The owner of New Line Wrestling was great at being two things: being a booker and being cheap. To Binx, however, it has crossed the line as he opened the door to a storage cell. To save money, Jim E. James rented a few storage cells for interviews and rants for the taped weekly show, Adrenaline. Now, Binx entered the cell that was transformed into a colorful array of circus objects: The wallpaper was covered with barbershop pole stripes; the chair wasn’t one of those ‘hand’ chairs, but all fingers were sawed off, save the middle finger; a television monitor was behind the camera man, for Binx to see how he looks while talking. The TV monitor was covered in fur! The floor was hard with no carpet and a purple curtain hung on the cement wall with no other company. As Binx would have guessed the NLW logo was hung over the small desk, as if any other company would hire a sexist clown.
He huffed at the camera man, “This is where my segments are being taped?”
The camera man simply nodded and went back to the camera.
The clown’s eyes flared up, “I swear I’m going to drop so much OxyContin in that bastard’s whiskey…”
“Almost ready Mr. Binx?”
Binx shrugged, “Sure, why the hell not.”
Binx managed to squeeze behind the desk, which added more fuel to his fire towards Jim. Binx has been conscious about his weight lately and now Jim went and gave him a small place to do his segments! He sat down on the wobbly finger chair. The camera man made a motion and Binx saw the TV monitor with fur light up. Before he could speak he heard music. His own theme song? It better not be, as he made out the chorus of the Weather Girls’ “It’s Raining Men”. The clown shot up, furious.
“That drunk seriously fucking with me?”
The camera man pulled a card out of his breast pocket and slid it on the desk. Binx raised an eyebrow and slowly picked up the card. After a few seconds he let out a laugh and turned the card to the camera: a Joker card.
The camera man simply nodded.
“Now all I have to do is prank Eddie back.”
“Good luck with that,” the camera man laughed.
The lights began to flicker and a soft humming became audible. Binx looked up, his jaw slightly dropped as the humming became higher in pitch. The lights went from flickering to sporadic, causing Binx to twirl, unstable. The door to the storage cell slammed shut, the only noise that overrode the buzzing. Binx fell to his knees, his eyes shut, yet his mind kept racing. He wasn’t on anything; it couldn’t be a bad trip. He mentally went over his last drug usage: a shot of cocaine two days ago; half a Prozac three days ago; snorted a single Xanax pill last week. He hasn’t anything that causes hallucinations in over a month.
The buzzing and humming went away, though it echoed in his head. The only other sound was the clown’s screaming. Binx was curled up against his knees, like the tornado drills in his school days. Fear has gripped him as sweat ran down his make-up, smudging it into undefined colors. A soft light illuminated the room. Binx looked up slowly and a grinning skull was on the TV monitor. Green text glowed under the hanging skull that simply read Wanna play a game?
This caused Binx leap back, slamming into the small, yet hard desk. His eyes were wide, adrenaline pumping, yet he couldn’t scream anymore. He found his voice after a few seconds, but he adopted a more squeaking, scared voice.
“I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die. I never even seen the Saw movies!”
Cackling could be heard on the TV monitor as the skull danced. The text began to move in a circle, slowly at first, then in a fast spin. Finally the skull vanished and heavy breathing was left being heard. It was Binx; he was slipping into a panic attack.
The lights came back on, which hurt Binx’ eyes. His eyes slowly focused and could see the figure of the camera man… but it was different. The man no longer had a beard.
“Want to play a game?”
Binx finally focused in and his fear was replaced with equal anger, “Eddie you asshole!”
Eddie Stiles bent forward laughing. The prankster raised his arms in a sly gesture, “How about a board game? You do owe me for breaking my DSi!”
The driveway formed a U and was made of cobblestone, and gave Jason a small bounce as he crept. Jason gasped as he lightly pressed the brake of his truck in front of the small manor, coming to a stop. He turned the ignition off, killing his engine. His jaw dropped as he climbed out, hanging over the roof of his truck to view the manor more. The sun was hung low, casting a giant shadow of the light yellow manor. It stood two stories high and quite wide with the two car garage free standing beside it. The Florida palm trees stuck out on either side, almost encasing the home. Jason gave a grin and shook his head. He dropped from the truck onto the cobblestone, nearly knocking him off balance. He shook his ankles and closed his door and the smell of the fresh grass filled his nostrils.
Jason walked up to the bright red doors and cocked his head to the side. To him the colors crashed rather grossly. He shrugged it and turned his head seeing other automobiles parked in disarray. A party? Jason hoped he wasn’t crashing anything formal. Then again how formal can wrestlers be? He rapped at the door, and within moments a beauty of a vixen answered the door. High cheek bones, full lips and fuller breasts, bleached blond hair and a slender frame in a silk evening gown. Jason blinked and shook his head, he knew better than stare at Trisha Sullivan.
Her sweet Southern accent greeted him, “Mr. Turtle! What a lovely surprise.”
He gave a soft smile, “Hello Mrs. Sullivan. Is Greg here?”
She took a step back, “Yes, come on in. Nick, Ian and David are already inside.”
Jason walked in and gave a chuckle, “Sounds like a VNB ambush.”
The white, plush carpet submitted to Jason as he walked in, the walls lined with beautiful art work and family portraits. A sweet fragrance Jason never smelt before filled the air. He nodded as he looked around, drinking in the view. Being a champion pays off, it seemed. Trisha led Jason deep into the house, and some noise could be heard. Cheers, jeers and general sounds of a boys club grew louder as Trisha stopped at a closed door. The door had a bumper stick, slapped sideways; Jason titled his head to read it. It showed a tea bag on one side and a pitcher of Kool-Aid on the other and the text said Drink the Tea, not the Kool-Aid in 2012. He gave a small chuckle, realizing it’s a political joke. Jason never was interested in any form of politics, not even the many that swarmed in the backstage of any given wrestling show.
