All I Wanted Was A Way Out
By: Brandon Moore
Writing Prompt: No
Date: 30th Jul 2021
<- I felt peace in being buried alive. Restructuring all my thoughts to make me pissed off at life. THE WEIGHT that our presence bared on me. The bruises on your fists followed me into my dreams.->
WHAT THE FUCK
DO YOU WANT FROM ME!?->
<-From all the things that you said, from the boxes under your bed. Have you tasted your own medicine? Now it’s my fucking turn to watch you fucking burn!->
do this world a fucking service
i’ll keep your body beneath the surface->
<-Convinced we’re doomed to repeat the past when each minute screams louder than the last. Killing time, I heard it through the grapevine. You justify a genocide, it’s fine because it’s never you. Who are you to say where and when that hammer falls?->
<-RING AROUND THE TRAGEDY
don’t you look, don’t you dare speak
no need for a remedy->
A poem for Grammy Clauson
I fell down again.
Too many times has this happened before, and many more shall soon follow. I bury myself over six feet, really laying it in as I pack the crust around my topping. My past plays out before me like a drive in, the loud speaker barking in my ear of past glories, my sorrow and my head full of echoes of dying regret.. Xavier likes to tout that he was the youngest world champion, the greatest rookie. But the silly bastard wasn’t around when the true greatest had first begun. Eighteen years old, raising that NCW gold and placing that company upon my back. And then the jealousy began, men like Stephen Stratford, always trying but always failing to conquer me. This is not an attempt to usher in my superiority complex, this is just merely a man laying out the facts so you can properly follow that. FOLLOW THAT!? HA! AS IF A PATHETIC MORTAL SCUMBAG COULD EVER DO THAT! Bask in this glory, so you may find your peace. Rotted and stitched whichever way a lunatic sees fit. So you can properly digest why all these men are now running scared.
You see, I am a sick and twisted freak who long ago let it all go, and then it came roaring right back. Longing for the shortcut, maybe an early exit so I can get the fuck out of here. Wanna know more? Too fucking bad WHORE! Slowly the ego drips until all that’s left is impressed and a shitty stain on the ever pretty evening dress. Hold up, what did you say? A little louder for the bitches in the back, I’ll rip on through and then annihilate all of you. I AM FUCKING SICK! AHHH! Sick and tired of living in this world of make believe where we are all just dying and begging please. Oh lord won’t you pleeaaseee! Free mee!!!
But then the reality sets in, a ticking clock that beats your head into the glass. Shattered memories and there ain’t never going back. It’s time to face the facts, just let it all go and watch as the story unfolds. Brandon Moore over all of you trolls. This is the truth, and it’s all a fucking lie. The scope is shredded and embedded beneath the layers of flesh we pound ourselves into because we believe we are man and this is what we’re supposed to do. But if you believe that, then lay your head on down here and accept the chrome ball bat making your brains go splat. SCAT! What? Oh, I dunno.. just go kill yourself and then maybe you can come and talk to me.
Death is nothing but a fairy tale. The torment will last a lifetime and I am staring at that. Endlessly. Never ending. It’s a sick and twisted life.
HEY! YOU ALREADY SAID THAT!
SHUT UP CLOWN!
And then slowly I crash back down into a reality bath of pity and doubt, drowning in the fragments of tortured promises. Silent kisses and tryst’s that will leave you up late at night just begging to die. WHY LORD WHY!? You think you tough?
It’s about to get rough.
The world around me slowly cascades back into a surreal framed portrait of the modern family. And there she was, my blonde angel patiently waiting for me just because. Love is a funny and decadent mistress hidden in the shadows just waiting for you to slip and show your belly. With razor sharp precision your heart is wrenched and snapped into two while you’re screaming about what the fuck it is you’re gonna do.
Whatcha gonna do?
Shut up, I am trying to think. My insides now explode all over my kitchen sink. I think I need a shrink. Or maybe another damn bottle to drink. Into the spoon I shall go, and wouldn’t you know it? I have found myself here before. HOW LOW CAN HE GO!? Well we’re about to find out, just wait right there. It’s so fucking polite to stare. And it almost isn’t fair how I can leave you all behind just sitting there. Right the fuck there! In your seat and glued to your feet. Now let Mr. Moore just give you a little more. Dare not let it go to waste, after all..
