What The Fuck’s The Point?
By: Paul Montuori
Writing Prompt: No
Date: 31st Oct 2021
My parents are alive..
I fucking lost..
They lied about being dead..
That fucker Dickie beat me..
After all this time..
After all the shit talking..
What the fuck?
I awake to a pounding on the door. I look around to see my apartment in FIGHT! Tower completely trashed. Tables turned, pictures ripped off the walls, vase smashed through the TV on the wall. I’m sitting on the floor among debris and broken glass, still in my ring gear, shirtless. Sweat from the battle with Dickie from the night before has now become a second film of skin on my beautiful body. I’m salty as fuck. Both literally and figuratively. I ignore the pounding on the door in the hopes that they’ll go away. Forever. I just want to be left alone. Left to sulk in the despair of what my life has become. After one night. After one fucking match. My life’s over..
“P., open up,” I hear Michelle say through the door. I can tell by the sound in her voice that she’s worried. She shouldn’t be. I ain’t no bitch. I..
“What?” I finally say to break the awkward silence.
“Open up. It’s almost time. You gotta get ready. We need you,” she says, almost pleading. Need me for what? .. Wait, is she talking about Night fucking Two? Really? After my performance against Dickie. After I fucking blew it. She still wants me in the match? I’m fucking worthless. A nobody. All fucking talk. Wrestling’s version of a carpetbagger.
“Bruh..” I somehow muster the give a fuck to say.
“P., please.. For me,” Michelle says. Sound in her voice means the games are over. She means business. I pick myself up and walk over to the door, feeling glass crunch under my boots. I take a deep breath, preparing myself for the look of disappointment on Michelle’s face. Might as well get this over with. The faster I can blow her off the faster I can go back to replaying the worst week of my life in my head. I somehow gain enough courage to unbolt the door as it swings open. Instead of a look of embarrassment and shame on Michelle’s face, she instead wears a look of relief. It quickly turns to utter disgust. “You really haven’t showered since last night?
“Uh..” The fuck did she expect? I blew the biggest match of my career, a match most expected me to win. Fuck I expected to win. Not even expected, I knew I was going to win. I had my celebration all planned out. Elephants and camels rented, extras who were going to carry me to the ring. Deposits all fucking lost.. Before I can say anything I found myself in the shower, like full blown water all over me. Michelle just pushed me in, didn’t even bother to let me get undressed. Like I’m sitting on the floor of the shower still in my ring gear. Like boots and all. And damn, Michelle’s right. Like the Fountain of Youth I somehow snapped out of the funk I’ve found myself in for almost 24 hours. Since losing.. “Night Two huh?”
“Damn right!” She says as I step out of the shower, sopping wet. She pulls back and slaps the shit out of me, my head almost coming loose from my neck, water from my hair going everywhere. “Those fucks think you’re soft P. Nah, let’s show these bitches you ain’t soft!”
Bruh, like on gawd, and I ain’t even religious, but she got me. Like sucked me into that rah rah shit. Like I went into Night Two of Ascension like Ajax and shit. Ready to fuck some shit up. Ready to fuck up Status Heauxs. All of them. Dickie, Warstein, the hot chick with the purple hair. For other reasons.. She’s with them right? Even after I saw Joe for the first time I was still gunho, all rah rah go team go. Even after the fucking deceit from him, my fucking parents.. This fucker knew the entire time. I tried. Lawd knows I tried to move past it. Even for one night..
But eventually it became too much for me. Just the sight of him. Skin started to crawl, blood started to fucking boil. And I’m supposed to be focused on Gang Gang. Focus on making sure Dynasty wins. Dynasty? Really? Pft, the fuck is Dynasty at this point? Creation of a fucking loser. A fucking loser who’s parents faked their death. Lied to one of their kids for over two decades. My entire life, a fucking lie. Fucking farce. Who the fuck fakes their death? It doesn’t make any fucking sense. And I gotta hear all this shit second hand. Not from my own fucking brother. My own fucking blood who knew the entire time and didn’t say a fucking thing.. That mother..
