Post by Deleted on Oct 16, 2014 19:09:39 GMT -5
The Accidental Convert, or How I Avoided A Fight With Joe And An "Accidental" Drug Overdose
It started out a good day, and then it went to Hell...
I woke up in the cozy confines of my bus, attached my foot, and went about my normal day when it comes to the day of the fight. I start off with four eggs over easy, four pieces of whole wheat toast, scrapple, and usually a carafe of orange juice. Once I had consumed the breakfast of choice, I was ready to step out into the world, only the world was dark outside. Unnaturally.
I had no big interviews left to do, at least until before the show, so I opted NOT to go mingle today. It was strange. The sun shined into the bus, but every time I step out of the bus, dark as all hell. Like the sky is going to open up, and something unnatural was going to crash down on me. I considered it a bad omen right from the word "go".
I stayed in the bus all day, but refraining from taking drugs on the day of the fight was becoming harder and harder to do. I broke down once and smoked some weed, but I kept it as minimal as I could. It took me a whole day to smoke down a joint to half of what it started out as. I don't know about you, but in my world, that's restraint!
It finally got to the point where I had no choice but to go inside of the arena. I grabbed some painkillers and some Ritalin for after the match. I knew this night was probably going to be painful, so I might as well get ready for it. The first thing that I encountered as I walked in from the garage was Joe, who looked as if he had been beaten something awful. This infuriated me, as I wanted a fair and even match. I helped him to his feet, and I gave him a painkiller and a Ritalin. At least he may have a fighting chance later on.
Boy, was I wrong.
Shortly after assisting Joe, his attackers came back, and I was caught up in the mess. Needless to say, I got my ass kicked, but not nearly as bad as poor Joe. Poor Joe. Why the fuck am I feeling sorry for him, right now? To make my night even worse, Joe STILL managed to walk to the ring, survived both a Phantom Itch and a Chuck Norris Special, only to roll my ass up when I lost focus. Well, I can't even be angry at Joe, or Chelsea, or Alex for my total lapse of focus. I should've just pinned him, but it felt so damn cheap to win like that. I still don't like losing...
The only highlight of the night was when I scored some super-strong green stuff from Johnny Reb. He's a little strange, but at least he has good weed. I may have just met my future connection, though I may have to limit myself with that stuff. I swear I almost coughed out a lung. I brought the stuff back to the bus, and both my lawyer and the bus driver partook, and away we went for the evening. I don't remember much about the night, but when I awoke the next morning, I found myself fully clothed and my foot still attached, with the clothes soaking wet, and curled up next to a girl with clothes that are just as soaked as mine.
To make matters worse, she looked young. Like jailbait young. At least she was clothed. Or her top was on. I was kind of afraid to look under the covers. I still had jeans on, but would my fly be open? Is she wearing easily accessible clothing? Like a miniskirt? I finally suck it up, and I look to see that she herself, is wearing jeans. And from the looks of it, my fly was firmly in the "up" position.
I breathed a sigh of relief, but now that the initial panic was subsiding, I finally pay attention to the rest of my surroundings, like where the fuck is all the loud music coming from? I could hear people outside. Are we STILL throwing a party? I look at my watch, and it says 10:42 AM. JESUS H. CHRIST! They've been going at it for over 12 hours! There better be some cocaine left, or I'm going to kick my lawyer's greedy whore of a nose directly into his greedy whore of a brain. I lifted my torso up, and jailbait started to stir. She opened her eyes, looked at me, and smiled, as she said...
Girl: Good morning, sunshine!
Gonzo: What the fuck did we do last night?
Girl: Well, for me, it all started out when I got free tickets from my brother to come to this event. I saw it, and as we were leaving, you and two other guys were in the fountain in front of the arena. You invited a bunch of people leaving to join and have a party over here. At some point, I offered up some acid, and you were the only one willing to partake. We took it, and then we crashed in here.
Gonzo: So we definitely didn't bone, right?
Girl: No, although...
She all of a sudden reached underneath the blanket and started grabbing for my crank. I pulled myself back and said...
Gonzo: Are you even legal?
Girl: (chuckling) Yes. Barely, but yes. I just turned 18 in September. I have my ID somewhere...
She reaches down into her pants, as I await, somewhat nervous. What if she had a fake ID? A GOOD fake ID, and this shit comes back to bite me in the ass? But she pulls it out, and its soaked. But it holds up. It even has the Washington State Seal laminated like a watermark. And her birthday was September 12, 1996. Then I started to think to myself, the last time I banged an 18 year-old, I was in high school. I had always had more of a fondness for the older ladies. They generally know what they want, and are not afraid to tell you if it is or isn't any good. I owe a lot of my sexual prowess to those older ladies I managed to sleep with during my formative years, and I continue to pay them back by giving them excellent sex whenever the opportunity presents itself.
But this girl was here, and she was willing, and she took off her shirt, and there were two excellent nipples just pointing at me, beckoning my mouth to nibble just a little bit on her, what I imagine, to be sugary-sweet nipples, as she slightly moans with pleasure. She was much taller than she appeared, but very lean. It seemed the only thing to this girl's chest was nipples, but they'll do for now.
I got my shirt off, as I gave her nipples some relief from my mouth, when I hear a slam against the bus, and the door to the bus getting slammed. The next thing I hear is Steeltoe Joe and Lazlo on my bus, yelling at each other...
STJ: Where the fuck is he?
Lazlo: I don't know! I haven't seen him all night, now please get the fuck off the bus. And we're all armed.
STJ: I don't give a shit about that. You think I'm not armed? I got God on my side! Is he back here? Deuce! DEUCE!!! GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE!
Gonzo: (under my breath) Fuck...
I got to my feet, as I retrieved a dry t-shirt to meet with Steeltoe Joe. Then, I got a question that almost always gets me to feel bad about myself...
Girl: Oh my God! How did you get all of those burns?
I didn't bother giving her an answer. Instead, I opened the door to see what has Joe's ass lit on fire. As soon as I open the door, he locks eyes on me, as I say...
Gonzo: What the fuck is your problem, dude?
STJ: What the hell? You... You look so...
Gonzo: What? I look like what?
STJ: What the fuck did you give me last night? I felt painkiller, but what the fuck was that other shit? Some type of LSD? Trying to make me lose the match?
Gonzo: What the fuck are you talking about? I gave you a painkiller and some Ritalin to counteract the effects of the grogginess that goes with narcotics. I'm pretty damn good with drugs, considering I've been around them for over half of my life. If you can't handle your shit, then that's your problem. Quit asking me for drugs.
STJ: But you got... Wings.
I give him a really weird look, and then I say to Joe...
Gonzo: What does he look like? My lawyer, what does he look like?
Joe turns to him, and he says...
