Can miles truly separate you from friends...If you want to be with someone you love, aren't you already there?

-Richard Bach

 

 

It's been a hell of a night. A few hours ago, I made my return to the XWF, and thanks to my submission prowess, I was victorious over Damien Bates. The fans seemed receptive to me, which is something I usually wouldn't give a fuck about, but I'm trying to make some paper, so I need these people to buy my action figures.

I'd rate the night as a ten, but that piece of shit Damien Bates saw fit to drop a bucket of blood on me after the match. Not only did he steal his name from horror movies, but his antics as well. What an unoriginal cock.

I park my rental car (yeah, I had to leave my car in Philly, so I'm missing both of my girls like crazy) in front of the motel, and laugh. This is by far the shittiest motel I've seen in a long time. It's the kind of hotel that rents rooms by the hour, stinks of meth and hookers, and has probably had more murders happen inside of it than a fucking prison. But, it's cheap, and I'm not exactly the highest paid guy on the roster.

If Drake knew I were staying here, he'd probably cuss me out. He offered to pay for my rooms, food, and any other travel expenses, but I had to turn him down. I'm not a fucking charity case, and taking money from Drake would pretty much turn me into my girl- well, my ex-girlfriend (That's going to take some getting used to).

The best I can hope for tonight is that I don't have to listen to the sounds of a dominatrix spanking a senator next door, interesting as it would be.

I look down at my phone (hoping to see a missed call from her), then stuff it in my pocket and exit my car. As I walk towards my room (I'm one of the smart ones, and I usually book my room before the events. Some of these guys wait until 3 in the morning and end up having to sleep in their cars. What kind of retard would end up in this situation? His name starts with Peter and ends with Gilmour.), I hear this behind me:

"That's what the fuck I'm talking about, Ace!"

I spin around, recognizing the voice instantly, and see my manager, McG.

 

 

"McG! What the fuck are you doing here, man?"

 

 

Collin shakes his head, as he hates being called McG. For those of you who don't know, McG is the name of one of the shittiest directors in Hollywood. He directed both of those Charlie's Angels movies, and helped to finish the job that Terminator 3 started by killing the series with his awful storytelling and mindless action. Collin hates him, and so do I, but the two of them share the common last name of "McGee", and to not bust the balls of your friends is to be a shitty friend.

If my last name were Cage I know for a fact I'd never hear the end of it from this motherfucker. Yeah, I hate Nicholas Cage and his stupid wig. Sue me.

"Do you really have to keep calling me that? It's not even funny."

"It's funny to me, and that's all that matters", I respond. The two of us shake hands, and exchange a bro hug. A bro hug is probably the manliest hug in the world, and it's less of a hug and more of a chest bump, but only the chests can touch. If your crotches touch, one of you is gay, and you must allow your friend to give you a Ric Flair chop in the chest. If the fault is mutual.....Well, I guess then you just suck each other's dicks or something. To each his own.

Anyway, after exchanging the manliest bro hug (yes, I realize that's redundant, but I'm just trying to get across how fucking masculine this hug was. It was so manly that we both grew full beards within minutes, and every chick who I signed an autograph for earlier in the night immediately became pregnant.) in the history of the Earth, Collin looks at the motel and slowly shakes his head.

"Let me guess," he says through a smirk, "You've got a tranny hooker in there with an eight ball."

I laugh my ass off. Collin is probably the funniest person I know, and I mean that sincerely. Of course, I'd never tell him that.

"Is she dead yet?" he asks, causing me laugh harder. I calm myself and respond.

"The only way there's a tranny hooker in there is if they're soliciting now, and if they are, then it's a good thing you're here to stop me, because holy shit am I in the mood for some nasty, coke-fueled sex with a freak."

Collin laughs at me. We're the funniest people we know.

"How did you know where I was staying?" I ask, genuinely curious.

He shrugs, then smirks.

"I had your phone traced," he says before adding, "I know people."

Collin says this with a sarcastic tone, but he's far from joking. Like every other person I know, Collin has mob ties that far transcend those of a normal mafia accountant.