It’s only a little taste..
And then my hand reaches in through my skull and spills my soul all out on your bedroom floor. You spit and claw in my general direction but after a little inflection you’ll find I am an affliction spreading through your promised land. A cancer that must feed his ego while playing nice with all you pathetic little mice.
HEY THATS NOT NICE!
DON’T MAKE ME SAY IT TWICE!
Thrice? Shoulda taken my advice.
For far too long the sheep have been led astray but then their master finally came home to play. With my hands shoved up their ass and doing their jobs for them, now everybody is singing their praises. Now everybody can see that this isn’t make believe. It wasn’t me! Over there is where you’ll find the culprit but I’ve beaten him black and blue. Hey, what else is a junkie to do? Just be happy it wasn’t you. Until it is and you’re left a disgrace because you let Paul Montuori jack off in your face.
Are you ready for this?
No man or woman escapes the fire. Ignite the funeral pyre and let the flames breathe all night long as you ingest all the smoke of your filthy pubescent life embroiled over into your fragile male libido. Dig your own grave and make sure you can lay in it. For all of eternity it is here that you shall rest. Your ego damned you to nothing but a puddle of mud that we all simply step over. Swirling thoughts all bleed back into the singularity of you and everything your father put me through. Never good enough no matter who lay bloodied at my feet. IT IS A FEAST! And I’ve barely sated my appetite. You’re so fucked and it hasn’t dawned on you yet.
“So I disappeared again, but did you even notice? I didn’t see anybody running to check in on me. Because each and every single last one of you is publicly now my very own worst fucking enemy. Fuck you. I’m talking to you Clawson. Dawson? Nah, it can’t be Dawson. I severed his head to sit atop the center of my mantle and buried the rest with his phoney company just because I didn’t like the way he fucking looked at me. Clauson. YEAH! That’s it, Clauson, or some shit. Fuck you all the same. I don’t think you even know what they have put you up against. Fuck man, I don’t even think I know. But brother, let me tell you. My fucking friend, please let me SHOW YOU the freaking mess, the sticky and shitty situation, they put your lame ass in to. You’re looking at one of the greats. No, no, one of the freaking legends man. No, maybe legend ain’t right either. No, I know. You’re looking at the master of the in ring disaster. I promise you that you haven’t gone down any faster. No.. that’s not it. Damnit Brandon, you’re so fucking stupid. Yeah, sometimes I rhyme. My bad, but it isn’t my fault if you can’t keep up. That’s on you bubba. All. On. You. Cuz, I mean, what in the fuck are you gonna do after I just drown you in the creek and everybody questions how in the hell did you lose to that creep? But have no worry, friend, because it’s revealed I was actually the best of them all in the end. Or the worst. Probably the worst. But THEN if I am the worst, and I bash your head in on them walls or off the posts, what does that make you?”
THAT’S HOW YOU
BECOME A GHOST
oh, that was so ever close. no? not a good one?
“I’m a man who is sinking deep into the ocean because his wife treated him like a dog and sapped all of his emotion. I was set free from my chains and let loose into this grand world of Fight NYC, and I am absolutely thrilled to continue the hunt. To continue the kills and all of my ills. I’m going to hurt you Clownson, I am going to hurt you real bad. Have you questioning your life choices and all that shit. You see, the finer things in life are what give me chills up and down my spine. Ripping off this body part, chewing on that one. Round and round we will fight, like ancient Aztec warriors or Pony Boy and crew against the cake eaters. I’m golden and you’re the shit I have to wipe off from the bottom of my Adidas.”