STJ: Its probably because he's a lawyer, but his soul looks kind of dark, but not like yours. Yet I see feathered wings. How in the fuck can you have such a damaged soul, but the wings of an archangel?
Strange question, indeed. Why the fuck would he see wings on me? I'm no angel. Far from it. As a matter of fact, I left God behind years ago, when I saw what war does to people. When I saw lines of caskets at Bagram, the piles of bodies in Fallujah of men, women, and children. The surviving Kurds who were attacked with mustard gas years before. How could there be a God in a world that allows people to do this to each other? Why is there no divine intervention for those poor souls, and yet I get to still walk on Earth?
But here was a strange question. Why the fuck was he seeing shit? Like soul stuff? I remember specifically isolating those particular "pills" from my drug bag. I was considering giving Joe one in the future, should he remain reliable and a real ally, but this was definitely not the time for this "awakening". He looked as if he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, so I say to him...
Gonzo: I don't know how, but you've managed to take the Red Pill. I'm afraid I do not have any Blue Pills to reverse the effects of the Red Pill.
STJ: What the fuck are you talking about? Red pill? You have never given me a red pill.
I go back into my bedroom, and I open up a tin that I reserve for my most dangerous drugs. Within its contents were pharmaceutical grade narcotics, such as morphine, codeine, heroin, and crank. But none of the Red Pills. I KNOW I put them in here, but who's been fucking with my stuff? Did I do it? Did I lose my mind one night and take all the pills out and mixed them with my drugs? I then say...
Gonzo: Z, get everybody out of here, now. Someone's been fucking with my serious shit. Clear this fucking place out, now!
I turn to the bedroom, where the girl was still sitting, with the covers over her vital areas, as I say...
Gonzo: Sorry about your luck, sweetheart, but we're going to have to do this another time. Add me on Facebook, but you've got to go. Serious shit about to happen.
Girl: Aww...
She sighs in protest, but puts her shirt on and stands up, buttoning her jeans in the process. She walks past myself and Joe, and departs the bus, as I hear Lazlo and TMac sounding off to the crowd that the party was over. I offer Joe a seat and a cup of coffee, as I say...
Gonzo: I don't know how fresh the coffee is, but we don't drug the coffee. Its usually drug enough by itself.
Joe takes the cup, and puts it away quickly, as a slight smile crosses his face, and says...
STJ: Good coffee...
At this point, both Lazlo and TMac were on the bus, as Joe looks at TMac and says...
STJ: Demon! Devil! Saboteur!
At that point, Joe jumps from his seat, and starts pounding away on TMac. T fights back, but is probably giving away over a hundred pounds to Joe, and Joe easily overpowers him and locks him in a sleeper hold, as Joe crumples TMac over. Both myself and Lazlo pry Joe off, but not before TMac goes to Dreamland. I further pull Joe out of the bus, while he continues to try and assault TMac. I say...
Gonzo: What the fuck is wrong with you? You just attacked my driver!
STJ: It's him! He's the saboteur! He's responsible for tainting the well!
Gonzo: No fucking way! T don't normally touch drugs!
STJ: I saw all the sins, man! He's been stealing your writing when prompted by other wrestlers! Your personal journals, your drugs. Hell, he's even tainted your strongest stuff, like the morphine? And he put all the little Red Pills in with all the other drugs. He's colored them differently with his art supplies to look like other pills of a similar size!
I don't want to believe it, but if there would be someone who could do that, it would be him. He's probably doing this as revenge for the beating I gave him prior to War. Hell, if he really wanted to fuck with me, why didn't he report me to the authorities for what happened in Phoenix? Then I think to myself "I could easily make bail and kill him when I find out it was him who ratted me out."
I decide to err on the safe side. I go back into the bus, and I get my tin full of the hard narcotics. I find my bottle of morphine, 0.7% solution, and I get a syringe and a rubber plank. I walk back into the main cabin, where Lazlo was reviving TMac. I pick TMac off of the ground by his arm, and I sling him into the bench, before I sit opposite of him in the other bench across the table. He looks at me, with groggy eyes, as I slide the syringe and the plank over to him, and I say...
Gonzo: Put it in your arm.
TMac: What? Are you crazy? I don't fuck with that shit.
Gonzo: Today, and only today, you do. Put the needle in your arm.
TMac: You crazy! I ain't gotta take this shit...
He goes to rise, but I nod to Lazlo, and he forces TMac back into his seat, as TMac says...
TMac: You going to believe that crazy-ass cracker priest over me? I've been rolling with you since almost the beginning!
Gonzo: He hasn't given me any reason to doubt him, but you have so far. You want to prove him wrong? Put the fucking needle in your arm, and push the plunger. It's not a lot. Just 2 CC's of morphine. It'll be out of your system in probably an hour or two. So what are you afraid of.
And then I see it. The facade was cracking. He had been hiding in a fake visage, but it was now starting to become apparent he was more than meets the eye. His eyes turned red, and his soul, or what passed as a soul, was completely gone. His form was brittle.
He had sold his soul, and it twisted him into a wight! He lunged at me from across the table, but I slam my head into his face, and he rockets backwards in his bench. I then grab him by the throat, and I drag him from the bus. I almost hit Joe when I launched TMac from the bus, but I didn't care. Something tells me Joe wouldn't care, either. I then start stomping a hole in TMac, as he writhes and screams in pain as I punish him for his transgressions against me. I started to stomp on his head, when Joe pulls me from him, whispering...
STJ: Deuce, Deuce, Deuce, he's not worth it...
I let him pull me away for a moment, but as soon as he let me go, I went back to TMac in a flash, and I started stomping on him some more, as he tries in vain to crawl away from the onslaught I was bringing to him. However, Joe gets to me before I could get in more than two kicks. He even lifts me in the air, which I did NOT appreciate...
STJ: Come on, Gonzo! Leave him be!
Gonzo: Put me the fuck down! I'm going to kill this fucker!
STJ: He's not fucking worth it! You got your point across!
Gonzo: No, I haven't! He hasn't got the point of my blade, yet! I'm going to scalp this motherfucker, and I'm going to wear his scalp on my outfit after I piss on his dead body! You never fuck with an Iroquois or a SEAL, fucker! I don't care if you were a fucking Devil Dog or not! You hear me, motherfucker!?
I was back on solid ground, but Joe kept a barrier between me and TMac. I was still super pissed, but I had resigned myself to the fact that today was not going to be the day I kill this particular motherfucker.
Gonzo: If I ever see your black ass ever again, you're going to wish I finished the job today, fucker! You're lucky this is just a fucking Love Letter! Fucker!
At that moment, Joe gave me an inch, and I took it far enough so that I could get one swift kick in on TMac's face. That was followed by the sound of teeth skipping across the parking lot. I turned around, and started walking away, as Joe came in and grabbed me up once again. I just let myself sink, as I said...
