Mounds of cocaine like tiny anthills on the dark oak plain. A gaunt, angular face, half concealed by drawn hood, oversees the disorder and disarray. FINAL WARNING letters strewn about the man’s desk, others jammed in a waste paper basket by his feet.
The year is 2006.
A cigarette ignites, illuminating the man’s profile: a shifty-eyed Lowell fraught with paranoia and drug-induced delusion.
He snatches a 80s-style cell phone from his desk drawer and holds it to his ear. “What? What do you meaaan… OH, C’MON, STOUT, YOU TALKIN’ CRAZY, BOYEEE!” Pause. “Yes, yes, I know about all of that. I read the letters.” Pause. “I skimmed the letters.”
Pause.
“I glanced at the letters, dude. I got the just of it, okay? You think I’ve never dealt with creditors before? It’s a game, baby! It’s give-and-take, cat-and-mouse. They call me; I talk like some kinda Spaniard – ‘Lowell? Me no know no Lowell. ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba!’ T’****’s BULLETPROOF!”
Longer pause.
“I own this fed. I own the cameras, the spandex costumes, the Mountain Dew Code Red that gets all drank up before I even have the chance to snag a bottle for myself! I own it ALL! I own you, Stout! You’re bought and paid for!”
An even longer pause. Lowell holds the phone away from his ear, grimacing as shouting emits from the speaker.
“What do you mean you haven’t been getting the checks? How many?” Pause. “Well, maybe—DOOD, THE POSTAL SYSTEM BITES! YOU CAN’T BLAME THAT CRAP ON CHA BOY! THAT’S COLD!
“Look, we’re fine. It’s a cash flow issue. Debits and credits, T-tables, working capital ‘n all dat jazzy jazz, amirite? So what’re we worried about?”
Lowell pulls back the hood of his gaudy, kingly robe, and there is yet another extended stretch of silence as Lowell listens to what the chief financial officer of All-Star Championship Wrestling, Miles Stout, has to say, which causes the color to drain from his face.
“‘Lowell? Me no know no Lowell. ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba! Futbooooooool!’
“Call back later! I’m got a tummy ache and I wanna go lay down!”
Lowell abruptly hits the Power button on the phone and slams it down on the desk. He cradles his head in his hands.
“What the **** is money laundering?”
--
Five years later and things had changed significantly.
Lowell’s no longer a slave to the powder. He no longer feels compelled to feed his veins a steady diet of heroin. He walks with a purpose and a credit score that ensures he’ll never be put in a position of owing the Machine any amount of money ever again. He’s poor—wretched poor—but that only serves to make him hungry.
And he is hungry, but hunger is something he’s dealt with before. He once sustained himself on just salted crackers for three months straight. He was thin and FAB-U-LOUS, but also quite malnourished. He saw things, weird things.
In 2011 he isn’t a Lord or a wrestling promoter. He’s simply a contender, pursuing a dream. For the first time ever, he’s doing Lowell – the real Lowell.
Will he please stand up, please stand up?
Lowell stands from a seated position on a weight bench, XXXL GOLD’S GYM t-shirt hanging off his sweaty frame. He wipes himself down with a High Flyer t-shirt, taking a moment to soak up a considerable case of swamp ass, before tossing it aside.
He walks over to the front desk, leaning on it, while eyeballing the customer service rep—a girl no older than 25, with a severe overbite and horrendous acne. Her straw colored hair is tied back in a too-tight ponytail that reveals her somewhat receded hairline.
What a gem.
“Hey, gurrrl, what’s up? Got a towel I can have? Gonna go wash the sweat off my Johnson,” he says.
The girl is lean and haggard. He knows her type; a recovered, or semi-recovered, drug addict; probably spent her formative years in and out of rehab, driving her poor folks mad in the process. She likely blew the middle-aged manager of the gym for a job after her black boyfriend kicked her to the curb for contracting herpes off a stripper pole.
She turns, grabbing a towel and handing it to Lowell. “Here.”
“Cool, thanks,” he replies. “Say, you’re kinda cute, what’s your name?”
“Beverly. But my peeps call me Bev. I drive a Chev.”
“You DRIVE?” he responds, astounded. “I lost my license for plowing an 18-wheeler into a bus.”
“Yeah?” she says, sounding interested while still somewhat permi-fried. “That happened to my friend Cyclone. Mutha****a drove his truck into a KFC. Hopped out, stole up a bunch of popcorn chicken, brought it over, we ate it.”
“Cool story, girl, but not really anything at all like what I did. What I did was way more badass. Say, you don’t really like working here, do you? Kinda smells like butthole.”
“Ye, guess so.”
“Check it: My name’s Lowell.”
He sticks out his hand, and she shakes it.
“Beverly. But my peeps call me Bev. I drive a—”
Rolling his eyes, Lowell interrupts, “—a Chev. Yeah, awesome. But I was wondering, would you wanna come hang out at my apartment? Just leave this stupid job and come chill with me.”
She contemplates his proposal for a moment, then responds, “Yeah, but – I don’t get high no more. I’m clean. ****’s whack.”
Lowell smiles, waving off the notion that he wants them to do drugs. “Valready shno daaat! I don’t wanna get high with you, gurl. I hate drugs; drugs are bad!
“But I do have plenty of cough syrup, and I recently came into some Adderall XR. I’m pill rich! So… y’know, if the mood struck…”
The girl smiles, revealing a missing a lateral incisor. “Daaaaaamn… I love that ****, hun. You wanna go right now?”
“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.”
“Aight.”
Bev, in a true show of class, peels off the polo with the logo of the gym embroidered on it, throws it on the floor, and parades out the door with Lowell in only a black, lace bra.
“I’ve got a proposition for you, as well. We’ll discuss later. Do you know what a valet is?”