SPIT IN YOUR FACE
now you’re just a disgrace
“The world hasn’t seen me in a real Fight.. fight quite yet. Blood Money was just a little taste, and I will admit I didn’t fare as well as I should have. It should have been me standing there at the end as the last. It should have been me. But I was robbed, cheated. Or maybe I just failed because I am a Wrecked and Worthless dirtbag. A has been who’s best days are behind him because I peaked as a rookie when I took this circuit by storm. And now all I am doing is simply chasing my past glory while my present slowly crumbles and fades into obscurity. Maybe. I don’t know. But I will be damned if I go out with a mere whimper. No, you see Gram, I’m not going to allow myself to go out like that. My demise is going to be the grandest spectacle this shit profession has ever fuggin seen. My friend, Venom numero tres is my brand new beginning. The start of my revolution, and my odyssey towards a better way of life. For me.. for my wife.. my entire family. I’m giving up on giving up, and can now stand alone atop my two feet. Ten toes tall. I welcome you as my guest in the main event, where you will be treated to a foot smashing through your stupid face. Your back is destined to be cracked like Batman in that one movie, right on over my knee. I’ll spank you from there, and drag your limp dick to every spot. Don’t worry about your lack of skill buddy, I can carry you through a fight like I’ve carried every single partner that I have ever been saddled with.”
damn.. I miss saying that ???? and I know you do too boo
“You see Gram, the reason why I am not standing before you and the world today as the Empire Champion is because I could not see the forest for the trees. My eyes were blinded by my own guilt, and that left me vulnerable and open to have a knife plunged into my back. Or a chair dropped on my face, however that shit happened. But Gram, my guy, friend, whatever, I promise that will never happen again. I’m not just talking about having my face Wrecked by a steel chair in the hands of a Worthless maggot. No, no, no, NO! I am talking about losing. That shit ain’t gonna fly no Moore. I won’t allow myself to be counted among the weak and feeble, or the washed up. Second place, third place, or last. Those are not my destiny. My fate isn’t sealed to being a sidekick or side quest. The end result of my mission is to be the one you all massacre each other in pursuit of a chance, your only fuggin shot, to stand across from my true greatness. You have been given the chance to be the first display of my new reality. You have been blessed by some higher power to be the most sought after relic from the beginning of my reign of supremacy. Truly, you are now but a distant and faded memory as you’ve already been looked past and laid to rest with all of the rest.”
THAT IS WHAT HAPPENS
WHEN YOU FIGHT
“The Everblack already calls for you, and it is time you showed the respect and answered it’s call. Let your neck snap on the canvas beneath our feet and dwell in your defeat. Your bones all crack, the ooze of mineral quenching my unending thirst. Did I already say that I am going to hurt you? It’s nothing personal, that’s just the way it is. So maybe it is personal, because I can just look at ya friend, and tell you in your fucking face that I do not like you. You’re just a waste of space on the roster, the fluff. Filling out the card to help us along to get towards the good stuff. The money matches. You, sadly, or gladly, are not a money match. Just another throw away runt on the forgettable third Venom. Oh, it’s the main event? You think it is the main event.. because.. of.. you? All of the eyes are on me. To see what I will do. Just as they will all flock to watch this to see what I have to say. Because not only does my name carry weight, but my mere presence promises that blood will be shed, and the pathetic fans will have a reason to shake their little fists and go buy my merchandise just to burn it in the parking lot. They will try to get me any way they can, because I really am truly the boogeyman. I am every word, every syllable that I spew. I am not a gimmick, I am flesh and blood. I am the Alpha and the Omega.”
and I am about to fuck you up son
“Because while those fans whom want to ignite me are all men, their women are watching in awe right beside them. They look upon me and they don’t see a man. They don’t see a monster. They see a glorious feast that they all just want to chomp a bite out of. And that is why those punk boys truly despise me. That is why most of you despise me. But I often wonder just how many of you little bitches would actually want to fight me? I already know your response, “Oh fuck!” And oh fuck is correct. Because you are fucked and there are not many more ways that I can spin these words to purvey this to you. So I will just have to fall back on ole reliable and beat it into you until you are left senseless. And just know, deeply, truly and madly, with all of your heart, that I am not concerned with your well being. With your safety. You are not safe brother. Not one fucking bit.”
NOBODY IS SAFE
because there is nobody left
“Fuck Paul Montuori. Cheap shot, two pump Forrest Gump. Dub Dub, Montuori’s fucking each other in the tub. Definitely fuck you though Little Joey. Bitchmade punk.”
“But Brandon..” You sit there and start to mumble beneath your now trembling breath.
