Post by Deleted on Jan 28, 2019 4:29:49 GMT -5
Prologue Explaining all of this will undoubtedly get confusing. Sometimes I can’t keep track of it myself. Why would I put an epilogue before the prologue? Who do I think I am? It’s all fucked up, I know. But hang in there, it’ll all make sense. I promise. Perhaps I should have hired someone to follow me to chronicle it all. Actually, now that I’ve said that aloud, I might hire someone, moving forward. Until I make that hire, explaining all of this will be confusing. I’ll do my best to help you stay on course. Essentially, I’m about to tell you two different stories taking place at two different times. One reminded me of the other and suddenly they both seemed relevant. Before we proceed, I’m going to guess that you’re going to want to know what any of this has to do with professional wrestling and I’ll tell you: My life, up until now has been all about appearances, status, backhanded statements, and lies. All of this absolutely applies to professional wrestling. As an added bonus, I’ve won more championships than many of you combined, so you have no choice but to sit here and listen to what I have to say. I’m only going to tell one lie in this prologue, bonus points if you find it. Jump to five years ago... If the news that I left Yale wasn’t hard enough for my peer group to swallow, the added bonus of the fact that I was doing so to pursue a career in professional wrestling didn’t help. I knew it would be received poorly, but I simply didn’t care. I was leaving one superficial life for another equally superficial life, thus, I didn’t really see much of a difference. Before I could go, there would be a party. People in my former circle throw parties for nearly anything and my departure would be no different. My so called best friend Corrine Harper-Endicott decided to throw the party in my honor. Reluctantly, I agreed to attend as Corrine smacked her lips, undoubtedly pleased with herself on the other side of the phone. It would be her first opportunity to throw a massive party at her new home. If you could call it a home. Her mansion was just east of New Canaan in the nearly lusted after city of Fairfield. Weighing in at over sixty-two million dollars, Corrine and Peter Endicott's mansion was seventeen hundred square feet of Elizabethan Renaissance brick including a Tudor Gothic Revival wing with all of the technological advances to go with it. Ten bedrooms, ten bathrooms, six car garage, tennis courts, boat house, all restored and overlooking nineteen hundred feet of waterfront. Corrine and Peter had won the house battle, hands down. When Buckley and I arrived, I’ll tell you more about Buckley later, he was impressed. Too impressed. “Exquisite,” he murmured, “Truly exquisite.” “Of course it is. Corrine Harper-Endicott, the queen of luxury living.” I rolled my eyes, remembering the many occasions where I took the position of hair-holder while Corrine vomited alcohol into toilets, half absorbed pills onto black asphalt parking lots, and once white strings of ejaculate into an airplane barf bag. All of which she swore me to secrecy about. Buckley offered, “It’s flattering, don’t you think? A great send off. I heard she set up a wrestling ring in the backyard.” “Good, maybe she’ll let me plant her into the middle of it later on tonight.” He tensed his brow, “And what if she flattened you?” “I would never be so lucky.” Jump to last weekend… It was the same house, but the party had nothing to do with me. It was a baby shower. Corrine’s third child. She was proud and wanted me to attend, somewhat reluctantly. Things had been, well, rocky for her and Peter, but it seemed like they had decided that children would somehow fix things between them. The problem with this thought process, if my speculation is correct of course, is that these children are immediately turned over to nannies and are passively parented. Perhaps for the first few months, it helped, but then it all returns to normal. Miserable. Miserable, of course, is their version of the perfect family. Corrine had gotten fat. I don’t mean, like, fat fat, but fat. She had waved bye-bye to a size two some time ago and would need some medical intervention to ever see it again. Still, I put on a lovely smile when I approached the door and before I could knock, she pulled the door open. Fine lines. So many. No makeup. I was shocked. I took a step back. Her eyes gleamed, “Lorean.” Jump to five years ago… The reception… Buckley and I barely had a foot in the door when we were both confronted by Corrine. Her smile was fake, unlike the Armani Privé gown she wore, which was very very real. “Oh my god, look at you. How could we ever let you get away?” she lied. She gave me one of those kinds of hugs where while it might be heartfelt, you never actually make contact. “And you,” I gasp, “Incredible.” Buckley adds, “The house, it’s just exquisite.” The