“Like parks cars ‘n ****?”
“Close, but nawww… Lowell will learn you up, though.”
The year is 2006.
A cigarette ignites, illuminating the man’s profile: a shifty-eyed Lowell fraught with paranoia and drug-induced delusion.
He snatches a 80s-style cell phone from his desk drawer and holds it to his ear. “What? What do you meaaan… OH, C’MON, STOUT, YOU TALKIN’ CRAZY, BOYEEE!” Pause. “Yes, yes, I know about all of that. I read the letters.” Pause. “I skimmed the letters.”
Pause.
“I glanced at the letters, dude. I got the just of it, okay? You think I’ve never dealt with creditors before? It’s a game, baby! It’s give-and-take, cat-and-mouse. They call me; I talk like some kinda Spaniard – ‘Lowell? Me no know no Lowell. ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba!’ T’****’s BULLETPROOF!”
Longer pause.
“I own this fed. I own the cameras, the spandex costumes, the Mountain Dew Code Red that gets all drank up before I even have the chance to snag a bottle for myself! I own it ALL! I own you, Stout! You’re bought and paid for!”
An even longer pause. Lowell holds the phone away from his ear, grimacing as shouting emits from the speaker.
“What do you mean you haven’t been getting the checks? How many?” Pause. “Well, maybe—DOOD, THE POSTAL SYSTEM BITES! YOU CAN’T BLAME THAT CRAP ON CHA BOY! THAT’S COLD!
“Look, we’re fine. It’s a cash flow issue. Debits and credits, T-tables, working capital ‘n all dat jazzy jazz, amirite? So what’re we worried about?”
Lowell pulls back the hood of his gaudy, kingly robe, and there is yet another extended stretch of silence as Lowell listens to what the chief financial officer of All-Star Championship Wrestling, Miles Stout, has to say, which causes the color to drain from his face.
“‘Lowell? Me no know no Lowell. ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba! Futbooooooool!’
“Call back later! I’m got a tummy ache and I wanna go lay down!”
Lowell abruptly hits the Power button on the phone and slams it down on the desk. He cradles his head in his hands.
“What the **** is money laundering?”
--
Five years later and things had changed significantly.
Lowell’s no longer a slave to the powder. He no longer feels compelled to feed his veins a steady diet of heroin. He walks with a purpose and a credit score that ensures he’ll never be put in a position of owing the Machine any amount of money ever again. He’s poor—wretched poor—but that only serves to make him hungry.
And he is hungry, but hunger is something he’s dealt with before. He once sustained himself on just salted crackers for three months straight. He was thin and FAB-U-LOUS, but also quite malnourished. He saw things, weird things.
In 2011 he isn’t a Lord or a wrestling promoter. He’s simply a contender, pursuing a dream. For the first time ever, he’s doing Lowell – the real Lowell.
Will he please stand up, please stand up?
Lowell stands from a seated position on a weight bench, XXXL GOLD’S GYM t-shirt hanging off his sweaty frame. He wipes himself down with a High Flyer t-shirt, taking a moment to soak up a considerable case of swamp ass, before tossing it aside.
He walks over to the front desk, leaning on it, while eyeballing the customer service rep—a girl no older than 25, with a severe overbite and horrendous acne. Her straw colored hair is tied back in a too-tight ponytail that reveals her somewhat receded hairline.
What a gem.
“Hey, gurrrl, what’s up? Got a towel I can have? Gonna go wash the sweat off my Johnson,” he says.
The girl is lean and haggard. He knows her type; a recovered, or semi-recovered, drug addict; probably spent her formative years in and out of rehab, driving her poor folks mad in the process. She likely blew the middle-aged manager of the gym for a job after her black boyfriend kicked her to the curb for contracting herpes off a stripper pole.
She turns, grabbing a towel and handing it to Lowell. “Here.”
“Cool, thanks,” he replies. “Say, you’re kinda cute, what’s your name?”
“Beverly. But my peeps call me Bev. I drive a Chev.”
“You DRIVE?” he responds, astounded. “I lost my license for plowing an 18-wheeler into a bus.”
“Yeah?” she says, sounding interested while still somewhat permi-fried. “That happened to my friend Cyclone. Mutha****a drove his truck into a KFC. Hopped out, stole up a bunch of popcorn chicken, brought it over, we ate it.”
“Cool story, girl, but not really anything at all like what I did. What I did was way more badass. Say, you don’t really like working here, do you? Kinda smells like butthole.”
“Ye, guess so.”
“Check it: My name’s Lowell.”
He sticks out his hand, and she shakes it.
“Beverly. But my peeps call me Bev. I drive a—”
Rolling his eyes, Lowell interrupts, “—a Chev. Yeah, awesome. But I was wondering, would you wanna come hang out at my apartment? Just leave this stupid job and come chill with me.”
She contemplates his proposal for a moment, then responds, “Yeah, but – I don’t get high no more. I’m clean. ****’s whack.”
Lowell smiles, waving off the notion that he wants them to do drugs. “Valready shno daaat! I don’t wanna get high with you, gurl. I hate drugs; drugs are bad!
“But I do have plenty of cough syrup, and I recently came into some Adderall XR. I’m pill rich! So… y’know, if the mood struck…”
The girl smiles, revealing a missing a lateral incisor. “Daaaaaamn… I love that ****, hun. You wanna go right now?”
“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.”
“Aight.”
Bev, in a true show of class, peels off the polo with the logo of the gym embroidered on it, throws it on the floor, and parades out the door with Lowell in only a black, lace bra.
“I’ve got a proposition for you, as well. We’ll discuss later. Do you know what a valet is?”
“Like parks cars ‘n ****?”
“Close, but nawww… Lowell will learn you up, though.”