You see, in running mob numbers, Collin has to keep track of all of the money that the organization makes and spends. Along with that, he has to keep track of who we make "donations" (a donation is not necessarily money, but any favor we do for anyone, and let's be honest here: we've probably done your favorite senator a favor or two, and he is therefore in our pocket.) to, and in knowing that, he knows who we have leverage over.

Honestly, there are plenty of ways for him to track me down, but the easiest way would've been for him to have called Ana (Lidiya's personal servant, if you don't remember), because I left a message with her meant for Lidiya. The message included my location, the times I would be working, and the times I would be on the road. If I had to guess, I'd assume that this is how he found out where I was.

"Ana told you?"

"Yuuuup," he responds. "She sold you out like Bieber tickets at a junior high."

"Minus ten cool points for the Bieber reference."

"Really? It was the best analogy I could think of that quickly."

"Which means you've got Bieber on the brain, and therefore lose another ten points, but on a good note, you just earned at least fifty gay ones."

Collin rubs his eyes, obviously tired due to the long drive from Philly.

"You wanna talk business or Bieber?"

I nod, done with the jokes.

"We can talk business."

"Alright," he says, adding "Can we do it someplace where I don't have to worry about a fucking prostitution sting?"

"What'd you have in mind?", I ask, glancing at the hotel and realizing that yes, the police probably do use this place for stings. Good call on his part.

"How about an actual hotel, you cheap son of a bitch?"

I laugh and nod, pulling the motel key out of my pocket and tossing it towards the manager's office. Yeah, I'm out a night's rent, but I didn't pay for it anyway. I pull the rental car key out of my back pocket, then unlock the door.

"Where are we headed?"

Collin, unexpectedly, walks over to the passenger side door of my car.

"Where's your car?"

"Taxi dropped me off," he says, trying to open his locked door. "I'm riding with you, so unlock the fucking door."

I tap the unlock button, and we both take our seats in the car, shutting our doors as we get settled. I start the car, then look at him and raise an eyebrow.

"You got something you wanna tell me?"

"Dude, seriously, I'll explain everything when I'm not worried about getting fiftied."

"Fiftied" as in 50 Cent, who was shot 9 times while stopped at a light in Queens- Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? You know who 50 Cent is.

"Whatever you say, man. Tell me where I'm going."

Collin leans his seat back and then pulls out his GPS.

"This car smells like Tila Tequila's asshole."

We both take a few sniffs of the car, then burst into synchronic laughter. I told you he was funny.

 

 

After having gotten settled into our room (it's actually a suite, but that sounds gay so I was trying to avoid saying it, but calling it a room is doing this magnificent fucking place a serious injustice), Collin and I make our way down to the hotel's bar. We have a seat at the bar, order a couple of drinks (I order a shot of Jameson and a bottle of Killian's, and Collin orders a Bacardi Raz. I'm just fucking with you. He orders a shot of Jameson himself and a Guinness. This is how Irishmen drink. The rest of you pussies should take note.), and take a shot in honor of my first match back. Of course, we have to take another shot to celebrate the victory, but being the serious drinkers that we are, this is child's play.

After downing our shots like Paris Hilton downs jizz, we sit back and enjoy our beers, watching a UFC replay on Spike TV. I know if we sit here and watch for long enough, we're going to start talking MMA, and Collin will argue for hours about how fucking great Anderson Silva is, despite having no MMA, boxing, or grappling experience beyond two years of high school wrestling. I, on the other hand, am a fucking expert kickboxer, have actually fought in a cage before, and it's the only sport I obsess over. I'll give him credit where credit is due and admit that he knows a million times more about any other sport than me, but the motherfucker refuses to give me the same respect when it comes to MMA, and will therefore argue with me for immeasurable amounts of time regarding the sport.

So, I'm going to avoid the oncoming argument and just ask him the question he's been dodging all night.

"So what are you doing here man?", I ask, not taking my eyes off of the fight. "What are you really doing here?"

Collin whistles as Dan Henderson throws a haymaker from hell at Michael Bisping, knocking the Brit out cold. Hendo has such a disdain for Bisping that he throws all of his weight into a second shot, smashing the unconscious Bisping's head into the mat and increasing the possibility of brain damage.

