Post by RDH (RD Heart) on Mar 9, 2012 15:08:34 GMT -4
(steals muffin to cope with dealing with idiots first thing in the morning)
"I don't even know why I bother calling the man's wife.. The fact that she's married to that pathetic loser who thinks he's so hot just because he claims to have a PhD."
The man in the Phantom mask scoffs, as he lies on the couch, recanting his dillemma.
"PhD.. Probably had to blow someone for that. Having that and owning his own yard is probably why everyone kisses his pompous self centered ass."
The Phantom mask looks over at the psychiatrist, sitting across from him. He stares at her for a second, noticing perfect slender legs that seemed to go on forever. He shook his head, bringing himself back from the fantasy that he had created for himself in all of a few seconds of staring.
"Doc? You didn't have to..do anything like that did you?"
"No, Ruben - I did not. Unlike this person whom you speak of, I went to school and studied. Please continue."
Ruben... It was his name of course. He'd hated using it and went under a slew of varying pseudonyms & nicknames - each time constantly in denial of who he was.. However, coming from her voice, it was almost perfect. From her lips, the name had an almost symphonic sound to it, making him for a brief respite wonder why he'd never chosen to use the name in the first place. He sat up, realizing to himself that it was infact time for Rasslemania. He realized he'd been out sick with a stomach virus for several weeks, and was most likely going to miss possibly the biggest event to be hosted by Action Packed Wrestling.
"Shit.", he cursed.
"What is it?"
The concern in her voice almost sounded genuine. He might've been inclined to believe that she was actually being sincere - had he not been paying 100 an hour on a scant salary of $100 a show. He wanted more than just to be a doorman and curtain jerker. He wanted gold around his waist, and he wanted the glitz and glamour that accompanied it. He realized that he'd been going at the pursuit of success entirely wrong. He needed more personality, more effort put into the chase.
He turned to her just then, feeling disgust for even allowing himself to be there - crying his problems onto the shoulder of a person who didn't care. As long as she got paid, she'd sit and listen to an entire hour of his stark raving madness. The realization of her indifference, brought his spirits down some and he turned away from her to stare at her perfect white ceiling.
"It's nothing. I have to go now."
"But we're not done. You still have little more than a half an hour.."
"Just fuckin' bill me. I'm outta here."
Several minutes later...
He opened the door, stepping out of the stuffy building and took in a welcoming breath of fresh air. The wind tussled his hair and caressed his cheek. Closing his eyes, he exhaled - releasing all the stress of having been stuck in a room talking to some bitch who simply didn't care if he'd lived or died. He remembered that no one cared.. not seven years ago, not last year, not last month, not even now. He had no one to talk to. He was all alone and forced to fend for himself, despite his own claims that his very sanity was slipping.He walked before a parked SUV, and stared at his reflection in it's passenger window. His hair was noticeably longer, and despite the diet he'd put himself on - he still had somewhat of a pouch for a belly. He muttered to himself..
"This was a fuckin' six pack last month. What the Hell's goin' on?"
He turned away from his reflection in disgust and kept walking. He thought about his failed Cobra gimmick. He thought about how after the last show that he'd been on - a woman had her poodle urinate on him. He thought about the shame he felt. The fact that he was unable to feel legitimate anger and how it affected his performance. For a brief while, it all seemed repetitive. The appearances, the autograph signings, the photo ops. He seemed out of place. He didn't really feel as if he was actually there, and in truth - Who knew if those incidents had actually taken place or if they were in his mind? He sighed to himself, as he thought to himself how he was going to convince the bigwigs to allow him to wrestle at Rasslemania. He shook his head..
"It's always some kind'a struggle. One way or another - there's always somethin'."
He walked off into the distance, as the camera following him faded into an all too familiar darkened void.
"I don't even know why I bother calling the man's wife.. The fact that she's married to that pathetic loser who thinks he's so hot just because he claims to have a PhD."
The man in the Phantom mask scoffs, as he lies on the couch, recanting his dillemma.
"PhD.. Probably had to blow someone for that. Having that and owning his own yard is probably why everyone kisses his pompous self centered ass."
The Phantom mask looks over at the psychiatrist, sitting across from him. He stares at her for a second, noticing perfect slender legs that seemed to go on forever. He shook his head, bringing himself back from the fantasy that he had created for himself in all of a few seconds of staring.
"Doc? You didn't have to..do anything like that did you?"
"No, Ruben - I did not. Unlike this person whom you speak of, I went to school and studied. Please continue."
Ruben... It was his name of course. He'd hated using it and went under a slew of varying pseudonyms & nicknames - each time constantly in denial of who he was.. However, coming from her voice, it was almost perfect. From her lips, the name had an almost symphonic sound to it, making him for a brief respite wonder why he'd never chosen to use the name in the first place. He sat up, realizing to himself that it was infact time for Rasslemania. He realized he'd been out sick with a stomach virus for several weeks, and was most likely going to miss possibly the biggest event to be hosted by Action Packed Wrestling.
"Shit.", he cursed.
"What is it?"
The concern in her voice almost sounded genuine. He might've been inclined to believe that she was actually being sincere - had he not been paying 100 an hour on a scant salary of $100 a show. He wanted more than just to be a doorman and curtain jerker. He wanted gold around his waist, and he wanted the glitz and glamour that accompanied it. He realized that he'd been going at the pursuit of success entirely wrong. He needed more personality, more effort put into the chase.
He turned to her just then, feeling disgust for even allowing himself to be there - crying his problems onto the shoulder of a person who didn't care. As long as she got paid, she'd sit and listen to an entire hour of his stark raving madness. The realization of her indifference, brought his spirits down some and he turned away from her to stare at her perfect white ceiling.
"It's nothing. I have to go now."
"But we're not done. You still have little more than a half an hour.."
"Just fuckin' bill me. I'm outta here."
Several minutes later...
He opened the door, stepping out of the stuffy building and took in a welcoming breath of fresh air. The wind tussled his hair and caressed his cheek. Closing his eyes, he exhaled - releasing all the stress of having been stuck in a room talking to some bitch who simply didn't care if he'd lived or died. He remembered that no one cared.. not seven years ago, not last year, not last month, not even now. He had no one to talk to. He was all alone and forced to fend for himself, despite his own claims that his very sanity was slipping.He walked before a parked SUV, and stared at his reflection in it's passenger window. His hair was noticeably longer, and despite the diet he'd put himself on - he still had somewhat of a pouch for a belly. He muttered to himself..
"This was a fuckin' six pack last month. What the Hell's goin' on?"
He turned away from his reflection in disgust and kept walking. He thought about his failed Cobra gimmick. He thought about how after the last show that he'd been on - a woman had her poodle urinate on him. He thought about the shame he felt. The fact that he was unable to feel legitimate anger and how it affected his performance. For a brief while, it all seemed repetitive. The appearances, the autograph signings, the photo ops. He seemed out of place. He didn't really feel as if he was actually there, and in truth - Who knew if those incidents had actually taken place or if they were in his mind? He sighed to himself, as he thought to himself how he was going to convince the bigwigs to allow him to wrestle at Rasslemania. He shook his head..
"It's always some kind'a struggle. One way or another - there's always somethin'."
He walked off into the distance, as the camera following him faded into an all too familiar darkened void.
