To Thine Own Self...
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Non-original characters, storylines and concepts © WWE, this is a not-for-profit project.
IV. Sweating Bullets
May 14, 5:45am
"I won."
Hearing his own voice was a hard sell. Kerwood had dreamed of this moment, thought of believing in God just to pray for it coming one day. Still, he was very conscious of the fact that it just wasn't what he'd thought it would be in his fantasies. The 'told you so' he'd wanted to say to his father for a long time just didn't exist for someone standing in the cheapest motel they could find.
On the outskirts of a large, busy city, places to stay were pretty cheap. They were pretty dirty, too. Kerwood's phone had set him back more than two weeks in a place like this would.
The response that came back over his phone sounded flat, and it wasn't because of the static or the distance.
"I'm...glad for you."
Eying the stationery unfolded on the bed, he decided not to mention his pay. It would be adequate, he'd even be able to afford food. Not three times a day, but it was more than the paycheck in OVW, and since he wasn't paid on a salary, winning the match added a bonus. "I just...I thought I should call."
"Okay." It was a tone of voice Kerwood recognized. He pictured the exasperated look on Sergeant Walkerton's face. "I guess that's good, then."
Sighing a bit too loudly, Kerwood massaged his eyes and dragged his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He'd built up a lot of fatigue between stressing out over wrestling, the actual wrestling, and now, from this very conversation. It was catching up to him. "So, how are," he stopped, realizing what a stupid question this was, but he just couldn't think of anything else to say. "How are things?"
Once he heard himself say the words, Kerwood realized that silence would've been better after all.
His father seemed to agree. "Full of sand." He didn't sound sarcastic, which probably meant he was even more bothered by it than Kerwood first suspected. "And gunshots, sometimes. And it's hot. The usual."
When Kerwood thought of asking his father when he would have leave again, he thought better of it and kept his mouth shut this time. He really didn't want to see the man, didn't want to visit his grandmother in the nursing home, didn't want to wonder if everything his father would say to him in person was part of a grand guilt trip over the fact that he'd saved most of the cash he'd earned at OVW instead of helping out with the bills. "Right. I'll...let you go, then."
He hung up before his father could say anything. It wouldn't surprise him if his father had just done the same, really.
After a long while staring at his phone, Kerwood stopped spacing out. He realized his back was starting to ache from the way he was leaning forward and rubbed at the offending muscle, leaning back slowly until he could flop onto the bed with little strain.
The mattress creaked, either from age, over-use, or both. It seemed clean, and he was thankful for it, considering the price of the room. Ankles crossed, one hand behind his his head, Kerwood reached for the piece of paper next to him and read it over for the tenth time since it'd been delivered to him at the 1st Mariner.
Outside, the sun was coming up. The light filtering in through the dirt-coated window gave the sheet of paper an orange tint, and the words were harder to read. Fortunately, he already knew what it said.
--Mr. Walkerton,
Enclosed is the pay for your match. As you are the only dark-match competitor to both sustain some crowd reaction andwin during the May 13th pre-show without the referee catching your opponent cheating, there is no question that we wish to continue booking you for matches in the coming weeks. The psychology of your wrestling was impressive, and we encourage you to put as much, if not more effort into your next match. Your record from OVW gives us high hopes for your coming competitions.
Please be at the Charlotte Arena in Charlotte, North Carolina for the May 20th edition of Monday Night Raw. Be aware that, because of last-minute booking changes as well as the number of local wrestlers who may or may not walk in for try-outs, you may be scheduled to open the televised event against a wrestler of greater experience than yourself. The roster is currently low on wrestlers scouted from OVW or other local promotions such as yourself, so this is more of a likelihood than usual. If this happens, remember that we in the corporate offices do not judge based on sheer wins and losses as much as on your behavior as a whole.
Eric Bischoff / GM--
The wording made Kerwood wonder if the general manager himself had written it, instead of just sticking his signature on a form letter. He supposed it didn't really matter; the whole part about how he might actually be on TV made his stomach feel funny. The thought that he could go that far so soon wasn't a new one; it happened all the time to up-and-coming wrestlers much better and much worse than he was, but he didn't really see himself as prepared for it.
It was a thrill as well as a fear, though. Getting on TV and then failing to impress everyone watching was a thought that made his stomach do cartwheels, but right now, he didn't care. He was going to make the most of the chance he had.
Deciding to get more sleep before heading out, Kerwood shut his eyes and let his head fall back onto the bed's stiff pillow. There had been a time in his life when he'd imagined buying his first motorcycle sometime in the future and having his father there to see it, see that he'd had enough success to just pay for something expensive like it was nothing. Now, he didn't really care if his father was there or not. He just wanted that bike.
May 14th, 9:30pm
John wasn't normally one to drown his sorrows in alcohol. He wasn't normally one to drink period, but on the occasions he went out for a night on the town, he preferred to do it as a celebration for something. The idea of finding a bar in downtown Baltimore with Randy to make themselves feel better a day after their meager attempts at matches on Raw just hadn't sounded like a good idea.
After spending twice as long working out in the closest gym as he usually did, John's resistance wavered. He'd pushed himself too hard and he was paying for it with much more fatigue than usual, especially considering the beating Batista had given him. He'd expected to feel better, so it was a heavy let-down.He knew he needed some form of stress relief, and sharing a few beers with Randy gave him a second chance to wind down after overdoing it in the gym.
Still, the calm little bar they'd found at the harbor didn't help his mood very much. Thinking of himself as an active person, John wasn't one to sit still as a way of relaxing. He preferred nightclubs to bars for the motion and energy. The fact that he didn't think he had enough strength left to handle a nightclub just made him feel more miserable.
