my purpose on this planet is. Surely, I haven't lived up to my full potential—but what would be the fun in that? This world can only give you so much before it begins to start taking back from you and when it does, life is no longer worth living.

How do I live up to my potential? Well, that's a different story. This history, of this white holiday, is a piece of me whether or not I want to admit it. It's a building block of my character I either need to clear out of my way, or add it to my arsenal. To the masses, I may just be another prized fighter. I may just be a cheap outlet for your weekly entertainment or I may be nothing to you, like you are to me. In the end of the day, I am more than just a wrestler. Dare I say it; I am human; just like you.

I don't trust anyone; and this therapist sitting across from me, I trust even less. She get's paid for what she does. Money is her motivation. All it took was one call from the National Inquirer for this bitch to leak our discussions with each-other to the papers. The only consequence of her actions would get her a paid LOA from her occupation; not much too lose. I already had told her too much. Way too much.

''Lester, speaking with you, what I have gathered is that you have lived a life of abuse. You come from a broken family. And so holidays like these, which in reality signify the complete opposite are despised by you'' The therapist states in confidence, sure of her new findings and conclusion. She put her pen down long enough to grab her starbucks coffee, playing with the lid in the process. ''The only way to face these fears are to simply confront them head on''

''And if I don't?'' I asked sarcastically.

As far as I was concerned what she had been telling me was nothing less then bullshit. At the end of the day, it was up to her on whether or not I was fit to wrestle Slade Craven come Sunday. Well, at least—hypothetically it was. I didn't get here by playing it safe. I didn't become a world champion by playing fair. Its life and it's even more real and cut-throat outside the ropes.

''Well...'' The therapist said softly, losing life within her voice. ''As a professional, I can't recommend you wrestle your match against, this...''

''Slade Craven'' I promptly responded.

''...Slade Craven figure, knowing that you aren't one-hundred-percent mentally prepared for it. Lester, your line of work is dangerous and it isn't cut out for everyone. While you have handled it well for a few years, perhaps it's all catching up to you''

''Bullshit''

The therapist feverishly drew a swig of her coffee before releasing a long tired sigh. Quite frankly, it was a reaction I had been looking for.

''So you're telling me the only way I can get the opportunity to fly out to LA; beat Slade Craven at Christmas Chaos and retain MY APW world championship is to get into the ''true'' spirits of Christmas?'' I ask, clearly aggravated and such a political power play by the opposition. Clearly, she was working for the ''other'' guys. A mole of Pence Weatherlight, Jesse Nunez or the AKA; men who wanted to watch me crash and burn out of sheer jealousy.

''Yes, Lester. The jest of your concern sounds about right'' The therapist says, letting out a soft yawn. ''We can work through this together if I can get your full co-operation. I can't help but feel your still holding back some key details. I can only help you if you want to be helped''

''Well, there was this one time...''

Table for twelve
Date: December, 25th, 2006

There was no better scent then a well cooked turkey. Well, excluding the scent of beautiful women of course; but they, specifically weren't on the menu on this particular night. A few of them however had been invited to the dinner party, three of them to exact. Two of them, were young, in their mid-twenties and daughters of a wealthy wrestling promoter by the name of Vanchisco White. The third was Vanchisco White's fiancé; Marta White. Other guests included were high end booking agents whom held a share within the company, as well as Polo ''Solo'' Vallarta a veteran in the company, whom I was urged to begin to start working with.

These names could all be found on the name plates that were carefully and strategically placed amongst the table. The white table cloth served as a taste full back drop for the silver assortment of hardware that served as its foreground. Two bottles of red whine sit on the opposite sides of the table, each accompanied by its white counterpart. After all, it -was- a dinner party, not a dictatorship...

Feverishly, standing at the edge of the table I checked my watch. Ten minutes. No rush. It was Christmas and I figured it had just been the unpredictability of the weather that held them back. It wasn't long before the door bell rung. Fixing my white shirt, I drew a deep sigh before eagerly approaching the door. All I had to do was a flash a fake smile and give a tight hand shake and they would proceed to carry the conversation throughout the night. I opened the door...

