The Note, a wrestling fanfic

"The Note"

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Johnston. Its not that you're not a good anchor man, it's just that we've found somebody better." I knew it was coming. I expected it. There's always somebody better. It's a fact of life everybody has to learn to deal with. Sadly, I left the television station I had worked with for years and went home.

Two days later, I was driving home from a hard day of trying to find a new job and decided to go to the bar for a drink. I walked into the dank room and said hello to the bartender, Jeff. Lately, I was here too much. My eyes adjusted to the dim light. The familiar smell of old peanuts, stale beer, and vomit wafted over my face and eerily swam about my nose. I looked around, there were only three people there that night—Jeff, behind the counter wiping down the bar, a middle aged woman on the far side of the room, and a man in a top hat and a tux sitting at the counter. I sat on the tall stool, my ex-bosses voice still ringing in my head.

"What's your poison?" Jeff inquired.

I hesitated for a moment, to collect my thoughts. "Jack Daniels," I said monotone. Jeff put my drink on the bar in front of me and I was lost in myself once again (nothing major, just possible temporary jobs). The man in the tuxedo came over and began talking to me as if we were old friends.

"Wait, wait, wait," I said impatiently, "Who are you? I don't know you." I was extremely confused.

He put his hand out and smiled, "My name is Jonathon, you can call me John; not that it really matters." I nervously shook the man's unmentionably clean hands. He looked familiar for some reason, and there was a certain air to him. He seemed to know something nobody else did, and it didn't comfort me knowing it was nearing all hallows eve. I half expected him to grow fur, run out the door and howl at the moon.

Then it got worse.

"Are you afraid to die?" he asked

"Why yes," I replied, "isn't everyone?"

"Not me," he said, "as a matter of fact I've, sort of…envisioned my death."

I stared at him for a moment absolutely floored.

"I will be on my way to an important meeting at my company, riding in my limmozine, and my two ex-wives will be on opposite sides of the road. Each will pull a handgun from their purse and attempt to murder me; they will shoot at the same time but, being as unorganized as they usually are, will accidentally shoot out the wrong window on my limmozine and murder each other.

"The next morning, my father will attempt to shoot me through the open sunroof with a crossbow, from the safety of a third story hotel window. I will seize the revolver I have hidden under a nearby seat for this particular occasion, and shoot him three times. Even though I don't kill him, he will lose his balance and fall out of the window and thirty feet to his death.

"That night, my limmozine driver will take a pistol from the glove box and turn to me. It is my mother. She'll aim, but never fire, for she will lose control of the vehicle and crash into a Hearst. Since she isn't wearing a seatbelt, she will be propelled into the windshield and die.

"I'll leave the crash site and continue on my way to my destination, which, luckily, is only a few blocks away. A small sports car will veer off the road and strike me.

The concerned driver will jump out and see me, but then freeze as if he had seen a ghost. The paramedics will arrive and rush me to the hospital but I will have reached my unfortunate end before I even reach the ambulance."

I stared at him blankly as he took a notepad and pen from the bar. The woman in the booth was facing the other direction but she wasn't moving and she was obviously listening very intently. Jeff was drying the large beer mugs, but he had frozen too. John scribbled something on the notepad, ripped off the top paper and handed it to me.

"Read it at midnight tomorrow," he spoke these few words with a slight smirk. I pocketed the note, forgetting it almost instantly. It might have been the pressure of getting fired, it might have been too much to drink, or it might have been the insane influence of the man standing in front of me, but I needed to rid the world of Jonathon. I ran out of the eerily silent bar and into my car. I had a plan to destroy this "Jonathon" person. I was doing the entire world a favor…

I had gotten back to the bar with my rifle, but Jonathon was no longer there. He fled because he knew I was going to come after him. He knows I want to kill him, and I scared him. He running from me, but I'll find him, and then I'll give him what he deserves.

The next night I tried to forget everything that had happened in the bar but it was difficult. Why did he start talking to me? Why did he look so familiar? Who was he? All these questions went running through my mind. I decided to clear my mind with some television. I turned it on and my old co-anchor was reading off a breaking news bulletin.

"Two women were murdered this evening," the voice of a radio broadcaster began, "They shot and killed each other while allegedly attempting to shoot at a limmozine passing between them. The police believe that the murders of these two women are linked to a man by the name of Jonathon, his last name is unknown, but if you have any information on this man you can call us at 1-800-555-5514…" The screen went to a view of the murder site. The scene made me want to hurl— two paramedics loading a stretcher on to an ambulance. On the opposite side of the road a woman was laying on her back on the concrete in a crimson pool of blood. Her eyes stared blankly at the sky; a bullet wound in her chest. I stared at the TV and wondered how this could be true. I turned it off and went to bed.

I woke up the next morning to another "breaking news" bulletin, and again, I stupidly listened.

"A man attempted to snipe a limmo from the third story of a hotel, this morning, but a man in the limmo shot the sniper. The sniper fell out of the window and thirty feet to his death. Authorities say that the limmozine that was sniped had the same license plate number as the limmozine which was shot at by two women—"

I beat the snooze button just to turn it off. I couldn't sleep after hearing that. I got ready for another day of trying to find a new job, still puzzling about that Jonathon character.

I was on my way to work and I saw another revolting scene—the man that was being discussed on the radio lay dead on the road. There were police and forensic scientists examining the body, but not daring to touch the body. I didn't want to see, but it was like a bad car wreck. I couldn't look away. The man lay in a horrifying, twisted, form on the ground. There was a bloody mark on his head, obviously from where he hit his head on the pavement and three bullet wounds; one in his upper thigh, one in the abdomen, and one in his chest. He was pale and had obviously been dead for a while.

After I passed the horrible scene, I continued on my way as if I had seen nothing.

It was getting late. I was on my way home and was listening to the radio again and the voice on the radio, once again, told me a new part of the story I already knew.

"…after much research, the police believe that the murders of these three people are all linked to a man by the name of Jonathon, his last name is unknown, but if you have any information on this man you can call us at 1-800-555-5514 –excuse me this just in, the limmozine has just collided with a Hearst…"

I froze. I couldn't think for a moment. I stared blankly at the windshield and thought; tried to sort out all the things I could not yet comprehend.

How can it be? Its true…it's all true… I couldn't believe it. He was either crazy of this was a serious case of de-JA vu. I returned to the world from my thoughts, and saw that I was in a head on collision with a brick wall. Frantically, I slammed one of the pedals and steered left. I had accidentally hit the gas pedal and massacred something. I got out to see what it was. It was the man I knew to be Jonathon.

"Remember…every story has been told…you just need to find a new way of telling it…" he gasped, reached for some invisible object in front of him, and went limp. He was dead now. I couldn't move. Mentally, I was paralyzed. I stood there as the active paramedics rushed around me to get to the dead body I was staring at. The clock tower began to ring. I remembered the note he had given me and reached for my back pocket, but froze. I just waited and counted.

Dong.

Twelve rings. Midnight. He was right again, I thought, the crazy maniacal bastard was right again.

I took the note from my back pocket and read the one, barely legible word scribbled across it. I laughed, not because I was happy that he was gone, but from the sheer irony of it all.

Thank you, brother