Collin takes a swig of his beer, then sets it down in front of him.

"I fucked up," he says, his eyes glued to the bottle. "And this is my punishment."

I somehow don't see the point of punishing a guy by making him stay in a five star hotel with one of his best friends.

"Explain," I say, my curiosity piqued.

Collin shrugs.

"I lost us a bit of money," he says, quickly adding "It was a fucking accident."

He takes a deep breath, preparing his explanation. He looks a bit annoyed, and I realize that he's probably had to tell this story quite a few times already.

"You know how much I love weed," he says, causing me to laugh. Saying that Collin loves weed would be like saying fat kids like cake. Weed is his vice, and I've always suspected that it'd kill him some day, but I was thinking more along the lines of a car crash, or him walking onto a street in Times Square and getting hit by a taxi, although I should point out that you don't need to be high, or even in the street to be at risk of getting hit by one of those asshole cab drivers. Oh, he's still talking.

"Well, I was baked out of my mind one night, and Tony called me up and said I had to move some funds around, and the jist of it is that I put some money in some random account, and that money is fucking gone."

I nod, not to be polite, but because I could totally see that happening. I don't think you realize the severity of this guy's weed addiction, and obviously, neither does he. I'd bet dollars to donuts that he's got at least an ounce on his person, and probably a lot more in his bag. He'll make that last for two days at the max, especially since I'm with him, and if you're hanging with Collin, you're going to fucking blaze up. At least, you will if you want him to leave you the fuck alone.

"So, my punishment is to be your guardian angel for as long as this wrestling thing goes on."

"I'm sorry, what?", I ask, choking on my beer as I take a sip of it. After a few good coughs, I look up at him, shocked and confused.

"Tony said it'd be good for me to get out of Philly for a while, which I totally agreed with."

FYI, Collin is actually from New York City, hence the Times Square hit and run reference earlier. He is a diehard New York sports fan, and he fucking hates Philadelphia as a city, but was plucked out of business school by the mob, who put his Irish ass to work on Wall Street. Collin is our Sam Rothstein (Deniro's character in Casino you fucking retard).

He and I have always been good friends, but not good enough to spend every waking moment of our lives together, such as we are being forced to now.

"Then he said that he needs someone to look after you on the road, and to ensure that everything you do is in the best interest's of the family."

I had expected this from Tony, but I didn't expect him to send Collin. You see, Collin and I are both 100% Irish, and we're the only two Irishmen who work for Tony. Despite all of the money we have, and will make Tony, he and I will never be made, which means that we will never truly be part of the brotherhood. That's fine by me because I don't really like any of those Guido fucks anyway, but what our denial really means is that we will never be trusted by Tony, or any of the other guys. To them, we're dogs. I sniff out the bad guys, and Collin sniffs out the money.

And that's what he's here to do. Tony didn't send him to ensure that I do everything in the name of the family, but to make sure that I did everything to line the family's pockets with as much money as possible. Once Collin earns enough, his banishment will be lifted, and he'll be able to go back to Philly.

"And how do you plan to do that?"

Collin smiles and nods, then pulls an Altoids can out of his pocket, opens it up, removes two joints (what'd I fucking tell you?), hands one to me, pinches the other between his lips, then shuts the Altoids can and sets it down on the bar. I'd complain, but free weed is free weed, and I'd like to stop thinking about Lidiya, who's name is always in the back of my mind, no matter what's going on.

He grabs a book of matches from behind the bar (we haven't seen the bartender since he stumbled towards the bathroom to either piss, or puke, or both), and sparks one up. He lights my joint first, cupping his hand around the match and extending it towards me. I have to be honest, I've never been comfortable with another man trying to light my cigarette (or joint in this case), and it really fucking bothers me when someone is in control of something that could potentially light my face on fire, and they're sticking it in my face. In spite of my pet peeve, I take the light, because I took the man's joint, so I'm not going to be rude. I inhale deeply and watch the paper burn away from the tip, revealing the sticky green wad beneath it (oh shit, are those blue hairs?), which quickly turns to ember. The smoke hits my lungs and I hold my breath, fighting the urge to cough. Fighting like a motherfucker-

-But I cough anyway, and thick clouds of smoke escape my esophagus when I do. I exhale the rest of it, then look at the joint as if it were magic, and let's be honest here: it is.

