The Origin Story (Pt 2)
Tulsa, OK; November 1st, 2015
The pain radiates across my back as I kneel before the cross. Some might call it archaic, but lets be honest, the world has gone to heck in a handbasket since “archaic” stopped being the way that we handled things. The pain leaves my body through the silent tears that exit my eyes. Aside from those very tears, there is no sign of the pain, and that’s the way it should be. Another sting goes across my back, and my body winces as a sign of weakness, and the shame fills me more than I already am filled.
Behind me, sitting in the front row pews of the newly renovated Church of the Good Shepherds, would be my mother, stone faced as always, Ginny Mae, biting at her lip, but a whimsical look in her eyes, Andrew Borg, my silent cheerleader in making it through this session, as he jostles with each lashing I’m taking, and on the end is Esther, who has more tears in her eyes than I do. Andrew reaches over to take her hand in comfort, but it doesn’t seem to do anything for her in that regard. And behind me, with a good old fashioned bullwhip, would be… you guessed it, my father, Father Gerald. He is the one dishing out the punishment on me today. He goes to raise the whip once more, and I brace myself for another lashing when he stops and sets it down on the altar.
Gerald: I’m afraid I been going about this the wrong way, son. You ain’t gonna learn no lessons from getting lashed with some bullwhip like an animal.
My body eases up some. There is a sigh of relief that escapes my lungs. I shouldn’t want the break, but my body simply doesn’t feel like it can take any more punishment. I start to get up, but my father puts his boot against the back of my head and kicks me back down on the ground. I push myself up again, and kneel on the ground, waiting for what I must next do. I don’t have to wait long as Father Gerald steps in front of me, reaching under the altar, and pulls out another whip of sorts. This one shines in its glory, but just at the tips of the various tassels.
Gerald: I like to think of you as my own apostle, Brother David. You are the one to carry on the Holy Word of The Good Book once I’m called up to the Heavenly Kingdom. I do hope that you know that. God has so many great things lined up for you, if you just show your devotion to Him. But the parallels are just too uncanny. For my only begotten son kneels down before me, and I must watch his body suffer so that his eternal soul may be saved.
He makes me look up into his eyes. Crazy as ever. His words betray the look of pure pleasure in his eyes. He then slaps me hard across the face. Esther screams out, and mother reaches over to pat her on the knee, and she shouts out “NO!” and runs out of the building. Andrew follows after her, leaving mother, father, and Ginny to bare witness.
Gerald: JJesus knelt before God, Pontius Pilate, and all who wished Jesus to be put to death… You kneel before your father, the governor of your soul, and the crowd who want nothing more than to see your soul saved. Your sins are not only grotesque, but suitable for eternal damnation. You must repent, and a simple bullwhip ain’t gonna cut it. So I’ve put together a replica of the flog used on Jesus Christ himself, to purify his soul through pain.
Before I can say a single word, my father is behind me, and he whips me hard across the back, tearing into my flesh. I scream out in agony, unable to hold in my cries this time. I fall forward, and Ginny is called to grab onto my hair and hold me up straight until my mother can tie me to a banister meant to represent the Christ at the Column. Once my hands are secured, I feel one more lashing go across my back, and my skin tears as I let out a guttural scream.
Each scream only earns me more of a whipping, so instead of focusing on the pain, I choose to focus on the sin itself, so that I may be absolved and averted by it in the future. Each inch of torn skin across my back makes me think of the night before, Halloween.
I looked around the room, because I wanted to take in everyone’s faces as I stood there in my suit and dress shirt, and The Good Book tucked firmly underneath my arms. There was a cup of water next to me, and by now, the ice cubes had begun to melt. Doctors, firefighters, cats, rabbits, vampires, zombies, all dressed in next to nothing besides their body paint. They sweat on each other, grinding to the latest Lady Gaga song while rainbow colored lights flash around. Heathens. Sickening, unrepentant heathens.
Yet, just like Jesus Christ, I refused to give up on them all. I stood there, ready to reveal The Truth to them, in hopes that maybe just one person will listen and see the light. I looked out amongst the crowd once more as a red man with horns on his head, and a tail hanging from the back of his tight shorts walked up to me. He settled down on the tablenext to me and rested his elbows there.
Devil: Hey, nice costume. You’re probably the scariest person here, and I’m the fucking Devil.
He laughed, but I didn’t show any interest in his advances, or his comments. I turned to him and I opened up the book. I cleared my throat to speak, and he smiled at me even wider.