Even after he dragged me into his fucking typhoon of a life. First FOCUS in OPW, then Allie. Dane. Riggs. What the fuck am I doing? Following some dood, why? Because he’s my brother? Guy that went along with this batshit crazy lie that our parents were dead. Over some Donnie Brasco shit? What kind of parents lie to their kid and pretend to be dead? Have you not seen the shit show that I call my life? Duh, red fucking flags. And this entire time that I was acting out over the death of my parents, of my mother.. They’re alive? Hiding out in some Goombah town in Italy. Probably sipping wine and fucking every night while cousin Guilllermo looks on. Katie’s got some nice ass tittys..
He’s to blame for my loss. How the fuck was I expected to go into the biggest night of my career, biggest night of my life, knowing the two people who I thought would always have my back faked their death.. I’m fucking done. And I was done. Fed the fuck up. I pulled that key out my boot and said fuck all this bullshit. I’m over it. I’m over trying to be the nice guy. I’m over trying to be the cheerleader, the team leader. Trying to be someone I’m not. I gave up the porn. I gave up the creep status. I stopped trying to holler at bitches on Twitter. Shit with Alexis.. Sex is bomb. But.. She can do better. Let’s be honest. I’m the last person who should be seen as anything close to being a stable partner..
Just like that. Tossed the fucking key, turned around and walked straight out that bitch. I knew Michelle was going to be furious with me, but she’d understand. She’s pulled tons of selfish acts over the years.. I tossed that key and just dipped. Right past all the crew, jaws fucking dropped. So close to winning, but who gives a fuck? Who cares about seeing a group led by some fucking loser win Ascension? Group that includes that asshole Joe, that lying prick. I don’t give a fuck. About any of it. I’m done. Brev, I’m fucking done..
I made my way through FIGHT! Tower, creating chaos for production. A camera man tried to follow me but was met with my wrath. I’m sure I’ll be paying for that camera I destroyed. I find myself on ground level and push my way out of the glass doors to the streets. A frenzy occurs around me as fans flock to me, trying their best to get a selfie with FIGHT!’s biggest fucking loser. I push my way through onto the street, almost falling over the hood of a dope ass pear colored Cadillac Coupe Deville parked on the street. Sure it’s some fucking douchebag’s car, a big Dickie Watson fan, probably has a Status Heauxs bumper sticker. I wish I would’ve rolled over the hood and dented the shit out of it. With fans clamoring after me I take off in a full sprint down the street..
I’m watching the sun peer up through the windows of some dank ass dive bar I found close to FIGHT! Tower. No fucking clue on how I got here. I have a drink in my hand, I’m shirtless, still in my ring gear from my match with Dickie on Night One, same gear from Night Two. I should be exhausted, should be sleeping next to the Empire Championship. Instead I’ve been drinking alone for hours in the corner of some shitty bar, the type where the soles of my boots stick to the ground. I shrug and down the rest of the drink in my hand. I could be in worse places..
I start to feel that feeling again. Creeping up on me. That feeling of.. Utter fear. Back to back fucking losses. Everything I’ve been building towards. Everything I’ve been trying to be. Trying to prove. That I was the the fucking man. THEE fucking man. And I blew it. Twice. Dub Dub. On the biggest stage of my career. I blew it. Twice. Now what? I spouted greatness for so long. Claimed I was Gawd’s Gift to Wrestling. The Second Coming. Pft, Second Coming of Mediocrity. Second Coming of Being Fucking Trash.. The first chance of really proving that I was a Wrestling GOAT and what did I do? What becomes of me now. What becomes of Paul Montuori? How can I show my face again? Why should I show my face again? I should just fly back to the Hills of Hollywood and lock myself up in my fucking palace. Left alone Howard Hughes style..
Because of that fear. That fear of.. Abandonment I felt when my parents died. Or I thought my parents died. Fuck.. So I craved that attention. The attention I got from pro wrestling. The attention that made me feel wanted again. It didn’t matter if they booed me or cheered me, all that mattered was there was a reaction. Any reaction. Any reaction was better than nothing. Any reaction was better than being alone. At least in the ring I was able to hide among the attention. Never having to fully face myself. Never fully having to come to terms with the death of my parents. Never fully accepting the reality of their demise. I always thought they were alive somewhere. Ha, and waddya know?