''Oh... Carlos?'' I remember saying, as my then-current trainer barged his way through the front door. ''What are you doing here? I mean... why are you here, tonight? You didn't call, leave a message...fuck, I am expecting people over tonight'' I expressed nervously, as Carlos observed the kitchen set up, highly impressed.

''Shit what's the occasion?'' Carlos responds. Clearly, he had forgotten that he made this entire night happen.

''Are you fucking kidding me, Carlos?'' I shot back in a rage as Carlos sloppily finds himself a seat at the table. The dinner guests weren't even here -yet- and this night began to go downhill at a rapid pace. ''For fuck sakes, Carlos. You need put down the glass bottle and quit drinking, you drunk fuck'' I shot back in a rage.

''Listen, kid. I don't have no drinking problem. Don't go starting any rumours now'' Carlos said letting out a loud, obnoxious laugh. ''Do you know what my wife would do if she heard you say that?''

''No, Carlos. Nor, do I care at this point''

''She would cut my dick off...'' Carlos shot back long enough to stop laughing. ''Shit, Lester. Is that red whine?'' Carlos inquires as his face lights up as bright as a Christmas tree. No pun intended. Before he can get his drunken grip around the cork of the bottle; I wrestle it out of his grips and back to safety.

''Look, I appreciate you setting this up for me...''

''I did?'' Carlos asks himself, scratching at his head. ''Right, I did! So don't be such a party pooper, scooper, alright trooper!?'' Carlos laughed, slapping his right knee. Carlos was a great guy, when he wasn't drunk off his face. It would later be the cause of our fall out together; but on this night, the future had been null and void. Carlos was both my biggest asset and my biggest downfall; funny how that works.

''Now your rhyming shit, too?'' I said half amused, as I grabbed Carlos by the arm. ''That's it. You're out of it; its time to go home. I'll call a cab to come haul your drunk ass out of here'' I warned Carlos, who met me with resistance.

''Hey, just let me stay here until your guests arrive'' Carlos pitches the deal. Taking a deep breath, I glanced down at my watch and gave in.

''Fine. You better not mess this up for me, Carlos...''

Two hours later.

The plates had remained empty. The forks and spoons were still spotless. If it wasn't for the open bottle of red whine; you'd say, not a single person showed up to the dinner party. The phones rang, but weren't worth picking up. I knew the excuses. Last minute flu bug, bit them. Lost their passports or an unfortunate family emergency. It was as clear as day that I had been snowballed. Pun intended. That one thing on my old, torn, Christmas wish-list, would go unanswered yet another year. If that wasn't worse; I still had a drunk, Carlos on my hands.

''Tough luck, kid. I wasn't even invited and I am the only one who actually bothered to show up'' Carlos tastefully brought to light as I took a seat beside him at the empty table.

''Hey, thanks Carlos! You always know how to cheer a young blue chipper up!'' I responded sarcastically, rolling my eyes as far as I possibly could towards the back of my head. ''What the hell is it I am going to have to leave a lasting impression into the minds of these promoters, Carlos?''

Carlos simply shrugged his shoulders. ''Well; I bumped into this guy... his name is Danny Mac''

''Danny Mac?'' I asked, shrugging my shoulders. ''Sounds like a male porn star or something...''

''I said the same thing!'' Carlos cried out. ''Nevertheless; I think we can strike up some sorta deal with him and his promotion. He runs a company by the name of the Extreme Wrestling Corporation. They've been around the block for about nine years now...'' Carlos says, while offering me some of the red wine, to which I decline.

''As long as I don't need to do anymore of these fucking dinner dates; I'm down for anything...'' I respond as Carlos throws his arm around me, like a younger brother who had just scored his first touchdown.

''That's the spirit champ!''

A Christmas without a spirit
Date: Unknown

''...I'm sorry lady, but don't you realize the morale of my story?'' I said, looking down at the therapist; whom doesn't dare to move. ''The morale of my story, is that I have been trying to get over my Christmas pasts for awhile now. However, Christmas isn't my only problem. No you silly girl. It's everything. You people aren't like me. You people are a different breed...'' I spoke knowing full well my words were falling on deaf ears.

