991 Miles N Runnin'

[Macc24]

PART ONE

The desert of Albuquerque, New Mexico had never looked so bare. The Pan American Freeway aka the I-25 appeared to be stranded aside from the odd mack truck that would be passing by at an alarming rate... but that's okay seeing as New Mexico's Police Department are among the dirtiest in civilized America.

Haha, civilized... America... same sentance.

Along the shoulder of the I-25 just south of Santa Fe, NM walked a familiar unfamiliar face. It appeared to be the (barely) living (hardly) breathing (derranged) skeleton of Brock Alyas - who was obviously victim of, either a nearly fatal car accident or a man who'd seen his life flash before his eyes far too many times.

Brock had never looked worse, believe it or not.

Barely recognizable, he stalked the freeway hoping he was headed in the right direction - to civilization. A man who had obviously been on the road far too long he looked like he should have expired months ago. A greasy wife beater lined his malnourished corpse that was at one time skin tight, now looked baggy and rusted... like it could use a swift bleach wash.

Just when a look of desperation spiked with agony crossed his face and all the hope in his eyes looked like it'd been drained... Brock hawked a fresh loogie that contained 90% blood 5% spit and 5% tequila, at the nearest cactus when he looked up and saw what would be the first sign of life he'd seen in miles.

A junk, beat up Ford F150 was parked 500 metres ahead and even Brock could realize that this ride couldn't be out here in the middle of nowhere, unless there was something suspicious going on. Brock decided his appearance would not only terrify the proud, but would also potentially attract some needed attention from a female. Brock has always been a terrific manipulator.

He approached the vehicle, without any idea of who would be behind the wheel. As he inched closer, thoughts of what he would do, how he would approach what would've been the first form of life he'd seen in miles.

Low and behold, rested a trio of junkies who were suffering from argueably equal withdrawl symptoms as our hero - except they weren't seasoned vets in the art of living with just enough opiates / stimulates in your body to keep you alive. There was no hiding that these teens were knee-deep in ****. The dashboard of their F150 dubbed as a weed rolling tray, cocaine buffet bucket and hosted all sorts of heroin paraphenalia... Brock couldn't have hit the jackpot harder.

Brock was now only feet away from the vehicle, realizing in the passenger sat a female... attempting to fight the demons that were a thousand pound gorilla that had her in a full mount. Her boyfriend, the driver of the vehicle was in the fetal position with his front seat reclined back and making it uncomfortable for the half-dead waste of life laying across the back seats.

Making sure the passenger of the vehicle was awake, Brock faked a limp and right when he got to the car, collapsed behind it in hopes that she would notice him.

That she did, as she panicked and wondered not only who in the **** this shady character was but the feminine side in her wondered if he was okay... afterall he did face plant into gravel stone.

She opened the door and rushed out, a burst of life surged threw her as you could tell this girl was well directed simply just in the wrong place at the wrong time, mixed in with the wrong crowd.

"Scott! Wake up! Wake up! This guys going to die!!!"

Brock remained motionless...

The girl went to the driver side window to try and wake up her boyfriend and immediately he noticed her strange sense of urgency, so he tried to shake the demons away and handle the situation. Ever the alpha male, the bonerack slowly got out of the car wondering what it was his girlfriend was screaming about.

She dragged him to move faster but there was a certain pace any junkie could move at after your first month long binge of opiate drug experimentation. Tired and lifeless, he got out of the car and walked over to where his girlfriend was pointing. Just like a scene out of a horror movie... this mystery man had gotten up... and just like in a scene out of a horror movie... the girl shreaked as the boyfriend became annoyed not having seen what she had.

And just as he opened his mouth, Brock came out from hiding on the passenger side of the car and let the kid see his mangled, bloody face before he wrapped his hand around the kids neck, strangling the life out of this girls boyfriend. Brock locked eyes with this girl who gasped for air.

After a solid ten seconds of Brock's constant increase of pressure resulted in the kids pharynx and larynx being crushed and smooshed into eachother... Brock released his grip on the kid who was without a doubt... dead.

His girlfriend was terrified beyond belief, to the point that despite what had just occured... she remained silent throughout the entire process. Brock approached the car, but she was standing in the way and she would quickly retreat out of fear and desperation. Brock's signature stone cold facial expression remained as he approached the car like the Michael Myers-esque stalk he's ever so known for and reached in the back of the car and pulled the lifeless bum out of the back. Half awake and half dead, Brock held the other kid up with his right hand and his left sent a crashing overhand right that probably very well ended his life as well.