"Lightweight", he yells for the whole bar (we're the only two here) to hear. "Your lungs are as pink as your vagina!"

Collin lights his joint up, and sucks nearly a quarter of it down before stopping his drag. He looks at me, flexes his biceps, then blows smoke right in my face.

"My lungs, on the other hand, are as black as David Hasselhoff's liver!"

I find an ashtray behind the bar, and grab a couple more beers. At this point, I'm just going to assume that the bartender passed out in the bathroom or died on the shitter. Fuck him either way. I place the plastic tray in between us, then Collin looks at me and raises an eyebrow.

"You were asking me how I plan to do that", he says. "Do what exactly?"

I take a quick drag and savor the taste of the expensive bud, which, to my delight, has a residual taste of Fruit Loops. Not too shabby.

"How to ensure that I do everything in the best interests of the family", I respond. "I'm assuming Tony wants those interests to be of the financial kind."

Collin smirks and nods, already done with his joint, he puts the roach out, and throws it into the Altoids can for later. I look at my joint, which hasn't even reached it's halfway point yet. I know what you're thinking, in regards to the weed. How the fuck can I harp on Lidiya about rehab and then smoke weed myself, right? Weed is one thing, and this is a very rare occurrence for me, as evidenced by my coughing and slow pace. Lidiya does coke like nymphomaniacs fuck. You drink a cup of coffee when you wake up. Lidiya does coke. You have a snack in between lunch and breakfast. Lidiya does coke. You go to Subway for lunch. Lidiya does coke. You have a soda on your way home from work. Lidiya does some coke. You have dinner, desert and go to bed. Lidiya does coke, drinks a liter of vodka, then passes out. That's why I want the girl to get some fucking help.

I hate to ramble on about the situation, but I'd like you to realize how fucking dire the girl's situation really is. In regards to drugs, I really think they should all be legalized. Who the fuck am I to tell someone what they can and cannot put in their body, and for that matter, who the fuck are you? Alcohol is legal, fast food is legal, and cigarettes are legal, and they're killing people in a rate you can measure by the fucking minute, and Congress likes to call in baseball players for hearings about steroid use in sports. Give me a fucking break.

"He sent me, right?", Collin asks rhetorically. "I'm the one with the Midas touch, so obviously I'm here to help you make money."

"And my question was: how do you plan to do that?"

Collin pops open another beer, takes a swig, then sets it down.

"Well, first, I hired a valet", he says nonchalantly, obviously not realizing how much it pisses me off. "Dudes love these slutty valets and they will therefore love you, and buy your t-shirts."

"Hold the fuck up," I say, raising my hand in protest. "You hired a fucking valet? Without asking me?"

"What's the matter? You going gay on me?"

I take a drag of my cigga-joint, then shake my head. I should be pissed about this. I should be punching him in the face right now, and beating him to death with the stool he's sitting on. But I'm not, because I'm high as a motherfucker. Oh shit!

"First off," I scream in his face, "This is some good motherfucking weed!" I hold the roach out as I yell at him, "So thank you for this!"

Collin begins to laugh hysterically, high off his ass as well.

"Second off, the last thing I want is to tarnish my reputation as the baddest motherfucker on the planet by bringing some glorified stripper out to the ring with me to shake her titties around in the hopes that she'll distract my opponent, who I wouldn't be able to beat myself, or at least that'd be the assumption."

"Yeah, the other wrestlers might think less of you for it, but fuck them, yo!"

I nod as he makes a good point.

"You wanna make money, right?"

I nod as his second point rings home as well.

"So at least have a feeling out period with this girl, see if the dudes in the arena respond to her, and we'll go from there."

He holds out his hand for a handshake. I take it.

"Trust me, Ace: this is only the first part of a plan that's going to lead you to the top of the XWF mountain, where the Universal Title is waiting for you."

