Post by america on Oct 4, 2020 22:56:07 GMT -5
Tijuana, 1988
“Holy fuck this shit is hitting.”
The Octopus had been in Tijuana for a week doing shows mostly in the city, but a few touring. He would have been sore as hell if he hadn’t been on a string of drugs that would knock out a rock star. He was already starting to slow down, the drugs and beatings taking their toll on his work though he had yet to start putting on the weight you’d recognize today. Still, he knew what Lucha fans wanted, and had been giving into his more violent urges and turning each match into a bloodbath.
“I think you broke my nose, you fuck.” Carlos Gomez said, his voice muffled with blood trailed down his throat.
“Hey, shit, maybe. That looks fucked up.” Octo said. “You should do some coke about it.”
Gomez hit the eight ball through cartilage and blood. Fuck if a broken nose would keep him from getting high tonight. They had finished the weekend shows and were now free to do whatever the fuck they wanted as long as it didn’t land them in jail.
“Ey, bring the kid over.” Gigante said. Massive fucker was the fifth dude in that mask in two years. For whatever reason, the ego always became a problem with the big dudes. The kid in question was James Parsons, new kid on the tour. Little green. He’d been getting fucked with the whole time, so maybe Gigante thought it was time to quit the ribbing and let him in on the fun.
“Right, right. Come here kid.” Octo said. Parsons approached wordlessly, excited to be with his heroes. “Okay, now follow my lead.”
Octo took a hit that could knock out a rhino. The kid followed suit. At first, he didn’t show any signs of being affected. It didn’t take long for the vomiting to start, however. The boys laughed as Parsons vomited until his chest hurt all through the locker room before passing out on the floor. Gigante called for an attendant who called for medical assistance. Mostly, the room just kept hitting the eight ball as things were cleaned up around them. After all, they were kings in this time, above such things as consequences.
As the half dead body of James Parsons was dragged from the locker room, the Octopus shook his head in disappointment.
“Fucking pussy.”
---
I’ve seen a million like you.
Little shit eating punks, think they’re tough or know something because they made it through school. Think a little tough love made them tough and now they can step on out and fuck someone up just because they got a black eye from a stray hand. I tried training little fuckers like you, but it just made me think of my fucking kids. Pathetic little miscreants coming at me one after another like I owe them something. Like they wouldn’t have been less disappointing on their mother’s face.
I’m sick of little fucks like you. Everyone I ever respected is dead or retired and here I am locking up with a scrawny little nothing because a hundred kids is a lotta fucking alimony. Well, fuck you. You don’t mean shit to me little man. You’ll walk in there and it’ll be a big day for you, but the second that match is done I’ll forget your name and your face. I’ll collect my fucking money from Zaigon’s man and I’ll go bury my dick in the mouth of the finest whores this city will give me.
None of this matters, in the end.
All that matters is getting paid, getting fucked, and fucking the world back a little.
You think you’re gonna do something. That they’ll remember you in the end. That you’ll be loved and respected and that all your days will be great. Then in forty years you’ll be fucked up as shit doing sixteen drugs at once because everything hurts and the world doesn’t give a shit about you the second you stop being the best. You think this is the beginning of a long career. That being a champion will save you. But nothing can save you, because there is no being saved.
We’re all fucked in the end.
Fuck you if you think you’re better than it.
“Holy fuck this shit is hitting.”
The Octopus had been in Tijuana for a week doing shows mostly in the city, but a few touring. He would have been sore as hell if he hadn’t been on a string of drugs that would knock out a rock star. He was already starting to slow down, the drugs and beatings taking their toll on his work though he had yet to start putting on the weight you’d recognize today. Still, he knew what Lucha fans wanted, and had been giving into his more violent urges and turning each match into a bloodbath.
“I think you broke my nose, you fuck.” Carlos Gomez said, his voice muffled with blood trailed down his throat.
“Hey, shit, maybe. That looks fucked up.” Octo said. “You should do some coke about it.”
Gomez hit the eight ball through cartilage and blood. Fuck if a broken nose would keep him from getting high tonight. They had finished the weekend shows and were now free to do whatever the fuck they wanted as long as it didn’t land them in jail.
“Ey, bring the kid over.” Gigante said. Massive fucker was the fifth dude in that mask in two years. For whatever reason, the ego always became a problem with the big dudes. The kid in question was James Parsons, new kid on the tour. Little green. He’d been getting fucked with the whole time, so maybe Gigante thought it was time to quit the ribbing and let him in on the fun.
“Right, right. Come here kid.” Octo said. Parsons approached wordlessly, excited to be with his heroes. “Okay, now follow my lead.”
Octo took a hit that could knock out a rhino. The kid followed suit. At first, he didn’t show any signs of being affected. It didn’t take long for the vomiting to start, however. The boys laughed as Parsons vomited until his chest hurt all through the locker room before passing out on the floor. Gigante called for an attendant who called for medical assistance. Mostly, the room just kept hitting the eight ball as things were cleaned up around them. After all, they were kings in this time, above such things as consequences.
As the half dead body of James Parsons was dragged from the locker room, the Octopus shook his head in disappointment.
“Fucking pussy.”
---
I’ve seen a million like you.
Little shit eating punks, think they’re tough or know something because they made it through school. Think a little tough love made them tough and now they can step on out and fuck someone up just because they got a black eye from a stray hand. I tried training little fuckers like you, but it just made me think of my fucking kids. Pathetic little miscreants coming at me one after another like I owe them something. Like they wouldn’t have been less disappointing on their mother’s face.
I’m sick of little fucks like you. Everyone I ever respected is dead or retired and here I am locking up with a scrawny little nothing because a hundred kids is a lotta fucking alimony. Well, fuck you. You don’t mean shit to me little man. You’ll walk in there and it’ll be a big day for you, but the second that match is done I’ll forget your name and your face. I’ll collect my fucking money from Zaigon’s man and I’ll go bury my dick in the mouth of the finest whores this city will give me.
None of this matters, in the end.
All that matters is getting paid, getting fucked, and fucking the world back a little.
You think you’re gonna do something. That they’ll remember you in the end. That you’ll be loved and respected and that all your days will be great. Then in forty years you’ll be fucked up as shit doing sixteen drugs at once because everything hurts and the world doesn’t give a shit about you the second you stop being the best. You think this is the beginning of a long career. That being a champion will save you. But nothing can save you, because there is no being saved.
We’re all fucked in the end.
Fuck you if you think you’re better than it.