Gonzo: I'm done now. You can put me down. You need a ride to the next town?
STJ: I don't mind if I do! Good Lord always provides, and I'm grateful.
Gonzo: Welcome aboard. Now since you're a pastor, can you tell me if you're in possession of a Class B CDL?
Gonzo Drinks Your Milkshake While Flying Business Class In Da Hood!: A Blog
Yes, this is the song I listen to whenever I fly. I mentally prepare myself for crashing by listening to a song about crashing while going at a super-accelerated rate of speed. Granted, this fucking flying soda can will most likely hit water rather than dirt, but its still going to suck.
This actually reminded me of when I was flying to Afghanistan for my third and final Navy deployment back in December, 2005. Sometime while we were over the Atlantic, we lost altitude for whatever reason while cruising at the usual 30,000 feet ceiling. All I remember was someone shaking my arm, while the plane was falling from the sky, and someone pulling my earphones from my head, as this girl screams "WE'RE GOING DOWN!!!" at the top of her lungs into my ear. The irony was that I was travelling with the bulk of a patrol squadron's maintenance element, so this plane was full to the brim with aircraft maintenance technicians and mechanics. I smile now as I think of the irony that a plane full of aircraft mechanics and technicians could've died during a flight. Definitely news worthy material, if not just outright sad.
What did I do? I just shrugged my shoulders and resumed listening to Megadeth, to which I think I was listening to "Sweating Bullets" at the time. If we go down, there's really nothing I can do but shit myself when everyone else voids their bowels. But knowing my luck, I'll have survived the crash. And if there's anybody else who survives, they'll probably be eaten by sharks, but they'll leave me alone. And I'll probably be stuck on some bullshit seat cushion as my only flotation device. If I even cared to grab it.
Despite my stoic attitude towards dying that day in a plane crash in the middle of the Atlantic, I still hate flying. Ever since I took that tumble out of the gunner's seat twelve years ago, I've dreaded getting on any other aircraft regardless of the reason. Lazlo knew this. Hell, he's the one who fished my ass out of the water all those years ago. But he knew that I'll keep the stoicism for as long as it takes to get me to Business Class and to throw a scotch or twelve in me before takeoff.
Now was the part that sucks. We get put in Business Class first, then everyone in Coach has to squeeze past us. Who comes up with this shit? Our rich asses have to get in the way of the poor and downtrodden even at the airport? Granted, I love getting handed a drink as soon as we get on the plane, but this was kind of low. Especially when you get the big-time architect that has to bring every fucking blueprint he owns with him, so everyone walking past him trips or crushes one or more of his tubes. Even better is the secretary-type who has a stack of manila envelopes that are just BEGGING to be knocked out of her hands by an unsuspecting child, who will no doubt get a face full of bush, and a head-full of papers just raining down on his head, as she steps in his way as he tries to keep a hold of his mothers hand.
Fortunately for the architect, nobody steps or trips on his shit, but I'll be damned if I didn't call her dumping all those papers on the kid, and now the mom and the secretary are getting into it. I'm three or four deep in scotch right now, but this was totally uncalled for! I'm going to put this bitch in her place...
I go to turn on my tape recorder, but I notice it was already on! Well, I do talk in my sleep, and sometimes I say interesting shit. In Russian, and Urdu, and French, and sometimes German, though my stuff in German is more funny than interesting. Anyways, off to school this rich bitch.
Gonzo: Heyy... Wuz the problem?
The secretary saw me and knew me for what I was right away. A royal pain in her ass. Mom just looked at me in disgust, because it was obvious that I was already drunk and I've only been on the plane for twenty minutes, tops. And now the token gay flight attendant made an appearance, and I felt kind of awkward, all of a sudden. I knew the flight attendant will probably brown-nose with the rich bitch, so I figure I'll handle this like always do. Head on, and with a blow they'll be reeling from immediately...
Gonzo: Alright, I saw the whole thing! Lady, you stepped on this poor kid and dumped all your damned folders on his poor head. You stepped in his way! Poor kid just wanted to stay with Mom, here. And now you want to give static? WTF?
Yes, I said WTF in front of the kid, instead of "What the fuck". I may be an asshole, but I'm not rude or inconsiderate, especially when advocating for the little guys. Mom all of a sudden got a little interested in me. Granted, I was a drunk, hot mess, but I guess it got Mom a little wet in the saddle when I stood up for her and the little guy. And then this tall guy came into the picture from Coach. Definitely in construction. Masonry. His hands had a look of being hardened through the handling of bricks and mortar. He'd saved up all year, probably, to go for probably four days to the Pacific Paradise that is Hawaii. Only to get shit on almost immediately.
I'm going to leave Mom alone. Granted, she could be fun, and she was in my wheelhouse, but this guy doesn't deserve to get shit on by me, even though he's a little tardy to the party. So I say...
Gonzo: Oh look, now. Now you've upset Hubby! You better sit down!
Flight Attendant: No, sir. YOU need to sit down!
Gonzo: I knew you were going to back her cracker-ass when I saw you walk up. Turn your... Whatever the hell your ass is, around and deal with Coach. Bitch!
Everyone's face drops at the last statement. I feel my face cringe, as I whisper "sorry" quietly to the young boy. Mom and Dad just kind of hustle away, trying like crazy to now distance themselves from the "Crazy Drunk Man" that Mom tells the young boy, after he enquirers about "What is wrong with that man?"
Gee, kid. I wish I knew. Then I could tell you, and try to make you understand without giving you nightmares for the rest of your life. And then I think back to a year ago. I was in the hospital in Germany. Three months after my arrival, I tried to OD on morphine after I lifted the key for the morphine regulator from my doctor, and upped my dosage to lethal range. I failed, however, in removing my monitors from my body, I was so anxious for the ultimate high, Death! I could still hear the sway of the hanging fabric, as the Grim Reaper came to me with open arms. And I had my arms open for him...
And then...
I shot up from the table like I was inside a cannon! My breathing was shallow and labored, but my eyes were wide the fuck open! I thought they were going to pop out of my head! There was already a tube down my throat, and holy fuck, that hurt! I was forced back down on the bed, and physically restrained.
I never tried to kill myself again after that, but sometimes I do think about it. Especially when I got out of jail. I had hit the lowest of lows. I was still a hot, sloppy mess, as I thought of her all the time. Of course, she had did the same thing to our mutual friends as time continued to pass. She has now alienated every mutual friend we had, like she had gone mad. In hindsight, I'm glad I didn't kill myself over her, and I'm glad that I didn't damage my liver over her, either. Now, all the liver damage I do to myself is because of other shit.