word exquisite was one Buckley only recently learned, by the way he enunciated it. And of course his need to over use it. I ignored the usage while Corrine ignored his very existence. “So, you’re really going to do this little wrestling thing? That’s just...amazing.” Corrine smiled. “Really going to, yes.” I admitted. “I’m so happy for you. Following your dreams. That’s so exciting.” There was a time when Corrine and I were inseparable. Like, hive mind. But little by little, we just started to lose touch. Well, I stopped trying. Corrine was so full of herself and had her life lined out for miles. Me? I just wanted to fit in. I wanted to become a blur. Once she knew that I was faking almost all of my expressions and interactions, I think she became a bit scared. Yet even if she were scared of me, she still wanted to provoke me. I shouldn’t have confided in her. Either way, it ended with this woman, formerly a best friend, who quickly reduced herself to little more than an acquaintance. Fuck it. “Well then, make your way out back, you’ll find the bar and snacks, and a big surprise.” she winked, “I’ll catch up with you.” I think when she said “catch up with you” that she actually meant it at the time, but honestly, the conversation I just shared with you would be the last positive one we would ever have. Jump to last weekend... Corrine didn’t let me in, she actually extended an arm to the far side of the door, blocking entry without force. I pulled up a present, artfully wrapped in baby blue paper with a dark blue ribbon and bow. The gift was a high tech motion detection baby monitor with built in speakers, camera, with night vision. Something I’m sure she already had, but it was all I could think of getting her. I have two of them and I don’t have children. “I’m here for, the baby shower?” Corrine’s brow tensed, “Baby shower? You’re so cruel.” I frowned, “But the pitter patter of little feet.” She strained to hold in her anger, “You aren’t welcome here.” Jump to five years ago… The backyard, the boat house, and the bareback… If you could call it a yard, it was more like a grand ocean front soccer field of perfectly maintained grass featuring Brown Jordan outdoor furniture, a full bar, a band playing hits from the eighties, and only the purely elite guests. In the middle of it all, completely out of place, was the wrestling ring. Completely out of place - just like me. Darting around the yard were beautiful female servants handing out drinks and snacks, all dressed in various wrestling costumes. The one who offered me a vodka martini, was wearing a luchador mask. Buckley disappeared somewhere and full disclosure, he was fucking someone. I had removed myself from it all. With the martini in hand, I walked towards the waterfront, near the boat house. I call it a boat house, but it was more of a boat pavillion, if that makes sense. There was so much money dropped into the place, it was ridiculous. They were to be the envy of all and honestly, I was there to ruin it. I wanted that little bit of revenge before I left. That indelible middle finger as I left forever. Revenge for what? I’ll get to that at a later date. That’s why I was outside the boat house/pavillion that night. I heard groaning. As I walked closer, the groaning became clearer. It wasn’t the groaning of a man and woman. It was two men. Two perfect men, elite men. Not Buckley. Yes, he was gay, or at least said he was more gay than bisexual at the time, but no, this was not Buckley. (I’ll tell you more about him later.) I can’t remember even walking towards the noise that night. It was as if I were floating. The reassuring euphoria of the percocet I took when we arrived was finally setting in. I carefully opened the door and slipped inside. The groaning was louder, like I was in the same room with it. The groans were spaced out against the sound of slapping and someone saying “fuck me” and someone else saying “shut up faggot”. I finally saw them. They were beautiful and I stood there, just out of sight, watching them fuck as I finished my martini. I wanted to say something. I wanted to join in. I forced myself to watch in silence, as I had the first time I caught them fucking in the boat house. That was at the house warming party. They were so good together. They made gay sex look like professional wrestling. I should have been advocating for their right to openly be together. Marriage? Something positive. Instead, I was going to weaponize their sexual behavior. “You feel so good, bitch.” “Fuck me daddy.” So hot. Don’t you think? I pulled out my phone and snapped a picture. Jump to last weekend… I stared at her. She didn’t hide the hatred in her eyes and I ate it up. I don’t know why. We all have vendettas. Mine was likely a small one based on superficial reasons, but aren’t they all? Aren’t we all superficial? If there’s not a mirror nearby, we’re looking at ourselves in our phones. We’re