Trisha opened the door and the laughter carried out as she gracefully walked into what would be described as a man cave. Violent New Breed merchandise and replica belts of past championships (some NLW, others different promotions) lined the walls and shelves.
A few other sports were mixed in. The wall was a light green, but the carpet was still white, but more walked on and not so plush. Trisha sat on the arm rest of a wide, beige colored rocking chair which sat the big man on campus himself, Greg. He had on a t-shirt and sweat pants and no face paint. He looked youthful, save for the scars on his forehead. Nick was seated on a recliner; with a smirk he gave a wave to Jason with the hand with a hole. Then, on the pea soup green loveseat, playing the latest Madden NFL on the Xbox 360 were Ian and David.
They were unaware of the new entrants as they played the last quarter. Ian was the larger one, but not by much. He had silky black hair that shined in the light and had more muscle tone. To the NLW fans he was the disbarred lawyer Judge Timothy Mental, or simply Judge Mental. To his left was David, a bald man with a goatee, and very talkative. Right now he was talking mega trash, saying the Browns will finally beat the Steelers with the next play was playing. On camera he was the agile silent type named The Silencer. Jason nodded to himself, thinking that the entire Violent New Breed was hanging out together like they would on the show. With a few exceptions of course.
“Jason!” cheered Greg, “Good to see you. What do I owe the pleasure?”
“Hello Greg. I didn’t know you were having a party.”
Greg waved him down, “No, it’s alright. Just hanging out with a few co-workers. Have a beer.”
Jason walked more into the room, “Thank you.”
The game paused and David looked back, “Hey, it’s the rookie.”
Ian turned, “Oh cool, hey dude.”
Nick remained silent but his hand with a hole was still up.
“I’m glad you’re here. We were actually running down some good spots for the next show. Of course I won’t be there, so it can really put you over by attacking David or Ian. Do what the Spooks couldn’t do.”
Ian rolled his eyes, “Billy is a great wrestler but he has no creative ideas.”
“What you expect, he’s English. They frown on that or something,” David chimed in.
Jason cleared his throat, “You hear about Louie Heart? He seems really depressed.”
Trisha glared, “That douchebag. You know what he did to our carpet!?”
“I think Eddie told me. But I sort of had to rescue him from a bar.”
“Let me guess, Eddie cornered you and gave you a guilt trip until you took him?” Greg asked.
“And when he got there he just stole drinks while Louie made a ruckus? Mhm, sounds like the Douchebags.”
“Eddie didn’t give me a guilt trip. Just bombardment me with information I didn’t care. Like Curt Evans and Rachel back together.”
Trisha fell off the arm rest as Greg shot up, “They what!”
An uneasy tension filled the room as the group stared at Jason. His mentor’s eyes were cold on him, like he botched the spot of the year.
“No Shannon. I think it’s best if I stay home and be mom for a while,” huffed Emily to her cousin. “The match at the pay per view was designed for me to take time off so I can spend time with Sasha.”
Emily Evans, or Emily Shooter to the NLW fans, was on her cordless house phone talking to her cousin, Shannon Shooter. The strawberry blond “Cold Heart Bitch” was still in her pajama bottoms and a light top, with no makeup on. Emily paced the cool tile floor of her kitchen, half listening to Shannon and half looking out to the backyard. In the backyard a firm bodied gentleman with spiked, bleach blond hair was playing with a cute little girl with blond curls and a pink dress. Emily watched her husband, Curt and their three year old daughter Sasha. She smiled as Sasha rode her little tricycle around with Curt chasing her, laughing. Emily stretched, raising her arm above her head, causing her small pink top to rise.
“I’m just saying the fans ate our match up at the pay per view,” retorted Shannon’s voice. “The online marks are begging for a second match. Besides you know what you were getting into when you married Curt.”
Emily paused, “And what does that supposed to mean, Shannon?”
“Curt is a wrestler, a damn fine one at that. You knew one of you would change and you were never prone to being ladylike.”
“Bitch I am ladylike!”
“Emily, calm down.”
“No, Shannon. Sasha needs her mother and father. Curt is about to leave NLW and Jim never has anything for me. He’s always trying to get into your pants.”
“Whoa, where is this coming from?”
Emily sniffed, holding back some tears. “I’m sorry Shannon. It’s just…”
“It’s just what? Emily what’s going on? Did Curt hit you again?”
“No, no. It’s not that.”
Shannon sounded concern, “What’s wrong?”
A tear dropped down her cheek, “Curt is cheating on me again.”
A gasp from the phone, “Are you sure?”
“Yes I’m sure. Rachel sent some… pictures when Curt was doing his bike run with Sasha the other day.”
“That bitch,” Shannon breathed. “I always knew she was a ring rat.”
Emily wasn’t paying attention. She was looking out of the window in the backyard. Curt was playing chicken with a laughing Sasha. Both her eyes welled up with tears, begging to run down her soft cheeks. A few moments passed when she heard Shannon scream her full name.
“EMILY CAMIEL ANDERSON-EVANS!”
Emily blinked, “Oh… yeah?”
“I thought I lost you.”
“No, I’m still here…”
The tears silently fell as she kept a fake smile when Curt looked her way. He waved and turned just in time to collide with a speeding toddler. They both fell to the grass, Sasha erupting with giggles.