To it concerns,

The drugs fill my veins and the ghosts fill my head. They torment me and make me their unwilling servant. I am beyond mortal help. Kurt’s ghost tells me it won’t hurt, and I believe him. Daddy Jim, I love you. You are a saint among the sinners. Louie you are a friend worth your weight in gold. And Binx, fuck you.


 Christopher finished the last note he’ll ever write. Tears splashed down onto the paper as he rose from his seat. He could feel the warmth of the drugs swim in his cold veins. Voices he can’t see or entirely hear whisper in his head. With a blank face he caught his reflection in the mirror. But he wasn’t alone in the mirror. A blonde man with a shaggy heard and flannel. The ghost of Kurt Cobain, or maybe the guise of some poltergeist, nodded to Christopher.
  The troubled man closed his eyes. With all his might he tried to fight the drugs that ran through his body, he tried to remember the times before the drugs. He couldn’t. Tears ran down his cheeks as he mentally called out to Jim, his adoptive father figure, but he couldn’t bring himself to call out or even remember his face. He opened his eyes at the mirror that hung in front of him. He didn’t recognize his surroundings, he didn’t know if he was in his bedroom or in some run down motel on the side of a freeway. It didn’t matter to him, he was lost. He kept his eyes on the mirror, as the other man in the reflection kept nodding. Christopher’s eyes lowered to the drawer. A handgun. With all his willpower and inner strength he shook his head at the mirror. Fire burned in his eyes as tears washed down his face and he could only grunt his frustration. How much drugs were in his body? He slowly felt like he was paralyzed.
 “Do it,” the voices repeated. But this time the voice became clear and distinct.
 Christopher’s eyes widen and his jaw dropped. The blonde hair and beard started to vanish. In his face was a painted face. He wanted to scream out his name, but the drugs wouldn’t let him articulate. This wasn’t the normal effects of his drug of choice.
 Christopher tried to mouth the name of the man in the mirror. A click was heard. The clown cocked his handgun, placed a small pillow at the side of his head and shot it. Christopher fell, dead before he even hit the ground.

 “Binx!” Christopher bellowed as he shot up, sweat eclipsing his entire body. He was in his bedroom; the alarm clock read 3:28 AM. Christopher scanned the room and felt his head. With heavy breathes, his heart raced quicker than ever before. “Just a dream?”


 “Come to me, Greg,” her sultry and seductive voice ran through the phone. “Curt can’t do what the Devil always did.”

 Greg clinched his fist and jaw. Rachel just called him for the first time in months. He knew what she wanted and he swore he’d never give in. But unlike his wrestling moniker, he is just a man.

 “Greg, please?”

 “No… Rachel.”

 “Come on baby. Don’t you remember that night in New Orleans? It was hotter than Cajun spices. Wasn’t it?”

 “You mean when I caught you in bed with my father?” he snapped.

 “Baby, it was the start of our Ménage à trois. I’ll let Trisha join in.”

 “Leave my wife out of this,” Greg quickly hung up his cell phone.

 Greg was in his kitchen. Well, not his original kitchen. Trisha recently upgraded the entire room. She felt if she was married to the world champion, she might as well live like one. After searching the different cabinets he found his shot glasses. Then came the adventure of looking for his liquor cabinet.

 “Where the hell she put it?”

 “What you looking for?” his wife’s sweet accent carried. He looked up and saw her busty frame squeezed into a red nightie.

 Greg licked his lips and his eyes were glued to her thick and firm body. “Um… Uh…”

 “Your precious ‘lover liquor’? Very bottom, next to the fridge,” she pointed.

 He grins at her and found a bottle of Kentucky Gentleman. Greg nodded and poured himself a shot. This time for a more good reason, his wife’s eagerness to please.

 Suddenly the house phone rang. Trisha picked up the receiver at the wall. Her beautiful face darkened. “Rachel? What the fuck do you want?”

 A crash. Greg dropped his shot glass, spilling splintered glass and fine whiskey all over the white tile.


 The door to Jim E. James’ office was kicked open. The owner of NLW looked up half interested. Once when he looked up, before he even saw who it was, he downed a shot of vodka. Then he recognized the face and body of Louie Heart.

 “Fuck you’re already drunk,” Louie growled.


 “I want to talk business.”

 “What’s stopping you? You’re in my office of business.”

 “I want to break up the Douchebags.”

 Jim shook his head and put the bottle of vodka off his desk. “Okay I must be drunk. I thought I just heard you say—“

 “I don’t want to team with Eddie Stiles anymore. I’m sick of being “The Heart of The Party”. Damnit Jim I want to fucking wrestle! No more dumpster matches, no more period jokes, no more Eddie.”

 “What’s wrong with Eddie?”

 “I am not in the mood for jokes, Jim. I want to be a serious wrestler.”

 “No pun intended but what’s with the change of heart?”

 “I talked with my mentor Sinn Bodhi and he agrees that Eddie Stiles is just weighing me down. Now either let me be a wrestler or I quit.”

 Jim just blinked. “Sinn Who?”

 “Sinn Bodhi? The Warlord of Weird? My mentor?” Louie sighed, “He married Stacey Carter some months ago.”

 “Oh! You mean Nick? I remember him. He was a human dartboard for his freak show.”

 “I don’t care! I want to end the Douchebags.”

 “And why’s that?” asked a new voice.

 Jim and Louie looked at the entrance and see the new man is none other than Eddie Stiles. The residential prankster walked up to Louie started pushing him. “You got a problem with me, asshole?”

 Louie shoved him back, “There isn’t any cameras, Eddie. Stop acting like a prick.”

 Eddie shoved his hand into Louie’s face. “Got something to say?”

 “This isn’t going to end well,” Jim thought out loud.

 Eddie just shoved Louie as hard as he could. Louie fell past the desk and into the filing cabinet. The sound of glass broke as the smell of booze filled the air.

 “Fuck, there goes my drinks!”

 “I’ll buy you more,” said another new voice. This time it was Binx.

 “What’s the clown doing here with the assclown?” Louie barked when he rose up.

 “Told you Louie’s been talking shit,” whispered Binx.

 “Oh great, I got a clown who conspires,” Jim rolled his eyes. “Take it outside.”

 Louie launched himself but Eddie, always the quicker, ducked. Louie landed a powerful Superman punch on the jaw of Binx. The clown fell to the ground knocked out. Eddie took a shard of broken bottle and went to stab Louie, but only sliced his arm.

Jim jumped up and tackled the pissed off prankster. Louie then ran his arm bleeding. Eddie bellowed threats down the hall.