But moments like these? The ones where I traumatize the innocent? Those are the times that I sometimes wish that the cup of sorrow I poured into my veins actually took hold and allowed me to embrace the Reaper. Because now I hear him, as close as ever. As if he's sitting next to me, waiting. Always incorporeal, but there. The ghosts don't even bother me, like I sometimes see ghosts pine over their families, or haunt those that had wronged the ghost in life. I have no ghost. Surprising, but no ghost. Just the Grim Fucking Reaper.
The Grim Reaper came into my existence in August, 2002. I was 19 years old, and it was my first deployment. The location of our operations: South America and the Caribbean Islands. The Mission: Stem the flow of drug trafficking through South and Central America, and the Caribbean Sea. I was fresh out of Search and Rescue School, and for several months before that, I was engaged Corpsman school and BUD/S. I had decided after finishing BUD/S that I would rather save lives than take them, and I opted to go to Search and Rescue School. I was still recruited for NAVGRU, and later, the SAD, due to my abilities as a polyglot.
There are some missions to this day that I participated in and are still classified that occurred in 2002-03. However, the amount of confirmed kills I got during that six month period was ridiculous. I earned, ironically enough, the Reaper Title for most confirmed kills. My second deployment I came a close second, but I still had a high number. And the third deployment? I was grateful that I did not have to kill anybody. I actually got to save lives. I worked with the SEEBEES in building refugee camps in Kuwait. Probably the best work I've ever done in my life for the sake of humanity.
However, once I walked away from the Navy to pursue other goals, I got dragged in again by the CIA, due to the nature of my work, its travel schedule, and my skills as an actor, make-up artist, and linguist. No, being a make-up artist does not make me gay. It makes me a fucking master of disguise. I could be anywhere, and anybody, and nobody would know it. Hell, I could've made myself up as Gravedigger and attacked Steeltoe Joe myself. I just would've had a really hard time finding members of MS-13. But if I did, I could mimic Digger's voice to make it sound like him, at least at a normal volume. I could also disguise myself as Natty Ice Beckman, and probably fool Chelsea into opening up her purple pubic clam for me. Probably with some really interesting dirty talk, but I'll save that for another day. And with him being my teammate, I really don't want to piss him off. But I've found that no matter how nice or restrained I am, I come off as phony, so fuck it. I write what I want. At least people know I'm real and keeping it real. And if Iceman really does have a problem, he can come find me and we can handle our business.
Speaking of her, it is a date that I have with this pretty thing in Hawaii that is the reason I'm on this damned flying soda can. Not a date in the traditional sense. No, she's too rotten for me. Once upon a time, I would've saved her from her dreary relationship she had with my teammate, Seifer Black. And I totally understand. Fortunately for me, the psycho bitch I had walked out of my life, burning down every relationship she made with our mutual friends in the process. Yes, even her friends that liked her before me have turned to my side. I scored a lot of pity sex from them, and said they're okay with me telling her about it if it can piss her off. Yeah, they're pissed. Him? Well, you ran away from him, and he knows where to find you. And he seems to be a bit off his rocker. And he's on my team. Sucks to be you!
Sorry, you're not the center of my world, like you are for so many men in the WCF. I'm surprised you haven't been able to absorb the Vapor Kings into your little Brat Pack you got going on. But I guess the initiation gangbang was too much for you. Yeah, I wouldn't want to have sex with Zombie if you paid me millions of dollars, either. I wouldn't want the rigid little snake-penis of Buddy Roman inside of me, either. I would've said Orbit lost his hard-on months ago, but he proved otherwise when he went fucking hard against Grayson at Slam 300. They both showed true hearts of warriors that night, something I cannot say for the whole of The Pack. God, I wish I could've had that kind of battle with Joe. Who knows? Seth'll probably want to book it again, even though he saw my heart wasn't into fighting Joe like that. Although I could relieve myself of that embarrassing loss.
But Chelsea gives me this vibe that while she really wants to stand on her own and be somebody without all of the protection, she knows she cannot. And it is a woman thing. I'm not saying that to point out that you're a girl in a man's world. But you ARE a girl in a man's world. You are the fucking Danica Patrick of professional wrestling. You get in there with men, and you fight hard. And you win often. And you can still do all of this on your own. Inside of the ring, you're safe. Nobody's going to lose control in there. That's where professionalism comes into play. So its alright to play a little rough in the Romper Room we call the ring.
But outside of it, you become a woman. You want to stay safe wherever you are. You've got to protect your babies, whether they're in egg, embryo, or live germ factory form. And the only time you'll ever lose your shit is if any of those three are is grave danger. Speaking of the second form of babies, you might want to get that checked out. The girls look a little bigger than usual, or did you wear a push-up bra? Yes, Chelsea, I know you'll be reading this. I know all of The Pack are reading this, and that's great! As of right now, I drink your milkshake! As you continue to pump my visitor counter up, up, and away, I'm getting paid for all of your anger, frustrations, and insults you are throwing at your computer screen right now as I talk about your tits! How does that feel, little girl? How would the general public feel that your misery and agony over reading this is a source of revenue and humor for me? They know, and I let them know, because it is the right thing to do, and they love it, too. I was a poet and didn't know it! But that is how you gain loyalty. Are you now pledging your loyalty to me as I drink your milkshake that brings all the boys to the yard, but they never get a taste? Tell me, Chelsea, why hide your feelings? You know a real man when you see one. A hero. Broken, yes, but a hero nonetheless. You WANT the hero. The Broken Hero. I like the sound of that. Broken Hero. Well, you're going to get him.
The only problem is that while the woman inside of you longs for the hero, you are the still the enemy. And I cannot afford the luxury of distinguishing the fact that you are female. That doesn't matter when you're getting shot at by an eleven year-old on a poppy plantation that we've been ordered to set fire to in order to curb the heroin trade. I had to make a decision that I still hate to this day, but that young man is no more, and I'm still here to lament it. And if you pull some shit like that, you may be no more as well. As I said before, when you step into that ring with me, you put your life in my hands. And I won't hesitate to kill you if you put me in that situation. But know that I will mourn your death.
So go ahead and rant your hatred of me and what you're going to have the Brat Pack do to me before, during, after, or instead of the match, and maybe even threaten to cut off ICE if he doesn't sexually violate me. Go ahead! Either way, I drink your milkshake! I DRINK IT UP!
Gonzo out, Bitchaz! And remember, Chelsea... In case you forgot... I drink YOUR MILKSHAKE! I DRINK IT UP! LIKE VAMPIRE LESBIAN WHORES DRINK MENSTRUAL BLOOD! YUMMY!!!
P.S.- For those that are curious on how to find me, I'll be at the U.S.S. Arizona to both pay my respects for those that have fallen in the name of the United States, and for a meet and greet/autograph session. Remember to bring a camera for the occasion, as personal pictures with Gonzo are always free! Signed glossies will be $5 each. Signed T-Shirts will be $15. T-Shirts brought and worn will be signed for free! Active Duty, Veterans and their children are eligible to receive free signed glossies!
