If I Traded It All, If I Gave It All Away Part 1
Apr 24, 2023 15:30:39 GMT
Casanova English likes this
Post by Max f'n Daemon on Apr 24, 2023 15:30:39 GMT
“Restless tonight cause I wasted the light…”
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He arrived to his Baltimore home at 9 PM the night before to an empty house.
He promptly sent Holo Make, his mentee, away so that he may have the house alone.
Alone as he should be.
Because failures don’t deserve happiness.
Max lets out a sigh. He looks out of the dining room door towards the entranceway. He spots the scorch mark in the floor that she left after one particular bout of anger.
Anger with him.
Now, normally, Max might not think too much on it, especially when compared to his recent exploits both on and off camera, but unfortunately, Max hasn’t been himself lately.
And isn’t that just a fucking sentence?
He "hasn’t been himself” in every single way that matters.
So Max has been awake since 9 PM the night before, sitting at his dining room table, forcing himself to go over the past few months to try and wrap his head around what exactly has been the cause of his recent failures.
Even in just CU:LT, he’s regarded as some sort of mainstay, but all he has to show for it is a Match of the Year award he shares with a bigger piece of shit than him and a title that he promptly lost.
He can’t win when it matters, not anymore.
Not against Addy.
Not against Serenity.
Not against fucking Johnny goddamn Bacchus.
So the question starts and ends with “why”, right?
This is why Max has been up since 9 PM the night before.
And as the sunlight creeps through the nearby window, and the clock in the entranceway dings nine times, it has taken Max 12 hours of being awake, 3 weeks’ worth of clusterfuck matches, and 8 months’ worth of failures to finally realize the answer.
It’s not until the migraine comes back and the cold sweats start to form that that answer is locked in.
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“It’s nothing I planned and not that I can…”
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He books a month at a local shithole motel. Once his room is ready, he heads on off to the nearby grocery store.
He gets some looks from the teenage cashier, but they're less inclined to deny him his cart full of Jack Daniels, Advil, and cough syrup than some old fucker back in Tucson.
Once he has his car full of goodies and it’s placed in his motel room, Max gets ready to go.
He grabs a clear plastic cup from near the coffee machine.
“Let’s see if I remember how this goes…”
Max starts with the Jack Daniels, filling the cup halfway with it.
Next, comes the cough syrup. The remainder of the cup is filled with it.
He pops the top off the Advil bottle—
And he pauses.
Is this really worth it?
All the heartache? All the pain? All the anger? All the hate?
And then he thinks back on those he’s failed.
Wuya.
Dad.
Sis.
Miranda.
Holo.
And then he thinks on those he’s failed despite his own desire to think otherwise. Because at the end of the day, he’s always craved their kindness, their companionship, their lov—
He cuts himself off by shoving a handful of Advil down his gullet.
He doesn’t think about Serenity.
He doesn’t think about Ashley.
He doesn’t think about David.
He doesn’t think about Johnny.
And he doesn’t think about Lissie.
The only thing he thinks about is him finally fucking winning, even as the first taste of alcohol in nearly a year crosses his lips to wash down the Advil.
And with that, the waterfall begins…
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“I promise I might not walk on by…maybe next time…but not this time…”
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Huh.
That is a jump.
But like a switch, for the first time in a while, Max just looks away with a shrug.
With a feeling of clarity, Max speaks.
“In the words of a headhunter not unlike me or my family…yeah…I’m thinkin I’m back.”
He lets out a few chuckles, letting the warmth of his drinks flow through his system.
“Ah man…I’ve missed this. The feelin of success…the cold of the pills with the heat of the liquid, all residin inside my stellar fuckin body.
I’ve been fightin this feelin for almost a year now, all because I decided I wanted ta' fight clean. Ya’ know…no toxins inside me, nothin ta’ make me weaker…
But…I didn’t realize that by doin that…it was what made me weak.”
Max chuckles a few more times, the laughter turning darker.
“It was after last month, actually. After I gave my fuckin all against a person who never gave a damn about me in Johnny-boy, I went in a couple days later ta' confront another enemy of mine, and despite givin my all…again, guess what I ended up with?
The answer is still fuckin nothing.
I risk my body everywhere I go every fuckin night, and what do I have ta’ show for it?
