Post by Curtis Slamm on Aug 4, 2007 15:35:56 GMT -5
“Uh, hummm.”
Slamm clears his throat and leans forward.
”The greatest thing about being me is...you don’t ever have to worry about someone asking you for ID but if they must, I still don’t worry because I have the VISA Photo ID Credit Card. The first card of it’s kind. So for you losers who dream of being me. You’ll just have to keep on dreaming. VISA, it’s the logo.”
”Who writes this shit? Are you kidding me?”
”Curtis do you need a break?”
”No I don’t need a break. I need someone who has some inkling of an idea of how to speak like a human being.”
”Look I got enough here to piece to together a half way decent spot and we can always come back and get the rest later.”
Her soft buttermilk hands, decorated with the perfect manicure, and a diamond ring the size of a clenched fist whisk at Slamm’s shoulders.
”Baby maybe Stanley’s right? You need a break. Let’s go take a drive.”
”Yeah, yeah, you guys go for a drive and when you come back we'll finish up.”
Suddenly a whole room of editors, sound engineers, and corporate watchdogs shift their seats. A collective flabbergasting hums in the room. The assistant editor, seeing no one else jumping up, hurries up next to Stanley. He flips the mic switch to off and for good measure even covers the microphone with his hand.
”Um, Stan I don’t think leaving the studio is a good idea.”
Stan looks around at al the worried faces and isn’t sure he gets it. The assistant gestures with his head in a direction beyond the glass.
Tori St. James or at least what is left of her, a pale, almost brittle and sickly skinny shadow of the most athletic woman in the history of professional wrestling, jumps into the lap of her man. Her face heavily powered and masked in make-up but the white sundress she has on, looks more like a curtain hanging off of her.
Slamm is less discrete in a “LWA” T-shirt and jeans that have little smudges of dirt on them as to suggest he has been in them longer than one morning. The area under and around his nose is fire engine red. His eyes bloodshot and the space underneath them looks like a crater on the moon.
Yet the two are oblivious to everyone watching and as jovial as two kids in a playground. Slamm whispers into his love’s ear while tickling her softly with his fingertips. Tori is all giggles while keeping her hands occupied by fidgeting with the car keys.
THAT WAS THE START OF THE WORST DAY OF HIS LIFE...
Curtis Slamm now some 8 years later sits on the embankment of a grassy knoll. A large sycamore tree breathes beside him. The wind blowing it’s branches about casting shadows upon Slamm's face.
Slamm sits, one hand digs at the ground, tossing aside blades of grass. His gaze is off in a distance as the sun descends.
He shakes loose from his trance, shifts his body, and digs down into his pants pocket producing his cell phone.
They are calling him again. Everyone wanting to know where he stands. Some he hasn’t heard from in a very long time, some he wants to ignore. He looks down at the caller ID and shoves the phone back into his pocket.
Tremere, Homburg, Brandon, PDP, and even Ash have all flashed in Caller ID but before he talks to any of them he is still waiting for that one call.
The one true wrestling friend he thinks he has.
The only one to come and see him at his lowest point. This man having been there before and imparting wisdom that was much more profound than don’t drop the soap.
He said Tori will forgive.
Wrestling will always be there and welcome him back.
But it was in that time, the time he was given, that the man Curtis Slamm was, Charles was, needed to be found. He was given a second chance and there would be no third.
Slamm sat in his wife’s favorite spot contemplating what winning one more time before his Extinction would mean. Closing his eyes and feeling this tugging around his body, knowing that Tori had to be looking down on him giving him that strength to believe in the man he found in the time he was given.
Then Slamm remembered the fist bump into 3 inch thick plexi-glass between two men who had been through all the wars, all the wear and tear of the road, and the business had chosen.
The “bad news” was the man was no where to be found. He hasn’t been for some time.
Still as Slamm watched the final minutes of the sun in the air with a smile as wide as the sky, he knew he will wait for the call and that...