“I thought you had my back?” The look on your face so stupid, like anybody would want to lay their sword next to a tricked out mark that’s better served being the dancing monkey hyping up the real mother fuckers taking care of real business inside that there fucking ring. Go play Real World: Full House somewhere else you fucking lame ass 40 year old virgin.
“And we handle real business outside of that ring, corridor, tower, fucking whatever while we’re at it. Yano, instead of reenacting Sex and the City like we’ve never seen something so goddamn fucking shitty. Here’s how your life’s gonna play out brotha. Part One, Grandpa Slaps Little Joey Silly. This makes Little Joey so mad, he goes and tries to beat up Bitch List Dane while attempting to manipulate my poor niece into thinking you’re anything close to being a real man. But, and get this, the next part is an indicator of your true bitch status. PART TWO? OH FUCK! PART TWO, THE BITCH MAKES LITTLE JOEY HIS. Holy shit, no, no, please let me explain. I know they went no contest, but how many people did Little Joey need to beat up the Bitch List Dane? AND END UP IN A DRAW!? Like three thousand other pukes. What in the actual fuck. First you let a cancer milking old guy bash the rest of your brains out, and then you can’t claim victory over a glorified shitty mechanic.. Jesus fucking Christ man.. But have no fear little side kick Montuori brother, open your mouth about me and find out what happens in part three. Oh, and update, you are now also Little Joey Bitch List brotha.”
I didn’t like those guys..
They were bad guys..
I AM THE BAD GUY
“So can you help me doc?” I sat up, a river flowing from my forehead.
“Help you? I don’t even know what’s wrong with you. You just barged on in and came in here, threw yourself face first into the sofa with your ass sticking out the back of your gown, and started cutting a promo on your coworkers..” The ticking clock on the wall slows the world around me. My hands run along the fabric of the leather couch I am sitting on and this thing is uncomfortable. I am uncomfortable. The cold sweats and body aches leave me dangling by a string. Like a puppet to be played with. Like a clown to be laughed at. I look across from me at the woman in glasses sitting in a chair, notepad in one hand, a pen in another.
“I am so happy you finally agreed to sit down with me Brandon. Can I call you Brandon?” Wait.. did I imagine that first part? Was it real? I look at the doc deep and long in her wintergreen like eyes. Her voice is delicate, sweet, and entirely sincere. This bitch actually looked like she gave a shit. Wayment. Nobody gives a shit about me. About Brandon Moore. And I have had alls I can stand and I can’t stands no more.
“Who the fuck sent you doc?” That damn clock catches my eye again, my head turning cocked like with it. Ahh you slick sumbitch. I know you’re in there. Watching me.
“Everybody is watching me.” Did I just say that outloud? Was I even allowed? Wait.. wait.. is this the “right style” I keep hearing about?
“Can you help me Doc?” She is writing into her notes. Her look changes to something like awe, wonderment? Nah, this bitch was now concerned.
“How about we FoCuS for a minute, and you let me ask you questions that I want you to answer honestly.” She says, the concern on her face growing. “Do you often have these paranoid delusions and rants?”
“No, no, no..” I mutter. “Look doc, I know I need help, alright? Problem is, I don’t know what the fuck I need help with.”
“Well Brandon, you were brought into the hospital three days ago of an apparent fentanyl overdose. And quite frankly, should be dead. In fact, you did die. Twice. How does that make you feel?” She asks.
“I..” Well, fuck.. how do I answer this? I ponder for a moment and survey my surroundings.
“It is alright.” She pauses while writing something down. “You can consider this a ‘safe space’ where no judgment is to be had.”
“LIKE I GIVE A FUCK ABOUT YOUR JUDGEMENT!” I freaking explode man. What nerve and gall this bitch had. Wait. No, I think she was just asking a question. Or giving me a statement. Fuck man. I need some heroin, Stat. I’m losing it.
“I’m sick doc. I need more smack and I need it right the fuck..” And then I go over the side of the couch and vomit every single last bit of innard I had in me. Look at the chunks of intestine and all the stomach acid. Shit was all yellow n shit.