''You see; you play by the rules that this Society I am forced to contain myself in, has set. Your definition of what makes a man crazy? Is my definition of normal. And unless you're calling me a liar—then my opinion is just as valuable as your own. Correct?'' I said, casually sitting up from my chair. I don't bother waiting for a response.

''So, I guess all that is left to say is that -you- should live your own life and don't worry about me; we can play much, much, safer that way'' I said before nodding my head back and forth it guilt. ''I'm sorry, but you really left me with no other choice. See, nobody dictates where, when, or how I fight. I leave you people with all this'' I said pointing around the room. ''And you leave me in the ring I belong in'' I said observing the therapist whom lies face down on her desk.

I ran my hand through her hair. While her intentions were probably meant for good; I simply couldn't risk it. I couldn't risk losing my APW championship, my job, and my freedom locked up with a bunch of low lives with a tendency to feel comfortable in tinfoil hats.

''When you wake up, you aren't going to remember a thing. Trust me; it'll work out for the both of us''

A past present
December, 18th, 2009

The trip to the therapist wasn't quite the pre-match mental refreshment I had been looking for; but at the very least, I was being cleared to wrestle. However; the worst of my worries weren't over just yet. I knew I wouldn't see Patricia Lewis until after the Christmas holiday, and I figured the least I could do for her; was to get her a gift. A box of chocolates was cliché and not to mention cheap...

''You sure this is the ring you want, Sir?'' The jeweller with a heavy English accent asked me. I eyed the piece of jewellery, the damn thing nearly made me blind in the process. It would set me back at least 20 grand, but in reality, that was simply pocket change. I often had so much money, I didn't know how to spend it. I often thought about giving it to Charity, but I hated the sick, hated the poor, and I hated children. And so, most of it sat in large sum in my bank account.

''Yo' Dawg, you that Level-One aren't you!?'' A costumer behind me exclaimed. The man wore baggy clothing, and a du-rag over his braided hair. I saw him shift a silver object in the back of his pants.

''Yeah, I would be him'' I responded with caution as the man eye the piece of expensive jewellery.

''Damn dawg! That looks like some serious blingage, bro! Man, that's going to put you back a shit load of bills. Who's this piece of rock for?'' The baggy clothed man asks to the jewellers frustration, whom rolls his eyes as a result of the interruption of his business deal.

''A lady'' I respond.

The baggy clothed man quickly fires back a line of questioning. ''Is she your main-squeeze?''

''Well, no. We aren't an ''official'' couple or anything''

The man through his arm around my shoulder, pointing at the piece of diamond. ''Look bro, you don't spend 20 grand a damn ring unless your banging the chick, you got me? And even then, you go with a cheaper pawn shop option'' The man expresses slowly lifting his arms in a care free manner. ''Unless you're one of those lovely, dovey type cats, aha!''

Gritting my teeth, I handed over my credit card to the Jeweller whose sour look, quickly turns into excitement knowing he just banked on a huge bonus. I got my ring, and I was off...

''You want to roll your eyes at me mother fucker? Put the fucking jewels in the bag before I blow your English, tart and biscuit swallowing face off your god damn shoulders!'' I heard a voice shout...

...and there was no turning back.
--

''I'm so happy you made it'' Patricia Lewis expressed with excitement in her voice as she met me at her front door.

''Yeah, well it was the last time I had the opportunity to stop in before the big match this weekend'' As I stood at the door, I evaluated the gift stashed into my coat pocket. Was it really going too far? Would it give her the wrong impression? Was I just making a big deal out of nothing? I haven't been this nervous since stepping out onto the ring ramp for the first time.

''Would you like to come in?'' Patricia asked opening up the door. I nodded my head back and forth. I had a ride to catch.

''Sorry, I can't. I have a ride waiting for me out back'' I said as Patricia offered up, a fake smile. ''However, I did get you a present. You know, seeing how it's Christmas and everything...''