taking a dozen selfies until we find the right one and even that one has our eyes inflated, our faces airbrushed, and we’re covered in some silly graphical shit. It all turns us into the same duck faced surgical freak. Wait, not us, just you. Remember, the only thing we have in common is the fact that we’re both going to die one day. With her teeth grit, a tear rolled down her cheek. “Please leave.” she said. I offered the gift, “Well, at least take the gift.” She looked at the gift in my outstretched hand and back into my eyes and she trembled. The one tear multiplied until her cheeks were wet waterfalls of sadness. Jump to five years ago… The bar and Blythe. I was approached by a woman named Blythe Richardson. Wife of Andrew Richardson. Both were propped up by their family’s money and had degrees they would never ever use. You know how Hollywood still claims white Anglo Saxon Protestants as the one remaining ethnic group which can be stereotyped and insulted without any retaliation? Blythe and Andrew were the poster girl and boy of that cause. The delicious stereotype. “I’m surprised you’re here,” Blythe greeted me. She also had a drink in hand, that glazed look in her eye of designer drugs. She leaned against the bar, shoulder to shoulder next to me. “Seemed rude not to come,” I offered. “This is all one big joke, if you ask me,” she drank, “Corrine is insulting her with this scene and Lorean, that ignorant bitch, probably doesn’t even recognize it.” That’s right, Blythe thought I was Amanda “Mandy” Lodge. (Yes that Lodge family.) I suppose Mandy and I are easily confused, because we’re roughly the same size; both redheads. Mandy is a beautiful girl, except I have a way better ass and much better skin. I looked for Mandy in the crowd and found her, next to the wrestling ring, talking to a man, who as he turned, was Buckley. I hoped at the time that he didn’t think he was talking to me. It could happen, given the lighting and the fact that the Burberry asymmetrical dresses Mandy and I were wearing were nearly identical. I exhaled happily as it became quite obvious, as she turned, that her ass was pathetically shapeless in her dress - my ass was ideal in mine. “The ring seems like a bit much,” I admitted. “The ring?” she laughed while raising her hands as if she were presenting the whole scene to me, “It’s all a bit much. Lorean is going to run away again, get beaten up, and come back to live off her parents. Watch.” “Maybe she won’t come back at all. Maybe she’ll...die?” Blythe eyed me, “Seems dark, but it could happen. I hope not. I would much rather see Lorean grow old, lose her looks, and become widowed by life. She’s, like, retarded or something. Corrine told me she’s fucked up in the head.” It was time to pull the trigger. “I mean, being widowed by life sounds terrible. But imagine being widowed by say, a closeted homosexual husband who came away from his last buttfucking with AIDs. Thoughts?” I nonchalantly sipped my drink, “Could she live with the fact that whenever her husband fucked her, that he was pretending her pussy was his boyfriend’s asshole? Her mouth even? Imagine that, while she’s sucking his cock, he’s imagining it’s an asshole. How...demeaning.” Blythe was shaken and silent. I continued, “Imagine that rich ultra conservative Republican who, after church on Sunday, retreats to his den to suck off another rich ultra conservative Republican, and then fuck him in the ass. Could you even imagine?” I give her that paranoia eye, “It probably happens a lot more than you’d think.” I loved it. I think it gave me an impure thrill, to be completely honest. Blythe looked down at her drink and didn’t say a word. “I just hope they wash all the gay sex off their cocks before they penetrate their wives.” Still nothing. Blythe just sipped her vodka as her eyes darted around, looking anywhere but into mine. “Would you like a percocet?” Blythe silently nodded. I gave her a Bilax. It’s a similar shape as the Percocet, but the color is all wrong. The darkness of our surroundings hid the color as I handed it to her. Bilax is a gentle laxative. Though, added to the laxatives she already takes to keep herself so slim, I’m sure, six or so hours after she took it, that she had an explosive bowel movement. Fingers crossed. “Queens belong on the throne,” I smiled, “Have a nice evening.” As I left, Blythe took the pill and washed it down with the rest of her vodka. She turned around to the bar and demanded another drink. Jump to last weekend… “You’re a monster.” she cringed. I smiled, “Because I want to give you a gift?” “I hate you.” She tried to close the door, but I jammed the gift into the opening and forced the door back open. “I’m not a monster. I’m the truth you’re afraid of. I’m the glimmer of light showing just how dark and fucked up your life really is.” “You’re the reason my life is fucked up!” “Blame. Blame. Blame.” I scoffed, “All