By this time, the girl was hysterical and terrified. Brock quickly looked in the car before finding empty syringes... he knew there had to be something left. The girl, who was curled up in a ball using the border of the car as a barracade from Brock was seized by her left wrist as she weeped. Brock pulled his own syringe out of his back pocket and the grip he had on her wrist was enough to make the veins in her forearm poke out.

Brock slowly inserted the needle into the girls arm and he'd have been staring directly into her eyes had she not forced them shut out of fear. Brock injected about a quarter of the china white heroin into the girl and shortly a feeling of euphoria crept over the girl and Brock let her momentum carry her to the ground.

"At least I shared..."

TO BE CONTINUED

 

[Macc24]

PART TWO

The walls were clad in flat grey. There were no windows or any natural sources of light. The door looked like it would be sufficient enough to padlock your average New York bank and there was all sorts of unfamiliar, beeping machines that all looked to be hooked up to run collectively as one. And all connected to the intravenus connected to Brock's right forearm.

Never a stranger of anxiety, Brock knew this was no ordinary fuckin' hospital.

The psychosomatic effects of waking up in an unfamiliar building, hooked up to an intravenus machine pumping you with god knows what and to not be blessed with the general dignity to have a hot young female clinical nursing student to sexually harass began to settle in Brock's head as a violent act of rage fired neurons from all angles throughout Brock's mind.

Brock certainly appeared to be in peak psychical condition - a truly amazing form specifically in comparison to his last sighting. Brock looked as if he hadn't missed a day at top strength and not only was the entire intravenus machine whipped across the room and sent into a million peices, but Brock began to smash everything in sight and attempt to escape this torterous environment.

"LET ME THE **** OUT OF HERE!"

...quiet footsteps.

...more footsteps.

Creaky door open and mechanical alarm to open a spectator's room were heard as Brock waited to see who it would be.

The nearby mirror wall faded into a window and Brock could see a skinny little man, notepad in hand on the other side.

"Who the **** are you?" Brock asked.

The man on the other side of the wall scowled at Brock before looking back down at his paperwork.

"I'm the man who saved your life, Brock."

This wasn't the first time somebody had told him this. However, it never seemed to lose it's affect.

"You see Brock, I am Dr. Hunter Green. I'm a member of the Private Coalition of Psychosomatic Illness Specialists. And the reason you are here is because our union was contacted about your suffering... condition," the doctor explained.

Brock looked confused.

"What condition?"

"I assumed you wouldn't remember anything. Well, just under a month ago you were found in an alley dumpster just outside Albuquerqe, New Mexico...."

FLASHBACK to Brock getting a gun shoved in his face while filling up the stolen F150 with gas.

"You were brutally attacked and nearly murdered. It's amazing you made it to us in time to save your life...."

Brock looked unconvinced for a split second, until he lifted his t-shirt up to see nearly ten brutal wounds in places you'd aim for if you were trying to kill somebody quick and painfully. A gulp of shock, adrenaline and any other secretion your body produces to tell you - okay mother fucker, it's time to take in what just happened.

"... and what we did was to preserve your body's stablization, we injected a substantial dosage of our most recent gamma ray development - A1N8G5 into your blood stream and it stablized your body enough to deal with the post-traumatic stress of your injury as well as to get the ball rolling in terms of feeling healthy again,"

Brock looked at himself and certainly came to the conclusion that he hadn't looked this good in five years. No longer was he overweight and husky, he was now rather defined and cut out.

"What do I weigh right now?" Brock asked.

"There's a scale right over there, you can find out for yourself,"

Brock walked over to the scale. The digital scale read 225. He couldn't believe it, he hadn't been down below 240 since he was 17. Reality was starting to play tricks in the back of his mind on him, and he felt this burning shock running through his brain the more he tried to think about what was happening.

"So why here? Why aren't I in a regular hospital,"

The doctor chuckled.

"The serum we injected in your blood stream is not only among the most illegal narcotics known and produced to MAN - but it's also decades ahead of being not only tested upon but even considered in the medical scientific world. This situation, it was either life or death. Inject some formerly semi-successful, waste of life part-time scumbag part-time professional wrestler who'd allready done his body years and years of damage with steroids, or let him die. A man who had proven again and again he could handle the stress and tension of using chemicals to reconstruct himself when he was broke down and weak. We made a contious decision as a team of argueably the smartest men on planet earth to test this and if the results came back negative... well you wouldn't really be any far behind where you were a month ago, would you?"