''Really!?'' Patricia exclaimed, before turning and running into her house. I looked over her shoulder and then behind me, as the impatient taxi driver beeped his horn. Patricia would return with a gift of her own in hand. ''That's nice, considering I got you a gift of your own'' Patricia said handing it over to me with a smile painted across her face.

''You really didn't need too'' I said, looking hesitantly at the gift.

''Open it'' She encouraged.

I tore open the wrapping paper; like a mad man on a mission. I'd say, I did pretty darn well for the first time. However, when I opened it; I nearly doubled over at the gift of choice. ''Speed racers?'' Patricia simply giggled playfully, as I through the gift back into her arms.

''What the hell wrong with you Lester!?'' Patricia fired off.

''Real fucking, cute'' I said, my words as sharp as a knife. ''You know, real fucking tasteful. You want to dig into my past? You want to rehash old shit I have already gotten over and have put aside? Fuck that''

I said shaking my head back and forth.

''If you were over it, you wouldn't be acting the way you are right now, would you?'' Patricia Lewis said, tossing the toy back into her house. ''Look, I didn't mean to stir things up, okay?'' Patricia said reaching out to me, to which I merely, reached into my jacket, and handed her over my gift to her.

''Merry fucking Christmas and a happy new year...'' I said sharply, before turning back towards her and walking away. I didn't watch her open up her gift; and my ego had me nearly ripping that cabby's door right off it's hinges; but if there was one regret, was not telling him to stop when I heard her cry.

''Lester, I didn't think you had it in you?'' That old, familiar voice inside my head rang off. It was her again.

''You forget about this. You give me the strength I need to defeat Slade Craven; and 2010 is mine for the taking''

---

Please, folks. Simply, riddle me this. I want you to ask yourselves, where was Slade Craven a year ago from today? Where was Slade Craven, six months ago from today? Fuck. Where the hell was Slade Craven, three months ago while President Jeff's only promotional tactic was to re-hash the same tired shit which reared it's neck time and time again with Pence Weatherlight wearing the face? Let me guess, you don't know. Nor do you give a fuck. This is simply because the ''main-man'' is more like the ''bench warming water boy'' whom believes he's part of the sports team.

It must hurt the ego to know you haven't done fuck all to receive a title shot, huh? I mean, there wasn't even an attempt to justify or solidify you as a credible and official number 1 contender for MY world championship. It's as if, President Jeff sat in his office, took a look at the roster and realized that everyone including Jason Royce was actually doing something on weekly programming and gave it to the one guy, doing FUCK ALL because he was merely ''available'' and hanging around in the right time and place.

The first thing I said when I found out it was going to be Level-One Vs. Slade Craven at Christmas Chaos was; is it that guy who hangs behind Shadow's, shadow? But then I remembered... it's that guy who features Cindy Shannon in his promos, more than Cindy Shannon is featured in adult porn films!? I mean for fuck sakes! Slade Craven can't even buy into his own hype, he can't stand to listen to the useless tripe he spatters with his tongue, so much so—he needs Cindy Shannon or some other interviewer to carry him through it and or bump his damn shoulder to wake his ass up, from putting himself to sleep.

A great Christmas present for you, Slade—isn't a free title match. It's a teleprompter with ten talking points written by Barrack Obama's best eloquent speech writer. At the very least, if you don't have any core defining moment that makes you ANYTHING around here, at the very least, you can spin a bunch of bullshit and perhaps fool the mindless drones waiting for me to pound your face in to mince meat into believing you HAVE done something to earn your title shot. However, at this point—I am the only one you need to convince and thus far, I'm not buying it.

However, perhaps it's that I am simply just bitter. See, when I came fresh from the EWC; I never was handed the world. Despite being the hottest talent on the market, I didn't have a free world title shot waiting for me in my contract like, Pence. No. Instead I had to take on former APW champions and when I beat them, President Jeff through an entire roster in-front of my face. And when I walked through the entire roster; I had been giving Michael Lively. Who shit and pissed all over this championship, we are fighting for this Sunday. President Jeff didn't see me for what I was. He saw me as bitter talent from the competition; wanting to add another title to my resume. Yet, his loyal, his trustworthy stars, and his golden nuggets in a pile of shit were the first people whom turned their backs on him.