Devil: Oh, so it’s either not a costume, or you’re really getting into the character, cutie.
Me: A character I am not, for I follow the Lord, spreading his message to the sinners, those poor in faith. And judging by your appearance, I’d say you’re definitely bankrupt in that department.
He chuckled again, but his smile faded a little. He picked up his drink and took a sip and then set it down next to mine. He put a hand on mine, over The Good Book. I started to pull it away, but I just might have been able to help this one.
Devil: Judge not lest ye be judged. That’s somewhere in that book, isn’t it? Along with “Do not point out the speck in your brother’s eye, ignoring the log in your own”? I went to Catholic school growing up.
I snorted in response.
Me: Well, a lot of good it did you, huh?
He rolled his eyes at me and picked up his drink. He started to walk away, but then he turned back to look at me. That goatee looked quite real, and I can’t help but wonder for a second who I am really dealing with.
Devil: It’s not all fire and brimstone, buddy. You people always forget the core values of your faith. Love. Mercy. Kindness. Compassion. Maybe if you lightened up a little, you might be able to smile once in a while.
He turned and walked away. Something in me drove me to push off of the table and out of my chair. Before I knew it, my feet were following after him, almost quicker than my own body. The book was gripped firmly in my grasp. I brushed past people he had weaved between on his way back to the bar. I tapped him on the shoulder and he turns around to look at me.
Me: You have it all wrong. I’m not some fire and brimstone nut job. I’m only here because we are at a very crucial time right now, and it’s more important than ever to worry about where your soul is going.
The devil held up his cup and gave it a shake for the bartender, who must have known him by name, as he instantly began preparing a new drink. He curled his lips into a smile that almost seemed like it was taunting me, or pitying me.
Devil: Well, thanks for your concern, but I have a pretty good idea where I’m going after I die.
Me: And dressing the part already to earn brownie points? How ambitious of you.
Devil: Look, is there some cup I can drop a couple dollars in to help out your cause, and more importantly, to get you off my back? It’s Halloween, and I’m just trying to let loose a little. And this...
He gestured to the finest garments in my closet at the time, and even to my face, which I could see in the mirrors behind the bar, was less than inviting. He took his drink from the bartender and took a sip before finishing his sentence.
Devil: … this isn’t helping at all. It’s been a rough week at the office, and I just came here to get over Brendan by dancing with some cute guys. Excuse me, cute guys who don’t want to save my eternal soul or whatever.
He was taunting me. Really. I rolled my eyes and he sucked down his drink faster than I could ever formulate a sound with my lips. He extended his hand to me, and I just stared at it.
Me: What is this, the Garden of Gethsemane? Do I look like my name is Judas?
He snickered.
Devil: No, you look like your name is Bobby, or David or something.
He looked at me and waited for me to give my correct name. His snicker turned into full on laughter as he grabbed my hand and started pulling me to the dance floor.
Devil: No shit, Bobby! Show me those moves.
It couldn’t hurt to try a different approach, right? Jesus didn’t walk into the gatherings of human scum with a holier than thou attitude. He went in there, and did as they did, to a point, and he used their logic to get through to them. I was dancing on a fine line right now, but I was strong enough to get past temptation. I began to move along to the music, poorly, since I never was a dancer. I looked more like a drunken frat boy who just learned how to walk two seconds ago. Devil danced like he was born to do nothing but dance. And his few off beat moves were endearing, causing me to smile a little. But then, the music died down and a slow song began to play. The floor cleared a little, but a few stayed on and gathered with their partners for a slow dance. He put his hands around my waist, and I was seconds away from pushing him away. But, I didn’t.
Devil: You can’t dance for shit, Bobby.
Me: It’s… never mind. I don’t do a lot of dancing. My time is better used elsewhere. In the church.
He was respectful. His hands stayed in the appropriately platonic zones and there’s almost a foot of space between us as we slowly turned around in circles. I practically towered over his 5’9” hairline. He had to look up, and I down.
Devil: I’m surprised that your church is okay with you, considering.
Me: Oh, I’m not… gay. I like women.
The devil looked down at me and could tell that was not entirely truthful. He winks and nods his head. I pretend not to notice what he’s talking about, even as I moved in a little closer, just to keep “that” out of his view.
Me: I don’t mean to come on so strong. I just… I was in a very dark place before the church. I guess I just see what all it has done for me, and I can’t help but feel like I owe my entire being to God. And I can’t see how nobody else would feel the same way, especially those who have so much to be thankful for. I really am just trying to help others… like me… to see that.