It started out a good day, and then it went to Hell...
I woke up in the cozy confines of my bus, attached my foot, and went about my normal day when it comes to the day of the fight. I start off with four eggs over easy, four pieces of whole wheat toast, scrapple, and usually a carafe of orange juice. Once I had consumed the breakfast of choice, I was ready to step out into the world, only the world was dark outside. Unnaturally.
I had no big interviews left to do, at least until before the show, so I opted NOT to go mingle today. It was strange. The sun shined into the bus, but every time I step out of the bus, dark as all hell. Like the sky is going to open up, and something unnatural was going to crash down on me. I considered it a bad omen right from the word "go".
I stayed in the bus all day, but refraining from taking drugs on the day of the fight was becoming harder and harder to do. I broke down once and smoked some weed, but I kept it as minimal as I could. It took me a whole day to smoke down a joint to half of what it started out as. I don't know about you, but in my world, that's restraint!
It finally got to the point where I had no choice but to go inside of the arena. I grabbed some painkillers and some Ritalin for after the match. I knew this night was probably going to be painful, so I might as well get ready for it. The first thing that I encountered as I walked in from the garage was Joe, who looked as if he had been beaten something awful. This infuriated me, as I wanted a fair and even match. I helped him to his feet, and I gave him a painkiller and a Ritalin. At least he may have a fighting chance later on.
Boy, was I wrong.
Shortly after assisting Joe, his attackers came back, and I was caught up in the mess. Needless to say, I got my ass kicked, but not nearly as bad as poor Joe. Poor Joe. Why the fuck am I feeling sorry for him, right now? To make my night even worse, Joe STILL managed to walk to the ring, survived both a Phantom Itch and a Chuck Norris Special, only to roll my ass up when I lost focus. Well, I can't even be angry at Joe, or Chelsea, or Alex for my total lapse of focus. I should've just pinned him, but it felt so damn cheap to win like that. I still don't like losing...
The only highlight of the night was when I scored some super-strong green stuff from Johnny Reb. He's a little strange, but at least he has good weed. I may have just met my future connection, though I may have to limit myself with that stuff. I swear I almost coughed out a lung. I brought the stuff back to the bus, and both my lawyer and the bus driver partook, and away we went for the evening. I don't remember much about the night, but when I awoke the next morning, I found myself fully clothed and my foot still attached, with the clothes soaking wet, and curled up next to a girl with clothes that are just as soaked as mine.
To make matters worse, she looked young. Like jailbait young. At least she was clothed. Or her top was on. I was kind of afraid to look under the covers. I still had jeans on, but would my fly be open? Is she wearing easily accessible clothing? Like a miniskirt? I finally suck it up, and I look to see that she herself, is wearing jeans. And from the looks of it, my fly was firmly in the "up" position.
I breathed a sigh of relief, but now that the initial panic was subsiding, I finally pay attention to the rest of my surroundings, like where the fuck is all the loud music coming from? I could hear people outside. Are we STILL throwing a party? I look at my watch, and it says 10:42 AM. JESUS H. CHRIST! They've been going at it for over 12 hours! There better be some cocaine left, or I'm going to kick my lawyer's greedy whore of a nose directly into his greedy whore of a brain. I lifted my torso up, and jailbait started to stir. She opened her eyes, looked at me, and smiled, as she said...
Girl: Good morning, sunshine!
Gonzo: What the fuck did we do last night?
Girl: Well, for me, it all started out when I got free tickets from my brother to come to this event. I saw it, and as we were leaving, you and two other guys were in the fountain in front of the arena. You invited a bunch of people leaving to join and have a party over here. At some point, I offered up some acid, and you were the only one willing to partake. We took it, and then we crashed in here.
Gonzo: So we definitely didn't bone, right?
Girl: No, although...
She all of a sudden reached underneath the blanket and started grabbing for my crank. I pulled myself back and said...
Gonzo: Are you even legal?
Girl: (chuckling) Yes. Barely, but yes. I just turned 18 in September. I have my ID somewhere...
She reaches down into her pants, as I await, somewhat nervous. What if she had a fake ID? A GOOD fake ID, and this shit comes back to bite me in the ass? But she pulls it out, and its soaked. But it holds up. It even has the Washington State Seal laminated like a watermark. And her birthday was September 12, 1996. Then I started to think to myself, the last time I banged an 18 year-old, I was in high school. I had always had more of a fondness for the older ladies. They generally know what they want, and are not afraid to tell you if it is or isn't any good. I owe a lot of my sexual prowess to those older ladies I managed to sleep with during my formative years, and I continue to pay them back by giving them excellent sex whenever the opportunity presents itself.
But this girl was here, and she was willing, and she took off her shirt, and there were two excellent nipples just pointing at me, beckoning my mouth to nibble just a little bit on her, what I imagine, to be sugary-sweet nipples, as she slightly moans with pleasure. She was much taller than she appeared, but very lean. It seemed the only thing to this girl's chest was nipples, but they'll do for now.
I got my shirt off, as I gave her nipples some relief from my mouth, when I hear a slam against the bus, and the door to the bus getting slammed. The next thing I hear is Steeltoe Joe and Lazlo on my bus, yelling at each other...
STJ: Where the fuck is he?
Lazlo: I don't know! I haven't seen him all night, now please get the fuck off the bus. And we're all armed.
STJ: I don't give a shit about that. You think I'm not armed? I got God on my side! Is he back here? Deuce! DEUCE!!! GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE!
Gonzo: (under my breath) Fuck...
I got to my feet, as I retrieved a dry t-shirt to meet with Steeltoe Joe. Then, I got a question that almost always gets me to feel bad about myself...
Girl: Oh my God! How did you get all of those burns?
I didn't bother giving her an answer. Instead, I opened the door to see what has Joe's ass lit on fire. As soon as I open the door, he locks eyes on me, as I say...
Gonzo: What the fuck is your problem, dude?
STJ: What the hell? You... You look so...
Gonzo: What? I look like what?
STJ: What the fuck did you give me last night? I felt painkiller, but what the fuck was that other shit? Some type of LSD? Trying to make me lose the match?
Gonzo: What the fuck are you talking about? I gave you a painkiller and some Ritalin to counteract the effects of the grogginess that goes with narcotics. I'm pretty damn good with drugs, considering I've been around them for over half of my life. If you can't handle your shit, then that's your problem. Quit asking me for drugs.
STJ: But you got... Wings.
I give him a really weird look, and then I say to Joe...
Gonzo: What does he look like? My lawyer, what does he look like?
Joe turns to him, and he says...
STJ: Its probably because he's a lawyer, but his soul looks kind of dark, but not like yours. Yet I see feathered wings. How in the fuck can you have such a damaged soul, but the wings of an archangel?