you do is blame. Take responsibility!” Madness, written all over my face. There was a time when I wasn’t this person. I used to just go with the flow. I used to just do what everyone else did. I did what everyone told me to do. I swept things under the rug. I was Corrine Harper-Endicott. Now, I’m free. “I will call the police.” I took a step back all emotion leaving my expression. I told her, “You got fat.” She slammed the door in my face. Jump to five years ago… The ring and the reality. There was a tinny squeal of feedback from the microphone as Corrine spoke, which was quickly met by an adjustment by the sound guy at the sound booth to the right of the ring. “Sorry about that, there, that’s better,” her capped teeth shown. “And now for the big moment of the evening. Our very own Lorean Moore is leaving us.” She feigned sadness, “She’s going off to do her little wrestling thing. How exciting is that?” Her words prompted a stifled round of applause. I was well aware that it was all just a way to undermine my decision to become a professional wrestler. So many in the crowd saw it as fake and a waste of time. But in my eyes, they were all fake and a waste of time, so they should have been more open to the idea. Really, ignoring the lack of actual fighting skill, they were all professional wrestlers. The big difference was that I was going to face physical opponents in the ring. Their opponents were all around them. The people they called friends - the ones ready to destroy them if it suited their needs. They would fight with words - things said behind closed doors - never made public. I texted Buckley and instructed him to pull his dick out of whatever he was fucking and go pull the car around. “So please, let’s have a bigger round of applause for the guest of the evening, Lorean Moore!” The spotlights singled me out and I stepped up the ring steps and through the ring ropes. I approached Corrine who offered me the mic. She took a step to the side. I put the mic to my lips and looking back, this was the first time I cut an in ring promo. This is what ties it all together. “Thank you for this, really. I’m the guest of honor and the court jester. Thank you.” They laughed. “I’ve spent so long fitting into the same mold you all do. I’ve spent so long living the same life that you all do. It’s boring. We don’t have to try. We can just exist. We have no goals. Our only real goal is to horde all of this useless expensive shit until we die. That’s all we have in common, is that we’re all going to die one day.” The crowd grew noticeably uncomfortable. “I’ll be honest with you. I didn’t want to come. I know Corrine over here just wanted a laugh at my expense. Blythe, cowering by the bar, she confirmed it. All of you think I’m a joke. If I’m the joke, well, you’re all the punch line.” I pulled out my phone and pulled up the picture of the two men fucking. I hit share and selected all contacts and hit send. As I spoke, phones in the crowd began to vibrate, play notification messages, and the ones that were already out, they began to glow. “Especially Blythe and Corrine. Your husbands? Andrew Richardson and Peter Endicott. The most envied men here, with arguably the most beautiful wives. They fuck each other. Peter calls Andrew daddy and Andrew calls Peter his bitch. I commend them on being so good at gay sex. I just wish they were able to fuck each other, you know, exclusively. You all forced them to hide their...gayness. Whatever you fucking people call it. Shame on you!” Everyone was looking at their phones. The huge group of people - they were all having their one on one moment with the picture of two beautiful men fucking. Homosexuality didn’t go over well at all in that circle. Beside me, Corrine fell to her knees, clutching her phone. She was sobbing. I knocked back what was left of my fourth martini and threw the glass over my shoulder. “Hell of a party. Thank you so much!” Jump to last weekend… The gift was mangled, but it didn’t matter. I placed it carefully on the porch in front of the door. Do you see, now, why this is significant? It doesn’t matter if you do or don’t. I suppose what is really important in all of this, is that you don’t underestimate me and what lengths I’m willing to go to. You could argue that the party, the gay sex, the scene I made, all happened within a controlled environment. You would probably win that argument too. But in the environment I’m returning to - the world of professional wrestling… Valor Pro Wrestling to be specific, the environment will be completely out of control, and so will I. I took one last look at the door, then the present. I knew she already had dozens of those monitors and that she would just throw it away. It didn’t matter. She had a miscarriage. There was no baby number three. The part about her having a baby shower was the only lie in this prologue. I think you’re going to love me. : ) |