Devil: You do know that conversion therapy is a load of horse shit, right? It doesn’t work. It doesn’t change who you really are. All it does is suppress it. It creates stresses and anxieties in a world where we have far too much of that going on anyway. It’s literally the worst thing you could do.
I went silent, because there was a logic there that I can’t deny. I may not think about “it” as much as I used to, but it was still there.
Me: I’m in a much better place now. I’ve left behind the drinking, the drugs, the risks. I don’t need a relationship, anyway. I’ve dedicated myself to Him.
Just then, desire burned through my entire body as I stared into those dark brown eyes. They were bottomless, cavernous, and so full of mystery. Their chill went through my body, igniting a heat within me to counteract it, and sweat began to form on my forehead. I shivered as I found myself drawn into his embrace.
Devil: It’s 2015. Devotion is for the frauds still buying into the institution of monogamy meant to keep us from loving one another. Used to keep us loyal to a magical man in the sky that does not exist. Not in the context we believe, anyway. It’s even crazier than conversion therapy. God doesn’t exist, but we need the idea to hold firm to so that we don’t go around killing and robbing each other. I’ll give you one thing. Our moral compass is fucked because we have to rely on “White Jesus” to keep us from doing wrong to one another, and even that is only slightly effective.
With each word that came out of his mouth, there was something in me that just felt magnetized. First my chest pressed against his, smearing red paint on my black jacket and white shirt. Then, my head and his came for a collision course. And no, not a headbutt like I wish I had done in retrospect. Our lips met. And for a minute, I felt like I was floating. Even through the rest of the four minute ballad, my entire body was just in bliss as our hands moved over one another’s bodies.
It didn’t take much longer than that four minute song before we were in the bathroom. He was sucking on my neck like the morality vampire that he was, and draining me of my will. Before long, I felt the righteous indignation course through me once more as I shoved him off of me and right into the wall. My transgressions had taken me this far, and it was several steps beyond. A lesson learned, and I would report to my father immediately to repent… or, I would pin him against the wall and press my lips against his as he fumbled with my belt. His bike shorts were lost in the shuffle, and the red paint was more on me than him. My jacket and shirt were gone now, and he leaned in and bit my chest.
He grabbed onto my hands and pushed me back as he finished getting to where he wanted to be. I leaned against the stall, cold and disgusting as my eyes closed. The sensations of my body were building as my thoughts immediately went to seeking forgiveness for what I was doing. And the weakness of it all was that I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t want to, even after several minutes when I was pushed onto the toilet seat, and he stood over me, lowering down. I closed my eyes, and the weakness left my body through tears. I could hear his voice saying the most vile and disgusting things to me as we did the dirty deeds of the sodomites. And despite those tears, I didn’t let him leave. I held him close as I sobbed. He played into it until we had both ended the deed, he before I. Then, in a shuffle, he was gone, and I was left crying in a dirty bathroom stall of a gay club, exposed as the door stayed wide open. And I just couldn’t move. I was paralyzed by my misdeed, and the fear of what would happen when I gave confession to my father. To this day, I still think it really was the devil himself.
I find myself leaning against the railing in front of the altar, barely able to hold myself up. I see the blood staining the white fabric in front of the altar, and I see it spattered on the ground. I know it’s mine as I see the whip with the broken tassels fly on the ground next to me. I can’t even cry out, because I know now, more than ever, that what happened last night was a test that I failed, and I will never fail it again. A reminder of why I was so ready to walk away from a lifestyle that did nothing but beat me down far worse than any beating my father, or anybody else, could ever give me in a physical sense.
I’m snapped back to reality as my mother picks pieces of glass out of my back, and Andrew unties me. He does so cautiously so that I don’t swing on him. There is not a fear, but more an apprehension, and I give him a nod of reassurance.
Me: I’m grateful, brother. Thank you.
This eases his worry as he finishes untying me. I fall down to the ground as my mother can’t help but let out a startled sound. She begins arguing with my father as her facade breaks, and she begins smacking at his chest, sobbing to obstruct her words from coming out clear. He grabs onto her wrists and holds her firmly.
Gerald: I had to! Do you not see the repairs that I’ve done on our boy’s soul?! All of that work, ALL OF THAT GOT DAMN WORK WON’T BE FOR NOTHING, MAVIS!!!