...WILL BE THE START OF THE BEST DAY OF HIS LIFE.
Slamm clears his throat and leans forward.
”The greatest thing about being me is...you don’t ever have to worry about someone asking you for ID but if they must, I still don’t worry because I have the VISA Photo ID Credit Card. The first card of it’s kind. So for you losers who dream of being me. You’ll just have to keep on dreaming. VISA, it’s the logo.”
”Who writes this shit? Are you kidding me?”
”Curtis do you need a break?”
”No I don’t need a break. I need someone who has some inkling of an idea of how to speak like a human being.”
”Look I got enough here to piece to together a half way decent spot and we can always come back and get the rest later.”
Her soft buttermilk hands, decorated with the perfect manicure, and a diamond ring the size of a clenched fist whisk at Slamm’s shoulders.
”Baby maybe Stanley’s right? You need a break. Let’s go take a drive.”
”Yeah, yeah, you guys go for a drive and when you come back we'll finish up.”
Suddenly a whole room of editors, sound engineers, and corporate watchdogs shift their seats. A collective flabbergasting hums in the room. The assistant editor, seeing no one else jumping up, hurries up next to Stanley. He flips the mic switch to off and for good measure even covers the microphone with his hand.
”Um, Stan I don’t think leaving the studio is a good idea.”
Stan looks around at al the worried faces and isn’t sure he gets it. The assistant gestures with his head in a direction beyond the glass.
Tori St. James or at least what is left of her, a pale, almost brittle and sickly skinny shadow of the most athletic woman in the history of professional wrestling, jumps into the lap of her man. Her face heavily powered and masked in make-up but the white sundress she has on, looks more like a curtain hanging off of her.
Slamm is less discrete in a “LWA” T-shirt and jeans that have little smudges of dirt on them as to suggest he has been in them longer than one morning. The area under and around his nose is fire engine red. His eyes bloodshot and the space underneath them looks like a crater on the moon.
Yet the two are oblivious to everyone watching and as jovial as two kids in a playground. Slamm whispers into his love’s ear while tickling her softly with his fingertips. Tori is all giggles while keeping her hands occupied by fidgeting with the car keys.
THAT WAS THE START OF THE WORST DAY OF HIS LIFE...
Curtis Slamm now some 8 years later sits on the embankment of a grassy knoll. A large sycamore tree breathes beside him. The wind blowing it’s branches about casting shadows upon Slamm's face.
Slamm sits, one hand digs at the ground, tossing aside blades of grass. His gaze is off in a distance as the sun descends.
He shakes loose from his trance, shifts his body, and digs down into his pants pocket producing his cell phone.
They are calling him again. Everyone wanting to know where he stands. Some he hasn’t heard from in a very long time, some he wants to ignore. He looks down at the caller ID and shoves the phone back into his pocket.
Tremere, Homburg, Brandon, PDP, and even Ash have all flashed in Caller ID but before he talks to any of them he is still waiting for that one call.
The one true wrestling friend he thinks he has.
The only one to come and see him at his lowest point. This man having been there before and imparting wisdom that was much more profound than don’t drop the soap.
He said Tori will forgive.
Wrestling will always be there and welcome him back.
But it was in that time, the time he was given, that the man Curtis Slamm was, Charles was, needed to be found. He was given a second chance and there would be no third.
Slamm sat in his wife’s favorite spot contemplating what winning one more time before his Extinction would mean. Closing his eyes and feeling this tugging around his body, knowing that Tori had to be looking down on him giving him that strength to believe in the man he found in the time he was given.
Then Slamm remembered the fist bump into 3 inch thick plexi-glass between two men who had been through all the wars, all the wear and tear of the road, and the business had chosen.
The “bad news” was the man was no where to be found. He hasn’t been for some time.
Still as Slamm watched the final minutes of the sun in the air with a smile as wide as the sky, he knew he will wait for the call and that...
...WILL BE THE START OF THE BEST DAY OF HIS LIFE.