She reached over to a drawer on her table, opened it, and proceeded to pull out and slap down a couple little bubble packs of 2mg Ativan on the table in front of me. I wipe off my mouth and pick up the two pills in my hand. And I am fucking offended.
“What the fuck is this? TWO PILLS? THEY AIN’T EVEN OXY BITCH!” And I fling them sailing across at her.
“YOU KNOW!” Her voice raises from her decency into joining me in the filth. “IF YOU CAN’T BE NICE THEN YOU CAN JUST GO BACK TO A NUT ROOM AND PISS AND SHIT YOURSELF!”
I gasped as I was taken aback. Alright, alright.
“Alright.” Maybe the doc was serious. Let’s get serious with the doc. “Can I have those back doc?”
She tosses the pills back at me and I make quick work getting them open and into my mouth, chewing them. “So.. what’s up doc?”
She sighs. “This is going to be a long hour..”
“Now let me pause right here to remind you that I can’t fucking stand you. Yes, you, the bitch reading this, Gram. You are a disgusting maggot that needs to have their bawls chopped off and tossed into the garbage can. You make me absolutely fucking sick to my twizted and knotted stomach. A parasite leeching of the blood and sweat of better men. Better men like me of course, because there aren’t any that are anywhere fucking close to being better than me. I make up half of my life on the fly and the other half just comes and goes like a Goddamn merry go round. All of you maggots have this grand plan, like I am sure that you Gram have a grand plan for our fight. But like this loser, all the rest of you losers need to find your daily dose of reality, which I am happy to slap you in the face with. I should walk around with a mirror so I can look at greatness twenty four seven instead of this vile dichotomy of what the fuck. Seriously. What.. the.. fuck.. is.. all.. of.. this..? Can any of you even answer this question for me? Come on, just give it a little try. No? Then fuck you dweeb. Especially you Gram. Fucking maggot. Just another dime tossed out among the dozen, unable to be distinguished from the trash can I jerk my lonely nut into. I don’t even know you pal, but my little birdies have told me that I wouldn’t fucking like you. Just another high scool Degrassi drama fuck with no substance. You don’t deserve to even stand across from me, let alone anywhere God damn close near me. Your ass don’t belong beneath my weary feet from carrying all the weight, let alone to be within my visible sight. So take your shit, and get the fuck on. The door is over there, don’t let it hit your ass on the way out.”
“Oh, and don’t go away mad..”
“Just go away.”
“BRANDON!” The doc interrupts me. Fucking rude cunt.
“The fuck doc? I was just cutting em all as smooth as my blade through the butter. Let me butter they bread.” …I’m.. I’m sorry, I’ll never say it again.
“Clearly schizophrenic.” She mutters as she writes more in her stupid little book. She’s probably drawing dicks. Or vaginas. But then she’d just be drawing pictures of Dane shoving JMont up his sandy sandwich snatch.
IT TASTE LIKE IT SMELLS
“The slat slayer fuggin returns.” I quip. “Alright doc, I know why I am here. I can’t keep doing all this shit all the time. It is affecting my life. My work. My home. My mind melts into this damn puddle of grief and disbelief. Every thought provoking the next to turn around and rip it in half. I can’t fight this damn monkey on my back, constantly whispering in my ear all that I could ever want to hear. WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO!?”
“Well, what I try to do when talking to addicts is try and snuff out the root cause of their using in the first place. Nine times out of ten, the user is doing so to suppress an emotion, a trauma, any kind of mental or physical anguish. We call it a dual diagnosis, and we have found that by finding that cause we are better able to control the addiction. Along with control medication that is. But we will get to that later. Tell me about home.” Damn, the doc is long winded.
“I don’t have one.. in the spiritual sense. My wife left doc, she just up and left after always saying the term forever and phrases like no matter what. But I’ve been using since long before that. And another thing, now she is freaking pregnant. But doc, she was out wrapping her legs around the town. Doc, what if her little boy isn’t mine!?” The fucking thought never occurred to me. What if that sweet and precious little baby boy wasn’t mine? Oh God.. Oh God.. “DOC! I am having violent thoughts. Images of bitch boys on the end of my knife.”