Strange question, indeed. Why the fuck would he see wings on me? I'm no angel. Far from it. As a matter of fact, I left God behind years ago, when I saw what war does to people. When I saw lines of caskets at Bagram, the piles of bodies in Fallujah of men, women, and children. The surviving Kurds who were attacked with mustard gas years before. How could there be a God in a world that allows people to do this to each other? Why is there no divine intervention for those poor souls, and yet I get to still walk on Earth?
But here was a strange question. Why the fuck was he seeing shit? Like soul stuff? I remember specifically isolating those particular "pills" from my drug bag. I was considering giving Joe one in the future, should he remain reliable and a real ally, but this was definitely not the time for this "awakening". He looked as if he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, so I say to him...
Gonzo: I don't know how, but you've managed to take the Red Pill. I'm afraid I do not have any Blue Pills to reverse the effects of the Red Pill.
STJ: What the fuck are you talking about? Red pill? You have never given me a red pill.
I go back into my bedroom, and I open up a tin that I reserve for my most dangerous drugs. Within its contents were pharmaceutical grade narcotics, such as morphine, codeine, heroin, and crank. But none of the Red Pills. I KNOW I put them in here, but who's been fucking with my stuff? Did I do it? Did I lose my mind one night and take all the pills out and mixed them with my drugs? I then say...
Gonzo: Z, get everybody out of here, now. Someone's been fucking with my serious shit. Clear this fucking place out, now!
I turn to the bedroom, where the girl was still sitting, with the covers over her vital areas, as I say...
Gonzo: Sorry about your luck, sweetheart, but we're going to have to do this another time. Add me on Facebook, but you've got to go. Serious shit about to happen.
Girl: Aww...
She sighs in protest, but puts her shirt on and stands up, buttoning her jeans in the process. She walks past myself and Joe, and departs the bus, as I hear Lazlo and TMac sounding off to the crowd that the party was over. I offer Joe a seat and a cup of coffee, as I say...
Gonzo: I don't know how fresh the coffee is, but we don't drug the coffee. Its usually drug enough by itself.
Joe takes the cup, and puts it away quickly, as a slight smile crosses his face, and says...
STJ: Good coffee...
At this point, both Lazlo and TMac were on the bus, as Joe looks at TMac and says...
STJ: Demon! Devil! Saboteur!
At that point, Joe jumps from his seat, and starts pounding away on TMac. T fights back, but is probably giving away over a hundred pounds to Joe, and Joe easily overpowers him and locks him in a sleeper hold, as Joe crumples TMac over. Both myself and Lazlo pry Joe off, but not before TMac goes to Dreamland. I further pull Joe out of the bus, while he continues to try and assault TMac. I say...
Gonzo: What the fuck is wrong with you? You just attacked my driver!
STJ: It's him! He's the saboteur! He's responsible for tainting the well!
Gonzo: No fucking way! T don't normally touch drugs!
STJ: I saw all the sins, man! He's been stealing your writing when prompted by other wrestlers! Your personal journals, your drugs. Hell, he's even tainted your strongest stuff, like the morphine? And he put all the little Red Pills in with all the other drugs. He's colored them differently with his art supplies to look like other pills of a similar size!
I don't want to believe it, but if there would be someone who could do that, it would be him. He's probably doing this as revenge for the beating I gave him prior to War. Hell, if he really wanted to fuck with me, why didn't he report me to the authorities for what happened in Phoenix? Then I think to myself "I could easily make bail and kill him when I find out it was him who ratted me out."
I decide to err on the safe side. I go back into the bus, and I get my tin full of the hard narcotics. I find my bottle of morphine, 0.7% solution, and I get a syringe and a rubber plank. I walk back into the main cabin, where Lazlo was reviving TMac. I pick TMac off of the ground by his arm, and I sling him into the bench, before I sit opposite of him in the other bench across the table. He looks at me, with groggy eyes, as I slide the syringe and the plank over to him, and I say...
Gonzo: Put it in your arm.
TMac: What? Are you crazy? I don't fuck with that shit.
Gonzo: Today, and only today, you do. Put the needle in your arm.
TMac: You crazy! I ain't gotta take this shit...
He goes to rise, but I nod to Lazlo, and he forces TMac back into his seat, as TMac says...
TMac: You going to believe that crazy-ass cracker priest over me? I've been rolling with you since almost the beginning!
Gonzo: He hasn't given me any reason to doubt him, but you have so far. You want to prove him wrong? Put the fucking needle in your arm, and push the plunger. It's not a lot. Just 2 CC's of morphine. It'll be out of your system in probably an hour or two. So what are you afraid of.
And then I see it. The facade was cracking. He had been hiding in a fake visage, but it was now starting to become apparent he was more than meets the eye. His eyes turned red, and his soul, or what passed as a soul, was completely gone. His form was brittle.
He had sold his soul, and it twisted him into a wight! He lunged at me from across the table, but I slam my head into his face, and he rockets backwards in his bench. I then grab him by the throat, and I drag him from the bus. I almost hit Joe when I launched TMac from the bus, but I didn't care. Something tells me Joe wouldn't care, either. I then start stomping a hole in TMac, as he writhes and screams in pain as I punish him for his transgressions against me. I started to stomp on his head, when Joe pulls me from him, whispering...
STJ: Deuce, Deuce, Deuce, he's not worth it...
I let him pull me away for a moment, but as soon as he let me go, I went back to TMac in a flash, and I started stomping on him some more, as he tries in vain to crawl away from the onslaught I was bringing to him. However, Joe gets to me before I could get in more than two kicks. He even lifts me in the air, which I did NOT appreciate...
STJ: Come on, Gonzo! Leave him be!
Gonzo: Put me the fuck down! I'm going to kill this fucker!
STJ: He's not fucking worth it! You got your point across!
Gonzo: No, I haven't! He hasn't got the point of my blade, yet! I'm going to scalp this motherfucker, and I'm going to wear his scalp on my outfit after I piss on his dead body! You never fuck with an Iroquois or a SEAL, fucker! I don't care if you were a fucking Devil Dog or not! You hear me, motherfucker!?
I was back on solid ground, but Joe kept a barrier between me and TMac. I was still super pissed, but I had resigned myself to the fact that today was not going to be the day I kill this particular motherfucker.
Gonzo: If I ever see your black ass ever again, you're going to wish I finished the job today, fucker! You're lucky this is just a fucking Love Letter! Fucker!
At that moment, Joe gave me an inch, and I took it far enough so that I could get one swift kick in on TMac's face. That was followed by the sound of teeth skipping across the parking lot. I turned around, and started walking away, as Joe came in and grabbed me up once again. I just let myself sink, as I said...
Gonzo: I'm done now. You can put me down. You need a ride to the next town?