Brock sat back down to take this all in.

"So how much longer will I need to be here. How long will it take me to recover?" Brock asked.

The doctor chuckled at Brock's ignorance again.

"Recover? The minute the serum hit your bloodstream not only were you recovered, but in fact restored to a physical state no man could ever have accomplished without the help of a substantial dose of A1N8G5. You were going to be free to go the minute you woke up,"

"And I won't need anymore of this. I won't have to come back here because my body will go through withdrawl symptoms, will I?"

The doctor continued laughing.

"Withdrawl? Who said anything about your body no longer being able to produce it. The ammount we gave you, you'll have one of the world's most illegal and banned substances the rest of your life. There is no 'getting rid of it',"

Brock's face turned pale white. He didn't understand what in his body was telling him this couldn't be real or this was terribly, terribly wrong and he didn't like it, at all.

There was something about the words illegal, banned, substance and life that rubbed in a very, very... wrong way.

 

[Macc24]

PART THREE

Brock was preparing for his daily routine at the gym. He was looking like the Brock of old past - just as he did when he first came into the NFW, juiced up and thick... except he looked a bit bigger than he did even at the beginning of his NFW career. Brock also had all sorts of trackmarks all over his arms from god knows what he was using syringes to inject into himself.

He must have used about an entire roll of white tape to cover each wrist, because the circumference of his forearm and wrist were so wide. He seemed to have the determined look in his eye, the veins pulsating out of his head and his demeanor seemed to be exactly the type that NFW was trying to avoid with the new federation policy.

You'd think he was either ignoring it entirely, cheating the system or had had his fill with wrestling. Except, the NFW muscle shirt he had on was misleading.

The Pastor Troy - Attitude Adjuster album playing in his wireless headphones, Brock had three 45 .lbs plates on either side of the bench bar.

Brock sat at the helm of the bench press and exhaled preparing his mind and body for one of his favourite routines.

Just as he laid back and lifted the bar from off of the stand, he was lifting the entire 315 pounds like the average male could lift the bar alone.

"Fifteeen... sixteen... seventeen," you could just barely make out that he was counting his last few repetitions through all the grunting and copious ammounts of spit flying.

Brock placed the bar back on the bench press when he got to twenty. This must've been his very last set because he looked winded and rightfully so. Brock stood up and walked back into the locker room where he found his locker, unlocked it and pulled out his gym bag.

Quickly glancing around to make sure the wrong person wasn't around, Brock removed a package of pills as the camera closes in on the label of the bottle - 50mg Winstrol Depot Stanozolol. A substance CERTAINLY banned from the NFW.

Without thinking Brock removed two from their packaging, and engulfed them with the help of his protein shake probably laced with another chemical to increase physical condition or stamina. He threw the pills back and grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, threw on his shades and made his way out of the facility.

Brock acknowledged the employee working the front desk who looked to be in good shape, but was obviously terrified of Brock.

Without any further adieu, the minute Brock stepped outside, he removed a half-joint from his cigarette pack and used his Bic to spark it up.

Camera fades in in the ammount of smoke exhaled from that first toke.

 

[Macc24]

PART FOUR

The barely legal blonde at the stove whippin the yams like a champ wore a extra small size skirt, so you could see her pockets. She was cooking up close to a quarter ki of dope - no big deal. Some random Aphiliates beat playing low in the background in another room. Brock was dressed like the high profile street pharmacist he is. Blood red I AM ICONIC Sean John t-shirt, baggy jean shorts, Jordan 9s black on white.

Counting money leaned up on the kitchen, Brock was obviously either uninterested or unfamiliar with what the Wellness Policy in NFW is all about. When he removed his Glock 45 from the belt line of the back of his shorts - he was officially breaking three of his league's new restrictions, and counting... when you looked into the ash tray filled with generous sized blunt roaches.

Brock banded up the stack and threw it in the duffelbag filled with plenty more. He removed the fattest of the bunch from the ashtray and proceeded to toke away as his girl whipped the work.