He gives her a couple firm shakes to snap her back to reality, and she covers her mouth. She nods her head as Andrew helps her outside next to my sister, who was spared seeing the worst of it all. Ginny comes over to me, leaning down next to me. My father looks around and then swaggers over to me as the doors of the church come to a close. He picks up a clean cloth from the altar and begins rubbing off the handles of the whips as he whistles a hymn from Psalms. He practically dances around me. Once he’s done, he throws the whips down on each side of me as Ginny rubs the sweat from my forehead. My father then leans down over me and yanks my hair back.
Gerald: Now I don’t want to see no more of these fuck ups, son, ‘cause you’re really skatin’ on thin ice, and I ain’t gonna have too many more chances I can afford to give ya. The hospital’s only gonna believe someone walked in here and assaulted you as an attack on the church so many times. If you catch my drift?
He lets go of my hair and I drop back down to the floor. He pulls my cell phone from my back pocket and slides it within my reach. Ginny then takes a candle holder from the altar and whops me on the head with it, but only for effect, I think. I don’t go out cold, but I am seeing stars for a minute before I’m able to operate the phone to dial 9-1-1, which is enough time for the rest of the church to disappear from the crime scene.
Revelations (Pt 2)
Undisclosed date, time, and location
Unlike two weeks ago for High Stakes X, I’m standing outside in a deadened forest. There is a snow effect of ash blowing around in the wind, coming down from the earlier wildfires. The earth is literally scorched, which is one of the many signs that the end is near. I walk through the forest, which looks more like a field than anything now. Charred stumps are the only thing that proves there was once life here. I look around, and I feel it in my bones. Joy.
Me: How can someone find joy in such a devastating scene? Nature’s beauty destroyed by man is but a foreshadow of what is about to happen across the globe. And I know that my soul is safe. All sins confessed, and handed over to Him. I am practically at the gates of his kingdom now as we speak.
I look around, and I see one single shred of life. A young sapling sprouting up from the ground.
Me; Ah, a determined seed, sown as a sign of regrowth. The new will inherit the earth, as was promised in the Good Book. There’s many promises ahead of those who choose to believe. And SCW has been so kind as to stock it’s first literary masterpiece in the merchandise shop, carrying over the contract from Sin City Underground. I urge you to buy your copy. Over one thousand copies have been sold since my official re-debut at High Stakes X, and all proceeds go to help our church flourish, to save more lives. Forget about starving children in Ethiopia. Don’t pay attention to the sad puppies flaunted in front of you at midnight by the far left. Never mind the arts, or school sports, or whatever cause comes to mind when thinking of a way to better the world around us. It all starts here.
I hold the Good Book up for all to see.
Me: Inside is basically a cheat code on how to get into Heaven. I’m not going to sit here and tell you that it’s important to read it because I want to make a buck. I want to save all of the starving children. I will not see another puppy go starving or abused or neglected. Nope! Not on my fricken watch! I want kids to paint over macaroni and craft it into necklaces. I want to see kids hit home runs, score touchdowns, hit that three pointer. Cancer research, eye, heart, and kidney transplants, stop cyber bullying. I wanna see all of that continue, except the bullying. But somebody needs to remind O’Malley that SCW has a strict “No bullying” policy, because he didn’t get the memo.
I raise my hand and begin wagging my finger at the camera as if O’Malley were right there to see it.
Me: But, in order for us to give these charitable causes the right kind of attention, we gotta work on ourselves first. Instead of waging war on something that don’t concern us, like it were Vietnam, Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran, Saudi Arabia, Germany, Japan, Italy… why don’t we stop the Great Depression waging war on our own insides? Find that inner peace. It’s all right here in this book. Like a road map to salvation. Like a walk through of the video game that is life. That one was for you, Krystal Wolfe.
I wink at the camera as I lower the book back to my side. Somehow, I don’t think that she’s going to be so grateful for the shout out, but what more would you expect from an ungrateful little whore?
Me: But, enough about this book, on sale for the low, low price of $39.99 by popular demand, available by clicking the shop link on www.scwrestling.net under the “Extras” tab, titled “SCW Shop”. If it’s not there, I’ll be on the phone with my lawyer quicker than Angel Kash after High Stakes X. There’s a reason it’s called “The Good Book”, because why complicate a good thing?
I have to hold the book up one more time. I even make sure to add a mental note to have the editors place an ad for “You Can Do It!” by Andrew Borg that should be flashing across the screen as we…
… speak. Perfect. Now, I lower the book and I walk over to the sapling before me.