He pats me on the back and stands up, knocking over his bar stool.

"Stick with me, and I'll make sure you get there."

I stare at the bar for a moment. Never has it occurred to me that I could actually end up being the Universal Champion someday, but with my mind cleared thanks to the fabulous chemical known as THC, I am now not only thinking about it, but believing it. The XWF is a mess right now, and the dude who is supposed to be the Universal Champion hasn't been seen or heard from in weeks. I might not be in line for a shot, but neither is anyone else, and as I think about the roster, I realize that I could kick the shit out of every single man whose name is on it, and with the help of Collin and a nice piece of eye candy, I could easily find myself the Universal Champion by Halloween.

Collin throws a few bills onto the bar, then heads up towards the room. I would follow him, but for one: that would seem gay. And two: my phone is burning a hole in my pocket.

"What's this girl's name, Collin?"

"Bree!", he yells back over his shoulder, adding "You'll be meeting her when we get to the next town!"

"Alright!", I scream back at him as he disappears out of view. My bladder suddenly screams at me, so I head to the bathroom to take a piss. As I enter, the stench of shit and puke flood my nose, nearly causing me to vomit. I spot the bartender in the corner of the bathroom, lying on the ceramic tile, a brown puddle underneath his ass, his face and chest covered in his own vomit.

"This dude needs an ambulance," I think to myself, pulling my phone out of my pocket. "But I'm sure as hell not calling one for him."

I instead dial Lidiya's number, despite my conscious' protests. The id has taken over. The super-ego and ego are high and drunk, and can do nothing to stop the id from calling it's love. The id doesn't know better. All it knows is that Lidiya is it's, and she should be here right now. The id thinks Lidiya is getting fucked in the mouth by some drug dealer right now, having long forgotten about us.

The phone is ringing, and with each ring that passes, I realize that I have no idea what I'm going to say to her when or if she answers. How do you tell someone to stop crushing you when all that person cares about is the high. For those of you who don't know the ugly face of addiction, just imagine your loved one being as driven and motivated for something as they could ever be, but that something being the high. Saying that people are addicted to drugs is a bit of a misdescription, because what they're really addicted to is the high. The drugs are just the car they take to get to the destination.

"What?"

 

 

The tone in her voice is not one of affection. In fact, the tone conveys nothing but apathy towards me.

"What do you mean, 'what'," I ask, regretting this more and more with each passing second. "I'm just calling to see how you're doing."

I hear her flicking a lighter to life on the other end, so she's either smoking a cigarette or crack. What a comforting thought that is.

"I'm fine."

And that's it. That's all she fucking says, and she's not leading into saying anything else either. I don't know where this cold bitch came from, because Lidiya is usually the emotional one of the two of us. And before I realize it, this comes out:

"What's your fucking problem?"

Whoops. That's going to make things all better, Ace, you fucking moron.

"Nothing, I just don't have anything to say to you."

And now Lidiya has the upper hand, because I've lost my temper and she's kept hers. Well played, bitch.

"Really?", I ask sarcastically. "Ten fucking years together and you have nothing to say to me?"

If this were a routine argument (yeah, we're that couple that argues constantly), serious insults would be getting thrown at each other, none of them meant to stick, but all of them meant to sting. She'd call me a loser, I'd call her a spoiled bitch, it'd escalate to her threatening to fuck someone else, and me threatening to kill her, and end with us fucking each other's brains out, driven by the energy of the argument.

But this-

-This is something else. Something is seriously wrong right now, and I have no idea how to fix it.

"Pretty much."

Her answers are maddening in their brevity, and even more so considering her tone of indifference. She's acting as if we're speaking about the weather, or some other asinine topic. What a fucking fool I am. For a second, I actually believed that this phone call would lead to sobriety (for the both of us if need be), and our problems being sorted. Instead, I am about to fly off the motherfucking handle.

"Are you really going to talk to me like this?"

"Talk to you like what?"

"Like I'm a piece of shit."

"I'm not talking to you like that at all."