With enough of a buzz going to forget the ache in his arms and legs, John tried to stop thinking about his own sorry state. Picking up his latest bottle, he let it hang from his hand and watched it swing back and forth ever so slightly before taking a sip. Turning to Randy on the stool next to him, John said, "You feel like we just wasted the night?"
The bartender had taken them, but Randy would've had more empty bottles in front of him than John. He wasn't hammered beyond all recognition, but he was still considerably more drunk, and he slurred a little when he answered. "Wasted? Nah, man. We're just enjoying a night off."
John latched onto that idea. "You going to Smackdown this week?"
"Nope," Randy said, a shit-eating grin plastered onto his face for no real reason. "I'm not booked for a match, so I'm gonna visit home until Monday."
That was disconcerting news; John didn't have any heat with their coworkers, but he also simply didn't know many wrestlers very well. Randy declaring his intention to milk his lack of Smackdown booking for everything it was worth reminded him that he had nowhere worth going. The Cena family farm was too hectic, not a relaxing place to go for a weekend. "Guess I'll just go to Smackdown, can't sign too many autographs, right?"
"Man," Randy chuckled, waving a hand to get the bartender's attention, "I don't know how you actually enjoy all that fan stuff...always drives me stir-crazy sitting around like that."
While Randy got himself more booze, John let out a sigh and shook his head. He liked the Legend Killer, but he couldn't stand Randy's arrogance. He liked to think of himself as a good influence, since Randy always toned it down when they were around each other, mostly because John usually called him on his bullshit instead of smiling and nodding.
Apparently, being buzzed made Randy forget this. Opening his mouth to say something Randy probably wouldn't remember in the morning, John never got a word out. He stared past Randy to the far corner in back of the room, where his eyes had just happened to settle, and wondered how he could've missed this detail for the entire time they'd been here.
The table in that corner had one man sitting at it, dressed in black, a bandanna on his head and sunglasses over his eyes despite very little light. For the first second John caught site of him, he looked like any biker in any city, but the tattoos on his arms gave the Undertaker away. "Oh, shit."
Turning to stare at John, thinking something interesting was happening, Randy said, "What?"
"Nuthin,'" John shook his head, making eye contact long enough to convince Randy he wasn't bullshitting. It had been a long time since John had seen the Undertaker in any capacity other than passing by him in a hallway, but he was worried about Randy. If Randy saw 'Taker here, he'd either panic and cause a scene or panic and start a fight.
Once Randy went back to his drink, John took another look at the Undertaker, seeing the bottle of Jack Daniels sitting on his table and the large, thick book opened up next to it. The dead man was lazily turning pages, and John thought he looked fake, like he was trying to be the American Badass again and just couldn't get it right. It seemed like nothing more than a poor disguise, the same way being Clark Kent didn't really make Superman look any different.
The huge book he was looking through didn't help the biker image. Even from far away and in the dim, smoke-filled room, he could see the pages weren't printed with words but with a lot of designs and sketches. Many of them looked torn or burned, some had entire chunks of paper missing. The book was obviously incomplete. When the Undertaker slammed it closed and took a slow drink from his bottle, John's first instinct was to drag Randy out. They were between the tables and the door.
However, 'Taker didn't dawdle. Leaving the pay for his tab on the table, he stood up as if he hadn't just polished off half a bottle of Jack, tucked his book under an arm, and started walking.
Briefly, John thought that simply turning back towards the counter and sipping his beer like nothing was wrong, like he hadn't even noticed the Undertaker, was childish. How terrible could it really be, anyway? It'd been some time since Randy's little flaming casket business, and 'Taker hadn't paid the man any heed once he'd beaten him to a pulp inside the cell.
These thoughts, and thoughts like how the Undertaker was just a man with a mastery over presenting his gimmick and nothing more...all of these thoughts left John in a hurry when the sounds of the Undertaker's heavy footsteps stopped right behind him. Suddenly wondering why he ever thought of Randy as paranoid, John could feel eyes boring into him, he felt the sweat run down his back and half-expected to feel a fist connect with his kidney at any given moment.
When the Undertaker left, he breathed a sigh of relief, chugged the last of his beer and wondered, again, why he'd gotten so antsy. After a minute, he decided he didn't want to think about it anymore. "Let's blow this joint, bro."
"Wish I could have a joint," Randy did one more shot. He was completely oblivious to John's subsiding fear; he'd missed 'Taker entirely. "Damn people and their cameras..."
For a second, John thought Randy was beyond the point of understanding simple sentences, but Randy slid off of his stool and took his sweet time fumbling with his wallet before tossing a wad of bills on the counter. "My treat tonight, man."
"Thanks, bro," Cena nodded. Nudging Randy towards the door with an arm over his shoulders, John led Randy at a slow pace. He wasn't so worried about being attacked now that he'd had a chance to breath and realize he'd been panicking for nothing, but he was still worried about Randy seeing the dead guy anywhere outside of an arena. "C'mon."
Outside, John looked around, trying to figure out where Undertaker's motorcycle had to have been parked. He wondered if it was distinctive, something he could've seen when they'd arrived, or if 'Taker even drove them anymore. The air outside was thick, more distracting than it would've been if he were sober, and he just couldn't think straight through the haze. Once he was done with this line of thought, John whistled at the next taxi coming down the street. "Yo!"
"Hey, we're like, a five minute walk away from the hotel," Randy chuckled. He seemed more amused than curious.
"Yeah," John nodded. He just wanted to get away from the place as fast as possible. "I'm lazy. And a little drunk."