“Do you have those thoughts often Brandon?” And she’s writing again. Always fucking writing. Now.. I had to lie right? No patient confidentiality for like murder n shit, right? Or do I just say fuck it and unload all of this on her and then kill her too?
“NO!” I shout to the heavens.
“Alright, alright, let’s calm down. No need to raise our voices, it was just a question. Now, do you legitimately think the child isn’t yours, or is there something going off inside of your brain that is telling you this? Like a voice of doubt?” Damn, doc is pretty smart. Alright let’s see where this goes.
“Well..” I pause. “Yeah.. I guess it is the latter.”
“And do you hear this voice or sensation, tingle, whatever it is, about other stuff in your life?” She is staring now, like she’s watching every fuggin slight tick. So I leave her in suspense for a moment as I return my attention to the clock.
“I don’t know doc.. You see.. I’m Russian, importantly. Like, I can’t explain how important I am in my country. But my Uncle Vladdy Putin himself..” I trail off.
“Wait.. You’re telling me that YOU are Vladimir Putin’s nephew?” She immediately writes some more.
“He gets a bad rap, don’t believe that noise you hear. Russia is a lot like here, Uncle Vlad is just another political puppet with a corporation’s hand up his ass. But still, he has made me a big deal over there. I haven’t even stepped foot on that God forsaken sheet of ice since I was a child.” I pause to give it a dramatic effect. “But like.. what if the only thing I am good at is all this bullshit t1hat I shouldn’t be good at? I won’t go into detail but, I’m in a bad way doc.”
“Do you mean you aren’t any good at being a professional wrestler?” There it is. The question. For the longest time I was just a mere cosplayer doing the garbage shit. It’s been twelve years since I was legitimate. Could I still go? Will I still be able to go? Fair question..
“Honestly.. I don’t know anymore. I did death matches for so long, all my regular matches were against the job people. So, in a way, this is my first none death match in..” Counts fingers and holds up 4. “Three years. Wait, why the fuck am I even taking to you about this.”
“Because Brandon, have you never thought that maybe your doubt is.. your biggest flaw?..” THERE! LOOK! SHE JUST SAID THE WRITING PROMPT! “Let me explain. See, sometimes when we fill ourselves with doubt, it causes us to run away from the issue the doubt is even prevalent with. Have you been running away Brandon?”
“Holy shit..” I guess I had run away. From my friend. From my love. But why? What was I afraid up? What could I possibly doubt?
“Well you see, I doubt myself. Could I ever even be good enough for that friend? FYI, sorry about earlier Paulie. But fuck your brother. Anyway, could I even be the man that Michelle really truly needs? And especially now, carrying a child. Then I guess importantly in relevance to my upcoming match, can I be good enough to once again put the weight of the world on top of my back and carry us all forward? Fuck Gram, what am I gonna do buddy? I already ran you down about how I’m better than you and now I’m all over here questioning it all n shit. God damn man, this just might be your lucky day and you get to go over on me. Holy shit Gram, you might actually win this thing. And that would mean that I am the loser. I could have possibly been the loser the entire time. But yano what? Maybe the doc is right. This doubt? It is clouding my vision, poisoning my heart, and destroying my life. Well you know what I say?”
I’M FUCKING DONE
WITH THAT SHIT
“Maybe this ain’t even going to be a wrestling match. This is Fight NYC after all.. So maybe this shit will be right up my ally.. Either way Gram, you should be worried. Because I am gonna hurt you bubba, and I promise that I am going to hurt you real bad. Real fucking bad. The baddest you ever did done been hurt, boy. Fuck. I already said that. Still better than bullshit you may say. Now that I think about it, I may just rip your damn head off and use it as a candy dish. Flesh and all. I am the incarnate of your worst fucking nightmare, and that ain’t a shtick. That is true to life shit. I’m as real as they come, and you are going to be force fed that shit by my hand from my own hairy ass. You see, this match IS important to me. Starting now. I have to beat you. I have to fucking destroy you. It just has to be. And I know that in your heart, you know deep down in it that once this is all over you will have your neck demolished on the mat, floor, whatever the fuck, and the Everblack will consume you as it has consumed so many before you, and undoubtedly will after you. But don’t you worry frie..”