"I fucking hate you!", I scream into the phone, removing it from my ear and holding it in front of my mouth in some dumbass gesture that I believe will enable her to to hear it better I suppose. Angry people do dumb fucking things.

"Goodbye," she says nonchalantly, then hangs up on me. The nerve of this fucking girl is unbelievable. Maybe I'm coming off as the asshole here, but I don't really give a fuck. When you've been with someone for as long as we've been with each other, you expect a certain amount of emotions to be involved when you and that person break up. Maybe they won't be good emotions, but there should be something. I've been with Lidiya for a decade, and the person I just spoke to on the phone was a fucking robot. She's replaced feeling with numbness, and was obviously coked out of her fucking mind to be able to talk to me like that. I've tried, and I've tried, and I've fucking tried to reason with this girl (this phone call is just one of many that have taken place over the last week and a half since I left Philly, but it's the first that went down this way. The other arguments have been much more heated. I suppose she's just as fed up as I am with the fighting, and as Brian McNight says: when a woman's fed up, there ain't nothing you can do about it.), but she cannot be reasoned with. She sees this break up as my way of saying that I don't need her anymore, and my leaving was the exclamation point on that statement.

I'm so heated by her apathy (that's fucking ironic) that I dial her number right back. It rings once, then goes to voicemail. I hang up and hit redial. This bitch is not going to ignore me. It rings once again, then she answers it, and I hear this:

"Your girl is done with you, yo. Get the fuck over it, pussy."

A man just answered my (ex)girlfriend's phone, and as I hear his voice, a ten ton hammer hits me in the gut. I drop the phone out of my hand and it hits the tile with a smack and slides somewhere out of view. Images flood my mind of Lidiya fucking this dude and I can't make them stop. I stumble backwards and hit the wall, knocking the wind out of myself. Before I know it, my legs give out and I collapse on the floor. Here I am, in a hotel bathroom, sitting on my ass next to a (dead?) guy who's covered in his own shit and vomit. The love of my life is taking a dick in Philadelphia and loving it. If I had a gun, I'd shoot myself. The question of "how could she do this to me" enters my mind, and I realize that she can do this to me because she doesn't give a fuck about me.

So I am alone. Not literally, mind you, but you know what I mean. The only person I want to be with me right now is doing a line of coke off of someone else's dick. They're probably making fun of me in between sex sessions. She's probably telling him what a better lay he is than me.

I manage to get to my feet, and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

"What the fuck are you looking at?", I ask the son of bitch. Who the fuck is he to stare at me? To judge me.

"Maybe if you stopped calling her a bitch, she'd actually talk to you."

"Oh yeah? What the fuck do you know, man? You think you could've done better?"

"I know that if I wanted her to be with me, I wouldn't drunk dial her at midnight and call her a bitch."

"You heard her. How am I supposed to get through to someone like that?"

"And therein lies the million dollar question. The answer is that you're not going to get through to her, because she doesn't want to be gotten through to. Do you understand that?"

I shake my head, because I don't, but if he does, then I can be led to.

"She has it in her head that you don't care about her, and she needs to work this out on her own, just like you do. Give her time, Ace, and she'll probably come around. If she doesn't, well....you're better off without her anyway."

"Don't talk about her like that, motherfucker."

He laughs, the audacious piece of shit.

"Listen: I could give a fuck less about a spoiled coke whore. If she were out here right now, all she'd do is complain about the accommodations not being enough, the food sucking, the people being lame. She is your anchor, and your direct line to Philadelphia. Without her, we're free to set sail wherever we want to."

I'm not happy that he called her a coke whore, but I can't argue with his logic. He's right about it all, but that isn't going to make me stop wishing he were wrong.

"So what do I do?"

"Shit, I don't know. Take it day by day."

I shake my head.

"I don't know how to live without her."

"You'll learn in time. Time is the key here, Ace. Getting over a breakup is like sobering up. You do anything to speed up the process. It just takes time."

I look at my watch, then back at him (myself).

"Thanks for the advice, but I've gotta run."

He laughs.

"You're already gone."

