Things have been on my brain all week. My ex and I have been talking, but the purposes for these chats still confused me; kept my mind racing. All I know is that it was ruining my sleep. The night was far from young and all my attempts to find slumber had gone in vain. I knew not where to burn off this excess energy that kept me awake, so rather than waste time I decide to make an adventure out of my last free night in Kentucky…

"IT’S THREE FOR THREE SHOTS NIGHT AT COYOTE’S!"

…a NIGHTCLUB?

I did mention I wasn’t a great spur-of-the-moment thinker outside my job, yes? I was never known for being "wild and crazy" and abusing alcohol was as foreign a concept to me as job stability to the Massacre GM. The last time I did shots, I got a nice bundle of joy nine months later, so these partygoers would have to forgive my apathy in the face of their lifestyle. Mom was still pissed at me for berating her in public, so I had to make myself scarce and take refuge in a Podunk hellhole I knew she wouldn’t dare venture out to.

From my seat at the bar, my eyes size up the environs. The women are hard at work spreading their pheromones in order to allure their next mates. Said mates let their dicks take the wheel while their brains took siestas in the backseat. The DJ’s Southern twang amplified over the house speaker veers me off the road of sobriety and straight into Jack Daniels Lake. Vibrant hues of red and chartreuse spiral about the dance floor, bathing dancers and drunks alike in their light.

I take a moment to immerse myself in the burning sensation my drink left behind. It was relaxing, almost. Far as I know, nobody gave two shits who I was and my privacy stayed intact while I started to brainstorm strategies for the big night.

Before any ideas can truly manifest, God’s task of ensuring my misery continues.

"Screwdriver, hon’."

A redhead has a seat at the stool next to mine. Ah, well. Much better than those atypical bleach-blonde harlots who haven’t said no since the last time somebody asked them if they’ve ever said no. But still, a hindrance to me all the same. I turn my head to inspect her attire, which is geared toward the "fuck first, ask questions never" crowd. Denim jeans constricting her tight legs, black boots, and what appears to be a red bandana in the guise of a tube top. Better not catch me looking… ah, fuck, too late. I shift my head, but she sees that she’s succeeded in catching my eye. Stupid hot bitch.

"New ‘round these parts?" asks the woman.

"You could say that." I knock back another drink while the bartender slides a Screwdriver her way. She stirs it up with her straw before offering a hand. Well, I won’t be here tomorrow, so it’s no skin off my back to talk to her for a few minutes.

"Darla."

"Shawn."

I watch the ice in my drink float around.

"Anyhow," I continue. "This isn’t my usual hood."

"Out-of-towner?"

"Yeah. Just passing through."

"What, like on business or something?"

"Uh… yeah, that’s about right."

The bartender slides her a second Screwdriver just as Darla knocks back the first. Stirring it up with the straw inside, she smiles a bit. It couldn’t be more apparent that something was on her mind if they plugged a yellow and red neon sign above her head.

"I gotta say, you’re kinda cute. Wanna go dance?"

I decide here is where I’ll shatter her fantasy of hooking up with the "handsome stranger" she just happened across. How do I open? I’ve got a separated wife and daughter I abandoned? I’m a socially repressed dickface that makes a living being quick with a quip? I’m a professional wrestler and I plan on popping pills and showing you the weight room where I keep my Bible?

"Hey, I-"

Before I utter another syllable, a tree trunk-like arm rests between Darla and me. I stare at the beast – a heavyset tattoo-clad trucker type. Messy reddish-blonde hair flying every which way, jeans, Kentucky Wildcats cap, the whole "angry guy" shebang. He greets me with little acknowledgement.

"This don’t concern you."

Bubba was right. It didn’t concern me. If it really did, he’d have curbstomped me with my back turned. I see him shifting focus back to Darla, who looks nonplussed at this man’s emergence. Ex-boyfriend, husband, ex, stalker… I didn’t know nor care of the intricacies of their relationship. I could care less about whether Darla was stepping out on Larry the Cable Guy or all of that or he was just an enraged rhino. He can have his woman and I’ll go back to my strategy, win my title, and obtain a million Darlas.

"Sammy, leave me alone!" she screams futilely. He doesn’t budge, but rather tries to woo her by stroking her curly hair with his greasy hand. He’s met with much resistance.

"Come on, baby," he pleads with her.

"I’m NOT your baby. Never was, never will. Go away, asshole!"

He continues to accost her. What he sees as reassuring touches are poison to Darla as she tries to get up and run. His meaty hand around her arm prevents her from doing so. He isn’t playing nice with her anymore.

"I SAID come on." He says dryly.

I don’t know whether or not she’s looking to me for help. I choose not to register the situation anymore, as do most of the bar patrons who probably see just another in a long line of regular domestic disputes. Why should I care? I’m the guy that took a girl hostage on live TV to get what he wanted. Kicking around females is something I do regularly. I turn in my bar stool and throw money down on the counter.