STJ: I don't mind if I do! Good Lord always provides, and I'm grateful.
Gonzo: Welcome aboard. Now since you're a pastor, can you tell me if you're in possession of a Class B CDL?
Gonzo Drinks Your Milkshake While Flying Business Class In Da Hood!: A Blog
Yes, this is the song I listen to whenever I fly. I mentally prepare myself for crashing by listening to a song about crashing while going at a super-accelerated rate of speed. Granted, this fucking flying soda can will most likely hit water rather than dirt, but its still going to suck.
This actually reminded me of when I was flying to Afghanistan for my third and final Navy deployment back in December, 2005. Sometime while we were over the Atlantic, we lost altitude for whatever reason while cruising at the usual 30,000 feet ceiling. All I remember was someone shaking my arm, while the plane was falling from the sky, and someone pulling my earphones from my head, as this girl screams "WE'RE GOING DOWN!!!" at the top of her lungs into my ear. The irony was that I was travelling with the bulk of a patrol squadron's maintenance element, so this plane was full to the brim with aircraft maintenance technicians and mechanics. I smile now as I think of the irony that a plane full of aircraft mechanics and technicians could've died during a flight. Definitely news worthy material, if not just outright sad.
What did I do? I just shrugged my shoulders and resumed listening to Megadeth, to which I think I was listening to "Sweating Bullets" at the time. If we go down, there's really nothing I can do but shit myself when everyone else voids their bowels. But knowing my luck, I'll have survived the crash. And if there's anybody else who survives, they'll probably be eaten by sharks, but they'll leave me alone. And I'll probably be stuck on some bullshit seat cushion as my only flotation device. If I even cared to grab it.
Despite my stoic attitude towards dying that day in a plane crash in the middle of the Atlantic, I still hate flying. Ever since I took that tumble out of the gunner's seat twelve years ago, I've dreaded getting on any other aircraft regardless of the reason. Lazlo knew this. Hell, he's the one who fished my ass out of the water all those years ago. But he knew that I'll keep the stoicism for as long as it takes to get me to Business Class and to throw a scotch or twelve in me before takeoff.
Now was the part that sucks. We get put in Business Class first, then everyone in Coach has to squeeze past us. Who comes up with this shit? Our rich asses have to get in the way of the poor and downtrodden even at the airport? Granted, I love getting handed a drink as soon as we get on the plane, but this was kind of low. Especially when you get the big-time architect that has to bring every fucking blueprint he owns with him, so everyone walking past him trips or crushes one or more of his tubes. Even better is the secretary-type who has a stack of manila envelopes that are just BEGGING to be knocked out of her hands by an unsuspecting child, who will no doubt get a face full of bush, and a head-full of papers just raining down on his head, as she steps in his way as he tries to keep a hold of his mothers hand.
Fortunately for the architect, nobody steps or trips on his shit, but I'll be damned if I didn't call her dumping all those papers on the kid, and now the mom and the secretary are getting into it. I'm three or four deep in scotch right now, but this was totally uncalled for! I'm going to put this bitch in her place...
I go to turn on my tape recorder, but I notice it was already on! Well, I do talk in my sleep, and sometimes I say interesting shit. In Russian, and Urdu, and French, and sometimes German, though my stuff in German is more funny than interesting. Anyways, off to school this rich bitch.
Gonzo: Heyy... Wuz the problem?
The secretary saw me and knew me for what I was right away. A royal pain in her ass. Mom just looked at me in disgust, because it was obvious that I was already drunk and I've only been on the plane for twenty minutes, tops. And now the token gay flight attendant made an appearance, and I felt kind of awkward, all of a sudden. I knew the flight attendant will probably brown-nose with the rich bitch, so I figure I'll handle this like always do. Head on, and with a blow they'll be reeling from immediately...
Gonzo: Alright, I saw the whole thing! Lady, you stepped on this poor kid and dumped all your damned folders on his poor head. You stepped in his way! Poor kid just wanted to stay with Mom, here. And now you want to give static? WTF?
Yes, I said WTF in front of the kid, instead of "What the fuck". I may be an asshole, but I'm not rude or inconsiderate, especially when advocating for the little guys. Mom all of a sudden got a little interested in me. Granted, I was a drunk, hot mess, but I guess it got Mom a little wet in the saddle when I stood up for her and the little guy. And then this tall guy came into the picture from Coach. Definitely in construction. Masonry. His hands had a look of being hardened through the handling of bricks and mortar. He'd saved up all year, probably, to go for probably four days to the Pacific Paradise that is Hawaii. Only to get shit on almost immediately.
I'm going to leave Mom alone. Granted, she could be fun, and she was in my wheelhouse, but this guy doesn't deserve to get shit on by me, even though he's a little tardy to the party. So I say...
Gonzo: Oh look, now. Now you've upset Hubby! You better sit down!
Flight Attendant: No, sir. YOU need to sit down!
Gonzo: I knew you were going to back her cracker-ass when I saw you walk up. Turn your... Whatever the hell your ass is, around and deal with Coach. Bitch!
Everyone's face drops at the last statement. I feel my face cringe, as I whisper "sorry" quietly to the young boy. Mom and Dad just kind of hustle away, trying like crazy to now distance themselves from the "Crazy Drunk Man" that Mom tells the young boy, after he enquirers about "What is wrong with that man?"
Gee, kid. I wish I knew. Then I could tell you, and try to make you understand without giving you nightmares for the rest of your life. And then I think back to a year ago. I was in the hospital in Germany. Three months after my arrival, I tried to OD on morphine after I lifted the key for the morphine regulator from my doctor, and upped my dosage to lethal range. I failed, however, in removing my monitors from my body, I was so anxious for the ultimate high, Death! I could still hear the sway of the hanging fabric, as the Grim Reaper came to me with open arms. And I had my arms open for him...
And then...
I shot up from the table like I was inside a cannon! My breathing was shallow and labored, but my eyes were wide the fuck open! I thought they were going to pop out of my head! There was already a tube down my throat, and holy fuck, that hurt! I was forced back down on the bed, and physically restrained.
I never tried to kill myself again after that, but sometimes I do think about it. Especially when I got out of jail. I had hit the lowest of lows. I was still a hot, sloppy mess, as I thought of her all the time. Of course, she had did the same thing to our mutual friends as time continued to pass. She has now alienated every mutual friend we had, like she had gone mad. In hindsight, I'm glad I didn't kill myself over her, and I'm glad that I didn't damage my liver over her, either. Now, all the liver damage I do to myself is because of other shit.
But moments like these? The ones where I traumatize the innocent? Those are the times that I sometimes wish that the cup of sorrow I poured into my veins actually took hold and allowed me to embrace the Reaper. Because now I hear him, as close as ever. As if he's sitting next to me, waiting. Always incorporeal, but there. The ghosts don't even bother me, like I sometimes see ghosts pine over their families, or haunt those that had wronged the ghost in life. I have no ghost. Surprising, but no ghost. Just the Grim Fucking Reaper.