My eyes open and I sit up quickly, looking around the room and trying to gather my thoughts. I'm not exactly sure what I've been dreaming about, but it must've been good, because I feel a shit ton better than I have the past few mornings. For once, Lidiya isn't the first thing on my mind. The fact that I'm going to fucking ralph is.

I sprint to the bathroom and puke, vomit spewing out of my mouth like water out of a hydrant. Collin kicks in the bathroom door, laughing his ass off. He stands next to me and begins to mock me as I puke, making heaving sounds of his own. He has a cup of coffee in his hand, and I smack it into his face.

"Asshole," he yells, ripping his shirt off to prevent the hot coffee from burning his pale Irish skin. He exits the bathroom, and begins to yell from the room.

"When you're done puking all of that jizz out, get your ass in gear! We've got to get on the road!"

"What time is it?"

I feel my pocket (yes, I apparently fell asleep in my jeans, although I don't remember falling asleep at all. Luckily, my asshole doesn't hurt, so at least I wasn't raped, but who knows how the fuck I got back up here and when.) for my phone, but it's not there. I guess I lost it at some point last night. To be honest, it's sort of liberating. Maybe when I get a new one, I'll leave her number out of the phone book.

"It's fucking noon, man! We're supposed to be meeting Bree in two hours, and it takes three hours to get where we're going, so hurry the fuck up!"

"Alright, bitch! Jesus!", I yell, standing up from my prone position and wiping the excess puke out of my mouth. I wash my hands in the sink, then rinse my mouth out. Collin walks in and hands me a toothbrush and some Crest.

"Thanks."

He nods, and I spread the paste out of the brush, and scrub the vomit, weed, and booze off of my teeth, hoping I didn't destroy too much enamel with the puking. That shit doesn't grow back.

"Oh," he says, just before exiting the bathroom. "I've got some good news for you. Outstanding news!"

"Go on," I mutter, my words slurred by the toothbrush in my mouth.

"I got a call from booking this morning, and you'll never believe what Aidan Collins has in mind for the XWF."

I roll my eyes, and he gets the idea that I'd like him to just fucking get to it already.

"He booked a tournament for the Universal Title, and you're one of the participants."

I spit the toothpaste out, rinse my mouth, and spit again.

"No shit?"

"Yeah," he says, adding: "And you've got Dante Anglais first round."

The former GM, who just quit a few weeks ago, is coming back to try and make a run for the Universal Title, and I'd be stupid if I didn't believe that he's going to cash in every favor, call every friend, and do everything in his power to try and steal a win from me. I can count on Emo interfering, and possibly a shady ref. Maybe this valet will come in handy after all.

 

 

"I hope this girl isn't blonde," I say, leaning forward as we near the gas station we're to meet Bree at. "I could use a brunette in my life."

Collin shakes his head.

"Please don't fuck this girl, Ace," he says as he turns into the parking lot. I look at the clock, hoping she'll still be here despite us being almost an hour late. "Try to keep the relationship professional."

"Sure," I say, nodding. I've got my fingers crossed and out of sight, because there's nothing I'd rather do right now than fuck a random chick, and if this girl is hot, I'll probably end up boning her. We park in front of the gas station, both of us looking around for...well, we have no idea what this girl looks like, so we're just looking for an attractive female.

"How the fuck did you hire a valet who you've never met?", I ask him as I open my door and get out of the car to stretch.

"I got her from a talent agency," he responds. "Her agent said she's a HOPA, and considering we're in fucking Ohio, she'll probably be the only one around."

Collin shuts the car door, then huffs.

"She's probably long gone," he says, shrugging. "I'm gonna go grab a coffee and some matches. You want anything?"

I raise an eyebrow.

"Matches?"

He smirks.

"Rookie," he says. "You've got a lot to learn about weed smoke. Matches preserve the flavor."

He turns around and heads inside as I commit the snippet of information to memory. I lean against the car and stare out at the flat countryside that has about as much personality as Zach Rizza, which if you know the dude, is none. Ohio is the most boring fucking state I've ever driven through.

"Excuse me.."

I spin around to meet the feminine voice behind me.

"You're Ace Vincent, right?"

