The door squeaked open as the colorful face of Binx the Clown poked in. Jim E. James already filled his shot glass with bourbon, as the air was thick with its scent. The clown could only see the reflecting light of Jim’s bald head when he walked into the small office, taking a seat. It never ended, the pattern of liquor and tears after every show. Jim looked up from the desk, his eyes red from the tears.
“It’s been ten years, Binx.”
Here we go again, Binx thought to himself.
“She left me ten years to the day. Took the kids, the house, even my name. I’m not even interested in how she got my name I just want to know why?”
“What is your real name anyways?”
A blank stare washed over Jim’s face. Suddenly the tears came flooding back, “That bitch stole my name and now I can’t even remember my real name!”
“Fuck that is rough. You look like a Phil. Think your name was Phil?”
Jim’s face went red from anger as he lunged forth, grabbing the clown by his shirt collar. Paper scattered as liquor poured from the toppled bottle. Binx could smell it on his breath, “Don’t patronize me, clown.”
“Easy, Jim. You’re the head of a major wrestling company, not the president of a record company.”
Jim let him go and sat back down. He rubbed his head, not looking up. “What do you want, Binx?”
“I don’t want to be the color commentator anymore.”
Jim’s head snapped up, like a prairie dog sensing danger, “You what?”
“I think Tim is a great commentator but I don’t think a clown commentator is going over well. I’m more of a sideshow.”
“I have been getting complaints from women’s rights groups about your rhetoric.”
“I think if I do a weekly video blog on the website it could be smoother. I do reviews, false predictions and even conduct interviews.”
Jim nodded, “That could work. We will call it Circus Binximus.”
Binx just blinked, “No, no we won’t.”
Jason left the building, as the last die-hard fans remained. Within seconds he was swarmed by the younger members of the crowd, primarily teenagers. He laughed with them, took pictures and signed autographs.
“Do you really have a pet snapping turtle?”
“Are you part turtle?”
“Is Fade missing a finger?”
“Where are your turtles now?”
He loved the questions the young audience and tried to answer them as fast as they shouted.
“Yes, I have two.”
“If by finger you mean brain, then yes.”
“In a pond.”
As the crowd dispersed, Jason quickly left to the parking lot. He smiled to himself as he neared his prized black Ford F-250. Growing up on a farm will teach you to appreciate big trucks and even as he lived in the city the love never died. However, his smile vanished as he found his black truck, and an unexpected visitor.
Dressed in tie-die pants and a black leather jacket was Eddie Stiles. Eddie had a reputation of being a prankster so Jason ventured with great care. Eddie jumped off the hood.
“Jay-Jay! You busy?”
“Um,” he was taken aback. This was the first time he was actually talking to Eddie since he arrived in NLW. “I was just heading—“
“Please tell me a bar. Specifically a bar named the Round-Up.”
“You’re a country fan, Eddie?”
“Me? Hell no. But it’s Lou.”
“Oh the other Douchebag,” Jason laughed. Louie Heart was a legit drunk. Eddie Stiles seemed to be the other partner whom Louie didn’t injure in a match.
“Yes. Well the douchebag left before the show ended. I just got a call from the bartender and said that well…” he cleared his voice to mock a country accent, “Tha big ol’ boy is hasslin’ my customers. Get him outta here befo’ I call the boys in blue. Now I’m not an expert but I’m familiar with Johnny Law.”
“Why am I surprised?”
“Well… you see, I sort of, maybe have a suspended lisence so I need a ride to pick his ass up. And you have this big and beautiful truck. I mean look at it, you can fuck like two fat women in this thing! You like fat chicks, Jay-Jay? I’m sure they’re stalking the Round Up.”
Jason is just dumbfounded, “You’re actually serious?”
“Uh, yeah. I’d ask the clown but I can’t find him. Greg won’t do it because his wife said something about Lou taking a shit on the carpet or something. I think she just has a bladder control problem and can’t come to terms with it,” Eddie was actually rambling on to Jason, “The black English people don’t know how to drive in America! Curt Evans is fucking Rachel again, but you didn’t hear that from me. Oh and your turtle might have turned Nick into a one handed drug fiend. Which reminds me, you seen Cobain?”
Jason could only just blinked. He realized that he never met any of these people, with the exception of Greg, Nick and the English folks.
“Don’t worry about it, he’ll show up. Let’s go Jay-Jay! We’ll get you a fat chick.”
Billy wiped away the makeup, as Chantelle struggled to get out of her corset. His back ached as he hunched over to the mirror. He winched and shook his head, “That match took too much out of me. I might have to take some time off.”
“Now’s a good time,” huffed Chantelle as she hopped, trying to squeeze out of her outfit. “You know Jim ain’t got a fucking storyline for us. Greg kicked your ass and now we’re old news.”
“That’s not true, Chantelle.”
“It fucking is!”
Billy almost collapsed at the name. He spun to look at his friend with a face of shock. “Mr. Ewing? As in Vincent Ewing?”
She raised an eyebrow, “Yeah. Why?”
Billy took a seat by the mirror. “Chantelle, Mr. Ewing is a shrew. He is the booker of a large wrestling company and is not responsible for the finances so he gets to throw money at everything. All style no substance.”
She growled. “Unlike here it’s just substance and no style.”
“No there is style. Just look at Greg’s back.”
“How the hell did he live? You two fucking fell off the balcony all wrong.”
Billy chuckled to himself, “I’d like to see the correct way then.”
“All that blood, mate,” Chantelle shook her head, “I thought the paramedics would give you tampons to soak up the blood.”
Billy scoffed, “Don’t be so crude. You’re an English woman, act like it.”
“Fuck off, I am. Not everyone attended fucking Oxford.”
Billy glared at her, “It was Cambridge you twit.”