The positives of bein clean? The wonders of bein sober? The joys of fightin fair?”
Max says those questions with a mock sense of ‘cuteness.’
He reacts by spitting over the bridge.
“Fuckin barf. I didn’t become a World Champion in my first match ever by ‘bein clean.’ I didn’t win the Pure Title in my second match with AW by ‘bein sober.’ I sure as shit didn’t win the Snuff Title in my first match with CU:LT by ‘fighin fair.’
Nah.
I did it by bein smarter than everyone else.
By bein tougher than everyone else.
And takin every ounce of hate and disdain that my body can hold, mixin it with a little alcohol, cough syrup, and painkillers, and walkin out ta’ the ring ta’ give whatever poor bastard I was facin a spit in the face and the worst beatin their ass had ever felt.
So with the constant flow of substances back in my system, I’m gettin the cleanliness detoxed outta me.
Now, I know all these motherfuckers are probably gonna look at me and wonder what the fuck I’m doin, but those motherfuckers are also pretty fuckin stupid.
Ya’ really think I was wrestlin at my best before? That I was really goin balls out?
Nah, fuckos. My body might’ve been stronger, but my mind was the weakest part of me.
Bein nice ta’ Hopeless.
Bein amicable ta’ fuckin Johnny-boy.
And actually feelin the pain that these fuckin deathmatches bring?
Ha!
Again, fuckin ha!
When I was sober, my mind second guessed itself.
When I'm intoxicated, my mind doesn’t give a fuck what my body has ta’ do.
So yeah, ya’ can set my entire body on fire like I’m Thich Quang Duc, and I’ll still find a way ta’ be the last motherfucker left in that ring.”
Max takes a flash out of his black skinny jeans. He takes a few sips from the metal container before making his way back off the bridge.
“This is stop one on a three-stop journey that is my month or so. I’m walkin inta’ these clusterfuck matches with my head up high and a hope and a prayer that I can bat three-for-three.
I’m puttin everythin on the line here, and startin with this fuckin company, we’re includin my fuckin life.
I’ve never been immolated in my life before, but hey, if that’s what it takes ta’ get a fuckin W, then fuck it, let’s go.
I mean…I’ve done some sick shit for this company already. It's all well documented. Logo branded on my chest, fucked around with buckets of blood, there was that whole Matilda shit, the match that Bacchus and I tore the fuckin house down in, and of course, that war with JD that this company still holds on a pedestal.
And yet, despite this company’s insistence on raisin the bar, it and English seem hellbent on actually killin somebody.
Well, Cas, if cold murder is what ya’ want, ya’ came ta’ the right place.
If that’s what the boss man wants, then I’d be willin ta’ cut Addy a little too deep.
If a cunt like Grace Leary is held too long in the fire that she turns back ta' Ash, well, accidents happen.
Hell, maybe I’m willin ta’ forgo commonsense and decide the motherfucker who’s put me through hell in this fuckin company deserves ta’ suffer? Then shit, suddenly English is left with broken limbs surrounded by the people he’s wronged.
Because what do ya’ fuckin expect, English? Fightin spirit? The hatred of people? The desperation?
Or do ya’ think that people will do whatever the fuck they need ta’ do just ta’ hold a piece of gold?
Well, I can’t speak ta’ fuckers like JC or Trey or Matt despite them bein beacons of goodwill whenever it best suits them, but me?
Ya’ better fuckin believe I would.
Unlike everyone else in this match, I’ve got nothin much ta’ lose. I’ve already given up whatever semblance of self I had just ta’ try and regain some level of who I used ta’ be in hopes that it’ll be what I need ta’ finally win.
Do ya’ fuckers really think you’re safe?
Nah…I’m hellbent on winnin this.
Ha…more like heavenbent, actually.
It’s in the name of the fuckin show, after all.
Heavensent.
It’s fuckin destiny or some shit.
That the hellborn and heavensent would be walkin outta this hell on earth ta’ finally return ta’ heaven.
And it’s fuckin poetic that the two people who’ve been my antithesis are waitin for me on the other side.
Bottoms up ta’ fuckin that…”
Max finishes his flask. He starts to laugh, causing the drink inside to spill out between his lips.
Eventually, the laughter turns to sobs, and the drink runs out, leaving only tears left to stain his shirt.