The Grim Reaper came into my existence in August, 2002. I was 19 years old, and it was my first deployment. The location of our operations: South America and the Caribbean Islands. The Mission: Stem the flow of drug trafficking through South and Central America, and the Caribbean Sea. I was fresh out of Search and Rescue School, and for several months before that, I was engaged Corpsman school and BUD/S. I had decided after finishing BUD/S that I would rather save lives than take them, and I opted to go to Search and Rescue School. I was still recruited for NAVGRU, and later, the SAD, due to my abilities as a polyglot.
There are some missions to this day that I participated in and are still classified that occurred in 2002-03. However, the amount of confirmed kills I got during that six month period was ridiculous. I earned, ironically enough, the Reaper Title for most confirmed kills. My second deployment I came a close second, but I still had a high number. And the third deployment? I was grateful that I did not have to kill anybody. I actually got to save lives. I worked with the SEEBEES in building refugee camps in Kuwait. Probably the best work I've ever done in my life for the sake of humanity.
However, once I walked away from the Navy to pursue other goals, I got dragged in again by the CIA, due to the nature of my work, its travel schedule, and my skills as an actor, make-up artist, and linguist. No, being a make-up artist does not make me gay. It makes me a fucking master of disguise. I could be anywhere, and anybody, and nobody would know it. Hell, I could've made myself up as Gravedigger and attacked Steeltoe Joe myself. I just would've had a really hard time finding members of MS-13. But if I did, I could mimic Digger's voice to make it sound like him, at least at a normal volume. I could also disguise myself as Natty Ice Beckman, and probably fool Chelsea into opening up her purple pubic clam for me. Probably with some really interesting dirty talk, but I'll save that for another day. And with him being my teammate, I really don't want to piss him off. But I've found that no matter how nice or restrained I am, I come off as phony, so fuck it. I write what I want. At least people know I'm real and keeping it real. And if Iceman really does have a problem, he can come find me and we can handle our business.
Speaking of her, it is a date that I have with this pretty thing in Hawaii that is the reason I'm on this damned flying soda can. Not a date in the traditional sense. No, she's too rotten for me. Once upon a time, I would've saved her from her dreary relationship she had with my teammate, Seifer Black. And I totally understand. Fortunately for me, the psycho bitch I had walked out of my life, burning down every relationship she made with our mutual friends in the process. Yes, even her friends that liked her before me have turned to my side. I scored a lot of pity sex from them, and said they're okay with me telling her about it if it can piss her off. Yeah, they're pissed. Him? Well, you ran away from him, and he knows where to find you. And he seems to be a bit off his rocker. And he's on my team. Sucks to be you!
Sorry, you're not the center of my world, like you are for so many men in the WCF. I'm surprised you haven't been able to absorb the Vapor Kings into your little Brat Pack you got going on. But I guess the initiation gangbang was too much for you. Yeah, I wouldn't want to have sex with Zombie if you paid me millions of dollars, either. I wouldn't want the rigid little snake-penis of Buddy Roman inside of me, either. I would've said Orbit lost his hard-on months ago, but he proved otherwise when he went fucking hard against Grayson at Slam 300. They both showed true hearts of warriors that night, something I cannot say for the whole of The Pack. God, I wish I could've had that kind of battle with Joe. Who knows? Seth'll probably want to book it again, even though he saw my heart wasn't into fighting Joe like that. Although I could relieve myself of that embarrassing loss.
But Chelsea gives me this vibe that while she really wants to stand on her own and be somebody without all of the protection, she knows she cannot. And it is a woman thing. I'm not saying that to point out that you're a girl in a man's world. But you ARE a girl in a man's world. You are the fucking Danica Patrick of professional wrestling. You get in there with men, and you fight hard. And you win often. And you can still do all of this on your own. Inside of the ring, you're safe. Nobody's going to lose control in there. That's where professionalism comes into play. So its alright to play a little rough in the Romper Room we call the ring.
But outside of it, you become a woman. You want to stay safe wherever you are. You've got to protect your babies, whether they're in egg, embryo, or live germ factory form. And the only time you'll ever lose your shit is if any of those three are is grave danger. Speaking of the second form of babies, you might want to get that checked out. The girls look a little bigger than usual, or did you wear a push-up bra? Yes, Chelsea, I know you'll be reading this. I know all of The Pack are reading this, and that's great! As of right now, I drink your milkshake! As you continue to pump my visitor counter up, up, and away, I'm getting paid for all of your anger, frustrations, and insults you are throwing at your computer screen right now as I talk about your tits! How does that feel, little girl? How would the general public feel that your misery and agony over reading this is a source of revenue and humor for me? They know, and I let them know, because it is the right thing to do, and they love it, too. I was a poet and didn't know it! But that is how you gain loyalty. Are you now pledging your loyalty to me as I drink your milkshake that brings all the boys to the yard, but they never get a taste? Tell me, Chelsea, why hide your feelings? You know a real man when you see one. A hero. Broken, yes, but a hero nonetheless. You WANT the hero. The Broken Hero. I like the sound of that. Broken Hero. Well, you're going to get him.
The only problem is that while the woman inside of you longs for the hero, you are the still the enemy. And I cannot afford the luxury of distinguishing the fact that you are female. That doesn't matter when you're getting shot at by an eleven year-old on a poppy plantation that we've been ordered to set fire to in order to curb the heroin trade. I had to make a decision that I still hate to this day, but that young man is no more, and I'm still here to lament it. And if you pull some shit like that, you may be no more as well. As I said before, when you step into that ring with me, you put your life in my hands. And I won't hesitate to kill you if you put me in that situation. But know that I will mourn your death.
So go ahead and rant your hatred of me and what you're going to have the Brat Pack do to me before, during, after, or instead of the match, and maybe even threaten to cut off ICE if he doesn't sexually violate me. Go ahead! Either way, I drink your milkshake! I DRINK IT UP!
Gonzo out, Bitchaz! And remember, Chelsea... In case you forgot... I drink YOUR MILKSHAKE! I DRINK IT UP! LIKE VAMPIRE LESBIAN WHORES DRINK MENSTRUAL BLOOD! YUMMY!!!
P.S.- For those that are curious on how to find me, I'll be at the U.S.S. Arizona to both pay my respects for those that have fallen in the name of the United States, and for a meet and greet/autograph session. Remember to bring a camera for the occasion, as personal pictures with Gonzo are always free! Signed glossies will be $5 each. Signed T-Shirts will be $15. T-Shirts brought and worn will be signed for free! Active Duty, Veterans and their children are eligible to receive free signed glossies!