“BRANDON!” The doc interrupts me yet again.
“God damnit bitch, I was on a roll. Cutting me down at the knees here.” OOooOo I wanna gut this bitch. Bad Brandon. We can’t do that anymore. We gotta appeal to the mainstream so they will even consider us for that top spot. Down boy. Here’s a cookie brat.
“Have you thought about facing these problems head on, and maybe talking to the people you have allowed your self conscious doubt to tear you away from?” She puts her hand on her jaw and elbow to the knee as she looks at me.
“You mean like, showing humanity n shit? What the fuck are you saying doc? I gotta go be sawft to fix myself?” The fuck man? Be nice to people? I can’t go from slaughtering you fucks to being your buddy.
“Just to those who were close enough to you to be hurt by you walking away from them.” She responds.
“Michelle, definitely. Paulie? Absolutely not.” Hell.. fucking.. no. He’d never let me hear the end of it. Never. Ever. Forever.
“Well then let’s just FoCuS..” Stop saying that word bitch. FoCuS is fucking dead where it belongs. “..on Michelle.”
“I can do that doc. I can..” And then I once again go over the side of the couch and blast whatever the fuck I got in there like the exorcist. I wipe my mouth. “Fuck doc, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” And I think she actually means it. Shit, I’m not used to someone being kind to me. “Let’s just concentrate on what we can do to maybe repair your relationship with Michelle?”
“I want to doc. I want to real bad. I miss her. The way she would smile at all the dumb irrelevant shit I would say. The way her eyes would light up while I verbally ran some sorry sack of shit wrestler down. Oh and those legs when they would wrap around my head and she’d ride my damn face. God damnit doc, I NEED MY QUEEN BACK!” And that wasn’t a lie. I really do need you back baby. Your king is going to change. Whatever it takes.
“Then perhaps we should talk about what upset her enough to..” And I ignore her, and pull out my cellphone. “Where the hell did that come from?”
“I am an interdimensional psychopathic juggalo from the year 2357 ma’am, don’t question it, just go with it. Damn.” And my fingers begin to text my love. Maybe I would invite her to dinner at the Island? Momma was there after all, and she would really love to see Michelle.
I would really love to see Michelle. “Thanks doc.” And I stood up while still texting.
“Sit back down Brandon, I still have you for twenty minutes.” Sigh. I ain’t got twenty minutes doc. You’re really busting my bawls here. But I comply and sit back down. For Michelle. Remember baby girl.. whatever it takes.
“Alright Doc, what inherent flaw do you want to discover now?” Total sarcasm. But she didn’t take it that way.
“I think that due to your apparent psychophrenia, and that’s just my initial diagnosis, you have a split personality. Where one half of you is full of doubt, and the other is a narcissist.” Pen to the notepad, no doubt drawing Little Joey now using Dane to douche his greasy Italian vagina.
“What does this mean doc? Am I fucked up? An obvious question with an obvious answer. “Can you help me doc?”
And then my phone rang. IT WAS MICHELLE! I answered that with the quickness.
“Hey baby!” Said with such glee.
“Hey baby? How fucked up are you Brandon?” She was already annoyed, I already blew it. Sigh.
“Sorry honey.. I was just.. kind’ve excited you replied to my tweet and then called me. I’m uh..” I pause, insecure of my current surroundings. “Talking to my new psychiatrist right now..”
“Are you being honest with me right now Brandon?” She asks, the tone of her voice changing to a kinder, and softer one.
“Hold on.” I turn on the video chat that Michelle quickly accepts and turn the camera to the doc. “Doc, this is Michelle. Michelle, this is the doc.”
The doc gives a slight nod, writing more on her notepad while I turn the phone back to me. “So are you really coming tonight?”
“Yes I am, and I swear to God Brandon.. If this is some bullshit trick, I am completely done with your ass.” And she hung up.
“Yo, I gotta go doc. Tonight must be perfect. Can we cut this short?” I ask while standing up. I was leaving no matter what.
“Only if you agree to meet with me next week.” She stands up along with me, and hands me a prescription. “I gave you a couple. We can go over the effects and such next week. And take a look at the last one.”
And she gave me twelve 5mg Vicodin.