I asked on Tumblr if anyone had any holiday/winter-themed prompts. m-i-s-s-14 gave me this: "Dean as Ebeneezer Scrooge and he gets visited by the three ghosts and yadda yadda yadda. You know how it goes. Like, in his earlier days when he wasn't the greatest guy and he head his demons." Please note that nothing inspired from his past/his indy days is considered accurate. This will be posted in 3 parts leading to the morning of December 25th. Happy holidays, Missy!
"Ugh, Christmas fucking sucks." An inebriated Jon Moxley slammed down his glass of whiskey and rubbed his temples.
"Aww, don't be such a Scrooge, sir." The bartender placed a final glass of Jack in front of the young wrestler.
It was a quarter to midnight on Christmas Eve and the bar was closing early for the holiday. The bar was decorated with colorful strings of lights and tiny wreaths adorned with red bows. It all made Mox sick to his stomach.
"Yeah, bah fucking humbug, asshole. Look, there are two ways to celebrate Christmas. Either the religious way, in which why the fuck should I spend my day in worship of things I don't give two shits about, and the family way, which I gave up on years ago once I realized that my family didn't give two shits about me. So the way I see it, it's a time of year where people spend money they don't have, eat like shit, and pretend to like people they actually hate just cause they feel obligated to see them once a year. What's the fucking point?"
"That's depressing,sir. So you're saying you have no holiday traditions? What're you gonna do tomorrow then?"
"Oh, I have my traditions. Tomorrow I'm gonna stay drunk all day and jerk off until I can't feel my dick anymore." He threw back the fresh glass of booze and wiped his mouth. "You know what? I think I'm going to go get a head start now."
He reached into his wallet and threw down exactly enough cash for the drinks he'd had and no more. No standard tip. No extra tip as a kind holiday gesture. He slid off the stool and threw his coat on as the bartender gathered the money and rang out the tab. Mox was right by the door when the bartender noticed that the bitter man who'd been drinking all night was also a stingy bastard.
"Merry Christmas, sir," the man sighed. His attempt at a cheerful goodnight was greeted with Mox's middle finger.
It was quite cold outside, as Philly often was at the end of December. Mox blew warm air into his hands and then shoved them in the pockets of his jeans. He walked back to his apartment as quickly, or as quickly as he could given how much he'd had to drink. The Christmas trees lighting up the windows of people's homes pissed him off and he just wanted to fall into his chair and shove his hand down his pants.
When he arrived at his building, he nearly tripped over a young boy who was sitting on the curb.
"What the fuck is your problem, kid?"
"Sorry. Are you going into that building?" The boy stood up and Mox noticed that he looked about ten or eleven years old.
"Yeah. Why? You thinking about trying to mug me or something, kid? Cause the joke would be on you. I don't have any more money on me."
"No. My mom kicked me out of the house because her boyfriend came over. So I'm stuck without a place to sleep. I've been waiting for someone to come back here so I can sneak into the building and sleep in the hallway so I'll at least be out of the cold."
"You don't have any friends you could stay with?"
"Nah, not really. You're no fun to be around when you're the poor kid with an alcoholic mom."
"Yeah, I know how that is. Well, good luck to you, kid. Suck it up and power through it. That's what I did. I'd tell you it gets better, but that'd probably be a lie."
He stepped over the boy and ascended the stairs, unlocking the main door and stepping inside. He paused for a moment, then turned around and stuck his head outside again.
"Hey kid," he muttered. The boy perked up and he looked behind him, only to receive a jacket thrown at his face. "You can use that as a blanket or whatever," he added as he closed the door behind him.
He staggered into his small apartment and fell into his chair, not bothering to turn the light on. He shut his eyes for a moment, thankful to be back where he felt safe. His roommate was gone, visiting family for the holiday. It was nice to be alone for a while.
He felt himself begin to finally relax when a noise startled him. It sounded like feet shuffling paired with metal against the wooden floor. He jumped out of his chair and ran to flick on the light switch. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he found his friend and former tag partner sitting in a metal folding chair.
"Sami? What the fuck are you doing in my apartment? Did I leave the door unlocked? Why aren't you in fucking Jersey? Christ, how drunk am I?"
Mox staggered backward and fell into his chair. Sami scratched the hair on his chin as he looked over his old friend. He eventually sighed and leaned forward in his seat.
"I figured you'd be fucking drunk, dude. Don't get me wrong, I love to drink, but I've learned when to stop before I make a fucking fool of myself. Also I like my damn liver. I get that you hate Christmas, Jon, I do, but this is kinda fucking pathetic, don't you think?"
"Don't you dare fucking patronize me, Sami. I've seen you exactly like I am right now. Worse even."
"Yeah, back when I was 19 or 20. But I've realized that I have to grow up and get serious about my life. I love the indies, but I don't want to be hustling down here forever. I don't know about you, but my ultimate goal is to get to the big show. I'm gonna main event Wrestlemania someday and fuck, man, I want you there with me. But the path you've been going down… I fear that you may not even be around to see it happen. I hate to see you like this. We're getting older, dude. How much longer can you keep this shit up? The drinking, the women, the deathmatches. It's only been about two years, but it feels like you've aged ten. Do you really want to end up like those grizzled old vets who can't walk? Who've lost all their money to addiction? Or scariest of all, with all the cutting and the blood, the chance of you becoming infected with something that can't be cured is really fucking high."
Jon glared at his friend. He wasn't sure if it was the haziness from the alcohol or if he was just tired, but he still couldn't figure out why Sami would be in front of him right now. He must be hallucinating. He dug his wallet out of his pocket and threw it at him. Sami swiped it out of the air and rolled his eyes.
"I'm here to tell you that you're going to have some visitors tonight, Jon. Three ghosts. Expect the first one at 1 am. Hopefully they'll be able to convince you to get your shit together, man. For your sake."
"Could you be more cliché, Callihan? It's Christmas and I'm a baaad man so you're going to surprise me at home and get all Dickens and shit on me? Get the fuck outta here." Mox got up and wandered into the kitchen to grab a beer from the fridge.
"Scoff all you want. Deep down, you know I'm right."
"Uh-huh. Whatever you say, Sa-"
When he had turned around after grabbing his beer, Sami was gone. Mox went searching through the small apartment, but he was nowhere to be found. He rubbed his hand over his face and sighed before returning to his chair. He glanced at the clock on the wall and saw that it was 12:48 in the morning. He chuckled low under his breath and thought that he might as well stay up and wait for this supposed "first ghost of Christmas".