Me: Speaking of charities, I do believe this was the work of the Green Initiative of California and outlying areas. A Crystalline North foundation. North… North… Why does that sound so familiar? Hmmm… And just like that, I “trip” and crush the poor sapling, and my heel “accidentally” grinds it into the ground. Once I accidentally know for sure that it has no chance of surviving in this desolate wasteland, I step off of it and cover my face in horror.
Me: I can’t believe that just happened. What a stroke of bad luck, if you believe in that sort of thing, like most… WITCHES… do. Like Crystalline and Celeste North do. Like Celeste’s friend Jenifer LaCroix of Le Coven do. Like my opponent this week, Kedron Williams, does. Though, unlike the seemingly docile hedge witches of Le Coven, Kedron is a special kind of soulless monster. Purveyor of the serpent. Follower of the goat. And if my research is correct, the descendent of Abigail Williams, dating allllllll the way back to the Salem Witch Trials. I take a seat on the nearby elevated stump and give a “tsk tsk tsk” to show my disapproval. I cross my left leg over my knee and I think long and hard about how to go about this.
Me: For those who don’t know, Abigail Williams was one of two girls who were about to get the switching of their lives behind the woodshed. They had been caught with Tituba in the middle of the woods, dancing around the fire, chanting and throwing herbs and talismans into the fire. Parlor tricks meant to corrupt the minds of the young children. Instead of accepting their punishment and moving along, as it would’ve been dismissed as childishness, they turned coat on Tituba, and began blaming this on the women of the town. While the Puritans were true visionaries with ideal morals, and a finity for sticking to their religious guns, they lacked some… intelligence. I mean, twelve year old girls sent their town into a tizzy, right? I laugh at the idea of being outsmarted by a child. It really must be terrible being British, what with the IQ deficit and all. A toothy grin is offered, but only for a second.
Me: Your great, great, great granny sure was a headstrong woman, wasn’t she? It’s usually those types that wind up spitting in the face of God and then crying about it when the devil’s flames are burning their flesh off, little bit by little bit, hey Keddy Bear? The angels sing of the cries like that of swine, and the smell of burnt bacon coming from that special little place in hell. You’ll know all too soon about that, unless you decide to toss that foolishness behind you and give this here book a thorough read. I want to move on, but of all of my opponents this week, I feel like this is the one who needs my help the most. I can’t help but coming right back to him.
Me: Kedron, please do yourself a favor and realize that your ancestors were lunatics who took their afflictions out on God, instead of the one who gave it to them to begin with. I mean, who in their right mind would follow after the one that the Almighty God cast from his kingdom, to literally the worst place in existence? Retards? Imbeciles? Idiots? A barmy manky chav slag of a minguh, alright? That one was for granny. Do you really want to follow in those footsteps? Right into the fiery pits of hell? Wait, who am I kidding? Or course you do. Well, hey. While you’re on the path to self destruction, how about you save yourself the trouble of getting stricken down by God’s hand, and just stay out of my way, yeah? If you thought what Ben Jordan did to you was bad… I puff my cheeks out, as if my head is about to explode, and then I mimic the sound. I shake it off quickly before continuing.
Me: Now that I’ve gotten the big one out of the way, the favorite to win this match, let’s go on to the two with the odds over me. Also, the ones that nobody cares to bet on, so I’m still wondering how my numbers are in the negatives. Somebody explain betting to me after this airs, please? Wait, don’t. Donate your money to the church, you abominations! I shout and point at the camera, forgetting what I was doing, until it comes back to me.
Me: Stephen Callaway. Speaking of British trash, no offense. You already have so much going against you that it’s just not fair to hit the low blows. I mean, aside from where you’re from, you’ve got your age. I mean, you’re right there with my father, aren’t you? You’ve been doing this for such a long time, and yet, what do you have to show for it? Hm? I think about it for a minute. I get an idea that I’m about to say out loud, until I realize that was Jack Russow. I snap my fingers, because I’m really trying to make up for that low blow.
Me: You did almost… but not quite… win the belt we’re fighting for on Sunday. But, you just couldn’t get your hands on it. Kind of like O’Malley when Kedron took the belt from him, or when I pinned his unrighteous mass to the ground. So close, and yet so far away. But at least you’ve got your health, right? I mean, aside from the busted knees, the surgeries, the arthritis, the massive head injuries to make you think that you stand a chance in this match. I was going to also offer up your education as something you can be proud of, but… you dropped out of college to wrestle and that makes you a double idiot, because you have no degree, and you have no claim to fame in the business that took everything from you. And some would say that you stand a good chance of winning this match. But do you know who else they said that about recently? Tick tock. Tick tock. I am giving the moron a minute to try to think about it. But I’m getting impatient, so here goes.