I can't help but smile and nod my head.

"Are you Bree Benz?"

She nods and extends a hand, which I shake gently.

 

 

She has the name of a porn star, and looks to match. This is the girl your mother warned you about (my mother wasn't around to do a whole lot of warning, but that's a topic for another time) when you were a kid. Blonde hair with black streaks, eye shadow poured on like she was had a surplus of it, pouty lips, big tits (implants for sure), and an ass so thick, she's taller sitting down than she is standing up.

If there is a prototypical rebound, her name is Bree Benz.

"I look forward to working with you," she says through a smile.

I bet she does.

"Yeah, same here."

The door to the gas station opens, and Collin walks out with a dumbass smile on his face, still not having spotted Bree. He casually saunters to the car, coffee in one hand and a book of matches in the other.

"Daddy is about to get high!"

He's so excited that he starts dancing like Michael Jackson, spinning around and grabbing his crotch, somehow managing to keep his coffee from spilling. He looks up as he reaches the car and raises his eyebrows in surprise as he gets a good look at Bree. His eyes dart from her, to me, and back again. I was expecting him to be embarrassed, but you cannot embarrass a man who has no shame. He simply shrugs, sets his coffee down on top of the car, then shakes her hand.

"Bree, this is Collin. Collin, this is Bree," I say, taking it upon myself to introduce them.

"Alright, nice to meet you."

"I'm glad I didn't hold my breath," she responds, alluding to our lateness.

"Yeah, sorry about that, but I had a mean case of bubble guts so we couldn't get on the road until that situation cleared up."

"Uh-" I say, intending to change the subject. The last thing I want is for this girl to start talking to Collin about mud butt and to ruin the amazing sexual impression she has made upon me thus far. "So did you drive here or what?"

"No," she replies. "I had a taxi drop me off, which is why I'm still here."

"Well, do you want to bitch about us being late or do you want to get on the road?", Collin asks smugly, not waiting for her reply as he grabs his coffee gets into the car.

Bree and I exchange glances.

"He's a little blunt. You'll get used to it."

Of course, I'm just as blunt as Collin is, but I really want to spank this girl's ass and I'm not going to fuck up my chances by telling her to shut the fuck up about us being late because we could replace her if need be.

"Let's fucking go!"

I laugh as Collin screams out of the window, opening the car door and taking taking my seat. Bree opens up her own door, throws in her bag, then sits down in the middle of the backseat. She leans forward as Collin backs out of the parking lot.

"I just want to thank you guys for giving me this opportunity and I just want to let you know that I won't let you down."

I nod, unsure of what to say. I'm not really good with having my ass kissed, and I'd rather she kissed my balls anyway.

"Has Ace told you anything about Anarchy or did he just stare at your tits the whole time?"

To my surprise, Bree actually laughs at this. Might this chick actually be cool and hot?

"We didn't get to it," I say.

"My tits are too distracting," she quickly adds, causing Collin and I to smirk. If this girl is good in the sack I might have to put a ring on it.

"Alright, then. Your job, if you choose to accept it, is to escort our boy here down to the ring, to sexually excite the fans, and to distract his opponents if Ace needs to gain the upper hand. If you do well at those three things, then you're going to make a lot of money."

"Sounds like the job I was born to do," she says. I catch a glimpse of her in the side mirror and take a deep breath. I don't know how else to explain this, but this girl has permanent "fuck-me" eyes, which is a technique not easily mastered. Most girls try to do this and end up looking cross eyed or retarded. This girl is like the Yoda of fuck-me eyes.

"Good," he responds. "We should all get along just fine then, and as a way of cementing this partnership, please share some smoke with us."

Collin pulls the Altoids can out of his pocket, removes three joints, and sticks them in his mouth. He lights all three of them while somehow maintaining control of the car, and doing it with a match. Yeah, this guy is a fucking magician. He passes one to me, one to Bree, and keeps the last for himself.

"A toast," he says, marking this my (and probably Bree's) first toast involving a joint rather than a drink. "Here's to honor. Get on her, stay on her, and if you can't cum in her, come on her."

I'll smoke to that.