I felt that fear again when I was canceled. A decade outside of the spotlight. A decade without that attention. A decade abandoned. I had to fuck on film in a lucha mask in a pathetic attempt to garner that attention again. Fraction of the attention I once had, that I needed, craved. It was barely enough attention to keep that fear at bay. That fear of no one giving a fuck about me. No one thinking I was special. No one thinking I was worth a fucking thing. With every gross heaux I banged I hoped that fear would somehow be silenced. Mixed with the alcohol and drugs, it worked. For awhile..
Somehow my prayers were answered and I was welcomed back into professional wrestling. Johnny Stylez, of all people, brought me back to the business. Brought me back to life. I was able to slowly get that attention I needed. The more attention I began to receive, the less that sinking feeling of fear sat in the pit of my stomach. As if the attention somehow diminished my fear of abandonment. My fear of mediocrity. So attention I sought. In FIGHT!, since the first Blood Money, loudly exclaiming that Dickie Watson’s days as Empire Champion were numbered. That he was a fluke, right place at the right time. But now after the first night of Ascension, the fuck.. Kid beat me. No excuses. Regardless of what was going on in my personal life, in my professional life. I should’ve been able to block out the distractions. I didn’t. He took advantage. I would’ve done the same fucking thing if I was in his baby size 8 boots. Hat’s off to the kid..
Then there’s the issue with my entire existence, my entire motivation for everything I did. Everything I’ve accomplished. Or at least tried to accomplish. Fuck.. All was based around the death of my parents. Around the utter heartbreak of losing them at a young age. And just like that, poof, they’re back. And not without a TikTok worthy video of us reuniting after them being found on some fucking island as they crashed and burned years ago. Nah, I had to find out through Dane Preston. On fucking TV. By text. After all this fucking time, they’re alive. And Joe knew the entire time. And kept it from me. They all kept it from me. Why? Who would do that to a kid?
That’s when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror across the bar. Fucking loser. After all that shit you talked. Couldn’t get it done. Per fucking usual. All talk. Always all talk. World just saw you’re all talk. Credibility is shit. Might as well drop to the Queens Division. It’s why your parents faked their death. They never loved you, it was obvious. You just created some fantasy world in your head, pretended you were a happy family. A loved kid. You were never loved. Not by your parents. Not by your brother. No one. No one’s ever loved you. That fear you feel, trying to convince yourself it isn’t real. It’s real. Those feelings you keep trying to push down with some fake ego, they’re real. You’ll die one day, unloved, alone. To be forever forgotten..
“Hey, what the fuck?!” I look over to see the bartender yelling at me. The fuck I do to him? He starts cursing me out and points to the mirror. That’s when I noticed it’s shattered. And the drink in my hand is no longer there. “I let you in here, in your fucking state, because I know who you are. And I know you’re good for it. But this shit, this shit doesn’t fly. Time to settle up and get he fuck out.”
Time to settle? Dick. All pushy and shit. I know when I’m not wanted. I’ve always known when I wasn’t wanted. Always unwanted. Unloved. Hated? Nah, not even hated cause no one gave a fuck about me to even show my any type of emotion.. I just tried to trick myself sometimes. First time I’ve ever admitted that.. This motherfucker doesn’t want me here. He slaps a bill in front of me. I try to look, the numbers melting into each other. Figure a few hundos. Benjos? Ben Frankies?! Benjamies! It’s all about the benjamins!
“Uh..” I say as I reach into my pockets. Except I don’t have pockets. Realizing that in my sudden haste, I forgot my wallet back at FIGHT! Tower. Forgot a shirt. Forgot my phone. “I don’t have any money on me. I’m good for it though, remember?
“Good for it after you threw your drink and broke the mirror. Sherwin, get this guy!” The bartender screams to the bouncer. I turn to see a mammoth of man coming at me. I stand up on wobbly, drunk and tired legs. Two battles in two nights, plus the alcohol.
“Hey P., I’m a big fan man. Let’s just do this the easy way,” the huge bouncer says. Pft, big fan? Yeah right. This guy’s fucking lying to me. Trying to trick me. I’m not dumb. He’s not gonna fool me. I let Joe fool me for too long. I let my parents fool. I let everyone fool. Not anymore. I charge at him. Well, in my mind I think I charge at him. I really just take a few staggering steps forward, falling onto the ground. “Come on man, help me out here.”