And so, when I watch guys like you Slade, it's practically a slap in my face. When I watch guys like you, who come in, do nothing or very little and are simply handed over the world, it makes my blood boil. Yet, each time I correct President Jeff's mistakes. Each time, I take you pretentious pieces of shit out curb side like yesterday's trash—and remind President Jeff what a true champion is all about.

I understand that your number one butt buddy, Shadow won the overdrive championship. I understand that while he was wanking off backstage behind the curtains, you were the man to hold his piece of low-grade, silver. I understand when you wanted to look cool in front of the ladies after the show you strutted around with that piece of tin can like you were one hundred and twenty pounds lighter, in a pair of high heels advancing down a catwalk. Now what you need to understand is; calling yourself champion? Is a whole lot different from actually being a champion...

I mean, how many contracts have came through President Jeff's office about some guy who's held ten XYZ world championships, in Joe Blows hardcore backyard federation several years ago? How many of these people end up making it past their debut's on APW television? My wins, my titles, my history is backed up. Tape, after tape, can be dug up in old library’s if you bother to do the fucking research, cunt. And what? You think because you can run around with your friends championships, pretend like your bad ass, and shoot pathetic promos in your bathroom mirror shirtless, you suddenly stack up to me?

Listen, Slade. As far as I'm concerned any hype, steam, or excitement in regards to you and the other two stooges is long past overdue. Shadow has been struggling with Biggs for months on end and Assassin has been doing nothing, per usual. You three have a case of ''spastic cunts'' where you basically take whatever you can get. Shit. Slade Craven, you just found out the APW world championship existed a month ago. You weren't making your desire to become world champion known to the world. You were content with jerking the curtains; and filling the card as President Jeff saw fit. Now suddenly, the main man is all about the gold...

Bitch please. You make me fucking sick. Day one, since I stepped through these doors I made my intentions known. I told every last APW star on this goddamn roster; what I was coming for. I left my mission statement imprinted in the skulls I smashed wide open. I wasn't distracted by pathetic X treme championships or some overdrive mid-card title; I was coming for the big one.

SPOILER ALERT

I won it. That's why I am where I am today, Slade. Slade, while I may not respect you and while I may not find you a worthy competitor; no doubt you're still a threat. Shit. You can throw me in the ring with Jason Royce and he'd be a threat too. This business is unpredictable. You never know when an arena spotlight might fall from the ceiling, and knock you unconscious allowing the chump on the other side to roll you up for the three count. However, assuming that doesn't happen anytime soon—you can damn right bet, I am feeling more then confident about stepping into the ring with a Jason Royce or specifically to fit this occasion; Slade Craven.

The only question now is simply, where does Slade Craven go from here? I mean, besides into the arms of his best friends where the lot of you lick each-others wounds. Of course, all this is after Victor Hades physically dissects Shadow and Assassin wakes up after being laid the fuck out for three seconds and realizes that no-showing would've been just if not more effective for him. Hell, while we're at it, how’s the entire ''big bad ass stable'' image working for you guys right about now? Turns out, you are as threatening as the pet gold- fish in President Jeffs office.

My slated 2010 prediction for Slade Craven? I reckon, you'll be thrown down the card similar to the way Pence Weatherlight has been. And much like Pence Weatherlight, you'll then proceed to vamp up your bad ass image, by using excessive gay innuendos, and shoot your promos with THREE obligatory backstage interviewers instead of one; oh, and feature at least one house show match before hand to fill space. All packaged in a brown paper bag, of originality; showing why, you are still the ''main-man'' when it comes to serving the fans their weekly piss, shit, and popcorn breaks.

Nonetheless, I'm sure the world is expecting us to go out there and put on a show to the best of our ability. And while my best can literally wrestle circles around you until your blue in the face; the least I can do is to make you look half decent while doing it. See, Slade. It maybe Christmas; and you may got your free title shot hand out.

...but you can choke on the fucking milk and cookies when you stop by my house.

Next Christmas; the only thing you'll be asking Santa for is for your two front teeth. After I fucking kick them out of your mouth and devour your soul.