I’d be lying if I didn’t acknowledge that I feel like I’m in some sort of time paradox. It seems as if there’s nothing that I can do to prevent myself from falling back into the same old hole, then scratching and clawing to pull myself out, only to fall back in again.

Am I condemned to this fate? Can I do nothing to change it?

Is this really who I am?

You would think, given my usual stubborn refusal to allow anything to get the better of me, that I would be willing to throw every single cent I have, every resource, at conquering this little obstacle of mine. So why aren’t I doing that? Why am I instead choosing to seemingly embrace my downfall?

If I’m to be perfectly honest with myself (and that’s a big ‘if’), I think it’s because it’s easier this way. Make no mistake about it, I am a coward. I can stand against twenty people on my own, and keep on fighting, but the moment I’m forced to make a decision that could potentially change my life for the better or worse, one that I can fail in and have it be completely my fault, then I begin to falter. And the more I think about it, the more I begin to slip up, because the more I think, the more I begin to realize just how big of a mountain I’m facing. It feels like I’m staring at Mount Everest, and the only thing I have in common with Sir Edmund Hilary is our country of origin. I am no working class hero. I am no hero at all. I am just Leroy Bruce Stone, professional wrestler, entrepreneur, alcoholic.

Thus I sit with my glass of Scotch in one hand, and a look of defeat upon my face. I stare out from the balcony of my monolith that rises above the centre of Hamilton City. I’m on the top floor – number 15 – of the largest building in the sprawled out city. Here, people tend to move outwards rather than building upwards. It’s the same philosophy that has led to Auckland, this country’s largest city, to contain approximately one sixth the population of London, but spread out over an area of roughly the same size. This makes public transport quite expensive.

The nights are getting colder, and so I take comfort in the drink burning my throat as it flows down it. Below me, I see the hustle and bustle of the city’s nightlife. The clock reads 10:56pm, and so now the town will begin to come alive, with my structure serving as the mega-hub for almost all activities. There are still bars which I don’t own, most of which are along the main street north-bound from my building, but their business is nowhere near what it once was. The primary concentration of clubs now, falls under my banner, and thus it is much more accessible to stay within these walls I provide people. Couple that with the McDonald’s, Burger King, KFC, Pizza Hut, Subway, and various other fast food joints within my tower, it just makes sense for people to chose The World’s Greatest as their home for the night. And besides, ever since I laid claim to the city centre, the number of people coming out each night, particularly Friday’s, has increased dramatically. When once Friday took a back seat to both Saturday and Thursday nights in relation to customer numbers, it now rivals them both. You have to give me credit there, even if you think that I’m further encouraging a binge drinking culture amongst the youth of today. Misery loves company.

My building is glowing with light beaming out of every possible window. Most of the clubs are fairly windowless themselves, but once you step out into the primary shopping area, you are hit with an intense white light, and it’s this light that shines onto the street below.

I finish my drink now, leaving a few small, half-melted cubes of ice in the bottom of the glass. I place it on the ground next to my chair and rise, heading inside. I drop down onto the very first piece of furniture I ever bought myself, a bright red ‘loveseat’ couch. My pure white Air Force Ones are on the ground in front of me, so I slip them on, strapping them up in the process (yes, they have straps, they’re old school). I pause for a moment, once again spying the little envelope on the coffee table, that I’ve been carrying everywhere that I go. It’s the entire reason I’m back in the country, although the moment that I touched down, I immediately regretted returning. I’m not ready to deal with this. Not yet. Not when I still have so many other things to take care of.

I rise now, my eyes still locked on the envelope, but my body beginning to move away. I finally break my vision, and begin to walk towards the door. Bypassing the fridge, I open it, and chug back a beer in record time before I actually leave the lounge, and enter my hallway. I reach the elevator and it opens for me. This is a private lift, the only access to my three private levels of this building. There are stairs that act as a fire escape, but only I know where they are, so as to avoid any possible security threats. I’m very paranoid like that.

The door opens for me, and I enter the small elevator.

“Fifth floor,” .I say, and the elevator’s doors close.

“Going down,” a recorded message says, with a British woman’s voice and I feel the lift begin to move down the shaft. There is no elevator music in any of the lifts in this building. All you hear is the quiet cranking of the shaft itself. This gives me time to momentarily zone out, before hearing the voice once again.

“Stopping. Fifth floor.”

With a ding, the doors open for me, and I step out into the same sea of light that I previously mentioned. Few people even notice me coming out of a door with a sign that reads ‘Danger, High Voltage’. Nobody ever bothers to question those signs.

I look around now, my eyes slightly glossy, but not enough to cause me to stumble. It’s the state of drunkenness that isn’t outwardly noticeable, so you keep it kind of quiet. Rest assured though, given who I am, it shouldn’t be long now before that changes.