“Fuck you!” I say, slurring like the drunken idiot I am. Fucking clown. Drunken, drug addicted clown. That’s who I really am. After all this time in FIGHT! getting sober, well soberish. I know who the fuck I really am. Fucking clown. Here for everyone to laugh at. ‘There he is, Paul Montuori. The fucking clown that can’t get it done!’ I feel the bouncer bend over and try to help me up. I slap his hand away, grabbing the bar and pulling myself up.
“We don’t have to do this,” the bouncer says.
“Don’t have to do this? Scared little bitch, huh?” Before realizing what I’m doing, I grab a stool and toss it over the bar, crashing into all the bottles. Liquor and glass flying everyone. I turn to the bouncer and pull back to hit him with all my might. Must of been a drunken pathetic attempt, because I literally catches my hand with one of his mitts of a hand. He picks me up by the neck with one hand and bops me over the head. Everything goes dark..
“Montuori, it’s your lucky day” I hear, opening my eyes. Ugh, my fucking head. I slowly sit up, finding myself sitting in a jail cell among the dirtbags of NYC. The smell of filth and grime fill my nose, dirty fucks. Wait, I think that’s me.. I shiver, noticing I’m still shirtless. “Move it!”
I look up to see a cop staring at me with the cell door open. I slowly stand up, my body aching from two nights of battles with almost no real sleep. I stagger over to the cell door and follow the cop as the door slams behind me. He leads me through another door and has me sign some papers.
I pushed my way through the glass doors of the precinct and step outside. The sun blinds me as I struggle to adjust to the sudden brightness. Walking down the steps to the sidewalk, I see him for the first time. Xavier Wolf, looking sharp as fuck, leaning against a car that probably costs more than my house in the Hills of Hollywood. I pretend not to see him and walk past him
“So you’re just going to pretend you don’t see me?” I hear him say. Fuck he’s good, like he can read my mind. I stop in my tracks, slowly turning around.
“So you’re the one that bailed me out?”
“I did,” he replies.
“Why?” I know what. I’m under contract with him. With FIGHT!. He has to protect his investment.
“I’m worried about you,” he says, completely throwing me for a loop.
“What? Worried about me?”
“Yeah, last time I saw you like this.. You disappeared. For a decade.”
“So I think you have some unfinished business.”
“Pft, spoken like a true car salesman.”
“I’m serious, Smokey. Loss to Dickie Watson doesn’t change anything. You’re still Paul Montuori,” he says. I wave him off and start to walk away. “You and Aiden Reynolds. November 1st.”
“You’re not done. You’re going to want this guy in the ring,” he says. Aiden Reynolds? I don’t know the guy. I stop and turn around.
“I don’t know a fucking Aiden.”
“He’s Dickie’s tag team partner,” he says, with a smirk on his face. Fucker, he got me. He always know exactly what to say. Knows how to get me riled up, get me motivated. Even for one match. And why wouldn’t he know? I’ve known him and his family just as long as I’ve been in this business. Kal’s a huge dick, but X and Vin were always cool to me. Dare I even say we were all friends. I shouldn’t though, kayfabe.
“November 1st,” he says, walking around the car and opening the driver door. “See you there.”
“We’ll see. Don’t expect a wrestling clinic..” I say as I turn to leave. If I’m going to get back in that ring, back in front of everyone that watched me embarrass me. Watched me lose to Dickie after all the shit talking.. Dickie’s boy is going to be in for some hurt. Fuck winning, this won’t be about winning. This won’t be about wrestling. This is going to be about me taking out every ounce of anger, every ounce of frustration in me, out on Dickie’s little tag team partner. Win or loss, that fuck is going to regret knowing Dickie. I’m not being embarrassed again, I’m gouging out fucking eyeballs before I’m embarrassed again..
“Oh Smokey,” I turn just as a t-shirt hits me in the face.
“Thanks,” I say as he nods and gets in his car and pulls away. I pull the shirt on and start to walk, no clue where I’m going. I can’t go back home. I can’t go face Madison, not after this weekend. I can’t face Alexis. No way she’s staying with a loser like me. I just walk, amongst the whispers of passerbyers who seem to recognize me. They must be laughing under their breath at what a loser I am. They’re right.
That’s when I catch a glimpse of myself in a storefront window, catch a glimpse of the t-shirt X threw me. Asshole gave me a Dickie Watson t-shirt. I can’t help but laugh.