Peace the fuck out, Mayberry.

"Get up!" I hear him bark.

"NO!"

"I SAID GET!"

"GET OFF ME!"

"LISTEN, BITCH, I-OOF!"

"…"

…Maybe it was her whining. His screaming voice. Whatever, I’d had enough of their shit. I take him by the arm, hammerlock-style and ram him face-first into the bar, pinning him there. For a big, blubbery mess, he’s rather weak and unable to break my grip. Darla’s still completely off-guard.

"No, YOU listen," I begin. "I’ve had a hard day at work. I’m trying to relax and think. The LAST thing I need is to come in here and deal with some Jerry Springer shit. Now you’re leave her be and or I’m personally going to – pardon my French – break your shit OFF!"

"You son-of-Aaaaaaaah!"

I crank the arm upward.

"Awright!" He squawks.

I release my grip on him and not wishing to experience further embarrassment in this hangout, he doesn’t even look back as he exits the front door. Once it’s over, the rubbernecks go back to their business of drinking and/or dancing while Darla sighs in relief.

Still pumped from adrenaline, I take back my seat at the bar to relax my nerves. I see Darla in the corner of my eye gradually approaching me. She runs her hand up and down my arm and once the shock of the scenario passes by, she nods.

"Uh… thank you."

"Yeah," I weakly get out.

Not a word is exchanged between us for several moments. Finally, I muster up enough courage to say my original piece.

"Listen, Darla, before you make any sort of move, I’m a professional wrestler. I’m an asshole. I travel the road 250+ days a year. I’m on the tail end of a failed marriage and don’t know where my kid is. I’ve…"

Her lips meet mine.

What the hell…?

Whoa.

Man, even her spit tastes sweet.

Eh, what the hell? I reciprocate the kiss. I’m probably an asshole for leading her on like this, but I’ll be gone soon and out of her life quickly. She’ll live.

Moments pass before she stops and puts both arms around my neck.

"S’all right," she tells me. "You saved a perfect stranger in distress. And you were straight-up with me about all that. How much of an asshole can you really be?"

Honestly, I’m taken aback. I told her several character flaws and she doesn’t budge.

Now… I don’t know what it is. Coming into this place, I’d felt dirtier than I’d ever have.

She smiles at me.

I feel clean.

_____________--_____________

The following pre-recorded comments are brought to you by the man who Hunter Ryan secretly dreams of being... Shawn Christopher.

Does this mother fucker think he’s actually going to take it from me?

Does this mother fucker actually think he’ll get away with it?

Well fuck you, Hunter.

I don’t need energy. I need the will to win. I’ve worked too hard to let this loser overcome the odds of evil and spit in my face.

He’s walking right into his own demise.

It’s almost as if the idiot is hand-feeding me.

Hunter, I’m your worst nightmare come to life. You’ve been dreading me since day one, because you knew I would expose you for the loser you are. You try to act like some great superstar, like you actually believe the things that you say. But the people see right through you. They know the only reason you have this title shot is because I've beaten all the other midcarders on Anarchy. And your friend Famine, he's already gotten his, and he's petrified to get in the ring with me again. See Hunter, I'm not any of those other curtain jerkers, you've built your mediocre reputation off of. You’re facing Shawn Christopher now, and you want to do nothing more than cower behind your stablemates and pray for them to help you. Let’s be honest. You don’t have to visit an oracle to see that I’m straight orally raping your whole career. Yeah, just let your career choke on this giant stick of hate I’m shoving down its throat. Don’t gag though, trick, because you brought this on yourself.

Your career isn’t real. It’s nothing more than a fucking illusion. Your shit isn’t authentic, it’s bootleg quality. You think because you won a tag team championship with your brother who thought he was the white Tupac, that you’ve actually done something? When I look at you, I’m not impressed. I depressed. I look at you and wonder if this is what our business has really come to. Me? I’m entertaingly charismatic and over-the-top. You? You’re just flamboyantly flaming. All you do is whine about how I don't respect you, and basically kiss my ass yo get on my good side. But understand that as long as you're standing across that ring from me, nothing you say can get you on my good side. Cause frankly, I don't like you. I don't like what you and your group stand for. And I plan on taking the initiative to put you three right where you belong... in the fucking gutter.

Thanks for your name to add to my legacy, Hunter.

I enjoyed ruining your career and beating another loser in the sorry ass Initiative.

Maybe you can do a cell-phone commercial in a few years. Or better yet, take a lesson from your brother and just die. But for now; just sit back, relax, watch the TV.

We’re bound to see some Icon-Fucking goodness.

Television Legend. Mother Fuckers. And soon... the King of the World.