Me: O’Malley. The man who deserves to be in this match more than you do. At least he held the title for a minute, even if only for a minute. Even if his reign was cut down short after only being able to score the V over someone like Bill Barnhart. Ohhhh, just you wait, Billy. You’re up next. But for now, I’m giving the spotlight to Stephen, because he’s the one who needs it the most for not having done anything of note in this business according to the dirt sheets. He needs any mention that he can get, because for every second spent talking about him, even by Bill Barnhart himself, Stephen Callaway’s stock rises. And I’m not about to fight losers when I’m trying to build myself up here and spread the message of justice and mercy from God most high. As a matter of fact, I almost want to offer Stephen a chance to have his eternal soul saved. To join the church and to preach His holy word, to make up for all of the mistakes of your past. I’m sure we can look past the retarded version of an Irish accent if the message behind your words is pure. Unlike Kedron and Bill, it’s not too late for you. Even in your advanced age. So prove me wrong that you belong in this match over that gross, hairy Irish ape, O’Malley. Give me the fight of my life, or submit to Him and His Holy Word within the Good Book. I tap the book, because I’ve reached my limit of promotional time for it. Even the cameraman gives me a hint to set the book down. Instead, I clutch it with the implied promise of not talking about it again. But now we’re on to the fun part.
Me: And now for a little fun. And believe it or not, fun does include “Bulldog” Bill Barnhart. I know, I know, but when you have faith, and live in the light, all truly is possible. But, let me be clear that this fun with Bill doesn’t mean Bill is going to have fun. That is one of the few things that is truly impossible. His fun is scoring sheets at baseball games, and documentaries on sloths daily life, and how to ferment cheese in real time. He’s about as exciting as watching grass grow, and not on time elapse, which is even more boring somehow. I mean, this is the type of guy that watches live feeds of elephants sleeping at the zoo. A conversation with this man is far more effective than counting sheep, or melatonin, am I right? You can’t see it, but for the record, the cameraman nods his head. And he does it with such vigor and finesse that you know what I’m saying is true, and not just a sad attempt at “The Roast of Bill Barnhart”. Because, honestly, who would tune in to see that?
Me: And his wrestling isn’t any better. He’s like the poor man’s Mercedes Vargas. Except Mercedes can trash talk you down to feeling two inches tall, and Bill just makes you want to sleep. Hearing his name makes me yawn. So, if that’s what he’s trying to do inside of the ring to win matches, it’s ingenious. But, clearly, it also doesn’t work because his record is… less than desirable. At least while I’ve lost four matches here over a year’s time, he’s lost four in a row, and counting. It’s clear that this Bulldog’s bark is just as soft as his bite. And while he’s just straight up losing, I’m building myself up, racking up some decent wins in SCU. But the scouts just had to have me, because I have appeal. I’ve grown leaps and bounds over the last year, and I owe it all to the Heavenly Father. And yet, Bill, you’re still feeding off of the bottom. I didn’t even have to look at your dirt sheet, because I’ve seen you perform for the last two years, and nothing ever changes. I almost wish that O’Malley would replace you, because as I said about Stephen, I don’t want to beat losers. I want to beat winners. I’ll be more than happy to hear people call me a loser until I can beat the winners, but I refuse to let people call me a winner when I’m stuck with the likes of you. I clench my jaw, because I feel some rather “unholy” words trying to come out of my mouth. I take a deep breath. Exhale. And we’re back.
Me: When I win this Roulette Championship, I will go on to face worthy competitors. I will start to rise up the ranks. I will graduate to the Internet Championship, and maybe one day, the World Heavyweight Championship. I’m going to earn my way there, but it’s inevitable. Written in the stars by our Heavenly Father, it is meant to be. But for now, I’ll go through the Bill Barnharts, the Stephen Callaway’s, the Kedron Williams’, the O’Malley’s, the Caleb Storms’, and so on. And I’ll do it with… well, I can’t say “pride” because I won’t tell a lie as a proper Christian man. Let’s say… dignity. And on Sunday night, I’ll be doing this for my father, so that he might be proud of me for the first time in a while. Buy The Good Book on scwrestling.net! I had to do it one more time, dernit! I hold up the book, and the camera begins to fade faster than I had wanted it to. But really, what else is there to say?