 

[Macc24]

PART FIVE
That sudden, jolt of momentum, wake up call out of a deep comatose was starting to double as Brock's alarm clock. The holy shit what fuckin' truck hit me last night horrid hangover feeling was obvious and written all over his face. The please just give me half a portion of whatever I had to keep me going last night irratic rationalization was masked poorly over Brock's withered, deathly soul..
　
He looked like a string bean compared to his typical self and he didn't need to look up and remember the only place he'd be ever caught dead, wearing these scrubs.
　
The long, winded deep exhale of reality checking when you remember the feeling of the white wristband name tag they give you on the way in dangling uncomfortably on your wrist.
　
This was a place Brock had been plenty of times, each time continuing to spiral deeper and deeper out of control. Everything he thinks he can remember about what's happened the past few months is just a dream... a false scene of events that chemicals glorified and vividly portrayed really didn't happen. They weren't there.
　
He was a patient at The Cedars Drug Rehabilitation Clinic.
　
Brock was never able to accept or cope with the fact that he was willing to get help for his addictions. So instead of the normal process of the rehabilitation of ones life - he would spend the majority of his time and in his head would be out still partying, waking up in crazy fuckin places, selling drugs...flashes of manic depression sort of have a power of healing when Brock turned himself in.
　
Right before he went on his last big binge, he remembers being sober enough and reading a letter sent from head office in NFW notifying Brock that he's been booked for a match in Albecurque against Triple X Sean Stevens for his PURE World Heavyweight Championship... he distinctly remembers wondering what could possibly make him want anything to do with being PURE.
　
The part of the mail he purposely avoided was the clearly labeled NFW WELLNESS POLICY. He remembers reading just enough about it to know that he would have to make a contious decision, to either become and act like the professional it is... or continue to be the waste of life addict raiding the streets for any perscription connection he could find and any given day could have a gun put to his head from somebody who actually will pull the trigger.
　
While Brock was always an addict, he could at least accept what he did. But he always knew what he would need to do and continue to do whatever it took to rebuild himself.
　
He looked around at the pale green painted walls and forest green letters and accenting. Everyone wore ugly green scrubs, Brock always wore the biggest size they had to attempt to make them look baggier. The smell of the terrible tasting scrambled eggs every morning and the sad excuse for an exercise facility Brock would constantly complain about the lack there of, simply just to pass time... The Cedars was where the serious addicts of the addicts went.
　
If you were taking a bed there, other addicts would be insulted if you weren't addicted to something they've never heard before. Addicts always insisted they'd been through it before and that ain't shit and they need this much more than you do.
　
" I BEEN SMOKIN HOT CAKES FOR YEARS YOU IN HERE FOR A COUPLE MONTHS OF SNIFFIN SOME SCAAATTTYY!? HUGGGNNHHH!? "

Brock often took advantage of the prototype weak-willed patient at The Cedars, putting on a fake impression that he was court ordered to come here instead of by free will, so forwhatever reason it made him cooler than all the rest and gave him a status he needed to be comfortable in that environment. Wheelchair basketball is a guilty pleasure he often enjoyed and more often than not would be ejected and dissallowed the privlidge of.
　
FLASHBACK of scenes where Brock is bullying those in complete need of a wheelchair to move, throwing the ball after losing, whining, hitting a three pointer and getting up out of the wheelchair to celebrate and river dance in his opponents face, etc.
　
It was the last straw and Brock looked at his bedside for the inevitable document he received when Eddie Mayfield undoubtedly found out he was here. The new rulebook of the new, purified New Frontier of Wrestling. He knew he wouldn't like what he read but he also knew he'd probably wind up dead if he stayed out on the streets... he'd probably worked up quite the tab with a few street pharmacists that want their money.
　
RULE 1. Under no circumstances are any employees of the New Frontier of Wrestling allowed to use non-perscription drugs.
- Random monthly urine samples will be required.
　
RULE 2. The New Frontier is undergoing an employee health and wellness blitz and the use of steroids or anabolics are banned and punishable by law.
- Any use of illegal narcotics, the NFW are held accountable and will sanction punishment and/or rehabilitation at the employee's expense.
　
RULE 3. The New Frontier will be direct contact and connection with local legal authorities to ensure former con's respect and oblidge to the new system of rules.
- The NFW will support any stipulations from former criminal offences and will take liberty of ensuring the actions of those individuals meet the guidelines and requirements of their court ordered stipulation agreement.
　
The crushing blow of reality that your place of work that formerly doubled as a crack house went soft kicked Brock square in the pants.
　
The mygraine of accepting he would need to straighten his life out and get back to work.
　
The sad realization he knew it was early June 2010 and the flashback of having to take on the great XXX Sean Stevens, in this condition.
　
It was all some tough love Brock didn't let himself off easy on. And this was enough for Brock to know he needed to take his life seriously again.

THE END.