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Onward I travel, towards my destination. Only a temporary one. My final destination is a long time away. A lot to do between now and then. I’m a busy man. A sign flies by in a flash. It reads: Welcome to Oklahoma. First of all… get the hell to Missouri. I don’t know what they have in store for me there, but that’s why we can’t see the future. Always a surprise. Always. Did I mention that I HATE surprises? Johnson taught me one thing… never go into a situation without the proper research and reconnaissance. Okay, so I didn’t always follow his directions… But this time, yeah, no problem J-man. Did my research, looked into everything. But then we have to add people into the situations. No matter what you know about them, know about their past, know what they do in certain situations… They still manage to surprise the hell out of you, nine times outta ten. So yeah, I know about Mr. Payne, I know where he’s been, what he’s done… but no human being can predict what he’ll do next. But I can sure as hell try. I don’t do people. Never was a people person, ever in my life. Most of my relationships? Built on convenience, of two people working together to gain one common goal. But Tiffany… whole different story. She knew what she was getting into though, it was impossible that she couldn’t have. She knew I’d be gone one night, missing, gone without notice. Yet she still… argh... Women are so damn unpredictable… their worse than men. The sun rises in front of the black cowl. The blood red, orange and amber hues creep over the land, breathing life into the deadness of the receding night. Ah, sunrise… only got three more days til I have to be in Kansas City… no problem, as long as no Smokey’s paint me on the way. Hell, I should get there a good day early, take in the sights… What sites? It’s Kansas City for fuck’s sake… there’s nothing important there. No cultural significance. Just a bunch of yahoos wanting to see grown men beat the living shit out of each other. But it pays. I guess so… I can think of better professions to get into, though. Eh, if this doesn’t work out, I’m sure Walker could use some more bodies for his merc units down in Ghana or whatever African nation is paying them enough by now. But at least wrestling doesn’t get you killed, mangled or paralyzed. Well, yeah, there are exceptions. Johnson, Oklahoma, exit, 1 mile. Always has to come back around to that prick, doesn’t it? Goddamn, some of the stuff he put us through. The car flies by the exit, the driver flipping his middle finger up in a gesture of anger, frustration and pure black hatred.
For all your new-found pain
My life becomes such an unmanageable mess
But still I manage to drive
Everyone who loves me
Insane
I AM MONSTER
Yeah, I drive people insane… but many of them were not quite sane to begin with… what is sanity, anyways? A wise man once asked if, in an insane world, a man is considered insane, does that not then make him sane? I guess that makes me one of the sanest persons on this planet. Sanity is relative
You said to look inside
But all I found there
Was the fetus of my inner child
Everything beautiful about me never lived
Before it died
I AM MONSTER
Beautiful? Now there’s a word that has never been associated with me. Never had anything beautiful about me… And if I ever had, Johnson sure as hell killed it off. Sadistic motherfucker…
Just like the other me
But somehow almost
Has become my middle name
I am now everything I promised you
I’d never be
I AM MONSTER
That word again… almost. It teases me, it antagonizes me. What could have been, what ALMOST was. A lot of things almost were. Rob almost was a great wrestler… I fucked that up for him pretty well. That’s about the only thing that still nags on my conscience. He could have been a champion. He could have been better than anyone in the business today. Better than Levine. Better than Rocco. Better than any of these horses asses in the GWA. Sucked to be him. Always had to make it look good, to show off for the fans that truly don’t give a fuck how good you wrestle. They just want you to spout popular catchphrases, to raise an eyebrow or a middle finger, to give pops to the crowd. They don’t know if the match is good or bad, only which wrestler is more popular. Two nobodies can put on great matches. And they won’t get noticed, except among other wrestlers. Look at some of the greats. People like Dean Malenko. Are they popular? No. But I never saw him have a bad match. Doesn’t matter to the masses of people though. They want him to have a snazzy shirt, a catchphrase that will sell millions of pieces of merchandise. Some of the best matches I’ve seen were in the small town promotions, the independents, the benefits. Those guys had talent. The ones on TV today? Yeah, they can talk. But they can pull off three or four moves well. The matches are crap, but the fans love it. The driver yanks out a soft pack of Winston and dumps out one last bent cigarette. He crumples the empty pack and tosses it out the window with his left hand, searching for his lighter with the right, steering the car with his knees. Smoking kills? Nah, trying to light up a smoke while driving with your knees, now, that kills. Stupidity kills… it’s a wonder that most of the GWA’ers aren’t dead yet. The cigarette catches from the lighter, and the driver takes a long deep drag. Damn it. Out of smokes. I’m going to have to stop at some bumblefuck truck stop soon. Food and smokes. Yeah, that’s what I need. But I really don’t need to deal with the bullshit that comes with most of these places, not in my position. Some greasy-haired inbred hog farmer, thinks he’s tough, wants to defend his home territory, show me he’s the big man in town. I don’t need that bullshit. A small truck-stop appears above the horizon. The driver looks down at the gas gauge, looks at the cigarette burning down to the filter in his hands, then back up to the horizon Oh well. Looks like I’m gonna have to stop here. The truck-stop on the road of life. Heh. Sounds like fun. Copyright 2001, J.G. Productions
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